My September 11th Post. Any Other Day

I post this every year and hope that some day I won't have to any more.

September 12, 2001, I walked down my steps and opened the garage door to take out the garbage. The sun was going down and it would be dark soon I was going to make sure the big garage door was closed too. In our garage I found my 12-year-old middle son. He had on everything Army-ish. Camouflage pants and t-shirt, the only boots he owned, snow boots and an Army helmet from a Halloween costume. He also had his toy rifle and when I stepped into the garage, he appeared to be pretend loading it.

“What are you doing baby?”

This annoyed him, he rolled his eyes at me, I guess in my surprise at running into him down there I made a critical error in calling my little soldier, baby.

“Mom, I’m securing the perimeter of the house.”

Any other day this one little story of mine would have found itself in my humor blog. Any other day I would have sent him off to play soldier. Any other day I would have smiled at him instead of having tears well up in my eyes.

But this day I asked him to go upstairs and told him we need to talk. I had to find out what was going on in that 12-year-old head and try to ease his obvious concerns. And after all I couldn’t have him walking around the house with a toy gun in the dark, everyone was on red alert, someone would have called the police, I know I would have. We were all on edge, uncertain and scared.

I was able to send my baby back into the security of our home and thanked God for that. I had been praying just about non-stop since the day before, September 11, 2001, when Islamic extremist flew our airplanes into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon and the field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

This anniversary of terrorism is difficult for me, I have a hard time looking at the pictures, listening to the stories and seeing the videos. Maybe it’s because that day has become just that, an anniversary. To me, September 11, 2001 is unresolved and unfinished. The threat is still there. Mothers are sending their babies to war. Mothers are trying to explain Army isn’t a video game. And with each “anniversary” that goes by I ask myself what has to happen to change the uneasy feeling I get every September 11^th?

That 3:00 am phone call

When your phone rings at 3:00 am the first thing that goes through your mind is,
"Who's dead?"
Then,
"Who's been in an accident?, Who's is having chest pains?' Who's in the Emergency Room?, Who's broke down on the side of the road? Who's in jail?"
But luckily for me, my 3:00 am phone call consisted of,
"Let me talk to Ron."
A whooosh of air expelled from my lungs as I had been holding my breath and didn't realize it. Ron? Did he say Ron? So I asked,
"I'm sorry who?"
"Ron. I need to talk to Ron."
"You have the wrong number." I refrained from calling him a dick and hung up.
Almost have peed myself when the phone rang I got up to go to the bathroom. I got back into bed and the phone rang again. This is what went through my head for the 3:03 am call.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph does this guy know what he just put me through. I have 3 boys out there, parents pushing 80, a grand baby, daughter-in-laws at concerts, raging pre menopausal hormones and a dog that couldn't get comfortable all night and decided it would be okay to share my pillow. Dude."
I answered the phone again,
"Hello."
"I don't have the wrong number now let me talk to Ron."
"You do have the wrong number there is no Ron here, please don't call me back."
"Don't you hang up, let me talk to Ron. This is Jerry."
And he said 'Jerry' like it was some kind of code word. Jerry, wink, wink. Or Jerry, I really mean business now. I continued,
"I am sorry but you do have the wrong number", sounds of someone else talking in the background, "and I would appreciate it if you didn't call this number again, it's 3:00 in the morning."
"I have the right number."
This is when I handed the phone over to the 'intimidator' aka the husband. He took the phone,
"Sir my wife has asked you nicely not to call again. You have the wrong number."
The husband paused to listen and then said,
"I don't care if you are Jerry Lewis you have the wrong number goodbye."
He handed the phone back to me and said,
"What a dick."
"Yeah. What if he calls back?"
"He ain't gonna call back."
The husband fell right back to sleep and I layed there with my head on only half my pillow, because 3:00 am phone calls don't seem to bother dogs, and worried I would hear from Jerry again. After about a half hour I started to drift off and then the dog decided that she may as well pee too. She whined until I let her out.
I haven't heard from 7 kinds of crazy, Jerry since. Please let him lose my number.

This brake thing isn't over yet.

The wheels are turning quickly in my head almost so that I can't keep up with myself. But who to blame?
Out this afternoon shopping for hell month - May. Birthdays, Mother's Day, Anniversaries, the family has put a ban on any marriages or new babies in the month of May, they just won't be recognized. There's too much going on in May and frankly I don't want my gifts jeopardized because somebody can't afford to get me a present.
My last stop today I parked on a slight inclination. I thought to myself thinking of my 5 speed,
"Should I put my emergency brake on? It's been acting weird and no one has told me if it's okay to use. It's barely a hill, should be fine."
I didn't take a long time in the store but I didn't hurry either. When I got to my car I said to myself,
"Nice parking job Sue, the ass of your car is sticking out at least a foot more than the other cars."
I put my packages in the back seat, slammed the door and felt a dizzy sort of vertigo thing going on like the car's moving but it really couldn't be, could it? No. Don't be silly. I walked around the back of the car, it looked like it was sticking out more than it was before. I got to the drivers side door and I witnessed my car move backward.
"Oh snap! My car is moving backward. I'm not having a stroke."
I jumped in my car and pressed down on the brake and clutch. Took a deep breath and tried to decide who would take the blame for my mishap/mistake.

How are the brakes?

Not so long ago in the recent past I over heard Boy #3 and the husband talking about the brakes on my car and how they needed replaced. Huh. I was not aware of a problem and I spoke up about it.
"New brakes? Why?"
"Don't you hear that noise when you drive it mom?"
"Noise? What noise?"
"The grinding noise."
"I guess I have my radio turned up a little too loud because I don't know what you're talking about."
"Jesus." Said the husband.
"We haven't had that car long enough for it to need new brakes, have we?"
"It's a 2009."
"Really? We've had it that long? That's how many years?"
"Several."
Apparently after several years a car needs a brake job and while they were at it Boy #2 brought his truck over and did his brakes too.

 

They did my car first then sat it in the driveway to go on to Boy #2's truck. I needed to go on my weekly rendezvous with the WalMart people so I hopped in my car and left. They watched me pull out of the driveway with interest.

I was unwittingly taking my car and it's new brake job on a test drive. When I returned I was asked,

"How are the brakes?"

"Uhhh good I guess. You guys fixed them right?"

"We were pretty sure."

Several reason why I love my brain

Most of my 'writing thoughts' pop into my head when I'm in the shower. Lately I have been letting them run amok, they smack into the inside of my skull and remain splattered there, completely useless. But the last few days I let some of them form into complete thoughts. So my brain and I have been on the same page for a couple days. Which is a good thing, I've missed my imagination. So much so that I'm contemplating wearing a fashionable helmet.
Every one has to die at some point and I'm hoping that when I go my brain stays intact. In my will I shall leave instructions to my children to preserve my brain some how. Pickle it in a jar and stick it in the back of their fridge or if I can win the lottery I will have them cryogenic-ally freeze it and donate it to science. I decided this in the shower this morning and made a list as soon as I dried off. At the top of the list: Preserve mommy's brain in the name of science.
There are other reasons why I love my brain. I made Milky Way Cakes for Easter but remembered that the last time I made them they didn't rise very well. Days before the baking I said to myself,
"Put some baking powder in the batter."
My brain retained that golden nugget of information and when I was mixing the batter it over-rided my circuit board, sent me a subliminal message and made me see baking powder instead of baking soda on the recipe card. I think the cakes were better than last years.
This brain of mine also has, not one annoying song that sticks in my head, but an entire playlist. At any given hour of the day one of numerous songs can randomly pop into my thoughts rendering me an idiot. How cool is that?
I also have the ability to retain useless information but I can't remember why I wrote that one on my list.
The characters in my novel have been protesting the fact that I have ignored them. They have been in my head for years, if I don't finish telling their story I fear my head may explode. It is amazing how attached I have become to them, I guess only a writer can understand this. Or I'm completely crazy.
So there you have it, I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, just ask the nuns, but I still love my brain.

Happy Easter, don't judge

I feel like I'm finally catching up to the rest of the "Jesus has Risen/Bunny hiding eggs" celebrating people of the holiday that is Easter. I hard boiled some eggs Wednesday.
When Easter Sunday rolled around sooner than I was ready for it, I found myself and family at my parents house for dinner. My sister-in-law made deviled eggs and I didn't. I felt a little bit guilty while I was eating them so I only ate two or maybe three. I think it was four. Usually both of us bring a plate of them which is a sufficient amount for the size of our family. In my mind I ruined Easter dinner and will live with the guilt for about a week. Then next year I will redeem myself and remember to bring a plate of deviled eggs. I will deny the fact that I failed in the egg portion of our meal until somebody brings up this post and waves it in my face.
Thursday I made myself a plate of deviled eggs and ate half of them for dinner. They were delicious.
I'm sure there is some reason why we Christians celebrate Jesus dieing for our sins and rising from the dead simultaneously with a giant bunny that comes to your house in the middle if the night, hides eggs and fills baskets with chocolate, plastic toys and jelly beans on a bed of fresh colorful plastic grass. The plastic grass that finds it's way in every nook and cranny of your house. When you move your couch to find the remote, not because you are cleaning under there but because you are looking for something important, you find some of that grass. It's a little bit faded and you deduce,
"This looks like the Easter basket grass I used in 1996."
Jesus/Easter Bunny, there has to be some correlation. I just don't know what it is and too lazy to look it up. Hell I was too lazy to make deviled eggs. Yes, I was lazy, I didn't forget them. Don't judge me.

Do the cuffs match the collar?

Nope. I color my own hair and have been happily buying the same brand for years. Apparently my go to color and highlight box has been discontinued. Damn it. To have the color and highlight in one box keeps the margin of error down to a minimum. I'm going to write a strongly worded letter to L'oreal as soon as I get a chance.
Now I'm in the hair color aisle yesterday trying to get something close to my comfort zone but think that maybe this is the time to go a little lighter. I picked up what I thought was a light brown and then went to the highlight section. I bought an even lighter color, it's called champagne. These two boxes in my shopping cart should not be applied the same day further expanding the drudgery of coloring my hair from about 90 minutes to 24 hours.
Last night I applied the color and now I'm a red head. Doh!
The first thing the husband said was,
"I don't think the cuffs match the collar."
And then a few other things I'm not willing to repeat.
Being from an artist background I consider myself with an above average sense of color so I'm perplexed. But still plan to go down the uncharted road of highlighting red hair with champagne highlights tonight. I may not emerge from my house after tonight as I am not a hat person.
Wish me luck!

My missing blue gloves

With my big, heavy leather jacket, scarf wrapped around my neck five times, I reached inside my pockets for my blue gloves. Empty pockets? I always put my gloves away. But last night when we got home, the husband and I had our arms full as we trekked into the house.
I had dishes to wash, things on my mind (I never really function well when I'm deep in thought ), wrestling with a time table because I had TV shows to watch and a dog that wanted out every 10 minutes. My blue gloves got shoved in the back of my brain that I have a hard time accessing.
So this afternoon when I was ready to face 7 degrees because I had stuff to do I could not remember where those gloves were. The last time I remembered seeing them they were in my lap in the car that Boy #3 had taken to work. My light jacket had lighter gloves and I put those on and ventured out into the arctic tundra.
Now the lighter gloves are those mitten/gloves. My fingers stick out just below the first knuckle unless I flip over the half mitten. They are cool but impractical when cleaning 3 inches of snow off a car because your pinkie finger always manages to pop out of the makeshift mitten. Frost bite was immanent. I made a mental note to inquire about my blue gloves when Boy #3 got home.
Boy #1 has been staying with us during this cold winter blast because he is closer to work. The husband was also out today. When #3 got home I asked him if my blue gloves were in the car. Here is the conversation that followed:

Boy #3: No, they're not in the car they're on the side of the driveway.
The Husband: Are those the ones you were looking for earlier? I was wondering why they were in the driveway.
Boy #1: Blue gloves? Yeah I saw them this morning in the driveway.
Boy# 3: Do you want me to go get them?

The rest, of the conversation came from me which I shouldn't repeat.
But, WTF?

Daughter of the Year - January 7 and I already blew my chance.

With frigid temperatures blowing into Northeast Ohio I did what the news channels told me to do. I called my parents because it's essential, according to Dick Goddard, to check on the elderly.
Sunday I spoke with my father and told the world's most stubborn man to stay in the house and call us if they needed anything. I snuck this into a short conversation and I thought I heard him agree with me but one can never be sure with my dad when you touch on the subject of his independence.
Monday I called them again, to check on the elderly, and I got their answering machine. I left a message,
"This is your daughter, I told you two to stay put. It's zero outside."
I hung up, looked at the husband and told him my parents are out. We both just shook our heads. The husband then said,
"I wish they would have told us, they could have picked us up some pop."
I went about my day and received a call from my dad around 6:00 pm. I was getting ready to voice my opposition to his blatant disregard to Dick Goddard's and my warnings of the sub-zero temperatures when he told me,
"Your mother's surgery went well and we are home now."
"Huh?"
"Her cataract surgery."
"Oh snap."
"Your forgot, didn't you?"
"I...... no..... well, that was scheduled months ago. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but she reminded you about it when we were over New Year's Day."
"Yes, yes she did. I knew it was coming up. The year is going by so fast isn't it?"
He laughed at me and told they would be out again the next day for her follow up check up. He also said he was going to call my brother next and let him know how the surgery went. We hung up. I then made no effort to call my brother to warn him because I wanted him to appear as clueless as me. Is that wrong?

WalMart Rant: Then I promise I'll be good Santa

With my list in hand I stepped into the WalMart entrance door, vowing it would be the last time I would need to shop before Christmas day. One item on my list - tape. You know to wrap presents.
I went down every aisle, taking my time to make sure everything was covered, dotting my 'I's' and crossing my 'T's' because I was spent. Every corner I turned there was wrapping paper, every size and pattern my pretty little heart desired. I figured I just grab some tape on my way to the check out.
I crossed off my items on my list, smiling every time I did. All that was left - tape. I found a check out line with only one customer ahead of me, score. But among the impulse items I failed to see tape. There was no tape by any of the mounds of wrapping paper. Doh!
I left my shopping cart in the great line I was incredibly lucky to find and looked around the other check out lines for impulse tape. Tape that you normally see all the time, everywhere. But it was not to be. I should have learned my lesson 3 years ago when my box of douche broke open and it inched towards the 17 year old male cashier. I looked for tape then and couldn't find it.
In my great check out line I interrupted the cashier and asked,
"Excuse me, where is the tape?"
"Umm... back in the office supplies section?"
"Back?"
"Back."
Holy Mother of God, who doesn't put the tape right next to the wrapping paper? I had to leave my awesome, get the hell out of WalMart quick, check out line. Why in the name of Zeus's butt hole would you not put tape everywhere in the store? People have to adhere that wrapping paper, that is blocking almost every aisle in the store, together with something.
I had about an inch of tape left at home so with my head hung low I left my check out line, sadly looked back, the man ahead gave me a 'I feel your pain look' as he put is final items on the conveyer belt. And I went back into the store, dejected and pissed.

And that’s how you get a speeding ticket

This is a re-run from Divine Caroline: Here
Go ahead and click the FaceBook like button if you want to. ;-)
I'm trying to get my writing ducks in a row, a plan of action so to speak. The online line magazine Skirt is no longer using bloggers on their site. So I've been re-reading some stuff on Divine Caroline, where I haven't posted in some time because they changed things around too. Basically I'm trying to get my shit together.
Here is the re-run:

“Everyone have his jock strap on?”
I looked in the rear view mirror at my three boys, they failed to see the humor in my question so I revised it,
“Seat belts? Got your seat belts on?”
I heard a chorus of affirmative responses. I was forced to buy those jock straps because my husband forgot so I was going to make sure they wore them to every baseball game on our busy baseball schedule. Besides at some point in my life I expected grandchildren.
“Before we leave this driveway, think hard and make sure you have everything you need, we have no room for error.”
I had three of them playing baseball that summer. This particular evening the two older ones had a game at the same time in 2 different cities. I had to be in two places at the same time. The planning for this day started three days earlier and I think math was involved. Drop the middle on off first in our city because his coach is always there early. Take the oldest to the neighboring city where my husband would meet me after he left work. Go back to the spot you dropped off the middle boy, sit and enjoy the rest of the game.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph the youngest had to pee. Days of planning blown all to hell because of one simple sentence. I heard myself say,
“Are you sure?”
Of course he was sure, one of them always had to go. My response was an automatic, unbelievable plea, a meek reflex utterance. I froze in my seat, wide eyed.
“Mom?”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second to regain my senses. There, I got them back, I went into action. Got out of the car, opened the back door. Grabbed the youngest one from the middle of the back seat, looked at the other two and said,
“Don’t move, stay where you are, we’ll be right back.”
We ran to the front door and I ran back to the car for my house keys. The plan was crumbling. By the time we got back in the car I had some serious time to make up. I’m not going to tell you that I broke the laws of physics driving down the long stretch of road on our way to the first baseball field because I did have my whole reason for living in the backseat and would never jeopardize my babies for a couple baseball games. But I did push it a little more than I should have. And that’s when I saw the flashing lights behind me.
“Uh guys? We have to make a stop.”
A round of protests began.
“There is a policeman behind us and we have to stop. Everything is fine just be quiet while I talk to the nice officer.”
Oh please let him be nice.
“Ma’am can I see your license and registration please?”
I complied.
“Did you know you were going 42 in a 25 miles per hour area?”
“Really, it’s 25 here?”
“Yes ma’am. And did you know your license plate tags are expired?”
“Expired?”
“Yes ma’am. Technically I could have your car towed right here, but I’m just going to give you a couple tickets.”
So he was a nice officer because he didn’t leave us on the side of the road. Probably because of the two wide eyed boys in the back seat and sandwiched between them their crying little brother. In a more desperate situation I probably could have got them all to cry but I decide to play fair. And we were on our way to their baseball games, there’s no crying in baseball.
I took a deep breath while I waited for the nice officer to write my tickets. I calmed the youngest down and resigned myself to the fact that we were going to be late to both games and during the traveling from baseball field to baseball field I would be driving illegally.
I dropped the middle one off in the parking lot and waved the tickets in the air at the coach then went to the next field. My husband and my oldest one's coach were standing by the field talking to each other as I arrive. They had puzzled looks on their faces and I again waved the tickets in the air, told my husband I didn’t want to talk about it and I drove back to the first field.
Once there I set up my lawn chair a little further down the left field side than usual, sat down and pulled my youngest onto my lap. I took a deep breath and kissed the top of his little blonde head.
“Mom?”
Here come the many questions I was expecting.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Trying to get my festive groove on

I can't pinpoint the exact time or year that I started my mass destruction of hand mixers. It had to be some time after the day my very first one, the one I received at my bridal shower, up and quit. Since then several have died in my hands for no apparent reason what-so-ever.
I started my Christmas cookie baking yesterday with a less than a year old hand mixer. Let me add, who keeps the boxes, receipts and instructions to these hand held kitchen appliances? You open the box and start using them because you know how it works, on, off, eject. So just as I was almost done beating my peanut butter cookies the hand mixer stopped. A string of profanity came out of my mouth during this blessed holiday season just as I was getting started with all the hoopla. My first batch of cookies is where I decided to start getting my festive groove on.
The hand mixer, I thought, was right there with me. I had promised it at least 5 more batches of cookies and 2 applesauce cakes, along with some occasional mashed potatoes this month. But it just stopped. No warning or protest in the form of that electrical burning smell or a whining 'this is too much for me' sound.
Tomorrow I go to WalMart for, what is probably my 17th hand mixer. I'm leaning towards hanging on to the box, receipt and warrantee because this is getting ridiculous.

So how was your morning?

In the shower, with my face all soaped up, I hear a thud. Eff. The husband must have fallen and couldn't get up. Or perhaps he's having a heart attack, stroke or has slipped into a diabetic coma. That's what goes through my head when I'm in the shower almost every day. Not just the husband in harms way but some catastrophic event will happen when I have soap in my eyes while showering rendering me useless and vulnerable. Unable to make life and death decisions because I don't want a rescue squad to see me at my worst. You know, without makeup and my hair wet. Because I know once I call 911 they will send the really hot paramedics to my house.
I called out from the shower,
"Are you alright?"
No response. Eff.
Then I noticed I forgot to turn on the exhaust fan in the newly remodeled bathroom and that is strictly FORBIDDEN. I thought well maybe if he's okay he could turn that switch on for me. A little louder,
"Are you okay?"
Nothing. Eff.
I took my towel, it's on a convenient hook right outside the shower, my idea, that we put there when we remodeled, so I can just grab it and hardly have to open the shower curtain. I took my towel and lay it across the floor because I hate getting the rug wet, you forget as the day goes by and then you step on the wet spots and your socks get wet and I hate wet socks too.
Out of the shower, tip toeing on the towel, soap all over my face I flipped on the exhaust fan and opened the door and yelled,
"Are you alright damn it."
"I'm fine, just tripped. I ripped my sock."
"This is about me now. I'm dripping wet with soap on my face. Why didn't you answer me?"
"I didn't hear you."
I slammed the door and jumped back in the shower. I realized while putting my makeup on later that I did get the rug wet. So I had to drag my socks all the way to my bedroom to put them on and then my slippers, ensuring completely dry socks for the rest of the day.
So how was your morning?

7 things you don't know about me:

This is going around on Face Book. Since I refuse to conform, I took it upon myself to help it spiral out of control.
You are suppose to comment or 'like' someone's list and then they will Private Message you a number. Then you make your own list and so on and so on, yada, yada, yada.

Here are 7 things you don't know about me:

1. I invented the internet.
2. In 6th grade when Sister Helen smacked me in the back and called me a boob I thought it was a premonition of ‘things’ to come, her being a woman of God and all. Sadly I think she was just refraining from calling me a dip shit for holding up the line since I’m quite certain I can still wear the training bra I had on at the time.
3. I have an underground bunker for the inevitable Zombie Apocalypse, just finished it this past summer. It is in an undisclosed location. It is stocked with beef jerky, Spam, vodka, Tang, water and plenty of guns and ammo. Extra ammo to shoot the heads off the Zombies in case I’m seeing double at the time. And no, don’t even ask, the seats are all taken. Build your own.
4. I am in the witness protection program. That’s all I can say about that.
5. I have 3 Olympic Gold Medals in swimming, 100 metre freestyle, 400 metre individual medley and 200 metre backstroke. They are in a safety deposit box along with my Nobel Peace Prize.
6. I was addicted to the Hokey Pokey but I turned myself around.
7. I have a mote in front of my house filled with frickin' sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their frickin' heads.

A repeat post cause I'm sick

This is a repeat post from Divine Caroline because I have a sinus thing and I'm finally going to the doctor tomorrow. Snot has blocked my thought process and I'm lazy.



Do-It-Yourself Home Improvement Advice

Run. Hide. Cry. You know what, just run.
I have an utter disdain for Do-It-Yourself Home Improvement. Let me sum it up by telling you that I hate it, with the white hot intensity of a 1,000 suns. But most of us wives of the average Joe’s haven’t the funds to hire someone to hang a drop ceiling in the bedroom that was made downstairs. Or we don’t want to rob our husbands from the simple joys of hammering and sawing stuff. Some of us are married to men that like to rip down walls, reconstruct new walls and then paint them. I have that kind of husband and he’s teaching our boys how to turn a house inside out also. They bond while the dog and I hide in my office.
The problem with ripping down walls is that you need to have some basic plumbing and electrical knowledge. These are learning as you go skills. Basically it means they learn by their mistakes and so do I. Depending on the Do It Yourself job my husband is undertaking determines whether I stay in the house or head for the hills. Saturday I should have run. Here’s what happened and remember it is all about me all the time.
Like I said the dog and I were hold up in my office, she is uncomfortable with the loud noises coming from the basement so she sticks to me like glue. Which is fine, having the dog curled up at my feet while I write the next great American novel has always been a dream of mine. I tuned out the hammering as the husband and Boy #3 were installing the ceiling. All was well.
But not for long, the hammering and sawing stopped, there was a pause. I lifted my head from the computer, my brow furrowed in a perplexed but alert state. Something wasn’t right, I could feel it. That is about the time I heard yelling, things dropping and more yelling. I couldn’t make out what they were actually saying but I’m pretty sure it was something my mom would get mad at if I wrote it down. I sprang from my office to see what was the matter.
Down the hall, down the steps, turned the corner and was immediately met with water that sprayed me right smack in the face. I ran right into a chaotic situation. Water was spewing from the wall, they hit a water pipe and water was shooting out of said pipe. The main water shut off valve is in the closet, under our stairs, behind the winter coats, and then behind the boxes of Christmas decorations. In other words, all the way in the back of the closet behind everything. The husband started grabbing winter coats and throwing them to the side, Boy #3, as I peered around the corner, looked liked the little Dutch boy with his finger on the hole in the dike but got there way too late and the town would be lost or our new floor.
They both started to yell out to me for help at the same time, it was like Sophie’s Choice. Do I save the drowning youngest of my three boys or my husband trying to finding the shut off valve in the deep dark closet? I sprang to action, ran back upstairs and grabbed the flashlight I on my nightstand. The bucket was in the bathroom, it was the one I swore I would never, ever let them use because they ruin everyone I buy, I picked that up on my return to the stairs. Back down I went, was met with another spray of water to my face as I threw the bucket at my son, threw it right at him. The husband had now made his way to the shut off valve, he was wedged between suitcases and the boxes of Christmas decorations. He yelled again,
“I need a rag.”
And I produced one immediately after climbing over a few boxes. I shined the flashlight in the general vicinity of the main water valve, I’m not sure it helped. I couldn’t see anything back there but I did hear some bells jingle. After a series of grunts the sound of water gushing into the freshly painted, reconstructed bedroom stopped.
Once the husband and I squeezed ourselves out of the closet we stepped into the bedroom and the three of us froze for just a moment, breathing heavily with only our eyes moving, darting around wildly looking back and forth at each other and the puddles of water where we stood. The husband broke the silence,
“We have to get this water off the floor. Save the floor.”
We sprang into action with towels, buckets and the shop vac. You see the ceiling was the last step in the basement bedroom make-over, if we lost the flooring we were back to step one. Boy #3 has been impatiently waiting behind two older brothers for this room. He wants his stuff down there before one of them comes back. I call it the bachelor pad, the transition room where they gain a little independence, pay a few bills and free an extra room upstairs. I have such wonderful plans for my office, I just need to get some of this junk out of here and into the new empty room. The husband, I know this, has plans for a man cave when we get the last of the birdies out of the nest. We all had our reasons to save the floor and we worked swiftly.
Now it’s a waiting game to see if the floor buckles. The pipe, that shouldn’t even be there, what the hell is it doing there? is fixed. It is now Wednesday and so far so good. There is a hole in the wall that needs to be repaired and then they have to paint again.
So if you should see your husband with a hammer in his hand and it’s the weekend, grab your keys, check to see if your credit cards are present and accounted for in your purse, make sure the dog has food and water, then get the hell out of there. Stay away for hours and pray that when you return you have running water and the lights switches work.

Right in front of my house chronicles: The joggers

“Okay, I need to see some milk mustaches. Drink your milk before you leave the dinner table.”

Three little hands grabbed the cup, not glass, of milk in front of them. As they drank their milk they would take turns showing the husband and me their milk mustache progress. They would giggle, we would laugh at them, it was a typical evening Summer dinner time ritual. Everyone that lived in the house was around the table.

So you can imagine our surprise when we heard the front door swing open rather forcefully. The husband and I made eye contact but before we could act we heard a young girl call for help. We ran to the door and as soon as the girl saw us she continued,

“My sister, she fell, please call 911.”

She was half way down our driveway when she said 911. I looked in the direction she ran and saw a body lying motionless on the sidewalk in front of my house. The neighbors were starting to converge.

“You make the call,” I said to the husband. Then I looked at my little boys, “Keep them in here, I’ll go.”

I reached the girl and knelt down next to her. Another woman joined us.

“We were jogging and she tripped on something I think. I don’t know. Is she going to be okay?”

I wish I could have said ‘yes she’s going to be fine.’ But she didn’t look fine. Her eyes were open but she stared straight ahead. She made involuntary movements and drool trickled out of her mouth. I looked at the other woman and she told me to go get a pillow. As I stood up to run I heard the woman start to pray and then the sound of sirens in the distance.

I ran out with a pillow, there were more neighbors. I held the girl by the shoulders and said,

“Where do you live honey? I’ll send someone to get your parents.”

She gave me her address, it wasn’t far. Three or four neighbors took off. We moved out of the way for the Paramedics. The woman that originally arrived with me grabbed my hand and continued to pray.

The girl was eventually put into a ambulance and it speed away. The crowd dispersed. I looked down at the pillow for a few minutes, when I looked up I was alone. Never during the commotion did I get a name. I never saw the praying lady again. But two days later the young girl appeared at my doorstep and she knocked this time.

“I just wanted to thank you for all your help with my sister.”

“Is she okay? What happened?”

There were so many questions and so few answers that evening.

“She’s going to be okay. We were jogging and she stepped on a rock. She went down so fast that she hit her head on the sidewalk before she had time to put her arms out to stop herself.”

We talked for a few moments and hugged. I told her to keep me posted on how her sister was doing but I never heard from her again.

I went inside to finish dinner. I poured three cups of milk and placed them on the table. Looking forward to milk mustaches, I called my family to dinner.

Life is fragile, I have learned to enjoy each day God gives me. I have learned quite a bit over the years just by watching outside my front window.

Shit that happens in front of my house. The telephone pole.

I have decided to start a new series on my blog. Since loosing the Scary Asian Dry Cleaning Dude, which I don't think I will ever get over, I feel my blog is lacking content. And the Russians have been quiet, maybe too quiet.

So let's go way back for my first entry in "Shit that happens in front of my house."
There was a time back in the day when the husband and I had only one kid, Boy #1 and we thought we were busy having a two year old. So after a day of chasing him around the house, we still don't know how he avoided having his chest of drawers smash down on him when he pulled the drawers out and made steps to climb to the top. But there he stood in the middle of his room with the entire piece of furniture toppled over. When he wasn't climbing things he was sticking whatever would fit into the VCR.
But that particular night we got him to bed and settled into our recliners for a quiet night and to watch a little TV. After about an hour we heard a big thud and crunch. Both of our heads snapped up. We looked at each other perplex. The husband was closest to the door. He jumped up and looked outside.
"Call the police."
"Wha..."
"Call an ambulance."
He was out the door before I could get anymore information. I would have liked more information, as I was about to make an emergency call and had no idea why. But I dialed,
"911 what's your emergency?"
"Uh, my husband and I just heard a loud bang in front of our house and he told me to call the police and an ambulance."
"Is someone injured ma'am?"
It was the 80's, I was tethered to a telephone cord. I had no idea what was going on.
"I don't know I can't see what's going on, I'm going by what my husband is yelling at me."
"Okay we'll send someone out."
"Thank you."
I hung up the phone and ran to the door. There I saw a car with it's front end wrapped around the telephone in our front yard. I also saw the husband, several neighbors, one of them an off duty cop. They were talking to a teenage girl. She was standing so I figured we might not need an ambulance. Then I saw the husband point to me at my front door. The girl walked my way and asked,
"Can I use your phone?"
Wide eyed and in awe I said,
"Sure."
I eaves dropped, off course. She was calling her dad. She got off the phone.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, but I wrecked my dads car."
And she went back outside. 10 minutes later I had a man at my front door asking to use my phone. It was the dad and he was calling a tow truck. He was frazzled.
"Is everything alright?"
"Sure, she's fine the car isn't. My son just totaled my wife's car last week. He's fine, the car isn't. Teenagers. What are you going to do?"
He thanked me and left.
I decided to remain in the house,
1. because I was in my pajamas and
B. because I had a two year old that was amazingly still sleeping.
I waited for the husband to come back and fill me in on what I missed. He walked in the house shaking his head.
"What?" I asked.
"The cop two houses down got there right after me."
"Yeah?"
"We got her out of the car and she was fine. Asked her what happened and she told us she dropped her cigarette and was trying to find it when she ran into the pole."
Then he started to laugh,
"She says to me and the guy she didn't know was a cop not to tell the police that when they get here. She said she was going to tell them she miss judged the car parked on the street and swerved around it hitting the telephone pole. You should have saw her face when she found out George was a cop."

Daryl and Walker, the continuation of my goldfish saga

Several months ago my home office received a facelift. It's my girl room, woman cave, whatever, it's mine. I decided to add a goldfish bowl and fill it with two fish. I named them Daryl and Daryl. Not the Bob Newhart Daryls. I named them after Daryl from The Walking Dead.
I still have one original Daryl who has owned up to his name. I think he's killing the other Daryls when I'm not looking, he's a survivalist and I'm somewhat impressed. Although I have to go to the pet store once a month or so after I flush Daryls latest kill down the toilet.
Today I gave up on the idea of two Daryls and named the new room mate Walker. He's the one with the black strip on his back. Daryl's going to get him anyway so I might as well name him appropriately. You really have to be a The Walking Dead fan to understand. If Daryl gets this one I'm thinking of having a little goldfish size crossbow fashioned for him. Again, you have to be a fan.

Where's her penis?

I know, I laughed too when I first heard Boy #2 say that. Actually he demanded to know as he peered over my friends shoulder. She was changing her daughters diaper and Boy #2 was there to, I don't know, offer assistance, he being just out of diapers himself and a little brother still in them I guess he thought my friend, a new mom, could use some help from an all knowing three year old. But when he leaned in for a look see, his jaw dropped to the ground. His eyes grew wide and darted around the immediate area, frantically searching, "Where's her penis?" My friend gave me a helpless look.
Honestly, I was surprised Boy #2 was just finding this out, I thought his older brother would have told him by now. The kid knew more about the birds and the bees by the time he was ten than I did. An older brother with neighborhood friends brings information much sooner than necessary.
I hesitated when the question was asked and my friend, a pro-active, take charge kind of person, explained the difference between boys and girls to my son. She never let's me forget this.
The next day I decided I needed to be more responsive for my boys inquisitive little minds, so I sat them down and said, "All penis questions go to dad, he has one, I don't. If it's an emergency, I'll try to answer to the best of my ability, but the questions will be run by dad at a later time and date."

Happy 50th Birthday Bedford High School Class of '81

In the late months of 1962 and early months of 1963 the Bedford High School class of 1981 was born. At that time our worlds revolved around whoever was changing our diapers and feeding us, most likely our parents. We grew in the confines of our family and once they trusted us to listen to their rules and regulations they opened the back door and said,

“Go make some friends.”

We did as we were told and our little worlds expanded. Then one day they put us on a bus and we were told,

“Go learn something and make some more friends.”

The community had several different grade schools and your geographical location determined which building you entered for the next 7 years. Unless you were one of the few, like me, that were sent to toil under the wrath of the nuns in Catholic school. We all did our 7 year sentences and widened our group of friends. We knew there were others like us in different locations and as the years went along we would actually meet some of them in the 7^th grade. There were two junior high schools waiting for us to converge, half of the community in Moody Junior High and the other half in Heskett Junior High.

When they opened those doors for us we were now 2 groups of pimple faced, wide eyed, know it all Junior High School students waiting for the day we would be one class. And in 1978 we, the Bedford High School Class of 1981 were all under one roof. While navigating our new surroundings we formed new friendships. We joined groups, both academic and athletic. We had three years to make our mark in Bedford High School. Some of us excelled and stood out, while others blended in. We became bonded whether we wanted to or not, we were the class of ’81, forever joined through fate.

When we graduated we vowed to stay friends. Then we scattered, some off to college, others joined the work force right away. Some of us married and had children. Others moved out of state, joined the military and we lost some along the way.

This year we turned 50, unbelievable but we are all 50 years old. On August 3, 2013 some of us got together and had a big birthday party for ourselves. It was a great party and so wonderful to see my classmates. We were slowly drawn together throughout our adolescence and will be for the rest of our lives. I am happy to say I am a part of this fine group of people. From the day we held hands walking into our Kindergarten classes to the day we hugged and cried after we threw our graduation caps into the air, we are one, we are the Bedford High School Class of 1981.