I Hate Tennis Shoes...

I don't like tennis shoes. I don't like sweating. I don't like working out. To do all this, I have to change my clothes, except for my underpants, then do stuff like lift weights and get on the 'dreadmill.' Don't like sports, never did 'em. Bleeech. I've tried walking, running, aerobics (I have rememberies of perky bouncy Bambi the instructor saying, "That's it, you can do it, just 5, and 4, and 3, and smile, now 2, give me another 5, and 4, and breathe, and 3, and 2, and 1"...groan), gyms, personal training, and once I even played racquetball.

But, my favorite son Charles is getting married in the fall and I don't want to wear a dress shaped like a muu-muu to the wedding. Such a sight it would be, preserved forever on film for all to see and report: Huge Mama in Nasty Muu-Muu at Wedding Celebration. I don't like that either.

Thus, due to my expanded butt and flapping upper arms, I rejoined Weight Watchers (you know, because I'm a 'lifetime member' that didn't stay within the 2 pound target weight) and have started to workout....again. I'm counting points and measuring food trying to plan what I eat...bleech. What happened to being spontaneous? I haven't worked myself up to sweating yet and I'm afraid that will be on the horizon...oh ick, dark circles under my armpits or an giant dark V on my chest. That will mean I'll smell and need to take a shower which cuts into my reading time. It's a problem!!

However, I am saying to myself, "This is good for me, this is good for me." But give me a cozy couch, a good book or nine (this is my type of sport!), perhaps next to a warm fire with my doggie Gracie June and I'm a happy girl. Without snacks, but I'll be happy.

Raise Your Hand if You Love a Snow Day!!

Who doesn't love a good snow day? Waking up to sense the presence, the quietude of snow that lies untouched in the back yard? The illusion that everywhere things are good, pristine. Just a smattering of snow on the thin ice covering most of the pond. Underneath, the fish are dormant, in winter mode.

Inside the shed, spring tools wait, sleeping through the cold days and nights. Empty pots rest. Shovels lean against the wall and old seeds hide in the cracks and crevices.

The bench, while inviting on warm summer days, now sits empty, besides the occasional bird resting before bathing in the cold rushing water. The garden normally stark and bare in the November season, now white, snow adorning sticks and branches.

Snow resting atop Brazilian verbena as if it was meant to be. A new look for the purple stalk. Simple, yet lovely beyond words.

It's My Mom's Fault...Honest

It all started in the mid 1960's. I believe my dad was president of the Mt. Baker Club House in Seattle and "someone" decided the clubhouse should host a Halloween party for the kids. Since my dad traveled a lot,  my mom let her creativity run rampant and recruited all her relatives in the city to help. I didn't know my mom was the witch or my cousin Doug Frankenstein until I was 17 years old! It was a party to beat all parties! Slightly frightening scenarios, eerie music, ugly creatures, and just enough 'scare' to be fun and create memories.

And thus "it" was started. Mom went batty over Halloween. We hosted haunted houses in our basement in Seattle or in the garage in Issaquah! We decorated with tombstones, creepy medicine, bats, spiders, and all things creepy! Mom would dress up in her witch costume and having soaked her real leather gloves in water all day, she would grasp the trick-or-treaters hands in hers and nearly cause heart attacks in the under ten set!

{Pepto Dismal, Crustex Nail Remover, Sludge, you get the idea}

{This is a new one...each family member has their own!}

{Matilda in all her glory, she's aged well}

Matilda stood in the living room window. She is the dressmaker's dummy mom made in college of herself that is dressed each year with a black skirt, t-neck, gloves, an old fashioned paper mache pumpkin head, wig and hat. She's been a regular for the past 50 years or so during October.

Once all at mom's, I now am the keeper of all Halloween crap. It's been passed down. Is it genetic? I even, as of my last birthday, in October of course, have inherited the original leather gloves. Who else would want them? Mom knows I do.

I have however taken it one step further than my mom. I created a Halloween dinner menu unlike any other. Yummy! Appetizer: Dragon Scales and Booger Dip, Salad: Poison Ivy Leaves with Scabs with a light toss of Runny Mucus, Entree: Maggot Stew with Moldy Bread and for Dessert: Brownies with Orange Pus. Oh yeah!

Now you might think I'm a bit touched in the head, but fear not! I've just been creating memories for my kids, those that dare visit, and looking to the future with darling little cookie monsters, like Ali.

{Granddaughter Ali---so dang cute!!}

50 + 2

Yesterday I turned 52 glorious years old. October 24.

I am half a century plus two. That's five decades plus two. And I'm proud of it.

My mother-in-law always said that age doesn't matter. Perhaps to some it doesn't. It does to me. I had my childhood years, teens (oh dear God thank-you for letting me survive), my twenties (marriage, children, houses, pets, jobs), thirties (children in their teens, oh dear!), my forties (teens in college and out), and now my fifties (empty nest-most of the time, and being a gramma). I'm clapping for myself! You may join if you like.

As I've rolled into my fifties, I am more sure of myself, don't care a lot about...a lot of things, am more patient, if a bit sarcastic, I love more, look for the little things in life that please me: diet coke from the fountain, laughing kids, the color of fall leaves, cotton undies (just sayin'), garden raised tomatoes, my husband's hand in mine--wait, he hates to hold hands, but when he does I appreciate it, slippers, text messages from my kids, the sound of my pond, and I could go on and on...the fact is, I love what's happening in my life (except for my thighs). My family is fabulous, the dogs are good, my husband loves me, and everyday that God lets me wake up I am grateful.


Call me blessed. I do. Happy Birthday Kelly!

More Slaps...

"They" say death comes in threes. I believe this. First, a former student and recently, on October 5th to be exact, my sister's husband, Vince, passed away. We knew he had a limited time left, but this was too soon. It's always too soon. Their boys, 18 and 20, are the best and in looking at old family photos, the pride and joy was so evident in Vince's eyes as he romped or just posed with his sons.

My heart breaks for Susie as she faces each day without her husband. Suddenly, she is a business owner, has her own job at Nords, homeowner, mom and all each 'hat' entails. It's a lot! Susie is very logical and strong, practical and funny, kind and generous, and now, alone. She has her boys, her mom and family, and perhaps the best friends in the world, but I know in her heart of hearts she aches. I ache when she does. The older sister in me comes out and I want to swoop down with hugs and cups of tea. So I do. It's what we do as family; intrude and love.

Then, just a week later, a dear dear friend of my mom and a former neighbor of 41 years passed away. This was too much for my mom. To watch her youngest daughter lose her husband and then to lose a dear friend she's known for half her life was difficult. Mom called me nearly coming apart and I just hurt for her. This woman was a pillar, a steadfast friend (she's the first call I made when my dad died so mom wouldn't be alone...funny how phone numbers you haven't called in years come back lickety-split), and one wicked seamstress.

I read somewhere that in the United States we don't talk about death much and it's true. It's mysterious and to some, frightful. What would happen if we talked about dying like we do birth, a celebration of one's life? I don't know the answer, just askin'.