Welcome to Schaererville

Believe

2010-12-25T19:08:00.000-07:00

With help from NORAD, we tracked Santa......the magic of Christmas and the magic of technology came together to keep the spirit of the season in their hearts.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Peaks and valleys

2010-11-14T22:38:00.017-07:00

In the textbook of emotional physics, there is balance to be found among the ups and downs even though sometimes the downs seem absolutely untenable and heartbreaking.

To love a pet deeply requires pragmatism and an open heart, because we invariably outlast them and we have to accept that there will be pain and sadness at some point. But there will also be opportunities to love that deeply again in a lifetime, and I just can't imagine missing the peaks in order to avoid the valleys.

When the climb to a peak comes so effortlessly, and seems like it was meant to be, I sure can't question the why or the how.

Samantha, I don't doubt that you were nudged our way by a very special power in the universe. I'm grateful that our paths have crossed, and promise to always love you deeply.

Too soon a memory

2010-11-09T06:34:00.004-07:00

There's a saying that when a loved one becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure.

Sydney, you will be a treasure in our hearts forever and your sweet spirit will always be at our side as we make our way through life without you.

We're finding comfort knowing you're in good company on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, and that you've also got a special someone there who will throw the frisbee to your heart's content.

RIP, sweet pup.

It's only hair...

2010-10-26T06:34:00.001-06:00

October 9 was the big day...the day I donated my hair to Pantene Beautiful Lengths. To me it was a tangled mane of extra work...hair that WILL grow back...but to a woman who has lost her own hair to cancer treatments it's pretty darn special.

Two ponytails. The blessing of thick, fast-growing hair.

A special reason to make this donation...in her honor...

...wishing I had even half of her courage.

An old friend

2010-09-25T21:36:00.000-06:00

We introduced ourselves to you on our first trip together as a couple, just 6 weeks into our relationship. You were a lovely host...providing sunrises and sunsets that took our breath away.

We enjoyed our first trip so much, we joined you again for our honeymoon a year later.

A few years later, we met up with The Best Man and his family within the confines of your lovely village, and found out that their three would soon be four.

And we last visited over five years ago...which is silly because we used to make at least an annual trip to see you.

We're excited to see you again, old friend.

Oh my cabernet.

2010-09-22T06:53:00.010-06:00

...or, Living in a Cul de Sac: Neighbors are Overrated.

We're a circle of seven homes, ~~trapped by~~ channeled through a single entrance. Two homeowners are originals...been here for over 11 years, and knew the area when it was a big pile of dirt surrounded by cornfields. Another one moved in about two years before us. The other three have moved in since we got here, which is almost five years now.

There are kids who would really just love to play together and sort things out on the playground like it's been done for decades. But alas, they are being raised by graduates of The Helicopter School of Parenting...who also have a raging case of Not MY Kid.

Other parents were good friends of ours...before they started behaving like petulant 4th graders whose desk is no longer in what they think is The Best location in the classroom.

And one parent, who is struggling to find her way in a brand new world outside polygamy, wants to understand why helicopters and overgrown 4th graders are playing such an invasive role in her life right now.

We, for our part, want to be far less disgusted with the behavior of some of our neighbors than we currently are.

Personally? I'm partial to a Cabernet-Shiraz blend.

No, actually I'm not borrowing my teenage son's car

2010-09-17T06:39:00.001-06:00

I drive one of these:

And am married to this sense of humor:

And he buys parts to fix these:

So he gets free stickers like this:

And this:

And...*sigh*...this:

I never know when a new one will show up in prime viewing location on one of my windows, although it's usually after a weekend of this:

Because these two:

Just can't be trusted.

Oh, yes. It's a laugh a minute here in Schaererville.

I plead insanity, Your Honor

2010-09-15T06:50:00.001-06:00

Sept. 17 - Peggy arrives

Sept. 19 - Mr. O leaves for South America on business

Sept. 25 - Mr. O returns from South America

Sept. 26 - We leave for a family trip to Yellowstone National Park

Sept. 29 - We return from Yellowstone National Park

Oct. 1 - Pops and his Pensacola Hobo Wagon arrive

Oct. 3 - Mr. O leaves for Mexico on business

Oct. 4 - Pops heads back into the wild blue yonder

Oct. 9 - Mr. O returns from Mexico

Oct. 13 - Peggy heads back to Switzerland

Oct. 13 - I head home for 25th reunion festivities

Oct. 14 thru 18 - Kids off school (fall break)

Oct. 19 - I return to Schaererville to survey the damage

Oct. 22 - Family camping trip to the San Rafael Swell

Oct. 25 - Finish extracting dirt from bodily orifices after camping trip

Oct. 26 - Meet new roommate at the funny farm, because that's where I'll be

Delilah, grab your scissors

2010-09-14T06:43:00.015-06:00

I've had so many lessons to reinforce what's truly important and what is not.

Like when our first-and-supposedly-only was born with aplasia cutis. It's a very simple absence of skin on the scalp, a minor affliction that - in her case - healed in the form of a quarter-sized bald spot on the top of her head that was of more concern to us than to her at the time.

Always looking for a cause, I decided that I was growing my hair out to donate...just in case, when she got to an age when a small bald spot could be the harbinger of doom and potentially the end of the world, I needed material for a teaching moment.

I grew it, and grew it, and grew it. When I found out she would have a baby brother almost 4 years later, the benefts of prenatal vitamins made me into a Lady Godiva-in-waiting.

And when I knew I couldn't take it anymore (4 weeks before Muggsy was born), I donated two 14" pigtails - the blessing of thick hair - to Locks of Love.

Not making appointments for haircuts more than once a year leads to ponytail hair, and though ponytails are boring, they are certainly practical and I'm all about practical.

Since it was already almost long enough to donate, last fall I shrugged and thought it couldn't hurt to make another donation to Locks of Love so decided to give it another year to grow. I didn't know it then, but it turns out there's another personally meaningful reason to donate my hair this time (there's always a reason...so take that, stoic therapist).

Although my sister was able to get her own wig through a wonderful and generous shop right where she lives, there are so many others who are not as fortunate. So this time, my donation is going to Pantene Beautiful Lengths.

And, with October just a few weeks away...being Breast Cancer Awareness Month and all...I think it's time for a haircut.

Sure - just let me know and I'd be happy to help.

2010-09-12T10:26:00.000-06:00

My writing muse is back, and apparently she's brought a friend: the creative paper fairy.

Not a moment too soon, either, because I've landed myself a PTA gig. The competition was fierce - in the end, I beat out every single other mom who, uh, didn't volunteer for it.

It's a disease, I tell you. Because - you know - I do need one more thing on my plate these days. I'm the Birthday Commissioner - among other festive duties, the provider of birthday treats and cards for all 63 members of the team that keeps MiniMe's elementary school spinning like a top.

Of course the cards are handmade. I've also created a female version and a male version. Since I'm just sadistic like that.

So, I'm in the middle of making 57 of these for the women:

and 6 of these for the men:

And lucky me - when I'm done with this, I get to tackle the other part of my PTA Birthday Commissioner responsibilities: planning, inviting, and decorating for the principal's monthly lunchroom celebration for each month's birthday students.

That one may very well put me right over the edge.

Heart

2010-09-10T06:57:00.002-06:00

Yeah, I've been messing around with the blog again. Finally.

My Writing Muse had been on extended leave...vacationing somewhere due east of Nowhereville, apparently. But she's back, though I'm not thrilled with the impetus for her return. She sits faithfully on my shoulder only in times of crisis or stress - my tool for working through it all.

And there's an awful lot to work through right now.

I get twitchy when I need to write and can't. And for this round of trials, I couldn't write about it for six whole weeks. There were others who had to be told before I could put words to my devastation, and reading a public blog was not the way for them to find out. The process of having the conversations was convoluted. The list included parents, step-siblings, offspring, in-laws, outlaws, friends and co-workers - taking place in a certain order, using delicate timing.

So I spent the time trading texts with her, getting details, and then stirring up an interwebz smorgasbord of information with Chef Google. Sifting through medical lingo and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious pharmaceutical names was somehow comforting. I added links to my favorites at a lightning-fast pace.

I found Caring Bridge, and started the uphill battle of persuasion...she insisted that no one needed to know, or cared to know, about her progress.

But I'm a writer. I told her it was for me.

She's gotten messages of love and strength from so many people, many who don't even know her...but they know me. I'm touched to the deepest places in my heart to know that my friends would reach out to her in this way.

And then...I found my own place in the battle. Being so lost, unfocused, wanting to do more but being so far away...it was comforting to be able to choose my warrior symbol:

I'm standing strong. And writing strong. And just trying to be strong. Because we have each other. And I think she needs me.

Generations

2010-09-08T06:32:00.004-06:00

The chin-length bob. With its neatly trimmed bangs, it's known as a stalwart, low-maintenance friend to moms who care more about practicality than fashion in those post-toddler years.

Me - 1971 - age 4

Handed down from generation to generation, it's timeless and classic - with subtle shaping that identifies its place within a decade.

My mom - 1947 - age 4

And the autocratic practicality vs. fashion conversation doesn't really become a battle of wills until well after these years have passed.

MiniMe - 2007 - age 4

Maybe it's less about practicality and more about an innate sense of how a certain style works with a genetically predisposed round face with almond-shaped eyes that turn down at the corners.

Although I can't imagine the newest member of this timeless and classic generational club ever having a practical bone in her body, who knows? Maybe it only surfaces when there's a new genetically predisposed head of hair to be managed by the hands of her mom.

Ol' Blue Eyes

2010-09-07T07:33:00.004-06:00

Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like on

A-Ju-pi-ter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand

In other words, baby kiss me

Fill my heart with song

And let me sing forever more

You are all I long for

All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true

In other words...

I..

love...

you!

It's past August 28, but still not October, so technically I'm not late. Hon, it's been 11 years of love, marriage, friendship, parenthood, and everything in between. I'm a lucky girl!

Warriors in Pink

2010-09-06T07:37:00.004-06:00

I can sit in front of my therapist, being the truly cockeyed optimist that I am, and insist that there's a reason for something. A BIG, MEANINGFUL, KARMIC reason for something. Even when that something is kinda like a bag of rotten tomatoes being dumped over my head as I'm standing naked in the town square in front of my freshman algebra class.

She'll sigh and tell me - yet again - that sometimes crappy things just happen and there's no hidden meaning so I should focus my energy somewhere else.

I never listen to her, and the cycle begins anew. Job security for her, I guess.

This time, my bag of rotten tomatoes is not financial, or job-related, or litigious, or an unexpected [but thoroughly adored!] addition to the family.

Those are all so very, very small by comparison.

This time it really is a matter of life and death.

Cancer. My sister. A Warrior in Pink. It's a ravaging feeling - this sense of being unable to help.

Seriously? Again?? I have to singlehandedly right the wrongs of the world AGAIN???

2010-08-31T21:57:00.004-06:00

I watched her on Day One, pulling up to the curb where signs clearly communicated that it was a loading and unloading zone for BUSES ONLY - no parking. Five minutes past the second bell. She's still learning, I told myself.

I watched her on Day Two, pulling up to the curb where signs clearly communicated that it was a loading and unloading zone for BUSES ONLY - no parking. Five minutes past the second bell. I should really tell her, I told myself.

On Day Three, as she pulled up to the very same curb, with the very same signs clearly communicating that it was a loading and unloading zone for BUSES ONLY, again five minutes late, I approached her window.

With doe-eyed wonder, she seemed genuinely surprised when I told her that the safest drop-off area was in the supervised circle to the south of the main entrance on the other side of the building.

"But they're only in first grade!" she protested, the expectant faces of her twin boys looking up at me.

I had watched dozens of very capable first graders step off the buses, head for the stairwell to the line-up area, with no parental guidance or protest evident.

I took both boys by the hand and walked them up the steps to the front door, pointed them down the hall, and watched as they very capably walked toward their respective classrooms.

Heading back out to my post at the curb, I heard her ask another parent volunteer what time school actually started.

Because she didn't get the same packet every parent got...including the bright pink sheet that outlined the schedule for first bell, second bell, recess times, lunch times, afternoon bell and drop-off/pick-up policies?

I wondered if her other vehicle was a pearl white Escalade with shiny 24-inch custom wheels. But I couldn't see her rhinestone-encrusted Crackberry, so I just wasn't sure.

Pink Shirt Day

2010-08-24T21:42:00.003-06:00

My eyes were tired...vision blurred...it was at least an hour before my normal wake-up time and I had a killer headache.

From somewhere in the scratchy depths of half-sleep, I remembered: it's Tuesday.

I dragged myself into the shower, really felt the warmth of the water and let it remind me to just enjoy that moment, then pulled my newest pink shirt from the closet. I've never really been a fan of pink.

The kids struggled with Day Two of our back-to-school routine. I needed full cooperation today so I could get over to take my place with the other parent volunteers at the elementary school, making sure the buses unloaded in a civilized manner and each kid used his or her walking feet. Running? Not allowed. My voice was hoarse after 15 short minutes.

My pink shirt blew in the morning breeze, reminding me.

Deadline, conflict, challenge, delay...the jarring cadence of dischord at work today kept me on edge. I sighed, growled, frowned, and threw up my arms in frustration.

And caught a glimpse of my pink shirt, reminding me.

Escaping my day at work, I arrived home to the cacophony of two kids each trying to share their Day Two tales with me before the other. I yanked my bag and purse out of the car, slamming the door...on the tail of my pink shirt, reminding me.

The laundry monster was clawing its way out of the overflowing baskets onto the floor, so I heaved a sigh and took my place at the bed to fold at least 7 recent loads that had gone largely ignored. I sorted little boy shorts into one pile, big boy underwear into another...Hannah Montana t-shirts into a pile, and camisole tanks into the other. Thinking I ought to get out of my work clothes, but not quite ready to take off my pink shirt because it reminds me.

One last load of laundry to the washing machine and I could relax...but within 10 minutes there was a small flood in the laundry room because of a ruptured water line on the washing machine. As I looked to the heavens, wanting to cuss a blue streak, I saw the water spots on my pink shirt, and it reminded me.

I wear pink on the Tuesdays that she's having chemo. To remind me...that I shouldn't sweat the small stuff.

Lessons learned.

As trial marriages go, it wasn't a failure

2010-08-15T21:21:00.004-06:00

My relationship with him was a great way to spend my 20s. But compared to where I am now, it was a life that was so. radically. different.

Married shortly after I turned 22, I gained a step-daughter who is 18 months younger than me. My new husband - her father - graduated from high school the year I was born.

A few months after I married him, she herself got engaged. Since her mom (a wonderful parent though just 16 years older than her) was geographically distant, she asked me to join her and help choose tuxedos.

We shared a giddy adventure that day.

The sales rep guessed we were sisters. We gave each other a knowing look, then laughed a bit too loudly, and he tried again. Roommates? Neighbors? Childhood friends?

She told him I was her stepmom. He chuckled, trying to get the joke, and then started shifting in his shoes when we didn't offer a punch line.

He somehow managed to complete all the paperwork while we delighted in his discomfort caused by our non-traditional relationship, and we went out for lunch afterward to celebrate and giggle some more.

It's been 23 years since she and I first sized each other up in the kitchen of her dad's house. Ours is a friendship born of circumstance and nurtured with love - one that survived my phone call 15 years ago, telling her that I had to leave the marriage.

It even survived my explanations, over a decade later and unknown to her until then, as to why I had to leave.

Although I should have been expecting the message she left for me a few days ago, it still caught me off-guard.

She's convinced that he's not going to live to see his 61st birthday in October.

It's bad. His demons may have finally won the war.

Truthfully, my heartstrings resonate with only an off-key chord of sympathy for him. My biggest concern is for her - for the happy and balanced life she's built for herself, for her two amazing children, and for the drama-free life she lives without his influence.

Still...I have albums of photos...nine years of both adventure as well as threads of everyday life. These are fibers woven into the fabric of my being...a fabric that reflects many lessons learned...like knowing what I wanted when I found it on a mountain bike trail 12 years ago.

Wishing him well...I guess. Whatever that means for him.

Taste buds

2010-08-12T21:57:00.001-06:00

The relationship had fallen into a flavorless menu of the weather, the kids, and the effects of the economy on our respective lives.

When we needed something spicier, we peppered our infrequent conversations with a little armchair wisdom based in the perceived maladies -- both physical and mental -- of our parents.

My eyes rolled by habit when I described her in casual conversation...oh, we're SO different.

I imagined she did much the same...Her? Well, we just don't have very much in common.

But really? We have each other.

When we each separately, as independent adults, got The Call from our folks letting us know they had filed for divorce after 28 years of marriage, we intimately conspired to meet just about halfway from ground zero to get our sibling ducks in a row before meeting with them.

She always made her disdain for him clear. I never gave her credit for her fierce loyalty to me.

Approaching 30 and on my own for the first time since age 19, she hosted me in her small-town resort community and then held my hair while I prayed to the porcelain god of relief as an unpracticed victim of The Power of Tequila.

When I was stuck in a dead-end casual relationship and needed her unabashed, high-energy social influence, she came out to visit me for a girls weekend of epic proportion.

Four months after she gave birth to her first child, I asked her to travel many miles with her husband and infant son to stand at my side -- for a second time -- as I vowed in sickness and in health to love and support the right man. And she did, no questions asked.

Then...the long, cold winter. The season of our discontent.

Almost 5 years between visits, a time when we called it good to trade gift cards at Christmas and lazily swirl our flavorless, decaf sibling coffee into a non-descript shade of mellow tan on a decidedly irregular basis.

We did reconnect here in Schaererville a few years ago...but we were still so different.

Her boys wanted to ride our redneck ATVs in the cul-de-sac. She screeched at them to slow down and GODDAMMIT WEAR THOSE HELMETS!

I wanted to hike. She made us wait an extra hour because she had to re-paint her toenails.

We threw burgers on the grill, wanting to relax on the deck and enjoy the sunset. She asked when we'd be heading downtown to the clubs.

So different, and the flavor hadn't changed a bit.

Until the message a few weeks ago...the one that said, "Hey, call me when you have a minute. I have some not so good news to share."

And with that, the recipe no longer mattered. We had each other. The journey ahead would depend on that.

It's been...awhile

2010-02-12T22:24:00.003-07:00

Thanksgiving has passed.

Christmas has passed.

A new year's celebration welcoming a new decade has passed.

I haven't managed to get myself near a keyboard to note anything momentous.

But now, as February 2010 brings us the opportunity to remember that the world isn't really so big after all, and that athletes have the same collective heart no matter what country they call home, the XXI Winter Olympics are here.

We were part of it in 2002 here in Salt Lake City.

The next two weeks will be good for me.

Get in, sit down, shut up, and HANG ON

2009-11-22T23:41:00.003-07:00

Those closest to me know that I've been pushed to my limits by MiniMe the past week or so.

Drama.

No, make that DRAMA. Or even DRAMA.

I adamantly tell everyone that she's everything I'm not.

Somewhere, there are many later-generation friends and relatives who are cackling mercilessly at the payback currently at hand. My mom is smiling wisely.

I keep my sanity by being crafty. MiniMe is pretty crafty in her own 7-year-old right. She has her own stash, but mine -- of course -- is much more to her liking.

It's a battle. Especially when my card swap group meets at Casa de Schaererville every few months.

Last night was no exception. We made some clever and simple notebooks (thanks, Lisa, for the design inspiration and Kelly -- as always! -- for the project coordination).

The instant MiniMe saw my project, she had a burning need to make her own. One that was just like mine.

No matter that I didn't have a spare composition notebook on hand. We had to run out first thing this morning and get one.

After raiding my stash: Voila. A notebook for MiniMe that's just like mine.

Except for the purple. MiniMe lives, breathes, and will die by the color purple, I'm sure.

Oh, and the names. Since her notebook is just like mine, it was pretty important that we distinguish them from one another somehow.

You know... just in case Santa can't tell that I'm not the one who wants the Barbie Girls Dream RV and Jonas Brothers CD that's at the top of the list in, uh, one of the notebooks.

But really, with just a few small stylistic differences, she's got a way about her that's, well...

...just like mine.

W470 Oakwood Beach Road

2009-10-12T22:51:00.001-06:00

I've drafted this post about 5 times so far, and can't really figure out what it's supposed to be about. I guess it's about seeing my BFF for the first time in over 4 years, along with a whole bunch of people who shaped my life over 25 years ago. It's about landmarks, memories and feelings.

Mostly it's about going home, and what home means.

I haven't lived there in 22 years. My parents moved away in their separate directions a few years later. But I grew up in this little community of twin towns, one in Michigan and the other in Wisconsin, separated by a river that's spanned by three bridges. Total population? Probably about 25,000 combined.

I feel like a squatter...calling this place home...especially since, until recently, I spent every minute of every day in my adult life after I moved away trying to not be from there.

A friend told me that our old house is for sale.

The years I lived in that house are so woven into the fibers of my being that I couldn't hold back tears when I looked at the photos in the online listing.

I took pre-prom, pre-homecoming and every other special occasion photo in front of the fireplace. My beloved piano made its home across the room.

The kitchen was host to many late night gatherings of friends...solving the problems of our teenage world with passionate idealism, silliness, and above all else, a deep sense of connection with one another.

I wanted to jump through the monitor and write a check for it that very minute.

I'll have to settle for a quick look from the outside, or, if the listing agent feels like indulging me (she was a very close family friend for many years), I might survive a short tour without dissolving into a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Although recent owners have made many beautiful updates, the memories still resonate from within the home's fancy new look.

Oh, the memories.

I haven't been to a single one of my class reunions.

Most of the tight-knit class I graduated with were not interested in keeping in touch with me and my I'm-not-from-here attitude.

But I'm going back this weekend. Hat in hand, with grace in hopefully every step, to embrace where I'm from.

Home.

Cheese

2009-10-06T22:19:00.001-06:00

Mr. O and I both grew up in families that revered the pursuit of The Official Holiday Family Photo. It was the annual quest to capture a moment in time...a perfect moment in time, one that would let friends and family afar know that things were completely happy and under control.

Success meant that the end result looked effortless and candid.

Behind the scenes, though, was a carefully guarded secret.

Getting two kids -- two boys in Mr. O's family and two girls in mine -- to get in place must have worn nerves thin. My mom absolutely dreaded the day set aside to do this. I always wondered why that was.

In my family, our pets appeared in the photo about every third year. I always wondered why that was.

Most years we'd go to a studio somewhere. Choosing a background was the most stressful part -- then the photographer would set up stools, arrange us by height, and take a dozen shots from which we could pick the winner. Done.

I think there were a few years when we tackled the project outdoors somewhere, but that was the exception and not the rule. I always wondered why that was.

I'm pretty sure that there were more than a handful of shots that were good...if it weren't for the kids goofing off.

And, really? It was probably one of the outtakes that truly captured our family's personality.

But it was always that perfect moment that the rest of the world would see.

My addiction has a name. And it's not O-S-C-A-R.

2009-10-03T05:21:00.002-06:00

It's P-A-P-E-R.

I know I sound like a broken record (is that colloquialism even meaningful anymore? Should I say a skipping CD?), but I l.o.v.e. my job. L.O.V.E.

I also love the color green. A seemingly random factoid completely unrelated to loving my job, but it will make sense as you scroll down. Trust me and hang on for the ride.

Back to my job. Paper and card-making, buttons and ribbon, these are a few of my favorite things...I was over the moon to find out that there is a day set aside each year just to celebrate how they come together to connect paper crafters all around the world. No kidding. It's called World Card Making Day.

Last year I used World Card Making Day to start getting organized, since I had only started my job about 5 weeks beforehand and had to get back into the swing of making cards. I had lots of stuff from my 18 year history in stamping, but almost all of it was.....well, uh, purgeable.

I'm an editor. I make up words sometimes.

So I swooped in on the room in the house that had the most potential: our living room/office/piano room.

Disaster, no? I had some of my stuff just piled in boxes to keep it out of sight, but a lot of it was downstairs in safekeeping. So I started bringing it up bit by bit.

At the end of the day (World Card Making Day...the motivation for this little transformation), I had a nice little workspace with plenty of room to grow.

I was happy with my little space -- I could sit and make cards while my daughter played the piano or used the computer in the office space adjacent to my crafting area.

And then my stash started to grow.

This ~~addiction~~ dream job of mine, you know.

It grew.

And grew.

And GREWsome more.

It didn't fit in my cute little space anymore.

Besides, the builder-beige on the walls just wasn't juicing my creativity. I love green. I needed green. Just like my office at work.

So my eight little cubes...

Became 25...uh, little cubes. And the walls got painted green. Shocker, huh?

I love how the new desk set-up works with the piano. It's my great-grandmother's piano, so it's pretty special to me.

Most of all, though, I love that THIS is the vignette I see as I sit at my craft table.

Especially the part of it right here.

Because our family? They're my ultimate inspiration.

Want to know what ISN'T my inspiration?

THIS:

You may have noticed that in my little craft area expansion (if I keep telling myself my craft area is little, I might just fool myself into thinking I still need to build my stash) involved swapping sides of the room.

Which meant that the ugly office could become....

...kind of a pretty office! I actually like to sit there and pay bills now.

Really though? The best part of this whole project is knowing where to find everything, then sitting down to get creative, and coming up with a few things that make me smile.

I had a blast with Cosmo Cricket's new Earth Love collection when I did this one.

And I made these invitations for a Minnie Mouse-inspired 2nd birthday party for a friend's daughter:

And as if that channeling of my inner girly girl (buried deep, believe me) wasn't enough for my husband to feel my forehead, I also made a card and shadow box for a friend and her brand new baby girl.

When I look back over the past year, from World Card Making Day 2008 to World Card Making Day 2009, it sure does make a meaningful set of bookends to an even more meaningful 12 months.

I hope everyone who is celebrating WCMD 2009 will find creativity, connectivity and collectivity in doing something you love.

And if you're not into card making yourself, you can be sure that you'll be getting one from me in the very near future. Because my stash is, well...not so little, and now I'm all organized.

Until next year, anyway, when I bust out a wall and take over the dining room too.

For real.

Unforgettable [or, If I didn't have the photos, I wouldn't believe a WORD of it]

2009-09-30T18:00:00.000-06:00

I've completely ignored this blog the past several months in favor of immediate and micro-blogging on Facebook. It was all I could do to capture the happenings in the moment, much less write about them. And our summer sure was one to remember, for so very many reasons.

95 reasons, to be exact.

For 95 consecutive days, we had a parent, step-parent or in-law parent in our guest room.

E-freakin-gad.

Phase I: my mom. For 9 weeks. Mr. O is a saint.

During Phase I, Mr. O broke 8 ribs in three different places while on his dirt bike.

The kids started new schools (both of them).

I took my mom and the kids to see her brother, my uncle, at his river-side log heaven in Sun Valley, ID.

With my mom's help, I also completed Project: Basement Organization and Project: Craft Room Declutter. She provided motivation worth its weight in gold. GOLD, I tell you.

Phase II: my mother-in-law. I'm not a saint, she's a very easy houseguest, but crossing off every single thing on her only-found-in-the-U.S. shopping list was a challenge (new Keds? Check. Snack-sized ziploc bags? Check. Bounce dryer sheets? Check. Easy Spirit sneakers? Check. Spoon rest for the neighbor? Check. Utah themed T-shirts for her grandsons back in Zurich? Check.)

My dad is Phase III. He and his Pensacola hobo wagon, his Natty Light, his military marches on cassette, and Jeremiah's step-sister, SaVANnah descended upon us for 72 hours of entertainment. I can't make this stuff up, people.

While tripping over grandparents, we also had a visit from one of my high school classmates from Wisconsin -- one I hadn't seen since...well, probably since high school. We hiked her all over the Cottonwoods and then rewarded her with an afternoon by the mountaintop pool at Snowbird's Cliff Lodge.

I got to hang with the cool crowd...in costumes...at Mammoth for Last Day on the Mountain in mid-June (June!).

And we managed to celebrate our 10th anniversary -- on time, which is monumental in itself -- with dinner at the restaurant where he proposed.

We also spent two weekends in Bear Lake, guests of our very gracious friends who have a cabin there.

Mr. O took the kids, with The Best Man and his tribe, up to our favorite camping hole. Without me. Ahhhhhhh.

Although we're both still gainfully employed, this summer has challenged both of our employers. After surviving two rounds of layoffs, Mr. O and his co-workers had to take two weeks of forced furlough. With a bumpy ride leading into summer, my company was sold and half the workforce was let go. I say my silent thank you to the powers of the universe that I not only have a paycheck to earn, but also that I earn it by doing something creative and wonderful -- with equally wonderful people around me.

Yes, in so many ways, this summer was truly unforgettable. Adventures, grandparents, economic struggles, getting things in order, visits and visitors.

I think we're ready to do it all over again next year.

Or not.

The chatterbox gene

2009-07-23T22:23:00.004-06:00

Boys are supposed to be men-in-training...few words, more action, and little emotion.

Muggsy didn't get that memo.

Muggsy: Mom, what's this?
Me: A wrench.
Muggsy: What does it do?
Me: It tightens bolts.
Muggsy: Why?
Me: Because otherwise they'd fall out.
Muggsy: Mom, what's this?
Me: A bolt.
Muggsy: What does it do?
Me: It holds boards together.
Muggsy: Why?
Me: So I can build some shelves.
Muggsy: Mom, what's this?
Me: A bag.
Muggsy: What does it do?
Me: It holds bolts.
Muggsy: Why?
Me: Because they'd be all over the floor otherwise.
Muggsy: Mom, what's this?
Me: [exasperated sigh] MUGGS! Go play!
Muggsy: Why?
Me: Muggs, do you have an off button?
Muggsy: [without missing a beat] Nope.

Long pause.
Muggsy lifts up shirt and looks at belly button.
Sly grin.

Muggsy: Yep! Right here!

Film at 11

2009-07-21T06:23:00.003-06:00

My eyes slowly opened, dry from the depths of a delicious afternoon nap.

"Hey, wake up. He's hurt. I need your help."

The words were not really sinking in, but the vision in the doorway of someone in full moto gear -- looking like a real-life Transformer figure -- rattled me to coherence.

"Hurry up. Drive the truck to the trail head. We'll take the 4-wheeler up the trail and get him."

What? Who? Hurt? Truck? Wait! Tell me what's going on!

But he was already kicking the 4-wheeler into gear, zooming down the dirt road with her on the back, and depending on me to know just what to do with limited instructions.

I somehow managed to get into the truck, get myself to the gate and wait. The caffeine in the Diet Coke was starting to make a difference, and with every peak in my heartbeat came building panic.

He's hurt.

Hurry.

I'm going to bring him down to the truck.

After what seemed like hours, I saw a flash of the sun's reflection on chrome as the damaged dirt bike came around the bend. Riding it down the trail to park it near the truck, he had a grim look on his face.

"He wouldn't get on the 4-wheeler. He's walking down the trail, but it's slow going," he said.

"What's wrong?" I asked, panic bubbling somewhere deep in my throat but still allowing me to speak.

"A few broken ribs, maybe some problems with his shoulder...." his voice trailed off. "I won't know until I can take a look at him," he shrugged.

I gulped, and in the depths of my anxiety I was grateful. His field training as a medic and current practice as an orthopaedist was priceless to me at the moment.

Soon enough we saw the 4-wheeler slowly bumping down the trail next to Mr. O, who was holding his left arm tight to his side, and taking carefully placed steps no longer than the length of his motocross boot. Slow going for sure.

By the time he reached the truck I could see that it was bad. Really bad. Getting him up into the back seat, using the running board and all three of us as leverage, did nothing but bring forth a string of expletives that I'd never really heard in that order before.

The bouncing dirt road back to the cabin was even worse.

"Use your phone to Google the nearest pharmacy. Get me the phone number," he ordered me. In the isolated lake resort where their cabin was located, the options were limited. It was a half-hour drive to get to the pharmacy, and they'd be closing in less than 45 minutes.

After dropping them off at the cabin, I quickly turned the truck around and set off to pick up the prescriptions for pain relief and muscle relaxers that he had called in to the pharmacy. I was 5 minutes down the road when he called me back.

"We need to bring him to the ER. I cut off his gear and there's a pretty bad gash that will need to be stitched up. He really needs some x-rays, too, just to be sure he didn't puncture a lung," he said with a blend of concern for his buddy and professional opinion.

By the time I swung a u-turn and pulled back into the cabin's driveway, they were loaded up in his truck. I hopped in the passenger seat and we bounced back down that brutal dirt road. Every cry of pain that came from the back seat just cut me to the quick.

We pulled into the small country town with 5 minutes to spare before the pharmacy closed. I ran in to grab the prescriptions, telling them I'd walk the 4 blocks to the hospital and meet them there.

Walking along the mostly deserted main street, I wondered what would be waiting for me when I reached the ER. After filling in the blanks on the admittance paperwork, I leaned around the doorway to the exam room. I saw Mr. O on the exam table with Dr. Chaos on a stool nearby, and the on-call doctor -- a 77-year-old OB/GYN -- looking at the wounds.

The nurse was pushing a generous dose of morphine into Mr. O's IV. And somehow, I knew it would be an interesting evening.

**to be continued.

Forces of the universe

2009-07-17T08:13:00.007-06:00

A reason, a season or a lifetime...so many influences in my life just arrive. And if I'm cognizant enough to be paying attention, it makes a difference. A BIG difference.

H, you are my inspiration. On my worst day, you remind me that it's the best day in so many other worlds. It's been 5 years, and you are my electronic lifeline of perspective.

L, you are my safe, funky, girl-power comfort zone. No matter how much time passes between our visits, it's always there -- fun, supportive, and energizing.

E, you're here for a reason. Even though I alternate between typographically castigating you and bowing to your veiled wisdom, you are one of the best things about Facebook in my life.

D, you represent (in the best way) the gene pool that contributed to who I am today. Whatever the forces of the universe that bring us closer together at seemingly random junctions, I'm glad you own a piece of my heart. Your dad was simply the admission ticket to the biopic.

K, you remind me every time you venture down here into the suburbs from your hip, urban haven that material wealth is overrated. I know you would trade places with me in a heartbeat, and -- although I think sometimes I would do the same with you -- it's good to know that.

L/M, you are uniquely a source of inspiration and frustration. Just when I want to kill you, I have a moment of recognition -- of your unconditional love, support, and willingness to give to me what you don't give freely to others.

At a time when I need to constantly remind myself to keep my eyes firmly focused on the horizon and not the shoreline shrinking from sight over my shoulder, I appreciate the intriguing forces at play in my life.

Can I call a do-over?

2009-06-09T19:48:00.001-06:00

The scene:
Inside a grocery store, 50 feet from the entrance where shopping carts are stored.

Set-up:
My still-empty shopping cart sitting by a bread display rack as I walk around the other side of the rack, looking for a certain loaf of bread.

Action:
Another shopper, with items about to tumble out of the over-stuffed cradle of her arms, leans over to drop her load into my empty cart.

Possible storylines:
A) I watch her put her items into my cart, figure she needs it more than me at that moment, and quietly walk over to grab another cart for myself.

B) I say, "Oh, that cart is mine, but you clearly need it more right now than I do." She smiles politely but doesn't take the cart, and makes it to the check-out counter just before the can of peaches falls out of her grasp.

C) I say, "Oh, that cart is mine" and she laughs, apologizes, and makes a joke about thinking a cart was more than she needed when she started shopping.

How it played out:
I said, "Oh, that cart is mine" and she laughed, apologized, and made a joke about thinking a cart was more than she needed when she started shopping.

The worst part? I didn't even think about wanting to hit the rewind button until I was walking down the next aisle. I'm pretty sure there was a time when option A) would've played out without a second thought on my part. :: sigh ::

Self-absorption is so unattractive.

But maybe The Goddess of Karma will give me consolation points for still obsessing about it 3 days later. Especially if The Parking Angel shows her my report card.

The Neighbor's Dog

2009-05-16T22:04:00.000-06:00

Dogsitting.

One of those things you do as a favor, hoping that you'll have it returned when necessary.

Until you have the borrowed dog so often it feels like you're getting your own dog back after a brief stay with someone down the street.

Which leads to affection for that dog. You take her camping when her master is out out of town. You take her hiking. You buy her the good food because she loves it so much.

Her master is a fixture in your house, with her as his shadow. Sometimes she wanders over all by herself. You feed her. The good food. Because she loves it so much.

She's blind. Deaf. And somewhere north of 14 years old. The time will come. You dread it.

Her master will be devastated. So will you.

R.I.P., Kelty.

A Blog Hoppers toast

2009-05-15T17:00:00.003-06:00

Aaaaaah. A reunion. License to give goofy hugs and sloppy kisses to old (and new) friends. And since I've been busted for FUI* more than a few times, I'm all over the opportunity to drag Twitter into it as well.

I'm not sure there's anything better than pickled blogging.

*FUI = Facebooking Under the Influence

The behinder I get

2009-05-11T22:55:00.009-06:00

The first piano recital.

Early season hiking in our "backyard."

My little man's 3rd birthday.

Deep fried turkey, Easter and great friends.

AMA Supercross...as an insider.

The anniversary of my hatching.

Mother's Day.

9 weeks in 11 photos, and that's as good as it gets.

In like a lamb, out like a lion

2009-03-31T23:16:00.002-06:00

I've got bookend posts from March 1 and March 31. Not much to show in between.

Unless...you count Facebook.

I've found friends from Grant Elementary.

Fellow Marinette High School alumni are active on Facebook, and there are some friends who are closer now than they were back in the day.

I've connected with many former co-workers, at least one from everywhere I've worked since I left college. That's 8 places from which I have a W-2.

My circle includes cousins from all corners of my family, even those with whom I have only a paperwork right to say we're related.

I'm back in touch with many in my extended family -- in-laws, outlaws and step-siblings -- and even my former step-daughter.

My mom no longer feels so far away because her next door neighbor is my Facebook friend.

The wonderful young women who cared for my children from infancy are all my friends on Facebook. One has a family of her own and the others are well on their way.

I collect friends. The random connections I've nurtured over the 20+ years of my adulthood have joined the fun on Facebook. I count them among my treasures.

Mr. O has introduced me to the funniest, craziest, most affectionate group of people from his days living and growing up in Bahrain. They are now my friends, too.

I have neighbors who are my Facebook friends. I wave at them around town and then comment on their Facebook status.

Although I work with them every weekday, I know more about my current co-workers via Facebook than we could ever discuss during the busy-ness of 9 to 5.

There are second generation Facebook friends, the children of people I've known from times earlier than marriage and their offspring.

I've also got some people I haven't had the pleasure of meeting but who read the magazine I edit. They are my Paper Crafting Peeps, and I read every one of their status comments every day.

Some people I've met as friends of friends are there, too. We've shared more via Facebook than we could possibly understand about each other at a chance social event with whirlwind and interrupted conversation.

I'm not sure how I'd be able to happily wrap myself in this connectivity without Facebook. We share trials and triumphs, laughter and tears, sarcasm and wit, photos and lists.

It has a heartbeat, this electronic obsession. A lifeline.

It's the lion in my life.

Temper tantrum via new technology

2009-03-01T22:29:00.000-07:00

Me. Sitting at computer for the first time all weekend.

MiniMe. Really upset that she can't use it.

My iPhone. Next to me on the desk.

Mr. O's iPhone. With MiniMe back in her bedroom as she pouts.

The tantrum via text messages:

Mom can I go on the computer!
[A demand? I think you just blew it, kiddo]

Please
[Nice recovery]

Please!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Maybe try "With sugar on top"]

U r a q t
[Ah, flattery. But it's still getting you nowhere]

100% mad
[Finally. Just get it off your chest, Punkin]

Period
[Foot stomp, coordinated nicely with arms folded across chest]

What are you doing
[Perhaps leading into some logic-based negotiation?]

Mom!
[Yes, Punkin. I'm ignoring you]

--------------------------------
Mom = 1
MiniMe = 0
--------------------------------
I may have won the battle, but the war rages on.

Pressure valve

2009-02-27T18:20:00.002-07:00

It's one of those Fridays.

You know, the ones that mark the end of one of those weeks.

My boss and I were making inane chatter at the end of the work day...laughing where we could just so we wouldn't cry. It was that bad.

I told her that I had somehow written a pretty darn perky editor's note for an upcoming issue.

She said she didn't know I was a fiction writer.

giggle giggle

For the record, it's not my fault that the liquor store is right on my way home.

And I can't be held responsible for the fact that The BMan and his tribe are coming over tonight for wine, Wii and maybe even some food.

Timing? Is everything.

The list of Ps and Qs

2009-02-17T19:26:00.002-07:00

We're not militant about much around here, but we do remind the kids to always use their polite words...please, thank you, and excuse me.

A friend and I were sitting in the kitchen chatting the other day when Muggsy ripped off a burp that I'm sure came straight up from his toes.

Me: "Muggs! What do you say!"

Muggsy: "Good one!" [beams from ear to ear]

Me: *smacks forehead*

It all completely unravels courtesy of Mr. O's inner child. Which influences them at the most, um, opportune times.

Don't even ask about pulling fingers.

1,052,640 minutes

2009-02-09T15:10:00.001-07:00

In and among other anniversaries, today is one too.

Two years ago today I officially became a litigant, an unwilling participant in an epic battle of egos between a student and his mentor. A power struggle that was born when student became boss and mentor became subordinate.

I am neither student nor mentor, boss nor subordinate. I'm just the booby prize.

I've been enjoined, I've endured electronic data discovery of proctological proportion, and I've had former co-workers who were also dear friends ripped from my social circle.

Mr. O and I will be cleaning up a financial mess for years to come. But I'll forevermore be able to correctly spell subpoena.

And now we finally have a trial date. That light at the end of the tunnel doesn't appear to be a freight train, either.

I write, therefore I am

2009-02-06T10:17:00.001-07:00

I remember so vividly being taken out of my language arts classroom in 6th grade, along with two other girls, to go meet with an education "specialist." The terror of not knowing exactly what this meant ate at the pit of my stomach for the long walk through the hall, down the stairs, and around the corner into the area of the school that I had never seen before.

I was being placed in a small group of "gifted" students. To write. Just for the sake of writing.

Since then, I've never hesitated to call myself a writer. I even tried to make a career in journalism, although TV was out because I talk with my hands flailing and my eyebrows rocket off my forehead when I'm making a point. Since TV where the money is, I landed in marketing instead. I just wrote here and there, whenever I could.

But I always wrote.

Then someone told me about blogging. That was back in October 2005. I put up two posts with the intention of using the blog to stay in touch with friends and family, but other things soon got my attention and I never got back to it.

I had no idea that the seeds of a community had been planted and a forest of citizen journalists was taking over the online world.

By the time I jumped back into blogging in January 2008, that forest was truly enchanted. I became a bloghopper. I voraciously read first person accounts of life all over the planet, written with heart, humor, humility or hubris (or a little bit of all).

When I discovered how to use my Google Reader, I began to feel the same rattling physio-psychological anxiety as a drug addict who is suffering withdrawal when I couldn't spend time to read posts as they came in.

A journalist somewhere figured out that the old rules of unbiased reporting could be thwarted by expressing personal opinion on a blog, and I started reading those, too. The insight to be gained at the keystrokes of a journalist, minus an editor's thumbprint on the top of his or her head, was something to behold.

And, having been a part of "old media" when I wrote for a suburban Chicago newspaper (almost 20 years ago), I've watched the struggle as some outlets have made a transition to on-demand content while others are failing miserably. The turf war going on is fascinating to watch, especially when the two sides rumble.

Like they did here.

The fallout is only beginning.

So, yeah. I'm in. Blogging is the new media, the way people are getting information on their own terms. Free agency at its best.

Blogs are not seedlings that can be stomped on in hopes they'll wither away so the 100-year old oak trees can continue to tower.

Even the oldest and tallest of oak trees eventually die, giving way to new growth as a matter of natural course.

BusyDad, Fury, LEGOs...and ME???

2009-02-04T06:41:00.000-07:00

As milestones go, I'm somewhere near 100 posts on this little blog of mine. And also somewhere near my one year anniversary of blogging on a regular basis.

An occasion, indeed.

It was way back when that I "met" Jim at BusyDadBlog. His blogroll was my original source. If there's one person who is responsible for my addiction to reading blogs when I should be doing something else, it's him.

We've swapped comments along the way, although he stands out just a tad bit more among the usual two or so on my posts. I'm one of dozens on his. But we somehow struck up a connection via email over the past year.

A few weeks ago I casually mentioned that I'd be in Anaheim on business, knowing he was nearby. Would he, for whatever banal reason, be interested in meeting up? You know, live and in person?

He said sure. I said.....

Well, I think it took me four days to respond to that email.

In less than a week I had to become funny, insightful, quick-witted, and a multitude of other traits I only dream about claiming.

Really. BusyDad! Not only is he one of the most popular dad bloggers out there, but his son is the cat's meow. And Fury would be part of the package deal for our meet-up.

Ever have anxiety over impressing a 6-year-old? It's debilitating.

Turns out Real Jim is the same engaging, attentive, funny person he is online. An authentic personality. A good egg.

And I'm here to confirm that his kid effortlessly steals the show.

Me: Hey, Fury. Can I take a picture of you?
Fury: Sure. Is it for your blog?
[think he's done this before?]

Me: Let's get our server to get a photo of all of us.
Fury: Yeah! We can all hold up LEGOs!
[Jim writes about LEGOs. Jim gets free LEGOs.]

But the highlight of the evening? Spitball 101 from Professor Fury.

Really, could he BE any cuter?

It was somewhere around midnight that we interrupted our animated conversation and looked over at Fury. Although he was happily racking up points on a driving game, we agreed we were on borrowed time before the good behavior gods released him from service (my own 6-year-old is Old Faithful in that department).

:: sigh :: All good things must come to an end.

Meeting my blog hero and his MiniMe was a spectacular way to celebrate 100 posts and one year.

Jim, you are one of a kind. Thanks for graciously introducing me to this world that has become such a big part of me.

Paper Nirvana

2009-02-02T12:44:00.003-07:00

As if I don't already love my job with every fiber of my being, I'm forced (forced, I tell you) to attend an annual trade event that is essentially Disneyland for paper crafters.

I really could have photographed every single thing there for one reason or another, but these are the ones that drew me back for second and third drools.

Graphic 45 is a cute little company that has a flair for vintage. This line, Communique, just sent me over the moon:

And this vignette gave me all the inspiration I need to finish off our living room/office and dining room:

Now, I'm not a scrapbooker...card making is my real passion. But the color and composition of these two layouts from Teresa Collins will definitely show up in a few cards I'm making:

As if their booth and brand identity weren't already the cutest ever, the jewel tones and deep saturation of the Zinnia collection from Little Yellow Bicycle just grabbed me from the start:

And then I found these happy flowers...these, well, Pretty Poppies by Kezia Whitteker for Autumn Leaves:

Kezia also did this one, called Wellies and Brellas -- is that name just the best, or what?

Down the way and around the corner, in the Pink Paislee booth, was the Pop Fashion Collection -- this color combination was so unique that I stopped in my tracks to take a closer look:

And I'm already a huge fan of BasicGrey, but their new Porcelain collection (designed by a good friend, who also does a lot of work for us at the magazine) is just beautiful -- and perfectly named:

We eventually wandered over into the new exhibitor area. I have to give props to anyone who has the passion and drive to start up a new venture in this saturated market, and there were three in particular that I thought were da bomb.

First up, and although it sounds kinda iffy, there was FancyThat! and its decorative packaging tape. Now, if you think inside the box (ouch. sorry.) and consider using it only as packaging tape, I do agree that the wow factor is suspect. But when you get one very animated owner/founder (Deborah Curry -- she's a walking talking infomercial!) showing you all the paper crafting options, well...my mind sure went all over the place with ideas. I think I will love this stuff.

Then, because I am a total nut for kraft anything, the Jillibean Soup booth was like a magnet to my steel. They had a fun and very cute make-n-take card (yes...a card! They get it!), so we spent a good amount of time in their booth. They also have a very clever naming scheme for their products.

My favorite line...Cold Raspberry...as in soup (get it?):

And following closely behind that, Cream of Mushroom (which also comes in a kraft version):

The other thing I thought was pretty dang smart about their collections is they understand that not everyone is batty for kraft, so they offer just about everything on a white background, too. And bonus -- the white and kraft designs blend together beautifully.

Lastly, we were completely enamored with this little company called Bella Blvd. Not only are the designs fresh and fun:

...but the high-energy and absolutely delightful owner, Stephanie Hunt, is pure power in a pretty apron. This gal is 25 years old, has successfully launched her own company in less than 6 months, and had buzz all over the show floor. I'm keeping an eye on her. She's from Wisconsin.

Aside from all the product, I sure had fun with my iPhone and mobile Facebook at the show, uploading photos to my wall as well as the Paper Crafts wall. Now all I have to do is stop drooling over my photos, get my hands on some real product and then tuck myself away in my little paper crafting corner of heaven at home. I'm inspired!

Hiya, Handsome

2009-01-28T22:29:00.005-07:00

Marc installed the Facebook for iPhone application to his phone. 6:58pm

Just testing how Facebook IM works from my iPhone to Mr. O's iPhone.

His response?

"What the...?"

Me?

::snort-giggle::

LOVE when I catch him off guard.

From the mouths of MY babes

2009-01-22T18:15:00.001-07:00

I stayed home with the kids on Tuesday morning so we could watch our 44th President take the oath of office together, in real time.

At ages 6 and almost-3, I wondered what they would get out of it. Mostly, I just wanted them to see it.

MiniMe and I were sitting on the sofa. Barack Obama and Chief Justice Roberts approached each other to prepare for the oath. The announcer asked everyone to please rise.

MiniMe stood up from the sofa.

She looked over at me purposefully and said “Mom. The man said everyone please rise.”

I stood up and put my arm around my amazing daughter as we watched the oath together.

Yesterday, two of Muggsy’s teachers were discussing the inauguration, not as a classroom lesson but as a personal conversation. The kids were nearby, but engaged in other activity.

Muggsy heard them, and shouted out “Barack Obama!”

They asked him if he knows who Barack Obama is.

Muggsy stood up straight and said “Our new President.”

My pride overfloweth.

This is not good. Not good AT ALL.

2009-01-13T22:05:00.002-07:00

I've skillfully avoided it for the past 5 months. I politely sit at lunch, listening to the tales of Facebook hilarity among my beloved co-workers. I raise my eyebrows in authentic amazement as someone celebrates their 500th friend.

But now I'm there. I HAVE to be there. For work, for oxytocin, for my need to connect.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The Mosts of 2008

2008-12-31T22:13:00.002-07:00

Most Liberating: teaching MiniMe the finer points of microwave cooking. She cooks for herself and Muggsy.

Most Anticipated: our summer full of visitors, from both sides of the family.

Most Chaotic: our summer full of visitors, from both sides of the family.

Most Decompressing: redneck cocktail parties in our driveway all summer long. The hours of R & D spent on the perfect fruity vodka drink were brutal, but someone had to do it.

Most Rewarding: working on a state legislator's election campaign (she won!) and filling the role of chairperson for my precinct.

Most Unexpected: landing my dream job when they came looking for me.

Most Overwhelming: fighting a lawsuit without an attorney.

Most Exciting: the call from The Best Man in the spring telling us they would be moving back to Utah after 7 years of living too far away.

Most Entertaining: recalling exactly why The Best Man and Mr. O are like fire and gasoline. The path of scorched earth is getting longer and wider as each day passes.

Most Worthwhile: hand-delivering our Salvation Army Angel gifts to the distribution facility the week before Christmas and seeing how many others had been generous with donations. Makes me proud to know our family was part of it.

Most Cathartic: having a stash to draw from, and a reason to get all crafty again.

Most Confounding: realizing that I don't know how to answer most of the 'why' questions that come from the depths of Muggsy's two-year-old psyche.

Most Civilizing: my new 9-mile commute (and that's round trip).

Most Pragmatic: 6 going on 16. Just shoot me now.

Most Predictable: 40-year-old eyes, arms that are too short, and steadfast resolve not to get bifocals.

The New Year will start, at least for me, with a very clear view of the world.

Most Sincerely, Happy New Year to all!

Solstice 2008

2008-12-20T16:15:00.002-07:00

:: An adaptation of Danish and Celtic solstice poems::

As the sun and moon renew themselves and we honor the closing of circles

Once again, we learn that even in the darkest moments

Health, serenity, and healing are available

Bless our connections with the ancients

Bless our connections with each other

Bless our connections with future generations

Bless our connections with the circles of the seasons

Bless our connections with places of beauty and solitude

Celebration is at hand

Celebrate the renewal of bonds of kinship

Celebrate the renewal of bonds of friendship

Celebrate those who have touched our lives

Celebrate the return of the sun and longer days

Rejoice

Above all, peace.

Two peas

2008-12-16T09:26:00.000-07:00

Sunny, funny and crazy runs strong among the men in this house.

A boy...

...and his daddy...

...remind me every single day that laughter truly is the greatest gift.

If you see Mr. O today, tell him he's safe. The traditionally lame ideas that become my feeble attempts to celebrate his birthday just aren't coming to me this year.

Unless you count this post.

Happy Birthday, Hon -- hope the fancy new snowshoes you got are enough to buy me out of this one.

Your brother made me do it.

From the mouths of babes

2008-12-13T14:22:00.004-07:00

She never ceases to amaze me.

A fork in the road

2008-12-10T21:39:00.001-07:00

"You're pretty upset that they're moving away, aren't you," she said, more a statement than a question.

"No. Yes. I-I don't know," I replied.

I leaned back on the sofa, wrapped a hand around the tension at the back of my neck and looked away. I really didn't know what I felt.

For three years I had battled for my place in Mr. O's hierarchy. A place that was at least equal to The Best Man, a guy who had been Number One for so many years.

And now? Now I had my chance. The BMan had just told us that he and his young family would be moving to the confines of a remote western town that was at least 9 hours' driving time from our home.

Why was I so torn? I should have been elated. Even if only by default, I finally had a fighting chance.

I fell in love with Mr. O on our third date, the day I learned that wakeboarding is little more than a cold water enema when you're not naturally coordinated. He and The BMan were so patient with me.

And when patience didn't work, they tossed me another Bud Light.

Over the next several months I got sucked in by the magic of their brotherly affection for each other. I laughed myself to breathless tears at their stories, the tales of fun and troublemaking that are the core of college buddy friendships.

The 10 years of history they would always have, the history that didn't include me.

When we quarreled, his refuge was a stool at the workbench in The BMan's garage. When we had something to celebrate, it was The BMan and his wife who joined us. When Mr. O's dad died, it was The BMan who saw and felt Mr. O's devastation long before I did.

When we promised ourselves to each other for better or worse, it was The Best Man who stood by and claimed witness to it.

I knew what I was marrying into. I vowed to accept Mr. O + 1.

So why was this long-distance move such a tug of war between my heart and my head?

Maybe it was the giddy and loveable little boy that took over for Grown Up Mr. O when The BMan was around.

It could have been the pure, unadulterated fun that the two of them had in doing everything from replacing a radiator hose to coloring Easter eggs.

Just seeing the bond between them made my ovaries ache for the generation that would carry on the legacy.

I couldn't figure out if I was happy that I'd finally be in the spotlight, or scared because I had some big shoes to fill, or pissed that I'd have to figure out the formula for finding what made Mr. O the happiest.

I looked across at her.

"Are you afraid that you're getting what you asked for?" she posed.

"You mean am I worried that I can't fill the void?" I shot back.

The therapist in her didn't react, but she belied her buried empathy with the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes.

She knew. Better than I did.

I would miss him as much as Mr. O would.

Thanksgiving a year ago, The BMan and I were solving the problems of the world from our armchairs, long after everyone else had called it quits for the night. They were visiting from South Dakota.

"I can't imagine what it's been like for you guys since everything fell apart," he said, not moving his eyes from the TV.

"Yeah, it's been a bit of a challenge," I replied, trying not to give away the gnawing anxiety that beat me into sleepless submission each night.

I leaned away so I could swipe at the tears inconspicuously.

In silence, we finished watching whatever had our focus for the moment and then I hit the power button on the remote.

The hallway toward the back of the house forced us to see one another as we turned in for the night. I looked up at him, his tender and empathetic expression begging for my recognition.

I reached up to hug him hard, with the sincerity and appreciation I hadn't been able to offer before then.

"Get back here fast. Mr. O needs you -- bad," I mumbled into his comforting shoulder.

"Yeah, I know. We will," he replied.

I count my blessings.

I can, singlehandedly, right all the wrongs in the world

2008-12-07T21:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Starbucks Drive-Thru Customer Last Friday Morning,

I know it's difficult to see the smaller cars from your high-altitude perch in that pearl white Escalade with shiny 24-inch custom wheels. But, SweetPea, if you'd just briefly lift your eyes from the rhinestone-encrusted Crackberry you've got wedged between your palm and the steering wheel, you'd see there's an entire world around you, just waiting to be seen. Trust me.

Like that guy back there in the early-model Toyota, who was kindly NOT blocking the driveway entrance to the drive-thru line by hanging back a car length or two while waiting for his turn. Conveniently, that was just enough room for you to swing your blinged-out land yacht into the space without missing a single keystroke in that text message that was clearly more important than paying attention in a very crowded retail parking lot.

I must admit that your deftly executed move simultaneously cutting off someone waiting patiently in line while also blocking me from being able to turn into the driveway from the main entrance of the parking lot would be regarded as masterful in certain circles.

Not in mine.

Although you didn't see it, Mr. Toyota backed up even further so I could pull into the parking lot and park my car in a space as I usually do. Try it sometime -- even though the huge effort required to actually walk the 30 paces into the lobby and up to the counter may be more than you can handle, it's almost always faster than sitting there in that long drive-thru line. You also get to have normal personal interaction with the baristas and other people waiting for orders. No thumb typing necessary.

Really, though, it's no wonder that you didn't see the purpose on my face as I stepped over to tap on your driver's side window. Or my fast-building annoyance as I was getting ready to tap again because you didn't show any sign of hearing it the first time. When you finally looked up, doe-eyed with wonder (see Big Wide World Opportunity noted above) that this could be happening, I waggled my finger in a clockwise circle, giving you the universal sign for Roll Down Your Window.

On account of your clueless response, I used a measured benefit-of-the-doubt voice to tell you that you had just thoughtlessly cut off Mr. Toyota. And that he had just thrown up his hands in disgust, adopted a frown line of day-ruining proportion, and leaned back in his driver's seat to accept his fate. Your genuinely baffled "Really?" was just enough to make my effort worthwhile as I said, with no empathy, "Yep."

I'm sure as you then performed that 37-point-turn to wheedle your way out of line and around to the back of it where you belonged, you were just incredulous that anyone would have the gall to notice much less say anything.

But that's just me.

Have a nice day.

Is 27 more days just too much to ask?

2008-12-03T20:42:00.005-07:00

My surgery is December 30.

Graduation

2008-11-30T22:05:00.001-07:00

I've been looking forward to posting today since...well, probably since I got a wild hair to do this whole NaBloPoMo thing back on November 1.

I knew, just knew, that I'd be somehow better at the end of these 30 days -- a better blogger, a better writer, or maybe a bit better at finding those 'aha' moments of insight.

I scrolled through my November archive to see if I could see a difference in the 30 consecutive entries I've posted here in this little blog.

Nope.

I did enjoy the challenge (most days).

I have documented proof that Mr. O and I saw not just one, but TWO movies in the theater within 30 days. That's a new record for us.

I also have a snapshot of what is in my head in an average month. Well, maybe not average, but close enough.

Otherwise? The only part of me that's better is the one that lives in the moment...pays attention to the little things...doesn't let moments of simple pleasure escape without allowing myself to bask in it.

I think I'll work on digesting those moments, though, without immediately configuring the beginnings of a blog post in my head.

And I'll definitely get back to reading all the wonderful bloggers out there -- which is what I enjoy so much more than writing myself. The talent and insight in this big, bold, blogging world is truly spectacular.

I, myself, am out of words.

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

2008-11-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

'Tis the season.

When the doorbell rings, there's a good chance that the chime is announcing friendship and good times awaiting on the other side of the door.

The advent calendars (handmade for each child by Grandma Peggy) go up on Monday so we can count the days until we hear the sleigh bells jingle jangling to announce Santa's arrival.

There's even a Schaererville version of schnitzel with noodles, courtesy of Mr. O:

He does laundry, too. No, you can't have him, and I don't share.

My season officially began at 9:30 this evening, when the tree was complete. With the, er...help of MiniMe and Muggsy, we unpacked all the trappings and somehow got them on the tree without any major mishaps.

I could probably break my arm patting myself on the back for starting a collection of unbreakable and non-fragile ornaments the year that MiniMe was born.

This is my public record. The tree looked balanced, festive and nothing like the one in Christmas Vacation for at least one night.

From here on out? No promises.

< 3

2008-11-28T21:32:00.003-07:00

My MiniMe tomboy has some friends that help bring out the single girly bone in her pinky toe, just enough to help balance her decidedly unfussy way of navigating the world. This dark-haired darling is one of the chief influencers:
Her mom has invited 12 (TWELVE! EGAD!!) kindergarten, first and second grade girls to attend the noon showing of High School Musical 3 tomorrow for her birthday.

Part of me feels guilty for not being more firm in my insistence that no, really, I'd love to chaperone. Yes! Trying to control a dozen uncontrollable little girls in the theater is exactly how I would choose to spend my Saturday.

The other part of me is tap dancing with giddiness that I'll have 4 hours of potential productivity while MiniMe is lost in pizza, birthday cake, and Zac Efron hotness.

After I reconciled my glad-it's-you-and-not-me selfishness, I set aside my own tomboy tendencies and found my inner girly girl to make a birthday card for this little glamour girl. My inspiration was Glitz Design's new Gigi collection -- especially when I saw the first four words in the upper left corner of the Gigi Words page. She is nothing if not adorable, sparkly, sassy and flirty:

Then?

I remembered that today is November 28.

Which means in less than 3 days it will be the end of November.

And I will have achieved NaBloPoMo Nirvana.

Not pretty, but a win is still a win.

The calories don't count today

2008-11-27T22:38:00.001-07:00

Deep fried turkey.

Sweet potato casserole.

Homemade pumpkin pie with real whipped cream.

Football (it would be nice for Texas A&M to pull off the upset, but Colt McCoy is just phenomenal).

Good friends.

Overfed. Significantly.

Overall, a very happy Thanksgiving.

I'll cut the cheese and you handle the meat

2008-11-26T21:35:00.003-07:00

We celebrated Thanksgiving Eve and marked the one year anniversary of the decision by The Best Man and his family to move back to Utah from South Dakota.

The boys spent the day in the dust of the Utah west desert with their motorcycles. Although there was some Whiskey Engineering applied to a broken radiator, there were no rattlesnakes this time.

There has been a Playstation 2 marathon. We killed both DUALSHOCK controllers. One died a natural death, the other was the victim of a cocktail in motion.

We had fondue for dinner. I told them that I needed help cubing the cheese and cutting up the steak and chicken.

"I'll cut the cheese and you handle the meat," said Mr. O to The Best Man.

Life is truly a blog entry just waiting to happen, isn't it?

If it wouldn't have been impolite, I would have taken notes as each of us remembered funny stories, leaning back in our chairs around the table while digesting dinner. The Best Wife won top honors for her memory of the time a pickled Best Man woke up with bright red stains all over his clothing. After a panicked call to Mr. O, who reminded him that he had unsuccessfully hurdled a hedge of raspberry bushes the previous evening, he was happy to nurse the onset of a whopper hangover in relative peace.

We laughed ourselves silly.

The moms cleaned up afterwards. The dads wrastled with the kids. Three of the four kids have wounds to show for the chaos.

The house? An absolute disaster. The swath of destruction cuts a path from the bedrooms at the back of the house all the way down the hall, around the corner, and into the family room.

Mr. O and MiniMe crashed on the sofa. Muggsy is half on, half off his bed.

I'm in a state of happy and satisfied reflection. A 20 year friendship is something to behold.

There are so many things for which I am grateful, and The Best Man + Mr. O are a package deal that I willingly married into. I only wish we hadn't spent the past 7 years so geographically separate.

I'm really glad they're back.

Focal distance

2008-11-25T22:30:00.002-07:00

My team is really tired of hearing it. Reading proofs, studying P&Ls, and in general any type of work that requires short distance focus leaves me in a goopy puddle of whining, sniveling drivel.

My glasses are on the end of my nose, as I look over the top of the frame like a pinched up old school marm.

Since I've spent the past two hours reading paperwork, I'm now stuck between a myopic rock and a computer screen hard place.

I can't see the #$*%& computer screen without my glasses (unless I lean in so closely that it's impossible to type on the keyboard concurrently), but if I wear them I can't get my eyes to focus properly without creating a cross-eyed mess of nauseated proportion.

I have an appointment with Lasik Plus this Friday. Other than liposuction to address the padding that precludes my need for a chair cushion, it is the only medical procedure for which I long.

ANYTHING has to be better than this. It's either that, or surgically lengthen my arms so I can read at a distance of 4 feet.

And I thought my life started to go downhill when I discovered grey hair in my nether region.

Man. It SUCKS to be over 40.

Bottled up

2008-11-24T18:35:00.003-07:00

I've fallen asleep twice, just sitting here in my chair in front of the computer.

It's been a long, long time since I've been awake for 36 hours straight.

My senses are dulled. My brain is quiet.

I hear the kids screeching from the bathtub, but Mr. O has that under control.

Slowly I spin, away from the computer, and get ready to trudge to bed.

Pressure valve? Released.

Pssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

What, exactly, is sexy?

2008-11-23T14:50:00.006-07:00

When we had our store, there was a Schaererville subscription to People magazine. We needed it for the waiting area in the lobby. Really.

Now it's just an impulsive and guilty pleasure at the newsstand.

I bought this one yesterday, because you know who was likely to be included (even if his publicist didn't have enough clout to buy him a cover shot):

MiniMe immediately started pestering me for the opportunity to start cutting it into pieces -- a favorite pasttime for any magazine, from Parenting to Motocross Action.

I hadn't yet read the issue, so I asked her what pictures she wanted to cut out. She flipped right to the spread on Zac Efron.

High School Musical rules our household. If she only knew how close it really came to the place we call home.

She then flopped it closed and studied the cover.

MiniMe: [with a matter of fact tone, pointing to Hugh Jackman] Mom, this guy is not really the sexiest man alive.
Me: Oh?
MM: Nope. [pointing to Zac Efron] He's the first sexiest guy, he's maybe the second sexiest guy [pointing to Hugh Jackman], and he's just not very sexy at all [pointing to Brad Pitt -- !!!!].
Me: Do you even know what sexy means?
MM: [embarrassed...kicking her toe into the carpet...looking sideways at me] Yesssss....
Me: Well? What does it mean?
MM: I'm not saying.
Me: Why?
MM: It's embarassing.
Me: It's okay to tell me.
MM: [kicking toe deeper into the carpet] ...ummmm...
Me: Yes?
MM: A hot guy.

Just lock her up now and be done with it.

I'll take simple joys for $100, Alex

2008-11-22T22:51:00.003-07:00

Watching these kids develop a new generation of the same deep friendship that started with Mr. O and The Best Man almost 20 years ago is pretty high on the list.

S T R E T C H I N G myself

2008-11-21T22:50:00.000-07:00

It's not kicking my ass, it's stretching me.

A good thing, I think.

Thanks for the insight, Cath.

Those tough questions

2008-11-20T21:16:00.005-07:00

I know the holiday season has officially arrived in Schaererville when the kids ask to watch The Polar Express.

Tonight was the night.

MiniMe, in her sweet and pretty darn close to pitch perfect voice, sings two songs word for word: When Christmas Comes to Town and The Polar Express theme (or, Magic Carpet on a Rail, as she calls it).

Muggs watches it for the train. Of course.

This year, MiniMe is wrapping her brain around some of the messages. She asked me what Billy meant when he said that Christmas just doesn't work out for him.

MM: So does that mean he doesn't get any presents?

Me: Yeah, Punkin, I think that's what he means.

MM: How come?

Me: Well...ummmm...his family might not have much money to spend on things like presents.

MM: Why not?

Mr. O: [from down the hall] George W. Bush!

So much for *that* character-shaping opportunity.

Passages

2008-11-19T22:53:00.001-07:00

In the continuum of time, 5 years is relative. Five years ago this weekend, our top priority was chasing the perfect photo. Mr. O was working on his website. We had toddler-sized MiniMe in the backpack and had hiked up to Delicate Arch.

I was impatiently filling time by photographing the photographer, who was patiently waiting for just the right lighting.

At the time, he shot almost exclusively film -- Velvia. We didn't know what kind of success he'd had until we anxiously looked at the newly developed slides a week or so later, on the light table using a loupe.

But when we saw a winner, we were elated.

On the other hand, I was exclusively digital. That LCD screen on the back of the digital camera told me that we'd certainly gotten a few good ones. C'mon...let's go.

Lessons in patience and gratification, through a camera.

And how long ago five years seems.

I'm not a lawyer, but I play one on TV

2008-11-18T21:49:00.000-07:00

I'm knee-deep in preparations for my Objection to Motion to Strike Jury Demand and For Bench Trial on Remaining Issues, as well as the Exhibits to support it.

I'm a marketer. And a journalist. Also? A Defendant pro se.

The marketer in me understands how attorneys operate...which, ironically, is much like a marketer.

The journalist in me is indignant that Plaintiff's counsel is selectively reporting information to create a circumstantial and inaccurate tale.

The Defendant in me is mad as a hornet that my life has been turned on its ear for almost two years because of an ego-driven lawsuit.

I've learned a lot in that time, though.

1. Mostly, I'm strong. When I'm not, there are so many people who fill in the gaps.

2. If I believe in something on principle, then the fighter in me doesn't go down until the bitter end.

3. There are so many valuables in my life that this lawsuit can't take away, no matter what.

4. As painful as they may seem, some things happen for a reason.

5. Wine is a lot cheaper than paying an attorney

And here's where you get the REAL story

2008-11-17T16:50:00.002-07:00

Scraping the bottom of the barrel. The only other meme I've done was of my own accord. No tagging, no ties that bind.

This damn NaBloPoMo is kicking my ass broadside. I'm desperate, and grateful to PK for filling yet another day for me.

How's this for random:

1. The only car I've ever owned in my 25 years of driving that had an automatic transmission was from 2002 to 2005. I'm a slave to a stick shift.

2. For a good chunk of my 20s, I had a step-daughter who is just 18 months younger than me. We were pretty good friends during that time and still stay in touch.

3. I used to be on the radio as part of the broadcast team for the high school football team as well as the community college basketball team in the twin towns where I grew up. I also had my own radio show for about 3 years. I even had a pseudonym.

4. Musically, a'capella groups or music with multi-part harmony get my undivided attention. There's also a good chance I'll cry when the national anthem is played. National anthem sung by a barbershop quartet? Niagara Falls.

5. My paternal grandfather owned one of the original Ford dealerships back in the 1920s. Pops went apoplectic when I told him I'd gone German by trading my die-hard Ford Escort for a used Audi 90 Quattro in 1997.

6. A year later, I sold my motorcycle to get cash for a downpayment on a house to call my very own. Man, that was tough. I felt so...grown up.

7. Junior prom? I looked like Scarlett O'Hara with a blond afro. And clearly my date is a kissing cousin of Napoleon Dynamite.

Wow.

And it's said that you have no modesty left after childbirth. I think the same is true for meme posts.

Now the fun part -- tagging. Here are the bloggers who I want to read as they blather on, randomly and obscurely:

Cath: because you, my friend, are a writer

Megan: because you are you, and I'm certain it will be real, and...well, genuinely you

Chris: because you are my newest Utah friend, and I'm pretty sure you're going to blow the doors off "random"

Dory: because you are partly responsible for the NaBloPoMo hell I'm in (but thanks for the badge!)

Beth: because I, too, am the older sister and love your perspective

Kim: because you think fast and have 8 kids...there's got to be plenty of random in your world

JCK: because you and I are slogging through NaBloPoMo in a parallel universe and you have an open invite for requests to write about stuff and this qualifies as stuff...and because this post made me snort Diet Coke through my nose and subsequently load you into my reader

Stop laughing at that prom photo. Were you not a victim of 1984 also?

007 Droolfest

2008-11-16T20:50:00.008-07:00

As PK said, let the drooling begin...er, continue.

Although I was disappointed in the dearth of gratuitous Bond nakedness (I went to see it for Daniel Craig, not the storyline for hell's sake), this film was taken to a new and exciting level of biopic depth by director Marc Forster. There weren't many gadgets, and only a few sexy cars -- however, Mr. O did let out a small whimper before he leaned over and informed me that yes, that was a Jensen Interceptor sitting in the driveway when Bond arrives at the home of Inspector Mathis.

And Judy Densch as M was exquisite, as expected. What a masterpiece of casting she is. Laugh-out-loud line of the movie: someone asks Bond if M is his Mum and he says "no, but she thinks she should be."

Oh, and have I mentioned the other casting masterpiece of the film?

...I haven't...?

...really?

Yowza for sure.

Clearly the universe agrees with me: $70 million on opening weekend. That's almost double what Casino Royale brought in for its premiere two years ago, and it shattered the previous Bond film opening weekend figure (for Die Another Day). Worldwide? It's $322 million and climbing.

DVD revenue. Just imagine.

NaBloPoMo = 1, Ms. Maxwell = 0

2008-11-16T09:38:00.003-07:00

What's good for Huckdoll is good for me. As these things go, I'm making up rules just like she is. Survival of the fittest, and all that. So this counts for yesterday. Like a post-dated check.

Likewise, I'm grateful to PK for rescuing me with this. I'm nothing if not random and obscure, so I'm working on it.

Trust me, it will be one for the evidence file.

A celebration...I think...

2008-11-14T17:34:00.004-07:00

While major oil companies recorded record profits during the second two quarters of 2008, there were families who had to choose whether to buy fuel or buy groceries.

During one particularly challenging week over the summer, we ourselves poured the remainder of the gas can for our lawnmower into the tank of my car.

Interest in public transportation, ride sharing and other ways to reduce driving miles were the topics du jour at cocktail parties, the water cooler and soccer field sidelines everywhere. SUVs were being traded at a loss for vehicles with significantly better mileage ratings.

Some very good habits were being developed.

The economy has suffered. It's been good for fuel prices.

As much as I'd like to just take it at face value, this gives me pause.

But? I'll keep working on my good habits.

But come to think of it...

2008-11-13T19:30:00.001-07:00

...we did see W. when it came out just before the election. An anomaly.

We tried the luxury approach, looking for reserved seats at the fancy theater with stadium seating and cup holders. But, since it was only on one screen, it was sold out for that Friday premiere night.

So we took our chances at a smaller theater a bit further away. We rushed. We arrived just before the movie started. We guessed that we'd have far-from-stellar seats.

Uh, wait. We live in Utah. Selling out one screen at one theater on premiere night was probably more than expected for a movie like this. We had our pick of seats in the theater.

I was surprised. As much as he disgusts me with what he's done to our country, I left the theater feeling sorry for him. Understanding him a little more. Realizing that we must always choose the leader of our country with an eye first to his or her character and not pedigree.

Because this land is our land.

And because now we know.

Jess, you post the best thoughts!

The countryside is lovely, isn't it?

2008-11-12T21:33:00.002-07:00

I've forgotten how much fun it is to tour blogs.

I have some really insightful, energetic, intellectual, wholesome, hilarious and helpful friends in this little circle.

So? Hi. How are you, Friend?

This is a bigger challenge than I thought.

And he just might get lucky afterwards...

2008-11-11T21:07:00.001-07:00

Mr. O and I don't get out much. We much prefer our redneck cocktail parties in the driveway during summer months and impromptu dinners with friends who also birthed members of the Short and Loud Club.

However.

This startlingly luscious iteration of an icon will be back on the big screen starting this weekend:

I grew up watching 007 (Pops is a big fan). I watched Sean Connery and Roger Moore swagger their way across the screen, coming to understand that James Bond was the pinnacle of elegance and intellect.

But the Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosnan years just didn't do it for me. I paid little attention, maybe caught one on video.

However.

There was so much hype about the new "blonde" James Bond (and who is this Daniel Craig, anyway?) that I agreed to see the Casino Royale remake with Mr. O in the theater and a babysitter at home -- a true luxury when you have a toddler.

Really, I just did it for Mr. O -- guys have always loved ~~the~~ Bond ~~Girls~~.

However.

It was *I* who bought Casino Royale on DVD. The very second it was released.

And *I* who just purchased reserved seats in the theater with stadium seating and cup holders for this Saturday night...and *I* who called the babysitter...and *I* who made a dinner rez at our favorite Japanese restaurant.

Because?

That scene...he's strutting back to the beach...from a swim in the ocean...and...

...oh.

Those...

...eyes.

Just sayin'.

And how far from the tree did that apple fall?

2008-11-10T20:57:00.004-07:00

Once again, my office...my stuff...hangin' with The Big Girls...

Anyone wonder why I call her MiniMe?

Yeah, I know. Don't remind me.

Legislation by popular vote

2008-11-09T20:02:00.005-07:00

Mr. O is Swiss. He earned his U.S. citizenship in 2001. By virtue of marriage (me) and birth (the kids), we are all Swiss citizens.

His family is in Zurich and Winterthur. They have sent us congratulatory notes on being smart Americans for electing a president of such solid character.

While discussing politics on my side of the family is rarely a festive affair, I find it interesting to hear from my Swiss brother-in-law on topics of civic action in his home country.

In his most recent note, he lets me know that:

Three or four times a year, we have to vote on whatever is put up to vote. This is in addition to voting for parliament (representatives) and senators. We don't get to elect a president, the parliament does that. We just received the package with all the information on what we are to vote for. I thought you might it find it interesting to hear what we vote on this coming November 30.

In Switzerland, the populace does not get to elect a president. Let me just say that again, in case you missed it the first two times: voters in Switzerland do not directly elect their president.

Double the size of New Jersey and you've got a rough idea of the size of Switzerland. Here are the federal matters up for popular vote [imagine if these initiatives were voted upon at a federal level in the U.S. instead of legislated through representation]:

1. To increase the statute of limitation on crimes to children of pornographic nature from 15 years to none, meaning you can prosecute at any time in your life. The reasoning here is that children may take a long time to gather the courage to go to law enforcement.

2. To allow people to collect their social security from the age of 62. Now you collect social security at 65. With the new rules, you can collect at 62 but, of course, less.

3. Individuals and organisations such as Greenpeace, WWF can lodge administrative complaints against plans (to build shopping centres, roads etc). We must decide whether the rights of the organisations are curbed.
(Editorial from my brother in law: I'll tell you my feeling on this one - this is the attempt by the conservatives to get the "greens" to shut up. If the law is changed, the organisation will stay and they will be able to prepare these administrative complaints. They only won't be able to submit them. There are, however, enough individuals who will hand them in. This is why I think this whole thing is an absolute silly waste of time from a bunch of repressed conservatives that cannot channel their energies into anything constructive. And this is whether you agree with the right of complaint or not...)
4. Whether possession of marijuana for one's own private use is to be de-criminalised.

5. Whether marijuana may be used for medicinal purposes.

State (canton) matters are equivalent to county-level legislation in the U.S.:

1. Every canton in Switzerland has a different school system. If you move 20 minutes away to the canton of Argovia, school starts at a different time and you may start learning English at another time. Zurichers vote on joining a system where the schools harmonise together.

2. Dogs have been a problem in the canton. At least two children have been mauled and killed by dogs in the past few years, We have to decide if we a) want dog owners to take a test and have their dog go to dog school and b) if we want to ban fighting dogs (like pit-bulls)

3. If the national bank has any profits they are divided amongst the cantons. We have to decide if we want any profits we get to go and pay off public debt. (This is another attempt of the super conservatives to curb spending - I'm not for all the debt we have, but it is just plain silly to say "when we get the profits, we pay back our debt; when we don't, who knows what we do?")

4. Doctors in the countryside can sell medication. In the two big cities of Zurich, Zurich and Winterthur, doctors cannot sell medication. They can only make the prescriptions and then you have to go to the pharmacy. We now decide if the doctors in the two cities can also sell medication.

5. We decide if we lengthen the tram line to the zoo (about 500 meters). About 200 parking spaces will be done away with and the extension will cost 14 million Swiss Francs.

And finally, County and City matters in Switzerland are parallel to what amount to municipal (city) matters here in the U.S.:

1. We elect the 12 members of the Committee of renters and owners of rentals (apartments and houses).City matters1. We elect the 20 members of the employment court.

2. We decide if we - as a city - reduce our electricty consumation to the amount 20 years ago.

3. We extend another tram line within the city. (this is a matter only for the voters of the city; because the zoo is used by everyone, the canton pays for part of the extension and therefore the canton votes on that.)

4. We decide if a "green" spot, not a garden, not a park, but just a field in the middle of the city can be rezoned so that apartments can be built on the land. The land belongs to the city and they want to build inexpensive apartments there.

5. We decide if a former industrial area is to be rezoned so that commercial apartments and offices can be built. This land does not belong to the city.

Swiss voters can also cast ballots via the Internet. I imagine the U.S. will be an election cycle or five behind that trend.

But one thing our proud country can establish is the value of transparency in government.

I do believe.

Back, but without vengeance

2008-11-08T12:25:00.001-07:00

Mr. O casts a wary eye upon the new wave of craftiness in Schaererville.

All the ~~useless fooferrah that cost more than his mountain bike~~ paper crafting supplies that were safely tucked away in bins downstairs are now finding new life in my craft area.

But? I'm finding new life there, too.

Stress had blown up the bridge between my left and right brains. The reconstruction has begun.

Look out below!

Tardiness is so unbecoming

2008-11-07T09:29:00.003-07:00

"Would you like to review the proofs?" she asked, politely.

"Uh, sure. What should I be looking for?" I replied with hesitation.

"Any typos or misaligned text, maybe photos that don't look quite right," she told me.

And with that I sat down, on my fourth day on the job, to review my very first set of proofs.

For this masterpiece:

I've been so excited for this one to arrive -- even my teammates who have seen it all are giddy over it.

And it's finally here...which means I get to share one of the perks of my job again.

Yep, I've got a copy of the book to give away -- probably the last one of the group. On your way down to the bottom of this post, where you get to leave me a comment, try not to smack your lips when you pass the biscuits. Really. It's not polite to drool.

Then? Keep scrolling. I'm also including a lovely paper project for...

...I'm real timely here...

...Halloween.

::sigh:: Guess all the election excitement got most of my time over the past week.

Cheesy Garlic Drop Biscuits
Alisa Bangerter

This is a perfect recipe to pull out if you are short on time because there is no rolling or cutting. The cheese and garlic add extra kick to a plain biscuit, and kids love them. They are the perfect accompaniment to serve with soups or stews, and are great served with a salad.

INGREDIENTS
2 c. flour
2 tbsp. granulated sugar
4 tsp. baking
powder
1 1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. salt
2/3 c. butter or
margarine
1 1/2 c. grated cheddar cheese
1 1/4 c. milk
Chives
(optional)

DIRECTIONS
Mix together dry ingredients. Cut in butter with pastry cutter until mixture is fine. Add cheese and mix well. Add milk and stir until just moistened. Drop by spoonfuls onto greased baking sheet. Sprinkle top with chopped dried or fresh chives if desired. Bake at 400 degrees for approx. 15 minutes.

Enjoy Halloween Tag

Designer: Alisa Bangerter

SUPPLIES:

Cardstock: (ivory) Dye ink: (Black) Stewart Superior Corp.; (Summer Sun) Stampin’ Up! Specialty ink: (Mango Lemonade color wash) Stewart Superior Corp. Color medium: (black chalk) Craf-T Products Accents: (black brads) Making Memories; (chipboard bat, moon) Melissa Frances Fibers: (black striped ribbon) Pebbles Inc. Font: (Black Family) www.dafont.com Adhesive: (foam tape) Finished size: 3" x 4 1/2"

INSTRUCTIONS:

1 Make tag from cardstock. 2 Crumple tag and smooth out. Spray edges with color wash; let dry. Apply chalk. 3 Ink chipboard moon; let dry. Chalk edges and adhere. 4 Ink chipboard bat; let dry. Adhere with foam tape. 5 Print sentiment on cardstock; trim and tear edges. Chalk edges and adhere with foam tape. Attach brads. Attach ribbon with brad.

Even I got all motivated by Alisa's talent and stumbled my way through something that will cover for the fact that I'm a day late and dollar short for Halloween. Many thanks to these friends for the paper I just happened to have on hand. Wherever we land for our big turkey meal this year, I'm bringing these biscuits. With my ~~Halloween~~ Thanksgiving tag:

If you've stayed with me this far, you shouldn't have to put up with any more. Just leave me a comment and tell me the dish you cannot live without at Thanksgiving. My new friend the Random Integer Generator will pick a winner on Wednesday, Nov. 12.

Don't make me draw straws, now...

And she rose to the heavens in a chorus of angels

2008-11-06T14:45:00.001-07:00

Aquanet didn't work.

But? She came through with Plan B: vodka.

Although it didn't help the chair, it sure helped me.

Heloise has nothing on Mr. Lady.

New Years Eve? No. Election night? Absolutely.

2008-11-05T02:11:00.007-07:00

We have a new president, a man for whom I cast my own vote. He's got a place in history with enormous expectation and responsibility now on his shoulders. My hopes are high.

Scott Olson/Getty Images

There is a new (D) State Representative in my district, one I helped get elected through my small contributions of time and conversation with people in my neighborhood. And? My vote.

The ethically-challenged Republican super-majority in Utah has taken a serious hit. We're a two-party state in the making. I never would have believed that to be possible 12 years ago when I moved here, but it's definitely happening.

I'm tired. But satisfied. I did my part. I think I made a difference.

I also think I'll need a nap.

Inalienable rights

2008-11-04T07:21:00.006-07:00

This year? I got involved.

I am my precinct's chairperson for the Democratic Party. I'm registered unaffiliated, but the Democrats welcome anyone.

I walked door to door to support the Democratic candidate for the State House of Representatives in my district. Our back fence, paralleling a popular recreational trail, is hosting a selection of campaign signs.

I pushed myself to get deeper into the issues than I ever have, and not just quote sound-bites from campaign literature or news reports.

I've told everyone, as I always do, that the right to vote in elections is a cornerstone of U.S. citizenship. And that casting their vote -- for whatever candidate they choose -- is a right that should be exercised.

Choice. Democracy. Voice of the people. Inalienable rights.

Today is such an important day.

You can't get there from here

2008-11-03T10:56:00.003-07:00

I stood in the middle of the room, looking around, not believing where I was or how I had gotten there.

My car, still packed to the roof with the items I felt were irreplaceable or critical for everyday life, sat parked out in front of the apartment building. It was right next to my motorcycle, which was cooling down before I put the canvas cover over it since I would no longer have a garage in which to park it.

Everything I needed to start over was with me.

I looked over at the phone, its lonely existence on the floor across the room reminding me that I needed to make a few calls. From my unlisted number. To my parents, my sister, my friend who helped me pack up the car earlier in the day. To fill them in and tell them I was okay, but that I had a new place to call home.

And maybe a call to him. Or maybe not. I'd think about that for awhile.

The papers had been served about an hour earlier. He would be pissed. And calculating how to talk me off the ledge for his benefit.

This time? It wouldn't work. It had worked half a dozen times before, but not again. Never again.

I was 28. He had owned 9 years of my life. I was too numb for regrets, and too determined for sadness. I had choices, dammit. I was making them, owning them and...liking them.

Somehow, in 9 years, I had forgotten that I had choices.

I could have chosen not to move in with him even though he lied about who he took on a sailing trip when I couldn't go.

I could have chosen not to marry him when I found the recent love letters from a "misguided friend" in the few months before our wedding.

I could have chosen to ask his co-worker's husband for more information on the alleged affair instead of maintaining blind loyalty and turning the other cheek to protect our brand new marriage.

I could have chosen to leave when the young, single mother he was sleeping with had no idea he was married until I discovered her and told her.

I could have chosen to leave when I found him in the arms and bed of his carpool partner.

Shirley diagnosed his sociopathic behaviors, our semi-monthly appointment in her peaceful and soothing office earmarked to discuss my innermost thoughts and feelings. She explained that I had the choice to stay and understand his affliction or leave and start over. Either way, though, I had the choice.

I had the choice.

Such a simple concept, yet so difficult to put into play.

I chose to stay. Until he proved that choice to be overly optimistic.

The signs were telltale. Phone calls at odd hours...the need to make the 45 minute drive back to his office for a forgotten file after dinner...a distraction...a breezy dismissal of my inquiries...

Little did I know that, this time, the affair was not with a woman. It was an affair with something far more dangerous.

I chose to leave.

Blog-colored glasses

2008-11-02T08:20:00.005-07:00

I'm learning to speak Blogese. And I now think almost exclusively in terms of what can become a blog post.

It's not all bad (in spite of what Mr. O might think).

I find myself living in the moment a whole lot more and really appreciating little things that used to pass me by.

I find inspiration in so many places. Posts come to me relatively easily now. I'm back in my writing groove.

We had dinner with friends last night. As we started catching up over first glasses of wine, I asked about their metal-front microwave that was covered with a set of magnet words (to describe wine, a set from L'Ecole No. 41). She said they put those up just because I was coming over and they know how much I love words.

I guess I'm authentic, if nothing else. I do love words.

And blogging is one of the greatest gifts I've given myself in the past year. So I'm doing this:

30 posts in 30 days. Count 'em!

Of Pumpkins and Power Tools

2008-11-01T11:09:00.008-06:00

How Engineers Carve Pumpkins

How Surgeons Carve Pumpkins

How Easily a Surgeon and an Engineer Can Become a Punchline

Welcome to my world.

30 down, 1 to go

2008-10-30T19:39:00.001-06:00

I admit I'm fascinated with the new tradition of getting BOOed. And I love our local zoo and its pre-Halloween "Boo at the Zoo" trick or treating event. I'm even getting used to trunk-or-treating as a way for the kids to fill their bag quickly without wearing out too much shoe leather.

I'm just not sure I'm ready for Halloween to become a "season" that lasts the entire month of October.

With The Big Day just 48 hours away, we carved pumpkins last night. Those wonderful kits of design templates and custom tools helped me create something that looks less like it was hacked with a chainsaw and more like I have at least a little bit of talent. You'll just have to guess which masterpiece is mine, because I'll never tell. I was in the company of greatness this year.

But, since the boys were involved, I would like to make it clear that I was NOT part of this one:

Some things never change.

Reason, Season or Lifetime

2008-10-27T21:23:00.007-06:00

I ran back to the truck, knowing the wailing I heard coming from MiniMe would have Mr. O's nerves worn down to their very last fiber. With map and space assignment in hand, I pointed him down the winding and narrow dirt road toward our campsite.

We approached the corresponding number on the post next to the compact dirt parking pad, and I braced myself for the unpleasant task ahead. Knowing full well that it wouldn't matter whether I did or didn't, I asked anyway.

"Do you want me to hop out and help guide you?" I asked with a sigh.

Before it was all over, we had thoroughly annoyed each other as well as everyone else within shouting and engine-gunning distance.

Except? The folks two spaces up the hill. He, an experienced big rig truck driver, provided impartial pointers as Mr. O wedged our 27-foot trailer into an uphill, 25-foot space. She, with a smile and wave, beckoned MiniMe and I over toward their trailer to get us out of the way.

It's been said that you meet the nicest people when RVing.

A few months ago they sent us an enormous box full of treasures from their home base in Maine. When I say treasures, I mean treasures. Handmade, thoughtful, personal treasures.

For us, a family they briefly met four years ago at a remote campground in central California and haven't seen since. Not only the quilt, but the photos to show the love that went into every stitch. And, for the kids, some adorable seaside additions to their community of stuffed critters:
The delivery of this shipment coincided with a span of time that left me just shy of wanting to weave my own little cocoon and forget about the world for awhile.

My subsequent lack of communication with anyone personally, and even with this, my beloved blog, set many to worrying.

It set her to praying for me, as she always does.

Although I don't worship within the structure of organized religion, I feel like I have spiritual connections with forces in the universe. Signals don't usually have to arrive with a crash and a bang to get my attention.

Many signals come to me through the people I meet. I collect friends. They are with me for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

Is it coincidence that today I got an email from her? On a day when yet another frustrating splinter from the past year found its way under my skin? After weeks and weeks with no response from me to her last email? Saying that reading this blog keeps her feeling like we're closer than the thousands of miles that separate us?

No crash or bang needed.

+ 60

2008-10-25T23:01:00.000-06:00

Two months ago? This sent my heart straight to the pit of my stomach. It is the view from my office window.

This house

is across the street from ours.

Well-trained professionals were minutes between alarm and response, and we traded panic for wariness.

And then, sadness. Our beautiful open space, the trail system that drew us to this place we now call home, was charred. My friend, colleague, and neighbor Cath had some things to say about it at the time that were much better expressed than I could muster myself.

Mr. O rode the trails as soon as they reopened. He reported back with what we already knew: it was scorched. Where the earth was not blackened, it was tinged red with the fire retardant so blessedly applied to save the homes just below the fire line.

Rains came and washed away the soot and retardant. Cooler weather arrived. Fall color touched the mountainside where the fire had not.

We saw hints of green.

Although it will be years before the scrub oaks again show off their fall colors and the deer have leafy hiding places to which they can dart when we share their trails, there are cycles that are necessary. There is beauty in re-birth that we would not otherwise see.
Mother Nature has a way of providing hope in the bleakest of landscapes.

I'll take it wherever I can get it.

The blooms may be fading...

2008-10-23T20:52:00.006-06:00

...but the thought still warms my heart.

Especially today, when I needed most to remember that this, too, shall pass.

They got me roses. Roses.

Who makes me angrier?

2008-10-20T13:15:00.004-06:00

The company that makes these truly permanent markers, or myself for leaving one where a certain 2-year-old wannabe artist could reach it?

Aw, heck. I wanted new dining room chairs anyway.

Grrrr.

Seventy Five

2008-10-19T05:52:00.002-06:00

Your sense of adventure is something to behold.

You stoically set up a home for your family over the years in whatever country your husband's career demanded -- a journey that took you as a newlywed in Switzerland to Taiwan to Japan to Bahrain to Singapore. An all-too-short time in the U.S., and then finally...back to Switzerland 40 years after leaving.

You make friends quickly, and keep them for a very long time. As an ex-pat wife, you have friends in all corners of the world. They all have deep affection for you and gladly host you as a guest whenever you are near.

You are as elegant and well-groomed as the Japanese gardens you love so much.

You've survived breast cancer. Twice.

You hike regularly, through altitudes and terrain that would challenge the best of those half your age.
You continue to make your way through life on your own, with a bright outlook, even though I know you miss him so very much.

You raised two wonderful sons who both have a healthy respect for themselves, their families and -- most importantly -- you, their female role model while they were growing up.

You gave up 7 weeks of your life to come from Switzerland and stay with us when your first and only granddaughter was born. You were so calm and reassuring. You and I shopped...talked...just spent that time together. I will never forget how it made me feel. Safe. Loved.

Happy Birthday!

You are extraordinary.

The Cat's in the Cradle

2008-10-15T07:12:00.000-06:00

"You know," he said, "I'm really impressed with how much Mr. O does to help with the kids."

I pondered that little morsel as we puttered through the kitchen making dinner together on the last evening he was in town. He was not around much when I was growing up, focusing instead on working long and billable hours as an attorney. I still don't see him very often.

"Yeah, I married pretty well this time, didn't I?" I replied with a chuckle as I grabbed a serving spoon from the drawer.

"No, really," he emphasized. "Watching him feed the kids dinner, get them in and out of the bathtub, put them to bed at night..." his voice trailed off. "It's more than I ever did with you two girls," he said with a sigh.

Our reverie was interrupted as the broccoli started to boil over and the timer on the rice rang out to get our attention. We called everyone to the dinner table.

Later that evening, after everyone else headed for bed, he casually asked if I was done for the evening or if we were going to sit a spell.

He's an Iowa Boy through and through, I thought.

"Oh, I think I've got enough energy to finish my glass of wine and watch a little David Letterman," I told him. We plopped down on the sofa and switched channels.

We kept a casual eye on the TV, but mostly just shot the breeze -- politics, family, travel, my recent career shift. Occasionally noticing what Letterman said, but mostly just being together and connecting.

"And now, the Top Ten Things Overheard at Sarah Palin's Debate Camp," said Letterman.

We stopped talking. Watched. Laughed, but for very different reasons.

"Well," I said with a yawn, "I guess after the Top Ten there's not much else to say."

"No," he replied, "but I just wanted to spend this time with you. It doesn't happen often enough and I wish it did."

He's right, I thought. It really doesn't happen often enough.

"Yeah, we've gotta fix that," I said. "See you in the morning."

Note to self: fix that.

And for dessert? A nap.

2008-10-13T22:37:00.003-06:00

He plays hard, he sleeps hard. And his sister? She has a hilarious sense of timing.

He gets it from my side of the gene pool.

Hotel Schaererville

2008-10-09T20:39:00.000-06:00

April 13 - May 31: The Best Man
Living with us. Yes, you read that correctly. His dog, too.

May 6 - 27: Mother-in-law
First visit in 3 years. All the way from Switzerland. While The Best Man was living with us (I'm sorry -- have I already mentioned that?).

May 8 - 11: The Best Man's family
A house-hunting trip. The Best Wife, C-Dude (7) and Bananny (3). And? The Dog.

May 23-26: The Best Man's family
Another house-hunting trip. Same guest list.

[NOTE: Archive has no May posts. Now you know why.]

July 23 - 27: The Brother-in-law and his family
First visit in 8 years. Also all the way from Switzerland. And the brothers didn't even kill each other.

August 5 - 30: Mor Mor
To help. To hang out. To provide moral support. Moms rock.

August 16 - 20: The Sister and her family
First time in over 4 years. Long story. Probably last time for the next, oh forever or so.

September 29 - October 2: Pops and his wife
Annual visit. Low maintenance. Welcome any time.

Weave in a few other bits of chaos and we've been busy. Just a little.

Closed for the season.

Soft, pink underbelly

2008-10-07T07:31:00.002-06:00

I'm independent. Fiercely independent.

My mom has told tales of me as a toddler, thrashing in my sleep, firmly saying "NO. I do it myseff, mommy."

I earned my first paycheck at age 14. Minimum wage, about 15 hours per week at the neighborhood pharmacy. Financial freedom. I would not hear the word "no" when I wanted to buy something.

At age 21, I brought my fiance home to meet my parents -- a man 17 and a half years older than me. Did they freak out? Nope. They knew that to tell me I was crazy was a guarantee I would not be in their life for a long time.

I knew it all. I needed no one.

I. was. strong.

When I found myself emotionally and financially on my own for the first time in my adult years after realizing I was, in fact, crazy for marrying him, I used those ol' bootstraps to make a career out of a rather lazy path of working for a paycheck.

I. was. strong.

When I was done living in southern California...a place he dragged me...away from my midwestern family and friends...I was methodical about deciding where to move. I interviewed several cities, and the one I chose became the centerpiece of a 6-month plan to relocate. I was here 6 months and 4 days after making the decision.

I. was. strong.

Kissing a helluva lot of toads, I persevered until I found my prince. He was settling the details of a divorce, building his career, and figuring out how to mesh his life with mine. I handled the joint finances, weathered the storm of his father's losing battle with cancer, managed our rental property (his former home), and eventually sold it in a challenging market.

I. was. strong.

We found ourselves unexpectedly expecting after he got laid off. I was suddenly the [pregnant] chief breadwinner, facing maternity leave, with the prospect of reduced pay. He got a job with three months to spare, I worked during maternity leave, and went back to work full-time when our baby girl was 12 weeks old.

I. was. strong.

We started a business. We found ourselves, um, again, unexpectedly expecting. I was hit with a lawsuit. We lost the business. We lost a bunch of money. We couldn't count on knowing where our next week of groceries would come from. We had to work to make money, but that brought about a whole new set of complications.

I. was. not. strong.

I'm not used to asking for help. I don't know how to ask for help.

Guess what? Moms, with their built-in radar, know when help is needed. Moms arrive, no questions asked, and help.

With the kids. With the laundry. With the housekeeping. With rebuilding self-esteem.

And somehow, I found it in me to say that I needed help. I needed her. She, in her Loving Mom Way, said she was glad she could help. And? That she was glad I asked.

Love you, Mom. Thanks for helping.

So much for cracking myself up

2008-10-05T11:18:00.007-06:00

I can't juggle TWENTY straws, people! Really, do you think I'm coordinated or something?

Random.org to the rescue!

And the winner is...

...Joybear!

So, Joybear, send an email with your full name and mailing address to editor (at) papercraftsmag (dot) com and I'll get our fantastic special issue sent out to you right away!

And? Since BusyDad was bold enough to comment on this one -- for the benefit of his sister-in-law, no less! -- I think I'll find a little something to send his way as well.

It's your "lucky" day, BD!

Little does he know...

Since it's October...

2008-10-04T07:00:00.001-06:00

...it must be time for Mr. O. to remember our anniversary.

He apologized yesterday, and I reminded him that I'm not one to worry about stuff like that.

If I were, he'd be paying the price by now, dontcha think?

And we had a fantastic time the weekend before our anniversary, helping some friends start their own married life together. Holy hell, did we have fun. My hangover...um, hungover for about three days. Top three weddings we've attended ever.

So we laughed about the forgotten anniversary together, and lamented the chaos in our life that keeps us scattered and unfocused on these things.

Hon, as long as we can deep fry a turkey together every so often, I'm not going anywhere.

Only in Schaererville.

And what did YOU do last weekend?

2008-10-02T12:36:00.000-06:00

I'm betting you didn't hunt down and kill a rattlesnake while riding dirt bikes in the godforsaken dustbowl that is the Utah west desert.

Formula for success:

1. Bud Light

2. A broom (a broom? Seriously??)

I guess if you've had enough of the first, all you need is the second.

The Best Man + Mr. O x beer = trouble.

Charles the Great

2008-09-29T22:03:00.001-06:00

Grandpa, Granny Karen and a whole new batch of FEMA deployment tales have arrived.

He's got a van named Jeremiah, a GPS named Maggie and the last surviving collection of patriotic marches on cassette. If you're really lucky, you'll get blow-by-blow accounts of the very best Pensacola dining experiences and which store in town has the best price per pound on ground beef.

You know, for those times when you're there and need to know that stuff.

It's all part of his charm. Really.

Words and paper

2008-09-28T07:27:00.009-06:00

I love paper. Always have. I love words even more.

At 16, I covered a massive cork board (6' x 8') in my bedroom with colorful wrapping paper. I separated it into different areas with paper frames, journaling and embellishments to highlight the important stuff in my life at the time -- high school band, golf team, my car, my friends, prom -- and it became a scrapbook of sorts.

When Mr. O and I got married, I composed the wording and made our wedding invitations. There were 110 of them, and each one was created using 14 individual pieces of paper and ribbon. Yeah, I know. A bit much.

I also made birth announcements when MiniMe was born. Getting them actually sent was a whole separate challenge.

My biggest downfall? Patterned tissue paper and gift bags. Mr. O can snarlingly confirm that there are hundreds of packages of tissue paper and hundreds of gift bags in my storage room.

And now I make my living by writing about paper crafting.

Did you just hear angels trumpeting halleluja from the heavens? No? Maybe it was just me.

There's even a day set aside each year just to promote card making (World Card Making Day! Really!). Occasionally, I'll get to do something fun -- maybe give away a special issue.

Like this one:

I have one, right here. Okay, that one is mine. But I do have a nice clean copy to give away. To anyone, anyone at all.

All you have to do is leave a comment. I'll choose between the two of you by drawing straws.

I crack myself up sometimes.

She TOTALLY gets it

2008-09-26T20:52:00.003-06:00

Remember, she's six. Six years old.

My office. My chair. My iphone. Texting her friend Jazmine. Feet up on desk.

I am SO in trouble with this one.

Mom! There's a duck in the backyard!

2008-09-15T09:18:00.000-06:00

Me: [hollering from the office while typing] Where?

MiniMe: By the pool!

Me: [with angst over what the duck may have left floating for us in the pool] I'm coming!

Sure enough, there was a duck.

As we approached her, she hissed at us -- which I knew meant that Mama Duck had a nest nearby. She ran, then flew, away. An attempt to lead us away from where her eggs may have been, I'm sure.

As I walked back to the house with MiniMe, we talked about the possibilities of ducklings hatching from the eggs in the as yet unlocated nest. To her desperate pleas, I promised her that I would keep an eye out for Mama Duck so we could maybe get a glimpse of the nest or -- gasp! -- even the ducklings when (or if) they arrived on scene.

Then?

peep!

That sound. I stopped in my tracks. Suddenly I was 10 years old again, and my sister and I were spending March and April as we always did -- with my maternal grandparents in their "winter home."

Being a retirement community, neighborhood kids were few and far between and we were pretty creative in the ways we found to entertain ourselves. Our best friends? The ducks. These tame and very curious creatures hung around for the old bread we would feed them, and in general were always way too close to the house for my grandfather's liking. His main gripe? When food goes in one end of a duck, it invariably comes out the other end...which was likely on the front or back porch where he had to scrub it away with the hose and a stiff brush.

Although the big ducks were fun to feed and chase, our end game was always the ducklings. Much to my grandparents' dismay, there were many meals interrupted as we jumped up from the dining room table because we saw a Mama Duck and her string of babies swimming by in the canal outside the window. Our delight in dashing out with bread to feed the babies was matched by Mama Duck's eagerness to bring them over for a tasty little snack.

peep!

It's a sound that brings me back to those days of my childhood.

I had to investigate.

peep!peep!

Back...by the pool...

peep!peep!peep!peep!peep!

Closer to the fence...hmmm...on the other side of the fence...?

peep!peep!peep!peep!peep!peep!peep!peep!

Wha...? Coming from the ground...?

Oh, my.

Now what?

Did she hide them there? Or was her nest in there and they are recent hatchlings? Did they fall in and now can't get out?

We ultimately decided to give Mama Duck time to come back so we could see how she behaved and if she joined them in the hole.

She did come back, settled herself next to the hole, and was stressed. Seriously stressed.

We determined that she needed her babies out of the hole pronto, so Mr. O. donned a glove and retrieved all 8 of her little ones from their safe but unintentional temporary home.

After a glorious reunion, the ducklings formed their line behind Mama Duck and meandered their way out of our yard and over to our neighbor's garden (a veritable Disney for ducklings, if I were one).

Mr. O reported the next morning that he saw the happy family down the block at the neighborhood park under the huge cottonwood trees.

We haven't seen them since.

peep!

Full Circle

2008-09-12T17:14:00.008-06:00

Right place, right time.

Sometimes? It's not such a good thing.

For fifteen years the right place, right time thread that became the fabric of my career has taken me down a marketing path and away from where my heart wanted to go all those years back.

But back then, the economics of being a journalist never sat well with me. I guess my passion wasn't authentic enough to overcome what I thought was a need to support a few material habits. Instead, I climbed straight to the summit of my own professional hell in golden handcuffs.

I escaped, but it wasn't without consequence.

The last few years I've found that when I can't save my own self, there are powers elsewhere that help me find my way. This time, I couldn't ignore opportunity when it came -- not knocking, but pounding -- on my door. I threw that door open with a great. big. happy. smile.

I have come back to where I could have been, should have been, wanted to be all those years ago. With a team who is unbelievably passionate, incredibly talented, and just a whole lot of fun to be around.

And? They love my hobby.

Sunflowers to the Max

2008-09-11T20:30:00.007-06:00

September 5th. September 11th. Sunflowers. Max, Sr.

So much remembering to do on this day.

It was 8 years ago today that we had a birthday dinner. A dinner for a man who had missed his 68th birthday by 6 days. A birthday that would, the next year, become forever associated with an act of terrorism that was beyond comprehension.

Yesterday I reminded Mr. Outdoors that he should send his mother a note today.

"Why?" he asked.

"It's your dad's birthday," I reminded him.

He was silent.

Both of us went back to the spring and summer of 2000 in our own way. Him, through a maze of memories over his 42 years, both pleasant and uncomfortable. Me, with a very short history and an intense 5 months of absorbing every bit of a lifetime that was to end way too soon.

I used to spend my lunch hour with my father in law. We sat, on the small wood deck off the sliding doors, looking at the mountains. I brought KFC chicken wings for him -- it was all his chemotherapy-ravaged system craved. There was a standing appointment, one that nothing in my professional life could trump.

He told me stories -- about his life in the shipping and oil rig business, about the son he raised and who I would eventually marry, about all the time he spent shooting -- and I listened. Occasionally there would be a trinket brought forth to punctuate the tale. One afternoon I was very late getting back to the office because I sat, cross-legged on the floor, with all of his shooting medals spread around me as he explained where he was and who he was with when he won each of them.

The call came around dinner time. He had not awakened from an afternoon nap. We knew. Deep down, we knew what would be waiting for us when we got to their house. We hoped not, but we understood that his time had come.

It was September 5th. Earlier in the day we had discussed what we could do for his upcoming birthday, but most of my ideas were feeble -- he could not stand for long, and the indignity of being propped heavily as he walked from the car to a destination was more than he was willing to accept.

He helped us out of a jam. He allowed us to have a cheese fondue with cucumber salad at home 6 days later, quietly toasting him with tears and stories for his 68th birthday.

We had a vase with wild sunflowers on the table. Sunflowers just like the ones he picked for me two years prior, when he gruffly but genuinely accepted me as the one his son had chosen. He had stopped by the side of the road and, with his ever-present Swiss Army knife, sliced off in matching lengths a bouquet of the flowers I had mentioned in passing a few days earlier.

The gesture was lost on me at the time, but the memory is more powerful than that moment. Every September these wild, strong and handsome flowers remind me of an adventurous, resilient and rugged man. I'm married to his son, and am mother to his grandson.

My son, his namesake.

He is missed.

I'm just glad it wasn't my turn

2008-08-11T00:02:00.002-06:00

Sunday. I always feel like I don't have enough check marks on my to-do list by the time I rest my head on the pillow after the last day of the passing week has turned into the first day of the new week.

Today, this Sunday, was no different. Spending some one-on-one time with my mom, who is in town for her annual visit. Going off to hang out in a nearby resort town with The B-Man and his family so the guys could ride mountain bikes while we women-folk did some bargain shopping at the outlet mall.

My kids being in their absolute worst state of being -- no nap, very little nutritious food, and without their daddy to diffuse the stresses of childhood by giggling them out of their funk.

Having the woeful lack of practicality to prevent a dinner in our favorite pub -- with kids who were beyond their limits.

And me, knowing I am starting a new job tomorrow. My dream job, the pinnacle of everything I've done personally and professionally over the past 25 years. Having to write a blog post to introduce myself to a new audience. Hoping they will like me, but more than that -- hoping they will respect me. Not getting it done at a reasonable hour, but feeling good about what I've been able to do.

What with all the end-of-week compression, and all...

As we parted ways at the pub, I felt the need to offer The B-Man's wife an apologetic excuse for the chaos at the outlet mall and during the meal.

Graciously, with a twinkling yet sympathetic smile, she said she was just glad it wasn't her kids this time.

I. love. her.

Opposable thumbs

2008-08-02T22:30:00.003-06:00

1. One gallon jug (refill) of Windex

2. One 32 oz. bottle of liquid hand soap

3. One half-gallon bottle of vegetable oil

4. One tube of lip gloss (Brand: Loreal, Color: Desert Rose)

5. One gallon of bleach

6. One full tube of Colgate kids toothpaste (bubble gum flavor)

7. Four bottles of Suave kids shampoo

A seemingly random list. However, these items do have a few things in common:

1. None of their containers include a child-proof cap

2. They are messy to clean up when spilled, smeared or otherwise wiped where they don't belong

3. To open these containers, one must have developed a fine motor skill involving the mammalian opposable thumb

Muggsy developed that skill about 3 weeks ago and has been practicing ever since.

Note to self: buy a steam cleaner

Welcome to Schaererville

Believe

Peaks and valleys

Too soon a memory

It's only hair...

An old friend

Oh my cabernet.

No, actually I'm *not* borrowing my teenage son's car

I plead insanity, Your Honor

Delilah, grab your scissors

Sure - just let me know and I'd be happy to help.

Heart

Generations

Ol' Blue Eyes

Warriors in Pink

Seriously? Again?? I have to singlehandedly right the wrongs of the world AGAIN???

Pink Shirt Day

As trial marriages go, it wasn't a failure

Taste buds

It's been...awhile

Get in, sit down, shut up, and HANG ON

W470 Oakwood Beach Road

Cheese

My addiction has a name. And it's not O-S-C-A-R.

Unforgettable [or, If I didn't have the photos, I wouldn't believe a WORD of it]

The chatterbox gene

Film at 11

Forces of the universe

Can I call a do-over?

The Neighbor's Dog

A Blog Hoppers toast

The behinder I get

In like a lamb, out like a lion

Temper tantrum via new technology

Pressure valve

The list of Ps and Qs

1,052,640 minutes

I write, therefore I am

BusyDad, Fury, LEGOs...and ME???

Paper Nirvana

Hiya, Handsome

From the mouths of MY babes

This is not good. Not good AT ALL.

The Mosts of 2008

Solstice 2008

Two peas

From the mouths of babes

A fork in the road

I can, singlehandedly, right all the wrongs in the world

Is 27 more days just too much to ask?

Graduation

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

< 3

The calories don't count today

I'll cut the cheese and you handle the meat

Focal distance

Bottled up

What, exactly, *is* sexy?

I'll take simple joys for $100, Alex

S T R E T C H I N G myself

Those tough questions

Passages

I'm not a lawyer, but I play one on TV

And here's where you get the REAL story

007 Droolfest

NaBloPoMo = 1, Ms. Maxwell = 0

A celebration...I think...

But come to think of it...

The countryside is lovely, isn't it?

And he just might get lucky afterwards...

And *how* far from the tree did that apple fall?

Legislation by popular vote

Back, but without vengeance

Tardiness is *so* unbecoming

And she rose to the heavens in a chorus of angels

New Years Eve? No. Election night? Absolutely.

Inalienable rights

You can't get there from here

Blog-colored glasses

Of Pumpkins and Power Tools

No, actually I'm not borrowing my teenage son's car

What, exactly, is sexy?

And how far from the tree did that apple fall?

Tardiness is so unbecoming

I'm just glad it wasn't my turn