AND NOW, FOR THE HARD OF HEARING

This is our Sunday morning routine:  Drive to Raider Ranch.  Help Meems and her BFF, Leonard, get into the car.  Buckle their seat belts.  Drive to church.  Unbuckle their seat belts.  Load Meems up in her little travel wheelchair.  Wheel her into groovy church with Leonard following close behind.  Get them situated in their seats.  Go get their donuts.  Meems wants 1/2 a cup of decaf and 2 donut halves.  Leonard prefers a juice box and a bottled water with his 2 donut halves.  Deliver donuts and drinks.  By the time we've done all of this, the service has started and before we have time to sit down, it's time to stand up and sing.

The best part of the morning is the time we spend with them in the car.  It goes something like this:

Me:  Mom, how did you sleep last night?

Leonard:  YOUR DAUGHTER WANTS TO KNOW HOW YOU SLEPT LAST NIGHT?

Meems (in her tiny voice):  Fine.

Leonard:  Your mother says she slept just fine.

Meems:  When is my next dentist appointment?  I know I have one, I just can't remember when it is.

Leonard:  She says she wants to know when her next dentist appointment is.  She says she knows you told her, but she can't remember when you said it is.

Me:  Mom, it's in January 2015.  You'll be 89 years old then.  I'll keep you posted.

Meems:  Oh.  

Leonard:  YOUR DAUGHTER SAID THAT IT'S NOT UNTIL JANUARY OF 2015 AFTER YOU TURN 89.  SHE'LL KEEP YOU POSTED.

Meems:  Oh.

Sometimes, Leonard takes it upon himself to let us know about any health "issues" that Meems hasn't mentioned to us.

Leonard:  Your mom has the constipation.  Can you get her something at the store for that?

Alan and I look at each other choking back laughter.  Eye rolling happens.

Me:  Mom, did you run out of fruitcake?  (She likes to keep Collins Street Bakery fruitcakes on hand year-round because of their tasty laxative qualities.)

Leonard:  DO YOU STILL HAVE SOME OF THAT FRUITCAKE?  DOESN'T IT HELP YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM?

Mom:  I'm almost out of it.  Oh, wait.  I may have another one in the freezer.

Leonard:  Your mother says that she may be almost out of it, but she might have another one in the freezer.  (turns to Mom)  DO YOU WANT CAROLYN TO COME IN WHEN THEY DROP US OFF FROM CHURCH TO SEE IF SHE CAN FIND A FRUITCAKE IN YOUR FREEZER?  

Mom:  No.  I'll find it.  But I don't know when my next dentist appointment is.

And that, my friends is why I take a Sunday afternoon nap.

AND THAT, MY FRIENDS IS WHY I TAKE A SUNDAY AFTERNOON NAP.

Aunt Mamie's Heart

Many of you have inquired about how Meems is doing.  She's doing pretty well, thank you for asking!  She had a mastectomy 2 weeks ago and has been recuperating at my house ever since.  She is on her 2nd box of Raisin Bran.  

Mr. Pete, Mamie, and Grandma

I have developed a new, keen appreciation for people who are caretakers of invalids.  Take my Aunt Mamie, for instance.  I'm guessing at the number because I'm too lazy to go looking up death certificates, but I daresay that she spent the last 20 years of her life caring for loved ones who were nearing the end of theirs.  She took care of my grandfather as he approached the pearly gates.  Then, Uncle Red was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.  It goes without saying how much of her life's blood was dedicated to his every need.  Last, but not least, was my grandmother.

Aunt Mamie's house served as both Hospice and funeral parlor.  (Don't even get me started about how scared we kids would be when we stayed at her house in Sour Lake the night before a funeral.)  It occurred to me that she spent all those years trying to keep people alive, keeping people comfortable in the face of the inevitable, and clinging to them as they laid in state in her living room.  Dispensing medicines.  Bathing.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Sickness.  Dying.  Death.  It's no wonder that she kept a jug of medicinal wine in the cabinet below her sink.

Grandpa rested peacefully in the living room
while we kids lay awake all night in fear that his
ghost would come wondering into the guest room
not 20 feet away.

There were times when Aunt Mamie lost her temper with my grandmother who, overall, had a pleasant disposition but unfortunately had histrionic tendencies that would put even Mother Teresa to the test.  Ever so often out of nowhere grandma bust into long sessions of loudly wailing over the loss of my grandfather.  "I miss Mr. Pete...don't you miss him...do you miss your grandpa..."  First of all, his name was not Pete.  It was Alfred.  Second of all, it had been at least 10 years since his passing.  "I miss your Uncle Red...he was really good to Mamie...don't you miss  him...don't you miss Uncle Red?"

As a child, my little heart would recoil when Mamie snapped, "I'M COMIN' - I'M COMIN' - I'M COMIN'" OR "QUIT YOUR CRYIN'!  I'M SICK OF HEARING YOU CRY!"  Don't get me wrong.  Aunt Mamie had a heart of gold.  Loyal to the end.  But...ever so often.

"Do you miss Mr. Pete?"

This morning, when Meems toddled out of the guest room simply said, "Coffee," my heart wrapped around Aunt Mamie's and held tight with an understanding as deep at the bowl of Raisin Bran I was about to serve up.  I'm talking Jethro-sized bowls of cereal.  Sometimes I simply turn on a dime and execute the given command with a smile.  Sometimes that smile is pasted on my face.  Sometimes it comes in the form of gritted teeth.  Other times, I sweetly tease her.  "I'll bet you meant to say, O Beautiful and Precious Daughter, might I have a cup of coffee?"  She softly laughs, "heh.  heh.  yes."

About an hour after she downs the giant bowl of Raisin Bran, she asks, "What's for lunch?"  "Mom, you're hungry again?!"  "No, I just like to know what I'm having."  After lunch, it's "What's for dinner?"

A few days ago, she decided that there was an urgent need to replace the bromeliad that died of dehydration by her very own hand.  "Mom.  Seriously.  You want to kill another innocent bromeliad?"  "I'll water this one."  "But you're not even home to water it."  "You could water it for me."  She even asked Alan if he would take her to Holland Gardens to get a bromeliad.  We're talking about a woman who is still sleeping the day away and only walks to the supper table and back to bed.  She wants to go wander around a nursery?!  I'm chalking it up to dementia.  I promised I'd get her a silk bromeliad.  "hmm," she says.  Just "hmm."

On Monday after her doctor's appointment during which more fluid was drained from her incision site, I asked her how bad the procedure hurt.  "Bad.  Can we go get my plant now?"  With both hands on the wheel, I looked straight ahead and gritted my teeth.  "We'll see...we'll see..."

She has a sweet temperament.  She's chowing down on Raisin Bran and eats 2 ice cream sandwiches every day.  She doesn't speak much, and when she does, her voice is soft and small.  At the end of the day, it's her hugs, kisses, and I love you's that melt my heart.  

I get it, Aunt Mamie.  I finally get it.  I'm glad that your "servant's heart" courses through my DNA.  But, dear Auntie Mame, I am happy to report that I have yet to resort to keeping a jug of medicinal wine under my sink.  

_________________________________________

Soon, my friends, I will tell you the Story of the 4th Day.  It's a tale of crazy talk, shaking floors,  singing choirs, and The Meems.  Not to be missed.

So, You Want to Know How to Decorate Sugar Cookies...

I've had a lot of requests for cookie decorating lessons.  Many of you don't live in Lubbock.  So, I thought I'd share with you what I've learned over the past year.

My biggest "secret" is The Sweet Adventures of Sugarbelle!  This lady is a cookie artist!  She has lots of tutorial videos on her site.  I've watched MANY of them.  The Texas Country Reporter video below tells all about this amazing Seminole, TX girl!

Let's begin with the cookie itself.  Surprisingly, I've never used Sugarbelle's recipe.  Alan loves the recipe I've always used.  I've just tweaked it a bit so that the cookies keep their shape better while baking.  Here's the printable version of my recipe.  If you try her recipe before I do, let me know what you think!

I do use Sugarbelle's royal icing recipe!  The meringue powder give the icing more "body."  This icing is very easy to work with!  You will add more water as you begin to ice the cookies.  More about that in a minute.

2 Tricks I Learned the Hard Way About Making Icing:

1. Place 2 pieces of Press and Seal plastic wrap on either side of the beater of your Kitchenaid mixer.  Seal the plastic onto the bowl.  The plastic should meet in the middle creating a "lid" for the mixing bowl.  The beater will be able to move just fine.  The sealed bowl will keep you from disappearing in a cloud of powdered sugar once you turn on the mixer.  The Kitchenaid pouring shield?  Not so much.
2. Keep a spray bottle filled with water handy for when you need to add a bit of water to thin the icing.  This is life-changing, people!  Spritzing water from a spray bottle gives you so much more control over how much water you're adding at one time!  (I also use it to spritz any leftovers that I'm warming under foil in the oven.)

To learn about royal icing consistency, check out this Sugarbelle video.  This is where that spray bottle comes in very handy!

Now, go to youtube and search "Callye Alvarado."  She taught me everything I know.  It takes lots of practice, and somedays, my decorating flops.  I only take pictures of my absolute best cookies.  You should see my "out takes!"  Once you start decorating, I want to see pictures of your creations on Finding the Funny's facebook page!  We can ooh, ahhhh, and laugh together!! 

Thanks, Callye Alvarado, for bring me so far in the world of decorating cookies!!!

Close Your Eyes and I'll Kiss You

Press play.

  Now, you have background music for the story I'm about to tell.

It was November 9, 1964.  The big hand was almost on the 7.  There I sat like an Indian on the gold shag carpet in my parents' bedroom on a school night in front of the THE TV in our home on Neal Street in Carthage, TX.  My hair was wet with corduroy stripes fresh from a mermaid bath followed my mother's vigorous detangling with a rat tail comb.  I was scrubbed clean.  The part in my hair was arrow straight, fresh and pink.  I had jiggled a Qtip in each of my ears.  My breath was minty fresh.  My heart was racing.  Breaths came quick.  

I was moments away from meeting my future husband.

First came a brief introduction from Ed Sullivan.  It was going to be a REALLY BIG SHEW with these "YOUNGSTERS FROM LIVERPOOL."  The curtains parted, and then, HE "spoke" to me.  He looked straight into my shining eyes and sang, "Close your eyes, and I'll kiss you."  It was that exact moment in time that I fell head over heels in love.  

Deeply, truly and eternally in love with Paul McCartney.

Elvis Presley was reduced to a passing fancy.  My devotion was wholly given to my favorite Beatle.  The "cute one." 

I was all, "Choose ME.  Want ME.  Love ME, Paul McCartney."

That Christmas, Santa brought me my first electronic device - a record player.  It was robin's egg blue, and it was portable.  I could close up its turtle shell and drag it from room to room.  On it I carefully placed my very first 45s - I Want to Hold Your Hand/This Boy and Can't Buy Me Love/You Can't Do That.

He was all...

I give her all my love

That's all I do-oo

And If you saw my love

You'd love her too-oo

I love her.

His voice curled into the air and wrapped itself around my 7 year old soul as I hugged myself swaying to the music.

And so, we were wed about 158 times in my living room there on Neal Street.  Me and my Paul.   My "something borrowed" was my mother's lacy half-slip which became my bridal veil.  My childhood playmates, Kristi and Penny, officiated.  In serious tones they serenaded me as I marched the aisle from our breakfast room through the dining room and into the living room.  HERE COMES THE BRIDE.  HERE COMES THE BRIDE.  Step-touch.  Step-touch.  Step-touch.

For years Paul was my one and only true love.  Truth be told, there were a few little dalliances along the way.  My eyes glazed over dreaming of leaving on a jet plane heading towards the Rocky Mountains with John Denver.  In time, I longed to  see sunny days that I thought would never end with James Taylor.  But, Paul kept luring me back to his Sergeant Pepper world by whispering Black Bird softly into my ear. 

You know you did you know you did you know you did.

The news that Paul has scheduled a special stop in Lubbock during the Out There tour came as no surprise to me.  "They" say that Paul wants to come pay homage to his mentor, Buddy Holly.  "They" are wrong.

Paul McCartney is coming to see his child-bride.  She Who Dreamed.  She Who Believed.

The long and winding road 

that leads to your door
Will never disappear
I've seen that road before 

it always leads me here
Leads me to your door

I'm off to the attic in search of my broad-brimmed Easter hat pictured above.  I've changed quite a bit since our wedding days, but, when he sees me in that Easter hat visions of the child-bride will come flooding back.  No wait!  I'm heading to Raider Ranch to borrow one of Mom's half-slips!  That should do the trick.

June 14.  2014.  8:00PM.  See you there.

Remember that I'll always.  Be in love with you.  You.  You.  You.

Oh, and, Paul, I need to let you down gently.  Back in 1976, my heart was stolen by the true Man of My Dreams.  Alan.  Come to think of it...back in THE DAY...he certainly looked a lot like Donnie Osmond.  Sigh.  My heart still throbs.

When's My Doctor's Appointment?

The Meems calls me every week to ask me about her upcoming doctor appointments.

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I get my teeth cleaned?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I have my yearly check up?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do we get our mammograms?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I get my teeth cleaned?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I have my yearly check up?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do we get our mammograms?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I get my teeth cleaned?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do I have my yearly check up?"

Brrrrrrring-brrrrrrring.

"Hello!"

"When do we get our mammograms?"

Ad Infinitum.

I'm usually not standing anywhere near my calendar when she calls.  So, I have to put down my blow drier, put on a robe and run across the house to look up the appointment date and time.  Or, mute the TV, get the cat and my ipad out of my lap, and run across the house.

I decided that I would make reminder signs in LARGE PRINT to put on her refrigerator #maculardegeneration.  To make them even easier to recognize, I add a graphic like big old teeth to represent the type of appointment it will be.  I didn't have a graphic for a mammogram.  I was too skeered to google it.

Now, every time she calls me to ask about her appointments, I simply tell her to look on her frig.  It hasn't cut down on the number of times that she calls to inquire.  It just cut down on the number of times I had to stop blow drying my hair or disturb the cat.

This is her reminder for her next appointment.  She LOVES The Doctors.  Wanna place a bet on whether or not she will expect to see Travis Stork on Friday, April 26 at 10:30AM?  She'll be the talk of Raider Ranch.

Blue Skies Smilin' at Me

File Photo:  I didn't snap any pix at Lubbock Radiology...

Today, the Meems and I went for our annual Mommy and Me Mammograms.  Here's the drill:  The Raider Ranch bus drops her off at Lubbock Radiology.  I meet her there.  We get mammograms.  She buys me lunch.  It's a tradition that began back in 2010.

Mom was taken back for her mammogram before me.  It took a long, long time.  I mentally "undressed" her...NOT LIKE THAT...more like...take.  off.  one.  shoe.  take.  off. the. other.  search.  purse.  for.  a.  kleenex.  blow.  nose.  It's a slow, methodical process.

After about 30 minutes, the technician came out to fetch me for my turn.  On the way to the changing room, she told me that they found a little place in Mom's  right breast that wasn't there last year.  Mom was waiting to go in for a sonogram of the spot.

Mom refers to her right breast as her "real one."  Twenty two years ago, she had a malignancy in her left breast.  It was removed.  She then had reconstruction.  All those years ago, my sister and I tag-teamed the nursing duty.  I was there for the mastectomy.  Kathy was there for the reconstruction.

I actually "won" that coin toss.  Back in "the day" at Scott and White Hospital in Temple, Texas, the patient's room was kept toasty warm for 24 hours after reconstruction surgery to help with blood circulation or somesuch something.  It was summertime, and Temple, Texas, was sweltering hot and muggy.  All they had to do was open a window.  Nope.  They jacked up the thermostat.  So, when I called the room to check on Mom, Kathy answered the phone panting.  "It's SOOOOOOOO HOT in here!"  She gasped, "I'm about to strip down to my bra and panties and lay down on the tile floor.  It's got to be cooler on the tile floor!  I'm going to stretch out to see how much surface area of my body I can make come in contact with the floor.  In a little while, someone is going to have to come flip me like a pancake."  I hooted with hysterical laughter.  At her sweaty expense.

While Mom was waiting for her sonogram, I had a quick and uneventful mammogram.  Not counting the relative discomfort that accompanies the process.  I love it when the sweet technician tightens the screws until the skin on my neck is being pulled down to my shoulder and then asks, "You alright, Hon?"  "Yes.  Couldn't be better.  Nope.  Couldn't be better if I tried."

After the Big Squeeze, I put my shirt on and went down to sit with Mom who was then waiting for the doctor to tell her the sonogram results.  She was still on the table with a little white hand towel spread across her chest.  When I opened the door, she started awake.  She never misses an opportunity for a good 5 minute resting of the eyes.

Mom was as cool as a cucumber.  I was staring wide-eyed at the sonogram monitor thinking that if I concentrated really hard, the problem would pop out all plain as day like a picture in a Magic Eye book.  I got nothin'.  "Are we going to go eat when we're done?" the cool cucumber yawned.  "Of course!  You promised to buy  me lunch!" I replied trying to sound all cool and casual and jovial.  Kathy would have nailed cool, casual and jovial.  "I want a croissant," said she.  "I don't know, Mom...remember how long the line was a La Madeliene last time we went there around noon?"  "Oh, yeah.  I forgot."  I knew good and well that we would head to La Madeliene along with the lunch crowd, and I would stand in line for as long as it took.

In walked the doctor.  "Looks like you've got a 11mm (a little less than 1/2 an inch) mass in your right breast that you're going to need to get biopsied."  "Oh.  OK.  Are you going to do that now?" Mom asked like she was standing in line waiting for a croissant to be heated in the microwave.  The doctor explained that the biopsy would be done at the cancer center.  That's not scary, is it.

I asked a few questions trying not to sound concerned.  Mom simply laid on the table silently.  The doctor left.  I helped Mom get dressed.  I teased her like I always do.  "Don't worry!  I won't peek!" I said removing the hand towel from her chest.  She's always been a very modest Methodist girl.  "Oops!  Just kiddin'!  I totally peeked!" I then said.  She chuckled.  I fake chuckled.

We took 1000 baby steps to the car.  I buckled her in.  After I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot heading to La Madeliene, I heard her softly singing next to me.

"Blue skies....smiling at me....nothing but blue skies....do I see..."

My little 88 year old mother has seen many a dark, stormy sky during her lifetime.  Two of her three children are already in Heaven.  All 3 of her chocolate-pie-with-mile-high-meringue-eating brothers have also passed.  She is a breast cancer survivor.  She fully recovered from a broken hip and brain surgery - which she said was easy as...well...pie.

I joined in singing with her.  Neither of us could remember any of the other words to the song, so we just sang the same ones over and over during the short drive to La Madeleine.  Meems is a win-win kind of girl.  She will be happy every day she is on this planet.  She will be euphoric when she someday dances in Heaven.  Nothing but blue skies will she see.

I'll keep you posted.  For now, we will tag this situation as an "inconvenient circumstance."  

Here are the rest of the words to the song.  Read them in Willie Nelson's singing voice.  His is the best version.

Blue skies smilin' at me 
Nothin' but blue skies do I see 
Bluebirds singin' a song 
Nothin' but bluebirds all day long 

Never saw the sun shinin' so bright 
Never saw things goin' so right 
Noticing the days hurrying by 
When you're in love, my how they fly 

Blue days, all of them gone 
Nothin' but blue skies from now on 
(Blue skies smilin' at me 
Nothin' but blue skies do I see) 

Never saw the sun shinin' so bright 
Never saw things goin' so right 
Noticing the days hurrying by 
When you're in love, my how they fly 

Blue days, all of them gone 
Nothin' but blue skies from now on 
Nothin' but blue skies from now on

This Ad...I Just...

I rarely look at the grocery ads in the Sunday paper.  Occasionally if I get sucked up into marathon-watching Extreme Couponing and feel nudged with guilt about all the "free money" I toss out every week, I'll open up the old Proctor and Gamble insert.  This morning before church, I casually picked up the insert and never made it past the first page.  Immediately, I showed it to Alan and said, "That's just creepy."  Check out the Old Spice ad below.

Mr. Old Spice creeped me out in about 247 ways.  Seriously, don't advertising agencies use focus groups or something?  Did no one look at this picture and say any of the following?:

• "Er...uh...It kinda makes my head itch."  
• "Creepy.  No, really, man...it's creepy."  
• "I don't get it." 
• "For the hair that gets...results?  Results.  Hmm.  Definition, please."

I couldn't even figure out what most of the Lilliputians gallivanting on his wavy brown locks are doing.  So, I went and fetched my big old lighted magnifier.  Run get yours, and let's take a litte look-see.

Ummmm.  Unless I'm mistaken, it looks like Mr. Old Spice KO'ed the Abominable Snowman right there on the crest of the front wave.  Take a look at this guy, and tell me they're not the same...uh...monsters.  No wonder the naked girl - wearing a Hawaiian lei - is kneeling in reverence of this heroic feat. 

Does Mr. Old Spice hear little voices on his head?  "Hey, guys, look!  It's a bear on skis!"  "Come my little prickly pear, let me scoop you up with this tiny dump truck!"  "Hold on, Beautiful Lady in the Red Dress!  I've got you!  I won't let you fall onto those giant shoulders like a bunch of flaky dandruff!"

Then, there are those chicks that are repelling down his face.  Repelling.  Down his face.  The one on the left near his attached earlobe is painting a human-sized kiss on his cheek.  Let me tell you.  No one but his own mother is going to get close enough to kiss that cheek.  Not with all that ruckus going on up above.  Paint away, sister.

If you look VERY closely at the hairline on his forehead...just above his right eye and just below the Abominable Snowman's boxing glove...you'll see a couple of women peeking out from the depths of his golden brown tresses.  I.  Just.  Whutha?

Up on the crown where a coy cowlick lies beneath the Old Spice pommade, Mr. Wonderful's alter ego rides a white stallion while eating a 6 foot long Subway sandwich.  Will he pass the cold cut combo back to the rescued-from-danger-fair-maiden riding behind him so that she can a nibble?

Surely any minute now, Mr. OS is going to hike up his hind foot to scratch the tickles on his scalp.  

Seriously, Goober.  Right now.  Reach up and scratch.  Scratch real good.

You're killin' me.  I actually scratched my head three times while typing this post.  Wait.  Make that four.

[The Head and Shoulders ad that appears above this one in the Proctor and Gamble insert simply shows a lovely lady with shiny brown tresses and really good teeth hugging a handsome fella with shiny black hair and really good teeth.  That guy.  Looks like he's the one gettin' results.]

57 Used to Look So Old

It's probably not a good idea to visit a college campus the weekend before a birthday when you're my age.  I was in Waco over the weekend for a meeting.  While there I got to see some awesome college buds.  In their presence, I felt 21 again.  We laughed, oh, how we laughed.  As soon as I saw beautiful Baylor coeds, I felt fully 2-days-shy-of-57-years-old.  

I almost didn't use this picture because it's blurry.
Then, I remembered Doris Day's soft focus close ups.
I'll play the blurring to our advantage.

Which brings me to my mom, The Meems.  This morning as I was stretching in bed I started thinking of what she looked like at the ripe old age of 57.  "I'll bet she looked way older than I do now!  Ha ha!  That's something...  I do look younger than Mom looked when SHE was 57!"

So, I decided that I would make that the theme of my birthday blog:  "My Mom Looked Way Older Than I Do When SHE was 57."  Savoring the thought how modern technology and Oil of Olay advancements have helped me preserve some of my fleeting youth, I went in search of photographic evidence.  My mission:  find a picture of Mom looking O-L-D at the age of 57.  The year was 1983.  I was 26 years young.

I pulled on my robe and shuffled into my slippers as I headed out in search of the photo box labeled 1980-1987.  We didn't take as many pictures then as we do now.  Purchasing and developing film cut down on frivolous photography.  We saved film for special occasions like birthday parties and the Easter morning style show.  AND for the boning of the Thanksgiving turkey.  (We also made our long distance calls on Sunday afternoons.) 

When I came across this picture of Mom-Boning-the-Thanksgiving-Turkey, I did a double-take.  Well, I'll be derned.  Would you look at that!  Through my 57 year old eyes enhanced with 1.5 readers, she looks young!  On the day of the deboning, my 26 year old eyes couldn't see her youth and beauty.  My magic eyes can now see the truth.

I wish that I could talk to 57 year old Meems.  We would have so much in common.  We could compare my bareMinerals products to her Merle Norman stash.  I would talk her into getting some new groovy glasses.  Then, I'd begin to hint about her hair.  She would be happy that I'm a retired stay-at-home mom.  She would not be happy that I don't sew my own clothes.

Now that I think about it, that would be a perfect way to spend the first day of my 58th year on the planet.  Casually boning a turkey with 57-year-old Meems.  We'd dig in with our fingernails letting the turkey grease soften our cuticles while occasionally popping the best juicy bites into our mouths. Our mouths would be full of turkey goodness as we talked.  I would get her to explain again exactly where the pulley bone is located.

We would laugh and laugh.  Meems has always been one of my best audiences.  She is generous with smiles and laughter.  Hugs and kisses.

She's coming over for Birthday Dinner tonight.  I may just crawl up onto her tiny 88 year old lap and cuddle.  

Happy Birthday to me.  57 looks as good as it always has.

Car Talk: A+ for Cindee

I pick up Meems and Leonard for church on Sundays.  Without fail, Meems calls me at around 8:00 on Saturday night and asks without so much as a howdy-do, "I guess you're going to pick us up for church in the morning?"  "Yep."  "What time?"  "The usual."  "A little bit after 10?"  "10:05-ish."  "At my patio?"  [Heaven forbid that she would have to walk all the way to Raider Ranch's front door.] "Yep.  At your patio."  "Bye bye."  "Bye, Mom."

As he gets into the car, the first question Leonard asks without fail is "Where's Alan?"  "He's at church."  "Oh.  He's already there."  [pause]  "Is he leading today?"  "Yep.  He's leading today."  "That's what I thought."  (Alan is one of the worship hosts at our church's "groovy" service.)

Last Sunday after Leonard learned of Alan's whereabouts, Meems told me about her dream.  

Meems:  I dreamed that I evaluated Cindee Millard last night, and she didn't like my evaluation.

[Cindee is a dear, dear sisterfriend of mine.  I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Meems would think - or dream - about evaluating her.]

Me:  Why were you evaluating Cindee?

Meems:  I can't remember.  I just remember that she didn't like my evaluation.

Me:  Hmm.  You just evaluated her.  Well, my goodness.

Meems:  I do remember that I gave her an A+ for what she was wearing.

Leonard:  She should have been happy about that because A+ is as high as you can get.

Me:  Yeah, Mom.  A+ is as high as you can get.

Meems:  Her clothes were cute.  I can't remember what it was that I scored her low on.

Leonard:  Is Vladamir Putin married?

Oh, my.  Our Sunday morning drives to church.  Me, Miss Daisy and Hoke.

For the record:  Cindee, I give you A+++ in ALL categories - especially in haute couture.

Mimi Van Winkle

(from Classic-FairyTales.com)

"I love to sleep."  If I've heard her say it once, I've heard it a thousand times.  My mother can almost fall asleep on command.  There is Van Winkle blood flowing through her veins.

My sister, Kathy, and I used to tease mother about her ability to fall asleep while getting her teeth cleaned or waiting for her tires to be rotated.  We truly believed that general anesthesia during surgery would be a waste of money because The Meems would fall into a deep, wild-dreamed sleep before the surgeon had time to gown up for the procedure.

Now that Mom is a Lady of Leisure - because living at Raider Ranch is like living in a "resort hotel" - she has taken sleep to a whole new level.  She takes her shower right after dinner and heads to bed around 8:00.  She tells us that she lies there awake until about 11:00.  That is utter nonsense.  We've seen how she falls asleep when the lights go down in a movie theatre.  

At Raider Ranch, the residents are supposed to push a button in their apartments every morning by a certain time to let the receptionist-on-duty know that they are still members of the Land of the Living.  Mimi's bladder wakes her up just before the...uh...deadline (couldn't resist).  She pads into the bathroom and pushes the button which is conveniently located just above the toilet paper holder.  

Yesterday, I went by to see her.  I go over weekly to check on how many of her daily pills she dropped on the floor or left in the Sunday-Friday box entirely.  I also needed to see how her new pair of jeans was fitting after some alterations.

I called ahead from my car.

"Mom, sorry to wake you!  I know that it's only 11:00, but I need to come over now because it's next on my map of errands."

"ok"  (tiny voice)

"I'll be there in 20 minutes, so go ahead and leap out of bed and jump into those new jeans before I get there!"

"ok"

"Be ready when I get there!  So commence to leaping and jumping!"

"ok"

She was still in her robe and gown when I got there.  "What jeans?"  "I have new jeans?"

While she was tediously putting on said jeans she looked up at me and grinned.  "Guess what time I woke up on Monday?!"

She usually sleeps until 11:00ish.  "Hmmm.  Let me think...  Noon?!"

"Nope!  I slept until 4:30!"  We're talking PM people.  She was actually bragging.

My jaw dropped.  "Did you have fever?"  "Were you feeling poorly?"  "Were you restless during the night?"  I started studying her face for a slack jaw or half-closed eye.  She seemed just fine.

"No!  I just slept because I love to sleep."

That line in the song Silent Night is actually referring to Mimi Van Winkle.

Sleep in heavenly peace.  

Sleep in heavenly peace.  

The rest of us will stand watch over you while you Dance with the Stars and chase babies down the street in your new dress.

And so, she sleeps.

Diary of a Wimpy Woman

January 21, 2014

Dear Diary,

I can't believe that I sat through a whole movie clenching the arms of my seat pulling myself forward to allow Mr. Wiggles more leg room.  Ugh.  The stupid movie theatre at the mall has NO LEG ROOM.  

I considered moving to another seat.  Here are the considerations of a Wimpy Woman:

1. If I look behind me to see if there are 2 seats together that also have 2 empty seats behind them, Mr. Wiggles might mistake my squinting for a dirty look.  Maybe if I smiled sweetly and open my eyes really wide while looking past him...
2. Oh, well.  The theatre is really full, so I doubt there are any seats up there that fill the bill.
3. Even if I find 2 seats together and we pick up all our stuff to move, Mr. Wiggles might get his feelings hurt because his wiggling caused me to get a bit carsick.  Or, he might think that he is repugnant to our sensitivities.  I can't bear the thought of making a stranger feel repugnant!
4. Just pull forward as far as I can and try to ignore the staccato jiggles of his knees!  I can do this!  Only 1:45 left of the movie!
5. Besides, remember that guy that got shot in the theatre for using his cell phone during the movie?!  Moving seats in a dark theatre would be way more distracting.  Extreme distraction coupled with implied repugnance is a recipe for disaster.

So, Dear Diary, I sat there with my bottom scooted towards the front of my seat and my legs spread wide with one foot dangling over each side of my seat in order to spread my weight to keep the seat from automatically leaning so far back.  This position coupled with the clenching of the armrests helped.  A bit.  Alas, Mr. Wiggles thought that I was providing him even more room in which to wiggle.  Sigh.  There I sat muscles clenched breathing slowly in and out to ward off nausea.

Why do I do it?  Why won't I speak up for myself?  

Why.  Am.  I.  Such.  A.  Wimp.

I smile through gritted teeth when a waitress asks me how my mediocre food "is tasting."  "Oh, fine," I say, "and, if it won't be too much trouble, could you refill my tea when you head back this way?  I really wanted unsweet tea, and the glass of sweet tea you first gave me was fine.  But, this time could you please grab the pitcher of unsweet tea?"  A steak has to be gushing blood from an artery for me to speak up to the waiter.  I secretly fear that offended chefs spit on food that has to be "fixed."

I leave 20% tips for bad service because I don't want to hurt the bad waiter's feelings.  The time that we had horrible service - horrible - in a restaurant in Park City, I got sweaty palms as Alan wrote a scathing note on the ticket.  He left not one penny of gratuity.  As soon as he put the pen down, I jumped out of my chair and hurried to the door.  I didn't even put on my coat until I was standing in the snow.  When Alan casually sauntered out of the restaurant, I spat out a desperate whisper, "Run! Run!"  I took off running.  He sauntered.

I have bought clothes that I didn't like because the salesgirl proclaimed them to be The Most Flattering of All the Clothes in the World.  I have then tried to figure out the exact day of the week she might have the day off or time of day that she might possibly be at lunch so that I won't see her disappointed face when I make the return.  My  #1 backup plan: tell her that my husband simply loathed the flattering clothing.  "I loved the giant brown lace top that made me look like a linebacker, but my husband...  What can you do?"  

Just the other day a dear friend told me about an unsatisfactory experience she had during a massage.  Out of the one hour service she paid for, only about 37 minutes were spent on the actual massage.  When the girl announced that the massage had ended, my friend actually looked her in the eye and said, "Are you kidding?!"  "Yes, ma'am, that's the way we do it at Massage-A-Rama (not real name of spa)."  My heroic friend then proceeded to the front desk and let the powers-that-be know how very disappointed she was with the treatment she received.  Boom!  No charge!  Oh, how I wish I could be more like Linda the Lioness!

Thank you so much for listening, Dear Diary.  Your little lock broke years ago, but that's OK because the little key kept bending in odd angles.  Seriously, it's no problem at all.  I'm a freakin' genius when it comes to sealing my secrets with duct tape.

Sincerely,
cel