Get Into My Car. . . (Part 2)

      So I did what I had threatened, and showed up at Abby's dance studio, Billy Ocean blaring.  Singing, feeling the stress leave my body in waves of 80's memories, I was starting to relax from my crazy day.
    
     My dancing girl plopped herself in the front seat, and began unplugging my iPod.
  
     "Hands off," I said, "I want to hear this song.  Because I really did.
  
     "Moooooooom," she said.  "I just don't feel like sixties music."

    

Get Outta My Dreams. . .

HEY (hey) YOU (you)
Get into my car!
Who me?  Yes you!
Get into my car!

I can't get this fantastic Billy Ocean song out of my head.  Usually that happens when I see my cousin Julie and we've spent some time looking back on our trip to Europe when we were 16,  but that's another story, one that also touches on the song "Obsession" and me wearing some bad striped overalls.

But I haven't talked to Julie today.  No, this verse is ringing in my head after hours and hours of driving loops around my town dropping off and picking up children at their various activities, because it's what I want to yell from the parking lots.  The baseball field parking lot, the acting studio lot, the church lot, the dance lot. . .  "HEY, YOU!   GET INTO MY CAR!"

There's a lot of driving this year.  To be clear, we are close to attaining another driver in the family,which will, at some point, alleviate some rounds of this hamster-wheel-like-circle that I can't seem to get off between the hours of 3:00-6:00 PM on any given day.  This, of course, depends upon my future willingness to allow my son to drive in snow, rain, sleet, sun, cold weather, with a cold, fog, or if the day just feels generally indisposed to teen driving.

I'm trying to drive with joy, with a positive attitude, with the intent to spend quality time with whomever happens to be next to me in the seat.   Abby wants McDonalds?  Sure, here's a Snack Wrap and how was school?  Sam wants Dairy Queen on the way to baseball drop off?  Sure.  Here's a small cherry-dip cone, and now WHY do I have a cone with sprinkles that I'm trying to balance while driving.  Not to mention sprinkles on my white shirt.  Sam, that was not a good idea.  Don't make me order a cone again.  Bad Sam.

I am, as I wrap this up, off to pick up Abby at dance.  She will, without question, get into my car and begin playing her iPod through my speakers.  Tonight, there will be a different rule.  My car.  My iPod.  My Billy Ocean song.  Her eyes will roll, but I will sing (yell?)  HEY (hey) YOU (you)!  GET INTO MY CAR!

And I will do it with the windows down right in the dance parking lot.  Funny, I'm suddenly looking forward to the ride.

Bellinis and Bookstores and Blow-Dries. . .OH MY!

I'm turning 42, I think I'm turning 42, I really think so. . . .

I had the best day.  I have to admit, I didn't think I was going to.  In fact, I had kind of geared myself up NOT to.  Adam and Jono are out of town, so many friends are out-of-town, Abby had a 6-hour rehearsal. . . where was this birthday going to go?

But starting yesterday, it went in all the right places.

I was getting my hair cut and highlighted (I think it was a full highlight; if it was a partial, Jack didn't tell me, because he knows I don't like to have any hair processes done half-way.  Why drive all the way to Chagrin Falls for a partial anything??)  So anyway, a free blow-dry for my birthday.  That's good stuff.  And good hair, I might add.  Which, of course, just inspires me to buy product on my way out the door.  Smart Jack.

Jack, who asked me on my way out the door, "So what are you doing for your birthday?"
To which I answered, "Nothing, really.  And it doesn't matter.  It's okay."
He stopped flat-ironing and looked at me.  "I know you better than that.  That is not okay."


And then, when I arrived home, a Barnes-and-Noble gift card waiting in the mail from my parents.  It's like relaxation in a card.  The promise of trolling a book store, looking at all the books, magazines, stationary, pens, reference materials. . . birthday heaven.   And two musical cards from dear friends.  One made me cry, the other made me laugh out loud.  Things were looking up, way up. . .

Abby brought me a little paper bag late in the evening.  It was a bead for my bracelet that she had bought at the Hudson sidewalk sale.  "I know you like blue and white, and there's a little red in your bracelet.  I didn't want to wait until tomorrow."

Oh, me either.

But tomorrow came.  Which is, to say, today.  And here it how it went.

I wake to Lisa calling at 8:21 am.
"You weren't supposed to answer!" she yells.
"But you called me," I yawn.
"I just wanted to sing my birthday song," she said.  Which she does.  And we have a lovely chat.


A giant, giant, GIANT hydrangea bush is soon delivered to my front door from Adam and Jono.  My favorite.  With a butterfly adornment-- another favorite.  From my favorite boys <3

Cindy tells me to drop Abby at rehearsal and come at noon, to drop Sam.  He will spend the day with her son, Ethan and her husband.  They will go to a movie and lunch.   And suddenly we are off and running. . .

*Diet cokes and french fries for brunch.  Oh, this is going well.
*Crocker park for strolling and shopping.  Too good to be true on a sunshine-y day.
*A new ruffled, sparkly cardigan from J. Crew.  On sale.  Ruffles.  Sparkle.  CARDIGAN.
C'mon. . . have you met me?
*A sparkly headband.   It's almost like a tiara, only a little bit more subtle.  Like me.
*Drinks and appetizer at Brio.  With a waiter named Donovan who brings surprise frozen Bellinis and a    surprise chocolate dessert.  We might have mentioned my birthday once.  Or twice.  . .
*Presents in the car from Cindy that make me smile and cry.
*A stop at TJ Maxx on the way home.  Sparkly flip flops for $6.  Is there a theme to this day?
*Dunkin' Donuts to get breakfast for the kids tomorrow.  We might eat them in the car.  We might not.  This is a birthday secret.  Why doesn't Dunkin' Donuts have diet Coke?  Why do we have to go to McDonald's next door?  Because we do.  It's my birthday.

There are 10,000 Facebook messages on my page.  I love them all.  I might be exaggerating, but it's my birthday.  And that's what it felt like.  Abundance.

I miss my boys, my family, Lisa, and having a party with a theme.  I look forward to lunch next week, to cake, to more presents (can't help it; it's true.)

But this day was everything I needed today.  I like 42.  It feels very me.

I Love Summer

I love summer.

Summersummersummersummersummersummersummer.

I love Bomb Pops (mostly the white part,) my birthday, sleeping in, and reading trashy magazines by the pool.  I love ducks on the lake, kids in the lake, and drinks by the lake.    I love singing the Glee soundtrack in my car with the sunroof open after driving through Dairy Queen with the kids.  Don't Stop Believin'?  Okey-Dokey.  I won't.
We love summer so much around here, that Sam made a checklist to make sure we got through the summer activities without fail:

I love light green nail polish and fresh cut flowers.  My hydrangeas bloomed blue this year for the very first time!

Rotisserie chicken, watermelon and lemonade.  I am a new fan of this particular summer-y combination, because my kids devoured it last night for dinner, the 5th night without a working air conditioner.  So, today, I love my new A/C.  I didn't love the process, the price, nor the "ask your husband" line that the installer fed me, but my 86-degree home is cooling (currently at 77) and I'm grateful.

It's movie night tonight (note: checklist) and we'll be lounging on the couch, watching "The Spy Next Door" in a cool family room.   Ahh, summer :)

Lisa's 6-month scans came back clear.  Last summer is a sad, icky blur, and the only thing that got us (me?) through was knowing that we would absolutely get to THIS summer, eat popsicles, swim, play and look back on that time as a memory.   I love summer, always.  But I really love this summer.

Numb Me Up, Scotty

Ow. OW. OW. OW. OW.
Stupid dentist visit.
Stupid granola bar.  I was eating my Planters Nut Energy bar, trying to figure out how to scan its barcode on my new iPhone app (The Daily Burn-- I love/hate it, check it out--it scans barcodes for nutritional information) and I realized I had something stuck in my tooth.  Then I realized. . . no. . . there wasn't something stuck to my tooth, there was somet hing missing from my tooth.  I had lost a filling.  By the next morning, I thought maybe I had lost a crown.  Hard to say, really.  From one tooth to another in my mouth, it's really a crap shoot.  Off to the dentist, who surprises me with his answer.

"Your filling is intact, Christy.  You've broken the tooth all around it."

That's a new one, even for me.

Let the numbing begin.  Topical first, then the giant needle full of Novacaine.  And when the humongous drill headed for my mouth I tried to relax, tried to remember that I was numb and wouldn't feel a thing.  But I did feel it, and I jumped.

"Is that sensitive?"

"I think so, or maybe it's just me," I said.  The dentist laughed at me, which I rather appreciated.  But I actually meant it.  Was I imagining it?  More anesthetic.  Wait a little longer.  Try again.

Drill.  Jump.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "It's not horrible, but I can feel it."

"You don't have to be sorry," he said.  "I'm going to be doing a lot of work there.  But this is a new anesthetic, and it works great on most people.  Let's give you a few more minutes.  You shouldn't have to feel it."

"How about you just knock me out?"  I ask.  Everyone laughs, but I'm totally not kidding.  I hear the drill, and I'm thinking of the scene from "A Million Little Pieces," you know, the fake memoir about the drug addict, in which the author writes about enduring dental surgery with no anesthesia.

Put a hood of laughing gas over my head.  Knock me out.  Time warp me to the eighties and bring me back.  I hate this so much.  I am now ripping a Kleenex to shreds in one hand, and gripping my thigh with another.  He's coming back.   My body is shaking.  Can they see?  I can feel the numbing working all through my skull, but I swear my tooth is totally awake.

"Let's check."  Check?  It seems like there should be some controlled way to check without drilling into my tooth and see if it hurts.

It did.  Again.  But quite a bit less.  And this time, I did think it was the panic talking, and I said so.

"Are you okay?" he asks.  "I am," I answer.  "It felt sensitive for a second, but now it's fine."

I am deep breathing.  I am trying to forget where I am.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.  My nose itches.  Breathe.  Finally, the drilling is done, and it is time for the gels, the pastes, the bands, the pressure.  I can do this, I think to myself.  I can do anything after enduring my own personal Million Little Pieces.  Then he taps my gum with his sharp little explorer.

"Can you feel this?"

"Gyaaah."    Translation.  Are you kidding me?  You touch one tiny spot in my mouth and I can feel it?  After three shots I still can feel my gums?  Why can I feel my gums??

"I'll numb you a little more.  I need to insert a metal band there, and it will irritate the gum."

Super.  Bring on the hypodermic.  I can't feel the shot, but I think I feel the drugs rushing to the gums, and maybe to my brain.  I can't feel the dentist opening my mouth.  I can hardly even see the dentist because by this point, I think my eyes are numb.  There has finally, finally, FINALLY been enough medication administered.  But I'm not sure, because I think my feelings are numb.

Have I mentioned that I take 6 pills a day in order to NOT get a headache?  Is it any wonder that I am. . . um. . . numb to the effects of numbing pain?  Bring on the big guns, Doc.  I require big meds to feel no pain.

"You were stubborn with that anesthesia today," he tells me when it's over.
I'm thinking, "Don't be so stingy with the meds, Dude."
Don't judge me for being rude in my head.  I'm was a little dopey.

If I remember correctly, I spent about a 1/2 hour with my dentist after the appointment trading iPhone apps.  I wonder what recommendations I gave him with my droopy mouth and slurred speech.

And now, eight-and-a-half hours later, I'm still numb.  It's just wearing off and starting to hurt.  I can't pronounce any F or PH sounds, but I still managed to eat a Chipotle Bowl.  Granted, I had to use bottles of hot sauce to taste it, and much of it slid out of my mouth, but I made a good effort.

From a prone position on the couch, about to not be stingy with a few more pain pills,
Christy Chaf(drool)e

Calling Miss Manners

All I'm trying to do is write a few freelance assignments.  I have the contact information, I have the details, I have the emails, the phone numbers and a general outline.  What I don't have is an interview.  And apparently, what my contacts don't have. . . is time.

I get that.

I get that people are busy.  (Have you noticed that it's May?  Please don't ask me if I've accidentally cried at a baseball practice because I'm not sure if I can possibly go to one more meeting after driving to ballet and sitting through lacrosse.  The answer is yes, yes I have cried, but please don't ask.  And while we're at it, don't ask me how many meetings and luncheons and parties are scheduled in May.  DON'T MAKE ME WRITE ANOTHER POEM PEOPLE BECAUSE THIS ONE MIGHT HAVE THE F-BOMB IN IT.)

But I digress.

So anyway, I'm writing articles.  Well, so far, I'm sitting at my dining room table with very organized questions.  And allow me to explain that the articles I'm writing will highlight the individuals in question in a very favorable manner for their company.  Lots of accolades.  Whoo-hoo-to-you, so to speak.  For one woman, I've left three emails and two messages, but no return call.  I'm ready to go, but I can go no further.  I can't write about her if she won't call me back.  

To be clear, I don't really care all that much about "how you respond to the changing face of your customer base" but I'll write circles about it if you give me ten freaking minutes of your precious time.  I'm quite certain that there are plenty of calls that I haven't returned, and emails too.  But if someone wanted to write an article about how great I was-- I'm pretty sure I'd phone that person for a quick chat.  Do we so quickly give up the opportunity for fame, however fleeting?  I know I wouldn't, especially if it involved a crown.  Maybe I need to start offering tiaras and prizes.

In one email exchange between a contact and an editor, there is the phrase, "I'm very busy, but she can try to reach my on my cell, but I'll be hard to reach."  The "she" is me.  Oh, "she" will try.  I sent this busy, busy man a couple of emails to set up a phone call.  He's traveling this day, interviewing someone that day, and Monday was "officially crazy."  Flights here, and travel there, but "could I call his cell to set something up?"  I could.  And I did, trying, actually, to catch his cell phone voice mail when he was traveling to just leave him a message with some interview options.  To not disturb this exceptionally busy person, perhaps the person with the most valuable time on earth.

Here's how the call went down, because, in fact, he answered.  Let's call him Bob.

(ring, ring)
"Bob."  This is how he answered.  With his name.  Which is more confusing than you may think, because his real name isn't Bob, it's acutally something that sounds much like my own name, so I thought he was speaking to me for a moment.
"Hi (Bob)," I said.  "This is Christy Chafe, calling about the article for XXX magazine."  (Now, I just made it sound like porn, but it's not.  I was just trying to be anonymous.)
And here's where it gets good.  Here's what I get.  Not hello, not even hi.

"Your timing is TERRIBLE.  I'm getting on a plane."

I'm sorry, what?  MY timing is terrible?  Well, heavens to Betsy I'm so sorry, I must have forgotten to correctly tune my ESP signal before I CALLED YOUR CELL LIKE YOU ASKED ME TO YOU
D-HEAD.  That's right, Mom.  I wanted to call him a dumbhead.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I know you have a busy day.  I was just hoping to leave you my phone numbers so we could set up a time to talk."

"It will depend on blahblahblahblah what flight blahblahblah maybe that flight blahblahblah.  Can I reach you at this number? "

"You can," I said.  I don't care about his flights.  I was still stunned by my terrible timing.  Here's an idea-- if you're boarding a plane, DON'T ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

"Shoot me your cell phone in an email," he said.  "I'll call you later in the week when I know my travel schedule."

"I'll do that,"  I said.  I won't be doing that.  Only nice people get my cell phone number.  And anyway, what would I do, interview this guy from my folding chair at a baseball game?

"Listen," I said, trying to salvage, "I get how busy you are, and I certainly wasn't trying to bother you.  Have a safe flight. . ."

Click.

No good-bye.  Well, is that really surprising?  There wasn't ever a hello.  Obviously, there's no time for that in this guy's busy day.

I would like to thank my friend Lisa for asking me this question.  "Why is their time any more valuable than yours?"   I'm thinking of this now, as I find myself waiting at the dining room table, yet again, for calls to be returned.  

Of course I will still try to contact my contacts--a girl's got to get paid.  But when this one particular busy, busy person calls me back, there's a huge part of me intends to tell him that his timing is horrendous and I'll get back to him after my Pap smear, unless of course, he'd like to be on speaker phone.

It's All in the Jeans

Back to the grind, I say.  Time to write that novel and update those blogs and shoot an article or two off to a magazine.  And I'm ready.  The Easter migraine has passed (another blog for another day-- it wasn't pretty, friends--complete with drooling, crying, and narcotic-induced candy binges) and it's time to get to work.  I got up, I put on my writer's jeans (What? I write in jeans that aren't too tight to sit comfortably for hours and hours but aren't so loose that I look icky.  Writer's jeans.  Note to self:  patent this idea) and I gathered my writer's things.  Macbook, notes, bag, legal pads, folder of great ideas, paper clips (I have a weird addiction), phone, chargers.  Also, bills that I need to pay, on my break from all of the writing, of course.

Once the kids are off to school, I hop in my car and head for the library.

Crap.  I forgot to eat breakfast and I have no highlighters.

I love Drug Mart.   Breakfast and pens in one place.  I find Special K Protein Bars, a bottle of Vitamin Water, pink and yellow highlighters, new pens, some Post-It flags, and some Shout, which I need for Jono's baseball pants, so this is just a lovely time-saving bonus.  Back in the van, I re-load my writing bag, organize it, trash all of my old yucky stuff, put my nice new pens inside, and get myself all set.  For the writing.  So I should probably leave the Drug Mart parking lot.  After I throw all of this trash away.  I get back out of my van, quickly clean my whole car out with a baby wipe and a Drug Mart bag and go to the library.

Which is where I am now.  Kind of, because I don't like the really quiet part of the library.  I like the cafe part.

Two trips to the bathroom, one to the magazine rack for "Writer's Digest" and "The Writer" and only one quick visit to Facebook, paid my AT&T bill, cleaned out my wallet, and now you can OBVIOUSLY see that I'm writing.  Or what would you be reading?

So it's a start.  Back on the horse, if you will.

And I'm riding this horse in my writer's jeans.  Looking good. . . . 

  

What Not To Wear, Tween Edition

  It went down like this.  A show-stopping conversation between me and. . my tween.

It started with the high black patent boots this morning.  I love her black boots.  (I own the same ones.)  I did not love them with the leggings, Dr. Seuss t-shirt, belt (albeit, mine), and miniskirt.

     "I thought we were wearing that skirt with tights," I said. (We?)
     "I hate tights."
     "I can see skin between your knees and your boots.  That's tacky."
     Eye roll.
     "Where is your sweater?"  I continue, feeling my luck literally PUSH.
     "Mom, I don't want to wear a cardigan everyday.  I'm not you."  Ouch.  Truth, and ouch.
     "Abby, it's February.  You are not wearing a t-shirt.  If you are wearing that outfit, put on a sweater.      

She did, and I let the outfit, Horton-Hears-a-Who shirt and all, go out the door.

She came in after school without the sweater.

     "Where is the sweater?"
     She looked at me.
     "Where. Is. The. Sweater."
     "In my backpack."  As if I'm the stupid one.  Here's an idea-- if you're going to lie to your mother, don't stroll back into the house without the SWEATER.
     "When did you take it off?"
     "What?"
     At this point, my head might pop off.
     "Don't make me say it again."
      "6th, 7th and 8th period.  After lunch."
      "So I can't trust you.  That's a real shame."
      "Mother!  Why is this such a big deal?  Is it EVER going to be about ME and what I want to WEAR?"
     Her hands were on her hips, she was glaring at me.  Again.
     "No," I told her.  "No, it's not."
     "You should see what so-and-so is. . ."
     "I. Don't. Care."
     "Can't I even say anything in defense of myself?"
     "No."
     "MOTHER."
     It was then that I told her to stop looking at me like I was an alien from outer space.  I told her that I did think she looked lovely (most days) and that since I bought every single thing in that closet, I obviously liked her clothes.
     "But you don't like the way I put them together."
     "Fair enough.  I don't always."
     "And every morning you find something to say."
     Fair enough.
     So we made a deal.  What Not to Wear, Tween Edition.  For the rest of this week, there are rules for both of us:

Abby's Rules:
1.  No short sleeves.
2.  No tank tops, unless used as layering pieces, and no showing too much skin.
3.  Do your hair every morning.  Ponytail, headband, barrette, whatever.  Do it.
4.  Do not wear a tank top twice in a row, then wear it to dance class, then sleep in it.
5.  Do not pull things out of the hamper to wear them.

Mom's Rules
1.  No commenting on Abby's outfits in the morning (if Abby has followed the rules.)
2.  Get Abby's laundry done today so she has lots to choose from.
3.  I will not comment on choice of footwear.

Will this make for a smoother exit strategy?  Who knows.  But it's already made for a smoother evening.
I'll let you know how the first edition goes. . .

I'm a Straight, Non-Crafty Republican and I love Rosie Radio!

I have a total friend-crush on Rosie O'Donnell.  Yep, it's true.  Which is weird, because on paper, we probably wouldn't make a good couple.  I'm a Republican, I'm straight, and I'm not too crafty.  But I'm pretty sure that if she met me in person, she'd like me.  In fact, I've thought this for many years.  I remember watching her show with my baby in his bouncy seat, watching her crush all over Tom, watching her celebrate her birthday on television (on my anniversary) and thinking:  it's serendipity.  We're meant to be friends.

When Rosie's show started, my oldest son was little, maybe eighteen months.  I think her son Parker is close to the same age, so the stories she would tell on her show would make me laugh or cry, and I would wait all morning for her show to air.  It was a break in my day, and I loved it.  It was feel-good television.  The audience loved her, there were give-aways, surprises, celebrity crushes and Broadway!  I missed it when it went away.

We moved, I had two more babies, and heard through the news bits and pieces about Rosie, but I had to think. . .  if bits and pieces about me ever traveled through the grapevine about me, would they always be flattering?  Would they always be true?  Ick.  No thank you.  Either way, my day-to-day relationship with Rosie was over.  Until. . . The View.

My mother had been trying to force me to watch the view for years, and I had resisted.

"You would love it," she would say.
"No I wouldn't."   Was I thirteen again?  Was I protesting and refusing just because I could?
"You would like the Hot Topics, Christy."
"Mom," I would tell her, "there is not one person on that show that I could possibly relate to."
"Meredith is a mom," she would say.  "You would like her."
"She is a working mom who doesn't wear underwear," was my standard comeback.  So I didn't watch.

Until Rosie came back.  And then I watched every day.  Sometimes I got mad or frustrated, even at Rosie because my opinions and hers can be very different, but you know what?  That's what makes the world go around.  Mostly I got mad at the tone of the show.  But I watched until Rosie's last shocking day.

Because I am a Republican, albeit socially liberal, which is a hard position in which to find both balance and political candidates, people may assume I aligned with Elizabeth during my short View-watching period.  Not true.  While I did feel like she was occasionally beaten-up and talked-over, I also felt that for such a young woman with such a long life ahead of her, I wanted her to be able to be more flexible, more open-minded, less factual and more soulful.  Not to change her beliefs, but to look up from the papers and into her heart.  I might not agree with every one of my friends,  but I can look into their eyes and really try to see.  Listen to them.  Talk with them.  Learn from them.

So Rosie was gone again.  And I stopped watching The View.  What did I say I was looking for on that show?  Someone I could relate to.  And while Rosie might not have stood for everything I stood for, or believed in everything I believed in (but really, who can?  or who should?) the important stuff was there:  kids, family, love, real life, truth, humor.  That, I believe.  That, I relate to.

Then, like a Christmas miracle, arrived Rosie Radio on Sirius XM Satellite Radio!  It's my new favorite thing.  If I miss it in the morning (though I try to do my errands at the right time, because I never remember to turn on my online XM in the house) I can catch a replay in my car when I am taking Jono to baseball.  I am reminded all over again about why I loved listening to her in my house all those years ago when Jono, now 15, was a baby.  Her real stories, her real questions, the real love of her viewers/listeners.  Her friends, the truck drivers, her children, the squirrels, the singing, the honesty.

Today she was talking to Janeane Garofalo.  And I got worried.  Yikes, I thought, "They would really not like me."  But you know what?  All opinions of Fox News Radio aside, I think they actually might.

Have a good day, everyone :)  Stay warm, drive safely, eat something delicious (you know I did-- it's Tuesday!)  xxoo ~Christy

Eating Disorder Tuesday

Tuesday rolls around again, as it always does, waking me with the promise of . . . food.  As those in my close circle of friends know, it's Eating Disorder Tuesday, and I couldn't be happier.

Please know that I mean no disrespect, and I mean NONE, to anyone who has suffered a real and true eating disorder.  I have not suffered any such disorder, except for the fact that I tend, for the most part, to eat in a disorderly fashion.

But because it is January, and vacation season approaches, I am, of course, dieting.  So from Wednesday through Monday, I am being perfectly perfect with my diet (within reason.)  On Tuesdays, I wake, weigh myself, and then eat.  It's not really crazy-weird-eating, but I might enjoy some fast food on a Tuesday, or a candy bar.  Or both.  And I have a diet Coke for sure, especially since I'm trying to avoid soda during the week.  And this particular diet-season, I've lowered my calories and I've even kicked my work-outs up a notch by throwing in a hike (or two, or three) each week.  Strangely, I even hiked this morning, on Eating Disorder Tuesday.  In the history of my life, and I swear this on a box of Girl Scout Tagalongs, I have never worked out on a Tuesday, not since my very first Tuesday Weight Watcher's meeting in 1991.  This is certainly a good omen that I'm meant to turn into a Suddenly Skinny Girl this year.  Obviously.  I mean, I'm hiking.  On a Tuesday.  WTF?

I also fell twice this morning when I was hiking, which could be because I didn't actually begin my actual food intake until after I walked (okay, okay, I ate two old donut holes and a Snickerdoodle) but not REAL food, so I think that perhaps I didn't actually fall, but more fainted twice from hunger.   And, the whole trail was covered in solid ice, but since I'm normally Christy Tall and Full of Grace, I blame hunger.

I will post a picture of the bruise and bump on my left knee.  It is the size of Rhode Island.

After a hot shower (during which I swear my ass and thighs were STILL cold from the hike) I enjoyed a lovely lunch with some friends at Aladdins, a middle-eastern restaurant.  A girl can eat healthy there, which I did.  When we parted ways, I had a few errands to run-- bank, drug store, grocery.  And then I found myself wondering, what was going on with me  Chicken in a pita?  Hiking?  It's Eating Disorder Tuesday, and I'm ahead of the game.  I rock.  I'm freakin' hungry.

I finished my errands and drove directly to the McDonald's drive through.  Just for some fries.  Just a treat for the afternoon.  I have two hours until the chickens come home from school, two hours to cuddle on my couch for a marathon of my Tivo.  I have Hoarders, Idol, Intervention, and Days of our Lives.  It's snowing.  I've hiked.  I have some french fries to fulfill the mandate of Eating Disorder Tuesday.

And so, my friends, that is where this story ends.  Me, in velour pants and red flannel slippers, remote, fries and diet Coke.  Pure bliss.

Hey, don't judge me.  I don't make the Eating Disorder Tuesday rules.  Oh, wait. . .

The Spy in my House

There's a spy in my house.  She reads emails, texts, Facebook posts, notes, journals, and diaries.  She listens at doors, eavesdrops on phone conversations and pries without shame into the private lives of those living here.  She know passwords to accounts, pushes open doors, and listens while others are talking to friends.

Oh, I'm good.

Which is how I have uncovered the fact that my daughter is writing about me in her journal.  Things like, "I think my mom and dad are doing it right now.  Ew."  WHAAAAAAATTTT?   But this is not the worst thing I have found.  No, readers, the excellent spy has apparently been duped.

This Christmas,  I finally allowed Abby to read the Twilight series, after two years of her begging and pleading.  We borrowed  the first book for her to read, and then someone gave her the second two books as a gift.  I then actually bought her the whole darn box set of four books that came complete with some bonus material, so she actually had some of the crazy books twice.  I was mother of the year.  She couldn't stop reading.   She was thanking me, kissing me, loving me.  I was a hero.

Then this, from the diary that Super Mother Spy found yesterday.  Note the date.

February 2, 2009:  "I'm reading the most fantastic book.  Breaking Dawn."  The entry went on to describe in detail about Bella's pregnancy, the late period, the romance, and how Abby's friend had let her borrow the book in school, and was bringing her the next one soon.  She wished she "didn't have to sneak them, but my mom wouldn't let her read them."

So she has now owned them twice, and read them. . .um. . THREE TIMES???  And she was faking her excitement when she read them AGAIN in December of 2009????  No wonder she got the lead in her school play.

I turned to my mom, master of handling tween and teen girls.  She told me to pick my battles, and to wait on this one.  Plus, she said, if I did let Abby know that I knew, and more importantly HOW I knew, then I would lose my power to know if she really wrote something important, something that I really might need to know.

I don't read her journals every day.  But occasionally, I peek.  I have to say it hurt my feelings, but I'm letting it go.  It was a book, after all.  Not a huge transgression.  A lie?  Yes.  But life threatening?  No.

I will buy her another box set of the books to present to her at her wedding rehearsal dinner, as a little gifts.  Oh, and to let her husband know what he has in store. . .

Unforgettable

Let me just paint you a picture.  Plaid pajama pants.  Summer plaid, not winter.  Black furry boots.  An old grey thermal shirt, bed hair, no make up.  You may imagine a bra if you like, but there's not one in sight, so the picture just gets better and better.  Throw on a very old fuzzy coat to go outside and rescue the porch pot that I decorated from the garden, where it fell, add in the crabapple juice that dripped all over me, and I think you'll have an accurate picture of how I look right now.  Oh, wait.  There is a strip of black duct tape stuck to the side of my coat, because I also had to fix the artificial tree on the screened-in porch, the tree that broke in half on day ONE of it's existence (thank you, 61-mph winds) and did not seem to withstand my first mend-attempt of thin floral wire and bending the branches around the broken trunk.  I'm sure duct tape will be MUCH better.

So that's how I look this morning, a Christmas vision, but I have to say, it's been the most Christmas-y I've felt all season.   I have a list of things to do today, but they're all pretty fun.  We baked yesterday, so I'll have fudge for breakfast.  Cards are arriving, which I LOVE, and the house looks very festive.

It was in my kitchen today, that I first really felt that Christmas was here.  My IHome was blaring (really, really blaring) while I was coming in from the aforementioned tree debacle, and one of my grandmother's Christmas songs happened to be playing.  I stopped, I stood in all of my loveliness, and we sang together in the kitchen.  It was rather like when Natalie Cole sang "Unforgettable" with her dad, except that I looked horrendous, and my grandmother outsings me by a country mile, and there was no TV covereage.  When I listened to the words of that song, "Christmas is a Birthday Time," I felt totally and completely in the season.   I always think how nice it is for my mom that she gets to hear her mom sing, anytime she wants.  Isn't technology fantastic?  And if my grandmother were here, I think she might look at me in my drippy boots, my ridiculous shirt, my messy hair and say, "Darling, you look beautiful."

Many of my friends now share the wonder of these tunes with me.  In fact, just the other day, the other BEST day, Lisa got the news that she had kicked cancer's ass FOR GOOD while she was listening to my grandmother sing in her house.  Angels everywhere.

I'm lucky that I can press a button and hear her voice.  But if there's someone that you miss, just stop in your kitchen and say hello.  It will put you in the spirit for sure.

(below:  a picture of my grandmother, Ruby Wright, singing in my grandfather's band, Barney Rapp and his New Englanders.)

Thanksgiving Top-Ten

Dear Friends,



I love Thanksgving.  I love the drive to my parents' home, the full house of family, the cooking, the smells, the sleeping-late, hanging out with my sibs, and the parades.    It's easy for me to get a little overwhelmed (read: crazy and overtired) this week as I prepare for the holiday, how about you?  Let's all take a deep breath, and take a few minutes to remember those things we are grateful for, big and little.  Here are mine:

Christy's Top Ten Reasons to Be Grateful, 2009

10.  I am grateful that my car battery died.  It died in my garage, yesterday morning, when I had very little to do.  The wonderful man from AAA came and replaced it for me right at my house.  I am exceedingly grateful that I wasn't at a McDonald's in Columbus on the way to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving, or driving somewhere late at night.  Did I want to buy a new battery yesterday?  No.  But am I grateful to have one?  Yes.

9.  I am grateful that I have been given a writing challenge this November.  To those of you who have come across me when I am babbling and drooling, I apologize.  It's almost over.

8.  So thankful for the abundance in my life that is present in both little and big ways.  This Thanksgiving, there will be no need to rent movies; we can watch "old"ones from our own collection.  I observed the kids sharing their collection of video games for the upcoming car trip so that they would each have "new" stuff to play with.   Without breaking my neck (or the bank) shopping, there were plenty of clothes, more than enough food, and even a few treats to throw in for the road-trip to Cincinnati.  Less really can be more.

7.  Speaking of the road trip, I am always grateful for those four hours in the car.  This year, I feel like the kids are stretched to their little limits,  I've been packing (and writing) and Adam's been traveling.  When we all finally settle in, claim our small personal space, and hit the road, we are a happy family capsule traveling south on I-71.  I like having my people all in one place.  We can talk, we can sing, we can laugh.  It's a good start to the long weekend.  And I usually eat a cheeseburger at some point.  (I also look forward to napping for a good bit of the drive, while Adam drives us safely to Cincinnati.  Sometimes I am asleep before we leave Hudson.)

6.  I am grateful for our parents.  For my mom and dad who are currently preparing for the onslaught of . . . us.  They're about to get hit from both sides with children and grandchildren.  Brace yourself, Grandma and Pop!  Hide the remotes, get the game table ready, don't carve the turkey without Abby, and prepare for the Thanksgiving madness.  For Adam's parents, who come in a pinch and steal the kids for overnights, it is a true blessing to have you nearby.  (Although, you are currently in South Carolina, which makes me less grateful and more jealous.)

4.  This year, I am thankful for this gorgeous weather we've been having.  Even as it starts to look a little damp and gloomy out there, I can't imagine how we got so lucky with all of those warm, sunny days.  It has kept my spirit lifted, and made the days fly by!  (Which is not a good thing, as I count the shopping days left until Christmas.  Yikes!)

3.  I have the world's most excellent friends.  Near and far.  You support me and lift me up on a daily basis in so many ways and I adore you.  Grateful does not even begin to touch it.  (Brothers and Sistas, include yourselves here, please :)

2.  My friend Lisa is healthy.  Thankful.  Thankful.  Thankful.

1.  I'm more than grateful for my crazy, happy, healthy, normal, silly, wonderful, surprise-me-everyday kids and husband.  Adam, Jono, Abby and Sam. . . you are the joys of my life, and I adore you, you turkeys.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  Have a safe and wonderful holiday surrounded by your family and friends, and please know that I count you among my many, many blessings!

love,
christy

Words, Words, Words. . .

I'm so excited to go to the H1N1 clinic today!  Okay, I'm really not.  I'm just trying to put my heart into the goal of the afternoon.  Flu shots.  Whoopee!

Hey, are you one of my writing friends?  Next year, you need to join me on NaNoWriMo (www.nanowrimo.org) if I've recovered by then.  National Novel Writing Month has consumed me, overtaken me, and has the potential to completely kick my ass, but I'm moving forward, word by word.  Today's count, 30,014.  The challenge is to write 50,000 words by November 30th.  Just write.  Don't edit, don't re-read.  Do these people not realize that there is a Thanksgiving holiday coming up?  How can I work in my 1600-2000 words a day when there is sleep to be slept, birds to be carved, movies to be seen, parades to be viewed?  I'm desperately trying to "UP" my word count so that I have some sort of Thanksgiving cushion, or else please come find me on the Monday following Thanksgiving at the Hudson Library.  I will be the one in a sobbing heap on the floor, trying to find a way to write the last 10,000 words before mindnight!  Bring diet Mountain Dew.


On days when I find myself behind in my writing, I tend to set up my days with bursts of writing, and small breaks.  Write a thousand words, take a break.  Repeat.  Four or five times.  The other day, my breaks were things like, "do laundry" and "pay bills."  By the time I was finished with five cycles of writing, I was craving air and a new vantage point, but I was well ahead of the game, and had gotten lots done in my house as well.  Can I keep it up?  We'll see.  I might need to work in better breaks, like "go shopping," "take a walk" or "do a shot."  Just kidding.  Kind of.

Yesterday, I was sick, and wrote over 5,000 words.  Or, at least, I think I did.  There was lots of DayQuil involved, so come December re-writes, I might find pages and pages of complete nonsense.  Or brilliance.

A very cool thing happened on my other blog.  (If you only read this blog, don't feel like I am cheating on you.  Come and read:  http://blog.hudsonucc.org   )  Anyway, I was quoting a book that I am currently reading and very much enjoying, The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton, and guess what?  Meg Waite Clayton herself commented on my blog!  It was very lovely and unexpected.  And in this month of NaNoWriMo, it was nice to get a boost like that.

Remind me, please, when I am a published author, to turn around and do the same for someone like me.

I Love Mornings

       So,  Jono's H1N1, Halloween, and Abby's birthday totally got the best of me and the blogosphere, but I say, good morning to you!  It's a cold, November morning, and I know this because I just got back from driving my two big kids to the bus stop.

     This was unexpected.

      This is Adam's job.  He was out of town for several days, so for most of this week, I got up with the two oldest kids and got them to the bus stop, which happens to be veeeerrrryyyy far away from our house, and on dark, cold mornings, I am generally opposed to allowing them to walk.  Even though they probably could.

     Adam returned last night from sunny Las Vegas, and even though I know he spent most of his time wandering trade shows and in meetings, I prefer to call it "sunny Las Vegas" and imply that he was lounging by the pool.  I just assumed that he would rise-and-shine with Abby and Jono this morning, as per usual, and drop them at the bus stop on the way to work.  So last night, I settled into bed knowing I could sleep until a blissful 7:45 am.  It's been a busy week.  And then, from the other side of the bed, I hear this.  "Gotta go in early tomorrow."

     "Early?  Can you get the kids?"
     "I can get them up."
     "Can you take them to the bus?"
     "Probably not."
     I re-set my alarm.
     "Christy, they can walk to the bus-stop.  It's fine."
     "It's too dark.  I will take them.  It's fine."  It was not fine, but I am excellent at hiding my feelings.

     So, this morning, at about 6:30, Abby starts her yelling.  MOM  MOM  MOM  MOM.  I hear you, sister. I'm coming.  The bus, however, isn't coming for 20 minutes.  I take my time getting downstairs.   I throw on the world's ugliest fuzzy slipper mocs, and a fleece.  My hair is lovely.

     "Let's roll, Chafes."
     Heading through the laundry room, I see Jono's full hamper by the washing machine.
     "I see you left me a gift today," I say.
     "I wanted you to have something to do," he retorts.
     "That's sweet."
     "I know."
     "I think I'll just teach you how to do your laundry."
      "I like the way you do it."
      "Not true.  When I do it, you say, 'I have no where to put all this clean laundry.' When I don't do it, you complain about no having clean underwear."
     "That's true," he admits, "or I wear the same pants for four days."
     "Or you wear basketball shorts for underwear."  Jono cracks up.
     "You wear basketball shorts for underwear?" cries Abby!  "When I see you in the morning in basketball shorts is that underwear?"
      "Why are you looking at me in the morning?  Perv."

     Abby in the back, Jono in the front, we get into the cold van and head to the end of the street where we park and wait for the bus.
     Abby touches the handle of the back door and Jono yells.
     "DON'T GET OUT YET, DEEB!"  That's his name for her; we don't know why.  I'm sure it's horrible.
     "I'm not!  Geez!"
      "Settle down, Jono.  One of you can get out, one can stay in.  Whatever."
      "Mr. Handley (name changed for protection) won't recognize you anyway," says Abby.
      They both crack up.
      "What's that about?" I ask.
      Apparently, they explain, yesterday the bus driver asked Jono who he was, where he lived, and if he had ever ridden the bus before.  He's been riding the same bus for four years.  And, Mr. Handley knows Adam.  I guess it's not really a case of "who you know."
     This cracks me up.
     Jono continues.  "He only drives a bus because he was bored in his retirement.  Now he's bored and pissed off.  He could have been sleeping late and pissed off.  Now he gets up at 5:00 am to drive kids around and be pissed off."
     "Kill him with kindness, Jono.  Get on the bus and say, 'Good Morning, Mr. Handley' every day."
  
      "We should get out," says my back-seat passenger.  There is a group of kids assembled at the bus stop, but no bus in sight, yet.
      "Frick, no.  I'm staying where it's warm."  I shoot him a look.  But I'm trying not to laugh.  Frick?
      "Jono, watch it."
      "Aren't you glad I used SOME decorum?"
    
     In the distance, there are blinking lights, and quick as one of those blinks, my big kids are out of there seats and running to meet the bus.  I wonder if the bus driver recognizes them?
I'm going to guess, frick no.

My Thoughts on Halloween

     Oh my God--who made these delicious brownies with orange-tinted frosting and Halloween sprinkles AND candy corn on top?  Me?  That was fantastic of me to make these.  I love them.  They looked so beautiful in the pan, and then turned into a horrid lump (OF GOODNESS) on the cake plate.  It's Halloween.  I shall dub them "monster brownies" and call it a day.  Every bite that I deny taking as I walk by the plate is more delicious than the last 10 bites that I denied taking.  Mmmmmm.  I hate you, Weight Watchers points.  Hate hate hate hate.  I will love you tomorrow morning when I come back to you like a long, lost love, begging for another chance at our relationship.  Offering apologies, needing another try.  But tonight, it is an affair with the brownie pile on my counter.  Halloween Heaven.

     My daughter is a goblin.  Truly.  And if my parents have ever claimed NOT to wish a version of my teenage self on me, well, either it didn't work, or I was never a demon, because a demon-spirit of some form has entered my daughter right at the scariest time of year.  Tonight, she stood outside of the car at the dance studio stomping her foot at me, lecturing me, yelling at me, and then accusing me of being worked up.  Sorry, Miss-I-Want-To-Go-To-The-Marine-Corps-Ball-With-A-Boy-Who-Invited-Me-Via-Email, but I'm not worked up.  I'm just driving you to dance and YOU'RE worked up and making a Super Tween Fool of yourself in the parking lot.  Have a brownie.  Get your period.

    Swine flu has left the building.  And a 15-year old boy (or as Lisa texted me recently, "boyman") is truly that.  A boyman.  Boys aren't any fun when they are sick.  Girls, when sick, are fun.  We like trays of treats in bed, magazines, television, games, and conversation.  Men (and boys) apparently, only want 100,000 different beverages and ESPN.  So boring for me while Jono had the swine.  But I am glad that he seems to have weathered the nastiness well.  For all of the news coverage, I must say, it wasn't too bad.  Knock wood.

     Abby and her friend were picked to paint a window in town for Halloween.  So nice-- a sparkly pumpkin, some clocktower bats (you have to know the town), some ghosts.  Jono is retroactively pissed, reminded suddenly that he and his friend Connor came up with a window idea in the 5th grade and I wouldn't let him sumbit it the drawing.

     "Jono, you drew a black man in a pumpkin costume.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, it was just a weird entry."
     "Mom, it was Snoop Dog.  You should have seen Connor's first picture.  It said, 'Happy Hallo-wizzie."

     And so, Halloween weekend approaches and Abby will turn 12 the day after.  (I'm sure she'll be lovely as the gifts and cards begin to arrive.)  This time of year, I am always reminded of the night I went into labor.  Jono, at three, had just finished trick-or-treating, dressed as a cow.   I was admitted to the hospital just after midnight, where the entire staff found it funny to be dressed in costume.  Or maybe I was just drugged.  Either way, I didn't really care for it.  I didn't then, nor do I now,  want anyone near my hoo-ha with green hands, get it, Dr. Frankenfinger?

     And these are my thoughts this Halloween week.  To you, and yours, Happy Hallo-wizzie.

Sam Fell Down and I'm Going to Bed

Jammies.
Mike's Mojito.
Melba toast and Laughing Cow cheese.
Laptop, phone, TV remote all on my bed with me.  Ahhhh.  Life is good.

It's 6:23 pm.  Listen, sometimes a girl needs to call it a early night :)  This balloon boy story totally wore me out (I'm so glad he was found safely in the attic, but is anyone else cynically suspecting the parents of seeking cable TV fame?  Former WifeSwap contestants?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?)

Another reason I am tired:  yesterday, Sam fell and hit is face on a cement step, and to quote one of the witnesses, "he was a tiny, little, sad, curly, bloody hot mess."  And that same little mess curled up with me and slept all night in my bed with two wet washcloths.  A very early dentist visit this morning, and aside from two extremely loose baby teeth, a giant fat lip, and lots of small cuts and bruises, he's fine.  Apparently, however Sam fell, he did it exactly right.  As most of you know,  he learned that skill from his mother.

Six days of 'cillan,
Five bloody washcloths,
Four drinks of Yoo-hoo,
Three trips to Drug Mart,
Two new Lego sets
And a junior chocolate Steak-n-Shake shake.

And on that note. . . I'm calling it a night. :)  

Friday, Busy Friday!!

Friday.

I drive Lisa to the hospital for a cat scan, and after, we go to Corky and Lenny's for lunch.  It is here that Lisa says these instantly infamous words to Chad, our waiter:  "If you try to take my plate, I will stab you with my fork."  So subtle.  We stop for some shopping at Anthropology (giant flower pins are in, so are ruffles, so are jodphurs)  and then at the new Northface store.   I drop Lisa at home, and check the time.  1:48.  Can I make it to Target for Sam's khaki pants, and back to the bus stop by 3:00 to meet Jono and drive him to Solon for his 3:30 doctor's appointment?  Yes.  I drive fast to Target, get pants (and a few other things) throw them quickly into cart, check out, drive home, meet the bus, drop Abby at home, instruct her to get Sam off of his bus, and drive Jono to his well-visit.  He is well.  And aside from the moment where Jono uses the word "bi-atch" to describe someone to the doctor, the appointment goes pretty well.    (Ah, fifteen.  How I love you.)  We walk away with 15,000 prescriptions for asthma medications, and the instructions that I need to let Jono handle his respiratory health and possibly fail.  Oh, and he has a nickel allergy, which explains the rash on his belly, near where his cheap belt-buckle must be rubbing.  Nickel, peanuts, morphine, opiates.  Why not?  The doctor tells him he can never be a drug addict, because he'll be one big, walking hive.  I was kicked out of the second half of the appointment, but I think it went okay.

We stop at the grocery store for a birthday card, gum, mints, and a zucchini.

We stop at McDonald's for Jono.

I make it back to Hudson around 5:15, in time to drop off Jono, comb my hair, change my sweater, and pick up Cindy for a friend's birthday dinner.  We have a drink first, get hit on by an elderly man at a bar, after which Cindy invites him to an Elder-Life event at church, and tells me that I'll be serving at that particular event.  Sounds good.  We leave the bar and head to the dinner at the Chinese restaurant.  It's so nice, except that I get 100 phone calls and texts from Adam, whose car has broken down on the side of the highway.  Two rainy hours, two tow trucks, and one police car later, it is determined that I do not have to go to the dealership; he has a ride home.   Then Abby calls.  Her sleepover friend has arrived, but the mom has not just dropped her off.  They're waiting for me in the house.  Ah.  Adam was supposed to be home but he's with the tow truck.  I leave the restaurant in a hurry, drive home, and find my friend Shelia seated in my family room talking to Jono, while Sam entertains her with his new magic set.  Abby and Mairead, Sheila's daughter, are dressed in last year's Halloween costumes, laughing hysterically.  They are preparing for. . . wait for it. . . "Leave a Zucchini on Your Neighbor's Porch  Day."  There is nothing to be done but to allow it to happen.  I offer Shelia a glass of wine, but she declines, and leaves me to deal with the sqaush on my own.


It is 8:43.  My children have not been fed, since Adam never came home.  I call Donatos Pizza.
"Thank you for calling Donatos.  This is Jim, pick-up or delivery?"
"Delivery," I say.
"You're on Pinebrooke?"
"Yep."
"Hang on," he says.  I hear muffled sounds, questions, talking.  "We don't deliver out there anymore."
I don't know what to say.
"It's a Hudson address," is what comes out of my mouth.
"Sorry about that," says Jim, whom I picture as a skinny teen-ager.
I hang up.
I call back.
"Thank you for. . "
I interrupt Jim.  "Jim, I just called about a delivery on Pinebrooke."
"Oh, yeah," he says.
"Listen, I'm not going to be ordering from you, but I want to understand your delivery radius, since I live a mile and a half away from you."
"Hang on."  I hear muffled conversation again.  I hear something like, "do you want me to tell her that?"
He comes back and says, "Yeah, I talked to our manager and our map doesn't even go that far out."
"HOW FAR OUT?" I say.  "Do you deliver to the schools?  To Stow Road?  To the high school?  I'm closer than all of those."
"Yeah, that's weird."
That was the resolution?  "Yeah, that's weird??"
I called Pizza Hut.  I was told that an AWESOME delivery guy would delivery my order in 30 minutes. And that's exactly what happened.

I feel as strong need to call and talk to the manager at Donatos.  But I feel even more strongly that Jim is 15 and his manager is 16.

At 9:00, I call Lisa to tell her everything.  Adam on the highway, the ridiculous pizza story, Sheila beating me to my house.  Lisa is tired.  She listens.  Then she tells me to call her in the morning, she's going to sleep.
Saturday, she calls me and asks, "Did we talk last night?  I think I was asleep.  Stupid Ambien."
I told her all of it again, adding in the zucchini details.  It's okay.  All I needed was a listener.  And a pizza.

Summer, Over and Out.

Just thinking about my friend Lisa tonight.  She is having a scan tomorrow; her leg hurts.  But after this long summer of battling cancer, a scan is a scary thing.  Cancer sucks.  On the bright side,  I know Lisa gets to drink some delicious barium tonight and tomorrow. . .mmmmm. . . fantastic.  She heard it was better refrigerated.  Serve chilled, over ice. . . sounds great.

I know the scan will be fine; she's had good news lately.  She's just sick of hospitals, and I'm sick of them for her.  

It's finally fall. . .we've gotten to the point where we can look BACK on this summer.  It's over.  Lisa has been waiting for sweaters, mums, pumpkins.  For Halloween.  Thanksgiving.  Christmas.  All things that signify that this summer is gone.  

Go Lisa.  Go get your scan and come back to the bubble.  We have lots of autumnal things to do.  I'm not sure what that means, but I'll figure it out. . . 

It's a Tivo-Wonderful World

Hey, friends.  Thanks for all of the comments about my headache.  I feel much better today, and am catching up on TiVo and cleaning a closet, which is a good sign.  Which reminded me that I wanted to post a list of my favorite television shows in case you are in need of something new to add to your fall TV line-up.  We have three TiVos in our house, for the very simple reason that I don't always know where I will be when the urge strikes me to watch a recorded program.  I like to record shows in the basement so I am motivated to get on the treadmill, and so far, that's worked twice.

Here are my recent favorites:

Network Shows:

Grey's Anatomy 
The Biggest Loser
Brother's and Sisters ( Note:  I really need Rob Lowe and Calista to get along this season.  Remember the show "Mad About You?"  Helen Hunt and Paul Reiser spent a whole season fighting and the show was really more like "Mad At You."  I don't care for that.

Desperate Housewives

Dancing with the Stars
Modern Family
Flash Forward
So You Think You Can Dance
Private Practice
Amazing Race (If you TiVo, remember to record the show that follows, usually Cold Case, because football runs long, and you will miss the end.  Just a tip.)

I watched the first Episode of Mercy, but I wasn't thrilled.  I didn't hate it, but I wasn't waiting for it this week, you know?

I wish there was a political drama.  I really miss The West Wing.

I sometimes catch the Monday night sitcoms with Jono, and I always love How I Met Your Mother, and we both love The Big Bang Theory.  It is VERY well written.  There's a new show on Monday. . . Accidentally on Purpose.  It's funny; Dharma is in it, and she always makes me laugh.

Some cable favs:

Flipping Out (so, so, so, so crazy.  I love it.)
Hoarders
Obsessed 
Project Runway

I'm sure there are others--  Lisa, what am I missing???  We both like those design shows, like Top Design and Design Star, but I don't think they're on right now.  Also, Kathy Griffin: Life on the D-List, but it bordered on uncomfortable for me this season.  And that takes a lot. . .

I also TiVo Oprah and Days of our Lives, but I only watch these when I feel like it, usually when I'm folding laundry and making beds.  Easy to delete episodes that don't interest me.  Lately Oprah's been awesome. . . did you catch the Whitney 2-parter?  Crack is WHACK, Bobby!!!

To answer the unspoken question, I don't watch all of these all the time.   I pick and choose.  Mostly I choose to watch.  Thank you, TiVo, for giving me the option of pause and rewind, morning or night.

I just didn't want Tuesday to go by in case you didn't have The Biggest Loser on your schedule.  Speaking of that, I'm still hoping for a Medium Loser edition.
If I could just have 3 weeks on that show. . .

And of course, starting in January, Tuesdays be an official holiday because American Idol will be back.   


Gotta scoot!  Have a good day, everyone :)