My Boots Were Made for Blogging

Footloose.

2011-11-20T19:00:00.001-06:00

I was in the custom boot shop downtown the other day where every boot is too pricey and every employee too hip and important to wait on you. Out loud, I quoted from Footloose. (The old not the new Footloose cuz some how they left the lovely that is this red boot quote out of the new one.)
"My daddy hates me wearing these boots."
And when she heard me, the employee turned and said, "I love that movie."
But, yet, she never tried to sell me the red boots. And if she'd shown me any love at all, they might be mine.
And that makes me want them even more.

A new day.

2011-11-04T18:10:00.000-05:00

He asked me last night if I noticed anything different. And seemed huffy when I said, "Wha?"
"You haven't noticed I've started turning my socks right side out?"
"Since when?" I asked, explaining I had just done a load of laundry and had to flip all his socks before washing.
"Well, I know I've done it at least once."
And he showed me.
Indeed he had.
That's life-changing right there.
For The Big One.

He also completed a science project from START to FINISH w/ NO help except a little parental brainstorming.

The Short One calls "hopscotch" "hip hop."
Precious.

The Gras Day

2011-10-30T21:21:00.001-05:00

This is what Grandmommy would call Date Perfume.
And this day is what I'd call perfection. Surprises on my porch and calls from people I didn't even know knew it was my birthday.
Advertising works. ;)

GRAS 29

2011-10-29T21:28:00.001-05:00

Surprised at how 90,000 Aggies can go silent with a loss. And then immediately kick up the hospitality with food, drink and good cheer. The occasion of football at Kyle Field always makes me smile.
And TODAY on the eve of my birthday the Ags "honored me" with a flyover of epic proportions. Last year I got Apache helicopters. Pretty cool. This year??? F-16s!! Pretty majestic.
The moon is a beautiful crescent tonight. Perfect and Halloweeny.
My birthday wishes for tomorrow?
Sleep late. Take a nap. Go to bed early.
Abundant sleep is always a pleasant surprise.

GRAS 28.

2011-10-28T22:31:00.001-05:00

My sweet friend Lillian invited me over to see this SURPRISE flower in her yard. It was three years in the making from the cut of some succulent she doesn't know the name of.
We are separated in age by decades and decades of birthdays and I'm always surprised by her current humor and wit, her candor and her warmth.
She is one of my dearest friends.

GRAS 27.

2011-10-27T21:52:00.000-05:00

You surprised that I am AWAKE and actively watching baseball?
ME TOO!!
And I'm spewing things like "line drive" and "base block" and "WHO IN THE HAY gave the unfortunate fashion advice to step away from tight knickers and long socks to these baggy, unattractive things they call pants?"
GO RANGERS!!!
Oh, and I ordered 'em.
I DID NOT pay that!! I had a killer coupon and a little birthday cash.
I'm loving all the folks ALREADY wishing me a happy birthday.
Kiss, kiss love your shoes. (oops ... I mean MY shoes. ;)

GRAS 26.

2011-10-26T21:29:00.000-05:00

Surprised to realize that my father-in-law would've been 84 today. He died 1.5 years ago and seemed 84 then ... but birthdays seem a more festive reminder of life ... than death.
Let's do birthdays instead!
Here's to birthdays!!

We attended the last middle school football game today. Surprised at how much we all enjoyed it. And how HOT it was at 530. Hopefully, that'll change tomorrow.

Surprised today to learn we WILL be able to attend our annual costume party. The Tall One WILL be GORGEOUS. (No surprise.)
Pictures to follow.
Promise.

GRAS 25.

2011-10-25T21:10:00.000-05:00

A superficial and spoiled post.
I saw these on an employee at Nordstrom today.
Her shoes came from J. Crew.
I'm SURPRISED at how badly I WANT THEM!!!
But this IS a "cool boots" blog, afterall.
And, surprisingly, they look a lot like boots when ON.
All snuggy and cute.
NEED!!!

GRAS Day 24.

2011-10-24T21:37:00.000-05:00

Since The Big One is sleeping in my Blogging Room while his grandparents are here, he's been helping me brainstorm "surprises" for the blog while he attempts to NOT doze.
"Tell 'em you're surprised that I don't want to go to school AGAIN TOMORROW," he said.
Dude. Big One. You gotta dig school.
It's like ... your JOB.
And your whole future.
If you hate THIS?? Where does the hate end?
Let's turn this around.
Soon.
I'm surprised my eldest doesn't love school.
It's always loved him.

GRAS Day 23.

2011-10-23T21:34:00.000-05:00

Today my eldest interviewed ME for a language arts assignment about "living thru" thru 9/11. I'm surprised my memories are so vivid.
My couch was blue.
We were watching Sesame Street. Elmo's World. 8:47 am.
Prior to my eldest coming to me in his footed pajamas to watch Sesame Street, I was watching The Today Show.
(I'm surprised I was awake early enough to watch The Today Show.)
Jack Welch was on ... talking about his new book.
Then, The Tall One rushed back in the front door saying a plane had hit the WTC.
"Turn the channel," he said.
We sat glued.
The second plane hit.
I was sure the world was ending.
"OK, Mom ... when all that happened ... where were your loved ones?"
"Sitting right beside me on the blue couch," I said.
Tonight he lays on the fold out sofa (that isn't blue) and watches me type.
(I SEE you watching me type ... Big One. :)
One day, I want you to remember to use details. Be descriptive in your tales. Things like "blue couch" and "Jack Welch," and "Elmo's World," and "footed pajamas"... Remember the details. USE THEM. Tell others your stories. Details make the stories. Details make you credible. Human.
Because I will never forget that blue couch.
Or where we were that day. Together.
NO surprise.

GRAS Days 21 and 22.

2011-10-22T19:53:00.001-05:00

Y'all forgive. First time ever I've missed a Katy Gras post. Days of family reunion prep and participation that have reminded me to walk slower, relax more and worry a whole lot less. I pledge to be sensitive and considerate. And always mindful of beautiful people in my life.

GRAS Day 20.

2011-10-20T21:57:00.000-05:00

Surprised that after lo these many years, I am incapable of viewing ANYTHING w/ meaning thru a telescope. Microscopes, too. And don't get me started w/ stethoscopes. Just the rustling against fabric is all I hear.

I joined the Astronomy Club in high school only because groups of my friends gathered in the cold of darkness to "view stars." There might've been "hand-holding."

I am NOT CAPABLE of picking out constellations. Planets. Anything. I can only differentiate between the Dippers if they are side by side and one is clearly "Big."

Tonight The Short One invited me to a "star party" at his school. At one station we were purportedly gazing at Jupiter. May as well have been a passing 747. Probably was. Or a streetlight.

It might all come down to me being unable to wink. But largely I think it's my inability to comprehend such vast space. No way my eye should be privy to all that.

And no worry.

It's not.

GRAS 19

2011-10-19T23:51:00.001-05:00

Surprise!!
My Eldest is taller than My Mama.
(The fact that they match is happenstance. Mama happened to wear orange to his first choir concert of the year. Lucky!)

GRAS 18.

2011-10-18T23:31:00.000-05:00

A pleasant and fun surprise that my eldest brother-in-law came by for a visit tonight. My boys' bedtimes were all shot to hell, but we enjoyed the laughs and the conversation and the comparison of iPhone apps and software. (Boy, did HE need some schoolin'!)
I am truly blessed in the brother-in-law dept. Without a doubt, these men got all the best that their mama and daddy had to give.

GRAS 17.1.

2011-10-17T22:47:00.003-05:00

I'm surprised.
But, then I'm not.
But then I am.
Middle school can be terribly mean-spirited. On all levels.
Dang it.

GRAS Sweet 16.

2011-10-16T21:58:00.000-05:00

When I became a teenager, I was surprised w/ a light blue phone in my room w/ my very own phone number. I can still remember the number.
TODAY, I put the newest software on my iPhone and it wreaked havoc w/ my music and my applications and took up the bulk of my afternoon.
But, hey ... now I'm in the cloud. The ethereal manager of all my "data." Where my text messages turn light blue.
And I'll gradually learn to put it all to good use. And I'll try very hard not to lament the days when surprises that were light blue and made calls just plugged into the damn wall.

GRAS 15.

2011-10-15T21:44:00.001-05:00

Today our sweet lil' Stinkerpot, our niece who, as a toddler, sat up w/ us late one night and told us the story of The Three Bears and the wolf who was "only dressed up like a wolf" so as not to SCARE us, turned 18 today. EIGHTEEN!! Something tingly comes over me when one of my people is suddenly old enough to vote. Stay informed, baby girl. Stay sweet, stay smart, and stay in touch w/ your Uncle T ... we remember when you were born, and he's fairly crazy about you. ;)

***

When I asked The Tall One what I should be "surprised" about today, he said ... "Tell 'em THE HOUSE IS FINISHED."

It was the renovation that wouldn't end. Bathroom to bathroom to carpet to tile to more tile to counter tops to more tile. I will miss my "werpin' men." And the last one left today w/o even saying "good-bye" ... sigh.

I MUST find a new project.

No surprise to The Tall One.

GRAS 14.

2011-10-14T22:47:00.001-05:00

Surprised that The Tall One said "oh sure, go ahead" when I suggested these vibrant beauties as a replacement for our Christmas tree. Oh come on!! You guys know him better than that!! This is a man who puts research and quality above careless abandon. No way he'd be moved by a pink tree. But I DO love messing with him.
And that's no surprise to him!!

GRAS 13.

2011-10-13T19:40:00.001-05:00

1. I'm surprised at how beautiful the weather was today.
2. I'm surprised at how much dust accumulates in my house between dustings.
3. I'm surprised at how much I love HEB's tempura crab rolls.
4. I'm surprised at the professionalism of skilled craftsmen.
5. And remain shocked at what they charge!
6. I'm surprised that The Short One happily went to practice this evening. We may be over the hump of newness and anxiety.
7. I'm surprised I heard Anita Perry talk on the national news tonight.
8. In all her years as first lady, I'm not sure I've ever heard her speak.
9. I'm surprised that I heard of this artist only this side of two weeks ago. And love him!!
10. I'm surprised at all there is to do in a day.
11. And how some days I do it all.
12. And other days NOT at all.
13. Nothing profound for number #13 on the 13th day except to say I find myself feeling a little sorry for Conrad Murray. Yes, at one time the man took an oath to serve and protect. No he didn't. He took an oath to preserve life and limb. Yes, that's right. The Hippocratic One. But, along the way, he stopped being a doctor to many (tho' I think he maintained his practice) and became servant to one and provided the VERY THING that his employer requested. Render him unconscious for much of his tortured existence. And sadly, I think the King o' Pop would say if asked ... job well done.

GRAS 12x1=12

2011-10-12T21:50:00.001-05:00

I am surprised that after lo these many years my multiplication skills (thanks to endless and memorable quizzing by my Papa) are pristine!! I'm a pretty good "rounder" too. And I challenge ANY fourth-grader to a duel!!
My division isn't awful.
So, look out!!

GRAS 11.

2011-10-11T22:15:00.002-05:00

So, I was all prepared to share my surprise with you about how The Short One, with his little fuzzy melon and expressive eyes, is looking more and more like his Daddy at this age. Little Fella was MINE. MY lookalike. ME sans pigtails, frilly dress and patent leather shoes. The Tall One claims the oldest son and The Big One w/ his hair and his eyes and his everything. The Short One looked like ME. But, decades of photos copied from old family slides onto a teensy memory stick prove The Short One has some Tall genes. (I pretend to be disgruntled ... but really? How could I not love that??)
BUT, to share my surprise, I have to mess w/ the teensy memory stick and the aforementioned DECADES of pictures and well ... no. Not tonight.
What truly surprised me today anyway, was MAMA!!
Mama told me she WISHED there was a Chick Fil A in her town.
This is likely shocking only to me. Because who DOESN'T love the Chick? (Based on lines of cars this evening, not many!)
But, THIS revelation from Mama is ... WOW.
When I was a pre-teen and shopped for back to school clothes with Mama in the only indoor collection of stores near our hometown ... this was was called a MALL?? ... my favorite ... and the only ... place to eat was Chick Fil A. There was but one thing on the menu. The "original" sandwich. And it was served with, of course, the pickle.
Mama hated those sandwiches.
"Do we have to eat at Chick Fil A?" she'd ask.
She explained that sometimes there were mystery chewy objects in the meat. And there WAS that pickle.
She was always a good sport.
We always ate the sandwich.
And the pickle.
It was yearly happy. (Just one of many happy, annual traditions.)
But, to hear Mama "long" for Chick Fil A today?
Took me back to Orange Julius and Pac-Man.
Calvin Klein jeans and Sperry Top-Siders.
The mall.
Those shopping trips.
Like 80s fashion made new (legwarmers are back?) ... I'm surprised ... but I always knew she'd come around.

GRAS Ten.

2011-10-10T16:38:00.000-05:00

Great (not "great" as in WOO HOO, but "great" as in WHA?? As in HUGE.) surprise last night when we climbed to that attic to retrieve the box of fall decor and remembered we got rid of our Christmas tree last year. Funny it would've been to go looking for it 12/1 and say, "It was just here last year!"
I suppose we could've blamed its disappearance on silverfish. Or squirrels. (shudder)
So, between now and then, we have to find a tree.
With a bunch of other festive folk.
Festivus. For the rest of us.
JOY!!

GRAS Day Nine.

2011-10-09T22:49:00.003-05:00

I'm always surprised (yet not really) at the power of correspondence. Written, heart-felt, stamped correspondence. Each time I retrieve a real letter from my mailbox, it may as well be from Mother Teresa. It's that special.
Imagine.
Mother Teresa's own pen.
That special.

(This photo was taken on our summer vacation to Little Rock, Arkansas. Where my boys knew the answer to most any question we asked was "Bill Clinton.")

GRAS Day 8.

2011-10-08T20:51:00.001-05:00

It is always a delight and a beautiful surprise when The Short One wishes to play a word game. With words. All those words. There's a brilliant team of minds behind that skill. No surprise.
His lovely girl cousins are good incentive. Smart boy.

GRAS Day 7.

2011-10-07T17:24:00.002-05:00

Today Bubble Boy (is that really what we're calling him?) ... aka Dear Friend and Computer/Tech Savior ... that's TOTALLY what should be on his business cards ... asked me how GRAS was going. He REALLY asked. And he seemed to really care. Sweet fella, he is.
Not that THAT surprised me. He's always nice like that.
But what HAS surprised me is the interest I share w/ others over the death of Steve Jobs.
People who know me know that my iPhone is a miracle to me. I understand nothing about how it works. It easily and completely frustrates me. (Another thing BB can attest to!)
And its maintenance takes far more time than I wish to give it.
But, something about the brilliance of the man, the loyalty of his flock and the energy of his existence ... well, it's sad it's gone ... at least in human form.
The best headlines I've read about his death ... and the story is rife w/ headline-writing possibilities ... are:
"Apple loses it's core" and "Jobs: The Apple of our i" ...
This tribute reminded me of this blog post at a time of another sad departure.
Partly because they both discuss shoes.
But mostly because both of these guys knew when to "give a shit."

+++

I'm currently listening to this book. Hoo boy! It'll make you thumb your nose at the little things. But, I'm enjoying every syllable.

GRAS Day Six.

2011-10-06T21:10:00.000-05:00

I'm surprised my eldest waited until tonight to begin a week-long science project.
Wait.
No I'm not.
That's all I have time for tonight.

+++

Tonight we gave a couple of bucks to a man on the street.

His name was Sonny and he was trying to get enough gas money to get to Florida for a funeral.

My eldest and I hypothesized that some people might not believe his story.

And we decided we didn't care if his story was true.

The arms on his glasses were repaired w/ tape.

He is a wounded Vietnam veteran. His shirt and his sign told us that. He did too. Said there just wasn't enough money left at the end of the month.

We played happy music in the car after that.

GRAS Day Cinco.

2011-10-05T18:43:00.000-05:00

I'm always surprised when I drive the Jeep with the top down how I can "smell" the world around me. Good smells. The occasional bus and lots of grease traps, but mostly good smells. Happy smells.
Outdoor cooking.
Flowers. Yes even flowers in this blistering drought.
Refried beans. Not Mexican food. Refried beans. Like Taco Bell, but better.
Ice cream.
Refrigeration. Like someone held the door open too long and fresh A/C snuck out.
And sounds.
People sounds.
Voices.
Laughter.
Music.
Pavement.
It's a good thing. A day in the Jeep.
I'm surprised by how much I enjoy it.
Even w/o the beach.
I should say ESPECIALLY w/o the beach.
NOT a beach girl.
Unless it's cloudy and cold and the fireplace is smoking and there is a book and cozy beverage nearby.
But that's not a Jeep story. That's a beach story.
And there's one comin'.

+++

I got to be a good Samaritan today. Poor guy broke down in the hamburger drive-thru. I had the available jumper cables. Lady in front of me had the handy battery access and hood lift.

Me + her + one guy who operated the cables in partnership w/ the burger employee = broke-down fella who could hit the road again with his horrified and embarrassed wife and milkshake in the front seat.

It was a fun feeling.

GRAS Day Four.

2011-10-04T21:29:00.002-05:00

Back on Day One ... time is just flyin'... The Tall One surprised me with a gifty on the plane ... all wrapped up and stuff. New, fancy ear buds that don't HURT my delicate ears. They claim to "never fall out." Which means if I get my cords hung up on the kitchen drawer knobs while listening to an audio book ... well, ouch.
I'm surprised my children are so content while we're away. Because goodness knows as a child I never wanted my parents to leave.
I'm surprised and so relieved.
The dog was extremely happy to see us. The kids? Meh, not so much.
Turk Pipkin was on our return flight home from LAX. That's all the famous I got on the trip. Not a Jolie Pitt to be found!!

GRAS Day Three. Surprise and Delight.

2011-10-03T17:50:00.001-05:00

Surprised at finding a magnificent antique mall tucked alongside souvenir shops. And delighted with the many collections of Pryex. Every color imaginable. Perfectly organized by color. Pyrex colors I'd never seen.
Surprised at the difficulty of finding Steinbeck's Cannery Row ON Cannery Row. And delighted to find it in a tacky five and dime where I stopped to buy water.
Surprised neither boy Big or Short has called me since I've been away. And delighted they sounded completely indifferent when I called them.
It will be no surprise to you that I remain grateful (and terribly indebted) to people who love and care for my children as though they were their own.

Part Deux REdeux

2011-10-03T11:01:00.001-05:00

Seems this reporter should check her facts more carefully. Pebble Beach is in fact one of THE most expensive courses in the world! Green fees, cart rental, club rental and supplies can approach 4 digits per person ... making that rare white stingray belt seem a helluva bargain!!

GRAS Day Deux

2011-10-02T17:32:00.001-05:00

Surprised to find even COOLERboots for sale in Carmel. Designed by natives of Utah. Made by Texans. Of course.
Shop smelled like leather and home.
Surprised to find Northern CA smells like a beautiful combo of fireplace smoke and beach.
Surprised to learn it only costs $75 to play a round of golf at Pebble Beach. If one wants to, you know, play golf.
Not surprisingly, I didn't.
But the shoes sure were cute.
A busy and beautiful Day Two.
Narrow roads and crazy gorgeous views.
And did you KNOW, if one was so inclined, one could score a belt made of rare white stingray??
For the same price as about 20 rounds of Pebble Beach golf.
Boots were WAY cuter.
NOT surprisingly.

Katy-Gras. Day One

2011-10-01T23:10:00.001-05:00

We found these Coolboots gleaming from their store front in sunny (yet blissfully cool) Californ. I. A.
Evidently they're all the rage in Turkey. And they're called Suzanne boots.
Suzanne boots!!
This Gras countdown honors things that surprise me.
Today.
On Texas time in CA, I'm surprised I'm still awake.
But I am.
And blessed.

I hope I pass this test.

2011-09-30T21:35:00.001-05:00

There is a beautiful crescent moon in ATX tonight. And pretty trees at Hula Hut. This is a test to see if I'm smart like my smart friend Suz when it comes to remote blogging.
If I pass my test, you're in for a treat.

(Hey Suz!! It's almost time for bat cookies!!!)

Sent from my iPhone

Katy-Pre-Gras ... How are YOU?

2011-09-30T20:10:00.002-05:00

You may know me well enough to know that newscasts that begin w/ "Today in Africa ..." usually have me scrambling over a cluttered kitchen counter to the remote control to change the channel to ... ANYTHING.
I've not the heart nor the stomach for disease.
Famine.
War and children.
Famine.
Disease.
Or anything w/ crying children.
And mothers.
With their children.
Tonight there was a touching story on ABC about children in Kenya receiving immunizations for pneumonia and how, for pennies a day, we save countless lives w/ our donations to provide shots for a completely preventable illness.
There is one phrase these African children have mastered in English and it's "how are you."
When they see white people approaching their village, their voices ring out in the "how are you" song.
How are YOU??
I'm well.
I have sparkly sky blue toenails.
I ate dessert before lunch today to raise money for women and children in OUR town.
We raised lots of money.
I ate too much dessert.
But I'm feeling fine now.
JUST fine.
Happy birthday month to me.
And happy day to YOU.

Birthdays = Happy

2011-09-29T19:26:00.001-05:00

Yeeeeeooooowww. You guessin' what tomorrow is?
Tomorrow is a mere month until my natal day.
KATY-GRAS!! BEGINS!! TOMORROW!!
(My posts in 2008 counting down the 30 days to my birthday mention fall-like temps. Ahhh, the old days.)
Tomorrow has GOT to be better today.
Tho' I am grateful for my many blessings, days can occasionally suck.
This one did.
But, I chatted w/ My Mama.
She said "Oh, get over yourself."
(Not likely were those her words. You know My Mama better than that.)
And so, because of a little travel, I will catch up w/ you -GRAS revelers a few days into the 30.
Maybe.
I might still be getting over myself.
Meh. Not likely.
Til then ...
GRAS!! GRAS!! GRAS!!

Happy New Year!!

2011-09-01T18:37:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year!! Er ... Happy New (Fiscal) Year!!
Well ... at least I know my state employee friends are nudging one another awake and raising a glass ... er coffee mug ... in celebration.
The state employee in me ... from lo these13 years past ... just won't die. So, to me, Sept 1 will always signify a fresh start. A new budget. New plans. New beginnings.
Time to blog.
Freshly.
CHEERS!!
(Plus, I've gotta get warmed up for the 30 days of Katy-Gras. Coming soon. Since yesterday ... two months til my birthday on Oct. 30. I can't DO 60 days. This is simply a warmup. So, for those still clinging to these "boots" ... thank you for hanging around. I appreciate you.)
A story.
When I was in elementary school, I told My Mama that I'd like to take a boiled egg in my lunch box. I don't know where the idea came from, but as a mom whose child rarely eats his lunch or has ideas for an edible lunch, if I was that child, I'm sure My Mama leapt on the idea.
I'm sure she queried, "You sure?"
And I'm sure I said, "Yeah." I mean, "Yes ma'am."
I think I was beyond Holly Hobbie and toting Strawberry Shortcake, when I opened my metal lunch box the next day in the cafeteria to ... The Egg.
Suddenly, with all my people looking at me and my lunch, The Egg seemed to stick out so much more than my usual peanut butter w/ grape jelly sandwich and Lay's potato chip, carrot stick lunch.
The Egg was just sitting there.
I felt embarrassed.
Faint.
SURELY I must go home to collect myself.
I feigned illness and called My Mama.
Said I wasn't feeling well.
But, what she heard was, "People are looking at me. Like they do that girl who brings tuna fish in wax paper instead of PB and J in Ziploc."
She came for me.
Thru the back door of the cafeteria. To my spot at the table. She helped me collect my lunch and The Egg and walked me toward the car.
"So, what hurts?" she asked.
"Everything," I said.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"You think it's that egg I put in your lunch box?"
HOW DID SHE KNOW??
HOW did my intuitive mother KNOW The Egg was the cause of my ills?
Fast forward 35+ years to this week.
The Short One (who is getting So Tall and so diligent and determined. And still so precious.) is, one morning, about to DIE from a tummy ache. DIE, I tell you. It gets worse and worse as the mornings pass. I say "mornings" because, aside from bed time, it never hurts. But, on this particular morning, D.I.E.
The school year is new. So, remembering Mama and The Egg, I asked, "Tell me ... honey ... what's happening on the playground? The lunch room?"
"The boys have too many football arguments on the playground. There's nothing to do. I sit there. In the shade. I hate recess."
I told him to hang out w/ the girls. His stomach is cured. And the girls are great.
Today. The Big One (who is a 7th grader and so smart and so kind) has a sore throat. That is about to KILL him. K.I.L.L.
"I just can't go. Can't go to school. Can't talk," he said. While talking.
I encouraged him to get thru third period. Turn in all his homework. Miraculously, he made it thru lunch. Lunch? And then he called me.
"I just can't stay. Hurts. Bothers me."
I asked him about the lunch room. About the hallways. His friends.
They announced the football team roster today. He didn't want to play football. He's a basketball player. A swimmer. Didn't try out for football. But still.
They announced the football team roster today.
That changes everything.
His friends.
Which friends he has in which classes. In lunch.
The jerseys they wear to school on Fridays.
Everything.
Thank you, Mama. For the ability to see it's not about the lunch box.
It's all about The Egg.

Leeks.

2011-03-01T18:47:00.001-06:00

Talk about an overrated vegetable! There's a whole lotta party going on w/ all that greenery, but since it's the consistency of bamboo, there's very little leek to use. Potato leek soup is for dinner. I will love it. Everyone else will be eating cereal for a snack before bedtime because they'll eat two bites of the potatoes and the leeks.

Mostly I want you to see this.

It's been so long since I've blogged that I'm going to have to refresh my "embed video" skills.

Gwyneth Paltrow was the best-dressed at the Oscars.
Colin Firth is dreamy.
I'm easing back into this mycoolboots thing slowly. And a little bit all over the place.

Health food.

2011-02-28T17:39:00.000-06:00

Sweet Sarah, my friend who just had a baby girl merely hours ago ... well 36+ ... but STILL ... hours (!), always encourages me to blog. And she says I don't have to be creative or thoughtful. Just write. She tells me to write about what we're having for dinner.
We're having chicken strips from a frozen bag.
Macaroni and cheese from a box.
Mashed potatoes from the dirt. (Really! Straight from produce.)
And milk. Not from the cow. Well FROM the cow but not STRAIGHT from the cow.
It's The Big One's favorite meal.
And he's the one going up against a bunch of other sweaty middle school boys for a spot in athletics next year.
"Mom, they said we could wear cleats on Day Two of tryouts."
"Sweetie, you don't have any cleats."
He does now.

My new decade.

2010-11-01T22:22:00.000-05:00

November 1. A new month. A new decade, week, month as a 40+ year old.
Having the FIRST fall on a MONDAY just seems so ORDERLY.
I don't need to write anything about Halloween yesterday except to tell you we hauled a donated couch from our garage to our driveway for a "living room" effect.
We had a fireplace.
A sofa table.
And chili.
And neighbors.
A lovely night "in yet out."
Today I finally got that 'roid" shot that is purportedly for my nose.
But, because I've also pulled a ligament in my tummy AND am suffering from sore knees, a MEAN sore injection site and a crampy stomach from what I'm sure is NOT all the Reese's cups I ate last night, I'm hoping the "juice" has a magic elixir effect and just cures all my 41 year old ills. Because my nose is no worse for the wear, but my core is the PITS.
The lovely lunch I had today w/ lady friends went a LONG way to fixing my hurts. I knew before we were seated, I wanted something w/ "gravy." It was quite possibly the BEST meal to come from a restaurant kitchen and NOT just because it wasn't dusted w/ cilantro in a restaurant that does LOVE its cilantro. And they'll "chicken fry" anything. Says so right there on the menu. Our waiter was John. He was precious.
Mama and Axe come tomorrow and that'll help.
They'll bring presents and I'll be good as new.

Day 30. Complete.

2010-10-30T20:43:00.000-05:00

I'm a completer.
If I begin a collection, I must finish it.
To a degree.
I don't collect to the point of hoarding.
Yet.
And I AM able to decide when I've had enough.
My children have an entire collection of superhero action figures and Batmobile (complete w/ safety recall bat fins) with which they NEVER play. After hard-to-come-by Robin and The Guy Who Freezes Water, I stopped ordering BECAUSE THEY NEVER PLAY W/ THE STUFF!)
Today is the 30th day of my birthday collection of what makes me me.
I must post on this 30th day because I started it and I WILL finish it.
Finishing something makes me me.
Completing a task.
Thing is, tho', I'm not actually DONE.
I still need to do the "ask" post.
The one about The Big One.
The one about flannel sheets.
So, stick around.
I may be 41.
But, I'm fueling for 42 and have more things to share.
To complete.
I won't be as preachy.
As wordy.
I promise.
(Mama, you still there?)
It's been a blessed 30 days.
A blessed birthday.
A great release that these 30 days are done.
That I finished it w/ a last minute date w/ The Tall One thanks to a laser tag birthday party and generous neighbors. Z Tejas. Pulled pork nachos. DANG!!
It's almost a new month and that's always exciting.
I shall do all I can to make it all about ME.

Day 29. Eve.

2010-10-29T16:19:00.000-05:00

Every parent has nicknames, pet names, goofy names, for their child. I was no exception.
I was KatyBug.
Sis.
Variations on my whole name.
My middle name.
A whole host of names.
My children have the same circumstance.
For reasons even I can't remember, there was a time when we called The Big One "Ski Boat."
The Short One answers to Slobodan Milosevic. (Isn't that TERRIBLE?!?)
If I give you a nickname, I appreciate and respect you.
If I give you a nickname that makes no sense, we've evolved in our friendship to a point of comfort, ease and familial respect.
If I give you a nickname you don't like, hang in there, it'll change by next week.
And if you give ME one?? I'll hug your neck.
Tomorrow, I'm "Birthday Girl!"

Day 28. Plan B.

2010-10-28T21:54:00.000-05:00

It must be all those years of Mama and the Papas saying "if you're going to do something do it right the first time." Or at least "do your best the first time." Or "go first and get it over with." Or "if you're going to do a job, do it well." And other somesuch ...
This has made me NOT a Plan B kinda gal. I'm a Plan A gal. I want it to work well and right and be done. I don't like to plan for contingencies. I do. But I don't like it.

Voting! Voting held such mystery and responsibility when I was a child and accompanied my parents to the voting booth. I couldn't understand, why, as I got older, I couldn't go INTO the curtained booth w/ my parents. Maybe that's why I have such a strong desire to go today. I want to be a part of "what it's all about" behind the curtain. Because I'm not crazy about Plan B.

Tomorrow is birthday eve.

And I have IN MY POSSESSION a recipe for bat cookies.

And I realize there is no way to tell you in thirty days all the things that make me me. And that was Plan A.

Oops.

Day 27. Entitlement.

2010-10-27T21:31:00.001-05:00

I suppose I understand where this guy was going with this thought, but I don't understand why.
(And let me say there was a time in the recent past, where I would NEVER have put such an inflammatory topic on this blog. I guess turning 41 makes one fearless.)
The bumper sticker said ... "You are not entitled to what I earn."
I suppose I know what he's trying to say. I KNOW, yet I don't UNDERSTAND. And I most certainly don't AGREE.
And I am not open to debate on the issue because, 1. I don't debate well. 2. I cry when faced w/ debate or conflict. 3. You'll probably convince me to change my mind and I don't want to change my mind. 4. It's my birthday.
I will say only this ...
If he was to turn the corner in his beat-up Chevy truck and his rear axle fall the heck off the truck ... would he be "entitled" to my sympathy? Would he be "entitled" to use my phone to call for service during rush hour? Would he be "entitled" to any support at all from this stranger?

"Entitle" simply means "to give."
And how can we not?

Day 26. Scary stuff.

2010-10-26T21:52:00.000-05:00

"Know what today is?"
"Nope," The Short One replied.
"It's Grandpa's birthday."
"But Grandpa's not alive."
"But we can still celebrate his life on the day he was born."
"You think he's having a party in heaven?"
"Oh, I do. What do YOU think Grandpa is doing on his birthday?"
"One of those craaaazy dances he always did."
"Son, that's a polka and I'm not sure he'd appreciate the 'crazy' when you're referring to his dancing even tho' we all know it and agree."

Talking about death and even laughing about death makes death so much more bearable.
I've got three death scenarios happening around me now. No one close. Two part of my history. One sorta part of my present. One has told his family to scatter his ashes in his backyard, drive by and wave once in awhile and tip up a beer in his honor. Some might be offended by this cavalier brand of wish. I'm enchanted. There are some fuuuuuunny things one can do w/ ones ashes. Trust me. Mama and I have discussed them all.
Death doesn't have to be something we whisper.
Another thing that doesn't have to be scary?
Halloween.
I've been schoolin' the boys in that for a long time now.
We've got our mums.
We need to go get our pumpkins!!

Day 25. Muscle.

2010-10-25T21:28:00.002-05:00

You know how "they" say that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile?
"They" might also suggest that it takes more muscles to walk slow than fast.
OK, "they" didn't say that, but that's what I've learned by slowing down.
I'm a fast walker by nature.
I can cover some serious ground whether I'm house-cleaning, grocery-shopping, mall-hopping.
Or just walking.
The dog hates my speed.
And I don't just walk fast, but I train to go faster.
5Ks, 10Ks, 1/2 marathons, etc ...
All my training plans are tailored to increase speed. Increase pace. Score new personal bests. God (and my training partner) knows I DON'T always do that.
I'm not competitive by nature, but why not challenge oneself. Reach higher. Jump farther. And all that. That they say.
No matter what they say, takes guts to slow down.
Slow down so she can get a decent sniff or potty break along the route.
So children can set the pace.
So aging parents can amble comfortably and not self-consciously.
So there's time to smile and converse.
So others can catch up.
So we can complete this journey together.
As others have waited for ME, I've found it takes a better trained person to walk slowly.
And I suppose the same could be said for doing just about anything more slowly. More thoughtfully.
Taking into account a person's (or a Beagle's) fatigue, youth, inexperience, struggle, age or strength.
The trade-off is shared time, shared conversation, shared smiles, shared experience ... laughter, success and the like.
Or so they say.

(I'm 40+ in FIVE DAYS! I'm back to regular blogging habits ... like what I'm cooking for dinner. And how much dog hair I've cleaned out of the dryer lint filter. And how The Short One tried to use a compact mirror today to study a bloody scratch juuuust under his chin and all but stood on his head to get a view of it. That was some funny "The Short One" aerobics. Or how The Big One wants to sell at least 15 items in a school fundraiser so he can score two rubber ducks attached to a lanyard to wear around his neck. And he won't wear a WATCH to school? Because it's "embarrassing!")

Day 24. Ask.

2010-10-24T21:03:00.001-05:00

This isn't THE "ask" post, but AN "ask" post. And after this Livestrong weekend of early-mornings, I'm too tired to remind you of the upcoming "ask" post. So, here we go with a short one of the importance of ASKING and ENGAGING and what one might miss w/o ASKING ...
Today at the last pit stop on our bike course, the speakers were playing show tunes very loudly and this is how it started.
"I think this song is Breakfast at Tiffany's," she said.
"Uh, no it's not," I thought silently. "It's Moon River."
"It's Moon River," he said. "Helps to be 55 to know that one."
"HEY!! I knew it," I said.
"Well, then SPEAK UP!"
We followed each other to a table and chairs for four.
The four of us sat in silence for a long time munching on trail mix and drinking Gatorade.
The younger of the men excused himself to the bathrooms and I asked Mr. Moon River if he was a local.
"Nope. I'm from New Jersey."
"WELL!" I said. "You had a long ride to get here."
We laughed about it being all down hill and the road back home being hell.
"My son works here for Livestrong."
"Oooh, you been to some good parties this weekend? Seen famous people?" I asked.
"Well, no. Not because my son works for Livestrong but I did raise enough money to get to wear this white jersey."
He continued. "We actually raised this money in Philly. But, I wasn't able to ride. All 25 team members rode for me. For Uncle John."
"You must be a survivor."
"Yes, I am. Just had a bone marrow transplant in June."
"IN JUNE??? This is only OCTOBER!"
"Well, I'm only riding 20 miles."
"Well, so am I!"
We laughed a lot.
I continued. "So, you've got all those new cells bubbling around in ya ... you're like a new person ... all reborn, no?"
"Yep. I'm a 24 year old in a 55 year old body."
"You're tellin' me that your SON was your donor?"
"Yes indeed. And we were the FIRST father and son transplant duo at the clinic in Philly."
"Well, you're brave. I think I'da preferred to have been THE SECOND duo. You know ... make sure the first one worked. But, LOOK AT YOU! It did!!"
I turned to the son when he returned. "You work for Livestrong? Doing what?"
"Marketing. Design. Collateral." (Because of my smart friend sarah boom I KNOW what collateral means. And I resisted the urge to tell him how I'd cussed the Livestrong collateral during the days leading to the race cuz I couldn't make heads or tails of the route maps.)
"Where'd you go to college?"
"Brown."
Well, how do you respond to that?
Smart boy. Marrow donor. Geez. What have I done lately?
I wished them well and tossed my uneaten trail mix to the can. I told John I wanted him to STAY WELL, so I would keep my distance for the remainder of the ride to avoid any falls or mishaps in his path.
"Good luck to all those cells!" I called.
They crossed the finish line right after we did.

They were invited on stage to tell their story. They told it just like they told me.
Except in their quiet, modest way, they left out some stuff.
"Uncle John" is a THREE time survivor of cancer.
Son Patrick is a survivor himself. Melanoma.
I wish them well on their journey.
And hope the trip home is safe and all downhill.
Oh, and I saw Patrick Dempsey in bike shorts.

Holy cow.
What a damn day.
If you were wondering.
Glad you asked.

(Deborah Cannon from the Austin American Statesman took those photos, but I really WAS that close.)

Day 23. Coffee.

2010-10-23T21:33:00.000-05:00

I didn't learn to drink coffee until I was a college graduate and full-time employee.
I didn't pull all-niters w/ a pot of coffee on my university desk.
Didn't own a coffee pot in college. Used a HOT POT, but no coffee pot.
Didn't ever "pull an all-niter" because I'm not capable of holding my eyes open past a certain respectable hour. Which made fraternity parties complete and utter torture.
I learned to drink coffee when The Tall One invited me to the breakroom in our shared office building.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Nah, water is fine."
"WATER??"
"Well, they don't stock real Dr. Pepper. Only diet. And that's gross."
Over his black coffee and my water, I think he asked me what "sports" I liked to play.
I choked on my water and muttered something about "ride [ing] my bike once in awhile" (never). Hauling my laundry to the laundromat should've COUNTED as a sport.
I later learned that if I wanted to impress The Tall One, I should've said volleyball and water-skiing. My lack of skill in BOTH of those events had been known to reduce me to tears in my teenage years.
So, I stuck w/ the bike story.
But graduated to coffee on our next "date."
It took a few days for me to acquire the taste. And another few to overcome the fear that I would scald the roof of my mouth.
Coffee became one of my most adored and soothing drinks.
I don't make it well, but The Tall One does.
There is the occasion when he forgets to pour the water INTO the reservoir of the machine and we wake to piping hot water the next morning.
But, most days the brew is perfection.
Coffee was our common ground(s) ... bwah ha ha ... the wit ... in those early days when we had little in common but a shared office and well, sports. (More wit. And sarcasm.)
And coffee shared together, not in a commuter mug or to-go cup, takes me back.
Sometimes the smell is just right.
Early mornings. Fresh brew.
Common ground.

Day 22. A toast.

2010-10-22T22:11:00.000-05:00

Here's to all who've had cancer.
Fought cancer.
Lost to cancer.
Beaten cancer.
I am humbled and strengthened by your fight.
The fear in your struggle and the courage in your fight has improved me.
I will continue to ride and walk and run and eat and sleep in your honor.
And rejoice in the finish.

Day 21. Gifts.

2010-10-21T22:05:00.001-05:00

I'll confess that I'm the first person to request a gift. Party invites that state, "No Gifts Please?" That's rubbish.
I give what I like to receive. Take that as a hint.
I give candles and and socks and baked goods and soaps and if I had the recipe for chocolate Halloween bat cookies a la Suz, I'd give those too.
But, The Tall One and I agreed long ago ... uh, 15 years ago to this day ... "No Gifts Please" on our anniversary.
We just did.
He gives me one of his beautiful cards.
I try to find a card on the rack that doesn't make me giggle w/ its lovey language. Who really talks like that?
But, this year, we both disobeyed our "No Gifts Please" decree.
I got a box of Ding Dongs.
HE got a box of unfrosted blueberry Pop Tarts.
Don't snicker! Those are RARE. Just YOU TRY to find yummy breakfast junk w/o frosting or sprinkles!
We decided those are the modern gifts to celebrate 15 years.
Ages ago husbands and wives might've gifted Baccarat crystal on one another. Or watches. Or clocks.
We prefer our processed foods.
They'll have to do.
After all, cheese swans don't come along every day.
Just once every 15 years.

Day 20. Dates.

2010-10-20T22:07:00.000-05:00

We struggle to remember whether we were married on the 20 or the 21 of this month.
So here's to a helluva wedding.
A helluva friendship.
And a helluva 15 years.
A day early.
(I think.)
Changed my life indeed.

Day 19. Names.

2010-10-19T21:43:00.000-05:00

My maiden name was four simple letters but I always had to SPELL my name and PRONOUNCE my name.
My dad joked, "Tell people your name is German."
He didn't mean it.
That would've been something HIS dad would've been told ... I s'pose during the war.
The name was shortened from a longer Polish name ... I s'pose around that time.
Dad was too proud of the name to ever really MEAN to convince someone the name wasn't Polish.
My married name is Czech. I always have to SPELL my name and PRONOUNCE my name.
People always ask, "Is that Czech?"
They don't always TRY to pronounce it.
Sometimes they snicker and roll their eyes like "I'm not even gonna TRY to pronounce that!"
And that makes me wanna deck 'em.
I'm immensely proud and grateful for the men who gave me these two difficult names.
They've made me smarter.

Day 18. Surprises.

2010-10-18T21:36:00.001-05:00

I won't be so shallow as to say that having a DVR has MADE me who I am in this life, but since I've already admitted that I'm ruled by People Magazine, I may as well admit that it's made my life a helluva lot easier. And my TV watching more diverse. I can now not only tune into network series that I've followed for years, but can now stay up w/ TLC gems like Sister Wives and Hoarders, over on Discovery. IF I feel like it. I wouldn't have committed to them in the VCR days, but now they're always a delete key away from a clean TV-watching slate.

+++

Today The Big One brushed his teeth arbitrarily in the middle of the afternoon. I didn't request this action OR ask why.
He also forgot until bed time that his science fair topic w/ topic summary was due in the morning.
He also forgot which subheads he was required to put on his world cultures project.
He also forgot to give me his gym clothes to wash. AGAIN.
He FINALLY showed me exactly how he likes his hair. RIGHT at this moment. "Look NOW! Quick! I won't move." This will make our mornings so much easier.
And he's a big cousin again.

For now, in my house, we're gonna call this baby boy Snowball.
Of the sweet, pink, confectionery-smelling variety.
Even tho' he's blue thru and thru.
Sweet baby boy.

Day 17. Relations.

2010-10-17T21:22:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten until this morning over coffee and kolaches why I became a journalist.
Even tho, all along, I KNEW I didn't want to be a journalist.
My friend Courtney went off to college to be a journalist. And I thought much of what she did leading up to that pretty hot stuff. And it was. She's smart and all that. But, she wanted to be on TV and I KNEW I didn't want to be a journalist on TV!
And I didn't decide to become a journalist ONLY because there was only one math class required of me. I discovered that much later and it was a happy bonus.
No, it was because ... well, I'll take you back.
Buncha years ago we met a sweet employee at St. Luke's hospital whose name was Lesey and she worked in "patient relations." And it was her job to care for families of patients while St. Luke's cared for their patient.
As I neared the year in high school when I filled out college applications and started considering what I wanted to be when I grew up, I kept thinking of Lesey and her clipboard and how "friendly" her job seemed and how perfect it seemed for me.
Not doing much more research into the career than having observed Lesey for a few days, I jumped with my pencil onto the first bubble on the application that listed a "relation," w/ it being "public relations." Made sense to me. She worked w/ a "public," and I distinctly remembered "relations" being on the plaque on her door. So, I bubbled in the circle next to PR (which happened to be in the school of journalism at the time), bought the text book and signed up.
I KNEW I didn't want to be a journalist. But ...
PUBLIC RELATIONS WAS HARD!
There was all that reading and theory and research and data and things.
But, when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I still responded "public relations in a hospital."
I KNEW I didn't want to be a journalist.
I squeaked by w/ a "low B" in my general PR class ... and hated every minute of it. The professor wore a SUIT. Stuffy and confined.
Confident that the advertising route would be easier, I changed paths and regretted it as soon as my Advertising 101 professor walked in the door. Unkempt and short, hardly funny but immensely proud of himself, he turned me off of advertising within the hour. I suffered thru w/ a C.
I KNEW I didn't want to be a journalist.
My advisor suggested I stick w/ the traditional "news/editorial" track. "Oh, I don't want to be a journalist," I replied. "I don't want to ask someone how they felt when the twister blew thru their living room."
And I wanted to be like Lesey.
The minute Gary Rice walk into my News and Editorial classroom in pointy boots and blue jeans and spun tails of his days on the night news desk and the police beat, I was sold. It wasn't just about asking questions, but it was knowing who to ask and how to record their answers.
It was about connecting w/ sources who HAVE the answers, not just the obvious resources.
It was about maintaining relations and working your way past the gatekeepers to the records and the files and the source.
I never worked in TRUE journalism. I worked at a paper for a time and I wrote stories and built special sections, but I never really had a "beat." I fell in love w/ the press ... the mechanical one and the spirit of the collective one. For years, I worked alongside beat reporters as a source for their stories ... in state gov't and the private sector. I respected their deadlines and quest for the "real facts."
What I have discovered many years later as I go about a different mission ... that of relating to the homeless and telling the stories of struggling sectors of society, is that Lesey was a social worker. I see them hard at work in my current "vocation" of volunteer to homeless mothers and children. Just as the social workers ease the discomfort of a family at any given time, and help them rejoice in their successes as they build a home, Lesey's job was to keep her families comfortable w/in the walls of the hospital ... to tend to their needs as they returned home.
Misinterpretation of Lesey's job title, led me on a journey that has brought me full circle onto a path very similar to hers. Thru public relations to advertising to REAL JOURNALISM ... to advocate for those for whom advocating is equal parts necessary and rewarding. As a trained journalist, I can tell their story thru the written word. As a communicator, I can speak of their talents and needs. As an advocate I can cheer their success.
I'll never understand the extent of individual struggle. Or the fatigue of the fight. Or the courage to get to the celebration on the completion of the journey.
That wasn't Lesey's job.
And it's not mine.
It's our job to make theirs easier.

Day 16. Boys.

2010-10-16T07:00:00.002-05:00

Their lives change forever again on Monday when a baby boy is born. ('Course it could happen before that, but the PLANNER in all of us is pulling for Monday. Because that's when it's PLANNED, people!!) Here's to babies who smell like vanilla cookies, parents who love their babies, parents who love each other, the Dallas Cowboys, "little" big sisters who cook a mean plastic hamburger, crazy and silly movie quotes, good books, and turkey gumbo. All those things make your house and home and a happy, happy place for all of us.
Here's to Baby Boy MWK!!
The boy who still needs a nickname.
There's time.
He'll grow into one.
Let's hope it's not Booger.

Day 15. Chances.

2010-10-15T08:03:00.004-05:00

When my parents left me at college for the first time that hot Sunday afternoon in August, Mama said to me, "We can do this [college thang] one time. Get it right the first time."
She had a bit more love in her voice than these words look on the page, but that's what I heard. And that's what I did. Not perfectly. But, I was scared to death not to. Not because of Mama, (Well, maybe a little cuz of Mama. ;), but because of the idea of wasted time and wasted dollars.
We'll be making a trip to Aggieland for a football game, and with that visit comes memories of my college days and time well-spent.
JUST this morning I was explaining to The Big One how I learned to study. How it wasn't in middle school. Or high school. Or even my first two years in college. It was wedged between a history class and a geography class during my junior year on a day when the bus wasn't running to take me to my dorm for my customary nap. I was forced into the student center for a Dr. Pepper and a chocolate chip muffin and, with nothing better to do, I opened my assigned English lit novel. And I did "homework" outside of the "home." May sound crazy that I'd never thought of it before, but that was the birth of the "multi-task" for me. Even tho the tasks were only to consume muffin, drink Dr. Pepper, read book ... I was doing it OUTSIDE of the place where I usually did homework (my dorm room) and I was reading a text that was NOT for the class coming up or the one I'd left behind. I was working "ahead." Mama always suggested that, I think, but this time it was MY idea.
I remember that precise moment often when I work ahead on a volunteer project. Or make phone calls while waiting in the school pick-up line. I up-ended my usual sense of order just a bit by taking tasks OUT of order, and with it came a sense of completion and and success.
Studying for tests became more efficient and successful when I wasn't forcing sleepy eyes to a page while lounging on my bed.
Taking on projects in bits and pieces produced a more complete final product.
The Big One may not get this for awhile.
The Short One may be incapable.
I don't always do this well.
Sometimes there are too many bits of "task" in my "multi."
Sometimes it gets messy.
And that's usually where a Dr. Pepper comes to the rescue.
Gig 'em. ;)

Day 14. Princess

2010-10-14T21:25:00.003-05:00

Well, hell. Anybody got a spare princess bed on 'em? Today was such a good day until it wasn't. A fast-efficient meeting first thing. No traffic. Good talk. Swift decision-making.
Yummy Chinese leftovers for lunch and the best book that I don't want to finish. "Saving CeeCee Honeycutt." It's "The Help," only shorter and sweeter, if that's even possible.
I love books that describe food and clothes. This one does both deliciously.

###

I'm not much of a garage sale kinda gal because I want things OUT of my house. I'm a purger and a sorter and a cleaner, so I'm not much for acquiring more things that others are casting off. BUT, if I can put someone else's castoffs to work for someone else, FANtastic. And even better, if I can put those things to work for someone else by helping ANOTHER someone clean out ... HOORAY. In fact, it's almost MORE the act of helping someone clear a space that does my heart greater good. And if it goes on to make a home for someone in need ... then we are ROCKIN' along.

I have all the makings of a princess bed in my garage, except for the bed. Oh, I HAD the bed. Packed and tied neatly into the back of my truck alongside mattresses and box springs and dressers and mirrors and decor and pillows. I am a MASTER packer. But, something happened between there and here and the princess bed ... in all its pink glory ... set sail. And splat. There was nothing to recover. Blessedly, no one and nothing was injured ... not even close. And I'm deeply grateful for that, DEEPLY, and I WON'T stop loading and hauling.

Even tho' the death of the princess bed has felt like such a death all afternoon. This thing that belonged to some one's child and was given in such trust and generosity ... splat. Ruined my whole afternoon.

Because this homemaking with princess beds from one person and lamps from another and lamp shades from yet another, it's one of the best things I do. Making order for someone else so that they can make order for themselves.

And now we have to do it w/o a princess bed.

And that makes me want to cry.

Day 13. Lucky number.

2010-10-13T20:58:00.007-05:00

One of our favorite comedians does a bit about shopping for gifts for relatives and how you can really just pick out ANYTHING, throw the receipt in the gift bag and say, "Here ... go getcha somethin' nice."
And The Tall One does that!
One year, I asked for "lounge/sweat pants." He gifted me w/ a pair of white low-slung exercise-looking pants w/ "Hottie" embroidered on the butt.
Slippers, please. "A practical pair I can wear outdoors."
The shoe box I unwrapped contained red fuzzy slippers w/ rhinestones and tinsel sewn on the top.
The comedian ends the bit w/, "Don't give me a gift I have to return! Don't give me an ERRAND."
I feel the same, but sometimes The Tall One's attempts to find what he thinks I would like prove futile, and he at least wants me to know he TRIED. And he DOES try. Sweet thing.
When he hits the mark, he REALLY hits the mark.
And he's the best greeting card picker in the WORLD. Better even than ME.
So, on the first morning of Katy-Gras, I found a pink birthday sack next to the coffee pot. He smiled thru gritted teeth and a head-shake that I took to mean, "Don't open that sack in front of the kids."
This year, I asked for running clothes ... just "cheap" ones.
What was in that sack was NOT running clothes. Tho' it WAS cheap. It was not INEXPENSIVE, so I was able to trade in those ...um ... trashy underpants ... for running shorts.
I didn't know Under Armour made anything w/ that little fabric. How did the logo even fit? The PRICE TAG was bigger than those pants. Gives me a headache just thinking about it. And the headache I would get from WEARING said trashy underpants ... I can't go there.
In the next few days came a new ice cream scoop. It's cute. And pink. And I think Bill Murray did something in a movie once combining trashy underpants and an ice cream scoop. Great!
Today another PERFECT birthday card held an iTunes gift card. And I squealed just a little that it wasn't trashy or practical. It WAS pink.
iTunes is a musical repository for all the stages of my life ... music that saw me thru heart throbs and hair bands. School dances and first dates. Crushes and heartbreak. Girlfriends and "The Drag." High school, college and beyond. Eight track, cassette, 45s, albums and the radio. I used to record the radio. Waiting and waiting for the 9 at 9 to near #1 so I could catch Journey's "Open Arms" one ... more ... time. I wasn't always able to hold my eyes open for the #1.
Friday Night Videos ... before MTV ... and slumber parties and Billy Idol and ... sigh ... DURAN DURAN!!
The Outfield. Rick Springfield .... "Jessie's Girl."
I remember where I was when I first heard Bryan Adams sing "Cuts Like a Knife." And I will forever refer to that song as "Kawasaki Nights" because David Lancaster did that and we thought it was the funniest thing ever.
SO, when I know I have a "bank" of iTunes cash to relive and replay those days of my life I make a happy face.
Rick Springfield, "Footloose" and the Bee Gees are first atop my play list for running tunes.
And, for what it's worth, my girls in ACK really dug my song list.
As did the tween boys on a fifth grade field trip.
I aim to please.
Always.

Day 12. Are we really gonna go there?

2010-10-12T18:08:00.010-05:00

I gotta say, I'm sharing Katy-Gras, these 30 days leading to MY birthday, w/ a lotta birthdays, births, pregnancies and anniversaries! Every time I turn around someone is posting, "Hey it's my birthday," or "1,000 weeks pregnant and counting!" or "It's a GIRL!" or "15 years ago I married the man of my dreams and now he won't take out the trash," or "Fifty is the new forty," or some such.
Happy, happy days to ALL Y'ALL!! (That's a joke that Uncle Van will get. The Uncle who appreciates trite, overworked, and overworked-to-the-point-of-incorrect phrases.)
I'm proud to share my month.
Here's Item #12 on my list of things that makes ME ... ME ...

###

I'm thinking I was around 12, my dad had picked me up from dancing lessons and we were parked in the driveway of the house in his blue work van. For some reason, and it can be scary when one is 12 and with one's DAD, we were talking about boys. And religion. I don't know why or how it came up. And I made what I thought was an innocent remark: "Whenever I get married, I'll just change religions. "
He didn't respond in awkward silence, but rather with, "WHAT??!? Er, I mean, WHY do you say that?"
"Well, I doubt he'll be Catholic anyway, so I'll just change."
"Why will YOU change?"
"Don't I have to?"
"Uh, NO, you don't. I'm just curious why you think YOU have to change your beliefs?"
I KNOW I was still growing INTO what I believed. I KNOW I did BELIEVE certain things. And I KNOW I didn't know HOW to answer that question.
To back up a bit, growing up, none of my closest friends were Catholic. Few of my school friends were Catholic. But, ALL my friends, it seemed, shared similar beliefs as my family. Church and religion were NOT something any of us dwelled on, or shouted out loud, it was just something we did.
I grew up and received sacraments in the Catholic Church.
I learned about quiz-show-like Bible Bowl from a friend at the Baptist Church in town.
I learned about basement youth dances from the same friend who was Methodist for awhile.
I learned about VBS and "lock-ins" from friends at the "bigger" Baptist Church in town.
I learned about group ski trips from the same friends.
I learned about singing in a Christmas cantata from that friend who was Baptist and then Methodist and then Baptist again.
I learned about worship sans music from my friends in the Church of Christ.
I learned about Bible study from my friends in the Presbyterian Church.
(I yearn to learn, if only from books and blogs, more about the Jewish and Mormon faiths. And I wish SOMEONE would invite me to a Bar Mitzvah. Bar or Bat, matters not.)
So, to "change my beliefs" didn't seem like I was changing my beliefs at all when I was 12. I had a comfortable place in each of those Churches and I was never made to feel forced, slighted or uncomfortable. I never had to "share," or "profess," or "evangelize" in any way. My friends were there. Their families were there. Like school and dancing lessons, it's just how it was.
To my dad, who was 12 yrs old and then a teenager at a very different time under very different circumstances, his community WAS Catholic. He wanted to be sure I knew that was HIM and it was ME and it was something I didn't HAVE to change if I didn't want to.
Not quite knowing how to wrap the conversation up, I think I probably muttered, "OK, I won't," or the oft-used, "I know."
Conversation over.
Dinner served.
Time goes on.
So, THIS MORNING, I'm in and around our church doing completely non-religious (I guess that would be secular) things. Meetings. Donations collections. Greeting. Arranging. Coordinating. Not a prayer was said nor a blessing offered. And, tho' I didn't realize it some 29 years ago, I was home. Those things that surround me in my church are ME. I never had to choose. I never had to choose for my children. When our family was born almost 15 years ago TO THIS DAY, we shared a faith, we shared a commitment, we sealed it w/ a sacrament. And in the words of my now-teenage niece many years ago, "Amen. Let's GO!"
No big folly or fa la la. It just is.
I was never GIVEN a choice. I never felt I had to MAKE a choice. It was what we did. It is what I do. I don't need to discuss it. Preach it. Pray it. Or say it.
It's home.
It's quiet.
And it's me.
How's THAT to follow the Fartlek?
I "went there" w/ religion, didn't I?
Sure 'nuf.
Whew.

Day 11. Fartlek

2010-10-11T20:39:00.007-05:00

I learned a new word today.
Fartlek.
I hate what that word sounds like.
But it doesn't MEAN what it sounds like.
I've heard the word before in training circles.
And I've always just nodded my head and rocked along and promised to look it up.
But, since I was being asked to PERFORM one today, I made sure to clarify.
It's a BURST of speed for an allotted time. And then a recovery for the same amount of time.
Got that?
BURST. recovery
We did a 10 minute fartlek in running group this gorgeous morning.
So we BURST five times for a minute each. And recovered five times.
I "fartlekk-ed" with the nicest gal from Canada.
Calgary.
She's not used to the Texas fall heat.
She was a damn hot fartlekker today.
All those BURSTS were like my last several days.
Acting and reacting really, really FAST.
And then catching my breath and recovering.
I fartlekked the hell outta last Wed. thru Friday.
Then recovered w/ a book and The Short One over the weekend.
Today was a great day.
Well, I FARTLEKKED for one thing.
Queso for lunch.
A busy afternoon.
A fartlek to middle school to try to recovery the forgotten homework.
Leftover queso for dinner.
A cleansing rainshower.
A fartlek to church for youth group.
Baths.
And fatigue.
No more fartlekking left in me.
So I leave you w/ the greatest fartlek of my life.
The race of a lifetime for someone who has NEVER been an athlete.
Because high-kicking in shoe-polished white Keds doesn't count. Not even as a warm-up.
The race I'll never surpass. Or try to.
I ran a freakin' marathon!
A bunch of fartleks that led to one mad dash ...

Day 10. ACK

2010-10-10T11:41:00.015-05:00

Boy howdy. Last April, I wouldn't have given you two shakes for "girls' trips." Or "ladies' weekends." I journeyed along to "mommy camp" because it was near home, inexpensive and, with the right mix of company, downright lively and meaningful. But, REAL trips. Where significant expense and travel were involved? I wasn't leaving the region w/o The Tall One. If I was going to experience new food, new people, new scenery, he was coming along. Or I was going along. Whatever. Until May. In May, 2010, that changed. ACK changed me.

I was graciously invited along to Nantucket ... as a surprise ... shhh ... to celebrate the milestone birthday of one of my oldest and dearest. Certainly my dearest. I was invited along by HER oldest and dearest. And now SHE is one of my dearest and one of the "cushiest" and experienced travelers you could ever meet. She doesn't book anything "motel-style." She does it "Oprah-style." First class. Instead of an ice bucket, we'd prefer our own kitchen. And we'd like a staff to fetch us working corkscrews, pretty please, and drive us to the wine store and teach us to use the sound system in our luxury residence, and if the staff speaks a foreign language ... delightful.

There are such different experiences to be had with your oldest and dearest. There is such meaningful conversation. And there is the laughing.

We'd like picnics on the beach on sand that is seemingly perfection, please. No stink, no stick, no tar, no seaweed. Sugary stuff that doesn't even blow into our sandwiches.

We'd like meals in 5-star restaurants, empty of tourists but full of locals. Tourist season can hold off another week.

We'd like harbor cruises w/ tycoons.
Jeep rides on seasonally private beaches.
Drinks at sunset on ocean-front property belonging to famous people.
By the end of the week, we'd like the locals to shout out to us in town ... from across the street ... "Hey, it's the ladies from Texas! How're you finding our Island? Had your lobster roll yet?"

We can heft our own luggage into the overhead bin, thank you.
Outfit our own Jeep.
Bust up wedding parties for pictures.
Co-pilot a prop-plane.
Sail a sloop.

We just can't get that fancy corkscrew to work without a little help.

And I couldn't do it w/o the means of my family. The Tall One, who said "GO!" And my parents who camped here at home w/ The Ones and said, "Go," even louder!

ACK changed my life.

Day 10. Thru the fog.

2010-10-09T19:49:00.005-05:00

I've been standing in starting waves at triathlons, bike races, foot races ... and fellow racers have leaned over ... to me ... as if to share a little secret.
"Pssst. You forgot to take your necklace off."
"You're still wearing your jewelry."
"Oooh, I hope you don't lose your beads."
I've dived into pools, murky lakes, white water, still water, open water.
I've sweated, suncreened, bug sprayed.
Ever since I first became a Superhero, first with Tropical. Then with Earth. And now with Joy, others have noticed. At the very least, if I tip into a ditch on my bike, you will know me from my beads.
They define me.
I first fell for the idea. "Be your own Superhero. Your own biggest fan."
Then, I fell for the one-of-a-kindness of them.
They've been imitated but the imitations have never been perfected.
There was a short while there that Superhero Mama stopped making them. And I wrote to beg for another one. Just one mooooore.
And she obliged.
I like to think it was because of me. And how I told her, "They define me." That the sheer poetry of that idea would jog her right out of her bead-making sabbatical for ME.
Let's just go with that idea, afterall.
Even if it's not completely true.
Now she's on maternity leave. I may or may not achieve Superhero status again.
But, if I do, I want Pyrex.
Or Grass and Sky.
I will continue to swim in murky waters.
Superhero has never let me down.

Day 8. Misery

2010-10-08T18:14:00.004-05:00

It's not pretty. Nor glamorous. But I'm setting aside my box of tissues long enough to say that without STEROIDS ... you heard me, The Juice, I would not survive the fall. And the winter.
They complete me.
The Big One struggles w/ allergies, but he's not usually bothered until the winter and The Evil Cedar.
These days, The Short One is one big blubbering sniff.
"Can you just give your nose one good sniff and rest it awhile," I'll ask.
"I try, but it keeps coming."
"Hey here's a concept. How about a blow?"
"I can't."
"You can't? It's like blowing bubbles underwater."
"He can't do that either," The Big One chimes in.
"He can't?"
"He can't."
"I can't."
"How do you know he can't?"
"I've tried to teach him."
"When?"
"Yeah, when?"
"That time when we were in the deep end and it was cold and mom forgot snacks. And wat ... Oh nevermind, you never believe me. No one ever believes me."
"Mom, I didn't say (sniff) that I didn't believe (sniff) him. He's always mad at me and ..."
HEY HORMONES!! HEY SENSITIVE!!
Mama's head feels like a bowling ball, I can't breathe and I'm still several days away from the steroid shot that will propel me w/ good sinus health thru this unbearable season.
LAY THE HECK OFF one another and go blow your nose!
"I can't."
"He can't."
"I've tried to teach him but he only wants to use his blanket for a Kleenex ..."
"Kleenex HURTS and you DID NOT try to teach me ..."
Would someone please pass a fork to scratch the roof of my mouth and a syringe fulla SOMETHING?? Just a little something to dull the pain.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Sniff.
"No one understands me ..."
"He's made at me ..."
Earplugs?

Day 7. My lucky day.

2010-10-07T20:23:00.004-05:00

"Since I'm your mom and I made YOU, tell me what I do that makes ME your mom."

You wake me up early.
You make my breakfast.
And my lunch.
And my dinner.
You tell me not to talk back.
You tell me to go to bed.
You do all that work on the computer.
You help me learn.
You are a runner.
A biker.
You read.
You read to me.
You take care of people at Saint Louise House.
I buy groceries.
I'm fun.
I'm exciting but I think he made that up to prove to me he knew what an adjective is.
I'm not a vegetarian.
I'm out of ice cream, so now I'm something akin to the devil.
You put me to bed.
And so I shall.

Day 6. I see famous people.

2010-10-06T07:56:00.014-05:00

I'm the most staunch reader of People Magazine there might ever be or have been. When Mama hands me an armful of her pre-read magazines, she often says, "Don't let these clutter your space, just skim 'em and pitch 'em." I can "skim" Southern Living and Vanity Fair. I can pick and choose my articles in Texas Monthly and Vogue. But, I READ People Magazine. Not so much am I a fan of other entertainment weeklies, but People and I get along.

I think I may have told you how I have this "Imaginary Dinner Party," guest list thing going on in my head. How I'd invite Julia and Barack and George W. and Hugh Grant and Brian Williams and the Pope and others ... and I think I know WHY I have this infatuation w/ People and The Famous.

It all goes back to Nashville, TN and The Peabody Hotel. We were pit-stopped there on a family road trip to Michigan. Mama collects hotels and hotel lobbies. And if those lobbies have ducks? PLUS!! I was almost 13, my brother almost 5. He was sweetly chubby and happy. I was on the verge of being ... well, a teenager. I missed my friends and just KNEW they would forget me while I was gone. My parents NEVER embarrassed me, like some may tell you their parents did, but had cell phones been invented, I fear I would've been face down in text for those four weeks. As it was, I was face down in a Word Find book or the KOA directory, searching for an RV campground with a pool AND arcade. Bliss.

We were either waiting for the ducks to enter the lobby or conclude their parade, and I remember the way Mama clutched my arm and sucked in air.

"Look!" she said thru her teeth. "Is that who I think it is?"
"WHO?" I asked. Secretly hoping my highest hopes that it WASN'T Shaun Cassidy because WHAT was I going to say to him???
"I think that's Alexander Godunov."
"WHO?"
"Well, you're coming with me!"

In as long as it took Mama to march me by the arm across the lobby, I caught wisps of explanation ... Russian defector ... ballet dancer ... dated Jacqueline Bisset ...
Mama dug paper and pen from her purse. (By the way, Mama, I love that red canvas purse in the photos. Great, great purse!)
"Excuse me sir ... are you Alexander Godunov?" Mama asked.

I can't remember if he answered. Did he speak English? Mama, did he answer? Mama spluttered something about being a fan. I smiled, like I had any clue, at his blond hair, chic white duds and his jaunty recline against the reception desk.

I remember feeling equal parts embarrassment and exhilaration. Embarrassment was NOT from Mama meeting The Famous. I was in such a shy state, that an introduction to anyone above my eye level was uncomfortable. I was exhilarated and enormously impressed that Mama RECOGNIZED The Famous. And, in her courteous manner, sought out The Famous with a polite "sir."

Whether or not they're considered "great," I've met Tom Landry in a San Marcos gas station. Michael Irvin in a Dallas restaurant. A governor who would be president. Ann Richards. Billy Gibbons. A governor who would be governor again and again. Others. Some I seek out. Others I leave alone.

And I'm always on the lookout for The Famous. Upon entering a crowded room or restaurant, one of my commands to those around me? "Look for famous people."

Friends, I promise I won't embarrass you.
I'll be polite.
I don't even need a picture.
I might just gaze from afar.
But there is a Sharpie in my purse just. in. case.
Mama and A. Godunov taught me to always be prepared.

Day 5. To whom it may concern.

2010-10-05T20:15:00.016-05:00

It was an afternoon of boredom like only an eight-year-old can conjure. MINUTES stretching in front of me and with NOTHING to DOOOOOO.
"Well, you could write a letter to someone," Mama suggested.
And, y'all. I did.
I wrote to my Aunt Frances.
The first episode of sitting. Writing. Sealing. Stamping. That I ever remember.
This wasn't a note of thanks.
This wasn't a classroom assignment to a pen pal or classmate.
This was me flipping thru my mom's address book.
Finding a familiar name.
A name that I registered would enjoy my correspondence and with whom I had something I wanted to share.
I distinctly remember sealing that letter.
Addressing that envelope. Trying ever so hard to get the lines of the address perfectly straight. And failing.
Stamping that letter.
And assuming that Aunt Frances would receive that letter as SOON as I placed it in the mailbox and raised the flag.

+++

Always a fool for school supplies, I now loved stationary. Stickers. Pretty seals and sealing wax. Stationary stores w/ acrylic displays full of mix and match sheets, envelopes in an Easter basket of colors? Swoon.
Boxes of Hallmark papers were always a favorite birthday gift of mine to receive. I stacked them just so in my desk drawers and fit the paper style to the recipient. Aunt Frances got letters written on floral papers and fancy, lined envelopes. Never the paper w/ cartoonish pencils or cats or bears. Never the LINED papers. Hearts maybe. Hearts were a favorite. More grown-up.

+++

In college, my first mailbox was 226R Lantana. 78666. It was never full enough with REAL letters. Mama always wrote. Paw Paw sent my hometown paper. Email wasn't invented yet. I wrote more letters. Because I enjoyed it. Because it was my responsibility to those who cared about me to let them know I was well. Not because they should write me back. I remember one month, budgeting my monthly allowance to cover my phone bill, my other expenses and having exactly $.50 left to buy two stamps. One to mail a birthday card to a friend in school in Sherman. One to mail the phone bill.

+++

Letters, written out of pleasure and not obligation, I've learned, are a gift to the recipient. A keepsake of sorts. I have boxes in my attic to prove it. They are even more revered in today's electronic world. And tho' I don't write as many "real letters," I strive to personalize email correspondence. The written word strengthens relationships like snippets of conversation don't always do. It's time spent. Well-spent.

+++

Aunt Frances remembers those early letters to this day.
And she always wrote me back.

Pictures snapped by dear friends/photogs at blazing hot, cool concert to raise funds for
Saint Louise House. June .10

Day 4. Test the limits.

2010-10-04T16:44:00.009-05:00

From The Short One (TSO) I've learned I'm more likely to forge ahead even if the instructions seem complicated. Like those that say "For ages 16 and up." Because of TSO, I'm likely to READ warning labels, but not as quick to heed them. The same applies to expiration dates, unless it smells funny. But, I'm terrified of getting caught breaking the rules. Because of TSO, I'm OK w/ occasional procrastination. I say "just a minute" more often. I skip quickly from one task to the next. I'm often distracted. In the last eight years, I've learned it really ain't that big a deal. I can say, "no." And then, dig in and really mean it.
But, on the flip side. I will not quit if I can't get something to work. An iPhone sync. An application. A stuck zipper. I will stamp my foot and say ugly words if I don't figure it out. It will ruin my whole day. (BLOGGER!! Worst. Computer. Software. Ever. Is it even "software?" Whatever. SUCKS!!) I often run from conflict and I need to quit that. Band-Aids fix most anything. Things are better if you have a BEST friend. And bubble baths are more trouble than they're worth.
My clothes match.
My shoes can't be too tight.
Certain funny things have certain funny smells that I really can't abide.
I miss my parents when we're apart.
Movies that aren't even sad make me cry.
Loud music ... the kind you can feel pounding in your chest ... makes me cry.
Arguments? Tears.
I wonder what in the HELL I would do if I ever ran out of gas.
I have a favorite pillow.
And I'm pretty darn complicated.
All things I never knew. Or never knew very well.
Until someone came along who looks a whole lot like me.
(He told me today that slapping the back of ones head HARD while simultaneously crossing ones eyes will leave one "staring at the end of your nose forever." He hasn't convinced me of this yet because neither of us can cross our eyes. But, there's time.)

Day Three. My life in pictures.

2010-10-03T11:21:00.017-05:00

***The Big One headfirst into the Champs swim meet at season's end. Nervous but cool and collected.***

I wish I could control Blogger and it's wonky formatting and page layout and date stamp. But, I can't. So I won't. If you wish my typefaces and line spacing were consistent from post to post, join the freakin' club.

3. Images Matter
My maternal grandparents had a fetching collection of Reader's Digest and Life magazines. The cabinet where the Digests were stored was the perfect width and shelf height to house decades of the book-sized periodical. I can still hear how the doors clicked just so when they were pushed closed. I marveled at how anyone could read a magazine w/ so few pictures and such a "bookish" style.

The larger-sized Life were stacked next to the fireplace in a brass firewood holder. (I think those things have a proper name, but I was advanced in this life before I knew what andirons were, so don't test my fire tools knowledge much more, 'k?) I adored Life Magazine. It was larger than life. Its pictures filled whole pages and bled right off the edge. Foreign faces and foreign ideals. The covers got dusty next to the fireplace, but the pictures were always fresh. There wasn't much circulation in the brass Life holder. I think maybe after a few years, the subscription stopped, but the magazines stayed, with only my frequent perusals as the means for rotation.

The more staid and solemn the pictures, the closer those editions stayed to the bottom. But, the more color ... the more vibrant ... the more FACES ... those got frequent thumbing. There was and still is one that I can can't shake from my mind's eye. The one w/ the faces and bodies of children and adults who were injured by burns. In all phases of recovery. And in that awful tank I read and hear about.

The Life pictures were haunting. Scary. I wanted to turn away. To close the dusty cover, but I couldn't. I would replace that issue to the bottom of the brass holder each time, hoping it might disappear. It never did. And I never stopped looking at it. It was the first series of photos that affected me so deeply. I still remember how those Life magazines smelled. And when I think of Life Magazine, I think of those pictures.

And, oh, there have been other pictures. Burned into my brain. OKC bombing. You know the one. There was a sock. gah! And in fact, I had an unfortunate viewing happen just the other day w/ a recent copy of Texas Monthly. At a public news stand. There was a story I was expecting about a Galveston boy, but I wasn't expecting the magnitude of the photos. I wish I had never looked. Especially in public! There was one photo a while back in the Houston Chronicle. And it does it no justice to simply describe it, but I've sought it online w/ no luck. It was a post-funeral photo, a tragic tale of domestic violence, and the photo was of the grieving mother. It was clear from the crime and funeral stories, that the family's means were slim. Donations were collected for funeral expenses. The photo showed what were obviously men's briefs visible above the waistline of the woman's jeans. And something about the desperation in that image. Without the means to bury her daughter, clad in someone's castoffs ... it all seemed terribly hopeless.

There ARE pictures of hope. Servicemen and women back from war. Overcoming injuries, depression. But, the ones that inspire me to appreciate my station in life ... the ones that shape the respect I have for those in all walks of life ... yup, they're pretty bleak.

And with those pictures comes such a respect for the photographer. The graceful pushiness that gets them that close to the action. Or the stillness. When a picture has such an impact on our hearts and minds, some ONE has to have the heart, the eye, the magic to capture it.

***The Short One. Same pool. Same end of season meet. Helluva lot farther to the water when One is Short. Photos by special friend w/ the skills of which I speak.***

No matter the angle. No matter the subject. No matter the photographer. I'm struck by images that are bigger than me. And most of them are.

The Ask. Day Two.

2010-10-02T19:58:00.011-05:00

***Self-portrait outside men's room at Mesa Verde National Park, CO. In the time it took The Tall One to score tickets for our entry into the park, we snapped more than 60 pictures in an attempt to center us in the frame. We never succeeded. It was hot. We had plenty of water.***

I promised you a post on "the ask." Asking for things. Something I'm usually very good at. Or have LEARNED to be good at. Until I'm not. Or until I'm scared. But, I'm going to have to ask for your patience.
Today has been an outdoor day. An outdoor day of flag football pictures and flag football games. And getting our flags pulled and thrown all over that field. Today was an outdoor day of friend fun and church family fun. And chili cook-off fun.
Today was a glorious good day. In full sun. With a beautiful breeze. Outdoors. With potato chips and Gatorade and lots of little boys on scooters with skinned knees and Band-Aids.
And I'm feeling a little overcooked. And out of patience.
My "ask" post is very important to me. In it, I'll refer to my college days and a beloved professor w/ pointy boots. I refer, of course, to My Mama. And I refer to friends who care for me such that I never have to ask.
I also plan an important "note-writing" installment.
A "not-quitting" installment.
And a post about Alexander Godunov. Rest his soul.
I've a post on "girl trips" and Bunco and back-to-school shopping.
But, first. Today. After this non-stop outdoor day. I need to ask a favor. For some quiet.
I remember days in my hometown. Days that were hot before there were Tropical Sno stands on several corners. Days when grocery shopping occasionally took the place of unstructured play and moms and daughters were tired. Those were the days when I remember Mama giving me permission to be quiet.
"May I have some quiet time," she'd say. In a quiet and calm voice. It told me, "You do not need to fill this space w/ talking and questioning and reasoning. Not right now."
It told me, "I enjoy this time with you when we are companions who respect one another's physical space and vocal space."
It told me, "You've said enough for now and so have I, but your words mean more to me than me quickly and carelessly saying, 'Be quiet'."
It told me, "I'm asking for you to let me sit quietly."
And this made the silence-seeking MINE to grant.
My Mama was and is so wise that way. If the choice was and is safely mine to make, she did and does let me make it.
I gave Mama MY PERMISSION to ride quietly with me ... with my feelings intact and our mouths closed.
I thank Mama for that. For giving me permission to sit quietly.
It made me understand that we do not need to feel every available space w/ conversation. Or noise. Or loud television and radio.
Unfortunately, we're not always able to seek that permission in life for things. Anymore. Even if we ask nicely. But, once in awhile, it's nice to ask. Grant. And listen to the quiet.
Today I'm tired. A little bit dirty. And, because I know I can, I'm asking for some quiet time like I gave Mama and she gave me.
I know you'll understand.
A glorious good nite.

KATY GRAS 2010 Annotated Musings.

2010-09-30T09:01:00.044-05:00

Lo' and behold, my birthday is in THIRTY DAYS!! Let KATY-GRAS begin!!

***Santa Fe, NM state capitol building. Forced the boys to endure the agony of locating state capitol. Almost didn't find state capitol. It isn't as big as Texas'. Found building. Double-parked pickup. Left it running w/ boys inside. Ran to capitol building. Observed it. Quick, take my picture. Cheese!***

In 2008 and 2009, I shared Gras-ti-tude Journals. In honor of my natal day, a 30-day countdown of things for which I'm grateful. It might be the birth of a new family member a simply a new flavor of Sun Chips or DUBLIN DR. PEPPER! I'm grateful for a multitude of things.
I do not discriminate.
This year, I'm sharing a Gras-ti-tude OBITUARY of sorts.
Yummy, no?
I'm not GOING anywhere anytime soon.
Promise.
Just read on.

All my friends are either returning to college classes or graduating from college classes or teaching college classes. Well, OK, THREE or FOUR friends. Not ALL friends. But, the monumental event that is either "returning to" or "teaching of" or"graduating from" a college class is so far removed from ME and the events of my life these days that it seems like ALL my friends are doing it. It's rather all-encompassing, this "college life." I'm exhausted. (Some friends are having babies and returning to work. Talk about ALL-ENCOMPASSING!! And exhausting!! Let's stick w/ college for now. We'll get to babies and careers in another post.)
The friend who is RETURNING to college classes for a masters degree, we'll call her The Co-Ed, told me about a class assignment.
"We have to write a paper about events in our lives that made us who we are today," she said.
"Oh, FUN! You could write your obituary!" I suggested.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks for the suggestion. But, yuck. AND it has to be seven pages typed AND it might have to be annotated." (And I knew by the way she said "annotated" that we were BOTH going to have to look that up.)
"No, really," I continued. "Obituaries are the best way to tell your life story. Talk about the things that are important to you, you know. Things that MADE you who you are. It's creative! You can make it funny. And, after all, who BETTER to tell YOUR story than YOU? I learned that in college."
We agreed (and she insisted) that it probably wasn't the best way to tell THIS story of hers, and something a little more traditional and "collegiate" might be more appropriate for her first assignment.
"But you can still be funny!" I encouraged.
Can you annotate "funny," we wondered?
So, she began her journey. Contacted both her parents. Did research on birth order. Brainstormed w/ fellow classmates. (It can be scary to reach out to the younger set, I'm hearing, when one returns to school as a "non-traditional" student. They're a whole different "demographic," in corporate-speak.)
But, she reached out. Wrote. Typed. Shared drafts w/ friends. Analyzed. Wrote some more. And turned out an introspective analysis in seven pages ... ANNOTATED.
Damn, I have smart friends!
In almost 41 years, I've more than a few things, I know, that make me the person I am today. And the person I am today is a different person than I was in each decade, half-decade, and year of my life. I FEEL the same as I did when I was sixteen. I RESEMBLE the person I was at 16. But, rest ye assured, events that took place in and around the time I WAS sixteen, for example, make me an even better 41-year-old.
FORTY-ONE!! Dang!!
So, on THESE ... the THIRTY DAYS LEADING TO MY BIRTHDAY ... "Katy Gras," in some circles, "Shut the Hell up About your Birthday," in others ... you will force me to dig up 30 things that make me who I am today. A Gras-ti-tude reflection, aka "obituary," of sorts. My "life story" in chunks of reflective events w/o which my life might've turned out completely different. Not a reflection of life at the time of death (YUCK!), mind you, but an analysis of LIFE at different stations of LIFE, that all add up to 41 years well-spent.
Let's make it funny. I want some funny MEAT in my actual obit someday. Not a bunch of fluff about "lighting a room with my smile," being "a lover of animals and a friend to all" and, for God's sake, NO PET NAMES, especially from my high school days!
And ... what the heck ... let's annotate. I'm thinking the easiest way to ANNOTATE, to summarize, is to simply make a list.
And we can NUMBER our list. Now, this is seeming downright scientific!
Here we go. In no particular order.
First on my Annotated Life List/aka "My Gras-ti-tude Obit" ...

1. Don't ask. Just tell.
When my brother was a newborn and I was school-aged, a neighbor didn't so much ASK my mother if she could retrieve me from elementary school in the afternoons as much as she TOLD my mother she was retrieving me from school in the afternoons. As the mom of a new baby and a child who must get to and from school when the baby is usually sleeping can attest, that act alone carved out "saint space" for that neighbor wherever saint space is kept. It was the greatest act of service. And the greatest acts of service are usually the most simple to perform. This act, retold over the years by my mom, made me a "teller." This act made me assertive, perhaps to a fault, when I believe in it. This act made me bossy! This act made me consider that the greatest loads are often relieved by the lightest lifting. Births, deaths, drama, distress ... mama always said, "Don't ASK how you can help. TELL how you can help. Don't SAY 'call me if you need me.' Just CALL."

In our next installment, we'll talk about when it's necessary to "ask."
And, grooooannnn, it's not as easy.
Just ask me!

Resisting the temptation to say, "Spring is Sprung."

2010-04-01T08:06:00.004-05:00

Because, oh my goodness, what a cliche. But, I heard someone say recently that our part of the country gets about three days of spring between winter and a blasted hot summer. Right now, we must be on about Day Two because it's gorgeous. And this morning, on the walk to school, it was so GREEN. Like soft and puffy green. Cool and comfortable green. And thank GOD I'm not allergic to oak pollen because it's everywhere.

All this spring made me forget about winter when The Short One visited The Retta Show. Y'all this is the pinnacle of a show-business dream for The Short One. To him, this is TEE VEE. This is "famous." He has "arrived." This is "name in lights" important, and you'll see he takes his job VERY seriously.

Oh, Grandmommy is going to love this!

A marathon post.

2010-01-24T14:51:00.042-06:00

So, let me tell you about hot drill team showers. (That statement is SURE to direct some weird search engine traffic to this here blog!)
Hot drill team showers ... with the emphasis on the "hot" and not the "drill team," so I guess I need a comma.
Hot (comma) drill team showers.
Twenty-plus years ago ... I can still remember the cleansing goodness. Climbing into a hotter than hot shower after a cold-weather football game, caked w/ sweat, crusty red lipstick, Aqua Net Hairspray and high school giddiness, but chilled to the bone. Sore from kicking and smiling. Steamy football field turf and dirt on my boots and suntan-colored hose. And the ride home from the Metroplex, usually, on the Naugahyde seats of a cold, smelly school bus. Positioning myself w/ my knees just so on the seat in front of me ... in a semi-slippery recline ... my now-itchy French braids bouncing backward against the upright bus seat. Cold and sore. And so tired.
In need of a good scrubbin'.
And once the hot scrubbin' was done, (solo, by the way ... not w/ the whole "team") ... there was bed. And sleep. Like I'd never done since then. It was just that warm and good.
I've found those hot, drill team showers again, and that sleep, while training for my first marathon. Training began in July ... when the "hot" didn't need any help. Those first training runs, where 45 minutes seemed like forever and we only ever sprinted when we knew there was cold water at the swimming pool water fountain. Showers were ultra-necessary then, but only mildly warm.
There were rainy runs. Hot and rainy. Steamy really. Then, fall arrived and cooler mornings. Running was a pleasure. I started to dodge the automatic sprinklers instead of running right thru them. Hot showers relieved the chill. Forty-five minutes turned to an hour. Then two. Hot showers felt good on sore knees and numb fingers.
Winter. Cold temps and runny noses. Gloves and hats and three-hour runs. Sloppy trail runs and icy pavement. iPod music that really only served to piss me off on those long runs. What does Fergie know anyway?? "Tonight's gonna be a good night!" I'm not so sure 'bout that!
There was always "Footloose." My best running tune. A speedy running clip. Some sorta weird, sentimental attachment to that one. And hot, drill team showers.
Cold, wet, wind-blown, tired, hungry and sore.
Cleansing and powerful.
The shower AND the run.
I've never been an athlete.
I've never been a runner.
But friends, faith, family, "Footloose" and a hot cleansing of body and mind have made me one.

***

Houston. January 16-17. 2010
I can't imagine there's ever been a more perfect day to run a marathon. A dry, windless, perfectly chilly Sunday. There was never any question about my running wardrobe that day. It wasn't my favorite. But it was my most functional. And it was lucky. I wasn't inclined to try anything "new." No new socks, shoes, nutrition. So, I wore the hat that squeezes my head into an egg shape and the running shirt that is LESS than flattering. And the shorts whose pockets hang heavy w/ my tissues and gloves and protein bars cut into bits and look ... well, obscene if you're thinking dirty. And I wore pink gloves.
"Did you cry when you crossed the finish line?" they asked.
"Oh, I cried WAY before that."
I cried when they handed me my race bib. The day BEFORE the race. Number #7194. KATY in big white letters. I was alone at the counter when she handed me my big, blue bib. And good thing, too. Because I think the tears shocked her.
"Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. It's just so BIG. And official."
"It's so people can see your name and shout for you."
"I understand that. It's just so nice that you spelled my name right."
One poor girl had to run w/ her husband's name on her bib because of a "clerical error."
One guy signed up as "Handsome." GO HANDSOME!! Go clever, I say.

I didn't feel like lingering at the pre-race Expo ... all those eager athletes sharing "my" race. Too much peddling of merchandise. Whining of kids. (My kids.) And seeing the start/finish gate made me feel "vomit-y." I wanted to rest and reflect before the race. And drink that one beer I TOLD myself I could have. Too many carbs are a GOOD thing.

On race day I cried during the National Anthem. I always cry during the National Anthem. This marathon was a purely selfish adventure for me. And that song is all about sacrifice. About being UNselfish. The only thing I'd sacrificed for my adventure was wine for a week before the race and an occasional morning, thru those many training months, of sleeping late and lazy. Lizzie Lou sacrificed a toenail for her mission. But, that still doesn't quite compare to REAL sacrifice. Anyway, I cried. I couldn't find a flag in our huddled masses, so I sang, hand over heart, to a fellow runner's red, white and blue socks.
We were surprisingly warm in our huddle. The pack of us hoping to finish this thang in 4:30. Temps were in the low forties, but it didn't feel coolish until the pack thinned and we crossed our first bayou bridge.
I didn't cry when the gun went off. Probably because it was more like a scary cannon. And I didn't realize it was for ME. I thought the elite runners were taking off and it would be another good ten minutes of mindless, irritating banter between morning news anchors on the loudspeaker before we set off. But, then we were moving. We were moving!! Slow and steady. And runners were whooping and beeping their watches to set/mode and smiling and RUNNING. (And the girl in our pack who got all wadded up and pissy because we inadvertently walked into the HALF MARATHON start chute and had to hoof it to OUR start before the gun/cannon, settled down. I secretly hoped she'd fall in a Porta Potty along the route. No, I guess it wasn't a "secret" since I told Lizzie Lou. But, Lizzie Lou understood. And we agreed to "play nice.")

I cried when the Episcopalians sprinkled me w/ holy water.
"I wonder what churches along the route will do on marathon day," he asked.
"I don't know, I guess they'll just have to pray later."
"That's gotta be a hassle for them."
WRONG.
Fully-garbed priests, ministers, worshippers ... all along the route. Sprinkling, flinging, hurling water and prayers. I was alone as I ran by my first church at mile ... I forget. I remember the leafy branch going into the bucket as I decided to "catch" some of that holy good-fortune. A quick sign of the cross. And then a holy person shouted my name. And followed that up with "God bless you."
Maybe I'm NOT selfish. Maybe this ISN'T all about me. It IS a blessing that I'm running, able-bodied and happy.
I cried, round two.
"There will come a day when you can no longer do this," her shirt read. "Today is not that day." That sentiment coupled w/ the leafy branch coupled w/ the holy water and the "God bless you." I had to slow, but not stop, just to collect myself.

I cried when I heard a familiar voice. My knees were starting to hurt. Mile ... about 10. And my toes felt weird, tho' never giving me ANY indication of what I would find when I removed my socks after the race. I was getting hot in my over shirt and I was afraid I wasn't putting enough IN my body to get anything much out of it. I was alone ... and FINE with that ... but I heard a familiar voice say, "Thank youuuu," to a water station volunteer and, in a crowd of 6,700, I found Kathleen. I'd told her I'd look for her, my good friend and fellow mommy. She'd told me she'd be happy for me to "skip along" with her and her happy bunch. She asked me how I was. Asked about my knees. Offered me an Advil.
"I need one, but I don't have any more water in my cup," I said, the water station now well behind me.
"I do," she said. And she gave me hers.
She told me I looked "great." Said I was chatty and happy and smiling and that was a good thing. SHE'S a good thing. She and all her friends and wonderful, smiling family.

***

A bagpiper at any race is always a good thing.
Alongside this race, there were also:
Belly dancers.
Cloggers.
Prayer stations.
Jimmy Buffett wannabees.
FORMER PRESIDENTS and Secret Service Agents!! (George H.W. Bush.)
Tejano music.
Teen rockers.
Diet Coke.
Big ol' precious dogs.
Tons of precious babies.
Cheering, screaming fans at every turn.
BEER! Ugh!!
Groups of neighbors w/ smiling faces drinking mimosas and offering oranges. Bananas. Pretzels. Homemade goodies.
"Toenails are overrated. This is the worst parade ever. Stop reading and start running. The zombies are coming, run faster. My arm is tired from holding this sign. Pain is temporary, pride is permanent. Run like you stole something," are just some of the fun signs I saw.
The runner who had shaved his head bald but left "26.2" in tufts of brown hair.
The "Statue of Liberty." (Who my friend Kevin later deemed, "not 'Lady' Liberty, at all, but a pretty good-sized feller.")
The girls in yellow tutus.
The "BFFs" in tie-dyed socks.
The "Newlyweds."
The three "Rookies." Who were then two. And then one.

***

I fell off my "dream" pace at about mile ... well, early. But, I was shocked at how quickly the first miles ticked by. How strong I felt. And how comfortably I was covering the course. I was at mile 7 before I knew it and happily running alongside Lizzie Lou. Eating as I ran. I NEVER eat while I run! I usually choke. And eating is usually a good reason to STOP!! At mile 8 we each started to twinge in different places and our stretching, hydration, breathing needs were different. I turned my watch around and vowed to only finish by noon. I had people waiting on me, after all, and they were surely getting hungry. The scenery was perfect. Places in Houston I've never visited until marathon day.
The Heights.
Fifth Ward.
West U.
FOUNTAINS.
Rice University.
"Hey!! Isn't that Kathleen's old house?"
The Galleria at mile 18.
Big, tall buildings.
And a park. A park that went. on. forever.
Looking for my boys but not seeing them. Yet.
Kathleen's people were all around. And she was so gracious and appreciative. And strong in her race. I marvel at her strength in so many things.

I was expecting my people around mile 20 ... 21 ...

And then, I don't know how long my old friend was running alongside me before I realized it. Easily striding into place telling me that it was "a gorgeous day to be finishing a marathon."
I was thrilled to see him and suddenly not as exhausted.
"I just caught a whiff of Ben-Gay," he said.
"Oh, good," I panted. "I thought that was you. Something you'd worn special just for the occasion."
He laughed and that helped.
"The end is going to be amazing," he said. "All these people working and cheering to pull you in."
"THERE THEY ARE!!" I said.
"Who?"
"MY BOYS!!"
"GOOD GOD! How can you see them from here?"
I just could. They were all of a sudden HUGE and smiling.

I kissed their heads and their cheeks.

"How are you feeling??" they asked.
"I feel really good."
"REALLY?"
I guess I kinda lied. But it wasn't TERRIBLE at mile 23.
I could see my sweet brother-in-law snapping pictures in the distance.
And then he shouted, "Hey! Come on!! There's cold beer in the truck!!" And gave me a big ol' "woooooooo hooooooo!"
Three more miles to go. To the cold beer.
But, now my boys were behind me. My friends were behind me and some well in front. It got harder. There were runners walking on the "hills" of the highway underpasses. But, I'm from Austin. And we DO hills. And I'm ready to go home. So I ran. And I saw my boys one more time at the finish. And they saw me. I made a few friends at the finish line. A girl in pink who said, "Uh uh, girl, you ain't walkin'."
"Ok, Girl in Pink, following you!"
"Well, I'm glad that's over," he said. He was the Guy in Red.
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think I am."

I mean, I was glad the immediate discomfort was over. The pounding and the hurt and the puffy fingers and tired arms. But, there was all the other stuff. The stuff that didn't hurt. The beautiful day. The beautiful people. (We warmed up in the lobby of the Houston Four Seasons ... they welcomed ALL runners w/ muffins and coffee and water, lots of lobby space and their plush, plush bathrooms. No need for reservations or a room number. Everyone was welcome. NO NEED FOR PORTA-POTTIES. Austin is a "running town." In my experience, even Austin hotels don't do that. God bless the Houston Four Seasons.) The laughs. The tears. The months of training. Using a metronome in the early days to feel 160 bpm. (beep, beep, beep, BOOP.) The holy water. The former presidents. The Ben Gay. Months of running on Liz's left side ... music in only one ear leaving the other free for conversation ... and then, on marathon day, feeling comfortable on her right. The start chute. The National Anthem. Protein bars. Big, FAT bloody blisters on my toes. Jelly beans and candy corn. That one beer. Allan, our steadfast coach, who only ever asked that we offer "feedback." And "OFTEN!" My friends who asked and by-golly really cared. My boys who endured. LIZZIE LOU, to say the least. My familiar counterparts along Lady Bird Lake. Tina, "Did I SAY you could call me Christina?," AKA, the Energizer Bunny. My parents and their concern over my well-being. New scenery in new neighborhoods. ANY stretch of road whose miles add up to a "long run." Track work on early Saturday morns. bleccch!! Fergie on my iPOD. My sore knee(s). Stretching. Weights. Cross-training. (Yeah, right!) My FOUR PAIR of marathon training shoes. Discovering the shoe style and fit that WORKED ... that I eventually had to special-order ... and who ALL looked dirty by the end. SHORT RUNS! New friends. New routes. (GO JENNIFER!! AUSTIN. 2.14.10!!) My best hat. The 26.2 sticker on my car. Bib Number 7194. "God Bless You!" Being a mom. But being a marathoner.
"Footloose."
Never any question in my mind I would finish. Even when one of my knees stopped responding to my commands and occasionally took a little nap.
In 5:10 something, I finished. In time for lunch.
But I wasn't hungry. Or thirsty for that big margarita I thought I'd want.
Only a hot, drill team shower.
And the next adventure.
I find myself saying, "next year."

"I didn't think you'd finish," he said.
"At what POINT did you not think I'd finish," I asked.
"From the beginning."
He meant no harm or meanness. Just that marathons are hard, really hard (only WHAT percent of the population finishes one, Lizzie Lou?? Not a big percentage, huh?) and there were so many days I'd questioned my own strength aloud. And he'd seen me hobble and limp.
I flashed my finisher's medal at him and smirked.

And put my PINK marathon sticker on his Jeep.

Tis even a BETTER season when my child has a birthday.

2010-01-14T20:06:00.005-06:00

It's The Big One here. I'm smiling my happy face in my new, silvery birthday present. And Mama needs to change my shoe size in her sidebar cuz I'm a 7.5 now. She says I cost more than I used to. And she says that now we can share shoes. That she's been waiting for this day my whole life. Then, she says it's not like she'd WANT to. And then she says, "Blecchch," and holds her nose. Evidently, my boots aren't cool enough. I don't even have boots.

I did really well in my spelling bee today. I missed "furlong" in the third round. Mama says she'll take me to the track someday.

Mama says I'm the only one who can pull her from her blogging slump. That she loves me enough to do the other thing she loves. And that's write. But, writing sometimes causes anxiety. And then NOT writing causes anxiety. And then she says she gets kinda "tingly" with all there is to do and then she says, "Blecchchc." And there's no time for "blecchch" spellcheck!

She says we go way back. Way back to my beginning and hers. That she loves me a furlong or more. I gotta look that up.

Happy 11th birthday me. The Big One.

Tis a better season than even my birthday.

2009-12-11T17:59:00.002-06:00

I'm forty. And I'm exhausted.
Last you heard from me I was counting down the days til my 40th birthday.
And then I WAS forty.
Now I AM forty.
And the party that continues to this day in December? It's just a rockin' good time.
The MOST fun part. The part that was even better than getting to sleep in on the actual DAY OF my birthday and NOT making lunch box lunches or preparing water bottles. The part that was better than all that? It the was the part where mention of ME kept turning up in unexpected places. Friends blogs. Emails from family to family on topics unrelated to my birthday ... but which included a p.s. happy birthday cool boots lady. ssshh. happy birthday. in little bitty letters.
Things turned up in my mailbox. On my porch. FACEBOOK!! A birthday on Facebook is just about the best thing!
And, all this to say. Talking about oneself has its advantages! Talking about oneself ad nauseum ... the whole "T minus ..." thing ... well, hell, it just touches my heart. What you know about me. What you remember about me. What I don't let you forget!
Because you listen. And you love me.
Thank you.

***

I was at St. Louise House today. And y'all it smelled like laundry. A place where mothers who are overcoming homelessness live w/ their children, smelled just like one of my favorite things in the world. Laundry. Dryer sheets. Clean clothes. Home. My home or yours.
This season ... this season that is NOT my birthday ... I've seen friends loading their cars full of donated Christmas presents for families like these. Friends delivering food bank donations. Friends offering complete meals with ham and veggies and BACON. BACON, y'all!!
All this to say, this column in yesterday's paper touched me. Like similar words have touched me before.
I have a friend who is this woman. This smart, smart woman who is proud and accountable and so hard-working. And who has overcome homelessness.
Her face is our face.
Those of us w/ homes.
Homes that smell like laundry.

Peace. Love. Beaver.

2009-11-04T20:46:00.006-06:00

Way to go Buc's!!

We knew you way back when.
I will wear my gas station shirt w/ pride!

October 30, 2009

2009-10-30T17:42:00.002-05:00

It's here.
And I'm forty.
The Day, and the 30 leading up to it, have been beautiful.
But, especially The Day.
Greetings have come from the most unexpected places.
Thoughtful gifts and cards abound.
I am spoiled.
And lucky.
And loved.
I'll check back in and share some photo highlights.
Because there are some things, you're not gonna believe!

Tomorrow.

2009-10-29T16:34:00.002-05:00

I started the day w/ my first-ever pedicure.
I'm almost 40.
It was time.
I'll end the day at a table for eight at eight.
It's been perfect.

Two more days.

2009-10-28T15:26:00.006-05:00

She came to town today in her fancy hat and boot cut denims and she brought me a pink brownie cake with Who-ville candles.

In "Gras-ti-tude" for the first person who has EVER baked me a PINK brownie cake w/ Who-ville candles.
And boot cut denims.
Her Grandmommy will be here tomorrow and I can hardly STAND myself!
I'll be FORTY in two days!!

Three. More. Days. (Juuuust under the wire.)

2009-10-27T16:26:00.009-05:00

I have a memory of The Short One as a two-year-old that still makes me weepy. You see, his big brother had already completed three years of pre-school at the sweetest parents-morning-out program at our church, with the sweetest families, and the SWEETEST teachers, when The Short One started "school" as a Heavenly Shape. (The Big One had been the yellow square. His teacher offered to let The Short One share the color and shape his older brother had used, but we declined. "We're gonna be DIFFERENT," we declared, and BOY! were we ever on to something with that concept! The Short One became the red triangle. )
I've said this before, but The Short One was My Young One. Just barely old enough to enter each approaching grade. Heading off to "school" in diapers and baby fat.
So, in the months leading up to the First Day of School, The Short One was just barely two and I started recounting to him some of the excitement of his brother's school days. Carrying a new lunch box. Toting a backpack. Having his very own "cubby." Sweet Miss Marilyn and "Shapey," the class mascot. His friends in class. The playground. And THEN to further familiarize him w/ the classroom routine, thinking I would make the transition from Mommy to School easier, I started singing the only song I really ever remember The Big One singing during each of his pre-school days. I started singing "The Weather Song."
Each afternoon, while The Big One was away playing or busying himself in front of "Blue's Clues," I would rock The Short One before his nap and sing, "The Weather Song."
The Short One started pre-school the same day his big brother started kindergarten. The Big One was bravely cautious. But, blended comfortably into his perfect kindergarten classroom. There were days he looked back and asked to come home. But, he was nurtured and he thrived.
The Short One parted from me MUCH more slowly, to say the least. And to save his Grandmommy from enduring the ugly retelling, I'll just say that come Halloween of that first school year, we were still trying to acclimate him to his Heavenly Shapes classroom. Oh, the pitiful crying.
One day, when I was simply SURE Miss Marilyn would throw up her hands and say "That's it. I can do no more to comfort The Short One," (tho' I knew better than to think that would EVER be the case) we sat down to discuss, again, how to love that baby boy into a comfortable morning or two away from me.
She shook her head and said, "I just don't get it. He's fine when you drop him off. He's fine thru Morning Stations. Group Play. But, when we sit down for Circle Time, he starts to get weepy. Seems the worst when we sing 'The Weather Song.'"
"WHAT did you just say?" I asked.
"The WEATHER SONG?" I queried loudly.
I thought back over ALLLLL those many rocking, nap time afternoons of "The Weather Song."
And now. "The Weather Song" reminded him of me. And made him cry.
(He is SO much like his mother!!)
Sweet Miss Marilyn SURELY wondered why the WEATHER proved so sad for The Short One.
But, she loved him anyway.
She loved him right into loving school.
She loved him into potty-training.
And chapel.
And sitting in an actual CHAIR to eat his lunch.
To all the firsts of school.
She held his hand and dried his tears and fetched his blanket and loved that baby.
And I know now that his tenderness has moved on from "The Weather Song," but it's still there in so many ways.
That tenderness is there for his brother, too. When he's feeling uneasy. When something is just too new. Tho' he's more reluctant to show it.
But, I know that their teachers, all the way back to Miss Marilyn, have hugged them and held their hands and dried their eyes.
In Circle Time. And in changing WEATHER.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for the teachers who care for my children as much of the day as I do. For not just teaching them, but helping them. For not just enduring the days w/ them, but enriching every minute. For understanding the quirks. And smoothing the rough patches.
There's no way I could do the job they do.
I tried to teach The Short One "The Weather Song."
And just LOOK where that got ME!!!
(I am STILL mad at that damn song!!)

WOW! Only 4 more days!

2009-10-26T18:08:00.007-05:00

My brave Army friend sent me an email yesterday. A horribly, horribly sad and poignant email. I hope Mama didn't read it. It was very timely considering the cancer awareness involvement of the past and coming weekend. But, did I mention The SAD?? Good GRIEF!
Once I got thru the heartbreaking pictures of this beautiful, young woman suffering from cancer ... actually, she's NOT suffering in the pictures, she's getting married (SEEE!!!?!? I told YOU!! THE SAD!) ... once I got thru those pictures there's the "message" at the end urging us to live each day to its fullest. (You've all seen messages like this before.) And urging us to lead "an uncomplicated life."
Uncomplicated.
My life is no more complicated than the next mommy.
I've no more complications than the next wife or daughter or sister.
In fact, I've no REAL complications.
None at all.
Dirty house. Cluttered desk. Messy piles of things. The Dog who refuses to go outside when it rains. Unless there's a squirrel she can chase. And become muddy. And, "Oh look, a pile of something dead in which to roll!!"
Those aren't complications.
Really.
They're not.
My father-in-law and I shared a birthday lunch today in honor of his 82nd year.
And a glass of wine.
And he took a sip, set down his glass and said, "Phew. It sure is a long way 'til 83."
But, we agreed we would NOT want to go back.
To 18.
Or 21.
Or 16.
Those were tough years, he said.
"It was complicated. All the figuring out where you wanted to go."
I agree.
Forty (and 82) is surprisingly UNcomplicated.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for "complications" with which I'm able to so easily deal.
For pictures that open my eyes to real struggles. (Cancer. And bombs in Baghdad ... jeeessh!)
For the ease of my life.
And of course ... for wine w/ lunch.

T Minus 5 days.

2009-10-25T16:04:00.003-05:00

In "Gras-ti-tude" for Date Night w/ The Ones Big and Tall.
Food.
And Fun.
The Short One isn't much for stand-up comedy and elected to have a sleepover instead.
Anybody want him?
He's cute.

And doesn't snore much.

6 days and counting.

2009-10-24T16:27:00.008-05:00

Someone asked me yesterday how I am "inspired" each of the 30 days of "Katy-Gras" to post all this stuff about ME.
Someone asked me yesterday how I'll celebrate my fortieth birthday after all the emphasis on the "countdown" and the "Gras-ti-tude" and THE ME and all.
I guess the answer to both is, by just being grateful.
There's no real plan for a celebration.
No real method to the posting.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for all that.
And for rest.

We ran the speediest we've EVER run in our short race this morning. SPEEDY. And, I was the one who made the foolish observation, "She's the one over there in yellow," when I was trying to point out a familiar face. That's like saying, "The lady in pink," at the Race for the Cure. LiveStrong is a SEA of yellow. And in the years I've participated, it's gone from a mightily NOT-scenic "out and back" with nary an aid station near the Expo Center, to a thrilling marketing marvel at the Capitol. Everything is branded and packaged and organized and YELLOW. Yellow boxes of yellow chalk to write upon the race course. And these simple yellow cards at the Livestrong Village to adorn w/ honorary and memorial stamped messages ... "I'm a survivor," "In it for the fight," and such. All to affix to this very mod metal "clothesline" w/ mod metal clips to match. I really dig "theme-y" things like that. The attention to detail. Image.
I made one for "Woman!"
She was proud of me.
She also commented on my short hairdo.
She notices details too.
And then today she sent me this picture of her w/ her darling new niece.

I'm proud of her too.

One Week to Go. Living Strong. Like Book Ends.

2009-10-23T07:48:00.020-05:00

I'm STILL counting down the days until my birthday. One more week. And I'll be 40. WHOOP!!

I'm ending this week and beginning the next with a fight. MY fight is simply to be out of bed with running shoes laced at an hour when it's still dark and cold. My fight is NOTHING compared to theirs. Tomorrow is the Livestrong Challenge. A speedy-fast 5K.

This is Livestrong '07. We raced the year after Michele kicked melanoma's ass. This year, she's in grad school ... smart thing ... and her sister just had a precious baby girl ... so they're sitting the race out this year. With good reason. I'll be happy to grab their share of race-day swag AND eat their share of race-day snacks. But, I'll miss 'em.

This is Race for the Cure '07. The boys were little, huh? MAMA'S COMIN' to race this one w/ me again. Next weekend.

As much as I like to think it's ALLLLLL about me, this week, it's not.
I've got a list. People who are way more important than I am.
A list of fighters.
And this week is all about them.

OK, deep breath. Here goes:
My Papa
Barbara R.
WOMAN!!
Michele's Father-in-Law
Michele's Uncle x 2
Johnnie
Van
Neany
Kristina's Mama
Kristina's Papa
Kristina's Brother-in-Law
Kristi
L. Lou's Mama
L. Lou's Nephew
Thomas M.
Russell's Papa
Gran Dot
Clara
Uncle Ralph
Rebecca's friend and her liver
My high school guidance counselor. She was the first person I ever saw in a casket. Wearing a scarf. It made an impression.
Linda from Facebook w/ two young children.
Stephanie's sister with two young children.
Roger R.
Mrs. K.
Mrs. B.
Miss Marilyn
Barbara T.
The friend of a friend w/ the brain tumor that just WILL NOT GO AWAY!
In-laws I've never met. But, I've heard your stories.
There are others.
Brave others.
Type their names in comments and I just might go a little crazy and cover myself w/ their names in black Sharpie in the morning.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for all the fighters who make my life seem as easy as I know it is but that I sometimes/too often don't appreciate.
I'm proud of you.
WOW. Really proud.
Now, about those names? Send 'em in!!

T Minus 8 days.

2009-10-22T12:34:00.006-05:00

I am grateful for our Plain-Bellied Sneetch. For the uncanny ability of The Big One to grow about 25 feet in courage and self-confidence OVERNIGHT and take on 5th grade musical auditions. This time two years ago, he wouldn't consider taking part in choir "because of the MUUUUUsical." This time last year, he firmly stated he would go no closer to the stage than to pull the curtain or switch off the lights. And in a few short months, he's grown to believe and to try and to perform.

Oh, and one last thing. In "Gras-ti-tude" for the school district's 2009-2010 Student Code of Conduct which had to be signed and returned by The Snee ... er, THE BIG ONE ... today. It's 81 pages of things your kid can wear, say, brandish, do or not do to screw up royally in school. The fact that these rules are in place at all, and I'm glad they ARE, helps me appreciate just how darn good my kids are. (Or maybe it's an indication of what I have to look forward to. Naaaaahhhh!)

Interrupting regular programming. 10.21.09

2009-10-21T07:53:00.004-05:00

Today is my 14th wedding anniversary.

It's raining today.
With a 90% chance of rain ALL DAY.
It was NOT raining 14 years ago.
A perfectly gorgeous, breezy day.
When all the men wore white socks w/ their black tuxedos.
(?)
I am so grateful to have someone in my life to whom I can say, "I think there might be something dead in the attic."
What else can you say about someone who is perfection?
Without all "The Perfect," of course.
(The "dead" might be in the wall, but OH the JOY of the search.)

psssst ... NINE more days ... til my birthday ... October is FULL of The Happy.

TEN MORE DAYS! squeallllll

2009-10-20T13:26:00.012-05:00

Back when I worked in a downtown office building, I could leave my building, cross thru the rotunda of our state Capitol building, and land in the very best Chinese restaurant outside of West Texas. (I've said before, Abilene boasts the best Chinese food. And I don't know why. Or care. Just is.) But, the point is, I could walk THRU the rotunda of one of our most recognizable landmarks. Anytime I wanted. And I always made a point to stop right in the middle. Turn a full circle. And appreciate this patriotic and historic gift I was given. "Not EVERYONE gets to do this. Someone out there is eating lunch in HIS TRUCK. And just LOOK at me, would ya?"
So, to back up a few days ...
The Tall One was at a conference. A conference that DOES involve some conferring, but also some good times here and here. And when our Ones Big and Short brought home perfect spelling scores that week, I messaged him that he might wanna find a little trinket at the book store.
So, he did. Cool hoodies w/ the school logo.
But ... they matched.
As in, they were identical hooded sweatshirts. And this is a problem because now The Big One matches The Short One. The Short One is cool w/ this. The Big One ... now boasting a hoodie that TOTALLY breaks the "trinket" budget ... is not.
Usually.
But, this one morning last week, it was cooler than usual and The Short One asked to break out his new jacket. The Big One followed suit and we ripped off the tags and walked out the door.
Matching.
MY concern was not that they matched because DARN they were cute in their hoodies and jeans looking all FALL-like and handsome. But, I was just READY for some overzealous parent/child/teacher/crossing guard to poke fun at the logo. And this bugs me. It's not like the Aggie defensive line is approaching the crosswalk in their jerseys and helmets, in which case, you have every right (I suppose) to talk about their team and how it ranks in preference to yours. These are simply little boys staying warm. (Looking cute.) And wearing a (rather expensive and they BETTER get wear out of it) "trinket."
And I was right.
"Are you KIDDING me?" adults asked.
Thumbs down from some kids.
Thankfully, The Ones didn't show that they cared.
(They also got some smiles, cheers, Gig-'ems.)
I calmly explained to an Anti-Aggie that we simply cheer for the "home team" and, chances are, we'd probably cheer for HIS TEAM TOO. If I had felt like offering an extended explanation, I coulda said the boys' father and I are NOT graduates of this particular university advertised on the MATCHING HOODIES. Our father and I are NOT graduates of the university in our current hometown. But, we will NOT, nor will we teach our children, to cheer AGAINST any other team. It's fine, and admirable, to be spirited, loyal, devoted. But, not at the expense of other players, other teams, other CHILDREN who will do WELL to afford or even EARN a coveted spot at any of our state schools in a few years!
Phew!
So, fast forward to today.
The hoodie "trinkets" are still The Ones outerwear of choice on the way to school.
And this morning I happened to find myself leaving an appointment in the middle of our hometown university. I looked around and thought back to those days in the Capitol rotunda.
How lucky I was to be surrounded by such history. Beauty. Impressive architecture. Museums. The arts.
It is an impressive thing to have such a massive and regarded university all around you.
And I was grateful.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for a beautiful hometown. For its opportunities and history. For its devoted fans, patrons and hometown neighbors. For funky neighborhoods and quirky shops. For our state Capitol. For a university I would be proud for The Ones to attend. Or one just up the road whose diploma hangs on MY wall.
For good sportsmanship. And good leadership.
"Trinkets" we can't afford to be without.

Day 11.

2009-10-19T13:38:00.009-05:00

*Edited this afternoon to add ...
Today Oprah featured two sweet lifelong lady friends. Kinda like us. THEN, at the end of the show the ladies went wild jumping and screaming and "Oh my GOD-ING!!" when Rick Springfield surprised them on the stage. Granted, Rick is looking a little scary these days, but I betcha if Bryan Adams or George Strait were to surprise US on Oprah, there'd be some ugly crying! Ugly, HAPPY crying!!

Text Exchange
Friday, October 16th

"I'm watching Sixteen Candles. Best quote?"
"'Oh, Sam let me look at you. Fred, she's gotten her boobies.'"
"Also good ... 'Thanks for getting my undies back.'"

Text Exchange
Saturday, October 17
"Watching St. Elmo's Fire ... gimme ur best quote."
"'I could be a bag lady. 'course I'd have alligator bags.'"
"'You go ahead w/ your evening w/ Howard. No matter what he looks like.'"

Doesn't matter who's speaking which text line. Or even the year. Could be 1988. Could be last week. Could be that we go 10 months without texting or calling and then it's a race to unload the best quote. Best memory. Best Randy Travis song.

I'm grateful for that familiar friendship. It's always there. Standing right behind a text alert or a ringing phone.

I'm grateful for friends whom I can kick under a table and they don't scream "ow!" Can mutter "don't look now" in a crowd. And they don't.
They remember that I hate cilantro.
I know they prefer sweet tea.
They remind me to order my chicken enchilada soup w/o the grated cheese garnish.
It goes beyond food.
There's a sense.
A comfortable familiarity.
They push me to succeed.
But they let me give up and give in.
They share my past.
They complete my present.

They say you can count on one hand friends like that.

In "Gras-ti-tude" for handfuls of friends. I'm deeply proud and grateful.

Day 12. D'OH!! iPhone needs a flash!!

2009-10-18T11:19:00.004-05:00

Once the crowd had dispersed and the "house lights" came up, The Big One took the outdoor stage w/ his Famous Uncle and Sweet Josh, much to the chanting and cheering and utter delight of his adoring fans.
Me.
The Tall One.
The Short One.
A couple of The Bubbles.
And Uncle Wiggly. The dog.
They played The Big One's original composition.
They "plugged in" so The Big One was the lead. The "star of the show."
Famous Uncle instructed Sweet Josh, "Listen to it first. He's gonna do a thing you might not expect."
The Big One whispered to his Famous Uncle, "I don't think I can do the part, you know, that part that I don't think I can do."
"Don't worry. I'll do that part."
And he did.
And my "Gras-ti-tude" is immense.
Famous Uncle didn't want us to push The Big One to perform. So we didn't. Well, I kinda did. But relented when he repeatedly said no.
So, while all the other students performed early in the evening, The Big One ran around, chasing his friends, sweating and eating sugar cookies topped w/ whipped cream. A LOT of whipped cream.
But, when the pressure was off and everyone was gone. He played.
I have a grainy, black iPhone video of it. A sound recording only, really.
Sweet Josh stayed and played when his family at home probably needed him. And he was tired.
Famous Uncle already had most of the "plug ins" unplugged when The Big One decided to jam.
But, he replugged.
The Bubbles cheered and clapped.
The Big One smiled.
Uncle Wiggly yawned and sauntered home.
A perfect jam.

Day 13. Simply.

2009-10-17T12:16:00.005-05:00

I spent the last week rushing. Feeling overwhelmed. One night, I even caught myself singing karaoke. Badly. It had just all gotten to be too much, I suppose. And I cracked.
(Darn if karaoke wasn't FUN.)
Today I'm grateful for autumn temperatures. I've said that before.
It's just that I'm VERY grateful.
A clean house. At least it's on its way to being clean.
Boys playing nicely.
An afternoon of music. South-Austin-style.
Autumn invites arriving in the mail.
And Hula Hut leftovers for lunch.
I caught sight of Honey today.
She's not THAT hunched.
Hunched, yes. Wind worn, yes. Couldn't see her eyes to get a real feel for her state.
I hope she doesn't know her husband calls her hunched.
No sign of Scott.
I'll keep you posted.
I'm grateful for such simple, random things. That all fit together to form a nice little "Gras-ti-tude" puzzle. Blended perfectly. On a Saturday.
Please enjoy your day too.

An enlightening Day 14.

2009-10-16T07:54:00.011-05:00

Yesterday I met Scott. Shuffling alongside a busy intersection. His sign said, "Will work if you ask me." (That spot is usually worked by a man with two artificial legs. I don't know his name yet.) I was fresh out of anything to offer Scott. No water bottles. No cereal bars. And I'd just used my last nine dimes and two nickels to tip the guy at Thundercloud a NOT very generous tip.
So, I rolled down my window and asked Scott his name.
You know his answer.
And I guess I started my own little social experiment.
"What could I give you right now that would make your life easier?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Socks.
"And a pillow."
"What about a bus pass," I asked.
"Oh, them things are like gold on the street. Yes ma'am, a bus pass would be great."
I clarified w/ him that "like gold on the street" didn't mean he was going to get knocked off by the pregnant lady on the other corner for this prized possession. (She's just up the road by the video store. We've asked her name before, but I'm not sure she can hear. Or maybe she didn't feel like talking.)
He went on to explain that his wife is named Honey. And he demonstrated for me how I'll know her if I see her.
"She's kinda hunched over from MS."
He hunched.
So, THEN. I brought The Ones Big and Short home from school.
I told them I was doing a VERY IMPORTANT survey.
(And NO it wasn't more homework!)
And I asked them the same question.
"What could I give you right now that would make your life easier?"
They didn't hesitate.
"A brand new big, big Lego set."
"A skateboarding game."
"A digital video camera."
"Money? Can I just have money?"
So, I repeated the question. Emphasizing "give you" (not BUY you) and "make your life EASIER" (not MORE FUN.)
I could hear them re-thinking their answers.
"No, not Lego's. Just the video game. Because I don't really have a good skateboarding game."
"Yeah, the camera."
"When are we gonna go get this stuff?"
"Can we go today?"
Then I explained why I asked the question.
And I told them what Scott said.
Socks.
A pillow.
A bus pass to take hunched over Honey to pick up her blood pressure meds.
The Big One got silent.
The Short One started to cry.
"You mean I don't get a video game?"
"But, you saaaaaaiddddd ...."
Children are the most selfish of beings. From the time they are born, they NEED. And they TAKE. Or they will die.
Their world revolves very surely around only them.
Sleeping. Nursing. Eating. Toddling. Later, running. Flag-football-video-game-playing-spelling-test-taking little beings.
But, slowly. Their world will revolve to include Scott.
I know it will.
I'm beginning to see signs. Little flickers of empathy. Compassion.
Little flickers that are unprovoked. Not suggested by me as a good deed. Or another adult as a nice thing to do.
They're just not all the way there yet.
And for that I'm grateful.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for my children being children. Selfish, healthy, happy children.
For a glass-half-full world of smiles and carefree play.
For working hard to learn. And learning to work hard.
For the complete and total trust that their needs will be met.
And our ability to do so.
Oh, and for socks.
I'm grateful for socks.

YOU ARE HALFWAY THERE! (Day 15)

2009-10-15T08:04:00.019-05:00

The last few days I've been a slave to technology. All these instruments designed to make my life faster, better, paperless have forced me to sit. And sit. And click. And sort. And delete. I'm not complaining, just saying.
My digital camera. Aye! I truly miss the ease and anticipation of 35mm film. You handed over the roll to the developer and you never quite knew what your were gonna get. Granted, when you're trying to get the best Christmas card photo, this is not a good thing. But, I used to love those rolls that sat in the camera for awhile and held a few dusty images I'd forgotten I ever snapped. I understand that w/ my digital camera, I have the benefit of choosing the BEST shot. And not PAYING for pix I don't need. Like numerous angles of my new rain boots. But, I had not uploaded a picture to be developed since FEBRUARY! I successfully sent almost 900 shots to my photo Web site, and that took half a day (while I was simultaneously trying to get my online banking files in order) but NOW! NOW!! I have to decide which photos to print. I'm sure it will be less than half because many of them are trying to get my sweet boys to smile. Open your eyes! Look at ME! ME!!
And then the banking. Surely not everyone balances their checkbook to the penny each month?!?
FREE me from that, would ya?
My email boxes, files and archives. THOUSANDS of files. MANY of which could be deleted. So, I started w/ junk in my inbox and got rid of roughly 6,000. And by "junk," I don't mean YOU.
I AM A HOARDER OF E-FILES!! You may intervene if you wish. (THIS, by the way, is a GREAT show. And I'm relieved that there was finally a successful intervention this week. They usually fail.)
Netflix requires I maintain a computer queue.
Carepages.
Signmeup.
Snapfish.
THIS HERE BLOG!! Things are great when they work. But, the other night I spent way too many minutes trying to reset its clock. And forcing it to schedule a post. In the FUTURE. It can do this. I KNOW it can. And it wouldn't.
Even my children's religious education "home work!" Good LORD!!
There's no disputing that technology has saved us from sure ruin as a civilization. I will not tell it I hate it to its face. The benefits far outweigh the trouble; the "slavery." I think.
And now my lovely phone. It'll do whatever I tell it to do. It's very compliant. It even puts its socks on in the mornings w/ no fight whatsoever. And combs its hair. But, in order to TELL it what to do I have to KNOW what I want it to do. How many THOUSANDS of applications are now at my fingertips? I don't know. A lot.
So, I found a free one yesterday. A tip from a Facebook friend. This application will store the numbers of all your shopper discount cards, produce the bar code which can then be scanned (ideally) by the clerk right from your phone. (It's called Cardstar and I haven't seen it in action yet, but it looks pretty cool on the screen. And the idea is fab.)
I signed up for a discount card here once. One of the best stores in the world.
And yesterday they sent me this.

The design of this birthday greeting is brilliant. A birthday candle necklace. Look at how the punch atop the candle where the string threads thru looks like the "flame." CUTE!

And it's a REAL necklace. Inexpensive candle+inexpensive cord+clasp = happy customers. Brilliant marketers. You people I know who are in the BIDNESS. Jewelry or otherwise. DO THIS! This makes me very happy and very likely to use my 15% off coupon. (Even tho' that won't pay for the gas to get there. I feel SPECIAL! And this is the point.)

In "Gras-ti-tude" for the gift of choosing how I spend my time. For the gift of tools "designed" to make it easier. For knowing when to say WHEN ... and stop ...

Gotta run ... I hope you enjoy your day.

Sweet (Day) 16

2009-10-14T06:21:00.000-05:00

Ooh, the Internet is kinda 40. Like me. I wouldn't know some of you w/o the Internet!
The Very Hungry Caterpillar is 40. HEY!! Like me. I'M always Very Hungry.
But, would you just LOOK at what else went on in 69 ??!? You people old enough to know better in '69 were certainly an angry bunch! Aside from the good news of average rent being $135 a month and gas costing around $.35 a gallon and the invention of the battery operated smoke detector ... jeeeeez .... there was lots of war and coups and rising inflation and drinking and drug binges and drowning and dying!
Eek. OK, a little like today. And SOME folks are still MUCH too angry. Lighten up would ya?! It's my birthday!
But, HEY!, at least there was the new Wal-Mart in '69.
There was also Sesame Street.
But, the DYING!
And Yoko and John nekkid.
Oh, the DYING!!
And, just so you know, I paid LESS than average '69 rent in '92 in the last duplex I lived before I married. And I did NOT feel guilty!
Tonight I am grateful for music. Specifically, piano. And the knowledge to read its music.
I took piano lessons at a young age. At a bigger age. And then begged to stop when I was bigger than that. I didn't actually BEG. Mama understood.
But, I am so grateful for the ability to read music. To pick up a song book in church or school or elsewhere and SEE where the notes are heading. To be able to follow along and understand quarter notes, half notes, whole notes. Treble and bass clef. Repeats. Final endings. Forte. FORTISSIMO. piano. pianissimo.
I'm not a musically-gifted sight reader, but I can study and eventually pick out the notes on a sheet of music.
My first piano teacher scared the pants off of me. She also baked goodies at Christmastime out of Corn Flakes and green food coloring that stained her fingers green for a couple of weeks-worth of lessons. That always worried me. She had a great laugh. She had a great big black piano in a little bitty house. He little mother lived with her, I think, and once in awhile her mama would creep out of her bedroom and I remember her being the oldest thing I'd ever seen. She probably wasn't all that old.
My mama had to drive me all the way across town for my lessons.
My next piano teacher was younger than I am now. She had a pretty little house that smelled good. She had pretty makeup and eye shadow that I can still see today. Frosty blue w/ liner that was a frosty brown. She had a young son that lived in a playpen in the kitchen. Once in awhile she'd jump into the next room to check on him. Or check on dinner. I realize now that she was a young mother "working from home." Her dad was my elementary school principal. The man who taught us that "principal" is spelled w/ a "P.A.L." because he's your "friend."
The Big One has "principal" on his spelling list this week. Just guess what story I told him this afternoon.
The Short One is taking piano lessons. But, The Big One has recently taken a liking to the keyboard and has a pretty good ear for it. His fingering is the pits, but he can pick up on a song very quickly and REMEMBER it.
We've pulled out music that was mine. That was my Mama's. We've played some of my old songs. HER old songs. Duets. Scales. Cadences.
I impress him w/ my fairly rusty and unimpressive musical skills. He impresses me w/ his interest and unflagging attempts at perfection. We are IMPRESSIVE musicians.
In "Gras-ti-tude" for making an impression on The Big One.
And for those who IMPRESSED on me the importance of music.

T minus 17 days.

2009-10-13T21:00:00.000-05:00

We are a bit too grateful for the proximity of this restaurant to our house. Our school. Our football practice field. Our church. I believe we could live on these burgers. Just plain. Meat and cheese. And the fries. When we moved from West Texas one of the things we missed most, aside from wide open spaces, pickup trucks, cotton, and STILL the best Chinese food buffets I've ever tasted outside of Vegas, was a good burger joint. West Texas has Rick and Carolyn's Burgers and Fries. I can't remember if THEY called themselves B & F (for Burgers and Fries) but we did. Something about those tasty burgers. And fries. LINES many, many people long after church or on Saturday at noon. Here in Austin, we know about Dot's. Fran's. Dan's. Culver's. Hut's. Until now, there hasn't been a simple, delicious burger in our lives in a convenient location. Culver's is very close, but turning out of their parking lot onto the four-lane near our house is tricky. So, we've fairly overdosed on P. Terry's lately. And they hand out dog bones at the drive thru. Big ol' dog bones. For your dog. Isn't that cute?

Thing is, there was the day I bought an industrial-sized box of those sweet and salty peanut bars that The Big One loved so much. Then, he didn't love them. At all. I am hopeful that my 2.5 burger eater (Yes, he can eat 2 and ONE HALF burgers.) won't change his tune. Because I might cry.

And have you tried these? Wow.

And if you've ever been blessed to try this. Or see it taught. Or see it work. You would lay off the burgers, fries and desserts to write them your last check.

In "Gras-ti-tude" for burgers, fries, desserts and the things that really matter.

Good Morning. Day 18

2009-10-12T08:30:00.000-05:00

I am grateful to The Tall One for his almost daily breakfast prep. And serve. And clean.
I'm not sure how we rolled into this school day routine of me tackling the lunch boxes, backpacks, clothes, and hair/teeth brushing. And him tackling breakfast. Which is bigger than all the lunch boxes, backpacks, clothes, and hair/teeth brushing to ME.
Probably comes from his love of bacon.
And that is FINE.
I just know that when I wander to the kitchen when it's still dark and there's not bacon frying and coffee brewing, I "say a little sigh."
This morning, before even opening his eyes or putting foot to floor, The Big One asked, "What's daddy making this morning?"
The Big One is grateful for orange danish rolls. Or sausage biscuits. And bacon.
The Short One is grateful for waffles or a "cinnamon sandwich." And bacon.
The Beagle is grateful for bites of any of the above. Especially bacon.
I stand in "Gras-ti-tude" for The Tall One and each plate he fixes.
Even on "leftover" day.

19 days til my birthday. Almost 18.

2009-10-11T16:59:00.000-05:00

Continuing my "Gras-ti-tude" List. A 30-day countdown to my Oct. 30 birthday. A month my friends have dubbed "Katy-Gras." (Like Mardi Gras. But, w/o the Mardi part. But just as festive.)

I am grateful for The Short One and his gleeful embrace of holiday decor. I am grateful that he does not allow me to live in the mindset of "ugh, it all has to come down in two weeks anyway, do we really need that big spider on the porch?" I find that glee again thru him.

I am grateful for The Tall One's sharp eyes that spotted my candy-Apple red iPod lost in the wet grass alongside this morning's starting line. I am grateful for the iPod friendly race rules. I am grateful for a consistent personal best finish. Not faster. Not slower. Well, a teeny bit faster considering I was traveling uphill most of the way. I'm grateful for the breakfast tacos. Grandmommy and Vim Axe minding The Ones Big and Short at home. And watermelon juice. You ever have watermelon juice? You should. It makes you grateful for orange!

I'm grateful for the week ahead. The rain. The mist. The cooler temps.
For soup. And stew.

I'll be back in a few hours for Day 18.

Rest well.

TWENTY!!

2009-10-10T09:52:00.000-05:00

In "Gras-ti-tude" for ...
Crisp, autumn mornings on which to SLEEP LATE!
No early-morning, marathon-training track work today because we run tomorrow.
I'll be drinking lots of water today.
Oh, but the late-sleeping?
DEE-vine!

***

We'll see a little more action from Da Bears today. GO BEARS!!

The Short One? Middle o' the sideline pack. Red, shiny shoes.

T Minus 21 days ... and it's taken me this long to write about shoes!

2009-10-09T08:17:00.000-05:00

Shoes.
In "Gras-ti-tude."
I was beginning to "feel" the pavement beneath the soles of my old marathon training shoes. And JUST as they were beginning to look dirty. I must be a very tidy runner.
But, my toes hurt.
Shins hurt.
Elbow hurts. (Can't realistically assign this ache to the need for new shoes ... OH WAIT ... yes I can. It's my birthday month!)

Thanks to my boys who gifted me on Day 22 of Katy-Gras, I'll now have new shoes. And the cutest pink socks. You can bet I won't go HERE to purchase them! Remember??

***

I spied this Hallmark card in HEB recently. I bought all they had.

Veinte Dos ...

2009-10-08T09:05:00.000-05:00

Today I'm grateful for lunch boxes.
"Say whaaaaat??" You say.
Yesterday, one of my favorite Internet "Friends" sat on Oprah's big comfy couch. She explained how grateful she is for being able to do even the littlest things for her children and her family. Bathe her children.
Prepare their meals.
Oprah shared a letter from another mother, whining like we all do about the highs and the lows and the often mundane days of motherhood. One of her "mundane" examples was the "grind" of fixing her children's lunch boxes EVERY. MORNING. "Why won't they just buy their lunch??"
Sounds extreme, I suppose.
But, I've done it!!
I do it!!
The very same words have come out of my mouth.
TO MY CHILDREN!!
Until this morning.
This Internet Friend Who Survived a Fiery Plane Crash, who can bathe her children but can't pick them up even when they ask to be held when they're cold or hurting, REJOICES in making her children's lunches.
HERE'S TO PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICHES!
And juice boxes!
And fruit snax!
I packed w/ a whole lotta gusto this morning.
Thankful for our health and our means.
And for quiet, simple "Gras-ti-tude."

Ladies and Gentlemen ... 23 DAYS!!

2009-10-06T08:44:00.001-05:00

I'm grateful for my Facebook friends.
There.
I said it.
Thing is, those names and faces over there on my Facebook profile aren't just mere acquaintances. They aren't a collection. And they aren't some sort of social experiment.
They are my people.
From all circles of my life.
Past and present.
And some! SOME!! Have been around a long, long time. Some I didn't realize were missing. Some I've thought about so often during the years. I've told my boys about them. My husband. One day they were just a memory of my younger years and then NOW!! Here they are.
In "Gras-ti-tude."
For my Facebook friends.
Who are so much more than that.
Really.

Kristi and I were first friends in the days of Luv-It jeans. Shaun Cassidy. Permed hair. Wild Musk perfume. Sleepovers. Church lock-ins. Newly shaved legs! First crushes. First boyfriends. First break-ups hours later. Pen pals. Passing notes in class.
We were the team who deep fried egg rolls for a 6th grade project on China. She wasn't around by the time I had to boil a frog carcass and reassemble its bones in 9th grade.
Ahh, but, we'll always have the memory of the egg rolls.
And now she's back. Just like that.

Chad has a full page in my elementary school scrapbook. He was around for the egg rolls. He was the "new guy from the big city" who moved to our smallish town. He knew about the J. Geils Band. And Tempest. He knew how to roller skate backwards. He sent me my first-ever flower. From a boy! From a florist! A pink rose for Valentine's Day. He let me wear his green sweatsuit jacket. The sign of TRUE commitment in the days before letter jackets and senior rings. We shared a seat on the school bus. We smooched. And we got caught by a teacher. He now lives in one of my very favorite Texas towns. He's successful and funny and has a beautiful family.

I have another dear Facebook friend who was gone for way too many years.
And now he's threatened to pace me thru the last few miles of the Houston Marathon in January.
That would be cool.
I'll take a picture.

There are more.
My 4th grade pen pal from Tennessee who I met in person in 6th grade, corresponded w/ til high school, lost track of until FACEBOOK led her to me ...
Others.
More.
Can't count all the tales.
I'm grateful for my Facebook friends.
Just wanted you to know.

T Minus 24.

2009-10-06T03:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a "first day of school" of sorts for The Tall One Who Lives in Our House, Provides for Us and Makes All Things Possible. Like Eating.
In our house, we tend to call anything resembling a "first," a "first day of school," because is there really anything more exciting? Or anticipated? Or rehearsed? Or freakishly scary?
Yesterday was a passage. A move from the familiar and the comfortable and the established into a new phase. A phase w/ an as yet unknown outcome (as if any "outcome" is really ever "known.") A phase of familiar faces but unknown abilities.
After days of nostalgia and reliving proud memories and accomplishments, we're charting new territory.
He didn't even wear a tie.
He wore boots.
And, I swear to you, when I talked to him mid-morning, he was giddy.
You doubt me?
Those of you who know the The Tall One well enough to know that The Tall One does not DO giddy?
He was giddy.
Swear.
I heard it.
My "Gras-ti-tude" for the past, the present and the unknown outcomes?
For The Tall One?
Immense.
Immeasurable.
And freakishly scary.

25 days and counting. And I reminded my children this morning.

2009-10-05T07:51:00.000-05:00

Tho' I confess to taking two Advil after the first night of suffering on an insufferable mattress/foam pad at mommy camp, I am grateful for my strong back that will be 40 in 25 days.
I also want to show my "gras-ti-tude" for this yoga pose that Suz and I learned last week. I might've used it to relieve my sore back at camp had there been a wall in the cabin NOT obstructed by bunk beds or boxes of wine.
Last week at yoga, when I finally got my backside close enough to the wall to then "thread the needle" and "sweep" my legs into a vertical pose, I giggled. In yoga. I don't think there's a name for that. But, it reminded of those days at Judy Moore School of Dance when we earned an hour of acrobatics. We called it gymnastics, but it was an hour of rolling and somersaulting and giggling. I loved those awesome fun side rolls where you'd tuck your shoulder to roll on your side and fan your legs in the air. Tough for me to explain but easy to remember. In fact, until last week I didn't realize I'd forgotten. I haven't forgotten the lemon drops Mrs. Moore doled out at the end of every session. Or the red hots in the seasonal pot of hot Dr. Pepper.
But, I digress.
It's called "legs on wall" or some such.
There is rolling and fanning involved.
And giggling.