Meatballs No More

I am watching my husband clean out his tool bag. It makes me think of my make-up drawer. Some things you use and some things you don't. Some things just don't live up to the promises the packages proclaimed.

He just informed me that he doesn't like spaghetti. This is after almost eighteen years of cooking it. The topic of spaghetti came up because I mentioned that was what I was making for supper. The oldest chimed in. He doesn't really care for spaghetti either.

Where are these people when I'm asking on my way out the door to the grocery store, "What's everybody want for supper this week?" Oh, they're around, but you can't get a solid answer out of anyone. Except for the middle's "Cashew Chicken!" and the youngest's "Sandwich Ring!"... things are pretty much left up to me.

And guess what? I like spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I love spaghetti. I could eat some kind of pasta dish practically every night. And pizza. Don't even get me started there. So it doesn't take a genius to figure out that when the suggestions are few and far between, mama's choice will win the prize.

And for the record, it's not like I fix spaghetti all the time- probably every other week. People around here are just too picky at times. I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter the other night (my all-time favorite). They survived on coarse brown bread and plain potatoes for a good month or so. Considering that thinned out codfish gravy on the bread was considered a special treat, I think it's safe to say pickiness around the dinner table was not an option.

Oh, how far we have fallen.

As the tool clean-up continued, I was given the go-ahead for spaghetti. (Really?) Evidently the meatballs are pretty good and so is the sauce. Okay, then, you do like my spaghetti. Well, I've changed my mind.

It's now a Chinese kind of night.

An Apology Letter To My Mom

Dear Mom,

I'm sorry for all those time I must have drove you nuts. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I gave you when you told me something I didn't want to hear. I'm sorry for all the times I repeatedly asked you for new clothes.

I'm sorry I frowned at the supper you put on the table. I'm sorry all my socks and underwear rarely made it to the laundry basket. I'm sorry I didn't lift the knick-knacks off the shelf and actually dust underneath them.

I'm sorry I never thanked you for the toothpaste in the bathroom. I'm sorry clean dishes in the cabinet went unappreciated. I'm sorry I didn't take better care of the bedroom that was provided.

And for all those other seemingly unimportant things that I never thanked you for... things like electric lights, flushing toilets, and a working furnace... well, I'm sorry I never fully understood that those things didn't just magically happen. Like the money tree out back that I thought you just didn't want me to know about. I'm sorry I thought you lied.

You must have always thought, "One day she'll understand. One day she'll get it." Or maybe you had your doubts, "That girl will never have a clue." Well, I get it, Mom, and I'm sorry.

Love,
Your Daughter

P.S. And tell Dad I'm sorry for thinking he really did want to ruin my life by checking my grade cards and keeping tabs on me around town. I guess he knew what he was doing afterall, too.

1983 Monte Carlo

My husband said goodbye to a dream today. An '83 Monte Carlo kind of dream. A dream that took up coveted space in our old garage and ruined the grass in our new yard. A dream that started with a hundred dollar bill and visions of a father-son project. That dream is no more.

It was time for the car to go. Actually, it was past time. It should have went with just about everything else when we made the Big Move. It didn't, though. Somehow that hunk of junk (with a perfectly straight body, or so I've been told) made it's way onto a car dolly and was pulled nine hundred miles in an effort to keep the dream alive. Some dreams just don't stand a chance.

He'd been talking about getting rid of it for quite some time now. It had already killed one patch of grass on the back forty (okay, back one acre) and was well on it's way to destroying another section of the prized grass that we have so much trouble keeping alive. Plus, we needed the money. And for some reason, today became the day for the car to go.

He looked so sad. I walked out just in time to help him hook up the trailer to the truck and for one last time, I heard the stories of how he had found the car and all the work he had already put into it. The only thing left was a motor, transmission, paint, interior... and as usual, I stopped listening at this point because in my mind, I'm thinking only?? Sounds like a lot to me, but then again, it wasn't my dream. Maybe when it is your dream, the amount of work doesn't compare with what the finished result will be.

With a final sigh and thoughts of what might have been, he left for the junk yard. He could have gotten more for it by selling it for scrap metal, but like any good car-loving man, he was hoping that someone else would find what he had started and finish the job. Perhaps in that way, the dream would live on.

Three hours later he returned with an empty trailer and a pocket full of money. I found him outside moving around concrete blocks where the car had been. While he cleaned up and shook his head at the sight of all that dead grass, he told me what had become of his beloved '83 Monte Carlo.

He made it as far as the parking lot of the junk yard. Before he could drive through the gates, another old truck with three old men were pulling out. Hanging his head out the window, one old boy hollered, "What year is that Monte?"

Less than an hour later, that Monte had found its way to a front yard in a run-down neighborhood. A teenage boy counted out a fist-full of five's and ten's while his dad came up with the rest. A new dream had begun. Or maybe it was the continuation of an old dream. By the time my husband pulled off, he was promising he would swing back by sometime to see the dream realized.

He had so many dreams when he moved us out here. As odd as what it sounds to me, that Monte Carlo represented all that he hoped to build in making a new life for his family. I guess that's why it was so sad to watch him have to let go. I'm pretty sure he's going to be all right, though. There's already talk of a '67 Camaro.

If My Life Were A Cat

If my life were a cat I would find the coziest spot in the house and never leave it.
If my life were a cat I would wait for someone to refresh my food and water bowl.
If my life were a cat I would have someone else clean up all the poo I left behind.

Ha!

Random thoughts for a beautiful Veteran's Day. The cat came to mind because he has ceremoniously perched himself atop a blanket left behind on the couch. He knows he shouldn't be there, but that hasn't stopped him.

The food and water bowl thought occurred because from where I sit, I can see a countertop in the kitchen covered with dirty dishes. I know I'll have to deal with that mess before I can address the issue of "What's for dinner?"

And the poo remark just kind of came from nowhere, but the more I think on it, the more meaning I can find. If I used the word that came to mind, my daughter would have a fit. And it's not the bad version of the word; more like the rap with a c in front. That's a big no-no in our house, and I'm the worst offender.

Wouldn't it be something if we could make the mess (and understand I'm talking life experiences here and not just the literal translation of the word) and someone else would come along, scoop it all up, and then dispose of it so we would never have to deal with it again?

I think the cat has it all figured out.

Superman

I spent the better part of the morning at a middle school Veteran's Day event which always gets me thinking back to one of the many memorable events in my life. Some of my family and friends have probably heard this story more than once; some have not heard it at all. It bears repeating many times over. It's about my dad.

Once upon a time there was a twenty-one year old girl who had made up her mind to go into the Air Force. Bags had been packed and papers had been signed. All that was left was to board a train bound for a St. Louis airport.

Well, that girl was me and let me tell you, I thought I had it all figured out. I knew I was doing the right thing, I had my family's support, and I was just ready to escape a small town that I thought was holding me back. Granted, this is the same small town that I long for now, but that's another story for another day.

At any rate, my mom and dad along with my best friend at the time drove me to the train station. I don't remember all the details... for instance, I'm sure my recruiter was there to ensure that I actually did board the train, but I don't remember seeing him there. I vaguely remember the hugs and tears that I'm sure took place. I kind of remember the parking lot. I have no idea what I was wearing.

What I do remember are the seats on the train. When I finally boarded, I found a spot and set my bag beside me. I checked and re-checked my ticket and just sat taking it all in. There were other people boarding although the train was by no means full. The seats were red velvet (or at least very soft fabric) and the arms rests were red vinyl. You get the picture. Now I'm sure I was not sitting there for as long as it seems, but very slowly I began to realize that this process of joining the military was actually being put into motion. I looked out the window to see my mom, dad, and friend all standing there. I knew my mom would not allow anyone to leave until that train left the depot.

That's when those doubting thoughts began to descend on me like a low, black cloud on a stormy day. What was I thinking? There was no way I was going to pull this off. Heck, I didn't even like to run (and still don't). Maybe Walmart wasn't such a bad job afterall. And, most importantly, it's not like I had actually taken the oath yet. No actual contract had been signed; I had only promised to show up to collect my train ticket. I looked out again at my family. Yep. This was one big mistake. And I was about to get out of it.

Now this part I remember just as clear as the day it happened. This is why I say I can remember those seats so well. I remember sitting there with a firm grip on the arm rests. My heart was pounding, my stomach felt sick, and my mind was reeling. There was no way I was staying on that train. I recall vividly taking a deep breath and placing all my pressure on those arm rests. I was about to come up out of that seat.

Then I looked out the window. There was my dad, watching his girl embark on something I knew he was proud of and yet at the same time probably scared to death of, but he just stood there smiling. I'm telling you, even sitting outside a Starbucks right now as I type this, I still choke up at the memory. That is how intense this moment of time was: in one swift motion, he gave me the thumbs up sign. Only God Himself could have inspired that because with that one seemingly simple gesture, I felt all fear leave me and myself relax. My immediate thought was that if my dad believed I could do it, well then... I could do it.

At other times when I have written about this, I've referred to my dad as Superman. This was my Superman moment. To have a man that you have so much respect for pack so much encouragement into something as trivial as putting a thumb up into the air... well, what else do you call it? Needless to say, I stayed put on that train. I went on to accomplish things that I would have never thought possible and even though my time in service was relatively brief, I have never looked back with regret. I will always remember that moment and I will always talk about it. It's just that important.

Of course, there's another side to that man in the form of my mom. Tucked away in a box is a ribbon-tied stack of polka-dotted envelopes full of all the words of prayer and encouragement that she wrote to me while I was away. God knew before I was born the team it would take to see me through. I'm so glad He chose them.

Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139:16

The Yard Man Thinks I'm Strange

Two blog entries in one day. I'm sorry. I can't help it. This one ties so nicely with a previous (October-ish) creepy neighbor entry. I'm thinking someone somewhere will appreciate it.

This one concerns another neighbor, not the creepy-one-by-the-tree neighbor, but an across-the-road neighbor. Actually, I don't even think this guy is an actual neighbor. I think he's the yard man. He's only seen every other week or so, and he always parks his truck and trailer right in front of our house.

He wears one of those straw hats and is a fairly big fellow. And I know he's only doing his job. Okay, okay... I know that seeing me try to lure an indoor, clawless cat from under the front porch was probably comical. I had been sitting on the swing completely immersed in an article I was reading for a paper when I suddenly got the feeling that the cat who had been curled up by my feet was no longer there. A few "Here, kitty-kitty's" later confirmed what I fear most when no kid is around to do the dirty work for me: the cat had tiptoed his way off the porch and had found his way under the porch. Keep in mind that this is a full-length-of-the-house porch and he was smack-dab in the middle. I went into the house to find a flashlight just so I could be sure that those glowing eyes I was seeing really did belong to my cat. That's probably when the creepy feeling started.

Minutes later, I had begged and pleaded enough (no way I was crawling under there) that the cat finally meandered out. I looked up to see, sure enough, the yard man in the hat holding his weedeater in mid-air looking at me. Like any good neighbor lady, I acted like I couldn't see anything from the blinding sun and strolled back to the porch like this happens all the time. I seriously think I heard him chuckling. With the cat back inside where he belongs, I went back to the swing to get back to work.

The air was silent. Not a bird chirping, not a bee buzzing. Only the trickle of water from the fountain. Those glowing eyes came back to me. A shiver went up my spine as I wondered what I would have done had that not been the cat. And yes, I do spend too much time alone.

Suddenly, that weedeater fired up with a vengeance. Well, there just are no words to express the spiral of emotions that went through my body in a matter of seconds. When my fingers stopped shaking enough to log out of the page I was on, I had to laugh. Or else I might cry. When did I get so jumpy?

So now the yard man and the creepy-neighbor-by-the-tree both think that the lady on the front porch must have some serious issues.

I'm starting to think they may be right. :)

A Tale of Shampoo

I spent at least fifteen minutes in the shampoo aisle today trying to figure out what would be the best buy. I needed shampoo and conditioner, my daughter needed shampoo and conditioner, and one son needed shampoo (no thanks to the conditioner). Do I even need to mention how quickly that stuff adds up? I've heard all the pros about buying salon-quality products and believe me, I get it. I mean, I don't get it as in actually paying the higher prices for the stuff, but get it as in I really do think there is a difference. My hair feels better, behaves better, and (according to my husband) smells better. Unfortunately, salon quality does not fit a Suave budget.

So I stood there trying to read the fine print regarding how many ounces are in a bottle versus the cost. I ignore all the promises about what any particular kind can do (Sleek! Shiny! Curly! Wavy!)... my thought is that it's all the same in different colored bottles. After much time and thought and sniffing of the different scents of fruity goodness, I had five bottles in my cart that satisfied my economy requirement.

This same scenario was repeated in the toothpaste aisle, the shaving cream aisle, and the paper towel aisle. Don't get me wrong, I'm not that indecisive about most everyday items; but my teeth are suddenly sensitive, my husband is picky about his shaving products, and my daughter is still a little miffed that I don't use the paper towels that her science project proved was the most absorbent. Most things are a no-brainer for me: brand name toilet paper, dishwasher detergent, coffee, and mayonnaise; store brand everything else. We all have our little quirks.

For now, though, the shopping is complete until we run out of everything at the same time again. Then I will once again be that lady taking up space in the aisle with calculator in hand. All that trouble just to save a few bucks... hey, I gotta fund my Starbucks habit somehow.