life according to me

Category: Celebration

Dust, Old Things & Memories

Somehow when we started all of this construction business, I figured it would be fun to post the ups and downs of going through the mess I know is involved. Best laid plans. What seemed like forever was really only about six weeks, so I should have been able to write about some of it, but it’s not like we were renovating the Taj Mahal.

I guess putting up with this most recent mess isn’t such a bad way to live if in the process I can once again discover the joys of good housekeeping. *insert loud snorting and guffawing here* But I tell you, the old body just isn’t what it used to be. Hauling furniture up and down the stairs may sound like a great idea for working the glutes, but I pay for whatever gain I may get with excruciating pain in my arms. Imagine a hot pole being stabbed through your arm every few seconds if you type, or cook, or grip anything. Lovely. I am seriously good at sucking it up, however. I come from a very long line of women who just grin and bear it. Imagine the badges we’ll get when we reach those pearly gates.

But I am enjoying putting things back in order. Having to look at all of it in dusty piles and eliminating a few places I used for storage has forced me to reconsider some of my possessions. If I actually knew how to use eBay and didn’t mind mailing things, I’d have a roaring business ahead of me, but it’s more challenging than that.

When I look at many of my things, I can’t say they have any but sentimental value. For the most part, they remind me of times in my life that were filled with hope and some dreams that never quite came to fruition. When I look at them, I smile, remember, and know that it’s fine that none of it happened, but stuffing it all in a box to sit in the garage doesn’t seem right. So I’m sorting through it all and wondering what stays and what goes. What matters and what doesn’t.

What matches…

Because when you get right down to it, if I don’t think it matches, it’s outta here. Well, maybe not quite that harshly. There’s more of a routine that goes something like this:

1) Move the item to a spot where it’s less noticeable — like the office upstairs. It’s the “I love it, but there’s no place to put it” graveyard. Nobody ventures up to the land of the Resident Teen but us, so I can put my items up there to sit for a while. A long while.

2) After I’ve given the item all the love and attention it’s going to get, and the layer of dust on it makes it appear somewhat like a chia pet, it goes in a box that’s headed for the closet. Any closet will do. It’s still in the house, and maybe comes out at certain times of the year — maybe — but clearly, things aren’t looking good for it.

3) Once the box is full, it’s moved down to the garage to sit along side other similar boxes. When I walk by the boxes, I’m reminded how much I liked those items, and oh aren’t they cute and I should go through them to decide what will stay and what will go. Later. Much later.

4) When we get tired of not being able to park both of our cars in the garage and actually clean it, I sort through the items, keep a few for old time’s sake and donate the rest.

The time is seriously now for one of those donations. I will wave lovingly from the garage as the truck pulls away with my memories hoping they will find a new home.

*sigh*

December 19, 2008
Dear President Obama

Dear President Obama:

I can’t tell you how much I’ve anticipated your Presidency. Thank you so much for taking the time to throw your hat in the ring to run for the highest office in this land.

Now that I’ve made the perfunctory niceties, let me get down to business. I have much to say…

1. I hear everything you say. Now I want you to do what you said you’d do. I know that it will take some time, and I’m more than willing to wait since I’ve waited for eight seemingly endless years for someone to save us. I have faith that you’ll begin your work as soon as possible.

2. So there are quite a few Democrats in Congress who are probably rubbing their hands together just waiting to let the rumpus begin. As seen by us all for the last eight years, a rumpus is not a fun thing to watch, let alone be on the receiving end of. I have an inkling of an idea that you’ll give everyone a show with respect to NOT taking advantage of the majority in congress. In fact, I believe you’ll hold your ground and work toward what you believe matters to the country, and not generally to a party line. Right?

3. Sure those Dems will be pissed off. Too bad. Nobody wants to have the sweet bird of paradise crap all over their birthday cake. And pissing them off will most likely put the brakes on quite a few things you’ve got on your agenda. But hold your own. They’ll get over it. It’s not about them, after all, is it? It’s about us — the people who voted for you. I know you listened to us, didn’t you?

4. On the taxes issue. I hear all kinds of crap about taking money away from the rich and spreading the wealth. Poor souls don’t understand they aren’t the ones with the wealth you’re talking about. But when I think about it, it’s kind of cool that people who earn a very good wage think they’re “wealthy.” Only in America, right? Those are the people you’re talking about strengthening, right? They already pay quite a bit of their income in taxes, and I know it seems like they’re rich to those who make less, but at some point, just because you make more than those who make less doesn’t mean you need to pay even more. Percentages are always good as far as I’m concerned. So I’ll keep my eye on this one. I am worried about how you’ll pay for the debt we’ve incurred in Iraq. Somehow, that not so minor issue has been effectively swept under the carpet by many people who don’t love you as much as your voters do.

5. It has been suggested to me that being the white woman have been since birth, I voted for you because I feel guilty that I’m white and you’re black. I’m not sure what to say about this other than I voted for the person I thought was the smartest and had the most clear vision of what was possible for our country. I noticed you were black and that your father was from Africa, and that your middle name was something that sends some people into some kind of a panic, but I decided you were smart and that’s more than I can say for the person who has served for the past eight years.

6. You represent so much of what it means to be an American to me, giving hope to those who have come from similar backgrounds to know that they, too, with persistent effort, rise beyond their challenges in life. It’s important to provide that hope, as much as it’s important to exude the hard work and effort it takes to achieve one’s dreams and goals. Thank you for continuing to stress the importance of diligence.

7. Could you please get on the health care issue? I truly think this is the most important aspect of your work. Having a system that is about whether an employer pays for insurance or whether one can “afford” it herself isn’t efficient. Do what you can, please, to help people understand that waiting in line isn’t all there is to a different more effective health system for us all.

8. I’m kind of sleepy so will make this short. Well, short for me. But I’d say that second priority is energy. Something radical has to happen to steer us in the right direction regarding energy. I love having choices, but I know the time is gone for me to continue to blithely say that I can afford whatever I have to pay for energy. It’s not about that. It’s more about what matters to the planet. I’m tired of paying for foreign oil. I’m tired of funding not being available to sustain the progress important to the development of alternative solutions. Yes, there are people who will find problems with any alternative, but what are our options? We need wind energy and solar energy, and nuclear energy, and…well you know. Can you please keep all the oil mongers in line? They seem to be quite the tough customer and only interested in themselves. Shouldn’t it be illegal for an oil company to record $14 billion in profits for one quarter when consumers are paying astronomical prices? They’ve made us all clowns while they’re on their way to the bank. THOSE are the wealthy you’ve been talking about, right?

9. Okay, it’s time for bed. Thanks for listening. I’ll be back routinely just to let you know what’s on my mind. I’m just one of hundreds of millions, but I’m willing to talk in a civil manner which is quite challenging for others like my brother who insists upon calling you “Barry.” You’ll have to forgive him. He’s a bit cranky, but down deep he sort of gets it some of the time.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for running for President. You have restored my weary heart and have given me so much to look forward to.

Sincere Congratulations,

Kelly who happens to live in Paradise

November 3, 2008
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008
You, Too, Can Organize and Decorate with Teens

The Resident Teen Rocker turned 16 while we were in Italy last month. Other than giving him a card that had our family’s required elements of butts, farting, or both, and singing Happy Birthday as horribly as we pridefully aim to, he didn’t have a candle to blow out. Now that I think of it, that’s kind of rude, but I’ll make it up before school begins.

Speaking of school and rudeness, the enormous registration packet came in the mail yesterday, and since he’s the one who retrieves the mail from our box each day, the look on his face told all. You’d have thought he had a bite of a bad frozen burrito. I mentioned that I wasn’t looking forward to him going back to school, either, and pondered the possibilities of running away from home with him to avoid the inevitable. Instead, I told him to get his calendar marked up so he could enjoy what was left of his summer, and start hitting the sack sometime before dawn, or at least make a half-assed attempt. I still can’t figure out how in hell I raised a kid who dislikes school as intensely as he does. Not that there isn’t much to dislike, mind you.

Every other summer of his life, the RTR has had an agenda. It hasn’t kept him hopping as much as the MoH would have liked, but that’s because it was organized primarily to keep him occupied while we were at work. A variety of YMCA Camps, San Diego Zoo Camp, Balboa Park, ID Tech Camp at UCSD, Camp Gramma, you name it, he’s been there.

But not last year. Summer school was supposed to happen but mysteriously never did, so I gave the RTR some projects I thought he might enjoy, and learn from. I know. Deadly. Ironically, he was assigned a project in his art class last semester that required a bit of research and wonder of all wonders! He remembered the summer work he’d done and was able to make use of it for his presentation. Amazingly resourceful when he wants to be.

Like this past weekend. We finally made it to Ikea to purchase the finishing touches for his bedroom. Not too long ago, we painted his room with colors he chose, the MoH changed all the dull switch plates, and I put up some new shades. (Of course, the shade pulls are already hanging in shreds leaving one shade unworkable, but it was swell while it lasted.)

After cruising through the showroom maze at Ikea, the RTR chose a double bed, a larger work table, and a chair that looks way too comfortable for the homework that he will definitely have with the schedule he chose (Statistics, Physics, AP American History, AP Studio Art, American Lit, and Woodshop. Yes, that’s right. Woodshop.) He is soooooooo having homework. I’m wincing just thinking about it.

So yes, after the three of us removed the boxes we’d wedged into my mother’s borrowed Escape, we schlepped them into the livingroom to sit. I told the RT it was his job and that if he needed help, he knew where his dad was. I, on the other hand, went to the grocery store.

Bear in mind that for the RT to approach any aspect of this gargantuan task, he had to clean his room. Pigs would fly first. But he’s very creative and found a way to move things around so he could work. You know, have a bit of elbow room and squeeze space allowance for toilet use?

When I returned from the store, he’d made quite a bit of progress and was just beginning to take the big red bunk bed he’s had since his fifth birthday apart. I could get all misty-eyed right now, but won’t.

I heard him call from upstairs, “Mom. There’s a funny looking flat screw thing that has a hole in it with edges…”

Now, I knew this would get his attention, and called up to him about whether he knew where the allen wrenches were tucked in his dad’s trusty tool box. No he couldn’t find them, and yes, I walked up the stairs to show him where they were. I also stayed long enough to gently ask him whether starting with a screw at the bottom of the bed was a good idea, and whether there might be some unexpected happenings as a result of that decision.

“Oh. Heh,” he smiled and chose a top corner screw instead.

The only time he asked for help was when he noticed a screw was stripped. A whack of the hammer from the MoH fixed it, and that cute bed that has so many memories attached to it is now in parts leaning against a wall in the garage waiting for a “Free to the first Caller” Craigslist ad.

Monday morning, the RT and I moved his tiny desk down the stairs — or tried. It fell apart from the stress on an edge while we were resting, and unfortunately, my ankles we on the receiving end of the boards that fell. Hurt doesn’t quite cover it, but we did get the desk to a resting spot.

He put his new desk together, and the chair.

I figure if he wants me to put up the very cool tiny work light with the jointed neck, and the shelves for his army of thousands, he’s going to have to clean up the mess.

But I’ve been reorganizing the cupboards in the kitchen, so between the two of us, it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll ever see the floor or counters in our house again.

Bets?

August 6, 2008
Our Italian Saga Continues

The unpleasantness of being in Naples wore off as soon as we were settled on the boat that would take us to Sorrento. Maybe it was the deep blue of the sea, or the cool breeze that refreshed our sweaty bodies. Or Vesuvius, looming in the distance, reminding us of all those history lessons delivered so long ago and so far from here. Pompeii…Herculaneum…

But it could also have been the tall, thin as a willow whip blonde that walked up the gangplank with the assistance of the crew right ahead of us who bore an uncanny resemblance to Diana. The Diana. Her hair was short, and she was dressed in a leather mini skirt and strapless bodice. Her four-inch heels drew everyone’s attention, and we waited to see if she could balance herself on the boat as well as she could on cobblestones. Most of the crew exchanged knowing looks, but one took it upon himself to sit next to her as we made our way across the Bay of Naples.

At first, she had chosen to settle in on the first deck in the cushy seats, but after we’d all dragged our luggage up the tiny stairs and flopped into seats where we’d get a good view in the open air, she emerged upstairs. And as much as there were only a few passengers, and therefore, many open seats everywhere, she decided to sit in the row directly in front of us.

We must have appeared to have been harmless, or uninterested in young women wearing black leather.

I soon figured out I was on the wrong side of the boat to snap my next 500 photos and moved, with the MoH following. We kept an eye on the boys and the woman as she sort of avoided, but not with any true energy, making conversation with the forward crew member. He eventually gave up on her and disappeared downstairs.

At some point in a strong British accent, she turned to the boys, and with a cigarette posed between two fingers, asked if either of them had a light. You just don’t know how hilarious that is considering that not only does neither smoke, but that they wouldn’t expect anyone to think they did. Well, that anyone like her would ask anyone like them anything. Ever. Their raised eyebrows and quick glance at one another after she turned around told it all.

When we stepped onto the dock in Sorrento, she was already getting into what we thought was her mother’s car, because we realized at some point, that she wasn’t quite 20. Goodness. Nothing like a bit of intrigue to take one’s mind off travel weary doldrums.

Officially, we were rested and ready to enjoy a small town where streets close to traffic in the evening so everyone can walk and shop, sit in cafes and watch passersby, or eat well into the evening. We did all of that, and crowded into groups clustered around televisions in bars here and there to watch Roger Federer lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon. It was like a huge street party.

In a walled garden setting lined with lemon trees and dotted with impatiens, we enjoyed pasta, seafood, lovely wine, and dessert at ‘o Parrucchiano “La Favorita,” a restaurant housed in an old building and credited with inventing cannoli. Who knew? The wait staff was ridiculously tolerant of our horrible attempts at Italian, and the setting a perfect place to relax after an extremely long day. Even the cat that wandered through the tables and brushed against our legs added to the perfect evening. And yes, I fed the cat. Incorrigible.

I now know that Sorrento was my favorite place on our vacation. We never took the bus to Positano or Amalfi, nor did we take one of the ferries we constanly saw headed to the island of Capri. But I have no regrets because we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what was right in front of us: balmy weather, delicious food, hospitable people, the Hotel del Mare, and a clear, warm sea to swim in.

Although everyone seems crazed to spend time in Venice or Tuscany when they travel to Italy, Sorrento is a place to be considered. I know I’d go back so I could stroll through the quiet streets without an agenda of any kind and let time take its course, but maybe in the Fall, when others are back to work, and the idea of other places to go and things to see don’t exist.

Yes, I’d go back to Sorrento.

July 21, 2008
Sorrento, we love you!

I’m sitting on a sea blue tiled sundeck on the top floor of the Hotel del Mare in Marina Grande which is a tiny village near Sorrento, Italy. It can be reached by car, or by walking down the winding steps from Sorrento that are wedged between tall buildings and lead through the ancient gate. Laundry hangs from windows, shutters are thrown open, and curtains are ruffling in the ocean breeze.

It’s late, but the sky is still a lovely blue, and I know that up the hill, “the stroll” hasn’t quite begun on the streets that will close to the incessant motor scooters, and vendors are spreading out their offerings of limoncello, and pottery, scarves, and hats. Restauranteurs are handing out flyers of their menus, hoping that passersby will consider coming back for an evening meal.

Amazing.

The sun has finally dipped behind the cliff that rises sharply above our little hotel, giving us relief from the sun which has been so relentless. Across the bay, Vesuvius is still shrouded in the haze that has kept it hidden since we’ve arrived, but that hasn’t stopped me from wondering what it must have been like more than 2,000 years ago to have one’s life so rudely interrupted.

For us, Sorrento has been the ice pack one might apply to sore muscles. Rome was so hot, and so enormous, so amazing, we had to have walked at least to Africa and back while we were there. Exhaustion was impending. Okay, so maybe a few more things caused that which I’ll tell later. But now, it’s all about sitting on this deck, detecting the hint of something — anything with garlic — waft up from the restaurants below, listening to the little church of the something having to do with virgins bell ring every fifteen minutes, and gazing at people on the road high above on the cliff staring down over the rail, most likely wondering how they might get down to this lovely place instead of where they are.

We swam today. Nothing could have been more perfect than dipping into the warm water to wash off the persistent sweat that will not have any effect on the numbers my scale reports to me at the end of this vacation. But no matter. The water was a calm, deep teal, and so buoyant. Or maybe that was my Reubenesqueness keeping me afloat. Who knows? But the last time I was in the Mediterranean was when I was 12 and my family was living in Spain. I don’t remember it being this lovely, ever. I also don’t remember anyone having to pay to swim. I’ll spare you the pain of what our wanting to rid ourselves from heat and humidity cost us. You’d only consider us idiots. And that’s okay, because we know it was completely worth it. Ahhhhh…..

My head is full. There are so many sights and sounds, tastes, and aromas, I’m not sure where I can keep them all. I love this place.

We’re off to Florence tomorrow. I’ll miss this little place by the ocean that seems so different than the ocean I live very near to. But vacations are like that, aren’t they?

Ciao, bella.

July 8, 2008
Italy: Checking our list…

You thought you were rid of me didn’t you? At least it appears that you may have been considering I’ve not written since…I can’t even remember. I’ve been in food land. Go figure that after being involved in my cyber baking group for more than a year now, I had hosting responsibilities this past month. That means surfing through eight million Danish Braids, which is what myself and my co-host, Ben, chose for all those Daring type Baker people to experiment with. Hosting also involves visiting every single blog. Um, so that would be 20 pages of blogs split between the two of us to the tune of five hundred blogs each. Whoa.

I’ve read a page and a half so far.

But I’d rather do that than yet again try to purchase a Roma Pass or train tickets to save us some time. It isn’t that I haven’t tried four times already. For some reason, I can easily move things along until it’s time to pay. At that point, on each website, it states the page is no longer available. Frustrating. They must not want my suffering U.S. dollars.

So I’m hovering here, with one eye on foodland, and the other on making sure we’ve got all that we need before we’re off to Italy tomorrow.

It doesn’t taste too horribly, although the RTR would disagree.

I have Chick to thank for the lead on Jen Lancaster’s writing. She’s completely hilarious. And Ann Patchett? Well, if you’ve read Bel Canto, you’d understand. When I saw the little pencils and their freshly sharpened points just screaming to be used I breathed life back into my dormant office supply fetish, I picked them up and chose a small notebook to write in as well. You know — the old fashioned way. With a writing instrument? Since I’ll be sans iMac for what seems to be forever, perhaps I’ll actually remember what it feels like to write in a notebook again. Maybe have a story or two to tell when we return.

Do you have any idea how decadent my feet feel in these shoes? Sure they look like some kind of warped cross between something an eco-friendly ballerina and a tree-hugging terrorist would wear, but still. I’ve got some strappy black sandals to got out to a few dinners in, but after suffering from blisters within a day of landing in the UK on our vacation two years ago, I take shoes very seriously. Oops! I almost forgot — the “Keens” are actually Merrells…I’m such a rotten consumer…

I think this just about covers everything. Except now I’m worried about the pillows. And sheets. What if there aren’t any in the two rentals? Um…I probably should have thought of this earlier? Maybe we do need the kitchen sink.

And I’ve got pistachio gelato whirling in the ice cream maker right now…

Since there are about 4 or 5 people who still read this blog, I’m trying to post something to add to your day while we’re gone. You know, in case you miss me. Or not.

In the meantime, I hope your weather is perfect, that you treat yourself to excellent food, and that you dream lovely dreams.

Ciao, bella!

June 30, 2008
Solsticeness

I know the rest of the world seems to believe that Memorial Day is the kick off for summer, but somehow, the whole idea of that particular holiday kicking off anything has never quite sat right with me.

Call me a party poopah, but there’s something way wrong about all those furniture sales, and car sales, and well, just any sale to get people up and out to slap them back into a consumer spending stupor. On Memorial Day? Okay, so the sales do help with all the purchasing that goes on for school promotions, and graduations, and weddings, you know, in case someone needs a futon or something. OMG, Dubyah! What in hell would we have done without your economic stimulus check?

It’s all nonsense, because today is our favorite day of the year. Party, anyone?

(more…)

June 20, 2008
Perfect Days & Apologies

I think this is the longest I haven’t written since beginning this place I miss so much when I don’t write. And the only legitimate explanation I have for not writing may not make much sense to most.

I can remember living in a dreary apartment when I was finishing my degree. It was brown. Regardless of how much I enjoy that particular color at this point in my life, somehow, brown then seemed dreary. And it was. It was a means to an end, and I tolerated it because I had to.

Well, I’ve been having trouble tolerating the orange. I know brown isn’t orange, but still. Surely you must have an inkling of an idea of why this is a problem. Let’s just say my house isn’t in order. Or my blog, in this case. It makes me sad.

I actually like the layout. I really do. But I spent quite a bit of time on thinking about changing out the orange and switching the font, and all that sort of thing, and when I looked in my files, I saw strange things.

Can someone please tell me why, oh, why do designers have to subject the rest of us to their particular style of code? I understand creative license, and all, but man.

I can figure it all out. Really I can. I just don’t want to. I want to download a theme, plug in my widgets, make minor adjustments, maybe have some fun designing a header or two, and then think about writing. Because that’s the whole point of a blog, isn’t it?

So in fewer words, I’m working on this theme, but not since Thursday, which was days and days ago.

I guess I just become disgusted, and avoid the problem. And that causes yet another problem because I truly enjoy being here and taking the time to spread my particular style of propaganda. Except I haven’t.

(more…)

May 11, 2008
Blog Wraps & Ballsy Mothers

Clearly, my blog is having an identity crisis. A few days ago, my aunt who lives in New York emailed and said my blog wasn’t loading. Outside of that sounding like some strange kind of medical condition, I cringed knowing that things didn’t bode well for my new theme.

I put a message up at MyBlogLog to see if I could get some responses and people were kind enough to let me know whether they could open my site or not.

It turns out that Internet Explorer and the Evil Empire *just kidding Bill* was somehow connected to the problem. No comment on that one other than I routinely encourage everyone to download Firefox every time I get a chance, which works just fine. Scott of My Thermos offered to take a look and also pointed out that ads running on my site might also be contributing to the problem. It was pretty cool. His help. Not the problem with the ads. I had downloaded Skype some time ago so that I could IM with my baking friends, so he suggested we use that to try and figure out what the problem was. Like I said. Cool.

In the meantime, I’ve taken everything out of my sidebars, reported the problem with the ads to BlogHer who quickly responded and guess what?

It still doesn’t work.

And the reason everything is purple is because I was trying out different themes this morning and then got sidetracked with my mom (which is normal because we’re sort of unfocused when we’re around each other…) and then I forgot the purple thing was up. I’m trying to find something that will work. You know, because I don’t have anything else to do but play with this ridiculous thing.

But my mom! She made it! w00t! And our doggo has been beside herself with delirious happiness since my mom arrived. My mother is her favorite human in the world. She’s worn herself out following my mother up and down the stairs as her things have been unpacked and now she’s limping pretty badly. The doggo. Not my mother.

She rolled in at about 3PM Sunday after leaving New York on Wednesday morning. She drove over 700 miles on Saturday alone. Amazing, huh?

Remember those tornado warnings she drove through? The ones she was supposed to stop and find shelter from? Yes, those. She said it was like the sky just opened up, with blackness on both sides of the I-40 as it angles in a northwesterly path through Little Rock, AK. We later heard that six people died very near there in that storm.

But she is here safe and sound. We stuffed her full of Huevos Rancheros a la MoH and some wine.

Stay tuned for more adventures with mom.

So for those of you who are sick of seeing those books in the background of my photos, you’ll have a change of pace since I’ve moved my Mac from the office to put together a bedroom for my mom. She’s up there fluffing her nest right now going through the things she’s managed to hang on to after moving three times in less than a year.

It makes me tired just thinking of it. Seriously.

Thanks for your tolerance with my blog wrap. I’ll get situated.

And you know about flying pigs, right?

Um-Hmmm.

May 5, 2008