A Passel of Personal Peeves

I’m feeling a little cranky these days, so I hope you don’t mind if I get a few things off my chest.  Sure, a riled-up rant doesn’t right wrongs, but when you’re rankled, raving can be a righteous remedy for relief.  Really.

You?  Oh, no, it’s nothing you did.  In fact, I’m addressing my rant directly to the guilty party, the proper rantee, or in this case, rantees. 

Rant #1

Dear people from whom we purchased this doublewide:

You must be feeling pretty smug these days to have found fools desperate enough to pay such an outrageous sum for your doublewide.  Not that I blame you for that—we made the choice to do so, and sometimes I think the sunrise alone is worth the price.  But anyway, that’s not what I’m writing about here.  I could write about the toxic waste you left in the garage or inquire as to how you managed to make so many large holes in the walls. And just how did that coffee end up on the ceiling anyway?  But that’s not what I need to discuss here either. 

No, Dear Sellers, what I want to say is this:  For the love of Pete, people, why did you leave us not one sheet of toilet paper when you left?  Not one dadgum sheet!  What kind of people actually take the partially-used rolls off the toilet paper holders when they leave?!!!  I’ll tell you who—cheap, cheeky chumps—that’s who.   It takes a merciless soul to intentionally leave another human being toilet paperless.  I’m no paragon of virtue, but every single time I’ve moved from a house, I’ve left not only toilet paper (with extra rolls!), but paper towels and soap, as well.  It’s the decent, humane thing to do. 
 
Didn’t your Mama teach you that?

Rant #2

Dear Cashiers from two different stores that shall remain nameless:

Perhaps you meant well when you asked me if I wanted the Senior Citizen’s discount.  But to be asked that twice in one week was a little hard on my fragile, 50-year-old ego.  Trust me, when I turn 55, I’ll be the first to let you know.  But until then, it might be better, unless you are absolutely certain of a person’s…ahem…mature status, to wait for them to ask for the discount.  Especially since you have a large sign with large print announcing it right at the register.

Or maybe you thought I couldn’t read it…because of my advanced, ripe old age.

Rant #3

Dear Cashier at the grocery store that rhymes with Jingles:
 
I was pretty excited to have that coupon for the Russell Stover’s Chocolate Rabbit.  Even though my kids are in college now, I still enjoy putting together a little Easter basket for them.  We’re on a budget, and the candy they usually get is more Hershey’s than Russell Stover’s, so I was particularly pleased to be able to get such a “fancy” treat.  Chocolate connoisseurs may smirk, but Russell Stover’s is lavish stuff for us.

You scanned the rabbit, and I smiled and handed you the coupon.  You studied it for a moment, picked the rabbit up and looked at it, then handed the coupon back with a curiously smug look on your face. 

“I can’t take that,” you said.

I was baffled.  “Why not?”

You announced, in a self-righteous tone, “This coupon is for the HOLLOW Russell Stover rabbit.”  Then you smirked.  “Your rabbit is solid.”

I looked at you, open-mouthed with disbelief.  No, not disbelief that the coupon actually said that.  In fact, when I looked at it again, I realized it indeed said “Hollow Rabbit.”  But I was incredulous that you would take such obvious pride in denying a simple, cents-off coupon to someone because they had the solid rabbit instead of the hollow one.  And the look you gave me—strangely triumphant and accusatory at the same time.  I mean, you would have thought you’d caught me trying to slip the rabbit out in my purse.  Oh yeah, you’re a noble one, you are, valiantly fighting those desperados like me who would actually try to sneak those hollow rabbit coupons past your eagle eyes.  You must be so proud.  I’m surprised you didn’t shout, “Security!  Coupon outlaw!” and ask them to pat me down for more illicit coupons. 

I pointed out to you that the solid rabbit was actually more expensive than the hollow one, but you were adamant, secure in your position of moral superiority.   So I put away my money and handed you back the rabbit.  “I guess I won’t get it then.”

So, congratulations.  You won, but your store lost a sale and the good will of a new customer.  And it wasn’t so much that you refused me the coupon—maybe they train you to be completely inflexible about coupons, and you were just following policy.  It was the fact that you seemed so self-satisfied about it and the way you looked at me like I was committing a criminal act instead of just trying to buy a chocolate rabbit.  Pardon the pun, but I would have to say that was a “hollow” victory for both you and the store you represent.

So there you have it—my picayune, paltry, perhaps petty personal peeves. 

Whew.  Thanks.  I feel better already.

The Light Has Come

 

(sunrise from my porch)

I wish you all a Joyful Easter and Happy Spring!  And may we all know peace, hope, and light.

          “Arise, shine for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.”

           Isaiah 60:1

(our flowering cherry humming with honeybees)

She Dreams of Falling

 

(Steps on our hike last year at Stone Mountain State Park, North Carolina)

No, I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth, though I do dream most nights about falling.  And, no, I haven’t given up on my blog, though it has been woefully neglected, along with my commenting on all your wonderful blogs.  I am truly sorry.

More immediate and urgent concerns have commanded our attention of late.  The good news is:  We have sold our house and the new owner wants to take possession very, very soon.  The bad news is:  We have sold our house and the new owner wants to take possession very, very soon.

And, as of today, we have nowhere to go.

Until today, we have been looking to buy a home in the place to which we’re moving.  The trouble is, people there apparently haven’t gotten the word that it’s a buyer’s market now.  They all want outrageous amounts of money for their houses and land. And we don’t have that kind of money to spare.  And we’re not that picky—we just want a couple of acres or more in the country where we can see mountains and clouds and stars.  The house doesn’t have to be fancy—a trailer will do. 

Anyway, at this point, we’ve gone from mild anxiety to full-blown panic.  And needless to say, we’re looking for short-term rental—just so we don’t end up sleeping in our U-Haul truck.   Did I mention that we haven’t found work yet? Did I mention that the pain from my slipped rib problem returned, so that I’ve taken to sleeping in a recliner?  Did I mention that my car’s reverse gear suddenly stopped working out of nowhere (at sixty-thousand miles)?  Looks like I’ll be getting a transmission for my fiftieth birthday.  Yay.

And please don’t lecture me on how it would have been prudent to have gotten a job before making a drastic move.  Yes, that’s how it would have happened in an ideal world where eveything works out just as you’ve planned.  Lord knows, we’ve tried.  But nothing yet.  The reality is:  we’ve sold our house and we have to move.  I’m sure we’ll find work in time.  Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man is one hell of a carpenter and a highly skilled handyman besides.  Oh, and he writes poetry.  But not on the job. 

And now you can see why I haven’t been writing.  Not only a lack of time, but a growing lack of my usual cock-eyed optimism and a general crankiness that I didn’t wish to burden my readers with.  But I did want you to know that, Lord willing, I’ll be back—both writing and reading your writing.  So please don’t give up on me or my little blog.  And please, if you’re so inclined, say a little prayer for us.  Sometimes I’m not so sure mine are getting through.

The Year the Messiah Came to Our House

 

(For those of you who have read my earlier memories of family, this post might be confusing.  It contrasts sharply with my earlier pieces.  But those were about my life after the age of 11 (when my oldest brother and sister left home).  This is about before.  It’s rather long—sorry.  But I decided to just go with whatever came.)

I apologize—I have been remiss in both my own postings and in my comments on others’ postings.  Part of it is that we’ve been so busy.  We’ve just sold our house and are rather suddenly faced with finding both a new home and a new job.  Also, a single violent cough from getting some fiberglass (from insulation) in my throat reawakened my rib injury, which I thought had healed completely.  So I hurt.

But mostly, I think, it’s Christmas.  I just can’t seem to feel the spirit this year.  Partly, I’m sure, because most of the family and friends we used to spend Christmas with have passed away.  And really, except for one of my brothers and a cousin, we wouldn’t even want to spend it with the extended family that is left.  We live in fairly comfortable denial of our estrangement from extended family the rest of the year, but at Christmas, we are bombarded with images of happy families gathered ’round the Christmas tree, which makes it harder to escape certain painful realities. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and all that.  I should say here, I am very close to my husband and children and I am thankful for that.   And we are indeed jolly around our Christmas tree and have some wonderful traditions, but still…my children miss the grandparents they never really got the chance to know and they miss their Aunt Ellen and Aunt Esther and our dear friend Ernie and other loved ones who’ve passed in recent years.  We have lost too many too soon and too often.

I do love Christmas music, and usually, I can get the spirit by doing what my Mama always did—listening to Christmas music while baking cookies.  Especially the Messiah.  Mama loved Handel’s Messiah.  I do, too and have ever since the Christmas I was six years old, and Mama got her heart’s desire.  And so did I…for a little while anyway.

The year I was six had been a difficult year in our family.  My oldest brother and my sister had been in constant trouble for the better part of two years, and our house was a battleground.  My brother had finally overtaxed the patience of the local law enforcement by stealing a car (previously, he had merely engaged in petty larceny and vandalism) and was facing reform school.  My sister was always picking fights at school and would fly into sudden frightening rages at home.  I remember one fight she and my brother had where she hit him on the head with a cast iron skillet.  John let out a terrible moan and fell over, unconscious.  I thought he was dead.  She almost killed me twice by choking me.  I went unconscious before Daddy pulled her off.  So I tip-toed my six-year-old self around, learned to be invisible, and just tried to stay under the radar.  I spent a lot of time outside talking to birds and squirrels and trees.  My other brother Paul escaped into books.

We didn’t have a lot of money, and usually Mama would ask for something practical for Christmas, like a mixer or a robe and slippers.  But that year was different.  She asked for a record player and for one single set of phonograph records—the entire Handel’s Messiah.  Daddy was hesitant—that was pretty expensive.  Wouldn’t she like another robe?

But she was adamant.  She told him that it could be a combination birthday and Christmas gift and she wouldn’t ask for another thing.  Daddy liked the thought of killing two birds with one stone and soon warmed to the idea.  He started making payments on a record player at Sears and Roebuck and finally secretly brought it home just after Thanksgiving and hid it in our attic.  I was terrified that the mice were going to chew on it.  We lived in an old house and had so many mice that our parents gave us a nickel for every mouse we caught.   So I kept pushing Daddy to go ahead and give the stereo to Mama.  He didn’t need much encouragement, as he could barely contain his excitement.  And so it was that Mama got her Christmas present early.

In a rare moment of family togetherness, all six of us were there when Daddy set up the stereo.  For once, my brother and sister weren’t fighting.  Mama’s face was shining as she opened the box containing the three records that made up the Messiah set.   I picked up the front cover of the box and ran my fingers over the pretty picture.  There was a scene of the Holy Family on the front, taken from an old Italian painting.  The Virgin Mary’s face was shining as she looked at her new son, a circle of light glowing about her head.  The infant Jesus was glowing, too.  Joseph looked bewildered, but happy, gazing upon his new radiant baby boy, the Christ Child.  I looked around at my family.  They were all smiling, watching my mother as she tenderly placed the needle of the phonograph on the record.

The music that swelled out from the stereo was the most beautiful I’d ever heard.  I sat down on the floor to listen, transfixed.  A man began to sing:

“Comfort ye, comfort ye My people, saith your God…”

My brothers and sister lost interest and drifted off.  Daddy had to leave, but Mama and I stayed there, listening, rapt.  When the record ended, Mama, without a word, got up and turned it over.  A deep voice that I thought sounded like God sang:

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light…”

Then a chorus, like a mighty heavenly host: 

“For unto us a Child is born…and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

Mama and I listened to most of the three record set.  I didn’t move the whole time; Mama got up to start supper.  Our supper that night was more peaceful than usual, and I didn’t have a stomachache afterwards.  Over the next two weeks, Mama listened to Messiah over and over again, and it was as though the Prince of Peace had come to our house. 

“And suddenly there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying: Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth, goodwill towards men.”

John and Mary fought less, and there were no calls from school or the sheriff.  Mary was spending a lot of time in the kitchen.  Though she was only thirteen, she had a knack for cooking, and a counselor had suggested my parents encourage this.  So Mama had asked Mary to cook the turkey for Christmas dinner, as well as some of the other dishes.  My uncles and aunts were coming for Christmas dinner, so Mary pored over cookbooks and tried out different recipes.  I ate everything she cooked enthusiastically and praised it heartily. Mary actually smiled at me once or twice.  Sometimes, during that period, I’d look around the table at mealtime, and my family seemed almost…normal. 

Christmas Day came.  Mama and Mary were up early, cooking, with the Messiah playing in the background.  Mary’s turkey came out perfectly browned and exquisitely tender.  All the aunts and uncles oooed and ahhed over the turkey and other dishes.  After dinner, we all went into the living room, the lights from the Christmas tree making the room glow.   Everyone was laughing and talking and praising Mary.  Mary’s face was shining, and John, for once, was sitting quietly.   Mama and Daddy were sitting together, beaming with pride at their son and daughter.  I stood in the door, looking at the scene and sighed with happiness.  It was almost as though the Christ Child was in our midst, filling our home with light.

Mama had kept the Messiah playing all day, and it was playing then.  My Uncle John, (who had been completely deaf since contracting scarlet fever as a baby) was standing by the record player.  He put his hands on the side of the stereo speaker and closed his eyes, an enraptured look on his face.  I went over and put my hand on his.  He opened his eyes and smiled at my quizzical look.  He pointed at the speaker and then his ears, and I realized he was feeling the heartbeat of the music—hearing with his hands.

“Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped…and the tongue of the dumb shall sing.”

*********************

So, I wish I could say our home was transformed forever and that we lived on in peace and harmony.  But we didn’t.  Mary still flew into violent rages; John kept lying and stealing and finally was sent to reform school by the courts.  Paul kept retreating into books and I kept talking to trees.  But Mama kept playing the Messiah, finding solace in the memory of the peace it brought to our house and its promise of eternal peace.  I’d listen to it like my Uncle John, with my hands on the speaker while the music flowed through my fingers, filling me with an electrifying joy.

I’m listening to the Messiah now.  And in a minute, I’ll walk over and put my hands on the speakers of the boom box.  I’ll close my eyes and think of my Uncle John and of my Mama and Daddy.  I’ll thank God and George Frederick Handel for this musical gift of glory.  Handel wrote Messiah in just 24 days, barely eating or sleeping during that time.  He said that, as he wrote it, “I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the Great God himself.”

“And we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye…and we shall receive wisdom and strength and honor and glory.”

Hallelujah.

Thanksgiving

‘Tis the season to be grateful…oh, wait, no…‘tis the season to be jolly.  But I’m still in a Thanksgiving frame of mind.   I feel kind of bad about my post listing what I don’t have…a laptop, a cello, and Niagara Falls.  But the truth is, I don’t usually spend much time thinking about what I don’t have.  Always, my greatest pleasure is in the simple joys that I do possess.

On Thanksgiving Day, appropriately, I had one of those moments of sheer gratitude and joy.  You know, one of those pure moments where you’re not thinking of the bad things that happened yesterday or the worse things that might happen tomorrow…you’re just present in the moment and mindful of the blessing of it. 

I was preparing our Thanksgiving feast.  We actually hadn’t planned to be here on Thanksgiving Day.  We had planned to take a ten mile hike, our backpacks filled with turkey sandwiches and apple bread.   But it was pouring rain (which, these days, is itself something to be thankful for).  So there I was in the kitchen, puttering happily around, checking on the mashed potatoes, the green beans, the smoked turkey…you know, the usual.  The smell in the house was heavenly—oak logs burning in the wood stove, a hint of garlic in the potatoes, and buttery croissants baking in the oven.  Tom (my husband) was reading in his recliner; Ariel and Benjamin (my children) were talking and laughing together on the couch, with Benjamin noodling around on his guitar.  I was standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the mountains in the fog and thinking how fortunate we were to live in this lovely place, to be in this house—a warm refuge from the cold rain outside.

Benjamin began to sing, strumming the guitar, and Ariel joined in, harmonizing:

You—who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good-bye…

For those of you that don’t recognize the song, it’s Teach Your Children by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.  I came around the corner and stood listening.  Tom put down his book and began to sing along:

And you of tender years
Can’t know the fears
That your elders grew by.
And so please help
Them with your youth
They seek the truth
Before they can die.

I stood there gazing at my family, beaming, my whole being suffused with happiness.  They sang on, stumbling over some of the words they didn’t know and sometimes getting a little off-key.   But they sang the chorus loud, strong, and sure, especially the last two lines:

…So just look at them and sigh
    And know they love you.

They finished with a flourish, laughing.  I looked at them and sighed with contentment and knew I loved them…beyond imagining. 

And then…the kitchen timer rang.  I went back to the kitchen, taking the bread out of the oven and adding a little more garlic to the green beans.  As I stirred the beans, the tears came, flowing down my face and dropping into the beans.  I let them flow and just stirred them in.  I put all the food on the table and called everyone to eat.

We said a simple prayer of thanks, passed the dishes around, and dug in.  “Mmm,” said Tom.  “These green beans are extra good.”

I smiled and said, “Not too salty?”

“No,” he said.  “Just right.”

Yes, I thought, as I took a bite of the beans and smiled at my family. Yes indeed. 

Just right.

Part Three: Six Guilty Pleasures

It might seem a little strange or shallow to post this on Thanksgiving Day, when others are writing lovely and profound pieces on gratitude.  But when I thought about it, I realized that the fact that I’ve made peace with certain things about myself is indeed something to be thankful for, as is the fact that my husband and children accept and love me as I am.   Happy Thanksgiving.

Name six guilty pleasures you once considered guilty but you now have either abandoned or made peace with:

1. I sleep with a stuffed animal at night.  No, I don’t mean my husband, though I do sleep with him, too.  I mean I sleep with a stuffed rabbit I got as an adult.  And I make no apologies.  I’m a very mature and responsible adult, and I’m not ashamed—it helps me sleep and gives me comfort and hurts no one.  I didn’t have one as a child, so it fulfils a need I always had.  My husband is fine with it.  And if you’ve got a problem with it, well… you’ve got a problem.

2. As a child, I loved the smell of mothballs.  I think it’s because my mama kept our quilts in a trunk with mothballs, pulling them out when the weather got cold.  So I associate the smell of mothballs with comfort and warmth, and when I was small, I’d inhale deeply the mothball smell of the quilt as my mama pulled it up to my chin at night.   But they are now known to be pretty serious carcinogens, so no more deep breathing of mothball fumes for me.

3. I am not thin and svelte. In fact, my ex-husband used to say that I was “hearty peasant stock,” meaning…not petite.  (And he didn’t mean that as a compliment). I used to worry a little about this and feel guilty when I’d eat something I knew to be highly caloric.  No more.  I adore food, so when I do partake of a high-fat indulgence, I savor every bite.  I just make sure I eat healthy otherwise and that I don’t indulge myself too often and that I buy things with elastic.  Thank God for elastic.

4. Though we don’t have much money, I do occasionally buy books.  For one thing, our local library seldom has the book I want to read.  For another, I love owning a book, especially a new one.  (See post below).  I don’t buy many clothes or shoes or spend much on beauty (though I probably should)!  So I don’t feel guilty buying books, especially those I know I’ll read again and again.

5. I indulge my love for yard art.  I love whirligigs and windchimes and gnomes and pink flamingoes and ceramic frogs and…well, the list goes on and on.  Yeah, I like stuff that some consider bad taste or tacky, but I don’t care.  I could never stand to live in one of those communities with covenants that ban certain “distasteful” yard ornaments.  Nobody’s going to take my gnomes from my home.  No sirree.

6. My greatest pleasure ever is being a mother.  It’s not a guilty pleasure, but I used to worry a bit about the fact that I wasn’t like the other mothers.  At school functions, I’d feel so out of place, and I’d worry that I’d embarrass my children. I mean, it was pretty obvious that these mothers had never told their children that their food had been nibbled by a mischievous kitchen rat! (See post below).  But my children love me as I am.  And I love them as they are.  A lot.  So I’ve stopped comparing myself to other mothers.   I yam what I yam, as Popeye always said.  

And that’s not so bad.

And now, I hereby tag anyone who would like to be tagged for this meme.  It really was a lot of fun to do, even if I did ramble.  But no need to feel guilty about that!

Part Two: Six Guilty Pleasures

Name six guilty pleasures you wish you had the courage (or money!) to indulge:

1. I have always had a longing to see Niagara Falls.  Now I know for those of you who are world travelers, that must seem kind of…I dunno…quotidian.  But, really, I’ve always wanted to go there.  Funny thing is, I’ve never had the inclination (or money) to travel overseas, but I’ve always yearned to see all of the United States and Canada, though I’ve barely made it beyond North Carolina or Virginia.  Maybe someday…when I have more time and money.

2. North Carolina has a rich heritage of literature, a very active community of writers, and a wonderful organization called the North Carolina Writer’s Network.  As Lee Smith once said, you can hardly throw a rock in North Carolina without hitting a writer.  The Network has lots of workshops and a yearly festival.  I’d like to go someday to the workshops and the festival and talk to other writers.  Maybe someday…when I have more courage, time, and money.

3. I’d like to learn to play the cello.  When I listen to recordings of Yo-Yo Ma, it really strikes a chord in me (no pun intended).  Sometimes I find myself listening with tears running down my face, and sometimes, I feel an actual vibration in my body, as though I am the cello being played.  Yeah, I know.  Weird.   But the cello…um…really resonates with me.

4. I’d like to own a laptop.  The idea of sitting outside while tapping away on my laptop is very exciting because outside is where my creative inspiration strikes most often.  Plus, people just look really hip and cool reclining with their laptops perched on their stomachs, and Lord knows, I’ve always wanted to look hip and cool.  My daughter Ariel loves the laptop she had to get for college, and she looks especially hip and cool with it.  When she was small, she drew a keyboard on the inside of old pizza boxes and pretended it was a laptop.  She really looked cool pretending that, but I don’t think I would. 

5. I would like to finish my novel.  I started one about three years ago, but my life took a turn for the worse for a time, and I lost my muse.  That’s why I started this blog—to find it again.  Ah, well…maybe someday…when I have more…courage and confidence.

6. I don’t suppose this is a guilty pleasure, but it is a wish.  I wish I weren’t so painfully shy.  Perhaps you can’t see it from my writing, but I can barely talk when I meet new people, and I can barely breathe when I’m in a crowd.  So when I say painfully shy, I mean it is physically painful for me sometimes to interact with people.  Only my family (and my friends to some extent) know who I really am because it takes me so long to open up to people.  But now that I think about it, maybe you, my faithful readers, know me after all.  Because my writing, I think, reveals who I am–for better or for worse. 

******Okay, well, I didn’t mean to get so serious here or be so long-winded either.  Sorry.  There’s something about the holidays that makes me pensive.  But, again, if you’re interested—Part Three will be tomorrow—Six Guilty Pleasures You Once Considered Guilty But Have Either Abandoned or Made Peace With.******

Six Guilty Pleasures

 

My friend June over at Spatter tagged me with a meme:  Six Guilty Pleasures.  And it’s been kind of fun doing it.  June herself wrote a great post on it here.   Now, the truth is, I don’t feel near as guilty as I should when I do these things, but I’ll pretend I do. 

Name six guilty pleasures no one would suspect you of having:

1. I buy Nestle’s Toll House Semi-Sweet Chocolate Morsels and Nestle’s Toll House Butterscotch Morsels regularly to make my children’s favorite oatmeal cookies to send to them at college. At least, that’s my premise for purchase.  Truthfully, many of those morsels never make it into the cookies.   Because I eat them.   By the handful.  No, make that plural.  Handfuls.  Both the chocolate and the butterscotch.  I keep them in a small Tupperware container for easy, surreptitious access.  The butterscotch ones are uncommonly good with peanut butter, which brings me to number two…

2. I love peanut butter.  I mean, really, really love peanut butter.  I’m a Jif girl, always have been.  I eat peanut butter by the spoonful (but I don’t double dip!).  We buy it in huge quantities—in those giant jars.  Last time we went to Sam’s Club, we bought ten jars.  Partly to give to our son Benjamin because he is nuts (no pun intended) about it, too, but really, I personally eat at least one of those jars every single week. If it weren’t for Nestle’s Morsels and peanut butter, I’d be thin and svelte.

3. And speaking of food, back when my children were small, sometimes when preparing their food, I’d be so hungry, I’d take a bite.  Being the alert and clever children that they are, they’d usually notice and ask indignantly, “Who took that bite?”  I invented a story about a greedy kitchen rat named Raggedy Rat who would always take a bite of something when I turned my back. “Darn that Raggedy Rat!” I’d exclaim.  I always thought they’d bought my story until they told me years later that they were always onto me.  They never were easy to fool, though Lord knows I tried.

4. Regular readers of my blog may remember my “googly eyes” post .  If you’re new to my blog, I’ll wait while you go read it.   No, really, I don’t mind.   Go ahead.
                
                  *goes to kitchen to find some morsels*
                  *eats a spoonful of peanut butter*
     
I’m back.  Did you read it?  Well, here’s my new guilty pleasure.  Sometimes, I  put googly eyes on fruits and vegetables at the grocery store.  It doesn’t do any  harm (they peel right off) and I know it makes people laugh because I’ve loitered  around to see reactions.      

5. I love to eavesdrop.  I don’t mean I lurk in closets or behind bushes to overhear private conversations.  I mean, I love to sit in a public place and listen to conversations.  I would much rather listen to people talk than to talk myself, which you probably don’t believe due to the fact that I do seem to ramble on at some length in my posts.  Trust me; I’m really very shy and quiet.

6. When I say I love books, I don’t just mean I love to read, though I do.  I do get a lot of books from the library, but on the happy occasions when I buy or receive a brand new book, I take enormous sensuous pleasure in the newness of that book.  I inhale that new book smell, I run my fingers across the cover (I particularly love it when the cover has dimension), and I even relish the sound of pages ruffling and the little puff of air when you ruffle them.  Yeah, I know that a little weird. But it’s the truth.        

My goodness, how embarrassing.  I’ve rambled on so long that I’ll have to post Part Two tomorrow, Six Guilty Pleasures You Wish You Had the Courage to Indulge.  Not that you’d be interested.  But if you are…

The Couch That Sailed the Ocean Blue

 

Looks like a common, ordinary couch, doesn’t it?  In fact, maybe a little less than ordinary.  If our couch were a person, you’d probably call it down-on-its-luck, down and out, underprivileged.  It has seen better days.

But there’s more to our couch than meets the eye.  With our intrepid children always at the helm, it has sailed on the high seas, thundered down railroad tracks loaded with dangerous cargo, and carried busloads of happy schoolchildren safely home.  It has raced in Nascar, the Indianapolis 500, and in rallies down steep mountain roads.  Its cushions have been transformed into forts to protect our home from the forces of evil and have become nests for tired little baby birds and homes for faithful Teddy Bears.  Our couch has flown in the clouds as an airliner and through the starry night as a magic carpet.  This couch has been places.

If you looked through our family photographs, you’d notice that this couch shows up in a lot of them.  It’s where my husband and I loved to read and where we’d curl up with our children to nurture their love of reading.  It’s where beloved friends and family sat when they visited, including many who have now passed away.  It’s also the scene of a bit of cherished family lore involving a eight-inch long skink that crawled up my arm while we were watching a movie.  Legend has it that I leapt, in a single bound, over the back of the couch. 

I bought it, when my now college-age children were babies, at a yard sale in an upscale North Raleigh neighborhood.  The lady of the house saw me looking longingly at it and came over. 

“You know, that couch cost me $1800.00.  And it has stayed in my living room and never, ever been touched by my children.” 

I smiled at her and thought, That’s gonna change real soon.

And it did.  My children have touched just about every square inch of that couch at one time or another.  And they have traveled many, many miles on it in the oceans, roads, and skies of their infinite imaginations. 

I have a confession to make:  I was thinking of throwing it out, of sending it to the Great Living Room in the Sky. (It’s too shabby to give to Goodwill.)  So, why was I thinking of saying goodbye to such a faithful old friend?  Well, for one thing, when company comes, I have to try to steer them to other seats.  Because once you sit down, you sink to such depths that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to rise again.  It’s a little embarrassing.  And for another, it just looks so bedraggled.  Tom has rebuilt it twice, but it is getting beyond help. 

But when I told my son Benjamin, he was beside himself.  “I love that couch.  You can’t throw it away.  I love that more than anything we own.”

I was incredulous.  “More than the pie safe?  More than the china cabinet?”  Both treasured family heirlooms. 

“Yes, more than those.  Please don’t get rid of it!”

So, thanks to Benjamin, our couch is here to stay.  At least until he gets out of college.  Then, it will sit in his very first apartment. He’ll curl up on it, in his favorite corner spot, where it sags just right for nesting.  I can see him there now, reading, playing guitar, or dozing.  Dozing—as he dreams of the days when couches could fly through starry skies, could hurtle down curvy mountain roads, and could take you anywhere you dreamed of going.

The Hazards of a Hug (or When Bear Hugs Get a Little Hairy)

Warning:  Boring, whiny, self-indulgent post ahead.

I mentioned briefly in my last post that I had sustained a “small” injury.  Well, it was small in terms of the actual body part injured, but since that body part seems to be rubbing up against a nerve ending, it turns out to be large in terms of pain, which is getting worse instead of better. 

Hence, this post.  Those that know me well know that I have a very hard time asking for help, so the fact that I’m writing this is some measure of my desperation.  At the risk of boring you to tears, I thought I’d fling this into cyberspace and see what comes back.  Hopefully, this will be my first and last post seeking free medical advice.  

The way it happened is almost comic.  My brother and his wife had come to visit and were taking their leave.  We were out on the porch taking last-minute pictures and giving big hugs in the way of long, long goodbyes that Southerners are prone to.  Janet and I were giving each other a big, ole bear hug, when I felt something go Thwack in my chest.  It felt sort of like a fan belt broke loose—it hit my chest with that much force.

In fact, Janet felt it too and jumped back.  I clutched my chest in amazement.  She looked so stricken that my first words were to reassure her that it was nothing she had done.  Then I thought, “What in the hell was that?”

It did hurt, but mainly when I breathed deeply—at first.  And, no, the Thwack was not the sound like a rib breaking would make.  It was more of a big Snap against my chest, like a giant rubber band.

Here’s where I tell you that I have a well-earned aversion to doctors.  Except for when I clearly have a raging infection that only antibiotics will cure, I always take the Wait-and-See approach.  Our bodies have wondrous self-healing properties.

But now I’m hurting more than I did at first.  I am even considering taking the ancient Darvocet I found in our cabinet.  And I’m real stoical about pain.   (Endured long and difficult labors with natural childbirth without so much as a Tylenol or cuss word—twice).   But it hurts when I bend over, it hurts when I breathe, it hurts when I push or pull with my left arm, and it hurts when I rise up from lying down.  And not just in my chest.  Because of the compressed nerve, I think, it hurts both in my back and in my shoulder.  It’s sort of like someone keeps running me through with a sword. 

So I did Internet research and finally came up with a pretty certain diagnosis—I have  “slipping rib syndrome.”  I know, it sounds kind of silly, but that’s what they call it.  Apparently, one or two of my ribs have pulled away from the ligaments that usually hold them in place and the cartilage tip of the ribs are slipping upward and impinging on the intercostal nerves.  So my ribs are literally getting on my nerves.

I believe this is the result of a long-ago injury to my chest and rib area when I was taking care of my Mama.  She had Lou Gehrig’s Disease and was in a wheelchair.  I often had to lift her when other measures weren’t effective.  She weighed about 160 pounds, and I recall feeling something tear in my chest and hurt afterwards once when I lifted her.  So I think the seeds were sown then for this injury, and the chickens have come home to roost.  (Is that a mixed metaphor, or what?!)

Anyway, the purpose of this long and dull post is to find out if anybody out there has any clue what I should do to hasten the healing and ease the pain.  (If you’re still awake and reading, that is).  I’ve been taking the maximum Excedrin, as well as Valerian to relax my muscles and Glucosamine and Chondroitin to build up cartilage and connective tissue.  And when I am able to do so, I’ve been applying heat to the area. 

Please forgive me for whining.  And for one of the worst mixed metaphors ever in the history of blogging.  Apparently, being unable to breathe deeply has starved my brain of oxygen.  But I know you understand.