Bless Me Father....

...for I have erred greatly! Thanks to Aunt Mary (a wise and well-schooled catholic woman) and the internet, I have been enlightened on the origins of the immaculate conception and Jesus' birth. However, in all fairness, I only attended catholic school up until the beginning of seventh grade, when we moved and Aunt Mary attended all through high school and into college. Nonetheless, I'm sure my grade school nuns are rolling over in their graves as I type.

As it turns out, the immaculate conception doesn't even have anything to do with Jesus (even though he was immaculately conceived), rather, it has to do with Mary. According to www.gotquestions.org, the immaculate conception is a doctrine, or an official statement, of the Roman Catholic church that is the belief that "Mary did not have a sin nature and was, in fact, sinless."

The website goes on to say, however, that one problem with this doctrine is that is not taught in the bible (maybe that's why I didn't know this!) The bible really only refers to Jesus being without sin. However, people started wondering, how can Jesus be without sin if he was born in a sinful woman. Thus, the need to create a sinless Mary. If Mary is a sinner, then that means Jesus is a sinner. The bible's solution to this problem is addressed by declaring that Jesus was "miraculously protected from being polluted by sin" while in Mary's womb. To which some argue, "well what's up with that?" If he could protect Jesus from sin, why couldn't he protect Mary, thus eliminating the need for her to be immaculate? Also, what about Mary's mom and grandma? In order for Mary to be immaculate, THEY would have to be immaculate.

The website goes on to explain that the doctrine is neither biblical nor necessary. Jesus was miraculously conceived inside Mary, who was a virgin at the time. The bible doesn't even hint that there was something special about Mary's conception, rather it only teaches the miraculous conception of Jesus Christ. I may be opening up a whole new can of worms here, but I believe that happened when an angel visited her. To which Joseph replied "what?" upon hearing that explanation.

Anyhow, that's today's lesson on Maryology (yes it's a real word), which is the theological study of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Suffice it to say, Mary was not pregnant for a mere three weeks or even three months.

Check back next week, when we will once again be discussing Rebeccaology, the study of Rebecca, the mother of Alex and Cameron.

A New Day Has Come

It was a year ago today, December 14, that I published my first post on this blog. It featured a picture of Alex kissing his newborn brother over 15 years ago. Today I have another newborn to feature, and his name is Noah David. He was born to our niece Jyl and her husband, Paul. He is their third child....third boy....third blessing.

He was born last Monday, December 7. The day before the Immaculate Conception holy day. Which got me to thinking.....did Mary conceive Jesus on December 8 and then give birth to him on December 25, because I bet Jyl would have loved a speedy pregnancy like that! As a girl who went to catholic school from grade one through grade seven, I should know these answers. I was watching a show the other night and a character on the show kept saying that technically, Jesus was born in March and that's when we should be celebrating Christmas. So, again, does that mean Mary conceived Jesus in December and gave birth to him in March? Because three months is still pretty attractive, compared to nine months. Can you imagine if that were the case? Although, I don't know. Having a baby in three months really wouldn't be a good thing for people like Octomom and Michelle Duggar, who just had her 19th child. If they only had to endure a three month pregnancy, they'd probably have double the amount of kids than they do now due to shorter waiting times. Wow, I just realized they each have more kids than Jesus had disciples.

Anyway, as I recall, being pregnant is an awesome and exciting experience....for about the first four, five, six months. Then after that things get very crowded in there and you start feeling incredibly crabby and uncomfortable. You begin to feel like you have a tumor or an alien growing inside of you and all you can do is think "get it out, get it out, get it out!" You liken it to a house guest who has overstayed their welcome.

And then, when the baby is good and ready, he arrives. He is perfect, and sweet, and you stare at him with wonder. You think, how could such a tiny, helpless person have caused so much discomfort to your bladder at all hours of the day and night? You feel like you could stare at him forever. You are amazed at the beauty of this gift and then you realize "I made this" and you feel overwhelmed with pride and love. So innocent and pure.

Then, before you know it, this awesome gift turns two and you start asking "who's child is this and why won't he listen to me?" I wonder if Mary ever thought that. On second thought, that's probably where that song "What Child is This?" comes from. Do you think Jesus went through the terrible twos? I mean, we don't really hear about the early, early years of Jesus' childhood. Do you suppose when they sat at the dinner table and Mary asked him to sit back down and finish his vegetables, he said "I don't have to, I'm the Messiah." To which Mary replied "I don't care if you're the Lamb of God. Sit your butt down and eat your broccoli!" As Jesus grew older and realized he had a special talent, I wonder why he didn't opt to multiply dessert instead of fishes and loaves of bread to feed the hungry masses and declare "Cookies for everyone!"

Oh dear, I can feel myself burning in hell already for asking these questions.

These are certainly difficult times we are living in. War, economic hardships, and what seems to me, an overall loss in faith, goodness, and humanity. Some of the biggest stories this year involved people who, betrayed their own families due to their need for attention--Octomom, Governor Mark Sanford, Balloon Boy parents, and now Tiger Woods.

This time of year we look to the Christmas season as a way to regain our feelings of hope, love, and forgiveness. We need Christmas. By the end of the year, we are so burned out that we need to be rejuvenated. The birth of a baby, whether it's Jesus or your nephew, sure helps you remember the good things about the world. For every selfish loser, there is a kind and giving winner. For every thing imperfect, there is something perfect, if only til they turn two.

You put all your dreams and high hopes onto a baby. You wish for them all things possible, because frankly in this day and age, it is possible. Medical miracles, educational opportunities, and the ability to discover the world at the click of a mouse.

For my family alone, 2009 has been marked with ups and downs. The loss of a job after 20 years of service for Ed. The high school graduation of our first born with successful entry into college. A driver's permit for our second born (yikes!), a twenty-year wedding anniversary for Ed and me, health care issues and surgeries for my parents, a heart attack for my brother, and the birth of a beautiful, healthy nephew. Overall, we have been blessed. Ed successfully found work as a contractor and now has been hired as a full-time employee by another firm. My parents have come through each of their health care issues with flying colors. My brother had a scare, but has been given a second chance. A new day, rebirth for many of us, in more ways than one.

Keepin' It Real--Crabby, But Real

I found this funny video clip on my buddy Chuckle's website, called Skedaddy (www.skedaddy.com). Anyway click here for a GREAT (not just good) laugh today. As the title of the clip states, he is "freaking funny"! I'm not sure if this guy is for real, but he's funny. He's like the Tim Conway of fishing.

Surely, we have all met someone or witnessed something that makes us stop and think "Are you for real?" Sometimes, people just seem so genuinely nice, stupid, annoying, naive, meticulous, stunningly beautiful, disorganized, or whatever you can imagine in excess, that you're just not sure what to believe.

I find that the older I get, the more "are you for real" moments I have, however, in my mind I'm really saying "Are you sh*ttin' me?" because I'm just so astounded at some things I can only express it in expletives.

Having attended years of my kids' roller hockey, baseball, and now football games, I find myself asking that question on a regular basis in regards to over zealous moms and dads I observe at the games. Whether they're shamefully yelling at their kids about their lack of performance or being an over-the-top cheerleader on the sidelines. Far be it from me to say that I'm the measuring stick for normalcy, but seriously, all I can think of at these times is "Dude...are you for real? Get a life, and if this is your life, you should consider getting a new one."

Lately, every time I have a conversation with my aging parents, I almost always find myself wondering "Is this confusing and repetitive interaction we're having for real?" because I could just kill myself.

When I witness people texting while driving or hear about pilots laptopping while piloting (and overshooting their destination by about 150 miles) it make me take pause and say "Are you for real or just incredibly stupid?"

When I see people toss their cigarette butts right out the window, because for some reason they think that doesn't count as littering, I just want to ask them "Are you for real and this thoughtless all the time, or only when you smoke?" I find it incredibly ironic that they don't mind if their mouth smells like an ashtray, but they sure as heck don't want the ashtray in their car to smell like an ashtray.

When I read saccharin-ridden Facebook postings of how happy and beautiful and wonderful life is for some people (all the time!) I think "Are you for real, because nobody and their families are that happy or loving all the time, unless they are living in a dreamworld." Sheesh...even the Brady Bunch family had dissent for at least 30 minutes every Friday night. I would just love it for once if someone posted something on Facebook that shared with us just how much their life sucked at that moment! Then, I would think, "now that's for real."

Last night, as I headed out to run some errands, I had a major "are you for real moment" when I saw two houses in my neighborhood already decked out for Christmas. Lights, trees, action! Of course the stores have had their Christmas merchandise out since prior to Halloween, commercials are in full force, and one radio station is already playing holiday music, 24/7. I can see being smart and putting your lights up while it is nice and warm outside, but turning them on? Now you're just asking for trouble from your overstressed and freaked out neighbor. And when this neighbor gives you a dirty Scrooge-like look as she drive past your house, you're going to say "Are you for real and this crabby all the time or only on Tuesday nights?"

Peace and Comfort

The irony is incredible. As I wrote yesterday's posting about honoring our veterans, and the incredible sacrifices they make, I never imagined one of them would be at the hands of one of their own. An American soldier killing American soldiers.

Fort Hood has suffered some of the greatest casualties in Iraq. Now they have suffered that at their home base on U.S. soil. Yesterday's mass shooting took place in an area where young soldiers are readying to be deployed. They expect this chaos and danger to ensue overseas, not where they are being trained and graduating. Eager to serve, and yet unable. Peace and comfort to the families. They are the ones left behind to endure so much pain.

Thank You for Your Service

Next Wednesday, November 11, is Veterans Day. The purpose of this holiday is to honor American veterans of all wars.

It is observed on this day, because that is the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I, which was November 11, 1915. President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the first "Armistice Day" in November of 1919. In 1954, Armistice Day was officially changed to Veterans Day, thanks to a shoe store owner named, Al King. He felt that it should be changed to honor all veterans, not just those from World War I, and Congress and President Eisenhower agreed.

Somewhere along the way, Veterans Day was moved to be observed on the fourth Monday of October. This was in accordance with the Uniform Monday Holiday Act. This was an act that became law in 1971 that basically moved holidays like George Washington's birthday, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, and Veterans Day to Mondays so federal employees could have more three-day weekends (I kid you not). Ultimately, Congress merged George Washington and Abraham Lincoln's birthdays into President's Day--because let's be honest, who has time to acknowledge two historical presidents' birthdays twice in one month? I'm just surprised Congress didn't rearrange Jesus Christ's birthday to be on a more convenient day as well. Anyway, in 1978 the observance of this holiday was moved back to November 11, thanks to Gerald Ford, because when they tried to celebrate it on October 25, 1971, people were confused and not happy about the break with tradition.

And so, next Wednesday, we will honor the men and women of this country who have served and sacrificed so much for our freedom, as well as for the freedom of others. I cannot even begin to understand what that sacrifice must feel like. To give up your own freedom of choice, because when you join the military, you're pretty much done making choices. You do what you're told, when you're told and you do it in whatever country they decide they want you to do it in. You do it with no questions asked and you do it for the greater good. You say goodbye to loved ones for great lengths of time and pray that you will see them again. You endure difficult living conditions, extreme physical conditioning and pain, and you lay your life on the line. You get sent into war to defend people who don't even want you there, and yet you continue to do your job with pride and honor. That is an awesome sense of responsibility and conviction.

I cannot even fathom saying goodbye to my son, husband, father, mother, brother, sister, or friend as they head off to war, knowing that it's possible they might not come back. How do you prepare for something like that? That is an awesome sense of commitment and strength.

I'm sure that there are many reasons why people join the military. Some join for the education, the travel, the benefits, the excitement, the discipline, and the honor. Although the reasons may vary, you can be sure that there is one common thread, and that is to serve their country. In peacetime and wartime.

My niece, Jyl, has a sister-in-law who was in the military and did several tours in the war-torn areas. I remember Jyl sharing with us Kim's experiences and photos. The boot camp, the deployment, the frenzy, and the camaraderie.

Recently, I reconnected with some high school classmates on Facebook and learned that some of them have strong ties to the military. One of them did five tours of combat and is currently in the military army special forces. He was seriously injured in 2007 and has spent the last two years recovering. When I learned of his story since high school, I was amazed. I thought how can that be? "Your sweet Keith from ski club...you can't be going to war!" Because he was 18 when I last saw him, that's how I still envisioned him.

Another classmate, Greg, was also in the military and he is now preparing himself for when his youngest son leaves for Iraq in January. He will be working in the military police along side the Iraqi police.

Finally, my friend, Laura, has a son who is going to be deployed as a medic. I'm sure she is terrified and dreading the day when she must say goodbye. She belongs to a group called Michigan Military Moms and they meet twice a month as support for each other and they provide support to our troops as well. One way they do this by gathering donations for care packages that are sent to the troops overseas.

I'm ashamed to say that because the war is so far away, I sometimes get complacent. Because it's been going on for so long, I tend to skip over the articles with foreign city names that I can't pronounce. I get confused trying to understand religious beliefs that I can't relate to. I apologize for my aloofness and ignorance.

Veterans Day will have a different meaning for me this year. It will not be a day set aside for heading to Macy's to get an extra 20% off during their Veterans Day sale. How it became a tradition to honor a military veteran by getting a great deal on clothes or furniture, I'll never understand. I guess it happened the same way it did for Memorial Day.

The best deal, of course, would be an end to the wars. When my dad was in the service, he was being deployed to Korea for a tour of duty in the Korean War. While he was on a ship heading overseas, the war came to an end. Can you imagine that?

To all those who have served, or are currently serving, "thank you, thank you, thank you" from the bottom of my free and humble heart.

Arachnophobia at its Finest

I could NEVER be pope. Whether you get voted in, assigned, annointed, appointed, whatever, I'm still not a viable candidate.

With that gross understatement being said, let me elaborate. Did you happen to catch the video snippet from last week where the Pope was making a speech on some world-wide stage and a large, black spider was taking a tour of his papal robes? If not, click on today's posting title to view.

It was like watching a horror movie. It was enough to make me squirm and shriek, and do everything I could from swatting at my own neck and ears. The spider made his way from right to left and then back over to the right again. He wandered from the front to the back, and then had the disrepectful audacity to make his way up the Pope's neck and right ear!!!! I felt horribly creeped out as I watched it touch his skin, and then tried to make note of the people in the background to see if they noticed it as well. I wondered if anyone would actually swat the spider off his Holy Eminence, but no one did. Can you imagine being that guy? SMACK! The Pope whips his head around as if to say "What the....Who do you think you are? I am the Pope! Nobody hits the Pope!" and you'd reply "you had a bug on you" at which point, you would be quickly whisked away by his security staff and escorted to an unpleasant place that exists far, far away.

For the most part, the Pope did not seem to be aware that this eight-legged critter was leisurely strolling about his shoulders and back. If he did, he sure didn't give any indication of it, because he just kept on speaking in a calm and collected manner. As I sat there and watched the video, I tried to imagine myself in that position and decided that it wouldn't have been pretty. The moment I noticed a large, black spider making it's way across my body and up my neck and onto my ear would have been a moment frozen in time and replayed on Youtube more than you could ever think possible.

It would probably begin with my eyes literally bulging out of my orbital sockets when the nerve endings connected with my brain and realized what in fact I was seeing and feeling. Then, the freaked-out flapping, hand-swatting, and body shaking would kick-in next. This, of course, would be happening simultaneously with me abruptly interrupting my speech with the most wicked, horrified screaming you can imagine along with interjected phrases like "Omigod....omigod....get it off me....get it off....ewwww......ewwww.....is it off.....get it off!!!!!"

People listening to me speak so prophetically and christianly, who didn't have binoculars and couldn't see me up close, would think that I was having some sort of Catholic stress-induced nervous breakdown on stage. All they would be able to see would be my contorted body frantically flailing my robes into the air and me desperately trying to get my little papal cape pulled up over my head. The hysteria would probably cause me to stumble around, bump into the podium, and fall off the stage. At that point, they would be quickly holding new elections for Pope.

What can I say? I do not like spiders. I don't care how itsy, bitsy or or out-of-my-world enormous they are. I don't do arachnids. To this day, I am unable to kill, touch, or remove a spider found inside my home. The first thing I do is call for the most available family member to come and dispose of it. It doesn't matter that I am only inches away from it and they are on another level of the house, doing something far more important. They have come to realize that what's truly important in our house is that I not freak out.

The spider in the photo above was found lurking about our shoe rack in the garage, which is near the house entrance (I have since moved all my shoes into the house for safety reasons). We arrived home one night from a football game, and as we approached the entry way, Cameron spotted it right away. "Holy sh*t" was all I could utter. My thought was for Ed to catch the spider so we could look at it up close and I could take pictures and send them to my four-year old nephew. As a mother of two boys, I have certainly done my share of collecting bugs, worms, and mice for them to watch and then let go. Although I am deathly afraid of spiders, I do enjoy watching them from a safe distance when glass and/or plastic walls separate us. Something about observing what terrifies you the most is a little bit empowering, I suppose. Not enough to make me ever want to touch one, however.

So, after Cameron and I quickly jumped behind Ed for protection, we scrambled to find our bug jar and butterfly nets for capture. The biggest fear, of course, was that this critter would escape into some crack and be left to roam the garage while I lay awake all night wondering if it had made its way into my car yet. Fortunately, Ed was able to maneuver it into the jar without losing or squishing it, or amputating any of its limbs.

For a day or two it sat in the jar, until I had the time (and nerve) to take photos of it. I dropped a penny and candy corn (very fresh candy corn, I might add) to help give others some perspective as to the size of this monster. I can't even imagine living somewhere like Arizona, or Mexico, or Australia where tarantulas are roaming the planet and probably regularly make their way into people's homes and garages. That would truly be the end of me and any chance I might have of running for Pope.

Cat Psychology 101

Does this cat look stressed to you? According to his vet, that is what's causing him to behave in socially unacceptable ways around my house.

Last week I took Stanley in for his one year check-up and annual shots. I also had wanted to discuss an "incident" that recently occurred.

One day, as I was preparing to leave the house, I walked to the back hallway leading to the garage entrance. As I approached the door, I looked over to my left and saw Stanley with his backside up against another exit to the outside, called the "friend" entrance. The first thing I noticed was that his tail was sticking straight up and was sort of wagging, or vibrating back and forth with short, quick movements. Then, I realized he was urinating all over the door! I stood and watched this much with the same horrorific look I displayed when I witnessed my basement egress window flood with water this summer. It is such a hopeless feeling when you see an undesirable liquid streaming, gushing, and oozing into your home. What was even more distressing to me was that his litter box was just a few feet away from where he stood.

The worst part is, I didn't know what to do or what I could do other than watch. When your cat is in mid-stream, picking him up and moving him into the laundry room tub doesn't seem like an option. Screaming at him "Hey! What are you doing? Stop it...no, no, no!" and standing there watching him finish the job (which seemed like an eternity) seemed like the only thing to do. Of course, you're thinking, he's got to be almost done. After all, how much urine could be in that teeny tiny bladder? Then, when it continues to shoot out onto your hard wood floors and entry way rug, you begin to wonder if the cat has a beer keg, that you don't know about, hidden somewhere in the house and has been drinking from it all damn day. Then, the real kicker is that when he's finished with his "work", he doesn't even look remorseful or stick around to watch you clean up like he's thinking "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I don't even know what came over me. I know you have a million things to do already and cleaning up this cat urine soaked rug was not one of them. I promise it will never happen again. Please forgive me. Meow, meow, meow, I love you mommy!" Instead, he simply walks away as if to say "All done!".

In veterinarian terms, what I had observed Stanley doing was called "spraying." This is his way of marking his territory against other cats and animals and declaring "mine, mine, mine, this stuff is all mine!" The vet asked me if we had other pets in addition to Stanley, to which I replied (in my head) "hell no." Then he asked if there was perhaps a stray cat lurking around the outside of the house, which would cause him to be stressed about someone else invading his space. I paused and thought about it for a minute. I explained to him that we live in a somewhat rural area with open yards and lots of trees and meadows nearby. I have a seen a stray cat wandering around off and on, but nothing of late. And, in addition to stray cats, we often have possums, raccoons, skunks, deer, mice, voles, snakes, and lots of other critters that happen to wander into the yard and onto the patio. Now, whether they are taunting him from outside by sticking their faces up to the window and saying "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah" I couldn't say.

The vet went on to say that Stanley's issues were behavioral as opposed to medical and sometimes that can be more difficult to treat because you have to change the behavior as opposed to giving him a pill for, let's say, a bladder infection. To which I replied (in my head) "crap."

He proceeded to tell me about a couple of products on the market which are designed to help with this task. The first one is similar to a Glade plug-in air freshener which has a bottle of oil attached to it that is slowly dispensed into the air on a daily basis. The liquid consists of "feline pheromones." Apparently, it contains the same "familiarization facial pheromones" that cats use to mark objects in their territory. So, I guess the logic is that while this dispenser is wafting feline facial pheromones into the air, the cat will think things (like doorways and rugs) are already marked, and won't feel the need to urinate all over it, thus allowing the animal to not stress out. The box claims the pheromones are "species specific" and will not have an effect on humans, however, if you happen to observe Ed, Cameron, or me rubbing our faces all over the furniture or displaying other "cat-like" behavior, please get us to an emergency room ASAP.

The second product the vet mentioned is a litter supplement you mix in with their litter and it contains a scent that draws the cat to the litter box. It probably contains the scent of carpeting, rugs, and other inappropriate surfaces for urinating on. I suppose scientists must get creative to trick these clever little animals, we call pets. I can just hear the scientist now saying "Hey, I created this stuff you sprinkle in the litter box that makes the cat want to go in there and urinate on it. I call it eau de oriental rug."

So, like the desperate pet owner I am, I said "I'll take one of each and, if you have any cat diapers, throw those in there too." If none of these work, I suppose the next recommendation will be "the cat whisperer."

Hopefully, I have nipped this little cat anxiety issue in the bud, or perhaps I should say in the "butt!" Ha, ha, I think that's funny. Because, if Stanley thinks he's stressed out now, wait until he has to send out "I've moved!" cards to all of his friends.

K.I.S.S.

Most of you recognize this acronym for "Keep It Simple Stupid." Of course, in this politically correct world (which excludes Senator Joe Wilson (R), Kanye West, and Serena Williams) the current phrase would probably be something like "Keep It Simple Silly-Billy" or as Ed likes to say "Hilarious William", which would then make it KISHW, which really is not simple and just doesn't roll off the tongue.

Those who really know me know that keeping it simple is what I'm all about. Less is more. It is the simple stuff in life that I continue to find fascinating and derive great pleasure from. Even when it involves my "simple" mind.

Last week, Ed and I were running some errands and we passed a restaurant sign that said "auce Crab". I said aloud "auce crab? What is that supposed to be, sauce crab? What is sauce crab?" Then Ed turned to me and uttered the words "all you can eat crab". When I realized that he was explaining to me that "auce" stood for "all u can eat," I busted out laughing. "Wow, how did you know that? I asked. I'm 47 and I've never seen those letters used like that. Is that some sort of "guy" thing where you know all terminology related to all you can eat buffets? Of course, had the person doing the sign used spaces in between capital letters so it read "A U C E crab" I think I could have decoded it. Ultimately, we surmised that the restaurant's sign must be maintained by a proficient texter.

As we continued on, we stopped at the pet store to pick up some cat food for Stanley. I was overwhelmed with all the choices, and yet, I still couldn't find the healthy choice, natural food, blah, blah, blah brand I was looking for. I started focusing on each label with intense scrutiny.

The amount of choices for cat food was beyond comprehension! There was food for kittens, food for cats over one-year old, food for senior citizen cats, food with hairball formula, food for shiny coats, food for sensitive skin, and then I saw a label that indicated it was food for "multiple cats" and underneath it said "multiple chats." At first, I thought, multiple cats? What difference does that make? What will happen if I feed it to a single cat? And, what does multiple chats mean? Is it for cats who do a lot of meowing? Then, I looked closer and noticed that other phrases and descriptions on the bag were in French. I laughed out loud when I realized that "multiple chats" was the French phrase for "multiple cats." Ed and I had a good chuckle over that one. You never saw two people having more fun in the cat food aisle. It made the dog owners envious that they were in a different section. I guess I'm used to everything being in English and Spanish, not French. Do more French-speaking people buy cat food than Spanish-speaking people? Oh well, I was simply confused.

With Alex off to college, and my car lease recently ended, I thought it would be "fun" to save some money for a few months and not get a new car right away. Everyday since Alex left for college, I would see his truck sitting in the garage..paid for and insured. How ridiculous to go out and get another car right away. Once we learned that our auto insurance would temporarily drop over $1,500 per year, since we turned in my car and removed him as a primary driver on the truck, the decision was simple.

Okay, so what if it doesn't have power seats, a seat heater, or XM radio, I can adjust. So what if I can't reach the radio knobs without leaning forward and reaching over or park the damn thing straight on the first five attempts? And, so what if it's covered in Plymouth Wildcat and Kalamazoo Hornet stickers and makes me look like an overzealous sports mom who needs to get a life? I can do this. After all, I'm all about simple, right? So, Ed washed it, cleaned it up on the inside, tuned it, tweaked it, and set me loose.

My first full day of driving the Dakota was last week. I set out to Kohl's to return one simple box of coasters and, you know how they put the customer service desk in the back so you have to walk past all the merchandise in an attempt to distract you, well it worked. About an hour an hour and a half later I wandered back out into the daylight and stopped dead in my tracks. The first thing that came to my head was "what the hell...where's my car?" Then, I remembered I don't have a car. I have a truck. A simple truck that I had simply forgot about.

Later that same week I went up to Krogers to "pick up a few things." We all know how that works out. As I strolled the aisles, I started remembering things that we were out of and placed them in my cart. Next thing I knew, I had quite a few items. I checked out, started walking out to the parking lot with my cart full of bags, and then it dawned on me "Crap! I don't have a trunk to put my groceries in!" So, I began to stuff everything into the front seat and on the floor. One of the items I picked up was a package of eight plain white paper towels. Plain....white....not even select-a-size. Just a one size fits all paper towel. As I removed them from the outer wrapping to put them away, something on the label caught my eye. It said "Made under one or more following U.S. Patents/Amparado por al menos una de las siguientes patentes de EE.UU" (see, I told you everything else is in Spanish). Then it continued to list 38 patent numbers, each one consisting of seven digits! Thirty eight patents! For paper towels! Who knew plain white paper towels could be so complicated? Is there some tricky secret to making these little disposable quicker-picker-uppers? It seems like such a simple concept. I was simply blown away.

As I proceeded to put away my groceries I opened up the first bag of Brach's candy corn for the fall season. They were THE freshest bag of candy corn and it put a big, dumb smile on my face that made me look like a simpleton. They smelled all honey-like and were so soft and chewy. It's funny how a girl who appreciates a modicum of luxury (like seat heaters and Uggs) can be so delighted with the simple pleasures of SweeTarts jelly beans and fresh candy corn. I'm simply complicated.

Brotherly Love....NOT!

I found a great birthday card one day while out shopping. It showed a cartoon of a man heading into a tattoo parlor and read "you don't need a tattoo or piercing to look younger....you just need to be born later." Isn't that funny? So few words, but such a true message. Country songs, greeting cards, and blogs....concise messages, yet they speak the truth.

I sent the card to my older brother, Ray, for his birthday. Okay, I sent it late, but the point is I still sent it. I could have just not sent it after the fact and pretended he was never born, but I didn't. I sent it home with my parents to deliver to my brother (they live in the same town) along with a little gift. I feel it's always best to send a little gift when sending a late card. That way you don't appear so lame and inconsiderate. You can always pretend that you were waiting for just the right gift to be created especially for them, and that's why the card is late. Not because you were lazy and a procrastinator, but because you wanted it to be just right!

The memento I sent along was something I came across while going through some old saved papers in my "treasure" box. My parents did a good job of saving report cards and homemade cards and pictures I made when I was younger and passed them on to me a few years ago. In the pile was a simple piece of yellowed paper. We had an old typewriter, back in the day, and apparently I liked to pretend that I could type real fast by just hitting any old key on the home row over and over and over. Occasionally, I would form real words into a quasi-sentence. This particular time, I had typed the words... "heis a -nut-heisa-dumy durty-rat-hisname...isray." Apparently, I had some anger issues on October 5, 1969 (which was the date my dad wrote on this piece of work). I wonder what my brother had done to me that day to create such anger. I was seven, he was thirteen. That's such an evil age for older brothers (along with 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, and 21).

One could argue that I was the "dumy" since I didn't know how to spell "dummy," but in analyzing this message, you've got to love the way "dirty" is spelled as "durty". Can't you just hear me in my seven-year old mind really saying it as "durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrty rat". When Aunt Mary read this, she noted the effectively used spaces when I say "his name is....(space, space, space----pause, pause, pause,----drum roll please).....Ray. I like to think that at the age of seven, this was my first foray into the world of blogging.

I hated it when my brother babysat us and was in charge. To say it went to his head, would be an understatement. I seem to recall him being so bossy and crabby. I'm sure I was an absolute doll. Of course we only had one television, which only had three or four channels at the most, which almost invariably ended up on "Star Trek" or "Combat". I remember one time "The Wizard of Oz" was on TV, which, back in the 60's or early 70's, was probably a once in a lifetime event. Do you think we got to watch it? No! If there would have been a remote, my sister and I would not have been allowed to touch it. At a young age I learned the techniques of "reverse psychology" and if he turned the channel to something I found intriguing (which was probably something like "Wild Kingdom" I'd pretend it was stupid and didn't want to watch it. That was a sure way to watch it! I must have been too eager to watch the Wizard of Oz, thus, no Wizard of Oz for me! Thank goodness he never had to babysit in the middle of the day when "Kimba, the White Lion" was on. I LOVED that show!

By the time I was entering my teen years, he was well into high school and just about graduated. I remember his friends, Rick and Tom, coming over to pick him up, often. They were always so nice to me. I'm sure I thought "oh my God....a high school boy is talking to me and being nice!" My brother became a swimmer during his high school years and I recall him eating food like it was going out of style. He affectionately became know as the "garbage disposal" around the house. If you didn't want it, he would finish it. And because he was a swimmer, it seemed like he took MULTIPLE showers, possibly to get rid of the smell of chlorine, I don't know. Shower in the morning before school, shower when he got home after school, shower before bedtime (probably to get rid of the smell of cigarette smoke). I'm pretty certain my parents had high water bills and high grocery bills.

My brother was born with a set of perfectly aligned beautiful teeth. I was not. He also was blessed with beautiful thick, dark hair with just a hint of curl for body. I was not. Both of these are evident in my seventh and eighth grade school pictures where I appear as a geeky dork with braces and poker straight hair. Life is so unfair, sometimes.

Now my brother and I get along great that were into our 40's and 50's. He's quite the well respected councilman and politician in his hometown. And, now that he has two kids of his own--a daughter in high school and son in grade school--I like to think that history has come back to haunt him and he gets to relive sibling rivalry from a new perspective. All I have to say to that is "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyaaaaaaahhh!"

Tips for Taking Your Kid to College

Now that I have successfully prepared, packed up, and delivered one child to college, I feel that I can speak with authority on such matters and offer you parents and kids who have yet to experience this task a couple of dos and don'ts that just may make your transition go smoother.

Bring a door stop. A simple 99 cent purchase will make your life a teeny tiny bit easier. This way you don't have to use a case of water, an empty trash can, or your twisted leg sticking out backwards to try and hold the door open. And, once you have moved all of your child's belongings (along with their roommate's) into this space they call a "room," you will find it comes in handy when you need to prop open the door to try and create a cross breeze that doesn't exist, just so you don't pass out from heat exhaustion due to the 99% humidity level.

Moms--don't bother applying any makeup, no matter how natural, light, or simple it is because it will only melt off your face. Plan on arriving ugly and leaving even uglier. College move-in day is not pretty, unless you are an 18-year old with flawless, taut skin that only glistens more in the searing sunlight when you sweat, thus making you more attractive. Also, don't bother fixing your hair as you normally would for public viewing. It will only droop and drip due to the amount of moisture coming out of your sweat glands. If possible, plan on moving your child into college with a paper bag over your head with a pretty face drawn on it.

Dads--bring an extra shirt (and deodorant) to change into after move-in so that when you have to go to a parent orientation meeting, you don't look like you a) just suffered a heart attack, b) just got done running a marathon, or c) smell like crap.

Students--pack realistically! Do you really need to bring every t-shirt and pair of shoes that you never wore at home? What makes you think you'll wear it at college? And we haven't even brought the winter clothing yet! I have a son. I pray for you parents of girls.

Moms--when you hug your child goodbye, make it quick and under no circumstances do you make eye contact with anyone involved. Keep your sunglasses on (besides, it helps hide your sweaty face). Also, be prepared that "dad", and not just you, might have some mixed feelings swirling around as well (it never occurred to me that Ed had feelings) because when they do, it will send you over the edge causing you to run screaming back to your car as fast as you can (however, you are also anxious to get back to air conditioning but don't want your child to know this is a factor in you leaving 45 minutes earlier than you are scheduled to).

Parents--under no circumstances are you to go into your child's room upon arrival at home and smell their pillow. This will only cause further grief, which is really unnecessary since you will most likely be seeing them in a week, if not in person, via Skype, Facebook, or some other satellite transmission.

Siblings--if you are chomping at the bit to move into your brother or sister's room ASAP, try to wait at least an hour and then do it with a little bit of reverence.

Moms--even though you may have no interest in being your child's "friend" on Facebook (and they certainly don't want to be yours) you will find that you may have to "request to be their friend" and hope they will comply. This will be one of the few ways in which you can keep up to date on how they are doing and adjusting. Seeing as how no one under the age of 21 uses email anymore, the only way to get them to communicate with you or at least see you communicating with them is via Facebook or texting. You'll certainly want to put on blinders and mentally block out any postings or visuals from their "real" friends that may contain objectionable content. Only use it to communicate with your child and do not stray onto other pages. Doing so could cause you to post a maternal comment on your child's page (for all to see) and then you would find yourself dropped from their friend list faster than a hot potato. This action would cause you to be cut off from their electronic world forever!

If only college could start in late-October or early-November when the weather is cool and crisp and get out in early-April when there is just a hint of spring in the air. I just realized, everything we just did has to be undone in June. I better find a paper bag and start drawing my pretty move-out face on it right now, because it will be here before I know it.

I Don't Feel So Good...

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clickety, clackety.....oh my God...oh no.....oh God.......no, no, no.......what was I thinking.....holy shhhhh********ttttttttttt!

That was pretty much the soundtrack of me on any given roller coaster at Cedar Point (and I only went on four). Had there been video to go along with it, it would have shown me with my head down, body tensed, and eyes closed (however, you wouldn't know this because my head was practically in my lap, like I was preparing for a 1970's tornado drill in the hallway of my grade school). The video would have also been x-rated because I dropped the F-bomb so many times that Ed had to apologize to a man and his little girl for my uncontrollable behavior (sorry little girl!) while we were on the Gemini. Every souvenir photo of me taken on a ride by the park was of me, ducking, cowering, and wetting my pants. Thank goodness all you could see was my head!

Our family, along with Alex's girlfriend, Lauren, and Cameron's buddy, Tyler, travelled to Cedar Point for a quick getaway a couple of weeks ago. I went with realistic expectations, knowing I would NEVER, EVER, EVER voluntarily get on the Millenium Force or Top Thrill Dragster. Mainly because I do not like blacking out or losing control of multiple bodily functions on a regular basis. After too many rides (which for me, is about two) my brain starts to feel like it is coming loose in my head. My thrill came from watching them have fun. Sure, they kept telling me "it's safe." Hah! Tell that to the people who recently were stuck on a roller coaster in California this week when it came to a screeching halt. They were suspended on the rails for four hours.

Anyway, I set my sights on the "smaller" coasters like the Magnum, Mantis, Gemini, and forced myself to go on the Maverick. My family and their friends were total ride warriors. They all loved the thrill of these rides and some of them even waited in line extra long to sit in the front row so they could watch themselves free falling to the ground at 90 miles per hour. Apparently the thrill of defying gravity just doesn't feel the same in the third or fourth row.

I was amazed, and a little bit envious, of all the people I saw riding these coasters with such passion and bravery. I was astounded at how they could actually form thoughts in their heads and raise their arms up in the air while flying over the rails, down the hills, and through the tunnels when I couldn't even hold up my head. So many of them, my group included, had the presence of mind to mug for the camera that was posted somewhere inside one of the tunnels. You could see the variety of photos posted up on monitors (where you could purchase them for a minor fortune). Some made funny faces, some smiled for the camera, some did something obscene, like lifted their shirt or who knows what else, and their photos were promptly deleted from public viewing. One guy was able to smile and flex his muscles for the camera. I actually thought it was a great picture.

I saw slightly built, young children skipping through the exit, totally unfazed. How do they do it? Even my 9-year old nephew, Rory, is a psycho for coasters and has been his entire life. And yet, he used to be afraid to play in my basement with the other kids, when he was younger, for fear that his family would accidentally leave without him. What kind of rationalization is that? "Hmmmm.....which is scarier? Fly through the air at ridiculously high speeds and shoot back down to earth like a rocket ship, or needlessly worry about getting left at cool Aunt Becky's house to play with cousins I adore?"

Throughout the day I continued to gawk at two rides in particular with reverence. The Millennium Force, which climbs one very tall 310 foot hill, and speeds down one very steep, 80 degree drop at 93 miles per hour.

The other was the Top Thrill Dragster which, after waiting in line for over one hour, is a 17-second ride that launches you up to a speed of 120 mph in less than four seconds, climbs 420 feet at a 90 degree angle, crests, and then races back toward earth at a 270 degree spiral with a 400 foot vertical drop. Aaahhhh....good times.

It's funny what we consider scary isn't it. Some people I know would never be brave enough to paint a room in their house with a bold color, or have kids, donate blood, plant a garden, write a blog, or ride with their 15-year old son behind the wheel (now that's scary!). Fear of failure, fear of pain, fear of embarrassment, fear of death.

While at the park, I quickly observed that the rides were not the only scary things. I saw many people with way too many tattoos, odd looking, ill-fitting summer outfits, and inflated park prices. A bottle of water...$3. A photo of you crapping your pants on a ride...$10. A day full of thrills, vomit spills, and shrills.....priceless.

Time to Come Ashore

This summer I have felt like I'm drifting at sea. Aimlessly floating on the water and vulnerable to the winds of change. It has been a summer of too little family time--a husband who has been absent way too much on business, an 18-year old son who is soaking up every last minute of summer fun with his friends (not family) before he heads off to football camp and college this Saturday and, a 15-year old son who has been consumed with summer school, football conditioning, camps, and now two-a-day practices.

Last week, our wonderful friend, Camille, passed away suddenly while camping with her family and friends. She was a giver, a lover of life, a very recent proud grandmother, and she exuded happiness.

Disoriented and distraught. That's how I have been feeling. I try to remind myself that I should be grateful that Ed actually has business to tend to, in light of the fact that he lost his job in January after 20 years of service. He was very fortunate to bounce back quickly, while many of his coworkers, with multiple engineering degrees, have yet to land an interview. I try to remind myself that I am blessed to have two healthy and able-bodied boys who have learned to be independent and are ready to move onto the next stage of life. And, I definitely try to remind myself that I'm blessed because my family currently has good health and we are in tact.

I realize that my little "ship of dreams" may be temporarily lost at sea, but Camille's family's ship has totally capsized. I know the coming weeks, months, and year will find them just trying to keep their heads above water.

I must say, in the last three years we have lost some special people in our lives to cancer, suicide, and now a pulmonary embolism. Hearing tragic news is never easy. In fact, it's down right surreal. You think your ears have misheard. You think the person speaking to you is talking in a foreign language because all you can say is "I'm sorry, I don't understand. What did you say?" You are in disbelief. It's just like how you see people react in the movies when they are in denial. All you can say is "no, no, no....there must be some mistake. That couldn't possibly happen to me or anyone I know."

If you think hearing bad news is difficult, delivering it is even worse. Having the responsibility of telling someone something that you know is going to crush their world is way too much power. For me it happened when I had to tell Ed over the phone (while on business in Mexico) that his father's cancer had become terminal and he had only a short time left. It happened again when I had to tell my children that their dear friend had made a terrible mistake and took his own life. For me, it's a horrible feeling to know that someone's exact moment of shock and sadness may be forever etched in their memory and I played a role in that.

Once again, it is time for me to regroup. With one week left before Alex heads off to Kalamazoo, I know that it's important for me to pick up my oars and starting rowing in a direction. With friends in distress, I need to try and be a beacon of light for them--no matter how small. Bring them a meal, help with a chore, take care of an errand. Time for me to pull out my spiritual compass and get back on course.

Mending, Marketing, Maturing Minches and Memorials

Where have I been? The days have been melting into one another and yet my routine is feeling fractured. After the great basement flood of '09, I've taken some time to regroup. I'm happy to report that all is right in the Minch world again. New padding was installed and the carpet was laid back down, cleaned, and disinfected. Ed and I wandered over to Home Depot this past weekend to purchase a battery powered backup sump pump for the window well, look at smaller egress window styles, and discussed putting in more drains in the backyard for ground water to seep into for drainage into the street and not into the basement. I do not ever want to experience that feeling of helplessness again.

I have also been busy marketing and promoting my note cards and stationery that I produced with my photos. Currently, they are available at Magnolia's Fresh Flower Market in downtown Plymouth, on Forest Street, and Starring the Gallery in downtown Northville, on Main Street. They can also be found at Gina Agosta hair salon in Novi on Grand River. I am working to get them placed in Livonia, Dexter, and Chelsea. For me, it has been a wonderful distraction producing something with my photos. I realized, what's the point of taking so many great pictures, if no one gets to see them? In addition to the note cards, Magnolia's also features some of my matted prints in a handmade twig frame. Sometimes Mother Nature is better than Michael's or Hobby Lobby any day. I've also signed up to do a craft show on November 21st at Plymouth High School, courtesy of the Plymouth Music Boosters.

The Camster has been quite busy with summer school, baseball (at one point), and football. I must say that I am quite proud and impressed with how he has been handling his responsibilities and managing his time. We still have some areas we continue to work on, however, like making sure we check our pockets for ink pens before we do laundry because they tend to explode in the dryer! Thankfully, only his clothes were ruined, and not mine. He has truly become quite the "young man" and even though this is what I've hoped for all along, I'm still not happy because Cameron being a young man translates into Rebecca being an old woman. Yuk.

And if Cameron is maturing, then Alex is really maturing, because he's two years older. Ed and I started seeing signs of this last summer. It was last August, during one of Alex's summer football sessions. Ed, Cameron, and I rode our bikes up to the high school to observe. We were not alone. Many parents and siblings were there to check out the team as well. I distinctly remember the moment. Ed and I were standing together along the fence. Cameron was a few feet away. Alex looked over, waved and acknowledged Cameron. Not us, but Cameron. Ed and I looked at each other and said "Did you see that? He just waved to Cameron?" Not that they don't have a close relationship, but to actually acknowledge your little brother in public while amongst your smelly, manly friends? Who does that and why? That was one of those moments where as a parent you look at your kid in a different light and say "Well...that was nice."

A second "aha" moment came this past spring. It was finally a beautiful Saturday morning and Ed and I had been outside dinking around in the yard. I asked where the boys were and Ed replied that Alex was upstairs cleaning and vacuuming his room. I looked at him as if he had just informed me that the sky was falling. All I could say was "What? Why is he doing that? What's wrong? Is something wrong? Something must be wrong? Why would be doing that on a day like today and without us asking him?" I immediately ran up the stairs and tiptoed into his room to make sure everything was all right in his world. "Why are you cleaning your room?" I asked. "Is something wrong? Do you have some bad news to tell me? Are you guilty of something and you just can't take it anymore and you feel the need to dust?" Shame on me, but that's what us experienced mothers do. We never accept anything at face value. That's what naive mothers do.

Then, the latest moment occurred last night. Cameron had been gone all day since 7:00 a.m. First he had summer school until 1:30 p.m. Then he went over to do football conditioning from 1:30 until 3:30. Then he had a meeting prior to them leaving the school for a passing league in South Lyon at 4:45. He and Ed did not return home until after 9:00 p.m. I walked into the kitchen where I saw Alex filling up the tea kettle to boil water. Knowing that he had just eaten Subway, I couldn't imagine he was making himself something else to eat or having a cup of tea. I asked him "What are you doing?" He replied "Making Cameron some ramen noodles to eat." I looked at his girlfriend in utter disbelief and said "What an incredibly nice and mature thing to do!" She agreed.

Now, Ed and I will be one of the first people to tell you that we are very proud of our boys. They are kind, gentle and respectful. However, they can also be lazy, obnoxious, and a general pain in the butt, like all children. So to actually witness the fruits of your labor firsthand is so rewarding.

Due to all of the Michael Jackson music that's been playing on the radio and on TV, I do find myself singing "Jelly Bean.." oops, I mean "Billy Jean is not my lover...." I continue to be amazed at the "MJ mania." I did watch the memorial, mainly because I wanted to see who was going to sing. It's unfortunate that so many people did not come to his side and sing his praises while he was alive. I wonder if he knew so many people cared? Whether he is actually guilty of any criminal doing I don't know. Is it possible that he was just an odd and naively innocent and childlike adult? Yes, it is possible. I know that so many felt he was unfairly persecuted by the media (the same media who is devoting 24-hour coverage to his memorial), but why would you call your son "Blanket" if you don't want to call attention to yourself? I couldn't but help laugh every time someone, while delivering their tearful eulogy, spoke to the children and said "Prince..., Paris...., Blanket". That makes Gwyneth Paltrow's kid's name "Apple" sound totally normal! Hopefully, whoever becomes his legal guardian, one of their first acts will be to start referring to him as P M II (short for Prince Michael II), or PJ (short for Prince Junior), or PMJ, or even Duvet, which is french for a down comforter, which could go hand-in-hand with Paris' name. Just a thought.

I'm "Jiggy Wit It," But I Don't Get It

I like to think that, as Will Smith rapped in the 90's, that I'm "jiggy wit it," but I suppose the fact that I even use that phrase probably shows that I'm not. I must admit, on a regular basis now, I watch the news, listen to the radio, or read the paper, reflect on current events, and say "I don't get it."

For instance, prior to last week, I'd never seen the show "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" but I don't think I have to be a follower to know that it should really be called "Jon and Kate Plus Eight Minus Dignity and Common Sense." I did tune in for a couple of minutes toward the end last Monday night to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, they aired a special episode where they announced they were getting a divorce, but both stressed that their first priority was their children. At which point, I said to myself "I don't get it." If your children are your first priority, get them off TV, work on your marriage, and quit acting like your first priority isn't fame and fortune. Quit prostituting your kids and acting like this isn't all about you. Really, you don't have to be Dr. Phil to figure this out. These two people make Octomom look like Parent of the Year!

Next up, all the Michael Jackson fuss. I agree, he was quite the entertainer, but I find it so ironic that when he was alive he was more famous for his odd face and inappropriate behavior than his music. Now that's he dead, he's fabulous. Uhhhh....I don't get it. People gathering in the streets, holding vigils, openly crying like he was Mother Theresa, or something, and jumping on the bandwagon for their fifteen minutes of fame on the nightly news. I suppose his death was sudden and a shock, but really, when you have multiple surgeries, and you are grossly underweight for your height, and you take prescription (or nonprescription) drugs on a regular basis, something's bound to go awry, don't you think? I read a quote in today's paper from a woman who said that "besides Jesus Christ, he was the cultural landscape of my life." All I could say to that is "Wow!" Jesus Christ number one, Michael Jackson number two...the end. I don't get it.

Every day now as I drive in the car and listen to music on the radio (which trust me is just your typical pop station) I am astounded at the lyrics to songs these days which blatantly contain sexual connotations. I can't believe how many times I find myself saying "What did he say? Does that mean what I think it means, cuz I don't see how it could mean anything else!" And nothing is more embarrassing that singing along to a song with a catchy little beat and then realizing I'm singing words like "smack that" by Akon or "looshen' up my buttons" with the Pussycat Dolls or how about "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick" by Lady Gaga and then realizing that one of my kids is sitting in the front seat next to me! I think that's why I find myself listening to country music more and more these days. It's so much safer. All they sing about is God and beer and pickup trucks. That kind of stuff, I get. Now that I think about it, for all I know being "jiggy wit it" may have a totally different meaning than what I've thought it to mean all these years.

As parents, Ed and I have always tried to reinforce to the boys what is appropriate and not appropriate. Right after "manage your pain" our next favorite phrase was "that is not appropriate." I'll never forget, when Alex was in kindergarten, there was a Celine Dion song which was popular at the time and the lyrics included a phrase "if I touch you like this, if I hold you like that..." or something along those lines, and he was mindlessly humming the tune and singing the words. At some point, he informed me he sang it to some little girl in his class and when I stopped to think about the lyrics, I replied "uhh....maybe you shouldn't sing that song to her anymore, that might not be appropriate" to which he innocently replied "I don't get it?"

Watermelons and Worms (and Jelly Beans of Course!)

Wow, it's been such an incredibly busy and unusual week, I don't even know where to begin. I have so many things to tell you about.

First, let's begin with the watermelon Ed and I purchased about a week ago while grocery shopping. We bought it on a Monday evening, set it on the counter for a couple of days to await slicing, cubing, melon-balling, and on Thursday morning of last week, I noticed something was amiss. I had just gotten a refill on my coffee that I wanted to enjoy at my leisure. For whatever reason, I looked toward the melon, which sat near the back corner of the counter top, and I noticed there was liquid watermelon (sounds redundant, I know) on my kitchen wall. Then I looked at the melon and saw there was a hole in it. It looked as if it had exploded and spewed melon onto the wall and counter. I touched the melon and tried to pick it up, but quickly realized the entire shell lacked substance and it would have been like picking up a jellyfish. It was very unstable and smelly, and disgusting watermelon guts were oozing out of it uncontrollably all over the counter. All I could utter was "Ewwwww....omigod.... eeewwwww....hello?....ewwwww......omigod....can someone help me?....omigod!" I'm not sure what I really wanted anyone else to do, other than be there to witness this bizarre event.

I decided I needed to get it onto a cookie sheet and move it over to the sink. I gently shuffled it onto the cookie sheet, much like an orderly moves a patient over to a new hospital bed. I slowly and carefully moved toward the sink (which, trust me, was not far away) and what happened next, I'm not entirely sure. The melon started to move, wobble, whatever, and then kaboom! It tipped, popped, whatever, and rotten melon was all over my counter, the front of my cabinets, on the floor, on my pajamas, and in the drawers. I liken it to a puffy, dead animal carcass that you might see laying on the side of the road that's been poked with a stick by a bunch of curious kids.

Thankfully, Ed was working at home that day (or so he thought) and all I could do was scream in shock as I stood drenched in watermelon guts. Alex jumped out of bed and came down to see if I was okay. He thought I was seriously hurt. As soon as he saw I was only wearing watermelon, he went back to bed.

The clean up was going to require a professional. It took Ed a good couple of hours to get the job done. The floor had to be mopped, the counter wiped down, and drawers wiped out. I had to immediately throw my clothes into the washer. It smelled absolutely putrid. I, of course, threw what remained of the melon into a garbage bag and returned it to Kroger for a new one. No questions asked. I'm sure they could smell me coming a mile away.

On Friday night at 12:30, (actually Saturday morning), during the second record setting 100-year rain fall we've had in two years, we were awaken with a jolt to discover that water was spilling into our egress window into the beautifully finished basement and obviously had been doing so for sometime. It was a horrible sight to see. The outside electricity that powers the portable sump pump we've installed in the egress window area, went out, thus no pump. An alarm on the back-up sump pump which kicks in to support the main sump was going off and woke us up. When we got down stairs in all of our panic, we looked at the window well and it had at least two feet of water in it gushing through the window seams. I felt like I was on the Titanic seeing the water pouring in. It was a helpless, sick feeling. What was even more disturbing were the earthworms that washed in with the water. That was really the lowest point. Worms on my carpet, trying to burrow into my carpet was just too much. It's still too upsetting for me to discuss in detail, however, I'm happy to report that the insurance people sent a company out to dry the carpet (it is salvageable), rip up the padding, and clean and disinfect. I know it could have been much worse.

First off, it was ground water, not sewage, so that's a HUGE plus. Secondly, it's not like we had inches of standing water all over the basement, more like a gigantic puddle. No furniture, walls, or possessions were damaged, and I'm starting to see some light at the end of this tunnel. I'm sure there will be follow ups to this topic when I'm able to look back and laugh at it. Yesterday, Michael Rosenberg of the Free Press had a funny little blurb about his experience with his basement flood which also occurred on Friday night. Hopefully, I'll be able to follow suit some day and say "It's over and done with, like water under the pool table."

On Saturday we attended four graduation parties. I felt like I was speed-partying. We had our party scheduled all planned out and then it all blew up in our face as we got a late start due to water restoration people being at our house (who by the way, were wonderful). The plan for me was to pace myself on food and drink. However, after having been up until 4:00 a.m. and only getting three hours of sleep, and being an emotional wreck, I arrived at the first party famished and ready for an alcoholic beverage. By the end of the night, I was stuffed and my bladder felt as full as my egress window. However, it was a wonderful way to forget about our troubles the night before and commiserate with friends who also had their own water issues to deal with. The weather (thank you God) was beautiful and we are not expected to get any rain until perhaps Thursday.

Today is the second day of summer school for Cam. I was astounded to see how many people go to summer school. Seriously, the traffic is as bad as a regular school day! As I sat at the light waiting to pull out of the school driveway, it was funny to watch the cars pulling in. Parents (many still in their pajamas I'm sure) hauling their kid to the school at 7:00 a.m. on a beautiful sunny, summer day. The kids in the passenger seats looked as if they were vampires and couldn't stand to be in the bright sunny daylight. Eyes half closed, hands blocking the sun's rays, and body language that screamed "I'm so tired and I hate this."

Yesterday, however, there was a bright spot to my week. You may recall my SweeTarts jelly bean posting from a week or so ago. I had shared it with the folks from Nestle asking them how and when can I get some jelly beans all year round. Well, you'll be happy to know (or maybe jealous) that my new best friend, Patricia, sent some complimentary packages of these little treats which arrived yesterday. When the doorbell rang, I thought it was the water restoration people returning to check on their work. Imagine my delight when I saw a box at my doorstep that read Nestle. You've never seen anyone open a box faster. Patricia reminded me that these jelly beans are still only available at Easter, however, they are coming out with some new stuff and I will keep you apprised of whatever else may come my way (hint, hint, Patricia). It was really a double-edged sword for me. I felt so honored to be the recipient of free jelly beans, however, it would mean that I would have to share. I've instructed the boys NOT to open any bags of jelly beans willy-nilly and we will be allotting 10 beans per day to make them last as long as possible. Thank you, Patricia. You have no idea how much that made my day. N-E-S-T-L-E-S, Nestles makes the very best--jelly beans. Holy crap, I'm delirious and either need more sleep or more sugar.