Kamikaze Blueberries

We're approximately two-thirds of the way in of what I jokingly refer to as our "Incredibly Over-Scheduled Weekend."

Ever have those? Where there is something going on just about EVERY FREAKIN' MINUTE of the WEEKEND??!!

Where you were hoping for a bit of rest & relaxation, and instead you're rushing here, there, and everywhere???!!

Oh my GAWD, I hate weekends like that...and yet here I am...stuck in one of them. Again. As usual. Sigh.

Our Trifecta of Tiredness came about partly due to bad timing, but also partly due to bad scheduling on my part. I guess I'm trying to blame someone else for this misfortune of events, but in actuality, the blame can pretty much be placed right at my own two feet. As usual. Sigh Again.

Big Event #1 was Friday evening...Hubby had no sooner walked in the door from work, when I was rushing him right back out the door so we could make our dinner reservations at a local restaurant, the Blue Bird Bistro.




We had theater tickets for later that night, so time was of the essence ("Hurry! We gotta' go! Now!")...and I thought we'd try a new place (for us, anyway; the Bistro has been around for years) for dinner. The Bistro is known for using organic, sustainable, local & all-natural ingredients in their food - and since I am trying, half-heartedly, to be sure, to eat healthier - there we were. At the Bistro. On time. Yay.




We began with bruschetta, topped with blueberries and a drizzle of honey....and although this LOOKED very pretty, it was pretty difficult to eat. Blueberries are round...and round objects have this annoying tendency to roll...and so, I would take a bite of bread and find several blueberries had managed to roll right off the bread and plop into my lap. Drat. I hate it when that happens.

And the honey? Sticky.

I would imagine that if I had ever been able to get all the flavors in my mouth at the same time, this would have been tasty. But that never happened. I HATE food that's hard to eat. Make it easy for me, folks - that's all I'm asking.

I don't really want to spend my Friday evening fishing kamikaze blueberries out of my lap.




Now, our salads looked delicious...organic mixed greens tossed with a house made blueberry vinaigrette and topped with crumbled blue cheese, almonds and candied onion slivers.

I am a cheese lover. Let's make that perfectly clear - there's never been a cheese that I don't like. But the blue cheese on this salad was pretty much over-powering...and I can't believe I'm saying that...as I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE blue cheese. A little blue cheese goes a long way, though...and in this case? That salad was swimming in cheese.

I never tasted the blueberries...or the almonds...or the candied onions...all I tasted was...cheese. Lots and lots of sharp, tangy, blue cheese.

For dinner, we had what I refer to as the Boring Brownish Beiges. Seriously. Both of our plates came out and I giggled at the lack of color on the plates, especially after the vibrant colors of the bruschetta and the salads.




Hubby had the boring brownish beige chicken risotto, which was pretty tasty - and peppery.




I had the boring brownish beige meatloaf and mashed potatoes...but you wouldn't know that, would you? Because they slathered my meat loaf in boring brownish beige mushroom gravy. They DROWNED it. Once I managed to scrape off some of the gravy, I found the meatloaf to be quite tasty.




For dessert, we tried the chocolate chip bread pudding...and trust me. It looked much better than it tasted...it was sorely lacking in flavor. And rum. Te tum tum.





After dinner, we hustled over to the theater, where we settled in to watch a 2009 Tony winner, "Next to Normal."

Not having ever seen this show - nor having heard much about it - I was bolstered by the positive reviews it had received in our local newspaper. About all I knew was that it was a rock musical dealing with mental illness. And it was directed by the same guy who directed "Rent", one of all-time favorite rock musicals.

Sounds like fun, right?

Not.

Um...Hubby and I go to a LOT of live theater. LOTS. We have season tickets to several theater venues in town, and average 2-3 shows per month. I don't consider us theater snobs - it usually doesn't take much to impress us, and we appreciate the efforts to put on shows for entertainment.

And rarely do we leave mid-performance.

This show? We walked out at intermission. Along with about half the theater. Seriously.

Who wants to go out on a festive Friday evening and be DEPRESSED, watching a woman deal with bipolar disorder and demons and then attempt suicide and later, receive electroshock therapy??

Not us.

So...after leaving the theater earlier than scheduled, we headed home...quickly changed out of theater clothes and into walking clothes...and headed to Relay for Life, which was Part #2 of our Incredibly Over-Scheduled Weekend, and which I've already blogged about HERE.

I'll pick up Part #3 later...and yes. There's a Part #4. Ack. TOO MUCH STUFF.

Sigh.

A Salute to Coach Z

Special people...

...we all have them in our lives.

Those special people who, especially when we're young, influence us in ways that can't be counted. Those special people who inspire us...guide us...believe in us...and perhaps change the course of our lives.

I was fortunate to have several people in my life that I looked up to, and wanted to emulate as I got older.

One of those special people was "Coach Z".

Coach Z was our high school boys' team basketball coach...but that didn't mean anything to me. I didn't play basketball, nor was I a boy.

However...Coach Z was also our high school Psychology teacher...and it was within that setting that I most remember him.

I took Psychology I as a sophomore, and from the minute I walked into Coach Z's classroom, I knew he was different than the average high school teacher. He was memorable from the minute when he actually greeted me as I walked into the classroom - something that most other teachers didn't bother with. That initial greeting. He made me feel...welcome.

He then proceeded to teach...but his teaching style was very different from the average high school teacher, as well. He wouldn't sit behind his desk - ever. Oh, no. Coach Z would always come around and perch on his desk, using the surface as his seat - getting just that much closer to the students in the classroom. He made us feel...like we mattered.

After he'd get settled on his desk, he would begin to talk...and that's when the magic really happened. Coach Z had a way of telling a story like no other...he brought you into the story - made you a part of it - and he had us hanging on every word. He made us feel...like we were equals.

He brought Psychology to life that semester...and if you've ever had anything to do with Psychology, you know it can be dry as bones, for the most part. But not with Coach Z. He'd take the concept of Psychology and then weave a story of how that concept applied in "real life" - and I. was. hooked. Period. With a capital "P".

Psychology II was offered second semester - but a small problem existed. I was "only" a sophomore - and normally, Psych II was offered only to juniors or higher. I pleaded my case with Coach Z, who went to bat for me with our administration - and I was in. Boy, oh boy - the only sophomore in a class of upperclassmen? I felt AWESOME!

But I wasn't there to gloat in my specialness...I was there to learn more about Psychology...and hear more of Coach Z's stories. If there'd been a Psych 3 or 4...or 15...I would have been there. Coach Z believed in me...he'd talk with me after class, asking me what I was going to do when I got out of high school.

Years later, I went on to college - and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to teach. And I wanted to teach Psychology. Just like Coach Z. So - my degree ended up being Secondary Education with emphasis in Psych and Sociology. My life-long love affair with teaching - and psychology - began in that 10th grade classroom. With Coach Z.

I've ended up not teaching Psychology, per se...but I do teach. I've taught classes at the hospital where I worked for many years, and I currently do a lot of teaching with the American Red Cross. And my teaching style is very, very similar to Coach Z. I'll perch. On the desk. And I tell stories. I don't know if I'm quite at the caliber of story-telling of Coach Z, but I'd like to think I'm doing him justice. Even if my stories aren't as good as his, I do one thing that he taught me. I respect my students. I treat them as human beings worthy of respect and my time. Cuz' that's what he did.

I never saw Coach Z after I graduated..so it's been over 30 years. While reading this morning's paper, I came across his obituary...Coach Z passed away last week. He and his wonderful stories are now gone.

I read that after he left teaching, he drove a tour bus for awhile - in the Branson, Missouri area - and I can just picture him, sharing his stories with his passengers. Of course, I would hope he wasn't perching on the steering wheel while talking, but with Coach Z, you would just never know what to expect.

Here's to you, Coach Z.

Peace.

Reminiscing About School

The fastest way for me to lose my children's interest is to start reminiscing about what it was like in "the old days" when I went to school.

Going to school in the 70's was different, for sure.

As a girl, I was only allowed to wear dresses - no pants allowed. On cold, snowy days, we'd be permitted to wear pants on the way to school - under our dresses, of course - but they'd have to be removed as soon as we walked into the classroom.

There was nothing so unpleasant as sitting on a cold, wet classroom tile floor, removing snow boots and pants and hoping they'd dry before donning them again in the afternoon for the trek home.

On days when we had Physical Education, we were required to wear shorts - under our dresses, of course - so as to protect our "dignity" from the yucky, slimy boys and their ever-present quest of getting a glimpse of our sacred underwear.

We would pay our 3 cents for a milk carton at lunch, which would be proceeded by saying a blessing and thanking God, in the classroom. And this was public school, no less.

And no air-conditioned classrooms meant for some really, really hot afternoons which led to some very sleepy and sweaty and smelly kids. I can only imagine what we smelled like when we came in from recess. Poor teachers.

In elementary school, I was a "walker". No bus for me. I lived about a quarter mile from school; our house was at the bottom of a valley - and the walk to school was up a seemingly HUGE, insurmountable steep hill.

Walking up that mountain every day - in snow and ice and rain - was never fun.

The neighborhood kids would joke that we were climbing Mount Kilimanjaro every morning as we'd trudge, ever so slowly, to our perceived doom.

When the school bell rang in the afternoon, we'd race as fast as we could down the mountain. If one of us would be so unfortunate as to trip - that would lead to a 1/2 mile roll, head over heels, down the rough terrain, which was never fun and always embarrassing.

When I reached the oh-so-mature age of 11, I was given parental permission to ride my bike to school.

It was quite a workout in the morning, but I'd be rewarded by the Best Bike Ride Ever each afternoon as I'd go FLYING down the hill - beating all of the walkers by a good 15 minutes home. Catching air every afternoon on that bike was SO worth the effort in the morning.

I once made the almost-fatal mistake of dangling my purse from my handlebars on the way home one day. My purse got stuck in the bile spokes - stopping the bike on a dime - and sending me FLYING over the handlebars - where I met the concrete, face first.

Ouch. Which hurt worse - my nose, or my pride - I wasn't sure. Besides the indignity of the fall itself, I was wearing a dress, if you remember. Everyone and their brother got more than a glimpse of my sacred underwear that afternoon.

That little tumble almost cost me my bike-riding privileges, until I convinced my parental units that it was a one-time only mistake, never to be repeated. Lesson learned painfully - don't dangle a long purse on the front handlebars.

I actually loved school. I loved the teachers, the structure, the lessons, and most importantly - the other kids. I hated snow days - which were pretty few and far between in those days. I don't think schools were as concerned with liability as they are now, and so it was a very rare day for school to be cancelled.

My kids have actually attended school a total of SIX days since Christmas. SIX days! What with snow days, holidays and teacher work days - they've been at home more than they've been at school for the last month.

When I start to tell them how easy they have it, they immediately groan and I can hear their little ears shut down and tune me out.

That's okay. They'll never know how their mother used to FLY down a mountain every afternoon on a bike - and in a dress, no less.

Their loss.

Peace.

This Old House

Yesterday was a bittersweet day for me...

The old house...the house we've had on the market since July...was finally sold, and yesterday, Hubs and I headed into the title company to sign the paperwork.

The buyers are actually closing next week, but we'll be out of town - so an early trip was necessary to cross all the i's and dot all the t's - or however it goes....

After we left the title company, Hubs and I headed to the old house one more time...our arms were piled with keys, garage door openers, and paperwork - I had made a file box of necessary appliance instructions, warranties, etc - and we wanted to leave all of our goodies on the kitchen counter for the new owners.

And we wanted to do one final walk-through...to say goodbye.

As I walked through the empty house - my mind was flooded with memories: of the children growing up, of friends coming by, of the pets scampering across the floors...of birthday parties and Christmas parties and family picnics in the backyard...

...memories of scraped knees and broken arms and upset tummies...

...images of family discussions and important decisions and life-changing moments...

...celebrations of good news, supporting each other in bad news...

...all happening within the four walls of the house we built many years ago...

Is it strange to be so attached to a house? Is it weird to get all choked up and cry a little when it was time to shut the door for one final time?

Goodbye, house. We loved you.

A new family will be taking care of you now...

And may they bless you and you bless them - as much as we were blessed.

Peace.

Take Your Pumpkin Pie....Please!!!

I do not like pumpkin pie.

I do not like it on a boat...in a float...in a house...or with a mouse.

Let's make it perfectly clear: I do not like pumpkin pie. I will not like it until I die.

With that said, my grandmother used to make the best pumpkin pies in the world. Or so everyone said; I wouldn't know, because I wouldn't touch them. She was a professional baker, and her pies were to die for.

Every year, bless her heart, she would make pumpkin pies, cherry pies, apple pies and mincemeat pies for Thanksgiving. I remember as a child turning my nose up at the thought of a "mincemeat" pie - that just sounded awful!!! I mean, who came up with that word....? Mincemeat??? Ugh.

But I found out, through Grandma's convincing, that mincemeat was pretty darn good.

Every year, bless her heart, Grandma would say, "Drama Queen? I changed my recipe a bit for the pumpkin pie...I think you'll like it this year."

And I would respond, "Grandma...did you put pumpkin in it?"

And she'd say, "Well, of course - it's a pumpkin pie, after all!"

And I'd answer, "Then I'm not going to like it...Duh. It's the pumpkin that I don't like!"

Pumpkin. Gah.

So, she eventually gave up on convincing me that pumpkin pies were good, and she resorted to making me little, individual chocolate cream pies for Thanksgiving. Was I spoiled, or what?!

I truly thought every child was getting an individual chocolate cream pie for Thanksgiving. Homemade by their Grandma.

I miss Grandma. When she passed away a few years back, I was upset. But Thanksgiving is when I miss her the most.

Not just the individual-sized chocolate cream pie. But just her presence...in the kitchen...cooking and baking.

And her constant desire to find the perfect pumpkin pie recipe that I would like.

I'd sit and eat an entire pumpkin pie today if it'd bring back my Grandma.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Hug your family. Spread the joy. And many, many blessings to you.

Peace.

Living in Paradise

We called him "Opa."

He was my maternal grandfather...and this week, he would have celebrated his 98th birthday...

When my mom grew up, my grandparents lived here in Kansas City. My grandma, Oma, was a dean at the University of Missouri; Opa was an attorney. At some point, in the late 1950's, they moved to Wisconsin, due to a job opportunity for Oma.

In the early 1960's, Opa took a vacation down to St. Thomas, in the Virgin Islands, to visit his brother. Opa never came back. He called Oma, who was holding down the fort in Wisconsin, and said, "I am in paradise. If and when you want to join me, sell the house and come on down."

It took a few years, but eventually, Oma joined him, until her death in 1976.

Opa lived in St. Thomas for many, many years...enjoying the beach and enjoying the slower pace of life. When I was 17, I got to spend a few weeks with him that summer, and it was amazing....except when he made me eat turnips for the first time in my life. And brussel sprouts. Ugh.

Hurricane Hugo wiped out Opa's hillside home in 1989, and the family decided that it was time to bring Opa back to the States. He was getting older, and it was easier to "keep an eye on him" if he lived with us in Kansas City.

He was a man of few words...he really enjoyed just sitting and observing with his keen eyes that didn't miss a thing. When he finally DID decide to offer a comment, it was usually a zinger...full of sarcasm and dry wit that would leave you rolling. I called him "E.F. Hutton" behind his back - as in the commercial - because when he DID talk - you'd listen. Or else.

Opa expected nothing less than the best from us...His philosophy was, if you're going to do something, then you're going to do it well. Or not at all. He set high expectations for all of his grandkids, and I strived to meet those. Sometimes I would. Sometimes I let him down.

But...he always loved. You could see the love and pride in his face as he would sit and observe his family around him. He wouldn't say it - but you could feel it. It was there.

Alzheimer's eventually took over my grandpa...his memory got confused, and he got quieter and quieter...it got to be very hard to visit him, as you wouldn't know "which" Opa would be there...the one who remembered who you were? Or the one who had no idea who the hell you were....it was very, very tough.

He eventually passed away. And I cried. I cried a lot. I missed him. I missed his wit. His sarcasm. His dry observations.

And I missed his love.

He's been on my mind this week, as I silently observed his birthday.

So, cheers to you, Opa.

Miss you. Love you. And I hope you're enjoying paradise again - only this time up in the Heavens....

Peace.

September 11 Remembered

It had truly been one of the most amazing weekends, ever.

A four-day brief foray into western Colorado...a surprise trip from the Hubs, for just us...no kids, no distractions...

Our four days were spent exploring the beautiful aspens, streams, and mountains of Colorado - tracking elusive wildlife, hiking long-abandoned trails, and just taking in the absolute stunning beauty that makes America the wondrous country that it is....It was an absolute, fantastic four days that I wanted to last forever.

Unfortunately, reality arrived, and it was time to head home...we arrived home late, on a Monday evening. I opted to take Tuesday off of work, so I could catch up on "Mommy" chores: laundry, bill paying, cleaning, shopping, etc.

The kids were up early that morning...the two younger boys were eating breakfast, getting ready to catch the elementary school bus...Dear Daughter was all of 2-years old that day, and so I kept her home with me, in lieu of day care....

I turned on the television with the intent of flipping it over to "Blue's Clues" - my daughter's absolute favorite program at the time. However, when the TV came on, it was on ABC...and was broadcasting "Good Morning, America." My eyes glanced at the screen to see what was on...and I don't think my eyes left the screen for 3 or 4 days....

The image was terrible...one of the Twin Towers in NYC appeared to be on fire...and the news anchors were sounding a bit confused and bewildered, as they speculated on the air about what had caused this horrific fire at the World Trade Center. I sat down for what was supposed to be just for a minute, so I could absorb what I was seeing, and process it...A bomb, perhaps? An electrical fire? What had caused this?

And then...the unthinkable...on live TV, I distinctly remember hearing my 2-year old daughter exclaim, excitedly, "Mommy! A plane! A plane!" as the image of an airplane appeared on the screen, and slammed into the second Tower.

I screamed. I burst into tears. I immediately recognized that my beloved country, the United States of America, was under attack. By an unknown enemy. But we were clearly being attacked.

And then - I realized I had to pull it together for the sake of my kids, who were now all watching me for cues on how to react to this. Suck it up, sister - you're a Mom, and you have to keep the kids calm and not freak them out. It was ALL I could do to put on a brave face and get my sons out the door for the bus....

Many phone calls were made that day...calling to check on the welfare of friends and family and co-workers...my parents came over and spent the day...perhaps we all felt that tug of family, that need for the secure and the safe....and we watched the screen, looking for answers, looking for reassurances from our leaders, and hoping and praying for the families and people affected.

It was the worst of times that came off one of the best of times, and it was very surreal - to go from an extreme Rocky Mountain High to accepting the reality that there were men in the world, so evil, they could do these acts to innocent people.

I will never forget...I will always remember...and my prayers and thoughts today are with all of us who were affected by the events of September 11, 2001.

Peace. And I say that with all my heart....

Peace.

The Fields of Heaven

A cold, blustery day in December of 1972 changed my Labor Day weekends forever....

It was December 28, 1972, to be exact. How do I remember that? Because it was the day of President Harry S Truman's funeral...and that was what I was watching on T.V. when my 10-year old view of the world changed. Do you ever have those moments in life - that you know EXACTLY where you were, what you were doing - when you got bad news?

My mom had a best friend, named Janice. I've blogged about Janice before...she was a red-headed firecracker that always scared the beejeezus out of me as a child. Janice had two kids, Jennifer and Tad, who we spent many days, nights and weekends with - playing tag, hide 'n seek, teasing, poking, annoying - the normal things that children do with each other.

On that day - December 28th - Janice showed up at our door, hysterical. Distraught. Devastated. Her world had changed forever that day, as she had just received the horrible news that her 3-year old son, Tad, had been diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy.

We had noticed that Tad was running funny lately in our games...he would stumble, fall...for no apparent reason...and he couldn't keep up with all of us. We'd laugh, and we'd tease him...never knowing that it wasn't his fault. Kids can be cruel sometimes.

I remember Janice and my mom, both sobbing in each other's arms, wondering what this meant for the future...and I remember being worried, as a 10-year old child would be, as how this affected me....

Would Tad look different next time I saw him? What WAS this disease I was hearing for the first time - muscular dystrophy? Was it contagious? Was it fatal?

I learned a lot about MD as the years progressed...and after that moment, our family would spend every Labor Day volunteering at our local Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Telethon. The MDA Telethon has been in existence since 1966 - and to date, has raised billions of dollars for MDA research and treatment.

As a family, we'd show up to man the telephones, or run errands, or count pledge money - whatever was needed. It was always a challenge - especially as a kid - to stay up for 21 hours straight...but somehow, with adrenaline, excitement, or just knowing we were doing something good - I'd manage to keep my sleepy eyelids from closing.

It really was my first taste of volunteer work, and it felt good. Every year, I would think, "THIS is the year we finally find the cure... when MD is gone forever..." Such high hopes...praying for a cure as I watched Tad, over the years, get weaker and weaker and move from crutches, then to a wheelchair, and then finally - a hospital bed. He never got out of that hospital bed.

We lost Tad when he was only 19 years old - which is considered a LONG life for someone with Duchenne's Muscular Dystrophy. But such a short life for family and friends. Too short.

I got older...went off to college...had a family and kids...and unfortunately, became too busy with life to volunteer anymore at the Telethon.

But each Labor Day, wherever I'm at - or whatever I'm doing - I think of Tad...hoping he's running fast and furious through the fields of Heaven.

Peace.

Hurricane Katrina...5 Years Later

As if there were any doubt...



Hurricane Katrina...

It's been five years since this devastating hurricane all but obliterated the Gulf Coast...

We know it was life changing. That much is evident. But most people will assume that it was life-changing for the worst. And yet - for me? It was life-changing for the better.

Katrina was an "aha!" moment that hit me hard - and led to some life-changing decisions on my part to refocus and rededicate my life to working for others...

I quit my job. I joined the American Red Cross. And I went on some pretty awesome mission trips, where I met some of the most amazing people and learned new things about myself.

My first trip to the Gulf Coast was in June 2006 - about 9 months after the hurricane hit. We spent a week in Ocean Springs, Mississippi - near Biloxi - which was "ground zero" for Katrina's huge tidal wave that destroyed everything in its path. While there, we worked on houses and talked with the residents and surveyed the damage - and were humbled and awed by the destruction we saw. I remember it was hot - our sleeping quarters resembled a MASH unit - we had tents everywhere - and the daytime temperatures would get up to 114 degrees. Bleh.


I saw this house while driving one day...interesting message...

We worked hard that week, painting inside the home of an elderly retired pastor and her husband, who was wheelchair-bound and in the advanced stages of Parkinson's. They went out of their way to welcome us and make us feel at home - and I often wondered, "Just who is helping who here?" as this couple's hospitality and warmth and love surrounded us all week.

I returned to New Orleans the following summer - 2007 - where we spent a week sheet-rocking inside the home of Miss Judy. Miss Judy was most appreciative of our help, sending us off with a last supper of mouth-watering jambalaya and shrimp po' boys. Although the food was absolutely divine, it was Miss Judy's smile and gratefulness and love that I will always remember.


I discovered that mudding a ceiling is very hard work...

In 2008, it was time to head back - and this time, I spent the week as the "gofer" girl...as in, "Go for some more paint!" or, "Go for a Miter Saw." Having access to a delivery van, myself and another lady made the rounds all over New Orleans, delivering tools and supplies to numerous other volunteer groups who were assisting the residents in the rebuilding effort.


Our group in 2008...I'm way up there in the back on the left...

That week was unique, in that it allowed me to go all over the city - and see the progress - or lack of it - since the storm. Some areas had rebounded quite nicely - and others, such as the Lower Ninth Ward - not so much. The Lower Ninth was enshrined in 6-foot weeds and overgrowth, giving it a desolate, hopeless feeling....three years after the floods.

Where were you during Hurricane Katrina?

Did it change your life?

Did it give you pause for reflection...on what's really important? What really matters? How fragile and fleeting our lives can be?

And how - in the scope of things - it's not the "stuff" that matters...but the relationships, the family, the friends we have - that is our biggest treasure....

Peace.

My Own Twilight Experience

Yesterday was World Blood Donor Day.

Huh. Who knew?

I imagine there's a day for everything under the sun, if you really think about it. In fact, I'm pretty sure that EVERY day is "Middle Aged Drama Queen" Day in which the Queen is celebrated and revered. Ahem.

Anyways, are you a blood donor? I have the ever popular, type O+ blood...so I have been a frequent donor over the years. Sticking needles in my arm doesn't really bother me. Now, if the same needle were to go into my butt (for a shot), that's a whole different blog post.

Many, many moons ago - I was a student teacher at a local high school here in town. I was all of 21 years old - not much older than some of the students I was teaching, actually. The Senior Class had a blood drive in the spring, and I thought I would set a good example for the students and give blood.

The blood drive was held in the library, and it was packed that afternoon - what with nurses, students, and teachers - all participating in the philanthropic event. I had finished giving my pint, and stood up to walk over and get my desired cookie of choice, when - all of a sudden - BAM. I hit the floor. In a dead faint. Passed out cold.

The students thought I had died, or something. In their eyes, I was "old" (at the age of 21!!!) and old people had heart attacks, you know....It didn't take long before I "came around" - good smelling salts will do that to you (WHEW!) - but I never did live that down. I was teased and tormented by my students until the last day of school - all I had to do was hiccup in class, and a student would be saying, "Are you going to pass out on us?"

Yes, I will live in infamy now as the teacher who fainted during the blood drive in the Spring of 1984 at Hickman Mills High School....

I can only imagine at THEIR class reunions, the students are probably sitting around saying, "Remember that teacher who fainted? That was pretty cool...."

The things I do to entertain others. Geesh.

Peace.

High School Reunion Observations

This much is very evident - I am older than I think I am. And staying up, partying until 2:00 a.m., is a rarity in my middle-aged existence. For a good reason.

Friday night was spent partying with several high school friends for the "pre-party" 30th reunion. Small crowd, but lots of fun.


Friday night, having fun with some of the gang...

The party Friday night was for Grandview graduates, Class of 1974 on up....it was good to see classmates who were "ahead" of us back in school...these guys were our role models, and who we emulated ourselves after.


Melanie (Class of 1974) and me....

Saturday was spent partying with the main group...big crowd, even bigger fun.


The Class of 1980 at Grandview Senior High School

Observations:

1. Cosmopolitans should NEVER cost $10. I treated my drink as liquid gold. When I accidentally spilled a tiny drop, I blanched, as there went $2.00 worth of drink. Dang it.

2. Name tags at high school reunions are a darn good thing....

3. I'm on the fence as to whether spouses should attend. I brought Hubby along, but I don't think he had nearly a good time as I had. Same for all the other spouses. If Hubby wants to take me to his next high school reunion, I will politely pass on it...and tell him to have a grand time without me.

4. Facebook has been a Godsend in bringing our class together...many people said they came only because they had reconnected with others on FB.

5. I haven't aged a bit, but I can't say the same for some of my classmates. (And that was said with total sarcasm....I was tickled to see everyone looking so YOUNG - so we can't possibly be getting older, right?!)



Bottom line - I'm SOOOOO glad I went. I had a wonderful time. We have a great group of people in our class, and it was fantastic to see everyone again.....

Peace.

17 Again

****

This weekend is my 30th high school reunion.... Squee!

I have planned on attending - I sent in my money, I sent in my RSVP, and I've been doing everything within my power to look 30 years younger....but I will probably, most likely, "chicken out" before the big event. I do that sometimes...especially in social situations, where my natural "introvert" personality balks at going into highly-populated social situations where an "extrovert" personality is needed. I prefer peace, quiet and my own home, thank you very much.

Besides...my high school years were pretty horrendous.

I had grown up in a neighborhood that was a scene out of "Leave it to Beaver" - middle class suburbia, where I could play with dozens of children out in the street until the streetlights came on. That was my signal to head home. I loved my neighborhood; I loved my friends; and I loved my school. Life was good.

The summer of my 14th birthday, I came home one Saturday morning from a sleepover to find my parents packing. As in, they'd bought a new house - and we were moving. WTF??!!

I was ripped from my idyllic, safe world - where I felt secure and loved - and transplanted to a new town - new schools, new neighborhood - and new people. And I knew none of them. And I didn't feel secure. And I certainly didn't feel loved.

The next four years of school (9th grade through 12th grade) was a blur of me trying to fit in at a new school, while at the same time, trying to punish my parents for moving by trying to be as miserable as possible. If I could just show my folks how truly miserable I was in the new neighborhood, surely they'd take pity on me and move us back.

It didn't happen.

I made friends...slowly and surely...I even had a boyfriend (but dang if he didn't go to my old high school, which was only a few miles away - that would show my parents, right?!)...and I counted the days until graduation so I could escape and head off to college.


My high school boyfriend and I before Senior Prom...May 1980...

In the last few years, I've reconnected with several old high school friends...especially through the wonderful medium of Facebook. I'm somewhat curious to see everyone, and yet part of me is fearful...that old fear of rejection is always prevalent. Some people saw me as a stuck-up snob way back then, when actually, it was just shyness and fear on my part - fear of being rejected and of not being accepted. Fear at being the "new kid on the block." Bleh.


Grandma and me on the evening of my graduation - May 1980

In some ways, I'm not the same person I was way back when I was 17 years old...but in a lot of ways, I haven't changed a bit. We'll see if I can push aside the shyness and fear - and actually attend the festivities - and maybe, just maybe, it will be fun.

Peace.

*The photo at the top is from my 20th Reunion, taken back in 2000...Yes, I managed to get the courage up and go to that one! Pretty proud of myself for going, and I had a good time, too...so I will probably manage to go to this one, as well....!

The Dirty Song Chairman

I’ve been slowly and steadily still unpacking boxes from our big move last November. I’m down to the boxes that weren’t priority – where sometimes, it’s a total surprise when I see the contents, as in, “Oh! So THAT’S where this has been this whole time!”

This week, I stumbled across a box full of some of my old scrapbooks…which meant that unpacking came to a screeching halt, as I just HAD to sit down and start going through them to reminisce a bit.

Several of the scrapbooks were from my college days…and before I knew it, I was laughing out loud at some of the photos, cards, notes, etc that littered the pages.

When I went off to school, I had a desire to meet people and make new friends…and so it didn’t take long for me to pledge a sorority.

Now, my college was rather small, and so I had a huge, whopping choice of two sororities to choose from…. Okay, actually, that’s not true. I didn’t have a choice. My grandmother was a Chi Omega, and that just happened to be one of the sororities on campus – and so I was a legacy. I was a Chi-O from birth. If I’d even thought about pledging the other-sorority-which-will-remain-nameless, my grandmother would be haunting me still.

Being in a sorority was pretty awesome. Not only did I meet a wonderful group of girls, I also learned many things about myself…some of which I can actually speak of without blushing. For instance, I learned that I was an excellent Social Chairman – and to this day, I can plan one hell of an event. (Hence my mother’s continued nudging to be my sister’s wedding planner, which is still so not happening.)

Now you’re curious, huh? As to what else I learned that would cause me to blush. Okay...I’ll confess…In addition to my “official” duties, I had an “unofficial” title: I was the Dirty Song Chairman. I had an uncanny ability to make up some rather…um...salty…songs that were always good for a laugh.

While browsing through one of my scrapbooks, I came across the lyrics of a song that my sorority sisters wrote for me as a tribute when I graduated. Now, keeping in mind that my major was Education – with a minor in Psychology (I wanted to teach Psych/Sociology in high school), here is the song in tribute to me, sung to the tune of “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” from Mary Poppins:

Super paranoia, schizophrenic and psychotic,
You should hear all (Drama Queen’s) songs,
We think the word’s, ‘erotic’...
Now she is a school teacher,
and not a bit neurotic,
Super paranoia, schizophrenic and psychotic!

She’s cute and smart and friendly,
A better Chi-O can't be found...
Boy she really knows her stuff,
And her mind’s quite sound.

But think about it carefully
And it will blow your lids...
The ex-dirty song chairman
Will be teaching all our kids!

Ahhhh, the memories….

Yes, won't my children be so proud to hear that their mother was the Dirty Song Chairman back in her day?!?! And don't worry - I'm not ABOUT to post any of the dirty songs that I made up back then. I'm sure I don't remember a single word of any of them. Ahem.

Peace.

When Gustav Almost Drowned My Ass

With yesterday’s blog warning about the upcoming, potentially serious hurricane season, it got me reminiscing about my own encounter with a hurricane. Hurricane Gustav, to be exact.

And since today is Friday…which means Friday Flashback…today’s blogpost is about the time when Hurricane Gustav kicked my ass. Actually, “almost drowned my ass” would be more apropos.

In late August 2008, Gustav was churning along in the Atlantic, destined to become the 2nd-most destructive hurricane of that year (after Hurricane Ike).

The Red Cross sent me down to Louisiana before Gustav came ashore – and after first going to Baton Rouge, I eventually evacuated north to Alexandria to hunker down and ride out the storm.


Me and fellow Kansas City volunteer, Donna, in Alexandria - before the storm....

Our shelter for this assignment was a Kiwanis campground about 30 miles north of Alexandria. It consisted of a good, sturdy concrete building – which is great during a hurricane – but lots of tall, tall pine trees surrounding us – not so great during a hurricane. Trees have a tendency to snap and fall down during storms. Yikes. To make matters worse, the bunkhouse sat low…down in a ravine…which is actually horrible during a hurricane, as we shall see.


Some of the volunteers in the bunker at the beginning of the storm

Gustav began pounding us with heavy rain and heavy wind that Labor Day afternoon… we had about 30 volunteers hunkered down in that bunkhouse…a tiny, 15” TV was tuned to The Weather Channel and CNN, providing us a constant feed of information about the storm. We also had a little, tiny transistor radio that we were hesitant to use – wanting to conserve the batteries, if needed.

About 5:00 pm that afternoon, the electricity went out, and consequently, so did our TV. So, on came the radio…imagine 30 people huddled around a little radio, desperately trying to hear what was going on around us while we were seeking safety.

As the hours went by, during the course of the late afternoon…while straining our ears through the wind, the rain, the static on the radio…we hear a most disturbing sound.

Water. Coming in and up through the front door of the bunkhouse.

Our shelter was beginning to take on water.

Well…I am not an expert on hurricanes. I grew up in the Midwest – and so I know a thing or two about tornados…but hurricanes? Not my expertise. However, I DO know that water coming into your shelter can’t be good.

We all begin frantically trying to sweep the water back out – with brooms, our hands – whatever we could find…and yet…the water kept coming.

We piled blankets and towels – any material we could find – in front of the door, hoping to stop the seepage that was only increasing in intensity…and yet…the water kept coming.

Two inches…then, three inches…the water was getting higher.

Knowing we had several more hours of rain ahead of us, we huddled together to discuss what we should do next. We knew that there was a fire station just down the road from us – not much more than a mile away – and we knew the fire station had sandbags. We were able to find a cell phone amongst us that still “had bars” (thank God for bars – they’re a wonderful thing in a hurricane!), and a quick 911 call was made to the fire station…pleading for sandbags.

Well, bless those firemen. They hopped in their rig and immediately came up the road – during the hurricane – risking their own lives in order to save ours. They brought us the sandbags and built us a bunker – which stopped the flow of water into our shelter.

The next morning...our sandbags which saved our asses from drowning the night before...

We slept very little that night. To begin with, I was terrified. Seriously. Who knew what was going to happen next? And it was hot – no air conditioning, due to no power. It was noisy – due to the rain and the howling wind. Trees were snapping and falling all around us. I opened a window at some point just to get some fresh air – but that just brought the mosquitoes in. Joy. And we were all a little on edge, wondering if those sandbags would hold.

But they did. And the next morning, after the storm was gone, all of us kicked into high gear and began doing the work that we were trained to do – delivering food, water and other supplies to the affected residents of Louisiana.

Thank God for firemen. And thank God for sandbags. And, note to self - try not to hunker down in a low-lying area during a hurricane in the future. Duh.

Peace.

My Brush with Hurricane Wilma

I'm heading to Belize on Saturday - another mission trip - only this time, working more in construction and with children. More up my ally.

The last time I was in Belize, Hurricane Wilma decided to join me. I didn't invite her - if anything, she was the LAST traveling partner I would have brought along. History says she was the most intense hurricane ever recorded in the Atlanta basin - and she did reach a Category 5. She was nasty.

It was in 2005 - and we were on a Western Caribbean cruise... We had spent the good part of the cruise about one day ahead of Hurricane Wilma - she was chasing us around, we were running full-steam ahead of her - dodging this way, feigning that way, doing our best to avoid her and her treacherous path - but when we reached Belize - she caught us.

Oh, it was a mess. Lots and lots of rain...cats and dogs, buckets, you name it - winds whipping at us - as we traversed the streets of Belize City in a little cab driven by a wonderful Belizan named Douglas. We had planned on going cave-tubing that day, but duh - all shore excursions were cancelled, due to Wilma. We survived a harrowing tender ride from the ship to the port, where Hubby turns to me, and asks,

"So - do you want to go snorkeling? I mean, I know it's raining and all - but we'd be wet anyway. We'll be in the water and we won't even notice the rain."

I looked at him like he'd just grown 4 heads....and said, "Uh yeah...but I WOULD notice the 6-foot swells out there! We're on the edge of a hurricane, dude! And I DON'T SWIM!!!"

Maybe he had ulterior motives...I suspect he had increased my life insurance or something before we left. Hmmm....

I'm not the smartest bulb in the bunch, but I DO know to not go snorkeling in a hurricane. (Well, the edge of a hurricane, anyway. We were "in the outer bands" at this point.)

Anyway, we DIDN'T snorkel - but we did opt to go on a little driving tour of the country - in the pouring rain, in the wind - and we had a great time that day with Douglas. Douglas made a drippy day very sunny for us with his obvious love for his country. He even proudly took us to his house that day.

Later that afternoon, we had another harrowing ride on the tender back to the ship - it was awful.

The next day, we learned that 7 people had died in Belize the day before - 2 people were killed in a small airplane crash at the airport, (trying to land in the winds), and 5 fishermen had died when their boat overturned at sea. And hubby had wanted to go snorkeling. Geesh.

I'm so glad it's not hurricane season now. Although rain is in the forecast for Belize next week, it can't be as bad as 2005. When Wilma tagged along with us the day we were in Belize. Bleh.

Peace.

Fickle Finger of Fate

The last thing I saw – before I blacked out and hit the pavement – was a baseball. Heading right towards my face. In a sheer reflexive move, I turned my head slightly to the right, in a move to avoid the impact of the baseball that was heading directly at my nose.

And then – CRUNCH. Moment of impact. A round cushioned cork, wrapped in wool and polyester/cotton yarn, and then wrapped in cowhide – smashing into my face at a speed of about 50 m.p.h.

My nose never stood a chance.

When I came to, after the collision, I was laying on the pavement of my church parking lot. I was 12 years old at the time – and the youth group at my church had been playing an impromptu game of catch in the back parking lot – boys at one end, girls on the other.

A kid named Stuart Hamilton had made the fateful throw that would change my life forever – he heaved that baseball as hard as he could – and as it came hurtling through the sky towards us girls, two girls in front of me gave indications they were going to catch it. So I didn't make any effort to catch it. And at the last second, they both inexplicably ducked away from the ball – probably trying to be polite, as girls are prone to be, in allowing the other one to catch it – but thereby insuring that neither one of them caught it and only my nose would now catch it. And catch it, it did. POW.

Because of that slight right turn I had made a split second before impact, the baseball literally shoved my nose across my face to the right – leaving a hideously malformed, shattered, crooked bump on my face.

Surgery was immediately called for – and done – to repair the damage. And although the nose looked good on the outside, the damage on the inside was a little too much – a little too severe – to totally repair.

And the problems began.

Thirty-five years after that fateful day (May 12, 1974 – isn’t it funny how we can remember pivotal dates that change our lives?), and two surgeries later – I still suffer from chronic sinus problems….

This latest sinus infection, though, was admittedly one of the worst – I get them frequently, and have learned through the years to manage the pain and the inconvenience. But man, oh man – this one has kicked my ass. I have done nothing except lay in bed, going through Kleenex, Tylenol, Afrin, Sudafed and now my antibiotics as if my life depended on it.

I haven’t had an infection this bad in at least 2-3 years, so I guess I was due. But wow. Just wow. I think I’m on the upswing, now – I’m on Day #2 of a 10-day supply of antibiotics, so it can only get better from here on out, right?

Fate is funny sometimes…I have wondered how my life would have been different…if only….

But that, my friends, is a colossal waste of time. Fate deals the cards and we must play the hand we’re dealt with. I gotta’ crappy hand when it came to noses – but I pick myself up – squirt a little nasal spray (my lifesaver) - and move on.

Back to bed for me now. Hopefully, by tomorrow, I’ll be off of the self-pity blogging and I’ll be back to my old self. ☺

Peace.