Saving Sunday

I thought about posting something nostalgic yesterday, but time got away from me- which is rather ironic because yesterday, I did absolutely nothing except cook lunch, then dinner, and cleaned up in-between. In other words, time was on my side. The couch and I have been reuniting as of late and let me tell you, it's been a long time coming.

A few weekends ago, I remarked to the husband that I had developed a love/hate relationship with the weekend. To be more specific, Sunday had become the day of dread simply because Monday was the train wreck that could not be avoided. As a result, Sunday was spent watching the clock and bemoaning each passing hour and every bit of work-work that I had to cram into that given day.

(Work-work as in paycheck work, not the payless work found in everyday housework... definitely worth making the distinction).

So, the man in whom I have become so dependent on to keep me sane grew silent- which is unusual in itself, took a long breath, and looked me straight in the eye. Being the dreamer that I am, I anticipated his next words to be something along the line of "Well, just quit."

I was also once a sixteen year-old girl who was convinced my dad was going to find a way to get that 1986 Mustang GT Convertible, white with red leather interior, from the showroom floor just for me- or, at the very least, bring home that snazzy, red Pontiac Fiero from the used lot.

Like I said, I'm a bit of a dreamer. 

Alas, much like the unattainable dream of a sports car at sixteen, the husband did not tell me to quit or produce a winning lotto ticket or empathize with me for even a minute. To my teary tirade of what a mess Sunday has become for me mentally, he simply and matter-of-factly stated, "Then take your Sunday back."

With those words, which were oddly enough said on a Sunday morning, he turned and walked away, leaving me reeling in wave after wave of emotion and thought. Take my Sunday back? Such a ludicrous phrase, and yet I couldn't help but wonder. It sounded just crazy enough to work. After all, the man has never led me astray to date. I took his words to heart and two weekends later, I have done just that. I'm still in the beginning phase and not totally convinced that I'll be able to keep this up, but I am much more relaxed and as a result, determined to make this the new normal. I have also been more focused during the actual week knowing that, as Ecclesiastes says, there's a time for everything.

For the record, the first Sunday was rough. Every hour I would head to my laptop just to remind myself, "Nope." I fought off feelings of guilt and laziness and a general sense of "not good enough." But I also cooked a guiltless dinner for my family because I wasn't cranky and took my time cleaning because there was nothing sitting in a queue for the printer to print. I went to bed relatively relaxed and still managed to have a successful Monday even though I had not spent the Sunday prior staring at a screen.

So that's why the couch and I have become reunited. I've watched tv and read an actual book and napped at random times. I even decided to jump on this cobweb-encrusted blog as you can see (or read). If I keep this up, those freed-up Sundays might just produce that spark for which I've been waiting.

Better rest up.

Side Note: It's been a little over 2 months now, but Benny Boy left us for greener pastures and unlimited birds to chase. Those who have been around here for a while will know him. He was always my writing buddy and my constant companion back during those long days at home. I miss him dearly.

My Brain Is Tired

I have a hard time with what should be the simplest of decisions. Some things I am quick to act on and strangely enough, those are usually the life-altering kind of decisions. Other things I tend to camp out on for a long time. Those are the types of things that really don't matter in the long run.

Case in point: a new cell phone.

My current phone has featured a cracked screen for well over a year now. It's a lovely kind of crack, the kind that starts in one corner and spider-webs out across the screen. I've lived with it because (1) the phone is paid for and (2) I really don't care. It hasn't bothered me too terribly much. I can see what I need to see and if I'm watching a video or looking at a picture, I can flip the phone to where the crack is least intrusive.

Sounds dumb even as I write it.

A few weeks ago, however, I discovered a word search game that has successfully changed my mind on how I cope with a cracked screen. What once was not so much a bother is now very much a bother. Q's look like D's and E's might be C's. When I mentioned to the family that this could be very well be the last straw and it was time for a new phone, they looked at me like I was crazy. Really? This is what does it?

Yes. Forget the fact that the phone shuts off randomly for no reason and has crashed at least once and freezes up at the most inopportune times. I really didn't care.

But now, oddly enough, I do care.

So I have spent the last two weeks researching and reviewing and rechecking the budget to see what I can afford. I won't get locked into another contract and I won't be paying monthly payments and/or interest. Needless to say, regardless of what carrier or what brand, the options become severely limited. You would think my selection would have been pretty quick.

Not a chance.

I have made up my mind and changed my mind. I sought the advice of a son and the wisdom of a daughter. When the husband was asked, his simple reply was always You know what the checkbook looks like, which translates to Don't bother me with whatever you are going to do anyway.

Truth.

So, in the end, after adding to the virtual cart and removing from the virtual cart at least three days in a row, it was the daily walk to the mailbox that won me over. I told myself that I was wasting time, that there were word games to play, and that I would not rest easy tomorrow if I did not go for what I could afford today. Five minutes later, the transaction was complete.

What I decided on is not the moral or point of the story here. It's the fact that I struggled over the decision for so long. What was black and white became very fuzzy as I tried to unscramble all the reasonings and motivations in my mind and then put them back together... and in the end, the result was just as I knew it would be in the very beginning. I complicated what should have been very simple.

We humans are very good at that.

I don't make resolutions for the new year, but if I were to try to improve on something this year, it would be that I don't use up so much precious time on the smallest of details. It may or may not work, but shaving off a few days here and there could very well add a few days to my life.

Decisions exhaust me.

Summer Plans

For some strange reason known only to God Himself, I was up early today.

No alarm.
No where to be.

Wide awake.

I entertained myself by watching mindless television (are there really any fans of The View out there?), attempted to remove the acrylic from my nails (no amount of YouTube videos can help with this one), and cleaned our bathroom with straight-out bleach (no sense saving the nails at that point). I have sang karaoke to the cats, fishtail-braided my hair, and made a run to the post office that conveniently passed by a Starbucks.

Thus begins my summer vacation.

Last year summer was all about my dad. What I would give to be making that long drive back to spend just one more month of June with him. I would stay longer and worry less. I would watch NASCAR and westerns and let him try to explain C-Span to me just one more time.

And yet here we are in a different year. Time certainly does march forward. This summer I will say good-bye to the middle and launch the youngest on her final high school year. I will welcome visits with the oldest while the husband and I learn to live with what is becoming an increasingly empty house.

I will clean out bedrooms.
I will conquer Windows 8.
I will take back the front porch.

And you better believe, I will be sleeping late.

It's how I do summer.

I'm Okay With That

There are times when the stars must truly be aligned.

For instance,

The weather is seventy-four and sunny.
The brownie I am eating has walnuts.
The husband is the one practice driving with the daughter.

Now before I get in serious trouble, let me clarify that last statement. The daughter, the youngest, is no doubt a reasonably good driver. I have no reason to believe otherwise. But after being the one doing all the practice driving with the other two, this mom is tired and weary of gripping the arm rests and trying to put my foot through the imaginary passenger side brake that does not exist. Besides, she has made it very clear that she prefers her dad anyway.

"He doesn't stress me out the way you do, Mom."

Hey, I feel your pain, sister. I am all too happy to take up space on my front porch swing right now in the seventy-four degree sunshine while I eat brownies full of walnuts and drink coffee sweetened perfectly. This is my kinda life.

Granted, I should be taking the wet clothes out of the washer or folding the whites from last week or doing something else household related. I should be working on school stuff or tax stuff or something else moneywise related. I should be doing a lot of things.

But it is Sunday. The Lord's day. The day before Monday.

I'm tired of letting the gloom of a Monday ruin the glory of a Sunday. I've spent far too many Sunday afternoon hours steeped in depression about the end of the weekend and the beginning of the work week. My new theory is that the weekend really doesn't end until I let my head hit the pillow on Sunday night. If that means I cram a little extra work stuff into the waning hours of a Sunday evening, so be it. Of course, it's easy to think that way when there's no football to watch. It's all about priorities.

So for now, I think I will stretch out on this swing and watch a cloudless sky.

I really am okay with that.

Why Is My Hair Orange?

I decided that today was as good as day as any to color away my gray. Once upon a time, you couldn't find my natural color in a bottle; nowadays there's a couple that are pretty darn close. Me being me, however, I thought we'd take it a notch or two darker (don't tell my dad). I sit here now... hair completely saturated, scalp burning slightly, stench in the air.

Oh, to be a female.

On the plus side, I have at least fifteen uninterrupted minutes to sit on the edge of my bed and peck out a few rambling thoughts. Trust me, nobody wants to see me parade through the house right now. It's better we keep this side of womanhood hidden from the innocent. Besides, the husband will brave the elements soon enough to make sure I have not dribbled any hair color on the tile while looking at me in amused wonder.

Oh, to be a male.

I've been thinking about the children a lot lately and wondering if I have done all I could do to prepare them for life. I've become something of a slacker in my midlife; I'm only hoping I was as dedicated as I like to pretend I was when I was younger. The middle reminded me the other day of how I use to always tell them their words had power- that's biblical, you know- and the oldest reminded all of us of how I used two plants as a lesson to them. No kidding here... the one we spoke "life" to flourished and the poor sap we spoke "death" to did not stand a chance. Funny how I don't remember that, but they do. Time has an odd way of picking and choosing memories.

At any rate, here all three of them stand just itching to fly the nest. I don't take it personally, I take it pridefully. Wait. Does that sound right? What I mean to say is I know they're not counting the hours to get away from me (I hope); I know they are counting the hours to try it on their own and in that, I take great pride.

But boy, will I miss those little people.

Did I rock them enough? Did I provide enough milk and cookies? Did I sing them enough songs, color with them enough, read to them enough? Did my good words outweigh the bad thoughts? Did I provide enough hugs? Enough band aids? Enough amusement? I know I was hard on them at times- I was their teacher for a while, you know. I also know reinforcements were called in from the father on more than one occasion. In case you haven't figured it out, parenting does take two. I don't ever want them to think they can tackle that life event on their own.

Good Lord, have we done enough?
Thank goodness they are HIS anyway.

With that in mind, what do I have to fear?
Except an empty lap. An empty table. An empty bed.

Sheesh. If this is what happens when I time the color on my hair, maybe I would be better of to stick with the gray... and now I'm making myself laugh.

It must be the fumes.

Well-Timed Moments

So when your kids ask about your blog, you listen.

Your ears perk up. You blush with feigned humility. You feel special.

I mean, come on... if the kids think I must write, well then-
It is for the children, after all.



Yeah. I'll shut up already, but seriously, two out of three really did ask. With that in mind, we'll make this a test run and see if either one of them have any questions, comments, or otherwise. It should make a good story anyway.

We live in a house of somewhere around twelve hundred square feet. With one kid out of his teenage years (I need to update that blurb on my bio) and the other two kids well into the teenage life, it mostly feels like we are five adults sharing a sometimes very crowded space. Throw into the mix only one television (and antenna tv at that), and there are only so many places to hide when you would rather not face the world. So, when one is having a difficulty of sorts, we all know about it and we all share the pain. Last night when the pain for one became all too evident, a pow wow ensued with grievances aired, pep talks offered, and affirmations given. In the end, three kids celebrated their God-given sibling bond with a late night trip to the meeting place of all meeting places, Walmart.

And I have yet to figure out the allure of that.

At any rate, I found myself in my usual spot on the couch, book in hand, and settled in for the evening. The husband succumbed to the pull of online video gaming/you tube searching/mindless jump surfing and tuned out the world. The tv was off. The house quiet.

And Vince Gill began to sing.

I looked up from the glow of my nook book to see the husband looking at me. Granted, I had to put on my glasses to be certain he was looking my way, but when the blurriness adjusted to 20/20 vision, he had indeed pulled the jack on the headphones and motioned me to the dance floor, otherwise known as the living room floor rug.

While the kids walked the aisles of Walmart, the parents danced to bona fide country music. At one point I looked at my worn, pink fuzzy socks and chuckled at the sight we must have been to the cats who looked lazily on from their vantage point by the fire.

Now, twenty-four hours later, I sit in the same spot on the couch, the same worn, pink fuzzy socks on my feet, and the television on for a change. Before me is the husband, his back to me, an virtual mafia/swat team contest in the heat of battle capturing his attention. The Dick Van Dyke show has taken over what was a Wonder Woman movie and from time to time a kid wanders through the living room.

And all I'm thinking is,

Shouldn't you people be at Walmart?

So Much Cooler Online

I have spent the better part of this morning reading blogs from all kinds of women (rarely men) from all parts of the country. Some make me laugh. Some make me hungry. A few inspire me to do something crafty and a few cause me to shake my head in disbelief. One thing they all have in common, though, is they all entertain the heck out of me.

I love people. No, I am not a people-person and I have not momentarily lost my mind, but I really do love people. Real people. The people who admit their faults and laugh at their mistakes. People who know they're not perfect and aren't afraid to tell you about it.

It all makes me feel unusually normal.

Blogs are not like facebook or twitter. For instance, on either one of those you might find some random, attention-seeking post like,

I CAN'T BELIEVE THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE!!

On a blog, you'll get that story in detail. In fact, if you've read any particular blog long enough, you start to feel like you actually know the people. You (or at least I do) will find yourself nodding in agreement with the shenanigans surrounding everyday people in everyday life.

On a blog, you won't just find a picture of half-eaten food on a obvious restaurant-style plate (those photos have always driven me insane)- you'll get a story about why that particular dish is picture-worthy. You won't get a series of "check-ins" or "self-portraits". You really only get what that particular writer feels is worth taking the time to write and let's face it, your daily stop at the gas station  or your boobs peeking out from your new lace cami is probably not gonna top the list of important things to write about on any given day.

Whoops. I did it again... caused another pair of eyes to roll heavenward. I can almost hear the fury of clicks as people scurry away from what I deem worthy to publish to the virtual screen. I'm probably just jealous. I can't check-in at the gas station or take fitting-room pics with my stylin' pink, Pantech dumbphone. Otherwise I would probably join the masses- though I seriously doubt it.

The moral of today's front porch story? Don't judge other bloggers based on me. Scroll around. You're sure to find someone who shares your interests. Blogs are a lot of fun. They're real. And hey, if you don't like 'em, just move on the next one.

I've lost lots of readers that way. =)

Crazy Butterfly

I fell asleep on the front porch swing only to awake with a jolt (and practically flipping myself out of the swing) while trying to fight off a crazed butterfly in my half-asleep, half-awake zombie-like state. Laughing to myself and silently thanking God that no one was around to witness my near collapse onto the wood floor, I tucked my arms inside my shirt (pesky mosquitoes), pulled the neck of my shirt over my ear (pesky buzzing of mosquitoes), and quickly resumed my afternoon nap on an unusually pleasant late summer day.

It's what I like to call a perfect Sunday.

Coffee. Church. Lunch. Friend. Snack.

Nap.

I vacuumed just to be sure I could say I did something, kicked the rinse/spin cycle on the load of laundry from yesterday, and hit the touch-up button on the dryer so the husband doesn't think I let his work clothes sit in a pile all weekend. I wouldn't want him to think I am lazy or anything.

Is it bedtime yet?

I am plum wore out.

A Glass-Is-Half-Full Kinda Day

The day is rainy. My feet are tired.

And for some reason, I feel like rambling... but in a good way.
I don't think I have a complaining bone in my body right now.

Well, except for one.

If I were to complain, it would be about a lack of coffee in my house, but that won't last. A trip to the store is a definite for the agenda tonight. So see what I mean? Not really worth complaining about.

Hold on to your seat for now. I'm about to make a rather staggering announcement (well, for those who know me anyway). I can't believe I am about to say this. My heart feels rather fluttery at the very thought of admitting it. Even now I am pausing to think if I really mean what I am about to confess.

And please don't hold it against me later.

But here goes.

I am very, very fulfilled right now in my life. I have a job that I like, that I didn't think I would like, but I like it very much. I am busy with little time to think, eat, or make more than one trip to the bathroom a day (and most of you know what I mean) and I absolutely love it.

My kids are growing up. They start school on Monday, the last two, that is. I followed the youngest around during her open house last night and was amazed at her confidence. I do believe she is about to rock the sophomore world. The middle is an official licensed driver and ready to conquer his senior year. The oldest continues to work faithfully and help out when needed. They are growing up and I am growing older and for some strange reason, that fills me with peace.

I finally drive a car that does not sputter and moan and blink warning lights at me.

I pet cats that are finally flea free.

The funny thing about my rather twisted sense of optimism is the view I have from where I sit. Laundry hangs where I last left it on Sunday (or maybe Saturday). The miscellaneous socks and sheets I left on the couch over the weekend are still there. My desk is cluttered. The carpet has not been vacuumed. I can't even think about the mess in my bedroom right now.

And yet it will all be there in the morning...

After I've had the required cup of coffee.

And Today's Forecast Is...

Rain.

Imagine that.

The weather always makes for fascinating (?) conversations, does it not?
Extreme heat; severe drought. Record cold and record snow. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. Dust storms.

Rain.

I cannot remember the last day when we did not have rain at our house. It's come to be expected, like the daily afternoon coffee that I know I will enjoy (even at this moment, as a matter of fact). But enjoy the rain? Not so much anymore.

Oh, it has its advantages:

The weather is cooler. The grass is greener. The flowers and the trees are thriving.

It also has its disadvantages: weeds, mosquitoes, washed out yards and driveways and roads.
Swollen lakes. Flooded homes. Water moccasins and alligators and other creatures of the river on the move.

Consider this combination of the good and the bad: I'm sitting outside on a front porch that faces the west on a mid-July afternoon because the weather is cool. This has not been known to happen since we acquired the property in 2007. At the same time, I am fighting mosquitoes while the rain drips off a metal roof. The air is humid. The cats are lazy.

Is that a gnat in my coffee?

And so it goes. Next year we may very well experience the typical dry, hot summer and long for the wet days of 2013. The weather can be a fickle beast.

Much like my old man cat.
Some things just are expected.

A Waste Of Time

I splurged over the weekend and bought myself the Nook HD+, passing down my Nook Tablet to the youngest. She's happy. I'm happy.

I have yet to read a book.

Let me put it this way... one review for a particular game app said this,

It's the ultimate time waster.

No kidding. I've got the next-in-line book ready to go. I see the cover every time I hit the power button, but I can't see to get past some game where you "throw" wadded-paper balls into a trash can basket. I've played this game not only in the office setting, but also on the moon, in the snow, and in the woods. I'm telling you, the ultimate time waster is right on the money.

Wait a minute.

My last post was all about being lazy. I hate for you all to get the wrong impression about me.

I worked today. I went to the store.
I finished a load of laundry and cooked an awesome dinner.

Granted, I did the last two things in my pajamas, but hey...

I like to do things in style around here.

Even waste massive amounts of time.

On A Scale Of 1~10, Just How Lazy Are You?

The youngest asked if I had written a blog entry lately and my answer to her was no... lack of inspiration. After I said that and really thought about it, I knew it was more a matter of an excessive amount of laziness. To say I am not inspired on a daily basis would be a lie. To say I deal with laziness on an hourly basis would be more to the point. Consider this,

My bathroom is atrocious.
Yes. I said atrocious.
Atrocious: adjective. Horrifyingly wicked.

It needs to be bleached, swept, and steamed. The shower liner needs to be changed. The basket of hair stuff I never use needs to be removed. The many jars of wrinkle remover need to be alphabetized. I really think the spider living among the muck ought to be evicted.

On the other hand, the kids' bathroom? Spotless. Sparkling. It even smells fresh. That youngest of mine takes the cake. She couldn't sleep one night so what did she do? She cleaned their bathroom of all things. My grandma was surely doing a jig in heaven over that one.

She, the youngest, is in her room now embarking on some craft project. The middle, Mr. Hulk himself, is in the shed perfecting his physique. The oldest is half under his bed cleaning things out. Seriously. I looked behind me and all I saw was a foot sticking out. I should really take a lesson from these kids.

Then again, I am only on my twenty-seventh load of laundry for the weekend.
Okay... maybe just the fourth or fifth, but you get the idea. Thank goodness for the muscle of Whirlpool.

So, yes. I am inspired. I'm inspired by these kids of mine who stay busy and shower their dad with love on Father's Day. From pocket knives to t-shirts to his favorite box of cookies, the man with a lousy excuse for a father has turned out to be a remarkable father, and our kids are always faithful to remind him of that.

I'm inspired by my own dad who always has time to talk to me on the phone.
I'm inspired by my nephew in-law (is there such a thing?) who lets his little girl help wash a car.
I'm inspired by a couple of teenage boys I know who press on with no earthly father to guide them.

And, yes. I do have a streak of laziness. Bathrooms just aren't my priority.
Although if that spider invites a few house guests, my priorities will change very quickly.

I'm not that lazy. =)

The Easiest Kind Of Makeover

I don't know that I'll ever be comfortable teaching my kids to drive. It's not that they're bad drivers. In fact, it's quite the opposite. We're on two out of three right now and I'll admit that I have yet to grip (too tightly) any arm rests. I suppose it's just the fact that when they are behind the wheel, they are the ones in control. I think that's the part that bothers me a little. It's just not natural... and yet it's exactly the way life should be unfolding. We're in no big hurry to get driver's licenses around here (the middle just turned seventeen, the same age the oldest was when he got his), but like everything else, I suppose, you just can't stop time from marching on.

The youngest may not be driving yet- though she reminds me almost daily that the time for her permit is just around the corner. Nonetheless, she has embarked on something new and something of her own. Blogging. She promises me that her own ramblings will revolve around no one in our family (of the human species anyway). Crafts, sewing, cooking, and the ever-present cats take up most of her time. She has a writing style somewhat like mine, only more entertaining without a doubt. I don't know if she'll stick to it or if it's just something to occupy her summer with, but it will be fun to read no matter how long it lasts. You can look her up HERE.

And finally, with the coming of the summer months, I thought it was time to lighten up the look of my own blog. A quick makeover never hurt anybody.

Besides, pink has always been my favorite color.

I'm Not Depressed; You're Just Hungry

The calendar may not have marked the first official day of summer yet, but as far as I'm concerned, summer is officially here. The weather is warm and humid, the sky thunders and flashes at night, and the kids are winding down on another school year. One year ago my blog posts were full of the oldest and his graduation. Now the time of the middle is fast approaching. My former long-haired rock star is about to be a senior and the baby of the family is moving on to her sophomore year.

In the midst of all this, the following question was presented to me just this afternoon:

Mom, are you depressed?
Not at the moment. Why?
Because (the middle) and I were discussing it, and we think you are depressed.
Why would I be depressed?
Because (the oldest) will be moving out soon.
So you discuss me and my moods when I'm not around?
Basically.

I assured my young psychologist that I am not at all feeling depressed and wondered out loud how I have been acting that would make anyone thing that way. The answer?

Well, you're kinda quiet and you really don't cook anymore.

That made me laugh. I don't cook anymore? I'm tired, people. Little Miss Holly Homemaker has went back to work and it's taking more than a little while to get back in the swing of things. I still cook, but it's not an every night thing... it's more of a hit and miss thing, to tell the truth.

But they're in luck tonight.
Mama's gonna cook and she's in a good mood.
We'll discuss the moving out of the oldest at another time.

Silence Is Golden; Duct Tape Is Silver

I have been told that I am a good listener. To me, that's just the opposite of a good talker. Some people talk. Some people listen. I would rather not talk so therefore I listen. It's not that complicated and life appears fine and dandy until you consider the inevitable flaw in my non-socializing plan:

Who listens to the good listener when the good listener wants to talk?

I will answer that for you.

Nobody.

No, this is not some woe-is-me post. It's just a simple observation that has played out in my life over and over. I can be part of a conversation. There can be many people talking. I can politely wait my turn only to be cut off by the more expert talker. That's rude, yes, but that's not what hurts. What hurts is when no one notices I was interrupted by the expert talker and am no longer talking. Those moments totally wreck havoc on my already, awkward socializing skills.

Anyway.

I am chuckling as I write this. Like I said, this is not a kleenex-drenched rambling which you may have come to expect from me. These are just the thoughts that have been on my mind all week. Take me as I am. I am a deep well (I've actually been told that, by the way. I think it was a compliment).

At any rate, my mom reminded me tonight that I am a lot like her. That's all I needed to hear.

I'd pick her over any expert talker any day of the week.

When There's Nothing Left To Do, Grow Tomatoes

It's one of my favorite times of year.

Spring Break.
Beautiful Weather.
Chirping Birds.

Final Four.

I woke up this morning with a single thought: Atlanta and four teams. Because of that, I have the laundry practically finished, dishes washed, porches cleaned, and not a hint of makeup on. I mean really... there's no need to do much beyond the brushing of the teeth and a half-done ponytail when leaving the house is not an option.

The youngest is not happy. She is an on-the-go kinda girl who does not understand her mother's obsession with basketball. She's standing on the porch talking to me now about growing tomatoes. Looking over my shoulder she says, Oh, you're writing another blog (and her emphasis on the word blog tells me she is not impressed).

Nothing like a kid to keep you humble.

She and her brother are out of school for the week. I've promised them a trip to the mall and a trip to the beach. It looks like both are going to work out for us in the next few days. Thank goodness. The weather is too nice to just stick to housework and besides, after the BIG game on Monday night, what else is there to do?

Apparently grow tomatoes.

I better get back to the conversation at hand. =)

Spare Change

My coffee fund gets a little bit richer every week that I do laundry; especially from one kid in particular. Now  you know the secret to funding my habit: loose change left in pockets. No, I do not give it back. I've even been known to keep a surprisingly crisp and clean ten dollar bill. I rarely find paper money any more (they caught on quick) and what I do find is usually in the form of wrinkled and crushed lonely dollar bills. My stash stacks up a quarter at a time.

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face. Saturday. I've always loved Saturdays whether I was working or not. Nobody's in a hurry. No alarms screeching through the silence (unless you count the husband's five o'clock alarm that I easily tuned out). I fixed my coffee in a quiet house and climbed back into bed to read. Even the cats are mercifully laid back on a weekend morning. I currently have a load of laundry going (hence the money-finding opener) and am in no hurry to change out of my pajamas.

The oldest received a job offer yesterday that had us all staring in amazement. That boy has been offered more money to start a job than the husband and I have ever dreamed about. Seriously. I think back on his childhood years and that unique obsession to take everything apart just to see how it worked and meticulously put it all back together to working order. I remember sitting in a guidance office at the beginning of his tenth grade year, his first year of public school, and the husband mildly suggesting he consider a particular route at a technical school. That boy jumped on it and never looked back. Now here he is, not quite a full year after his high school graduation, with a huge opportunity before him. He is riding high and quite pleased with himself. He also has dreams of moving out, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

At the moment, I hear the intermittent spray sounds coming from a can of Pam, the generic kind anyway. That can only mean one thing: the middle is in the kitchen preparing a batch of muffins. I knew I was saving that second cup of coffee for something special. See what I mean?

You gotta love a Saturday.

I'm A Big Believer In Cake Pops

They're cute. They're tasty. And they're just the right size.






I like to think I'm pretty much a simple girl. I don't get too excited about a whole lot with the exception of Atlanta football,  Kentucky basketball, and old-school country singers in cowboy hats. I'm in love with Jesus, my parents, my husband and kids, and my country. I like to cook with real butter. I despise sorting socks. I've got a quick temper when I feel threatened. I'm not a fan of the mall. I'm very much the frugal shopper unless faced with a Starbucks sign or a pedicure in the spring and summer months. I don't like to spend money, but sometimes... I like to spend it very much.

I come from a small town. The words crime scene and racism and Mercedes Benz didn't mean much to me. I don't know that I could have really correctly defined any of those words at any point in my young life. It wasn't that we were ignorant; I just don't think we were faced with any of it. Life was safe. People were people. Everyone I knew drove a Ford or Chevy. My parents worked hard. They didn't cuss or drink or smoke or teach me anything other than respect and values and love. Family life may not have been perfect, but it was always stable. I didn't know how much I would appreciate all that until I got older.

I've been on quite the learning curve since we made the change from a one-stoplight town to a central six-county region of around 710,000 people. I don't care how long I live here... that number will always be about 705,000 too many people for me. I realize those numbers don't even come close to the big city numbers out there; but when I hear people refer to this area as a small town, I think to myself  you have no idea and for that experience, I am thankful.

But too be honest, I am more than spoiled with the many amenities that now surround me. I've developed quite the Starbucks habit. I've been to more movies in the last five years than I had been in my entire life. As much as I hate the mall, I appreciate the fact that going there doesn't become an entire day event with the time it takes to drive there and back. I love restaurants. I like hearing about all the concerts available (even if I can't afford 95% of them). I get a kick out of the abundance of nail salons and Chinese buffets. Things are certainly never dull.

And that's what I miss, if that makes any sense. I suppose that's why I am so addicted to my front-porch swing. I don't keep a quilt and pillows out there for no good reason. I'm a big believer in lazy days and afternoon naps and a cup of decaf as the sun goes down. I may get angry at the non-signal-using fools in morning traffic and become extremely agitated when the old lady in the smart car steals my parking spot... but it doesn't take much to unwind me and take me back to a simpler time.

The promise of eternity.
The adoration of my parents.
The love of a good man.

The sight of three kids at the dinner table.

And cake pops. Definitely the cake pop. Starbuck's Salted Caramel version pictured above. Combine that with George Strait on the radio and my Friday afternoon just got a little sweeter.

No small town needed.

Distractions of a Cedar Chest

Do you ever spend most of the day cleaning only to look around and see that nothing is actually... well, clean ? That has been my day and it has by no means been a lazy day, but good grief. I might as well have spent the day on the couch doing nothing.

I woke up at eight.
Had two cups of coffee.
Spent close to an hour online with my mom.

Made a late breakfast or an early lunch, depending on your point of view.
Started laundry. Changed sheets. Cleared the floor of clothes and shoes.

Let the daughter dive into the cedar chest.

And that's where things got a little out of whack. You see, that cedar chest is full of treasures. Baby blankets. Baby pictures. Baby dresses. Dolls. Cabbage Patch Kids. My first pair of glasses, circa 1978.

We looked at pictures from my basic training, the husband's basic training, and our early years together. I pointed out that in both group pictures from my basic and technical training, I am standing by the very girl my husband-to-be dated in his high school years and was very much infatuated with. This little known fact came to light one day when he drove to my base to pick me up for a date. I let him in my room, finished doing whatever I was doing, and turned around to see a rather pale-looking face holding a framed picture and looking at me in disbelief. He asked me how well I knew the girl I was standing next to in the photo. Rather well, was my reply. He shook his head in disbelief and we moved on in life. To this day, we still laugh about that moment and wonder at the odds of such a thing happening. Considering we grew up a thousand miles from each other, joined two different branches of the military, and trained on two separate coasts... I'd say the odds are pretty slim.

So that little story, though retold many times before, was at least one distraction of the day.

We found a pair of crocheted baby shoes that belonged to the husband. A crocheted baby hat and sweater that came from a great-uncle. A crocheted stocking cap that was made by a grandma. Crocheted blankets. Quilted blankets. Embroidered blankets. School pictures. Report cards. Lots of construction paper artwork.

And still not a wedding album to be found.

I finally had to walk away, leave the memory feast to the daughter, and carry on with the laundry. I've yet to vacuum. We did manage to squeeze in the mandatory grocery run and hit up Sonic for happy hour. A strawberry limeade and sunny weather make a Saturday a little more complete.

Even if the housework is not.

On Quilt Blocks, Hamburger Helper, & Things I Can't Find

Today was a no-school day for the kids and the daughter spent part of her afternoon laying out quilt blocks she has been embroidering. Her cat was in the midst of it all as she carefully placed block by block on the floor, sighing every now and then. As I watched her, I thought about my own quilt blocks that I have been working on forever and dusted off the bag they have been hiding in. She suggested that we work together to finish hers first and then work on mine. I know it sounds like a perfect mother-daughter-kind-of-thing to do, but I respectfully declined her request. My reason? My stitches are nowhere near as perfect and straight as hers. Believe me, she would be regretting her decision the first time she'd have to rip my work out and start again. Look at it as a way to keep the peace.

Discussing quilts got us discussing our grandma which got us pulling out and talking about all the quilts she made us. In turn, that led to us digging around in the attic looking for other things which led to the squeals and delight of finding a favorite baby doll and dressed-up Barbies still in their box. By the time we wrapped things up so I could start supper, the couch was covered with quilts and such, and her bed was hidden beneath handmade doll clothes and passed-down jewelry. Now that supper is finished and the kitchen is clean (that would be the Hamburger Helper part), I suppose it's time for me to clean off the couch. I gotta have somewhere to sit... and maybe, just maybe, complete a stitch or two.

As for things I can't find?

A Quilt. Don't panic. I know it's tucked away safely somewhere.
Besides, I only have so many places to stash stuff around here.

A Box of Baseball Cards. Not a big deal to me, but a very big deal to the husband.
This is the current Great Mystery within the household.

And it seems like there was one other thing, but (of course) I can't remember it.

Except that wedding album... I still can't find that wedding album.

I'm betting it's all in the same place.