boo-boo

Yep.

That’s one of our puppies, April.

Yes, she is wearing a bandage.

I called the puppies into the house this evening so I could brush them. I brushed Amber and reached for April. I felt something sticky on her fur but proceeded to brush the hair around her ears (because it is curly and soft and I love brushing it). I talked baby talk as I worked and said something like, “Now your ears look so perty-perty. Let’s bwush your belly.”

I rolled her over and, to my horror, she had a big chunk of skin missing over her breastbone. I did what any highly-trained medical professional would do in that situation: I screamed bloody murder for my husband.

Brad and they boys ran into the family room and I said, “Look!” as I pressed lightly on April’s sternum. When I did that, the wound opened up and oozed blood and I, again, did what any highly-trained medical professional would do: I nearly fainted.

Seriously folks, I can scrub into surgery and work in critical care units without a moment’s queasiness. But the moment one of my babies is hurt (yes, my puppies are my babies too)? All bets are off. Heather is just like everyone else: Terrified.

I snapped out of it fairly quickly though. I handed April off to Brad and drove straight to Walgreen’s for hydrogen peroxide, bandages, antibiotic ointment, and rolled gauze. I was pretty on top of things but I still called Melonie, the doggie guru, on my way. She talked me down quite expertly.

April is all bandaged up now and she is still running around happily — as if she isn’t missing a big chunk of flesh. We don’t know how she got hurt but, with all the construction we are doing around here, we suspect she got snagged on a nail or something like that.

I am giving her all sorts of special treatment and she may even get to sleep in our bed tonight –her idea of Heaven.

I hate that she got hurt but doesn’t she look adorable in her bandages?

self-preservation

I’ve been doing some gardening lately. Last Spring and Summer, I was busy traveling to Seattle, Florida, Ohio, and West Virginia and my flowerbeds were neglected simply because I was always away on a trip or preparing for a trip. So, this year I am working twice as hard to make the garden look half as good. A neglected flowerbed is a spiteful creature.

I spent a considerable amount of time last weekend simply pruning some of the existing plants that were looking a little peaked. I had to cut out a lot of undergrowth from a sage-y type bush (that I’ve forgotten the name of) because it had turned brown and died where the sunlight was blotted out by the new growth. I spent even more time and muscle pruning two huge oleanders growing at the back of the yard.

The thing about plants is that they will expend all available resources to try to keep an ailing branch alive. No matter how healthy the plant, if there is one sick or dying section, the entire plant will eventually die from trying to sustain the life of one small, insignificant branch. To prevent this, a gardener must perform amputations of the dead or ailing limbs so that the plant as a whole can flourish and bloom and provide beauty.

So, while pruning away dead limbs and yellowing leaves, I thought perhaps Nature had taught me an important lesson: Always Self-Preserve. It makes sense, doesn’t it? If there’s an area in your life, perhaps a relationship, that you’re always pouring energy into and still it only seems to suck the life out of you; amputate it. Always put your own well-being first because no one else will. Cut away the sick branches of your life. Self-sustain. Don’t be a hero.

Oh yes, I felt smug and giddy with my newfound wisdom. Except then I moved on to pulling weeds.

Weeds, unlike oleanders and roses, could care less about any extraneous offshoots of foliage. Weeds self-preserve at all costs. When you try to pull a weed, they are designed so that the leaves pull away ridiculously easily while the core of the plant, the root, stays deep in the ground, safe and snug.

At first, I thought that weeds are the most brilliant of the plant species. Why sicken and die for the sake of one branch when it is so easy to sacrifice it and live to flourish? Why should any of us inconvenience ourselves for the sake of anyone else? Long live the weeds!

Until it occurred to me –nobody likes a weed. Nobody needs a weed. People expend great amounts of energy trying to rid their yards and gardens of weeds. What good does it do the weed to survive if there is no one who cares? Surviving in the dank, dark ground is not exactly what I’d call living, after all.

But blossoming, fragrant flowers and shade-providing trees? Everyone wants them. Everyone loves them. They feed the soul. Gardeners spend time and energy feeding them the perfect mix of nutrients, patting the soil around them to determine if they need water and harvesting their blooms in order to bring beauty into their homes.

Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that maybe the plants we tend most lovingly are beautiful because they are willing to put in the extra effort to save even the tiniest sickly stem. Perhaps God granted them beauty because they are willing to pay a price, even unto their own death, in order to nurture beauty and health in their sickest branches. Perhaps they are beautiful because they recognize the value of each and every extraneous shoot-off of the main root.

I think the lesson that I learned in my garden is that it is always best to err on the side of kindness. It’s always best to give the benefit of the doubt. That relationship in your life that feels like a sickly branch, it may flourish and bloom with enough nurturing.

In turn, it serves to make you more beautiful as well.

nocturnal activities

Remodeling is not for the faint of heart. It’s certainly not for me, at least. I am excited about the end result but hate all of the work and worry that goes with accomplishing the end result.

At work the other day, I lamented to Brenda, “This remodel is bringing out all of my neuroses! My anxiety level is through the roof!” Brenda, in her traditional laconic style, plunged straight to the heart of the matter and said, “Your home, your safe haven, the one place where you are able to relax and be yourself is torn to shreds. Of course you feel anxious.”

She is so smart. Don’t I have smart friends?

But I truly think the stress and physical toll of it all was not finally fully realized until last night. It was late when we finally got to bed. We had worked all day and then had to work some more before we could fall into bed because, if we don’t clean up the sheetrock dust before sleeping, I wake up in the middle of the night experiencing the mother of all asthma attacks.

But finally, finally, we were able to sink into bed. Brad slid over close to me and nuzzled my neck. I protested, “I am too tired!” He asked, “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” I answered, “You could rub my feet?” He replied, “I’ll rub yours if you’ll rub mine.”

It was a deal.

But from the sounds that followed, no one eavesdropping would have been any the wiser. A few of the phrases that might have been overheard:

“Oh, God! That feels so good!”

“A little more to the left. A little higher. Ahhhhhh, right there.”

“Please don’t stop.”

And, of course, there were a lot of these sounds:

“Ooooooooooohhhhhh!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh, yes!”

And my personal favorite:

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Yes, the foot rub felt that good. And no, I am not sorry I chose it instead of other activities I might have engaged in with my husband.

And yes, I realize that we have hit an all time low. Talk to me about it after I have my safe haven back in one piece. Mkay?

 

so far, the roof hasn’t collapsed . . .

So keep your fingers crossed!

and so it continues . . .

why i haven’t been blogging

Let me give you some advice:

Always . . .

No. Never begin a major remodeling project mere weeks before your best friend is coming to visit you. Especially when said best friend has never seen your home.

Yes, smart ass. It is possible to have a best friend who has never seen your home or met your husband or children.

Seriously, Brad announced that he was willing to remodel my bedroom and bathroom at almost the exact same time that Sharon announced she was willing to come visit. Me, being gullible and trusting, asked, “Do you think we can have the remodel done before Sharon gets here?” Him, being optimistic to a fault, replied, “Shuuuurrrr!”

We are not even halfway done.

She will be here in 24 days.

There is no chance in hell that the remodel will be complete when she gets here.

Dammit.

It’s okay. I mean, technically, she isn’t even coming here for me. She is coming here because Brenda has hired her to paint a Margaritaville-themed mural on her back porch. Chances are, Sharon and I will spend very little time here at my house.

But I still wish my bedroom and bathroom were finished so she can see how fabulous it is going to look when complete. However, it has occurred to me that the fact the remodel is incomplete will give her a good reason to come back and visit soon.

More than anything, the remodel has accomplished what nothing else could — it has diverted my attention from my blog.

I am not too happy about that.

my best friend

(Heather is taking a much-needed break this weekend and I, Sharon, am writing a post in her stead.)

• When I was five, my best friend was the neighbor lady’s granddaughter. We played together in her grandmother’s backyard, swinging wildly on the playset made out of two metal triangles joined with a steel rod and firmly shoved into the ground. My fingernails were longer and more nicely manicured than hers, and she pushed me off my swing once just to see me break one. I ran home crying as she laughed at me and taunted, “sissy girl!” at my back. That was my best friend when I was five.

• When I was ten, my best friend was a troublemaker who stole the Timex wristwatch I got for my ninth birthday and tried to talk me into stealing a pen from the town library (I wouldn’t). We’d play Barbie dolls in the bedroom she shared with her two older sisters, and talk, in low voices, about what it would be like to kiss a boy. “I wonder what it would be like to cave,” she confided, “Just like Natalie says on Facts of Life–” (I had no idea what she was talking about.) That was my best friend, when I was ten.

• When I was fifteen, my best friend listened to WKKW “boot-kickin” radio (a country music station), knew how to quilt, and kept a book of wallpaper samples in her room to look at so she’d know how she’d decorate a house of her own, if she ever had one. She said she liked being around me because I made her laugh. She knew how to cook. Sometimes we walked a mile to the grocery store just to buy a carton of ice cream and a handful of candy bars, and we’d eat them all by ourselves once we got home. Sometimes, walking places, a pickup truck would drive past and honk and she’d say, “D’you hear that? Did you see that guy looking at me?” and I’d feel, quietly, the littlest bit insulted (how did she know it was for her?). But I never said anything, because I didn’t want to fight about it (and she was probably right). Those were waters I didn’t care to navigate. That was my best friend, when I was fifteen.

• When I was twenty, my best friend was a fiesty blonde who dropped out of high school and went to college on a G.E.D. We went to flea markets together and shopped for outrageously cheap antique clothes. We read insatiably. She had a way of saying “supposebly” instead of “supposedly,” something that would have bothered me in anyone else, but her way it was cute. We got in one big fight when we were both going into the library and I put my finger to my lips and said “Shhh” before we walked in. She took offense to that, asking me why it was I assumed she didn’t know how to act in public. I didn’t mean that, but we never cleared it up. She was honest to a fault. She generally couldn’t ever let something rest but had to stir it up, track it down, iron it out and pin it flat before all parties involved agreed upon it and signed a treatise for future understanding. She had a way of losing things that were valuable. I loved her dearly, but I somehow let her drop out of my sight. Sometimes I’m not the most observant person on the planet.

• When I was twenty-five, my best friend was an aesthetician who invited me everywhere and sent over Chinese food when she and her husband had ordered too much for themselves. We had sons about the same age, and we had them play together almost every day. Sometimes she went through her closet and gave me clothes she was tired of, or perfume she’d tried and didn’t care for but thought I’d enjoy. She was kind and generous and thoughtful. She adored the writer Danielle Steel and we had to walk past her mansion in Pacific Heights at least once a week (“Just think if she ever came out and talked to us! What would I say!”). Then she moved away and I had to walk past the mansion alone. It wasn’t nearly as fun without her to share it with. That was my best friend when I was twenty-five.

• When I was thirty, my best friend became Melonie, who I met in the parking lot of our children’s elementary school, waiting to pick them up every afternoon. It became understood that I would get out of my car and go sit in hers to have a lively conversation while our younger children swapped toys from various Happy Meals. Melonie won’t wear jewelry, drives better than I do, has an IQ of about 200, can read Dean Koontz without having nightmares, and has no qualms about speaking her mind. Melonie is still my best friend. I love her dearly.

• When I was about thirty-six, I met Heather. In many ways, my friendship with Heather is different than any other friendship I’ve ever had. I’ve seen her much less, yet I feel I know her pretty well, and in some cases better, than some. Like my other friends, she has no qualms about speaking her mind. She is kind and generous and thoughtful. She is honest to a fault. She says I make her laugh.

Heather has the most delicate and exquisite sneeze on the planet. She knows cardiac like nobody’s business. She has a way of doing kind and thoughtful things for people all the time, not that she’d ever advertise it, because she’s not that kind of a person. She’s fiercely loyal and protective of those whom she loves. And she makes me laugh, too. I love her sense of humor. I love the way her mind works. You wouldn’t believe how much we have in common. Sometimes I feel like we were separated at birth.

I’ve loved all my friends, in their seasons, for different reasons; but I find, if I were mapping it on a graph, in my thirties my friendships have had a way of getting better as I grow older. I’ve learned to appreciate them differently. As if we learn how to navigate, over time — we begin to learn how to intuit, observe, seek and find, within our maps of human geography. Or maybe that’s just me.

Because of knowing Heather I’ve also started to learn how to talk things out; find different ways to react to old triggers; how to reach out to the people I love. I learned it from watching Heather, because she’s so good at it — the navigation and the observation. And she won’t take credit for it, either, because she’s not that kind of a person. At the Cedar Point trip it was Melonie who said, “You rock, Heather! You get us in touch with our feelings!” And Heather got a hug from Melonie and I didn’t.
I’m finding that there are some people you meet, who end up making you a better person just by the sheer virtue of association. And that in turn, you come to appreciate every other friendship in your life that much more. It just goes on amplifying. And it’s all good.

And that’s thanks in part to you, my dear friend Heather.

the birdcage

I’m sick.

Miserably sick.

The type of sick where you feel like you might have enough energy to take a shower except you find that you don’t and you stand swaying, pale-faced and sweaty, in front of the bathroom mirror and you clutch at the sink for support and consider sticking your face in the sink just because the porcelain looks cool and inviting.

Yes, that sick.

But I have to advise that, if one must get so sick, one should have friends like mine around to make life bearable.

My illness started on Sunday. I attempted to lessen my misery by taking a daytime cold remedy. Regular cold remedies knock me out cold (heh) for a minimum of eight hours. Daytime cold remedies, however, make me loopy. They make everyone wish I was knocked out cold instead of flitting about acting stoned and silly. Hence, my conversation with Sharon:

“Sharon.”

“Hmmmm?”

“Which drug makes you feel like your eyes are open, even when they are closed?”

“Girl, you’re trippin’.”

After making poor Sharon suffer my looniness all day Sunday (I am a drunken dialer. I call my friends when I am under the influence and make them listen to me.), I decided daytime cold medicine was not my friend.

And then, tonight, I was lamenting to her that the movie store did not have a copy of The Birdcage. If there was one movie that I felt could make my life bearable during this miserable bout with the flu, it would have been The Birdcage. And just what kind of movie store doesn’t have The Birdcage in stock? I ask you.

But Sharon came to my rescue again when she pulled up quotes from the movie and acted them out using all of the voices and accents until I was laughing so hard I thought I might pee. Seriously.

My personal favorite was when she did this scene:

Agador: My father was the shaman of his tribe and my mother was the high priestess.
Armand: So why the hell did they move to New Jersey?
Agador: I don’t know, they’re so stupid.

Sharon does a dead on Hank Azaria/Agador impersonation. I’m just sayin’.

It’s my conclusion that all of the cold and flu remedies are pretty frackin’ useless but the old cliched medicine? Laughter? It is a tried and true cure.
Thanks, Sharon. I am so glad you are my best friend.

like mother, like daughter

One of my mother’s pet peeves is when moviegoers open their cell phones in the theater. She doesn’t like the glare. Since my mother has never been the type to sit back and suffer quietly, the result is that she always leans forward and asks the offender to close their phone with the explanation that it “is practically blinding me!”

Me, I’ve never cared about the light from cell phones because I understand that many people, like my husband, are on call most of the time and have to look at their cell phones when they buzz to determine if the call needs to be answered. Also, there are lots of parents, like me, whose children are with a babysitter and they need to make sure the call isn’t from her. Plus, it doesn’t bother me because — it just doesn’t. What bothers some does not bother others. That’s just life.

What does bother me is that people tend to get pissy when my mom asks them to close their cell phones. Thus, when Mom and I were at a showing of Music and Lyrics on Saturday night and three teenage girls sat down in front of us and immediately flipped open their phones, I warned my mother (who was already leaning forward in her seat), “If you yell at them for opening their cell phones, I will be SO pissed.” She asked, “Why? It hurts my eyes!” I answered, “Because you do it at every. movie. we. see.”

I never expected my pleas to stop her, but they did. She sat back to enjoy the movie. I even offered, “I don’t mind moving somewhere else if the phones are going to bother you.” But she said she was okay and so we sat back to enjoy the show.

Except the girls were not just flipping their phones open long enough to turn down the ringer or check a call or text message. Nooooo, they actually started dialing numbers and sending texts and leaning toward each other and whispering and giggling and passing the phones between them.

After only a couple of minutes, I leaned forward, irritated, and said, “Hey. Take your stuff somewhere else!” One of the girls answered, “Why don’t you mind your own business and take yourSELF somewhere else!”

I looked at her for a second (I was bitch-slapping her in my mind. It was a lovely fantasy.) and said, “Uh-huh. I’m getting a manager.”

I did go find a manager and he agreed to ask the girls to leave but, by the time I returned, they had already fled. My mother said, “You scared them away. They left as soon as you walked out. I guess if I was a good mother, I would have followed them to make sure they weren’t beating you up.”

We enjoyed the rest of the movie and walked into the lobby afterwards. I feel like my mother exercised remarkable restraint in waiting until then to say, “Uh-huh. You didn’t want me to make a scene and yet you got into an argument with them?” I just smiled sheepishly and said, “Yeah, well . . .”

Later, when I was relating the story to Jellyhead, she remarked, “So that’s where you get your spunk and outspoken-ness!”

I couldn’t argue and I guess I have to admit that the old saying is true: Like mother, like daughter.

one word

Use ony one word…..Not as easy as you might think.

1. Where is your cell phone?
counter

2. Your Vehicle?
garage

3. Your hair?
dark

5. Your father?:
love

6. Your favorite thing?:
sleep

7. Your dream last night?:
private

8. Your favorite drink?:
calorie-less

10. The room you’re in?:
den

11. Your ex?
religious

12. You are?
worried

13. What do you want to be in 10 years?
traveling

14. Who did you hang out with today?
Ryan

15. What you’re not?
timid

16. Muffins?:
cinnamon

17. One of your wish list items?
jacuzzi

18. Where is the ______ ?:
earring

19. The last thing you did?
chatted

20. What are you wearing?:
T-shirt

21. Your favorite TV show?:
SVU

22. Your pet(s)?:
snuggly

23. Your computer?:
vital

24. Your life?:
charmed

25. Your mood?:
pensive

26. Missing?
her

27. What are you thinking about right now?
fear

28. Your Shoes?:
non-existent

29. Your work?:
fulfilling

30. Your summer?
hot

31. Your favorite color?

blue