One down...

Lydia asked if I had 8 cats or if the extra four would have made eight. The answer is: I have 8 cats.

Koala is my blind 16 year old (I think) blue calico. Someone we knew was feeding her, but their cats didn't like her, so she needed a new home. Robert wanted a cat for his birthday. Since his birthday is in January, the animal shelter didn't have a lot. I don't think the guy understood I didn't want a kitten, but it worked out. Koala is a dear.

Before I could get her spayed, she had a litter. Her son Colby is with us still. Her daughters Maggie and Alyss live with my brother. Colby is yellow and white and does a fine imitation of a bear rug.

Joseph brought home Mars, who is getting spayed today. She is doing well, I hear from the vet's office. She has had too many litters. We have Taz, a black long-haired male.

And we have the four kittens, currently called Moosetracks (calico), Turtletracks (tortoiseshell), Charley (black and white), and Thierry (gray and white.) I don't want to keep them, but I've had bad luck giving away cats, except to relatives and close friends. They are full up right now.

So, I am going to have the kittens spayed or neutered, then find homes. At least then, I won't feel guilty about giving them away to make more and more cats. Even though they are beautiful and sweet, there are enough of them.

A Sunday morning in August

It is August in South Carolina. The month in which television weathermen tape their weather report and go on vacation. "Highs in the high 90s or low 100s. Folks, it's going to be hot out there. Drink plenty of water and bring your umbrella because there may be some pop-up thunderstorms with hail the size of Volkswagens. There is a chance of high winds. Have a nice day."

Sometimes, just for variety, there is a hurricane somewhere. People in SC care about hurricanes. Even if it is in the Yucatan peninsula, South Carolinians will buy bottled water, extra batteries, and white bread. You never know when those babies will change course. It's not just SC, of course. People in from Florida to Texas and up to North Carolina feel the same way.

This morning, it is sunny but hazy, which means nothing. Last night there was a magnificent storm. I think it was centered on my house. Lightning and thunder blasted at the same time. The bedroom was lit up with flashes. It was like the footage of the bombing of Baghdad. Very scary, especially with two large pine trees right outside of my bedroom window.

But there is little or no damage here. I'll send the boys out to pick up pine cones and limbs, but I don't think we'll need the chain saw. My son and daughter-in-law didn't call to tell us a tree fell on their house. I haven't heard from other family or friends, so I believe everyone is safe and sound.

At least until tonight. Got to go buy batteries...

Cats and more cats

Yesterday, when I got home, I heard a voice calling me. A neighbor I have met and talked with but don't know well.

She has told me that she loves our cats (a good thing, since they WILL walk in her yard) but that she has three (or four?) rescue dogs that don't like them so much. Yesterday, she told me that she had a litter of kittens that had been left at her office. They are less than two months old. It is amazing they are alive. She is keeping them in her house, but...

I panicked. After making the right "Oh, my," noises, I thought "Please don't ask me to take the kittens. I will say yes and Bob will leave the house and never come back."

She simply asked me to let her know if anyone wanted a kitten or four. I said I would. She said she was very attached and wanted to keep them, but wasn't sure if it was a good idea. I told her that our cats had always known to stay out of fenced in areas that contained dogs and that inside the dogs and cats seemed to get along.

I said I'd keep a look out for anyone who wants cats, and she'd see how it worked out for now. I know it will.

And then I vowed to call Dr. Battle and make an appointment to have Mars spayed. They are all lovely cats, it always works out for now, but I think we will stop at eight cats.

And, by the way: Do you know anyone who wants a lovely kitten? Or three?

August First

I decided to change the layout of the blog. It's sort of like redecorating the house, but without the paint fumes.

My AOL horoscope told me that a new moon in my sign is a good time to start new things, which I guess it good. I'd kind of like to finish some of my old things though. So maybe my new thing will be finishing what I've started. The baby blanket for Gabe (who will be a year old August 17). The scrapbook from the trip we took two years ago. The Charter for the new middle school. The Enrolled Agent Exam. The kitchen. The garden.

Maybe finishing will be my new thing. Then I can start a whole new bunch of new things and spend the next 48 years finishing them.

6 Words to Describe What I Want My Home to Be

I think we've come up with six words (or phrases, since we are ornery folk and don't follow rules.)

• Clean
• Friendly
• Safe
• Light
• Cheerful
• Orderly

Wow, those were single words. Now for the ornery part.

I've discussed clean at length: clean, but you don't have to be able to eat off the floor. However, it would be nice if you felt good about eating off the table.

Friendly, but not too friendly. Come on by, sit a spell, go home. Y'all come back now, y'here?

Safe. It seems self-explanatory, but home safe means more than a roof & walls that keep out rain and burglars and other bad things. It is a place to be yourself and to be accepted with all of your weird dreams and bad moods and wishes for hugs even if you are a big boy/man or girl/woman. Of course, if you are in a really really really bad mood: go to your room and be miserable there. That's why you have your own room. Thank you.

Light. I love natural light. I often prefer the natural light to be gray and overcast, but I'll take a big window with light sheers over drapes and closets each and every day. Often I'll work or read in the natural light instead of turning on the electric ones. People will say, "Don't you need a light?" "You'll ruin your eyes." "Where are you?" I don't care. I say I have a headache and need lower light. I'm often lying, but don't tell.

Cheerful addresses my idea of decorating. I like bright colors. I want great big prints of sunflowers and poppies. I want my cinnamon couch covered with yellow and blue and green pillows. In my dream world, cheerful involves plants growing and things baking, but that's a want rather than a need. I do have African Violets.

Orderly, as we all know, is different from clean. Clean means you won't find bugs or syrup on it. Orderly means you can find it. I want to be able to find all of these things that belong in my house. When I decide (someday) to decorate those glass balls I bought at Michael's, I want to be able to find: the balls, the paint, the ribbon, the sequins, the dried herbs, the whatever. I'm unnaturally attached to my label maker, or I would be if I could find it. I'm unnaturally attached to the IDEA of a label maker. With bright colored labels. Labeling bright colored canvas boxes...

Sunday morning

My horoscope tells me to take time to relax today. That is particularly tempting, since my sinuses are bother me, throwing off my hearing and balance as well as my mood. I'd like very much to go back to bed with a book. I won't of course, not yet.

I am taking my oldest son to my office so that he can install ceiling lights. In our back office, we can't see at night. Not a big problem in the summer when we close at 4:30 and the sun doesn't close until 8:30, but a very big problem in the winter when we try to close at 6:00, but don't, and the sun has left us by 5. We have a ceiling fan with a light which the boss wants to keep. I'm down with that, since I don't want a big tray fluorescent light. So Robert will install two little eyeball lights over the desks. It should provide light without being obtrusive. I can't wait. I can wait to go into the office on a Sunday morning, of course. Oh well.

Then I am cleaning all of my dishes, sorting cans, bins and bags, and reassembling my kitchen. I don't know if we've made any headway for the long run, but the shelves are clean and I'm ready to go. Sort of.

Civil War

One word that comes to mind when I think of what my home should be is "Welcoming." Doesn't everyone want their home to be welcoming? Maybe not. And a part of me doesn't want mine to be too welcoming either.

There is an internal battle between two aspects of my personality. I call them "the Hermit" and "the Hostess." The Hostess reads Martha Stewart Living and thinks of all sorts of cute things to do to make the house welcoming to hoards of theoretical guests. She buys things that will make really cute party decorations. The Hermit points out that the house is in no shape to receive guests. They agree on that, and the Hostess suggests getting to work, cleaning, painting, and arranging pretty things. The Hermit says, sure, but let's read up on it first. Then she gets a book and three magazines on decorating and goes to the hammock.

I don't think the Hermit wants company and she knows that the Hostess wants something close to perfection before she starts hosting. You can see who has the advantage here.

So, do I want my house welcoming? I think it's unrealistic to think the house will be perfect, of course. It's also unrealistic to fear that it will be so welcoming I won't be able to get rid of people. It would be nice to have friends over for dinner or just to hang out awhile. Not too long. Not past 8:00 on a week night. Maybe not on a weeknight at all...

Maybe I can have some people for dinner. The Hermit is getting three cookbooks and a half dozen magazines. Maybe I'll just have a cook-out. The Hostess is rushing to World Market to buy cute cook out containers, napkins, throws... Maybe I'll just sit down and read my book while they work it out.

OK, my house should be:

1. Clean
2. Welcoming, but not too welcoming

Two and a half down, four to go.

home is...

The question was asked (by Annie at writers and witches, and words...oh my! who asks the best questions) what six words would you like to have describe your house. I have been thinking about this and asking my children and husband what they think.

Since they are men, they have trouble with the exercise. I say, if the house were the way you want it to be, what words would describe it?

They say, clean, which is cool. I say, let's go beyond that. Let's accept clean (first word: "Clean"), then talk about what other words would describe it.

They look at me, puzzle their faces, think hard and say, "If we all pitch in, we can keep it clean."

I say, I know. Clean. I have clean. Now close your eyes... no, don't roll them, close them. OK, keep your eyes open. The house is clean...

"It's not."

I know it isn't. We're working on that. Now move beyond clean...

"It doesn't have to be beyond clean," they say. "Not like we're going to eat off the floor."

My turn to roll my eyes. Close my eyes. Sigh.

OK, so some houses are formal.

"I don't think you can have a formal house. Not with Gabe and the baby to be named later."

I know, I'm just trying to make a point.

"Me too. If it's formal, the babies will tear it up."

I rub my head.

What about color? If you could paint your room any color you want, (but you can't paint it black), what would it be?

"I can paint it black," says Joseph.

You MAY NOT paint it black. (Pause while they sing "Paint it Black")

Bob adds: "Don't paint it any weird colors." Since I'm not ready to talk color, really, I let it pass.

OK, so what do you want?

"Clean and not formal."

"You can't have formal with kids."

How about if I have a house without kids? Or husbands? Or grown children?

"That wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

So, bottom line: we're working on it. Clean, informal. And don't even consider quiet.

The Third of July

I am ready for the long long weekend. Since I don't work on Friday, I am trying to take Thursday off, at least mentally. While waiting for people to pick up their payroll checks, I am making lists of things I need for the barbecue tomorrow. I'm bringing a watermelon, buns, chips, a croquet set (look J, I spelled it correctly!), and my family. I will need more sunscreen, chairs, towels, sunscreen, hats...

When I leave here, I will stop at the produce stand down the road. She has watermelon at 2 for $6, which isn't bad. I saw pretty tomatoes as I drove by this morning. She has flowers and other plants, too. I wonder if I can get them in the ground this weekend?

A good thing about a Friday holiday is that you get the visiting over with on Friday and can recover on Saturday and Sunday. I have lots to do this weekend. I am trying to scrub my kitchen cabinets. We started last weekend and didn't finish, so the cabinets are empty but the living room is full. I'll grab the kids and start scrubbing on Saturday.

I am also reading the Narnia books. They are shorter than I remember, written on maybe a fourth grade level. The theology/philosophy is more mature. I've read articles about the books by people trying to tie the stories to Biblical events, which shows they don't get the point at all. Religion & spirituality is about how we are now, not how they were then. It is growing and continuing, not engraved in stone. But that's just my belief, of course.

So I have a good bit of reading to do. I'm also reading Dracula, which is a little spiritual too. I recently finished The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. It is about Dracula, sort of, and the style is similar to Bram Stoker's, which means it's more formal than I am used to reading. But it has made me think about evil both supernatural and natural. I wonder if I can protect my children from pedophiles, murderers, and thugs by wrapping them with garlic and wild rose? I might give it a shot.

And now the payroll has gone out. I will head home with my lists and try to get everything done before I crawl in bed with my books. Wish me luck and fortitude. I think I'll need both.

Fruit Cocktail and other trials of mothering

I have been thinking a lot about food, parenting, and fruit lately. This meandering has lead me to a strange childhood fruit cocktail memory. I hope I haven't shared this already. I'm too lazy to check.

When we were children, we loved fruit cocktail in the can. The can only had one to two cherries --- maraschino cherries that don't really look like cherries. You know what I'm talking about. So when we had fruit cocktail, Mom would cut the cherries up and make sure each of the three children had the same number. We always checked.

As Mark and I ate fruit cocktail that a church man gave us this morning, I told him that story. He looked at me quizzically, a pretty standard Mark look. I offered him the cherry. He said, "No thanks, I don't care for that."

I also remember that for awhile Mom bought three kinds of cookies at the store (Oreos, chocolate chip, and wedding cookies) and divided them into three containers. Each child had his/her own container and when it was gone, it was gone for... I guess a couple of weeks. I remember checking to make sure my siblings didn't steal my cookies. I remember trying to make mine last longer than the others, but I doubt I was successful.

Equality was very important to Mom. She counted jelly beans into our Easter baskets and chocolates into our Christmas stockings, making sure each of us had exactly the same amount. She told me that she always spent the exact same amount on each of us for Christmas and birthday presents. I don't remember thinking that my brother and sister got more than me (except the cherries), but I guess she made sure the issue never came up. Even if one of us needed something and the others didn't, she'd make sure we either all got it or no one did. She continued this even as we grew to adults.

I don't know if this is a good plan. It seems that "to each according to his need" would be more reasonable, but then, I'm a pretty needy person.

Sometimes I worry about giving my children equal treatment, and I know that right now, I'm not. Will someone be short changed, or will it even out in the long run? I think I need to be mindful of the way I give attention --- material and emotional. But just as some children don't need as much help materially, some don't want as much emotional contact. I try to give them all of what they need and some of what they want. And I think that's working out, but I do think I need to evaluate the whole thing.

And of course, stop rambling...

Happy Birthday Mark

Today is Mark's 10th birthday. I don't have any babies any more, even if I insist on calling my adult children and my "tween" baby. Mark, Bob and cousin Roslyn are at the movies --- Prince Caspian. Mark and Bob read (well, reread) the book so they would be ready for the movie. At first they read together, but they finished it up separately. I am making a cake and preparing for tacos and tostados for tonight.

It is a tradition in my family to tell embarrassing stories on someones birthday, but I think I'll forgo that. Mark doesn't like it when he is the star of my stories. I've told him he has to live with it. I like to tell Mark stories because he constantly amazes me with his insight and his cleverness. He is funny and kind, smart and witty, and cute as a button. I expect him to grow into a fine, caring, independent young man, as my other sons have done and are doing. I'd feel smug, but I often wonder at them. How did they become such wonderful people? Good men. Good friends. Good sons.

Luck and love and laughter. That's all I can figure. It sure wasn't home cooking.

Wrapping up the year

Next week is the last week of school. The children are taking the second half of the PACT this week. PACT is the SC mandated test to see what our children know. Unfortunately, it's a "gotcha" test. No one is allowed to know what will be on the PACT except that it will cover "The Standards." The standards are broad and deep and impossible to cover in a year, especially if the children need to actually learn the information. Another problem with the PACT is that the results will come out in the fall and will be reported as basic, below basic, proficient, and advanced. Whatever that means. As a tool for assessment, it is useless. Students and teachers don't know what skills and knowledge are lacking and even the broad "basic/etc." scoring doesn't come out soon enough to be meaningful or helpful.

At Carolina School for Inquiry, the preparation for the PACT is a low-stress process that is supposed to familiarize kids with the test format and understand testing as a genre. Since one of the reasons we started an inquiry based child centered charter school was that we were concerned that regular public schools were teaching to the PACT rather than for life after the test, it is frustrating to have the PACT as such an important indicator for us. "Yeah, it's great that the kids are happy learning and that they seek out new opportunities and that they can tie together knowledge and skills from all areas and apply it in life. But what do your PACT scores look like?"

Frustrating, but a fact of life. We may not like it, but it's there. It is to be hoped: 1) that our students will show their learning on the PACT this year and 2) that our state will choose a test for next year that will provide accountability while giving a useful measure of learning. I'm feeling pretty good about both of those things.

Now appearing in the role of Ophelia...

When I was a child, we went to visit my mother's sister and her family in Maryland every Christmas and every summer. I always loved the visits, except for one thing. My mother would change from the competent, active, intelligent woman I knew into an insecure younger sister. For at least part of the time, my mother would turn into a ten year old, her sister would turn 15 and her brother would turn 5. It wasn't pretty.

It isn't pretty when it happens to me either. Even though I spend more time with my father and siblings than Mom did with her family, I still have a role and I don't play it so well. Instead of being an intelligent woman, a good mother, a competent & knowledgeable accountant, a problem-solver, I become the bright but flaky and slightly unstable sister. Even though I haven't thrown an object at anyone in over 20 years, I am the fish-wife, the temper-tantrum thrower.

My brother and sister don't pin me to these roles as much as my parents did, and my father continues to do. Sometimes, I sense that they are disappointed in me and my choices, but it isn't crippling. However, I have realized that it is a waste of time for me to talk to my father about anything that is important to me. When I talk about the charter school which I helped start and for which I serve as board chair, he says, "why do you waste your time on that?" Recently he asked me about the tax consequences of selling his house and when I tried to explain, he picked up a magazine and sighed, "Never mind, I'll ask Pete (the non-relative he pays to prepare his taxes.)" I spend a good part of my days making tax consequences understandable to people who don't do math. I am known as someone who can explain accounting principles in English. But not to my father, who only hears an 8 year old who wants to watch the Monkees when everyone else wants to watch something else.

I would like to say that it doesn't matter, but it continues to haunt me. When I need to ask for something or stand up for a point of view, I hear a voice telling me that I am a fish-wife and I am never satisfied. When I succeed, the voice points out how lucky I am and that luck can change. My inner sound track is "don't get too full of yourself." It plays in chorus with "pretty is as pretty does."

I can work on changing the song, but I'm not going to change my father's picture of me. Since there are more good things about visiting than bad things, I'll continue to visit. But I will check myself at the door, and not make the mistake of sharing hopes or fears only to have them used as further examples of my foolish inability to deal with the world. But I really really need a new theme song.

Happy Birthday Dad

Yesterday was my father's 77th birthday. Today, we are having a party for him. Many friends and relatives are coming from all over to be here. It will be a wonderful party.

His two sisters are coming, along with his sister-in-law. Two or three of our cousins will be here. Old friends from Dad's work at USC will stand with students he has taught over the years.

I am making mini-cheesecakes. Jello no-bake cheesecakes. Back in the day, before we discovered baked "New York style" cheesecake, that is what we thought of as cheesecake. My father always had it for his birthday cake. For today, I bought a cheesecake sampler with rich baked cheesecake, but I am making the mini-Jello cheesecakes. The cakes will be served with a choice of toppings --- chocolate chips in chocolate syrup, fresh strawberries in melted jam, and caramel with pecans.

My other contributions to the party meal are also old standbys. Cocktail sausage in barbeque sauce (recipe: open package of mini-cocktail sausages; pour in a bowl with a bottle of Shealy's mustard based barbeque sauce; nuke til hot), Saucisse en croûte (pig in the blanket), and deviled eggs. My brother will make the fancy stuff: pesto torte & other stuff I can't spell but which will taste good. My sister is providing the place and contributing meatballs, veggie platter, and chicken salad.

A good time will be had by all, I am sure.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Doldrums

It is said that one shouldn't make big decisions during a crisis or time of stress. I'm not sure what that leaves, because I'm finding it hard to make decisions in the aftermath of stress time. I guess I need a vacation.

Tax season is over, and I am immediately hit with my LIST OF THINGS TO DO AFTER TAX SEASON. Clients, bless their hearts, do not understand that although I don't plan to wait until October 31 to do their tax returns, I need a freaking break, and no, bringing in a box of stuff April 12 did NOT give me enough time to get it done by April 15.

My house needs attention pretty soon. My new car needs an oil change (it actually tells me these things, which is sort of cool.)

I have planted some seeds in my incomplete accidental garden, but I don't have the cash flow I'd expected at this time of year and can't buy more plants right now. If the seeds I bought earlier grow, that will be nice. A surprise, of course, since my gardening method is to plant stuff and go away. I'd like to buy some tomato plants to plant in pots around the deck. Maybe the cash flow will improve next month.

Part of my cash flow problem is related to the purchase of a study program for the enrolled agents exam. I think it is a good investment. I've started working on it, and plan to finish the exam (three parts) by the end of July. July 30 is my birthday, so I've set that as a goal date.

I am torn right now. I can go to work a little (helping the cash flow and making some clients happy) or I can clean my house (helping my psyche and getting rid of that unpleasant odor in the garbage can beside my chair.)

I feel like a revving engine stuck in the mud. Where to go? Will I get moving before I run out of gas? And will someone please take out this dang trash can?

The First Day of Not Tax Season

It is the first day of Not Tax Season, and I feel fine. The temperature is near freezing, but will warm up. The birds and flowers seem to have appeared while I was gone. My pepper seeds are peeking out. I talked to a client who told me she'd have a new bunch of plants on Friday, so I may work on my butterfly garden.

I have lots of work to do. I have to prepare weekly payrolls and monthly & quarterly sales tax reports, catch up on bookwork. I have a few tax returns that were brought in the last week that need to be finished, even though the extension is until October. Then I'll go to my April 17 list and contact everyone I said I'd talk to after tax season. Sometime soon, we will pack up old files and clean the office.

But today, I am going in at 9 and leaving at about 1. I am cleaning my house and visiting my child's school. I am buying fruit and whole wheat cereal. I might even walk around the block.

3:25 p.m.

3:25 p.m. This is as low as my energy level can go without me actually falling asleep. This is the time of day when I think that siestas are a really really good idea. I go for caffeine and chocolate and walks in the yard. I would do jumping jacks, but my bra wouldn't hold up and I might put an eye out or something.

I wonder (again) why I think doing taxes is a good idea. Why do I have the one job guaranteed to make me miss out on spring? Why can't I be Santa Claus and do the heavy lifting in the middle of winter when I don't want to go outside anyway? Why can't I be a lifeguard? Other than because I don't swim all that well, of course. Why can't I be independently wealthy?

Huh, I must have fallen asleep. Better take a jog around the yard and get back to work. Where did I put that stack of 1099s?

Up for Air

It is sunny outside, as I can tell by peeking through the blinds. I think it's still cool, but the wisteria and forsythia have made their debuts. When I walk around the yard in the hope of clearing my tax-bogged mind, I can smell the wisteria wafting on the breeze.

Waft. I don't know what the word means, really, but it sounds like what wisteria's scent does. I'll walk across a yard and sense a light scent, a hint of licorice and sugar. I look around, but don't see anything until my mind remembers... look up. And there it is in the tops of the trees. Clusters of purple flowers, looking like extra bright grapes, high in the trees.

Sometimes the wisteria is too much for the tree, and the tree --- usually a pine --- will fall over, leaving the wisteria to hold it up until it snakes over to another tree or fence or house.

Once I decided to trim my wisteria so it would bloom closer to the ground. The main vine, which was about as large around as the pine tree, became infested with bugs and collapsed. I was sad, until a few weeks later, when wisteria started popping up everywhere. When the main vine collapsed, the little tendrils and underground root decided to seek revenge on my yard. Now the whole back yard has colonies of wisteria that won't go away. Of course, I like it, so I guess it wasn't so much revenge as rebirth.

My rebirth will have to wait another three weeks, until tax season is over and I can take my life off hold. In the mean time, I did manage to plant some seeds and root some African Violets, so maybe by the time I can look around again, I'll have some very nice things to see.

If you steal from many sources, it is called research

I have been reading other blogs, enjoying the writing, and stealing ideas. Well, maybe that's too harsh. I hope so. I am reading about things that are interesting and that I'd like to explore on my own? OK?

Annie at writers, witches and words (http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/) wrote about journaling, and not being a journal writer. I thought that was interesting, and as always, amusing. For some perverse reason, I ended up buying a new journal that day.

I like to think of myself as a journal writer. I think I'm more of a blank book collector. I love the feel of a new blank book or even a plain old spiral notebook. Clean, clear, and ready for all of the ideas, hopes, angst and to do lists I can pour into it. I almost always buy a new pen when I buy a new journal. It just works that way for me. Some people match purse and shoes, I match pen and journal.

Most of my early journals begin: "This time I really am going to lose 10 lbs." My later journals begin: "My old journals began, 'this time I really am going to lose 10 lbs,' but this will begin with..." whatever.

I tried theme journals.

Journals of story ideas and poems.

A pregnancy journal. Unfortunately, that one ended prematurely along with the pregnancy. I decided not to do that again.

I found a journal I'd written when I was 20 and miserable. It was a bound book with a print of a lovely woman on the front which had been given to me by a very good friend. The book cover was red. For once, I wasn't trying to lose weight. I had copied poems I'd written earlier. They are not terrible at all. I had written about how desperately miserable I was, and how I felt that even when I was happy it was just a short phase. I ought to show that to my counselor, huh? Anyway, I gave it to my son, who at 19 or 20 seemed to have similar thoughts. I don't know if he read it, and if he did, whether it reached him. I don't know what helps us get through those times. I didn't have Prozac and the beer didn't really help that much. He seems better now, but if he's like me, the thoughts are there still, eating at his faith in himself and his life.

But that's a different subject, and not necessarily my story to tell.

The new book I bought is also red. Red faux suede --- that's what the label said. I bought ultra-fine Flair pens to go with it. I wrote for two pages about journals. This is when I remembered a distinct advantage of blogging over journal writing. My hands cramped and my handwriting started to look like the scribblings of an old drunk. Genteel and yet erratic. Sums up my life, really.

Most of my journals are four or five pages of writing and a whole lot of blank pages. Some books cover many years, with huge gaps in between. They are usually mundane, trite, and frankly boring.

But I keep writing. I picture my grandchildren reading the books and giggling. I wish I had journals written by my grandmothers. My notebooks will probably by tossed with the things that you can't even sell at a yard sale, but I'll still keep writing them and hoping there will be something for someone in there.

It's in my nature.

My Minivan is dead, and I'm not feeling so good myself

It would be wrong not to post on Leap Day. It's such an event.

The computers at the DMV went down, possibly because they couldn't deal with February 29. Maybe not. No one else seems to have a problem. Maybe they are down in sympathy to me.

My minivan died. Really and truly. The minivan that has carted my growing boys and their growing friends around Columbia for the past 10 years is dead. The minivan that carried me, Bob, and Mark to New Mexico and back is kaput.

That was really my car. I saw an Internet video --- probably you tube --- called "Mom my car." A group of people sat around and talked in great seriousness about how to "Mom" a car. Like some reality show I've never seen, I think. They strewed french fries under seats, sprayed juice over the seats, stuck little toys in the air conditioning vents. One guy threw a ball at the car until "something broke." It was a funny video, but maybe you have to have a Mommed out Minivan to appreciate it.

My van's left passenger door fell off after a few years of enthusiastic opening and closings at the hands of boys who became men. It was on and worked fine unless some innocent offered to get the door and pulled it open ... and off. It almost always happened in the rain. What's with that?

I say it's dead, but it can technically be fixed. A new engine would cost about 5 grand. I don't know what the new door, rear light (where the door hit it when it fell off in the rain one day), and faulty electric system would cost to repair. It's already had a transmission transplant.

On the trip back from New Mexico, the car died in 5:00 traffic in San Antonio on the Wednesday before the fourth of July weekend. In a series of fortunate events, a nice man helped us move out of the middle of the highway. A nice 911 operator called a nice tow-truck operator who took us to a nice garage next to a nice motel with Internet access. We rented a car and enjoyed several days in San Antonio while the nice garage folk fixed our car, repairing it in time for us to get to Houston, then Columbia by Monday.

Since then, the radiator system had to be repaired as well. The head lights went out far too often, probably water on the bulb. But basically, a nice minivan.

Now I'll go back to work to earn enough to buy myself a new minivan. Some people think I should downsize. An Escort has been suggested... as if I can fit a husband, three sons (two about 6 ft tall), a daughter-in-law, a grandson, a niece and a father in a subcompact. What are they thinking? Where would I keep the juice boxes and bottled water?

I'll look at it, but I'd be lying if I said I had an open mind. When I down size it will be to a Karmen Gia. Something for me and my case of water and no one else. I'm not there yet.

I have been tagged, which is something that hasn't happened to me since grade school. But Annie http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/ has tagged me and I'm it.



This is how it works:

1) Find a book closest to me with at least 123 pages.

2) Turn to page 123 and go down five sentences.

3) Type the next three lines into my blog.

4) Tag five other bloggers.



I will start by admitting that the book closest to me is the 2008 World Almanac, and on page 123 is the US Military payscale. Although interesting, and perhaps profound, I'm not typing the chart. So the next book is: Indigo Dying by Susan Wittig Albert.



"You don't need Les to rescue you and take you away, like some fairy-tale knight rescuing a princess out of a tower. You're on you own now, which means you've got to learn to be independent and take care of yourself. That doesn't mean you have to stop seein' Les, if that's what you really want to do. "



I tag:

Karen http://rose-gamgee.blogspot.com/

Lydia http://lydiasbalance.blogspot.com/

Carolyn http://avoidingstasis.wordpress.com/

Now, look, I'm breaking another rule. Although I've read some blogs, I don't know anyone else well enough to tag them. Hmmm. Oh well. Here you go peeps.

A Day Older Than George Washington

My mother was born February 21, 1936. Since she died in October of 2006, you don't have to worry that she will be upset that I've told you her age. In fact, even if she were still alive, it wouldn't bother her. Not really. She always told everyone she was 99 and that was that.

I remember the time I sat with her in the new dentist's office. I read over her shoulder as she filled out the form. When she wrote her age, I shrieked, "I KNEW you weren't 99! You're TWENTY-NINE." She shushed me and later told me not to tell women's ages out loud in public in the biggest voice you have.

"Why not?" I asked, admiring the genuine glass ruby ring I'd gotten from the dentist.

"Because it's not polite."

"Why not?"

"Because some women think it's bad to be too old."

"But not you, you don't mind being old," I said in shock.

I must have been a truly obnoxious child.

I found out many many years later that Mom did have one of those "turning thirty" crises. Her good friend died of breast cancer that year. She tried to quit smoking because, she told me with a dry laugh, "I thought it looked tacky to see 'old women' smoking, and old was 30." We both laughed, since by then, I was celebrating the 13th anniversary of my 30th birthday. She was still 99.

It was important to my mother that we remember her birthday. After a few years, she got prickly if we asked her what the date was. She gave me a saving grace, though. She told me that she was one day older than George Washington. At first I argued that it couldn't be true, but she insisted, in the same way she insisted that Santa Claus brought presents, the Easter Bunny laid colored eggs, and Hubert Humphrey would be president of the United States. So I quit arguing. It took awhile. I really was an obnoxious child. I can't remember when I realized that if I forgot the date of her birthday, all I had to do was look at the calendar. George Washington's birthday, February 22. Mom's birthday, the day before.

This worked for several years before the federal government stepped in to make my life more difficult. And although GW always celebrated his birthday on a Monday, Mom wasn't ok with moving her birthday around. I thought it would be very convenient to always have her birthday on Sunday. But she was funny that way.

It was ok as long as most calendars still had "GW's birthday observed" and "GW's birthday." Then many quit including the real date. Once again, I was in trouble. Finally, I just learned the date of her birthday. February 21. Or was it the 22nd?

Best laid plans

Last weekend I hibernated. I read two books, soaked in the tub, rubbed on vanilla lotion. It was probably a good thing, because my week was terrible. One small crisis after another. Rather than get anything DONE, I put out fires, outlined regulations to prevent future fires, talked to a whole lot of people, researched minutia, and ran gratefully out the door at 5:00 Friday.

Saturday, I was sick. I thought was a hangover, even though I've had more to drink and felt better. But it was more than that. I had fever, chills, a headache so severe I couldn't lift my head, nausea. As I threw up the last bit of bile in my stomach, my kitten Taz gently put his paw on my arm. I took it as a sign of comfort, although I'm sure he was saying, "Please quit messing up my water bowl."

Today, I feel better but not great. I can move my head, I ate cereal, bananas and oranges. I still have chills and I think I'll crawl back to bed now. One more fire to put out, then off I go.

Hibernation

I am in dire need of a snow storm or a bad cold --- metaphorically, at least. I don't want the power to go out & I don't want to feel miserable. I want an excuse... no, an absolutely unquestionable essential need to take a couple of days off and do nothing.

I want to go to the library and check out a stack of books that have no socially redeeming quality other than entertainment. Nothing thought-provoking, heart-breaking, or life-altering. Nothing with big words I don't already know. Maybe even something I've read before a few dozen times.

I want to go to the grocery store and buy canned soup, cheddar cheese, and artisan bread. Maybe some apples and oranges. And green tea bags, bottles of diet Coke, and LIMES.

I want to get my lavendar sugar scrub,vanilla shea butter lotion, and ginger bath salts.

Then I am going to make some tea and soak in the tub until the water will no longer run hot, my feet are pruned, and my children are banging on the door yelling that they have to pee and Dad just used the downstairs bathroom, so it will be a long long time before they will go in there.

Then I am going to put on my fluffy robe that my mother in law gave me for Christmas and my wooly socks that I crocheted for myself when I got cold and crawl into bed. I will drink tea and diet Coke with lime, eat cheese sandwiches, canned soup, and oranges, and read books with no redeeming social value.

Then I will get up and go back to work, to family, to play. And I will be smiling.

Tax Season

When my youngest son was little he thought there were five seasons: winter, spring, summer, fall and tax season. He still gets a sort of sad look when I say it's almost tax season. It means I won't be at his school every Friday. Every other Saturday morning is shot (although I never do much on Saturday anyway.)



But I get excited. I start planning for tax season in November. OK, sometimes I start planning in May. We have a pretty good system set up, but I like to tweak it. I think about the process, the checks & balances, the filing system. Every year, we get better.

But with the other things that continue to go on in life --- love, children, housework, tax season leaves very little time for creative activity. All energy goes into living and taxes. I guess that's metaphorically true of everyone, huh?

Happy New Year

The temperature outside is 25 degrees, which is quite warm for some folk, but really really cold for us in South Carolina. I get to see if my "light" L. L. Bean coat is ready for this. I think it is. After all, people in Maine wear light cotton sweaters in the summer.

It is time to get back to work. A real routine times 10, since it is TAX SEASON. Before filing begins, we will be closing books, preparing W-2s, and making sure we are caught up with all non-Tax stuff. Our fear that the tax season would be seriously delayed has been calmed. Only a few forms are affected by the delay. The IRS, monolithic bureaucracy that it is, has worked harder than Congress deserved to make sure the filing system will be in place. Although I'm glad we will be able to file most returns on time (mid-January), I am not sure the IRS isn't enabling Congress and encouraging them to continue to refuse to face tough issues. But for now, I don't care.

This holiday season has been nice, but not restful. I haven't had more than two days off in a row, and usually those days were so filled with obligations that they can't count as a vacation. I got some things done, but not close to everything. Maybe I have to be busy to get things done. Or not.

Christmas Eve

I just got back from finishing my shopping (I think.) It was pleasant, since there aren't many people brave enough to shop on Christmas Eve, but the merchants didn't know that. Lots of clerks, (relatively) few customers, and I am in hog heaven. The pickin's were slim, but I am a flexible shopper. And the Christmas ornaments at World Market were 50% off. I couldn't afford NOT to buy them! If I forgot anything, I'll wrap cash in Christmas crackers and let it go.

So now I am relaxing & thinking about wrapping. We'll go to my son's house and have a small family gathering with take out chicken and sides. They are going to Katy's family tomorrow, so we will just spread the season a little more.

Friends, family, and a paycheck that outlasted the giving. What more can we ask?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Rainy days and Fridays

It is Friday morning. I hear the rain outside, but it is too dark to see. Since this is South Carolina, precipitation usually means it is warm. It may bring a cold front, but that will be crisp dry air that will make my hair stand up when I take off my hat. That's ok. It is Christmas, and it should be cold.

Yesterday, I went Christmas shopping. I've done it before, but it's always an adventure. My brother and I went to the Village at Sandhill, which as my son points out, is not really a village, even if it does have a horse and carriage ride. I've seen places like this in other cities, and it always makes me feel as if I am in Disney World, without the water rides. I expect to see Goofy and Cinderella. I don't. I do hear every version of little drummer boy ever made, but that's not necessarily a bad thing... once a year.

Two years ago, I was sick at Christmas time. Really sick. For two days before and two days after Christmas, I lay in bed and whimpered. Since I am a last minute Christmas person, many gifts went unwrapped if not unbought. Christmas eve, I arranged the presents, crying because I couldn't get it done. My husband didn't seem to see the problem, and that of course, made it worse. Christmas morning, I left the bed to watch my children open their gifts. Someone opened mine for me and I went back to bed while the rest of them went off to my parents' house and then to my husband's parents' house. I threw up and went to bed.

For a few weeks afterward, I found presents that had not been delivered. I handed them over with a shrug and an apology. "Sorry, I was sick. I lost 20 lbs." (Always looking on the bright side.) "There will always be next year."

It was my mother's last Christmas. She was sicker than I was. I couldn't see her, because I couldn't take the chance of infecting her in her weakened condition. And of course, we really didn't expect that to be her last Christmas.

Oh Well.

Today, I work, and get a paycheck to pay for some of my Christmas spirit. Then I go out again and shop some more. I am not sick; no one is, praise god. I will make my husband wrap presents or at least bring me rum-soaked eggnog as I wrap them. He may not see the point, but, god as my witness, he's going to pretend he does. I will see my father and siblings; think of my in-laws in Antarctica and Wild Dunes; and sing one more version of Little Drummer Boy.

bummer

Have I already named a post "bummer?" I really didn't plan to spend a lot of time whining. I know I said I would, but I didn't think I meant it.

I am having a lousy no good month. I am feeling sort of yucky... not really sick but with what my old doctor called "the grunge." A headache that comes and goes, sort of sore throat, no fever or anything that will help me garner any sympathy. Nothing that makes someone give me hot chocolate and say "You need to go to bed, honey."

I have been really irritable lately. Everything seems outrageously disproportionately unreasonably difficult. I can't get my e-mail to work, and somehow decided everyone was trying to cut me out of the conversation. No one loves me. I need to eat some worms.

I tried to do a job very quickly so I could get to a meeting, and there were so many additional things and I made so many mistakes that I had to fix that I pretty much decided I should resign and let them hire someone who knew her assets from a hole in the ground. I became convinced everyone wanted me to quit but was too nice to tell me.

I failed the business part of the enrolled agents exam for the fourth time, which means in reality, that I must start again next May, but meant to me that I am a moron who shouldn't be allowed near a balance sheet or a tax return and should consider mowing lawns other than the fact I'd probably break the mower. It doesn't matter that I passed the other two parts with relative ease and that most people say the exam, especially the business part, is brutal. I should be able to pass it.

And I have a zit.

I think I'll go to bed with some hot chocolate.

Oh look: "No misspellings found." Things are looking up.

Weathermen

Why do weathermen take credit or blame for the weather? Why do they say, "sorry, it's going to rain on Saturday, I hope that doesn't ruin your outdoor plans"?

Why do they use judgement words like "Good weather" or "Bad weather." OK, a hurricane is bad weather. I'll grant you that. But why do they call 81° in the second week in December "GOOD weather." It's not GOOD weather. Right now, I want rain, because of the continuing drought. And I want cold, because it's December, by god, and I want to wear my closet full of cute Christmas sweaters.

But no, the smarmy weather guy smiles and says, "I've ordered some spring weather for this Christmas." Oh please. Send it back. It's not my size.

Unitasking

In the week I have been without a computer except at work, where I had to work, I have been thinking about multi-tasking. I'm against it. If I multi-task, I become addled, foggy, and fragmented. I find myself making grocery lists while listening to Mark read to me, composing letters while reconciling an account, and mentally decorating while having sex. This is not good. All of these things require complete thereness. And I can't be in two places at once.

Even things that might seem made for multitasking, like planning a meeting while driving, can be fragmenting and even dangerous. I get to my destination, and I can't remember my trip. It's like drunk driving. You know you made it, but you check your bumper just in case. Not a good thing.

And so, I am trying to combat personal multi-tasking. Other people can do what they want. I am doing one thing at a time. I start with a to-do list that covers all areas of my life (and there are plenty.) Then, if I am working on something and an idea or rememory hits me, I jot it down on one of the notepads I keep nearby if it's something important. Often, it is just a flight, and I push it aside. It will come back if it is important. Then I move back into the moment and do a sort of focus exercise. BE the bank statement.

On the whole, it has been pretty successful. Fewer mistakes, better sex, happier people. I'll let you know how it goes.

Happy Thanksgiving Recovery Weekend

After two days of wonderful overindulgence in food and family, I am ready for a two day fast. I'm thinking of nothing but cereal & soup and a long list of chores to do around the house.

I am sitting here now, writing a charter application for a middle school, with one cat on my lap and another eyeing my keyboard. He thinks it's the best place in the house to sleep. I disagree.

The angel Gabriel is sleeping upstairs with GrandBob. He awoke at 5:30 a.m., starving to death. I fed him and he fell right back to sleep. Not me. I'm up, drinking coffee and reading about best practices in middle school education. Trying to convince my cats that they don't like me that much.

By some miracle, my house is, for the most part, clean. The weather is mild. I guess I don't have any excuse not to tackle the storage shed. It is filled, not so much with twenty years of junk, but all of my neuroses, anxieties and big plans.

If I throw away the pieces of fabric I cut out 15 years ago when I decided to teach myself to quilt, am I admitting failure? And maybe I should give them to the art teacher. At least the pieces that don't have cat pee on them.

Do I really want to get rid of the size 6 jeans I was able to wear for one week in 1985? Jeans never go out of style, and I could very well lose 50 lbs...

Oh well, I guess I have to face the incomplete craft projects, the disorganized boxes of books, and the jumble sale of clothes I've managed to ignore for 10 months, plus twenty years.

Onward... wish me luck... oh wait, is that left over killer mashed potatoes?

Healthy Eating.. or not

The cooking sections of magazines and morning shows are full of helpful ways to make traditional foods more healthy. Use non-fat sour cream, apple sauce instead of sugar or oil, half the cheese.

I don't do that.

I don't eat mashed potatoes, cheese cake, stuffing, cookies, or any of these things every day or even every month. I do not want to make my traditional holiday fare healthier. I want it to be full fat, full sugar, full naughty.

This is my recipe for Thanksgiving Whipped Potatoes.

Beat one container of REAL cream cheese, one stick of REAL butter, two cups of shredded white cheddar cheese & one pint of REAL sour cream until fluffy. Add about 12 boiled potatoes. Beat until creamy.

I have ruined several beaters with the recipe, so you might have to let it rest between steps.

Eat no more than once a year. Take a long walk or play touch football with the kids afterwards. Enjoy the full naughty meal and remember the infamous admonition:

Eat, drink, and be merry,

for tomorrow we may Diet.

Thanksgiving part deux

Yesterday, we had a wonderful time with my in-laws. Bob's cousin, who we are just getting to know, came with his wife and two little children. My sister-in-law's first ex-husband was there along with his sister. Everyone was charming and fun.

Bob's family is very musical. His cousin played his CD. I am always amazed that people I actually know can sound like that --- like REAL musicians. Cousin Warren and Bob played the piano & every child who wasn't too shy showed off their musical skills. Later, Bob brought out his guitar and took requests while most of the family played pool. It was a great day.


The menu, for the record: Turkey, gravy, rice, sweet potato casserole (with marshmallows), green bean casserole, cabbage with apples, collards, creamed spinach, three kinds of cranberry relish (including one Mark made), heavenly hash (more marshmallows), apple, pumpkin, pecan pie, peach cobbler, & pumpkin cheesecake. I know I've forgotten something...

I think that I was wrong about the family gathering thing. Well, not wrong for my family. They don't want to entertain on Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever. They want to be. And that's OK.

But the new people at Bob's family's house made everything seem fresh and new. Having new people around allowed me a new look at the family, and I liked what I saw.

Today, I'll go to a quiet gathering of my side of the family, and it will be nice. We aren't all alike; I'm not even the same person every day. And that's OK.

Great Expectations

Many years ago, when Robert and Joseph were very young, we had our first and only Thanksgiving as a nuclear family.

Robert got chicken pox about a month before Thanksgiving. My brother and sister had never had chicken pox, and since they were adults, it would have been fairly dangerous for them to be infected. We waited for Joseph to show symptoms, but by Thanksgiving, he didn't have a bump. Still, we decided to forgo Thanksgiving with the family, just in case.

Bob and I took on the challenge with all of the enthusiasm and good sense one expects from a young couple. Lots of enthusiasm, little sense.

We planned our menu for four. We had to have turkey, and Bob prefers dark meat, so we couldn't have just the breast. We had to have ham. My brother gave us some of his extra special stuffing, and my sister donated her delicious sweet potato casserole. Bob made green bean casserole, I made creamed onions. These are all essential, of course. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without them.

I had to have mashed potatoes --- the kind with sour cream, butter, cream cheese, and white cheddar. Bob needed white rice. I think we agreed to forgo the wild rice, but I'm not sure. And of course, we had pumpkin and pecan pies. And ice cream.

And of course, we had the relish tray. Sweet and dill pickles, black and green olives, pickled okra and cranberry sauce.

We set the table with wedding china and crystal that we hadn't seen since Robert was born. I made a centerpiece of pine cones and autumn leaves, with the help of 5 year old Robert and 2 year old Joseph.

While we waited for the meal to come together --- no mean feat to get all of that ready at the same time; I set out the relish tray. Bob and I fought with the turkey, and eventually, we were ready to set out the feast.

That's when we noticed the relish tray was empty. Robert and Joseph had eaten every pickle, every olive... OK, they left the okra.

Bob and I ate a little of our feast. Robert and Joseph had managed to save room for ice cream. We had lots and lots of left overs. And a great story to tell every single Thanksgiving since then. Forever and ever, amen.

Shopping

OK, I'm walking across the Food Lion parking lot along with a zillion other people who are buying stuff for Thanksgiving dinner. I look down at my feet to admire my embroidered clogs and I see:

something white hanging from my shoe. I reach down, thinking I am going to get a slightly embarrassing piece of toilet paper. I grab it, and it isn't toilet paper. It is cloth. It is substantial. It is my underwear.

I take it from my pants leg and stare at it, in the middle of the Food Lion parking lot, surrounded by a gazillion shoppers. It won't fit in my pocket. This isn't a flimsy bikini number. This is a super-duper support panty, size...never mind. It goes in my pocket book, where it stays safely, until I pull out my wallet to pay...

Ok, back to the pumpkin cheesecake.

Families

Annie commented that it was sad my big happy family couldn't be together because of their different beliefs. I think I need to clarify what I said, and sort of defend the families. Well, not defend them.. they are what they are.

Which is what I think about families in general. I heard an interview on NPR yesterday. A sociologist was talking about Thanksgiving and holidays and how to deal with your family. She was very witty and, I thought, wise. One thing she said that struck me was that you don't have do this stuff if you don't want to. We all work very hard and we should choose where and with whom to spend our down time.

As an extension of that, I think we need to recognize that just because we want to be with different people doesn't mean they want to be together. I think it would be selfish of me to force the various facets of my family together just because I don't want to eat three turkey dinners. After all, these people have nothing in common except Bob and me and our children. Why should any of them endure a holiday with virtual strangers? After all, they all work very hard, too, and deserve a relaxed holiday.

Having said that, let me emphasize that none of these people are rude to each other. They all have lovely conversations, they laugh, they commiserate, they applaud. Many of them like each other outside of any relationship they may have with Bob, me and the kids. They may like each other more than they like us. If we did get together, it would be a pleasant event.

It just wouldn't be a take your shoes off, loosen your belt and tell stories about the time Great Grandma Mary put the turkey in the oven for four hours, but forgot to turn it on. No, I take that last part back. That story is always told.

Anyway, we will have two or three turkey dinners and spend long periods of time in the drowsy comfort of various family --- no company, no cares, no drama. And I think that will be a good thing.

Over the river

Yesterday I planned to shop for Thanksgiving and cook one of the pumpkin cheesecakes (the one for the family feast at his school) and make the dough for cheese pennies. I managed to buy the food, but that's it on that front. I did get the landscaping timbers and soil for my little garden by the shed. Sometime this week, the boys (who are men) will build my little raised garden.

Today, I go to work and try to do everything that needs to be done this week in one day. I also need to go by the school to sort and deliver the fundraising booklets. We're hoping the kids will hit up their families at Thanksgiving. Isn't that what families are for? I plan to do my Christmas shopping through the school's various fundraisers. (When is the Scholastic Book Fair? I need to buy books!)

This evening, I make pumpkin cheesecake with ginger snap crust and ginger whipped cream topping. And maybe cheese pennies. If I'm going to be a mess anyway, might as well go all the way.

It has occurred to me that the traditional fight I used to have with my mother at this time of year may have been more about me than her. Or a certain combination of her personality and mine. I sort of miss that fight, although I'm trying to avoid going ballistic on anyone else. And I'm still thinking Christmas in the Islands sounds really really good.

Thanksgiving: the angst

This is the time of year when I begin my annual nervous breakdown. Well, actually, last week was... which is part of the reason I haven't posted. That and a perforated eardrum, but that's a different story.

At Thanksgiving, families gather as one big happy group, give thanks for their blessings and eat lots of food. It helps if you family is one big happy group. It helps if they can be together without sneers, judgements and reminders of things we agreed to forget.

My family is really three families. My father and siblings, my husband's parents and siblings, and us and our children. This year, with the advent of the angel Gabriel, there is another family or two... my son and his family of three, and Katy's family.

Robert and Katy decided to invite all of these people to a Thanksgiving dinner at their house. I can understand their motivation. There is nothing that says "we are a family" more than inviting others to eat with you at your house. And it appears that Robert has inherited my all-or-nothing style of entertaining. Once a year, invite everyone you know to your house and feed them.

Unfortunately, the forces of Thanksgiving did not work in their favor. Their 1200 square foot house would strain with the 25 to 30 people who might show up. Although they wouldn't have to provide the food for everyone, it would be a small space filled with people who are related only because Bob and I love each other and because Katy and Robert love each other. Other than us, they are as diverse and divided as the US Senate. Our families range from my Dad who is a raging liberal atheist who has gotten more so in his old age to Bob's brother and sister-in-law who firmly believe in a literal Bible and other things I don't understand and don't want to. I'm not going to go into all of the stuff in between out of an out-of-character respect for privacy. Let's just say that if Pat Robertson, Hillary Clinton, Sylvia Plath, Yasir Arafat, Martha Stewart, Indira Ghandi, Mao tse Tung, Ayn Rand, and Ann Coulter sat down together, they would have more to say to each other than my family members. My family is all wonderful, but in really different ways. And while everyone would be civil and kind, no one would have fun.

So we will go to Bob's parents on Thursday and my brother's on Friday. I have promised Katy and Robert I will help with a non-Thanksgiving dinner for her sisters and their families and her cousin and her boyfriend.

And I am not complaining.

• I am grateful that we have this much family in one town.
• I am grateful that my parents and Bob's parents married each other and stayed married, and that Bob and I are still married after 22 years, so we don't have to add the stress and strain of step-families to our bizarre mix.
• I am grateful that I am blessed with a group of people who love us all, even if they are bewildered by our behavior, beliefs, and interests. And vice versa.

Time to go to the store... three pumpkin cheesecakes coming up...

Other People's Dreams

I have some really weird dreams. I don't mean the ones where I go to teach at my old high school and find that I didn't pass my senior year and have to take English and Science while teaching a history class that includes every person who has ever been mean to me. Talk about overcrowded classrooms. I'm not thinking about the standard anxiety dreams: Tornadoes, tidal waves, sharks, Nazis, all of the above (man that was an anxiety dream!)

I'm not even talking about the very rare but disturbing premonitions of birth or death. I'm OK with my grandmother coming back to me and giving me fashion advice, especially since her taste has improved since she died. I'm hoping that when Mom gets settled in, she'll tell me something other than "quit giving away my things." No, those are all regular dreams.

I dream other people's dreams. The first time I remember dreaming what didn't seem to be my dream, I was stamping papers with a copy stamp, wearing a red sweater and black & white hounds tooth skirt, and someone said "Have you finished that yet Garcia?" I said no, but thought that was strange, since my name is not Garcia. I told my friends about this, and they said I should buy a red sweater and black & white hounds tooth skirt, because that sounded cool, and forget about the dream. So I did. Buy the outfit, not forget the dream.

Since then, I've had several dreams in which I am someone else. Sometimes I am a man instead of a woman. I have been of a different race or ethnicity. As far as I know, I always speak English, since I understand what's going on, sort of. I am surrounded by family and friends who are not mine, but accept me as theirs. It's a little like the television show Quantum Leap, where I am the only one who knows I'm different.

I wonder if these dreams are the stories I should be writing. I hope not, since they are pretty boring. I should probably apologize to whoever's dreams I'm having, since I've not only stolen them, I've insulted them. Sorry.

Maybe I'm dreaming the dreams of all of the insomniacs within my range. If more people take Rozarium (or whatever it's called), I'll go back to my own dreams.

There is probably a perfectly rational explanation, and I don't want to hear it. Right now, I'm enjoying solving other people's problems and dreaming other people's dreams. It's much easier that way.

Feet

This is one of those stories I probably shouldn't tell, but am going to anyway. I'm going to tell it anyway for a couple of reasons. First, I've already told just about everyone whose opinions matter to me, and so far, they have not condemned me completely (at least to my face.) And second, I'm just like that. I tell stories I shouldn't tell.

So this is it. I have a thing about shoes and feet. Nothing kinky. It's just that when I was a kid and asked for new shoes, my mother would show me her feet and say, "When I was your age, we couldn't afford new shoes and I had to wear the same shoes for three years and my toes got all twisted and bent." And her toes were twisted and bent. Her second toes, which should have been longer than her first toes were curled under like a corkscrew. Her baby toes were mashed in so they hid under her feet. It wasn't pretty at all.

So I wondered then, although I probably didn't say it out loud more than once, why she would subject us to the same torture, when they could afford to buy us shoes? Why did we have to go through this every year? Yes, once a year. It's not like we were Imelda Marcos wannabees. We each had one pair of shoes each year, until we started taking gym, then we had a second pair of sneakers.

Now, in my infinite wisdom, like so many others before me, I swore my children would always have shoes that fit. They were from K-mart mostly, but I bought new pairs two or three times a year if I needed to. God as my witness, my children would not have crooked toes!

OK, there were times when I let the boys wear their shoes until the soles fell off. There was that sort of embarrassing incident, when one of them came home with slightly used shoes from the poor children bag at school. The slightly used shoes were Nikes or something, and better than I would have bought, so I sent a thank you note and left it at that. But I vowed to do better.

So, now, we come to this last week.

My baby had needed new shoes for a month. His toes were sticking out. The soles of the shoes rubbed blisters on his poor feet. By the time I bought him new shoes in an early morning emergency trip to the 24 hour Walmart, his feet looked like raw meat.

I rinsed them, salved them, and swathed them in aloe infused sockies. He rested all day. I felt terrible. The next day he put on his new shoes and flew off to school. He kicked the ball, ran the bases, leaped tall buildings. All it took was new shoes and a mother with the sense to buy them.

Ironically, coincidentally, or karmically, I stepped on a safety razor this weekend, so I am now the one with the hurt foot. I rinsed it, salved it and wrapped it in Mark's aloe infused sockies. But somehow, I knew I deserved it.