Black Friday – A Cautionary Tale

I admit it…proudly. I have, up until this year, been a Black Friday Virgin. Never gone before, never had a desire to. But something entirely unexpected happened this week to change all that. Derek actually found something in one of the sale ads that caught his eye. Please understand…Derek does NOT shop. So when something in an ad actually peaks his interest, action is required. Not surprisingly, his interest was in the Menards ad. For those unfamiliar with the Midwest, Menards is a hardware store. What a shock. Derek was intrigued by a few fabulously priced tidbits that he thought would make good Christmas gifts and actually expressed, if not an actual desire, a willingness to go to the store on Black Friday of all days in order to secure these treasures at a spectacular price. For those unfamiliar with the origins of the term “Black Friday” I should explain that this designation commemorates what is, for many stores, the first day of the year that their books are actually in “The Black”, meaning, they make a nice tidy profit. The idea is to lure you into the store with a few great sales and once they have you there, entice you to spend your children’s college funds on Christmas gifts.

I strongly suspected this was all nothing but a lot of talk on Derek’s part because Derek doesn’t like to go shopping…ever, let alone at 5:30 in the morning. We went to bed Thanksgiving night with me fully expecting to sleep in until 8:00 am. That’s when the unexpected happened; Colt, who is presently working at radio shack while waiting to marry Michelle and go into the army, had to be at work by 4:00 a.m. and as usual, he had not planned ahead and had no clean socks. Socks being a dire and urgent need, he thought nothing of tromping into our room at 3:30 in the morning to commandeer some of his father’s socks. I hate it when he does that. It makes me regret that I didn’t drown him when he was too young to struggle. Sadly, once I was awake, there was no going back to sleep. I tried…really I did. But by 4:30 I knew I was done for the night and started to get up. To my amazement, I heard Derek’s voice beside me in the dark! “Where are we going”? I was perplexed…“Ummm….to the bathroom”? He popped out of bed and informed me that we were going to Menards! If you know Derek at all I’m sure you are currently thinking that Menards must have been selling bars of solid gold for a nickel a piece in order to lure him out of bed, but the truth is, it was pretty mundane stuff!
I have an adventurous spirit, and this foray into Black Friday seemed like the perfect holiday adventure. I jumped up and got dressed and by 5:00 am Derek and I were pulling into the parking lot of Menards. There was a line, but not an unmanageable one, certainly not the nightmarish lines that I have seen on the news where mobs of crazed shoppers rushed forward and practically knocked down buildings. Derek dropped me off with instructions to secure a place in line while he searched for a parking place. We were actually having fun! There was a lighthearted mood of anticipation amongst the shoppers and people chatted with whoever was next to them in line. This all seemed pretty easy. A few minutes in line and we would save a bundle because of the great prices. Then the elderly woman in front of us mentioned some nonsense about only another hour to wait. That was impossible. The store opened at 5:30. I mentioned this to her and she firmly corrected me. Seems Derek got the times wrong and the store didn’t actually open until 6:00 am. Still okay…we were there to have a fun little adventure. We could wait an extra half hour…in a light fall jacket…in 39 degree weather…it would be fun…really…

By 5:30 I realized that I had burned all of my spare calories shivering and probably should have eaten breakfast before we left. I offered to wait in line while Derek drove to Burger King for some much needed French Toast Sticks but he was feeling gallant and said I could go get the food while he waited. I headed across the parking lot to get the car and looking around, realized that if I forfeited my parking place the nearest one I would be able to get upon my return was at our house. I headed back to our spot in line determined to stick it out even though I was starting to feel queasy, but Derek insisted on walking to the McDonalds just down the road. My hero! Feeling renewed and invigorated after some hot chocolate and a McGriddle, we faced the final twenty minutes or so with renewed enthusiasm. By now the line ran right around the parking lot and out to the street. The woman in front of us asked if this was our first store of the morning. FIRST? It was 5:45! How many stores could we possibly have been to already?? Turns out JC Penney’s opened at 4:00! The crowd was starting to stir restlessly. About five minutes to six we noticed that there were a number of people gathering in the parking lot directly in front of the entrance to the store and that’s when things started to get ugly.
The shoppers who had been waiting in line for two hours started crowding towards the door, fearful that these latecomers might actually get into the store before them. Eyes became wild at the thought that these interlopers might get to the $2.00 leather gloves before they could. Comments started flying from the shoppers in line. “Hey, go to the back of the line, we’ve been waiting here for hours”. Fierce inquiries were thrown to the security guards standing at the entrance. “You’re not gonna let them in are you”. The crowd kept pushing in with more fervor. I’m REALLY claustrophobic and this was NOT entertaining! This was a BAD adventure! People in line literally started chanting “Go to the back, go to the back”. Derek and I started laughing. This was unbelievable. At 6:00 a.m. the doors opened. We were swept up in a mad surge. The line crowd cheered as we flooded past the group of parking lot crashers being held at bay by security. As we burst through the glass doors in a wave, Derek was literally swept away from me and we were separated. I tried over and over again to reach a cart but each time I reached for one someone else would pull it from my short little fingertips. I was really only interested in the cart as a possible defensive weapon if things got any uglier. A tall woman finally took mercy on me and pulled a cart towards me. As I wrapped my fingers around the side of the cart, a man grabbed the handle and jerked the cart out of my hand. I gave up and headed in the Direction I thought Derek might have been swept. Just as I finally caught sight of him, I heard a thunderous voice behind me bellowing “keep it moving, keep it moving”! A split second later I was slammed to one side by a really big woman who literally body checked me out of her way with her shoulder. I raced towards Derek and hid under his arm as the crowd surged past us. He’s big. I can do that. He laughed at me and huddled me close to him. From there we successfully found all of the treasures that he had on his list and headed over to the paint department. The aisles were a virtual sea of writhing, shopping humanity. We just kept laughing at the insanity of it all. There were a few tempting looking deals that I wanted to check out, so Derek headed towards the quickly growing line at the checkout so our wait would be a little shorter. I spotted a really great deal on reed diffuser gift sets and picked one off the shelf to test the scratch and sniff sticker on the front of the package. Having sampled one, I picked up another in my other hand. As I sniffed the second sticker a woman actually snatched the other one out of my hand, glared at me and stomped off, apparently in search of other things to grab out of unsuspecting shopper’s hands. At that I knew I was done with Black Friday forever and started crowd surfing my way back to the registers where I finally landed right back under Derek’s arm where it was safe and sound. While at least 75% of the shoppers there were cheery, polite people, the other 25% were certifiably insane. I would prefer not to shop with them again…ever.

After Menards, Derek decided to take me to Target. I think it was his way of apologizing for the severe trauma I suffered at Menards. Unsurprisingly, Target seemed unwilling to demean themselves with anything as crass as a Black Friday sale, so it was relatively peaceful there. We found a couple of boxes of ornaments and a few other tidbits and hit the register in record time. We watched as the clerk rang up our purchases, two little dollar books and the two boxes of ornaments…Derek cleared his throat. “Ummm…those ornaments had better be made from real elves. The clerk and I both looked at him trying to understand the thought process behind the comment as he tapped his index finger on the display screen. The register indicated that we now owed Target $517.00. Yes, the ornaments HAD better be made of real elves. The harried (and obviously new) clerk summoned a supervisor as Derek tried to look sincere and patient instead of pointing and laughing. A lot of button pushing and debate ensued, the upshot of which was that the customer ahead of us had apparently not been run up correctly and so her payment hadn’t registered. Target had just donated $500 dollars worth of merchandise to one happy shopper. Merry Christmas to you lady!

Derek and I decided that while our foray into Black Friday had been entertaining, we would be happier never doing it again and headed home to sort through our spoils of war.
As Black Friday was also my sister’s birthday (no reflection on you Jeannie) I had arranged to spend the afternoon with her. She and Jess and I had lunch as Jazz downtown. A great Cajun place with surprisingly good alligator for being in Nebraska (it’s so hard to get good alligator in the Midwest). After lunch we stopped at a quaint Christmas shop in the Old Market called Tannenbaum. In a fit of nostalgia, I had been pining away for a German decoration that we had when I was a child. It’s called a Christmas Pyramid. It has balsa wood blades above a diorama and candles around it. You light the candles and the warm air pushes the blades causing the carousel to spin. The one I grew up with had eventually succumbed to old age and I was thinking how nice it would be to have another when we found a nice little one tucked away in a display cabinet in the shop. I eagerly made the purchase and also purchased candles so that we could try it out when we got home. After our shopping, we headed out to see New Moon. It was significantly better than its predecessor, Twilight. Frankly it would have been hard for it to be worse. After an hour and a half of feeling like pedophiles for ogling the 17 year old actor who plays Jacob (a werewolf) we headed home to put up the Christmas tree. I have decided that I will have surgery every year just before Christmas so other people will have to put all of my Christmas decorations for me. This is a good plan. While Jess and I were prepping the tree and sorting through ornaments, Jeannie decided to get my newly acquired German treasure set up. Jess made some flippant comment about how only the German’s would make a Christmas decoration that combined balsa wood and fire. Not two minutes later Jeannie howled something that sounded suspiciously like “FIRE”. The acrid smell of burning wood hit my nose as I looked over to see my pretty Christmas Pyramid turn into a spinning flame thrower. As we stood staring at it in horror, Jess grabbed it and tossed in into the kitchen sink. Here’s the interesting thing, while the pyramid made no mention of being for decoration only, I noticed later that the back of the box of candles cautioned. “These candles are for decoration purposes only. We do not recommend lighting these candles. If you wish to light these candles, do not burn for longer than 90 minutes. Really? Decorative candles that you aren’t supposed to burn? Why would you waste a wick on a candle that you’re not supposed to burn?

Once the furor of the moment died down it seemed reasonable for us to disband before we managed to burn down the entire house. Thus ended our most interesting Black Friday ever.

Another Thanksgiving day and, as always, I am in a reflective mood. What an amazing year it has been, full of triumphs, tragedies and failures and personally, I am grateful for them all. We saw the birthday of our third and fourth grandchildren. Actually, I literally saw the birth of our grandson. That was an amazing experience that I am grateful to have been a participant in. I will admit that having never seen a life birth from THAT side of the birthing bed, I was a little surprised that the nurses and midwives didn't look more panicked at C.J.'s appearance when he first popped out. I was fairly certain that Heather had given birth to a wad of used chewing gum, but after a few minutes he took on a much more baby like appearance and within the hour was completely adorable.

In August I took a leap of faith and quit my job with ConAgra to embrace our part time photography business full time at the risk of our financial security. In truth, chances were pretty good that my salary at ConAgra wasn't going to make or break us, but there was a very real possibility that I would have to cut back on shopping, decorating and pedicures and possibly even have to cut back to one color with no highlights on my hair. You have no idea how hard this is to admit because undoubtedly, you all thought that at 48 I still didn't have a single gray hair yet. I even magnanimously offered to stop getting my hair colored when I quit ConAgra, but after a couple of months, Derek ever so tactfully suggested that since I do a lot of senior portraits, it would be bad for my business image to have gray hair. I decided not to take it as an insult and just enjoy the fact that I had permission to keep getting it done.

This year we also enjoyed our children's many triumphs. Chi graduated the police academy and is now with the Omaha Police department. When I asked him if he enjoyed his new job he simply stated "Mom, they let me carry a gun...all the time". Apparently that says it all. Mark graduated from BYU-Idaho and even before graduation had three solid job offers. We were thrilled when he accepted a job with Lockheed in Colorado Springs as a software engineer, since it's a lot closer to us than Idaho Falls! We have watched Colt's present, start to gel and solidify into an exciting future. He and Michelle are getting married in February and Colt is going into the Army in communications in March.

While this isn't a particularly funny or witty post, I wanted to prove that I do have a serious side and put in writing my thoughts about the blessings in my life.

I am incredibly grateful for my family. What awesome children I have! I am grateful to see that each of them has become exactly what I have hoped for since they were born. Good people. Everything else is icing. They are loving, kind and caring people and have found wonderful spouses (and pre-spouses). I love seeing them interacting with their own families and developing these amazing lives of their own.

In addition to our amazing children, we now have four fabulous grandchildren. THIS is a fabulous thing! Our favorite hobby now is babysitting the grandchildren. The best part is hopping the kids up on sugar right before bedtime and then giving them back to their parents! I live for my phone chats with Eden and love hearing about Autumns daily antics.

Derek and I are embracing the freedom of having all of our kids grown and having more time to spend with each other. We are enjoying learning more about the people we have become 29 years after marrying. It is mind boggling to realize that we will have been married for 29 years in December. Marriage is it's very own adventure and what I've learned in all this time is to be grateful for each others qualities and to work through the hard times because, it's worth it in the end.

In August, I had my 48th birthday. (Let's face it. I have four grandchildren, there is absolutely no point lying about my age). As a birthday present, Derek rallied the troops and together they bought me glass blowing classes! This has become an exciting new hobby that I really love. To get the details on my adventures in glass blowing, you might want to read my early blogs;-).

So on a completely serious note, I will end this blog on a serious note by expressing my gratitude for the gospel. For the lessons we learn and for the patience and love that our Heavenly Father has for us. I am incredibly grateful for my family and for all the years that they have put up with me and loved me. In particular, I am thankful for Derek. For his love for me and his dedication to our marriage. I love him so. I am also very grateful for extended family and for friends. I have enjoyed reconnecting with lost family members on Facebook and have enjoyed the friendship of amazing people who support my choices and efforts. I hope you enjoyed this foray into sincerity and serious because it makes me feel all funny and will not be repeated very often.

Love to all of my friends and family and a Happy Thanksgiving!

Observations on stuff

I know I haven’t blogged in a while, things have been a little crazy, but I have some things to say.

In my recent day to day dealing I have noted some situations in the world around me that need fixing. The first is woman’s fashion. In Jurassic Park, Jeff Goldblum gives a great speech about how being ABLE to do something doesn’t mean that we SHOULD do it. I know he was referring to the genetic engineering of dinosaurs in the 20th century, but this is more important. I would like to relate this to women’s fashion and suggest that just because we CAN make spandex leggings in a size 28 doesn’t mean that we SHOULD make spandex leggings in a size 28. There are actually a lot of sizes that they shouldn’t make leggings in, as well as a lot of other clothing. This was brought home to me with nauseating clarity while shopping for clothes a few weeks ago, when a woman came into the store wearing bright yellow leggings (in at least a size 28, maybe more) with what looked to be a size 6 CROP TOP. There should be laws! Not only could you see every seam of her underwear, you could determine the exact weave and thread count. You could also determine the depth of the divots in her cellulite. This is wrong. It’s a travesty against God and the Universe. To add insult to injury, her crop top was ludicrously tight with a plunging neckline that threatened to suck you into a dark and scary abyss too terrifying to contemplate. Her massive breasts teetered precariously over the top of her shirt and though I hesitate to traumatize readers by admitting it, also seemed in danger of oozing out the bottom of her shirt. I looked at her and wondered does she not have a mirror? Should someone buy her one? I would like to suggest that there be laws of fashion governing this. Maybe a law that states leggings can only be worn by 18 year old women who are a size four or less, because frankly leggings are something that very few women should wear. I’m sorry. I know this is harsh and I will freely and honestly confess my own hypocrisy and admit that I do indeed own a pair of leggings, but rest assured that they are worn only for exercise and even then only in the privacy of my own home, under a baggy t-shirt that goes to my knees and only in the dark. I take these precautions so that no one is in danger of the psychological scarring that I endured upon seeing that woman in the clothing store. Ladies! Have a little dignity! And to the fashion industry I would add the plea to refrain from allowing us to indulge in these fashion faux paux by ceasing to manufacture psychologically damaging clothing. We will be a better and happier society for it.

Now on to my next issue. Cell phones. My friend, Jess, and I recently attended a conference with a company that we buy our skin care products from. We had both signed up to be “consultants” for the company and were promised $150 worth of products if we attended their all day seminar. Okay, the truth is we have no intention of being consultants, but if you sign up, in addition to the ‘gift’ for attending, you get to buy all of your own products at 50% off. Guaranteed, I will be my own best customer. We did discover that “spa” is now apparently a verb. Women there said things like “I spa’d my husband the other night”. Kinky. And somehow infinitely more disturbing when she would add that she has also spa’d her mother-in-law the next day. Truth be told though, I love to “spa”. It’s decadent. You can just lose yourself in the creams and scrubs and soaps. It’s very addictive, but I digress…again…You may be wondering what all of this has to do with cell phones. I’ll tell you. There was a young woman there who was obviously never told that there are rules of etiquette that come with a cell phone. Can you say vibrate? Or better yet, here’s a thought. Maybe there isn’t really anything so urgent that we can’t just turn our cell phones off for half an hour. I know…shocking.

So not only is this woman’s phone NOT on vibrate, she has it turned up full blast. Every twenty minutes or so it would start ringing and the woman, in an obvious attempt to incite a riot, would wait until the third or fourth ring to respond. It wasn’t even a voice call, just a notification that she had received yet another text. To add insult to injury her texting was set to sound. Every letter of every text heralded another annoying little beep. There she would sit, ignoring the glares of 30 ticked off women…beep beep beep beep beep beep…beep beep…beep beep beep. Like morse code. I’m A.D.D. Ignoring the incessant beeping was impossible. I started fantasizing about diabolical and horrific ways to retaliate for the psychological torment she was inflicting. I don’t want to offend anyone, but unless you are a doctor (on call) or possibly a nuclear physicist who unbeknownst to the rest of the world has inside knowledge that there is a meteor headed straight for earth and will incinerate the planet in 30 minutes unless you can come up with a solution immediately, you are probably not important enough to need to be in constant contact twenty four hours a day. If it is not possible to be away from your children, boyfriend, husband or office for an hour without texting them, then you probably shouldn’t have left in the first place. Another little revelation for you cell phone addicts? Yes, everyone in the theater CAN see your glaring little three inch screen in the dark. And it’s annoying! Sigh…thank you. I needed to get that off my chest. Oh wait…BRB…my BFF just texted.

Now multiply the length by the width and divide by infinity...

I have a headache. It is not a health induced headache. Nor is it in any way physiological, or neurological. It is an HGTV headache. For those lay people who are not decorating enthusiasts, I am referring to Home & Garden Television. I watch their station with a nearly religious zeal. I do this because of a condition I have which has been diagnosed by my husband as O.C.D. (Obsessive Compulsive Decorating). He swears that if we are in a hotel room for longer than 24 hours, I will decorate it. Is it so wrong to want to add some fresh flowers to a room?? I would refute his allegations, but the evidence is in the paint. We have owned our current house for 8 years and I have painted and redecorated the dining room six times. The downstairs bathroom has been redone 4 times and three out of four of the upstairs bedrooms have been repainted at least 3-4 times. Oh, and the family room has been redone five times. I have redone the kitchen cabinets twice. Once, when Derek was away in Japan, I decided to paint our bedroom…in the middle of the night. Thank heaven for 24 hour Wal-marts. You get the gist.

Now, I can’t blame any of the HGTV television shows directly, but I do feel that they deliberately led me to my current plight. The thing is, I keep watching these shows where some trendy designer checks out some poor schmucks real estate nightmare and then comes back two days later, whips out a laptop and procedes to show the home owner a fabulous new, Technicolor, 3D…practically holographic depiction of the perfect solution to all of their décor woes. With the slightest click of the mouse, the walls change color, other walls dissolve to unveil a brand new dining room and floor coloring changes with digital flourish.

My O.C.D. little brain went into overdrive the first time I saw this wondrous marvel of decorating technology. I wanted that! I could feel the décor lust kick in. Since that first tease, I have poured hungrily over programs that promised the same miracles for at least two years.

As spring hit this year, my brain only had room for the yard. For months I have decorated the yard, weeded the yard, entertained in the yard and relaxed in the yard. Like a kitten who has had way too much attention paid to it by a 3 year old tormentor, you could almost feel the house breathe a sigh of relief at my obvious distraction, but we have recently been hit by an early fall and as the temperature dropped, my thoughts have turned back to the interior and all of the things I have neglected. After a three day HGTV/DIY binge, I lost my battle with reason.

I was at Office Max having some senior portrait proof magazines bound when I saw it, a beautiful box boasting a glossy photo of a stunning home promised me that if I had their software, I could transform my living space. Deep in my soul I knew that if I just had that software, I could make my home look like the one on the cover. My daughter had mentioned that her husband bought her a home decorating program for her birthday. If she could do it, I knew I could too! I should have remembered that her husband is a software engineer.

I knew the box felt too heavy when I picked it up and cradled it close to my heart, giddy with anticipation, but I was in deep denial and didn’t question it’s heft. I took it home and eagerly slit through the clear seal spanning the opening to the box.

It is my belief that not mentioning that this software comes with a SEVEN HUNDRED page manual is a gross oversight on the part of HGTV and their software developers. This is a highly relevant piece of information that could have significantly impacted my decision regarding this particular purchase.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, I decided that as a computer literate, tech savvy women, I would not be daunted by this minor setback, and setting the monstrous manual aside I confidently installed the software and opened up the design program, eager to begin creating my new and undoubtedly fabulous 1920's inspired, art deco library. After wading through their “House Design Wizard” and lying through my teeth about dimensions and roof type and basement wall depth and so on, my first design screen popped up. It looked nothing like my house. In fact it was just a big, square, white, wasteland. I felt my optimism start to plummet. Steeling my resolve, I opened the manual.

I would like to suggest to HGTV that in addition to mentioning the 700 page manual on the front of the box, they should also put, in a large, highlighted box…in bold type…that in order to use this software, they would advise first securing an advanced degree…preferably a doctorate...in architectural engineering. WHAT WERE THEY THINKING!? There are 58 chapters, all pointing out in graphic detail, that I am completely inadequate in every conceivable way to the task of designing a room with their software! Who knew Tolstoy wrote tech manuals! I am not averse to the idea of going back to college, but I didn’t really want to have to do it simply to be able to use a bit of decorating software. And in case you are thinking "oh, well it's probably only a hundred pages long and in 7 different languages", you are mistaken. Every word on every page is in English. Completely unintelligible English, but English none-the-less.

After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that it will be significantly cheaper to hire a professional designer to bring their laptop to my house and show me THEIR beautiful 3D designs than it will be to pay 8-9 years of tuition to get my doctorate. Because I am a stubborn woman, I will take a crack at using this software, but don’t be surprised if my house ends up looking like a Salvador Dali painting.

I'll trade you two puree's and a cat's eye for a boulder

Today was the perfect autumn day! The air was crisp, the clouds scudded across the sky in steely gray swirls, miniature wind devils caused fiery red and orange and yellow leaves to dance frenetically across the garden and the smell of wood smoke wafted in the air. For some reason autumn always invigorates me. Maybe it’s the crispness of the air or the fiery colors. Whatever it is, I just feel more…vivid in the fall.

I got my photo editing work done early in the day so that I could play hooky with Derek this afternoon. We had an exciting adventure planned with our granddaughter, Julia.

Derek picked Julia up on his way home from work and the three of us headed out to Valla’s Pumpkin Patch for an afternoon of adventure. Valla’s is a huge farm on the outskirts of town that, most appropriately, grows pumpkins of every imaginable shape, size and even color. For a few short weeks every fall the place is transformed into a magical autumn wonderland. Every nook and cranny is a picture perfect scene of autumnal bliss. A large red painted barn with white trim sits bursting at the seams with pumpkins and cornstalks, bales of hay and mum’s of every conceivable color. The paths are lined with wooden carts laden with more pumpkins and oddly grotesque looking gourds. Much to Julia’s delight, another barn was filled with every bit of Halloween paraphernalia imaginable. There were gruesome rubber masks and freakishly large spiders as well as princess tiara’s and The Sorting Hat from Harry Potter. She tried everything on.

The farm is located several miles from the outskirts of the city amidst perfect rolling hills. It couldn’t have looked better if it were a Hollywood designed set.

Interestingly enough, I would swear in court that I have never been there before today. Derek, on the other hand, swears that I have been there no less than three times. The sad truth is I have no idea which one of us is right. Senility in one so young is a terrible thing.
From the moment we pulled into the parking lot, Julia went into overdrive. Her tiny two year old body could barely contain her excitement. Watching her leaping from one foot to the other reminded me of the Mexican jumping beans we would pick up in Tijuana when I was a kid. If you haven’t seen them, they’re really pretty amazing. It’s a bean that has had a tiny worm burrow its way into the center. As the worm squirms around inside the bean, it makes it jump around, hence the name jumping beans. That was what Julia was like today. 200 psi of excitement crammed into a 25 lb body. There was a real possibility of a spontaneous implosion occurring.

Julia wanted to do everything…twice. First we looked through an area with dioramas of children’s stories and fairy tales. Ancient looking paper Mache’ figures looked as though they had seen better years, but still had a certain charm that was not missed by Julia’s keen eye.

We raced from one activity to another as though they would announce a winner at the end of the day for the person who saw the most in the shortest time. We made it through the maize maze in record time (that would be the record for the longest it has ever taken to find ones way out of the maze. It is NOT prudent to put a two year old in charge of direction selection in these delicate circumstances).

We stopped for a soft pretzel and Derek got a roasted turkey leg that looked like it came off a world class body builder. Next we meandered through a quaint looking sort of general store. Julia found at least five different items that caused her to exclaim “I want this”! Papa finally told her she had to pick just one. The undisputed winner was a bright orange, jack-o-lantern lollipop the size of her head. While they haggled over the purchase I discovered, to my intense delight, two huge bins filled with every size and color of marble imaginable. I was instantly transported back to the fifth grade. 

One of my darkest secrets, one even my closest friends aren’t aware of…until now…is that in my youth, I was a colossal marble junkie. I couldn’t get enough. I had a world class (at least to my 10 year old mind) marble collection. Every recess, every lunch hour, every bus stop wait, before AND after school was spent playing marbles. An addiction like this was a huge burden for a 10 year old girl to bear, especially in the dark days before 12 step programs. I knew all the lingo; Purees, cat’s eyes, boulders, devil’s eye, corkscrews, snakes, ribbons, Aggies. I even had a lucky shooter. It was a mesmerizing clear blue puree. I was a marble connoisseur. 

 Each day at lunch, my cronies and I would hunker down on our haunches around our favorite marble circle and the negotiations would begin. Sometimes marble trades were spoils of war. The winner picked a particular marble that he had long coveted as his prize for winning. Other times we would simply trade. I say simply, when in fact there was nothing simple about it. We would launch into negotiations so intense you would have thought we were holding international peace talks. I would eyeball each trade offering carefully, looking for signs of imperfections in the glass, or worse, cracks. I looked for color quality and uniqueness of swirl patterns. If I’d known what a jewelers loop was I’d have had one. We played our games with a fierce intensity. 

Now here I was, standing there, hypnotized by the swirls and colors in the huge bins. A large sign above the bins announced that the marbles were $3.00 a bag. A little wooden peg beneath the sign held a dozen or so off white cloth bags waiting to be filled. It may have been because autumn always makes me feel nostalgic, but before I knew what I was doing, I found myself rifling carefully through the bins of marbles accessing each marble with the immaculate attention to detail of a diamond merchant. I worked feverishly to fill my bag as Derek stood there, shaking his head, knowing better than to question why a grown woman was loading up on marbles.

After sufficiently quenching my marble lust, we moved on to more Julia-centric activities. We tried to hit everything that would be dear to a two year old. We took the train ride around the perimeter of the farm, passing mock towns peopled by dusty and aging paper Mache’ townsfolk. We even saw an entire wall of mounted singing fish flopping in time to a wormy looking mannequin whistling the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show. Julia was in heaven and was now covered from head to waist in bright orange goo from licking her lollipop.

 At one point on the train, she seemed to suddenly become aware of her sticky plight and poking her hands at me started wailing, “Nana, I’m sticky”! I marveled that this could be a sort of surprise to her considering the zeal with which she had been devouring her lolly. Between Derek’s water bottle and the packet of tissues in my purse, we were able to de-stickify her with some modicum of success and then we were off to the next adventure, which was a huge ‘sand’ box filled with kernels of corn! 

This was taking playing with your food to a colossal new level and Julia plunged in with glee. Derek followed suit and soon had her buried to her waist in corn kernels. You’ve just gotta love Nebraska. We explored too many activities to catalog here, but the highlights were a tricycle course that Lance Armstrong himself would have killed to ride, a pony ride and a lost gold mine. 

 Julia did us proud on the pony ride as she virtually leapt onto the ponies back and rode like a pro without even a flicker of nervousness. After the pony, Julia insisted that we go through the ‘Lost Gold Mine’. It was a fun walk through a ‘cave’ that was actually much larger on the inside than it looked from the outside. It too was populated by badly made, but amusing miners, some of which exhibited arthritic looking animatronics, while others didn’t move, but had voice tracks that professed “this map is no good” and other sage words of wisdom.

As we exited the cave Julia jumped up and down shouting “Again! Again!” I suggested that Papa might be an excellent choice for a second round, while I looked in the shops. Now, if Julia had come out the second time yelling “Again! Again!” I think Papa would have had the fortitude to resist her, but when she popped out, turned to Papa and said “Wanna go again Papa? Huh?” I knew she had him, so off they toddled for one last plunge into the mine shafts beneath Valla’s.

By the time they came out for the third time it was obvious that Julia was done. She kept insisting that she didn’t want to leave, but her tired eyes and fussy face betrayed her. I finally told her we had to leave because they were closing…a tiny lie for which I feel confident God will someday forgive me.

Against a darkening autumn sunset, we headed back to the car, Julia clutching a little painted pumpkin that she had chosen on our way out, and me clutching my treasured marbles. 

It was a perfect autumn day.

Oh the wicked irony!

Okay, I swear I will never joke again. The irony is too unkind. I never finished blogging about my trip. Well, I wrote the last entry while I was in Colorado, but I never posted it. This is because it took every bit of my energy just to keep up with my sweet little granddaughters. It was a brilliant visit. I enjoyed my time with Samantha and with the girls. Eden and I had a princess evening together on Thursday night while Samantha and Mark went out for the evening for their anniversary. I enjoyed everything, but through a huffing and puffing haze of fatigue. Friday evening Mark drove me back to Denver to catch the train. The train ride was a blissfully uneventful trip devoid of drunken shoulder leaners. I slept most of the way and arrived in Omaha at 6:00 am. Derek was there to meet me at the station and whisked me back to the house where I grabbed my Heritage Makers materials and headed to Bryan High school to participate in a craft fair that I had booked weeks before. Derek gallantly donned his bright shiny suit of armor and rode me to the fair on his white horse. I can think of several million things he would like to do more than spend the day at a high school craft fair, but instead he sat by my side for five hours. It was supposed to be seven, but I wimped out after five. I was bleary eyed. We got home and I quickly fell into a coma like nap and woke just in time to prepare for a family reunion photo shoot at 5:30. After two hours of shooting pictures of people who didn’t want their pictures taken, I went home and collapsed into a heap…until Monday. I missed Sunday entirely. Monday through Wednesday went by in a mucous encrusted haze. Still no blogging. Not enough energy to be witty. This morning at 6:34 I snapped. I grabbed the phone and called the base clinic for a same day appointment.

Here’s where the wicked irony kicks in. Turns out I really DO have swine flu. I believe the politically correct, 21st century term is The H1N1 virus. For any of you living in California, here’s a little warning. The typhoid Mary that kept slumping on to my shoulder was headed your direction.
You can only imagine my wry amusement this evening when I re-read my previous blog prior to posting it and discovered my prophetic little statement about my train mate giving my swine flu. So, I will try to get back onto the blogging track. There is some pretty good blog fodder coming up as my youngest son, Colt, has announced that not only is he engaged to be married, he is going into the military. I will be happy to keep you all posted as things develop. I have to go now. I have an overwhelming urge to go root around for truffles.

I am intoxicated…then validated.

The last 48 years of my life were completely validated by two events today. That seems a sufficiently compelling opening line to keep you reading to the end, don’t you think? Good, because having said that I have to back up to yesterday’s blog. In literary circles this is done as a suspense builder. In my case, I’m just doing it to be annoying.

So, the culmination of my Zen railroad experience last night was very short lived. At about 4:00 a.m. the conductor led an odiferous and obviously intoxicated woman to the seat next to mine and apologetically advised me that she needed to seat the woman next to me. She had apparently become so intoxicated that she made a huge scene in one of the club cars, shouting that someone had stolen her baggage, when, in fact, she has merely left it beneath a different table in her inebriated stupor. Each time she breathed on me, I felt my blood alcohol level rise another two points. She would let out a large sniffly snort and then slowly drift over until her head rested on my shoulder. At this point I would sit and reel from the smell of alcohol and pray that she would eventually lean over the other direction…until she fell into the isle. Yes, that would work. She snuffled and snarfled throughout the remainder of the night. I felt myself getting unhealthier just being in close proximity. I’m fairly certain she gave me swine flu.

I arrived in Denver at exactly 7:30 am as predicted and was met by the entire Knieser contingent. A three second, full on exposure to Eden’s beaming smile upon seeing me made the entire night worthwhile. The day was spent visiting, playing and shopping all punctuated by frequent cries of “Hey Nana”. While riding in the car, Eden asked me where Nebraska was. I told her it was North East of here and was far away. She replied “I know, I had to sleep a very long time for you to get here”. I appreciated and acknowledged her efforts on my behalf.

We spent a lovely day playing and shopping and visiting. We went to the mall so Eden could play in the large play area there and against my better judgment, I crawled all over the place with her, sliding down miniature snowy mountains and traversing trees and cabins, knowing I would regret it later when my muscles cooled down and started tightening.

We stopped for dinner in the food court of the mall and there, my sweet little Eden looked up at me with a beaming smile and said “I need you Nana, a whole, whole bunch”. Life validated. Everything else is just icing from here.

Later in the evening my good friend Laura came and picked us up to go for a late night snack at Village Inn. The food was more an excuse to get out and visit than a meal. Our waitress was either sick, very sleepy, drunk, or just the worst waitress to ever serve a meal in the history of waitresses. She was distracted, flakey and got pretty much every aspect of our order wrong. Laura and I suffered in semi tolerant silence. Samantha wrote the waitress a note thanking her and wishing her a good night. She finished it off with “you have a beautiful smile”. I smiled indulgently as I saw her writing the note. It was one of those “pat, pat, pat…oh how sweet” smiles.
We finished our meal (no more than 15 minutes after closing…oops). As we were waiting to pay our check, I noticed our waitress clearing our table. She picked up Samantha’s note and read it, then very gently, she folded the napkin and with her beautiful smile plastered firmly on her face, carefully placed the note in her pocket.
I smiled at my daughter. A life validated twice in one day!

Westward Ho Hum...

Due to an annoying lack of internet connection on the train this blog is being posted from Colorado Springs after being written in word.

Hah! So there Derek! My spirit of adventure is not to be taken lightly! I will not be thwarted! Even as I type, I am whisking…well, more like trundling slowly really, towards Colorado Springs on the 10:39 pm California Zephyr Amtrak, bound for points west. My beloved daughter and granddaughters have declared it long past time for a visit from Nana and I have agreed. The other day on the phone Eden, who is 2 ½ going on 16 asked me if we could have a webcam tea party this week and while I thought this was a lovely idea, I so preferred the thought of a real, in person tea party that I jumped the train and will be in Denver tomorrow morning at 7:30 am. I like traveling by train. People just don’t know what they’re missing. The seats are wider with considerably more leg room than airplanes and you can get up and wander around any time you want without a single sky marshal sizing you up or tackling you in the isle. Not that this has ever happened to me…really. The only downside to the California Zephyr, Omaha to Denver run is that it is always in the middle of the night. 10:39 is actually just a very loose number that they use as a place mark for the real departure time which is never before 11:30 pm. I don’t why they don’t just admit that the train will not be leaving until 11:30, but they don’t. The really interesting thing is that somewhere between Omaha and Denver there is obviously a worm hole because no matter what time the train actually leaves here, it will invariably arrive in Denver at the exact time originally stated on the schedule. This is proof that people in Nebraska are far less punctual than our Coloradan neighbors.
Anyway, I’ve derailed already (I thought you might appreciate the train pun). My point was that though the trip is always accomplished in the middle of the night, I don’t really mind it. Though I love riding the train through the countryside in daylight, seeing pastoral scenery and quaint towns whizz past, the truth is none of these things exist between here and Denver. It is easily the most boring stretch of country anywhere in the United States…well…except Texas…the whole state. Truckers traveling this stretch of countryside have been known to gnaw their own arms off just to keep from being driven mad by the truly boring scenery.
No, what I really enjoy about this night ride is the train itself. There is a rhythmic lull that is incredibly peaceful. It’s like Zen travel. The gentle rocking motion of the train lulls you into a peaceful tranquility. Late at night, the train is dark and quiet…okay, quiet except for the guy snoring raucously in the seat in front of me, waking occasionally just long enough to hock up a good spit wad. He is not quiet. I would like to suggest he seek a doctor’s referral for a sleep study as I’m certain he has sleep apnea. And before I get back to my blissful Zen train ride, can I just mention that the guy in the seat across from me is sleeping half on and half off his seat in an extremely uncomfortable looking position and has carried the ‘half on/half off’ theme all the way to his trousers, which are literally bunched up around his knees. Yes…I mean his knees! And I don’t mean from the bottom. I mean from the top. The waistband. IT’S AROUND HIS KNEES! Praise be, he is wearing boxers, but his trousers themselves are literally off his butt and around his knees. I am officially appalled. I’ve put up with the baggy trousers look for 11 years. Since we first moved back to the states from England as a matter of fact and I’m done. I’m ticked off and I’m not going to take it anymore. I have decided just this moment that whenever I see someone who’s pants are about to fall off I’m going to help them along. Just drop ‘em to the ground right then and there. The pants, not the person. I will probably be arrested and sent to jail for doing it, but at least there, they make everyone wear jumpsuits that completely cover your backside! Where was I? Something about Zen and peaceful quiet. Thanks guy in seat 57 B. The Zen has left the building. Okay. Once I have the picture of his tush hanging out into the isle out of my head and the other guy as stopped coughing stuff up, I will be back to explain about the peace and Zen of train travel. In the meantime I am going to watch a movie so that I can stifle the urge to pull this guys pants off.
Its 3:30 in the morning and the impossible has happened. Snoring guy is fast asleep and quiet. I’ll assume he’s still live, and boxer guy…well, I’m just not looking in that direction. I have finally achieved that train Zen that I began to soliloquize about earlier in my journey. Gazing out the window into the inky dark only yields the occasional light pinpoints of civilization off in the distance. The train sways and bounces along the tracks gently. The sounds are soft and muted and the sound of ours and other train whistles are like a lullaby. It feels like I’m in a library and should be whispering, but it doesn’t matter because it’s already silent. I have slept comfortably for three and a half hours which is about two thirds of my normal night’s sleep anyway. I am excited to see Samantha and Mark and the girls in a few hours. Today Eden has a dentist appointment, but tomorrow we will have a very grand tea party, just Mantha and Eden and Autumn and I.

A burning in my bosom...no really.

It's been several days since my last entry. I would like to tell you that it's because I've been busy climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro or something equally adventurous, but in truth it's because I haven't had anything particularly interesting to write about. My husband tells me that this is perfectly normal. He swears to me that there are people who go for days...even weeks at a time leading singularly uneventful lives and that they are actually okay with it. I say that's nonsense. I actually think that every day is packed with new adventures and insights. It's just that some adventures are more...well, adventurous than others. My adventures this week have centered around getting past pain and trying to learn to deal with my most annoying limitations. I hurt! My neck hurts, my back hurts, my elbow hurts (they say I have golfers elbow which is ridiculous because I don't golf), my shoulder hurts, my knee hurts. My chiropractor said that I have tendinitis. Everywhere. The doctor has suggested that I might have fibromyalgia. This is nonsense. I refuse to have that. It would be entirely too inconvenient. Derek says that I push myself too hard and then I pay the price for the next several days. I say if you give in to pain, it gets the better of you. Okay, there MIGHT be some wiggle room in there for a reasonable level of caution and sensibility. I just haven't found it yet. So my week has been spent trying to find that fine line between reasonable care and total capitulation. I'm not having much success. I thought I was, but Derek tells me that painting the kitchen and steam cleaning the carpets does not fall in line with the concept of "taking it easy". I think he's being unreasonable.

In light of my inability to stand straight without collapsing into a spasming heap, I have instead, taken to reading about adventures instead of living them. I've just finished reading a book called Percy Jackson and the Olympians. As it turns out, if you are prone to accidents, have dyslexia and are ADHD, the chances are good that one of your parents was a Greek God, thereby making you a Demi-God. Apparently the dyslexia is because your brain is actually wired for ancient Greek, so English is a bit confusing The ADHD is because you are, by heritage, a warrior and therefore find the average classroom a bit boring. That explains so much about my childhood! It's true that I don't actually have dyslexia, but the other two are a given, so I still think I have a good shot at being a demi-God.

Do you see what I've been reduced too by my enforced inactivity?? I have tried to make the best of an inactive week, but Derek insists that the definition of an inactive week does not include doing four photo shoots, photo editing, cleaning the carpets, painting the kitchen and cleaning the entire house. I say it does. There was so much more that I wanted to get done!

Anyway, after a very shaky start, today was fully redeemed because I got to go back to Crystal Forge and do some more glass blowing. This time Derek came with me to take pictures and cheer me on. Ed (the owner) had to leave for a while, leaving me to my own devices. This was good for me because it gave me a little time to just refresh my memory and fiddle around a bit. My first endeavor was a nice little paperweight. It promised to be quite lovely until I dropped in on the ground while putting it into the aneeler. It didn't shatter into a million pieces, so I'm going to take that as a good sign and wait 'til tomorrow to see whether it survived. My second project was another little oil lamp that started out quit nice and then suddenly deflated like a flat tire. At that point Ed came back and started working with me on a medium sized vase. The interesting thing about vases, or really any vessel, is that it takes a lot closer contact than a paperweight or a small oil lamp. You have to get your jacks right into the opening of the vessel in order to shape and expand it. Everything was going fine at first and then Ed instructed me to to start jacking the opening. I leaned in to position my jacks and started slowly opening them to broaden the mouth of the vase. I quickly realized that something was not quite right. Though I was definitely not actually touching the rod or the glass (I checked) my right breast was heating up uncomfortably. My hand was quite warm too, but not unbearably so. My breast was definitely the real problem. Ed, my instructor, has been doing glass blowing for over thirty years and I'm convinced he lost all feeling in his extremities a couple of decades ago because he seems completely un-phased by the heat. I couldn't figure out how he managed to lean over his projects and not jump off the bench from the pain. My breast felt like it was on fire. I arched my back upward , trying to pull my chest a few centimeters further from the glass before I spontaneously combusted. Now, some women have to ability to arch their backs and create a concave chest sort of a thing. I am just not one of them. My chest will never be concave. Ever. It got so bad I actually reached up with my left hand to cover my breast which, had I looked, would undoubtedly have been glowing as brightly as the forge. This was taking the phrase "a burning in my bosom" to a ludicrously literal level. It finally ocured to me that the reason Ed wasn't experiencing this discomfort was because Ed apparently doesn't wear a bra. I, however, do and this bra was apparently a different fabric than what I was wearing the last time because the fabric felt like it was ready to melt. In my instructors defense, he does always recommend that people wear only cotton shirts because synthetics do react badly to fire, but in my defense, he never mentioned bras! After finishing my vase mere seconds before my breast actually ignited, I fell back to a new plan wherein my breast would NOT catch fire and swore to go buy a nice ugly, matronly cotton bra before I tried to make any more vases. I actually feel better about my near incineration because I think it firmly qualifies as an adventure, thereby redeeming my otherwise uneventful week.

A peaceful end to a hectic day

It seems old habits die hard. Before I had even managed to pry my eyes open this morning, I lay in bed dreading the day...contemplating miserably all that I would have to accomplish and the hours that I would have to work, and then synapsis started firing and I remembered the awesome truth! I quit my job over a month ago effectively terminating my indentureship to corporate America! Don't get me wrong. Corporate America is very nice if you like that sort of thing, but it can be stifling for a right brained, bohemian such as myself (see previous entries for Bohemian references). I am now a self employed professional photographer, with all of the rights and privileges that come part and parcel with such an auspicious title, to include; creative freedom (as long as the client likes it), the ability to work whatever hours I chose (currently all of them...all 24), and I write my own paycheck (after business expenses, roughly the equivalent of minimum wage...in 1975). Okay, maybe it's not perfect but despite everything it's perfect for me! I want to hug Derek every morning for trudging off to that afforementioned corporate America so that I can indulge my creative whims.

Now even the mundane details of running a business seem interesting and fun. At least it's fun watching my sister Jeannie set up all the bookkeeping for me. The really fun part is watching her face get all red and flustered looking as she mutters dire epithets about my accounting skills under her breath. Hey, I'm a photographer, not an accountant.

So once I remembered my newly acquired status as a photographic entrepenuer my mood took a quick upswing. In fact the last vestiges of yesterdays menepausal meltdown even began to fade...unfortunately not before I downed half a bag of mini baby ruth bars, most of a box of rice krispie treats and a third of a box of Lucky charms as a midnight snack last night.

I jumped out of bed now, actually eager to begin my day. I send e-mails, edited photos, returned calls and did all manner of other things that business women do. Then it was off to an appointment at The Pain Clinic. I had been my original understanding that The Pain Clinic was a place of healing and compassion where men and women of science alleviate pain and suffering. I was quickly disabused of this faulty misimpression when Dr. Death grabbed two hypodermic syringes and uttered those infamous and horribly inaccurate words "You'll feel a little sting now". With wicked precision he jabbed the first syringe into my knotted right shoulder muscle, which apparently needed punishing for its sins. Oh sure, the needle was tiny, about the size of an insulin needle but when you fill even the tiniest syringe with acid a little needle is still going to pack a punch. He swears it was only an anesthetic and that there was no acid involved, but of course he's going to say that. Before I could get out more than a whimper he had plunged the other needle into my equally sinful left shoulder muscle. I would have taken him down but the sneakly little bugger was standing behind me, rendering my flailing feet ineffectual.

In Dr. Death's defense within minutes of the injections the rock hard muscles in my shoulders and neck that have tormented me for weeks, began to loosen and relax. I practically floated out of his office, more relaxed than I had been in ages. I had to stop at Westroads mall to look at the display wall for a shoot I'm currently working on, so I called Derek on my way to let him know how my appointment had gone. To my intense delight, he said he would tear himself away from his vendor filled schedule and meet me for lunch. You can't beat the little mid-day stolen moments. After a fantastic lunch I ran a couple of errands and headed home to find Jeannie involved in what, I'm fairly certain, was a voodoo ritual involving my expense receipts. I'm certain there was a chicken head hidden under the desk.

I talked to Samantha on the phone, who informed me that my beautiful eldest grandchild, Eden, had decided to run herself a bath. Please keep in mind that when I say eldest, I mean eldest of the four grandkids. It is really a relative term as she is still less than two and a half years old. Seems that Samantha, for lack of a better place, had temporarily dumped several loads of clean laundry into the bathtub to be folded and put away later in the day. Eden didn't seem at all bothered by the present of the pile of clean clothes and went ahead and started running her bathwater. Samantha suspected that something was up when Eden came in and the first words out of her mouth were "I love you mommy". Grandkids are the coolest. You get all of the cute, funny experiences and none of the cleanup.

In the evening we had a photoshoot. There I was getting to be all creative again. I just love that! A little time spent editing and here I am wrapping up a particularly creative, productive and wholly enjoyable day. Well, except the Dr. Death thing. But even that had a happy ending and now I will toddle off for a good nights sleep with my newly relaxed shoulders.

Post Menopausal Stepford Wives

I think I may have stumbled onto a conspiracy. I'm sending this question into the ether and I'm hoping someone will tell me the truth. Has anyone ever survived menopause? Don't lie to me. I think this may be a pod person thing. Or...no! More like a Stepford Wives thing! Yes! I think that may be it. Here is my theory. We, as woman, are relatively safe when we're younger because we're relatively stable. Hey...I said relatively. Then we get pregnant and we turn into crazed hormonal weapons of mass destruction, BUT we are still safe because of the baby! The average man might WANT to kill us, but they have a soft spot for babies. Then for the next several years, the couple are so busy raising kids that the men go into a survival mode and won't risk killing their wives because they don't want to end up raising the kids alone.

The danger starts when we aren't in a 'delicate' condition and our children are grown, effectively eliminating any stumbling blocks that would keep a man from blissful freedom and peace and quiet. Things may go smoothly for a while; sometimes as long as a decade or more, but then it happens. The hot flashes, the cold sweats, the mood swings, the homicidal tendencies...and there we are...exposed without cover! When we wake up in the morning and immediately start snarling at our husbands about transgressions and misdemeanors they committed 20 years ago, there is nothing to stop them from plotting our gruesome and grisly demise. No pregnancy, no children to raise on their own. Just peace...

This is where the Stepford wives thing comes in. There has to be some secret society that is replacing us with calm and sane robots when our husbands snap and can finally take no more. I know this because I've seen them. Society calls them "Post menopausal women". Come on. I've been pre-menopausal for like 10 years. You can't tell me this process ever actually ends. Haven't you ever met the replacements? They are the happy, contented, sane women over 60 that act like they don't even know what a hot flash feels like. That's not even possible! They CAN'T be human.

I woke up this morning and started snarling before I had even opened my eyes. I could hear myself launching into a tirade about some heinous crime that Derek had committed IN MY DREAM and I couldn't even stop myself! I was ready to shoot me, so I KNOW Derek was fighting awfully hard to resist the urge. I don't know how much longer I can hang in there. More importantly, I don't know how much longer Derek can hang on. As I was getting dressed something occurred to me that I hadn't thought of before. Derek has been spending a lot more time at the shooting range lately...I tried really hard to put on my prettiest smile and made him an extra special lunch to take to work...just in case.

Just a few more weeks please

I am sitting on my beloved patio at 6:00 am, watching the water bubble over the waterfalls and into our pond and I have noticed with great sadness that all the koi are huddled in a cluster at the bottom of the pond. I know what this means. It means it's getting too cold for them to stay on the surface. Oh sure, when the sun comes up in another hour they will slowly venture up to wander around the pond looking for food, but I've noticed that they aren't eating as much as they usually do. These are the obvious signs of the heralding of autumn. The funny thing is, I love autumn! It's always been my favorite season, but this year I am a bit melancholy because I have had the best summer ever since moving to Nebraska. I have curled up on my wicker couch, sheltered under the gazebo in the predawn hours typing away or reading or sometimes just watching the water. As the sun begins to creep just slightly over the crest of the forest, I sit quietly, hardly daring to breath, as deer come out of the forest and across the meadow for an early morning graze. Wild turkeys sometimes cross down from the meadow as well and if I'm very quiet, they come to the edge of the pond for a drink and never notice that I'm there. Once the sun is a bit higher, the rabbits and squirrels appear, scavenging through the wild flowers and herbs looking for anything interesting. Once I can see well enough, I will scour the grounds for errant weeds and attempt to tame the mint that grows so prolifically next to the rocks with the fairy doors. At some point during the day, Derek will IM me to check and make sure I have spent a sufficient amount of time lolling around on the hammock. Don't get me wrong, there will still be opportunities to spend time outside until it is decidedly colder, but I have noticed how busy the squirrels are, running back and forth from all points to the huge cottonwood tree in our neighbors yard, always with some treasure that they haul up the tree and squirrel away (pardon the pun) for the upcoming winter months. Sadly our local weather forecaster tells us that fall is coming three weeks early this year. It seems so unfair. I finally have this incredible garden to while away the days in and soon it will be too cold. I'm not faint hearted though. I can always lay on my over sized, quilted hammock wrapped in a blanket. At least for a while.

Retribution is theirs...

The Gods of Bohemia are reigning retribution and wrath down upon me for trying to break out of my suburbian shackles. Since my little glass blowing junkett last weekend I have slipped into a steady decline until my back is so seized up I'm starting to feel like the tin man. That's what a middle aged woman with a history of back problems gets for standing hour after hour being artist and creative. It's clear I will never see the fulfillment of my dream to work in a McDonalds drive through. I just don't have the stamina for all that standing.



So, after getting my fill of Derek's chiding I made an appointment with my masseuse and chiropractor

You've got to be kidding...

Really...now I've seen it all. So, my sister Jeannie bought this really great curling iron on line and it turned out to be a buy one get one free deal, which we all know actually means "We are charging twice as much for this than it's worth, but by doing a BOGO deal we are technically selling twice as many at what should have been the real price all along".


It's one of those spinning barrel with bristles things and I was frankly a little nervous when she surprised me by presenting me with her "free" iron. I had a traumatic experience with an early version of a brush style curling iron back in the '80s. No one really wants to find themselves walking through the mall with a curling iron stuck in their hair. The original brush curling irons were all cleverly designed to permanently entangle themselves in your hair, all the way to the root, thereby necessitating a visit to a hair salon where a stylist would then have to spend 6 hours carefully extricating said iron from your hair just far enough to be able to cut it into a choppy 'shag' style in order to camoflauge the fact that she had to cut it to within 2 inches of your scalp in places. Few people realize that this is, in fact, the very reason 'The Shag' was invented. It is my belief that these bristly hair carnivores were invented by the cosmetology industry as a means of forcing women back into salons in the wake of a beauty recession brought on by deluded women thinking that they could just do their own hair and save a few bucks. Having said all that, I will concede that this particular 21st century spinny sort of curling iron is fabulous. I really like it and have found no cause to fear it...until now.


I was just in my dressing room, getting ready for the day, when I noticed a large white tag attached to the cord of my spinny iron. On this tag is a picture of the curling iron and a picture of an eye with long eyelashes. There is a cross through these two images and in large, dire letters is a warning that reads: "Caution: This product can burn eyes"....seriously?..Really???...someone needed to tell me this? It took my muddled brain a moment to realize that they were seriously warning me against trying to use this rather large barreled curling iron on my eyelashes...are you staying with me here? On the handy quick start guide, I am informed that on the lowest setting, my curling iron gets up to 285 degrees farenheit. At it's highest setting, 385 degrees. That my rotating curling iron company has deemed it necessary to put such a label on this product tells me that someone somewhere has actually attempted to use this for the purpose of curling their eyelashes...on their eyes...I weep for society. With all of the genetic research being done, rather than trying to create some super race, couldn't we just focus on bumping up the current populations IQ points a few notches? If we did, then the need for warnings like this could be avoided. So really, I just added this blog entry in the hopes that I can save someone, somewhere, from the heartache (and burns) attached to using curling irons on eye lashes. Please...fight the impulse for the good of society. The IQ you save may be your own.

And the consequences kick in...

How am I supposed to fight the onslaught of middle age when my body won't cooperate??  Seven hours a day standing in the hot shop has taken it's toll!  I am beaten! I woke up today stiffer than a brits upper lip.   The awful truth is staring me in the face.  I'm out of shape.  So, in order to rail against middle age I'm going to have to go into training mode. My only option is to become an anti geriatric ninja warrior.  Sadly, this will not be the first time I have attempted this mission.  Past attempts always start out optimistic and end in dismal failure lying prostrate on the couch panting heavily...usually with a bowl of ice cream clutched in my defeated grasp.

It's obvious what I have to do.  I will have to swallow my pride and drag out my Wii fit.  I hate that thing.  Don't get me wrong.  I love the exercises and games.  They're entertaining and fun to do.  What I hate is that obnoxious groan it makes every time I step on the board.  Does it really have to moan like a herd of wildebeasts just stampeded over it?  And then it gives you the third degree if you gain a pound.  But I can do this. I'll just start small.  Maybe I'll just set the board in front of the TV the first few days.  Then I can work my way up from there.

Unfortunately, a little Wii time just isn't going to do it all by itself, so at the risk of completely humiliating myself, I am declaring myself to be in training.  If I fail this time, I will do so publicly.  So here goes.

Triumph and Redemption!

I have been redeemed! But before I discuss this triumphant redemption, I should mention what a fabulous day I had today! Derek and I woke up obscenely late and lolled around until we felt ready to cease our...well...lolling.

I spent a little time on Facebook IM with a friend who had the nerve to IM me from Greece. Then he added insult to injury by sending me photographs of where he was staying that were so fabulous, that they still looked great despite being taken by an iPhone. Seriously now! Who takes pictures of opulent greek islands with a cell phone? It's akin to blasphemy.

Anyway, I digress...frequently........and at length.......

Where was I? Oh! Talking to Steven on IM. So, after berating him about his lack of respect for the photographic arts, Derek and I headed off to 11worth cafe for breakfast. The 11worth is a local landmark. The food is fabulous. Housed just west of the Old Warehouse district in downtown Omaha, this one small cafe is most likely responsible for half the heart attacks in Omaha. I suspect that if you tried to order any fruit or anything with the words 'lite', low calorie, or 'organic' in it, you would be politely asked to leave. They do serve diet coke though. Their specialty is heart stoppingly rich foods like sausage and gravy and chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and a pound of butter. It is a very WORTH-while cafe.

After a stupendous breakfast spent trying to come up with some great ad material for a client, we drove to the Joslyn Art Museum only to discover that they were closed on holidays. Who closes a place tourists go on a holiday? It's okay, we got over it and checked out the newly upgraded and very beautiful grounds in front of the building. It was a perfect morning. Cool and cloudy and the leaves on the trees at the museum had just started to transform into flaming autumn colors.

Then we went to Lauritzen Gardens. When we first moved here we stumbled across Lauritzen on an outing with the kids. There were about three trees and a couple of rose bushes. Fortunately it was also free. 10 years later, it is no longer free, but it IS well worth the price of admission. We wandered around admiring the impressive gardens and displays, then returned to the arboretum/gift shop/cafe where, as an homage to my mother, we stopped for a snack and a drink.

I love those little cafe's at museums and gardens and zoos and other like places. My mothered love them too. I love them because she did. My sweetest memories of her are outings we took together, just the two of us. In particular, I loved going shopping with her to Valley Plaza, in Bakersfield CA. We would wander through the stores for a while and stop and throw pennies into the large water feature in the center of the mall. Then we would stop for lunch at Wyatt's Buffet. I loved the array of culinary possibilities displayed before us and I was fascinated by the huge fireplace that imposed itself on one wall. To my adolescent eyes it was beautiful and elegant.

So mom and I would go through the line and choose things like meatloaf or roast beef, and tapioca pudding, vegetables and rolls and finally, and most importantly we would arrive at the delectable looking desserts and I would agonize over which one to choose until my mother would finally insist that I pick one. Upon reflection, I am certain that the food wasn't nearly as good as I remember, but it was still always a grand adventure to me and on those treasured afternoons, my mother and I were in a little world that was only big enough for the two of us.

My mother passed away two years ago this weekend. So, my sweet husband and I ate our chocolate cake and I cried and missed my mother and Derek held my hand. Thank you Derek.

From the gardens, we headed home and I collapsed into the fabulously relaxing hammock in our garden for a quick power nap. Then it was off to pick up Jeannie. We were on a mission to retrieve the undoubtedly grotesque and inferior projects from my last day of glass blowing class. You cannot imagine my delight at discovering that my overly tired mind had apparently painted my artistic endeavors in a much grimmer light that was necessary.

Not only were the items I had finished quite good...well, to me at least, there were in fact, an alarming number of them! It seems that after I had finally abandoned my futile efforts to create a useable lemonade glass, I had gone into a feverish oil lamp making frenzy. I remember feeling quite pleased that I had finally found something I could do, but in my grim determination to focus on this ray of possibility, I had not noticed how many I had actually made! There were a few small and dainty, though occasionally lopsided bud vases, a very respectable, larger and heavier jar that I will put candy corn into just as soon as I buy some, a very nice, swirly sort of candy dish and at least 5 or 6 of my little oil lamps which I have now tested and which I am thrilled to declare, work perfectly. The day was saved!

To round off the perfect day, Derek and I spent the evening barbequeing (well, Derek actually did all the barbequeing while I watched) with Chi and Heather and the grandbabies, and Colt and Michelle and Jessica. Julia was her usual charming and precocious self and ran screaming for Nana to save her when her father tried to wrangle her into the car to go home. My day ended on a perfect note. I have my family and I have my oil lamps and I have my memories.

Good night mom.

Glass blowing as a tool for torture...

I will NEVER drink another glass of water again without paying silent homage to all glass blowers everywhere. Yesterday was my shining glory. I could tell that I was destined to be the 21st century's iconic standard for the fine art of glass blowing. I successfully executed a number of lovely paperweights and flowers destined to become family heirlooms that my descendants would display proudly, telling visitors the story of their talented and artistic great, great, great grandmother.

Okay, so some of the paperweights are not the traditionally recognized shape that so many are used to seeing, but I feel that mine have a special flare of their very own that sets them apart from their more mundane and traditional counterparts. It's true that my first drinking glass looks a lot like something you would find Fred Flintstone drinking from at cocktail hour, but I think it's...rustic appearance gives it character.

The blistering heat of the furnace seemed quite tolerable in light of my artistic triumphs but I will admit that 7 hours of standing in front of the fiercely orange glowing Glory Hole trying to keep a blob of liquid glass rotating at just the right speed to avoid it either flying through the air towards an unwitting bystander, or puddling onto the floor in a crackling goo was a bit grueling, but I felt that my bone numbing fatigue had a certain righteous worthiness to it. I had run the gauntlet and survived. I didn't even get burned this time!

I stumbled home exhausted but jubilant, looking forward with eager anticipation to another day of artistic, and don't forget, Bohemian artistry. I was considering joining an artists colony.

I got up this morning and headed to hot shops daydreaming merrily of the stunning glass blown works of art that I would create today. I pictured museums and art galleries vying for the honor of displaying them amongst other priceless treasures.

...I suspect there is a reason that middle aged women from suburbia don't often take up glass blowing and join artists colonies.

My day was an exercise in glaring defeat and humiliation. I am out of sync with the Universe. We aren't even on speaking terms. My groove is broken, my Karma verklempt. My aura is a muddy gray and black noxious cloud. From the moment I got to the studio I seemed doomed to abject failure. After watching a stunning demonstration on how to create artistic and colorful drinking glasses I approached the sweltering forge with supreme confidence. I was already planning on inviting company over just so that I could serve them lemonade in the uniquely beautiful and artistic set of six glasses that I would undoubtedly finish before lunchtime. I would pass the drinks around and my guests would gasp in appreciation, exclaiming, "Where did you get these stunning glasses"? I would demurely admit that I had made them myself. "Just whipped them up the other day really". I would then bask in their glowing admiration as they went on endlessly about my unearthly artistic prowess.

I dipped my rod in for the first gather, then blew a puff of air into the blow rod and the glass expanded into a perfect little bubble. In it went for the second gather, a harder puff of air this time and a beautiful orb appeared. Step by step the perfect lemonade glass began to take shape. I approached the glory hole for a final heating before jacking the end of the glass and depositing it gently into the aneeler. I have no idea what happened next. One moment I had a perfectly shaped glass, the next I had a hideously deformed mutation. The glass folded in on itself in defeat. No one would ever be drinking lemonade from this glass. Three attempts later, I was mentally cancelling my dinner party. The rest of the day went down hill from there. Three fabulous pieces all fell off the rod seconds before achieving perfection. Others collapsed in on themselves. The pile of mutant glass carnage continued to grow at my feet as one dismal failure after another either hit the ground or ended up in the scrap glass bin. The forge seemed about 1000 degrees hotter than it did yesterday, I grew red faced and sweaty. My focus disappeared and I got more frustrated with each failed attempt. I think at one point my Aura actually started to smell a bit funny.

I wondered whether Derek had actually bought me the class as a means to facilitate my suicide. Maybe he was trying to get rid of me.

Then, in my darkest moment...I realized that I was missing an element of the day that was profoundly important. I was missing the vital lessons that I so desperately need to learn.

I have spent my whole life shying away from anything that I suspected I might fail at. I only took my music to a level that I was comfortable with, being careful never to venture into territory where I had a chance of failure. I have done the same thing with everything I have ever tried. I live in a safe and comfortable place in my head where I can always succeed and I'm never scared. Failure is terrible. It's terrifying. It's...well...Failure.

I remember being wildly intrigued by the outrageous message presented in the cartoon movie 'Meet The Robinson's'. According to this ludicrous film, failure is something to be celebrated as an opportunity for growth.

I decided that instead of wallowing in my failure, I would celebrate and embrace my glaring defeat. I reminded myself that I have only been a glass blowing artist for two days and there might just be a learning curve involved that I had not yet reached. My instructor had pointed out at the beginning of the class that he had been a glass blower for 30 years and still made loads of mistakes. I thought...well, sure...YOU, but not ME. Now I decided that I would embrace each dismal and grotesque artistic catastrophe as an opportunity to learn something more about what not to do. I felt better. I decided to abandon my 6 piece glass set and work on something a bit smaller. Soon, I had cranked out 4 very respectable little glass bubbles just like the tiny oil lamp that I have treasured for a number of years. My aching muscles and steaming skin did not find relief, but my spirits lifted measurably. 4:00 came and the class was at its end. I limped to the car, stiff, sore, hot and sweaty, but feeling like I had conquered something really important. I have taken a step towards embracing failure and ceasing to view it as my mortal enemy. Now that the class is over, I am looking forward to going back to the studio on my own and hope to have many more failures as well as triumphs because it will mean that I am progressing.

Adventures in Glass Blowing

Yesterday I embarked on a new and exciting adventure. Okay, Actually the adventure started around a month or so ago when my good friend Jessica suggested that a bout of weekend boredom could be easily alleviated by signing up for a glass blowing class she had discovered on line. I should have learned by now that Jessica's ideas are generally either violent, or dangerous (she's really into jui jitsu and is therefore classified as legally insane), but I was bored so I went along with it. We showed up on Saturday morning for the $30 Introduction to Glassblowing class at an establishment called Hot Shops. I have since discovered that it's name is quite accurate and delivers on the "Hot" part in spades. It's a fairly amazing building in the old warehouse district, filled with three floors of artists of every imaginable ilk. There's glass blowing, welding, blacksmithing, woodworking, jewelry making, painting, and something with knives that I'm a little afraid to ask about. It is essentially, an artists coop and it made my little suburban heart flutter wildly to be doing anything quite so Bohemian. The class was two hours and we made our own paperweight and a lovely flower (with a certain amount of help from the instructor).

Jessica and I declared the class a resounding success and I left with a flyer proclaiming that there was a far more adventurous and FAR more expensive three day, all weekend class, in which we would unearth all of the secrets and delights of glass blowing and would leave having made any number of artistic and bohemian art glass pieces. Upon my arrival back home, I extolled the virtues of the class to my loving husband, Derek, and in a studied and carefully casual voice mentioned the three day class...you know...just in passing...

Truth be told I really did just mention it casually, because as interesting as it sounded, it was $350.00 and I wasn't about to ask Derek to shell out that kind of money on a midlife whim. The moment passed, the weeks wore on and I took every opportunity to show anyone and everyone my handmade glass treasures.

Then, a few weeks ago, in an unprecidentedly vicious attack, my 48th birthday snuck up from behind and pounced.

I have relatively low expectations for birthdays. I don't do birthday parties. As for Derek, some years he remembers my birthday and some years, not so much. As regards my children, as far as they are concerned I have been old since the beginning of time and will simply continue to be old forever, so birthdays aren't particularly relevant. This being the case, I was quite content to just forget that the grave was looming in a little closer than before. Imagine my surprise when my sister, Jeannie, my son Colt, and Derek presented me with a blue legal sized envelope and declared that I should have a happy birthday!

My jaw dropped lower than my double chins as I read the certificate inside, stating that I was the recipient of a gift certificate good for the very same glass blowing class that I had previously resigned myself to NOT taking. The story unfolded that Derek, in a blinding flash of inventive ingenuity and love, had contacted our family via e-mail and stated his intentions to purchase the class for me. He apparently indicated that he was putting every ones name on the certificate and if anyone wanted to pitch in, they could! There I sat near tears at the thought of my sweet family putting together such a stupendous gift! Derek wins the game! Forever!!!

A few days later, I had a class date of September 4th, 5th, and 6th on my calender. Yesterday was the 4th.

I showed up at 6pm for day 1 of the three day class. It was to run 6-9 pm. I'm not sure whether we had been drugged or hypnotized at the introductory class, but in my mind's eye, I remember it being much more pleasant and much easier and I definitely don't remember it being so hot! It might have something to do with the fact that they were helping us along every step or the way, or possibly because there were 10 of us taking a two hours class, but my earlier foray into glass blowing did NOT prepare me for yesterday evening!

The class was hot, sweaty, frustrating, intimidating, difficult, and DANGEROUS! Or so it felt...initially. The first mistake I made was in forgetting that I am left handed and therefore, handicapped and backward. In my eagerness to master the art of glass blowing, I armed myself with my 4 ft metal rod and pressed down on the foot lever at the base of the glass forge. As the doors flew open to reveal the deepest depths of hell, I was quickly reminded why they call it Molten Glass. It is because in many ways, it resembles Molten Lava. Inside the forge was a vat of 2100 degrees molten glass glowing a brilliant orange. As I nervously stuck my rod into the glass for my first gather, I could feel the hairs on my arm curling away in protest and the heat was so intense I nearly dropped my rod. I pulled my rod out of the liquid glass and jerked my foot off the lever to cut myself off from the offending heat. My mind spun frantically. How do I get out of this!? Derek was going to be so disappointed that I wasted $350 running out of the building wailing like a sissy.

The instructor came to my rescue. It seemed that I was once again being punished for being left handed. I cursed my Kindergarten teacher for not trying harder to convert me to right handedism. Apparently not only are you not supposed to stand directly in front of the two thousand degree flaming forge, you are supposed to hold the rod to your right, while you cower in safety to the left of the doors, safely out of range of Satan's wrath.

Once I knew how to work around the forge without melting into a middle aged heap of Leni goo, things improved. Or so I thought. What was Derek thinking sending an ADD woman who gets distracted by every shiny thing she sees into a room full of glowing and irrefutably shiny glass!? I had successfully completed a practice exercise on a small glob of glass and was heading to the work bench when the shiny, glistening orange glow of a classmates gather caught my eye for an instant. As I gave her a verbal pat on the back for her excellent marvering technique, I moved my right hand to my rod to swing the end over to the bench. Only I didn't look down first and I apparently grasped the rod higher than anticipated. It is a scientific fact that if you put molten glass on a metal rod, the rod WILL get hot. Not all the way down, but definitely down far enough to be scalding hot where I stuck my hand. In an instant, the rod hit the floor, the glass shattered into pieces, and my hand shot into the bucket of water placed strategically for just that very purpose. Apparently, I am NOT the first person to burn herself on a metal rod while working with molten glass, though it was little comfort right then. BUT I am a grown woman! NOT a silly girl and I had on my big girl pants, so I sucked it up, smiled and pretended I was perfectly fine. Inside my mind was singing a chorus of "I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry"...while outside I was saying "No, really...I'm good". I spent every possible moment with my hand in a glass of water for the remainder of the evening, but I'm proud to say that I didn't cry and I still completed a couple of lovely (well one lovely and one with...character) paperweights and a flower.

By the end of the class, my fingers were throbbing, I was hotter and sweatier than I had been since leaving the Philippines and I was physically and mentally exhausted. As I drove home, I realized that I couldn't wait to get back for day 2 of the adventure.