Sleep

Yesterday morning, shortly before five in the a.m., the whole household was jarred awake by the crashing and banging of a dramatic thunderstorm.  Then, just as fast as it arrived, it departed.  Sweet silence was restored to our world.  Everyone here over the age of two was excited by the idea of going back to sleep.  The under two crowd was just plain excited.  We stayed up.

Asleep!

Awake!

One of my earliest childhood memories is of being livid because I was forced to take a nap.  Times change.  Now I am in love with nap time - for the grandsons.  Brody is an excellent napper but Baby Grayson has an iron will and he's not crazy about napping.  Luckily, I discovered a trick on Wikipedia.  He was yelling his angriest cry at top volume when I wheeled out the vacuum cleaner and turned it on.  In seconds he was not only quiet, he was out like a light.  The magic of white noise!

I mentioned this to one of Jessica's friends today and she said, "You better be careful.  We burned up our vacuum motor doing that!"

I wonder if there's a white noise app for the iPhone?

 

Blue kayak, red flag

There were three colors:  yellow, blue and orange.  Jerry picked an orange kayak, leaving me with the choice of yellow or blue.  I thought yellow might show dirt, so I got the blue one.  I was supremely happy with my choice.  Until.  One night as we were leaving the lake at the public access area, a boater who was also leaving said, "You do know you are virtually invisible to us on the lake at this time of night, right?"

Nooooo... I was not aware of that!  Visibility, or lack thereof, had never occurred to me.  At dusk - the time of day that you are most likely to find me on the lake -I am Chris Zimmerman, ninja kayaker.  This bit of knowledge disturbed me deeply until I saw a man with a bright orange flag attached to his kayak for visibility.  I paddled over and talked with him about it and it turns out that kayak flags are readily available online for twenty dollars, plus shipping.

Camouflaged and I didn't even know it!

The very next night, Jerry came home from work all excited.  "I was in Greenville today, " he said, "and look what I found at Radio Shack on the way home!"  He presented me with a telescoping radio antenna.  "It was only thirteen bucks.  No shipping!  I figured you could sew up a red flag, attach it somehow and it would be perfect."

Now Jerry generally isn't the frugal one of this couple, so I surmised that he needed a project. I obliged by digging out my old sewing machine and some red rip-stop nylon left over from a backpack patching job I had done for him earlier this decade.  I commenced making a flag while he went out on our back deck to attach the antenna to the kayak.  He was very pleased with himself.

 

 

For those of you who've never had the pleasure of visiting our dwelling, it is situated midway down a pretty dramatic hill and our patio juts out over nothing but a steep drop.  We live in the woods and the back of our property is heaped full of leaves left right where they dropped. They are turning themselves into lovely, dark compost in one of God's own science projects.  We never go down there to interfere because it's too steep and it's overgrown with poison ivy, a living deterrent to the allergy prone.

So first Jerry's out on the deck with the kayak balanced on the railing, drilling a hole for the antenna and the next thing I know, he's inside, madder than a hornet.  He'd dropped the little black thing [nut? screw? bolt?*] that attaches the antenna to the kayak. (*I don't know what the official hardware store name of the piece was.  Men, don't bother wasting you time trying to educate me because, in my eyes, it's not important enough info to retain.) 

Of course before he came in he had tried to find it, but talk about impossible!  It was black and about the size of a baby's fingernail.  Jerry asked me if I'd go out and help him look. I was not enthused by this idea, but he does a lot of crazy things for me and I figured this was payback. 

  

As I was attempting to balance myself on the hillside under the deck, I looked down and saw the ground below me undulating.  I was confused for a second as to what I was seeing but when I crouched down, I realized that I was standing in a slug nursery.  They were everywhere and the parents were huge!  That's when I abandoned my search.  (But I did wonder if slugs are the same as escargot?  Maybe our backyard is a gold mine!)

Alone again, Jerry decided to take this huge honkin' magnet down there and see if he could find the [nut, bolt, screw] that way.  Sad to say, he couldn't find the magnet in the garage.  When he realized that the magnet was nowhere to be found, he threw in the towel and went to Home Depot in disgust.  

While he was gone, I  finished my flag.  It was a thing of beauty but sort of rigid.  As a matter of fact, it was about as flexible as a piece of cardboard.  It's the right color to be sure but it won't be doing much whipping in the wind, more like perpetual standing at attention.

 

 

Jerry came back empty handed.  The [nut, screw, bolt] was a specialty item and they didn't stock it.  He went back to the woods, more determined than ever to find that little bugger.  I knew he was spitting into the wind, but I gave him credit for trying anyway.  The tiny thing could have bounced anywhere down the hill and then rolled in the gully.  He was never going to find it.

  

Jerry persisted.  He looked a long, long time and then the impossible happened. (Okay, maybe it was just the improbable, but it still amazed me.)  When he came in, he had that little part in his hand.  You could have knocked me over with a feather, I was so surprised  - and impressed, too.  He told me he'd just raked until he found it.  Wow!

I couldn't be more pleased with my goofy red flag on the telescoping radio antenna.  Not only is it a beacon of visibility, but it's a powerful symbol, too.  While it does keep me from disappearing amongst the jet skiers and power boaters, it's also reminds me of what persistence and determination can accomplish.  And, we saved seven dollars.  Plus shipping.

Verbs

I did not make this yummy looking pie.

.

Judy called me and asked me if I'd bring a pie to our church fish fry.

"No," I said. "I'm horrible at baking pies."

"I didn't ask you to bake a pie," she responded.  "I asked you to bring a pie."

"In that case, I'll bring two."

Love and Devotion

 Last night my daughter burst into my room somewhere between the wee hours of the morning and dawn.  "I can't find the pacifier" she said.  (At least I think that's what she said.  I couldn't really hear her because the baby in her arms was wailing like a fire siren.)

Grayson isn't even three weeks old yet but he is rock-solid in his love and devotion to his blue paci. There's a whole jar of pacifiers in the cabinet but only the blue one will do.  Jessica realized this and so she bought four of them, hoping (in vain) to avert a crisis.  One glance at the desperation on her face was all it took for me to drag myself out of the netherworld of dreams and join The Hunt. 

The rules of Pacifier Hunt are pretty much the same as ones for a classic Easter egg search.  The prizes could be found anywhere, on any floor of the house, in any room, at any height, hidden or in plain sight.  The only variation is that the end-goal is silence and not chocolate.  There are four targets in the house and the first one found ends the hunt.  GO!

Pacifier reject jar

While I was tearing through my bedding, I heard Jessica in the kitchen.  We met in the playroom, then split up.  I went to the office and Jess took the living room where she became the big winner when she retrieved the first blue paci from behind the couch.

Peace was restored and slumber followed.  Morning came early though and as we are dragging through the day, we can't help but wonder where the other three pacifiers are.  Four clearly wasn't enough.  I vote for twenty.


 

Customer Service?

Some people glisten and shimmer for me like sunshine on the water......and some people don't.  I'd like to thank the people at my local phone company for reminding me of this today. 

Customer service.  Who are we kidding here?  Enough said.

Well, almost enough.  I decided to file a complaint with the FCC and I went to their website and waded through info to find the proper form only to find that my computer froze when I tried to fill it out.  I backed out and tried again, with the same results.

So, does the FCC form have a virus attached to it or is this some nefarious government plot to decrease paperwork?  I may be over thinking this.

What's left of the banana bread. 

Argh....I was so frustrated that I made banana bread but even eating a half a loaf of that wasn't enough, so I made 'Delicious Chocolate Cake,' a family favorite given to me years ago by my friend Elaine, a woman who has spent her life shimmering and shining with such beauty that it gives us all hope for a better tomorrow.

I think a piece of this cake - even an unfrosted one - will do the trick and cheer me up.   Especially if I pour a shot of amaretto on it and add whipped cream and walnuts.  I'm feeling better just thinking about it. 

Life is truly good.

* * *

This is not a food blog, but for those of you who are going to ask:

DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE CAKE  from  Elaine Berninger

       350º     30 - 45 MINUTES        

MIX:

3 cups flour
6 Tablespoons cocoa
2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt (I halve that.)

ADD:

¾ cup oil
2 Tablespoons vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla

POUR IN:

2 cups cold water

STIR UNTIL WELL BLENDED.  BAKE IN 13x9 PAN. 

* * *

Say..cheese?

While Jessica was taking our little yellow man to see the pediatrician, his big brother and I attended his toddler gym class.

The difference between being the Mom and being the Grandma is this:  When you're the Grandma and take your 20-month-old to Gymboree, all you can think about is how germy the toys probably are.

The Horsey Ride


She fed the coin into the machine, then my daughter placed her 19-month-old on the horsey in the grocery store.  He began clinging to her like a remora on a shark.  As the seconds ticked by, he held her tighter and tighter.  He never cried but when she looked into his eyes, she saw fear. 

A man of few words.

She took him off the horse before the ride was even over and cuddled him.  "Brody," she said in a soothing voice, "that was supposed to be fun!  Didn't you like the pony ride?"
He looked at her with big eyes. 

"Nope."  he said.  


The Second Time Around

Love IS lovelier the second time around!

We welcome Baby Grayson Edward Sheena to our family!  Born on July 1st and weighing in at 6 pounds, 8 ounces he is 21 inches long and made his debut at 5:09 a.m.  Trooper that she is, his mother waited until his big brother was fast asleep before she left for the hospital, even though it took her three tries (thanks to fireworks, a squeaky garage door opener and a noisy Grammy.) 

After witnessing the birth, the tired Daddy was able to make it home before his toddler awoke, thus averting the dreaded "Where's my Mommy?" drama.  After a quick breakfast he (and I) were whisked off to the hospital to meet the baby brother. 

Brody kissing Grayson

Times have changed since my children were born and some things are for the better.  Hospital cafeteria food is now edible and, at times, even delicious.  Visiting hours are now from 10am - 10pm and no age restrictions are enforced.  There is no limit to the number of visitors allowed at one time either. 

Remember the postage-stamp sized hospital pictures we were given of our babies?  They were a straight-on face shot of an infant with a puckery face wearing an over sized undershirt, with hair flying every which way.  Those pictures are long-gone! 

They have been replaced by photo shoots which even include wardrobe changes, props and whole-family shots.  The three pictures I've included in this post were my favorites among those included in an entire CD which  was available for purchase before the happy family even left the hospital grounds.  What new parent could resist buying these?

Yes, times have changed, but the feeling that you get when you hold one of your own for the very first time, well, that remains one of the joys of a lifetime.

  

Welcome, Sweet Summer!

Why is this little guy smiling?

Because it's going to be 108 degrees in South Carolina...



...and he lives in Michigan.

Welcome, Sweet Summer!

Vanity, thy name is Chris

I'm checking out my Facebook news feed and I see this picture:

Underneath the picture in the comments section, I read:

            Erik Bard: Did ChrisZimmerman get a dog?

* * *

Intellectually I know that Erik knows that this is NOT a picture of ChrisZimmerman.  I know this because he is a friend of my daughter's and this is a picture of her.  Clearly he has NOT mistaken me for this stunning young woman.  Intellectually, I know this.

Emotionally, however, it's a different story. In my mind, I still look sixteen.  Every time I get a glimpse of myself in a mirror, it shocks me to see the me that others see.  Inside, I look like this picture of my daughter.  (Only I never wore shoes with heels so high that I had to climb a ladder to get into them.  How does she walk in those?) 

For a split second, I tricked myself into the thrill of thinking that someone else saw a glimpse of the "real me."  I'd like to take this opportunity to publicly thank Erik for that.  Thank-you, Erik!  (And no, this is not my dog.)

The next thing I knew, I was having this flashback to the late 1980's.  Jack, who must have been all of forty at the time, was telling us about his morning.  On the way to work, he decided to swing by McDonald's drive-thru for coffee. The worker at the window was twenty-something and she was flirting with him outrageously.  She was a cutie and he was quite flattered.  Then, as she was giving him his change back, she winked at him and said, "I gave you the senior's discount."

Speaking of Clean...

My friend was talking to me about his cousin who washes every load of laundry twice and changes the sheets and blankets of the beds in her house daily.  While he was talking, I was day-dreaming about how wonderful it would be to greet sleep wrapped in fresh-smelling sheets every single night of the week.  Somewhere in the background of my reverie, he said, "She's a raving neurotic."

So. Does this make me a raving neurotic wannabe?

Speaking of clean, I'm going to Michigan next week to stay with my daughter and her family for five full weeks.  During this time, I will be cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and playing with my grandson while we await the arrival of his baby brother.  Then the fun starts!  Sounds kind of perfect, right?

Why is it that I can get so much more done at someone else's house?  I think the reason is that there's less distraction.  The stuff isn't mine so I don't get knocked off-track so easily.  I'm not really sure though.  That's just a theory.

What does a toddler do when his mother is nine-month's pregnant?

Anything he wants to!

 

This time my work's cut out for me.

The Creative Idea

I read this book called How to have Kick-Ass Ideas by Chris Barez-Brown and was so enchanted by the notion of having creative thoughts that I read it again.  Then I waited.  And waited.  And waited...  What would my first kick-ass idea be?  Would it bring me wealth?  Fame?

No....as it turned out I won't be receiving wealth OR fame this time. Today, while I was in that twilight-time between sleeping and waking, I had my first kick-ass idea.

A small idea, yes, but it's a start

Turns out that merely putting a towel under the watermelon before I cut it is a practical solution to an annoying problem - thus qualifying it as a kick-ass idea!  The towel absorbs all the juice that normally would be running off the cutting board, over the counter, down the cabinets and finally pooling on the floor,  generating massive clean-up efforts. I will not miss wiping up that sticky mess.

It's so simple!  I wonder why I didn't think of this before?

Wrinkles

"I do so hate wrinkles" my mother-in-law said to me in the late '70s.  It was during the permanent press craze when all you had to do was shake the leisure suits out and hang them up right out of the dryer.  Her statement amused me because I didn't hate wrinkles.  I didn't even notice them.  I was too busy chasing children and worrying about if my bikini made my butt look fat. 

Times have changed.  I don't have to wonder any more how my butt looks in my swimsuit because I already know.  I'm about the age my mother-in-law was when she uttered the wrinkle statement and now I get it.  These days I actually iron tee shirts and linen pants upset me on several levels.

I refuse to buy myself any clothes that say 'dry clean only' on the labels.  I don't want any garment enough to drive it somewhere, drop it off, wait a couple of days, drive back, pay, then drive back home again.  That's too much effort.

I am, however, the first one to run to the car and rush dress shirts to the laundry.  $1.65 per shirt seems a cheap enough price to pay to stay out of divorce court.  Jerry gets grouchy when he has to iron his own shirts and even grouchier when I iron them.  (Ironing is not one of my gifts.)  It's far from win-win at home but, for a small fee, we can keep this item out of the marital spat arena -- and we have enough issues in there already, ya know?

Since dry cleaning and dress shirts are off the table, the prima donnas in my laundry world are those garments that say, "Machine wash, gentle, lay flat to dry."  They are the bane of laundry day for me.  Half the time, I throw them in the dryer by accident.  They end up being dried to a crisp and come out looking like misshapen Barbie clothes. 

Vibrant orange, anyone?
Check out the shoes!

Even when I do wade into the laundry stream and rescue fragile clothing between the washer and the dryer, the 'lay flat to dry' part is still left.  Here in Humidity Village, SC, if you leave something out long enough for it to air dry, you've also left it damp long enough for it to smell sour, thus negating the entire washing process.

I bet you I could buy vintage polyester leisure suits on eBay.  Do you think Jerry would look better in baby yellow or powder blue?

Rags

 I was exploring the Flylady's cleaning website when I stumbled upon rags for sale in their e-store.  This seemed counter-intuitive to me so I was forced to look up the word "rags" on dictionary.com.  The first definition was:  a worthless piece of cloth, especially one that is torn or worn.  Exactly! 



Cloth diapers coming?

In fairness to the Flylady folks, their rags are purple, which, if I were going to actually buy a worthless piece of cloth, would be my preferred color.  But, of course, I am not.  There's no reason to buy rags at our house, we generate our own all the time.  (Bonus!  Anything the South Carolina clay soil touches automatically is rag material because it's discolored for all time and eternity, no exceptions.)

Now I know that what these flypeople are actually selling are not rags at all, but cleaning cloths.  I'm not buying them either.  That's what holey underwear and old undershirts are for, although back in the day the gold standard of cleaning cloths used to be cloth diapers. 

Kind of makes ya nostalgic, right?

Linda

Even in the saddest moments in life, there is humor.

Linda lost her seven-year battle with breast cancer and slipped peacefully into the next world while being held by the love of her life and with her daughter lying by her side.  It was a gentle exit to a stormy life. 

This was a fiesty chick with a quick wit and when I think of her I think of laughter.  Linda knew she was dying and she made two requests. "I want a helluva wake,"  she said, "and no bimbos in my bed."  I believe she intends to haunt Doug if he doesn't follow her wishes. 

Words of sympathy fall short so we do what we were taught to do: bring food.  Our neighbor was dropping off a casserole and Linda's four-year-old grandson answered the door.

"We don't need that,"  he said.  "We ordered pizza."

Rest in Peace

Linda Santorum
1951 - 2012

Doug and Linda with Grandson Grayson

Linda, Hope and Doug

Granddaughter Emma

The DMV

To say a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles is challenging is a dramatic understatement.  It's brutal!  There are always huge lines, too little staff and employees that seem to take fiendish delight in thwarting sincere attempts at being card carrying, law abiding citizens.

When we arrived at the DMV, there were only three other customers there.  What's wrong with this picture?  Had we entered the Twilight Zone?  The place is normally crazy-crowded and getting your license, registration and new plates is guaranteed to be stressful, squared.  With only three people here, how long could it take?  

Our branch offers a unique little twist - before you can approach the actual license bureau line, you have to talk to a pre-screener whose job description must be to force you to leave the office empty handed. I think she probably gets a performance bonus if tears are shed during the process. 

Katie had researched what she needed and she arrived at the office well prepared. She took her social security card, her Ohio driver's license, her passport and a copy of our 1040 tax form from 2011, all to prove that she was who she said she was and that she was living in our state. As additional proof of identity, she also took her mother. It was not enough. 

 "We have to have an original of the tax document; a copy won't do" said the pre-screener.  I could hear triumph in her voice.

Kate, who had devoted a significant portion of the morning on her hair-do for the photographic portion of the process, was undaunted.  We went back home, got the entire packet of tax forms and came back to the DMV again. Of course now the place was jam packed - and people were not oozing friendliness, either.  I toyed with the idea of bursting into song, but as I was mentally going through my repertoire searching for something suitable for my debut, suddenly it was our turn.

This time as the pre-screener green-lighted Kate for the license bureau line, she also told me - with nothing short of sheer joy in her voice - that in addition to filling out an intimidating and ridiculous form for new license plates, I had to go to another city to pay personal property tax on the vehicle before I could purchase the the plates and tags.  And, of course, it was too late to make that round trip today.

The picture on Kate's new South Carolina license is very flattering, which is lucky because she will be carrying that very same license for the next TEN YEARS!  It doesn't expire until 2022, making the $25.00 license fee the bargain of the decade, I'm pretty sure.

I couldn't resist humming a happy tune as we left the building.

* * *

Success!

Keys

What to do when you are trying to stick to a budget and the urge for some "retail therapy" strikes?  Well, Kate and I decided to go to Home Depot and buy a couple of fancy house keys.   

We threw ourselves into the project and even attempted to buy Jer a Star Wars key, which I believe would have provided him with hours of amusement as well as an endless source of trivial conversation as well, but the blank didn't fit our door key type so he was out of luck.  I ended up buying three keys.  Katie chose a leopard print, I picked a tie-dyed one and since I happened to have Mary Ann's house key with me*, we bought her a fancy brown key with hot pink polka dots. When Mr. Home Depot guy was finished duplicating, he gave me back both of the dull, original keys and I stuck them in my pocket.  The entire purchase was well under ten dollars, a success by any budgeter's standards. 

(*Clarification:  I don't usually run around with other people's keys, but Mary Ann has been up north on an extended visit and I have been on cat duty.) 

Back at home, I grabbed the key out of my pocket, put it on a huge keyring and hung it by our front door so that when I go for walks, I can just grab it and go - and that's exactly what I did after supper when Katie and Jerry left to do some errands.

After my evening stroll I saw Mary Ann was finally back, so I stopped in to hear about her trip and presented her with her new key - which is adorable in every way and was suitably admired by its new owner.  It was only after I'd hiked back down to our place and tried to get in that I realized the key that I had put on my big-honking keyring wasn't to my front door, but was the original key to Mary Ann's door. 

So there I was, locked out of my house.  Kate's car was parked in the driveway and had the garage door opener in it, but it was locked too.  I was out of luck.   I  sat out on the deck for a while. It  was drizzling out and mosquitoes were buzzing but, on the whole, it wasn't a bad place to be.   Still, I had hoped to use this free time to catch up on some reading and my books were inside.  I decided to break in. 

I walked around the lower level to see if any windows were unlocked.  BINGO!  One was and (BONUS!) it didn't even have a screen on it.  I pushed and shoved and tried, without success, to open it.  Now I'm the first to admit that my mechanical aptitude is nil, but burglars make it look so easy. It's not though - at least not for me. (I have no doubt that Jerry could have opened that window in under sixty seconds.  This knowledge only made me feel more incompetent.)

Having totally and completely failed at Plan A, I defaulted to Plan B - go get my spare key from Mary Ann.  I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner!  Soon I was letting myself in, just in time to see Jer and Kate turning into our driveway. 

That evening when I was getting ready for bed I found Kate's old front door key in my pocket.

From the Sky

Katie was feeling pretty good about her choice to move here because we'd just finished picking a gallon and a half of plump, delicious blueberries.  We came home and she decided to grill herself some chicken while I made a salad. 

About two minutes later, I heard a blood-curdling scream.  I went tearing down the stairs in Mother-mode and calculated how long she'd been on the deck, thinking up worst-case scenarios - like the propane tank exploding for example.

As I rounded the corner and stepped onto the deck, I fully expected to see part of the house engulfed in flames, or something equally as dramatic.  What I saw instead was a very animated Kate dancing around and waving her arms.  The look on her face was sheer horror. 

"A giant slug fell from the sky right onto the grill." she explained.  "Now I am teetering on the edge of whether or not I can live here."

I've decided to add a fresh fruit salad for supper too - blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, cantaloupe, and throw in a little bit of watermelon from Florida, too.  Maybe that will tilt the teeter totter back in our direction.  If not, maybe a shopping trip would do the trick...

First-of-season blueberries

What I'm not going to tell her about are the skinks, Palmetto bugs, chameleons, black widow spiders, brown recluses or even about the various assorted flavors of poisonous snakes we have here. 

It's taken me a lifetime to arrive at this conclusion: some things are better left unsaid.

Airplane Rides

I don't like creepy airplane noises.  When the bell dings twice and the cabin stewards run up the aisle to the cockpit, intellectually I know that the captain probably only wants a cup of coffee, but I still get nervous.

My first airplane trip took place when I was eighteen years old. I was flying from Michigan to Texas and my parents were so worried about the transfer in Chicago that my father flew with me to O'Hare Airport then flew back home after he'd escorted me onto the proper flight.

From the start I have been a skittish passenger, but some years ago I found myself on a cross-country flight that was the scariest, most turbulent trip of my life. The plane was pitching and roiling and my stomach was churning. Every time we lurched, I got more frightened.  And then things deteriorated.  It was at that time I promised God that if he could only see his way clear to get me safely home to my babies, I would never fly again.  Never!  And I meant it, too. 

Time passed.  The kids grew up, our son moved out west, our daughter had our first grandchild up north and we moved down south.  Suddenly, not only am I flying, but I'm flying on tickets paid for by frequent flier miles.  Don't get me wrong, I still don't like creepy airplane noises and turbulence still makes me crazy scared, but when I get to choose between thirteen hours riding in the car and an hour and a half gliding through the sky, well, I'll pick the airplane every time.

I can almost hear God laughing.

My Monday Morning List

The FLYLADY (Marla Cilley) has a website dedicated to assisting people like me gain control of their housework monsters.  I love, love, love her system because when I use it, it works.  It's a strict routine using a timer, based upon a book called Sidetracked Home Executives.  I can strongly identify with the "sidetracked" part of the title, with the "executive" part, not so much.

Every Monday morning I get up and make a "to do" list of things I want to get done by noon.  Then I get distracted and end up doing something totally different.  Every Monday.  This is my routine.  I don't need to make a list on Tuesday or on any other day either, because I haven't finished my Monday morning list.  I could just call it my "Things to do this Week" list, but pride prevents me from admitting that it will take me five days to do what ought to be accomplished in four hours and I love the optimism of thinking that someday - someday - I might finish my Monday morning list on the same Monday morning.

Today, Katie noticed my Monday list on the counter, which is a minor miracle in itself because usually by Thursday the scrap piece of paper that I wrote the list on has either mysteriously vanished or gotten wet and is stuck to the counter, an illegible mess. 

"Holy Hannah!" she said.  "How many hours do you have in your day, girl?"  This was right before we both spent forty-five minutes searching for my purse, which we finally found hanging on the knobs of our bookshelf doors, camouflaged in plain sight.

I wonder if FLYLADY has a section on her website for slow learners.

Love and Sunshine

My youngest daughter bathes in sunshine.  She basks in it.  A sunny day is to her as a glorious, crisp, fall day is to me.  Her mood is elevated.  Things just seem to go better on a bright, sunny day.

For the last nine years, Katie has lived in the second cloudiest city in the United States.  All through that time, she's dreamt of the day when she would move into the sunshine.  That day came last Thursday when she packed her car up with all her worldly possessions and headed south.  She arrived at her destination after dark.

During the night, it began to rain and Friday dawned, gray and drizzly.  Saturday crept in wearing gray tones and didn't change her clothes all day.  Sunday, rain.  Monday, torrents.  Isn't that just the way things go?  You're expecting one thing and get the opposite.  

Katie rummaged through her stuff and pulled out a sweatshirt to wear while wondering out loud if donating her fleece jacket had been such a good idea.  We both started carrying an umbrella with us when we stepped outside.  Today started out to be another gloomy day too, but then finally, mid-afternoon, out popped the sun and blue skies returned.  

Patience pays off and finally Kate was smiling.  Then we got the weather alert.  Severe thunderstorm and flash flood watch until 10:00 p.m. 

April showers bring May flowers everywhere but in South Carolina.  Here it's May showers bring, well, rain.

Welcome home, Katie.  

Beautiful April flowers

Flea-market Find

A couple of years ago when we were at a low ebb financially, we had an urgent need for a mattress.  Being the shrewd shopper that I am, I hunted down a cheap one at a perpetual flea market near us.  It was only $219 (including tax) and came with a five year warranty.  What was I thinking?  We actually bought a mattress set at a flea market.  Seriously.  Although the thought did occur to me that the warranty was virtually useless, the price certainly was right so Jerry strapped those suckers to the roof of our car and off we rode.

Ever wake up feeling like you've spent the night sleeping in a cardboard box?  The next morning I wanted to be shaken out, uncrumpled and given a good ironing.  And things got worse.  Over the next few months whenever we sat down on the mattress, we would hear sprongy noises and sometimes in the night we'd hear sounds suspiciously like wood splintering.  Turns out buying the flea market mattress set was not our finest hour.  Go figure!

As time progressed, fortune again smiled upon us and we decided to purchase a new mattress and relegate the flea market find to the guest room.  This time we purchased a memory foam knock-off from an internet site.  It came vacuum packed and when we opened the plastic, it exploded into the mattress that we know and love to this very day.

Now that I was once more enjoying blissful slumber, I began to feel guilty about our guests' visits.  We shop at all the high class places (I guess that's obvious by now) and at one of them we found a piece of one-and-a-half inch memory foam padding, which we bought for the handsome fee of $29.99.  Nothing's too good for our friends and family.  Imagine my surprise when our visitors started telling us how well they slept!

Kids can sleep anywhere!

The story ought to end there but it doesn't.  When we moved south, we realized that our beautiful bed with its antique headboard would not fit into the master bedroom of a house built in the 2000's.  We were forced to put it - with its wonderful internet memory foam - in our guest room in the basement. 

So now guess what we're sleeping on again?  I'm pretty sure that some night Jerry is going to roll over and the box springs will implode underneath us, but until then I'm sure happy to have that inch and a half of foam between me and the flea market mattress.

I'm Never Alone

Jerry has been away on business this week which means that I am all alone, or I would be if I didn't live at "The Zimmermans' Animal Spa and Wildlife Refuge."

We find bird-watching entertaining and have three feeders and a block of suet hanging off the roof of our front porch.  Right now both a bluebird and a red-headed woodpecker are snacking out there.  A cardinal is watching and waiting for his turn to swoop in.  A whole lot of whistling is going on and birds - lots of birds - are pooping on our deck and stairs, of this there is little doubt.

Earlier, one of (God only knows how) many squirrels was visiting the feeders.  Chasing squirrels from bird feeders is an exercise in futility so I don't. The birds don't seem to mind sharing, so why should I?  Plus, squirrels are fun to watch.  They are the trapeze artists in the cirque du soliel of the animal kingdom.

In the evening an old raccoon with a gray muzzle lumbers up the stairs and checks to see if the birds left any seeds uneaten.  Often he will stand up on his hind legs, put his front paws on the windows and stare inside.  He doesn't seem disturbed at all that we are sitting less than a yard away.

Just moments ago I looked out the window to my side yard and saw a young deer standing in my terraced flower bed eating a newly planted bush.  Out of the entire woods, this is where he chooses to munch.  When he saw me he gave me the "what?" look.  He knew he was being naughty and he knew I knew it too.  I used to see that exact look on our children's faces when I caught them involved in questionable activities, too.

Last night as I was drifting off to sleep I heard a blood-curdling cry like some  poor creature was being stabbed to death right underneath my window.  I didn't bother to get up and look out.  We live in the woods; it's dark here at night.   (This is not my first rodeo.)  When we heard these noises before, Jerry researched them on the internet.  The cries are either from an owl or a fox.  Surprisingly they sound a lot alike.   

Now there are two deer in my flowerbed...

...and people wonder why I don't watch t.v.

Another Day on the Road

Something funny happened to my husband today and I decided to allow him to be my first guest writer and post his story on this blog.  Enjoy!

                                                     *  *  *

Another Day on the Road

by

Edward J. Zimmerman

Those of you who know me also know that I drive a lot, always have.  As such, it's not surprising that things happen ...to me ...because of me - while I'm on the road. 

Friends and relatives alike also understand that

     1) my fuse can be frustratingly short

     2) I don't always exhibit the greatest level of:

          a) compassion
          b) empathy
          c) sympathy
          d) pick any other noun associated with kindness

I'm working on both numbers 1 and 2 but my attempts at improving these attributes are more than likely going to spill over into my next life.

Swimming Upstream blog readers might want to print posts entitled "Another Charleston Story" and "Tempting Fate" for handy reference during this story.

This evening I was heading home from a day in Greenville driving north on I-85 and participating on a conference call with co-workers. Yes, it was on hands-free. (Thank you for asking, Chris.)  I had been engaged in the conversation for a while and it was lively.  As the call was winding down I realized that I was gaining quickly on the vehicle in front of me and I glanced at my speedometer (see "Tempting Fate.") 

Fearing I had inadvertantly been mashing (yes, mashing, I live in South Carolina now) the accelerator, I quickly backed off but realized I was only going 45 mph to begin with. I wrapped up the phone call, mumbled bad words about the guy in the car ahead, sped up, moved into the left lane to pass, and the guy moved over in front of me.  More bad words.  Now going 50 mph, I carefully moved back to the right lane again. Again he moved in front of me. Now I'm thinking, hey, maybe during the phone call I inadvertantly cut this dude off or something; maybe it's not him, maybe it's me? 

I started to feel a little guilty, just a little, not that much really, hardly noticable. Another quarter mile passes and we're still going 45 but I notice his right turn signal is on. Hey, perhaps he's trying to signal me (see "Another Charleston Story.")  I take the next exit, pull into a Denny's and check the kayaks (yes, they'e always up there) but they're fine.  Bad words are spilling out again - I can't stop them, it's how I am.  I think about that car, a blue Impala, Michigan license plate.  Go back home, Yankee dog!


Now I'm heading back north again on I-85.  I turn on the radio and my phone rings. It's a South Carolina number but I don't recognize it.  I answer and it's my neighbor Dave.

"Whatcha doin?" he asks.

"Just driving around Greenville," I reply.

Before he speaks again my Cray supercomputer-like brain starts cranking. He works for a manufacturer out of Michigan, drives a company car, a blue Impala. More bad words and I ask if that was him in front of me.

"Why would I be driving 45 mph on an expressway?" he laughs.  Even more bad words.  He said he was heading through Greenville, looked up the road a mile and noticed a goofball with one blue and one orange kayak on top of his car. "Hey, it's Jerry Zimmerman up there."

I'm guessing he was bored.

BTW Dave: Congratulations on the big order, jackass.

Snakes

In the inky evening when the world is darkening rapidly, the last thing you should be doing is strolling down a street with no sidewalks, right?  I find myself in that very situation more than I'd like to admit and always regret my wardrobe choice - usually some version of khaki capris and a gray tee-shirt,  rendering me virtually invisible, especially to the five out of every seven drivers who are  talking on their cell phones.  (That number is 100% accurate.  I watched seven cars speed by and five drivers were on the phone, no joke.)  More likely than not, I am forced to jump into the English ivy to save myself even though I have  often been told that it's the Motel Six of the snake kingdom. 

Are snakes lurking in the ivy?

Just last week I was out walking with Mary Ann as twilight fell.  We were power-walking past a yard full of ivy when something (we couldn't see what) suddenly hissed loudly and jumped out at us.  Terror froze me to the spot!  In the heat of the moment I panicked and belted out a scream worthy of a horror movie.  In the same split second, I grabbed Mary Ann with both hands.  (I thought I heard a little sympathy yowl from her direction but I can't swear it wasn't because I was squeezing her too tightly.) 

In a flash, the man who owned the house came tearing outside to see what the

commotion was all about, no doubt envisioning carnage.  Instead, what he found was two screaming ladies standing in the puddle of water that his automatic sprinklers had made on the first squirt of their cycle.

Was my face red?  Was Mary Ann's arm bruised?  It would have been hard to tell because by now it was too dark to see.

The Interview Cheat Sheet

The manager of the bed and breakfast that is my home-away-from-home is interviewing applicants for an innkeeper position.  I have a few questions for the prospective employee myself.  Here they are, along with the appropriate responses:

Q.  If your favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) is going to arrive after hours, what do you do?

A.  Leave a plate of fudge in her room.



Q.  If your favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) arrives to breakfast five minutes too late to be served, what do you do?

A.  Let her take a plate of fudge to her room.



Q. If your favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) is sightseeing and it appears she is going to miss happy hour, what do you do?


A. Leave a plate of fudge in her room.



Q.  If the inn is full and you notice that your favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) has pigged down all the fudge before the other guests have even made lipstick marks on the rims of their wine glasses, what do you do?

A.  Put out crab dip and crackers for the wine snobs and take a plate of fudge (from your secret stash) to her room. 



Trick question: (to separate the shrewd innkeeper from the ordinary)

Q.  Your favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) has left her purse at the inn.  What do you do?

A.  Mail her a box of fudge.  Slip in a note that you are holding the purse in your office and she can retrieve it, along with a plate of fresh fudge, next time she's in town. 


If and only if the prospective innkeeper can cheerfully answer these simple questions correctly does he/she get the coveted "favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area) seal of approval."

Good luck to all the applicants! 

Husband of the favorite guest (from the Greater Charlotte area)