Happy

Birthday

to

me.

Is it just me or does anybody else see something wrong with protesting peace talks?

I've been telling my daughter for years that she should do something with her photography.

She "sees" something and actually manages to catch it on film (or, these days, on digital-whatever-it's-called), unlike so many of us who "see" something but fail to see what's in the background or slipping in on the right side of the screen or something else.

For the past several months, she has finally put her talent to work.  After posting numerous photos on Fliker, several of her photos have been given awards and she was recently asked to become the photographer for her daughters' school. 

This week, she was contacted by a large bottled water corporation requesting permission to use one of her photos in an advertising spot (no bottles of water were used in the photo however, it just happens to be Sasha's favorite drink ... and has been since she was a toddler).

As "The Mom", I figure I have bragging rights and decided to share what I consider some pretty incredible talent.

Not to mention there are some really great pictures of my granddaughters posted. 

And we all know that grandmothers definitely have bragging rights!

"Mom's Bragging Spot"

To Veterans everywhere ...

Thank you.

It was a nice surprise when I stopped by here yesterday and had a comment from a long lost friend and fellow blogger.

Some of you may remember him as FTS (aka Follow That Star).  FTS did follow his star and last year, he moved to Colorado ... where he promptly disappeared!

There were rumors that he had hiked into the wilderness, become hopelessly lost and was living the life of Jeremiah Johnson.  The problem was that he would rather pet the furry critters romping through the wilds than use them for food, clothing and shelter.  How he managed to find his way back to civilization was never part of the story.

It was also rumored that he had become involved with a rouge clan of cave bears planning to take over all of the large supermarkets, as well as the local 7-Eleven stores, but when he insisted that their battle cry be sung to the tune of "The Sound of Music," his leadership came to a screaming halt.  The clan managed to sneak out of the cave in the middle of the night, leaving FTS all alone with nothing but a box of stale donuts.

Many speculated that he had climbed so high into the Rockies the he had accidentally stumbled upon a hidden alien settlement and they had held him there against his will.  However, these being space aliens, not illegal aliens, they soon realized that their hair grew so slowly that a single cut would last them well into the next millennium.  As soon as they were all cut and coiffed, they asked him to leave.

How he managed to escape all of these wild creatures and aliens is any body's guess, but the end result is his return to the land of the living. 

Though no longer known as FTS, (his new moniker is Snowball ... which I'm thinking may have had something to do with those bears ... ) he has also returned to the Blog world.

Welcome back, SNOWBALL!

... And I have no doubt that she was looking down from Heaven as we said "I do".

Happy Birthday, Mama.

September 8, 1972.

It began as a normal, hot Southern California day.  The same routine as any other day … shower, breakfast, kiss hubby good-bye, clean the kitchen, take a nap.

The difference was that on this day there were two totally unexpected events which ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other.  One resulted in death; the other, a birth.

Our tiny apartment in San Bernardino had no air conditioning and being seven months pregnant was no picnic.  Luckily, it cooled down at night and in order to sleep with some amount of comfort, we had finally dragged our mattress into the living room and stuck a fan in front of the large open window.  It also worked fairly well for my frequent pregnancy induced naps.

This is where I was when I awoke around 3:00 p.m. to a gush of liquid soaking both me and the mattress.  As I got up, the phone began ringing so I grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around me like a towel and slogged off to answer it.  It was my husband calling to tell me he was on his way home from work, which in itself was unusual, but when he wouldn’t tell me why he was coming home so early, I knew something was up.

By the time he got home, I had begun to wonder if the strange smelling liquid which continued to drench my legs was in fact, perhaps, the beginning of childbirth … better known as “Uh-Oh! I think my water broke!”  I called a friend of ours who had three or four grown kids thinking that she would be able to describe this strange experience.

She couldn’t.  All of her children had been “dry births”.

In the meantime, the news which brought Ken home had been a phone call from his parents telling him that his maternal grandmother had unexpectedly passed away … at 3:00 p.m., the same time that gush of liquid had awakened me.

As Ken panicked, calling the hospital, rushing around to pack a bag for me and calling his parents, I calmly and quietly fixed something to eat.  Fish and Chips.  I remember.  I wasn’t panicked.  I wasn’t even worried.  The fact that this baby wasn’t due for another two months didn’t concern me.  That a two month period could be devastating to the development of my child never entered my mind.  Not once did I think that something could be wrong.

After I had my dinner and Ken got me in the car, he managed to break all land speed records for a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle and we arrived at the hospital in a flash of time that would have made Captain Kirk and Scotty proud.

Over the next twenty-four hours, I was not allowed to get out of bed.  Around noon that next day, I began to have labor pains; Ken became such a pest, not only to me but to the nursing staff, that he was politely asked to leave the room. Three hours later, when it was finally realized that this baby was going to born whether it was time or not, I was wheeled into the delivery room.

At 3:14 p.m. on September 9^th, when the doctor said “Push!” I pushed … one time. That was it. One push … and POP! It was like catching a football, passing off to the running back and they were gone.  Off to NICU.

The next day when I finally got to see, and hold, my tiny little three pound bundle, there was no doubt in my mind that she was perfect.  She was small but she was perfectly formed, all ten little fingers and toes complete with little fingernails and toenails, a head-full of fuzzy baby-hair, and a healthy set of lungs.

When they brought the paperwork in for me to fill out, I had a couple of choices for her first name but only one for her middle name.

Anne, named for her father’s grandmother. 

Caller ID indicates a pay phone. The phone calls start around 9:00 p.m., just as I’m beginning to drift off to never-never land, and have gone well past midnight.

*B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-g-g-g-g, b-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-g-g-g!*

*cough* *cough* *Snort*

“Uh … Hullo?”

“You have a collect call from …”

*pause*

“… Tory”

“Who?”

*pause*

“Will you accept the call?”

“WHO??”

*pause*

“This call is from an inmate at the Dallas County Jail.  If you accept this call, your conversation will be monitored and recorded.  The cost for this call is $3.75 per minute. It is recommended that you do not …” yada, yada, yada.

*Cough* *Snort* *Fumble* *Click*

I have no idea who Tory is or why he wants to talk to me.  He has become not only extremely persistent but somewhat of a nuisance as well, especially after the third or fourth phone call, each time just as I’ve started to fall into that wonderful little dreamland.  There have even been a couple of calls after I’ve been in my fantasy world for several hours which means I’m in a deep, deep sleep and I am not a nice person when suddenly, and rudely, awakened.

Not only that, but since middle of the night phone calls generally indicate trouble, it takes a while to get the old heart rhythm back to a livable level which means I’m now awake.

The thing is, as I was lying there last night at some ungodly hour after one such phone call, I started thinking.  And wondering.

Just who is Tory?

What did he do?

I have no answers and no, I don’t plan to accept one of those collect calls to find out.  I did come to the conclusion that dear Tory is probably right where he should be and chances are he's not on the genius level in the IQ department.

I mean, after five nights of rejected phone calls, get a clue, Tory! 

You either have the wrong number, you’re dialing wrong, or … and here’s a kick of reality … if whoever you think you’re calling won't accept your calls, they don't want to talk to you!

When I was young, my brother and I used to catch creepy-crawler-critters and keep them as pets. Yes, I know.  Most kids have dogs, cats, goldfish, parakeets ... we had caterpillars, beetles, Daddy-Long-Leg and trap-door spiders, King snakes, stink-bugs, tapeworms (kidding ... we didn't really have tapeworms. I think). 

We would keep these critters in a little red wagon filled with dirt, toss them dried up dead flies or wilted dandelions, whatever we thought they should be eating.  None of these critters ever scared me (except for the Potato Bugs. I. Hate. Potato. Bugs.) and even as an adult, creepy-crawlers (except Potato Bugs. I. Still. Hate. Potato. Bugs.) have never been a problem for me.

Until now.

It must be the season for critters here in Texas.  We sure didn't have this many last summer ... of course, we didn't have any water last summer, either.  You would think that going months without water would kill all the vermin, spiders, snakes, worms, wigglies and such.

You would be wrong.  They appear to have returned.  With a vengeance.

Not only have I been bit on the butt by the Brown Recluse, which I admit is the worst that's happened to me physically, the shock value of reaching into the pool skimmer and pulling out a snake along with the dead flowers, came in a close second.

Granted, it was only a tiny garden snake.  It was still not something you expect in your pool.

We also have a mouse living in the garage which is actually better than the rat that was living in the fountain last summer, except that this mouse has a habit of scaring that cute-and-cuddly-seventy-pound-puppy ...

Who, as she was running through the ivy and bushes in the front yard yesterday while we were examining an icky-web-like-stuff-known-as-web-worms covering (and killing) one of our trees, managed to come nose to stinger with a hornets nest.  Actually, she came butt to stinger ... twice.

Poor baby. She was miserable all night.  Fortunately, she won't have to go to the doctor every day or have it cut open and packed and re-packed every day for two weeks or have one of those "touch-me-again-and-you-die" antibiotic shots.

Nope.  Stingers go away fairly quickly.

But, I feel her pain. Really. I do.

I will attempt to update here a little more often than once a month.  Won't be daily like it was for almost two years, but I will check in more often than I have lately.

Let's see ... other than spider bites and volcanic butt tissue, what else has happened in the past month?

Ummmmm, cuddly little puppy has managed to destroy a few more items around the house, including the top half of a very expensive elephant skin boot (she regurgitated chunks of grey stuff for a couple of days ... it was obviously not digestible!). 

Amazingly, Tom was extremely calm when he found the boot.  Almost a scary calm.  I was sure we were going to be down to one dog, but no, they're both still alive and well.  Maybe he realized that he could still wear the boot since the portion that would show was still perfectly intact.  As long as he doesn't cross his legs and lift the pant leg, nobody will ever know he's only wearing half a boot.

We both just started taking the new wonder drug to quit smoking and if the claims are true, we should, hopefully, be ex-non-smokers in the very near future.  Keep your fingers crossed and I'll keep you updated on the progress.

So, you can see why I haven't written much lately ... my life has consisted of dogs, drugs and butts.

Say what?!