(Sound of phone ringing)
Creator’s office. How may I direct your call?
I need to speak to God, please.
May I ask what this is in regard to?
I need to talk to Him about someone very dear to me.
And where are you calling from?
Oklahoma.
(Muffled sound of hand covering receiver as operator addresses co-workers)
Pssst! Hey! It’s her again.
Her who?
The lady from Oklahoma. Her name’s Vicky, but up here we all call her old “KeepHerSafe.”
Why KeepHerSafe?
She always calls late at night and in the mornings and it’s always the same thing...”God, please keep her safe.”
Which one is she calling about today- ThunderGirl, Blondie, or Baby Mamma?
Probably all three. She’s like, “My Bonnie’s driving home from practice late again tonight, please keep her safe.” Or “Lord, Leenie’s in such a big city...will you please keep her safe?” Lately there’s been a lot of “You know Audrey’s pregnant, Lord. Please keep her safe while she carries this baby.”
Yeah, and I hear it’s a granddaughter, so that’s another girl for old KeepHerSafe to bug God about.
Oh, you know God- He loves it when she calls. Acts like it’s the first time. Listens as if she’s the only woman in the world He’s ever known who worries about her children. And He has the same answer for her every time.
Oh yeah, what’s that?
He says, “I know exactly where she is, Vicky, and she couldn’t be safer- for I hold her in the palm of My hand.”
(Back on the phone line)
KeepHerS...I mean Vicky, God will speak to you now.
God, it’s me again. It’s my mom, Lord. She sees the surgeon today to talk about the tumor they found. I love her so much. Father, please keep her safe.
Yes, I know exactly where she is, Vicky, and she couldn’t be safer- for I hold her in the palm of My hand.
November 24, 2009
November 13, 2009
the wall
It seems my creativity cup isn’t exactly running over lately. Not even trickling. If this is writer’s slump, from where I sit I see no end in sight. Of course I sit facing a wall, which makes sighting ends of any kind a little difficult, but lately I’ve been thinking that where I sit might be the problem. It would be an understatement to say my view does not inspire me. Facing a wall is fine for doing things like label printing, letter typing or email reading, but anything requiring a modicum of creativity- forget about it. While others are a quarter turn from some window with a view of falling leaves, scampering squirrels and students bustling to and fro, I look at the wall. The wall is painted an institutional mauve-going-tan-with-a-dollop-of-gray color and is positioned approximately 29 inches from my face. Despite our close daily proximity, I am not loving the wall.
On this wall hangs a fading print of mesas and hills like ones found in parts of New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado. (Mesa is Spanish for table. The largest mesa in the world is the Grand Mesa located in western Colorado.) The print of mesas and hills is signed and dated 1982. Titled “for Spacious Skies” II, it, II, is done in various shades of mauve along with some of those other washed-out canyon colors so popular in 1980’s southwest décor. Personally, I have never cared for mauve. By the way, did you know that when you say the word mauve it should rhyme with jove, as in “By jove, that is one ugly color! I wonder who came up with that?”? (His name was William Henry Perkin. He created mauve in 1856. Someone has written a biography about him. It’s called Mauve. Did you pronounce it correctly? There will be a test...)
But back to the picture on the wall. As it is just as uninspiring as the wall, I am also not loving the picture. For starters, there’s the mauve thing. Then there is the picture itself. Nothing bustling there. Just mesas and hills, one after the other, rolling into some distant nowhere with not even a snake, a rabbit, a howling coyote or even a hunched-back, flute-playing Kokopelli to break the monotony. To say this picture fails to move me would not be entirely true, as it almost continuously moves me to look anywhere but straight ahead. But not to my left, because “for Spacious Skies” II is part of a triptych, so there are two more hanging over there just as boringly nondescript as this one. If you don’t believe me, consider the fact that these pictures have hung together on this wall for 27 years in the wrong order and I’m the only one who’s ever noticed. SS II should be in the middle between SS I and SS III instead of over here on the end. As if it matters. All three are just begging for a car ride to Goodwill, or a swift and timely end at the hands of John’s brand spanking new Colt 45 model 1911 that he got for our upcoming 30th anniversary. Designed by John Moses Browning of Ogden, Utah, (there’s a book about him, too) the original model was selected as the official sidearm of the Armed Forces of the U.S.A. on March 29th, 1911. Although over the years the 1911 has been produced in a variety of finishes, I feel safe in saying none were mauve.
My point? Surely it's clear by now I don’t have one. Apart from the fact that I learned to pronounce mauve, say table in Spanish, and impress gun enthusiasts with my wealth of knowledge, I find this post as mind-numbingly dull to write as it surely must be to read. And that proves my point. I am so stymied by this stupid wall and its stupid picture that I cannot write another stupid word. My creativity, simply put, has hit the wall.
On this wall hangs a fading print of mesas and hills like ones found in parts of New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado. (Mesa is Spanish for table. The largest mesa in the world is the Grand Mesa located in western Colorado.) The print of mesas and hills is signed and dated 1982. Titled “for Spacious Skies” II, it, II, is done in various shades of mauve along with some of those other washed-out canyon colors so popular in 1980’s southwest décor. Personally, I have never cared for mauve. By the way, did you know that when you say the word mauve it should rhyme with jove, as in “By jove, that is one ugly color! I wonder who came up with that?”? (His name was William Henry Perkin. He created mauve in 1856. Someone has written a biography about him. It’s called Mauve. Did you pronounce it correctly? There will be a test...)
But back to the picture on the wall. As it is just as uninspiring as the wall, I am also not loving the picture. For starters, there’s the mauve thing. Then there is the picture itself. Nothing bustling there. Just mesas and hills, one after the other, rolling into some distant nowhere with not even a snake, a rabbit, a howling coyote or even a hunched-back, flute-playing Kokopelli to break the monotony. To say this picture fails to move me would not be entirely true, as it almost continuously moves me to look anywhere but straight ahead. But not to my left, because “for Spacious Skies” II is part of a triptych, so there are two more hanging over there just as boringly nondescript as this one. If you don’t believe me, consider the fact that these pictures have hung together on this wall for 27 years in the wrong order and I’m the only one who’s ever noticed. SS II should be in the middle between SS I and SS III instead of over here on the end. As if it matters. All three are just begging for a car ride to Goodwill, or a swift and timely end at the hands of John’s brand spanking new Colt 45 model 1911 that he got for our upcoming 30th anniversary. Designed by John Moses Browning of Ogden, Utah, (there’s a book about him, too) the original model was selected as the official sidearm of the Armed Forces of the U.S.A. on March 29th, 1911. Although over the years the 1911 has been produced in a variety of finishes, I feel safe in saying none were mauve.
My point? Surely it's clear by now I don’t have one. Apart from the fact that I learned to pronounce mauve, say table in Spanish, and impress gun enthusiasts with my wealth of knowledge, I find this post as mind-numbingly dull to write as it surely must be to read. And that proves my point. I am so stymied by this stupid wall and its stupid picture that I cannot write another stupid word. My creativity, simply put, has hit the wall.
September 3, 2009
nonnie
I bet my grandmothers never sat around fretting over what their “grandparent name” would be.
As in, “Ernest, do I look like a Grandmother to you?”
Or, “Be honest, Albina. Does Nanny make me sound too country?”
These were conversations I can guaran-dad sob-tee you they never had. Why? Because they were too busy picking cotton, planting okra, milking cows, gathering eggs, killing snakes, sewing, cooking or tending to their own young ‘uns to worry about what cutesy name they should go by. To their generation, any name was good as long as it came out of the mouth of a healthy, happy, well-fed grandbaby and was uttered with love. Names weren’t the human vanity plates they’ve become to our generation, they were just something to be called by when someone craved another cookie, needed a fresh band aid, or was looking for a soft lap to sit on.
But not today. Today names matter. Names can show how hip you still are, the same way wearing your daughter’s favorite brand of jeans and a tiny tee let's people know you’ve still got it... just more of it.
A quick search of the Google for cool grandmother names yielded several sites aimed at hip “grand boomers”- those “busy ladies having too much fun to stop and sit in a rocking chair like their grandmothers did.” It seems now days hot grandmacitas are opting for names like MiMi, NeeNee, Grandie, and Gaggie. Really? Gaggie? Or for those both hip and sophisticated, there are the names Grand-mère and Mèmère. (Preferably complete with those uppity little French accents.) A few more options? How about Ninna, Bella, Oma, YaYa and, for ease in texting, GM.
So what exactly is my point? I’m not sure. Because it’s not like being called Grandmother or Grandma makes one a nobler, better grandparent. Conversely, preferring to be called, say, BoBo (yes, this was on the list) doesn’t necessarily make one a silly, self-indulgent one, no matter how much it may sound like it. I mean, people have the right to choose their own grand-parenting names- Lord knows we didn’t get to choose names for ourselves the first go ‘round. Right, Albina? But does picking one have to be so calculated? That’s the rub.
However, having said all that, I will admit we’re having our own little mini name crisis at our house these days. With our first grandbaby (A GIRL!!!) on the way, John and I have to pick something for ourselves PDQ. I’m not sure about him, but I think I’ve got mine. And no, I won’t be Grandmother, Nanny, or anything quite so pedestrian. I’m going to be Nonnie. Why Nonnie? For years my youngest has called me that, or Non for short. It was her twist on Mommy and Mom, which I never understood, and never particularly liked. At first. But coming from those sweet lips and that sweet face, how could I resist? She could call me anything and I’d be sure to love it eventually. The same will be true of a grandchild. I'm pretty sure whatever that sweet little thang chooses to say when she smiles up at me will be fine and dandy. (As long as it doesn’t, I repeat, DOES NOT, have the word Big in front of it.)
As in, “Ernest, do I look like a Grandmother to you?”
Or, “Be honest, Albina. Does Nanny make me sound too country?”
These were conversations I can guaran-dad sob-tee you they never had. Why? Because they were too busy picking cotton, planting okra, milking cows, gathering eggs, killing snakes, sewing, cooking or tending to their own young ‘uns to worry about what cutesy name they should go by. To their generation, any name was good as long as it came out of the mouth of a healthy, happy, well-fed grandbaby and was uttered with love. Names weren’t the human vanity plates they’ve become to our generation, they were just something to be called by when someone craved another cookie, needed a fresh band aid, or was looking for a soft lap to sit on.
But not today. Today names matter. Names can show how hip you still are, the same way wearing your daughter’s favorite brand of jeans and a tiny tee let's people know you’ve still got it... just more of it.
A quick search of the Google for cool grandmother names yielded several sites aimed at hip “grand boomers”- those “busy ladies having too much fun to stop and sit in a rocking chair like their grandmothers did.” It seems now days hot grandmacitas are opting for names like MiMi, NeeNee, Grandie, and Gaggie. Really? Gaggie? Or for those both hip and sophisticated, there are the names Grand-mère and Mèmère. (Preferably complete with those uppity little French accents.) A few more options? How about Ninna, Bella, Oma, YaYa and, for ease in texting, GM.
So what exactly is my point? I’m not sure. Because it’s not like being called Grandmother or Grandma makes one a nobler, better grandparent. Conversely, preferring to be called, say, BoBo (yes, this was on the list) doesn’t necessarily make one a silly, self-indulgent one, no matter how much it may sound like it. I mean, people have the right to choose their own grand-parenting names- Lord knows we didn’t get to choose names for ourselves the first go ‘round. Right, Albina? But does picking one have to be so calculated? That’s the rub.
However, having said all that, I will admit we’re having our own little mini name crisis at our house these days. With our first grandbaby (A GIRL!!!) on the way, John and I have to pick something for ourselves PDQ. I’m not sure about him, but I think I’ve got mine. And no, I won’t be Grandmother, Nanny, or anything quite so pedestrian. I’m going to be Nonnie. Why Nonnie? For years my youngest has called me that, or Non for short. It was her twist on Mommy and Mom, which I never understood, and never particularly liked. At first. But coming from those sweet lips and that sweet face, how could I resist? She could call me anything and I’d be sure to love it eventually. The same will be true of a grandchild. I'm pretty sure whatever that sweet little thang chooses to say when she smiles up at me will be fine and dandy. (As long as it doesn’t, I repeat, DOES NOT, have the word Big in front of it.)
August 20, 2009
poor little blog
Poor little blog. Poor, lonely little blog. No one visiting, no one stopping by to see what's new because, of course, there isn't anything. Lost our creative edge, have we little blog? What's that you say? I never write anymore? You haven't heard from me in months?
Awww, stop you're whining. Some of us have work to do. Real work. We can't always be sitting around indulging our creative whims, no matter how much we might want to. Life's tough, and the sooner you realize it the better. Now sit up straight, blow your nose and stop sniveling!
Ohhhhhh, I'm sorry blog. That was mean. Please don't be sad. I'll come see you again soon, you'll see. We'll do something original and clever together and it will be just like before- you and me-bffs.
Ok, so I really don't have time to stay; I just stopped in to make sure you were still alive. Love you. Miss you. Be back soon. No really, I mean it this time.
Stop looking at me like that.
Awww, stop you're whining. Some of us have work to do. Real work. We can't always be sitting around indulging our creative whims, no matter how much we might want to. Life's tough, and the sooner you realize it the better. Now sit up straight, blow your nose and stop sniveling!
Ohhhhhh, I'm sorry blog. That was mean. Please don't be sad. I'll come see you again soon, you'll see. We'll do something original and clever together and it will be just like before- you and me-bffs.
Ok, so I really don't have time to stay; I just stopped in to make sure you were still alive. Love you. Miss you. Be back soon. No really, I mean it this time.
Stop looking at me like that.
June 19, 2009
impressions from a preacher's kid
My daddy’s real first name must be Brother.
Even though he went to divinity school, he never makes any for us to eat.
Three times a week my daddy makes a long speech at church. I guess that's why he doesn't talk much at home.
People I don’t know will let my daddy put a napkin over their nose and hold their heads under water.
I think a lot of those people must be related to us since he always says “I now baptize you my brother” or “I now baptize you my sister”.
My daddy can stand in a big tub of water and baptize all those brothers and sisters without ever getting his pants wet.
People sometimes come down front after Daddy talks and whisper things in his ear.
My daddy can keep a lot of people’s secrets.
When my daddy goes to the hospital to see sick people he calls it “making a visit.”
My daddy knows a lot of sick people.
My daddy doesn’t like it when my brother sits on the back row and falls asleep.
My daddy doesn’t like it if I get to church late, especially since we live within spitting distance of the front door.
My daddy gets irritated when somebody at church doesn’t turn the microphones on in time.
My daddy likes to mow in his suit.
My daddy hums during the invitation.
It must be hard keeping up with a church full of people. That’s probably why my daddy accidentally forgets I’m in junior high and takes my lunch money to my old elementary school.
It must be hard remembering so many peoples' names all the time. That’s probably why my daddy accidentally forgets and writes mine with an “ie” instead of “y”.
My daddy thinks it’s funny to tease people he knows, like rolling into the back of their cars at stoplights. Most of them don’t get too mad when they see it’s him.
My daddy asks the church custodian to pray sometimes on Sunday nights because he knows God likes to hear prayers in Spanish, too.
My daddy always worries about the lost. I think he helps a lot of them find their way home.
I think my daddy will always be my favorite preacher.
I love my daddy "all the money in the world." I bet I'll miss him a whole, whole lot when he's gone.
I do.
Even though he went to divinity school, he never makes any for us to eat.
Three times a week my daddy makes a long speech at church. I guess that's why he doesn't talk much at home.
People I don’t know will let my daddy put a napkin over their nose and hold their heads under water.
I think a lot of those people must be related to us since he always says “I now baptize you my brother” or “I now baptize you my sister”.
My daddy can stand in a big tub of water and baptize all those brothers and sisters without ever getting his pants wet.
People sometimes come down front after Daddy talks and whisper things in his ear.
My daddy can keep a lot of people’s secrets.
When my daddy goes to the hospital to see sick people he calls it “making a visit.”
My daddy knows a lot of sick people.
My daddy doesn’t like it when my brother sits on the back row and falls asleep.
My daddy doesn’t like it if I get to church late, especially since we live within spitting distance of the front door.
My daddy gets irritated when somebody at church doesn’t turn the microphones on in time.
My daddy likes to mow in his suit.
My daddy hums during the invitation.
It must be hard keeping up with a church full of people. That’s probably why my daddy accidentally forgets I’m in junior high and takes my lunch money to my old elementary school.
It must be hard remembering so many peoples' names all the time. That’s probably why my daddy accidentally forgets and writes mine with an “ie” instead of “y”.
My daddy thinks it’s funny to tease people he knows, like rolling into the back of their cars at stoplights. Most of them don’t get too mad when they see it’s him.
My daddy asks the church custodian to pray sometimes on Sunday nights because he knows God likes to hear prayers in Spanish, too.
My daddy always worries about the lost. I think he helps a lot of them find their way home.
I think my daddy will always be my favorite preacher.
I love my daddy "all the money in the world." I bet I'll miss him a whole, whole lot when he's gone.
I do.
May 7, 2009
virginia
Sunday is Mother’s Day, as I hope you have already discovered. There’s no immunity from this Hallmark goldmine, ‘cause we all had one, are one, or are married to one. There’s an old Jewish proverb asserting that “God couldn’t be everywhere, so he created mothers.” That’s an awfully nice sentiment regarding motherhood (although it does make me wonder how God got so otherwise occupied he had to enlist help) and it’s true; mothers are indeed heavenly creatures, without whom we wouldn’t have lasted a skinny minute as children. On the other hand, J. D. Salinger is quoted as saying, “Mothers are all slightly insane.” Having been one myself for the last 26 years, I’d have to agree there’s a grain of truth there as well. Think about it, what sane person volunteers for a job like motherhood? “It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely,” Phyllis Diller once said of it. And yet, by the looks of it, the desire for motherhood continues to be a natural urge. I volunteered for it once, then re-upped two more times after that. And now my own child, full grown and practically normal, is talking about joining ranks one day soon. But isn’t that a compliment, really? Doesn’t that tell me that I didn’t do such a bad job, and just maybe she wants to be a mommy like me? I hope so. And I hope she enjoys the “insanity” of motherhood as much as I have.
Of course, I had a truly wonderful role model for mothering, which brings me to the true topic of this Mother’s Day post...the incomparably cheerful, exuberant, generous, unquashable, honest, bighearted, inimitable woman I am graced to call my mother. She really is a pearl. My mom is the sunny day in a week of clouds, the color red in a sea of manila, a guffaw in a roomful of snickers, a tap dance when everyone else is shuffling. I know that my husband and my daughters love me, but I am certain no person on earth will ever love me as much as my mother. No person will ever be so willing to forgive me, so quick to defend me, so diligent to pray for me, or happy to support me as she. I don’t have to earn her love, and I can’t mess up enough to lose it, either. Erich Fromm, a psychologist and author, once said, “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich, I know just what you mean, and what a sweet state of grace in which to grow up!
Of course I can just hear my mother poo- poo any attempt to paint her with a saint’s brush. She’d be the first to state her weaknesses, and to say she grew up too sassy, too brassy and too quickly. If so, those were a young girl’s blunders, and her youthful heart was fallow ground for God’s grace later on. I believe over time the sass and the brass, in His hand, became the candor of heart and shine of spirit that are such a part of who and what she is.
What she is is faithful. Faithful as in loyal, dependable, steadfast, authentic. Faithful to raise three kids, often by herself, while her husband followed God’s call to preach- a call that meant college and seminary and lots of days and nights away from family. Faithful to become a “preacher’s wife,” however ill-equipped she felt for that role at the time. Faithful to share his ministry, as well as his time, with those he served. And later, faithful to stand by his side as he stared into a future that could guarantee only the inevitable ravages of Parkinson’s; and faithful to remain there as that future became reality. And always, faithful to pray, teach, help, encourage, give and serve. It’s not been without cost. There are aches, pains, and hurting places that have come with her faithfulness; but while they sometimes slow, they never stop her.
One day, as much as my heart aches and my eyes fill at the thought, I know her faithful days upon this earth will end. But I also know that at the moment they do, she will without doubt hear the sweet “well done” reserved for the good and faithful servant. I love the idea of that- of God smiling at her, the saints welcoming her, friends and family encircling her, and her there- shining so brightly among all the faithful. Not today, not tomorrow, and not, I hope, for many years to come. But one day.
Until that day, I will celebrate each moment she’s on this familiar earth. I’ll tell her I love her as often as I can. And I will bask in the knowledge that I am dearly loved, wholly accepted and mightily prayed for in return. Even though I am a wife and mother with a home of my own, I will forever resonate with the sentiments of the little girl who, when asked where her home was, replied, “Where mother is.”
If I was damned of body and soul,
Of course, I had a truly wonderful role model for mothering, which brings me to the true topic of this Mother’s Day post...the incomparably cheerful, exuberant, generous, unquashable, honest, bighearted, inimitable woman I am graced to call my mother. She really is a pearl. My mom is the sunny day in a week of clouds, the color red in a sea of manila, a guffaw in a roomful of snickers, a tap dance when everyone else is shuffling. I know that my husband and my daughters love me, but I am certain no person on earth will ever love me as much as my mother. No person will ever be so willing to forgive me, so quick to defend me, so diligent to pray for me, or happy to support me as she. I don’t have to earn her love, and I can’t mess up enough to lose it, either. Erich Fromm, a psychologist and author, once said, “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich, I know just what you mean, and what a sweet state of grace in which to grow up!
Of course I can just hear my mother poo- poo any attempt to paint her with a saint’s brush. She’d be the first to state her weaknesses, and to say she grew up too sassy, too brassy and too quickly. If so, those were a young girl’s blunders, and her youthful heart was fallow ground for God’s grace later on. I believe over time the sass and the brass, in His hand, became the candor of heart and shine of spirit that are such a part of who and what she is.
What she is is faithful. Faithful as in loyal, dependable, steadfast, authentic. Faithful to raise three kids, often by herself, while her husband followed God’s call to preach- a call that meant college and seminary and lots of days and nights away from family. Faithful to become a “preacher’s wife,” however ill-equipped she felt for that role at the time. Faithful to share his ministry, as well as his time, with those he served. And later, faithful to stand by his side as he stared into a future that could guarantee only the inevitable ravages of Parkinson’s; and faithful to remain there as that future became reality. And always, faithful to pray, teach, help, encourage, give and serve. It’s not been without cost. There are aches, pains, and hurting places that have come with her faithfulness; but while they sometimes slow, they never stop her.
One day, as much as my heart aches and my eyes fill at the thought, I know her faithful days upon this earth will end. But I also know that at the moment they do, she will without doubt hear the sweet “well done” reserved for the good and faithful servant. I love the idea of that- of God smiling at her, the saints welcoming her, friends and family encircling her, and her there- shining so brightly among all the faithful. Not today, not tomorrow, and not, I hope, for many years to come. But one day.
Until that day, I will celebrate each moment she’s on this familiar earth. I’ll tell her I love her as often as I can. And I will bask in the knowledge that I am dearly loved, wholly accepted and mightily prayed for in return. Even though I am a wife and mother with a home of my own, I will forever resonate with the sentiments of the little girl who, when asked where her home was, replied, “Where mother is.”
If I was damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o'mine.
Despite the fact that this verse from the poem “Mother o’Mine” by Rudyard Kipling sounds like something a sentimental Irish tenor might sing after downing a pint too many at the local pub, I love it. Rudyard, I know just what you mean.
March 10, 2009
blue tape special
There’s a piece up there, and down here, and over there. See that one on the mantel? Follow a line straight down from there and over about a foot and there’s another one. They’re everywhere - little blue strips of painter’s tape which, to me, say “problem here” or “this needs a touch-up”. Little pieces of tape that, by now, probably have the contractor thinking “would someone please hide that blue damn tape so I can finish up and get out of here.”
Mutual, I’m sure. ‘Cause the longer people are there working, the more dings and scrapes they’re making on my beautiful nacre woodwork- a fact that isn’t making momma happy. And when momma isn’t happy… out comes the blue tape. Are these dots of ceiling paint on the luscious wood floor of my lovely new dining room? Blue tape. Did someone plunk down their hammer and chip the trim on the windowsill in my hasn’t-even-been-cooked-in-yet beautiful kitchen? Blue tape. Surely you didn’t intend to leave that spot unpainted right at eye level as I’m coming down the stairs. Blue tape. Handle loose. Blue tape. Door on crooked. Blue tape. Maybe it would have been easier on all of us if, from day one, I’d hung a big picture of myself, arms crossed, fist clutching a roll of blue tape, with the caption, “DON’T MAKE ME USE THIS!”
Last night I went through with the blue tape yet again. They say this could be their last day. There’s a chance that when I come home today there will be no paint buckets, drop cloths, putty knives, or stained rags to be found. No Bills or Mikes or Dougs or Als to roam my halls, use my bathrooms, or be in my closets. The possibility exists that tomorrow we will awaken in a house devoid of blue tape. There is a God.
Mutual, I’m sure. ‘Cause the longer people are there working, the more dings and scrapes they’re making on my beautiful nacre woodwork- a fact that isn’t making momma happy. And when momma isn’t happy… out comes the blue tape. Are these dots of ceiling paint on the luscious wood floor of my lovely new dining room? Blue tape. Did someone plunk down their hammer and chip the trim on the windowsill in my hasn’t-even-been-cooked-in-yet beautiful kitchen? Blue tape. Surely you didn’t intend to leave that spot unpainted right at eye level as I’m coming down the stairs. Blue tape. Handle loose. Blue tape. Door on crooked. Blue tape. Maybe it would have been easier on all of us if, from day one, I’d hung a big picture of myself, arms crossed, fist clutching a roll of blue tape, with the caption, “DON’T MAKE ME USE THIS!”
Last night I went through with the blue tape yet again. They say this could be their last day. There’s a chance that when I come home today there will be no paint buckets, drop cloths, putty knives, or stained rags to be found. No Bills or Mikes or Dougs or Als to roam my halls, use my bathrooms, or be in my closets. The possibility exists that tomorrow we will awaken in a house devoid of blue tape. There is a God.
March 5, 2009
moving in
Ready or not here we come. While the house wasn’t exactly ready for us when we moved in last weekend, we were sure enough ready for it. Even if it has meant crunching around on gritty tile, walking on paper pathways across wood floors, or playing eeny, meeny, miney, moe with boxes in the garage trying to divine which one contains a knife so we don’t have to cut the Sheboygan (our favorite summer sausage and meat of choice for the last 3 nights) with a spoon. Our time with A & T and the lovely Miss B was really a lot of fun, and we will be forever grateful for their hospitality, but Dorothy was right. Grit or no grit, there’s no place like home.
The girls gave the house their blessing this past weekend. They are ecstatic that this has FINALLY been done, and in a way that’s exceeded even their great expectations. “Why didn’t you do this when we lived here?” they demand to know. Hmmm…let me think. Dance lessons? Pom squad? Car insurance? Apartments? Tuition? Theta? I wish we could have done it for you years ago, but sister girls it’s done now; and we expect to see all your shiny faces OFTEN! Just don’t drip on the new wood floors.
Speaking of new wood floors. I knew this whole remodel thing was going way too well. One day the wood was in and looking mahvelous. Then the very next day the tile guy
a. accidentally
b. carelessly
c. asininely (you pick, I know I have)
dragged an old broken-down shopvac with one stuck wheel back and forth across it a few dozen times. Yesterday, after attempts were made to rectify the situation with a little patch kit obviously involving the application of fresh stain, what did I spy with my little eye but little stain paw prints sashaying across the living room floor. Stain prints which, upon immediate closer examination, were found to be shaped EXACTLY like those of Suzie, the cat. But how can I stay mad at a girl who brought me my very own fully grown live robin in her mouth and delivered it to me inside my house only days before? But back to the floor. They're working on it again today, and hopefully they now grasp that it will take more than a piece of blue tape across a doorway to stop a cat like Suzie.
We plan another wave of moving this weekend, and I hope to be eyeballs deep in empty boxes by Sunday. John’s goal, while not quite as lofty, is no less important. He plans to eeny, meeny, miney, moe his way to the box hiding the TV cable.
The girls gave the house their blessing this past weekend. They are ecstatic that this has FINALLY been done, and in a way that’s exceeded even their great expectations. “Why didn’t you do this when we lived here?” they demand to know. Hmmm…let me think. Dance lessons? Pom squad? Car insurance? Apartments? Tuition? Theta? I wish we could have done it for you years ago, but sister girls it’s done now; and we expect to see all your shiny faces OFTEN! Just don’t drip on the new wood floors.
Speaking of new wood floors. I knew this whole remodel thing was going way too well. One day the wood was in and looking mahvelous. Then the very next day the tile guy
a. accidentally
b. carelessly
c. asininely (you pick, I know I have)
dragged an old broken-down shopvac with one stuck wheel back and forth across it a few dozen times. Yesterday, after attempts were made to rectify the situation with a little patch kit obviously involving the application of fresh stain, what did I spy with my little eye but little stain paw prints sashaying across the living room floor. Stain prints which, upon immediate closer examination, were found to be shaped EXACTLY like those of Suzie, the cat. But how can I stay mad at a girl who brought me my very own fully grown live robin in her mouth and delivered it to me inside my house only days before? But back to the floor. They're working on it again today, and hopefully they now grasp that it will take more than a piece of blue tape across a doorway to stop a cat like Suzie.
We plan another wave of moving this weekend, and I hope to be eyeballs deep in empty boxes by Sunday. John’s goal, while not quite as lofty, is no less important. He plans to eeny, meeny, miney, moe his way to the box hiding the TV cable.
February 10, 2009
the girl is rockin' it
Who knew? Who knew that under all that worn woodwork and ugly carpet was a vibrant beauty waiting to be discovered? We suspected as much, but you’re never quite sure until you start.
I’ve been known to watch an episode or two or three or more (but only when a certain daughter was home for the weekend lying comatose on the sofa watching a back to back marathon) of America’s Next Top Model. If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother- you probably won’t like it. And I can guarantee you from personal experience your husband will hate it, unless there happens to be a rogue episode in which, instead of dressing up and posing for pictures, the girls suddenly decide to blow off the photo shoot and install a dual overhead camshaft in Tyra's car instead. However, if you do accidentally sit down with a bag of chips and a coke and become captivated by the timeless wisdom of Tyra Banks or the insightful, biting intelligence of her cast of wannabe top models, you will observe something I find interesting. Under those model exteriors, under the makeup, hair product and haute couture fashions, are some fairly plain looking girls you wouldn’t notice unless their shopping cart accidentally clipped your shin in the Maybelline aisle at Wal-Mart. But while they may look like Plain Janes without their Cover Girl, what these girls possess is the potential for extraordinary external beauty. And not everyone does. Possess it, that is. While it may not be fair, I believe it safe to say that the difference between the average top model and the average mom, hockey or otherwise, is more than just lipstick. It’s something in the bones, the angles, and the proportions- and for those fortunate few it’s just waiting there behind overgrown eyebrows and bad dye jobs to be revealed.
Well, that’s the story of our house. She’s a beauty. Despite the fact that she was hiding in shadows, wearing all the wrong colors, and hopelessly out of fashion she was, under it all, a real looker. Bone structure? Sis, think Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Angles? All I can say is she looks great in full sun now, so no more of that Blanche DuBois “I can’t stand a naked light bulb” stuff. And proportion? As good as she looks from the front, you should see her from behind... she's got a patio that won't quit. And we’ve finally got her wearing colors like toasted pine nut, silvermist, koi pond and svelte sage. From now on, nobody’s putting this baby in a corner! The girl is totally America’s Next Top Model Home.
For fear that you’ll think me a shallow, superficial bragger who’s only interested in outer beauty, let me assure you her beauty is more than just skin deep. She also has a great heart. She’s warm, accepting, loves children and animals, and boy does she enjoy a good laugh! We’ll throw a party for her when she’s ready one day soon and, sis, you are so invited.
I’ve been known to watch an episode or two or three or more (but only when a certain daughter was home for the weekend lying comatose on the sofa watching a back to back marathon) of America’s Next Top Model. If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother- you probably won’t like it. And I can guarantee you from personal experience your husband will hate it, unless there happens to be a rogue episode in which, instead of dressing up and posing for pictures, the girls suddenly decide to blow off the photo shoot and install a dual overhead camshaft in Tyra's car instead. However, if you do accidentally sit down with a bag of chips and a coke and become captivated by the timeless wisdom of Tyra Banks or the insightful, biting intelligence of her cast of wannabe top models, you will observe something I find interesting. Under those model exteriors, under the makeup, hair product and haute couture fashions, are some fairly plain looking girls you wouldn’t notice unless their shopping cart accidentally clipped your shin in the Maybelline aisle at Wal-Mart. But while they may look like Plain Janes without their Cover Girl, what these girls possess is the potential for extraordinary external beauty. And not everyone does. Possess it, that is. While it may not be fair, I believe it safe to say that the difference between the average top model and the average mom, hockey or otherwise, is more than just lipstick. It’s something in the bones, the angles, and the proportions- and for those fortunate few it’s just waiting there behind overgrown eyebrows and bad dye jobs to be revealed.
Well, that’s the story of our house. She’s a beauty. Despite the fact that she was hiding in shadows, wearing all the wrong colors, and hopelessly out of fashion she was, under it all, a real looker. Bone structure? Sis, think Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Angles? All I can say is she looks great in full sun now, so no more of that Blanche DuBois “I can’t stand a naked light bulb” stuff. And proportion? As good as she looks from the front, you should see her from behind... she's got a patio that won't quit. And we’ve finally got her wearing colors like toasted pine nut, silvermist, koi pond and svelte sage. From now on, nobody’s putting this baby in a corner! The girl is totally America’s Next Top Model Home.
For fear that you’ll think me a shallow, superficial bragger who’s only interested in outer beauty, let me assure you her beauty is more than just skin deep. She also has a great heart. She’s warm, accepting, loves children and animals, and boy does she enjoy a good laugh! We’ll throw a party for her when she’s ready one day soon and, sis, you are so invited.
January 12, 2009
the move
First we filled a bazillion boxes, then the better part of a two car garage. After that we filled a storage unit we rent monthly (or “The Cottage” as I’ve come to think of it), then the largest Pod we could fit on our driveway. Next we stuffed every available square inch of every closet in the house. The spillover will eventually go with us to Travis and Audrey’s house. I’m sure they’re excited.
With John directing with his metal cane, his friend, along with his friend’s son and girlfriend, plus our always helpful son-in-law, helped me complete the physical move in less than 3 hours. You factor in the 5,958 hours I spent packing the boxes, and the total time spent accomplishing this astounding feat was only a short 254 days. At least it felt like it had been 254 days when, plastic cup of merlot in hand, I finally sat down with John in what was left of our living room last night. Surrounded by dusty corners, empty walls, unused boxes, and odds and ends of things that wouldn’t fit or didn’t belong, I took one last look around that dark and dated room, center of that dark and dated house, and in the immortal words of Curly Bill to Wyatt Earp offered this heartfelt toast: “Well…’bye.”
The construction crew started in this morning. Yeeeee-ha!
P.S. Regarding our cat Suzie, one of the guys who so kindly helped us move yesterday had this to say. “Yeah, I like cats. I just can’t eat a whole one.”
With John directing with his metal cane, his friend, along with his friend’s son and girlfriend, plus our always helpful son-in-law, helped me complete the physical move in less than 3 hours. You factor in the 5,958 hours I spent packing the boxes, and the total time spent accomplishing this astounding feat was only a short 254 days. At least it felt like it had been 254 days when, plastic cup of merlot in hand, I finally sat down with John in what was left of our living room last night. Surrounded by dusty corners, empty walls, unused boxes, and odds and ends of things that wouldn’t fit or didn’t belong, I took one last look around that dark and dated room, center of that dark and dated house, and in the immortal words of Curly Bill to Wyatt Earp offered this heartfelt toast: “Well…’bye.”
The construction crew started in this morning. Yeeeee-ha!
P.S. Regarding our cat Suzie, one of the guys who so kindly helped us move yesterday had this to say. “Yeah, I like cats. I just can’t eat a whole one.”
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