Abby and Wesley Put On A Fashion Show

Last night Abby and Wesley, my two oldest grandchildren entertained me with a fashion show.  And oh, what a show it was.  It won't be long before Abby is borrowing Grandma's clothes.  Gee, I hope Wesley doesn't want to borrow them too.

Lots of laughs and giggles until I saw my bedroom.  OMIGOD, all my clean clothes were thrown about the floor.  I have seen movies about fashion shows.  The models are in such a rush to get back on the runway from one viewing to the next that the clothes are thrown everywhere. 

I am ashamed to say, I yelled at my grandchildren.  A half hour fashion show took an hour to pick up and put away.  Now I feel terrible that I ruined a perfectly lovely time for them. 

On the brighter side, they said they had a great time and didn't want to go home.  That gives Grandma a chance to make it up to them.  Right??

Smokin" Seventeen

Once again I am deep into another Stephanie Plum who-done-it.  Janet Evanovich has written 18 number books of which I have read 14 with an assorted Stephanie Plum holiday books scattered between.  This evening my two eldest grandchildren are coming over to spend a fun filled evening with Grandma creating a Gnome Garden and seeking any other mischief we can get ourselves into and here I am fantasizing with Steph rather than preparing for the evening.  My house can be falling down around me and disaster around every corner but if I have a good book to read I am oblivious to the danger I am personally in.

Stephanie now has three hunks hot after her cute little bod and is finding herself contemplating on her life here and now while fearlessly chasing the bad guys in Trenton NJ.  Each hunky hunk has something special to give her (besides what is throbbing in their pants) and she has to choose only one.  After all, she is a good Catholic girl even though she hasn't been to church in some time.

No wonder Evanovich's books are # 1 New York Times Bestsellers over and over again.  This is what every red blooded American woman wants from the age of 12 to 80.  We no longer want to be just the good little woman who keeps the house neat and clean for her hard working husband and raising a bunch of snot nosed kids who are never satisfied with all the sacrificing their mother does for them.

There are some of us who still try deceiving ourselves into believing they are happy with their lot in life but in times of complete truthfulness even those perfect housewives with their devoted husbands will quietly admit how lost a body can feel day in and day out cleaning, cooking, running errands, doctoring, etc. and getting so little in return.

All I'm saying here is "Stephanie, be careful with what you wish for."  To get just half of the adrenaline flowing excitement you get as a bounty hunter the average woman has to make more personal sacrifices than we would like to admit.

But look who's talking here; a 61 year old grandmother whose little granddaughter brags that she can look like her grandmother by sitting in the bathtub for a long time so that her skin looks like a prune.  What can I expect?  Still even this old woman can dream, can't she?

Upcoming Trip to Tennessee

Sister Mary Clary and I have a Bucket List.  I don't know how seriously she pursues her adventures listed but I know I do not take mine seriously at all.  I don't take much of anything seriously actually.  I published my Bucket List last year sometime.  It is nothing but total Tom Foolery.

Today I have spent hours searching the web for a great cabin for my sister Mary and my brother Jim, their spouses, Darrell and myself to spend a couple of days in pursuing one of Mary's items on her Bucket List.  I found the perfect cabin a short three miles outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  The owner calls their little hide away tucked neatly in the woods, Goldilocks Haven.  I wonder if the Three Bears have stayed there.

No, this luxurious cabin in the woods (4 bedrooms, hot tub, pool table, Internet connection and so much more) is not on her Bucket List.  She and my brother have been dreaming of going whitewater rafting for years.  Their dream is about to come true.

I've also have had a secret desire to feel the water splash hard against me and feel the exhilaration of dodging big boulders as I float down the river. 

Now I am afraid I have waited too long to pursue this adventure.  I think I have a torn rotators cuff and I am not sure my shoulder can take that type of abuse but I am going just the same.

We are riding down the Ocoee River in a small plastic raft.  The ride is described as "a rampaging ride down the river with nearly continuous whitewater action".  That is scary enough but it is a Class III and IV river which means it will be difficult to maneuver with long rapids, powerful irregular waves, dangerous rocks, boiling eddies (whatever that is) and will require powerful and precise maneuvering.

Yeesh!  What have I gotten myself into this time? 

I'm Such a Mess

Yeesh! Can I be any more of a mess?

No, I truly don't think so.

All my New Year Resolutions have gone south, never to be heard from again.  New Year Resolutions tend to be the same with most people and they tend to be a desire to break a habitual pattern of self-defeating practices. 

I am a slob and have always been a slob.  Not about my person but about most everything else around me.  I have never made my bed consistently or picked up after myself and there is always dirty dishes in the sink.  I have never seemed to find enough time to keep an orderly house and create daily. 

The good news is change is possible no matter how old one is, you just have to want it bad enough. 

Do I want it that badly?  Not sure.  I like myself the way I am but I don't like wasting valuable time searching for things because I didn't put it away.

Time to review and start fresh!  Want to see how really bad it is?  A picture is worth a thousand words!

My messy backyard.  It is so bad I can't get my lawn mower through there.  But that is going to change.  It will take a few days work but I am determined to get it cleaned up.

This is just the beginning of the new me.  Oh, have I said that before?

Complaining

Complaining is easy, even when compared with the challenges of creating a plan for positive change in ones life.  Fact is, complaining can be quite fun when among good girlfriends.  We seem to feed on each others difficulties in life.

I really don't want to be a bellyacher.  The whiners of the group can put a dark cloud over everybodies party.  It is contagious. 

So how do I get back on that positive sound track?  When it comes time to specify the fix I get fuzzy.  Time to get out my happy paint brush and paint my life with broad strokes of color with statements like "I just want passion in my life", "I want to be loved, healthy, yadda, yadda, yadda."  

Give me something that makes me happy.   Something like my day with my girlfriend Kathy.  We had so much fun just laughing and talking and playing with her precious granddaughter, Peyton.

There is no quick fix, no magical pill we can take.  This crab ass is going to have to make the changes herself.  After my super time with Kathy yesterday I think I might just have an idea to change my blue into joyous red.  Get out of this house and spend time with friends.  I've been watching too much TV and reading too many books.  Time to start living again.

Clueless

I am like totally clueless to what comes over me sometimes.  It is like I have been slapped; slapped hard right across the face and instead of waking up or getting mad I go into the corner to pout.

I've been pouting for over a week now and I'm really tired of this down trodden frame of mind I've developed.
I've tried all my favorite "change your fucking attitude" antidotes with no apparent change of disposition.

I've tried:

Hug my Daddy
Lunch with girlfriends
Art Journal
Tickle Grand kids
Jam to rock music
Bitch to sisters - all three
Retail therapy
Cry to old movie

Despite my best intentions the devil has got a strong hold on me and I can't shake this feeling that I'm heading in the wrong direction.

One thing I know for sure, men on on my shit list.

The weekend is upon me.  I am spending Saturday with my kindred spirit, Kathy.  Let's hope she and I can't get to the heart of this sulky little girl mood I have developed. 

If I don't like myself then how do others look at me.  BORING I am sure since that is at the top of my list.

Virginity

On my way to Griggsville, IL, the Purple Martin Capital of the World, and the home of my ailing father, I found myself craning my neck a full half circle so that I could look at the ominous Piasa Bird painted on the bluffs along the Great River Road for as long as possible just as I had done thousands of times since I was a child.  My father has always been a great story teller so naturally when he took his brood of six bored children the 100 mile trip to visit my grandparents in Pike County Illinois he often pointed out the painting and told us the story of the great Piasa Bird who swooped down on the Native American Indians leaving a trail of blood, tears and death.

All these years later and I still find myself irresistibly drawn to the painting and reflecting on the myth.  Did the ferocious bird seek only young Indian braves or like many other mythological stories was it's thirst for young female virgins?  Being female, I naturally lean toward young Indian braves rather than virgins.  After all the braves went into battle of their own free will where as the virgin was drug and tied yelling for mercy to a stake as a sacrifice.

What is it about man's fascination with virgins?  I've never been able to comprehend the allure.  Men actually prefer a woman who has been around the block a couple of times.  They are a lot more fun.

When I was a mere child of 10 or 11 my mother fed me the line about no decent man would marry a woman who was not a virgin.  To make the story worse the "good man" would know on his wedding night if his bride was not a virgin and then all vows would be null and void.  Turns out my mother just didn't want to be stuck raising her bastard grandchildren.

These stories have been handed down to our daughters generation after generation.  I chose not to fill my daughters pretty little head up with all that virginity nonsense but she still heard the stories.  Not from me but from the church.  She then had to figure out her own version of right and wrong.

Third world countries still shackle their women with medieval morality stories aimed at keeping women in their place.  Fortunately the US and Europe have acknowledged their errors (some reluctantly) and have loosened their grip on women.

Funny thing, it takes a lot of energy to keep someone down.  Men who fear women would find themselves happier and more successful if they would live and let live.

Enough ranting.  Have a great weekend!

Sisters Make All Things Right

I just got off the phone with Baby (to people outside of my family circle Baby aka Tina my little sister).  The conversation began with a Pity Party and ended up with world problems all but solved and tears of laughter rather than sorrow running off my chin. 

The relationship between sisters is usually like that.  That relationship quite often runs true between girlfriends too.  I am blessed to have three sisters and oodles of girlfriends.

Baby and I came to the conclusion "Life's a bitch and then you die" if you let it be.  Life is a game where people make choices in every wakeful moment.  We have weapons at our disposal to fight off the doubt we all have about ourselves.  Among those weapons are our self worth, abilities aka talents, our potential and our sense of humor.  When things go wrong as they inevitably will we must be prepared to arm ourselves, but quite often people cower in a corner and take the blows ending up bitter with their lots in life.

Thanks,  Baby, for reminding me!  Life is good.

Dear Parents:

I found this in someones blog today.  The blogger had copied it from someone else's blog so I thought it would be all right to copy it once again. 

Here goes;

Dear Parents,
   Jasmine was in a relationship with a dirty homeless boy named Aladdin.
Snow White lived alone with seven men.
   Pinocchio was a liar.
Robin Hood was a thief.
   Tarzan walked around without clothes on.
A stranger kissed Sleeping Beauty and she married him.
   Cinderella lied and snuck out at night to attend a party.

You can't blame us, you were the one telling us these stories.  You taught us to rebel since we were very young.

So what was I thinking when I chose to walk the straight and narrow to keep my parents happy? 

No imagination I guess.  It is never too late to walk on the wild side, but first I have to take care of my daddy.  My time will come.  Watch out when I go through my second childhood!

Late Bloomer or Am I Just Fooling Myself?

As I am sure I have mentioned before, I'm not what you'd call technology savvy.  I'm not an artist and I'm certainly not an author.  You'd think by the time a person is considered a senior they'd know their strengths - what they were put on this earth for.

Not me.

61 and still completely in the dark.

When I worked at the bank I always felt I was destined for something better, something more exciting.  I didn't know what it was, but somewhere in the back of mind I just knew I was different, special.  Now as you know I have been told I am eccentric so doesn't that mean something?

I thought maybe I was just a late bloomer.  Then when Les died and I showed my art journals to the people from hospice who absolutely salivated over the pages of my art I thought Voila I have bloomed.

No, once I sat down in front of the computer to write my story my IQ dropped about 20 points.  What makes a computer tick is a total mystery to me.  Part of me still has this irrational fear I'll push the wrong button and smoke will start coming out of my monitor.  With no small difficulty I've stumbled my way through learning the basics.  I can check my e-mail and order books off Amazon.  And I'm proud to say that after a particularly frustrating week of experimenting with blogs, I'd figured out how to set up my very own blog.  But download, upload - it is all gobbledygook to me.

Needless to say, publishing my book is way out of my league.

So now I'm wondering, am I different or am I just another Average Jane?  (Probably Jane Doe cause no one will know who I am when I die.)  Does everyone feel they are different but just haven't found their niche in life yet like me except for those few celebrities?

Now please understand, I wish well for others but I can't help but hope that I am special (stop rolling your eyes, you know what I mean) and I am just a late bloomer.  But the thing is, if I don't start blooming pretty soon I'm going to end up dead and alone is this dirty little town in this little house rotting around me.

Is that what I want?  I don't think so.

Lost in Memoryland

I knew before I dragged myself out of bed this morning that it would be a day full of bitter sweet memories.  I woke early this morning with bits and pieces of a dream tickling my thoughts.  You know how dreams are, like smoke, you reach for them but can't hold on to them.  What I remember of the dream is laying in the arms of the man I love, feeling his touch, running my fingers through his thick dark hair, looking at his beautiful bedroom blue eyes, eyes that told me he loved me without whispering a word and yet somewhere in the back of my mind I could feel his absence. 

I struggled with the notion that maybe if I stayed in bed all day I would have the same dream over and over again.  Silly?  Yes, so I got up and dressed for the day.  Today would be a tough day because I had an appointment with Les' brother to have new tires put on my truck; the truck Les bought for me and my father.  Les' brother, Mark has an auto garage next door to the house where Les and I lived for 17 years until his untimely death two years seven months ago.

As always, upon my arrival I was greeted warmly by Mark; not because I was bringing him business but because he and I are friends who truly care for each other.  Before I knew it, I was thrown in the past as Les' family members and friends started showing up.   The garage has always been a meeting place for men to stand around and talk.  I don't know how Mark ever gets anything done because there is always three or four men standing around "shooting the shit" as they say.  But then maybe that is why he has such a good business.  Lots of friends and family recommending him.

We chit chatted for a while then I snuck away to get out of his hair so that he could put new tires on my truck for me.  I wandered around the property that had once been owned by Lester Hall and now belonged to his estate.  There was little change.  Les was a collector of many things.  That man was able to pick up a piece of junk and turn around and make a profit out of it faster than anyone I had ever known.  Actually he was the first man I had ever known who sold junk as a hobby.  I was raised in a family who looked down upon people who had derelict cars in their yard so when I brought him home my family was probably in shock.  However they loved me and never voiced any bad opinions about the man I loved, at least not to my face.

I sat on the big rock in front of the house, my love rock, and let the memories flood over my body like tidal waves.  The same rock I sat on the day he died sobbing hysterically for my loss.  Today I did not think of his death, only of his life, his life with me.

Two and a half years later and I love him as much as ever.  I am now able to be more sensible about him.  I know he was not a great catch.  Darrell is a much better catch than Les.  Les was a man's man and my desires took backseat to the things he wanted to do.  Darrell always thinks of my desires first.

So why can't I love Darrell the way I loved Les?  I don't know.  I'll just have to have patience with myself and hope that Darrell can have patience with me.  They say time heals all wounds.  Perhaps with healing the ability to love again will follow.

Just A Little Ranting About SPAM

It has taken me nearly a week to complete deleting about a million spam e-mails after my absence from the computer due to those two glorious weeks spent in sunny Spain. 

No, I do not own a lap top and anyway, why would I want to waste precious time on the computer when I could be exploring the mountains, valleys and beaches of that beautiful country?  Well, duh!

I digress - SPAM.  Do those idiots really think I want to buy sex enhancing drugs, botox, meet someone in Nigeria, or sent them money?  Do people really believe if you send a complete stranger a couple hundred bucks they actually will send them a million?  Seriously?

But then I have read newspaper and magazine articles about people who have fallen for this type of ploy.  Who but a lonely, sit behind the screen person would reply to a series of e-mails sent from a supposedly long lost friend or relative?

Really, think about it.  And that makes me very sad and reminds me of how fortunate I am to be blessed with so many loving friends and family.

Now .... I think it is time for me to return to Yahoo to check my e-mail and delete yet another spam stalker and send telepathic good wishes out to each spam answerer each time I delete one of those nasty e-mails.

The Straits of Gibraltar

The Straits of Gibraltar is a narrow strait that connects the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea and separates Spain from Morocco - 7.7 nautical miles of ocean at the strait's narrowest point. 

So what I really want to know is why it takes 45 to 60 minutes to traverse in a big ferry a/k/a boat from Tangier's to Gibraltar 7.7 miles?  That's right, a ferry operates between the two cities transporting people and vehicles hourly between Africa and Europe.  Last week Darrell and I were among the passengers making this trip.  We were told it would take up to an hour to make the trip what we were not told was how rough the ride would be, and me with a sensitive stomach often experiencing motion sickness.

The ride on the ferry from Spain to Morocco was rough.  The ride from Morocco to Spain was a rollicking bronco ride.  I have learned since the trip that rough water is a norm because the Strait of Gibraltar serves to directly link the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea which creates certain unique flow and wave patterns due to the interaction of various regional and global evaporative forces, tidal forces and wind forces.  In other words the water may not look choppy but there are undercurrents that are going to jolt your teeth loose.

Me with my sensitive tummy was doing everything in my power to think of something positive and ignore the constant rocking.  Darrell was attentive and filling me with fluids because I had been complaining of thirst. 

We sat at a table with a family from Morocco, mother, father daughter of about 12 years and her friend.  They spoke very little English and I spoke even less Spanish but we were trying to communicate.  The mother was also suffering from motion sickness.  I was trying hard to be brave and not mention my discomfort as we struggled to talk.  The young girl was lovely with big brown expressive eyes and long thick coal black hair.  One day she would drive the boys nuts (perhaps she already did).  In broken English she expressed her love for Johnny Depp, something we both had in common. 

The conversation lagged and I told Darrell I had to go potty.  I knew it would be difficult to navigate across the boat with it lurching so badly so I had waited until I couldn't wait no more.  I walked like a drunk but made it safely to the water closet (as they say in England) and found both stalls occupied.  (Later I learned the crew had locked the doors because they didn't want the toilets clogged from all the sick passengers barfing.)  All I could do was stand in the tiny room waiting for the stalls to be vacated.  So I stood and swayed with the irradiate rocking holding on for dear life.  Finally I started beating on the stall doors begging for whoever was in the stall to hurry up.  I was desperate.  When there was no answer behind the door I staggered out of the tiny enclosure and motioned to Darrell across the room I needed help.  He couldn't figure out what I needed so like a lunatic I yelled at the top of my lungs "BARF BAG".   That did the trick.  He can really move in an emergency. Thank goodness because as he handed me the bag I filled it.  To make matters worse during the fit of vomiting I had no control over my bladder so I peed on myself. 

All in all it was a humiliating experience that I had no control over and I will never take that journey again.

Frigiliana, Spain

February 20, 2012 my friends and I toured the small quaint village of Frigiliana (pronounced free-hilly-anna).  The village was right out of a picture book.  A tiny village built in the mountains with a population of approximately 3,000; mostly Central Europeans because southern Spain is a favorite vacation spot in the winter.  All the small white washed houses were joined together like Siamese Twins.  There were no front yards, not even a small porch or sidewalk for the pedestrians to walk on.  The entrances to their homes were directly on the roadway, which was a long winding piece of artwork made up completely of concrete and small round smooth stones laid in intricate designs. 

We were told this was Moorish design.  The Moors had occupied Frigiliana until 1487 when it was conquered by the Catholic Monarch.  The Moors were allowed to stay but under tight constraints causing frequent uprisings until 1609 when they were finally exiled to Africa.

One of my favorite spots in the village was the 16th century parish of San Antonio Catholic Church.  I had not expected to see such rich beauty in this poor little village.  (I guess I shouldn't have been surprised now that I think of it.  My experience has been that no matter how poor an area, if there is a Catholic church there, it is richly furnished, but I'll stay off my soap box and continue.)  The most outstanding feature of the exterior of the church building is its clock tower.  The interior has a fine choir, silver and gold treasures in the sacristy and three 17th century paintings.  The church has a nave and two aisles, with Mudejar coffered ceilings.

The villagers lived and worked in their tiny narrow homes.  Many of the homes doors were left open allowing myself and other tourist to peek in.  The homes were neat, clean and sparsely decorated.  All the homes' floors were paved with tiles and decorative tiles could be found throughout the walls inside and outside of the homes.  Several of the homes served not only as residences but also as businesses, selling fresh produce, canned goods, wines, and boutique items. 

All this on a mountain side going straight up.  There was a small train provided for those who were not capable of walking the tour up the winding road.  I am thankful I have my health and was able to traverse up the path throughout this adorable little town.  One of my companions talked to an elderly woman walking up the path carrying her groceries.  She was from England and wintered in Frigiliana every year for the past 13 years since her retirement.  She said the roads were so narrow and groceries and toiletries were readily available in the village so there was little reason to have a car.  She walked everywhere.

I was not sure why I went to Spain except for the experience of going to Europe.  Now I was finding the experience was one full of great knowledge, a knowledge I had not expected.  I knew I would see Christopher Columbus' homeland.  I would be surrounded by history.  But I was learning from the people who lived there here and now, not just in the past.  I was learning what is important in our lives, not the materialistic lives we live in the states. 

Now that I am back in the states, I hope that I can make use of the things I learned.

Toremolinos Spain

I and seventeen of my new found friends stayed at the hotel Sol Timor located next to the boardwalk on the beach of the Mediterranean Sea in Toremolinos, Spain.  The boardwalk is much like the boardwalk in San Antonio Texas, seven miles of tourist traps and restaurants. 

I really hadn't expected that but it was fun and since Spain has an unemployment rate of 23% tourism is very important to them.  So important the people of Toremolinos have turned their home into a haven for tourist and many speak several languages to accommodate the tourists.

Another surprise was the number of English and Irish pubs found in Toremolinos.  Our first meal in Spain was at a small pub called Father O'Malley's that served traditional Irish dishes such as kidney pie, fish and chips and shepherds pie and of course the proprietor was from Ireland.  Our second day out we discovered a little pub called The Office owned by an Englishman who was married to a beautiful Brazilian woman with two teenage children.  The Office became a favorite night spot for us to unwind after a long day of sightseeing.  Malcolm, the proprietor was full of interesting stories about his travels throughout Europe, Russian and Brazil keeping us entertained and liquored up.

Most nights at 9:30 our group would meet at the hotel for some professional entertainment.  The first evening we saw a stage production of Grease, the next night the same group of dancers sang and danced to some Broadway plays and the next night an evening of live music and dancing and the next Flamingo dancers.  There was some type of entertainment every evening.  The most bizarre was the male impersonators.  Naturally I had heard of men impersonating women but this was my first time to see a live performance.  They were really quite good and entertaining.

Of course the biggest draw for tourist to Toremolinos is the warm ocean breezes and the walks on the sandy beach of the Mediterranean Sea.  The view from the balcony of our room on the fifth floor of the hotel was beautiful and the sound of the waves rushing to the shore was incredibly relaxing.  What a pleasant sound to lull us to sleep each night.

On My Way To Spain

Scottie, Darrell's grandson took Darrell and I to the air port at 10:30 AM.  Little did I know that this was going to be one of the longest days of my life.  Not that I am complaining.  We were on our way to Spain - the home of Christopher Columbus.  You remember him, the guy who discovered the Americas.  How cool is that?

It was a 45 minute flight from St. Louis to Chicago and our flight didn't leave until 1:20 in the afternoon but due to terrorist activities we were required to be at the airport for security processing two hours early.  Security didn't take nearly that long, not that I really cared come to think of it.  I was so excited about my upcoming adventure I wouldn't have been doing anything at home but jumping up and down wishing we were on our way.

From Chicago we flew to Madrid, Spain.  The eight hour flight was long and terribly boring.  Thank goodness I had a date with my new favorite author Janet Evanovich to read Plum Spooky on the plane.  Her books are laughing out loud funny so they kept me entertained. 

Now if there was just a remedy for the tiny confined space where I was sitting.  I am short and my knees were touching the back of the seat of the passenger in front of me.  I felt sorry for the taller passengers.  I took my shoes off to wiggle my toes then pulled my legs up to my chin to rub my legs and feet to keep circulation going quite often.  Fortunately the passenger next to me was Darrell because I know I was driving him nuts with all my wiggling.   My seat was inside next to the small window.  Darrell sat next to me in an aisle seat.  He spent a lot of time getting up to get another scotch and water or red wine.  Perhaps I should have taken Darrell's advice and got drunk and slept through the long night but I am not much of a drinker and I can't sleep on a plane.

I now have an understanding of "jet lag".  I and my fellow passengers were exhausted and crabby when we finally got to our final destination, the Sol Timor Hotel in Terremolinos.  We began our trip Tuesday, February 14th and arrived in Spain Wednesday, February 15th.

I was traveling with a group of 17 long time friends.  I was the only newbie traveler of the group.  The others had traveled extensively, especially Janet McDonald our leader who is a retired travel agent.

After checking into the hotel all 17 of us met at a local pub for a quick lunch then returned to the hotel for a nap.  I normally have problems sleeping but not this time.  I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.  Exploring Spain was just going to have to wait while I recouped.