Monday, August 29, 2005

Good Night Everyone

This is Blond Girl's hubby writing to you tonight. BG worked her little tushy to the bone today and retired to bed early. She was so tired she couldn't get up enough energy to blog. I was using the computer for my trip and she came out and said " Honey, can you log in and tell everyone I am too tired and will blog tomorrow?" Being the great and helpful husband I am, I agreed.

I know what you are thinking, "How is it possible to be too tired to blog, especially when BG is famous for blogging in the middle of the night when she can't sleep?" I don't know the answer to that, but I would hate to have her smack her head on the keyboard repeatedly as she was nodding off just to blog. I don't want to see a bruise on her forehead that reads "QWERTY". That would make me point and laugh and BG hates it when I do that.

Well, hope you all have a good night and come back and see what BG has blogged about. I have a feeling it may be about this post and me being banned from posting for her from now on!

Here's some comments from this post:
Geekwif said...
No! No banning! The QWERTY joke made me LOL! Hope you get (got) a good night's sleep.

Paul said...
Are you serious? That's how you get that? I thought I was born with this weird QWERTY birthmark.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Operation Urispaz

When Sweet Girl was born, I was in labor for 18 1/2 hours, then I pushed for 4 1/2 hours and finally, I had an emergency C-section (it's a long story and I'm not going there now). The doctors at our hospital run a 24 hour shift, and Sweet Girl was the last of 14 babies that my doctor delivered in that day - and 4 of them were C-sections. I'm sure you can imagine that the doctor was getting pretty tired.

She must have been. When she visited me in recovery before going home, she explained that she had "nicked" my bladder while opening up my uterus and that I had a 1-inch cut to heal. She further explained that I would have to have a catheter in place for the next 10 days while my bladder healed. I heard this, but I was still stuck on "nick". 'Scuz me?!?! One inch does not equal a "nick"! That is a SLICE!

Well, Sweet Girl was in intensive care for 8 days and I roomed in at the hospital, carrying my catheter around with me. During that time, my bladder started to really hurt and get infected, so they put me on antibiotics and an anti-spasm medication. It was called (yes, this really was the name) "Urispaz". Champs and I got the biggest kick out of that. "You're a spaz!" "No, Urispaz!". "No, Uri... " You get my point. We were real mature back then!

In any case, the medication worked and they let me take the catheter out at 7 days instead of 10. I know you're saying, " you took it out?!?" Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did. I was discharged at 5 days and the last 3 days I was a "guest" of the hospital, but I didn't get any food or nursing care. Basically, I was invisible to all but the NICU staff. That was OK since I spent most of my time in the NICU with Sweet Girl anyway. Well, on day 7, exactly 1 week and 5 minutes after Sweet Girl was born, I took out that catheter.

I'm sure you can imagine that I NEVER wanted to go through that again! When I saw my OB/GYN for my 6-week checkup, she explained that in 9 years of surgery, I was the first patient she had ever cut and she apologized profusely. She went on to explain that, due to the circumstances of Sweet Girl's birth, I could readily schedule my next C-section and avoid all the labor issues. I accepted her apology and said "now, you understand, this gives me complete and total teasing rights with you for the rest of the time you're my doctor, don't you?" She sighed and accepted that I certainly had earned that right.

Once I told Champs that I now had teasing rights, he went right to work on the plan with a mischievous glint in his eyes. What would we do? How to best capitalize on my experience? When a slow grin spread across his face, I knew he had hatched the master plan to make sure I didn't suffer further organ abuse and to fully exercise my painfully won right to tease mercilessly.

The next time I got pregnant, I would schedule my C-section, bright and early at the beginning of her 24 hour shift. We would come in with a wrapped "birthday gift" for the doctor. When she opened it, there would be a brand new "Operation" game, complete with batteries. He considered asking her to play the game right then, but we figured that probably wouldn't happen. In any case, that would be just the opening gambit; the real joke would come when we got into the operating room.

See, after I showered that morning, Champs planned to take a washable marker and draw a big uterus on my tummy with a baby holding a sign that says "cut here". Then, off to the side, down low, he would draw a bladder. The bladder would have a sign that said "No knicking, no slicing; no problem".

As it turns out, we never did have that second baby and now we won't. One reason I regret this is because now we will never have the chance to perform Operation Urispaz!

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Jesus Loves You

When Sweet Girl was a baby, I would put her to bed and, as I walked out of the room, I would say, "Mommy loves you! Daddy loves you! Grandma loves you! Jesus loves you!". Sometimes the list would be nearly every relative we have. Five years later, I still go through this list every night, only now she repeats it back to me: "Mommy loves you!" ("Mommy loves you!") "Daddy loves you!" ("Daddy loves you!") "Grandma loves you!" ("Grandma loves you!") "Jesus loves you!" ("Jesus loves you!")

I know the day will come when Sweet Girl decides that the ritual is no longer needed. I am not looking forward to that day. When all is said and done, with the variances of each day and the ins and outs, I look forward to the stability of this one ritual.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

The Bully and the Locker

Time for another story - this time one of mine. I guess I thought of it since school is starting soon. This happened to me in eighth grade. Funny thing is, I never even told the story to my family until I was about 26 years old. I can still remember my dad's smile as I told them what I'm about to tell you. He was proud of me for standing up for myself. I still have some mixed emotions about it myself. I guess I'll let you decide if I handled it OK.

My friends know that I am primarily a verbal person; I don't tend to be physical or violent. When I was in junior high, I was extremely miserable. I was fat, unpopular, shy (with everyone but my friends) and we didn't have the money for the "right" clothes. This left me pretty much ripe for the teasing and I endured a ton of it. I really don't think about junior high much because those three years were just that miserable.

There were three boys who made it their mission to say the most cruel, hurtful things they could think of every day after third period. They stood by their lockers and waited for me to pass by and made pig noises, rude sounds, swear words - whatever they could think of - as I passed by. I never acknowledged them. One time I walked past and I couldn't keep myself from letting a tear fall, and they saw it. This only caused them to crow at their success and redouble their efforts.

Of the three, there was a ring leader. To this day I can't remember their names or faces; only that they were boys and they were there. The ring leader said the most while the two others played along. Finally one day, I had enough.

As I walked by, they began their usual litany. Something inside me snapped. I don't know why this day was the breaking point or why I chose to do what I did. The boys were in the middle of the hall about three feet from the locker bank lining the wall. Out of the blue, I grabbed the ring leader by the collar with my right hand and I swung him around with every ounce of strength I had. As he hit the locker, I pushed him up and there he was, slammed against the locker on his tip-toes, with my fist in his adam's apple.

At first, his friends started hooting, but I snapped a look at them and they shut up. I turned to the ring leader and I said, very calmly, "I've had enough of you. Don't you ever, ever talk to me or say anything to me again. Do. You. Understand?"

Somehow, he did. He nodded. I pushed harder against his neck, then dropped him and walked away. The amazing thing is, he and his friends actually listened to me. They never talked to me again. I would see them in the hall and they would look away.

I've never understood the mind of a bully, so I really don't know why this worked. On one hand, I'm proud of standing up for myself, but I wish I could have handled it without stooping to their level.

All I know is, I still remember every moment of that confrontation, and I still remember that my dad, who rarely showed approval, was really proud of me when he heard the story.

Go figure.

Here are some comments from this story:
E said...
This is like a scene right out of a movie and I love it! I always cheer for the underdog in scenes like that and I would've been in that hallway rooting you on! I hope that those boys learned a lesson from that and didn't treat anyone that way after their run in with you. You *should* be proud of yourself!
BTW...ditto back atcha about your comment on my site. I get the feeling we could be good friends and do some serious commiserating in real life!

Heather said...
You didn't sink to their level. It takes no courage to taunt a poor girl who is already feeling different. It took courage for you to confront them, though. I didn't get teased much in school but I often stood up to those who teased the underdogs. I am just built that way.
The only girl I ever teased was killed in a car accident our senior year. Even though she and I had long since become friends, I will always regret that I was ever cruel to her.

buffi said...
You are SO my hero!!

Geekwif said...
I never had the guts to stand up to the bullies in school. Good for you BG.

yellojkt said...
We teach our kids to not resort to violence, but bullies only respond to strength. I was bullied in 8th grade by the kids on the bus and even beat up once.
I finally picked the weakest kid of the gang and took him on one-on-one one day. His friends just watched him get beat up until he bit me. My mom took me to the emergency room for tetanus shots. None of the parents of the kids in the gang would believe their "baby" could do such a thing.
The whole gang steered clear of me after that. I don't know if that would work in today's zero-tolerance atmosphere.

princssis said...
Way to go, BG! I agree with Heather in that you did not stoop to their level. It's amazing how bullies can dish it out but can't take it! From what I understand, they have to make others feel bad in order to compensate for the poor self esteem they have.
I'm glad for you things worked out the way they did. I also agree with yellojkt that this probably would not fly in today's schools (unfortunately).

CoachHardin said...
As a teacher, I see that happening at times, and you can see where it comes from when the parents are the exact same way. I was also a bullied person growing up and can relate, but never retaliated. That just wasn't my style. Instead, I hung back and waited until college to start over in a new place. However, I'm a big advocate of the underdog all the time. I'm one trying to keep bullying from happening again. ;)

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Baby I need to tell you sumpthin'

If you've read my blog for anytime now, you know I'm a Veggie-Tales fan. And if you've seen the Veggie-Tales story "The Ballad of Little Joe", then you've seen the song "No Belly Button". The chorus goes "Baby, I need to tell you sumpthin' - I ain't got no belly button. Belly button - no, no no nooooo...."

Well, coming into my surgery, I was warned that there may be a small chance that this would be my theme song. See, the standard practice with a tummy tuck or panniculectomy (which is an extreme tummy tuck that removes a lot of skin and fat tissue, which is what I had) is to simply move the patient's existing belly button up to a new location. Barring that, the plastic surgeon will "create" a new belly button for the patient. In rare cases, this isn't possible and the patient is left without a belly button and with a new theme song.

After my surgery, Dr. R., the plastic surgeon, came out to talk with my mom and tell her how the operation went. He explained that everything went really well. She anxiously asked "does she have a belly button?" Dr. R. replied with a smile, "Oh yes. We found her a cute little belly button."

Upon hearing this, I had a mental picture of the doctor pointing to a belly button hiding in a corner and saying, "there, pick that one up and dust it off; we'll use that." When I saw him the next day, I told him this and got a good chuckle out of him. I told him that I thought my stitches were opening up and when he looked, he told me "no, your stitches are fine; that's your belly button!"

The only problem was, I forgot to ask him a very important question. I had to wait a whole week before I went to see him again. When I saw him, I asked my very important question: Is this my belly button or did you make one for me? He told me that he was able to move my navel to a new position. He just cut around it and then cut a hole in the "new" spot and sewed it in (compare it to putting a pocket in the waistband of a pair of pants). He explained that my belly button kind of "accordions" its way to the surface.

I gave a relieved sigh and told him the punchline I'd been waiting all week to use: "Oh good. I've been wondering and wondering if you made one or used mine. Is it real or Memorex? Only her plastic surgeon knows for sure!"

So, I don't have a new theme song, but we have been singing the Veggie-Tales song with a twist: "Baby I need to show you sumpthin' - I still got a belly button!"

Here's some comments from this post:
Geekwif said...
I love your punchline! You could also have used "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline." :D
I wonder if there are as many possible theme songs for your belly button as there are for my street!

Sandy said...
You've got a great sense of humor. I have a feeling if we had met IRL and not the great blog-o-sphere, we'd have been buds. ;)

princssis said...
Sorry I have to say this, but your sense of humor, especially about the health topic, reminds me of GranDee. :)

Indigo said...
LMAO!!! That is hilarious!!! How would you feel if it wasn't your belly button though?

Lindsey said...
haha...that's so funny! Can you ever imagine how weird we'd look without belly buttons? Can't even imagine.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

I Saw an Old Man Today

I saw an old man today. He had white hair. I honestly don't remember if he was on TV or at the park where we took Sweet Girl today. I can't say where I saw him. What I remember was the emotion he evoked.

Out of nowhere, I missed my father. Terribly. Horribly. And all consumingly.

Dad died on September 27 in 2003. It's been nearly two years and yet I remember it like yesterday. Sweet Girl mentions nearly daily that her Grandpa is in Heaven and I agree with her. My mom moved in with us when he died since she couldn't afford to keep her home. So, it's not like I haven't come to terms with his death or that I am "pretending" he's not gone.

In some ways (and I might seem like a traitor for saying this), it is easier with him gone. He was a mean man to most people, especially my mother. He didn't have an easy life and he didn't make life easy on those who loved him. However, he mellowed in his last month of life. He died of lung cancer and was in a Catholic hospice for the last month of his life. I think being surrounded by people who loved God and were committed to giving him the most respectful death they could as a gift to him was what did the mellowing. Maybe it was spending so much time with Sweet Girl, who was a 3 year-old at the time and who would crawl into bed with him and snuggle while they watched TV. Maybe it was his realization that he was going to die and needed to make peace with his creator. Whatever it was, that last month was a gift. He was lucid right up to 2 days before his death and I enjoyed who he was more that month than many of the years prior to that.

Seeing the old man with white hair today brought back that Dad, the mellow Dad, and I missed him with a fierce intensity. Life being what it is, Sweet Girl soon needed me and Champs had a question and the emotions I were feeling were pushed to the back for later. But I haven't forgotten.

I miss you, Daddy.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

You're Cute, But Don't You Ever Wash the Dishes?

Growing up, we were regaled with stories of my parent's courtship and early marriage years. I've heard some of these stories so many times that I can see the faces and expressions of those involved, even though I wasn't there, just based on their faces when they told the story. This is one of those.

My mother was one of two girls. Growing up, they were often separated, living with different family members due to my grandmother's health. My mom grew up as the oldest and, at times, the youngest. My father, on the other hand, grew up in the classic Irish Catholic home; he was the fifth of eight kids. Of those eight, one died when she was a child. Needless to say, they had somewhat different outlooks on life. For whatever reason, Dad never told Mom about large his family. Personally, I think he didn't want to scare her off.

About two months after Mom and Dad started dating, Dad invited Mom over to his sister Catherine's house for dinner. Catherine was married with two kids. While dinner was being cooked, my dad worked on his motorcycle in Jim's garage. Mom handed Dad the tools he requested. At one point, he stuck his head out from under the bike and said, "so, whatd'ya think? You wanna get hitched?" (Oh yeah, he was a real romantic, my dad was.) And thus, it was settled.

The next week, Dad told Mom "I want you to meet my brother Tom", so off they went to dinner again. This time, there was a wife and two kids again. Mom asked Dad how many kids there were in the family. "Oh, a few", he replied. The next week, Dad took Mom to dinner at my uncle Jim's to meet his wife and three kids. Mom thought for sure she that Jim was the last brother. Dad did say that she had met all his nieces and nephews, so she thought she was safe (if not somewhat overwhelmed by his large family).

Finally, about two weeks later, Dad invited Mom over to his mother's house for Sunday dinner. Thinking she had met everyone, she went expecting a quiet meal with Dad's parents. Not so; Dad still had teenagers Mike and Dorothy to introduce to Mom.

Fast forward eight months. By then, Mom and Dad were married and living in a little apartment. Both of them worked full time, odd hours. Due to their schedule (and general lack of housekeeping knowledge, I think), they would let all the housework pile up all week long. Then, on Saturday, they would join efforts and do a mass cleanup. All the dishes and laundry would get washed and the house would be cleaned up. I'm sure you can imagine what the house looked like by Friday...

Well, one Friday evening about two months after they were married, Mom came home before Dad. As she went to open her apartment door, she realized it wasn't locked. As she walked into the apartment, she saw that all the mess had been cleaned up. The living room was cleaned and vacuumed; the dirty clothes were all picked up and she could hear water running in the kitchen.

"Honey, is that you?", she called. Out from the kitchen came a man my mom had never seen before, wiping a freshly washed plate. "Well", he said, "they were right. You're a cute little thing, but don't you ever wash the dishes?" Mom was shocked to find this stranger who looked so much like her new husband standing in her living room, She figured that Dad had forgotten to mention something. It was soon revealed that he was, indeed, the last brother. His name was John and Dad hadn't mentioned him yet, either, since he wasn't able to attend the wedding.


Because he was in Leavenworth Federal Prison!*

*Naw, he wasn't dangerous; just slippery. He was there for writing bad checks.

And here's some comments from this story:
Geekwif said...
Goodness, Blond Girl! I've known you for 13 years and you still keep coming up with stories I've never heard! This is a good one. Your uncle John must have been a sweet guy to jump in and help like that, and his comment is just classic!

princssis said...
What a funny story! You and your family are just full of 'em! Thanks for sharing. :-)

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

A True Miracle

There are many times in life when we know we have witnessed a miracle; some small and some large. This story is of a miracle that occurred 6 years before I was born, but the passage of time does not diminish the impact.

My brother, Paddy, was born in 1958. One summer day in 1959 when he was about 7 months old, my family was gathered at my grandmother's house, as they did every Sunday afternoon. The kids would play in the backyard, the aunts would gather in the kitchen talking as dinner was prepared and the uncles would be between the two, sipping beers and supervising the kids. For the purpose of this story, you should understand that Grandma's house was on a busy street. The living room was at the front of the house, with a hallway that had the bathroom and two bedrooms and led to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Now, Paddy wasn't a very happy baby. He had colon problems and colic. Mom says he basically cried for the first year of his life. Getting him to sleep was a major feat. On this particular Sunday, Mom had finally gotten him to sleep and laid him on a blanket in the living room, in front of a large picture window.

While the aunts and mom were talking, Grandma announced out of the blue that she was going to go get Paddy. Mom objected, since she had finally gotten the baby to sleep. At first, Grandma acquiesced, but then changed her mind. "No", she said standing up, "I just feel like I have to go and get him."

As Grandma walked into the kitchen with my crying brother in her arms and sat down, the family heard a deafening crash. The uncles ran to the living room. Where the picture window once was, there was an old rusty Buick. A drunken neighbor had run his car into Grandma's living room. The man stumbled out of his car and ran away.

Three of my uncles went running after him and beat him up. They brought him back to Grandma's house where the police were already trying to calm my parents down. My uncles handed the drunk over to the police, who asked what had happened to him (the guy was a bit of a bloody mess). My uncles explained that he must have gotten banged up when he went through the window. Things were different in the fifties; the police smiled, thanked my uncles for catching him and hauled the drunk away.

It took a long time for Mom, Dad and Grandma to calm down. From that day to this, no one in our family has been able to deny that this was a genuine miracle. Who but God could have made my grandmother go and pick up a calmly sleeping baby for no reason? See, God and Grandma saved Paddy's life. When the car was pulled out of the window, Paddy's blanket was still on the living room floor.

It was in shreds.

Here are comments from this post:

Geekwif said...
Holy Cow, Blond Girl!!! I've never heard this story! Two things come to mind after reading it.
1) This is certainly proof that when you think God might be whispering to you to do something, do it - no matter how silly it might seem.
2) God must have a purpose for your brother's life; a particular reason He wanted to protect him. I wonder if Paddy know this. (?)

Heather said...
The hair is standing up on the back of my neck.
I once got up from the dinner table second before a huge, sharp chunk of metal flew through the window right where I was sitting. It would have killed me. It was part of a blade from a tractor that was mowing the pasture behind our house.

E said...
That's amazing...truly amazing.

Mamacita said...
Incredible. Miracles DO happen.
Michele sent me, and I'm glad she did.

buffi said...
God is good, all the time. I love that story. Michele sent me. I'll be back!

pantrygirl said...
Hello, Michele sent me.
Sometimes when we allow our minds to open up, we can hear God calling us.
I'm glad your Grandmother heard him.

Peri said...
Wow, that is so God....... watching out for us. What a story!!

Marie said...
Oh my goodness! Your Grandma is an angel!

Laura GF said...
What an incredible story! I think that more times than not it really makes sense to listen to that inner voice. Thanks for sharing this -- I'm here from Michele's.

Jennie said...
Wow, I have goose bumps. I'm so thankful you were all blessed that day! Wow. I betcha Paddy and Grandma got lots of good snuggles that night. :)

princssis said...
WOW! That IS a miracle! I hope Paddy realizes his life was spared that day and there must've been something God had in store for his life.
Thank the Lord Grandma listened to Him!

deputyswife said...
Hello, Michele sent me!
The hairs are standing on my arm. What a true blessing not to have him taken away at such a young age.
I loved reading your blog!

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

You're No Spring Chicken!

My mom is a child of the depression. She likes to remind me of this. Generally the time she starts to remind me is when I am telling her to throw something away that I think is not needed but she thinks is still usable. We tend to have this discussion quite often. It goes something like this: "Mom, I'm throwing this bread away. You bought it three weeks ago." "No!, I'm going to eat it!" At which point I gently tell her that if she was planning to eat the item in question, she could have eaten it while it was still food.

Another case in point: Yesterday she bought some file folders, which came in a bag with a little adhesive strip, thus rendering it "resealable". Mom asked if I wanted it. I told her that, no, I didn't have any use for it and she could just throw it away. Out came the depression again. She explained that, when she was a kid in the depression, nothing was thrown away until it was determined that no one in a 4 block radius could use the item in question. After determining that neither of us wanted to canvas the neighborhood to see if anyone wanted a "resealable" bag, she agreed to throw it away.

Champs and I saw just how prevalent this trait is in my mom when she went to Phoenix last winter. When she moved in with us after my dad died, she brought with her a small chest-type deep freezer and gave it to us. Champs and I decided to clean it out and find out what was in it and make room for new food when she was safely out of state. We emptied the unit, depositing various frozen items on two card tables in the sun room. We found a lot of interesting stuff. Pea soup from 2003. A bag of turkey stock from the New Year's before. Something like 15 one-pound boxes of butter. Each layer was like another historic period in my parent's life. We saw the Crustatous era (a three year-old pie shell) , the Cenozoic era (a beef roast from 1998 ) and finally, at the bottom, a perfectly preserved specimen from the Mesozoic era; a fifteen year-old whole roasting chicken.

This chicken riveted us. The skin had turned leathery and white (and red where some popsicles had melted some time back). There were small items placed around it much like the treasures in Tut's tomb. The chicken itself was permanently adhered to the freezer floor. It took us three pots of boiling water to disengage it from it's frozen nest. When we finally got it free and read the label, we saw that it was from a store that has since gone out of business. We realized that this chicken was born before our high-school senior nephew started kindergarten. This chicken had been through three presidents. It had been around for all of "Friends" and "Everybody Loves Raymond". The freezer was in its third location since the chicken was brought home. How it had managed to remain undisturbed all that time was a mystery to us.

It was almost with a sense of awe combined with an amazingly strong sense of revoltion that we put it in the garbage. I wish we had thought to take a picture of the label as proof. Mom didn't believe us when she came home and saw the "new" clean freezer. She really didn't believe us when we told her about the chicken. But it is the truth, I promise.

Now, I don't care how much of an impact the depression has had on someone - no one is going to use a chicken that old. So, in an effort to keep the food in the freezer fresh and on a rotation, we have a system. We've bought a magnetic wipe-off board where we write down the food items that are stored in the freezer and erase them when they are used (no more 15 pounds of butter!). The system is working well. I think it is because we are all following the rule at the bottom of the board:

"15 year-old chickens are NOT allowed!"

Here are some of the comments from this post:

Heather said...
What a hysterical story! It is my theory that there is so much credit card debt in our society because so few remember the Depression.

Sandy said...
THAT is a fantastic story! Thanks for sharing it.

Thumper said...
Sounds like my Great Aunt Eleanor. When she died my mom and her sister and brothers gathered to clean out the house...she hoarded *everything.* They found years-old meat, hundreds of skeins of yarn... they did take pictures, mostly because as sad as they all were, they knew they'd want proof and even then it was so fricking funny to them...

princssis said...
I love stories about your mom! How funny! 3 pots of water to free the nearly permanent chicken? WOW!
This story reminds me of when we bought our house from AR's grandparents. Certain items were agreed to be left (like the picnic table), but upon our arrival, they were gone. The grandparents even took all the toilet paper and light bulbs - out of the fixtures! Maybe not ALL the light bulbs, but there were quite a few missing!

Geekwif said...
You could write the date on your freezer items with a sharpee marker too. Then you'd always know how long they'd been in there.
I've heard this story before, but it was fun to read some of the details I missed last time. I'm a bit of a packrat myself, but I hope I never stoop to saving ancient chickens!

kenju said...
She is just like my Mom, who NEVER threw anything away. She would give it away, but never throw it out. When she died, my Dad and I cleaned out the freezer, which had stuff 3 years old in it, and the kitchen cabinets, which yielded spice cans so old they were already collectors items!! They now reside in my kitchen - but on shelves - as display.

yellojkt said...
My father-in-law was a Depression era person also. The first time I visited their house I thought he was either a survivalist or a Mormon because there was at least a year's worth of canned goods in the house. When he passed away about five years ago, my wife had to hire a hauler to take away the entire garage full of stockpiled cleaning supplies. It could have served as a Proctor and Gamble logo museum. There was a box from every style change ever.

I think part of his problem was also that he bought off of a mental grocery list that never adjusted for existing inventory.

Peri said...
haha, that is so funny. My grandmother was a teen in the depression and the same way, Never could throw food out....... later when no one would eat it, at least the dog would. Her favorite line, "now, if you don't eat this, I'll have to give it to the dog".

Blond Girl's Question of the Day for Tuesday

Sweet Girl and I just ate dinner. Champs is out of town on his route (as per normal for Tuesday) and Mom went to a meeting, so I get the pleasure of my daughter's company to myself. This means an easy dinner and a lot of Veggie-Tales and coloring. I asked Sweet Girl what she wanted for dinner. Out of all the things in the world that she could have chosen, the only thing she wanted was buttered noodles with a touch of garlic and Parmesan cheese. Easy, huh?

So, tonight's question to you parents is this:

When your kid's get to pick the menu, what's for dinner?

Here are the comments for this post:

Geekwif said...
Well seeing as my only kids are the furry kind, if I let them pick the menu it would probably be fishy canned Friskies and cheese for dessert. The cheese I could handle, but the fishy canned food, not so much.

princssis said...
tacos or cheese enchiladas. CJ even likes hot salsa and peppers!

Heather said...
Ramen Noodle Soup or supper at Chick-Fil-A. That's always what my kids want!

Sandy said...
Oh, if my three-year old had his druthers we'd be eating Mac-n-Cheese three times a day, secen days a week. Luckily the 11-month old can't request meal plans yet. ;)

Holly said...
my daughter : chicken nuggets and french fries
my 10 year old son : chicken "crispy strips" and french fries.
my 11 year old son : anything in large quantites that comes with a shovel to get it in his face.

E said...
For dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs...and sometimes, pancakes.
For Cars...he doesn't eat much, so he never cares, but if he HAD to choose, it would be mac-n-cheese and strawberries

trusty getto said...
Um, no kidding here, noodles with butter and freshly grated parmesan cheese (no garlic). Both girls just love it!

used*to*be*me* said...
Hello. Michele sent me. Great site.
depending on who you ask, favorite meals from oldest to youngest go like this:
13 yr old: Butter spaghetti with roasted garlic
8 yr old: Crab legs and mozerella sticks
5 yr old: Chicken enchiladas and sticky rice
I miss being a kid!

Saturday, August 13, 2005

OHMIGOSH, is that ME?!?!?!

Warning: This blog is about my tummy. If you're not interested in reading my reaction to my tummy, please skip this entry and move straight to my question of the day. Thanks!

Yes, I should be sleeping and I am not. Partly it's that silly low blood sugar thing again (you should see how good my blood glucose levels have been since the surgery! They are great, but going too low has been happening a bit, too) but that's not the only problem. I haven't managed to fall asleep yet tonight but I'm not sure why. I know it's not the pain. That is getting better each day. Maybe I am still just freaked out by myself.

(For those who are just getting to know me and need a quick background, here it is in 50 words or so: On 10/16/03 I had a gastric bypass. From then until 7/29/05, I lost 111 pounds. Two weeks ago, I had my third incisional hernia repair but I also had a panniculectomy, which is a tummy tuck to remove all the leftover fat and skin hanging from my abdomen after the weight loss.)

See, here's the deal: My general surgeon removed the last Jackson-Prewitt drain from my abdomen today ( yeah!). I am so glad he removed it. That last one was really hurting me and I'm so relieved to have it gone; the pain issue has improved a lot just due to that. Now, although I still have two bandages where the drains were removed and I still have steri-strips over all the stitches (there are many more than a hundred, according to my plastic surgeon), I can finally see the shape of my "new" tummy. Add to that the fact that I've lost all the water weight from the hospital (having an IV really packs on the pounds!). Also, since my tummy is back in a little space where it belongs, I haven't been eating much and I've started losing weight again. Woo Hoo! The upshot is that I am now 10 pounds lighter than I was before the surgery and I have this wonderfully, amazingly flat tummy that I have never had in my life! OK, it's a little rounded, but it's this gentle rounding that is actually quite feminine and it won't bother me a bit. Let's just say that for the first time since, oh say, seventh grade, I can look all the way down my body from sternum to toes in one unbroken line! I see no alien children and no icky flabby hangy-downy-tummy-thing!

So, bottom line, I keep looking in mirrors, windows, anything with an even slightly reflective surface and staring at my body. Tonight, Champs took me out on date night to see Sky High (it's a pretty cute movie, by the way) and I wore this pair of pink sweats that I bought for my recovery period. They were an exact fit and just ever-so-slightly snug before the surgery. Tonight they looked amazing; they didn't even hug my thighs, much less my tummy! I also wore a white long-sleeved tee-shirt (yes, cotton tees - the nice ones, not the printed ones, are my personal "uniform") that I've always loved but not worn very often because it didn't cover my tummy. Tonight it looked perfect.

I'm sorry; this isn't meant to brag. This is pure rejoicing! Thank you, Thank you, Thank you Jesus! (And, thank you Dr. R, my surgeon and Dr. R, my plastic surgeon and even thank you, silly insurance company that took six months to approve this!) I've never had a body like this. I felt cute. I felt healthy. Truth to tell, I felt sexy - even with bandages and a binder on. I've never felt this way before. I'm not sure how long I will be on this high, but I know that for a while yet I will be looking in mirrors and saying "OHMIGOSH, is that ME?!?!?!"