Did you hear that thump?

I awoke from a deep sleep. “What was that?”, I asked my husband. “Did you hear that thump?” Exhausted from working late, my husband wearily said, “It’s probably just the wind.” and fell back to sleep. Not me. I pride myself on being the lioness of the home. So I took off to investigate,  along with my trusty sidekick, Chief. Chief is my dog, a springer spaniel, who’s only concern at 4Am is to go pee or a bunny. Proceeding towards the noise, lacking the proper tools most security guards would carry, such as a gun, cell phone, or even a flashlight, which is an app on my cell phone, I checked the most likely prospect, Emily falling out of bed. Nope. Emily was still tangled up in her mass of blankets and stuffed animals, making it difficult to determine which end was up. I bent and kissed her and continued my search. I kept hearing music from horror movies playing in my head. I also swore I heard someone whisper, “Don’t go into the dark!” or was it “Don’t answer the phone.” I get my horror movies confused. Undeterred, I progressed towards the location of the mysterious thump. Or was it a bump?

I flipped on the front outdoor lights, expecting to see a burglar running across my yard in his typical garb of black pants, black shirt, and of course, the black ski mask. Nope. Just a boot. The same winter boot that Emily thought was not cool enough to wear to school when it was snowing, yet were cool enough to wear when pretending to be a construction worker shoveling the load of gravel dumped in a big pile in our driveway. When she discarded her boots in favor of being barefoot (you’d think the child didn’t own socks), I specifically remembered telling her to take her boots in the house. UGH! Now I was distracted from my mission. I had to get the boot, since it was suppose to rain. As if a winter boot could be ruined or washed away by a little rain. I opened the front door to retrieve the boot, and it hit me. The winds swirled around my short pajamas as if twirling me in a dance. In typical Marilyn Monroe style, it lifted my pajamas displaying what no one needs to see. Luckily it was 4AM, so who would be looking or shall I say “lurking”? I had completely forgotten that a ne’er-do-weller could very likely be in the midst. I grabbed the boot, turned and there it was. The cause of the thump was staring me right in the eye. It was definitely the recycling cart, tipped over, laying on its back with its lid laying open. I replayed the thump in my head. Yep, it was the  sound of the recycling cart falling over. Proud of my deductive reasoning, I called Chief, who had gone off to do his own investigation of which piece of grass was the appropriate place to pee, and went into the house. By this time my haggard husband had been woken up again by the banging of the front door and came downstairs to do his own investigation, not of the bump, but more likely of what his accident-prone wife had gotten herself into. Seeing, with only one eye open, all was OK, he got a drink and went back to bed. What did I do after my scary dilemma? I decided to write about it. Lame, huh? What else are you going to do at 4AM when there are no ne’er-do-wells in sight?

I Love My Robe!

 

Seriously? What kind of title is “I Love My Robe!”?  Let me explain.  The other day I bought an “old lady” robe for my hospital stay in a couple of weeks. You know the kind. The kind of robe your grandma wore. My husband calls them “housecoats” or “dusters”. Really? It is a robe. I consider the source. My husband calls the black-eyed Susan flower, brown-eyed Susan. What can I say? He is from Oklahoma after all.

Here’s the real problem. I love it! I really do. It is soft and pink microfiber. It is the good microfiber, not too thick or that weird type that catches on your dry fingers. Yuck. It has long sleeves and goes just below my knee. A floor length robe would likely need me to hem 6″ off of it, so I buy the short one. Another bonus, it’s a snap robe. This is for common sense reasons. I am having stomach surgery and won’t want to bend over to find the bottom of the zipper to zip up. This way I can just snap the top couple of snaps and let it flow. These little details may seem nonessential to the first time hospital stayer, but trust me. It is important. I have had several surgeries. This is not my first rodeo. My last snap robe, bought in 1986, was a light teal green. Again, just below the knee. Although it was short sleeved and not soft. It appeared to be made of some type of nylon fabric, vaguely flammable. Over the years some of the snaps have dropped off and the ever essential front pocket now sat diagonally. Thus my old robe was delegated to my “hair coloring robe”. You know. The kind of robe that you can sit around in for 20 minutes as your lusciously colored dying hair, piled oh so precariously high on your head, starts to slowly tumble down to your shoulders. The top yoke of the robe has a permanent oddly colored brown or red section, depending on the time of year, and my mood. Telltale signs of color on a robe’s collar leads to a new status and location in the closet, farthest in the corner. Only to be brought out for monthly touch ups. I loved that robe too. Once.

Every time I declare my love for the next greatest thing, my husband has to remind me that he hates that I use the word love for everything. I do love everything. I love to shop. I love new clothes. I love puppies. My husband insists that you like those things but you love your husband. Yes, I love him, and those things too. My heart is big enough for all of us. To protect the innocent, I will not reveal the ranking of anyone or anything on my list. Did you notice my husband hates me using a strong word such as love for inanimate objects? All the while he is using a strong word himself? Hate. He hates actions of others, such as when drivers are at a 4-way stop and the Minnesota Nice begins. People are waving to each other, mouthing the words, “No, you go.”, smiling as if they are long lost friends. I believe I mentioned my husband is from Oklahoma. They must not do nice down there. I do understand what my husband’s point is, but prefer to go through life loving without abandon versus just liking. Like is for the chocolate cake with the cherries in it. Love is reserved for the German chocolate cake with coconut pecan frosting. I have morals. I do have levels of love in my food relationships. I try not to use the word hate very often, but when it comes to fish. I hate away. And as I often hear, “You would like fish if you had it made with my Grandma’s very special way of battering the fish.”. No thanks. I’ll pass.

I know loving your robe is odd. But is it really? Imagine a cold winter evening, sitting on the couch watching TV all cuddled up with your kids in your soft, pink robe. How important would your robe become at this point? Can you feel its softness against your skin? Against your child’s cheek? So I ask you. Can you overuse LOVE? What if an outfit makes you look 20 years younger. Wouldn’t you love that outfit? I also love ants, even though they have done less for me than any outfit. Personally I love the enthusiasm of using and feeling the word love. It is freeing. So the next time someone says, “Do you REALLY love it?” Proudly say, “Yes, with 8.9% of my heart.” Blow their mind with the math. Who would expect that response?

I once saw a documentary on Dr. Emoto’s book “The Hidden Messages in Water”.  Here is a link to what this Japanese doctor has discovered.

http://www.masaru-emoto.net/english/water-crystal.html

This documentary blew me away. It showed how important the word love really is, especially since humans are made up with nearly 70% water. I think my love with the word love began at that moment. Before that time, everything was cute! So I encourage you to investigate love and start loving things will all out abandon. However, keep in mind that inanimate objects do not love you back and won’t care if you give them a trip to Goodwill or the trash. If you confuse that point, you will be walking the fine line of hoarding. Love away. Start with yourself.

Disclaimer: Any reference to Oklahomans is truly in fun. I mean no harm.  I just want to point out the differences in speech between a Minnesotan and Oklahoman. I believe this brings quite a bit of confusion into our marriage. One final example is when I told my husband the store I wanted to go to was kitty corner from the gas station. My husband thought my “kitty corner” was my “cute-ing up” the term “catty corner”. I had to clarify as tactfully as possible that my term was correct so there was no longer confusion on where I wanted to shop. This is a priority.

 

Personal Space: GONE

It is a beautiful, sunny, mid-winter morning. I can’t move. Tucked under layers of covers, with the fan blowing on me (if you’re over 50, you know why), I had become a human sandwich. One slice laying with his back to my back was my big, fluffy, white cat, Tommy. The other slice was my black and white springer spaniel, Chief, sprawled with his back against my stomach. Why do dogs need to sprawl? Any given morning could lead to many different sandwich combinations. Some mornings I wake up to the soft sounds of a slumbering six year old, my daughter Emily. Other mornings I wake up to Emily poking me in the face. In the last combo, she was already awake, if it was not already obvious. Although she has poked me in the face before while she was sleeping. The hazards of a parent sleeping with a child. It is always a mystery on how or why she ever got into our bed. Yes, I said OUR. My poor husband has little room left for himself. Who would think a king side bed could become so small.

This morning, in my inability to move, I laid there and started to think. When did I lose my personal space? I no longer have any personal space. Why? Do others just not respect my personal space? Usually when I think, I end up with more questions. I believe it started years ago as a child. It was Christmas, and my sisters and I just unwrapped our first puppy. It was so exciting! I had not even noticed that I had little protection against a tiny poodle jumping on my face and licking it until I giggled. That white fluff ball kept me distracted while my personal space slipped away.

Then of course came the children. Every new baby should be slapped with a warning label, “WARNING: Becoming a parent to this beautiful child will cause you to lose all personal space“. There is no personal space when you are breast feeding. This must be where we absentmindedly train our children that moms bodies are theirs to use and abuse. Emily thinks my body is a jungle gym, a pillow, a blanket, and a protector during scary movies.

Boys are different. Starting at puberty, boys recognize that moms have a personal space. It starts when you are no longer are allowed to kiss them in front of their friends. At 26, I can barely get a wave from my son. A simple hug can be considered smothering. But girls, never outgrow the cuddle space. My daughter Heather, now 24, still likes to sit and cuddle with her Mom. We unashamedly hug and kiss when we greet. I recently went on a trip to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, with my parents and 3 sisters. No kids and no husbands. It was a twice in a lifetime vacation. We loved it. Movie time at night involved all of us girls and Mom curled up on the L-shaped couch. My mom turns 75 this year. I guess girls never outgrow the invading of each other’s personal space.

When Heather was about 6 years old, we went on vacation to Florida, where my parents live. We spent a lot of time in the car going to various fun-in-the-sun spots. After a long day of having fun, Heather, Grandma, and I were sitting in the back seat. My Mom told Heather to lean her head on her and rest. Heather replied, “No, you are too bony. My Mom is much softer.” OK, so I was a number of pounds heavier than my Mom. At this point, I didn’t care. My baby preferred to cuddle with me. Thank goodness for those few-too-many extra pounds.

My youngest daughter Emily told me the other day that she wished she could be stuck to me forever for 2 reasons. It seems that she had really thought this through to come up with not only one, but two reasons.

1. So she would never have to leave me
2. So I would have to go to school with her, and we could snuggle all day.

Yes, my personal space is gone. And I have never been happier!

// <![CDATA[
_
// ]]>

Cleaning the Fish Tank: DONE

Unbelievable for me is the fact that I checked the number one chore on my To Do list off before 10AM! Of course today is Thursday and cleaning the fish tank was Monday’s number one chore. I will work on my procrastination later. One thing at a time.

I recall years ago when my husband and I, prechild, had a fish tank that slowly declined through the years. We started fresh will all new pretty rock but the tank insisted on turning hues of brown and muck. We would begrudgingly, after months of “fixin’ to” (that is a shout out to my Oklahoma relatives), clean the tank. It would sparkle a little less duller each time. Then our baby came. The begrudgingly cleaning was now more like years apart. Muck and yuck were better adjectives of the tank than when the sheen was all clean. Yet you could still see the fish!

Now our child is 6 years old. After letting the tank die out, we questioned ourselves on whether Emily would enjoy a tank of her own in her room or do it right and fire up our old 30 gallon tank. If you have ever had to clean those dinky icky little tanks, you would go for the industrial strength filter and the big tank. Or so we thought.

We took Emily to the fish store to pick out new rock and plastic finery. We were going to have a fresh and very colorful tank. Emily picked neon color rock, which we sprinkled in some black rock to hide the brown/black gunk which was bound to return. Emily gleefully filled her pretty tank, and we put it in a place of prominence in our family room. Next to the TV. I do like the choice of location for the fish tank, however, it is a constant reminder of how I hate to do my To Do list. It is especially close to my husband’s chair. He is always willing to remind me of my forgotten To Do list.

Emily waited not so patiently for the tank to acclimate. Now was the time to pick out the prettiest fish in the pet store. In other words, we had to keep directing Emily back to the fresh water tanks. Why does ever kid want Nemo? On the way home from the fish store, Emily sat in the back seat and named her fish. Her fish were finally released in their new home. The next day I quizzed Emily on her fish names and this time each one had a new name. Every time one swam by he would have a different name. You would’ve thought we had 30 fish with all the names Emily was throwing around. I never mentioned this to her since I believe there is a fish fact that fish don’t really remember their names anyway.  It is much easier this way. When Molly is secretly flushed down the toilet at night, Daddy can sneak Ginger in without anyone being the wiser.

On to today’s fish tank cleaning fiasco. I should mention that I am typing with a towel between myself and my laptop. I am afraid of getting a shock without it. Cleaning a fish tank leaves you soaked. At least me. As I was using my fingers to clean the black “gunk” that was stuck on the leaves of Emily’s gloriously grody, purple plant finery, amazingly never thinking this before; I am cleaning fish poop and rotten food. YUCK!! Rationally I know that some of this is brown algae. Duh! BUT! Poop?!? When did it become OK to clean up poop of any kind with your hands? Why am I not double gloved? How is it that we don’t gross out when fish poop? We do if we are holding a mouse or toad. In this case, we scream and toss them aside. They are both small . So smallness is not the factor. I am not sure what it is. Also, do fish pee? I don’t know. I have never seen one pee, but I have watched fish swim with a long trail of poop coming out of what I would assume is their butt. Gross. This is why I don’t swim in lakes or oceans. We are swimming in “their” potty! That and because of the movie Jaws. When I was 18 I was swimming, more like wading, in a local lake and a fish mouthed a mole on my back. I yelled, “JAWS!” and never went more than ankle deep in “fish water” again. Luckily I have no moles from my ankles down. But I digress.

I think fish are cool. I really do. Only to watch. But like most people, or at least girls, I do not want to touch or hold fish. Once again, thanks to the scarring I received as a child from the movie Jaws, I actually fear fish. This adds to my dilemma of cleaning the fish tank. I have to put my hand in the water to clean the glass. I swear I bought the long handled sponge, but of course can’t find it. I think my husband hid it. He thinks I am a wuss. The reason I have a specific fear of my tank, which I only dip an appendage in, is due to my coolest fish. The coolie loach. Even his name is cool. I rarely see the guy. He is worm-like and at times goes nuts. Today I discovered that cleaning the fish tank is one of those times. Today he had a mission to go after my hand as the terrible predator it is. He was a wriggling mess. He swam very quickly all over the tank. Have you ever tried to clean a bathroom mirror while constantly looking over your shoulder to see if the guy from Psycho has entered the room? Same concept. I am not sure why my logical brain doesn’t ask, “What is the worst he can do to you?”.  Coolie loaches are sucker fish. They clean algae out of my tank. I believe the worse thing that can happen is that I would get a pencil eraser sized hickey on my finger or arm. I think I can live with that, but the scared little girl inside of me is still screaming!

The tank is finally complete. All the pretty plants are back to their now semi-shiny luster and the fish have returned to their normal daily activities. I am not sure what they are at this point. Do they have their own daily To Do list?

Next on my To Do list is taxes. Hmmmmm. No problem. I have until April. What is another day or two?