No Gift of the Magi

Wow!  I can't believe Christmas is next week!  Aren't we just getting over summer vacations?  What happened to Halloween?  It was here, then it wasn't and all of a sudden, BAM!  The holiday season was here.  Not that I object to the holiday season, I'm an everything Christmas ho.  I love the season and everything connected with it, always have, always will.  I'm still a little girl at heart and I would love to recapture the feeling of little girl Christmas Eve.  Every now and then, I can feel some of the excitement of childhood and it makes me so happy.  Every now and then, I'll have a deja vu moment regarding the waaay distant past of childhood and it's just wonderful.  I can't describe how incredible it is for me to experience this feeling.  Of course, there are some remembrances that aren't so wonderful, but I'm quite adept at throwing out memories I don't like.  Like the Christmas a boy visited my house and brought a beautifully wrapped Christmas present.  My mother answered the door and I heard him talking.  I tried to hide from him in my closet, but my mother hunted me down like a wild animal and literally threw me at his feet.  I was 10 and despised boys.  I had to accept his love offering while I was holding my new Christmas doll.  The doll was a "walking doll," and was about as big as I was, and had flaming red hair.  She wore a beautiful green plaid dress and had white patent leather shoes.  I had just received her and was no doubt engaged in some fantasy world with her when the doorbell rang and the boy with awakening hormones tried to ruin my entire life first by allowing my mother to realize a boy was interested in me, then by offering a present!!!!  I remember staring him down as he handed me the beautiful Christmas box, then looking down at my doll and realizing they shared GAH the same hair color!  I grabbed the box and slammed the front door shut!  Then I threw the present on the kitchen table and ran to my room.  My mother came in later and asked what was in the box and I told her I didn't know.  I hadn't opened the present.  She mentioned something about rudeness and manners blah blah blah and I with dread, I opened the box.  Chocolates.  Maybe that boy wasn't so stupid, but I still hated him for liking me.  And exposing his feelings for the world to see!!  Nitwit.  Oh how I suffered...  But as I stated earlier, that's a memory I've thrown out...

Crap Christmas

"Ding dong merrily on high" - HA!!!  The Ding Dongs in my family were running on high all the time.  I've spent some time telling a few Christmas stories about my mother.  Rabid as she was/is, she has always had a heart for gift giving and always came through with the best presents ever.  When my sister and I woke on Christmas morning around 2 a.m. (don't shake your heads, ya'll know you did the same), we were always treated to a fabulous display of toys under the tree.  Then we became teenagers and we still had Santa presents under the tree - also fabulous.  And then I got married.  My mother continued the Christmas bounty as she had since we were tots, but the MIL apparently never understood the concept of giving a present to another person.  Oh, she gave presents, but they were always gifts from hell, i.e. her basement. (Side note - MIL was a hoarder.) One would think that if it was difficult to choose presents for family, you would ask them what they would like to have for Christmas.  No, you were never asked what you would like for Christmas.   "Oh my, is it December 24 already??  Let me go to the basement and see what I can dig out to hand to so and so....."  This is how a 15 month old ends up with steak knives and a teenager receives a tire jack.  No thought whatsoever put into gift giving.  No pretty Christmas wrapping paper on any present, not even a gift tag. And woe to you if it had industrial wrapping paper.  You know those gifts - they sell them already wrapped.  Gadget type things that serve no purpose and you immediately pitch.  "Here, you take this."  Merry Christmas.  Let me see..... during my years and years of marriage, I have received a wedding dress (about 12 years after we were married) that was 5 sizes too large for me, a pair of used shoes, a bottle of furniture polish, covers for stove burners, a swimsuit 5 sizes too large, and my personal favorite - a lion's head door knocker the size of Texas, broken.  The huzbin got so mad that year, he decided we were keeping the knocker and giving it back next year.  And he did.  And she didn't even remember giving it, but of course you don't remember such crap when you don't really Christmas shop.  The year I received the XXXXXlarge swimsuit, my daughter and I put it on.  Together.  Two of us in one bathing suit.  I have the photo to prove it.  When we were young and poor and needed things, we used to be angry over crap presents, but as time went on we began looking forward to them and one year we had a party and auctioned off the unopened Ding Dong present.  All our friends had begun looking forward to the crappy Christmas presents. And every now and then when the occasion called for it, we would re-gift a MIL crap Christmas present. Seriously, how many of you receive swimsuits or furniture polish for Christmas?  Have fun shopping for everyone on your list and stay out of your basements!!

Christmas Presents

Ahhhh.... tis the season.  The season for giving a gift to someone you care about.  Thinking, planning, seeking, choosing, purchasing, wrapping.... It's all very important to us as we want to do it just right. I love it!!  Probably because Christmas was such a big deal when I was a little girl.  In our house, presents were closely guarded and well hidden.  Presents were supposed to be opened Christmas Eve.  In our house, we opened presents on Christmas Eve because our mother spun the whack-o-meter and decided presents AND Santa on Christmas Day was too much for us.  Our presents were always beautifully wrapped immediately after purchase, then placed under the Christmas tree.  The year I was 14, I fell into temptation by the devil to open some presents about a week before Christmas.  I was already an expert liar - now I turned into a rotten sneak.  I could peel the tape back without tearing the wrapping paper, unfold the creases, take out the box, open it, admire the gift, then reverse the procedure. I told my sister if she would pay me, I would open hers, too.  But I ruined my holiday.  When we all gathered to open presents, there was no excitement for me.  I had no surprise.  Lesson learned.  And because in our family, one crackpot isn't enough, my mother's sister often added to the insanity in her own fun way.  One year, she and our uncle got in a huge fight a few days before Christmas and in a fit of anger, she threw all their Christmas presents out in the front yard where they laid for weeks.  Then it rained.  And snowed.  The passage of time hasn't allowed me to remember what happened to the presents, but I'm sure there was no good ending to this.  And there was the year my dad presented my mother with the gift of a cuckoo clock.  Very.  Bad.  Move.  One splintered chair,  one set of dishes hitting the walls later, he came up with a piece of jewelry which was bizarrely accepted as if there had been no first act in that nightmare.   Ahhhhh..... tis the season.....  Choose your presents wisely.

A Holiday Party

This is the season for excitement and wonder, especially if you're a child.  I used to be a child.  My sister was also once upon a time a child.  As I've stated, our household was generally crazy with family and friends continuously running in and out, our mother cleaning, our mother throwing fits, screaming, flinging objects through the air at the drop of a wrong word, pitching tirades that lasted all day, declaring outrageous rules, etc.  But somehow, most of this (not all) would calm down a little bit (and I say this in spite of my previous post) in an attempt to enjoy the holiday season.  For many years in the 60's, my parents hosted a holiday party.  Mind you, in the 60's life was quite different.  First and foremost, children were chattel.  We were the property of our parents.  Today's children are very different - they're placed on pedestals and every move in the family depends on the child's mood and preference. This was not true way back in the 50's and 60's.   In our family, we were never asked anything, other than, "Why can't you be like so and so??"  We were yelled at, screamed at, and shouted at.  Every now and then we were chased by our mother who wielded a large object.  Any object.  She wasn't picky.  We learned to be quick.  When party season came, we were never invited to be a part of the festivities.  We weren't marched out and paraded around to show the friends how lovely and well mannered we were.  "STAY IN YOUR ROOMS AND DO NOT COME OUT.  I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOUR FACES!!!!"  On party nights, my sister and I learned to entertain each other - mostly she would flip matches, and I would pray the house wouldn't catch fire.  And one of us would sneak in the kitchen when everyone was downstairs in the rec room and steal treats.   Our mother had spent a lot of time and money cooking and mixing for her friends and she didn't want it spoiled by having her kids hanging around while they were enjoying themselves.  Our dad was only expected to put on a suit and show up.  This was the holiday season!  This was the time to bring out the good stuff -  the cheese puffs, pinwheel sandwiches, creamcheese ball, pronto pups, celery sticks, chex mix, nuts, olives, and hundreds of other canapés Mom had slaved over for days. And musn't forget the mixed drinks.  The mixed drinks made these parties legend.  We had an uncle who was a bandleader.  When he got a few drinks in him, he also became a singer.  And after a few more drinks, he became drunk.  And when he became drunk, he would begin a sneezing fit that would last for about an hour.  At one of these parties, my mother threw him out of her party for "trying to ruin" it by sneezing.  Sadly, he was too drunk to know he had been thrown out, and he slept it off in a bedroom.  Wow, did she let him have it the next day.  Fortunately, he knew her and her temper and with blue air hanging above his head, he left as quickly as he could.  These parties had lots of spirit for sure and I remember lots and lots of laughing and that made me want to be there.  I've said many times that humor was the only way to survive that household and I do believe that.  I also like to think that even though she made herself miserable preparing for these parites, my mother found some fun entertaining her friends.  But, seriously, how was that possible??  How could any of them have any fun?  After all, my sister and I weren't there!

The Christmas Opera

Merry Black Friday!  I've never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  It's a tradition I don't want to break, but good for all you who go out and have a fabulous time getting good bargains.  I learned a few years back to shop online.  And I do shop locally, too.  I try to do my part in keeping the dollars in Christmas.  Since we're now in the season, I have a few memories to share, not all here.  One of my (and my sister's) bestest memories is the "trimming the frickin Christmas tree fit," an opera of many parts performed by our mother.  The overture began with the tree shopping and much cursing.  I don't ever remember finding the "perfect" tree, only one that screamed "THIS WILL WORK."  The never ending music (a true blessing) that played in our house all day long provided the arias.  It was the recitatives that truly lit up the house with Mom's particular Christmas spirit.  Every box of ornaments that was brought out from under the steps also brought out the anger that lived within my mother's soul.  "YOU GIRLS GET DOWN HERE AND GET TO WORK!!!!!!!!!!!  YOUR DAD IS NEVER HERE TO HELP ME AND THIS IS THE LAST YEAR I'M PUTTING UP A TREE!!!!!!!!  I'M SICK OF THIS!!!  %^&$%&$^@%#$@" Never mind that my sister and I never knew when she was putting up the tree - we were supposed to read her mind, and her anger.  Never mind that our dad was at work - he was also supposed to read her mind and her anger.  Mom's rage was never far from reach and the smallest infraction of the multitude of crazy personal rules residing within her could throw it on the floor.  We danced like our feet were on fire when this happened.  And as children often do, we would try to solve a confusing family puzzle by making things happy.  In the frickin Christmas tree fit, we would rush to help trim the tree, put out the presents, clean up any mess, distract in any way (my personal favorite), do anything we perceived would put an end to another act in this opera.   There were always too many acts and sad endings in the operas performed in our house.  For a couple years, there was a break.  The fabulous, sparkling, silver aluminum Christmas tree with blue ornaments and revolving color wheel came to live at our house!!  HOORAY!!!!  It was always perfect and in our eyes, we were sooooo Jetson!  No one we knew put up an aluminum Christmas tree.  It stayed for a while, then went into the attic until I retrieved it about 10 years ago, displayed it in my house for old times sake, and a few weeks ago, my sister became the new owner of the most beautiful tree in the world!  I know she'll display it well.  In an odd twist (and there are so many in my family as we really are pretzels), my mother has always declared she loves Christmas.  And I do believe that.  She loves giving presents and watching people open them, she enjoys all the fun, music, family gathering, and purpose of Christmas.  She just can't control her demons.  But isn't that the stuff of good operas??

Ha!!!

I've told ya'll a little bit of my childhood environment, but when I think about it, I realize it's probably like everyone's childhood environment - a mix of emotions, attitude, thoughts, actions, everything that confuses and messes with a child's mind.  My childhood was a maze of contradictions that came with no map.  Now I do acknowledge that many, many people had a childhood that makes mine look like a happy fairy tale, but as everything is relative, I can only address mine and how it shaped my life.  One trait I learned very early was what I call reading the mood of the house.  It was one of my survival skills in dealing with my mother.  I could quickly know if any given day was going to be good or bad by observing her for a few minutes in the morning.  And like most children growing up in the 50's, my sister and I were at her mercy because our dad worked and she raised kids.  Well, she raised kids when she wasn't entertaining her friends, on the telephone with her friends, dealing with her own crazy mother, or cleaning. Within seconds, I could tell when she was mildly upset, bigtime upset, or going over the edge upset.  We would do whatever we could to try to get her to maintain some sort of calm, but that was wasted effort.  In an odd contradiction, she really did enjoy laughing and did (and still does) have a sense of humor when she's feeling well.  I'm really thankful that I learned to read my mother because it taught me to read everyone I meet.  I'm quite good at reading facial expressions, body language, and spoken language.  I'm almost never wrong brag brag about people I've met and this skill has helped me a lot throughout my life.  Yes, I've made mistakes by allowing a few people to bully me into friendships.  Of course, they didn't turn out to be friends and I was young and stupid.  Now I'm old and stupid and I make less harmful mistakes, like putting ice cream in the microwave instead of the freezer and throwing out important papers.  And now that I'm older, I always follow my instincts on everything and it pays off nicely.  And I love to laugh, too.  My entire family loves to laugh.  My dad loved to laugh and loved a good practical joke, my kids and their spouses are funny, my sister and her family are funny, and the huzbin is REALLY funny.  He truly does make me laugh a lot and sometimes we laugh so much, we have trouble breathing.  He's that funny!  Laughing is important - it will make you feel better.  If you have trouble laughing, text the huzbin.  He'll make you laugh.  Or call my mother.  But call me first so I can call her and read her mood, then let you know if it's safe.

A Really Good Scent

Growing up, our mother wanted us out of the house as much as possible.  Her OCD forced her to clean every day and she simply couldn't allow kids running in, out, and around.  Her method was to feed us breakfast, throw us outside, lock the door and threaten us with our lives if we came back before lunch.  Sometimes she didn't let us come inside even then.  Sometimes she packed our lunches and we walked or biked to our neighborhood playground and ate there.  If we ate lunch at home, we were tossed back outside, door locked, and allowed to freely roam the neighborhood or, in the summertime, stay at the pool all day.  I remember riding my bike for miles.  If mom knew the places I roamed, she would have had a fit!  Therefore, many lies were told.  And you know all about the lying because we walked that road a month or so back.  Mom also liked to take us to the library because she perceived it as a safe, educational dumping ground.  We would get dropped off, enter the building, climb the steps to the children's department, and get lost in the fantastic, magical world of books for several hours.  I loved that place.  I could have gone there every single day of the week.  Miss Brown was the children's librarian and she was always excited to introduce a new book.  She also had a knack of knowing what you might like to read, yet she also enjoyed challenging you to check out a book that would be above your reading level.  The library was an old building and the children's room was a very large, high ceilinged room with a wonderful scent - the scent of books.  To this day, I sniff books and magazines before I read them and yes, I get odd looks when I do this in public.  In the summertime, there were large fans blowing hot air through the room, but I didn't care.  I was too wrapped up in roaming the shelves, looking for the perfect books to borrow for two weeks.  Once I got the books home, I would read after supper and at bedtime.  Every now and then, I would sneak and read under the bedcovers with a flashlight.   I participated in the library reading program every year, and one year I won an award for reading more books than anyone else in my school.  My mother was too busy cleaning to come to the ceremony, but I still have the pin and certificate to prove that I can read and did read all those books.  To this day, I love children's books, particularly the old ones, and I love great illustrations that accompany a good story.  I found an illustration a few years back and felt the need to draw it.  Does anyone know his name?  He's just so cute!

Cold Weather

Today is sunny with clouds and very breezy, not in a good way, but in a cold way because it's November.  I've never enjoyed the cold weather because it makes me freeze to the bone.  I wear layers of clothing even inside and that does help.  I'm terrified of being the old lady in the nursing home who isn't warm enough.  Note to my children:  I will need socks and sweaters/sweatshirts/sweatpants and I will need them all the time.  Never mind that the nursing home thermostat is set at 78.  That's not warm enough.  I will be freezing.  Now I feel much better knowing that my needs will be met.  When I was a little girl and the world was a very different place, girls were not allowed to wear pants to school.  We wore "school dresses."  School dresses were very different than "party dresses" or "church dresses," as both these categories were always frilly and fancy.  School dresses were always cotton, and usually some dark color of plaid.  They always had collars; some very large, some not so large and they always had a sash that tied behind or a belt of some sort at the waist.  I remember in vivid detail some of these dresses, because in the late fall in West Virginia where I grew up, the snow would begin falling and it did not stop falling until March.  And every now and then, it would refuse to give up even in March.  And my little girl friends and I would be sitting in a classroom in our plaid cotton dresses.  Freezing.  The schools I attended were heated by coal furnaces.  And almost daily our teacher would ask one of the kids in the classroom to please go to the furnace room and ask the janitor to stoke the furnace.  This was always a treat because our janitor (I don't think that's the occupational term any longer, but back then he was the janitor), Mr. Fields, wasn't always easy to find, so that meant you were allowed to freely roam the school building in search of Mr. Fields.  That generally allowed 15-20 minutes of thinking your were quite biggity because you were on a mission to find the most important man in the building - the man who controlled the heat, among other things.  Eventually, Mr. Fields would be found and within 60 minutes or so, the heat would rise and we who wore the little cotton dresses with little cotton slips underneath could endure a few more hours of school without shivering.  Did I mention these dresses almost always had short sleeves?  The only thing "winter" about them was their dark color.  If I remembered to complain to my mother, she would send me to school with an additional layer in the form of a cotton sweater.  It was a rough world, friends.  If the weather was extraordinarily bad, like 2 feet of snow, then we could wear pants, but they had to be removed the minute we arrived at school.  School was never called off.  And God forbid the power going off because we didn't go home.  We sat and continued to work and as the room began the big cool down, we donned our coats.  And we worked until it was time to go home.  I remember these bad, cold days.  Now that I think about it, maybe that's why I'm concerned about the nursing home....

Scrub A Dub

Long, long ago, in a far away world, there lived a woman who did not know how to sit and enjoy life.  She could only work on household chores.  If she couldn't find an obvious chore to do, she would create one.  She cleaned every single day.  She dusted, vacuumed, mopped, washed, scrubbed, scraped, whisked, whooshed, think of any work word and that's how she occupied her days.  From morning until late afternoon, she cleaned.  Her house shined and shined and sparkled and looked perfect.  She took time off every day to cook and bake, but she cleaned even as she worked in the kitchen.  And she talked on the phone for hours.  But yet she cleaned.  She had two daughters who weren't allowed to clean, because they couldn't possibly do it to her satisfaction, but they were allowed to do some odd chores.  The older daughter had the responsibility of waxing the living room wood furniture every Saturday morning and cleaning the fixtures in one of the bathrooms that same day.  The younger daughter was given the chore of stripping the bed linens and putting them in the wash.  They were also allowed to wash and dry the supper dishes (once upon a time, there were no dishwashers). The daughters had to attend school during the week and church on Sunday, so Saturday was the one day they could get in a few extra winks.  But not in that house.  The older daughter would be startled awake by the vacuum - not in another part of the house, but slamming up against her bed headboard at 7:30 every Saturday morning.  Bang, bang, bang!!!!!  Unfortunately, the younger daughter slept in another room and unwisely decided to pretend not to hear the vacuum, so the wicked mother threw cold, wet washcloths on her face.  Yowza!!!!  The younger sister would jump out of her skin!!!  This scenario continued every Saturday morning for the longest time.  Like years. The sisters each had separate incidences where they helped friends clean their homes, and stupidly told the wicked mother.  The mother then began one of her famous 5-6 hour tirades on laziness, which made no sense to the daughters because they weren't so lazy, they were just not allowed to perform those jobs in their own home. The mother was famous for her hours long wild, out of control tirades.  These tirades also involved throwing anything within grabbing distance.  The daughters learned to duck and hide frequently, but they couldn't escape the screaming.  And the screaming would generally revolve around the same topics - laziness, laziness, and laziness.  Every now and then, another topic plucked from thin air would be addressed, but usually it was some form of laziness on the sisters part.   So when the two sisters grew up, they decided they would never ever allow housework to rule their lives.  Even though they like their houses to be clean, they realized life has too many fun things to offer.  They realized there are beautiful days out there and they wouldn't live forever.  They realized you could pay people to clean your home.  But the biggest lesson they learned was to never, ever scream at people, because when you scream for hours on end, you really do lose your voice. 

 

Creating

So when I'm not working hardy har har I'm always making something.  I've made stuff for a long, long time.  I come from a long line of people who made stuff.  Food, clothing, shelter, etc.  It's true.  My dad built our house by himself.  He did everything except the electrical wiring.  No doubt he didn't want to listen to my mother busting him when the house burned down, even though it's brick, so that was a very wise thing to do.  I'm very proud of that house, too.  He took great care in every single thing that went into the building of it and it took him quite a while, as he was aiming for quality and perfection.  Now this house is not a grand house - it's a 50's rancher, but it's fabulous.  Because my dad built it.  And while he was building this house, every now and then he would allow my sister and me to do something wild and crazy, like color all over the bathroom walls.  They were eventually covered with tile, but those pictures are still there.  I would love to see them.  He also showed me a couple of tiny hiding places for notes and such.  Every now and then, I would insert a note into one of the hiding places, and a few days or weeks later, I would look and the note would be gone.  And after a bit, the note would re-appear and my dad would have written or drawn something on it.  Dad had many talents - he could draw, work with mosaic tiles, play the banjo, dance like crazy, make anything, and DO MATH!!!!  In our eyes, he was perfect!  I think his very best talent was loving my sister and me.  He was superb at that.  He was born into a very talented family; they all followed their artistic skills and my sister and I received some of those goods, too.  A few weeks ago, I made Rudolph, the Sequined Reindeer.  I think he's rather adorable, but for the life of me, I couldn't get a good photo of him so you have to believe me (even though ya'll know what a liar I am because I told you) when I tell you he's fabulous.  He really sparkles!  He'll be on my tree this year, but he would be cute on a package, too. He's about 7 inches tall and around 4 1/2 inches wide and he's completely made of wool felt.  And sequins.  I'll make one for you if you want, but you'll have to pay for it because I'm mercenary.  8 bucks a pop.  And I'll make as many as you want.  You just need to message me.  I love making things.

Bride of Mumps

When I was a little girl, Halloween was a very special holiday, just as it is for kids today.  Who doesn't love dressing up and getting boatloads of candy??  I remember my first costume was a skeleton.  I was 5 years old.  The next year I was a bride.  I was so excited to be a 6 year old bride (many of ya'll know that's when I got married) that I was just about jumping out of my skin!  I couldn't wait for Halloween.  Back in the 50's, most schools had Halloween parties and parades.  My school also partied and paraded.  I was going to be the coolest girl in the  lunchtime Halloween parade, because I was an outstanding bride in my beautiful white dress and veil. I had tried on my costume about 10 times before the big day.  And then BAM.  I woke up on party and parade morning with the mumps.  Oh fate, you sometimes deal cruel and unmerciful blows.  My mother called the school and told them I wouldn't be there because I was now a carrier of a dreaded childhood disease AND I would not be participating in the grandest party and parade ever!!  Oh sure, Taft school, go ahead and have fun without me!!  I'm only home suffering the agony of realizing there will be NO party and NO parade for me.  And my face is fat by now.  My mother must have really laid on a sad, sad story about me, because the teacher came up with the idea of parading down our street so I could "be with" my classmates.  My mother even suggested I put on my costume and "be a part" of the parade - only I would be imprisoned on our porch with my fat face.  But I really, really needed to wear that costume.  And so lunchtime came and sure enough, a loud, semi-dancing, twirling, costumed, happy group of kids came parading down the block and when they reached our house, they all yelled "Happy Halloween, Barbie," and I waved and waved and when they moved on down the street, I threw myself down on the porch and bawled my eyes out.  Because that's what brides do when they're miserable.  I didn't even get to trick or treat that year.  But I did get married.  Same difference.

My House is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

When I was a little girl, we lived in the downtown area of my home town, in a row house.  We lived in the top half of the row house and another family lived under us.  The entire block lived this way.  Looking back on it, I think it was a cool way to live, although I'm not sure I would want to live with those same neighbors these days - now that I'm old and crotchety and set in my ways, all finicky and spoiled in the way old ladies get.  I've gotten used to living in the sticks where it's fairly quiet and always silent at night, save for the wildlife that every now and then chitchats with one another.  Or at one another.  Back to the row house.  My maternal grandparents owned a corner grocery store and it was on our corner.  They lived in a house around the corner from us, which was deadly because my mother and her mother had a very tense and ugly relationship.  My grandmother was very demanding.  VERY demanding and my mother and her sister were her puppets.  She would call our house and say to my mother, "I'm going to let you take me to the beauty shop/doctor's office/friend's house/downtown you name it."  That was the match that would light my mother's fire.  She would go ballistic and scream at my grandmother and tell her she already had her day planned and then the arguing would escalate and my mother would eventually buckle.  Not a healthy relationship.  I'm not going into more of that relationship - I'll save it for another day.  The family who lived under us in the row house included 7 kids.  In a two bedroom one bathroom row house.  That's the way we lived back then.  We never thought we needed one bedroom per child.  The father in that family came home every now and then - always drunk.   The family who lived beside us was a retired couple with a grown son.  The Mr. had a bad little habit of getting drunk, taking his clothes off and sitting on the front porch smoking a cigar.  His wife would freak when a neighbor would call her and you could hear her shrieking at him to get back inside.  The neighbors directly across the street also had an alcohol problem and would fight just about every weekend night over something or other.  One of the fights involved a pot of coffee that one of the adults had attached to a rope and hung out the kitchen window in an effort to aggravate the other adult members of the family.  They were drunk by Christmas morning every year, and somehow their fully decorated Christmas tree always ended up somewhere on the street  or sidewalk by daybreak.  The police frequently visited that house.  Surprise, surprise.  Another family was a mother, adult daughter and young son living on the top floor of the third row house from us.  The mother had the habit of going on her front porch in her bra and just sitting.  Another neighbor across the street owned a monkey, who got loose one day and went through some of the neighborhood houses, tearing up everything he could get his hands on.  It was a hot summer day, in the time before air conditioning so all doors and windows were open and my mother remembers hearing the monkey throwing china  and other breakables in our neighbor's house.  This was not Mr. Rogers neighborhood, but it was a great neighborhood for observing people and their lives.  And apparently a neighborhood where a lot of alcohol was needed.  We left this neighborhood when I was 7 and moved to the house my mom still inhabits.  This house was built by my dad and what a great house it is!!!!  Houses carry a lot of good memories, bad memories, and secrets.  Just like people.  I live in the orange house here with red windows - the one on the hill.  I learned a long time ago to live on a hill, not a valley.  When you live in a valley, water may get you.

Eavesdropper

"Why, hello!  Come right in and sit down.  How have you been?  Can I get you something to eat, something to drink?  I know you want a Coke!" 

That was my world growing up, except no one was ever invited in, they just walked in.  Our door swung both ways all day long and most evenings - my mother and her friends, neighbors and our relatives.  And my mother never asked them if they wanted anything to eat or drink - they always walked into our kitchen, fridge, cabinets and helped themselves.  It was all very chummy.  Can you imagine doing that to any of your friends or relatives??  It was the 50's, friends.  Remember how life was so very different way back then?  Our house ALWAYS had baked goods, ALWAYS had Coke, and was ALWAYS open to chitchat.  Usually gossipy type chitchat.  When I was really young, my mother would watch what she said, I'm sure because she was afraid I would repeat it.  And I'm so shy..... Anyway, she was trying to be a good friend and neighbor by not allowing her child to hear bad stuff about them so she and her friends/relatives would use code words.  I eventually caught on to this code and I would take my coloring book and crayons and sit under the kitchen table and pick up every bit of dirt they were jabbering.  Oh, I was in heaven!!!  I knew more stuff on more people than you could shake a stick at!!!  When I grew older, it was a little awkward to sit under the table with a coloring book and crayons, so I would take a book in the living room and "read" while they were in the nearby kitchen, gossiping.  I could hear every word, of course.  I never took the information outside the household because I was too afraid of getting into trouble.  That's a lie.  I was really afraid of losing my listening privileges.  The best and juiciest stuff involved my mom and her sister talking about the relatives, especially when they complained about my grandmother.  I loved hearing all that.  It was better than any book I was reading.  As I grew into adulthood, my mom and her friends/relatives still talked about everyone, as was their habit, but I had lost interest in the gossip and had moved on to other things.  Like soap operas.  My mother never let us watch television, so turning the tv on in the daytime was a real treat when I was first married.  Now that I'm writing this, I see there's a very fine line between the gossip and the soaps.  I also outgrew the soaps, but I still remember my mom and all the girls chatting away a morning/afternoon/evening and I miss people popping in and rummaging through the kitchen to see what mom cooked up yesterday.  It really was a different time....
I've been working on Christmas.  Yes, I have.  Yes, I know it's October, but when you make stuff, you don't make it in December.  You make it year round.  Besides, if Lowe's can put out their Christmas goods, so can I.

Nothing

I have nothing to say. Not a thing.  I know you don't believe me, but it's true.  I just sat down here, wondering what will come flying off the keyboard, because that's what I do.  I never have a plan, I just sit and type.  Such forethought and organization.  HA!  That rarely exists in my mind/world/situation.  I've told you about my brain problem.  Having that problem also means I could have had a fabulous idea a few minutes ago but when I sat down to type, I have nuttin.  So now I have nuttin.  I will tell you this regarding this watercolor:  While my sister and I loved our father dearly, he drove rickety old trucks that two princesses thought they were too good to ride in.  Therefore, he would take every opportunity possible to make sure we rode in one of the trucks.  The first truck was a red job, big and ugly and we always knew when Dad was coming home because you could hear it a mile away.  Seriously.  That truck was louder than loud.  I can't remember why the truck disappeared, but we were sooo happy.  The screaming red truck was followed by a blue truck, not as noisy, but, really!  It was still a truck.  And he still tortured us with it.  That truck left, and he bought another truck.  This one was a real pip.  It was a white utility truck and it was HUGE.  That wasn't enough for Dad - he put very large decals on the sides of the truck.  Large, Indian head decals.  Classy.  And he still made us ride in the truck whenever he could.  He would take us to the neighborhood pool and we would ask to be dropped off about 2 blocks away.  No, he drove us to the pool.  I missed the school bus one devastating morning and Dad drove me to school.  In the truck.  "I can walk from here."  No.  Dropped me off right in front of the school.  And everyone in the school came running out to mock me.  Not really, but that's how I felt.  I would spend the night with friends and Dad would come pick me up in the truck.  I would die a thousand deaths.  Oh, the humanity!!!  It was horrible.  And then some time passed and I had kids and Dad still had a truck and, unbelievably, they thought his truck was so cool!!!!  Who says parents are smarter than kids???  Every time I see certain trucks, I think of those truck hating days and what a little s**t I was and how my dad wisely and mischievously handled my attitude.  I really miss him....

Love Crazy

Many of you know when I was but 8 years old, huzbin plucked me from my family and married me.  It was a most unusual wedding, taking place in a tiny North Carolina hamlet with the service performed by an ancient toothless oddball who also tried to sell us some property as he was performing the wedding ceremony.  Nothing but the best for the huzbin and me.   We had a chance to return to the scene of the crime this past summer.  We were on our way to our yearly vacation spot and happened to see signs to the same wedding hamlet.  "Could this possibly be the same place???"  We really needed to see if that place had existed because I have questioned the authenticity of this marriage since day one.  Of course, it's two kids too late now.  Not that it matters these days...  Anyway, we got off the main highway and followed the signs to said hamlet.  We drove and drove and drove and drove.  With each passing mile, I could see the huzbin beginning to fume, as he has no patience.  He was more interested in the vacation laying before him than the past he couldn't find.  One final curse word and we turned around.  "We'll just have to believe it's there."  Kinda like Camelot.  Now you see it, now you don't.  Thankfully, the marriage is not like that.  I remember when we moved into our first apartment.  I was soooo full of joy.  Being married and having an apartment was so exciting.  I was excited over being such an adult.  We lived in student married housing, so everyone in the entire complex was just like us - young, married students.  Those years were some really fun times.  Fun people, fun experiences, fun parties, and we made lots of good friends.  Then we grew up a little (well, he did) and we bought our first house.  There were fun people, fun experiences, fun parties and we made lots of good friends.  After a few years in our first house, we bought another house.  This was a fixer upper and I hated it, but the huzbin insisted it would be a wise move as it was a real dump in a great neighborhood.  Friends, do not EVER EVER EVER fall for that line.  We had to make it livable and that meant construction, construction workers, mess, tools, machines, mess, noise, endless intrusions, mess, dust, mess, it was awful in the worst way.  We added a second story, pushed out the front of the house 13 feet, and refinished the basement and turned the back porch into a sunroom.  It was wintertime and we had no heat, save for a small wood stove.  The rain poured and caused a roof to fall in, damaging everything in the living room.  The workers failed to read the architects plans clearly and ended up screwing up the second floor.  I began yelling at the builder almost every day - to the point he told the huzbin he didn't want to come back.  And to think it only took 9 months.  9 miserable months.  It was one of the lowest points of my life and I will never do it again.  And after all the construction was over, I sat back and said, "I hate this house and I'm looking for a new one."  And so we moved.  That was 36 years ago.  I cannot believe we've been in this house that long, but I love my house.  It's just perfect for us.  Oh, it has it's flaws and bumps and such, but they can be fixed.  And the best part is everyone we know loves our house and they always want to return.  I would like to think it's because they can feel love here.  That's important to me.  I always want my house to be full of love and happiness.  And a few other things, too.  Maybe it really is a sort of Camelot after all.

Special Problems

If you're going to read this, stop right now.  The artwork says "make this day special," and this day is already dwindling into the late afternoon hours.  You need to stop in your tracks and save this for tomorrow so's you really have a good launch at making that day special.  My day has been a very ordinary day so far, so I did nothing to make it special.  I slept about 2 hours last night.  That's not special, nor does it lend itself to making the day special.  I wasted the morning.  I can't remember what I did, but I know I must have pretty much wasted the morning because I have nothing to show for any effort I put forth.  Did you know I have memory problems?  Yes, I do.  Yep, I can't remember much of anything.  I'll try to give you the Cliff note version of my problem.  I have von Willibrands disease - sister to hemophilia.  Therefore, I bleed a good deal.  I try to stay away from surgery because nothing good ever comes from surgery when you have von Willy's.  I thought I had covered every last base for my last surgery, but as it turned out, I was allergic to the blood thickening agent I was given and suffered hyponatremia.  That's sodium loss.  And if you don't have enough sodium in your body, your brain can fry.  So my brain fried and I suffered memory loss.  My surgery was supposed to be an overnight, no big deal experience.  It turned into a five day ICU visit.  I was under watch for seizures.  Thankfully, seizures didn't happen.  That would have really made me mad, if I remembered to be mad.  I have no memory at all about this event.  I remember going into the hospital and I remember being at home 6 days later, but that's all.  Huzbin says he never left my side heh heh heh - how would I know?  Anyway, this little happening has changed a lot in my life.  I have a notebook in which I'm supposed to write down everything I'm scheduled to do.  All the time.  Every single event or chore that I do is supposed to be written in that notebook.  And sometimes I forget to make entries.  Then my life unravels and gets ugly.  My family gets agitated with me because I can't remember the smallest things.  It's really annoying.  Huzbin signed me up for Lumosity, but I can't remember to play it.  I can't remember names at all.  I know some of you are thinking the same thing, but my name problem is different.  I can be introduced over and over and I can't remember the name, unless I remembered the name pre-surgery.  Sometimes I can't pull up a face, either.   And you should hear me try to tell a story!  HA!  Trying to grasp names, words, places, objects in my scrambled eggbrain is sad.  Pity the person who has to listen to me talk.  Unfortunately, I've talked too much all my life (my report cards ALWAYS said "talks too much") and now, I think twice before I open my mouth.  Ooops!  That's a lie.  But then, ya'll already know I'm a liar.  I should say I NEED to think twice before I open my mouth.  And I'm getting better at that.  Sometimes it's embarrassing when I start to talk and can't remember what I'm talking about.  Mostly, I don't care because I'm so in love with myself.  Anyway, tomorrow, when you read this, make your day special!  Even if you can't remember what you're doing.  I really  do believe every day is special, even if you just lie around in your pajamas all day, eating chocolate cream pie.  Seriously, that's VERY special!!

Don't Lie to Me!!

This is the last day of September.  What??  I'm really going to have to put my foot down regarding the passing of time.  Seriously, isn't this supposed to be, say, the last day of March or so?  This is getting absurd.  Time passes, I don't get older (even though I just had a birthday, it was the same as last year), we have another Halloween, another Thanksgiving, another Christmas and bam!  We're into a new year!  Father Time must be an angry old man to make every day fly so quickly.  This has been true all my adult life.  Your's, too, I would imagine.  I think it's the curse of being an adult which, by the way, actually has many curses too numerous to mention today.  I can remember just DYING to get my driver's license!  How exciting to be driving around my home town, looking all cool and signifying!  As if my mother was going to allow me to have the family car to drive around.  First time she did, a hose blew.  I stopped the car in the middle of a very busy street.  Smoke (steam, really) was flowing from the hood of the car.  I was frantic, knowing the car was apparently this side of bursting into flames.  And the very worst part?  I was NOT where I told my mother I was going.  At this point, I must confess my sister and I had a chronic habit of lying to our mother in order to survive the household.  We crafted gargantuan lies to get out of the house.  We lied about where we were going.  We lied about what friends would be with us.  We lied about what time we left or arrived.  We lied about events at school  We lied about things that happened around the house.  We lied because we had to.  Our mother grounded us every weekend for any small reason. If she didn't ground us, she would scream at us for hours.  She never caught us lying, but every time she discovered a truth, we were punished.  Walking through her minefield was a real art, and we eventually learned to perfect it.  We're still liars.  Back to my car story.  I was on the west end of town, delivering my sister and her friend somewhere they weren't supposed to be before I went to the place I wasn't supposed to be.  And then the car decides to screw us over.  As I was frantically watching the rolling steam come from the car, knowing it would explode at any second and praying it would surely take my sister and me with it so our mother would feel sorry for all the punishment she doled out over the years and wish her sweet babies could still be with her, a man pulled up and helped us.  He crippled the car to a nearby gas station and the car was fixed.  Mr. Fixit must have been a mother liar, too,  because I don't remember paying him.   Of course a lot of time had passed very quickly and now that the car was in good shape again, we had just enough time to return home.  And guess what!  We didn't tell mom what happened.  We lied our answers to whatever questions she asked because that was our habit, our only path to any kind of freedom in the household.  I do want you to know that mom was and is the only person we lie to on a daily basis.  I don't lie to anyone but her.  My sister does the same.  And a new generation of liars popped up when we had kids.  They learned to lie to her, too.  My sister and I never said, "Lie to your grandmother."  They learned through their own mistakes.  Tell the truth, you will pay.  Self preservation, friends, self preservation.  My name is Barbara, and I lie to my mother.

 

Good Autumn Morning

Bah!  I know most people will think I'm really nuts, but autumn is NOT high on my list of seasons.  Yes, I know it has pretty colors, fun activities, great holidays, and - AND....... and this is the worst - cool weather.  I simply don't enjoy cool weather.  Cool weather always leads to cold weather, and cold weather and I are not friends.  We're not even nice to each other.  I refuse to go outside on cold nights.  I wear flannel pajamas beginning in October.  I bundle up in layers and wool in order to stay alive in our house and I keep the thermostat at 76.  And still I freeze.  The thought of that unmentionable post autumn season makes me unhappy.  The sun seems to rise at 10 and set at 2 and it hangs low in the sky.  And it seems to go on f  o  r  e  v  e  r.  But back to autumn.  When I was young, it was the signal of returning to school.  I was always so very excited to go back to school.  It meant new clothes, new shoes, new books, new supplies, new classes, new teachers, new everything.  I reckon it was really kind of like Easter - a re-birth and renewal of life.  At least that was true in the life of a kid.  New beginnings were always fun for me then.  Crap, they're fun now.  Who doesn't enjoy a new beginning?  A nice white piece of paper, waiting for words or paint; a newly cleaned and ironed shirt; a new promise to yourself , a new day; a new friend; new home; new city; new job.  There are many, many beginnings each day in our lives.  One  elementary school year began as usual, with a new room and new teacher.  Usually the same kids were in my class every year.  We had two classes per grade, so we would get mixed and matched every now and then, but because we mostly all lived in the same neighborhood and our mothers were friends, we all knew one another.  This was my 6th grade year, the last year of life in elementary school.  All of us 6th graders were changing and growing in one way or another, some faster than others.  I was growing in the wrong way - up, not out.  I held the ugly distinct honor of being the tallest girl in my class.  When our class photo was taken, I was put on the back row with the tall boys.  At this point in my life, I did not enjoy being around boys.  Ohhhh, the agony and humiliation.  To add to the fun of this age, my family began calling me the charming nickname "Stringbean."   This was undoubtedly the most awkward phase of my life.  One day I was asked to pass out returned work papers in the classroom.  I was going down the rows, passing out the papers, first to last seat, and I got to the very last seat in the very last row, where a boy was sitting at his desk.  As I handed his paper to him, he looked up at me and said, "I love you."  AAACCKK!!!!!!!!  I blurted out, "WELL, I HATE YOU!"  Unfortunately,  the entire classroom and Miss Teacher heard me.  I had to stand in the corner for a while.  Sheesh, HE did the ugly deed, why was I punished??  Somewhere along the way, I learned to like boys and I'm trying to make peace with autumn.  Winter and I will most likely never be friends, but I'm working on that, too.

Something Wonderful??

I grew up in a fairly crazy, cuckoo environment.  Due to many several circumstances I won't go into here (this post, anyway), life was pretty upside down for my sister and me. Due to family instability, I was forced to be an adult in my early teens, which probably explains why I'm such an idiot now.  Although we lived in a very nice middle class house, in a very nice middle class neighborhood, had very nice middle class neighbors and friends, and while we appeared to be a normal middle class family, WE WERE NUTS!!!!!!  At least by most standards.  We had some very bizarre house rules.   Such as: One must never, never ever leave an iron turned on. (By the way, an iron is something one uses to get the wrinkles out of clothing and yes, it's hot and yes it will burn the hell out of your hand.)  Therefore, if you were ironing (the ONLY household chore I was allowed to do, and even then, I was only allowed to iron handkerchiefs and my dad's undershorts) and had to get a drink of water or re-fill the sprinkler or take a bathroom break, the iron had to be turned off, then turned back on when you returned to the chore.  Heaven only knows what would have happened had you left the iron frying on the ironing board.  Another rule was if we left the house, we had to place all the trashcans in the bathtub.  Duh.... another fire hazard.   No objects of life were allowed in the bedrooms - nothing on the dressers or chests other than a lamp.  No shoes outside the closet doors.  No clothing allowed outside the drawers or closets.  The house stayed spic and span all day, every day.  Our house could have been featured in any store furniture department.  If the day happened to be pretty (and pretty meant above 40 degrees with no driving rain or snow) you played outside.  And when you played outside, you did NOT come back inside all day except the days you couldn't eat lunch outside.  We drank from GOD FORBID the water hose!!  In the summertime, we stayed at the pool all day, swimming.   The upside of this is we rode our bikes all over the place, became very good swimmers and had loads of fun, not realizing we lived in a nuthouse.  You don't realize that your family is nuts when you're 8 years old.  Well, most of us don't.  The huzbin said he knew he was living in a nuthouse when he was 8 years old, but that's another story for another time.  And how comical is it that two screwy people got together??  I mean, really!  That never happens hardy har har....  I have many, many memories about my childhood and not all of them are purty.  And now I've laid a foundation for you, so when you hear future stories, don't say I didn't warn you.

Sweet Dreams

To quote Curly, "nyuck, nyuck, nyuck!"  Sweet Dreams in my world is simply, well, a sweet dream.  I have nights where I sleep one hour.  Or three hours.  Or no hours.  A good night's sleep means five, six hours.  And I live with someone who sleeps regularly.  Falls asleep as soon as he's down (although I've actually witnessed this man sleep while standing) and sleeps all through the night.  And to compound my sleep troubles, I have to allow him to sleep because he's still bringing home food money.  We have to eat, so he really must sleep. 
 I always gently slip out of bed and go to another room and entertain myself with quiet amusements.  Did you ever receive a knitted gift from me?  I promise it was done in the middle of the night.  Did you ever talk to me on Facebook in the middle of the night?  Yeah, well I cut that out a while back because I stopped making a lick of sense (you really didn't need to wash your jeans in Summer's Eve douche to soften them).  These days (nights) I'm  quietly watching TCM, reading, and still knitting because the huzbin needs his sleep.  And I stay out of trouble - somewhat.   I will soon be visiting a sleep doctor.  I reeeely hope he has a magic potion because I need one.  And not Ambien.  I've had friends sleepwalk while using Ambien.  Like sleepwalk 45 miles away in the car and have no memory of driving.  And no Benedryl.  I have RLS and Benedryl makes me run about 20 miles in the bed when I take Benedryl.   I've tried everything that could possibly work (within my berserk medical problems) and nuttin works.  Oh, this is not a new problem.  I've not been sleeping for over ten years.  Think of the brain power I've not been able to unleash.  Think of the ideas that are begging to surface!  Think of the creativity that could unfold!!!  My life will be changed as soon as I visit the sleep doc!!  I know I'll be a very improved version of myself!  I just know someday, I'm going to get 7-8 hours of restful sleep!  Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck....

YIKES! REINDEER!!!!

Today is a painting day, but these little guys are on my mind.  Last year I made a fabulous, colorful pompom chain and made these felt reindeer to hang on the chain.  I sent it to my daughter.  She loves Christmas as much as I do and she loves cute, colorful fun things, too.  These look like they're going to prance away!!!  I love them!  Yes, I love my own creations!  They make me happy.  The down side is they take a little time to make, but hey, what am I doing that I can't turn out a few of these goodies every now and then??  I'll get my goods and sit down with TCM and watch some really good movies and have an entire herd!  Well, that was my thinking last December.  Once daughter received her reindeer chain, she asked me to make about 175 for her to give her friends.  175 chains, that is.  That means about 8 reindeer on each chain.  That means, oh...... round about 1400 reindeer.  Okay.  Sure.  I'll get right on this.  Which reminds me.....  Waaaaay back in the late 1990's, I made a cute little purse and sent it to daughter.  She went bonkers "OMG that is the cutest thing I've ever seen!! You need to sell these!!"  I should have TOTALLY ignored that last sentence, but again, Hey - what was I doing?  So she and I cooked up the idea of selling purses.  All I had to do was sit and make the purses and she would sell them.  Sounds good.  Unfortunately, it got a little out of hand.  She is a fantastic marketer and refuses to take "no" for an answer, has many contacts in prominent places, and eventually my purses were being sold in high end stores, carried by celebrities, and even appeared in a film.  So I had everything that was necessary for huge success.  Everything but the production.  Each purse was a one of a kind and that can't be reproduced in a factory setting.  Eventually, I was my own sweat shop.  I had no life.  All I did was sew purses.  And go nuts.  Daughter and huzbin tried their best to get me to re-define the purse and get it made in a factory, but I really didn't have the drive and energy to do that kind of hard core business.  Good thing they didn't mind too much, although I did look in my rear view mirror every time I went out for about a month after I issued the "no mo purses" statement.  Daughter and I have similar trait - we tend to go overboard on the fun things we like.  Good thing the fun things are small and silly.  Like reindeer.  And stop rolling your eyes - you'll be putting out your reindeer before you know it!!

Ugh!

I'm fixin to go to the store.  Yep.  Leaving to go to the grocery store in a bit.  This is the household chore I dread the most.  I've never, ever liked grocery shopping.  I don't know why.  I've analyzed this problem to death and I've never come up with any kind of answer.  I don't like any part of it.  I go roundabout once a week and I have to force myself to do the deed.  I will tell you this - I can fly through the store at breakneck speed, using the grab and throw method.  It's the only way I can tolerate this miserable chore.  And now my grocery store has screwed me over.  Obviously,  in addition to tallying food prices, the checkout scanner has also scanned my brain and realized I hate the place and have been charging through the aisles like a rhinocerous.  Therefore, the grocery store Nazi's have decided I'm not looking at the items they have chosen for me to purchase, so it's time to turn the place into a free for all food jungle and I'm the monkey who has to find the banana in the detergent aisle.  If I can find the detergent aisle.  Yet again, my particular store is upside down because "We're bringing a better Kroger to you!"  Liars.  A better Kroger would not only scan my mind, but bring the goods to my house.  AND put them away.  And the real love would be shown if they cooked up the stuff.  This Kroger is a really wrecking ball mess.  There's no ceiling, the floor is torn to pieces, bare concrete patches are all over the place.  The food groupings make no sense right now and nothing is where it was!  It's just too much for me to handle! I know ya'll will say there's a store in this town that delivers (too pricey and not enough selection) and another that allows you to fill out a computer form and they will shop and bag it and all you have to do is pick up the goods, BUT!  How do I know their standards match mine?  I don't like ripe bananas, I like green bananas.  I don't want tomatoes that have no taste, I want fresh tomatoes.  Mind you, I'm not loyal at all to Kroger.  They don't know that (I think).  I'm a grocery ho.  I pick up a little here, a little there.  I shop at almost all the stores in town for different items, but I need Kroger for my gas points.  I really, reeeeely like the 10 cents off per gallon.  That's enough to keep me crawling back to that black hole.  Ugh.  And really, it makes no difference.  A grocery store is a grocery store.  And I don't like any of them.

Football Afternoons

Sometimes, huzbin and I cannot attend the football game.  He has this problem - it's called work.  Every now and then it interferes with our fun.  This past Saturday, his work again interfered with our fun, so we plastered ourselves on the sofa and watched every game that was played that day, including our own team's game.  Considering our opponents history and fame, I think we did ourselves proud.  Sometimes our team likes to roll over and play dead, but this game provided good entertainment on a beautiful afternoon.  Truthfully, all the teams we watched worked like dogs this past Saturday.  All in all, it wasn't a bad football day.
It wasn't a bad doodle afternoon/evening, either.  I doodled this little job while I watched games.  I think UVA scored when I was writing the "L" in "Believe," possibly WVU scored when I was writing the "n," and Georgia may have scored as I was painting red flowers.  I do know that some of the commercials were driving me sideways.  One kept re-surfacing over and over and over.... Seriously, did this happen when we were kids?  You know, back before color tv?  It was insanely annoying.  Even the huzbin was complaining.  I do have to hand it to him - he learned long ago to channel switch to another game very quickly when it's commercial time.  He comes naturally to that.  Many of you already know many years ago, his mother was a local (not in this town) television celebrity.  She had a one hour program every weekday.  And the huzbin (being momma's little sweetheart)

 got to perform many times on said program, usually as a lackey in a commercial.  He would drink milk and lick his lips "Oooo, so good!."  He would eat a pie "Oooo, so yum!"  He would point to any given object being sold.  But the family favorite (I can see them all rolling their eyes as they read this) was his dressing up as the Bob's/Shoney's Big Boy and acting the fool pretending to point to a strawberry pie or doing whatever he was told.  And these commercials were all LIVE CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!!!!  So anything could and did go wrong.  He has a basketful of stories.  One fine day he was dressed in his Big Boy costume and when it came time to point to the pie, he went a little overboard and stuck his Big Boy fist into the entire pie.  Lovely.  He still does stuff like that every now and then, although he's now wearing another set of gloves.  I married him, knowing he does these tricks.  He makes me laugh all the time.  And I'm crazy about him.  Stinkin crazy!

YUM!!!

I love this recipe!  Love, love, love it!!!  My sister make the best fruit pizza!!  Even though I make this recipe, it's always better when she makes it.  I think that's true of all recipes.  I used to love to cook.  Used to.  Everyone told me I was a great cook, but I thought my food was so so.  I reckon we love the cooking of others simply because we don't cook it ourselves.  My mother was a fabulous cook.  She no longer cooks because she has horrible arthritis and has trouble getting around, but back in her day, she was the best.  People would "drop by" our house at supper time just to eat her food.  Of course, they were eating my food, too, but somehow there was always enough  food at our house.  She grew up with 4 best friends and they all double dog swore they would live near one another when they grew up.  And they did.  Mom and one of those sworn friends were ALWAYS cooking and baking.  One would bake a cake and call the other and say, "I just baked a ______ cake.  Would you run over and try it for me?"  There was always someone in our house eating something.  Food was central to any entertainment that went on in our house.  Mom was in a bridge group that met once a week.  When she entertained at our house, the cooking would commence about 3 days before the appointed bridge day.  She would whip up some reeeeeely good dishes. She always laid out a spread worthy of her girlfriends.  And we would reap the benefits of the leftovers.  She always made enough for the family.  When they had parties, there was an abundance of food.  My parents were also in a group of friends who played cards just about every weekend night, so we rotated with them from house to house on the weekends and the food was out of this world!!  Actually, this group of friends was the same girlfriends, but included huzbins.  I guess huzbins are crucial to a good poker game.  In case the wimmenfolk start fist fighting.  There was never anything that exciting happening at these games.  The interesting thing about my mother's cooking is that when she married, she couldn't cook a lick.  My dad's mother and his sister taught her to cook.  They, too, were fantastic cooks.  Another memory - my sister and I would plead with Mom to buy us store bought treats.  Mom baked for us cookies, pies, cakes and the best sweet rolls, but we wanted Oreos.  Proves how stupid kids can be.  Somewhere along the way, my sister also turned out to be a fabulous cook.  Odd, because we weren't allowed in the kitchen, except to wash and dry the dishes.  Mom's OCD.....  Enjoy my sister's recipe and do it soon - summer fruits are on the wane...

Oodles of Doodles

I can't just doodle.  You know, make strange little marks on a paper.  Or nice objects on a paper.  Or pretty pictures on a paper.  I consider pretty pictures on a paper paint material and I must paint them.  Another doodle I sometimes do (but haven't done in quite a while, now that I think about it) is scribble doodling.  I take a pencil and close my eyes and just let my mind go blank.  This is relatively easy, as my family tells me there's little in my mind.  Then I hold the pencil and just let it flow on the paper.  It goes everywhere.  After about a minute, I stop and open my eyes.  I ignore the paper for a while, but come back to it and behold!!  Up pops an image!  Mind you, it's sometimes not a cohesive picture, but more a representation of something.  And it's almost always a drawing within the scribbles, which means I will erase all the scribbles around the perceived drawing, then I'll ink the vital scribble lines, then paint inside the lines.  This is a fantastic activity for kids.  It's also a fantastic activity for adults, especially those who say, "I can't draw anything."  Oh yes you can.  Look at these - I came, I scribbled, I saw.  I saw a mama reading to her child, a woman sewing, and a jester.  I'm sure a psychologist could tell me that I see what I want to see.  Duh...  That's the objective here.  My parents read to me a lot, I read to my children a lot.  I've done much, much, much sewing in my lifetime.  And I used to be a jester in a royal court.  Seriously.  Not really, but I do like to laugh a lot and act like a fool.  Truthfully, my entire family likes to laugh and act like fools.  Every Christmas for years, we would create a "Stupid Christmas Photo" to send to all our friends.  One year, the photo involved the huzbin and kids standing over me with angry faces while I was sprawled on the floor with X's on my eyes.  Another photo we all wore a King Tut mask.  Another one was the family in a rubber horse head.  Those are some that quickly come to mind.  There are others, but I don't want you to think ill of me.  Now that I think about it, the entire family is a pack of jesters, all wanting to entertain and make merry all the time.  Like last week, my mother went to visit her sister in a nursing facility.  My mother has terrible arthritis in her spine and has to use a walker.  She's also pretty much doubled over at a right angle.  As she was trying to push open the door to leave the facility, two aides came over and asked, "And just where do you think you're going?"  They tried to escort her back to her room.  When the rest of us heard that story, we laughed and laughed and laughed.  She didn't realize she was making the rest of us merry!!!  But she did find it humorous.   Good thing she can laugh at herself.  Sometimes.  Sometimes not, but that's a whole lifetime of stories I'll save for another time.  Look at these scribbles for now.

Doodles and More

Sometimes girl's just gotta doodle.  Doodling helps me create something when I don't want to make a painting.  Doodling is good for the soul.  When I was a little girl, my sister and I colored every day.  Our favorite coloring book was a "Bride" coloring book.  It was a thick book, with lots of pages just waiting for our crayons (Hello, my name is Barb and I sniff crayons).  The Bride coloring book followed a pretty young thing from dating days to her honeymoon.  My favorite pages were always the pages with flowers - I would color those first.  Then I hit the pages with dresses.  I would color the dresses up and make them all gorgeous.  My sister would do the same.  I am left handed, she is right handed so it made for some great double coloring.  I would color the left page, she would color the right page at the same time.  Oh my, we did have some beautiful pages in that book, but we never colored the bride's boyfriend/groom.  Why would we?  He had nothing lovely to color.  We had that book (hidden in a desk) for years until our OCD throw away everything not nailed down mother got her hands on it.  I would love to have it now.  I would color all the flowers, then all the dresses.  What does this have to do with doodling??  Nothing.