This Just In

Spice, Spice, Baby

2012-01-24T21:04:00.001-06:00

I am not a crafty person, I merely like things to be efficient and functional. When we put the kitchen together, I designated one very large pull-out shelf for spices. It had to be next to the stove so that my "tools would be at my fingertips." High and mighty, huh? Well, when you pull out a drawer full of spice jars and look down upon them, it's pretty much a sea of black lids. Shuffling through them all while the garlic is burning is pain in the as...tronaut. So here's what I did to put a stop to it:

FIRST, go to IKEA.

I know that's 120 miles away, but go there anyway—and take me with you, because I love IKEA. OR, order online, these spice jars, 4 for $4.

SECOND: Go to your local hardware store, and pick up some ChalkBoard paint. $12.

Paint, paint your IKEA jars. It takes 3 or 4 coats, but they dry fast, and the paint is water soluble, so it's easy clean-up between coats.

Three days after the last coat is dry, take a chalk pencil and skritch in the title of whatever it is you're going to pour into that jar.

Alphabetize.

Cook.

Now, it sounds like this was just a weekend project for me, but you have to know: I rarely have entire weekends for projects. It took me well over 6 months to finish this out. It was a few hours and a few jars there, some transferring around, and washing used jars to paint the next. Another trip to IKEA when I liked the idea, and mostly just tending to them when I had the time. I've painted larger jars also, that hold various pastas and grains, and popcorn. I love them.

I manage to keep busy—some might say too busy. That in mind, I feel a certain smugness that, embedded in my crazy life as a hare, I still have an inner turtle that crosses the line with an accomplishment or two.

Holiday Vacation Highlights

2012-01-17T16:03:00.000-06:00

No big point to this post; just some vacation pix and commentary for posterity.

Clint and I hit the road to Fort Hood on the 23rd. We could have flown, but we're road trippin' people. We like to see things, and we're good at making up car games. For instance, we count things. I'm in charge of tallying. By the end of all of our trips, we have a useless record of the number of roadkill, roadside memorials, Waffle Houses, cows, and emus that we saw on our road trip.

It's not altogether useless, actually: we saw more emus on our trip (1) to Texas than we did armadillos (0). If that's not good conversation fodder to tuck away for a future happy hour, I don't know what is.

First and foremost, it was good to see my kid. I hadn't seen him in a year, and in some ways it was a tough year for him. Although his career is going very well—he's been promoted to Sergeant, completed air assault school, and has been accepted to an EOD school in Florida,—for the first time ever he put his friends into planes and sent them to war zones while he stayed behind.

He underestimated how hard it would be. There were a couple of midnight phone calls after planes left to Iraq and Afghanistan, in which he asked me "how did you do this TWO times?" After shipping him off twice, I still have no idea how I did it. I still can't even think about it without crying, and the only advice I could think of was "start shopping for care packages."

His worry for his friends and comrades brought back memories and flashbacks. He is, at least, unashamed of his fears, his tears, his grief. He talked openly, and those of us that he opens up to keep reminding him: keep talking. This is normal. This is good; the shit you saw in Iraq should *not* sit well with you.

I tell you these details (with his permission, of course) to express why it was so important to me to get over there and lay my own eyes on him, as if just missing him wasn't reason enough. I wanted to talk to him, and squeeze him, and see if he's really doing ok.

He really is, and our time with him was wonderful, and fun, and funny. He and his roommate, whose father was also visiting, pulled out all the stops for Christmas dinner. He had to work until noon on some of the days, but that just gave us opportunity to tour the base and do some fun shopping.

~~~~~~~~~~

We toured the museum, one half of it now dedicated to Operation Iraqi Freedom Veterans. It was an odd feeling to be standing in a museum that actually represented my son's life, and by extension, mine. While I'm so far removed, for instance, from a Civil War display, I know these clothes, those trucks. I have these photos of my loved ones, or photos very similar, hanging in my home.

~~~~~~~~~~

Brian had to put up with some good-natured ribbing when he told his CO that his mother wanted a tour of the motor pool. "A Mamas Boy, are ya?" (Good thing I wasn't there to hear that.) He gave us a thorough tour, and Clint and I both got a feel for the vehicles he operated in Iraq.

~~~~~~~~~~

We went to the San Antonio River Walk and The Alamo. Since we were a party of 5, we took 2 cars. Here's soldier baby Anthony McFarlane (or McFifi, as they call him) hanging out of Brian's sunroof at 70 mph or so, near Austin:

Lucky he didn't lose that ball cap.

While near The Alamo, Brian spotted a cool hat & boot shop. I wasn't interested in a $600 cowboy hat, but I couldn't resist trying on a few boots. I was on the fence about these when the clerk showed me an alternate pair, saying "these are handmade—all real leather." This left me befuddled: Am I trying on vinyl boots?!! Forget it! Turns out they were leather, and the same boot is sold at our local Western store. I still might get them, because look how cute!

~~~~~~~~~~

Clint had a bit of a howdy do with Forrest Gump.

And that is all I have to say about that.

~~~~~~~~~~

One of the things I found most surprising about traveling through Texas was the lack of scenery. It was miles of urban sprawl, everywhere we went.

Still, I was determined to get a picture of either an armadillo or a longhorn steer. I'm not sure why I was so fixated on the armadillos—why did I think they'd just be running down the road like squirrels in a park? ZERO armadillos were tallied, as I mentioned before, so Clint and I got up early one morning to hunt for real Texas countryside, with a real damned Texas COW in it.

It took us almost 90 minutes to find a country road, and I yee-haw'd when I finally spotted this herd.

This guy refused to mug for the camera for me, no matter how much I yelled, "hey, cow!"

But when Clint said "HEY!" that steer turned right around and smiled.

Once we had his attention, I began talking, and he turned right back around:

Hmph. Sexist, stand-offish steer.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the way back from Cowville, I had Clint pull over to the Central Texas State Veteran's Cemetery. It's fairly new, and many of the names were of soldiers KIA in Iraq or Afghanistan. There were 3 funerals scheduled for the day we were there. I read names and ages until I shook.

~~~~~~~~~~

Texas Jones, whom I'd met in Fort Benning 18 months ago, happened to come home on leave from Iraq while we were there. Jones's son was born a month after he deployed, and Brian accompanied his friend's wife to the hospital. Jones showed up with a bamboo plant for me, telling me it's his favorite plant, and asking me not to kill it like his wife did his. So far, so good, my bamboo plant is thriving.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was interesting to get a glimpse of my son "The Sergeant." Who is this kid that removes his hat before he steps into a building, and places it squarely back on his head before one foot is out. Is it really the same guy that hogs the couch and scarfs down 10,000 calorie mashed potatoes when he's in my home?

We witnessed a few other homecomings. The military homecoming hug is different from other run-of-the mill hugs. They are more holding than hugging. They are closer and tighter, and "I missed you" is entangled with "I'm glad you're alive." A soldier meeting his brother in Denny's for breakfast one morning almost undid me.

There are many military sounds that we don't hear in our civilian bergs, and I wish we did. A canon goes off at the end of the workday, followed by reveille, on a bugle. Then Taps plays every night at 10 p.m. Our hotel was 3 or 4 miles away from the base, but we could hear it clearly. It was distant and eerie, and beautiful every night.

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills,from the lake,
From the sky.
Allis well, safely rest,
God is nigh.

Go to sleep, peaceful sleep,
May the soldieror sailor,
God keep.
On theland or the deep,
Safe in sleep.

Love, good night, Must thou go,
When the day,And the night
Need thee so?
Allis well. Speedeth all
To their rest.

Fades the light; And afar
Goeth day, And thestars
Shineth bright,
Fare theewell; Day has gone,
Night is on.

Thanks and praise, For our days,
'Neath thesun, Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
Aswe go, This we know,
God is nigh.

Santa Rampage V

2011-12-19T13:04:00.000-06:00

The Fifth Annual Santa Rampage, or Santa Rampage V, was held in downtown Champaign last weekend. For those of you not in-the-know, this is a bar crawl started by our friend Jeremy in 2007. Here he is, King Rampage himself, with Clint's daughter Jennifer:

Let's hear a nice round of applause for our leader!

You can't quite get a feel for Jennifer's clever-clever costume in that picture, so here's another, taken with husband Bill. I think they took home the best costumes of the year for the 2nd year in a row. The prize is braggin' rights, and that is it.

This is year #3 for Zymkie & Associates. Once you show up for a Rampage, you are hooked for life!

Here's me and Clint. I'm wearing the costume I bought last year but didn't get finished. See, that dress is a mini-dress, and I'm a maxi-girl. I added a good 12-inches to the skirt and stitched on all that fringe and fur. Before you go a'getting yourself all impressed at my seamstress skills, I'll reveal that the inside of that dress is a big giant mess. The fringe was the saving factor in the entire deal: it covered up all of my crappy hand sewing and bunchy seams.

Enough about me. Let's talk about my family. We actually recruited cousins this year! This is my cousin Rudolph. I mean, Mikedolph. I mean, Mike:

Mike is a reindeer. If you weren't sure about this, just check out his hiney for the proof:

Now stop checking out his hiney before his wife kicks mine. Here she is with my cousin Tammy and my brother-in-law Tim, at Memphis on Main:

The party always gets kicked up a notch at Memphis because there's live music. Cover charge is waived for Santas each year, which, let me tell you, keeps us loyal. Candy Foster and Shades of Blue was playing and you can see it wasn't too difficult to coerce us out onto the dance floor.

As it has been every year, the evening was too, too much fun. You just can't beat lots of beer and 70 Santas for a great Saturday night, y'know?

We cabbed it home at the end of the night:

Those in our household managed to stay up to scarf down some pizza rolls before finally retiring at 4 in the a.m. Yes, I said 4, that is 1/6th of tomorrow already!

We crawled out of bed and went back downtown at the crack of noon for the best breakfast in town, whether you're hungover or not: Sam's Cafe. They're famous for their french toast, but Jennifer and I decided to live it up. You know what's good for a hangover? So much food it takes two plates to serve it.

There are about 70 more pictures of all the fun here: HERE, CLICK HERE!

It could only have been better if my kid were in attendance again this year (and you, of course). I haven't seen him Christmas eve last year, and I miss him like crazy.

I miss him so much, in fact, that I think I'll go see him this weekend. I may catch you from the road, but if I don't, Merry Christmas, everyone!

Christmas Packages to Soldiers 2012: Wrap Up

2011-12-15T06:30:00.000-06:00

I'm a little late with this post, but it's mostly due to spending the last week or so wrapping up loose ends to what turned out to be a FANTASTIC wrapping and packing event for our soldier babies.

As there is no RSVP for these events, I'm always anxious about what the turnout will be; it's simply unknown...until we know! Slated to start at 1:00, we had 6 or 7 people in attendance at 5 'til. Same at 1:00, and at 1:05. I had a quick, sick feeling when suddenly:

That's kind of how it was.

There was sorting and wrapping:

Stuffing of stockings:

And packing of boxes:

The boxes were tidied and filled with tinsel, then topped off with precious letters from children in Homer and Mahomet, IL, and from Enterprise, Florida (see, I TOLD you that you can help from anywhere!).

One of my favorite vets, Dave Martin, stopped by with a hefty check from the Thank You Veteran's Run. Dave represents at all of our events!

And our last stop, the next day: The post office. Here's a very frazzled Donna, our postal clerk extraordinaire. Even though we called ahead and emailed ahead, and Facebooked ahead, someone at the post office got transferred to another station at the last minute, and they were a little short-staffed.

Most people were understanding, or at least soothed with the homemade cookies we brought to appease them, but there were a few that crabbed at the two poor remaining clerks as if it were their fault.

Oh, and there was one near cat-fight when one lady told another lady to shut her yap, and that if it took FIVE HOURS to process the boxes going to our troops, then they should all damn-well stand in line for 5 hours and be happy about it!! Ooo! That was exciting!

But it was mostly lovely. People did, as they always do when we are taking this many boxes to the post office, hand me cash. It touches me every single time, strangers handing me cash, asking if they can pay for a box, or if they can help.

My favorite part of the post office trip is visiting with Veterans. Older gentlemen leaning on canes as they wait, laughing and reminiscing with us and with each other about care packages they received from their mothers. It is almost always their mothers I hear about, and I think about how young they were when they were in Korea, or Vietnam.

They laugh about the delicious boxes of cookie crumbs they devoured, and how much the letters meant to them then. Their boxes and letters clearly mean as much to them now as they did then, and their reminiscing reinforces everything we do: You know the efforts of this community and these events are still going to be remembered somewhere in this world in the year 2062.

To all of you that continued to work for our troops, to schlep out in holiday crowds and shop for them, to bake homemade cookies and write them letters, and to donate your hard-earned cash to make sure that everyone on our list had a really great Christmas box:

Thank you.

From every fiber of my being, Thank you.

I Have My Own Night Cream!

2011-11-19T18:59:00.001-06:00

I'm not sure why, or even how at this point, but some years ago I signed up for a thingy that notifies me if my name or text or blogs appears on "teh internets."It's been so long since I arranged it that I have no idea how I did it—I just know that I get an email now and again, telling me what some other Lori Stewart has done to make it to the world wide web.

Any sighting of Gnightgirl, however, is always me, and so I'll get a notification screaming that Gnightgirl just posted on The Sandwich Life, which I already knew I did.

Tonight, however, I stumbled across this notification:

Click to embiggen.

Gnightgirl Night Cream? I have a night cream? Heyyyy! I've been Gnightgirl since 2005, and I never endorsed a night cream with my name on it! I clicked through that link, and sure enough, there I am. I'm being sold at Target, right alongside Isaac Mizrahi's cute little dresses:

Ok, the spelling's a little different, but tomato/tomahto, this is me! They stole my name from me!

Never you mind that I stole it from George Burns and Gracie Allen. ("G'nite, Gracie," "G'nite girl," "Gnightgirl.")

This is different. This is... I demand a...I...Umm

...a secret potion?

I wonder if I can get a free sample.

Spaghetti Dinner Wrap Up

2011-11-09T12:43:00.002-06:00

Aurgh, so much to tell, so little time! I'm distraught that time constraints prevent me from telling it all properly, but I'm still here to give you the highlights.

The Spaghetti & the Pasta!

Rob Meister, of Minneci's Italian Ristorante went above and beyond with the spaghetti. And the fettucine alfredo...and the pasta with pesto sauce...AND the pasta arrabiata. All with bread and parmesan, and it was endless; every last person was fed, and fed well. I can't tell you how many times during the evening I heard how great the food was.

If you don't already know it, Rob is running for State Representative; go check him out here!

The Music!

Asking ThreeBird to play was one of the best decisions I made about the entire event; I have no idea what I'd have done to keep people present and entertained when they were done eating. ThreeBird, featuring Jammin' Jimmy Bean, Jesse Frances, and Dave Cooper definitely kept the audience captivated, and this event was more successful as a result of their playing for us that night. The crowd was wow'd, and Clint and I have already discussed future outdoor home concerts at the country casa.

Not to be overlooked, and represented in all of these photos, of course, is Bob Osiek, the Esquire Lounge, and all of the staff at the Esquire. The venue was given to us for nothing, and with bottomless free pasta, I imagine they sacrificed a few burger and pizza sales for us that night. The staff was incredibly accommodating, offering to help out wherever they were needed.

I suddenly have an idea of what it's like to dragged off the stage with a shepherds hook, on an awards show, for carrying on and on while you try to give everyone credit. There were so many that stepped up again. People that show up and work for us and do nice things, and I can't think of anything I've ever done nice for them, except to accept their services.

And oh! The guests that showed up and gave so generously, I can't thank you enough for reaching into your pockets for us. We made $4000 that Sunday night, and when it was all said and done, one thing kept occurring to me: I never directly asked anyone for money. While it was a given that the event was a FUNDraiser, I never wrote letters asking for money (well, one, but I was told to). I didn't ask you to empty your bank accounts. I didn't charge you for Minneci's spaghetti.

I didn't have to.

I didn't have to ask because you care, and you understand. And in every letter I write to every soldier I meet, or will perhaps never meet, I stress to them how much you care. How you leave your comfortable homes, and you gather to support them. I tell them, "Soldier, I'm not kidding; people just give me money to take care of you. So tell me what we can do."

Ok, friends, they're giving me the "wrap it up" cue, and it's time for me to get moving on the Christmas event. (Ahem. It's December 4.) I can't thank you enough, I really cannot.

This is a CAKE, made by one of our sponsors,

Buffy Vance, of Madeline's Confectionary.

Former soldier (airman) baby and now vet
Jeremy Jay rocks the Free Hugs apron.

Memory

2011-10-14T23:41:00.001-05:00

This picture was posted on Facebook this morning by my friend Frugalmom, at Fancyin' the Farm life. The caption reads "an intense game of Memory going on here."

Memory. My memory is that my sister, Teri, and I always called that game Concentration. We played it with our best friend, Ginger. She lived next door, and Mom started babysitting Ginger when she and Teri were 2 months old. We were constant playmates as children, and best friends as teens. Teri and Ginger were best girlfriends as adults, and I considered Ginger a second sister.

As kids, Teri and Ginger and I would kick our game of Memory up a notch by stringing our cards from one end of the house to the other. The 2 of Spades might be on my bedroom floor, while the 2 of Diamonds sat in one of Mom's plant stands. X-games? We started them in a small 3-bedrooom ranch in 1969.

My sister passed away 2 years ago, and Ginger died when she was 30, from an asthma attack. She left her husband and 2 young sons here with us. I am lately often melancholy about my lost loves.

At the same time I ache for them, I have a wonderful renewed appreciation of all that I have left.

I have referred to this summer of 2011 as "My Summer of Nostalgia."

In late June, my cousin Susie, whom I have not seen in 30+ years, sent me a note indicating she'd be in town, and maybe we could scrape together a few other cousins for lunch? Three weeks later, 40 Stewart-types gathered for a cookout. As my immediate family grows smaller, I hold my cousins nearer and dearer—dearer than they will probably ever know. Notes from many of them through Teri's illness kept me afloat.
My 30th class reunion was in July. Seeing so many friends in one place is a blast, and reminiscing about Teri was also sweet. Dan P. told me that to this day he drives with one hand, because my father told him, in a high-school shop class, that all of the best drivers do. I talked to Dan P. for all of 5 minutes that evening, but he gave me a gift: something new about my Dad, 10 years after his passing.
A new Facebook group put me back in touch with over 200 people that were part of our lives in the 70s and 80s, when my father was drag racing. Photos and stories have been brought to my attention, and more memories come to life.

Posted by my cousin Dan Stewart, on the racing Facebook site.
This was Dad's second car, out of 3.

Last month Clint and I met up with two of those racing friends, a couple of boys from Bement, IL that used to drop in to visit me and Teri during our high school years. This drove my Dad batshit crazy. For those of you that know how big my Dad was, you'd know those boys were either brave or insane. I'll confess right now, and admit that I was a tad nervous about meeting up after 30 years—what if ~~they were jackasses~~ they didn't like me anymore? Worry was all for naught; we fell right back into our respective roles, and I laughed like I haven't laughed in years. We'd still be there laughing right now if Clint and I hadn't had to take our leave for another engagement.

I am in love with my Summer of Nostalgia.

I feel blessed with every story, photo, and connection, and I am more prone, lately, to being jarred into waxing about long lost memories. Jarred, I tell you! Frugalmom's photo sent me racing to the keyboard with all of this!

Blurp!

I suddenly want to write about games of Concentration that spread through every room in the house. I want to tell you that Teri and Ginger and I made go-go boots from mud, and tried to feed our dead goldfish to a cat named Snoopy. I remember a painting of Susie's, a tree silhoutted on orange background, that hung in our Grandmother's house. And that guy on my left punched me in the eye when he took a swing at my high school boyfriend and missed.

Actually, I *totally* forgot about getting punched, but it sure was fun giving him crap when I was reminded.

That's how things are lately. Maybe it's my age; maybe it's recovering from the storm that was the last 5 years. Maybe it will pass, this sentimental, sappy side of me that I have poo-poo'd all of my life.

I seriously hope not.

Because I love this.

Click on it!

2011-09-22T21:13:00.003-05:00

I blogged over HERE today. Thank you very muchy.

Nature's Doilies

2011-09-20T14:42:00.001-05:00

Autumn again, my favorite time of year. After a rainy yesterday, a dense fog rolled in last night, leaving the countryside covered in dew. As much as I dislike me a spider—and you know I do—I was enchanted to step outside this morning and find our property looking like it had been scattered with doilies.

A spider web, even covered in dew, is still delicate and transparent, and difficult to capture with a camera. I took about 60 photos this morning, and managed to salvage 15 or so with a little Photoshop tweaking. Most of the webs seemed to be deserted, and the rest—well, thank God for zoom lenses.

My Parents: A Love Story

2011-08-26T07:15:00.006-05:00

Last week I stumbled across a website called "The Burning House," consisting of photographs of material items people would grab if their homes were on fire. On the spot, I could think of very few items to put in my own photo, but with a week under my belt, I realized that I'd grab my father's jewelry box. Not because it's full of rubies and emeralds and pearls...mind you, there's something more valuable, to me, in that box. When I cleaned out Mom's house, this was high on my list of things to find, and take with me:

An old wallet, with $1 tucked inside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My Mom and Dad married in 1962, in San Diego, California, where he was stationed in the navy. He used to drive her crazy by telling people that he was just walking down the sidewalk when my mother, standing on a street corner, yelled "Hey, Sailor." If you knew how prim and proper my mother was, you'd know that it would embarrass her every time, and she'd insist he tell the real story: They were dance skaters; they met at the roller rink.

A funny story that really happened is that he invited her to skate with him repeatedly at the "Couple's Only" song. Ladies' Choice wasn't called very often back in 1961, but when it finally rolled around, Dad was stunned when Mom invited another guy to skate with her. Mom would giggle for years after, when telling us the story, saying "I don't know why I did that!"

I guess her playing hard-to-get worked, because they married within 2 months of meeting one another at that rink.

One of the stories they told us often, about their young love, pertains to the wallet above. Mom wasn't working, and Dad didn't make a bundle serving for the Navy, so they were often broke when the end of the month rolled around. Dad would hock his skates in a pawn shop on a regular basis, and then return to buy them back when he got paid.

There was one particular month in which they were just out—out of money and out of food—and facing a long Sunday with neither. They'd make it another day, when Dad got paid, but the story goes they were starving by mid day. So hungry, we were told, that one of them finally said "Let's just go take a walk so we'll stop thinking about it."

Hand-in-hand they hit the sidewalk to get their minds off of their hunger, when—maybe you've guessed it by now—they found this wallet. It had $3 and no I.D. in it!! Oh, the hugging and rejoicing, once they overcame their disbelief!

This is my Mom's handwriting, slipped in the wallet now, with the $1 bill. They opted to get a bowl of chili and go to a movie with their new riches—which they could both do for less than $2. I wondered if that could possibly true, and did a little research on the 1961 prices. Here's a menu I found online:

The soup du jour costs .20 and .30. A movie ticket seems to be running about .50, and I wonder if it was even cheaper on the naval base. According to the note, they spent $1.90 on their impromptu date, and had $1 left over.

The $1 in the wallet now is that same dollar. They made a vow to each other to tuck the wallet away, thus ensuring that together they would never again have a net worth of less than one dollar.

This story was always told to my sister and I with the closing point that if you love one another, you're going to get by. That you can be happy with a little money, and a lot of laughter. That life might get tough, sometimes, but love will see you through.

The wallet, and the dollar, and the story that accompany it, are precious to me. It's a reminder of their lifelong love for one another, and for me and Teri. It's reinforcement of the lessons they taught us about what is and what is not important in life. And now that it is mine, it is insurance that I will also, never, have less than one dollar.

Under My Skin

2011-08-18T23:04:00.023-05:00

I heard on the news this morning that today is the 1-year anniversary of the last military combat brigade coming home from Iraq. Yeah, I had a grump over that a year ago, when I wrote this post, entitled "Last Brigade Home? Can I have a Word, Please?" Feel free to have another look.

I grumble there because of the media/government spin on that event. As the world celebrated, my kid was still in Iraq, with the 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team-3ID.

They returned home on September 27, 2010, and 3 months later, in January 2011, he was shipped back to the National Training Center in Fort Irwin in California to began training, again, to deploy to Iraq. With a Combat Brigade.

It was a month-long school, and they returned to Texas for further training, more practice—day practice, and night practice, in-the-hot-sun practice and pouring-rain-until-midnight practice. Five more months they trained and practiced, until their deployment date, in July.

They weren't practicing yard work, people. They weren't practicing cake-baking, or sewing, or changing tires. They were practicing spotting the enemy. Markmanship. Looking for roadside bombs. Staying alert under exhaustion, and keeping an eye out 360 degrees around them. Using equipment and radios and communicating with one another to save each others lives, and their own. They were practicing and training in combat.

There isn't a lot that has me walking around spitting nails, but the spin on this morning's news grates on me. Brian accompanied over 600 soldiers to their flight a few weeks ago, and 600 more the next day. Combat troops, they were. Do we pretend they're not there?!

Rawrf! I just did you a big favor and deleted 4 more paragraphs of ranting. I'll wander off to another like subject instead.

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

In the end, as I mentioned here before, Brian was granted his 1-year dwell time, and he did not deploy. He is instead going to school after school. He just finished a Warrior Leader Course, and is training now for an Air Assault school in October. Yesterday he had to do a 12-mile ruck march with only 40 lbs of gear on his back. He skipped the advice to wear pantyhose, and here's a photo of his (right, I think) thigh, as a result:

He has a matching left thigh, and today had more physical testing, this time a series of obstacle courses and repelling from towers. He was going to be an uncomfy boy. After my first question ("Can can I blog your thigh?"), I informed him that there's a product called BodyGlide, sort of like a deodorant stick, that is supposed to prevent this chafing. I picked one up at Body 'n Sole today, and popped it in the mail, then sent him this text:

God, my kid makes me laugh. The BodyGlide will be too little too late, but at least he'll have it next time he needs it. And there's always pantyhose.

***********

Oh, wait--ANOTHER thing that grumbles me a little bit, while I'm the subject of my soldier babies. People, this is a trauma bay that looks like most any other trauma bay in Any Hospital, U.S.A.:

And this is one that one of our soldier babies, Jerrica, just posted recently. This is the trauma bay she works in, right now, every day, in Iraq.

Which one would you choose for your loved one to be treated in, if she or he had a traumatic injury?

I understand our troops aren't living in the lap of luxury when they deploy, but I still often panic when I get a clearer sense of what they have to work with.

Sigh. As always, dear reader, if you're interested in sending a care package to a soldier, email me at ljstewart@gmail.com.

Impatiens Motivations: Drink Your Water

2011-08-17T06:15:00.002-05:00

I've been making a haphazard attempt, lately, to take better care of myself. Not sure why it can seem more difficult on some days than on others, or why I have a tendency to fall by the wayside when I feel so high & mighty when I'm doin' it right and have results to show for it.

Anyway, while I'm getting up the umph to cut up vegetables, I do have a daily motivator that keeps me on track with my 8 glasses of water: My own flower bed. My impatiens, in particular, are little drama queens if a day gets by me that I forget to water them:

This photo (above) is the sorry state I found them after one of those 106-degree heat index days we had recently. Everyone in central Illinois felt kind of like this for about 2 weeks.

I apologized profusely, gave them a good long soaking, then returned later for another picture. This is the same plant, 30 minutes later:

I imagine water probably does the same thing for me as it does those flowers: makes me stand a little taller, plumps out the wilty lines and wrinkles, and, in general, makes me bloom a little brighter.

Now if I could just find a blossom that will motivate me to haul myself out of bed and go walking at 5 a.m. every morning, I'd be set.

Benefit for Seth Deedrick Medical Bills: Sunday August 14

2011-08-12T06:25:00.000-05:00

You may or may not know that my father was a biker in his golden years. When he passed away, his Harley brothers all showed up to the funeral and escorted the procession 45 miles to the cemetery. This photo was taken from the back of my car that day.

Brothers and sisters. And nieces...front and left, is my cousin, Tammy Deedrick. She and Dad were close, and she was first biker in the procession. Because family does.

And now it's time for us to do. Tammy's 11-year-old son, Seth Deedrick, had heart surgery last Saturday. There were complications with a mytral valve replacement, and he ended up coming home with a shiny new pacemaker.

As you can imagine, it's been a stressful time. Seth showed up for surgical prep a few weeks ago, and his surgery was postponed. Nothing like getting a kid—and his Mom, for heck sake—along with all of the community all stressed out and then postponing! As luck would have it, they ran into this group of soldiers from the U.S. Air Force when they got back to the hotel, and they all gathered around for this photo. Tammy asked that if I posted this photo on my blog, I tell those guys thank you, and God Bless.

As we are all aware, medical expenses of any sort are exorbitant, and we're rallying to alleviate those costs for the Deedrick family. There's a big-big fund-raising party this Sunday at The Stop, on North 45 in Urbana to raise some bucks to help them out. There will be a motorcycle rodeo, music, food, fun, and a donation jar. Please come on out, whether you have 5 bucks or 10 or 50...every little bit counts.

Benefit for Seth Deedrick Medical Bills

Sunday, August 14, 2011

12:00 -9:00 p.m.

The Stop Bar & Grill

3515 N. Cunningham Avenue

Urbana, IL 61801

Motorcycle rodeo

Food

Live music, featuring Renegade, Triple OT Buck, and AD/HD

Seth is recovering well, and we're hoping that he'll be able to make a short appearance sometime Sunday afternoon.

Blogging Pendulum

2011-08-11T06:12:00.002-05:00

I've horked it up here before: I started my blog in 2005 with whimsy and one-liners, and progressed to wearing my heart in my posts when my son enlisted. Then life got serious for a few years (it's all there in the archives). That, coupled with the convenience of Facebook, I, along with a lot of blogging friends, have kind of let the blog go. 12 posts a month have dwindled to one, if I'm industrious.

I have lately been thrilled to see several fellow bloggers returning to their posts. The pendulum seems to be swinging back from the "tag, you're it!" instant commentary and gratification to something deeper, and more thoughtful. Many of mine are wandering back to where they left off, or starting their blogs anew, once again.

I love it. Talent has been wasted, and I've missed the insights and updates from so many smart, charming, and funny people.

There's been a bit of a reprieve in my own life. The clouds are lifting. I've taken a few months to learn to breath again, and I'm beginning to get in on the "I miss my Blog" revolution.

I have never stopped carrying a camera with me. I take photos almost every day. There is so much out there, so many interesting people, and signs, and scenes. I have more to say than can be said once every 30 days, and I realize that not everything has to be prolific and gut-wrenching.

I think I'm ready to restore dance and whimsy to my life, and to my blog.

So here's a chipmunk.

I'll be back in a few.

New friends and local organic business: The Grape Vine Florist

2011-07-26T08:57:00.001-05:00

Clint and I were heading home from camping yesterday, when my phone finally received a signal, and this message from Gamera dinged in:

Some friends of mine are trying to start up a *very* small flower business. They grow them in their own garden and they were hoping to give a bouquet to a local blogger so they could blog about the arrangement and I thought you might be perfect.

Let me see...a Sunday afternoon adventure, meeting new friends, and a free bouquet...ahhh, you already know what my answer was. I made a 4:00 appointment to meet Matt and Beth Starks.

4:00, right? So, at 3:55, Daphne, the Starks' family shih-tzu, escaped and Beth and one son took off to chase her around the neighborhood. They returned to find blood on the floor, Matt holding an ice bag to his face, and son #2 exclaiming: "Dad broke his nose!"

And THAT is how I met the Starks family.

I'm pretty sure this isn't the story they had in mind in exchange for a bouquet, but really, could you resist?

The real story is an amazing one, so let's move on, shall we?

For the last couple of years, Beth and Matt have spent countless hours transforming their front yard into a vegetable garden. This year, in pursuit of a dream, they split the space, turned one-half of it into a gorgeous flower garden, and have started their own business: The Grape Vine Florist.

This is not a spur-of-the-moment endeavor. Beth worked as a florist for several years when she was in school, and has always dreamed of owning and operating her own floral business. Matt went through a Master Gardening training course 6 years ago, and together they are finally taking their first steps towards turning their hard work and knowledge into a bona fide business.

They gave me a tour of both gardens (yes, broken nose, ice bag, and all!) and some more in the back yard. They invited me in to meet their children, and show off a few of Beth's gorgeous bouquets. One was complex and colorful, with several varieties of wildflowers, and one simple and gorgeous, a glass vase of sunflowers, making their very own statement without accessories.

I spent less than an hour with them, but it was all I needed to see that Beth and Matt are forces of nature. In addition to holding down full time jobs, taking care of their children and home, working in the garden and launching The Grape Vine, Beth makes and sells her own greeting cards here: Stamped Expressions...

...and Matt has spent a fair amount of time teaching himself digital and video trades. He has, I quote, "gotten mediocre at an impressive number of separate skills."

Better than mediocre, I'd say; check out the promotional video he created for the new business:

The video sums it up all very well: They're small, local, organic, and seasonal.

There are only about 5 or 6 weeks left of blooming and harvesting left for this season at The Grape Vine Florist, so if you're in the market, or will be in that time, contact Beth and Matt as soon as possible at:

thegrapevineflorist@gmail.com

Or check out their ordering information here: http://thegrapevineflorist.com/want-to-order/

If you're not immediately in the market for a fresh bouquet of flowers, bookmark them anyway. Who among us hasn't dreamed of doing our own thing, but balked at following through? Here's a couple—a family—that's going for it, and I for one will be watching their website, their blog, and their progress, whooping and cheering them every step of the way.

Before I forget, I have to tell you:
those sunflowers look really great in my kitchen!

Thanks, Beth and Matt for the invitation, the flowers, and for sharing your story with me in the midst of keeping an ice pack full.

They Keep Going, and Going...

2011-07-08T14:51:00.022-05:00

My soldier babies, that is. Word is that they're all coming home, but they keep going and going and going to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Jerrica, one of my first Toys for Troops supporters, is waiting in Kuwait in 121-degree heat to begin her second tour in Iraq. Pictured on the right, she told me in a quick Facebook chat today that she can't wait to get home.

I attended a going away party for my friend Laura's son, Maxwell, a few months ago.

He's serving in Afghanistan right now.

A California friend added 30 to my mailing list in April.
A young friend in ROTC has given me a few more addresses.
One officer has 27 guys that would like beanie babies.
I received a letter today from another in Afghanistan that works in an area that has 8000 kids. They swarm him every day for toys.

Brian worked the airport at the base last night, sending off 600 of his, to Iraq. The mood was grim, he said, because "by morning they'll be in Germany and Kuwait." He sent me photos throughout the evening. The first read: "I do not miss this."

And this one, with the message: "He's writing a letter to his wife. Old school."

A few more, of them waiting, and this one, with a text: "Prayer."

And finally, this one.

1 army base. 1 evening. 2 planes. 600 soldiers. Away from home for 1 year.

At this point, Brian is still using his "Dwell Time," finally fully granted. There's a chance he will not deploy after all, this year, and maybe for the next. It's almost too much for me to believe. I talked to him this morning, and he admitted that last night was a tough night. "There was a lot of emotion in the room," he told me.

There's a pit in my stomach, because I know this. I know there's been a final goodbye. I know cell phones still allow some contact, some last minute I love yous, and text messages read "still waiting," "heading for the plane," and "will be in touch ASAP." I know the phones will then probably be put away for the next year, and the next word will come from Germany, through email and Facebook. It might be tomorrow. It might be a couple of days.

And, with a sudden sense of panic, I know I have to get busy.

I got soldier babies overseas, and I got some motherin' to do.

Photo Dump Day I: Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

2011-07-06T17:27:00.001-05:00

My photo dump folder is filling up faster than usual these days, due, I think, to the recent acquisition of my new iPhone. Little gets by me now that I am a double-fisted photographer!

Since this month's folder had quite a few photos of scribbling and signs in it, I pulled a few out of the archives to round out a post and make a right-proper montage. Here goes:

1. If you do leave the pumps unattended,...

...someone might scribble all over your gas pump.

_______________

2. Tide is on sale at Menards...

Not exactly a bargain when you compare the every-day price below:

Who's singing the "Save Big Money" jingle with me now?

_______________

3. Sign on the door of a small shop in Cripple Creek, Colorado:

And another, in Cripple Creek. I'm thinking those shops had a rash of women wearing fall-down shoes, and collectively decided to take a stand:

_______________

4. This is ridiculous, pregnant mothers getting the front parking spot! What they should do is give it to mothers of newborn infants, that's when the going gets tough! Schlepping around a baby carrier of some kind, her purse and now a diaper bag, and then keeping track of bottles and pacifiers. Oh, and the baby, who's screaming his poor head off because they ran out of formula! Lord, that is the woman that deserves the front parking space. And give it to the new fathers, too; they're all exhausted!

_______________

5. In Hannibal, Missouri:

Mmmm, mouth-watering frames.

_______________

6. Welcome the Hannibal Visitor's Bureau. It's time for you to go now.

_______________

7. Can you read the fine print on the back of the propane truck that was in front of me at a stoplight last week?

So polite.

_______________

8. Clint and I were lured in here after a long day of trekking the streets of Chicago last fall:

Who could turn down such a catchy name?! Not us, that's who. We were greeted and escorted to our table by a beautiful golden lab. How fun!

_______________

9. A booth at the Pork & Apple Festival—or is it Apple & Pork? No matter. So naughty.

_______________

10. And last, when down to my last frazzled nerve while troubleshooting on my netbook, Windows had ONE more suggestion:

See that, right in the middle? You can try getting help from a friend! Because we just don't know what else to do! Try calling Diane! See what she says! Or go find Clint, get his advice! Brilliant! Thank you Windows! I'll do that!

This concludes Sign Dump. I'll start fiddling with the leftover photos for the next post, all of them every bit as engaging as these were.

Ciao, friends!

Zappos Rocks!

2011-07-01T16:00:00.002-05:00

Remember my post about how I fell off of my Naot Treasures shoes twice in one night?

I have developed PTSD from that footwear. Think of the scene in Rainman when Raymond panics at the hot water running in the tub: "Very bad! Very bad! Water burn baby!" Same thing for me, only my internal reaction at the sight of any high-heeled platform or wedgie-style shoe:

"Fall-down shoes! Very bad, very bad! Fall down! Aurghhhhhhhhhhh!"

At the time I didn't have the heart to reveal what paid for those shoes that almost killed me. I'll tell you now. Are you ready? I ordered them from Zappos.com for:

$156.00

!!! I know. Mind you, it's not that they were overpriced; it's just what this particular shoe costs anywhere you go. Still, in the past I've pranced merrily about in $4 flip-flops. $156.00 shoes was a huge decision, and I get nauseous every time I think about wasting that kind of lettuce. (Lettuce = Street slang for money. Because Street is how I roll, peeps.)

My friend Liz implored me to try to return the shoes. I resisted—I didn't have the receipt or packaging, and not only had I worn the shoes, but I'd (ahem) scuffed them up a bit in the two weeks I wore them before sending them into retirement.

She was convincing though, and finally talked me into throwing myself at the mercy of Zappos' customer service department. I sent them a link to the fall-down blog, and begged them to read it.

Here's the letter I got back:

Hey Laura!

Thank you for contacting the Zappos Customer Loyalty Team with that very entertaining email! I loved it!

I am so sorry to hear about your mishaps with your Naot shoes! I read the blog and was thoroughly entertained but also a bit upset at the idea of you falling down due to your recent Zappos purchase.

Since you are such a great Zappos customer, and are not normally a "fally-down" person, I would be happy to make a one time exception and allow you to return your shoes for a full refund!

[Shipping instructions, free UPS label emailed to me.]

Thank you for your continued loyalty to Zappos! I hope your ankle feels better! Let us know if you have any further questions or if there is anything else we can do for you.

Have a great day,
Big Andy
Customer Loyalty Representative
Zappos.com

Yes!! Big Andy credited all of my money back! Big Andy rocks! Zappos rocks! Money back rocks! New shoes rock! Liz rocks! Dancy-dancy-dance!

Have you ever ordered shoes from Zappos.com? Here's what happens:

1. Go to www.zappos.com, pick out some pretty shoes.

2. Order Shoes.

3. Close laptop.

4. Close eyes for 10 seconds.

5. Open eyes. See shoes.

I'm only barely exaggerating: Yesterday afternoon I used my shoe credit to order a pair of shoes, and they have been already been delivered to my house! I've had friends that ordered shoes at 10 p.m., and had them on their feet by 10 a.m. the next morning.

There can be no other explanation: It's magic.

And this, my friends, is how good companies keep their customers. Not that Zappos would have lost me as a customer; I've had amazing service from them for years, buying my own shoes and Mom's shoes there. I've returned a few that didn't fit right, always with no problems and at their expense.

The amazing thing about this return is that my issues with this particular pair of shoes was my own. Zappos was more than gracious to comp me when they were never at fault. See, Zappos gets it. They get that if they take good care of their customers, said customers will keep coming back. They'll gush about it to friends, and on facebook, and ::cough:: on their blogs.

They're funny, too. I made one phone call to discuss the reimbursement. You know the press #1 for this, and #2 for that? Well, there's a press #5 for The Joke of the Day.

Of course I pressed #5. No spoiler here, if you want to find out the joke of the day, you'll have to call them yourself.

By the way, would you like to see the shoes that were delivered to my door today? Here they are, Jambu Odyssey:

Cute, huh! Nice and low with safety straps on them, I think we're going to make a fine couple, me and my Jambus.

Thank you, thank you Big Andy and Zappos. You've made a customer for life!

Can-Can Inquiry

2011-06-21T23:20:00.007-05:00

Clint and I had a rare 30 minutes the other night, in which we wound down the evening by 9:00, actually meandered to the living room together, and *gasp!*...sat down. I kid you not, we plopped down, 4 feet (2 of his, 2 of mine) on one footstool, and we watched a television show together.

Pawn Stars, we were watching, have you seen this show? Kind of a good 'ol boys version of Antique Road Show. Vegas, baby, bring your loot in and sell it!

I always want everyone's loot to be worth a ga-ba-zillion dollars. I'm embarrassed for the guys that smart off: "I'm hoping to get $15,000," and then Rick says "$100 is my best offer." It's like having the doctor send you home with nothing but instructions to drink more liquids. Either way you're a drama queen: You're not that sick and you're not that rich. Sleep it off.

I digress; I have a much deeper point.

In this particular episode, a customer brought in a rusty old can of canned pearls that said "Can-Can" on them. There was an insinuation on the side of the can of the (pearl-based) treasures within. Here's Rick and Chumlee with the can o' pearls:

Stolen from episodewiki.. Hoping if they find me they will 1) exchange permission for exposure—after all, I have ~~hundreds of~~ ~~dozens of~~ four faithful readers; or 2) send me a ticket to bring my own secret valuables to the show. If all else fails, I will 3) remove this photo upon receiving cease and desist order.

Not having come across a can of Can-Can canned pearls before, the proprietor, Rick, couldn't risk offering too much on this guy's mystery treasure. Were they real or were they Memorex?

Still, he offered the man $10 to just let him open the can.

Ten! Ten whole dollars!

The Can-Can Man said that he had waited and wondered for TEN YEARS about what was in the can.

He took the money!!

He took the TEN BUCKS, after waiting TEN YEARS, and he waited anxiously for Rick to open the can.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeechhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

Things don't get to me, much, but this guy did. I wanted to walk over there ("over there" being through the TV screen, through the TV store, and up to the TV counter), and slap him!

TEN YEARS?!! CONVICTION, man! Either keep the can and drive everyone you know crazy with it, or open it yourself! Do NOT PAY SOMEONE ELSE TEN LOUSY DOLLARS (oh, am I shouting?) to open that can that you've been staring at for 10 years.

::pant pant pant::

Crazed as I was, I leaned over and rubbed Clint's foot, and said "We are on the same page: we would let hell freeze over before we let someone else open our can for $10, yes, darling?" [Cuz that's how we talk, with the "yes, darlings"]

He agreed. Ah, bliss.

Heh. I'm a purger, he's a hoarder. Without discussing it, I know, we would each have done different things with our can.

And you? Open, save, or toss it to the Pawn Stars?

Our differences amaze me.

Fodder Toss

2011-06-14T06:35:00.004-05:00

Once again, the absence of posts here isn't due to lack of fodder, but from excess. I have fodder coming out of my ears, people! For the sake of getting something up here, I'll toss some of it at you now.

___________________ Fodder #1 ___________________

I finally got my flower beds & pots planted. Last year the very second they were established and gorgeous, the deer tromped through for flower salad, leaving me with a sorry stem garden. This year, I intend to be diligent with deer repellant and chili powder. From the Indian grocer. Not that midwestern chili powder from Walmart, jack. This says "extra hot" on the bag, and they aren't a' kiddin.

Addendum: I wrote this post last night, and woke up to this, this morning:

Fat lot I know about chili pepper, I guess. Actually, we believe this is the work of a rascally raccoon. Back to FS Farmtown, to find an alternative critter repellant.

___________________ Fodder #2 ___________________

I picked up garlic scapes from the farmer's market for the first time. I sauteed them in a little olive oil and threw in some grape tomatoes til they popped. Eh. I wanted them to be exquisite, but they weren't all that.

___________________ Fodder #3 ___________________

It's almost time for my "God Bless America" pedicure. Stars 'n Stripes for the 4th of July, baby. Because I am 12.

These are representative patriotic toes that I found in an image search. It says "let your children have fun with pedicures!" See? I told you I'm 12.

___________________ Fodder #4 ___________________

My mother, in addition to Amazing Grace, has taken to singing "Lori, Lori Hallelujah." I think it has such a nice ring to it that I invented a martini and named it just that: The Lori Hallelujah. Recipe: Vodka, ginger liqueur, and fresh shaved ginger.

___________________ Fodder #5 ___________________

A Country Casa update really is in order; you will not believe what all we've done since I last wrote about the construction. We have an upstairs deck now! No railing or stairs, mind you, so the first step is a doozy, har har.

See lower deck mapped out with wood planks below.
Whee! Can't you just imagine it?!

___________________ Fodder #6 ___________________

Brian is going back to Iraq. Again. There's been a confusing mess with 12 months "dwelling time," they call it, the time they're entitled between deployments. Yes he can have it, no he can't, oh yes, he can. He was to deploy July 3, but is now slated for September.

It's kind of amazing how when your kid is leaving in 1 month you're shaken and weepy, but a 3 month postponement leaves you in comfortable sweet denial. Enjoy this stateside time while we can.

___________________ Fodder #7 ___________________

Clint and I are going to a lobster boil this Friday. The lobsters are being flown in from Tim Handrigan, from the Discovery channel's Lobstermen. Here's a pic from his website, The Lobster Guy. I will definitely be taking pix and blogging this party!

___________________ Fodder #8 ___________________

Nursing home care is overwhelmingly expensive. It's easier to think of Mom being in a $200/day, all-inclusive resort.

3 month's worth. Oof.

___________________ Fodder #9 ___________________

We have finally attracted Indigo Buntings to the country casa. They are brilliant and mesmerizing, and we have to stop what we're doing every time we see one on our feeders.

They're skittish and I haven't been able to capture even a halfway decent photo, myself. Steve Creek, of Steve Creek Outdoors (stevecreek.com) has kindly given me permission to use his photo of a male indigo bunting. I think his photo most captures why we become hypnotized when these beauties stop by.

___________________ Fodder #10 ___________________

Toys for Troops is still going strong. While finding names and addresses has always been the most work, I'm amazed to find them coming at me like wildfire right now. I have more summer soldiers than I've ever had, and I want them to get boxes. I'm getting ready to recruit offices, groups, and clubs to sponsor a package to each, and THEN I'm going to hit you up for money. A bona fide fundraiser is in order, the first since 2007. Who wants spaghetti?

__________________________________________

That's all for now. Stay tuned for suicidal turtles, some exciting news from Zappos, and a picture of me and Red Green.

My fodder really doeth runneth over.

Get Thee Behind Me, Naot Treasures [Plus a PSA for My Fishnet-Wearing HomeGirlz]

2011-05-10T23:04:00.021-05:00

A year or two ago I had issues with my feet that required a doctor's visit, and ended with my leaving her office with a list of shoes that I could buy. Most of them ran about $300, and looked like this:

These are NOT flattering shoes for 30(18) year olds; I don't care what you pair them with.

I decided to push the limits: I scrutinized my choices, and opted for a conservative shoe with a "sexy" heel: this Ariat Tambour:

Clunky, yes, but by God no velcro!

Turns out I couldn't walk in them. After St. Louis Oktoberfest, I hit a crack in the road and went tumbling. People, I do not get falling-down-drunk! Still, I'm honest with myself, and took time to reflect: Maybe I had done just that...you know, with the beer and the falling down and all. Had I? Maybe? How embarrassing!

In the following weeks, however, I twisted my ankle and nearly went down a few more times. A friend told me that she retired her Ariat's for the same reason: she fell in them. I closeted mine, and bought these Chaco's.

They're not all that sexy, but long pants cover up the ugly bits, and I don't fall off of them. Plus, they feel like heavennnnnnnn.

I have a new job now, where I have to dress a bit dressier than I did in my cubicle life. Comfy as they may be, those Chaco's do not look pretty with capri's or a skirt. I went back to cross-referencing The Doctor's List to Cute Shoes for Every Non-Winter Occasion. These grabbed me:

Ooooo! Look how cute. <--say in squeaky voice! The heel is a little tall, but they have high arches and soft soles—I love them!

Loved. I loved these shoes.

I owned them about 4 days before my first mishap. I marched confidently into the Verizon store with Clint one afternoon, and stepped on the edge of their cushy doormat. Here's a reenactment of what happened to my shoe:

That ain't right.

It spun on me! I grabbed the door for balance, causing the other shoe to also spin and leaving me hanging on the handle for dear life. A mental red flag went up, but I decided not to worry: it was just a freak accident. The very next day, however, while shopping with girlyfriends, I stepped on a crack in a sidewalk and went stumbling.

Could it be that I can't walk in these shoes either?! I just needed practice, that's all. I spent the next week scrutinizing every step. Crack in the sidewalk? Step over. Berry fell off a tree? Watch yourself. Sticks and pebbles and doormats and brick walks? Focus. Step lightly.

In my infinite wisdom, then, I opted to wear my Naot Treasures when I volunteered at my all-time-favorite event of the year: Artists Against AIDS. My Very Important Role was to hold the fishbowl at the door, and "suggest" that viewing the art of 200 local artists, enjoy free wine and gourmet foodies was worth $5:

I was Very Important from 6 to 7 p.m., and then had an hour's relief. I mingled with friends, tasted brie and paté, and then grabbed a cup-o-wine to take back with me for my 8-to-10 shift. Waltzing back like a princess I was, one minute on my feet, and the next, ka-PLOW!

(Here I am, only that's really Lady Gaga.)

A bump in the concrete sent me skidding across the floor and splashing my wine across the venue!

I gratefully accepted a hand while trying to get my Naot Treasures back into proper alignment on my feet.

Gracious! No, thank you, I don't need a chair; I'm so-so embarrassed. It's a good thing I'm wearing a day-glo lime green dress though, so that no one could possibly miss this. (Gosh, I hope my underpants didn't show.)

I was mort.i.fied., but I jollied up with my buddy Silvia, and worked the door til closing. It was a splendid night!

When the show was over, the volunteers settled about, grabbing a bite, and waiting to find out how much we raised for our cause. I slipped outside to the little girl's porta-potty, and on the way back in to the building, stepped on an ant or something, and I kid you not:

My. god. Hide your children. The swearing, oh, the swearing I did! There are not enough secondary characters on the keyboard to express it! @#$%#$^&%*$*%*$%^((^&*^^#$^% shoes!

As luck would have it, one of the two gentlemen that rushed to help me had witnessed the first fall, and he offered to call me a cab.

Please note that "I'm not drunk because I keep spilling my wine when I fall down," isn't an argument that will convince someone to give you back your keys.

I mean...your shoes. That's right—that guy confiscated my SHOES!

Again, when trying to prove your sobriety, standing in a dark parking lot in your stockings and arguing "Give me back my shoes! I mean it, now!" doesn't exactly make you look like a voice of reason.

I switched it up to a stare-down...and lost. "Fine!" I swiped my shoes and mucked back into the building in my socks. Grumble-dy#@% #mucka$% fruckin#$% @4blerkinfritz!!! I got my freakin' shoes confiscated and I got no dang wine to show for it, cuz it's all over the floor. How re-barrassing!

In hindsight, I can hardly blame the guy: he did seem to recognize before I did that those shoes are the devil. They've been in the closet since that night, and they hiss at me every time I open the door because the light hurts their eyes.

THE POINT OF THIS POST...

...is that after all of that confessing, I have a Public Service Announcement for all of my HomeGirlz:

Look at these knees. I mean, this knee. Bruise from fall #1, gravel marks from #2. And proud as I am NOT of all of the tumbling, I am taking one for the team to tell you my humiliating story, just so I can witness to THIS one fact:

I never got a run in my stockings. Mesh fish-net stockings! You heard me, my ~~slutty~~ tasteful fish net stockings are as pristine as they were the day I took them out of the package (which was about 1 hour before the first tumble).

For the record, I was wearing HUE Micro Mesh stockings that night, and I challenge them to find a better spokesperson than I to testify to their durability.

Can you not imagine the marketing possibilities?!!

Well, time to sign off. I hope this has been the learning experience for you that it has for me. Oh, and and if more-coordinated women or men out there wear a size 8.5 in a (say) Naot Treasure, I can cut you a deal on a "Gently Used" pair.

New Life

2011-04-23T08:10:00.002-05:00

There have been events that have changed the direction of my life in the last couple of months. I've been riding them out for awhile, before blogging about them.

1 day into my new job, back in February, I realized that Mom was in some pain. She'd probably been sick for a few days, but I'd missed the cues. If I questioned her about her suddenly grasping her abdomen, she'd merrily respond, "What?! I have no pain." How do I call the doctor and ask to get her in right away...because I'm not sure why?

Of course, if you let some things go, they worsen and it was suddenly terribly obvious that she needed to see her doctor. I cut out early on the 2nd day of my new job to take her to Convenient Care. Her illness, thank God, was treatable with antibiotics and painkillers, but they still took a few days to kick in.

I got up at the buttcrack of dawn to tend to Mom before starting Day 3 of my new job. I arrived to find a gargantuan mess. Her bed was wet and soiled, she was wet and soiled, the floors were wet and soiled. I set water running, and stepped out of my sweater and blouse, to keep from making a mess of my own clothes, and got Mom into the shower. I settled her in warm jammies with a cup of tea, then stripped beds, started laundry, washed floors, cleaned carpets. Then I raced out the door to try to get to work on time.

Of course, I realized that I'd left my phone at home, so I had to head in the opposite direction. As I approached the house, I realized that my clothes were still in Mom's living room. I found another outfit, grabbed my phone, and hit the road to my new office where I was going to arrive late and have to explain that I had to leave early today. Frazzled and stressed, I decided on the spot:

It's enough. I'm done. I've done a good job. I'm proud. But I'm done; I can't do it any more.

I called a case manager that mom had been assigned to ages ago, and, without reservation, told her "I need help. Today."

Within an hour, I had a call back, with news that there was an opening at Champaign County Nursing Home, 1 mile away from her home, 3 miles away from ours. In Garden View Court, a unit set up specifically for Alzheimer's patients. This was looking good.

I took care of Mom through the weekend, and the following Tuesday, I loaded her and her baby doll, "Savannah," into the car. I told her we were going to go somewhere that there would be nurses to take care of her all while I'm at work, and she would have lots of girlfriends to talk to. She was excited.

Mom and Savannah

It was harder on me than it was for Mom. It's kind of like dropping your kid off for her first day of kindergarten...but not. I didn't know how it was going to go, and you know...it's still a nursing home, with nursing home sights and nursing home smells, and nursing home nurses, and it's intimidating on your first day.

I was teary, and worried, and anxious, but instantly comforted when we arrived: The staff was waiting with open arms for Mom...and a stroller and a blanket for Savannah.

Mom got her settled, and took off like she'd lived there for years. Several staff members stopped to admire her baby.

Her bedroom overlooks a walking path (good for pushing strollers on), in the midst of a garden tended by Master Gardeners.

There's a small aviary, and this is her favorite bird:

"Oooo! Pink and purple!," she says.

8 weeks later. You can see by the pictures that she's pretty content in her new home. She sometimes asks to go home, but she imagines a home in which she is a child, and there are friends and family around her. When I remind her that she would have to sit by herself all day until I get off of work, then she agrees, that she likes it better where she is.

I focus now on paperwork and the exorbitant out-of-pocket costs for Alzheimer's care, while I adjust to living a life that doesn't rotate around tending to Mom. I have been amazed to discover how much of my time, energy, and money have gone into taking care of her, but I'll save that for a different post.

It is a new life for both of us.

I am damned proud. I am proud that I took care of my mother as long as I could and as good as I could. I made a few mistakes, and I know I was criticized along the way by a few friends and family that felt I should have put her in a nursing home earlier.

Ahh, but they weren't there, my armchair critics. I don't move blindly through my life. The decisions I made were the right ones, for us. I kept my mother happy, safe, and healthy for as long as I could, and took action when it was beyond me.

Yes, it's made for hectic schedule in my life, at times. So what?

I have, for years now, wondered at people that "console" me with the words "it's as if you've already lost her." Really? Because things have changed, and she is not the same woman that she once was, I have lost her? She no longer IS? I bristle, darlings. Would you think that of your spouse, your best friend, your sister? Your child?

Let me explain that her pronouncing "Jingle Bells" as "Bangle Jells" doesn't make her dead. I have not lost her. She is a beautiful little girl that wants to sing Bangle Jells and Jesus Loves Me. She likes babies and birdies and shrimp and bacon. Not a day goes by that she doesn't tell me I'm beautiful, thank me for all that I do for her, and tell me that she loves me so much.

Sigh.

And she is safe and happy, and I rest easy, these days.

Life is good.

*Shout out to my new employers, Jennie & Paul Edwards, who never blinked an eye over my sporadic first weeks in their office, reiterating only "Mom comes first." You guys just dropped right out of heaven!

$1000 Winner: A Short Story in Twice As Many Words Are Necessary

2011-04-07T23:21:00.000-05:00

When I found out in late January that the place I'd worked for 24 years was folding, I kicked it into gear on the frugality front. I've never been careless with my money, but nor have I, admittedly, been a financial micro-manager.

Couponing! I grabbed a newspaper and poured over the ads. When all was said and done on that particular Sunday, I realized that I'd clipped coupons for crap I'd never buy in the first place. Spend $18 to save $2 on (not my usual) facial moisturizer? Howzabout I don't buy it all and put the $18 in the bank, smarty?

I was (blessedly) offered a job within 2 weeks of being unemployed. Still, facing unemployment was eye opening: I don't want to do it again, and financial awareness is high on my list of priorities: I need to knock out some debt and accrue some savings. Stat!

Couponing wasn't a total bust. I'll never be extreme coupon...er, but the fact remains that there's no sense in paying "more" for anything. I created online accounts at my favorite stores and had ads e-mailed to me. I friended them on Facebook and followed them on Twitter. I may hit a weekly savings jackpot, but if not, there's no harm done.

A couple of weeks ago, Niemann Foods, the corporate office of my favorite grocery store, County Market, put an offer on Facebook: "Sign up for a drawing for $1000 worth of groceries!" Pfft! I'll bite. I signed up, and sent Clint and Diane a note about the opporunity.

Last Friday, April 1, I received a phone call from Pat at Niemann foods. Did I know why he was calling?

I knew immediately why he was calling: He was calling because it was April Fool's Day, and Clint had set up a friend to make me think I'd won $1000 worth of groceries. So I answered him animatedly, and hopefully not too snidely, "Did I win a thousand dollars!!?"

"You DID win $1000 dollars worth of groceries!!" he told me! "Congratulations!" I'm pretty sure my next words were shut up.

"Shut UP! Is this an April Fool's joke?" He assured me it was not, and that I could look up the phone number and call him back and he'd verify it in reverse. I was to go to my favorite County Market on Philo Road in a week and pick up my loot!

I thanked him, hung up, called Clint, and accused him of jacking with me. Such a great actor he was, pretending he had no idea what I was talking about, $1000 worth of groceries.

I checked my caller ID, and did a reverse look-up online, and it did go to Niemann Foods in Quincy, IL. Meant nothing to a supergeek like me: There's an app out there that will call your phone with anyone's phone number in the caller ID. Someone is yanking. my. chain.

Or, maybe not.

Yeah. I won $1000 worth of groceries. How cool is that?

Ahem. Sorry. I meant, "HOW FREAKIN COOL IS THAT?!! WOO HOO! YIPPY! CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS! WOOOO!"

Thanks so much to Niemann Foods, and all of the great employees at County Market that scurried to deliver when I showed up this evening. This was so much fun, and will continue to be.

You don't know me, but I promise I'll pay it forward.

Photo Dump, April 2011

2011-04-02T23:43:00.002-05:00

Scrap photos are slim' pickins these days. This winter was bleak. There are snow & deer aplenty, but they've been done to death here. Here are the Photo Dump Dregs:

Out of Order!
You don't get change back from your dollar?
What in the heck does this mean, out of order?
Perhaps it means "Screws are loose! Sit here and fall on your butt!"
I can't know.

Oh, a few more Cancun pix. Please to note the last two sentences in this sign on the window of the bus we were riding in:

Prohibited to serve drinks!! ... 2 beers, $5.

Think they're kidding? That's Jen and our bus driver, serving our 2 for $5, on the way back from zip-lining, (which I can scratch off of my bucket list, but will never do again).

Seriously, we sat in the middle of that van serving beer and counting money, maintaining sales to the back row. Never, of course, while vehicle was in motion. That's our story, and we're sticking to it.

I mucked out into sub-zero temps for this one sometime last Winter. No justice in this pic.

Mini monkey bread! Clint and I have mastered the 1-Whomp-Biscuit Monkey Bread! Itty-bitty baking pan, 1 can of whomp-biscuits, cinnamon, sugar, brown sugar & butter, and raisins. Don't count the calories. It's disgusting how your boyfriend can eat the entire plate and lose weight, while your nibbling on 1/4 of a biscuit throws the scale off 4 lbs.

A snap I took while perturbed at winter drivers who were "disoriented" in the Lincoln Square parking lot. Seriously. 1/2 inch of snow, and ya'll can't even PRETEND to know in which direction you should be parking? Shut UP. It's a little late to discuss this now, but we shall revisit this next winter.

A snap from a pre-thaw walk at Meadowbrook. Notice the black lab on the right, wanting to PLAY! Pick me, I want to play, can I play? Play me! I love you, Me, Me, Play, me now, is it my turn?!!

While were passing this minor flood below, a woman huffed, "THIS IS RIDICULOUS!!" While I was wondering, "what, you expected the park district to prevent snow from thawing into water?" Diane snapped "Would you like us to get a straw and suck it up for you?" There you go: why we are best-est friends. She has buckled me with laughter for almost 30 years now.

Who among you noticed that this is a Lost & Found station?

Did I already post this somewhere on my blog?
No matter, I like it enough to post it twice. Women. Dogs.

SQUIRREL!

Part of Clint's Valentine's surprise. So precious. Except for that outlining goo morphed into those mini-sticky hand toys that you slap on your wall:

Seriously disgusting, those cookies were, to eat. At least they were cute.

This is the end of Photo Dump Day, 4-11. I'll clear off my disk and start saving more photos that I would never frame and hang in my own house, for the next PDD.

Heartcha!

Let's Move On, Shall We?

2011-03-24T21:56:00.000-05:00

Well. That was interesting. Word on the street is that my last post made you feel uncomfortable.

I guess I knew it would. In all honesty, I wanted to make you a little uncomfortable. Not very nice of me, and I question my own motives: Why drag ya'll down with us on this one?

Passion, I guess. And honesty. I run an organization that supports our troops, and we do feel-good stuff. Sending toys and care packages, getting involved with the community, and touching lives. For good or bad, I wanted to bring it on home: it's not all rainbows, beanie babies, and homemade cookies.

But I know you know that, and I'm sorry I blindsided you. For the record, Brian did give me permission to write that post, to say anything I wanted.

And, well, hell, as I write this, Brian is back NTC, in Fort Irwin, California. Desert training.

NTC, Fort Irwin, CA; pic by Brian Jolley

Training to deploy to Iraq, in July.

Aurghhhhhhhhh! He's only been home for 6 months! I like being able to text him and call him and visit him. I don't want to wear that worry again! RARF! No! Mom says NO!

When he transferred from Fort Benning to Fort Hood in January, he was placed in a company scheduled to deploy: C Co., 1st Brigade Special Troops Battalion, 1st Brigade Combat Team, 1st Calvary division. (Shall we revisit the "The last major combat brigade, Stryker Brigade, is exiting Iraq" news reports from last August, while we train another combat brigade to return?)

He isn't supposed to be "forced" to deploy until he's been home for 12 months, and he had other plans for Fort Hood: enrolling in an 18-month EOD school before deploying again. (EOD! More aurgh!)

But, the Army is the Army...and I don't know what that means. They have rules, and I hold my breath and wait to see which ones they'll enforce: Can he stay stateside and continue with his schooling, or will they rule to send him back to stupid Iraq over with his new company?

NTC, Fort Irwin, CA; pic by Brian Jolley

I wish I had a vote in the matter. >:-|

Hmph.

Ok, I kind of indicated in the title that I'd move along, but I didn't get very far, did I? I can't help it! I just had more to blurp out! Don't quit me now—I promise next time will be something fun, like a Photo Dump Day or an embarrassing story, or tales of my new job—my goodness, I haven't even told you I have a new job! I practically have a whole new life, actually.

I'll gab all about it in the next post, I promise.

Aftershock: Tour #1

2011-03-13T00:13:00.005-06:00

My last post was about my son, Brian, an update of his life after his second tour in Iraq.

I want to share with you a day from a year ago, when Brian was home on leave in the midst of that tour. Brian, Chris, Chad, Anthony, and Kyle were gathered in the kitchen, all of us talking and laughing while I puttered over dinner.

I turned the subject to friends of mine, a gay soldier, Clay, just home from Iraq, and his partner Dylan, actively fighting for the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell. My bestie Diane and I had just met them in Chicago for a night, and I was regaling tales of our our visit.

This particular soldier baby was unable to find help for his PTSD symptoms. The military couldn't ask, or didn't tell, but the VA sure could, and would. I bustled around the kitchen squawking and outraged at the fact that this country wasn't backing up someone that fought on its behalf. I also shared some of the techniques that Clay had told me were working to calm him, for instance, when flashbacks occurred

"That's so interesting to hear what other people are going through," Brian said. "I cried myself to sleep every night for a month when I came home from my first tour. Sometimes its all you can do. When I picked up Smith's arm, I cried. You just cry and bag the arm, and finish your shift and go back to your bunk and cry. Then you sleep and get up and go to work the next day."

...

What?

The boys and I stared at Brian, stunned into silence.

What?

I had taken a pan off of the stove, and I stood still with pan in hand, when I finally asked, "You picked up Smith's arm?"

"Uh huh."

More silence, until I said "Is Smith ok?" Please. Let Smith be ok. Please let it be "only an arm."

"No, Mom. He was not ok."

As if we were the only two in the room, I said "You never told me this before."

"I've never told anyone this before," he said.

I don't remember more of the conversation. I remember feeling like a bird that had just flown into a window. I might have put the pan down, or I might have carried upstairs with me, to whisper something hysterical and undiscernible to Clint. I remember Clint saying "Go back downstairs, you're doing fine."

Yes. Yes, I was fine, I was doing fine. I went back downstairs, and the subject had passed. We had a Mexican feast, and continued on our jolly evening, until the boys took their leave. And I followed Brian's lead after they left: I cried.

I cried, and I went to sleep, and I got up and went to work the next day.

*****

I had been so ready for it, when they came home, in 2008. Ready to watch and listen, and ready to love and ready to advise, and ready to recommend. I tried to give them space, but prod, under the radar. Were they ok? Were there counselors? Were those that were struggling ostracized? It's ok, you know...it's ok for all of that shit in Iraq not to settle within you.

I was on standby for months, for the entire next year. I recognized the aggression in "my boys" and the need for an adrenaline rush. I chided them after motorcycle accidents and roadhouse brawls. I preached a good sermon about constructive versus deconstructive behavior, baby.

And finally, I watched them even out, and turn back into people I could recognize. What did I think? That a little time in "civilized society" was all that was necessary? That if we could just get them to "Point B" after they came home without hurting themselves or someone else, then we could lay it all down and be done with it?

Maybe I did think that. That once I didn't hear more, then there was no more. These soldiers don't often talk, I'm finding. Who can blame them? It's taken me a year to find the words to tell about one meal around my table.

Why is it so hard to tell?

Because I wonder who I was, for him, in the midst of some of those terrible days. Was that the day that I sent an e-mail, nagging him for not calling me in 3 weeks?

Because when I think of him, I think of him as my child, and how picking up arms in a war zone was never what I wanted for him in a million years, and that kind of buckles me.

Because I don't want Brian to read this and ever think that his sharing caused me pain that I myself cannot endure.

Because it's really not even about me—is this even mine to tell?

I have no idea what it's like to be a soldier. I don't know the fear or adrenaline of being shot at, or returning fire. I don't know the horrors of being in a war zone. Those things, they aren't mine to tell.

I am, however, a soldier's mother, and that is mine to tell. It's mine to tell, and mine to remind, at a time that we've been at war so long that we're desensitized to the news stories, that tens of thousands of soldiers' mothers—and fathers, and friends and wives—are sitting down to dinner, or watching a random TV show, or just walking through a mall, and finding out what their soldier really went through, 2, 4, 6 years ago.

I am a soldier's mother, it is mine to tell you how it feels when your kid tells you that he's picked up pieces of his friend in a war zone. It feels like someone kicks your soul right out of your body.

I called Chris shortly after that dinner in our home, to bend his ear. I know how it felt to be this kid's mother and learn some of what he'd experienced. What about his best friend? What was his reaction? Chris's reaction was little different than mine: Devastated. Responsible, somehow for not having offered up support earlier, for what, exactly, we did not know. Though we were waving and volunteering, Brian moved about without us, coping, repressing, not seeing the point of hashing it all out, or not being ready to.

Mother, father, siblings, friends—ridiculous as it was to feel it, we did: like utter failures.

We weren't, of course. We were, all of us, on stand-by 24 hours a day, if Brian needed us. What he wasn't ready to say could wait, and that remains true today. Maybe we're not done. Maybe we are. No matter what, we are all unconditionally available to Brian, and to his comrades, and to one another.

I am a soldier's mother, and it is mine to tell that when we are worn down, weary, unwilling or unable to talk, it is our personal silent army: our loved ones in the wings that move us through, and out of our pain.

It is, perhaps, the only thing I have in common with my soldier babies.

And that is mine to tell.

Update on My Kiddo

2011-02-15T14:21:00.004-06:00

It's time to sit down and write about my kid again. The baby boy is all grown up, but I still resist the urge to Mommy-Blog. Generally. Today I'm giving in to gush with gusto.

I wrote about our driving to Georgia last September, to welcome Brian home from his second tour in Iraq. I'll put it out there now: Brian's marriage did not survive "their" first deployment. I will share with you that his wife was diagnosed with thyroid cancer shortly after he deployed. It's a lot for anyone to endure on their own, and a lot for a soldier to clear from his head when he's trying not to get blown up. It's been painful for both families, and when all is said and done, I feel most saddened that a lifelong friendship has been dissolved.

We were waiting, then, to welcome Brian home, along with SPC Anthony McFarlane, another friend whose marriage didn't survive the tour. Do you know that if you're married you don't get to live in the barracks? And if your wife has gone home with all of your stuff, you don't have an apartment waiting for you? And you don't get a meal ticket for the chow hall unless you're single? I felt like my son(s) returned to the United States essentially homeless. Welcome Home, Soldier.

Me & Soldier Babies: Anthony and Brian

I told you that we had one day to find a small apartment in a lousy neighborhood. They didn't even have the keys to their apartment by the time we had head home; we left them in our hotel room to kill a couple of hours before check out, waiting to move their gear into their new place. Gear is all they each had, the apartment was split by 3 soldiers that came home the same day. Each would be moving to a new base at the end of the year, so furniture was kept to a minimum: blow-up mattresses, a card table and their trunks for a dining area, and each contributed something in the way of electronics: tv, play station, stereo. Home sweet home!

Brian got to take leave, and come home for the entire month of December. Our place is still under construction, and it was difficult for me not have a room to offer him. Wah! He was fine, of course; he stayed with his friends, and his Dad, I made up for it with plenty of home-cooking. He and his friends were over several times a week, and I was in my glory, listening to voices I love telling old stories and new, all of them making me laugh until I cried. I am still most at home when they are home.

He got to give up shaving for a month, and accomplished this:

He and his friends rebuilt an engine and worked on a car he bought on eBay. He had multiple Christmases with family and friends, got to participate in Santa Rampage, and helped with the Toys for Troops' Christmas Gifts to Soldiers event for the first time.

Mommy Bragging Alert: I asked Brian to wear his uniform to the Christmas event, and he resisted. We whined at each other a little bit, and I finally said the ONE thing that made him shut up and get dressed: "Will Page is going to be there."

For those of you don't, this little guy has been fighting leukemia for 2 years, all the while whipping up "soldier brownies" to send to new-found soldier buddies in Iraq & Afghanistan. Brian met Will at his home once before, and awarded him a Military Achievement Badge for working so hard to keep the soldiers in brownies.

Not sure if Will would recognize him out of uniform, all it took was the mention of his name for Brian to shimmy back into his ACUs for the event. Will was our youngest volunteer ever, and seemed pretty excited to see Brian again. The feeling was mutual.

And that my kid, though not a kid, "gets" this stuff makes me proud as hell of the young man he's become.

Brian went back to Georgia on January 3, and arrived home to find their apartment had been robbed. Gutted. Every cupboard, drawer, and closet opened and dumped, anything that could be plugged in gone. His laptop gone. All of his Army gear, gone. Unfortunately, since the living space was only temporary, he passed on renter's insurance. (Aurgh!)

He called me almost immediately, and I felt sick as I talked to him while he waited for the police to arrive, facing an empty apartment and no belongings for the second time in the 3 months he'd been home from Iraq. Welcome Home, Soldier, Part Deux.

No time to dwell on it, after police reports were filed, he had to start out-processing to Fort Hood, Texas, where he is now stationed. Brian and Anthony McFarlane, his roomie in Georgia, are sharing the rent on a new place. Since McFarlane also lost all of his stuff in the burglary, they are setting up the new apartment with: Nothing.

I know they're big boys. They're men. They're soldiers. They'll pool the next couple of paychecks and get on their feet. Jones and his wife had a surprise housewarming party for them last week, storming the place in the middle of the night with armloads of groceries, hampers, shower curtains, pillows, pillowcases. I want to kiss their whole faces for that, oh, I wish I could have been there to contribute!

Jones, on the right: The Housewarming Fairy Godfather

Sigh. My kid.

I wish you to know him, if you don't. He's going to make you laugh.

He has a peaceful, laid-back demeanor that just rubs off on you.

Outside of loving the stuffing out of him, I admire him for the person he's grown up to be. I am proud as hell.

My son has been to hell and back in Iraq. He's had hurdle after hurdle to clear since he's been home, and he still manages to laugh and maintain a good outlook. He is stronger than many, many adults I know that have been through far less, managing to roll with the punches with courage, honesty, and incredible humor.

Even when they're grown, it's difficult to watch your kid muck over bumpy roads. I know Brian's a responsible young man, and he's going to be fine. It is still harder than hell to give him "adult space." To let him take care of his own friendships and relationships and finances and apartment and life. There's this weird fine line where I feel I should stand back. Stop mothering him! Zip my lip!

On the other hand, it is also true that there's only so much of that I can stand, darlings, and I am by-God sending him a box of ranch crackers to snack on, and gourmet foodies with post-it notes and cooking tips, and a gas card to help out, and if at any given moment I want to know what or how he's doing, I'm going to By-God call and ask, and no one can stop me.

Because when all is said I am done, I am STILL the Mom, and I say so.

Recipe for Winter Fun: 7 degrees + Boiling Water. Toss.

2011-02-09T11:43:00.002-06:00

It's 7 degrees outside, and a few of us here in my workplace are wrapping up our last few days of employment. There is no work,* so we surf the net, pace, and worry.

This morning we indulged in some comic relief. Kurt asked me, "have you seen those YouTube videos where you throw boiling water into the air and it turns into ice?"

"Shut UP!," I said. "Let's go try it!"

We boiled a pitcher of water and designated jobs for ourselves: Me the photographer, Kurt the spinner.

Crikey! It works! We tried it again, but mixed a bit of blue acrylic paint into the pitcher. A big blue cloud! That's what we were hoping for!

Not quite. The blue water seemed to be a lot clunkier, but I think it was Kurt's fault: he should have spun faster, and I told him that right to his face. I explained to him that our chances of winning $10,000 on America's Funniest Home Videos would be greater if he got dizzy and fell down afterward.

One more experiment, this time with the lid off. I think this one made the best impact:

Woo-Hoooo!!!! Yippee!!!

Well, that was fun. It's 8:30 a.m. Now what should we do?

Oh. Help Wanted Ads. That's right.

Back to it.

*Note to potential new employers: I reiterate: There is no work. I would never goof off at my job like this if there were. Thank you for your consideration. Please hire me.

Random Blizzard Pix

2011-02-03T14:31:00.097-06:00

Note: Snow days aren't quite as exciting when they're eating up two of the last 10 days of your wages. Still, with no work to do at work, there simply wasn't a reason anyone could make up for us to justify schlepping in, the last 2 days. The office was closed, C-L-O-S-E-D.

It was odd to get a preview of what my Tuesdays/Wednesdays might be like a few weeks from now. Kind of nice. Except for the not getting paid part. Aurgh, let me not think of it, and show you a few pix from yesterday.

6:30 a.m, out the frosty front door:

7:30 a.m., My Clint baby making his way home from work.

8:00 a.m. One nice thing about living in the country is that the snow does kind of even itself out over several acres, instead of drifting into a 4-foot pile in front of your door. Still, it has to be moved out of the way before anyone gets in or out.

Our finch feeders were packed with visitors all day long. I was happy they have somewhere to go for dinner, but worried about our blue jays and woodpeckers, as a deer (we think) knocked down and broke their feeder the night before the storm. Fret, fret.

The roads weren't cleared yet, but Family Services was closed, so I had to get out to tend to Mom. Clint was sweet and drove me over. Sweet—or worried I'd end up in a ditch and he'd be the one to pull me out. Either way, he chaperoned me over to Mom's house. On the way back the roads still not had been plowed, so we got hoot and holler when we picked up speed to make it through a few places drifted shut. Yee hawww!!!

I made him stop to let me take a picture of some deer babies. There had been several standing here, but our stopping spooked them, and the scampered into the brush. I managed to just catch this one before it followed the rest in.

Just on the other side we spotted an entire herd of deer, but they were so well camoflauged that the pictures didn't turn out well.

See? They're in there...

After that, we got home, we didn't do much but putter around the house and stay warm.

Finally, at 4:00 in the afternoon...

Back to work this morning, Thursday feels like Monday after two days off, and I can't believe tomorrow is Friday. The time was good, lots of time to rest, and to think. I feel good. I may even be, naively, happy, and excited about the future.

I'm finding out that sometimes it can be a good thing when circumstances are simply out of our control. Tossing up our hands and riding out the storm may sometimes be just what we need to clear our heads, and find a new direction.

Unemployed: Joining the Ranks

2011-01-31T11:39:00.005-06:00

Here is some text extracted from the thought balloon over my head since last Thursday, 2:30 p.m.:

Ugh. 2 weeks? How much money do I have in the bank? What's due? Where's the CD with my resume? That Fossil purse, ugh, I wish I'd known this before I splurged on the new purse. Health insurance, fuck. I think I'm going to be sick. Facebook it! Get the word out. I can do this. I'll be fine. I can get two jobs. Why should I get two crappy jobs when I can bring in more money on unemployment and skate until I find something worthwhile. How much would I make on unemployment? How do I find out? Unemployment! God, how embarrassing. I'm dynamic! I'm worthless. I'm worthless to Clint! I have nothing to bring to the table in his home right now. I'm smart! I'm a giant pain in the ass, a big financial drain. God, my own house payment. I have a house payment! What do I want to do? Could I possibly do what I want to do? I've wanted to work on my own for years. Can I? Could I? Are my ideas ridiculous? Am I living in a fantasy world? Should I go for it, or will reality knock me between the eyes with a two-by-four? I think I'm going throw up.

Rinse. Repeat.

Yes, after 36 years the company I've worked for is closing its doors. I've been here for 24 years. I was 24 years old when I began working here. Brian was 1. 24 years. 2 husbands. 7 houses. 1 job.

It's not that it's a huge surprise. Outsourcing, globalization, and technology has done us in, as it has many other U.S. publishing and printing businesses. 6 years ago I was in a managerial position, training and overseeing several employees. For the last 3 or 4, I've been side by side with 1 employee in my department, at the same time moving into the "receptionist" chair in the front office.

I'll admit to skating. Skating on a slightly higher wage while I can, trying to knock down some debt. I've also held off moving forward professionally while I rode out the last couple of years. How could I tell a new boss, "yes, I'm reliable, but my sister is ill, and I'm taking care of my mother, and I need to take phone calls, and I need to leave when I need to leave!"? I just didn't see too many potential employers going for that, while my own stood by me every time Mother lost her glasses.

This was to be The Year. It was less than a week ago that I was discussing with Clint the number of changes that were going to occur in my life in 2011—thus affecting his life, and ours together. Changes that would will causing both some unstability, and yet lock in a more solid future with a little more breathing room: I'll get Mom settled, and tend to her house, her assets, her finances. I'll decide then, what my options are: school, employment, self-employment. Sell my house, keep my house, what to do, what to dooooo.

Well, circumstances have taken a turn, and while I still have the same decisions to make, I have to make them fast, and oh, figure out how to bring in thousands of dollars while I do it. I've got 10 days of employment left before I figure it all out.

I have ideas. I know what I want to do. I know what I have to do.

Wish me luck, smarts, courage, and, if I need it, the sheer false bravado I need to somehow make the two coincide.

I'm going to go throw up now.

Cancun: Vendor Photos

2011-01-27T12:37:00.001-06:00

Here's another round of vacay photos. I began organizing them day-by-day, but as the week went on, what happened on which day became a bit blurry. It was just too much fun to keep track of. Or maybe too much Dos Equis. At any rate, I recategorized, and here's a few highlights from my "Vendors" folder.

With all-inclusive at our fingertips, we never did taste food from the beach vendors. I kind of wish I had, now. I have no idea what this woman was selling, but it looks like pineapple, pork rinds, and hot sauce. I'm sure some of my more well-traveled friends can enlighten me.

More pineapple, carried on the head of a guy that had a great sense of balance. I'm going to try this.

This guy walked around all day yelling "Kibbeh, Kibbeh." I've eaten Kibbeh at Lebanese restaurants before, but I doubted this was the same thing. I was wrong. Upon further research, I found out it was just that: bulgar and ground meat. I'm not sure I want to eat ground meat out of a glass aquarium being carried around in the hot sun all day. I passed this time, and will most likely pass again, if we ever return.

Hats! The day before the last day we were there was a windy one, and one of these hats mysteriously blew around and ended up on Jen's beach chair. No one around by the end of the day, so free hat, she was adorable in hers!

This lady was offering to braid your hair, but I referred to her as the "head-on-a-stick lady" for the duration of our trip.

Our bags were packed, and we were checked out when we did some last minute shopping from this young lady. I bought a beaded shrimp keychain from her, now hanging in our kitchen. I love it; it's adorable and it reminds me of all of the shrimp and seafood we put away on our trip. Nom, nom nom.

Puppets, anyone?

We bought belts and bracelets from these 2 young girls. It's hard to resist kids. Kids with pretty-pretty things.

These women, at dusk would plop a 9-month old baby in the middle of the sidewalk. That's cold, isn't it? I got a running start and hurdled that baby. Almost cleared him, too.

Beautiful bottles to put your Tequila in. These remind me of my sister; she used to dabble in this sort of clay stuff. I have a letter opener with a clay handle she made, that I use every day

Dresses. One size fits all, he says. I remember when I could fit into one size fits all.

This guy was selling the chimes, but he was really good at getting your attention with that Conch shell. Sneaky; once you look up and make eye contact, you're doomed, he's going to try to get your money!

Oh, crap, I did it, I made eye contact. I bought a silver bracelet from him on the first day. Interesting tactics, this one: I didn't have cash on me at the time. He gave me the bracelet, and said he'd be back in an hour. Honor system! Ooooh, that sucks me in every time. "You TRUST me? Awww, ok, I'll pay too much for your jewelry!" Plus he worked so hard on the 4-children-that-need-chicken-tacos sob story.

On the last full day we met him on our daily beach walk. I told him I wanted 5 bracelets to go. We bartered and argued until he accepted my offer and agreed to meet us back at our chairs in 30 minutes.

I really dig that "bring the stuff to me" shopping! I picked out my 5, and bid him adios.

Our agreed-upon price, by the way, was too-too low, he said, and he made me swear to never ever ever tell anyone how much I paid for the lot.

I promised him I would not.

And I'm as good as my word.

Guest post, from "Showers with Beetles"

2011-01-26T23:53:00.003-06:00

For those of you not from around here, I'll enlighten you with the fact that this part of the state is inundated, every Autumn, with "Asian lady beetles." I just call them ladybugs. They hit the area like a snowstorm sometime in October, creep into our houses through siding and window sills, and as the weather cools, they fall asleep.

Photo from http://www.associatedcontent.com/image/805686/index.html?cat=32

Well, that's my theory, that they fall asleep. They fall asleep and intermittently wake up throughout winter, wondering where they are. They buzz around sluggishly, die mid-air, and fall into your drink, your lap, into every crevice in your house. Heat and humidity seems to rouse them from their sleep also; they come to life every time I run hot water. My self-appoined Native American name, since moving out into the country casa, is "Showers with Beetles." Not as sexy as "Dances with Wolves," but succinct and accurate.

Every year, there's one entemologist or another on the local news, stating "there's nothing you can do but vacuum them up." Vacuum them up I do! My baseboards and window sills fill up with their dead little carcasses every 2 weeks or so throughout the winter. I'm trying to figure out how to make money off of the damned things but the going rate for lady-bug meat thus far is nil.

Last Saturday, then, was lady-bug day. This entails using a broom, a brush, a dirt devil, the manual hose of the sweeper, and any other means possible to get deceased ladybugs out of the gaps between the carpet and the baseboards, and in every other crevice they manage to squeeze into. I spent a good 90 minutes on Saturday morning moving furniture and doing intense cranny-vacuuming.

When I finished up, I put the sweeper back together to finalize the floors, and casually thought to myself, "after this, I'll change out the bag, and it will be fresh next time I need it."

I turned the sweeper on, and ka-BOOM! "Ka-BOOM!!", I say, and while my mind was busy registering that the cover of the sweeper was on the floor, the bag had split open and the sweeper was shooting the last few weeks' worth of dirt, dust, hair, and ladybugs back into the living room, firehose-style. Screaming and screaming, I was, trying to remember which button turned the machine O-F-F.

After my senses returned, I managed to shut the thing off, and my screaming graduated to "#$%@$^$," Clint meandered in to take a look, and said, "well, that sucks." We ended up having to vacuum the vacuum with another vacuum. We had to move other appliances outside to blow them off with an air compressor. The furniture needed to be vacuumed, every surface in the house needed dusting, and of course, all of my just-cleaned-crannies were no longer for this world.

Hours later, I turned my attention to myself and turned the water on high-and-hot in the bath tub, thus bringing to life another round of zombie-beetles that would stagger around the house in sporadic flight until their beetle-eyes rolled back into their beetle-heads, and ::klunk::!!

Welcome to the Grand Circle of Life at the Country Casa.
If you know what's good for you, you'll just stay in bed.

—Showers with Beetles

RV Show Wrap-Up

2011-01-19T13:52:00.000-06:00

The weekend was a blast, oh how we laughed and laughed. In fact, I came home of dozens of photos of us doing nothing but that. They're all funny to me, but since 144 photos with the caption "here's us, laughing" would probably get tedious to you, I'm posting a select few in a slide show. I'm thoughtful that way.

I mentioned before that the RVs get pricey. Check out the price tag on the first photo. I could buy 2 of my condo's with that, and still have some decorating money left over.

Anyway, you'll see that there aren't a lot of photos from the actual show. Most of the fun was had holing up in the lobby after the show with a lot of good food (nachos, pizza, chocolate birthday cake!), and having a ruckus-y good time.

When Popcorn Attacks

2011-01-15T12:24:00.003-06:00

Clint's driving, and we're on our way to St. Louis, with 10 of our best friends behind us. For the last 2 years we've attended an RV Convention in Chicago, and we decided to switch it up this year. RV Convention: Where you pay $8 to walk around all day and look at campers more luxurious—and more expensive—than your home. We may leave with RV Envy, but at least we have plastic bags full promotional gee-gaws, that's the part I love!

Completely off-subject, but speaking of gee-gaws, I went into Best Buy last night and said to the clerk, "I'm looking for a gizmo that I've seen online, but have never found anywhere else..." My clerk promptly turned around and asked his 2 colleagues, "Do we carry `Gizmo?' " A powwow ensued about how they'd never heard of "Gizmo." I contemplated letting them search other departments for "Gizmo" before I told them that I was mistaken: I need a "Gadget." Dang whippersnappers, never heard of gizmo, yeesh.

Anyway, while you wait for me to return with your souvenir magnet, here's a little movie about a popcorn experiment gone awry at our Labor Day camping trip. Oh, and hide your kids, someone keeps messin' up my videos with gratuitous cuss words, and I don't have a bleep tool. (I wonder if Best Buy has "Bleep.")

A Random "Quite Wonderful"

2011-01-13T20:48:00.001-06:00

I ran out to Big Lots the other day, on my 30-minute lunch break. 5 minutes to get there, 5 minutes, back, I had 20 minutes to scramble for some sundries for my mother. I gathered what I needed, raced to get in line, suddenly realized I'd forgotten toothpaste, and ran back to grab a tube.

I stopped to browse, when a beautiful Korean woman, about my age, stopped me to ask where she might find tools for her mother's dental care, in this town. I hit the brakes to think, and admitted that I had no idea. She told me that her Mother had a stroke last fall, and that she her soul caregiver. She could barely get her Mother to open her mouth, and getting her to a dentist was out of the question. She's looking for a tool that will do the job, a good one, not a cheap one that might cause damage.

After she opened up, I shared with her that I also take care of my mother, and dental care is a tough one to stay on top of. There was an odd, wonderful moment, then, when she just looked at me and sighed, a moment in which we each recognized the other's exhaustion, and frustration; a moment in which we were suddenly friends.

I realized that I was going to be late getting back to work, sat down my basket, scrounged for a pen, and told her about our local family resources. Did she know that she can get some help? Catch a break? She did not. Although she's been in the U.S. for 25 years, she has only been in this area only for 4 months. She has no idea that there's assistance, and when I tell her that someone comes to my mother's house for 3 hours a day, she almost melted: "You can get 15 hours a week of help? 15 HOURS to YOURSELF?"

Yes, honey. I wrote down the phone number, and then gave her my name and phone number also, demanding that she call me if she needs any more help.

"Who ARE you?" she asked me. "What do you do? Are you a social worker?" I laughed and told her "I'm someone else in charge of her mother's care, and I know how tired you are."

I finally rushed out with a reminder: "Call that number. Call me. Good luck getting some help." I was rushing out when she laughingly yelled after, "you've already helped me!"

I like chance meetings. I like spontaneous connections. I like to believe that they weren't spontaneous at all.

I like to believe that I was meant to forget the toothpaste, at that particular Big Lots, at 12:17 on that particular day.

And I hope it changed the direction of her life just a little bit.

I hope she gets her 15 hours.

*Title of this post refers to closing thoughts on the last.

Not a Mexico Blog

2011-01-12T21:57:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I paralyze myself with my own promises; 'dja ever do that? I have 400 photos to sort through on an an outdated laptop in which the homerow's Row #3 works quirkily. if at all. My vow to post Cancun adventures "next" simply bottlenecks all of the other prolific posts I could be writing. I surrender! Cancun photos and adventures will come in due time.

I read back to the "olden days" of this blog, and I feel like I've lost my voice and the courage of my convictions in the last couple of years. An increased readership intimidates me a bit. The last couple of years have been tough, tough. 2009 was blogging the year of Teri's death. In 2010...I just felt like I'd suck out your soul if I told you how I really felt, adjusting to the first year without her. I fell into a "if you don't have something nice to say..." mindset.

In truth, last year was tough. The year before, when Teri lost her battle to cancer, was terrible, it was terrible. But she was here. And last year was our first where she wasn't. Toss in living under construction. Most of my material belongings have been in storage or still in my home, which I'm now renting to a friend. My sister is gone, and I don't have my *stuff.* Whatever the hell stuff I thought that would be, that would make things better, I don't have it, I can't find it, it's in a freakin' box somewhere, and it's just easier to go buy new stuff, thus adding financial strain to my stress.

I miss my sister, I'm broke, I can't find my stuff, my kid is in Iraq, my Mom is combing her hair with a fork and pooping on the floor, and who in the hell can cope with all of this stuff and maintain a merry relationship every single day? Not me, there was tumult everywhere! I really thought I was keeping my shit together in 2010, but when I look back at the year, BLEAH. Barf. Blurp. Puke.

I am still standing because of a lot of good friends, and a few *great* friends, that held me up through the year. It's funny, how I want to tell you that "Clint's friends" rallied to keep me upright through some tough times last year, their rallying making me realize: they are MY friends now also. My family now also. I love that.

All of this spewing beget from a desire to let you all know, "I miss blogging," and I'm going to stop worrying about that prolific post, and I am going to blog every single day. Ok, big lie, the every single day part. But I'm going to make more of a point to get the daily stuff back out here, because despite the aforementioned bellyaching, something quite wonderful really does happen almost every single day.

Thank God, because I'm not sure I would have survived 2010 without the "quite wonderfuls."

See you tomorrow.

Iguana Blog My Mexico Photos...

2011-01-06T22:22:00.000-06:00

...but we're gearing up for one more family Christmas this weekend, so you're just going to have to wait.

Sand Castle Walk and The Cletus Castle

2011-01-03T22:30:00.001-06:00

Happy New Year!

I mentioned in the last post that we were taking off for Mexico for the holidays, and we did just that. One week in Cancun and thereabouts has given me enough blog fodder and photos to last a couple of months, so I'd best get to it.

This one's short & sweet, as we just got home yesterday, and I'm still unpacking and sorting out photos—photos we are lucky to have, mind you. I bought a new Nikon S8100 digital camera 2 weeks before the trip, and somewhere in the midst of Day 1 in Cancun, the thing completely putzed out on me. Would not focus, the zoom button had a mind of its own, and the camera would not shut off or on.

The good news was that I took a second, backup camera that had just gotten out of the repair shop.

The bad news was that I had been asked to remove the memory card from that camera while it was being repaired, and I never put it back in, for the trip.

The good news was that the Kodak kiosk across from our resort had a 2 GB memory card to sell me.

The bad news was that they were going to charge me $55.00 for that card (a $14 value in U.S. AND down the road at Cancun Walmart).

The good news was that we could hop the autobus to Walmart for $1. (More good news is that we arrived alive; it was touch and go for a while there: Cancun bus drivers will really get your adrenalin going.

The bad news was that Walmart only had HC cards, and I needed an HD.

In the end, the good news was that Clint took his camera.

Anyway, Clint and I took a "sand castle walk" down the beach every day, snapping pictures of castles good and castles bad, but all castles fun.

After a week of admiring castles, I was inspired to whip one up myself on the very last day. As our bags were already checked at the hotel, I had only my God-given hands and a straw to work with.

Clint's nickname at the firestation is "Cletus," so we dubbed this one "The Cletus Castle." Using seaweed for fine details, here's what I ended up with, followed by a photo of my live model:

An uncanny resemblance, don't you think?

The Midwestern Girl's Guide to The Winter Pedicure

2010-12-21T00:20:00.003-06:00

It was around Labor Day, I believe, since my last pedicure. Stuff's happened since then—an insanely harsh Autumn, chock-full of weather that requires socks and boots. Weather that leaves our poor feet floating around in an "out of sight, out of mind" continuum.

I guess I'll announce it now, then, that my feet are coming out of hibernation on Christmas morning in Mexico.

Feliz Navidad, Peeps! Voy al Cancun con me hombre y su familia. Y necesito un pedicure because, as I said, my feet haven't seen the light of day for months. HOWEVER, hace frio, y there is mucho snow-o on the el-ground-o, and however am I going to get mis toes-os back to el country casa?

Seriously. Damp toenail polish. Your options: 1) Wander around the salon until tomorrow, which isn't necessarily condoned. 2) Gamble that you're dry enough, and stuff your feet back into a foot-vessel (Tantamount to throwing your pedicure money down the toilet). 3) Shuffling out into the snow and sleet in flip-flops...Yeah. You go first.

I have worked it all out.

UNO: Grab an old pair of 99-centavo socks and cut the toes off.

TWO-O: Find an hombre or an amigo that will drive you to the pedicure place, and drop you off right at the door.

TRES: Pick out a cha-cha color that properly represents Christmas in Mexico, and slide those socks from #1 on before the polish is applied.

Sure, you're slipping back into flip-flops, but most of your foot is covered, and all you have to do is tippy-toe back into...

Numero Quatro 4-oh: Call su hombre back to pick you up at the door. Your toes will never touch the sleety slush. Your hombre, of course, has been home shoveling a walkway the entire time, so you are in like Flynn, baby.

Cinco: Pack up your toesies (your swimsuit, sunglasses, sunscreen) in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.

Santa Rampage IV: 2010

2010-12-12T23:08:00.001-06:00

Last night was the Fourth Annual Santa Rampage in Champaign, and not only was it as fun as ever, it was the best year yet. You'd think running the streets with 70 other Santa's just couldn't get any more fun than it was last year, but it really does.

We started the evening by doing a bit of party crashing, at my friend Cynthia's house. Cynthia maintains an amazing blog called The Sandwich Life, and if you don't read it, you need to go add it to your list right now. Anyway, she and husband Ernie were throwing a house concert featuring singers/musicians Kristi Rose and Fats Kaplin. We couldn't make the entire party, but we didn't see any reason we couldn't run a quick rampage through the house. We left our cab running and did just that.

This year was extra special to me because my kiddo was here for it, along with all of his friends (my other sons). It was exciting to hang out with them again, to be surrounded by so many more that I love. Also, although our kids (Clint's and mine) have met briefly on a few occasions, they've never had much of a chance to get to know each other. It's the first time that we've had a family (Santa Rampage) affair in which MY family showed up too. BOO-yah!

Jen get the "Most Photographed" Award of the year, with her Cindy Lou Hoo costume, and hairdo extraordinaire. There is a styrofoam cone under there, and pipe cleaners in the little loop-de-doo's on the sides. It was amazing!

I wore the same old hat that I wore last year. It was likened to a cat toy, and Chad made sure it got a lot of spring action through the night.

Jen's husband, Bill, dressed up as The Grinch. Sounds like they planned that together, but neither learned of the others costume until Saturday morning.

I walked away with hundreds of photos from the evening. I am so hard pressed to find a representative set for this post that I'm just going to link to My SmugMug Gallery. Click HERE, if you're interested.

I'll close with one more, my favorite photo of the night, taken at Memphis on Main. We had danced our hearts out and were moving on to Mike & Molly's. By then we were many Santas spread throughout a deep bar, so Brian asked for the mic to announce our next stop. Here he and Chad are directing the closing salutation that we shouted as we left each establishment, on the count of 3:

1-2-3: Merrrrry Christmas!!!!

I hesitate to keep bringing it up, for fear of sensationalizing the issue, buy my kid was in Iraq at this time last year. Now look at him, smiling and laughing, and clearly having a blast..

Look at him. Here with us, with friends and family.

Look at him.

Not. in. Iraq.

That makes me feel like this:

Keen Observation Skills: FAIL

2010-12-08T22:51:00.002-06:00

Apparently I've been a bit absorbed for the last week or so, with the Toys for Troops event. We just don't have a clear idea of how much money we have to work with, and how far we have to spread it, until we get closer to the big day. A lot of the work comes on a tight deadline, leaving me under a bit of pressure for the last week, trying to focus on all of the last minute tidbits. I was up until midnight or later for the last 10 days before the event.

I have a bit of an embarrassing story that reveals just how honed in my little head was, on my lists and chores.

Transition now back to the Country Casa. We're still under construction. The last 6 months of work have focused on outdoor projects, and Clint is just now getting back to tending to indoor projects. I'll admit to having done a bit of footstomping at the end of the summer, and asking (asking/demanding, potato/ potahto) for a myriad of quick-fixes to make living here more efficient, less cluttered, and thus a lot less stressful. We still aren't ready for our magazine spread (unless Better Homes & Gardens is looking for "Construction Chic"), but things are a bit more orderly.

One item on the list was to find a set of shelves for a 2-foot-cubby created between the refrigerator and the wall. Long term plans are to build some, but furniture-making isn't high on the priority list right now, and we need shelves. It's an odd size, so when we spotted a set in Chicago a few weeks ago, we brought it home.

So excited we were, until we went to set the microwave on and discovered it was 5/8" too wide. Though perfect in total width, we hadn't taken into account the space that the posts took up on each corner. Doh! I immediately conceded: "Welp. Microwave too big. Options: 1) smaller microwave, 2) microwave on counter 3) microwave rack somewhere else, etc. etc.

Clint, on the other hand, stood staring at the shelf for an eternity. Hemming and hawing and measuring and stewing. Keep in mind that for the last 3 years, Clint has just measured things and cut them and nailed them, and made them fit. Poor thing has a hard time stepping out of that "I can make this work!" mentality. After several minutes of muttering, I finally told him "I'll confess that I'm timing how long it takes you to realize that damned microwave is never going to fit on that shelf. You're up to 13 minutes." "Are you making fun of me?!!" he asked. I promised I was.

In the end, the shelves were more costly than a microwave, so they stayed, it went. Unfortunately, the microwave got stuck somewhere else that I'd just set up, thus undoing a bit of my former organizing. We've been busy, and just haven't gotten around to shopping for the new one, but twice in the last week, I've pointed out that we need to go shopping for one. I also grumbled aloud that I'll be glad to get the other one moved out to make more space.

I got home from work yesterday, and began cooking for my kid and his friends that were coming over. I puttered around and tidied up for 2 hours before I noticed a BIG surprise:

A microwave! A new microwave, stuck right in there on the new shelf, and I hadn't even noticed! Clint went out and got one! Yayyyy!

I jumped around the kitchen, cheering and hugging him, and apologizing for not noticing it the minute I walked into the house.

"Wanna hear the rest of the story?" he asked me.

Yes! Yes, what is the rest of the story?

"That microwave has been on that shelf for 7 days."

Get OUT! Are you kidding me?!! I began making excuses about having spent most of the 7 days out shopping, or at the printer. I haven't been cooking, so hadn't had to put pots or pans away. My head was somewhere else. Oh, and we were at a wedding all day Saturday night, and ummm...and whatever other excuse I could dream up.

Sigh. The truth is, that microwave is sitting right next to the doorway that leads to our bedroom. I walk by it about 100 times a day. I myself don't know how I didn't notice the dang thing.

I got 'nothin, but I AM going to take an eyes-wide-open stroll around the house to see what else we have.

Some of our stuff might come in handy.

Post Office 2010

2010-12-07T22:45:00.000-06:00

I have to tell it every year: The Christmas Event Post Office Experience. I'll remind you that they don't have a special drop-off door for you, if you happen to have 60 or 100 flat-rate boxes. Noooo, they make you get in line behind the guy buying a book of stamps. And (ahem) in front of the guy that just wants to buy one stamp.

We've also learned, over the years, that ~~communicating with~~ warning the post office is just good manners. We called ahead! Unfortunately, when Diane and I showed up Monday morning, the post office was a bit of a ghost town, as far as employees go. Customers lined up out the door, and 1 lone clerk. I suspected a flu, a post-office plague; they have never been unprepared for us!

We weren't about to hold up the line, so we took off. I called the Urbana Post Office and made a 4:00 "appointment." We were told to bring it on; there would be 3 clerks in attendance.

Donna! Yay, we got Donna! Donna appeared here in 2007, she is downright almost famous now!

We got there at 4:00, and Donna was *supposed* to get off work at 4:30. She knew what she was getting herself into, and announced that she'd stayed until she got through with our order. Go Donna! Go Troops! Go, USA!

Standing behind Donna is the Postmaster, Kathy. Kathy came out to give me money. Her very own money, along with an envelope full of other donations, one of which was from my very own cousin, Tammy. I have to tell you, it's really great to walk in and do business with a business that gives YOU money.

We were there at the end of the day, a cold sucky Monday. People were on their way home from work. I imagined them anxious to get home and fix dinner, and getting stuck behind us, hogging an entire employee to ourselves.

Everyone was just so incredibly nice. One veteran thanked us; he'd served 2 tours in Iraq, and he knew firsthand what care packages mean.

Another lady stopped to tell me she'd been at the Veteran's Day Program, and we laughed at how we'd both cried.

I talked to a "new" military Mom. Her 20-year-old daughter had deployed 2 weeks ago. I asked her how she was holding up, and she said she had 2 other kids and a business to run...aka distractions. Still, certain songs and christmas decorations took her breath away. Not knowing how she'd take a bear hug from a strange stranger, I resisted, and gave her my business card. I hope she knew that I know, too. I know.

A friend I went to high school with crossed the room and handed me a check for $50. She'd been meaning to send, she said...and still donated, after getting stuck behind us!

The chocolate didn't hurt our position any. Diane was appointed Baker du Jour, and she brought homemade cookies to appease the crowd.

Our grand total for the day was $732.05, and I walked out with $165.00 in my pocket, donated by employees and people standing in line around me.

When I meet or correspond with a new soldier, a deployed soldier, I always tell them to ask for what they need. I ask them to take a look around and take note if anyone else needs anything. Because, I tell them, "people just hand me money to take care of you."

I can see why it's hard for them to fathom.

It's so fairy-tale-y, isn't it?

I can hardly believe it myself.

Go home, Donna. Thanks for staying late.
I'll be back tomorrow.

You Know What I Love About Today?

2010-12-05T23:51:00.003-06:00

Today is Sunday. It was 17 degrees outside (and it's still "Autumn," folks). Friday night's snow has turned to slush, and then frozen to ice. It's bite-your-face-off weather. It's SUNDAY. It's a good day stay inside. To curl up under a blanket and find a good movie on the telly, and wait until Monday. If they didn't have a valid excuse, "not feeling like going out" was good enough, today. Man, you have an automatic "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It was wretched.

But they came. They dragged theirselves out of bed, and they combed their hairs and warmed their cars, and they mucked on over, today, to fix up our Soldier Babies.

End of Day: Everyone on our list gets a box. A Very. Good. Box. Socks. DVDS. CDs. Books on CD. HOMEMADE cookies. Letters—actual letters from children.

It was an interesting day. It wasn't our biggest event, but our goals were met, and met thoroughly. Hundreds rallied, in the last 5 weeks or so, to make a difference.

Imagine a box full of goodies waiting for you when you get off work and trudge home. Imagine how it would change the direction of your day.

Imagine 60 soldiers, 10-14 days from now.

What I Love About Today is every single person that rallied to impact the 60.

Christmas Gifts to Soldiers Eve-Eve

2010-12-04T00:13:00.002-06:00

Goodness gracious, it's here, it's upon us!

Toys for Troops
Christmas Gifts to Soldiers

Village Inn Pizza Parlor

Champaign, IL 61821

Sunday December 6, 2010

1:00–4:00

I haven't pushed this event very much on my blog this year, but I've still been working in the background to make it happen, Sunday afternoon. I'm not sure where the time goes; I'm constantly writing blogposts in my head, but it seems they get tucked away at day's end.

Anyway, it's happening! Our mailing list is smaller this year, but it went from 2 to 60 in the last 4 weeks. We're hoping to send 2 to every soldier.

Our local paper, The News Gazette, has been a great friend and supporter since this organization started, and I can't thank them enough for highlighting us in their paper 3 times since Veteran's Day. A little nudge here and there to the community to shop for a soldier, or to contact me for more info has been invaluable.

The community has rallied, and I remain in wonder at those folks that read those articles, pull out their checkbooks, seal an envelope and send us money. I can't overlook a donation that came to us through the newspaper, made by the Central Illinois Unit Marine Corps League Auxiliary. I opened an envelope last Friday afternoon that had a $500 check in it, with a note that said they'd read about us in the paper. You think that cartwheels would be your response, but really, all you can do is sit down and wonder at how nice people are and how much they care.

Yes, the community has rallied. They've asked for our flyer to print and hang in their offices and churches, and I'm getting daily calls asking where donations can be dropped off.. My car is full, my dining room is full, and I have notes and messages about more rolling in this weekend.

Our Annual Customs Forms party was Wednesday night at The Esquire. I supplied pens, forms, and beverages.* Elves supplied the handwriting.

It was a fun evening. We were all tripped up over the "new-fangled" customs forms, and they might not be quite perfect in every way. Some first names are first, and as long as I've been doing this, I'm still not sure of what is what on a military address, so the zip codes might appear in the state line. There is one from "Stewart (COMMA) Jeremy" because Jeremy just started putting down his own information.

The forms demand to know just how many of what is enclosed in each box, and we got kind of general. "Snacks and DVDs and socks," they wrote. By the end of the night the elves got bored and started to make up a few other donations. Some soldier out there is going to be sorely disappointed when he doesn't find a silk tie in his or her box. We hope the real contents will make up for the lack of enclosed neckware.

This organization touches my life in so many ways. The most amazing things still happen on somewhat regular basis, that I just have to tell it. For example, it isn't every day that someone crosses a parking lot to ask me about the sign on the side of my car, and then hand me cash, but it happens. I don't meant it just happened once, I mean it happens.

Today, an elderly woman from another county called me. She was on a fixed income and couldn't give much, she said. She also didn't have the means to shop, or to deliver a donation for the event. But could she send a check for $10?

$10 is beautiful, I told her. $10 will send an entire box of goodies to a soldier. SHE will send an entire box of goodies to a soldier, and her $10 will change the direction of someone's day, someone's quite-possibly-lousy day. And I told her that my kid just came home, and he tells me firsthand how much those boxes mean.

I love the $1s, and the $5s and the $10s every bit as much as I love the $100s and the $500s.

Now the event is 2 days away, and I'm anxious. I never know what's going to happen on Sunday. Will people tire of donating? Will we meet our goal? I pour over the budget, and try to do you proud with your donation money, shopping wisely, setting aside enough for shipping, and saving an emergency fund, in the event that we don't fill enough boxes for every soldier on our list. (Oh, we will send a box to every soldier.)

Also, a surprise. I've been a tad bummed that Brian's one-month leave was going to put him in this berg by....December 7. He'd miss the event by 1 day, how much did that suck?

I was deeply concentrating at work today when it was pointed out to me by coworker Kurt that someone was waiting to see me. I jumped, expecting to find the UPS guy standing behind me...

SURPRISE!!!

Nothing against the UPS guy, but this was WAY better! Brian! Brian is here! He will be here for a Toys for Troops event! My kid! My kid that got one of those boxes last year! He isn't there! He is HERE! ::dance dance dance::

And just for old times' sake, to make him feel completely at home, I'm gonna put that boy to work.

See you Sunday!

*Please rest assured that your donations are not in any way dispensed in the feeding (or beveraging) of Toys for Troops Elves.

Thanksgiving Eve, '10: A Perspective

2010-11-24T23:40:00.005-06:00

20 til 12, Thanksgiving Eve, 2010.

Two pies on the cooling rack. Vegetables chopped. Hickory wood chunks soaking for a smoker that was seasoned for a turkey that will be rubbed with red wine, rosemary, garlic, and olive oil. List of last minute chores stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet that reads "Make Art."

Brian is finishing out his last days at Fort Benning (before transferring to Fort Hood) with another one of my soldier babies, Jon Standish. They'll part ways in 2 weeks, after 4 years and two tours in Iraq together. They have decided to celebrate by cooking themselves a turkey dinner with all the fixin's, and I am (woo-hoo!) the Mom Consultant. How? How Long? Stuffing? Giblets? What do we do with this string? I am smug and giddy with every phone call.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. I freakin' bucked up for it, last year. My sister had been gone 11 weeks or so, and she'd prepared me for it, and I puffed up my chest and I did it. I was strong, and we were strong, and if we could get through the first one, all of the rest would be cinchy.

Pfft. Big lie, bigbig lie. See, after The Strong Year, things are supposed to return to normal. Normal means Teri is in charge of gravy. I don't DO gravy, it is..it is just Teri's job. I have been in a gravy tailspin this year, picking up and putting back glass jars of some sort of gelatinous muck, and reading the "just add water" to packets of powder. I guess it's time to put on my big girl panties and do the 'effin gravy. I don't like it, I don't like it at all!

In fact, two weeks ago, I didn't want to do any of it. Bleah! Blargh! Rarf! I'm tired and I'm cranky, and it will cost a lot and be a lot of work, and Brian won't be here, and Teri won't be here, and I have a grumpy, and let's just go out to eat, and I think I'll go eat worms.

I get like that, sometimes. But now it's here, and really, wild horses couldn't keep me from it. Truth is, I love puttering around the kitchen. I love my family, and planning for them to be here. I love cooking. I love discussing rubs, and times, and temperatures with Clint, and figuring out the smoker he got for Christmas.

My kid, though not at my table, IS NOT SITTING AT A TABLE IN IRAQ. He's home. He's alive. Prayers granted, acknowledged, and appreciated. I can't ask for more.
Tonight I recieved a message from one Ames Lay, serving in Afghanistan. He'd metioned in a facebook update that the space heater in his office had gone out, and I jumped on the chance to send him a replacement. His message read:

The heater arrived today. I gave it to my team Chief who was very excited. The heater in his room is broken so he has been sleeping inside our super thick issued sleeping bags and long johns. He was very grateful.

...

I am reminded: While we wallow in justifiable heartache, and recognize that many prayers have been granted, life goes on.

Tomorrow I will cook with my man, decorate my home, laugh and scream with family, give my kid cooking advice via cell phone, eat like a king and choose from 3 desserts, and think of a soldier that just opted to work in a freezing environment so that a comrade doesn't have to sleep in one.

I am thankful.

The Finch, The Finch, The Finch is Back

2010-11-22T21:54:00.003-06:00

I've written here before about how much Clint and I enjoy feeding and watching the birds around the house. The truth is that we are closet zealots. We actually call or text one another if something particularly birdy happens around the homestead.

We've become distraught, then, at the gradual disappearance of our American Goldfinches and House Finches. Since we moved in the feeders have been chockful of birds. So many tiny talons in the fabric eventually created big holes in the thistle socks, and I recently had to replace them.

The sock feeders I originally had were white, and the netting soft. My cheap replacements were brittle, and had birds and flowers printed on the sides.

Alas, our finch population decreased immediately. We pondered that it was late-summer, thistle was easily found in its natural habitat, and the birds would return when it wasn't so readily available. But no. In time, our feeders became finchy ghost-towns. I developed my own theory that they didn't like the ink on the printed feeders, and finally got around to purchasing and hanging the slightly more expensive ($6 each), softer feeders.

For two weeks, nothing. Clint and I both turned into Finch Fretters. Maybe we should put ONE printed feeder back up and see if one or the other draw a finch or two back? I put on a brave front and declared that they'd temporarily moved on, and once one or two found us again, the word would get out: Thistle Feast at The Country Casa!

That's exactly how it happened. I looked outside one day last week to see 2 of them. I had, of course, to text Clint right away. By Saturday, birdies were fighting for a spot, both feeders were full all day long:

To boot, Saturday seemed to be Robin migration day. It's surprising that they're still in town, but the Birds of Illinois book we have indicates they'll stick around through late November/early December. We had an entire flock stop at the Country Casa B&B (Birdbath & Breakfast), before heading South.

Ooo, I'll miss them. Hearts & gaits become lighter when they appear in spring.

In the meantime, I'm gearing up to keep all of their cousins fed & fat through the winter: 5-gallon buckets are full, and the binoculars are at the ready. As much as I grumble about the cold, winter after winter, my birdy babies are somehow always a source of consolation.

Christmas Gifts to Soldiers

2010-11-17T21:43:00.002-06:00

DECEMBER 5, 2010

1:00 to 4:00 p.m.

VILLAGE INN PIZZA

1801 W. Springfield Ave., Champaign, IL

HOW YOU CAN HELP

BRING A GIFT FOR A SOLDIER
BAKE A DOZEN COOKIES
WRITE A CARD OR LETTER
SPONSOR THE COST OF SHIPPING 1 BOX ($11.95)

GIFT IDEAS

Gift cards to online companies that ship to APO addresses (Amazon.com, Netgrocer.com, drugstore.com, etc)
CDs/DVDs
Phone cards (good from Iraq)
Handheld electronic games
Current Magazines
Small board games
Coozies for bottles and cans
Tan, green, or black t-shirts
Black or tan mechanics gloves
Boot-length socks
Small white ankle socks (female)
Med/sm black cotton underwear (female)
Shower gels (male/female)
Sunglasses
Times watches
AA batteries
Leatherman/Gerber tools
Metal-bodied flashlights and headlamps
Home made cookies or gourmet snack items
Anything you can think of for a male or female soldier to open on Christmas morning.

DROP OFF & PICK UP
If you can't make it to the event, you can still drop off donations at Village Inn anytime between now and the event.

If you can't deliver, we can schedule a pick-up. E-mail me at ljstewart@gmail.com

THE MORE, THE MERRIER!
If you're not "from around here," you can still participate!
Families from all over the United States are joining us to send Christmas gifts, letters, and goodies to soldiers. E-mail ljstewart@gmail.co for a name & address, and some mailing tips!

Mama Loca

2010-11-15T22:31:00.000-06:00

I blogged over here today.

Lincoln Trail School Rocks! Grand Total: $3300.00

2010-11-11T23:26:00.001-06:00

(Photo by Sharon Frick)

What a day, what a wonderful day.

Lincoln Trail School, year after year, does a phenomenal job of honoring our Veterans. It is their biggest project of the year, and it shows. Hundreds of veterans attend. There is music. There are videos of children interviewing veterans—Korean War Veterans were highlighted this year. Bagpipes play while we remember lost soldiers, and a chilling rendition of Taps is played from two buglers in opposite corners of the gym. And each year, my seat finds me listening to the Star Spangled Banner with the gruff voice of older veterans in one ear, and Boy Scouts' voices, like bells, in the other.

I woke up, this morning, feeling particularly emotional. I'm not altogether sure why, I just was. These children, they had done so much. The local TV station had slipped and given away the amount of the donation to be awarded to me: $1800! Doh! I knew they wanted it to be a secret, but now I knew.

$1800 would get us through the years' end, where I can then get things in order and focus on fund raising in Spring '11. We'll get by, we always do.

But still. $1800 is a LOT of money, and I just teared up every time I thought of it. And I got busy thinking of the notes I'd received from soldiers that have received our boxes, and contemplating that my own son is home from Iraq, oh, my God, he was in Iraq! It still shocks me, sometimes.

I was just in a mood this morning. Feeling emotional and blessed, and amazed, once again, at the kindness of other people. These kids, and the staff, they just did this for me. They asked me if they could do this. I tried to practice my little thank you speech in the car, but every time I got to "I received an e-mail from a soldier that we sent boxes to..." or, "my own son just arrived home from Iraq," I started bawling. I switched from speech-practicing to chiding myself: "Buckle UP, girl! You can't go up there and start crying, you'll scare those kids half to death!"

So I buckled up. I did. But then there was the Anthem, and the bagpipes, and Taps, for heck-sake, and I got to sit with the distinguished members of the Color Guard. And those kids, and the interviews with the veterans...boy, they chipped away at my resolve, but I was fine.

And then it was my turn, and an articulate young man got on stage and spoke of their fundraising endeavours, while 3 other children untied and unrolled a giant check, made out to Toys for Troops:

Twenty-three hundred, ninety-three dollars, and seventy-eight cents.

Not $1800.00. As I remember, the wind was knocked right out of me, and then I burst into tears. Yes, yes, that's exactly what I did, but I had a minute to compose myself as a member of the Color Guard took the stage, and presented me with another $100 to add to the total.

I started out my little speech by informing the audience that I was feeling a bit emotional, which was an absolutely unnecessary opening statement. My hands were shaking, my voice was shaking, and I think that I told them they were amazing for having quadrupled their goal, before I read SPC Josh Hanks' note to them, and told them that one SPC Brian Jolley had reported back to Fort Benning yesterday, so he missed the program by one day, but said to tell them hello. It was something like that, I think, that I said.

I got back to my seat, still choked up and shaking from stage fright, when the third-graders broke into My Country Tis of Thee. As I tried to calm myself, the white-haired veteran sitting next to me, a member of the color guard, reached over and took my hand. My right hand, in his white-cotton-gloved left, and he held it tight for the entire song. I was instantly calmed.

And, it was just a wonderful, wonderful day, did I say that already?

What I haven't told you yet is that there was a bit of cash and a few more checks in the envelope from Lincoln Trail, and I received an additional $700 in outside donations for this project.

Together, we raised $3300.00 for Toys for Troops, and added 47 names and addresses to our mailing list. Our soldiers are covered for the holidays, and well into the next year. We are, quite simply, afloat because of these children, their teachers, and the staff of Lincoln Trail School.

And now, I've run out of anything to say, but Thank You.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

...

Oh, and one more thing, I'll announce it again tomorrow:

Toys for Troops: HOLIDAY BOXES FOR SOLDIERS

VILLAGE INN PIZZA PARLOR

1:00, DECEMBER 5, 2011.

Get your cookies, socks, DVDs, and various gifties ready for wrapping, packing, taping, and shipping. Details to come.

Thank you again.

A George for a G.I.

2010-11-09T16:03:00.001-06:00

Veteran's Day is Thursday, and once again we're working with the students at Lincoln Trail Elementary School for their Veteran's Day project.

I have a little secret: When they contacted me to help me out a month or so ago, I turned them down. I regretfully informed them that Toys for Troops has 2 immediate tasks at hand: 1) Rebuilding our mailing list and 2) Fundraising.

We're low on soldiers—last years' list has come home. And we're low on money; we felt the financial pinch of the last couple of years along with the rest of the country. I pointed out in a recent newsletter that we're proud to have stretched the initial $3K of donations to last 4 years; most of our events covered themselves, financially, allowing us to keep shopping and mailing throughout the year. Last year's mailing events, however, were almost completely out-of-pocket for TFT, and although we still have a balance in our account, there's not enough left to send Thanksgiving boxes this year, and November would be spent raising money to get Holiday boxes out.

I am sorry, I told them. Sadly, we cannot work with you this year.

Sniff. I thought that was the end of it, but I got an e-mail back the next morning. What if we earned some money for you? What if every kid brings one dollar? What if we hold a bake sale and an auction, and we give all the money to Toys for Troops?

Lord, I just teared up writing that. They did, though, they've been bringing in funds for Toys for Troops! They started a campaign called Bring a George for a G.I. They're baking and they're selling, they are working their little backsides off for our soldiers!

These kids motivated ME to get it in gear too! I got our newsletter out. I've encouraged the folks on our mailing list to send in their own donations to add to Lincoln Trails' totals, and I've had donations roll into our PayPal count. Our mailing list has increased from 2 soldiers to 50 soldiers.

And they're each going to get holiday boxes from us.

There are 2 more days to help these kids help us! Here's how:

Send a donation to Nicci Miller, c/o Lincoln Trail School, 102 E. State Street, Mahomet, IL.
Click on the PayPal button on the sidebar of this page, or at www.toys-for-troops.com
Forward this post or these links to anyone that has a deployed soldier in their life, so that we can add them to our mailing list
If you're not on our e-newsletter list, sign up at www.toys-for-troops.com, or email me at ljstewart@gmail.com for a copy of the last one.

And get ready to gear up for Holiday Boxes, to be mailed a month from now. (Event to be announced soon!)

I'll see these kids Thursday morning, and tell you how it goes!

Nookie: A Review

2010-11-01T22:11:00.000-05:00

Catchy blog title, isn't it? It will be interesting to check the Sitemeter later to see how many extra hits I get from (no doubt) disappointed pervs.

But seriously folks, I went out to Barnes & Noble about a month ago, and bought myself a Nook.

An e-reader.

I'm not Ms. Gotrocks, so spending $149 on a gadget doesn't come lightly to me. (Once I commit, though, another $60 worth of hot pink bells and booklight whistles is a snap.) Still, I researched this puppy. I searched the net, and read up, and polled my Facebook friends and family. I scrutinized the Kindle, looked under every rug, and checked what was behind door #2. In regard to Nook v. Kindle, my research turned up this very valuable information: They're the same thing.

In the end, I chose the Nook for these 2 reasons: 1) removable battery: you can buy a spare and keep it charged. 2) You can upgrade the memory on the Nook.

Anyway, I now own a Nook, and do you have any idea what kind of traitor this makes me? Do you know what I do for a living?!! I work in the ::cough:: book industry. My very livelihood depends on everyone hating this newfangled technology. If it's not a dud, I will soon be a dinosaur. We must hate it!

I love it.

I do, I really, really love this thing. Reading from the e-ink monitor doesn't bother me a bit; in fact, I don't even notice it. It's slim and doesn't take up much room in my purse; it's always with me, so unexpected waits are no longer tedious.

I get the same concern from anyone that I talk to: "I think I'd miss holding a book in my hands. I'd miss paper, and turning the page." I love paper, and I love ink, and I also worried that once I bought this thing I'd hate it for those reasons. Do I miss a book? I really don't. I can set the Nook down and read while I dry my hair and it doesn't flip shut on me. I can wear gloves and read and still turn the page. I can mark pages and highlight text. The books are cheaper, and I don't end up finding shelf space for them in my home when I'm done.

For all of that, though, I find that I miss book shopping. Browsing in a bookstore, and reading the jackets, and flipping through the pages to see if the writing style grabs me. Walking around with books in my arms, and picking up mini moleskin notebooks and bookmarks on the way out. I keep catching myself heading into bookstores, and chiding "you can't!" Reading dustcovers, and then jotting down a note to upload them to my Nook just doesn't seem as satisfying.

And cookbooks! I don't see the Nook ever replacing cookbooks. Browsing through them, and post-it noting new recipes, and laying one out on the counter to read from. I still love flipping through cookbooks. The same goes for knitting books, I think, and oh! art and illustration books. If I want a reminder on the general proportions of the human head so that I can draw a goofy caricature of you behind your back, I don't see myself flipping through a Nook to find it.

In every other aspect though, I love it! While my profession sinks slowly into the tarpits, I'll be curled up in a corner, basking in technology, and hitting the > button to turn the page.

What about you? Have you joined the e-reader wave? Nook or Kindle? Why?

Tell me, tell Aunt Lorisaurus Rex.

Jason Aldean: The Concert

2010-10-28T06:47:00.002-05:00

My last post covered the Backstage Experience, and the concert part of the evening was no less exciting!

I met another blogger during the evening! Christina and Ryan were the other couple in our group photo with Jason Aldean. While we were waiting for our photo, I mentioned that I was on a "Very Official Mission," and Christina told me she also had a blog. Yayyy, blogger sister! She's from Bloomington, and has a food blog with a lot of very yummy bakey cookie stuff and some great commentary. Check it out: www.painauchocolats.blogspot.com.
I have to make a personal observation about country fans: they wear a lot of plaid. I have never seen so much concentrated plaid in my life! I know plaid is in this season, and I have to say, there really are a lot of girls and women out there that can pull it off. Where they can manage the Daisie Mae look, however, its effect on me is more of a "get up" that calls to mind the word "lumberjack." I'll pass, but I salute those that can wear it.
I got my picture taken with cardboard Jason, too! It was also free, technology is just grand. Flash! Here's your secret code, pick up your photo online when you get home.
I really did pour my wine into a water bottle, tuck it into the spy-pocket in my jacket, and sneak it in. I referred to it, all evening, as my Redneck Merlot. I have longstanding handshake agreement with Clint's son, Craig, that if he ever catches me drinking wine from the bottle, he is to pack me up and drop me off at an AA meeting. I cleared it with him via text, and he did, indeed, verify that wine out of a WATER bottle is just fine. (I still let Clint drive, of course.)
We ran into our friends Ashley and Eric, and I took a cute picture of the girls sitting in front of us at the concert, and e-mailed it to them.

The concert, of course, was great. Jason Aldean was amazing, and as charming on stage as he was backstage. I'd listened to enough of his songs by then that I could sing along with many of them, which amused Clint—who is a die-hard country fan—to no end. I know I'm probably supposed to be waxing more about the concert, but I just don't know what else to say. The music was great, Aldean was great, and the entire evening was, as Country Financial promised us, an experience.

Many thanks to Jay at Country Financial for setting up the fun evening...and a shout-out to Road Trips and Guitar Picks: If you never need a full-time traveling blogger, I'm raising my hand!

Road Trips & Guitar Picks: VIP Backstage Experience

2010-10-26T22:08:00.002-05:00

Yeeks, my apologies to Country Financial for taking so long to get this post up, after the concert. [Insert lame-but-true excuses here, like how my radiator cracked, and the bottom row of my keyboard punked out on me, leaving letters zxcvbnm and the space bar only working intermittently] [Now insert another apology for good measure: I am really really sorry.]

Luckily the excitement of the evening hasn't begun to wear off. It is totally fun to be a swanky VIP guest of Road Trips & Guitar Picks!

First of all, backstage in this berg isn't really backstage. It's better! We were wined and dined in a VIP room at Memorial Stadium, across the street. There was an usher waiting for us when we walked up to escort us to the proper elevator, and a couple waiting inside with our tickets. "You must be Lori & Clint!" they said. I thought they were some kind of brilliant for knowing that until she pointed out that there was only one envelope left on the table.Goodness! We weren't late, so I can only surmise that the rest of the guests camped out in the doorway the night before to get in before we did!

Inside the envelope is our badges, concert tickets, and 2 free drink tickets, each. There was wine, beer, and several tables holding a spread of gourmet sandwiches, cheeses, and various finger foods. There were also a couple of these soda and water carts placed around the room. Help yourself.

There were huge posters and banners placed around the room, for cute photo ops while we mingled and waited to meet Jason Aldean. You could also leave your own message for him:

While Clint and I walked around, we were approached by 2 Country Financial execs that recognized us from the blog. I have to admit that this made me feel like kind of a big shot. I'm there to meet a country star, and someone recognizes me? Tee heee heee! To boot, we got some great 4-1-1 about where to line up to get our photos taken with Aldean, and we ended up being first in line for our photo ops. All of these people were lined up behind us for theirs:

There were some set rules about using our cameras once Aldean walked into the room. Namely, "No Cameras." Vaguely disappointing at first, but you immediately recover when you realize that the promoters have bent over backwards to make this so much better than it would be if they just let us run roughshod over Aldean trying to get our own sorry photos.

Instead there's a professional photographer on hand, and each of us got to walk in, shake Aldean's hand, introduce ourselves, and cuddle up for a great photo that was ready for us online by the time we got home. At no cost, I might add.

Oh, and Jason Aldean? He is just every bit as nice as you hope he will be. He asked our names, shook our hands, thanked us for coming to his show. He was very warm and inviting in the little personal time we each had with him.

Also, darlings, I just can't leave this out: Jason Aldean is very easy on the eyes. Hooooopy doopy. I hate to go all cougary on you here...but...well, there's just nothing to be done for it. Ladies, all of those CD covers where he's looking like a total dreamboat? Yeah, that's what he looks like, all I could think was "they didn't even photoshop his album covers!!" Well, that's not all I could think...but I'll leave it at that.

After every single person had their photo taken, Jason came out to give us our own mini concert. He sang "Big Green Tractor" for us, and then answered personal questions for about 10 minutes. He was quick on his feet, and funny, and friendly. Clint asked him how much dirt he'd actually personally turned with a Big Green Tractor, which got a laugh from everyone. He talked about his father and uncles having more farming experience, but also having just bought his own Big Green tractor....to mow his lawn with.

He answered several more questions, one from a young girl that wanted to know "Could she have his guitar pick?" She could. Alas, he had to make his exit too soon, and we were left to finish up our beverages—or fill our water bottles up with wine—potato/potahto, and head over to find our seats for the show.

I have more photos, and stories and videos from the show, and I'll save those for the next post. Tune in, the concert was every bit as good as the Backstage Experience! Thanks again to Country Financial for showing us such a great evening!

Up next....

Gratuitous Post-Concert, Pre-Bedtime Post

2010-10-21T23:54:00.000-05:00

I don't have time to write it all before I have to sleep. I took eleven-hundred-billionty pictures. I'll narrow them down to some proper representatives tomorrow, and spread them out over however many posts it takes to tell all the stories.

48 Hours Until Jason Aldean

2010-10-19T23:32:00.001-05:00

Two more days until the Jason Aldean concert! I am tres excited, and the object of a lot of envy, little ol' me with my VIP backstage passes. Clint's going to be my date, of course, but I've had plenty of offers from people that will be glad to step up and accompany me, if he can't make it.

I admitted before that I wasn't very familiar with Aldean's music when I accepted the blogging gig from Country Financial. I promised to do my homework though, and I've been doing just that.

It turned out to be easier than I thought. Two weeks ago, Clint and I went to St. Louis, and my 15-year-old cousin, Cory, came with us. Cory is actually my second cousin, and Clint's kids' first cousin. See, Cory's father, Kurtis, was my first cousin and Clint's brother-in-law. Clear as mud, huh? And before my blog trolls have a heyday with this, I'll just clear this up right now: Clint and I are not related.

The family tree doesn't have anything to do with this story, but Cory does. I was busy gabbing at him, on the trip, about Jason Aldean. Had he ever heard of him? Yakkity yak, I went on to tell him the entire story, and about how we get backstage passes.

I went on waxing about how I had to procure some of Jason's music to educate myself before the concert, when over the seat came Cory's CD case:

Get out! One minute I'm rambling on about Jason Aldean, and the next I'm holding a folder full of his CDs. The Aldean Gods are smiling on me big time!

We were nearing our destination at the time, so saved the CDs for the ride home on Sunday, where we could listen to everything, straight through the trip. We popped the first CD in, and I commenced to listening to the lyrics, and taking notes.

Probably this is the part where I'm supposed to say here that I fell in love with every song. The truth is that I didn't fall in love with every song, but I liked most of them, loved a few of them, and was touched to my very core by a few of them.

I loved Crazy Town, for instance, a song about trying to hit it big in Nashville.

You pay your dues and you play for free,
And you pray for a honky tonk destiny,
You cut your teeth in the smokey bars,
And live off the tips from a pickle jar

The lyrics smacked of classic country, which I love, and I liked the line "Bend those strings til the Hank comes out."

I also liked "You're the love I wanna be in," I found it terribly romantic and clever at the same time.

I wanna be there when you wake up,
Be more than just your friend.
Baby there's no mistakin',
You're the love I wanna be in, ah yeah.

We listened to dozens of songs on the way home, and I really did enjoy the music. What I loved the most, however, was riding along in the front seat of the truck, listening to a 15-year-old kid sing in the backseat for 3 hours. My kid is all grown up now, y'know, and the days of having a kid, or a car full of kids singing in the back seat are gone for me right now. I miss it, I found out, more than I knew.

Cory would probably find this all embarrassing and mushy, but I found myself thinking that because of his presence, my "homework" had a much greater impact on me: I have no doubt that I'll never forget my first 3 hours of listening to Jason Aldean. Aww, he wouldn't be embarrassed. Would he? Here! Cory! Let me take your picture for my blog:

Dang kids.

Anyway, Thursday night, I'll get to listen live, and rub elbows with country star Jason Aldean. I've never been cool around celebrities. I always think I'll be cool, but I'm always starstruck and tongue tied, and I hope I don't do something stupid Thursday night. Like, call him Justin, if I get the opportunity to speak to him. I'm excited, and nervous! I'm going to tease me up some big country hair, and I'm wearing cowboy boots to the show! I've picked out a blouse, but I may have to go buy something better. Stay tuned for pix and stories, this is going to be so. much. fun!

Illness and Chaos and Drink-Your-Water Awareness Week

2010-10-18T06:14:00.001-05:00

The last couple of weeks have been busy, fun, hectic, and exhausting—Clint and I have both had the sore throat/cold thing that's been going around. No sympathy for us though, we admittedly ignored common remedies, trading in cold meds and bedrest for full-speed-ahead fun, camping one weekend, and heading to St. Louis for Oktoberfest the next.

Unfortch, this thing that's going around isn't giving up until you do, and I have never been terribly good at paying attention to my own symptoms. This contradicts my tendency to frequently announce "I think I'm getting sick." Since I rarely actually get sick, I worry, instead, that I'm a hypochondriac. I am then paranoid about being a hypochondriac, which brings me full circle back to ignoring my symptoms.

I digress. I spent last week coughing and hacking. Muscle aches began to set in, and I was complaining of a back ache by Tuesday. Late Wednesday I was visited by abdominal pain and fever, and vomiting began in the middle of the night. My God, I thought, this is the worst cold I've ever had.

I finally took a freakin' ride on the Clue Bus on Thursday, when—I'm sorry, I know this is entirely too much information, but it is what it is—when I began peeing blood. UTI. Never having had one before, I didn't recognize the symptoms, and just thought I felt lousy all over from the cold. If I hadn't felt so sick, I'd have felt silly. I came home with a bundle of Rx, went to bed, and called in sick on Friday morning. Recuperation was cardinal.

Around 11:00 Friday morning, Mom's caregiver called me, and told me that I needed to come right away. "You're mom's not acting right, and I've already called and ambulance."

We raced over to find that Mom had lost, or nearly lost consciousness. She was dazed and looking ghostly. Lisa's description of the events took me back a couple years ago when Mom ended up ER and was released with a diagnosis of vasovagal syncope, which means, "she fainted."

I'll cut to the chase and tell you that Mom is fine, but this time around the trip to the hospital was a lot tougher. Her blood pressure was the culprit, plummeting every time she went from a sitting position to standing. Although all tests looked good, they decided to admit her for the night, to keep her under observation.

I've mentioned before that Mom has a very low pain tolerance. Alzheimer's plays a huge part in this; she simply can't anticipate pain, doesn't understand it, and, if it lingers, doesn't remember what caused it in the first place. Every half-hour or so, it is sudden and brand new.

You can imagine, then, how much fun it was to have an IV needle stuck in the crook of her arm for 24 hours. "What IS this? Why is it here? I want it OUT!" She finds the blood pressure cuff agonizing, and sobs every time the machine turns on. I talked her through 2 shots in her stomach. Poor thing tried to grab the nurse's hand the first time, knocked the needle out, and had to get second stick in the gut.

I can't even imagine how terrifying it would have been for her to be there alone for 24 hours, so it was slumber party at the hospital night for us. Tim and Brandi stayed with Mom while Clint and I ran home, and I returned with my own meds and a pillow, to settle into the recliner next to Mom's bed.

The recliner from hell. There it is, look at it, someone needs to exorcise that thing.

SSsssss!

Anytime anyone sat in this chair, it reclined. If you wanted to recline, however, say, to get a little sleep, you had to physically hold the chair in the reclining position. I managed to get positioned just so a few times by locking my feet and stretching out to the top, and hoping my weight would the hold the chair open. Victory was short-lived; the second I relaxed into sleep, the chair would snap shut, sending my pillow flying and leaving me misaligned and flailing for balance.

Between the chair, the nurses stopping in every 45 minutes, and keeping a constant ear on Mom so that I could keep her from pulling out her IV, I think we were lucky to each have logged 60 minutes of sleep Friday night. It was a tough, tough night, and we were both more than relieved when we were given the all-clear along with the final diagnosis: Dehydration.

Dehydration!! Dehydration, the culprit! Though she's drinking water every day, and every one of us pushes it, apparently she's not glugging down enough of it. Dehydration, we learned, zaps you of strength, and blood pressure, apparently, especially when you stand up too fast.

We all know drinking lots of water is important, but I got a first hand picture, this weekend of what a lack of it will do—and also what rehydration will do. After being plumped up with a quart of IV juice, I was amazed at the change in Mom's demeanor.

A-MAZED, people. She was funny and energetic, and lucid. Well, lucid for Mom. She was downright jocular when she found out we got to leave. While I was helping her get dressed, I found 3 of those little EKG thingys still stuck to her. I was as careful as I could be, while she cringed and sucked in her breath, and yelled "ouch, ouch, ouch." When the last one was finally off, I was still unsnapping her hospital gown when I teased her, "Lord, Mom, you act like I'm killing you." She didn't miss a beat, but suddenly snapped "WELL, IT HURTS, GOOFY!"

Did she just call me Goofy? We paused for about 3 seconds before we both just fell apart laughing until we cried. Funnier yet, while we were busy giggling, she had lost track of the fact that I was undressing her. She was still laughing when she looked down and realized her hospital gown had fallen away, and she screamed "oh my God, I don't have any clothes on!" and she began howling with laughter all over again. I was by then bent over the hospital bed laughing and crossing my legs to keep from peeing my pants, which, under my personal circumstances, meant my own meds were kicking in, and I was getting better too!

We were burning rubber out of the hospital lot by 2:30, and although we should have both gone home for naps, we were too busy still laughing, and so happy to be out of there that we went shoe shopping.

Mom, rehydrated, is something to behold; she is energetic and happy, and way more on top of her game. She's still Mom, and she still has Alzheimer's, but she's more confident and exercises a tad more logic. For her, these attributes are monumental, and my own eyes have been opened:

Water, water everywhere, if its that good for her, I'll have a glass too.

I will drink my water and count my blessings. We were there for a visit, for one night. It sucked, but I sat listening to nurses giving morning reports of other patients that had been there for weeks, with still no end in sight. I can't imagine, and I thank God that sleeping in a hospital is foreign to us. It was a 24-hour annoyance, with a merry, "let's go shopping" finale.

We are, I was reminded this weekend, incredibly blessed.

Road Trips & Guitar Picks: Jason Aldean

2010-09-30T21:40:00.013-05:00

While Clint and I were traveling to Fort Benning for Brian's Iraq homecoming a few weeks ago, I got an interesting e-mail, with a proposal from Country Financial, who is sponsoring country music star Jason Aldean's 2010 tour.

We’d like to make you an official Road Trips and Guitar Picks blogger. In exchange for writing a few posts for us on your blog, we will give you and a companion backstage passes to see Jason up close when he plays the Assembly Hall October 21. The passes also come with some great seats to the show.

Wow! Yes, I said, Yes, I will! I've never been backstage before! I will! I want!

Well, wait. I don't really listen to that much country music. At least, not today's country music. Funny, back in the 80s, while all of my high-school peers were listening to AC/DC and Aerosmith, my music collection consisted of Waylon, Willie, Hank, George, Loretta, Patsy, and Dolly.

Over time, my musical tastes shifted towards blues. My iPod is full of BB King, John Lee Hooker, Koko Taylor. Country? Still the oldies. Johnny Cash. Lyle Lovett. What I know about today's country music could fit on the head of a pin. I've picked up a few names as a result of a new set of country-lovin' friends, but for the most part, I'm as good with country singers as I am sports icons. Travis Tritt is either a singer or a quarterback. (Am I right?)

I felt it only fair to give Country Financial the opportunity to fire me before I got started.

I have to be completely honest, and let you know that when it comes to music, I've been more of a blues girl. My favorite country artists hail from "yesteryear," and for the sake of full disclosure, I have to admit that I know very little about Jason Aldean.

"Very little," I said. Heh. I completely omitted the fact that I know so little that for 3 days I referred to him as "Justin" Aldean. [Oh, God, why did I write that? They're going to fire me yet.]

Turns out they're open-minded about my lack of familiarity with this particular country star.

Actually your lack of knowledge about Jason makes you a great person to blog about the experience. While it's great to read fan blogs, it will be wonderfully refreshing to see a perspective from outside his circle.

Yay me! A virtual handshake, and the gig—and the adventure—was mine. I love my life!

Jason Aldean.
(When did country stars get so young?!)

I told Country Financial I'd get back in touch, and we continued on our way to Fort Benning, hitting the seek button on the radio as we moved from town to town. As luck would have it, we heard one DJ announce, "next up the latest from Jason—." and the radio then continued to auto-seek to the next station. I told Clint, "go back, go back, maybe that was Jason Aldean!!!" He was already on it, and sought back to the station that was playing "My Kinda Party."

The chorus, to My Kind of Party:

Oh baby, you can find me.

In the back of a jacked up tailgate.

Sittin' 'round watchin' all these pretty things.

I Get down in that Georgia clay.

And I'll find peace.

In the bottom of a real tall cold drink.

Chillin' with some Skynyrd and some old Hank.

Lets get this thing started.

It's my kind of party.

And I smile again, as I read the lyrics and go over photos from the evening.

Georgia clay

Feelin' peaceful

Well, a really *short* cold drink, actually.

On the back of a tailgate (NOT a jacked-up tailgate, but a tailgate nonetheless)

Sittin' round watching all those pretty things...

I think me & Jason Aldean are going to get along juuuuust fine. I'll listen up and tell you more, soon, and I can't wait to hit that concert!

Iraq Homecoming Extravaganza: Papa Del's, and Hours 1-2

2010-09-27T22:28:00.041-05:00

Back to My Boys' Homecoming! We had about 36 hours, all told, with my kid and his buddies before we had to hit the road back home, and I have approximately one story per hour.

The plane came in around 8 pm, and we had to wait 2 hours for all of the guys to be processed before they marched in. Since this is the 2nd homecoming, I knew what to expect, and have many similar photos from the first. The countdown screen, for instance, that informs us of our wait.

You wait and wait for that plane to roll in, and then come in for the countdown. I'd write it all, but I've written it before, and since everyone here reads every word I ever wrote since the beginning of time, I don't want to bore you. It was like this.

Except!! This time, while I looked for Brian, I took more photos of other families embracing theirs. In the interim, I could. not. find. my. son. A security guard had earlier indicated to me that there were 2 planes coming in that night, and I began to worry that we had been waiting at the wrong homecoming. I mean, the place had cleared OUT and I still could not find Brian.

While I began to fret, there was a young wife also fretting behind me, when she suddenly began screaming. She was clearly also anxious, and had finally spotted hers, who was standing near me. I turned to find her running across the auditorium, jumping into his arms with her legs wrapped around his waist.

I stopped to take this picture, when Brian tapped my shoulder. "Uh, hi, Mom."

Dang! It totally looked like I was just wandering around NOT looking for him!!! I was so relieved that he was there, and that I hadn't missed his plane, that I didn't even fall apart! Yay! Yay, yay, yay, you're here, there you are, sorry I was busy photographing strangers, yay!

Moving on then, to the story that matches the title of this post.

I racked my brain, before Brian came home, over what I could take to him for a proper Welcome Home. It didn't take long for me to remember that when he was home on leave, he didn't come straight home, but he had us meet him at his favorite pizza place in this berg, Papa Del's. I shall forever remind him that he had to get to Papa Del's before he had to get to his mama. Laugh if you will, but I'll get expensive vodka out of this, people. He WILL make up for it.

Anyway, I DECIDED that there was going to be Papa Del's pizza waiting for that kid the night he got home. (I can't for the life of me find a website for Papa Del's, so here's this).

I just couldn't decide how that was going to happen, for sure. Townies know the logistics. It's a thick, stuffed pizza; if you dine in, expect to order and get comfy, baking time takes 1 hour. Facebook friends encouraged me to call Papa Del's themselves (ingenius). The guy I got on the phone went over all of my options: "Buy cooked, cool, freeze, thaw, and microwave?" I asked him. "It's not going to be as good."

In the end, we picked up a frozen pie on Monday, kept it in a cooler, and on ice, and then....

Shut it, germophobes. The hotel sink made a GREAT freezer.

And I By God packed my toaster oven (there on the left)...

Lo and behold, 1/2 a pizza fit exactly into the pan that comes with it. I had cut it into quarters before I discovered that fact. And for the record, toaster ovens aren't allowed in hotel rooms, but my baby was home, and they'd have to pry mine from my cold dead hands.

And guess what, it turned out GREAT!!! Yayyyy, all of the pizza orchestration was a huge success, and Brian and his got to have his favorite Papa Del's pepperoni pizza upon landing. Woot!!!

Photo totally staged, he'd already eaten 1/2 pizza before
I remembered to get a pic. Someone else ended up eating that piece.

It was midnight by the time this picture was taken, 3 more hours before we were all asleep, and 2 or 3 more posts on those 3 hours. We had 36, before we had to leave, and but for a few sleeping, there's a tale for every one.

The first two hours of my kid's homecoming, in the end, were stupid wonderful, and pulling off the traveling Papa Del's pizza was a huge coup for me. He was ecstatic, his buddies got a taste of the CU pizza he'd been talking about in Iraq, and I got huge brownie points.

If you can't deliver homemade mashed potatoes, Papa Del's is the next best thing.

A (Much Needed) Drive-By (Windshield) Hugging

2010-09-24T21:57:00.000-05:00

Friday night. I'm tired, it's been a long week. I haven't had time to blog more Tales of the Homecoming, but The Kid(s) are still in Georgia, reintegrating to a peaceful society. Brian will be home in November, I would have had a heart attack if I'd have had to wait that long to see him home.

I am "deep cleaning" in the midst of the still-existing construction, trying to create a bit more order in the house, while Clint is helping a neighboring farmer with his harvesting, working from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. You know how it is when you decide to "clean house"...you have to "undo" the place first. There is general disarray.

Mom is "slipping" a bit more these days, yet still generally happy. The latest trend in her Alzheimer's progression is that her emotions are magnified, responses are stronger. Discomfort translates into agony. Did I say agony? I mean aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagonyyyyyyyyyyyyy!! I took her to the grocery store tonight and turned around to find her writhing in the aisle, clutching at her ribs. Irritated with her bra, she began to pull her t-shirt off to show me the problem. I stood in the aisle trying to "lovingly hiss" at her that that she could not pull her shirt up in the store.

After getting her settled, I arrived home this evening, on my own. Paperwork and bills to tend to, and what I don't work on tonight will just need done tomorrow. I ran to Walmart to get a few organizing bins for a corner in the house.

I returned to my car, tossed all of the baskets and bins in the back seat, put the cart in the return, and jumped into the drivers seat, only to feel immediately disoriented.

What in the he....?

...

...

...

How did I miss this?

A hug bandit!!! I stood suddenly laughing in the parking lot, looking around, and laughing more. Whuh? Was someone watching, or did they ditch and run? Either way, my cheeks hurt already from smiling. I have to admit the hug works, I feel giggly and light, this is the perfect end-of-the-week wrap-up. Or, beginning of the weekend.

What's a girl to do, then....

But to leave her own drive-by hugging, and hit the road.

I have had the perfect start to my weekend.

Homecoming No. 2: A Brief Pictorial and Video Summary

2010-09-16T21:28:00.002-05:00

Just past the front gate.

Here they come.

There they are. We got to see them 2 hours after this photo was taken.

I have a tough time holding it together when they finally march in. And this video still undoes me. They just keep coming and coming. You can figure out the rest.

Stories and more pictures to come. Of course.

Pre-Homecoming Post: Mama, (de)Composed.

2010-09-14T14:35:00.006-05:00

We are still driving, driving, splitting our 12-hour drive into 2 legs this time; we stopped at a no-frills Red Roof Inn to sleep after the first 6 hours last night. Clint's parents have loaned us their luxurious cadillac; when my muscles get stiff, I just turn on the sauna, aka heated seats. Ahhhhh.

In our trunk is our a military footlocker full of I-don't-know-what, a cooler with 12-inch frozen Papa Del's stuffed pepperoni pizza, and the toaster oven right out of my kitchen.

It is 1:23 p.m. right now. That's 13:23 in Brian-land.

Brian-land happens to be exactly where we're headed. My son's plane flies in tonight, and I have every intention of arriving hours early and parking my butt on the tarmac to watch that puppy fly in. I have my own special line to Fort Benning, and was just informed by a serious voice on the other end that the ceremony will begin at 18:30, and the plane flies in at 20:10.

I fret, having had the impression that the plane was to fly in at 18:30, and a plan to arrive 2 hours before that. At...(18:30 minus 2 hours, ummmm) 16:30. Do we wait now, run the risk of either being 4 hours early, which is a lot of hours early...or, god forbid, showing up late and missing something! ::faint::

I know what, I'll call them again after we check into our hotel. I am pretty sure that I won't be the first Mom in history to ask again, what time her kid is flying in to an army base.

I've been reflecting a lot, in the last couple weeks, on this second homecoming, and on his second tour. I think about my reactions to Brian's first tour, and occasionally being introduced to other, more-stoic-than-I mothers. Mothers that had done this twice or thrice already. Mothers that could say "My son is in Iraq," without bursting into tears like little girls. Mothers that were so damned collected.

What in the hell was wrong with them? Screw composure! Screw grace!

I much preferred the company of Rookie Soldier mothers; those that still found the experience raw. Those that would just "get" that if you found yourself having the most wonderful time on any beautiful day, you check yourself on the spot, and remember where your kid is and wonder what he's doing, and you kind of want to go home now.

There have been moments. Some time after Brian returned from his first tour, Clint and I were driving home from a festival, and on a whim, turned into a divy little bar for a beverage. The clientele on that day consisted of several men, and 1 woman, cutting up and keeping them infinitely amused with her raucous humor. While we sat, Brian called me from his base, honestly, to ask how he should go about cooking a cornish hen. When we got off the phone, I somehow mentioned to the fellow next to me that my kid was calling from an army base, that he'd recently returned from his first tour.

Minutes later I turned around to find the fun rowdy lady standing in front of me, looking directly into my eyes. She seemed suddenly shy, and she looked at me seriously and said,

"My boy's in Iraq."

I looked back into her eyes for a few seconds, and then asked her, "how you doin, Mama?" We both teared up and laughed, and talked for a few minutes, and left each other with a hug and wishes and assurances: It's all gonna be ok.

It is certainly not lost on me that I've been in a different state of mind, on this, my second rodeo. I have been much more the mother that I couldn't wrap my head around before. I pulled off that smiling and nodding routine, and resisted the urge to shake you by the lapels. Part of it was that I've been here, and done this, and as a friend pointed out, we acclimate.

But this time around, I had more access to communication with Brian. Neither of us used Facebook before, and even if we had his access was infrequent. I had email and gmail and gchat and Facebook, and Skpe, and oh, the occasional phone call.

I have also come to know many more of his friends on this tour, through Facebook. We banter online, and occasionally talk, sometimes seriously, and sometimes just pure b.s. I know who works with my son, who has his back, and who he'd give his life to protect. I am quite simply, more in the loop this time around. While that gives me more people to worry about, it also leaves many more comforting me, whether they mean to or not.

Also, there was a lot less violence to be dealt with on this tour, if everything Brian told me was to be believed. "Fine, fine, everything's fine, nothing happening here." He said that last time, too, and I found out differently when he got home, it was hell over there on his 1st tour. If the filtered-for-mother reports are to be believed, things really were slower there this time, and he was appreciative. When he was home on leave he told me that the "young guys were wishing for an IED," and he'd correct them, "no, you really do NOT want to get hit." I liked hearing that life was boring there, I liked it very much.

So, yes. I am calm and cool and full of grace this time around.

Oh, and by the way....I am full of shit; I have been spontaneously bursting into tears for the last 2 weeks, and watching websites and asking for days off that I'm not sure, of, PEOPLE, MY KID IS COMING HOME FROM FUCKING IRAQ IN 0600 HOURS OR 0400 HOURS OR 0800 HOURS, WHAT FUCKING TIME IS IT, I AM SICK TO DEATH OF THIS WAR SHIT, OH, HOW I WISH I COULD DO A CARTWHEEL.

Get your shotglasses ready, people. I'll keep you posted.

Long Drive and Olfactory Contemplations

2010-09-13T23:11:00.000-05:00

Clint and I are traveling, tonight. He is driving, and I am surfing the net and eating a handful of "Good 'n Plenty" that I bought at our dinner stop at Cracker Barrell. Black licorice, I love it, and offered Clint some. He doesn't like black licorice, he doesn't like licorice at all, he tells me. I think I knew that.

Well more for me, I pop another and think about my Dad. He hated the smell of licorice. He probably hated it because it made him vomit. When we were little, my sister once tried to sneak a piece into the car. She could just keep it in her mouth, and he'd never know.

We made it to the end of the driveway, where he stopped the car, opened the door, and vomited. His mother was the same way, we knew better than to take black licorice into my Grandma Stewart's house.

I have a long ride ahead of me, so I sit and contemplate which smells that I have a violent reaction to. Certainly there's nothing that makes me vomit. Oh, wait, I take that back. Years ago, there was a party in my house in which someone left venison steaks in a mini freezer, meant for another guest to take home. Said guest forgot, and the freezer was unplugged, post party. It was brought to my attention 3 weeks later, and since I was the only one home, the responsibility of moving them out of the freezer fell to me.

I threw up, and had to throw the freezer away.

But that doesn't count, that's too obvious. Plus I think I blogged that story already once before, so forget it.

Which smells make me nauseous? Wintergreen comes to mind first and foremost. Mom would spoon wintergreen-flavored pepto bismol down my throat when I had the flu as a kid, and I'd just throw back stinky wintergreen vomit.

A side-story! One time when Brian was a little kid, he asked me what a bismol was. I told him it was a game played with a bismol glove and a bismol bat. He was only 6, but had long since figured out that I could be full of crap, and he just gave me the stinkeye. If nothing else, I taught that kid how to deliver total b.s. with a deadpan face.

Paybacks really are hell. Two years ago when he was on leave he called me over to show me his new tattoo. "Its a swastika," he said. This was then me, moving across the living room:

He finally broke a smile when he realized I was seconds away from grabbing a melon baller and relieving him from any such tattoo. There was no new tattoo, he was just jacking with me. Hilaaaaarious.

Not. I digress. Wintergreen, don't care for it, and I obviously wouldn't touch pepto bismol with a 10-foot pole. I don't like the smell of watermelon gum. Or grape gum. Or strawberry "flavoring."

My father was a UPS mechanic, and someone once dropped a case of embalming fluid in the building, leaving the building smelling like roses. For years I had an aversion to the scent of roses, just for the neurological association to embalming fluid.

For some reason not too many more come to mind, I can think of more things that I like the smell of that most people do not: bleu and other strong cheeses, fish, strong curries, gasoline, solvent, ink. Maybe my fondness for strong smells makes me more tolerant of odors that offend others.

Yummmmm

What about you? Which odors turn you green in the face? Which do you love, common and uncommon? Why?

Keep us entertained with your comments; we have a looonnnggg drive ahead of us.

My Boys

2010-09-09T05:28:00.001-05:00

They'e all mine, but that one second from left in front row is mine-mine.

Emotional Day

2010-09-04T19:48:00.000-05:00

Today is the 1-year anniversary of my sister's death. Raise your glass to Teri Pittman.

As I write this, it has been one hour since my son just finished his last combat mission in Iraq. "Time to turn in my bullets and get outta here," he writes.

What a day. I don't know whether to cry or to cry.

Wild Kingdom II: The Bird Volume

2010-08-29T11:23:00.002-05:00

I was puttering around the kitchen last week when my brother in law, Tim, popped his head into the window to tell me goodbye; he'd been out back helping Clint, and was taking off. I walked over to the window to yak a few minutes, and spotted something fanned out on the ground behind him. What IS that? Awww, a dead bird. Don't step on it!

Wait!

Still alive! Apparently a little stunned, it must have just flown into the same window that we'd been chatting through. Man, that has to be rude, flying along with abandon, and then SMACK. Poor little lamb, we got down for a closer look, and this one sat there, panting. Do birds pant? It seemed like it.

While we sat wondering just how injured she was, she startled us both by taking flight and landing on a low branch a few feet away.

Her little breathing evened out as she calmed down, so after another photo, we let her be, to get her little bird brain straight.

I wasn't sure what type of bird she was, so turned to the "Birds of Illinois" book that I got Clint for Christmas a few years ago. Tim suggested it was a woodpecker of sorts, so I started there first. Sure enough:

Downy Woodpecker. Male has a red patch on the back of his head, female does not. The book notes that this one has a number of features that help cushion the shock of hammering on wood:

"...a strong bill, strong neck muscles, a flexible, reinforced skull and a brain that is tightly packed in a protective cranium."

Hm. These are features that also help cushion the shock of flying into an invisible shield (aka kitchen window). She's a little helmet head!

This little Robin knows better than to try flying through glass, so he just enjoys the porch swing and taunts the cat.

I hope to God THIS guy never decides to go up against any of our windows, because I'm afraid he'd win. I was shocked to see him sitting just under our table in the back yard last week. The pic is a little fuzzy because I shot through the window screen, afraid I'd chase him off if I stepped outside.

At least I knew enough to turn to the "owl" section of the bird book. He's a Great Horned Owl, isn't he gorgeous? Usually nocturnal, I suspect he was probably stopping in for a late afternoon snack. Our yard is full of these:

Owl chow. Otherwise known as "voles." They make windy little paths through our entire yard, and that owl is very welcome to belly up to our "All You Can Eat Vole Buffet" any time he wants.

Mutual of Loriha's Wild Kingdom: I

2010-08-28T22:57:00.002-05:00

I have a folder on my laptop entitled "Nature-critters" with a subfolder called "to blog." It's been a particularly wild Wild Kingdom year, and I've accumulated gobs of photos. Unfortunately, placing 20 photos in one post is ridiculously time consuming (and annoying) in Blogger, and I don't have gallons of time. Hence, the Nature-Critters Blog has somehow been days in the making, and I've given up.

Solution: It can be a series, yes?

ah-HEM

NUMBER ONE: Cute little tree frog.

This is by far the best photo in the folder, so it's all downhill from here, people. We were sitting out on Jen & Bill's deck in St. Louis a few weeks ago, when this baby took a flying leap, spun around a metal dowel rod like a stripper on a pole, and jumped down onto the deck.

I managed to hop up and get in one shot before he jumped away. It was a lousy shot, but I think the flash dazed the heck out of him, allowing me to take my time for this one.

Or, maybe he wasn't stunned; maybe he's just a ladies' frog, and stopped to work the camera. He does have some dreamy bedroom eyes, and a certain come-hither expression doesn't he? How YOU doin? Meee-ooowwwww.

I mean, Riibb-bitttttt. Baby.

(This photo makes a background photo on your computer. Steal it and see for yourself.)

Ba-dum-BUMP! Witty Retort Du 2010....so far.

2010-08-22T22:43:00.003-05:00

Any one of you that has been reading my blog for at least, oh.... 3 years or so, may know that My Clint is a firefighter. And we hang out with a bunch of other firefighters, most of whom have not signed waivers to let me post their names, stories, or photos. I'm still pussyfooting around Firefighter Confidentiality Laws, which are entirely unwritten thus far. That leaves me weighing stories I hear and things I see on the Scales of Common Sense.

So far, the laws I've observed are:

1. What happens at the campground stays at the campground.
1a. I have no idea what that means, I've never seen anything at the campground.

2. Anything that is stupid funny or wickedly clever should be posted on my blog for the benefit of your laughter.

I don't know who that is, where that photo came from, or how to get it off of my blog.

(Trans: No waiver to post this photo, so laugh now before the cease-and- desist order arrives)

That said, I heard a story last week that I feel compelled to share with you.

Clint & Co. were recently called out just before midnight to an apartment building because a smoke detector was going off , and it smelled like smoke in the building.

They rushed up to the third floor where the smoke detector was going off, and managed to get themselves into the smoking efficiency apartment.

Once inside, they found an oven billowing smoke that had engulfed the apartment, a female occupant, sound asleep on her bed, with the smoke alarm screeching from approximately 6 feet above her head. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. A smoke alarm; have you ever left your biscuits too long in the oven and had one go off on you? It's piercing! You want to hit the ground and rub your ears on the floor, like poor doggies when dog whistles are blown. To sleep through one is inconceivable.

Still, she slept. Soundly. While Clint ran to the oven and his partner ran to check on Ms. Tenant, she sat up with a start. Can you freakin' imagine?!! Waking up to all that noise, and men with giant coats and airpacks and helmets on, standing in your bedroom?

"GAhhhhhhhhhhh!" she screamed, "What's going on?"*

And Clint, without missing a beat, pulled a pan out of the oven and said:

“Your fries are done.”

___________________________

*I'm dying to stop at the punchline, but I just can't leave it alone. Who wakes up with 2 aliens in their bedroom and says "What's going on?" I've watched too much CSI or something; I'd turn in to a human shredder, and start swinging my arms faster than the Road Runner's legs.