We Should Be Thankful

1. Elastic shoestrings. Lazy? Possibly. Avoiding yet another hair-pulling exercise with the boys? Definitely.

2. Squib’s creativity. His kind of creative has to be cleaned up with a rake. But I love the end product.

3. Squib’s heart (not the physical one, though I’m plenty glad we got that straightened out). That kid thinks of everyone. If I end up being half the person he is I’ll be proud of myself.

4. Beanstalk’s practical jokes. Especially Chair Stealing and Noodle Boy.

5. The retractable cord on the vacuum.

6. The sound of a giant tree hitting the ground. You must fell giant conifer. What a high.

7. An old dependable truck. Yes, I really do love Whitey. *sigh* Just don’t tell him. It would go to his head and he’d stop running long enough to require some $200 thing-a-ma-jig and he’s not getting it!

8. Friends that are stark-raving nutz for the same reasons I am. No names. Protecting the innocent here. (blahahahaha)

9. Thunderstorms.

10. Benedryl. Beware children and dogs who wend their way about these parts. We like our sleep. Kidding, really. Not about the dog part, though.

11. Tea. Everything gets a little better, easier, and/or calmer with tea. Chai tea latte? Even better. Chai tea latte with Drea la Fea? The best…mostly because we are the bats in our own belfry.

12. iDevices. I’d sooner not have my brain.

13. Music. It’s like breathing. If I don’t have it, then I start to die from the inside out.

14. Self-control. I have way more than you think. WAY more.

15. Boots. Almost any kind at all.

16. Quiet. I realize I just said I am a music-aholic. And I like it loud! But, music isn’t ‘noise.’ I do love quiet when I can get it,

17. People in general. They do make life interesting.

18. My bed.

19. Movies.

20. Lindt truffles.

21. Tokyo. Yes, I am being specific. I am thankful for the entire city. Inakaya being my favorite restaurant…I think.

22. Fountains. All fountains. I don’t know if anyone else has ever planned a trip around fountains before, but they should. I would totally go with them.

23. Water in general. Lakes, streams, creeks, rivers, but especially oceans. And, no, that warning to “just get your feet wet” never worked with me.

24. Strawberry Margarita’s at El Bosque. Great place to avoid on your birthday (note to self).

25. Now, I’m really serious about this. Seriously! So, no laughing at me. Laugh with me all you want. You know that thirty second bit of the Avengers when The Hulk beats the crap out of Loki bouncing him all over Stark tower? I call it the “puny god” bit. For whatever reason, I find that section hysterically funny. Squib does too. He’s the one who was so excited to show it to me. So we run it back a couple times giggling like idiots. Then we’re laughing too hard at each other to stop. We have no idea why. For the record, Beanstalk laughs there, too, but then he looks at us like, “What. Is. Wrong. With. You. Guys????” We already know we are the uncouth masses who generally do not prefer opera.

26. I’m very thankful for this weird little town I live in. Regardless of how many things I’m still adjusting to (like no Starbuck’s or Dunkin’s within a 45 min drive—eek!). Where else on the planet can you meet just about everyone you know at the Baptist church on a Sunday morning, do some serious dancing (that’s mostly me and all the grade school kids), talk to a friend in the parking lot and get interrupted by a woman running hell-bent with a giant oil painting while waiting for a former student to give you a chicken for your dad? And it’s not even 10 a.m. yet!

27. Dr. Pepper.

28. Sunday afternoon naps.

29. Sashimi.

30. On the flipside of my “real” people contact, I’m really thankful for my internet friends (you know who you are, you “fake” people, you ;). I’ve met some genuinely interesting folks. Fun, witty, varied, all ages, all types of experience. Some have kids like mine. Some have interests like mine, and others are just plain crazy.

 

Dying

Baba doesn't remember Crackers the deer. Nevermind that we used to talk about him around the breakfast table. Over a year ago he returned. She adamantly insists that she's never heard of such an animal or his proclivity for vending machine crackers. As memories go, that's a mid-term one. Honestly, I'd expect her still to remember it. But no. She doesn't even remember that he used to come in the back door as a faun and sit next to Beanstalk and watch TV. Swears we never told her.

Death I have no issue with. You leave this world for the next. Instantaneous. Dying, however, slowly robs you of all you ever were and leaves behind confusion, doubt, and even anger.Why doesn't she remember? Because, obviously, I never told her about it! Which isn't actually true, but it's her mind's most obvious conclusion. So, like a boat that's slipped its moorings she seems to be drifting slowly from shore. In a crazy wig.

Just today there was yet another debate (initiated by Baba) over whether it was time to just let her die or continue her treatments for multiple myeloma. She forgets that stopping treatments means she'll likely feel worst almost immediately and maybe for a long time. So, she revisits the topic. It's her decision, in the end, but of course we don't wish the worst on her and must explain.

Papa retained his sharp mind almost until his last day with us. Granted, at times, he was reminiscing about things scientific that we could not comprehend. However, he always had a grasp on the concept of palliative treatment and knew why he had to continue on the course he was on. All this Baba lacks. She was always the spontaneous one with ideas out of left field anyway. Heck, right now she's sitting there with double-sided sticky tape holding her wig in place. Ouch.

I'm not going to say it isn't fair or that this shoudn't happen to good people. Just that it really, and truly, stinks. And I do agree that once all things come to a close, the more at rest we'll all be--at least with regard to Baba's peace of mind. But what an interesting road this is turning out to be.

It is what it is.
Scat

Barking Mad

We have a bit of a tense relationship with the inma--...er...residents of one of the streets we have to drive on to get out of the subdividision. They like the speed limit on their street to be 20 mph. They also like their speed bumps. They have a tendency to get, um, militant about it. A couple of months ago, the roads were all resurfaced so they are now all loose gravel instead of asphalt (I don't see the improvement there, either, but then again I don't give a flip what the POA reeeely does). Oh, if you are extremely wealthy and live on 'that' street you have a lovely asphalt road in front of your house as well as the contract to resurface it. Go figure. With the resurfacing, the speed bumps disappeared, so I felt like someone got their money's worth. Speed bumps were my only sticking point, really. With a civic that has an air dam four inches off the ground, speed bumps are from hell.

So, one night, Dad and I are returning from...somewhere, not important enough to remember, right? A posse had gotten together to meet us. To be quite frank, sometimes we speed and sometimes we don't. Usually we don't. If we speed, then we're talking a max of 25 because the civic has a decent idle there and we aren't riding the brakes (which annoys the hell out of me). In my truck, staying under 20 is no problem unless you're going down hills. That's not the case here. In the van, 20-25 is easy to maintain, but right at 20? It really depends on the day. None of these folks except one have kids--at least not the under eighteen sort--despite the children at play sign. And the ones that do aren't even really on that street and believe it or not...we can see kids and dogs and humans and have yet in our sordid history to hit one. Nevertheless, they were there on the side of the road talking, we thought, then this guy jumped out in front of us. Now that was scary. He and dad exchanged words. We drove on.

Then two things happened. The next day a Constable showed up to talk to us. He basically said he had to because the lady on the corner had called and that the whole street was paranoid and a bunch of stuff we already knew. He was nice and moved on about his day.

And....the lady on the corner lost her mind.

For five (almost six years) she's always walked her dog into the grass and smiled in a neighborly fashion when I drove past. I wave. She waves. We smile. I go on about my business. But now? Now she does this Vivienne Leigh thing with gasp of mortal dread she yanks the dog by the neck and it lands, barking, in the yard. Then, I kid you not, she starts barking...like a dog. For effect, she makes her free hand "bark" also and tosses her head from side to side and wiggles her hips a bit.

Never a dull moment.
Scat

Feminaziistic

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Hallelujah! All I'm going to say about that is that in the grand scheme of things...we lived. However, as a non-stereotypical person in a non-stereotypical family I did almost unwind a few times in a few directions that would have ended badly.

Squib is not fond of dogs. Sooo not fond of dogs that he stayed--literally--nestled under my armpit for three days in the dead center of the sofa. They came in. He would try to go out. And vice versa. The true death knell to Squib's dog experience, though, was when one of the dog's picked up his shoe in her mouth and (supposedly) 'showed it to us.' Then, I had to chase her, and tug back and forth to get it back. His eyes were big and round and later he asked where to put his shoes so no dog ever got it and I suggested Venus. He gave me an appropriately quelling look and stalked off to hide them himself. The kid used to sleep in his shoes until not so long ago, so the shoes are a wee tad important to him. A little bit of fabric was torn and he was worried, etc. When you only have one pair of shoes you tend to guard them with your life, so he wasn't the only person staring at those shoes going, "Oh crap!!"

Same day, later on, I was pinned to the sofa with Squib 'helping' me (looking all the while like a moppet) play Tera when it was deemed that I "couldn't do this, it's a man's job." The remark was referring to some of the jacking up that the Mud Hut needed. First, I was extreeeeeemly tired. Last to sleep, first to wake and I don't work well that way. Second, the person commenting doesn't even know me. Third, well third thing is I was back on the sofa and dealing with us homeless garage monkeys who thought being in the Hut meant...being in the Hut.

A man's job??!?? Same man that has been helping to fell trees and cut them up and roll logs (big logs!!) onto really hot fires kind of man's job?? It isn't as though anyone is going to pick the house up with their bare hands. No. I did not say that out loud. Or anything about the pains of childbirth or crap like that. The birthing pains thing didn't even occur to me, though I don't know why not since Beanstalk took out a few ribs on his way into this world as the anesthesiologist mumbled something about not being able to block pain above a certain height. Gee, thanks. No. I sat there somewhat surprised that I even cared. Wondered a little what my ever-stinking problem was. If someone else wants to do it, then I'm fine with that!!

So, what do women do? And where can I go to do that?
Scat