Banana Snipers & Tiny Raves

The mouse takes the cheese
The mouse takes the cheese
Heigh ho the derry-o
The mouse takes the cheese

The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Heigh ho the derry-o
The cheese stands alone

"Farmer in the Dell" - Author assumed to be a German individual in the early 1820's

So, here we are. It's just me, a girl from the country. Raised among feral cats, ride-able donkeys, and the occasional cur dog. I'm not above mucking around in the what-have-you. I've shot a gun a few times. I can drive a standard if need be. I've pulled a trailer a time or two. I've backed a boat down a ramp on more than a few occasions. I killed a snake with a garden hoe once. I murdered a hawk-attacked chicken where the ants had already taken over, just out of humanity's sake, in front of my 5 year old daughter...WITH A SHOVEL. I birthed babies at home. I survived breast cancer! My point in telling you this? You'll surely see that I am a tough girl. I don't succumb to silliness and I don't go down easily. If I'm ever found unconscious or worse, check under my nails. I guarantee you there will be forensic evidence. It's just that I'm in a dilemma that I've only been in a time or two. Lawd have mercy, there's a mouse in this house.

Book One - What in Heaven's Name is Going On?

I'm an early riser, Mostly, that's due to the fact that I'm a crappy sleeper. My Mom is also a crappy sleeper. She used to get up at 6 am. Now she's up at 3:30 am. I'm deep breathing just thinking about what the future holds for me. But anywho, bout that mouse? I stumble into the kitchen around 6:15 with no alarm. Now, there's a ritual to be observed and I am all about the rituals in life. I get up, The poodle gets up. I put my jammie pants on. The poodle stretches. I place the poodle on the floor. We walk together to the bathroom. We then walk together to the kitchen. We let the other, less fortunate dogs out of their super comfy kennel with the uber soft comforter. They go outside, I gather their food bowls. I mix extraordinarily expensive hard dog food with extraordinarily expensive soft dog food and I basically spoon feed them all. The poodle and I return inside. I grab creamer. I grab coffee. I blindly punch buttons on the Keurig. Then, I see it.

For about 30 seconds I chant "it's just spices" about 100 times out loud. I rationalize that pepper grounds roughly the equivalent to half of a chocolate chip were magically left for me by the previously unknown "pepper elves." What else could it be? A comma that literally dropped off of a page? Barbie's bobby pin? As my almost 50 year old eyes begin to adjust, I see other things that are wrong. So very, very wrong. Why do all the bananas have quarter sized holes in them? Banana sniper? Seriously, is there a tiny white sniper van driving down my kitchen island aiming at the fruit bowl? Then I see the hellacious mess in the pantry. There's a hole in the flour bag. On the second shelf. There's flour EVERYWHERE, Suddenly, I realize what I'm dealing with. There's a mouse. A rogue mouse. He got high on bananas and obviously threw a rave in my pantry! What are those microscopic orange things on top of my washing machine? They could be pieces of the flour bag. They could also easily be tiny mouse-rave wristbands. Or glowsticks. I'm assuming my mouse was the DJ - Spinderella cut it up one time.

The rave wristbands and the holy bananas (punny as all get out) and the wayward commas all get swept away with a liberal dosing of peroxide. My hands get a liberal dosing in a hot shower. I get myself together and I get to Walmart. I'm on the mousetrap aisle. This is also the ziploc bag aisle, the air freshener aisle, AND the paper towel aisle. There are options. So, so many options. Then, wouldn't you know it, I GET EMOTIONAL! My mouse is adorable, suddenly. My mouse is ticklish. My mouse has a lisp! My mouse is Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol complete with the British accent! "God bless us, everyone!" I call my husband. In my ear he sounded like the teacher from the Peanuts cartoon (Waa waa waa waa wa waa waa wa WAAAAA). Subconciously I am aware that he is saying things like "kill" and "disease" and "mites"and "no, you cannot buy a live animal trap."


Book Two - Mouseaggedon

Fast forward: I have since been back to Walmart TWICE. We now own 2 different sizes of hard kill traps and two different sizes of glue traps. This is NOT a nice mouse, folks. He's MANIACAL! I have used my amazing profiling skills to create my own Criminal Minds, Mouse Edition. We all have to band together on this one. Pay close attention to this description!

Unsubs name: Ren, as in Ren McCormack from Footloose
Description: severe undercut with the side part "line," known to sport vanity glasses, hasn't worn socks in 5 years. Has been seen with a beard but also known to wear a handlebar mustache. Currently learning to play the guitar - look for him at coffee shops. Likes cardigans and bow ties.
Other useful info: Has been known to speak of his desire to develop his own IPA or manage an Indie band. Has attempted to start his own mouse music festival - Rodentpalooza. Eschews the West Coast at all costs. Dreams of a hipster life in Manitou Springs.

If you see Ren, DO NOT CALL 911. You're on your own, Peace be with you.

Faith in Feathers

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

"Blackbird"  -The Beatles

Part 1 - I'm a Little Cray

It's time we talked about feathers. I've been anxious to broach the subject with you, but it's a tenuous line at best, the whole feathers thing. I mean, I certainly put stock in it. But, will you? I've been called many things. Crazy certainly comes to mind. Too free-spirited has been said a time or two. A little bit out there is another fragment I've heard once or twice, downwind from a conversation in my midst. That's ok. Really, it is. With the way the world is today, for me to be considered non-conforming is a heck of a compliment. That's how I'll take it, at least. So, about those feathers.

Lots of things come to mind when one hears the word feathers. Things can be feathered. Like 70's bangs. Paint strokes. Big bird. Smallish birds. People dipped in tar. Things can be filled with feathers. Pillows. Down comforters. Insanely expensive couch cushions. Remember that early 2000's phase where all the girls were getting feathers permanently attached in their hair? That was kinda cool, actually. There are feathers in chandeliers nowadays. Feathers hanging in dream catchers. Native American headdresses. Tattoos. The list is never ending. I'll stop now. Let me get to the heart of the matter. I need to tell you about my feathers.

When someone you love dies, you miss them. Duh. It hurts your heart. Sooner or later, if you're lucky, life intervenes. The other people that you also love need you. Really, really need you. So, you plow forward. Seasons change. That's good, too. And, not so good. Sometimes you sit up in the bed at night with tears streaming down your face and you feel so guilty. Maybe you had a string of several happy-go-lucky days. Even 2 weeks in a row where you belly laughed continuously and did unheard of things like take a vacation.  Your person, though, is still there in your heart. In your mind. In your soul. In your dreams. Do they think you forgot them? How could you dare do this? This being happy thing. Damn you. Then the next day you get up, that overnight nervous breakdown a distant memory, and trudge on. But the winds of change, they're a blowin',

Part 2 - Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

My mother loves cardinals. She believes with every fiber of her being that a cardinal means someone you loved who passed on is coming back to visit you. Cardinals, to her, are a sign of hope. She sees cardinals and thinks of her parents, the baby sister she never knew, countless aunts and uncles, and her granchild, my daughter. I knew someone who firmly insisted that every single penny she every saw on any surface that existed was a sign from her late son. He was telling her to be happy. He was telling her he was ok. That he loved her. Some people associate certain smells with those who've passed away. I'll have to admit, I have a very vague memory of my Great Aunt Floy. Very vague. She was gravely ill in her home. I went to visit her and another of my Great Aunts was there with her grandchildren. My siblings were old enough to live on their own when I was born, so an afternoon with other kids was a rarity. They were boys and they showed me how to make bridge tunnels in the dirt and roll the hot wheel cars through them. Earth shattering. Later on, I was ushered in to see my Great Aunt. She held my hand and touched my hair. She made me promise to read lots of books and she gave me a tiny figurine of a French Victorian lady that I ALWAYS asked to hold when at her house. That was almost 45 years ago and that figurine is currently in my dining room. But, I digress. Almost 20 years later and hurrying to catch the DART bus, I was scurrying through one of the downtown Dallas tunnels that takes you seemingly halfway across the city. I smelled oregano. Tears came to my eyes and I had to stop and take several deep breaths. Aunt Floy, I thought. I smell your kitchen, Aunt Floy. It made me so incredibly happy. And I missed the bus that day, but I was so in awe of this perceived connection that I didn't even care.

And, what does any of this have to do with feathers? That is my sign. From my daughter. I guess when you leave this world at 16 you're always 16. That's the way I see her, anyway - 16, laughing, and beautiful. I have a jar of feathers. Actually a jar, and a tin, and a box. There are a lot of feathers. And, ok, you may be thinking how this has sort of turned into a lame story tonight, BUT WAIT. You haven't heard the whole thing yet. These feathers turn up in the darnedest places. Like, that one time where I was running one morning and really thinking about my daughter. I was wearing sunglasses. Tip - crying in public is much easier when you wear sunglasses. Thank me later. Anyway, as I recovered and be-bopped back up to my house, I'm unlocking the door and about to walk inside when I look down and see, wedged in between the screen door and the front door, a blue jay feather. So, I kept it. And I had the best day that day. Remember the winter a couple of years ago where we had actual snow in Texas? It was way too cold for way too long. I found a feather in the front yard on the snow, which I thought was odd. Here's the BEST feather story. I was working extensively with my friend, Emily. It was c-c-c-cold. December-ish. I was driving to our meeting point. Not a care in the world. (I don't drive. I hold benefit concerts. So, I have the radio as loud as it will go and I belt out songs. Occasionally in key.) When I got to Emily's, I reached for my purse, grabbed my keys, unhooked my seat belt, and noticed something. On my leg. A feather. A guinea feather, no less. In the winter. I scurried inside, feather in hand, and said, "Look what I just found ON MY LEG as I was pulling in." She said, "That's from Chynna." This week, I've found no less that 5 feathers in random places. Somewhere I was about to step. The bed of my truck. Next to my mailbox. Today I was walking into Walmart. I had yesterday's Starbuck's cold brew coffee cup in my hand and thought I'd actually throw it away in the trashcan instead of letting it procreate with the other cups in my truck. As I was trying to get the disgusting gum encrusted trashcan lid to swing inward, something glided past my face and landed at my feet, Forrest Gump style. A feather. A huge, black feather with white speckles on the ends. I kept it. It's sitting here next to me as I'm writing this. "Okay, daughter of mine," I thought. "Let's share this." Maybe one day I'll have enough feathers to make a Native American headdress. Or a dream catcher. Or a pillow. Maybe she is trying to tell me something. I guess that is a long shot. Communicating with my late daughter through a series of feather sightings? But after all, what is the definition of faith? Unshakable belief in something you cannot prove. Boom. I'm ok, baby girl. Better than ok. I'm awesome. And I love the feathers. And I love you.

Unbreak My Heart - AKA everyone's guide when someone you love loses someone they love

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay

There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard, at the end of the day

I need some distraction
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins

And maybe empty
Oh, and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

"Arms of the Angel" - Sarah McLachlan

Today I sat in the baptist church of my childhood. The church where my grandmother, Lucille, sat every single Sunday - eyes bright and ears ready for the gospel. The church where her sister Jewel both worked and worshiped. The church across the street from my Aunt's house - both current and past. Don't try and figure that one out. There's just something about a good old Southern Baptist church to bring you to your knees. But, this wasn't a Sunday sermon. It wasn't a wedding. It wasn't even Reverend Shaw Moore from Footloose bringing down the fire and brimstone warnings of dancing and carrying on and whatnot. It was a funeral. Of a young person. A young person the ages of my three children, one of whom has also gone from us already. Tragic.Unfathomable. Gut-wrenching. The names in this story have so definitely been changed to protect the innocent - except my grandma's name really was Lucille and one of her sisters really was Jewel. But that is all you need to know about today. There is a mom and a family and an extended network of loved ones grieving this night and they deserve all the anonymity we can give them. So there. But back to the church. I sat in a pew with three of the most beautiful souls that ever graced my old high school. See, the funeral was for the son of an old friend. And we four old friends just happened to wander in and find each other, in support of our other old friend. Thank goodness. I was not looking forward to doing my ugly crying in that pew alone. And I needn't have worried. It was oddly cathartic and even slightly therapeutic; the pats on the knee..the little hugs...lots of sweet gestures meant to let me know they understood how hard it must be to go to a young person's funeral when your young person already had a funeral. As we stood outside waxing poetic about the past and better times, one of my sweet friends told me how she couldn't wait to end this stressful Friday with an awesome margarita tonight. And then, it happened. I opened my mouth and weird stuff came out. "I'm going to drink a bottle of wine and write a blog entry about what to say to people who've lost children." So, here we go! The wine is yet to be uncorked. But it's there. Just in case. Gentlemen, start your engines. All the things you ever wanted to say to someone who's child passed away, but you weren't sure if you should. Or shouldn't. This, of course, is just my interpretation. No two people have the same experience with any of life's foibles. That's my disclaimer and I'm sticking to it .Let's do this in list format, shall we? But first, a quote written by someone I don't know about a topic I consider myself to be an expert on.....

"A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is."

-Jay Neugeboren - An Orphan's Tale 1976

1. Please, please, for the love of God...please don't ignore us. Maybe it was 100% completely my imagination (quite possible) but I sort of promise you that I remember walking through WalMart and seeing people I knew. The moment they realized who I was, there was a flurry of movement and shuffling and buggy maneuvering, and power walking. Away. From me. Is it comfortable to talk to someone who's kid just died? Hell, no. But, odds are the person in question will avert your eye contact and you will get to breathe a sigh of relief. If not...oh well. Tears will pour from our eyes and snot will run from our nose, but we'll be so grateful you walked up. And, guess what? You'll feel amazing after the fact. You will understand how much it meant to us. You'll be like a superhero. Trust me. Just hug us and say, "Been thinkin about you."

2. The BIGGEST fear a person who lost a child has is the fear that everyone in the universe is going to forget them. Crazy, right? I promise you it's the truth. We want...no, we NEED to talk about our lost children. We need to say their names and, more importantly, we need to HEAR their names spoken. If there's one thing I advocate for anyone whose friend has gone through this travesty, it is this: suck it up, buttercup. Call them. Go by. Sit a spell.  Say these words, "Tell me more about________." Then just sit back and listen. If you really knew this precious angel they miss so much, add in this line, "You know, the thing I always remember about ________ is this...." Again, that's a total superhero move. Your cape is in the mail.

3. Death does not discriminate. It knows not the human distinctions of race or wealth or religion or gender. Death suffocates the living. Death definitely does not adhere to any human imposed timeline. All the things you may have read about the stages of grief? Evil eyes, hexes, voodoos AND hoodoos to those foolish thoughts. People who go through the loss of a child will be sad forever. Period. End quote. Repeat. Sad forever. And ever. I am not trying to depress you. What I am trying to do is to tell you not to ever say these words, "One day you'll feel better." If your child died and you said this to someone, ya lied. If you did not lose your child, please just don't ever say this to another person. Here's the deal. Wait......this is a segue to #4, so read on, my friend.

4. What does it feel like to lose a child? The night my daughter died, I started screaming the moment the doctor told me she was gone. Only problem was, no sound was coming out of my mouth and I had a blank stare on my face, so I'm told. But, in my head, I was screaming. In my head, I was vomiting on the floor in the fetal position. In my head, I was swinging a baseball bat at every breakable object I could see. I can't tell you what it feels like because there are no words to convey what it feels like. After staying to meet the organ donation team, my husband took me home. I demanded he take me to my daughter's room where I put on my daughter's pajamas (she was 16 - I do not recommend this if your daughter is much smaller than you, Sorry. Feeble attempt at humor). I sat in her bed and watched her favorite movie and screamed into a pillow. For hours. And hours. And hours. Almost 8 years later, here's what I know about grief. You may quote me on this. I think I wrote it. If I did not write it, I guarantee the person who did write it lost a child and does not mind me using this quote. 

"Grief over someone who died is like walking into the ocean for the first time. If you've never walked into a crashing wave, your feet will fly out from underneath you and you'll tumble, end over end, into the water. It takes your breath away and it stings your eyes and you can't breathe properly for a good bit. It will happen, just like this, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. One day, a year from that moment or 5 years from that moment or 25 years from that moment, you'll walk into that same ocean. This time, when the waves crash against you, you won't lock your knees. The waves will ALWAYS crash against you, but you'll bend, just the tiniest amount. And you won't fall. And that makes all the difference." 

5. There is no grief hierarchy. This, in my opinion, is the most important thing I need to tell you. See, it's the one I struggled with for the longest time. People called me. They emailed me. They texted me, back when you had to hit that "7" button four times if you wanted an "S". See, there's humor in death, folks. Anyway, I was insulted. My daughter was 16 when she died. She was being courted by colleges. She was set to attend a medical conference for high school students who were interested in being doctors and had the GPA to back it up. She received a letter from a private Catholic college that did not guarantee but did mention the word "scholarship." She was basically an adult. She was important. To me. HOW DARE YOU COMPARE THE DEATH OF MY PRECIOUS ANGEL TO THE DEATH OF YOUR: ______________________. Now I'm crying because I see how wrong I was. Words you could insert into the blank above include but are not limited to: grandparent, parent, best friend, infant, fetus. The list knows no end. I am so so so so so so sorry. I get it now. May I explain it to you? Cause I think this is a game changer. The worst feeling you've ever felt is the worst feeling you've ever felt. End of story. If you've never experienced loss before and your grandparent dies, it hurts like shit, pardon my French. If you've managed to make it to middle age and your parent dies, God help your soul. See? Here's one better. Grab a kleenex. From the minute we women learn we're pregnant, our imaginations go into overdrive. Within the first 24 hours, we've named our baby, we think we know the gender, we're planning weddings, imagining grandchildren, dreaming of family vacations and holidays and picnics and first steps and bat mitzvahs and first communions and college entrance exams and, and, and, and, and, and..........and we see you, precious little one. We see you. And we love you. And you belong to us. And when you don't get to come home with us or don't get to take that first breath, it hurts. Just as bad, I pray. Because if it hurt worse it would mean something else bad happened to you. So, to wrap this one up, me thinking your loss was less than my loss is equivalent to me saying I wish you'd lost more so you could know how I feel. And, I love you. I do not want you to lose anything. So enough of that crap, right?

Hours have gone by as I've written this. I did not drink a bottle of wine, though I do hope my friend had the best margarita of her life. As the sun sets on this day, I'm looking ahead to April 12th, the day I lost my daughter. Eleven days from now, I'm taking a mental health day. I may stay in my pj's. I may work in the garden. I may watch "our" movies: The Little Mermaid, The Wizard of Oz, PS I Love You, I Am Sam, Juno...... Then again, I may do any number of things. I guarantee you tears will be shed. But, I won't fall down. See, I learned to bend my knees. That has made all the difference. Go hug your kids right this minute. Here's a virtual hug for you. <3

Chynna, I miss you. Here's something for you:

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell,"  -Edna St. Vincent Millay

Resolute

Now here I go again
I see the crystal visions
I keep my visions to myself
It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
Dreams of loneliness
Like a heartbeat...drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
And what you lost...

"Dreams" - Fleetwood Mac


So, it's 11 am on the first day of the year of our Lord two-thousand and sixteen and I am sitting at a very cluttered dining room table watching the Rose Bowl parade & drinking a mimosa after just eating an amazing egg white omelet I made with real cheese and smoky maple bacon....after drinking 3 cups of coffee and mapping out my entire life in one fell swoop as only someone with kick-a OCD and enough energy to possibly need to be medicated could do. (pause for a breath) And I just thought that maybe, possibly, potentially there could be someone else out there in the world who would find the ramblings in my head interesting. Probably not. But, when has that ever stopped me? So, here's what's on my mind this fine morning.

Resolution shmesolution. I'm so not into that "new year new me" BS. Yes, I said BS. I'm staring my mimosa down at this very moment but I haven't actually tasted it to check my OJ to champagne ratio so this rant has zero to do with the effects of a mimosa. I guess the rebel attitude it took to make a mimosa on a Friday morning is to blame for my brazenness. So be it. See, here are a few things a woman of a certain age should be sharing with the world:

1. I fully understand that despite my Herculean efforts and my obsession with fitness overall...I will STILL AND FOREVER have about 10 extra lbs on my plate that just won't budge. Just not goin anywhere. As the sun prepares to set on my 40's, rest assured Victoria's Secret is not wooing me. My bellybutton hasn't seen the light of day since 1989. Babies over 10 lbs do that to ya.

2. While every New Year's resolution list I've made in the last 30 years references learning to play the guitar, revisiting the violin I used to be able to play, & learning at least 1 additional piano tune....I will never replace Yo Yo Ma on Sesame Street. Nor will Allison Crouch ever call me and ask me to sit in with Union Station.

3. I can go ahead and shelve that Academy Award acceptance speech.

4. And the Grammy acceptance speech.

5. Kyra Sedgwick isn't my bff. She doesn't want to throw me a birthday party.

6. Neither does Sandra Bullock.

Are we all depressed now? Nobody loves us...go eat worms? No, really it isn't all that. I just mean that I decided a looooooooooong time ago to dig my heels in and figure out what's really important to me. I encourage you to do the same. Looking back on yet another year when we looked up and wondered if boarding a plane was even in our best interest or if any public building was really safe...define important. It means something different to everyone. It's the essence of what makes you you. (I just you-you'd). But, do realize that priorities are fluid. That's the beauty of humanity, not just womanhood (wink wink). You can change your mind. Everyday. There was a country song back in the 90s. Aaron Tippin maybe? You gotta stand for something or you'll fall for anything. In other words, what's your line in the sand? At the end of the day, as your head hits the pillow, what accomplishment, whether it's come to fruition or not, helps your eyes close and your mind calm? IT IS 100% OK TO BE A WORK IN PROGRESS. The key word is progress. To quote another 90s phenom, Pretty Woman..."Welcome to Hollywood. What's your dream? Everybody comes here; this is Hollywood, land of dreams. Some dreams come true, some don't; but keep on dreamin' - this is Hollywood. Always time to dream, so keep on dreamin." So write down your dreams. Look at them everyday. Don't worry about what you think you're supposed to dream. Just do you. To the best of your ability. All day. Everyday.

Dearest Annie Dreams - written by Dina for Dina and Dina alone

1. Keep running - to the extent that cancer can never catch you again.
2. Watch what you eat - artificial crap makes your heart feel artificially crappy.
3. Don't worry about who's playing you in the movie, just write the damn book. It can sit in the closet.
4. Channel your inner hippy chic and reduce that carbon footprint.
5. Fill that hole inside you with God and sunshine, not chocolate or cheap clothes.
6. Play music. Duh.
7. Talk to your daughter everyday. She's with God but she can hear you and she misses your voice.
8. Be responsible for your happiness. That's no one else's job.
9. Open that store, in your head, at least. Make a business plan and be ready. You really never know.
10. Volunteer. Whatever you wish you did instead of what you do....there's a volunteer slot for that.

Good luck, everyone! God speed. Go have a mimosa on me!

It's Really, Really Nacho Cheese....Really

Rumor has it that Annie owes y'all a decent story. Sorry, but with all the holiday camaraderie and whatnot, Annie took an accidental break. But, the stories must go on! Today my babies are coming home for THANKSGIVING. I can hardly wait to see the big kids and let's not even talk about my level of pure joy over seeing my Chynna Rose! Of course I'm making tortilla soup, duh. Whilst digging through my recipe grimoire this morning, a fudge recipe popped out and landed in the kitchen floor. It's not just any fudge recipe, though. It's the infamous VELVEETA FUDGE! What??? I've never told you the story of the Velveeta Fudge? Oh, hun! That's practically criminal. Don't believe me? Oh, ye of little faith. Even Annie can't make this up, see?

 Grab a chai latte and some furry socks. I had to dig waaaaaaay back into the old blog vault for this recycled entry. It's a little sad, but not quite mascara risk sad. I think you'll be okay. Cause I'm ok. So listen to what happened this one time (at band camp).............

  Baby Cheeses

Midnight - not a sound from the pavement.
Has the moon lost her memory,
She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet,
And the wind begins to moan.

Memory - all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days,
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.

"Memories" - from Cats

We loved chocolate. Sundaes. Hershey bars (her). Toblerone (me). My triple layer chocolate-within-chocolate-on-top-of-chocolate cake. Chocolate pie, courtesy of the pie crust recipe from Grandma Lucille that I shall keep secret for all the days of my life. Suffice it to say that we were chocoholics through and through, my daughter and I. Granted, it was probably more like a genetic disease I passed on to her much like a rare chromosome or some sort of genome. Still, in the grand scheme of things, it was a cross we carried together. Proudly, too. Endorphins, rejoice. Calorie what?? We don't care. Housework makes you ugly. Exercise makes you smell bad. Dieting makes you a tad, well....let's just say irritable. Chocolate, on the other hand, soothes the soul much, much better than chicken soup. Rich. Decadent. Velvety. Chocolate makes the world go round. Just ask Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche.

2006 - I think it was a Thursday night. Couldn't be a Friday- there would have been a drill team this or a football game that. Wouldn't have been a Saturday night. Nope, this definitely would have been a Thursday night main event. See, Mondays are for fresh starts - eat your veggies and get to bed on time. Tuesdays are still on target- maybe slightly less homework and a few more clothes on the floor of her bedroom, but it's all good. Wednesdays? She was either at or teaching a CCD class. Yessiree, this was definitely a Thursday night. The conversation must have gone something like this.... Me: I've eaten nothing but a piece of lettuce and a single English pea all week. Her: That's your own fault. I don't know why you do this to yourself. Enjoy your life a little, why dontcha? Me: How is it that you're so wise? Her: I'm your daughter. Me: Enough flattery, what do you want? Her: Chocolate!! How bout a DQ run? Me: It's 11 pm. They're not open, punkin' pie. Her: What can we do? Me: Let's make something!!!! Necessity, while it might be the mother of invention, can also be the undoing of us all!

I do lots of things that don't make much, if any, sense. I collect old buttons. I hoard books. I prefer black and white movies over technicolor any day of the week. I still like vinyl records. I clip coupons. And, best of all, I collect recipes. Most are good, but some definitely belong in the "what not to do" file. In 1985, I was 18, married, and pregnant with my firstborn. I was also working and going to school. Apparently, I was also consuming quite a bit of Velveeta cheese. Enough so that I saved the appropriate amount of boxtops to qualify for the official 1985 much-heralded (not) Velveeta cheese cookbook. Odd that I would, over 20 years later, choose that very "cookbook" on that Thursday night. How perplexing that I would be possessed by the cheese muses as I looked at my daughter and stated...."Let's make cheese fudge!"

Don't ask, please. I have no words. An hour later, the two of us gathered over a steaming casserole dish concoction of what I can only describe as a mutant, rancid, chocolate impostor. It was hideous! We both held our noses and took a bite, You don't want to know. Equal parts human feces and oily jello, it was not a pleasant experience. What I remember most, however, was her laughter. Mom was a dork that night. Mom suddenly didn't know nearly as much, and wasn't the the rock-star e'er do well she normally was in such circumstances. Mom was just goofy, gullible, clueless old mom. And, we belly laughed for an hour. So, there you go. One of my colossal goofs became the stuff legends are made of, I guess. Tears were sliding down our cheeks. Tummies were clutched in laughter. I distinctly remember having to sit in the kitchen floor so I wouldn't wet my pants in this hysterical fit. It was blissful.

So, tonight, Chynna, I miss you. I miss your laughter. I miss my best friend. All hail the power of the Velveeta cheese fudge. A bad recipe can do wonders for the soul. I promise to keep being the oddball I've always been. I promise, also, never, ever to make Velveeta fudge for anyone else. It's our pact. We'll always have cheese fudge.

Fakery in the Bakery

Winter nights we sang in tune
Played inside the months of moon
"Never think of never...let this spell last forever"
Well, summer lover passed to fall
Tried to realize it all
Mama says she's worried, growing up in a hurry

"Come on home, girl," mama cried on the phone
Too soon to lose my baby yet, my girl should be at home"
But try to understand, try to understand
Try, try, try to understand, he's a magic man, mama
He's a magic man

"Magic Man" - written & performed by Ann & Nancy Wilson

Finally, a chance to use a Heart song to introduce a blog post! Quick, where's my Bucket List? CHECK! But seriously, I was just sweeping my back porch off when I gasped in disbelief that I hadn't thought of this blog entry muse earlier. I mean, really! It's October. It's practically Halloween, which I ADORE! What better time than now to speak to you about......magic. I mean, this is "Back to the Future Day" after all! Not the David Copperfield prestidigitation stuff. Not the Houdini straight-jacket stuff. No sword swallowing. No Chris Angel levitation. Just some modern day trickery. A little now you see it, now you don't. Slight of hand, if you will. Come, step with me behind my own green curtain (thinly veiled Wizard of Oz reference).

I love social media. All types! Well, maybe not all types. I secretly LOATHE Twitter for no good reason. Still, I force a few tweets now and again just to stay current. I think I feel stifled by the character limit - cause I talk a lot and whatnot. Because of Facebook, though, I have THE BEST relationship with all my girl cousins! I feel like we have this cool, girl's rule club that we never could've envisioned if not for social media. I'm constantly on  Craigslist looking for an antique this or a vintage that. Due to the amazing filters on Instagram, I'm a darn decent photographer, in my head anyway! I Snapchat back and forth with my kids everyday. I'm convinced that, with aid from a YouTube video, I could probably rebuild my transmission. Who knows where I'd be without Pinterest. And, obviously, Blogger rocks my world! So, I promise you I have nothing but love for all social technologies. But they lie. They lie big time. Their lies are SO EVIL & SO WELL CRAFTED...that I even believe them sometimes. In weaker moments, these lies make me feel awful...inferior...unworthy...hopeless.

Let me explain. But first, lemme take a selfie! No, really. Let's take a selfie. Ok...touch up your lipstick. OMG, look at my hair - gimme a sec. Ok...that looks better! No, wait! The sun is behind us and it will give us shadows under our eyes. Let's turn this way. Ewwwwwww! There's a bunch of junk on the ground behind us. Come over here. Ok, smile. What are you doing? Stop smiling like that! Put your tongue behind your front teeth and push while tilting your chin down to the right raising both of your eyebrows holding your phone at least 6 inches above your head, duh. And, push the button! Ok, now let's take about 200 more. NO!!!! Do not post that on Facebook! Let's put it on Instagram. Crop it. Increase the highlights. Use the Lo-Fi filter to make us look tan. Increase the brightess just a touch. Whew! Selfies are a lot of work. #thisisnthowwereallylook

Here's what it's taken me 3 whole paragraphs to say. What you see on social media is not real. None of it. Even the posts that say #nofilter. They aren't real either. Trust me 3000% when I tell you that if the only way you know me is from my profile picture, you would definitely run into me at Walmart and have no idea it was me. Because I don't look like that. I look like a 48 year old woman who wore a baseball cap to the gym because she was too lazy to put on any makeup, or the one who wears a shirt that's extra long to cover up the cellulite, or the one who has on the JFK era horn-rimmed glasses so she can read the labels. The real me. Just remember that the next time I change my profile picture. The peaches & cream complexion, the eyebrow arch, the svelt neckline....it took 200 takes in 10 different rooms and 30 minutes worth of filter work. I promise. It's all magic. That neckline bit the dust about 10 years ago & cellulite is my bff.

Now, am I advocating that we all post ugly pictures of ourselves? That's a joke, and not a very good one. If I am anything to you, I am honest! No, by all means, make yourself look however you want! Personally, if the image I project out into the world looks the way I want it to, I get a boost of confidence. Just don't buy into your own hype! The fitness guru you follow on IG could be a walking financial disaster. The person who posted the makeup tutorial could have the most disorganized house you've ever seen. The DIY phenom you love could live in total and complete hoarder's chaos. It's just Sales 101. I need you to see the me that I want you to see. I need you to buy into the belief that I am this one certain way. But, there's just no such thing as perfection. I throw my own magical top hat into this ring. Recently, I posted this picture on Instagram. I got a whole lotta likes.

Lace, hydrangeas, chalk art, even a picture I painted. Why, isn't my office just the stuff dreams are made of? Can't you see me lounging there in the afternoon, drinking tea and eating scones? Wouldn't life be just perfect if you, too, could have this awesome office? IF YOU ONLY KNEW. Allow me to present to you my REAL office on the sun porch:

Umm, yeah. That's more like it. See, there's really a ton of crap under the desk. There's also a ton of crap stacked up on each side. Oh, and that's where the dog kennel hangs out. And my styrofoam cooler, cause I didn't answer the phone when 1990 called and wanted it back. And an old car seat box full of signs. And there are other things you could see if I panned out a little more, like this lovely red armoir with a chewed off corner. Or this, which was sitting right at my feet as I was sweeping. Gotta love pugs.

Oh, and that's not even the best part!!!!! Look what's right behind me!

I like to call this corner the "where old props go to die" corner. See???? It's far from perfect. I just make it look like the piece of Heaven I wish it to be. And, there's nothing wrong with a little magic. Nothing at all. I say to you TAKE THOSE SELFIES! Tilt that chin! Filter your little hearts out! Just remember, at the end of the day, we're all human. None of us are better that the other. Don't buy into the commercialistic idea that you aren't good enough or pretty enough or special enough just the way you are. Now, go make some magic! And, tag me!!!!!

Pinkish

When your day is long

And the night, the night is yours alone

When you're sure you've had enough

Of this life, well hang on

Don't let yourself go

'Cause everybody cries

And everybody hurts sometimes

"Everybody Hurts" - REM

Ahhhh, October in Texas. Finally, we can all venture outdoors without fear of our lungs liquifying in the heat. High School football is king. The State Fair of Texas is in full swing. Turn off the a/c. Open up all the windows. Time to buy pumpkins. Time to buy Halloween candy. Time to buy something pink. Love it or hate it, October means a sea of Pepto-Bismol pink almost anywhere you look. Welcome to breast cancer awareness month. It seems, more and more these days, like slapping a pink ribbon on everything from yogurt to mechanical pencils to powdered sugar doughnuts has big biz thinking we'll be more apt to buy, buy, buy. Are you as tired of it as I am? Do you often wonder if ANY of the money spent actually winds up funding a single study or helping even one patient? Hot pink. Hot pink with glitter. Camo with hot pink. NFL with hot pink. Save the TaTa's. Save the Boobies. Fight like a girl. Get your pink on. I mean really? So irritating, right? So unfair to all the cancer patients who weren't "lucky" enough to get breast cancer? Who picks the ribbon colors, anyway? Is there a khaki ribbon? Relax. Settle your feathers. I'm not crazy over the commercialization of breast cancer either. But it kinda saved my life. If you read my blog and feel like we're sort of best friends even though we've never met, this one's for you. Now you can tell people that cancer touched your life. Cause your sort of best friend is a survivor. 2008 was decidedly not a good year.

I buried my beautiful, 16 year old daughter, on April 16, 2008. She did not have cancer. She had a congenital heart defect that was never diagnosed until late March of 2008. 3 weeks later, she died after an unsuccessful attempt to repair her aorta. My husband offered me the opportunity to take a few months off of work to get myself together. Translation: I cried everyday until I vomited at least once. I slept in her clothes. I slept in her bed. I crawled into her closet and refused to come out for hours. I went a little cray. It's not so much that you had to know this, but you had to know this. I cannot tell one story without telling the other. They are just so intertwined. You'll see. I am 40 years old in this story.

My house was full of kids. Three more of them, in fact. Ranging in age from 7 to 21. And 3 dogs. And a great husband. And a cat. We were all shaken and broken....and we missed her...and we understood our own mortality for the first time. And I could feel us all free falling. Untethered. Off the rails. One day, I just decided that losing one child was enough. If I wasn't careful, if I let this go on, who knows what could happen to us. So, I made a conscious decision to hide my crazy, as Miranda Lambert would say. I got up the next day and washed a million loads of clothes. I washed my hair. I put on makeup. I told my 18 year old high school senior that he would, in fact, graduate soon, regardless of what had to be done to make that happen. So, we went to many meetings at the school. We worked out a plan. He had friends over. We swam. Life was exhausting and the nights were way too long, but I was trying so hard to go through the motions. Maybe it was the chlorine residue from the pool that day? Maybe it was insanity? All I know is that I could not stop itching. My chest itched. My underarm itched. My chest itched some more. What is that? It feels like a scab. Like a tiny pellet from a bb gun is under my skin. Dear goodness, I've scratched my boob until I've made a scab. Except I can't pick it off. It won't come off. So I look, but I can't see it either. But I can feel it. A little pellet under my skin. It's there. It is there. My husband says it's there. He says it that night. He says it the next morning. Still there. I have just turned 41 in this story.

I needed to see a doctor. I needed my gynecologist. But, I couldn't go see her. She worked in the hospital where I just camped out for a week. Where I didn't get to bring my daughter back home with me. If I have to see those halls, or that lunchroom, or that parking lot, I don't know what I'll do. So, I pick another doctor off of the internet. Randomly. I call. I tell them about the bb pellet. I tell them I don't know what to do. They ask about my last mammogram. I tell them I've never had a mammogram. They asked why I haven't. I tell them I skipped it. Accidentally. I tell them I meant to schedule it. I really, really meant to schedule it. They set my appointment two weeks away. It was a whirlwind 2 weeks full of graduation parties and graduation ceremonies (because HE MADE IT) and lots of nagging thoughts in the back of my head. Finally, I meet my new gynecologist. She's lovely. She's caring and thoughtful and so sure this pellet is absolutely nothing. But I should still have a mammogram. The very next day. So I do. During my mammogram, the phone in the exam room won't stop ringing. I think that was when I knew something was wrong. Having a mammogram is much like playing "Deal or No Deal". There's a banker up high in a booth somewhere who dictates what happens. Except, the banker is really a radiology doctor who's watching your mammogram images. And they need more views. Because that pellet is there. Then the door flies open. Your boob is out and you don't know who this man in the white coat is doing the Risky Business/Tom Cruise floor slide, but you sense that he's the banker. He wants more images. And a sonogram. And a meeting in a secret room. He wants to know who's with me. I explain that I came alone. He says there's something there. He says there are two somethings there. He says I should have a biopsy. The next day. So I did. I went alone. I didn't tell anyone. It was a Wednesday. The banker told me he'd try to rush the test so I wouldn't have to go all weekend without knowing. When the phone rang at 7 pm on Friday night, I knew it was him. I sort of knew what he was going to say. You have cancer. My daughter has only been dead for 6 weeks in this story.

I could go on forever. Literally. But, I won't. Here's the Reader's Digest version....two tumors in one breast. Very slow growing breast cancer. Probably had it 7-10 years before it was diagnosed. Tumors have very high levels of estrogen and progesterone. My surgeon says stage 2. My oncologist says maybe stage 3. My lymph nodes are affected. Mastectomy. Chemo. Radiation.

Depressed yet? Here's the deal. I took my grief and all my untetherdness and all my lostness and I DOVE into cancer speak. I read everything. I talked to everyone. I participated in a clinical trial. I ate differently. I spoke differently. I woke up one morning and saw everything so very clearly. I would take my husband and my children and my 3 dogs and my one cat and my parents and everyone else who so graciously supported me, and we would FIGHT. Win, lose, or draw, we would not go down easily. I had all of these beautiful, precious souls looking at me every single day. I saw that I was the only one who could lead us. Well, actually, God would lead us, but I would have to be the first one to fall in line behind Him. If I chose to fold, they would fold around me. If I chose to fight, they would fight with me. If I chose to live the best life I possibly could, even if it were just because I felt I owed my daughter to see the world for her and live a good life for her......they would all see and feel and live, too. I think I just didn't want the tragedy of a beautiful girl who left too soon to be the defining moment of my other children's lives. Or mine.

Moral of the story: MAKE MINE PINK! I'll be the sell out. I'll wear the pink shirt. I'll drink out of the pink mug. I'll pop the pink breath mints. I'll do it all. Thank you, cancer. Thank you for saving my life. Because you made me, I crawled out from under my bed one day and decided life was worth living. So, I'll take your pink. Hopefully, I won't have to take your yellow or your purple or your khaki or any of your other ribbon colors. But, hey, I'm still standing. I am cancer free, as far as I know. Do I live in fear of a recurrence? Yep. But, I live. I am 48 years old at the end of this story. My story.