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

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

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

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

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?

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

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.

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

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

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.