I couldn't write for a few days. I was sad. Wednesday was full of emotions. My life was fine-great. I had so many things for which to be thankful. I hear people say that. I have said it. But, do we really-do I really mean it. What does it take for us to be thankful for what we have- right now- at this very moment. Sometimes other people's pain or our own pain is what it takes.
Wednesday was a normal day. Our alarm went off at 5 a.m. just like it does every weekday-and of course we hit snooze until 5:10, until 5:15 and in 5 minute increments until we hopped up at 5:30 ready for our hot tea and to get on with the business of being The Stoners.
I executed my routine with perfection. I got out of my warm and cozy bed. I walked downstairs and to the Persian rug in front of the fireplace and I got on my knees to pray and meditate. I got up and sat in my chair where my hot tea was presented to me by my husband of almost twenty years. We chatted for about 20 minutes like we do each day. We talked about what was going on with us, our children and the office. We made sure we were on the same page as to what needed to be done that particular day. I got up and made hot tea for the children. Camille usually likes a good stout tea and Ben is partial to "Tazo Calm" tea-thank God. I made their breakfast which consisted of microwaving a biscuit or pouring cereal. I made my husband his next cup of tea. I then made lunch for each of my children. Some days I put silly notes in there just so they can remember how much I love them. Some days we are yelling and screaming to get ready and that we are running late. On these days I am pissed off so I figure they are lucky that I am even making their lunch. Some days I see this as a chore. Some days I stop and thank God that they are still young enough that I am making school lunches.
On Wednesday I did something as mundane as run an office errand for Allen. I went to the printer. A lady I have known for several years who works there told me that Sunday had been the 3 year anniversary of her twenty something year-old daughter and her 5 year old granddaughter's death in an automobile accident. I stood there and listened to her recount the last time she talked to her daughter-how her daughter had begged her mom to be careful on that horrible rainy day. I listened as she told me how her granddaughter called her Gan-ma and how they had taken a walk the day before. She told me how it used to drive her crazy when her daughter would throw her head back and sling her long blond hair around while she was standing in the kitchen. She told me how her granddaughter was a handful and was always a bundle of energy.
She told me that she wished her daughter could be in her kitchen today slinging her hair around. She told me that she wished her granddaughter could run through the house with a roar.
She told me to go home and hug my children and be thankful for all of the mundane tasks, all of the arguments, and all of the noise. She said, "Be tough-teach them right and wrong, but really stop and be thankful."
I stood there and cried. I cried for her pain, but I also cried for me. I cried that I am never really satisfied and that I always want more. I cried that I had sent my children off in frustration that day.
I cried that I have been married to someone I love and LIKE for almost twenty years who will still bring me tea. I cried that my son procrastinates when it is time to get ready-but so does his daddy and if he is anything like him and- I think he is-he will grow into a fine man. I cried that my daughter talks back and tells me exactly what she thinks, but I realize she is just like me and I always know where I stand with her and that she has a heart and a conscience. I cried that I can't have a glass of wine or spiked eggnog for the holidays, but that I've found a group of people who have helped me accept that. I cried that we have had a tough year financially, but that we haven't missed a meal, we have two cars in our driveway and we have continued to wake up in our warm comfortable home. I cried that my mother is not here, but that I do have great memories. I cried that I can't lose that last 10 pounds, but that I have at least lost the first 10. I cried that I need to drive to Hunstville to buy my favorite Laura Mercier lip-gloss, but that I have just enough at the bottom of the tube that I can scrape out.
I cried because sometimes I don't stop to be thankful. I cried for the lady teaching me this lesson. I cried because I needed to be thankful that someone else shared her pain with me-that it wasn't my pain. Even though I was sorry for her-it was her pain that could teach me.
I was in a hurry on Wednesday; I had so many things to do. But, I am so thankful I stopped long enough to learn a lesson. Of course, this is not the first time I have heard this lesson and I am pretty sure I will need to hear it again. But, I suppose one of the things for which I am most thankful is-that as a student of life I get the chance to start over each day and if I do it right and carry over my lessons-they may just stick.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I'm A Big Girl Now
I remember with such fondness talking with my daddy as he spoke of the realization that he was growing older. He poignantly told me that one day it just happened. "I put my hand through the arm of my coat sleeve and out slipped my father's hand on the other end." Today I think I know how he felt. Today I put on my pants and when I looked in the mirror I saw my mother's butt. Not the tight full butt of her youth, but my mother's middle-aged butt. Overnight-boom.
DNA structure is beyond my comprehension. I do remember a little about dominant and recessive genes. I know there are some traits I got from my mother and some I inherited from my daddy. But, I also know something else-that bitch Giselle Bundchen is walking around in my body. The reason I know this is, because of my feature checklist.
1. my daddy- has tall-long legs .......Giselle- has tall long legs
2. my daddy- has a square jaw & strong features...Giselle- has a square jaw & strong features
3. my daddy-has a small butt-no fat..............Giselle-has a small butt-no fat
4. my daddy-has sandy blond hair.............Giselle-has sandy blond hair
5. my daddy-height(5'11").................Giselle-height(5'10.5")
6. my mother-muscular arms............Giselle-muscular arms
7. my mother-wavy hair.................Giselle-wavy hair
8. my mother-small waist..............Giselle-small waist
9. my mother-pretty eyes............Giselle-pretty eyes
10. my mother-small boobs..........Giselle-small boobs
There you have it-proof that there must have been a mix up in the gene pool. Even at 45 years old if I had gotten what was rightfully mine, I would be able to throw on my slimmest jeans, tightest skirts or workout pants without a layer of Lycra or Spanx sucking in all the imperfections. But, I understand that possession is 9/10 of the law and since Giselle does possess my body there is not a thing I can do about it. I will just accept that I inherited the height of my maternal great-grandmother (a sort of Mickey Rooney stature), the butt of the Brewer's(my mother's family) and the strong square jaw of my father. So who am I to question God's creation?
DNA structure is beyond my comprehension. I do remember a little about dominant and recessive genes. I know there are some traits I got from my mother and some I inherited from my daddy. But, I also know something else-that bitch Giselle Bundchen is walking around in my body. The reason I know this is, because of my feature checklist.
1. my daddy- has tall-long legs .......Giselle- has tall long legs
2. my daddy- has a square jaw & strong features...Giselle- has a square jaw & strong features
3. my daddy-has a small butt-no fat..............Giselle-has a small butt-no fat
4. my daddy-has sandy blond hair.............Giselle-has sandy blond hair
5. my daddy-height(5'11").................Giselle-height(5'10.5")
6. my mother-muscular arms............Giselle-muscular arms
7. my mother-wavy hair.................Giselle-wavy hair
8. my mother-small waist..............Giselle-small waist
9. my mother-pretty eyes............Giselle-pretty eyes
10. my mother-small boobs..........Giselle-small boobs
There you have it-proof that there must have been a mix up in the gene pool. Even at 45 years old if I had gotten what was rightfully mine, I would be able to throw on my slimmest jeans, tightest skirts or workout pants without a layer of Lycra or Spanx sucking in all the imperfections. But, I understand that possession is 9/10 of the law and since Giselle does possess my body there is not a thing I can do about it. I will just accept that I inherited the height of my maternal great-grandmother (a sort of Mickey Rooney stature), the butt of the Brewer's(my mother's family) and the strong square jaw of my father. So who am I to question God's creation?
Monday, December 10, 2007
Who's That Girl?
Even in this era of "political correctness" it is hard not to label people. I find that I do this as a way to describe people-not to label-but to describe. I might say-"Oh, you know my friend, Fred, you know-my gay friend." I don't do this to be disrespectful to him, but this will paint a picture for you that the friend to whom I am referring is my well-dressed, fun to gossip with friend who is one hell of a decorator. Then, you'll know-oh yes, "that" Fred. Women, especially Southern ones, wear their gay-man friendships like a charm. We all have one. And, every Southern woman thinks the gay man is HER best friend. But, the gay man knows he has so many socialite women friends, because there are only so many gay men friends to go around.
Then, we talk about our friends of color-you know-my African-American friend. Because of this friendship we have great insight into and first-hand knowledge, or so we think, of the Civil Rights Movement. We think we know how it feels to be a single person of color in a sea of homogenous
faces. We tell her-"you go girl!" and we go on and on about how Oprah is our hero! To prove what great friends we are we will invite her to go to a fund-raiser for Barack Obama.
As the holidays approach we pause to remember Hanukkah and the Festival of Lights and sometimes we even send cards with Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends. We make sure we tell them Happy Holidays and that we don't send them a card with best holiday wishes and reminding them "the reason for the season." Then, we acknowledge that Hanukkah really isn't their Christmas and that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah are both more important holidays on the Jewish calendar. We bid them Mazal Tov and Shalom.
In politics everyone wears a label. Hillary is a woman, Mitt is a Morman, Barack is African-American, McCain is a former prisoner of war, Rudy is divorced, Fred Thompson is an actor, Ron Paul is a doctor, Richardson is Hispanic and the list goes on.
My life is enriched because of these labels. It means that I share the world with many different types of people. Labels are just describing words. Labels tell our story. We use them to describe people-not because we are trying to stereotype them because we are just trying to paint a picture. If you need to describe me-you know who I am-the chatty, white, attorney's wife, mother, junior league volunteer who is a member of a 12-step program. Get the picture?
Then, we talk about our friends of color-you know-my African-American friend. Because of this friendship we have great insight into and first-hand knowledge, or so we think, of the Civil Rights Movement. We think we know how it feels to be a single person of color in a sea of homogenous
faces. We tell her-"you go girl!" and we go on and on about how Oprah is our hero! To prove what great friends we are we will invite her to go to a fund-raiser for Barack Obama.
As the holidays approach we pause to remember Hanukkah and the Festival of Lights and sometimes we even send cards with Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends. We make sure we tell them Happy Holidays and that we don't send them a card with best holiday wishes and reminding them "the reason for the season." Then, we acknowledge that Hanukkah really isn't their Christmas and that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah are both more important holidays on the Jewish calendar. We bid them Mazal Tov and Shalom.
In politics everyone wears a label. Hillary is a woman, Mitt is a Morman, Barack is African-American, McCain is a former prisoner of war, Rudy is divorced, Fred Thompson is an actor, Ron Paul is a doctor, Richardson is Hispanic and the list goes on.
My life is enriched because of these labels. It means that I share the world with many different types of people. Labels are just describing words. Labels tell our story. We use them to describe people-not because we are trying to stereotype them because we are just trying to paint a picture. If you need to describe me-you know who I am-the chatty, white, attorney's wife, mother, junior league volunteer who is a member of a 12-step program. Get the picture?
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Ben-Is-the Menace
Yesterday I ran to look in the mirror to see if I looked weird, because wierd things always happen to me. I don't have any piercings except for each earring hole I got in 6th grade. I don't have any weird tattoos, but I still attract the craziest things.
What set out to be a normal day-my son playing in the yard with friends-my daughter hanging out with a girlfriend-my husband working at the office and me typing away at the computer-turned into a Saturday afternoon of-"do other people's children do this stuff?"
I looked outside to check on the children playing in my yard-only to see my son up on the roof of our shed. I looked out and yelled to him-"what on earth are you doing up there?" "We're playing hide-and-go-seek!"
"Well-you need to get down now, because you may fall and get hurt! Get down-NOW! I want to go back inside and continue writing!"
"I can't." he says. "I'm afraid!" "Ben, you had better get down now! I want to go back inside!" "Mom, I can't! Remember, I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!" "AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?" I yelled. "THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU CLIMB UP THERE?"
"Because I wanted a good hiding place," he answered sheepishly.
So, the children and I proceeded to coach him on sliding down on his bottom off the shed. He still thought it was too high. He then thought he would jump off the side-onto the berm topped with pine straw. I didn't think this was a good idea because the berm looked to be too far from the side of the shed. I then decided to go up the ladder-hold it steady-and extend my arm for him to come down. "No, mom, we might both fall!"
By this time I was really frustrated. I went into what I affectionately call-Redneck Mother Mode. I yelled unabashedly-"Ben-dammit-you come down now or I am sending everyone home!" "Mom, please don't yell! You are making me nervous!" So, I calmed down and told him with my sweetest voice that I was only trying to help him-that I wanted him to get down without getting hurt-and that I could not leave him out there because I was afraid if the children encouraged him he may just fall and literally break his neck. "So, Sweetie, come on down. Just take my hand. Mommy wants to help you." He wasn't coming down.
That was it. I had all I could take. He had to get off of the roof. If he could get up there he had to grow up and figure out how to get down. I told him that I was sending Leslie home and that I was leaving to take Luke home. I thought desire to play with friends would trump fear;I thought that he would come to his senses and jump or slide. He just sat there and cried. I still thought he'd come down. It really wasn't that high. It was only about eight feet high. And, he had always climbed trees and he had never been afraid of heights when it came to tree-climbing so surely he'd come down.
I dramatically got in the car with Luke and slowly backed out of the driveway. I carefully cut my eyes to see if he would come down. He just sat there-defeated looking as if he might celebrate the coming holidays up on that roof top.
When I realized he wasn't coming down-I was then committed to take his friend home. I couldn't go back on my word. I then called my next door neighbor to look outside to check on him. I didn't want him to get hurt while I was gone. She told me, "He's just sitting up there." He did seem to be yelling for someone to come get him down. But, he seemed to realize-he was stuck up there for the time being.
I had so many thoughts run through my head like-I tried to help him get down-what do I do now? Do I make my husband come home from the office, do I call my neighbor to come help, do I call the fire department? On the one hand he needed to learn a lesson, but on the other hand I didn't want him to get hurt. I just decided he would need to sit up there and think about it for a while. When I got home he was still there. Just sitting calmly-not upset-just sitting relaxing up on the roof. My neighbor even came over to take photos so we could have a laugh when he grows up. He asked me if he could get him down, but I said-no-he needed to think about it. Ben posed for the photos; my neighbor encouraged him, but he still wasn't coming down.
An hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I first looked out to see him up on the rooftop. The next thing I knew I heard him running in the door. "Mom! I'm down!" When I asked him how he got down, he said, "Tony said he would call 911 and they would get me down-I thought that would be pretty embarrassing; plus I was really hungry!" I then realized that the old saying-"You've never seen a skeleton of a cat up a tree-" also holds true with little boys. I realized that embarrassment and appetite always trump fear.
What set out to be a normal day-my son playing in the yard with friends-my daughter hanging out with a girlfriend-my husband working at the office and me typing away at the computer-turned into a Saturday afternoon of-"do other people's children do this stuff?"
I looked outside to check on the children playing in my yard-only to see my son up on the roof of our shed. I looked out and yelled to him-"what on earth are you doing up there?" "We're playing hide-and-go-seek!"
"Well-you need to get down now, because you may fall and get hurt! Get down-NOW! I want to go back inside and continue writing!"
"I can't." he says. "I'm afraid!" "Ben, you had better get down now! I want to go back inside!" "Mom, I can't! Remember, I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!" "AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?" I yelled. "THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU CLIMB UP THERE?"
"Because I wanted a good hiding place," he answered sheepishly.
So, the children and I proceeded to coach him on sliding down on his bottom off the shed. He still thought it was too high. He then thought he would jump off the side-onto the berm topped with pine straw. I didn't think this was a good idea because the berm looked to be too far from the side of the shed. I then decided to go up the ladder-hold it steady-and extend my arm for him to come down. "No, mom, we might both fall!"
By this time I was really frustrated. I went into what I affectionately call-Redneck Mother Mode. I yelled unabashedly-"Ben-dammit-you come down now or I am sending everyone home!" "Mom, please don't yell! You are making me nervous!" So, I calmed down and told him with my sweetest voice that I was only trying to help him-that I wanted him to get down without getting hurt-and that I could not leave him out there because I was afraid if the children encouraged him he may just fall and literally break his neck. "So, Sweetie, come on down. Just take my hand. Mommy wants to help you." He wasn't coming down.
That was it. I had all I could take. He had to get off of the roof. If he could get up there he had to grow up and figure out how to get down. I told him that I was sending Leslie home and that I was leaving to take Luke home. I thought desire to play with friends would trump fear;I thought that he would come to his senses and jump or slide. He just sat there and cried. I still thought he'd come down. It really wasn't that high. It was only about eight feet high. And, he had always climbed trees and he had never been afraid of heights when it came to tree-climbing so surely he'd come down.
I dramatically got in the car with Luke and slowly backed out of the driveway. I carefully cut my eyes to see if he would come down. He just sat there-defeated looking as if he might celebrate the coming holidays up on that roof top.
When I realized he wasn't coming down-I was then committed to take his friend home. I couldn't go back on my word. I then called my next door neighbor to look outside to check on him. I didn't want him to get hurt while I was gone. She told me, "He's just sitting up there." He did seem to be yelling for someone to come get him down. But, he seemed to realize-he was stuck up there for the time being.
I had so many thoughts run through my head like-I tried to help him get down-what do I do now? Do I make my husband come home from the office, do I call my neighbor to come help, do I call the fire department? On the one hand he needed to learn a lesson, but on the other hand I didn't want him to get hurt. I just decided he would need to sit up there and think about it for a while. When I got home he was still there. Just sitting calmly-not upset-just sitting relaxing up on the roof. My neighbor even came over to take photos so we could have a laugh when he grows up. He asked me if he could get him down, but I said-no-he needed to think about it. Ben posed for the photos; my neighbor encouraged him, but he still wasn't coming down.
An hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I first looked out to see him up on the rooftop. The next thing I knew I heard him running in the door. "Mom! I'm down!" When I asked him how he got down, he said, "Tony said he would call 911 and they would get me down-I thought that would be pretty embarrassing; plus I was really hungry!" I then realized that the old saying-"You've never seen a skeleton of a cat up a tree-" also holds true with little boys. I realized that embarrassment and appetite always trump fear.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
My Giving Heart
Needy people all over the U.S. are eating rutabagas, cream of mushroom soup and navy beans. This morning I caught my 11 year old son raiding our pantry for the Canned Food Drive at school. His efforts were not totally altruistic; there was a competition. It was actually the Auburn/Alabama canned food drive. Which students could bring more canned goods-those who are Auburn fans or those who are Alabama fans?
I remember when I was growing up helping my mother collect cans from our pantry to take to school for "the needy people." We certainly didn't have a lot of money, but we considered ourselves a fortunate family. We had food, clothing and shelter. We didn't have everything we wanted, but we did have what we needed.
My parents were very giving people and raised me to be the same, but there is something about collecting cans from my pantry that brings out the greedy child in me. I give money to charities. We also choose a family for Christmas and buy presents for them, but when it comes to the cans in my pantry I have this "that's mine" reaction.
As my youngest began to place cans in the grocery bag I caught myself saying, "No, that is my 0 points Progresso soup-I eat that all the time-and, no, we need that Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup-you know flu season is coming. Wait! Don't take the tomato sauce-I may need that for something-anyway, needy people don't want that! Let's see-o.k. you can take the Sunshine brand Rutabagas, and the Hummas Tahina(chick pea dip) that I picked up from the Arabic grocery, take the Navy Beans-sometimes I just can't pass up 6 cans for $2.00-even if we really don't eat them-that is such a great price. You can also take some cream of mushroom soup-I bought a bunch of those in case I got in the mood to make a cassarole."
He finally collected about 10 cans for his "team" and for the needy people-of course. I was so glad that the tradition of canned food drives lives on in the lives of my children. Even if secretly I am glad we cleaned out the pantry of those orphaned cans. If I had been asked to donate money to buy canned goods-I could have easily written the check. But, try taking my good soup and I don't feel so charitable.
I remember when I was growing up helping my mother collect cans from our pantry to take to school for "the needy people." We certainly didn't have a lot of money, but we considered ourselves a fortunate family. We had food, clothing and shelter. We didn't have everything we wanted, but we did have what we needed.
My parents were very giving people and raised me to be the same, but there is something about collecting cans from my pantry that brings out the greedy child in me. I give money to charities. We also choose a family for Christmas and buy presents for them, but when it comes to the cans in my pantry I have this "that's mine" reaction.
As my youngest began to place cans in the grocery bag I caught myself saying, "No, that is my 0 points Progresso soup-I eat that all the time-and, no, we need that Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup-you know flu season is coming. Wait! Don't take the tomato sauce-I may need that for something-anyway, needy people don't want that! Let's see-o.k. you can take the Sunshine brand Rutabagas, and the Hummas Tahina(chick pea dip) that I picked up from the Arabic grocery, take the Navy Beans-sometimes I just can't pass up 6 cans for $2.00-even if we really don't eat them-that is such a great price. You can also take some cream of mushroom soup-I bought a bunch of those in case I got in the mood to make a cassarole."
He finally collected about 10 cans for his "team" and for the needy people-of course. I was so glad that the tradition of canned food drives lives on in the lives of my children. Even if secretly I am glad we cleaned out the pantry of those orphaned cans. If I had been asked to donate money to buy canned goods-I could have easily written the check. But, try taking my good soup and I don't feel so charitable.
Monday, July 30, 2007
You Are What You Buy!
I am convinced there is a guy on Madison Avenue who was assigned to me twenty-three years ago when I got out of college and started making my own money. He was probably a young associate then and the big brass probably brought him in and said something like this. "Listen, we have this little girl from Alabama who is going to help make you rich. If you just stick with her and advertise specifically for her buying habits you will have it made!" One day you will be senior partner of this firm and you can teach others how to make it rich in advertising-one consumer at a time.
In the beginning the guy started out with the Tab account. He told the powers that be-"we should put this diet cola in a sleek red can with pin stripes-that'll give it a classy look-and market it with beautiful slender woman drinking it while she is living an exciting life. Oh, yeah-she'll definitely buy it. Saccharin-cancer! Who cares what they say! She'll buy it!
As I got older, got married and had children. My guy on Madison Avenue said to the Pampers people, "It's like this-your diapers are more expensive than Luvs, but unlike the Luvs people, who admit they are cheaper, we will really stress the fact that you care more if you use Pampers-they are more comfortable for your baby (like the baby can tell us) and they have a more natural feeling material-but it is still a disposable. We'll say it's like using natural cloth diapers, without the mess. Not plastic like all of the other diapers on the market. She will really think she is being progressive if you tell her this." While he was at it he told the Dial Antibacterial soap people that if they did a commercial with a mother in her child's nursery holding and cooing with her baby showing how germ-free they both are that I would buy batches of Dial liquid. "Look I know it is really just dishwashing liquid, he said, but we can make a lot of money with young mothers if we put it in a pump bottle and sell it for hand soap."
Over the years when anything new would be introduced to the market-my husband would say, "You are so good for the market if the people on the commercials look good or the packaging is pretty-you buy it!" I, of course, denied it. I am an independent soul- a free thinker. I would never-could never- be influenced by the effects of the advertising industry.
Then, I caught myself the other day while I was in Publix. I passed over my usual Fiji water on the water aisle. Actually Fiji water is a very clean and pure tasting water, although I have never seen a commercial for it. But, I do have to admit- I LOVE those square bottles with the picture of the Island of Fiji on it. Don't some celebrities actually own some islands in the archipelago of Fiji. Well I'll probably never visit there-so at least I can drink the water. This is what my Madison Avenue guy was hoping.
Then, it all changed. Forget Fiji when I could look like Jennifer Aniston. So I went all the way to the other side of the store to find the Smart Water. Smart Water is SO special that it has its own kiosk-away from all of the other waters. Maybe Jennifer requested that! You know her water being "set apart" from all of the other common waters. I stocked up on a buggy full of Smart Water. Cha-Ching Cha-Ching! and as I got my Special K, I swear my waist immediately dropped two inches- and grabbed the Jif, because-yes you guessed it-I am a choosy mother. I left the store feeling somewhat "had." I tried to dismiss it; I have ALWAYS felt this way-those marketers are not influencing me-they are just art or advertising imitating life.
My next stop was to my skin care shop to buy my Kinerase. I really do like the way it feels on my skin, but there is a poster of Courtney Cox on the wall in the lobby of my skin-care shop. If I just put the Kinerase on my skin morning and night those wrinkles from all the years of sun exposure will just disappear. No Botox-just Kinerase. Beautiful skin just like Courtney's.
My Madison Avenue guy is very proud. He created me-a consumer with taste. I have never bought anything NO-AD in my life. I am now an admitted marketing marionette. I just secretly hope that when I wake up tomorrow-just a little Jennifer and Courtney will rub off on me.
In the beginning the guy started out with the Tab account. He told the powers that be-"we should put this diet cola in a sleek red can with pin stripes-that'll give it a classy look-and market it with beautiful slender woman drinking it while she is living an exciting life. Oh, yeah-she'll definitely buy it. Saccharin-cancer! Who cares what they say! She'll buy it!
As I got older, got married and had children. My guy on Madison Avenue said to the Pampers people, "It's like this-your diapers are more expensive than Luvs, but unlike the Luvs people, who admit they are cheaper, we will really stress the fact that you care more if you use Pampers-they are more comfortable for your baby (like the baby can tell us) and they have a more natural feeling material-but it is still a disposable. We'll say it's like using natural cloth diapers, without the mess. Not plastic like all of the other diapers on the market. She will really think she is being progressive if you tell her this." While he was at it he told the Dial Antibacterial soap people that if they did a commercial with a mother in her child's nursery holding and cooing with her baby showing how germ-free they both are that I would buy batches of Dial liquid. "Look I know it is really just dishwashing liquid, he said, but we can make a lot of money with young mothers if we put it in a pump bottle and sell it for hand soap."
Over the years when anything new would be introduced to the market-my husband would say, "You are so good for the market if the people on the commercials look good or the packaging is pretty-you buy it!" I, of course, denied it. I am an independent soul- a free thinker. I would never-could never- be influenced by the effects of the advertising industry.
Then, I caught myself the other day while I was in Publix. I passed over my usual Fiji water on the water aisle. Actually Fiji water is a very clean and pure tasting water, although I have never seen a commercial for it. But, I do have to admit- I LOVE those square bottles with the picture of the Island of Fiji on it. Don't some celebrities actually own some islands in the archipelago of Fiji. Well I'll probably never visit there-so at least I can drink the water. This is what my Madison Avenue guy was hoping.
Then, it all changed. Forget Fiji when I could look like Jennifer Aniston. So I went all the way to the other side of the store to find the Smart Water. Smart Water is SO special that it has its own kiosk-away from all of the other waters. Maybe Jennifer requested that! You know her water being "set apart" from all of the other common waters. I stocked up on a buggy full of Smart Water. Cha-Ching Cha-Ching! and as I got my Special K, I swear my waist immediately dropped two inches- and grabbed the Jif, because-yes you guessed it-I am a choosy mother. I left the store feeling somewhat "had." I tried to dismiss it; I have ALWAYS felt this way-those marketers are not influencing me-they are just art or advertising imitating life.
My next stop was to my skin care shop to buy my Kinerase. I really do like the way it feels on my skin, but there is a poster of Courtney Cox on the wall in the lobby of my skin-care shop. If I just put the Kinerase on my skin morning and night those wrinkles from all the years of sun exposure will just disappear. No Botox-just Kinerase. Beautiful skin just like Courtney's.
My Madison Avenue guy is very proud. He created me-a consumer with taste. I have never bought anything NO-AD in my life. I am now an admitted marketing marionette. I just secretly hope that when I wake up tomorrow-just a little Jennifer and Courtney will rub off on me.
Monday, July 23, 2007
"What Happens in Carrabelle Stays In Carrabelle"
When our daughter was four my husband and I decided we would like to explore a different part of the Florida coast and find a "mom and pop" motel like we visited when we were children in the 60's. I did my research and found the perfect motel in Carrabelle, Florida called the Beachside Motel. This is about 70 miles east of Panama City, Florida. There is a reason it is called the "Forgotten Coast." At one time the town was known in the Guiness Book of World Records as having the smallest police station in the world - a single pay phone booth.
When I called the owner, Linda, she told me Max, the motel handyman, would be there to check us in when we arrived in the evening. Linda was from up north and she had owned the motel for several years and had some of the same families return each year to spend their vacation at the Beachside Motel. We were so excited about our "Old Florida" adventure. When we arrived Max had left the key on the counter in the unlocked motel office with a note that we could just "settle up" the next morning. The motel was an L shaped-one story building with parking directly outside of our door with a chair or two on which to sit in the cooler hours of the day before the "bite'en flies" came out. The floor was terrazzo tile and the shower barely trickled with water that smelled of sulfer. The television was an old color set with only three stations. Who needs TV when you are about to live your own version of the movie "Deliverance?"
The next morning we got ready to go down to the beach- Allen in his Polo swimsuit, me in my cute designer suit that amply covered my body, and our daughter in her Kelly Kids or Fast Friends label swimsuit. The first people we met that day were from a small town outside of Tallahassee. The wife, a fleshy and well-endowed woman, had on a swim suit 3 sizes to small. She and her husband were there with their three children-one of whom was a baby that ran around in a diaper the entire time we were there. They were from the pork rinds and Pabst beer set. They invited us to their room for drinks later that evening.
Allen, our daughter and I went down to the beach and soon our little one announced she had to potty. I did tell her she could go tee tee in the water if she really had to go. We had been to the beach many times before, but I guess this had never come up. She looked at me like I was crazy and we trekked up to our room. I suppose thinking back-as long as it took to potty train her- she was not about to undo everything she had learned. When I took her up to the room, our new friend was sitting on a chair outside of their room with her legs wide apart chewing on boiled peanuts-her boobs flopping around while she watched her diaper-clad child roam the gravel parking lot. I smiled and told her we had to come up for a potty break. She then asked, "What-she gotta go poo?" I just stopped and casually said, "No, she just has to tee tee and she doesn't like to go in the water-but thanks for wanting to be specific." She then cackled and said, "Well ya'll are just too high-class to go piss in the ocean." I realized at that moment I was out of my league. There was nothing in my experience that could have prepared me for that response.
We had a nice, but benign evening with this couple and then we went back to our room. The next day we were invited to a motel bonfire for all of the guests. Most of these people knew each other; they were nice ,but seemed to be somewhat suspicious of us. Allen did not wear cut-offs or drink Milwaulkee's Best, our daughter didn't tinkle in the water and I was helping plan the bonfire that evening like a Cocktail Party. I was trying to get a list together of our cookout needs when one of the women told me just to bring some "Marshmallers, the big kind." O.K. -when in Rome. So marshmallows we brought.
When we all gathered for the cookout there was a little boy of six from Hosford with his grandmother and his very young father. One must pause first to consider this part of Florida - it is south of I-10, north of the beach, west of Tallahassee and the Appalachicola River- on the edge of a national forest primarily composed of swamp, palmetto plants, cypress trees and wild boars. The little boy ate a few of the marshmallows and I heard him get a little irritable and cry. I told them in my most pleasant hostess voice,"Oh, let him have another marshmallow-we've got plenty." She let me know quickly, "He don't want no marshmaller-he wants a dip." Not getting it -I asked, "A dip of what?" Only to be informed that their little one wanted some more snuff. They only let him do it on the weekends. I'm thinking- "Oh, but of course, it makes perfect since to me-everyone I know dips and all of the children in our daughter's preschool do it. I should have been more sensitive and understanding of his needs. Who needs another marshmallow when you can have a dip."
I decided on that note it was time to mingle with some of the other motel guests. I met an older man who had surely had a few drug induced trips in his day. He had wild eyes and he smoked rolled cigarettes. He asked me if we smoked and naively I said, "Oh, only once in a while when we drink." -No- he wanted to know if we-"You know smoke?" " Oh My Stars-I'm thinking-Of course we don't. That would be against the law. Are you nuts? Married people with children don't really do that do they? And, certainly old men like you don't do that?" I then tried to exchange pleasantries through his smoke-filled haze. I asked him how old their son was. He stopped and thought a moment and looked at his young wife and he looked at me and announced, "Now let me think back-he was conceived in Panama City in September of '92-Uh, let's see-Yea, he's two. They looked at each other apparently remembering their fun in Panama City and agreed their child must be two. I could picture them having a big party for their baby on the anniversary of the day he was conceived and them giving everyone marijuana cigarettes as party favors.
We had to leave the next day, and we actually exchanged numbers with the people who were not too high class to potty in the ocean. We've never called each other. And, even though we did not really have anything in common with most of these people-the common bond was an Old-Florida Bonfire on a beautiful summer evening with people who looked past all their differences.
When I called the owner, Linda, she told me Max, the motel handyman, would be there to check us in when we arrived in the evening. Linda was from up north and she had owned the motel for several years and had some of the same families return each year to spend their vacation at the Beachside Motel. We were so excited about our "Old Florida" adventure. When we arrived Max had left the key on the counter in the unlocked motel office with a note that we could just "settle up" the next morning. The motel was an L shaped-one story building with parking directly outside of our door with a chair or two on which to sit in the cooler hours of the day before the "bite'en flies" came out. The floor was terrazzo tile and the shower barely trickled with water that smelled of sulfer. The television was an old color set with only three stations. Who needs TV when you are about to live your own version of the movie "Deliverance?"
The next morning we got ready to go down to the beach- Allen in his Polo swimsuit, me in my cute designer suit that amply covered my body, and our daughter in her Kelly Kids or Fast Friends label swimsuit. The first people we met that day were from a small town outside of Tallahassee. The wife, a fleshy and well-endowed woman, had on a swim suit 3 sizes to small. She and her husband were there with their three children-one of whom was a baby that ran around in a diaper the entire time we were there. They were from the pork rinds and Pabst beer set. They invited us to their room for drinks later that evening.
Allen, our daughter and I went down to the beach and soon our little one announced she had to potty. I did tell her she could go tee tee in the water if she really had to go. We had been to the beach many times before, but I guess this had never come up. She looked at me like I was crazy and we trekked up to our room. I suppose thinking back-as long as it took to potty train her- she was not about to undo everything she had learned. When I took her up to the room, our new friend was sitting on a chair outside of their room with her legs wide apart chewing on boiled peanuts-her boobs flopping around while she watched her diaper-clad child roam the gravel parking lot. I smiled and told her we had to come up for a potty break. She then asked, "What-she gotta go poo?" I just stopped and casually said, "No, she just has to tee tee and she doesn't like to go in the water-but thanks for wanting to be specific." She then cackled and said, "Well ya'll are just too high-class to go piss in the ocean." I realized at that moment I was out of my league. There was nothing in my experience that could have prepared me for that response.
We had a nice, but benign evening with this couple and then we went back to our room. The next day we were invited to a motel bonfire for all of the guests. Most of these people knew each other; they were nice ,but seemed to be somewhat suspicious of us. Allen did not wear cut-offs or drink Milwaulkee's Best, our daughter didn't tinkle in the water and I was helping plan the bonfire that evening like a Cocktail Party. I was trying to get a list together of our cookout needs when one of the women told me just to bring some "Marshmallers, the big kind." O.K. -when in Rome. So marshmallows we brought.
When we all gathered for the cookout there was a little boy of six from Hosford with his grandmother and his very young father. One must pause first to consider this part of Florida - it is south of I-10, north of the beach, west of Tallahassee and the Appalachicola River- on the edge of a national forest primarily composed of swamp, palmetto plants, cypress trees and wild boars. The little boy ate a few of the marshmallows and I heard him get a little irritable and cry. I told them in my most pleasant hostess voice,"Oh, let him have another marshmallow-we've got plenty." She let me know quickly, "He don't want no marshmaller-he wants a dip." Not getting it -I asked, "A dip of what?" Only to be informed that their little one wanted some more snuff. They only let him do it on the weekends. I'm thinking- "Oh, but of course, it makes perfect since to me-everyone I know dips and all of the children in our daughter's preschool do it. I should have been more sensitive and understanding of his needs. Who needs another marshmallow when you can have a dip."
I decided on that note it was time to mingle with some of the other motel guests. I met an older man who had surely had a few drug induced trips in his day. He had wild eyes and he smoked rolled cigarettes. He asked me if we smoked and naively I said, "Oh, only once in a while when we drink." -No- he wanted to know if we-"You know smoke?" " Oh My Stars-I'm thinking-Of course we don't. That would be against the law. Are you nuts? Married people with children don't really do that do they? And, certainly old men like you don't do that?" I then tried to exchange pleasantries through his smoke-filled haze. I asked him how old their son was. He stopped and thought a moment and looked at his young wife and he looked at me and announced, "Now let me think back-he was conceived in Panama City in September of '92-Uh, let's see-Yea, he's two. They looked at each other apparently remembering their fun in Panama City and agreed their child must be two. I could picture them having a big party for their baby on the anniversary of the day he was conceived and them giving everyone marijuana cigarettes as party favors.
We had to leave the next day, and we actually exchanged numbers with the people who were not too high class to potty in the ocean. We've never called each other. And, even though we did not really have anything in common with most of these people-the common bond was an Old-Florida Bonfire on a beautiful summer evening with people who looked past all their differences.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Goofy Girl Gets Guy
Girls have always been mean to each other. There are countless movies and books on this subject. Mothers take their daughters to see the movies and they read books on how to avoid their daughters being the target of a mean girl or books on how to prevent their daughters from actually being the mean girl.
Even before Lindsey Lohan played the target of "Mean Girls" on the screen, my favorite ultimate mean girl target was Bernice in F. Scott Fitzgerald's "Bernice Bobs Her Hair." Bernice was a wealthy, if socially inept, girl who visited her vivacious cousin, Marjorie. Marjorie taught Bernice the tricks in her arsenal about how to be attractive to the opposite sex. Bernice succeeded and Marjorie felt there was only room for one center of all the boys' attention. A battle of wits and wills ensued and like most mean girls-somebody had to get the last jab or cut-in this case.
Even before Lindsey Lohan played the target of "Mean Girls" on the screen, my favorite ultimate mean girl target was Bernice in F. Scott Fitzgerald's "Bernice Bobs Her Hair." Bernice was a wealthy, if socially inept, girl who visited her vivacious cousin, Marjorie. Marjorie taught Bernice the tricks in her arsenal about how to be attractive to the opposite sex. Bernice succeeded and Marjorie felt there was only room for one center of all the boys' attention. A battle of wits and wills ensued and like most mean girls-somebody had to get the last jab or cut-in this case.
I had a brief, but enjoyable, nerdy "girl-gets-the-guy" moment in the 9th Grade. I was the girl who was friends with many different groups, but not necessarily one of any group. By my choice, I think this has evolved into my adult relationships.
There was a cute and popular boy named Hal who began flirting with me by my locker. At the time, I lived in Florida and I was not cool by any standards. I didn't really give it a lot of thought, but apparently there were some cool girls who did. Hal had asked this group of girls if they knew me. They said they did, but he shouldn't bother, because I wasn't cool and that I was a goody-goody. Those were the words they used to describe me-an uncool goody-goody. I remember these girls laughing at me for being uncool. I just chose not to drink or smoke. It was like I was living in my own Grease musical and they laughed because I didn't "drink, swear or rat my hair!" Also, I was rather uninhibited which I've realized as I've gotten older makes a lot of people uncomfortable because many people would like to have the guts to let go. But they are so afraid of what others might think. Lucky for me-my editing system doesn't always work so I just do it without thinking!
Hal must have decided he wanted to find out for himself because he asked me for my number. We soon began dating and he let me know in a gentle way what these girls said and he was glad he had gotten to know me. I loved walking the halls with him-sometimes hand in hand or conventionally he would carry my books. These girls got to witness the nerd getting the cute guy.
My daddy soon got took a job in Alabama. Hal did come to visit me, but like most long-distance relationships in youth we soon broke up. This brief relationship left a monumental and lasting impression on me that I have tried to pass on to my children. Treat people the way you want to be treated in every situation. And when you meet someone and you scratch the surface of their character and immediately hit bottom keep on walking.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Branded
The evolution of furniture in a marriage must signify status. Like most young married couples, my husband and I combined "attic furniture" (collected from the attic's of our parents) with furniture from our single days. Which probably was brought out of the attic after we each left college and set out on our own.
During the first few years of our marriage we liked to go "antiquing, " so we collected a few antiques here and there. After five years of marriage we decided we wanted to buy a new sofa to replace the one that had graced our living room since the beginning of our marriage. It had begun furniture life as a bachelor brown sofa my husband got from someone in college. I, not really wanting to think about what had taken place on the sofa, had it recovered to a beautiful pink and white with a touch of seafoam green fabric. This was during my victorian phase when everything in my home was pink, white wicker and lace. My mother-in-law said I would out-grow that phase. I couldn't understand. I do now.
When we set out to buy this sofa, Allen looked at things like sturdy frames; we also learned it was important to have eight-way tied construction in the sofa. I just wanted pretty fabric, though I did look at durable fabric that would hide stains. We did have a 2 1/2 year old.
We found the perfect sofa at a relatively nice furniture store. It was not a discount store, but I suppose now thinking back it was not upscale either. At the time I really didn't know the difference. I just wanted grown up furniture.
A few years later when we were doing more "grown up" decorating -My decorator (I had a decorator now-I was really grown up ) and I were looking for another new sofa-this time for our living room. She told me to go into one of the more "upscale" furniture stores to see if they had anything I liked and if so, we would go back in there to see if it worked in our home and if not we could order something.
As I walked into this store I was met with the stern hello-mixed with sweet smile of someone who wants to pounce you to make you buy and at the same time wondering if you are worth the time to close the deal. When I told them about my quest they referred me to the back room with another decorator who could help me. A decorator to help my decorator!
She was older than I was and looked all "put together." I, on the other hand, was in my maternity uniform -six months pregnant with little time to spare. My daughter was in Mother's Morning Out and I needed to make some choices. The furniture store decorator was sort of intimidating and told me to look at some fabrics and sofa types. I used to look at types- like tall dark and handsome and now I was looking at sofa types-chippendale or queen anne. The room was quiet and cramped with fabrics all hung on hangers that I was supposed to look at and determine if any one of them caught my eye. It was like a padded room full of fabric swatches. I really did think I was going crazy.
One particular fabric did catch my eye. I was so excited they had the same fabric as our family room sofa-the one we had bought a couple of years before. The decorator was sure to be impressed. I carefully took it off the rack and held it up and exclaimed to the decorator -who had gone back to her important work at her desk-"I have this fabric on the Broyhill sofa in my den." Not knowing that many different furniture companies used the same fabrics I just assumed they would have my sofa and fabric at her store. The decorator slowly sneered at me and said-through clenched teeth-"We don't do Broyhill." If there was a place in that room marked "Cookie's Place" she definitely put me in it. I was stunned and speechless. I was thinking to myself-"You don't do Broyhill-How could you not do Broyhill? All of the gameshows I watched growing up like Let's Make a Deal and The Newlywed Game always did Broyhill. What was wrong with her and this store?" I looked at a few more swatches and thanked her and left.
My decorator and I ordered a beautiful sofa from North Carolina; it is still in my living room. The Broyhill sofa is still in my den; I have had it recovered three times so the Broyhill label is no longer visible. To my knowlege- my status did not suffer from the Broyhill debacle. I did not lose any friends. I still got into The Junior League, my husband still made partner in his firm before going solo and I learned a valuable lesson-never be impressed by the furniture prizes on game shows.
During the first few years of our marriage we liked to go "antiquing, " so we collected a few antiques here and there. After five years of marriage we decided we wanted to buy a new sofa to replace the one that had graced our living room since the beginning of our marriage. It had begun furniture life as a bachelor brown sofa my husband got from someone in college. I, not really wanting to think about what had taken place on the sofa, had it recovered to a beautiful pink and white with a touch of seafoam green fabric. This was during my victorian phase when everything in my home was pink, white wicker and lace. My mother-in-law said I would out-grow that phase. I couldn't understand. I do now.
When we set out to buy this sofa, Allen looked at things like sturdy frames; we also learned it was important to have eight-way tied construction in the sofa. I just wanted pretty fabric, though I did look at durable fabric that would hide stains. We did have a 2 1/2 year old.
We found the perfect sofa at a relatively nice furniture store. It was not a discount store, but I suppose now thinking back it was not upscale either. At the time I really didn't know the difference. I just wanted grown up furniture.
A few years later when we were doing more "grown up" decorating -My decorator (I had a decorator now-I was really grown up ) and I were looking for another new sofa-this time for our living room. She told me to go into one of the more "upscale" furniture stores to see if they had anything I liked and if so, we would go back in there to see if it worked in our home and if not we could order something.
As I walked into this store I was met with the stern hello-mixed with sweet smile of someone who wants to pounce you to make you buy and at the same time wondering if you are worth the time to close the deal. When I told them about my quest they referred me to the back room with another decorator who could help me. A decorator to help my decorator!
She was older than I was and looked all "put together." I, on the other hand, was in my maternity uniform -six months pregnant with little time to spare. My daughter was in Mother's Morning Out and I needed to make some choices. The furniture store decorator was sort of intimidating and told me to look at some fabrics and sofa types. I used to look at types- like tall dark and handsome and now I was looking at sofa types-chippendale or queen anne. The room was quiet and cramped with fabrics all hung on hangers that I was supposed to look at and determine if any one of them caught my eye. It was like a padded room full of fabric swatches. I really did think I was going crazy.
One particular fabric did catch my eye. I was so excited they had the same fabric as our family room sofa-the one we had bought a couple of years before. The decorator was sure to be impressed. I carefully took it off the rack and held it up and exclaimed to the decorator -who had gone back to her important work at her desk-"I have this fabric on the Broyhill sofa in my den." Not knowing that many different furniture companies used the same fabrics I just assumed they would have my sofa and fabric at her store. The decorator slowly sneered at me and said-through clenched teeth-"We don't do Broyhill." If there was a place in that room marked "Cookie's Place" she definitely put me in it. I was stunned and speechless. I was thinking to myself-"You don't do Broyhill-How could you not do Broyhill? All of the gameshows I watched growing up like Let's Make a Deal and The Newlywed Game always did Broyhill. What was wrong with her and this store?" I looked at a few more swatches and thanked her and left.
My decorator and I ordered a beautiful sofa from North Carolina; it is still in my living room. The Broyhill sofa is still in my den; I have had it recovered three times so the Broyhill label is no longer visible. To my knowlege- my status did not suffer from the Broyhill debacle. I did not lose any friends. I still got into The Junior League, my husband still made partner in his firm before going solo and I learned a valuable lesson-never be impressed by the furniture prizes on game shows.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
For My Mother
I've always enjoyed writing. I never really kept a journal; I just always liked to write stories about my experiences. I did keep a diary when I was in 4th Grade; I attended three different schools that year, so I am sure that had something to do with it.
I wrote things like-
Dear Diary,I wish I had long beautiful hair and and long beautiful fingernails and I wish I could marry Donny Osmond. Dear Diary, I wish I didn't have to wear these glasses and I wish I had long beautiful hair and long beautiful fingernails. Dear Diary, I hope the boys overseas in Viet Nam are safe-I pray for them every night. (Even then, I was concerned about war and its consequences.) And, I wish I had long beautiful hair and long beautiful fingernails. The hair and the nails were always a major theme.
I majored in English and thought I would be in the television or radio business. I did my college internship in the promotions department of my hometown's NBC affiliate. I wrote promo intoductions for television programs. When you heard the announcer say something catchy about the A-Team or The Yellow Rose, both popular shows in 1983, I usually wrote it.
My mother always encouraged me to write. I really don't think a week went by when she wouldn't say something to me about this. It was usually when I was entertaining her with a story that had happened to me and she would say, "Cookie, you really need to write a book or write some short stories." Of course, she was my biggest encourager.
When my daddy told me a few weeks before she died that I needed to prepare what I was going to write for her obituary I just couldn't even think about it. But, my daddy had been taking care of her for 16 months and he knew the end was near. I was still in denial. My sister, the consummate planner and researcher, had been in help mode since my mother's cancer resurfaced. My only job was to face the reality of my mother's death and write her obituary.
The weeks prior to her death we spent time with Mother, Daddy, the grandchildren, Mother's siblings, her mother, my daddy's siblings and many friends. When she died I sat down and began writing- my mother's obituary. To date -it is the single most important thing I have ever written. When I pick up the newspaper each day the first thing I read are the obituaries. Part of my daily ritual is going to The Decatur Daily, The Montgomery Advertiser and The Birmingham News. I sometimes even read the obits in The New York Times. I don't think of these as merely announcements that someone has died. I know what love and pain goes into these words. I think my mother would be pleased.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
My Procedure
I had to have a "procedure" today.
For most people it would have been an ordinary trip to the dermatologist, but I am not most people. As one of my Speech/Drama professors in college told me-"You are one of those people who would want to die of a lingering disease like leukemia or cancer because it would be a sickness so filled with drama." This was in 1982-even before the term "Drama Queen" was coined and I was being called a "Drama Queen." I don't think there was any particular incident; I suppose it must be a vibe I give.
When the spot showed up on my nose it just looked like what I like to call a "blemish." Zit, pimple-God forbid-wart- all sounded so gross on my nose. Then, the spot became dry and would sometimes bleed. This went on for about two years. It really hasn't gotten any worse; it actually hasn't changed that much. I actually made an appointment with the Dermatologist about six months ago and then I had to cancel due to a scheduling conflict, so I wasn't really worried. As my second appointment date approached this July, I developed anxiety about this spot on my nose. My anxiety heightened when I would casually mention that I was going to the doctor about this and my friends, with a concerned look, would say, "Oh you really need to have that checked."
Of course, I wanted to scream-"I am having it checked-that's what I just told you!"
When appointment day arrived I went in to the exam room where the nurse told me to disrobe and wear the gown so the doctor could give me the full body skin check. I reminded her I was there mainly for the spot on my nose. She gave me the-"mmmm" sound and then started asking me a series of questions about the health of my family members. I just knew that she was thinking my daddy's gout or my mother's breast cancer had something to do with this spot on my nose-that this was all hereditary-it had to be a death sentence.
My doctor, this small cute young woman with fair and pretty skin, came in looked me over and said my skin looked pretty good. She didn't see too much sun damage. I felt like this was pretty good news considering I was a baby oil and iodine goddess in my youth. I reminded her about the spot on my nose. She looked at it and did the-"furrowed eye-brow and mmmm sound" combo that only a doctor can do. "I really want to get that off. And we will do it today-here in the office. It will be very simple and painless. I'll just give you a little shot to numb the spot and I will shave a small amount off. We will have the results in a few days; I don't really expect anything more than a Basel Cell Carcinoma. It can probably be treated with a cream. If it is any deeper we may have to do a little bit more in depth-but nothing that will be noticeable." she said.
Now, a neurotic like me hears-"OH MY GOD-THAT HAS TO COME OFF-RIGHT NOW! I AM GOING TO HAVE TO PUT YOUR NOSE UNDER-IT WILL BE A SHOT-TO YOUR NOSE-IT WILL BE PAINFUL AND I WILL HAVE TO PERFORM SURGERY TO TAKE A BIOPSY FROM YOUR NOSE TO SEE IF YOU HAVE CARNCINOMA-DID YOU HEAR ME CARCINOMA-CANCER. IT WILL BE A FEW DAYS BEFORE I KNOW YOUR RESULTS SO I WANT YOU TO GO HOME TAKE CARE OF YOUR WOUND, GET YOUR AFFAIRS IN ORDER AND SPEND THESE VERY IMPORTANT DAYS WITH YOUR FAMILY. YOU ARE GOING TO NEED THOSE AROUND YOU WHO LOVE YOU. I WILL NEED ALL OF YOUR NUMBERS SO THE MINUTE THE LAB RUSHES THESE RESULTS TO ME-I CAN CALL YOU TO GIVE YOU YOUR DIAGNOSIS AND MORE IMPORTANTLY YOUR PROGNOSIS.
Julie, the nurse, was so comforting; she held my hand. I heard the vibrating noise of the instruments she was using to perform this surgery. Only to realize when Julie asked if I needed her to hand my phone to me-that it was my phone ringing on vibrate. She knew I thought it might be one of my children calling.
I waited for a big ta-da moment, but then I realized my procedure was over in a matter of seconds. She put a band-aid over my wound. I wore it proudly everywhere I went that afternoon. I had to wear the badge of my disease. She told me I should wear it until the next day.
When I took the band aid off the next day I had to get my reading glasses to see the mark on my nose. Sometimes even we drama queens realize when we've made a tumor out of a 'mole' hill.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sounds Like...
I love words. I love to study word origins. One of my favorite Christmas presents was given to me by my sister; it is a book simply titled "Word Origins." This book is filled with words like Jingoism. I like the way it sounds-Jingoism. Then, when I hear it I play little games repeating it like a little kid saying, "jingoism and jingoisn't." I just think it sounds funny. It makes me laugh. Jingoist is actually a name given to British Patriots in the late 1800's who repeated a little song with the words "by jingo" in it. Someone else liked the way it sounded; they made a word out of it.
It is also not lost on me that the word hysterical "comes from the Greek term 'hysterikos' which means suffering in the womb." The Greek word for uterus is hystera. The decider of words said- ok hystera means uterus-women have wombs-women get crazy-we will now call this word-"hysterical." Sometimes having a uterus can make you hysterical.
Then, my children sometimes ask me questions like- who decided that damn is a bad word? Or we all know that the word "ass " is in the Bible, but we know that it is bad to call someone "an ass."
Then, there are cruder terms. Terms that refer to sexual things. Things a lady should not talk about. I really don't go around talking about these things, but they are there-in my mind and sometimes they come out of my mouth at the oddest times. Words are funny that way. It's not like I am suffering from a neurological condition that prohibits me from having control over this-it just happens sometimes.
This was most evident recently when our car wouldn't start. We had it towed to our mechanic and told him to let us know what the problem was. When I saw our mechanic the next day he informed me that it was not the battery ; it was something else. I told him that Allen figured it probably wasn't the battery because when he had "jerked it off" it wouldn't do anything.
Not many things embarrass me, but as I stood eye to eye with this man-one whose wife had home-schooled their five sons-I couldn't believe what was escaping from my mouth. But, I couldn't stop there. I knew I had said the wrong thing so I corrected myself, rather calmly I might add, and then told him I meant that Allen realized it wasn't the battery when he had "jacked it off." Still, he did not crack a smile. He just very casually helped me complete what I had wanted to say all along that Allen had tried to "jump off the car."
By this time, I am trying to keep my composure- a very hard task for me, and my mind is racing -overcome with thoughts like-"there is no way I just said that." When I did acknowledge my blunder he acted as if he didn't even hear me and continued talking about the car.
Now this made me giggle. For God's sake I had just told him that my husband had not only tried to "jerk off our car -he had also tried to jack it off." How can you not laugh at that. When I began to giggle with embarrassment he still did not join me; he just said, "oh no it's ok-hon."
Well now I really got embarrassed because now it seemed like our dirty little secret. I just wanted to laugh about it and- get it out and over-apparently he did not. So, I bit my tongue, listened to him about my car and then got as far away from him as I could so I could literally roll around on the floor laughing at myself. I then called everyone I knew to share with them my eloquent way with words.
This man is still our mechanic and services both of our cars. But I swear I will never ask him for a lube job.
Right Here Right Now
Sometimes I am unhappy because I take me with me everywhere I go.
When my sixteeen year old daughter read this statement she said everyone was going to think I was "emo." I like to think of it as self-aware. The thing about fun-loving, narcissistic, self-aware people is that we can proudly tell you we are this way. We will even re-tool our personalities or flaws because we want to become a better person, but because of our short attention span we tend to return to negative behaviour or thoughts because we are always seeking a happy, fun place.
Thanks to a few honest counselors and lots of online personality tests I know I am this way. Most counselors use diplomatic words filled with allegory to tell you this. They say in a very loving way-"Cookie you are a monkey-lion. You love people to look at you and notice you. You want to make them laugh-like a little monkey. Yet, you are a lion-a real leader-one who knows their likes and dislikes." I think what they are trying to tell me is that I am a real bitch who likes to be the center of attention.
Psychiatrist are not as engaging. They just stare at you, repeat what you say and look at their watch. I only saw a psychiatrist a couple of times after my mother died; I thought he could make the pain go away. He just stared at me, repeated what I said and looked at his watch. I liked being told I was a monkey-lion much better. The counselor also told me I have an addictive personality. He determined this after I took the test that told him I was a monkey-lion. I got offended, until a year later I figured it out myself. I don't think it was a self-fulfilling prophecy-I think a couple of black-outs were a hint. He also told me I was "pre-disposed" to anxiety. I am also "pre-disposed" to having a big butt, but I work out all the time.
Self-awareness is important, but acting on the discovery is the key. Today I got up and took a deep breath and said my prayers-this is great for the anxiety, walked my dog-helps with my big butt, drank hot tea with my husband-makes me thankful for the best friend I have ever had, got to take care and love my children and then I made the decision to listen to someone else today and enjoy being where I am right now.
When my sixteeen year old daughter read this statement she said everyone was going to think I was "emo." I like to think of it as self-aware. The thing about fun-loving, narcissistic, self-aware people is that we can proudly tell you we are this way. We will even re-tool our personalities or flaws because we want to become a better person, but because of our short attention span we tend to return to negative behaviour or thoughts because we are always seeking a happy, fun place.
Thanks to a few honest counselors and lots of online personality tests I know I am this way. Most counselors use diplomatic words filled with allegory to tell you this. They say in a very loving way-"Cookie you are a monkey-lion. You love people to look at you and notice you. You want to make them laugh-like a little monkey. Yet, you are a lion-a real leader-one who knows their likes and dislikes." I think what they are trying to tell me is that I am a real bitch who likes to be the center of attention.
Psychiatrist are not as engaging. They just stare at you, repeat what you say and look at their watch. I only saw a psychiatrist a couple of times after my mother died; I thought he could make the pain go away. He just stared at me, repeated what I said and looked at his watch. I liked being told I was a monkey-lion much better. The counselor also told me I have an addictive personality. He determined this after I took the test that told him I was a monkey-lion. I got offended, until a year later I figured it out myself. I don't think it was a self-fulfilling prophecy-I think a couple of black-outs were a hint. He also told me I was "pre-disposed" to anxiety. I am also "pre-disposed" to having a big butt, but I work out all the time.
Self-awareness is important, but acting on the discovery is the key. Today I got up and took a deep breath and said my prayers-this is great for the anxiety, walked my dog-helps with my big butt, drank hot tea with my husband-makes me thankful for the best friend I have ever had, got to take care and love my children and then I made the decision to listen to someone else today and enjoy being where I am right now.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Melancholy Day
Death is so cliche'. The grief, the pain, the loss. The desire to ask the one we've lost one more question.
There is always a family member who remembers everything. That person was my mother. She could tell you every detail about her's and daddy's first date-seeing Ben Hur at the movie. She remembered the chaos surrounding that night when, upon daddy's arrival for this blind date, her temporary front tooth (due to a softball accident) fell down the drain. Her daddy, my paw paw, had to unhook the elbow joint to get the tooth so mother could meet her young suitor with a smile! She could tell you about the dime my nana put in her hand in case she needed to call home. She could tell you how handsome my daddy looked in the gray wool vest he wore that night. I still have that vest. I could call Mother and ask her any question and she could answer just about anything off the top of her head.
I have so many of those-"I need to call Mother and ask her that-" days. I just catch my breath when I remember she's not here to answer. I call Daddy and sometimes he can answer, but mostly he agrees-"well your mama would know that right off. "
Today I couldn't remember what she used to call a gardenia. It was a southern slang word. It brought me to tears. Yesterday, I couldn't remember the housekeeper's name who locked me in the bathroom when I was three. Tomorrow it will be something else.
Then, I remembered- it doesn't matter what I didn't find out from my mother. What matters are all the things I did learn. I'm glad I listened.
There is always a family member who remembers everything. That person was my mother. She could tell you every detail about her's and daddy's first date-seeing Ben Hur at the movie. She remembered the chaos surrounding that night when, upon daddy's arrival for this blind date, her temporary front tooth (due to a softball accident) fell down the drain. Her daddy, my paw paw, had to unhook the elbow joint to get the tooth so mother could meet her young suitor with a smile! She could tell you about the dime my nana put in her hand in case she needed to call home. She could tell you how handsome my daddy looked in the gray wool vest he wore that night. I still have that vest. I could call Mother and ask her any question and she could answer just about anything off the top of her head.
I have so many of those-"I need to call Mother and ask her that-" days. I just catch my breath when I remember she's not here to answer. I call Daddy and sometimes he can answer, but mostly he agrees-"well your mama would know that right off. "
Today I couldn't remember what she used to call a gardenia. It was a southern slang word. It brought me to tears. Yesterday, I couldn't remember the housekeeper's name who locked me in the bathroom when I was three. Tomorrow it will be something else.
Then, I remembered- it doesn't matter what I didn't find out from my mother. What matters are all the things I did learn. I'm glad I listened.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Conditioning of Cookie
When I was three years old a housekeeper locked me in the bathroom so she could go into the neighborhood to sell tickets to a church bazaar. This story is not about my mental decline from this incident. It is about Maw Maw Bartlett and classical conditioning.
As a young child I had the privilege of living within close proximity to both of my grandmothers. There were lots of cousins, aunts, uncles and friends always around. My grandmother also had a dear lady, Lois Mae, who was phonetically called Loey Mae- kind of like Louis and Louie- who helped raise my mother , her siblings and all of the grandchildren.
My grandmother wasn't at the country club having tea while Loey did this; she was either pickin' peas or working. My nana was a working mother before Gloria Steinem told us it was ok to do so.
My mother, like my Nana, was also an independent soul who did not expect her sisters or her family to provide childcare. So mother very carefully or so she thought selected a lady to stay with me and keep our home in order while she and daddy were at work. Family lore has it that my mother received a call at work from a neighbor who said he could here me crying from the bathroom window. Of course my mother rushed home swooped me out of the locked room and then proceeded to find the housekeeper on the other side of the neighborhood cheerfully doing her volunteer work.
This is how my family met Maw Maw Bartlett. She looked out her window only to see a young mother of twenty-one chasing a lady down the street with a broom. As the neighbors gathered outside it was apparent my young mother and daddy needed a sitter for me and Maw Maw was just the person. She kept children in her home from time to time and she was known as a loving, but firm sitter. After Mother and Daddy got to know Maw Maw, her husband Papa Dave and their children, I had a new family to care for me and spoil me.
What I remember the most about Maw Maw's house are fond memories like kool-aid and buttered toast (a childhood favorite) and the fact that she had coffee every morning in her home with her neighbor. My only unpleasant memory is seeing the image on the TV screen with the ocean crashing the rocks, the title in scary letters and the man announcing-"The Secret Storm!"
Mother and Daddy remember the loving and safe environment Maw Maw provided and- the word shit.
I never remember Maw Maw being mean to anyone or saying anything negative, but I do remember when the phone would ring she would say shit. Now she didn't just say-shit. She would take the word on the first ring and begin to draw it out during each ring with-sheeeeeeeiiit! Then, she would answer in a nice voice -not like she was bothered-it was just the interruption of having to stop and go to the hall to answer the phone. There was no malice in "sheeeeeeeiiiit," it was just what she said when the phone rang. As an impressionable three year old I thought that's what one did when the phone rang. So it began. The "classical conditioning" of Cookie. At home the phone would ring, the stimuli in place, and out of the mouth of this three year old babe came-"sheeeiiiit."
As a parent I can understand my parents' dismay at this situation. Somehow they broke me of this bad little habit and I continued to stay with Maw Maw until I went to Kindergarten. I don't think my parents ever even confronted Maw Maw with my Pavlovian conditioning. There was no need. I never had to see the inside of a locked bathroom again.
As a young child I had the privilege of living within close proximity to both of my grandmothers. There were lots of cousins, aunts, uncles and friends always around. My grandmother also had a dear lady, Lois Mae, who was phonetically called Loey Mae- kind of like Louis and Louie- who helped raise my mother , her siblings and all of the grandchildren.
My grandmother wasn't at the country club having tea while Loey did this; she was either pickin' peas or working. My nana was a working mother before Gloria Steinem told us it was ok to do so.
My mother, like my Nana, was also an independent soul who did not expect her sisters or her family to provide childcare. So mother very carefully or so she thought selected a lady to stay with me and keep our home in order while she and daddy were at work. Family lore has it that my mother received a call at work from a neighbor who said he could here me crying from the bathroom window. Of course my mother rushed home swooped me out of the locked room and then proceeded to find the housekeeper on the other side of the neighborhood cheerfully doing her volunteer work.
This is how my family met Maw Maw Bartlett. She looked out her window only to see a young mother of twenty-one chasing a lady down the street with a broom. As the neighbors gathered outside it was apparent my young mother and daddy needed a sitter for me and Maw Maw was just the person. She kept children in her home from time to time and she was known as a loving, but firm sitter. After Mother and Daddy got to know Maw Maw, her husband Papa Dave and their children, I had a new family to care for me and spoil me.
What I remember the most about Maw Maw's house are fond memories like kool-aid and buttered toast (a childhood favorite) and the fact that she had coffee every morning in her home with her neighbor. My only unpleasant memory is seeing the image on the TV screen with the ocean crashing the rocks, the title in scary letters and the man announcing-"The Secret Storm!"
Mother and Daddy remember the loving and safe environment Maw Maw provided and- the word shit.
I never remember Maw Maw being mean to anyone or saying anything negative, but I do remember when the phone would ring she would say shit. Now she didn't just say-shit. She would take the word on the first ring and begin to draw it out during each ring with-sheeeeeeeiiit! Then, she would answer in a nice voice -not like she was bothered-it was just the interruption of having to stop and go to the hall to answer the phone. There was no malice in "sheeeeeeeiiiit," it was just what she said when the phone rang. As an impressionable three year old I thought that's what one did when the phone rang. So it began. The "classical conditioning" of Cookie. At home the phone would ring, the stimuli in place, and out of the mouth of this three year old babe came-"sheeeiiiit."
As a parent I can understand my parents' dismay at this situation. Somehow they broke me of this bad little habit and I continued to stay with Maw Maw until I went to Kindergarten. I don't think my parents ever even confronted Maw Maw with my Pavlovian conditioning. There was no need. I never had to see the inside of a locked bathroom again.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
What Could Have Been My "Great Depression!"
When I was in high school I read Nancy Milford's biography, "Zelda" and I was hooked. I wanted to be a flapper! It was also around the time that I read "The Great Gatsby" I became captivated by "The Jazz Age." In college I took courses on the expatriate writers which included F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot. I wanted so much to be a part of their "Lost Generation." They were rebellious about their strict and conventional upbringing. What all of these people represented to me were people who lived and traveled in Europe, conferred with each other about their writings as they were eating wonderful food and drinking fabulous wine! This was what a true flapper did-live life to the fullest!
I envied their ability to live and write about a life that defied conformity. Over the years I have continued to read different works by many of these authors and biographies written about them. I remember why I keep at least one foot firmly planted on the ground at all times and try to keep a sober perspective of this lifestyle.
While I don't believe I have the talents that these people possessed whether it be writing, painting or having a great mind, but I do understand their desire to be a part of an interesting and unconventional group. But, with this I am also reminded as these people were living life to the fullest-they were also living a life of excess. Zelda had several mental breakdowns and died in a fire while she was hospitalized in an institution. Hemingway died from a self-inflicted shotgun wound, and Scott died most likely due to "hard living"-alcoholism and years of excessive smoking.
I still want to be a flapper! I'll just stay away from the bathtub gin!
I envied their ability to live and write about a life that defied conformity. Over the years I have continued to read different works by many of these authors and biographies written about them. I remember why I keep at least one foot firmly planted on the ground at all times and try to keep a sober perspective of this lifestyle.
While I don't believe I have the talents that these people possessed whether it be writing, painting or having a great mind, but I do understand their desire to be a part of an interesting and unconventional group. But, with this I am also reminded as these people were living life to the fullest-they were also living a life of excess. Zelda had several mental breakdowns and died in a fire while she was hospitalized in an institution. Hemingway died from a self-inflicted shotgun wound, and Scott died most likely due to "hard living"-alcoholism and years of excessive smoking.
I still want to be a flapper! I'll just stay away from the bathtub gin!
Saturday, July 7, 2007
You Like Me! You Really Do!
Sally Field is one of my favorite actresses! I must admit her character as Sister Bertrille, The Flying Nun, is one of my favorite characters! She had a hard time commanding respect in Hollywood until she won an Oscar for her performance in "Norma Rae" in 1979 and again in 1985 for "Places in the Heart." What is most memorable about this Oscar moment is that Sally declared to the audience of her peers and fans, "You Like Me! You Really Like Me!" Sally really caught hell for this. Her statement became fodder for the media as well as small town America. But, why? Because Sally was so caught off guard that she was open, honest and let her feelings out for everyone to hear! She did care that her peers and her fans liked her.
I am going to admit it right now. I do care what people think and I do want everyone to like me. Not that I am going to compromise anything or do anything to get this outcome, nor do I think that everyone is going to like me. BUT, I DO WISH EVERYONE DID LIKE ME. There I said it.
I am always amused by people who say, "I don't care what anyone thinks or I don't care if anyone likes me." Actually, I think deep down they are the very people who do care and who may do anything to manipulate a situation to be liked or respected.
Then, there are people like me who are a walking open book with a big sign on
my forehead that says, "Hey, I'm Cookie! Nice to meet you!
(like a happy little dog meeting someone new)!
Not that I want to be everyone's best buddy; I just love meeting people-in general- and getting to know them. I know Barhana and Suresh the nice Indian couple who own the Chevron down the street from me. I love Melba my favorite bank teller and know all about her sons' landscaping business and her grandson, Hunter. I've missed Erica,a cashier at the Southern Family Market,whose baby is due in August. She just recently got a new credit card so she may be out shopping for that baby! I sure hope the baby is o.k. I need to ask Mr. Deputy, the manager of the store.
I simply CANNOT and I mean I am NOT ABLE to go into a place without meeting someone and getting to know them. It is like a shy person who simply cannot find the courage to speak; I cannot find the place in myself that does not want to get to know these people. Sure there are days I think -I wish today I could be a
wallflower and just blend in and not meet people. But, it is usually days that I let someone else's comment of what a talker or how I am so hyper get to me. Then, I think-today I will calm down and be really quiet and blend in. Until I walk by the mirror and see myself and think-"I like me! I really do!"
I am going to admit it right now. I do care what people think and I do want everyone to like me. Not that I am going to compromise anything or do anything to get this outcome, nor do I think that everyone is going to like me. BUT, I DO WISH EVERYONE DID LIKE ME. There I said it.
I am always amused by people who say, "I don't care what anyone thinks or I don't care if anyone likes me." Actually, I think deep down they are the very people who do care and who may do anything to manipulate a situation to be liked or respected.
Then, there are people like me who are a walking open book with a big sign on
my forehead that says, "Hey, I'm Cookie! Nice to meet you!
(like a happy little dog meeting someone new)!
Not that I want to be everyone's best buddy; I just love meeting people-in general- and getting to know them. I know Barhana and Suresh the nice Indian couple who own the Chevron down the street from me. I love Melba my favorite bank teller and know all about her sons' landscaping business and her grandson, Hunter. I've missed Erica,a cashier at the Southern Family Market,whose baby is due in August. She just recently got a new credit card so she may be out shopping for that baby! I sure hope the baby is o.k. I need to ask Mr. Deputy, the manager of the store.
I simply CANNOT and I mean I am NOT ABLE to go into a place without meeting someone and getting to know them. It is like a shy person who simply cannot find the courage to speak; I cannot find the place in myself that does not want to get to know these people. Sure there are days I think -I wish today I could be a
wallflower and just blend in and not meet people. But, it is usually days that I let someone else's comment of what a talker or how I am so hyper get to me. Then, I think-today I will calm down and be really quiet and blend in. Until I walk by the mirror and see myself and think-"I like me! I really do!"
Allen Almighty
There has been a drought in the Southeast. A New York Times headline read, "Drought Saps the Southeast, and Its Farmers." NOAA's drought monitor issued a warning that the Southeast is in an EXTREME drought. As I travel south of Decatur there are signs much like those used in political campaigns that simply say, "Pray For Rain."
Yesterday it did rain and there is one man to thank. My husband Allen Stoner. Now I am not trying to be flippant about the drought, but Allen made plans to replace our sewer line on July 5th and 6th. It is a very simple process as he explained to me. "We need to be proactive and do this now so when we landscape our backyard we won't have to worry about undoing all of our landscaping to replace a sewer line." Plus, we will be doing this for "around $500-$750. If we hired someone to do this it would cost around $3000-$3500. Not only does he enjoy the manual labor, but he is SAVING us money! I was not real excited about this project; I am not that much of a planner. Plus, Allen and I have been married just 6 months shy of 20 years and I know all about simple projects and I am not very fond of them.
He did all the preparation-called the "first call" people who marked our gas line, sewer line and any other utilities which were buried. He had the concrete cut on our back porch($150) to make our sewer line accessible from our house connection. He and our friend, Ron (who has worked in construction since he was a youngster) ordered the backhoe ($250) for the one day digging job, and Allen purchased all of the pvc pipe($200) from the plumbing supply store and it was delivered on Thursday, July 5th. He bought the permit($35) from the city to do this job. Everything was in place. All they had to do was dig, put in the pipe, and call the city inspector and we would be back in business. The business of our regular routine. Work, play, enjoying our back yard.
Actually it was kind of fun. We checked into a local hotel($150) even though Allen and Ron thought it may not even be necessary. The sewer line would be hooked up and inspected soon. The project was only going to cost us $600 give or take. Ron refused to charge us, but of course we would be putting some money in his pocket.
Our 11 year old took a friend to the hotel. We swam, ate and watched movies. Our 16 year old went out of town with friends. Allen would come later.
Then, I got a call from Decatur Utilities. Something about a cut gas line($250). I am not sure why he got my cell number, but I am sure Allen was chagrined by this situation. I gave him Allen's cell and then promptly called Allen to see what was happening. Yes, they had cut the gas line with the backhoe and another contractor friend explained this was very common for any contractor to do this. As long as everyone was safe I was still fine with the project. The guys worked for a little longer and Allen came to the hotel exhausted, but looking forward to that good night's sleep one only gets with a day of manual labor.
The next morning we ate a good breakfast at the hotel's breakfast buffet(included in room cost) and we checked out. He and Ron got back to work. They got the line connected; the inspector came and gave us a thumbs up. It was a "popping the champagne" moment. All they had to do now was put all of the dirt back in the trench over the line. THEN, THE BACKHOE BROKE DOWN. As they waited for the backhoe people to come and repair the backhoe the sky began to look like rain. Normally, in a drought we would have been elated, but we were so close to the end of our project. As the backhoe guy finished his repairs it began to sprinkle, THEN CAME A DELUGE AND IT RAINED AND IT RAINED. Now we needed to order a load of gravel($350) so when the rain stopped they would need to put it in with the dirt so it would sift and not pack. Hopefully, this would prevent the dirt from crushing our new line. They worked until 9:50 p.m. (they had plans to stop at 10 p.m.) until a "neighbor" complained to the police about the noise. Not only were they trying to get the trench in our yard covered, but had the gravel dropped between our backyard and the backyard alley. We were trying to make sure the back alley was cleared.
Today is Saturday, July 7th. The news says it is a "lucky" day by number standards 07/07/07. We awaked to rain and it rained steadily all night.
Allen felt helpless. He said he felt like Napoleon invading Russia when he along with his French army waited and went in during unusually cold and freezing winter which led to his downfall. Allen and Ron's army may not survive the rain and the mud in the backyard. But, the rain did stop for now and the trench is buried. The gravel is gone from the alley. We still saved money.
Allen thought God said, Make your lanscaping look beautiful like a "park." I think he said, "Build an Ark."
Yesterday it did rain and there is one man to thank. My husband Allen Stoner. Now I am not trying to be flippant about the drought, but Allen made plans to replace our sewer line on July 5th and 6th. It is a very simple process as he explained to me. "We need to be proactive and do this now so when we landscape our backyard we won't have to worry about undoing all of our landscaping to replace a sewer line." Plus, we will be doing this for "around $500-$750. If we hired someone to do this it would cost around $3000-$3500. Not only does he enjoy the manual labor, but he is SAVING us money! I was not real excited about this project; I am not that much of a planner. Plus, Allen and I have been married just 6 months shy of 20 years and I know all about simple projects and I am not very fond of them.
He did all the preparation-called the "first call" people who marked our gas line, sewer line and any other utilities which were buried. He had the concrete cut on our back porch($150) to make our sewer line accessible from our house connection. He and our friend, Ron (who has worked in construction since he was a youngster) ordered the backhoe ($250) for the one day digging job, and Allen purchased all of the pvc pipe($200) from the plumbing supply store and it was delivered on Thursday, July 5th. He bought the permit($35) from the city to do this job. Everything was in place. All they had to do was dig, put in the pipe, and call the city inspector and we would be back in business. The business of our regular routine. Work, play, enjoying our back yard.
Actually it was kind of fun. We checked into a local hotel($150) even though Allen and Ron thought it may not even be necessary. The sewer line would be hooked up and inspected soon. The project was only going to cost us $600 give or take. Ron refused to charge us, but of course we would be putting some money in his pocket.
Our 11 year old took a friend to the hotel. We swam, ate and watched movies. Our 16 year old went out of town with friends. Allen would come later.
Then, I got a call from Decatur Utilities. Something about a cut gas line($250). I am not sure why he got my cell number, but I am sure Allen was chagrined by this situation. I gave him Allen's cell and then promptly called Allen to see what was happening. Yes, they had cut the gas line with the backhoe and another contractor friend explained this was very common for any contractor to do this. As long as everyone was safe I was still fine with the project. The guys worked for a little longer and Allen came to the hotel exhausted, but looking forward to that good night's sleep one only gets with a day of manual labor.
The next morning we ate a good breakfast at the hotel's breakfast buffet(included in room cost) and we checked out. He and Ron got back to work. They got the line connected; the inspector came and gave us a thumbs up. It was a "popping the champagne" moment. All they had to do now was put all of the dirt back in the trench over the line. THEN, THE BACKHOE BROKE DOWN. As they waited for the backhoe people to come and repair the backhoe the sky began to look like rain. Normally, in a drought we would have been elated, but we were so close to the end of our project. As the backhoe guy finished his repairs it began to sprinkle, THEN CAME A DELUGE AND IT RAINED AND IT RAINED. Now we needed to order a load of gravel($350) so when the rain stopped they would need to put it in with the dirt so it would sift and not pack. Hopefully, this would prevent the dirt from crushing our new line. They worked until 9:50 p.m. (they had plans to stop at 10 p.m.) until a "neighbor" complained to the police about the noise. Not only were they trying to get the trench in our yard covered, but had the gravel dropped between our backyard and the backyard alley. We were trying to make sure the back alley was cleared.
Today is Saturday, July 7th. The news says it is a "lucky" day by number standards 07/07/07. We awaked to rain and it rained steadily all night.
Allen felt helpless. He said he felt like Napoleon invading Russia when he along with his French army waited and went in during unusually cold and freezing winter which led to his downfall. Allen and Ron's army may not survive the rain and the mud in the backyard. But, the rain did stop for now and the trench is buried. The gravel is gone from the alley. We still saved money.
Allen thought God said, Make your lanscaping look beautiful like a "park." I think he said, "Build an Ark."
Friday, July 6, 2007
Drivin' a new car!
Middle class, Middle age people like my husband and me are trying to teach our children about values and that material possessions are fleeting. Now that our daughter is 16 we want her to know that her first car should be humbling. I also reminded her that her daddy, my husband, has been practicing law for twenty years and he still drives a 1998 Ford Taurus. This is a car I had when I was a drug rep. We are also trying to teach her and our 11 year-old son that buying a nice practical car is smart and that we should not judge people because of the car they drive. We should also feel good in whatever car we drive whether it is a modest car or a luxury car.
We've been shopping around for a "pre-owned" car since our daughter turned 16 in June. When our friend, an auto broker, suggested we "test drive" a 2003 BMW we thought, "O.K. we will try it; it is just another car."
I am not sure I can continue to teach my children that we should appreciate just any car-as long as it gets us from point A to point B.
Why?
There is just no arguing that my husband and I both are much better looking stepping out of the BMW than we are when we step out of the Taurus or even the Excursion. People look at you differently. Like hey, you look really good. It's the aura around the BMW. The Taurus doesn't give off the same aura.
1. People who drive luxury cars usually give the same reasons for buying them-they are safe or they last forever (remember 150,000 miles on a luxury car is nothing)!(Chryslers are safe and cost a lot less)!
2. On the other side of the coin people who drive practical cars say things like, "I just want a good safe dependable car to get me where I need to go."
Cookie Logic says that neither of these people is very honest about the cars they drive. The luxury car drivers never tell the truth, "I bought this car 'cause I look damn good in it!" and the practical person may just have to admit I drive this Ford-because dependable or not-it is affordable!
We've been shopping around for a "pre-owned" car since our daughter turned 16 in June. When our friend, an auto broker, suggested we "test drive" a 2003 BMW we thought, "O.K. we will try it; it is just another car."
I am not sure I can continue to teach my children that we should appreciate just any car-as long as it gets us from point A to point B.
Why?
There is just no arguing that my husband and I both are much better looking stepping out of the BMW than we are when we step out of the Taurus or even the Excursion. People look at you differently. Like hey, you look really good. It's the aura around the BMW. The Taurus doesn't give off the same aura.
1. People who drive luxury cars usually give the same reasons for buying them-they are safe or they last forever (remember 150,000 miles on a luxury car is nothing)!(Chryslers are safe and cost a lot less)!
2. On the other side of the coin people who drive practical cars say things like, "I just want a good safe dependable car to get me where I need to go."
Cookie Logic says that neither of these people is very honest about the cars they drive. The luxury car drivers never tell the truth, "I bought this car 'cause I look damn good in it!" and the practical person may just have to admit I drive this Ford-because dependable or not-it is affordable!
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