Free Writing and Candles Galore!

So I'm pumped about the whole online writing class I am taking when one of my first assignments is to free-write for five minutes. I thought this would be pretty easy, and it is not too bad. My biggest problem is that during a free-writing session, there is no room for editing.

How can I possibly work through that obstacle? I write, and then re-write and then re-write a few more times before I can possibly consider letting anyone else ever take a look at it. What kind of sadist is this professor... telling me only to capture my thoughts and NOT to edit for either grammar or content.

I've gotten a little better at the entire free-writing process though. In this last lesson we were challenged to take four items in whatever room we were writing in and free-write a description or two about them. This is what I came up with (remember, I was not allowed to go back and edit, these are off the top of my head thoughts):

Mom & Janelle w/Tinkerbell photo

My mother and her sister went to Disney World in 2004 on their very first “sisters only” vacation. They are so excited to have been able to begin this tradition, and I wonder if their increasing age was the spur of it. I think that since there have been so many years spent apart from each other, both having lived with military men, they are seeking to re-establish their relationships. This picture is priceless to me because it is silliness personified. They are standing on Main Street before Cinderella’s castle and they have their hands cupped before them, as if they are holding something priceless. Their faces are that of excited children who never want to grow up and the fact that these women (70 and late 50) are hamming it up for the camera is pretty priceless. The Walt Disney people superimposed a “Tinkerbell” in their cupped hands and it just makes me realize that perhaps there is that part of us that never wishes to grow old.


50th Anniversary letter to my parents from the President

I don’t care how my father goes on about whining about our current government administration, I know one of his most prized possessions is framed and right over the light switch to this room. The President and Mrs. Bush were kind enough to send their congratulations to my parents on their 50th wedding anniversary. I did some online research and found that this was a normal occurrence for the President and was glad that it arrived in plenty of time for it to be matted and framed before their big party at the church. My father claims that he is a life-long democrat, but I am sure that Bill Clinton’s moral failures led him to secretly push the button for George W at the next election. He won’t admit that though, because he is nothing, if not loyal, and his father raised him to be a democrat, so that is what he is going to be, dadgumit. It doesn’t really matter that my grandfather passed away in the early 70s, but there was a time that his job was dependent upon a certain democrat keeping office, and my father has been a democrat ever since he was a young boy. This probably explains some of the reasons we don’t talk politics around here much!


Hope for Haiti box
The beautiful green box with the bird painted on it sits just to the right of my father’s desk. My friend Brent Gambrell gave me that box after his first mission trip to Haiti. It came with a specific purpose, and that was to place leftover change in it so that we would be able to contribute to his quarterly trip to Haiti. The box was originally given to me, but after his third Haitian trip, I was given a bigger box and “encouraged” to give a greater amount. I asked what I was supposed to do with the smaller box, and Brent decided that my parents needed to give to Haiti as well. Therefore, they now have their own box, and they are happy to be able to contribute to such a worthy cause. Brent continues to want me to make a trip with him, but once I saw that picture of the tarantula, I decided that Haiti was really the last place on earth that I needed to be!



Smokeless ashtray

My father loves to smoke cigars. I have no idea when he started this habit, but I am certain that it began sometime during his military career. There are plenty of old pictures of him with a cigar dangling from his lips as he tries to make an impressive picture for the camera. I don’t really care for the cigar, but it is one of his few vices and who am I to stop him from enjoying it? One of my family members gave him a smokeless ashtray as a gift. He has used it on occasion, but not all the time. I can always tell when he is not using it, as I can smell the cigar smoke from the back door of the house, regardless of where he has been puffing away. I wish he would use it more, but this is his place, and if he chooses to stink it up, who am I to call him on it?


Then... we were given our assignment for the week, which was to light a candle and describe it. I knew instantly just what candle I was going to light and describe... and here is the result:

Citrus Candle


As I stare at the flame burning in my citrus candle, I am whisked away in time and place to Panama City Beach, Florida. It is August 2003 and I have retreated from my life for just a few days. I purchased the candle at the local Wal-Mart there because I needed a fragrant light to help overcome the hysteria that my life had become. My closest friends had left the same day to relocate to another part of the country, taking three of the most precious children with them. There was a hole left in my heart. That logical part of me knew this was the best for their family but it continued to war with my emotions that screamed for their swift return to my everyday life. I needed a light to fill that solemn darkness. The candle worked wonders. Its sweet fragrance lifted my spirits. It glowed for me every evening during that retreat; whether it was on the dining room table or out on the balcony next to my journal. It gave off just enough light for my heart to pour itself out onto those pages, and it continues to illuminate my thoughts to this day. It is no longer a symbol of my desperation, but a sweet reminder of friendships never lost or forgotten.

I'm getting the hang of this here writing gig! Who knew it could be this much fun?

I'm a Writer... Who Knew?

I have toyed with the possibility of returning to college to finish my degree for some time now. The biggest thought is what my major would be. At 40+ I suppose I need to decide what I want to be when I grow up. What is it that really stirs a passion in me? There are some things I enjoy doing, but then there's writing. I love to write. I really, really do. So, if I ever do decide to return to school, I would major in creative writing.

As I was thinking about that a little harder, I did a little bit of research and found an online Beginning Writer's class out of MTSU, a university just about 15 minutes from me. I took a look at the course requirements, etc., and I signed up to take the class.

I had my first assignment yesterday. Nothing to turn in for the approval or disapproval of the instructor as yet, but it was a good assignment at any rate.

There were a couple of brainstorming exercises that made me focus on the "nothingness" of my surroundings and how when focused on the nothingness the brain can explode! Then I was to set a timer and "free write" for five minutes. Free writing is simply typing (or writing) for five minutes with no agenda in mind and no ability to edit. I began my free writing with thoughts on the grandfather clock in my den, which had tick-tocked its way into my brainstorming sessions a few minutes earlier, and somehow morphed and ended with a discussion of my college speech class. How strange that the brain works in such mysterious ways.

We also had to make a list of all the writing we have done over our lives. That is not as easy as one would think. But how cool is it to remember my first creative writing assignment? I never forgot the day that my sixth grade English teacher told us to take a piece of paper and write a story about anything. ANYTHING! This was a monumental moment for me as I can remember where that classroom was located and where my seat was situated. I can tell you that the assignment was given to me on a sunny day and that I had a mimeographed piece of paper to write upon. I can tell you that my story involved space ships and aliens and that I received an "A" on that paper. And I can tell you that moment probably sealed my fate as a writer. I have written other things since that time... magazine articles, promotional materials, playbills and scripts, but I've never felt like I was a writer. Until last night.

I took the class quiz and scored 100% on my first try (okay, so it really was easy, and it was multiple choice... but that's not the point) and finished reading the lesson. The instructor was adamant in stating that I was a writer. (She wasn't speaking specifically to me, but to the class in general) She made it clear that I am not playing at writing... but that I write. Whether I am ever published, I am a writer. In the back of my noggin, I jumped up and down with exhilarated excitement. Why? Because I've always wanted to be a writer. And now, I am finding out that I have always been one.

Lucy & Ethel Have Four Eyes... Really They Do!

As children, taunting comes second nature. People with braces are called "metal mouth". People with lower grade point averages are "retards" and people who wear glasses are called "four eyes".

My family has its fair share of four eyes. I remember the day my mother took me to the optometrist in the third grade because I had begun squinting in class more often. The chalkboard became fuzzier and fuzzier. My mother cried as I walked into the exam room... which did not help ease my fears at all. I suppose she knew I was inheriting her eyes, and my older brother's as well. Thank the good Lord that my vision is not as bad as his! Whew! Couldn't see the broad side of a barn with his glasses. My younger brother has glasses as well, as does one of his children.

Lucy and Ethel both wear glasses too. Although Lucy has been told she has cataracts (and her father had them as well) she is not planning to do anything about it. She sees well enough, and just tries to limit her driving to daylight hours.

Being the younger of the two... Ethel has always had more fashion sense when it comes to make-up application. She was the one who taught me how to pluck my eyebrows... Lucy has only ever plucked a chicken, as far as I know. So, Ethel was VERY excited when they came upon a store that carried her make-up line there in Orlando. She typically has to order it over the phone or some other avenue. One of their excursions in Orlando was to said establishment where Ethel could purchase make-up to her heart's content.

That must have been what brought about Lucy's concern about her own make-up issues. One particular problem was that her eyeliner was abrasive on her sensitive eyes. It made her eyes water and they came to the conclusion that perhaps it had somehow been contaminated by perfume of some sort. Ethel, self-sacrificing sister that she is... applied the eyeliner to her own eye and did not have a problem.

Lucy took the same liner and applied it, only to begin another watering episode. It appears that while Ethel lines the bottom of the lid of her eye... Lucy likes to pull the bottom lid down and actually line ABOVE the eyelashes... into the eye itself. Much discussion arose on the correct technique of this application but was heightened as Ethel began to line her upper eyelid. Ethel realized that Lucy did not apply liner to the upper lid and inquired as to the reason.

Lucy's reply, "I don't put liner on my top eye."

Ethel's dumbstruck facial can only be imagined as she attempted to determine which eye was her top eye and which eye was her bottom eye.

Apparently those biology classes continue to allude Lucy & Ethel.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Lucy & Ethel Argue Over Scientific Data

Lucy & Ethel are continuing their onslaught on the state of Florida. They have met with old friends and toured old stomping grounds. Lucy’s husband was at one time stationed at Patrick Air Force Base close to Cocoa Beach and the sisters planned a day to tour that area of the state and see the Atlantic Ocean.

Lucy called home to get directions to her old house and her hubby… reminded her to simply turn left at the NCO club. Apparently in “Ricky’s” mind… nothing would have changed on an Air Force Base in… oh, say… 40 years or so. The homestead was never located… but a good time was had and Lucy & Ethel were impressed by the temporary housing at Patrick, and will no doubt, plan another trip there.

Ethel called one morning for an update and let me know that they had been on the lookout for alligators. Apparently their accommodations were close to a body of water, and they kept their eagle eyes peeled for such an opportunity. Whilst on the phone with me, Ethel just knew that she had indeed finally spotted a gator. However… it turned out to be a duck. How one can mistake a duck for an alligator is a little beyond me. But, she was going to make the best of it… trying to get her camera ready and hoping that the duck bobbed back under the water so that she could get a clean shot of her “gator”.

I wonder how Lucy & Ethel ever made it out of high school or college… what with apparently not doing well in biology (I mean, come on… a duck looks like a gator?) and probably not scoring high marks in physical science either.

Ethel talked Lucy into purchasing bottled water and freezing them each night in the small fridge/freezer combo of their condo. This would travel well in their (I am sure) matching rainbow backpacks and they would not be forced to spend $15 for a bottle of water in one of the theme parks. Ethel had quite the road to climb though in order to get Lucy to agree to the purchase of the water. Remember now that Lucy has an aversion to paying good money for something she thinks should be free, and now add to it her own warped view of science.

Apparently one cannot freeze water in a bottle for the fear of it bursting.

Yes. That’s right. Freezing water will burst/explode/erupt.

Must be why there has been that onslaught of exploding freezers across the country lately. All that frozen water going haywire!

Probably why new freezers make their own ice... because attempting to freeze water in old-fashioned ice trays are hazardous to your health.

Makes you wonder how all those horse-drawn ice trucks at the turn of the century ever managed.

Maybe Lucy was getting her ice bursting thoughts from remembering that metal expands when heated. Or… from the fact that water pipes can burst in the winter. Who knows how to interpret the minds of Lucy and Ethel? The most discerning scientists would never even dare.

… TO BE CONTINUED…

Lucy & Ethel Can't Start the Car...

You'd never know it to look at them, but keys are essential to everyday life. Where would we be without our house key... an office key... a car key? Locked in or out of said places.

Back in the pioneer days, huge bolts were fashioned across the home's door, or the barn door, to keep loved ones in and ravaging raiders or ferocious animals out. As a young child we watched "Paw" lock "Mary Ingels" up tightly every night.

Skeleton keys made their way into culture not far thereafter, but I am not certain how well they worked. Couldn't a skeleton key open anything another skeleton key could open? If so, my skeleton key would fit the door of my neighbor's house? Where is the logic in that?

My grandparents had a few furniture pieces that are operated with skeleton keys. A china cabinet and breakfront. Perhaps that is where the confusion has set in for Lucy and Ethel. The sisters are continuing their Orlando adventure, even as I type, and I called yesterday to check on them.

My aunt proudly proclaimed there was nothing unusual to report. Things had gone smoothly. They had not gotten lost as they ventured from the condo to Sea World, where they have watched all the shows... and were going to a luau that evening. I fretted because there would be nothing new to post today and there are so many people who are now depending on their antics to lessen the monotony of their days.

My aunt attempted, unsuccessfully, to explain her dyslexia to me (north is south, left is right... etc) I told her that I didn't think I could make an entry out of that and was therefore determined not to write anything this morning.

I left my cell phone in my car last night, and so I missed their evening call. Apparently the times they are a-changing... or apparently Lucy and Ethel were operating on the assumption that like some nightshirts I've seen "one size fits all". It is not true in this day and age. No matter how hard you try... and Lucy & Ethel can now attest to this fact first hand... you cannot operate a Dodge Caravan by utilizing a Ford truck key.

Nope. It. Just. Won't. Happen. No matter how hard you try... no matter if the key will actually fit in the ignition. It will not work.

Let's forget the fact that the Ford truck key is a completely DIFFERENT shape. Let's forget that the Dodge Caravan key itself has the alarm buttons built in it. Apparently the fact that they are both black held some confusion. They figured it out... and were back on the way.

Apparently the seat belt confusion is over.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Lucy & Ethel at Gay Pride Week

Lucy & Ethel are learning quite a few things whilst adventuring in Orlando, Florida this week... mainly they are learning that their timing may have been a little off. Apparently it is Gay Pride Week in Orlando, and many same-sex couples have headed that way to share the Disney experience with each other.

Lucy & Ethel are sisters... but you might not know that to look at them. Which means they are receiving their share of curious looks from the hetero community while no doubt being embraced by the homosexual patrons.

I learned this from a phone call during Day Two of the adventure. My aunt highlighted her driving skills ("I'm driving this minivan just like my VW Bug... U-turns, cutting over three lanes of traffic! You know... if you just pull out in front of someone, they'll stop") My mother apparently has YET to figure out how to work the seat belt, as she has once again attempted to exit the vehicle with it securely locking her in place. Then again, my aunt had already locked the van, so not only could my mother not get out of the seat itself, but was rather confused at her inability to exit the vehicle at all! More laughter and panty-wetting ensued!

Lucy & Ethel have a bad habit of dressing alike on occasion. They both had red shirts in their bags, and so they chose to wear them on Sunday. They finally made it to their destination to purchase tickets to various Orlando hotspots and sat down to plan their strategy... what day they were going to which location, etc.

A nice gentleman sat down close to them and noticed all the maps, tickets, and brochures that lay about as they were planning their Orlando takeover, and began a conversation. At some point, I suppose it became obvious that Lucy & Ethel were indeed sisters, and not lovers, and he let them in on a little secret he felt they needed to know: It was "Wear a Red Shirt If You're Gay Day" in Orlando.

My mother was appalled and declared they would be returning to their hotel so she could change shirts. My aunt, the budding entrepreneur, figures they can wear their red shirts and get additional discounts at the condo and restaurants that evening.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Are my mother and aunt Thelma and Louise? Or...

I'm a little jealous at the moment... so sue me. Two years ago I took my mother (71) and my aunt (late 50s?) on an adventure to Orlando, Florida. I was the designated driver. I say adventure because once we were in the car... there really was no road map, other than the one in my head, that got us to our destination.

The sisters (that's what we'll call them for now) had determined to make an annual pilgramage to some destination each year. They took a year off last summer because of my mother's knee surgery and recuperation... but they are back up and running this year. The harriest part of this adventure is that there is no one there to keep them in line and get them from point A to point B. I suppose I should be confident that they have both lived full and industrious lives all on their own up to this point, but the fact remains that having them let loose on the world (let alone unsuspecting FLA... who surely thought they'd seen the last of them two years ago) is a bit disconcerting.

Our adventure two years ago was filled with laughter and merriment... amidst the groanings of my aunt who would bemoan my stubbornness for driving straight past all those lovely outlet malls without slowing down once for her to even get a good look at all the bargains I was making her pass up! We left a day early (because if you begin an adventure, you must never hold to a time frame) and drove through the night until we were south of Atlanta and far enough from a racetrack that was hosting a NASCAR event the next day. (We tried to get rooms at three different hotels... all completely filled. It is hateful to live in the south when there is a NASCAR race looming on the horizon)

We made it to our resort in good time the next day and then wandered aimlessly as we tried to follow my aunt (who had stayed at this particular location more than once - but swears she's dyslexic when it suits her) around the complex. We learned early on that this was not the smartest move we could make... and I specifically gathered the troops (who were bent over with enough laughter that forced water from two different parts of their bodies... their eyes and well... YOU KNOW) and made our way to our room... which was the farthest end of the longest wing of the resort! I left them unattended for a few days while I visited some friends in nearby Lakeland, so as not to cramp their style and be a third wheel! When I returned, all was well and I was regaled with more baudy laughter and jokes and general silliness that only occurs between sisters.

I don't have a sister and when I watch these two, I am sometimes envious of that as well. They share a life that only sisters can share and they are marvelous women to watch and emulate. I am supposed to relate the adventures of their trip on this blog site, but I am to withhold their names, to protect the not-so-innocent, I'm sure. I thought about calling them Thelma and Louise... but I've seen that movie and I get that really ickky feeling that children get when they think about the older generation getting their groove on. I don't doubt my parents' or my aunt and uncle's sexual abilities... and I am not naive enough to think that they have only "done the deed" the necessary times to impregnant themselves... but I have a feeling that the movie would have ended much differently if my own "Thelma & Louise" had picked up Brad Pitt on the side of the road.

My aunt would have instructed Mr. Pitt to put his clothes back on, while my mother admonished him for leaving one woman for another... and (gasp!) impregnating her without the bonds of holy matrimony. Brad would never knew what hit him with these two.

To add to the intrigue of this adventure, my mother has just purchased a new vehicle. A Dodge Caravan that she got a great deal on because of some hail damage. She hasn't quite gotten the hang of these newfangled vehicles. I had to set all her radio stations for her, and show her how to lower and adjust the back seats. Last week while sitting in line at the carwash, she came to the horrible conclusion that if she exits the vehicle while it is still running and closes the door, it will lock automatically. Frantic calls to every family member finally tracked down my father who was driving around town (without his cell phone) and had the extra key. She was rescued in no time.

My mother is from the old school of thought that "only the laws that I want to apply to me, will apply to me" and absolutely REFUSES to wear a seat belt. I have never, EVER figured this out about her. However, the only way my father was going to allow her (now 73) to travel without him to Florida, was if she SWORE to him that she would wear the seat belt on this trip. Being the dutiful wife of 53 years that she is... she acquiesed.

Which explains the call I received from them a couple of hours ago. At least I think it was my aunt who called... the ID on my cell told me it was her, but it was difficult to understand her attempts to talk and laugh and hurry to the bathroom at the Cracker Barrell before she wet herself. Apparently, my mother has truly forgotten what a seat belt does. Most adults know that it keeps you secured and safe within your vehicle. If it works properly, you won't slide around while you are taking sharp curves (going over Monteagle Mountain, perhaps) and hopefully you won't be thrown out of the vehicle in the event of an accident.

Its security continues until you take it off. As of now, technology mandates that you manually operate the seat belt mechanism yourself. Simply put... you snap it on after you get in and you unsnap it when you get out. Pretty simple concept... and one that most children understand. But these are exceptional women we are talking about here. So, imagine the look on my mother's face as she attempts to exit the new vehicle WITH HER SEAT BELT STILL FASTENED!!! Apparently confusion reigned for her as she tried to figure out what sort of secret force had superglued her body to the contours of the Caravan's seat. Perhaps Darth Vader was lurking in the shadows and holding her steady within a hidden gamma ray force field. Or... perhaps she'd simply forgotten to unbuckle the seat belt.

My aunt's laughter rang over the miles as she made the call to me, increasing my enviousness of missing out on such an adventure, but helping me to the conclusion that they are not Thelma and Louise at all... merely Lucy & Ethel.

It was just yesterday… I swear

There is nothing like watching the life span of a child from its infancy to a high school graduation ceremony to make you reflect on life in general.

My oldest, Kristin, is graduating from high school on May 18, 2006. Is she my biological child? No, she is my niece. But since I saw her from her second day on this planet, and have been watching her progress through the years, sometimes it feels like she is mine. When she does something very wonderful, I like to jump in there and take credit… assuming that by some sort of metamorphosis, she inherited a few of my genes. When she does something really stupid, I get the joy of berating my brother and sister-in-law. It’s a win-win scenario for me!

I look back and am so proud of her in all ways known to man! She endured what had to be the most idiotic costume changing/photography session when she was just three days old. Having come home from the hospital, my mother and I determined we needed to get right onto capturing the moments on film. We were only going to be there a few days, so we started snapping pictures of her, jostling her around and changing her clothes… snapping more pictures… repeat exercise until the three day old is screaming to be placed back into the safe confinement of her mother’s womb! (And it was a confinement… Lord, the child weighed nine pounds 13 ounces!)

She was the first grandchild and therefore had the honor (and responsibility) of naming the grandparents. My mother was hoping for Gran… but whenever we’d try to get Kristin to repeat that name, she’d boldly pronounce “Nana”. There was no changing her mind. We went for Granddaddy, and she strongly repeated “Lalolly”. While he would have been ecstatic to hear anything this child said, Lalolly developed into Granddaddy, and all was well with the world. I’m not certain what her other grandparents were hoping for in the way of endearments… but I have a feeling it wasn’t necessarily Pepaw and Gingo… and for years and years to come, that is what all grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be calling them.

Kristin is the first of the next generation in our family and that’s a lot of pressure on a person. She rapidly learned her ABCs and how to count. She loved to play with whatever family pet happened to be around. I laughed while watching her hunt Easter eggs with Nana in the backyard. As soon as her back was turned… Nana would toss another egg on the ground. We’d try to tell her to be careful with them so they wouldn’t break, but she never clued in on what that meant as she slammed the eggs into the basket. The video camera I was holding would begin to jiggle while I laughed. We had plenty of cracked eggs that year.

She isn't afraid to be an individual. She could carry on a conversation with anyone or anything… including her hands. I have great video footage of Kristin as a toddler jabbering away at her hands as if they were her friends. I have no idea what she was saying, but she spoke eloquently and with great inflection in her voice.

She was the first to take dance class and play ball. She stuck with playing ball… but gave up the dance. She was the first to accept the Lord as Savior, and was irritated when those "wise" older people questioned her decision because of her young age. She dressed up like a Spice Girl and had her body parts pierced. When her hair was starting to turn from bright blonde to ash blonde, she started coloring it darker… no matter what other people liked or wanted. She is not afraid to stand alone, but welcomes standing amongst those who support, trust, and love her. She will never be without friends.

I have prayed over this child from her conception to today… and will continue to do so all the years of my life. Is this a perfect child? No. But she is so special. She has grown into a beautiful young woman. She is standing on the precipice of her life and she only has to move upward.

Life is SOOOOO Unfair!!!

Whoever said "Life is So Unfair", lived with brothers, or at least a lot of men in their world. How do I know? It started in the beginning…

I am fairly certain that as the Creator was busy planting shrubberies, sculpting mountain ranges and churning the waters into the oceans, He wasn’t thinking “Hey… what a great place to potty!” I sincerely doubt that He felt the urge to pause momentarily and walk behind the nearest tree to empty His bladder.

Why is it that the human male species, equally made in His image, has deemed the entire planet to be one big potty?

Maybe I’m jealous because I don’t have that “tree” option before me. At least I don’t have it when I’m sober… and since I gave up drinking in the 80s, I may feel a little left out of the loop here.

My first recollection of the inequality of the male/female potty options came as a young child. My little brother having pushed his way into the world screaming like a Goth at a Marilyn Manson concert, had life so much easier than I. On those horrible two-day drives from Texas to Kentucky to visit family, my father was never one to willingly stop for the essentials, like a child’s need to potty. If I complained that I had to “go”, I was instructed to “hold it”. If I could not possibly hold it any longer, my father begrudgingly pulled over to the side of the road and to my horror of horrors I was expected to “cop a squat” while millions of happy motorists drove by to watch. That fear typically scared the pee right out of me. However, when I could not perform adequately (or in a timely manner), I was whisked back into the station wagon to begin “holding it” again until my father had to “go” or we ran out of gas, whichever came first.

My younger brother had a much easier road of it. My mother, always being prepared, carried with us a Kraft Mayonnaise jar specifically for my younger brother’s use. It came complete with the screw on lid that kept its contents not only hermetically sealed, but fresh too. The young Jedi only need to whimper once and he was physically hauled to the front seat where he stood between my parents and emptied his much smaller bladder into said jar, and happily bounced back to my area to gloat at his success. I typically skulked back to the third seat facing the rear of the vehicle in order to escape his bragging ability whilst twisting off body parts of his newest GI Joe action figure. (A woman’s wrath begins at an early age).

In grade school, one learned quickly to not follow boys on the playground if they headed to the nearest wooded area. An overly curious child might walk away with a more enlightened view of the world.

In high school, the majority of my friends were not just boys, but boys ready to be men at the next full moon! I hung around military-minded and ambitious fellows who lived on the edge and for adventures not found in our small town. A favorite hang-out was a wooded area about 30 miles away. Many an evening was spent trudging through the forest, playing “flashlight” (an almost-adult version of hide-and-seek), setting booby-traps and building campfires. My good friend Joey, ever a gentleman, always announced his intention as he walked to a tree line, lest an unsuspecting female happened upon him. As I look back on it now, his announcement may have been to entice the unsuspecting female, but I was no fool… my brother pee’d in a Mayo jar!

As an adult, I met my great friend Brent. Brent is a guy who you can count on when the chips are down. He’s an incredibly talented man in so many respects and a gifted spiritual leader. His biggest drawback… he has the bladder of a gnat. He traveled for many years with a drama ministry and his traveling motto was “where you be, that’s where you pee”. This could make a simple three-hour tour lengthen into a six-hour ordeal. Whenever he would stop, and there were plenty of times for it, he would marvel at my ability to wait until our final destination to potty. I commented on his inability to wait and he affectionately referred to me as a camel… then told me I would have health problems, as I got older.

Then I watched, in horror, as my friend Carey took one of his boys by the hand while we were all playing at a playground, and walked over to the nearest tree. Apparently, the “world’s your personal potty” is a generation-to-generation, male-bonding, hand-me-down sort of instruction. I was both appalled and astonished that this God-fearing father of triplets would so easily assume a baser instinct, and then pass it on to the next generation. This folly proved itself as I was baby-sitting same child a few weeks later and he showed his intention to potty on a washcloth in the middle of the bonus room while watching a Barney video. I don’t remember having moved that quickly since.

This inequality finds its way into society as well. Heaven forbid a lady attempt to potty during a theatrical intermission or between the two acts of a concert. Walk into the lobby and the men step in and step out. Women are lined up for miles, shifting from one foot to the next and mentally willing the women in line ahead of us to move as quicksilver so that we may get to the next empty stall. Only the most hard-hearted and calloused women will not allow a sister performing the ever-popular “Pee Pee Dance” to cut in line. Those women feel they paid their dues to society and they know their dates have been patiently waiting outside the Ladies’ Room for their return.

So, chalk up another plus for the boy’s team in the land of inequality between the sexes. They don’t have to bear children, they don’t have to wear pantyhose (unless they really want to, but that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax) and they get to pee standing up. Life is so unfair.

Auntie Em – It’s a Twister!!!

Don’t let popular opinion fool you… tornadoes are not a good excuse to grab your digital video camera and run out the back lawn to film destruction. It never has been and it never will be.

A funnel cloud has never fascinated me. Dorothy and the Munchkins did not whet my child’s appetite. Helen Hunter and Bill Paxton did not make me think that Twisters were romantic. Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel might instill a lustful desire for him… but not for the cyclone that is charging toward the camera over his left shoulder.

Perhaps the fear of tornadoes was instilled in my early years. Having moved from Tennessee to San Antonio, Texas for my first year in grade school, I traded in fire drills for tornado drills. We didn’t have tornado drills in Tennessee, but in Texas, we had them once a month, at least. It made little sense to me that when the fiercely whipping winds began to howl and clouds began to circulate, the first grade class was to quickly and quietly assemble ourselves in a straight line and make our way to the hallway. We would then sit down and place a book over our heads. Who thought this was a great idea? Did our top-notch educators really believe that my Dick & Jane reading book would save me from the 400 pounds of sheet rock that was going to bury me alive in the rubble? Would the scent of mimeographed worksheets enable the K9 units to locate our lifeless, mangled bodies?

And the good Lord help you if the twister made an appearance the week you were pulling Tornado Monitor duty… because nothing is wiser than giving a seven year old the responsibility of assembling her classmates into the aforementioned straight line, making certain a textbook was clasped tightly in their trembling hands and steering them, single-file, into the hallway. Don’t forget that once the class was making their way through the door, the monitor herself must quickly open three or four windows so that the building would not implode from the suction of the twister bearing down on you. The last place I want to be when a tornado is bearing down on me is ANYWHERE near glass windows! Surely there are adults more qualified for such a position of responsibility! If my classmates survived, she would be heralded as a heroine and I probably just got a gold star or maybe a free book of choice from the Scholastic Weekly Reader magazine. Where was the teacher during this horrific time? Apparently running through the hallways securing her position and life!

The lucky kids in school did not live on an Air Force base where the cookie cutter homes were simply one level with a carport attached. They lived in a house with a storm cellar! Not only were these peaceful places to play during good weather, they were indeed shelters from the storm. I was more than grateful for one on the afternoon that I was playing with a friend and the tornado sirens began to blare. We ran as quickly as possible to the storm shelter and I had never felt so safe. The entire house, trees, etc., could have blown down around us and we would not have known it. Our greatest fear was that the house would fall on top of the entrance to the cellar (which I believe had been built as a bomb shelter in the 50s) and we would have to live off of Spam (this shelter was stocked with Spam and water) until someone could pick through the rubble and locate us.

I was not as lucky the time the sirens went off and we were in a house without a storm shelter. Nothing is quite as bonding as having five adults and four children crammed into an inner hallway bathroom while the sounds of a train are increasing your fears. As a child you wonder where the train is coming from, knowing you’ve never heard one this close to the house before. Then your fear increases as an older child, much more worldly in the ways of life, informs you the sounds you are hearing are indeed the sounds of your imminent death.

As a fresh-out-of-high-school-waiting-for-college-to-begin young person, you excitedly drive to your dream job – the no-longer-existing Opryland Theme Park. The skies are cloudy and that ugly greenish tint has tinged the clouds as you pull into the parking lot. You make your way through costuming, put your fear aside and your new outfit on to run as fast as your trembling legs will take you to find your supervisor and see to your day’s activities. When you finally meet said supervisor and she looks at you like you’ve lost your mind for attempting to work on a day when they are trying to find ways to close the park, you are told to remove yourself immediately and go home. “What? Are you kidding me? You want me to drive back home through this? Isn’t there a shelter, or a place underneath the park that we can all go to?” “No… go home now. Come back tomorrow.” So you make your way back through costuming, change your clothes again, and pray to the weather gods and the auto gods that your 72 Mustang will make it back home in one piece, preferably with you in it.

You would think that as you approach adulthood your fears would diminish. Not so much. You’ve selected your first apartment to be on the top floor of the complex because (a) you want the vaulted ceilings and (b) you are told as a single girl it is more difficult for the serial killer, who is certainly stalking you now, to get to you on the upper floor than the bottom floor. It is not impossible, but he’s going to really have to want to kill you to go to the trouble of scaling the outside of your building. He’ll get halfway up and decide you simply aren’t worth it and whack the chick with the yappy dog living on the bottom floor. You’ll mourn the girl… but are not distressed over the removal of said yappy dog.

During your second week in your new first home, the wind starts to kick up. The television goes to 24 hour news coverage of the impending catastrophe of the weather bearing down on you and the newscaster tells those in the Hermitage area to take cover. The Hermitage area!? Wait just a second… I’m in the Hermitage area! Crap! You begin to relive your days as Tornado Monitor and quickly open the sliding glass door. You don’t have a Dick & Jane book anymore and the weatherman has just told you to seek shelter under a piece of furniture. Your furniture consists only of a dining room table, a couch and a waterbed. There’s no getting under a waterbed, so you head for the couch.

You thought it was a great idea to purchase a couch with recliners built in to both ends. Your brothers cursed you as they hefted that monstrosity up a few flights of stairs to the top floor of the new apartment complex because it weighs only slightly less than a VW Bug. You cursed it during your first Night of Terror when you realized it was too heavy to turn over and crawl under. Why did I get the top floor apartment? These are the units that get swept away during inclement weather. Oh yeah, the serial killer. Well… bring on the Slasher! I’ve at least got a shot at outrunning that guy; I can’t outrun a tornado.

My last option was the dining room table, but I was told to get to an inner hallway. I live in a one-bedroom apartment! I don’t have an inner hallway! But I do have a three-foot semi-hallway that might work… except MY DINING ROOM TABLE IS TOO BIG! But I drag it as far as I can. Being the good Girl Scout that I was, and wanting to be prepared, I grab a can of beanie-weenies (I had no Spam), a flashlight and a bottle of water (because nothing says “prepare to die” like beanie weenies and Evian). Being the good Southern Baptist that I am, I grab my Bible and being scanning the concordance looking up the word “fear” and reading scripture out loud over the sounds of wind, rain and thunder. With the help of the Trinity, the beanie weenies and water, I survived the Night of Terror no worse for wear.

Then there was the time that I was housesitting for some friends who love animals way too much (they have a dog and three cats). They were vacationing in Hawaii while I was burrowed under a blanket in the bathtub inside an inner hallway while the city was rocked with no less than seven, count ‘em SEVEN tornados back-to-back. Did I get any sleep that night? No I did not. What time did the fun begin? About midnight. What time did it end? About 7:00 a.m. What time did the power go off? About 6:30 a.m. What time did I need to be at work? About 8:30 a.m. What happened to the animals? I don’t know… they didn’t want to seek shelter in the bathroom, so they were left to fend for themselves. Luckily for me, they apparently knew where the super-secret animal storm shelter existed, because they were hungrily staring at me when I finally emerged from the bathroom that morning with bags under my eyes.

There was the instance where I drug a bachelor’s bench into the hallway of my current residence under another tornado warning. I found a battery powered transistor radio that I kept by my side for the latest news that was the news, in case I lost power (the Girl Scout mentality having kicked in again) and some candles and matches. As a child, I measured my growth on that bench, becoming sooo excited the day that I could actually touch my head on one end and my feet on the other. I was still matching my size the night of the tornado by the fact that I had to ball myself up under the bench and it still only covered my torso. But again, my inner Tornado Monitor told me that a bench in the hallway would work better than a book or a blanket.

My greatest fear now, of course, is that I live just a few blocks from the train tracks that run through town. Tornados sound like trains barreling through the countryside. How am I supposed to tell the difference now between the mighty wind that will separate my life from this earth and the 7 o’clock northbound freight? Can’t we get the tornados to sound like something else? Couldn’t we have the music that precluded the appearance of the Wicked Witch of the West flow through about three or four minutes before impact? I really don’t think I’m asking for too much here.

My fear, it seems, continues to grow… just as we hit the new season of tornadic activity here in the midsouth. Only if I’m lucky will I get to meet Jim Cantore in the midst of my fear.

Are We There Yet? A Single Woman’s Guide to Parenting

Having lived my entire adult life without the constraints and restraints of marriage or, thankfully, parenting, I recently found myself knee-deep in that world without having given birth.

My great disclaimer: I love my nieces and nephew. All three nieces and one nephew have intertwined themselves so deeply into my heart; they will never be free from me. Much to their dismay, I am certain. And yet, as much as I love them without condition, this semi-parental time has yet again reminded me that there are those who simply need not reproduce. I am one of those people.

My brother and his wife jetted off to a far away land (Israel) for what I am sure was an absolute trip of a lifetime. I was asked to stay with his children. Before he left, I made my brother sign over a power of attorney so that I would be able to step in and take over should an emergency occur. Towards the end of my parenting tenure, I became certain that should an Al-Quada terrorist abscond with my brother and his wife, all George W would need to do to locate Osama, would be to send me to the Pit. I would rather take on Osama than take on the full-time parenting responsibilities of a 17, 16 and 10 year old any day.

Having a great foundational network of helpers is essential to regular parenting… even more so for the “I-don’t-have-a-husband-to-help-me” single girl who finds herself in the throes of parental responsibility overnight. Grandparents fill that foundation nicely. Throw some money at them and they will cook for you each night, ensuring the tykes will have a well-balanced meal and will not live off of McDonald’s or Fruit Loops for the entire length of your stay. Grandparents are generally retired anyway, so they will also constantly call the children and wear them out, giving you a break from what has been the constant phoning of yourself over the years. Try to catch the eye of the child being tortured at the time and remind them that Nana and Granddaddy are just old people with nothing better to do… and they will take it all in stride.

Having one of the children with a car is a big help too! She can typically fend for herself and help the hauling of the other non-driving children to places of interest and responsibility. Of course, she cannot remember that she needs to fill up her car with gas, and will use that to perhaps get you to call in to her school to explain her tardiness.

Having a 16 year old who makes you laugh until you want to throw up is always fun. Some people just live life to the fullest… and the 16 year old certainly does that! There is always a joke, a snippet, and a story that will leave you shaking your head specifically when she turns into a ravenous eating machine that cannot be controlled. There are not enough Fruit Loops in the world to satisfy her hunger… and the fact that she is skinny as a rail will simply make you want to smack her in the head!

The 10 year old boy is undoubtedly outnumbered and believes himself to be at LEAST 16. But alas, as he still crawls into bed with the 16 year old when he is scared, you are reminded of his tenderness. He will attempt to explain how he made that bad grade and his argument (weak, at best) will be delivered with great passion. He’s the sneaky one of the bunch and will do his best to talk you into renting an R-rated movie. You easily see through his wily ways. At 10, he simply is no match for you.

You must realize that you are still dealing with kids and not throw them into the adult mentality that you are so accustomed to. This will help in dealing with the consequences of being locked out of the home with no way to get back in. Of course, the oldest child has a key… on her key ring… at her new job… on the other side of town. In an effort to teach a lesson, you subject the 16 and 10 year old to spending the entire evening with Nana and Granddaddy, arguing over who gets to be on the computer, or what channel they are going to watch. You patiently wait for the 17 year old to come home and hand over her key and take the now fighting 16 and 10 year old home… it being well past the 10 year old’s bedtime.

On the drive over the 10 year old calls the 16 year old an imbecile. It is thrown back at the 10 year old from the back seat and she is challenged to spell the word. Her first letter is wrong, and you simply shake your head. The 10 year old also attempts to spell the word, and does so incorrectly. Now the real fun begins as the incorrect spelling of a word is debated until you have had ENOUGH and calmly allow that neither child can spell, and you’d really rather they didn’t make another sound until you are at home. They know better than to continue the argument.

You spend the latter part of the Sabbath with the children cleaning the house, it being just a few days before Mom and Dad return. You agree to do the laundry, if they will just bring it to you. BIG MISTAKE single woman! As a single girl, you know that as long as you have clean underwear, you are good to go! As a college student, you learned the importance of buying cheap underwear just so you didn’t have to do laundry more than once a week. You used the same bath towel for a week… hanging it up to dry each day. There has never been… in your single adult life… a reason to do laundry for six hours straight. Ever.

You cannot imagine where all the clothing came from. You have to pause mid-day in order to purchase more detergent. You are still washing, still drying, still folding until the dark hours of the night. You are amazed… you are grateful for your singleness.

February 14, 2006 – Black Tuesday

Let’s repeat my February 14th mantra, shall we? I hate Valentine’s Day (repeat consistently over and over)

There are some who have already determined that I’m cynical and sarcastic… and they may be right. I’m fairly certain that I don’t really care that much any more. But if you’re out to see what it is you can do to impress those around you, here are some great tips!

First… dress all in black. It is considered chic in Paris and will only make you appear slimmer… or so I’m told. I need all the help I can get in this area right now anyway, so an all black ensemble works for me! Of course, there is the fact that I may appear to either be headed towards a high-fashion runway… or the funeral of Johnny Cash… but I live in Nashville, so either option actually works.

Second… remind all your friends that you are wearing black for a reason. I mean come on… if you are taking a stand for something (the eradication of Valentine’s Day, for example) you can hardly allow your clothes to speak for themselves. You have a voice! You should be heard! It is probably a good idea to begin dropping little hints around the beginning of February so that your co-workers will not be completely caught unawares for your sudden mood change on the darkest day of all the year.

This will ensure that when you DO actually appear dressed completely in black, that you would not be mistaken for Morticia Adams or the Bell Witch.

Third… stay far away from little candy hearts with silly words on them. Far, far away. Why? What is the possible problem with such an American iconic Valentine candy? Well… the fact that it is THE American iconic VALENTINE candy is the first problem itself. The second problem is that it tastes remarkably like the chalk it is certainly derived from. Thirdly, having been forged from chalk in the first place, it leaves a residue that is not compatible with the black ensemble you are wearing; and finally, the words written on the chalky substance will only remind you of the things you are missing out on anyway (i.e. Kiss Me, Hug Me, Touch Me… you get the picture)

Fourth… Snarl at your supervisor when he does something as ridiculous as bring you flowers. Did he bring you flowers last year on February 14? No, he did not. Make a mental note that in 2007, you will do your best to schedule him out of the office so that he will not be able to make that mistake again. Forget that you were trying to be nice to him by keeping him close to home (and his wife) on February 14… and schedule him to take the depositions of 15 people of three different nationalities that will all require a separate translator. That should teach him.

Of course, you have the option of pelting said employer with the chalky candy hearts as he is walking away. I found that works as a good backup plan.

Next, you will have to deal with those “couples” in your life that really think it necessary to give you the “Oh, just wait… one day you’ll have a Valentine too” speech. Head’s up to those couples in the world… when you speak ridiculous phrases such as this to your single and not-dating friends, it is interpreted thusly: “Too bad you don’t get to grab that hot man over there and get your groove on… maybe one day you will, but I bought my mate/date flowers, so I’m gonna get lucky tonight… sucks to be you.” We already know it sucks to be us, stop reminding us about it on February 14, okay? We really don’t appreciate the sentiment.

Fifth… why not end the day on a high note and take yourself back to the YMCA for your next round of terrorist training (i.e. step aerobics)? If you do not have black gym clothes, that will be fine. You’ll see that there are not that many people who attend the Y on February 14, because they are too busy out purchasing overpriced floral arrangements and chalky candy. Skip right on in the door and head up to the track. It’s not even crowded there.

I went back to a step aerobics class, because nothing says “I love you” on February 14 like a well thought out and experienced heart attack. The first indication that you are in both the wrong place at the wrong time will be when Angie, Smyrna’s own answer to an Al-Quada operative states the following words: “This class is an intermediate to advanced class. That doesn’t mean anything except that there’s a little more choreography involved. Just hang in there and keep moving”. My brain should have interpreted that to mean “Cathy… keep moving right out of this step class.” However… the after effects of February 14 must certainly killed off a few too many brain cells and I stayed.

When my brain fires the “It can’t be that bad” synapses, I should begin to take heed. When my next thought was “I was in the marching band… I have rhythm… I’ll catch on”… I should have known I was headed down a slippery slope that had no chance for recovery. But… I marched on. I grapevined right and left. I threw the basketball. I box stepped and I did the three repeaters. I stomped and mamboed and cha-chaed. I walked around the world and I straddled and I wanted to die… mostly because while I was doing these steps Angie and the rest of the terrorists in the room were completing something entirely different. I told myself I was staying with it because I liked the dance music, but the real reason I stayed with it was because I knew at the 30 minute mark there would be a 30 second water break, and that was when I would hit the door running… or stepping… or cha-cha-ing my way out of the class and back to the real world where I am an overweight 40something single girl who hates Valentines Day.

I thought I was home free until one of the terrorists stopped me at the water fountain and said, “You aren’t LEAVING, are you?” I was at a crossroads… do I lie and say I need to throw up (oh, wait, that wasn’t really a lie, was it?) or do I confess my inability to commit to anything on February 14th, even a terrorist trained step class? I confessed… I was the second gunman on the grassy knoll.

“The intermediate class is a little out of my league.”

“Oh no… don’t say that. You were doing great! My first time in this class and I was falling off the bench. You’ve hung in there this far, you don’t want to leave now.” Yes, actually, I do.

Apparently the terrorists have been well trained in the art of persuasion, but I saw through the façade.
“Maybe I’ll be back when I can understand the terms a little better and get the steps down. I need to return to the basic step class…” and my sofa… and my Ben & Jerry’s…

“Well… I think you were doing great. Just don’t give up, okay?” (Happy cheerleader smile)

“Okay… I’ll see you again real soon.” Yeah right. (Not-so-happy painful grimace)

To end your day… try to walk your wobbly knees back to the Ladies Locker Room and then stare fixatedly at the combination lock that is securing your possessions. Your car keys are in there… the way to freedom. Focus on those numbers. What were those numbers? There are three sets of them… you know what they are… focus, focus, focus… something Right… two more turns Left… back to the Right and the lock will magically open…

Dang… do it again. Focus… I know it is hard with all that sweat pouring into your eyes, but you want to go home again, don’t you? Oh wait… that’s not your locker. Take one step to your left and pray that the person coming in the door doesn’t think you to be a thief.

Bend yourself into your car and pray to the fitness gods to allow you to get home before you (1) throw up or (2) pass out. Get in the house and cool your body off before you hop in the shower… while you silently pray for Norman Bates’ mother to appear and slash you to ribbons. It will be a much more fitting way to end the day and less painful than having to endure February 14, 2007 – or Black Wednesday.

What a Ham!

December 23, 2005

My parents were born during the depression. It was 1933 and my father gleefully boasts that he is some eight months younger than my mother. He is also boastful in the fact that his family suffered through difficult times with class, strength and virility. He was raised in a home with his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents… some aunts and uncles as well. They had an outhouse for many years. I think it is my great-great grandfather that was a dentist… and apparently an alcoholic. Another in the family was a hypochondriac, and my father remembers a mantle in the house being filled with prescription drugs, or other remedies with no place for family photos. My father knows how to ring the neck of a chicken, chop the head off the Tom Turkey and slaughter a hog. He also brags that he walked to and from school, many miles, barefoot in the snow and uphill both ways… apparently carrying a load of books that weighed roughly 120 pounds.

My mother grew up in a coal mining camp. Her father was the butcher, baker and candlestick maker! No… really, he was the butcher, the postmaster and the manager of the general store in the camp. They lived in a very small green house just across the railroad tracks and my mother was an only child for the first 14 years of her life, before my aunt arrived on the scene. She walked to school as well, but not nearly the same distance as my father. She went to school with various cousins and learned to live within her means.

This is why I am never surprised when my family gets together for holidays and special events and my parents wax nostalgia. They talk of a day before televisions and microwaves; before remote controls and jet planes. One of my father’s fondest stories involves my mother’s determination to take a cruise ship across the Atlantic Ocean to join him at a military post there. She refused to get on a jet, because she didn’t trust a plane that moved without the safety and security of propellers.

Each Christmas we hear tales of the good old days and are admonished for having such a good and easy life. A good and easy life, I might add, that our parents strived so hard to give us. I am not without gratitude.

Christmas stockings are not a big tradition in my family. I do not believe we’ve ever really used them, except for decorative reasons. It just was not high on our list of Christmas obligations. Perhaps my parents felt that stockings were supposed to be for fruit and nuts. If they were extra good that year, there would be a piece of hard candy, or a peppermint stick. There would be no gameboy hidden in its depth. No doubt, the stocking itself was actually a mended old sock that had seen better days. If they were bad children that year, they could be guaranteed a bag of switches or a lump of coal. This must have been a year-long struggle for my mother, living outside a coal mining camp. Talk about inspiration for being a good girl.

But food has always been part of our family holidays. We are not big-boned people for no reason. Nosireebob… we come from a long line of healthy eaters with years of tradition to back us up. Thanksgiving was, of course, the time for a turkey, dressing, dumplings (thanks Grandmother!), and jellied cranberry sauce. Christmas; however, was the time for a baked Ham (thanks Gran!), potatoes and green beans. We continue those family traditions to this day.

So, you can only imagine the horror that struck the face of my younger brother and I as my mother asked the most sacrilegious of questions: “Would you mind if we have Fried Chicken for Christmas instead of Ham?” I looked at John, and he looked at me and then we slowly looked at our mother. I felt her forehead while he took her pulse and once we realized there was nothing physically wrong, we were able to respond.

John: Why would we have Fried Chicken for Christmas?

Mom: Your father does not want to go into Nashville to buy the Ham.

Cathy: Isn’t there a Honey-Baked Ham in Murfreesboro?

Mom: No… that’s a Heavenly Ham, and they are not as good. There’s really nothing as good as a Honey-Baked Ham.

***Pause for effect***

Mom: (sighing) Would it really bother you if we have Chicken?

Cathy: Are you going to spend the day on Saturday frying up enough chicken to feed all of us?

Mom: No… I was thinking more along the lines of a bucket of KFC.

At this point, any hopes of a traditional family Christmas dinner were flying out the window as I could imagine myself opening a Styrofoam tub of not-so-real mashed potatos and spooning the not-so-real-either brown gravy. It is a good thing that the predominant signature color for KFC is red… it will blend in lovely with the Christmas table that has been set. There’s nothing that screams Christmas like a table set with lovely holiday china and a big ole bucket o’the Colonel’s Extra Crispy right smack dab in the midst. I figured I could put some greenery around the base of the bucket to make a lovely centerpiece.

While I’m at it… I’ll just dump an old washing machine on the front lawn and put a car up on blocks.

Mom: It really wouldn’t bother you too much would it?

John: Well, I guess if we can survive the Thanksgiving Spaghetti feast when we were kids, we can make do with a KFC Christmas.

Cathy: Ho, Ho, Hell…
The next day, a big Christmas elf (John would hate to be called a Fairy) managed to save the Christmas dinner by traveling to the Honey-Baked Ham store and bringing a lovely ham to the Bell house. Our dinner would be set aright, and all would be well in the world. Our parents traveled to the local grocery store to purchase the remainder of the items needed to top off the feast. Their grandchildren were home to help unload the car, and sure enough, one would think that we are feeding an army by the armloads of grocery sacks that made their way into the house.

Which only caused great puzzlement for me when my mother arrived home from work today, the day after the food excursion with many, many more bags of groceries.

Cathy: Didn’t we just unload groceries yesterday?

Mom: Your father had another list of things we needed to get.

Cathy: Things we needed? Or things he wanted?

Mom: It doesn’t matter. Come the first of the year, I’m clamping down again, and we are only buying things we need, and not things we want.

I began to help load in the groceries from the car and then unload them into the already overflowing cabinets. When what to my wandering eyes would appear, but three packages of sliced ham… ready and waiting for consumption. I threw my mother my best “astonished” look.

Cathy: Ham? You bought ham? Don’t you think there’s enough ham here already?

Mom: Excitedly – OH Hurry! Put that somewhere that your father cannot find it.

Cathy: What?

Mom: He’s coming in right behind me...

Cathy: Do you just want me to put in the back of the fridge?

Mom: NO!! Hide it away! I have to wrap that up. It’s one of his Christmas presents!

Cathy: (astonished look expanding) Excuse me?

Mom: Hurry… he’s almost here. Take it to your room and wrap it up.

Cathy: Doesn’t it need to be refrigerated?

Mom: No! It wasn’t refrigerated at the store. Hurry… Take it and wrap it up and put it under the tree!

Well… alrighty then. As I was passing my the kitchen table I quickly grabbed a gift bag and tissue paper that was… er, perfect… for three sections of ham to be wrapped in. Even as I write, there is ham sitting under the tree, brightly wrapped, wonderfully adorned.

I think we have gotten a little off track with the true meaning of Christmas. I doubt (seriously) that the wise men would ever have shown up with Gold, Frankincense, and a big ole slice of ham!

Super Size Me

Last night, my mother informed me that she and my father were at odds. I could only imagine why. It appears that she purchased a new bedspread, but refused to put it on the bed.

"Why?", I asked. "Are there naked pygmy tribesmen frolicking about? Is it a bright pink that clashes with the carpet?"

"No... silly", my mother replied. "I just don't want to put it on the bed."

Hmm. I knew better than to bite at that one, but I had to do it. "So, where is it?"

"Stored away in the hall closet." (You remember the hall closet don't you? The same area that was the hiding place for 6 bottles of water now is the safeguard for the elusive bedspread.)

Seems strange to have purchased a bedspread without a purpose. Oh... wait... I got it. "Mom... this is going to be one of those things that when you die, I'm supposed to run to the house, leave your dead body at the hospital, wash everything, clean everything and make enough food to entertain all the guests who will arrive... now I'm supposed to add 'pull out the secret bedspread that has never seen the light of day and put it on the bed' to the list, right?"

She gave me "the look" with that last statement.

After a moment of well-deserved silence, she spoke. "Do you want to see it?"

"Will I go blind if I look upon it? It is stored in the 'Holy of Holies’ hall closet. Do I need to approach it with a robe hemmed in bells and a rope tied around my ankle in the event that an unconfessed sin (there are those floating around, you know) strikes me dead?"

The blank stare was priceless.

She became excited. "You stay here... I'll bring it to you."

I could barely contain the emotions that were flowing through my body. I sat perched on the edge of the recliner, striving to control my breathing. Then... it arrived.

My mother unfolded a lovely bedspread... ivory colored, with four HUGE pink roses embossed on tall, slender green stems. It was… in my eyes… hideous. I had to think of a way to dissuade her, and determined that full out honesty of my opinion would not work, but perhaps logic would.

My breathing returned to normal. "Mom", I said, "that is not a king-size bedspread."

"Of course it is. It says so right here on the label." She double-checked to make sure.

"Mom, your arm-span would not allow you to simply hold straight a king size bedspread. It’s not that big."

"Well", she became exasperated. "Let's just go see".

“Wait a minute… are you telling me that you purchased this bedspread, but you haven’t even put it on the bed to see if it fits?”

She ignored me.

I was shocked and amazed that at one fell swoop... the "we're not going to use this" bedspread instantly made its way past the Holy of Holies hall closet, down the green and lighter green hallway passage into the Navy wallpapered, pink carpeted, golden headboarded king-size bedded master bedroom. So proud was my mother as she draped her bed in what is now referred to as the rather FULL SIZE bedspread... leaving much of the bed uncovered.

She was distraught. I saw the wheels spinning in her mind. How would she save this moment? "Well... if we pull the foot of it lower..."

"And you don't intend to cover the pillows at the top of the bed..." I replied.

She was undaunted. "It might be okay if we had a bed skirt."

I agreed. "That would cover the bed springs..."

Realization began to dawn on her. "Hmm... I guess maybe I should send it back."

"Where did you buy this?" I asked.

She was so proud. "The JC Penney catalog. I only paid $34 for it."

"Quite a bargain for a king-size bed spread." I was trying to contain my cynicism.

It didn't work. She saw right through me. "Oh, hush. You think I need to send it back don't you?"

"Mom... it’s your room. You do what you want". (Knowing how well the large pink roses matched the pink roses on the navy wallpaper)

She wasn't giving up yet. "They had pillow shams that matched this. But I just hate having to move pillows before I go to bed."

"Sounds like that would not be a wise investment then." I was trying to end the conversation and return to the relaxation found in my cross-stitch pattern. It worked. I returned to the den and my cross-stitching and just when I thought it was safe, my mother returned a few minutes later.

She was excited. "Come and see what I've done!"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes." The firmness in her voice spoke volumes. I followed the confident stride of a woman proud of a new accomplishment that should not go unnoticed by her family. We passed the Holy of Holies hall closet on my right... my father and dog sitting in the study to the left... to the end of the hall where the master bedroom sits on the right and the guest bedroom (commonly referred to as the "teddy bear room"... if you have to ask why, I'll have to hurt you) sits on the left.

There was a perfectly draped full size bedspread on the full-size bed that it was made for. Stuffed animals and dolls resting against the headboard.

"What do you think?" she asked.

I couldn't help myself. "I think that king-size bedspread fits a full size bed much better. It looks nice, Mom."

"Thanks."

As we turned to leave, she said... "If the kids put their feet on that bedspread, I'll whip them."

My simple reply... "You'll want to put a sign on the bed then, Mom."

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall…

Who’s that fat chick staring back at me?
November 28, 2005


I believe there comes a time in every person’s life when they wake up in the morning, roll out of bed, stub a toe on a dresser, curse like a sailor, stumble to the bathroom, throw water in the face, look in the mirror and wonder just who the heck that person is staring back at them.

In my mind’s eye, I am in the prime of my life. I am in my mid to early 20s and I am a size 9 Tall. I don’t have to think too hard to develop this image as I was once in my early 20s and a size 9 Tall, and lived life to the fullest. In real life, I’m in my 40s, and have been deceived. I think I still resemble that young, innocent, carefree girl, and I have faced that deception head-on.

There is a YMCA in Smyrna, Tennessee now. It is quite impressive. It will do great things for the welfare of our community and we will have hundreds of upwardly mobile people who will regularly experience all the Y has to offer in an effort to either stay in shape or get in shape. I signed up to be a member while the facility was under construction. I took a hard hat tour before I signed on the dotted line just so I could get the free neon yellow “charter member” t-shirt. I was very proud of my motivation. In signing my name to a contract that would remove a portion of money from my bank account each month, I swore that I would re-prioritize things in an effort to get myself back on the right track.

I’ve been in the midst of what I am calling my “dark year” for about a year and a half now. No, I don’t want to explain… you’ll just need to trust me. Suffice it to say, during the dark year (and a half) I have experienced a career change, my father has been diagnosed with diabetes, my mother endured knee surgery, I’ve buried at least three friends of the family, and have emotionally shut down in more ways than one. I decided to explore the various definitions of “comfort food” to the tune of an additional 40 pounds or so.

Therefore, when I learned we would have a YMCA in our very own town, and that it would be located a mere five minutes from my home… I made the jump from the couch to the gym.

I only hope I will live to tell about it.

It started out simple enough. I had my picture card made. This was where reality first hit. I’ve had the really bad driver’s license pictures and passport pictures before… but they couldn’t hold a candle to the fat girl on the keyring card that “Muffy” handed to me. (I don’t know the perky girl’s name… but she’s a skinny Minnie who, in my enlightened opinion, needs to eat more) I almost handed the card back to her and asked her to find the lady who belonged to that key card… it certainly was too “Large Marge” to be me!!! But I took another look, and sure enough, that was my face staring back at me. If that was not inspiration, nothing would be. I put away my desire to sink my face into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, and I proceeded to experience the Y in a way that most of the town of Smyrna was doing.

The week of Thanksgiving was the first week I attended. I woke up bright and early on a Monday morning (5:30ish… yes… the sailors were embarrassed) dressed, and headed for the Y. I made it there a little after 6:00 a.m. (yes… AM… as in “what-in-the-name-of-the-Lord-am-I-thinking?) Little did I know that half the town of Smyrna would think it a good idea to do the same thing. There were no available treadmills and the employees were quite busy showing new patrons how to work various weight machines. Feeling a little out of place, I went up the stairs and simply walked the track for about a half hour. I learned that by about 6:30, most of those early people are heading out the door and away from the treadmills… which means I should have about an extra 30 minutes of sleep before I try that nonsense again!

I took a look at the schedule of activities and began to determine which program would best suit me. Truly anything was better than nothing. There was a water aerobics class that would meet the next afternoon at 5:30 p.m. (PM… when real people come alive) I made plans to dig out that swimsuit and take it to work with me the following day.

I got to the gym that afternoon a little early, tugged, pulled, mashed and generally molded my Large Marge body into my bathing suit and thanked the good Lord for the sense I had to bring a big Beach Towel to wrap about myself on my trek to the indoor pool. There are two pools at the Y right now… a no grade pool for the general public and children and a three lane lap pool. There were screaming children who had been dropped off by various parental units (who should be shot) in the no grade pool, so I headed for the lap pool for the approximate 15 minutes it would take before the aerobics class began.

There were people in each lane of the lap pool, two men and one woman. I chose to share a lane with the one lady, simply because I did not want Gramps in lane one to lap me over and over, and the Olympic swimmer in lane two just made me tired. I swam on my back. I swam on my side. I swam freestyle and I did the breast stroke. I swam under the water and on top of the water, and I was breathless when it was over. The lifeguards spent most of their time blowing their whistles and telling children (with no parental units) to stop running, stop fighting, and… if I’d had my way about it… stop breathing. They did not have to perform CPR on me; therefore, it was a good day.

Before I knew it, there was a contingency of people assembled in the no grade pool and a woman dressed in sweats standing on the edge. She was yelling instructions over the sounds of the screaming children and I realized this was the aerobic class. I hauled Large Marge out of the lap pool (much to the joy of my lane partner) and joined the water aerobics group.

The first thing I realized was that I was the youngest person in the group. Apparently the geriatric crowd really goes for water aerobics. The screaming children have been roped into the shallow “play” end of the pool while I and 20 of my closest elderly friends are thrashing about in about 4-5 feet of water.

Thrashing about is the kindest phrase one can use when describing water aerobics. One attends with the exuberant expectation of joining Esther Williams and her entourage in graceful moves that are peaceful and classical. When you realize that granny has smacked you upside the head for the fifth time and you more closely resemble Shamu than Esther… you really only want the class to end. Once it is over, being the nice girl your Mamma raised you to be, you stand at the side and help the little old ladies out of the water, then you rush past them to the locker room to change before all the changing stalls are taken.

I had a few days away from the Y because of Thanksgiving obligations, but I planned to resume my new found love the Monday after. Today.

I took a look at the activity schedule again to see what the upwardly mobile people would be doing at the Y, which did not involve Granny and a big pool of water. I came to the stark conclusion that I may not be an upwardly mobile person. I certainly do not feel mobile at the present time. Why? Basic But Tough Step Aerobics (a/k/a Have You Lost Your Ever-Loving Mind Step Aerobics)

I didn’t want to be alone on my first venture to an aerobics class in say, oh, 10 years or so. I called my sister-in-law, but she had done her damage at the Y earlier that day. So, I talked my 17 year old niece into attending with me. She’s never been to an aerobics class… let alone a step class. I figured I could help her with the basic steps (that Jane Fonda taught me in the 80s) and she could resuscitate me or call 911 in the event that I passed out (she has her own cell phone, you know) What I would NEVER have seen coming would be the fact that the class is 60 minutes long. I certainly believed it to only be a 30 minute class. That was as long as Jane ever had me grape-vining left and right in her leopard print leotard.

We were on the front row, because we were some of the last people to arrive. You could have sworn that the rest of the 20 people in the class were Baptists, by the way they huddled toward the back of the room. Kristin was great. Have I mentioned she is 17? The biggest problem is that she had to head out at the half-way point to attend a Bible study. She left me there to flounder on my own. But I stuck with it. I remembered some steps, forgot others entirely and generally prayed that I did not fall down. My step slid at times and I did my best not to trip over it whilst I moved it back into place. When I thought I was going to pass out, or hyperventilate (and I began thinking that during the warm up cycle… a mere five minutes into the 60) I simply stood and marched in place. I figured the skinny, athletic girl behind me would rather me march in place than fall backwards on her. She would not survive the blow.

Once we cooled down (a nice way of saying, hang in there… we just getting to the good part) we were instructed to replace our steps and grab a mat for our Ab workout.

What… are you kidding me? Do you really think I will be able to get up off the floor? Our instructor, Pam, who is a big boned girl too (but in great shape) assured us that it would be better for us to finish the time out completely. I was suckered into believing her. I lay down on the mat that was about a quarter of an inch thick and really felt no better than the wood flooring underneath it.

We did crunches. We did inverted crunches. We worked on our oblique muscles and we did leg lifts. We stretched and stretched some more, which was when the muscle cramps began.

“I’m sorry, Pam… I’m going to need to stop now… my toes have curled under my feet and it will take some time to retrieve them. No… really, that’s okay… I like it when my…

()&@$(#*&!!!!

There goes that calf muscle… No, it’s okay, I’m sure if I eat a banana, it will give me the

@#*$&@)(!!!

Yep, that was my back. No really… I’m good… I’ll just reach for that water bottle over there and

#$*&@)&@!!!

What’s wrong with my neck? I’m not sure. If you’ll just take this mat back, I’m going to throw Large Marge into the lap pool where she can drown peacefully.”

There’s an indoor cycling class that is being offered tomorrow. I know that exercise creates endorphins, which really give you a boost. I’m fairly certain that endorphins also kill brain cells… because I’m actually considering returning to the Y tomorrow.

What a Stupid Girl

I am, in some instances, considered the Queen of Horror Movies. I was raised on those great, classic films that were shot in black and white. I remember watching Bela Lugosi re-enact the legend of Count Dracula and being amazed at the cinematography of the early 40s. I remember thinking that “Dark Shadows” was by far the most interesting television program that had ever been developed. We were so excited the year that there was a Dark Shadows board game out, and we received one at Christmas. There is video film of my little brother and I playing with the coffins and skeletons and fake fangs that came with the game. Thinking back, that video looks more like the avante garde animation “A Nightmare Before Christmas” than anything with deep spiritual meaning of the birth of Christ!

I came home from school every afternoon and my little brother and I planted ourselves just a few inches from the screen of our remoteless television set to watch “The Creature Feature”. A very old, entirely too pudgy man in macabre garb would introduce the afternoon film and would segue way into the various commercials that would interrupt our movie-watching time. Most specifically, he was all about pitching a high fructose, high glucose concoction aptly dubbed, “Creature Cooler”. This Kool-Aid rip-off came in varying flavors… John’s favorite was grape, and my more sophisticated taste selected cherry. No less than five or six times in any given hour would one or the other of my parents enter the room and chastise us for sitting too close to the television set. They warned us that we would go blind in a matter of moments if we did not get up off the floor and sit on the furniture, which was an appropriate distance from the television. We acquiesced only long enough for them to leave the room and we returned to our warm spots on the floor. My parents were never that excited a few hours later when I would awake in the middle of the night having experienced a bad dream that sent me running into their bed room and curling up between the two of them… but they allowed it to happen.

As we got older, our tastes matured to the weekly Friday night “Night Stalker” program. This show had the ability to really creep you out. The main character was a newspaper reporter that always seemed to have the worst luck in his investigative reporting. He found all the monsters that were hiding in the shadows; vampires waiting to lunge at their first victim as the sun went down… and the zombies that would never die, but only wanted to eat their horrified prey. John and I were glued to the television set in the basement of our 1960s split level house. Our bedrooms were upstairs and down a long, narrow hallway. The living room was an open area to the left of the staircase, and the hallway was to the right. The light switch for the stairway was located, of course, on the upstairs level. One night, after a particularly bone-chilling episode, my father called to us from upstairs that it was time for us to get to bed. “Make sure you turn off the television and the lights downstairs.”

I went upstairs to turn on the stairway light and came back downstairs to help John finish straightening the room. When we got to the stairway, the lights had been turned off. We knew that once the den light was shut off, it was going to be a very dark, creepy and scary journey to our respective bedrooms. We looked at each other, we braced ourselves, and we hit the lights. As we got to the midway point of the split level, my father let out a menacing growl that I can remember to this day. John and I screamed at the top of our lungs and fell over each other to get to the top of the stairs and our rooms before “IT” could get to us. I slammed my bedroom door shut and to this day can hear the sound of my father laughing from the living room at the terror he had instigated.

I hit my high school years just about the time of the incredibly classic horror movies that made the 80s great. Jason began his journey into folk lore at Camp Crystal Lake and Michael Myers had Jamie Lee Curtis running around town in her northeastern suburb screaming at the top of her lungs. Throw Freddie Kruger into the mix and you have all the makings of a great date movie… there’s nothing a guy likes more than a frightened girl hanging on to him… and even if you’re laughing more than you’re scared… you make him think you’re scared.

I was also one of those people who would talk to the television or movie screen and advise the main character that doom was awaiting them just around the corner. “What are you thinking running through the woods without an axe in your hand? Don’t you know there’s a stump you’re about to trip over? That’s all the monster will need to catch up with you!” Or, better still, “Yes, I know you just heard a noise in the attic… don’t you think you need to call the police before you traipse up there in your nightgown? Maybe you should leave the house that is possessed and speaking to you from the great beyond.”

Having explained all this… it makes you wonder why you do the very things you swear the actors should never do in the movies. For instance, what is it that drives you to investigate that “bump” you heard in the night… or the three “bumps” that woke you from a deep sleep early one Thursday morning?

My REM cycle was working overtime as I was in the throes of my production season at work. When I did finally get my brain to shut down, sleep was a welcomed friend. It was about 4:30 a.m. when I heard the three very LOUD sounds. I sat straight up in the bed with my heart pounding fiercely. My brain had already engaged and was trying to determine both the origin of the sound and its location. What I heard was something… or someONE hitting something that was wooden coming from the general direction of the living room area.

Our house is a brick house and the only wooden parts of it are the front doors. The problem, however, is that we have large glass storm doors that remain locked on the front of the house. In order for someone to be banging on the front door… they would have to get past the storm doors first. This is a disconcerting thought to a single girl at 4:30 in the morning. What is she to do? Reach for the cell phone and call the police? No… she whips off the comforter that has been warming her now chilled-to-the-bone body off the bed and heads to the living room.

Is there any type of weapon or protection that said heroin can locate? No… it’s 4:30 a.m. Is there a piece of furniture you can hide behind if Jason has indeed found his way from Camp Crystal Lake to your house? Not really. As a matter of fact… you’ve just walked your half-naked self in front of the large plate glass window of the living room as you are investigating this strange phenomenon. The mind is racing through various scenarios of misadventure as you stealthily make your way to the front door. As your hand touches the door knob you jump out of your skin when your 72 year old mother’s voice whispers from behind you “what are you doing up at this hour?”

You fight the urge to strangle her as the nervous pee-pee dance begins… she having scared that bodily function right out of you and a discussion ensues regarding the bump in the night. She heard the same noise, but it was time for her to get up anyway. She didn’t know what it was, and is not nearly as concerned as you are. Being the heroine of the story, you head for the front door anyway and slowly pull it open. You see nothing in the dark blackness of the night and you test the screen door to find it still locked. “Hmm…” you wonder. Could it have been the other front door? You stealthily make your way into the music room where thousands of beady-eyed Beanie Babies watch your every move. Both doors are locked there as well. Now you’re irritated. Now is the time for the “stupid-white-girl-in-the-scary-movie” persona to take over. You head out the front door.

The temperature is cold outside at 4:35 a.m. in the month of March. You are barely dressed and barefoot and you scurry among the trees and brush that line the front of your house. You’ve suddenly become Sherlock Holmes or a character in an Agatha Christie novel. You’re looking for footprints or tire prints in the dirt alongside your driveway. You listen for the twig to snap that will cause you to spin around and face your aggressor head on. You’re looking for a hockey mask and a black cape. You find nothing; but you curse out loud as you step on a pinecone that imbeds itself in your foot. You hop on one leg back to the front door only to be blinded by the porch light your mother turns on at the last moment. You stumble backwards into the prickly holly bush and stifle a curse under your breath. You now remember how stupid the girl was who twisted her ankle running from the serial killer through the woods. You feel pretty stupid yourself. You return to bed for about another hour of sleep before the alarm clock goes off, and you remain puzzled for the next few days as to what could have made that noise.

On Saturday the pieces of your wracked puzzle put themselves together as if they were positively and negatively charged ions in the atoms of common sense. You find a large metal frame that has slipped on the wooden shelf you put together in your bathroom just a few weeks earlier. You realize that the metal frame bounced around a few times before finding its resting place, and the bathroom is right next to your bedroom… which is why it could rouse you from a good night’s sleep.

Still… you shake your head in amazement the next night over a bag of Popcorn as you watch a teenage girl scamper through the woods while a resurrected Jason (number 13) hurries along after her with a machete in his hand.

“What a stupid girl.”

My Mother's Ingenuity

Ingenuity: skill in planning, inventing, cleverness

My mother is a genius. Have I mentioned that before? She was born at the end of the depression era; grew up in a coal mining camp; went off to a boarding school for girls; began college; met/fell in love with/cheated on and finally married my father. She lived in a few different countries; bore three children; suffered five miscarriages and dealt with various pets through the years. She taught school, taught piano, is the church organist and Sunday School teacher. You name it, if she hasn't done it, she thought about doing it.

Adapting is a way of life for my mother. When faced with the circumstance of not being allowed to play with the other children in the coal mining camp, she was determined to host her own birthday party. She invited the children (her school friends) over to the house and while she sat inside the fenced yard, she made peanut butter and crackers and passed them to her friends through the gate who were not allowed in her yard. She would not be stopped.

Adversity is no friend of my mother to this day. A few years ago, she had taken a liking to the concept of turning old tires into flower planters for the garden. It just so happened that we had an old steel-belted radial tire that had seen better days, and she was set on her new craft. It turned out that the tire was just a little too large, and she wanted to cut it down.

A truly odd sight to behold is one where your mother is on her hands and knees with a serrated bread knife sawing through a steel belted radial. A deaf ear meets any advice you attempt to give. She knows what she is doing. Her family finally steps into the fray when, in her desperation, she pulls out the handy-dandy electric kitchen knife. Knowing that no good will come from an electric, hand-held appliance meeting a steel belt, her children finally debate the dangers of her actions, and she acquiesced. The tire is thrown away and a large plaster planter is purchased at the nearby garden store.

Her ingenuity does not fade with her years. About 15 years ago, her first granddaughter came into the world. Kristin stole the hearts of all the Bell family, and was quickly followed by her sister Katy and her cousin Allison. Three little girls all in a row! The guest bedroom at the Bell house began its transformation to a room with pink walls (of course), darker pink trim; with dollies and teddy bears lined everywhere! There was only one problem… a draft coming in from one of the two windows.

Some normal people would have perhaps caulked the window to keep out the chill. But they are not the genius my mother is. Caulk is expensive, takes time and effort, and is unattractive. But TOILET PAPER!!! There's the solution. Cram toilet paper into the cracks for a quick, easy seal. However, that leaves its own problem… an unsightly mess. What to do? Stand back for a moment, assess the situation, and come to the only rational conclusion one has left… paint the toilet paper pink! It will match the wood trim and no one will be the wiser.

Certainly the adult daughter would not be the wiser when she sets out to remodel the same room some years later. She'll begin painting the trim and will come upon the window that appears to be caulked closed. "Funny," she thinks, "how do they plan to ever open this window again? I suppose they are not planning to open the window. I can't leave it pink and I can't seem to dig it out. The caulk moves from its pink stage in life to its cream stage.

Her mother is ecstatic when she comes home to her new guest bedroom. She is thrilled beyond words. She hails her daughter's charms to anyone within hearing distance, and praise goes from her lips for weeks.

Then one night, she approaches the daughter, after the newness of the room has worn out.

"Well, I've got to try and fix that window you painted shut," she said with a tone that was not generally flattering.

"What are you talking about?" I replied.

"You know… the window in the guest room. You painted it shut."

"Mom… I did not paint that window shut. It was caulked shut. It was permanently shut before I ever got in there."

"What are you talking about? I never caulked that window. That was toilet paper."

"Toilet paper?" My facial expression could never be adequately described.

"Well yes, I was trying to keep the cold air out."

My hands had covered my face at this time. I ran my fingers through my hair as I looked back up at the ingenious woman who gave me life. "Mother, you painted the toilet paper pink." I said this calmly and forthrightly and with no surprise in my voice. I mean come on; this is the same woman who uses toothpaste for both spackling holes in her plaster walls and cleaning her silver. It's not just for brushing teeth anymore.

A confused look came over her face and was gone in the instant that reality checked back into her life.

"I did?" The surprised sound was almost too much to bear. The longer the conversation was going, the more difficult it was to keep a straight face.

"Yes, you did. Did you want me to leave it pink?"

"Well no." Her answer came with an incredulous timbre, and then she seemed to begin to speak to herself. "Hmm… I can't imagine why I would have done something like that." She paused for dramatic effect and then moved on. "Oh well, no matter. I'm starting to dig it out now. Would you like to help?"

"No thanks… I’ve got the toothpaste out… I'm going to reseal the cracks in the driveway."