Meeting the In-Laws

I recently retold the following story and it continues to strike me as one of the most bizarre experiences I've ever had. Let me preface it by saying that all of the people mentioned were very dear people (both main characters have since died).

The year was, um, 1979, I think. Ron and I had just gotten engaged and over the Thanksgiving holiday he took me to meet his grandma and assorted aunts, uncles and cousins. We drove out to the farm the day after T-Day and were greeted by Ron's grandma, who was dressed in a sleeveless shirt, wielding a double bit axe. She was out chopping wood for the wood stove, which she used to cook on and heat one of the two rooms in her log cabin. Mind you, it didn't look like a log cabin on the outside; it had some kind of tar paper shingles over it. But it was a bonafide log cabin. The two rooms had been joined together by a hallway with a bathroom sometime in the 60's I think. Up until then, an outhouse had been employed.

We walked into the kitchen/living room/bedroom and it was pretty small. The kitchen was along one wall and the dining room table dominated the room. I don't recall a couch or any kind of other "comfy" chair. The other room in the cabin was just a big room with a bunch of beds and maybe a couch. And another wood stove. That's where all the kids slept. All NINE of them. Actually, a couple slept upstairs in the attic. Ron says he remembers putting his clothes under the mattress during the winter so they wouldn't freeze and also remembers waking up some mornings with snow on the quilts.

After a spell, Ron's Uncle Billy and cousin came in from trapping 'coons. Uncle Billy had a beard (no mustache), a missing tooth or two and a farm hat that had been put to good use for many years. He reached for the fifth of Wild Turkey and took a long swig, then handed it to his son, who did likewise. Yep. I was waaaaay out of my element.

Lunch (dinner, as they call it) was out of control. Turkey. Ham. Tons of vegetables. Homemade bread and gravy. Really, really good. I sat down to the table and right away noticed I was the only female seated. Grandma and the aunts and girl cousins were up fussing over the men and didn't sit down to eat until they had cleared out. Again, out of my element.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any more awkward Ron and I stepped out on the back porch to find his cousin, Kurt, holding on the the hind legs of a 'coon while his dad pulled the skin off it. So far out of my element . . . I couldn't decide whether to stay on the porch and try not to lose my lunch (dinner) or go back inside and prove to be completely useless. In the end, I think Ron and I went for a walk.

After I got to know these people, I came to admire them for their work ethic, endurance and really kind hearts. What started out as culture shock eventually became a real lesson in life for me. And one Kate and Tyler got to share as well during summertime trips to the farm, where Kate ate loaves and loaves of jelly bread and Tyler ate some squirrel that his second cousin shot. They, too, were out of their element, but they loved every second of it!

Barack and Me . . . Our Common Bond

So, on Tuesday night, I watched through a semi-narcotic haze - ok, so I was completely baked - as our nation elected Barack Obama our new president. I was bawling like a baby and it really hurt pretty bad, so the tears might have been half pain, half wonderment.

Tuesday night was also the Night of Unfortunate Bodily Waste Mishaps (see previous post). The next day as I was reflecting on the events of the previous night it hit me:

Right about the time Barack Obama was probably realizing that he was going to be president and no doubt thinking, "Holy crap! What have I done?" I was having my own holy crap experience, also thinking "What have I done?"

If that doesn't bond us for life I don't know what could.

Guess What I Did?

Warning: Some dialogue may be too intense for young readers or people who are easily "squeamed" by frank discussions of bodily functions.

My, my, my . . . such a long absence between posts! I know - I'd better have a good excuse. Well, I think I do.

Last Monday, I had gastric by-pass surgery. My stomach (now lovingly referred to as a "pouch) is now the size of a plastic Easter egg. Yeah. That tiny. Won't hold very many Jelly Bellies any more. In fact, it will never hold Jelly Bellies again!

First, the why . . . When I was 29 I lost 60 pounds. When I was 39 I lost 80 pounds. When I was 48 I lost 40 pounds. Careful addition would tell lead you to believe that, by all accounts, I shouldn't exist, having lost that much weight. Ah, but the rest of the story. Not only did I gain every one of those lost pounds back, I also managed to bring another couple dozen (at least) along for the (unhealthy) ride.

I finally got sick and tired of the failed diets, the failed goals, the failed life. Not that I thought my entire life was a failure, but I knew that I wasn't living life to the fullest. Simple things were getting too hard to do. Like go upstairs to our bedroom and my office. Like fitting comfortably in an airplane seat. Like walking more than 1/4 mile without getting winded. Like walking and talking at the same time.

So, in May I attended an informational seminar at the Kansas City Bariatric Center. I won't go into too much detail here (because I have a NEW BLOG . . . theeggandeye@blogspot.com . . . that will deal with my journey), but suffice it to say that it was a LONG process that included clearance from a psychologist, cardiologist, nutritionist and pulmonologist. And that doesn't include the nail-biting wait for insurance approval. But - hallelujah, hallelujah - I passed everything with flying colors. I only had two co-morbidities (sounds awful, huh?) - high blood pressure and high cholesterol, so I went into surgery as a pretty low-risk patient (my surgeon's words, not mine).

Surgery was a piece of cake, probably because I slept through most of it. Recovery, so far, has not been that bad. Of course, there was the night in the hospital that I had violent diarrhea all over myself FOUR times - and just happened to have a male nurse that night - so humbling. He was absolutely wonderful and somehow managed to return to me my dignity and hope. And then there was the night at home when I made Ron check to make sure that my intestines weren't spilling out of my gut because I had moved a little too much one way and YOWZA! I've never been stabbed, but I'm guessing that's what it feels like. SEARING pain. But short lived.

So, today, one week post-op . . . it's a BIG day! After a week of a liquid diet, I get to eat 1-2 tablespoons of a scrambled egg! Tomorrow I get the egg AND cottage cheese!!! Eventually, I'll be able to eat a fairly normal diet, just no sugar and not a lot of fat. High protein, low carb. Actually, it's a diet all of us could benefit from. And, since I've come home from the hospital I've lost nearly 12 1/2 pounds.

I'll try not to let my Egg world spill into this one, but you know me. Check out the other blog, if you want. It will give you more insight into what lead me to this decision and what life's like as a bariatric patient. And if you have friends or relatives who have considered this operation I'd love to talk to them. I'm SOLD on it and the program I went through. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat!

The Re-Purposing Wonder

Ron never ceases to amaze me with his talent for repurposing things. He made my desk from an old door. He takes random pieces of wood and makes really, really cool lamps. He takes ordinary gourds, dries them out, scrapes off the yucky stuff and varnishes them to create beautiful, lustrous display pieces. He made a bin to hold blueprints from old shutters.

Last year we bought a canvas "carport" so our precious Prius wouldn't get molested by falling walnuts. Last winter it blew apart and I had to weather arctic blasts to pull it down into the driveway lest it trespass into our neighbor's yard. Ron said not to worry. He'd figure out someway to use the canvas and pvc pipes. I told him I had a few suggestions of what he could do with those pipes . . .

Today, he made a giant dustpan to aid in the never-ending task of leaf raking and walnut gathering. And he used the pvc pipes to construct it. He saw something in one of his gardening catalogues and the little lightbulb went on. I could almost hear the switch being flipped. He showed me the sketch he used as a blueprint. A couple of lines here and there. That's it.

Sometimes during the evening when we're watching the telly, I can tell his mind is a million miles away thinking about a new creation. I would LOVE to get inside his mind to see how it works. Or . . . maybe not.

Food Foibles

On Saturday, as Ron and I were in the bathroom together doing what we both do to get ready to face the day when I said, "Guess what I fantasized about last night when I came to bed?" I heard him catch his breath as he asked, "What?" To his complete and utter dismay, I replied, "Macaroni and cheese." This time his "what?" was less breathy and more disgusted.

It's true. As I was flipping around the channels I landed on the Food Network's "Drive-Ins, Diners and Dives." Guy (the host) was at some restaurant in the Midwest where they were cooking up some divine looking mac-n-cheese. Gobs and gobs of ooey gooey cheese. Seriously, I thought I might need to get a bib to catch the saliva that was threatening to escape my lips. Then it was off to another diner where they serve up yummy burgers stuffed with more ooey gooey cheese. Judging by the SRO at these joints it's a miracle every man, woman and child is not a heart attack waiting to happen. I decided I couldn't risk watching that show anymore. Makes my culinary tendencies warp into overdrive.

Later that evening we were dining at Paulo & Bill's and there I was, satisfying that ooey gooey itch with their glorious gnocchi with Parmesan cream. I nearly fell over in the booth when I took the first bite (no lie, ask Ron). Towards the end of our meal, when we were both groaning from indulgence, a svelte, long-legged lass with blonde hair sauntered by our table. As if on cue, our waitress arrived with a tray laden with all things decadent and asked us if we wanted any dessert. Noticing Ron's eyes following the svelte young thing all the way to her table, I said, "I think he just had his."

I'm Just Sayin' . . .

So . . . who can tell me the difference between Bristol Palin and Jamie Lynn Spears? Oh, wait. I can! Jamie Lynn Spears was raked over the coals for her unplanned pregnancy and Bristol Palin is being heralded as having made a pro-life choice. But there are some STARTLING similarities to their situations . . . BOTH are teens, BOTH made the choice to have their babies and BOTH are married/getting married to the fathers of their babies. So what makes Jamie Lynn Spears a villain and Bristol Palin a saint?

I'm not trying to pass judgement . . . I just think it's ironic that there could be two really similar situations that have generated such different reactions.

Like I said, I'm just sayin' . . .

How Road Rage Begins

This morning, Ron and I were running a few errands . . . the bank, post office, HyVee. At the post office, Ron stopped to let a car turn left in front of us since there were a few cars ahead of us at the stop light. We waited a couple of seconds and then Ron motioned for the car to go ahead and turn. In response, the driver angrily motioned for us to go, which caused me to throw my hands up in the air as if to say, "What? We're being nice!" When we drove by the car, the driver - an old man, with a wrinkled face and cigar clenched in his teeth - said, quite loudly, "You idiot!"

It took Ron and me the whole ride home to calm down. I usually don't get mad at drivers, but this really ticked me off. We were trying to be courteous and for what?

This is why I don't have a gun. And, if I did, why I would never put it in the car with me.

Number Twenty-Seven

This is what I woke up to a week ago yesterday. I went out to take Zooey for one of her daily grass hunting trips (which, at last count, amount to six-hundred-and-thirty-one forays per day, only three of which amount to any approved behavior) and was greeted by this wonderful banner, created by my equally wonderful husband. Which got him off the hook for the "None of your damn business" comment I received from him when I asked him what he was doing in basement the night before.

Zooey and I walked around the yard for a bit and I continued to admire the quality and craftsmanship of the banner, mainly how the letters were all the same height and that there were no typos.

As I was reflecting on what the last twenty-seven years have brought us, I noticed Zooey doing her major business - in a really major way - right underneath my beautiful sign. "Zooey!" I cried. She responded by bounding over to me, wagging her tail, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Well, I thought, that's pretty accurate. Sometimes more crap than you bargained for - in inappropriate places and at inconvenient times - but a lot of things that make you smile and laugh and forget the poo.

Must See TV

In case you happened to miss Friday night's opening ceremonies at the Olympics in Beijing, go to this link and then click on the "Opening Ceremony Sights and Sounds" link just below the video screen.

http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/player.html?assetid=0808_hd_ocb_hl_l1621

It's a great synopsis of what transpired, which can only be described as stunning. The amount of manpower, firepower, brainpower . . . unbelievable.

And the little guy with Yao Ming (the really tall guy) . . . a survivor of the recent earthquake. Twenty out of thirty of his classmates were killed. Once this nine-year old freed himself from the rubble of his school, he went back into the chaos and helped rescue two of his classmates. When asked why he took such a big risk, he said, "I'm one of the class leaders. I'm a hall monitor. It was my job."

Wow.

The Martin's Back Yard (Rated R)

I'm a bit ashamed to admit it. But then I saw some wreathing a sign at a church and I figured maybe they're not so bad. But still. How would you like it if you had dozens and dozens of naked ladies in your back yard?

One day I looked out my bedroom window and there they were. Standing there, tall and proud and baring it all. For the whole world to see.

I'm pretty sure there's another name for these long-limbed flowers. But Ron calls them naked ladies and I think that's funny. They're obviously so named because of the curly pink foliage that perches atop their long, long stems. It's like they all went to the beauty college for a perm and pink dye job.

So, if you're driving by and have small children in the car (or men who are prone to ogle), you might want to distract them by telling them that you see the ice cream truck ahead.

I'm thinking about handing out flyers inviting folks to come see the Naked Ladies of Merriam. For a small cover charge, of course.

Lassie, Come Home

Or, in this case, Ron, Come Home! For the last five weeks Ron's been in Iowa during the week being the Miracle Worker on some power plant in Council Bluffs. His last day in this tour of duty is tomorrow and I am SO excited that he'll be home again.

Of course, I'm excited to have him back so that I have someone intelligent to converse with. Not that Tyler's stupid or un-scintillating . . . he's just never here. And Zooey? Well, the only communication she's able to handle is to stand in front of me and stare at me until I (or Tyler) take her outside for the eighty-fifth time in a day for her to go grass hunting, i.e. smell a blade of grass for fifteen seconds and then move on to the next blade.

And, I'm excited to have him back so we can spend some time on the porch, although I fear our porch sitting days are numbered as the heat of August threatens to roar down upon us.

But, truth be told . . . I also miss him like crazy because of all the stuff he does. Like watering the plants (which I "entrusted" to Tyler). And making sure that we're not getting water in our basement after the torrential rains we got last night. Oh, I could make sure we weren't getting water in the basement, but I'm not so sure I'd know what to do if we did. And, finally, I'll be glad that he's home to do his share of grass hunting with Zooey. Hmmm. Grass Hunting With Zooey . . . sounds like a great title for a PBS show circa 1967.

Superfreak

Apparently, I am some sort of freak of nature because my body seems to be completely immune to the benefits of pain pills. Sad, sad case in point . . .

Over the past eight years, I've had about six instances where I do something seemingly innocuous and end up with excruciating lower back pain. Things like making the bed or picking up a basket of laundry (and don't think I didn't use that to get out of a lot of chores). I feel a tiny pop in my back and within hours I'm in great agony. A couple of weeks ago I picked up a pillow (a decorative pillow, not even one of our fluffy down pillows) and I felt the twinge. Out of commission for a day.

On Saturday, Ron and I headed over to Panera to pick up some treats for our friends, Dave & Lisa, who just moved to OP from Virginia. I got out of the car and felt a little ache in my lower back. By the time we left Panera, I was holding on to the counters because I couldn't stand up. When we got home I took TWO Tylenol #3 with codeine. Ron was all like, "Well, you're done for the day." Didn't phase me one bit. Three hours later I drove to Dave and Lisa's and was able to carry on a coherent conversation, which is more than I can say for Ron when he took one of those little pills after his nose surgery.

Sunday morning I almost passed out in the shower and was in so much pain I threw up. This episode has been, by far, the worst yet. So today I finally went to the doctor, pretty much begging for drugs. Because the pain that was in my lower back has now been joined by an incredible tightening all up and down my back. It's like my spinal chord has just seized up. The good doctor prescribed Oxycodone (percocet) AND Flexeril (a muscle relaxer) and, for good measure, told me to take Advil, too.

I called my mom to tell her what the doctor prescribed and she started yelling, "That's what your father was on [when he had back surgery] and it put him out of his head." Oh, my. She handed the phone to my father, saying, "Janet's taking the same medicine that put you out of your head." My father's advice? "Don't go out of your head." They crack me up.

So, I come home, eat dinner and pop two oxycodone. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Still in pain. Still mad at the world. About an hour ago I took the muscle relaxer. And now I'm writing a blog. I will say I'm a little buzzed, but I've gotten higher sucking helium from a balloon. But that really doesn't have anything to do with alleviating pain, does it? Ok, scratch that bit about the helium.

You know, being a Superfreak is not all it's cracked up to be.

All You Need to Know About Ron Martin

Last night we made a quick trip to Hobby Lobby to buy some decorative sand. Why decorative sand? Well, it's . . . decorative. We bought some really cool tall square candles in Estes Park (they were fifty percent off), but of course, don't have any square candlesticks (which is why, maybe, they were fifty percent off). So, Ron being the brilliant and talented man that he is, pulled out two little juice glasses from our "pretty stuff" cabinet and says all we need is some decorative sand. Hence, the quick trip to Hobby Lobby.

We arrived about 7:40, a good twenty minutes before the store was supposed to close and discovered, to our amazement and bewilderment, that they'd moved everything around (not that we'd have known where the decorative sand was before the shuffle, but that's really neither here nor there). Ron asked the manager where it was and he pointed us in the right direction. Before I knew it, Ron was two football field lengths ahead of me. "Roooonnnnnn," I yelled. He stopped turned around and said,
*gasp*
"I'm so glad,"
*gasp*
"you told me"
*gasp*
"to slow down."
*gasp*

And there you have it. That's Ron Martin in a nutshell. Always running. Always going full speed ahead. Waiting for someone to tell him to slow down.

Which I do .

More often than you want to know.

Rejuvenated

Despite almost missing our first two flights, daily rain and waaaaayyyy too many people, our trip to Colorado was fabulous. Eight days is just enough time to completely relax AND still enjoy the company of the people you have to live with once the vacation is over.

We rented a home this year because Ron and I are way too old to "appreciate" the rustic-ness of furniture made of unsanded pine and twenty year old mattresses. This year we had a mammoth sized bed made of aspen logs. How big was it? We had to use our walkie talkies to say goodnight. The only drawbacks to the location were the dog kennel and chop shop on either side of us. I had to really restrain myself from yelling at the top of my lungs, "Would you dogs shut up already? You're ruining my peace and tranquility."

Maybe the best feature of the home was the ultra-fine cassette tape of John Denver's greatest hits. Was I in heaven? Indeed I was. Until Tyler heard the lyric, "Sometimes I feel like a sad song. And I'm all alone . . . " He thought it was "Sometimes I feel like a Sasquatch." Which would pretty much explain why he felt all alone.

We spent hours on Alluvial Fan, this massive rock /water fall that is a result of the dam breaking at Lawn Lake (or Fern Lake, I can't remember which). It dumped 29 MILLION gallons of water down the mountainside and flooded Estes Park (a good five or six miles away) with five feet of water. It's Tyler's favorite place to hike (he went to the top twice this trip) and my favorite place to watch people do stupid things. Stuff like piling six people on a boulder in the middle of the waterfall just to take a picture. Seriously, it's dangerous. One summer I saw an eight-year old boy take the waterslide ride of his life down the falls. Luckily there wasn't too much water that year; I'm not sure anyone could survive it when the water's up. So, yeah, I let Tyler disappear for hours following the trail up river. Don't think that notion of Sasquatch didn't enter my mind more than once.

Ron fished his little heart out. And caught a bunch. We only saw him catch one . . . I know why he likes to fish in solitude. Tyler and I started hopping around and hollering, which I'm told is not conducive to a good day of fishing. As I watched these two trout basically treading water right next to a big boulder I had to think that life as a fish would suck. That's all they do all day. Swim upstream, trying to figure out if that little hairy thing in front of them is the real deal or a cleverly disguised apparatus with a nasty barbed hook on the end of it. Turns out they're not all that smart. 'Cause like I said, Ron caught a bunch.

To the left are some of my favorite shots of the week (all taken by Tyler).

Oh, yeah. Humidity stinks.

That's Just WRONG

Today I was out driving and I saw something that just made me shake my head and think, "Leona Hutchinson would roll over in her grave if she saw this." Leona Hutchinson was an older lady I knew when I lived in Marshall, MO. We moved to Jefferson City when I was 12 so that tells you that this memory is very old and, quite possibly, not entirely accurate. For example, her last name might have been Hutcherson, I don't really know for sure. For the sake of this story, it's really immaterial whether her name was Hutchinson or Hutcherson.

I remember three things about Mrs. Hutchinson/Hutcherson:

First, she had clear plastic slipcovers on her furniture. The kind with raised bumps on them that left indentations on the back of your legs when you got up. I now find it odd that she had these slipcovers because she was a widow and had no children (that I know of). So from whom was she protecting her furniture? Probably dirty little kids like my brother and me. For all I know, she put them on five minutes before we got there and took them off as soon as our car left the driveway.

Second, she always had a candy jar filled with these round sticks of individually wrapped candy. The candy had stripes on them and I'm pretty sure my brother and I never took our eyes off that jar the whole time we were there. Mrs. Hutchinson/Hutcherson and my parents would be having a conversation and Jeff and I would sit stock still, as if in a trance. I'm sure my parents told us we could only have the candy if we were well behaved children. So we were. Anything for a stick of that candy. Once we got it, we'd suck on it until we'd formed razor sharp points and the proceed to stab each other to near death on the way home.

Third (and this is what made me shake my head), every year she bought a new Cadillac. It might have been every two years, but one sounds so much more decadent. And back then, Cadillacs were The Bomb. Huge, huge cars that were so long they actually bent in the middle when they turned corners. Only people who "came from money" had Caddy's and you could almost bet that any woman who stepped out of one would be wearing a long fur coat and elbow-length gloves. Ladies like Cruella DeVille.

So today, when I saw a Cadillac that looked more like a Ford Taurus, I was dismayed. It was tiny, tiny, tiny and was nowhere close to being a Bomb. Maybe a bomb (little b), but for sure not a Bomb (capital B). And, to make the situation even more pathetic, it had a spoiler. You know, to me, that's almost a heresy. I'm guessing Mr. Cadillac is rolling over in his grave as well. Sigh.

The Black Lab. The Kong Addict.

(Disclaimer . . . The following is not intended in any way to minimize the devastation of addiction. It's simply meant to make you smile.)

Her name is Zooey. Z-O-O-E-Y. She's six and a half years old. And she's a Kong addict. For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red rubber "ball" that could quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust. Some people cram peanut butter inside to give their dogs a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.

The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable. She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jaws (ok, that doesn't happen, but it makes for good TV/blogging). She goes from room to room in search of her stash. Usually when she gets this way, her Kong has been left in a room that now has a closed door, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar." When we, a family who has consistently enabled her by opening those closed doors, finally can take her agony no more, we grudgingly respond, saying, "Zooey, this is the last time. I mean it."

Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a table or chair, making Zooey's drug of choice even more of a forbidden pleasure. She sees it. We see it. She knows we see it. We know she knows we see it. And what do we do? Again, we cave in, not being able to bear seeing her in such a deplorable state. Oh, sure, she makes the empty promises that she'll give it up. Cold turkey, if she has to. But we know, come tomorrow morning, she'll come padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth. She needs help. She needs . . . an intervention.

Life in Reverse

Every once in awhile, I see something that warrants a second look. Most of the time, this happens while I'm watching TV. For instance, tonight Ron and I were watching "Living With Ed," a show about Ed Begley, Jr. and his over-the-top green life. I didn't quite catch his daughter's name, so I hit rewind to find out what it was (Hayden). To be quite honest, I'm not sure how I managed to live 48 years without DVR or the ability to rewind live TV. It's rare when we watch a WHOLE TV program, commercials included. And I'm getting quite good at hitting that play button at just the right second. Actually, I rule at that task

Tonight, Ron and I encountered another "rewind" moment while driving around the block (literally: he got a rental car for his trip to Iowa and I made him take me for a spin). We were approaching the stop sign at the intersection of Craig and 61st Street and we passed a signpost with two yellow signs on it. We go through that intersection probably fifteen times a week (maybe more) and tonight was the first time I saw the two signs clearly. As we passed it and came to a stop, I said to Ron, "Did you see that sign back there?" We sat there at the stop sign for probably 15 seconds and then he put the car in reverse and backed up. And there it was.

The top one was the one warning us of a school crossing. And the one below it had a large stag (as in a male deer) raised up on its hind legs, its front legs pawing the air.

We drove the half block home with our eyes peeled for prancing deer, deer that would suddenly bolt across the street, causing us to swerve recklessly and perhaps take out a headlight or two. I wonder: does your insurance go up if you have a prancing deer warning sign in your neighborhood? Because that would REALLY tick me off.

How I Spent My Friday Night

I wish I could say I had a romantic evening with my husband. But, I can't. Oh, I was with my husband, all right. But it was anything but romantic.

We spent the evening with our heads in the toilet. And I mean that literally, not figuratively.

For the last few months, our downstairs loo has been on strike, refusing to cross the flush line. It was like that little engine that thought it could. It would swirl around, make a lot of noise and then just slowly, slowly, slooooooowwwwwlllllyyyy . . . not flush. It was really giving our otherwise fabulous water closet a bad name. And a tiny bit of a bad smell.

Ron diligently replaced every part that he thought he could replace short of buying a whole new toilet and it still wouldn't cooperate. So tonight, he asked for me to help him sort it out. We shortly deduced that the problem was in the tiny hole toward the bottom front of the bowl. We could feel stuff floating around in it so we alternately flushed the toilet and stuck our fingers in that little hole, trying to free the offending bits. (I am tempted to make a very rude remark, but I know it's not necessary . . . ) That didn't work so well so we started using a roach clip (that's not really what it's used for - it's some sort of fly fishing implement that Ron has. At least that's what he told me it is), and tried to grab the loose pieces (which turned out to be cork and plastic. And no, Ron hasn't been tossing his wine corks in there). Anyway, that's when it got funny. It was like trying to catch a really shy sea urchin. We could see just a fraction of the suckers and as soon as we would put our hands in the water it would float out of sight. So, I just started leaving my hand in the bowl when Ron flushed it. It was actually quite invigorating.

About an hour and a half later, we had dislodged one hard plastic disc and about six pieces of cork. There's still one elusive piece of plastic floating around, but it can wait until tomorrow. My hands are shriveled and I cut my finger on that dang hole. I know, paybacks are hell.

You'll Reap What You Sow

Attention! Everyone who is within eyeshot of this blog! I'm conducting a "Sunscreen Now or Cancer Later" drive. The target? My usually intelligent and reasonable son. From the look of things, he's ignoring my advice to use sunscreen on a regular basis and, as a result, his body matches his hair (except for two nickel-sized white spots where he dabs sunscreen once a day at the beginning of his eight-hour lifeguard shift and calls it good). I guess it's not enough that I, myself a former tanning bed addict, was diagnosed with malignant melanoma about five years ago and had a tiny, tiny skin cancer removed. (Which, I might add, Tyler was present for and offered the excited observation, "Dang, mom, that hole is REALLY big, which caused me to momentarily consider a full-on dead away faint.)

So, no, he doesn't seem to think that this could be a problem for him later on in life. Never mind that when he was little there was this older woman who came to the Marty pool for three hours every day and her skin looked like leather. Not new, soft, supple, rich Corinthian leather. She had more of a beef jerky leather look going. SO attractive.

So . . . I'm begging everyone who knows Tyler to bombard him with the dire statistics of what UV rays can do to one's skin. You can totally make up stuff. The more catastrophic the better. His email is whompthis12@hotmail.com or jmartin5@emporia.edu (or jmartin5@esu.edu, I can't remember which) or whompthis@tmail.com. I'm hoping that perhaps he'll listen to someone other than the woman who labored for sixty-five hours to give birth to him (it was really only about five hours and he knows it) and heed some good advice. I was yelling at him tonight, saying I hadn't spent hours and hours slathering sunscreen on him when he was little for him to end up with skin cancer. It reminded me of the scene in "Gone With the Wind" when mammy was telling Miss Scarlett that she couldn't wear her dress off her shoulders to the barbecue at Twelve Oaks . . . "I didn't spend hours and hours slathering you with buttermilk your whole life so you wouldn't freckle."

I don't know which is more disturbing . . . My instantaneous and complete recollection of that scene or the fact that I'm now thinking about going out to buy gallons and gallons of buttermilk.

Oh. One more thing. During our discussion tonight about this subject (we were sitting outside on the patio), a large grackle deposited a large splat of poo on Tyler's lifeguard shirt. Karma perhaps? Tyler, maybe you should ask Sharon Stone about that.

One Down, Three to Go

Tomorrow Tyler is officially finished with his first year of college. I can still feel the lump in my throat and the stinging of the tears as we drove away from Emporia that hot, humid day last August. I thought my heart was going to stop beating, but, as is evidenced by this post, that did not happen.

The Confession: It really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Actually, it was kind of weird how quickly Ron and I leapt into Empty Nest mode. We could eat dinner at 7:30 any night of the week. We didn't have to wait up until the wee hours of the morning for Tyler to get home and could go to bed early (and by early I mean before 1:00 a.m.). We were pretty much free to do what we pleased (!) when we pleased (!) and it was really very nice.

For Tyler, the adjustment to a small town came slowly. I grew up in a small town (36,000) and went to college in an even smaller town (15,000), but it wasn't that much of an adjustment for me. Going from KC to Emporia was a fairly big culture shock for Tyler. He was used to having a dozen or more places to hang out and Emporia's offerings paled in comparison. At first. But then we heard him talking about a place called Java Cat (how could that NOT be cool), taking rides in the country, riding around looking at the animals in the zoo, and, more recently, going to "The Lake." It sounds exactly like my college experience (we hung out at "The Rock" "The Pits" "The Pines" "Broken Bridge" and "The Haunted House").

It will be interesting to see how these next few months unfold. Stay tuned . . .

It's the Birds All Over

The time has come, as it does every year, when Ron Martin starts spending nearly every waking hour that he's not at work outside in our yard. You know how when you were little you heard that familiar "ting, ting, ting" of the ice cream truck entering your neighborhood and you ran to your mom, who was either taking laundry out of the washer or baking cookies, begging on bended knee for a nickel so you could get a fudge bar that would immediately start melting and running down your fingers and hands and got so sticky that by the end of five minutes there were all sorts of honey bees and flies smothering you? Remember that excitement? That sweet anticipation? The crossed fingers that would guarantee your mom would say, "Just take a whole dollar and make yourself sick with sugar"?

That's how Ron is about getting to play outside with his tools and his hands and his unending list of projects. And so, it has begun. Again.

On Friday afternoon, he was outside doing what he does. I was inside, no doubt watching some crime related story about a woman who ended up murdering her husband with a Qtip because he preferred the company of lawn clippings and compost to her(!) All of the sudden I heard a fairly violent "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." And then I heard it again. It took a couple of seconds for me to realize that Ron was jiggling the screened-in porch door, which is what we do to unlock it from the outside. (Don't get any bright ideas about sneaking into our house to steal the silver and Van Gogh's. I've since installed a very high tech alarm system and a pit bull named Pinky on the screened in porch).

I went to see what all the rattling was about and there he stood, eyes wide open, hands all aflutter. "You, you, you've got to make some more hummingbird food. I just saw a BALTIMORE ORIOLE on the telephone wire!"

I give Ron a hard time because he's just so darn funny. But, seriously. Have you ever seen a Baltimore Oriole? They are spectacular. Flaming orange and ebony black. This is only the second one we've seen in all our years of paying attention to birds, so it really is a big deal.

Later that night I heard Ron sawing and hammering downstairs and this morning he told me he'd built a feeder for the Great Orange One . . . a nice little platform with half an orange nailed on it and a lidful of grape jelly. Apparently this is what these birds jones for after they've had their daily fill of insects. Yum.

Stay tuned for more birdwatching reports. And funny stories about Ron Martin.

Murphy's Law

A couple of days ago I was all ready to blog about the fact that NOT ONE PERSON has asked to see my photo ID since I wrote it on the back of my debit card (instead of signing my name), when, lo and behold, someone asked me for it tonight. AND I COULDN'T FIND MY DRIVER'S LICENSE. At first I was mortified. Then just plain pissed. I think I left my license in the envelope I got back from the bank last week when I made a deposit and got some money back. Ron swears he didn't throw that envelope away so when I got home I got to dig through the trash to look for it.

Talk about humbling. It was more like filthy, disgusting, putrid, flesh crawling . . . you get the picture. Anyway, I couldn't find it so tomorrow I'll have to run right over to the DMV and get a new license. Exactly how I wanted to spend my Wednesday. I guess it could be worse. I could have gotten stopped for speeding (which is what Ron thought happened when I told him I couldn't find my license) and ended up in lockup with JoJo, Crystahl and Daddy Mac. And since Ron's out of town, I'd be there until Thursday. Yeah. That would be worse.

Justice Would NOT Be Served

I don't think I'd be a good juror. On any kind of trial. Why? I'll tell you why. But first, the backstory.

Ron got called for jury duty and was selected to be one of the Twelve Angry Men (actually, they do allow women to be jurors these days, so he was one of Five Angry Men and Seven Angry Women). The trial lasted two days. After the first day I peppered him with questions, but got no answers. Which made me even more determined to get something out of him. He went to bed at 7:30 just so he wouldn't have to listen to me. Not really, but I'm sure it crossed his mind more than once during the evening.

Last night when he got home he was allowed to tell me the details of the trial, but even then I wasn't satisfied. I kept asking him questions. And more questions. That's when I realized I'd be a bad juror. I'm sure I'd raise my hand and ask questions during the trial. Or at least I'd want to. And I don't think that would sit too well with anyone in the court room. I can't help it . I have an inquiring mind. And you know what they say about inquiring minds. We want to know. EVERYTHING!

I've Been Lately Thinking . . .

. . . about my life's times . . . That's the first line of John Denver's song, "Poems, Prayers and Promises" and pretty much mirrors my thought process over the past four or five days. On Saturday, Ron, Kate, Tyler, my mom and dad and I traveled to Jefferson City to a reunion for all the people who worked in the State Treasurer's office during my dad's tenure (1972-1980). It was a really wonderful time, seeing people we hadn't seen in nearly 30 years, laughing, crying, recalling fond memories, catching up. This is a picture of my dad (left) greeting Bill & Betty Crigler. I knew these people when I was a teenager and the impact they had on my life was not insignificant. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Dad had a group of really remarkable young men and women who worked for him; I did some calculating and most of them were in their mid- to late-20's when they were hired and they were on the front lines of handling millions and millions of dollars of the state funds and charting campaign strategies.

My friend, Michelle Able, and I used to hang out in the offices of Rick Ravenhill, Bob Jordan and Bob Holden (who eventually became Governor of Missouri) and shoot the breeze when we were really supposed to be doing legislative research for a high school class. The night my dad lost the primary election for the 1980 Governor's race, it was Bob Holden who came into my room, sat on my bed and comforted me as I was bawling about not having done enough during the campaign.

Hearing people talk about Dad at the reunion was especially touching and, I hope, gratifying to him. Every person who spoke testified to Dad's honesty, integrity and fairness, qualities that are sometimes in short supply when we think of our leaders today. The also spoke about the model he provided for the course of their lives. They talked about my mom's support and her generous spirit, which are still central to her character today. I've always known these things about my parents, but it was wonderful to hear that, after all these years, these people still have such high regard for them.

As I tried to corral my emotions on Sunday during the drive back, I realized how unique my growing up years were. How many people can really say that they really love their parent's colleagues from years gone by? How many people even knew their parent's colleagues? Going through multiple campaigns is not only grueling, but it's unifying as well. There's something very galvanizing about relentlessly pursuing a common goal; it's magnificent if it's reached and devastating if the effort falls short. Either way, friendships and bonds are made that last a lifetime and can truly stand the test of time.

A huge, huge blessing and remarkable privilege. That's MY life.

This Is SO Messed Up

Several weeks ago Ron had surgery on his nose. Not a big deal, about an hour's worth. He didn't have a room, didn't get a meal and he had to hold his own suction hose while the nurse was texting her boyfriend. Ok, that last part didn't happen, but I wasn't there - what if it DID?

Anyway, we got the bill for the hospital yesterday. Over ELEVEN THOUSAND dollars. Ok, so that's ridiculously insane, but it's not what made smoke start coming out my ears and nose. It's the fact that a "contractual adjustment" lowered the bill by almost EIGHT THOUSAND dollars. What the hell is that all about? I just don't get it. HeLLO-O. Maybe that's why the insurance industry and health care system is so jacked up. To the person who can explain this to me (to my satisfaction - that's the fine print) I will supply an apple pie every week for the rest of my life.

Seriously. What's that all about?

You Have GOT to Be Kidding Me!

Joke Number One
All of you people who have little children: forget about encouraging them to take up medicine or the law. Or missionary work or politics. What we need in this country (or at least what we need in this household) is a crackerjack IT person. Why? Because I will pay them eight million dollars for one house call if they can fix all my computer related problems. And I'll see to it personally that they are awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for Remarkable Achivement in Restoring A Crazy's Lady's Sanity.

Since I work from home, I purchased an ftp site (I think it stands for File Transfer Protocol - that's probably my first mistake - perhaps I should have learned a little about any extremely complicated and convoluted product on which I spent a not-so-little bundle of cash). It allows my clients to upload images to my computer so I can retouch, use for an album or whatever.

About six weeks ago, for no apparent reason, it quit working. Usually I can reset a couple of things and it's fine. Resetting a couple of things is pretty much the limit of my capabilities. When it gets beyond that, I give my friends at Globalscape (the company who sold me my ftp) a call and they magically get on my computer to fix whatever is broken. FIRST MISTAKE: Don't wait six weeks, because now I can't pinpoint what MIGHT have changed to discombobulate it. We narrowed it down to an update from our cable provider (Time Warner), renewing our Norton anti-virus protection, a security change we made to our Linksys wireless system, or that screwy face I made when I listened to a cd left in the car by Tyler. If it ends up being that screwy face I might as well just call it quits, because that face makes a daily appearance, for any number of reasons that I won't go into here.

Once it gets beyond the scope of my service techs at the Globalscape, I call for reinforcements, i.e. Ron Martin. He's the one who gets to talk to "Dan", who's no doubt sitting with his feet on the desk amidst a sea of cubicles located somehere in another hemisphere. Ron Martin is the one who's spent probably twelve hours this week (after he gets home from work) trying to get it figured out. I think he invented this "business trip" he's on right now just to avoid having to think like an IT guy for one second longer. THIS is just ONE of the reasons I love him. He takes on all the dirty jobs that tend to make my brain implode, at which point he'd have an even bigger mess on his hands.

So here's the joke. After spending all of these hours on the phone talking to four different companies, NO ONE is able to identify/solve the problem. They're too busy pointing fingers at the other guys to stop for a second to think "What if it IS something I'M responsible for?" I will say that my Globalscape guys are fantastic and if it was their problem they'd admit it. Time Warner was the worst. I was lying on Tyler's bed listening to the conversation Ron was having and I could actually hear the guy yelling at Ron. "Sir, that is NOT our problem. Call back never."

I'm thinking about starting a movement to return to the basics - like Sanskrit and papyrus.

Joke Number Two
Last night, after yelling at the cable people, we decided that perhaps sustenance might strengthen our brains (turns out that wasn't the case) so we headed out to get some take-home Chinese. And we got a near-death experience thrown in at no extra cost. BONUS! We were headed east on Johnson Drive, in the left-hand lane. Traffic was kind of backed up in the right-hand lane but we were cruising right along when all of the sudden we were up close and personal with a HUGE conversion van, which was making a left-hand turn out of a parking lot at SMNorth. Apparently the car in the right-hand lane had stopped to let this conversion van out, but the car being courteous was an SUV (curse word) so we didn't see this Green Monster barreling out of the parking lot. Ron slammed on the brakes (which worked really well) and I was thrown hard against my seat belt. The seat belt also worked really well, although I think my brain rattled around in my skull a little. It's a miracle we weren't rear-ended.

We drove another couple hundred feet and I was like "What is with this traffic?" It was 7:00 and Johnson Drive was bumper to bumper. Then a light went off. "Ron, what's the date?" Well, of course! Tax-Day and all of these dingdongs were going to the post office to mail their returns. It was really unbelievable. At the stoplight, we looked up the street towards the post office and I can't begin to explain it. Ok, I'll try. There's a four-way stop right before you get to the post office and all you could see was cars. Coming from every direction. Solid. It was kind of like a sci-fi movie. And people were driving like they were zombies - MUST. GET. TO. POST. OFFICE. POSTHASTE. DON'T. CARE. IF. I'M. IN. MIDDLE. OF. INTERSECTION. BLOCKING. TRAFFIC.

Go back to your night of the living dead.

The Irony of Reality

One morning last week as I stumbled into the bathroom I saw this on the floor in front of the stool, no doubt left by Ron for me to see. I couldn't help but giggle, roll my eyes and appreciate the fact that HE appreciates the humor in this.

"It's been my biggest fear, Arthur, that you would turn into your mother."

Ron's mom, Betty, was about the age he is now when I first met her. I thought they had done more than break the mold on her . . . I thought they'd pulverized it. But, no. Seems like they saved a bit of it for Ron. AT LEAST once a week I say, either outloud or to myself, depending on the occasion that warrants it, "You are JUST like your mom." And he is!

From nodding off during a lull in the conversation to not fully comprehending what "take your time" means to stirring the living daylights out of a pot of whatever, he's Betty through and through. He's even starting to LOOK like her, but so far I've not caught him sporting a feathered hat or pocketbook (although come to think of it, Betty didn't wear hats. She DID have a pocketbook, though). It's mainly his eyes.

Another thing of which Betty was a master was having an answer for EVERYTHING. I'm not kidding. And she was pretty convincing about it. I'm not sure if she would be considered a master bluffer or a master bull you-know-what-er. Ron's the same way. Now, he knows a lot of stuff, like all the fouls in a basketball game or a hockey game. And how to rewire electrical fixtures. I think I know a lot of random things. He knows a lot of random random things. The only difference between him and his mom is that I'll call him out on some of his wildly exotic answers, but usually only if it's a matter of life and death - like when he says he doesn't really need to kill the power when he's rewiring things.

Betty's been gone about four and a half years. I really miss her, but it's kind of like she's still really here. And sleeping next to me in our bed.

ROCK.CHALK.JAY.HAWK.

I'm a Missouri gal, through and through. Born there. Raised there. Dad got his doctorate at MU. Brother graduated from MU. Didn't move to Kansas until I was 26. Dad nearly cut me out of his will when we "defected" and still says the air smells funny.

But, dang. The ONLY reason I don't watch college basketball on a regular basis is because of exactly what happened tonight. It's a good thing my nails are really as hard as nails because my fingers would be bloody stubs.

Woo HOO!

Rites of Passage

On Friday, Ron and I went to Emporia to look for an apartment for Tyler next year. The first one he took us to see was, in a word, detestable. I still can't believe the apartment manager thought it was a good idea to show us this particular apartment. First of all, two guys were living in it. All of the blinds were pulled so it was dark, which actually might have been a good thing. I might have been able to see crawling things had there been any ambient light. The kitchen was on one wall of the apartment and was completely and utterly disgusting. The television looked like the "pause" button had been pushed and there was a wild-haired scary man glaring at us. And he was flipping the bird. Nice. The toilet tank was missing its lid and I couldn't see the carpet in the bedroom because there were clothes over every square inch. We didn't stay long. The only redeeming quality of the place is that it's right across from campus. Moving right along . . .

The second place, compared to the first, was a Garden of Eden. The manager, a nice grandmotherly woman named Ethel, lives on the property, which was a real plus for Ron and I. The apartment we looked at was not a "show" apartment, but just a normal one that was empty. And it was really nice. Clean carpet, freshly painted walls, a proper kitchen (although pretty tiny) and a good sized bedroom with a deck off of it. And a toilet with all of the parts in place. And we could get a nine month lease. SOLD! We left a deposit so next year Tyler will have his own place. Sometime later I realized that neither Ron nor I have ever lived on our own. There's a saying (I think it's from the 50's): I went from my father's house to the sorority house to my husband's house. That's totally me. I'm just glad Tyler will have this opportunity to spread his wings (but not TOO much!).

When we arrived home I was upstairs when I heard Ron yell, "Guess what I got in the mail?" Drumroll please . . . he'd gotten an application for AARP (American Association of Retired Persons, I think). Yes, Ron will be 50 next month. Much to my surprise he didn't sound that devastated. Come to find out he's excited as heck to get the discounts that come with the membership. In his eyes I could two little flashing "Lowe's" signs.

So, if you call us between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m. and we don't answer it's because we're taking advantage of the early bird dinner specials at Bob Evans. Time marches on . . .

The "J" Word

In the last two days I've heard "Jesus" mentioned multiple times in prime time TV. And I have to say a fervent "Amen" to that!

Last night, on "American Idol," Dolly Parton served as the contestant's mentor for the week. I have to admit I was a little apprehensive about the availability of good songs from Dolly's songbook. I was, however, pleasantly surprised. Not being a huge Dolly fan from a musical standpoint, I realized that the only songs I really knew were "Nine to Five" and "Islands in the Stream." At least three of the songs had direct Jesus references and most of the others definitely had a spiritual undertone.

Then, tonight, a group called the Clark Brothers did a ramped up version of "This Little Light of Mine," which was awesome. And Dolly sang a song about Jesus and gravity.

Later in the evening, I watched a re-run of "Oprah" (this is where I always add the disclaimer that I don't usually watch Oprah . . . I don't know why I do this. Probably because I want people to think I'm doing something much more significant than watch afternoon TV?). She had two families on whose daughters were both involved in a car accident a couple of years ago. The girls' identities were mistakenly switched; one family buried who they thought was their daughter, but in reality she was in a coma, being cared for by the family of the girl who really died. It put me through the wringer! When asked how they managed to move through this heart-wrenching ordeal, both families said it was their faith and the knowledge and assurance of the work done by Jesus on the cross - and the forgiveness that we receive through that work - was what they relied on. I was really blown away by their boldness and conviction. Another "amen."

Oh, yeah. This has nothing to do with the "J" word . . . I got all ready to watch "Emma" on Masterpiece Theater that I dvr'd a couple of weeks ago and found out that I'd really taped a whole show on menopause. Talk about a disappointment! But, I watched it anyway. All I can say about it is my family is in for a real treat . . .

It's 2PM and This Is All I've Done Today

Oy! Double oy! I've been wanting to put my own spin on the blog layout for quite some time now, but I'm just an idiot when it comes to real tech-y stuff. I found a "skin" I loved but apparently it's not yet compatible with blogger, so this one I created in PhotoShop will have to do for the time being.

More later . . .

Hodge Podge

Easter Sunday, 4:00 p.m., 44 degrees . . . it's snowing. What in the ?

Did Katie Couric say a racist thing on "Larry King Live"? The other night Larry said that John McCain said that he would not run a negative campaign. Larry then asked Katie if she thought that was true. She said yes, she thought John McCain would not be negative but that often times it's other people on the campaign staff create negativity. She said it happens when "they [meaning campaign staffers] go off the reservation." Now, I think that might be a little slanderous towards Native Americans. Like, "The Indians have left the nice little reservations provided by the White Man and there's no controlling them." I may be way off base . . . if so, tell me.

Finally, I keep seeing ads about televisions not equipped to handle digital signals will be obsolete by early 2009. I guess there's some kind of conversion box you can buy and apparently you can get discount coupons for those boxes from PBS. Again, I realize it would behoove me to have all the pertinent facts about this situation before me before I get all wound up, but I'm sure that would take all the fun out of it. So . . . if the people in charge of television and cable can figure out a way to make it mandatory for all households to have digital-ready televisions, why can't some smart people make it mandatory for all households to have at least one hybrid car? Oh, wait. I'm guessing that might have something to do with the billions of dollars oil/gas companies make. Ok, how about mandating a flat prescription drug fee for ALL drugs? Or maybe reworking "No Child Left Behind" so that teachers (especially special ed teachers), who are already overworked and underpaid, don't have to fill out reams of reports just to get a pittance of federal funding? Ok, s-s-s-immmer down . . . I'm just sayin' . . .

Redneck Love

Last night, when I should have been sleeping because I had to get up at 6:30 a.m., I was channel surfing and happened upon "My Big Fat Redneck Wedding." It was like I was a deer in headlights. I couldn't tear myself away, even though I knew by watching I was entering into that black hole called "You Don't Have Enough Healthy Brain Cells To Be Watching This."

It wasn't the decision to have the bridesmaids carry flowers in beer cans that sent me over the edge. It was the groom who solved the flower dilemma by demonstrating above mentioned flowers in beer can with his handy pocketknife and 16 oz. beer can he'd just guzzled while talking with the florist. It wasn't the fact that he then artfully peed his bride-to-be's name in front of the florist's store that sent me over the edge. "What?" he innocently asked? "I told you I had to pee." It wasn't the John Deere t-shirts that the groomsmen wore, nor was it the orange t-shirts the bridesmaids wore.

This is what sent me over the edge.

On the day of the wedding, the bride woke up only to discover that she couldn't find her teeth. She tore apart her hotel room looking for her choppers. She was still in a panic when she confessed to her soon-to-be mother-in-law that she couldn't find her teeth. The mother-in-law, without missing a beat, said (here it comes):

"Ya want mine?"

Here's a clip from the same show . . . note - go to the bathroom before you watch this if laughing causes you to lose a little . . . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9tniq6trNc&feature=related

The Confessional

It took me about ten years to finally watch an episode of "Survivor." I guess I thought it was a waste of time, which some people in my family would still agree with wholeheartedly. I think the first one I watched was the one with Ozzy, this cute curly-haired boy who is half porpoise (no lie . . . he can stay underwater for about three minutes). This season's theme is "Fans vs. Favorites" and Ozzy is back. And is possibly more engaging than ever. The other night as I sat watching it, I just had to laugh at myself because I seriously need to get a grip and/or life. Ozzy's tribe was headed to Tribal Council, where one member would be sent packing. One of the fans (and one of my least favorite players) all of the sudden got the idea to vote off Ozzy. Well! The nerve! I found myself having this conversation in my head that went something like this: "If they vote off Ozzy, I'm NEVER watching this show again. Ever. Period. It would ruin my life." Am I pathetic or what? In the end, I didn't have to make good on my promise. Whew!

Today, I was taking a blissful afternoon nap on the couch, having just watched one of the best movies ever made, "Roman Holiday." It stars Audrey Hepburn (I think it was her first movie) and the brilliant Gregory Peck. There's a scene when Ann (Hepburn), a princess who's run away from the confines of her title, ducks into a hair salon to get her long, long hair cut. The first time I saw the shot when the new 'do is revealed it took my breath away. Impossibly beautiful.

Anyway, I was napping contentedly when all of the sudden I heard Ron yell, "I'll be DAMNED!" My first thought was . . . and I'm totally serious about this . . . a squirrel had gotten into the house and was wreaking havoc. I don't need psychoanalyst to tell me that I may have a little guilt over trapping all those squirrels (it's over thirty now and - just to be clear - they aren't injured in the traps at all; they're just trapped in a wire cage).

So what was Ron all in a dither about? Tiger Woods won the Arnold Palmer Classic, making it his fifth win in a row (fourth in a row this year) after sinking a 24-foot put. I let Ron know that, although a spectacular achievement, Woods' win was not worth giving me a near death experience. I could tell by the look on his face that he begged to differ with me. Whatever. Next time I want a Sunday afternoon nap I'm checking to see if Tiger's playing. If he is, I'll retire to the bedchamber, which is well out of earshot of Ron's explosive utterings.

Bloodlines

Yesterday was my birth mother's birthday. Just three days after mine. I've never not known that I was adopted. However, it wasn't until just about a year ago that I found my birth mother. As I was growing up, of course, I had a curiosity about who she was, why she gave me up for adoption, and if she had another family. I also had a healthy amount of respect for her privacy and for the feelings of my mom and dad. A few years after Kate was born my parents gave me the legal documents pertaining to my adoption. And there is was: her name. My parents had also told me, over the years, just a few pertinent details, like where I was born, and that my birth mom sang in the choir (!). Even with this information, it's really not ever been in the forefront of my thoughts.

But then last April, purely on a whim, I googled her name. And I got a hit. An obituary. I read it, my heart about to pound out of my chest. As I read, every detail I knew about her was confirmed. It was her. She'd died less than a year ago, after a lengthy illness. I read all the condolences left on the online guest book. She was loved by a lot of people. And she had a family. A daughter just about a year older than me. And two sons who died in infancy. A sister. It was a lot to digest.

Because you can find just about anything on the internet, I tracked down the minister who presided at her funeral and sent him an email. Then I waited. One, two, three days passed without any response. I decided to try one more time and within thirty minutes he had responded. He'd just been at the church a short time when she died, but he directed me to the church secretary, who'd known my birth mother her whole life.

The first email I got from this kind woman just made me bawl. She gave me a brief biography of this woman who shared my bloodline. She sang (alto). I sing (alto). She crocheted. I cross stitch (or used to). Her career path was not unlike mine. She died of emphysema. I quit smoking 27 years ago (thank you John Hawes). In the time it took me to read the email I had answered 48 years of questions. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life.

A couple of days later in the mail I received two packages. One contained old church directories with pictures of my birth mother, her children and her parents. I didn't see a striking resemblance to my birth mother, but I could see myself in her mother.

The second package contained an intricate crocheted wall hanging that my birth mother had created. The church secretary had bought it at a hospital bazaar and thought it would be good for me to have. It's a sampler piece that says "Bless This House." It's hanging on the wall just outside my office. Another thing my birth mother had labored over was now mine.

Telling my parents all of this was not hard, just very emotional. I think they were pretty relieved when I said that I didn't have any desire to make further contact with the family. Like I said, I have a healthy respect for both sets of parents and I have no regrets about that decision. I don't even regret that my search didn't happen a year earlier. I am confident that God's timing is always perfect and I have a peace in my soul.

Happy Birthday, Anne.

Side Effects Include

Awhile ago I was watching the telly and saw a commercial for Mirapex, a medicine for restless leg syndrome. For some reason all drug commercials now feel like they have to elaborate on all possible side effects. And they try the cleverest ways to do it . . . four women sitting around discussing the side effects of that pill that makes you have a period once a year (SNL did a riotous parody of that - I think it included chain saws and other weapons of mass destruction). Or med students. Why is this happening? Maybe it's because we've become so lazy that we don't take the time to read the information that comes with the medication. Or maybe the doctors are paying the drug companies to do part of their job. Who knows . . .

Back to Mirapex. One of the possible side effects is the increased desire to gamble. AN INCREASED DESIRE TO GAMBLE? That's quite possibly the funniest thing I've ever heard. What kind of research did they do to determine that? Did they load up the test subjects with the drug and then take a field trip to Harrah's? Or did they just see their test subjects huddled together on a street corner shooting craps? Or were they making risky stock purchases? Did they suddenly abandon the practice of looking both ways before they crossed the street?

There's some other drug that has this side effect: May cause you to drive while sleeping, accompanied by the inability to remember the event. Just shoot me now.

Trapper Ron

Ron Martin loves his yard. He loves growing flowers. He loves mowing the yard, sometimes twice in one session (so he can get a lovely pattern). He loves feeding and watching the birds. The one thing he doesn't love is squirrels. I'm not sure if his disdain for the squirrels is as high as his disdain for the walnuts, but it's pretty unpleasant no matter the ranking.

A couple of weeks ago a colleague at work told him about these wicked cool squirrel traps available at Tractor Supply. So early on Saturday morning (I'm sure it was before dawn) Ron trekked out to the Tractor Supply in Olathe and purchased two traps. Then the fun began. He fashioned "bait" by cutting the necks off two aluminum beer cans that look like bottles (?) and swabbing peanut butter around the top. Then he set the traps and sprinkled a few sunflower seeds around the spring-loaded mechanism that snaps the door shut.

We've caught 21 squirrels to date. Of course, we had a lengthy discussion on what to do with them once they were apprehended. I offered to design some trendy orange coveralls with MSCF (Martin Squirrel Correctional Facility) embroidered above the front pocket and Ron offered to drown them. "Twenty seconds and it's done." Because my eyesight ain't what it used to be and because I told Ron that assassinating squirrels is how Jeffrey Dahmer (AND Dexter) started out, we agreed that we'd adopt a catch-release method. So, we've been taking trips to nearby parks and wooded areas and letting the little critters go. It's hysterical watching them FLY from the cage once the door is open. I swear they're halfway back home by the time we drive away. Then I guess the joke would be on us. Ha. Not funny.

Best In Show

After Ron and I had spent an hour or so listening to "The Retro Cocktail Hour" (best song of the night: "Danger in Go-Go Boots"), we flipped on the telly and happened upon the Eukanuba Dog Show. My favorite category was on: Toy Dogs. Most of them are too darn cute, even if they do spend five times longer on their hair than me. But it's obviously totally worth it. The way they prance around! And once they've been thoroughly inspected by the judge (Ron and I think they need to start training new judges because all of these dowagers are at least 85, still tottering around, peering into mouths and feeling unmentionable things), the dogs are put down on the floor to strut their stuff and they ALL shake themselves - I think it's to fluff out their hair again. This one female handler was nervously combing the dog's hair as the judge was approaching and when she was finished combing, she stuck the comb in HER hair. Yikes.

But perhaps THE BEST twenty seconds of the night was when this male handler was teasing his dog with a yummy doggy treat and then, I don't know, either he thought the treat was a Hershey Kiss or he just got really flustered by the judge's hands and their close proximity to the dog's jewels . . . he popped the treat INTO HIS OWN MOUTH. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. And then once they got to the trotting portion the handler spit the soggy mess back into his hand. I didn't see it at first, but all of the sudden Ron started yelling, "HE SAW IT, TOO!" I made him rewind it (again, the glories of dvr) and sure enough, the guy pops the treat into his mouth and the camera immediately cut to a shot of a man in the audience with a very confused look on his face, as if to say "Did that handler just . . . no, he wouldn't . . . oh, that poor dog" and then we see the man spit it out again. Well, I got to laughing so hard I seriously thought I was going to die because I couldn't breathe. I needed someone to slap me, but Ron was laughing, too, and I couldn't get his attention because - like I said - I couldn't breathe. I hadn't laughed that long since Alan Arkin was enlightening everyone in the car about the randiness of the ladies at the old folks' home in "Little Miss Sunshine."

Finally, if for some reason - like you've been in outer space for the last ten years - you haven't seen "Best In Show" you simply must. End of story.

The First Cut

I know, I know . . . Rod Stewart's song immediately comes to mind, but this has nothing to do with, well, you know.

It's about knives! I've become hooked on "Good Eats," hosted by Alton Brown on the Food Network. If you're dying to get some good culinary knowledge in a condensed, entertaining (albeit sometimes corny) manner, "Good Eats" is a sure bet.

The other night, Alton was elucidating on the finer points (!) of knife sharpening. Come to find out that the long sharpening weapon that came with our knives really doesn't do a lot of sharpening. Rather it brings the blade back into alignment. Every time your knife hits the cutting service it gets a little skewed. He recommended taking your knives to a professional sharpener. His knife guy happens to have a van outfitted with all the tools of the trade, which allows him to make house calls. How nice. I put Ron to the task of finding a knife sharpener and we found one. The Ambrosi Brothers (located around 30th & Main). For three bucks a blade we have pretty much a brand new set of knives. How very nice.

Ron mentioned my knife sharpening experience to a co-worker, who said that his wife would cut off an extremity (or two) if she had sharp knives. Well, what do you know? If you're going to slice yourself, it's much better to do it with a really sharp knife; dull ones leave jagged edges, slowing down the healing process (or making reattachment much harder!).

Now I can slice and dice til the cows come home. But, if they're smart (or happy) cows, they might want to step away from the blade.

Chef du Jour

I don't know why I'm like this, but I pretty much know what Ron gets me for every gift giving occasion before I even open the present. It's a curse, really. I wish I didn't know. It's not like I set out to figure it out. It just happens. This year, of course, was no exception. A couple of weeks before Christmas I saw a rather large package underneath the tree. By the time I had walked into the kitchen I knew what it was. A Cuisinart. A BIG one. I have a little baby one, but just a few weeks earlier we were watching "Barefoot Contessa" and she was using one to grate parmesan cheese. Because we have gone through a couple of cheese graters I said, "Now it would be nice to have a big one for that."

So, there it was, under the tree. I truly appreciate Ron's thoughtfulness, but I had to tell him to take it back. We have a galley kitchen with not a lot of storage and all I could think of is that we'd have no place to store it. And that I'd maybe use it once or twice a year. So, crestfallen, he returned it. "I'll get something for both of us," I offered.

I got us classes as the Kansas City Culinary Center, located in downtown Overland Park. If you haven't had occasion to drop by you really should. It's beautiful and always smells really yummy. They have a wide variety of classes, from beginner to experienced and many of them are hands-on. We had our first class tonight: Soups and Stocks. The perfect way to spend a snowy winter evening. Our teacher was Chef Cody Hogan, the Chef de Cuisine at Lidia's. It was a small class (only nine people) and in the span of two and a half hours, Cody whipped up chicken stock, vegetable stock, a potato soup base and, eventually four or five different soups. Oh, and we had a hummus/pesto appetizer that put me back in Italy in seconds. And, in a freestyle moment, Cody took some of the veggies he used in the stock and made a "salad" with a red wine viniagrette, which was really simple and unbelievably delicious. He also told us how he cooks chicken in his fireplace hanging from a string. Ron Martin was all over that. I'm sure we'll have a chicken hanging in our fireplace soon.

The only downside . . . he used a Cuisinart . . . made me kinda want one.

Proof

I now have proof positive that there's a group of people somewhere who sit around all day, making lists of ridiculous things they should wantonly throw money at (I know, horrible syntax, but I'm irritated and it takes too much effort to think in grammatically correct terms).

Case in Point: There's a movie (a documentary, actually) titled "Helvetica." And, yes, it's all about the font.

As soon as I get the address of this group of people who sit around all day, making lists of ridiculous things they should throw money at I'm going to write them a letter and tell them I want to make a documentary about . . . well, why not? My ability to recognize fonts on sight. It will be the much anticipated sequel of "Helvetica." If you don't hear from me for awhile it will be because I'm doing research at the European Font Museum. Which is located in a large villa in a tiny hamlet in Tuscany.

'Giorno.

P.S. I did NOT put "Helvetica" in my Netflix queue.

Hawking

After weathering the last few frigid days, Ron and I took advantage of the balmy weather to head south and visit Tyler at Emporia. And count hawks. The latter experience was purely serendipitous, as we had no formal intention of counting hawks - it just kind of happened.

Today was fine hawk counting weather. Clear skies, cool breezes. They're fairly easy to spot. Just look for a dark spot (with the telltale white breast) perching high in leafless trees. I'm kind of amazed that those tiny branches near the top of the trees are able to hold such big birds. I was thinking they must weigh about 15 pounds, but then I remembered the turkey we had for Christmas and it was 17 pounds (give or take a few ounces) and these hawks were nowhere near that big. Actually, we had ham for Christmas, so it must have been our Thanksgiving turkey. But, I digress. I really don't know how much they weigh. It just seems to be more than the average tiny tree branch should be able to support.

A lot of hawks seem to enjoy being right next to the road. Ron wondered aloud why this might be so, and I suggested it's because they know bored people like us like to count them. Or name them, like my dad used to do when he and mom would drive from Rogers, AR to Merriam. They all had "H" names: Harry, Horatio, Heloise, Henrietta, Hubert, Helen . . .

I said that maybe they sat near the roads so they could have a bird's eye view (ha) of the acres that no doubt hold tasty morsels of field mice. But, as Ron pointed out, nearly all of them have their backs to the fields. I then went into the whole "the grass is always greener on the other side of the highway" theory.

And that was pretty much the flavor of our conversation during the entirety of our trip.

Scintillating, ain't it?

Outrageous

I don't know what's more outrageous . . . the writer's strike that's leading network television into the Bermuda Triangle, where it will never heard from again, OR the crazy stuff I'm forced to watch because my body automatically sits itself down in front of the tv every night - an activity which is going to lead to a herniated brain and a permanent mental fugue if I'm not careful. As if "The Lobotomist" wasn't enough . . .

Tonight, on the History Channel, Ron and I watched "Gangland" a series about - no big surprise - gangs. Tonight's episode was on gangs in the military. That's right. According to the show, about one percent of our current military personnel are members of gangs. Doesn't sound like a lot, right? Except one percent is about 10,000 people. Now, I'm aware that there's a chance that not every statistic put forth in this documentary is completely accurate. However (and the narrator pointed this out several times during the hour), the Department of Defense (DOD) declined numerous invitations to appear on the program. And they probably could have provided more accurate information, had they been so inclined - which I'm sure wouldn't have happened because that would be admitting that there actually IS a problem with gangs in the military.

They had all sorts of ex-military personnel and former DOD employees saying that these gang members - whose loyalty lies not with America or their fellow soldiers, but with their gangs - are being trained and equipped during their enlistment and then return to their hoods to teach their homies all these military tactics. They had footage of an ex-Marine using military techniques to ambush three police officers (one was killed, another seriously wounded). It was very disturbing.

There was also this one guy who's with the National Guard who's taken pictures of gang graffiti he saw in military bases overseas. All of the major gangs in the United States are represented.

Even more appalling . . . in 2006 (it may have been 2005 or 2007 - I was too dumbstruck to rewind to find out) 9,000 moral waivers were granted to men and women applying to serve in our armed services, including waivers for FELONIES. That's SIXTY-FIVE PERCENT MORE than in 2003, the year we invaded Iraq. So, I'm thinking that the 99 percent of men and women who are bravely risking their lives in posts all over the world now have to live with the fact that they might be bunking with a felon. Am I crazy or is there something not right about that?

I guess there is good news. Apparently, there's a bill before Congress right now that includes language that would prohibit persons with known gang affiliations from entering into the military.

Of course, it has to be passed first and it's probably buried in some bill that would completely restructure the health insurance industry and provide every man, woman and child with good, affordable health care. Oh, wait. I think I see that piece of legislation taking a turn for the Bermuda Triangle as well.

Inspired . . .

New Year, new look? Maybe. Bored with the circles? Probably. So, out with the old, in with the new. New photos, new amazing photography links. Perhaps a little more regularity with the postings? We'll see.

I watched a show on PBS about a man called "The Lobotomist." The man was driven to drive ice picks through people's eyes into their brains. It was - all at once - fascinating, horrifying, sad, appalling, bizarre and, in the end, really, really ineffective and grossly overdone. What was once used as a means to "calm down" the most agitated mentally ill people turned into a way to thin out overpopulated state mental institutions. Had drugs (specifically Thorazine) not come to the rescue in the 60's who knows how many of us would be walking around lobotomized. That's not supposed to be funny. How many people do you know who are on some kind of antidepressant? It's a scary thought.

Sweet dreams . . .

Chemistry Class, Nakedness, Bare Feet and Bobble Heads

After sitting through two hours of American Idol (as I'm typing those two words I'm hanging my head and mumbling the admission), I decided it was time for some culinary education. I've taken to dvr-ing a few cooking shows during the day and then Ron and I watch a couple in the evening hours when we've tired of sitting by the fire, reading/napping/catching up on life.

One of my favorite new discoveries (although it's been around for awhile) is "Good Eats." The host is chef Alton Brown and you can count on him to be wacky/entertaining and extremely knowledgeable about the chemistry of food. I feel like I'm adding some finesse to my cooking and learning exactly why it's important to always include the salt portion of any recipe. Why? Because it brings out all the other flavors you've added. Case in point: tonight we made generic old Minute Rice, but this time I used chicken broth instead of water and added a couple tablespoons of butter, a healthy pinch of salt, some pepper, parsley and dried basil. It was fabulous!

And - hallelujah - Jamie Oliver's back on TV! The Naked Chef (who was never really naked -Jamie's just a really brilliant chef who cooks beautiful food that's simple and stripped down) has left the city life and is now happily ensconced in a country manor, cooking up all sorts of earthy, lovely things. The show is called, "At Home With Jamie" and it's on Saturday mornings at 8:30 on the Food Network. Way to early for me, hence the dvr. And I love to hear him talk! I don't know what kind of accent it is (ok, I know he's British) but his dialogue is filled with slang - plonker, bash it - it's just fun. Check him out. And maybe the best part of Jamie are the names of his daughters - Daisy and Poppy!

Actually, the only one Ron watches with me is "Barefoot Contessa." And here's why. The beginning of the taping always has the last few seconds of "Everyday Italian" with Giada DiLaurentis. And, as sure as the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, there will be cleavage. Just a glimpse, but I guess it's enough. Over the holidays, Kate made the observation that Giada looks like a Bobble head doll. And, by golly, she does. She has a really large head. And a large forehead. Tonight when I called her Bobble Head, Ron asked me what I meant. I told him. He said - and I swear if I'd looked at him his eyes would have been glued to the TV as he was speaking - "Does she even have a head?" I kicked the ottoman out from underneath his feet. Does she even have a head? Pa-lease!

Of Wisdom Lost

As your kids get older, the rites of passage become more and more spread out. On Wednesday, Tyler completed his final rite as a teen (I think). He got his wisdom teeth surgically (and I'm sure, forcefully) removed.

The last time Tyler went under anesthesia he was about nine months old. He had to have his tear ducts drilled. Show of hands . . . anyone? Did you know that was even possible? I was a basket case when they took him away behind those cold, metal doors. This time, I barely looked up from the "Entertainment Weekly" magazine I was reading. "What? Ok, yeah. See ya later." In less than an hour I was called back to see my wounded baby. All I can say is that he was NOT wearing a cute little Children's Mercy Hospital t-shirt. Here was this big ole' guy barely hanging on to a recliner, head thrown back with a slack jaw. I rubbed his hair and his eyes rolled around and finally attempted to focus on me. For about a split second. Then he was gone again. The nurse came in and asked me if I thought he'd want the teeth, the ones formerly housed in his mouth. Tyler halfway sat up, eyes WIDE open and he said, "YETH!" Then he was out again. It was pretty funny. At least I thought it was funny. The nurse was acting rather bored by the whole thing, but I guess she's seen worse (or funnier).

I finally got Tyler home - after telling him eight times that we were NOT going to stop at Ahni (Sonic) because he could not have carbonated drinks. Each time he screwed up his face (which was also funny because he couldn't really move his muscles) like he was going to cry and said, "Wha?" (Why?) I about had a million wrecks because I couldn't understand him at all, but could kind of make out what he was saying if I looked at him while he was talking, which is really not advisable when you're driving on the highway at a high rate of speed (unless you're Ron Martin and then it's practically a requirement - driving at high speeds while not looking at the road, I mean).

Ron and I had to nearly hogtie Tyler to make him stay home. Tyler kept giving us the old "It's my last week at home. I have SO MUCH to do." I told him it wasn't my fault that he grew four wisdom teeth and had to have them surgically removed. I told him I only had TWO wisdom teeth. He looked at me like, "Well, that explains A LOT."

Maybe it's a good thing it's his last week at home.