Our Love Story (Valentine's Day Post)

Our Love Story (You have Lori Jones to thank for this LOL)

by Tami Golden Wyant on Saturday, February 12, 2011 at 3:16am

So my friend, Lori Ellis Jones, posted," I want to hear more about you two's story! Seriously...real life true love lasting stories like yours are testimonies worth telling! ;)"

#1 Never ask me to tell a story unless you mean it.  <g>

#2 Our story is definitely worth telling...at least I think so.

Dan and I met, athough I cannot exactly recall specifics of this meeting, in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class at Elwood Haynes school in Kokomo.  By third grade, when we were both in Mrs. Ellison's class, he had become the boy who had to sit on the paddle a lot while I was your basic know-it-all, play by the rules sort of girl.  Our paths hardly crossed.

My family moved to Windfall after that school year.  I started a whole new 'rural' life here while he was living directly behind the Markland Mall in what is now Kokomo Comics.  We were living two very different kinds of lives. 

Fast forward three years.  Now I am in the 7th grade and he has advanced to 8th grade.  This is the age my 'baby' is now. Somehow I thought of myself as a 'grown up'.  Clearly, I was mistaken.  But that's another story for another day.

My aunt had recently divorced and moved into a house on the corner of E. Virginia and Calumet.  Her three daughters were very young, and she was in need of a sitter over spring break while they were out of school.  My best friend...was then, is now, Pam (Summers) Gilbody...and I embarked on what was my first real adventure.  We were two junior high girls spending a full week in a 'big' town, basically unsupervised, and in fact, expected to be the supervision for my cousins.

So one day Pam and I were out on the porch when this cute blond boy walked down the side street.  We were from another town so no one knew us which gave us a little boldness we wouldn't otherwise have had.  We called to him, just silly 13 year old girl stuff.  He looked at us and smiled and oh my word, I knew him.  Danny Wyant.  

What had happened to him?!?  In three years he had gone from goofy paddle sitter to super cute boy.  Oh my gosh, what if he recognized me?  How embarrassing!  What if he didn't?  How disappointing.  My heart beats fast now just thinking about it.  

He walked by the house again.  We watched, of course.  As it turned out, there was a clear view from the front porch of my aunt's house to his back yard.  We saw him go inside.  We knew that was where he lived.  Our silly thirteen year old girl minds went into overdrive.  My cousins were going to be picked up by their dad and my aunt wouldn't be home til late, so we were going to have a window of opportunity opening.  We began plotting our next move.  

As fate would have it, my mother had a friend who lived one street over from him.  The back of her house was caddycorner to the back of his.  Pam and I made our way to Pat's house.  From her kitchen window, there was an unobstructed view of Danny and his friend Billy playing basketball behind his house.  

I don't know what reason we gave Pat for our visit.  Whatever reason it was, it was completely lame, and she completely knew it.  At some point, we confessed that we were spying out the boys.  Turned out, Pat was also friends with Danny's mom.  She knew him and knew him well.  And she was willing to help us out.

While we giggled and gushed, Pat opened her back door and hollered across the alley to the boys, asking them if Pam and I could play basketball with them.  Without hesitation, they said yes.  

Now this is the funny thing, I can remember that day with utter clarity.  I was wearing a black pull-over windbreaker I borrowed from dad.  I still have it.  He was wearing white tennis shoes and a red sweatshirt.  He was thin and gangly, more legs than torso.  His hair was kind of a mix of 80s Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassity...a little long, a little wild, feathered in the front.  He definitely had this cocky walk and self-confidence I hadn't seen in the boys I knew.  I say all that, but the truth is, he was probably just like my Aaron, less the 80s hair of course...just a boy, more show than substance.

Let me preface this next paragraph by saying, I was never the girl boys were interested in in junior high.  I was plain looking, gapped teeth, thicker than most and slightly abrasive to boot.  Plus, I had this really petite, little cute as a button best friend that attracted way more attention than I ever could.  So when Danny Wyant showed a definite interest in me, ME, I was both shocked and a little scared. He was certainly out of my league.  I was green as green could be, and I had the feeling he wasn't.  But there was something so exciting about having a boy genuinely interested in me.  (Note:  That is also the reason I started talking to my sons very frankly and very openly about all things boy/girl very early and very often. I know puppy love can end up being true love and first love can be forever love.)

When it started getting dark, Danny and Billy walked us back to my aunt's house.  Pam went inside. Billy seemed to just disappear.  Then we were alone.  I had never been alone with a boy.  We both mulled around in my aunt's back yard awhile, not wanting to go our separate ways quite yet but knowing our time together was quickly coming to an end.  In the moment, it all seemed so grown up.  But in reality, I know we were just two awkward little kids muddling through a complicated rite of passage.

I just remember standing face to face, my hands on his shoulders, his loosely on my waist, much like you'd see a couple at a typical junior high dance.  There was this long silence, this painfully long time where neither us said a word or made a move.  I know it's been 28 years....28 years...but I can still clearly remember breaking through that stillness in my coarse manner and asking, "Are you going to kiss or what?"

I don't know what I would have done if he would have chosen 'or what', but he didn't.  He kissed me.  My first, "this is really happening", WOW kiss.  I don't know that it was capital L love, but it was something.   I was over the moon.  I like to believe he was too.  I know if I asked him about it now, he'd know to say he was.

Anyway, that's how it all started.   We had our first official date shortly thereafter.  We went to Pro Pizza.  It's now Yogi's on the corner North and Washington.  We went with an older couple who were friends of his, old enough to drive.  My aunt gave me permission to go.  My mom never would have.

Over the next few years, we had your typical teenaged relationship.  Before I was old enough to drive, my mom would drop me off at his dad and stepmom's house while she went grocery shopping.  It was the best hour and a half of my week back then.  We spent a lot of time on the phone, but it wasn't like now.  There was just one house phone and it had a cord.  I'd string that curly Q cord across the kitchen and into the stairwell and close the door.  We'd sit there for hours but rarely say a word.  We went to a couple dances, although that wasn't really Dan's thing.  He gave me this big Avon ring one Valentine's day at a dance.  I still have it. I'd go fishing with him, although that wasn't really my thing. I read more than I ever fished.  So many memories...so long ago but just like yesterday in my mind.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  It wasn't always peaches and cream.  There was drama...most of it unnecessary.  There were a couple break ups.  We made a lot of mistakes. We fussed sometimes and fought sometimes, but in the end, we figured this much out...we belonged together.  

I graduated from high school on a Friday night.  Got married Saturday afternoon.  And moved out of state Sunday morning.  Shortly thereafter, we got a congratulations card in the mail...from Mrs. Tupper, our kindergarten teacher.

I don't know what made two eighteen year olds with no jobs to go to and very little money think they could just get married and make a life, but that's what we did.  We've made a life.  We added children two years later...twin boys, Kyle and Zachary. Now they're twenty and we're beginning to let them go.  Our 'baby' is fourteen, and who knows, maybe he's already met the love of his life and just doesn't know it yet.  Makes me a little sad...bittersweet this whole motherhood thing.  This must be how my mom felt when I first told her about Danny Wyant.  But if my boys and their future wives love each other like Dan and I love each other, well, that kind of love is nothing short of life altering...and that's what I wish for them. 

Happy Valentine's Day

A Post Valentine's Day Look at "Soul Mates"

Ok, let me preface this little diatribe by saying I am more pragmatic than romantic.  I'm not necessarily a subscriber to the notion of love at first sight, and I'm definitely no proponent of the whole modern idea of "soul mates".  Now this may sound a bit odd to those of you who read my Valentine's day message.  (I'll repost that here for those of you who may have missed it.)  It would seem that if anyone would believe in cupid's arrows and happily ever after stories, it would be me.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely DO believe in true love and that marriages can last a lifetime.  But I also know that it's going to take a whole lot more than a naked baby-man drawing back his bow to make that happen.  Love at first sight is a misnomer, in my opinion.  You can have attraction at first sight, lust at first sight, interest at first sight.  You can have butterflies in your stomach at first sight.  Skyrockets in flight at first sight.  But you cannot have love, real love, at first sight.  Love should never be taken so lightly as to think of it as easy come...or easy go.  

To believe that there are genuine "soul mates" one must believe there is but one perfect mate with whom he or she is destined to share this life with.  But I simply don't believe that's the way it is.  


You know how I love to relate everything in life to laundry so let me use a sock analogy.  We all know, socks come in pairs.  But those pairs are typically packaged in sixes or twelves or whatever the case may be...but always in pairs.  Now within that package, let's say of white athletic socks, all the socks are viable mates for any of the others.  It isn't necessary for me to keep Sock A with Sock B and Sock C with Sock D.  A will match D just as well as it matches B...or C for that matter.  They all become interchangeable.  


Now if I determine to keep Sock A and Sock B together, I certainly can do that.  It will, however, require a greater investment in time, energy and diligence than just mating any two like socks from the same package together.  The options aren't really even limited to just the socks from that package.  Any socks of the same brand and appearance would work equally as well.  


Even socks with more unique patterns and colors are unlikely to be one-of-kind pairs.  Chance are there are many other 'matching' socks to be had.  And who among us hasn't worn a pair of near matches before...two similar but not perfectly mated socks?  We figure our pants will hide the fact that we have on one navy and one black sock so we just go with it on a busy morning.  We have made a pair out of two things that were never intended to be so, and the truth is, they function perfectly well together.  


If we are willing to accept the idea that things don't have to match but rather only have to work well together...go together, as it were, the pairing possibilities become limitless.  


It really isn't that much different with people.  People most often find their mate within the 'package' they come...their hometown or at school or work or church or wherever their personal geography most conveniently allows.  To think that there are no other potential or equally qualified candidates for life partnership outside our little circle of relevance is very shortsighted in my opinion. 


This is evidenced by the swell of relationships getting their start in cyberspace.  People who would have had no other opportunity to cross paths are finding one another through the internet.  With all the online dating sites and social networking possibilities, the constraints geography once imposed are basically nonexistent.  


We also live in a time where other restrictions have been lifted when it comes to finding a perfectly suitable mate.  Color, age, socioeconomics, even gender no longer firmly limit the pool from which people have to choose a potential life partner. (I'm not making any political or moral statements there...just calling it like I see it.) So I repeat, if we are willing to accept the idea that things...and people...don't have to match but rather only have to work well together...go together, the pairing possibilities become limitless.  


To believe there is one singular perfect person out there for each of us just doesn't seem likely to me.  More likely, in my opinion, is that there are multiple legitimate, suitable even exceptional options for each of us when it comes to a life mate.  That's the reason a man or woman who loses a treasured and beloved spouse can, with time, have a heart that is not only prepared but also eager to be connected to another.  It doesn't in any way negate the veracity with which he or she loved the first mate, it merely makes it apparent that there isn't but one singular 'soul mate' for each of us.


What makes any two people truly work as a couple is what made Sock A and Sock B work in my analogy earlier. There must be a determination to invest time and energy into the relationship.  It will mean giving due diligence to nurturing and protecting the union.  It will require perseverance and prudence.  It demands commitment and trustworthiness.  When the pressures and the circumstances of life set out to turn everything upside down and inside out, A and B must be somehow purposefully connected to one another to stay together.  


Fate, as it were, may bring people together, but that isn't what will keep them that way.  Physical attraction is powerful, but beauty has to more than skin deep to really last.  Those giddy, gushy feelings are great, but they're also fickle.  


It really all comes down to choices, in my opinion.  We choose a mate, based on whatever criteria we personally deem valid.  We choose to love.  We choose to overlook certain things.  We choose to value others.  We choose a lifestyle.  We make choices about children, money, making a home.  We choose what things are negotiable and what things aren't...what we can live with and what what we can't live without.  And none of those things should be taken lightly or happen by accident.  I know they sometimes do, but they shouldn't, if you ask me.  


Love, marriage, commitment, raising a family...all those things require such an incredible amount of work and determination.  No amount of chemistry or 'magic' can form a strong enough foundation to build an entire life together on. No one gets to happily ever after without a few poison apples, a lost slipper or two or some serious twists or turns in their story.  It's all the stuff between their eyes meeting across a crowded room and death doing them part that makes a real love story.  

Snapshots of Life

I am not a very photogenic gal.  I have more than my fair share of unflattering pictures to prove it.  Whether it's bad hair, bad angle, bad outfit or just plain bad, the camera does not love me.


Sometimes the snapshots of life are much the same.  The snapshots of life are those little moments of time caught forever in someone's memory that do not always show me in my best light.  They are mental pictures that may not accurately, or at least wholly, reflect who I am.  


I dare say, we all have some hideous snapshots of life archived somewhere. Sometimes those snapshots are of ourselves, things we have done or said that we wish we could take back. Harsh words we've said to our children or spouses.  Ugly, unloving or unforgiving actions we have taken against people we consider among our best friends.  Callous, unkind or right down derogatory comments we have made about people we hardly even know, let alone have any right to judge.


We get caught in these unflattering poses for a lot of reasons.  Sometimes it's just really bad timing.  We lose our cool and react badly when circumstances don't go our way and then...SNAP...you realize someone caught that shot of you. It isn't who you always are, it's just who you happened to be at that specific moment.


Sometimes we exercise poor judgement merely because of youth or a lack of foresight, but nevertheless, that picture is forever etched in someone's mind.  From that moment on, they see us in that particular light...careless, immature, selfish, lazy, rude..the list goes on and on. It isn't who we are now, but it's who they choose to forever see us as.


Sometimes we stick our nose into a place it never belonged, whether a real place or an emotional one.  But by the time we realize we've gone too far, someone has already developed a very unattractive picture of who we are...busy-body, interloper, troublemaker.


Sometimes the flash of the camera catches us completely by surprise.  We weren't even aware anyone was watching.  Had we realized we had an audience, we would have behaved differently.  We would have been more gracious, more cautious. While the image we produce may leave us feeling uncomfortable or compromised, we can deflect blame onto the one who captured the image because they did so in some covert manner. 


But most often, it's our deliberate, willful choices that produce the most grotesque images of ourselves burned into the memories of others.  The purposeful decisions we've made that have led to heartache or hardship...the thoughtlessness with which we've pursued our own objectives..the lies we've told...the rumors we've spread...the lack of compassion we've shown...the language we've used...the attitudes we have adopted about particular people whether because of their race, religion, economic position or political slant...all these things conjure up certain pictures of us in the minds of others, and they're not always pretty.  Even things we've done with defined intent can leave regrettable prints behind.


We all have things we would do differently if we could, history we would rewrite for ourselves.  We all hope to be seen in the best light possible rather than memorialized in some repugnant and abominable fashion.  We all have snapshots of life we'd just as soon leave out of our personal photo albums.


So why is it that we are so quick to take these kinds of snapshots of others?  And why are we so reluctant to accept that those isolated moments we catch of those around us may be just as distorted as some of our own snapshots of life?  Why are we so unwilling to accept that the pictures we have in our mind of our fellow men and women may not truly reflect the entirety of who they are?  Why do we lack mercy and grace when evaluating others when we so desire it when others evaluate us?  Why do we focus on the flaws and failures of people rather than seek to find the beauty in them?  Why can't we use some kind of Photoshop or Picnik when it comes to the snapshots of life rather than using a magnifying glass and highlighter on them?  


Sometimes a picture is worth a million words, but even a million words doesn't always tell the whole story.  Before I snap a picture of you, I'll try to remember that.  And before you snap a picture of me, could you please do the same?

All the world's a stage

I like to think of myself as a relatively intelligent woman.  I'm articulate, insightful and fairly well informed.  But the truth of the matter is, I don't even know what I don't know.  There's a whole world out there I have no true knowledge of...creatures I have never seen...ideas I have never given consideration...lives with which I will never intersect.  There are places I will never go.  Adventures I will never experience.  There are dreams I cannot even conceive with the limited scope of my mind's eye.  It's unfathomable the amount of existence I will never have any awareness of.

We all live in a world so much bigger than we are.  And yet, we seem to live in little pods, communities, families that have convinced this is all there is to life.  We repeat the patterns of our parents who simply repeated the patterns of their parents before them.  We mimic what we see on television or in society with little to no real thought about the value or long-term implications of such things. We are shown examples of what we ought to be and become a culmination of what many others have shaped us to be.  We are given a script and asked to either follow it or revise it to suit us but to never stray too far from the outline.

We are all little actors on little stages, performing little routines for our own personal little audiences.  We all have the potential to be stars in these productions...to shine bright and burn white hot.  Conversely, we all have the option to disappear into the chorus and leave nary a mark on the world as we pass through it.  

Who I am is not who I always thought I would be.  The character I portray has changed throughout my forty years, and I'm certain it will change at least a few more times before my performance on this life's stage is over.  That's what keeps life interesting, makes it all worth it, small role though it be in the overall scheme of things.

For me, a person with a wealth of opinions and often lacking self censorship, what I have come to understand about this whole production we call life is that, while I am the star of my own production, I am not the star on anyone else's stage...not my husband's....not my childrens...not my parents'.  My importance varies widely as I make guest appearances in each of their lives as well as in the lives of my friends, co-workers and even the strangers I pass on the street.  The big things on my stage may be mere footnotes on theirs.  And that's the way it's supposed to be.  I make a mark on you.  You make a mark on me.  We all make a mark on the world, the stage, we leave behind.


Only a rare few performers have had lasting mass appeal.  Only a few go down in history as being among the greats.  A Mother Teresa, a Martin Luther King Jr., an Albert Einstein...not necessarily each one of kind but each remembered above all the others with their particular bent.  There are far more nameless, faceless performers who have graced this stage than those we have elevated to superstar status.  But regardless, each has played a significant role...a unique, personal portrayal of a life lived...whether well done or wasted.

For me, I hope to live my life in such as way as to make a positive impact on the performances of those around me...to influence the character development of my sons...to be the lifelong love interest of my husband...to be a comedian without becoming a joke...to be a powerhouse without overshadowing my co-stars...to be a superhero when one's needed and a well seasoned sage throughout.


Though my stage be small and my admirers be few, an award-winning performance comes from a life well lived.  If I accomplish this, I will consider my performance quite stellar. 

Go-fers

When my husband starts a project, whether around the house, with one of the vehicles or in the yard, there is one thing I can count on.  At some point, I will be his official go-fer.  Go-fer this part.  Go-fer that tool.  Go-fer this thing or that.  I don't mind the go-fering, per se.  But when I don't exactly know what I'm shopping for, I can just about bet I'll have to call home for further information at one point or another.

Some go-fering trips are more challenging than others.  For instance, when hubby doesn't know what the technical term for something is, which is what happened when he sent me for what he called 'gutter clips'.  As it turns out, there was nothing labeled 'gutter clips' but several things that I could visualize as being 'gutter clips'.  I used the camera on my phone to snap shots of various 'clips' so he could choose just which ones he wanted me to get.

When I was shopping for tile and the supplies to install it, my husband had full confidence I could do that myself while he kept working on our new bathroom.  The tile was mentally exhausting for me, but something I eventually was able to settle on with a little reassurance from my mother that it would look great.  But the supplies, that was another story.  I don't know how many phone calls I had to make to ask him about the grout...quick setting or not.  Sealer...spray on type or roll on type.  Adhesive...big bucket or little bucket.  

Then there's the calls he makes to me while I'm running these little errands so he can add more and more items to my shopping list.  I cannot tell you how many times I have had to leave the check out line to go get one more thing or back track through a store to find something else he needs. 

I have often told him it might be faster if he would just get what he needs himself.  After all, he isn't getting that much done here at home if he's had to be on the phone with me half a dozen times.  And truthfully, it can be very frustrating searching for things I'm not familiar with in stores filled with things I'm clueless about. 

I'm not sure my husband has fully appreciated just how arduous these kinds of shopping trips can be until now.  For the last two weeks, while I have been off my feet, he and our sons have been doing the grocery shopping.  Not just stopping and picking up a couple things...the whole family-sized, week's worth, heavy haul grocery shopping.

I will give them credit.  They have done a fine job doing something that ranks high on my list of most time consuming chores.  But even with a very detailed list, laid out for them row by row through the grocery store with name brands and prices included for advertised items, I think they still had to call home six or eight times today while shopping to double check on things.  They were legitimate questions, such as could Swiss steak be substituted for round steak if the price per pound is the same and does it matter if the soft shells for tacos come off the shelf or from the refrigerated section, but I couldn't help but chuckle as call after call came in.

I think today he and the boys have a much deeper appreciation of what I do week in and week out, but they also understand that being a go-fer isn't always as easy as it seems.  I know next time he sends me out on some great mission at a big box home improvement store, he'll have a little more empathy for me if I have to keep calling home for help. 

Growing Old Together

It's amazing the changes my forty year old self is going through.  It isn't just the obvious things either...the wrinkles, gray hair and sagging upper arm skin.  It's the stuff no one else can see...no one else knows about.  Or maybe everyone else knows but they just aren't talking about it.

For the first time in my life really, the possibility of being 'old' genuinely looms large.  In my twenties, even my thirties, 'old' was somewhere far away.  It was a place I might go when I ran out of things to do or at least the energy to do them.  It was almost an inconceivable land where the pace is slow and demands of this life dwindle down to a manageable level.  A place that seemed to be a million miles away just a breath or two ago. 

I used to say I wanted to grow old with my husband.  Now I realize I already am growing old with him.  But growing old together looks and feels so much different than I thought it would.

Twenty plus years ago, I imagined growing old with this man I have loved in one form or fashion since I was thirteen years old would mean me in a house dress and slippers and he in old man jeans and a flannel shirt sitting on the front porch in our rocking chairs, maybe bouncing grand babies on our knees.  I was envisioning 'old' the way my Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy were 'old'.  That's how they looked.  Old.  And still loving one another. 

I didn't see all the time they put into growing old together.  My memories of  them begin when they were closer to the finish line than the starting blocks.  But I didn't have to be there to know they had spent many years building a life, raising children, making a home.  They had figured out how to get through disagreements and disparities.  They had invested in one another in every way imaginable.  They had shared everything...laughs, tears, dreams, fears...secrets just the two of them knew.  All those things come together and accumulate over time and form the firmest of foundations.  

The love my great aunt and great uncle shared wasn't flashy or wild, but it was palpable.  What do I know, maybe there was a time when it was flashy and wild.  But in the time I knew them, they loved one another in the  deep and abiding way only years of life experience together could produce.  It was a love that didn't fade away even when her physical and mental abilities did.  When she became totally dependent on others for literally everything, he was there.  What he couldn't give her himself, he made sure others did.  And what he couldn't have from her anymore, he still possessed in abundance through his memories.  Even after she was gone, she was never far from him.  

My husband and I bear very few physical resemblances to Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy.  We live our lives in a completely different way than they did.  I doubt I'll ever be in a dress of any kind, and I can't imagine my hot husband in old man jeans.  I doubt our lifestyle is anything like theirs was.  But somehow I think we're probably not as different from them as we are the same.  Our goals and dreams and hopes of growing old together...sharing a past, embracing a present and looking forward to a future together are just the same.  

This past week, as I've been out of commission with a bum knee, my wonderful husband has been just incredible.  He's taken care of my every need.  Gently loving me in word and deed, putting my needs at the forefront of everything else.  When we were younger, it probably would have been my mother coming over to help out.  But now, it's him and me.  That's they way it should be.  That's the way I always want it to be...for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health for now and for always.  I intend to love this man and share my entire self with him...to both grow and age together.  I love you, Dan.

Public Bathrooms

Forty years and three children have wreaked havoc on my body in many ways.  But perhaps the most annoying relates to bladder control, or a lack thereof.  Let's just say, when I've got to go, I've got to go.  I can literally pee on cue.  Just passing a bathroom spurs the urge.  It is not a pleasant reality nor one I ever would have predicted when I was younger.  

I no longer take my ability to hold it for granted.  Something as simple as laughing or as benign as a sneeze can spell big trouble these days.  Many a day I have waddled in from work, precariously making my way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope to get there in time.  When my kids were little, I called that the pee pee dance.  Now I call it the please don't pee pee dance.  

Unfortunately, this lack of control doesn't restrict itself to when I'm home.  So, out of sheer necessity, I have become quite the public restroom aficionado.  I have developed an odd appreciation for a good lavatory, as my Grandpa Hudson used to called it.  


I can tell you who has really nice restrooms and regrettably, who doesn't.  These are things one can only learn through experience.  Now, keep in mind, I'm a person who refers to my kids' bathroom as the gas station bathroom because of it's frequently unsavory conditions so I wouldn't generally consider myself a particularly picky restroom connoisseur. I can tolerate a lot. But there are some issues I think public restroom designers should take into consideration.


First off, no woman wants to straddle the stool to get the door closed.  I'm all for conserving space, but seriously, give us enough room to get in the stall without hovering over the toilet.  If the door scrapes the front of the john, it isn't good.  If we were standers instead of sitters, our behinds would be pressed up against the metal door, for Pete's sake.  Now how hygienic would that be?


Secondly, give a little thought to the placement of the diaper changing station.  I think giving mom a place to change that little tyke's dirty pants is a terrific idea, but must it be the main attraction upon entering the restroom?  Move that handy dandy little wall-mounted table into it's own stall or at least to the back of the room.  Junior may need therapy if memories of his bare bottom being exposed to everyone in the big box store ladies room surface later in his life. 

When one enters a stall and takes a seat, she isn't, at first, thinking about the placement of the stool behind the door.  But once perched upon that porcelain pedestal, poor stool location becomes not only obvious but often embarrassing.   There's nothing more disconcerting than finding oneself mid-stream and nearly fully exposed through the big ol' gap in the stall door.  If we wanted to be on display when we go, we'd just cop a squat somewhere.  Either narrow that crack or at least make sure there's no money shot for every one entering the restroom by placing the stool squarely behind the door itself.  


A hook of some sort is, in my opinion, a necessity in every ladies room stall.  I do not want to have to sit my purse on the bathroom floor or try to balance it on top of the sanitary napkin disposal box or hang it from my neck while I do my business.  It doesn't have to be anything fancy...just someplace cleaner than the floor and less likely to choke me to death than dangling around my neck.

I don't want a toilet paper dispenser that's so close to the bottom of the wall I can hardly get my hand up under it to get the paper free or so far away I can hardly reach it.  I don't want the dispenser to be so tight I can only get two sheets at a time.  If I need six squares, I want six squares, and I will fight to get them if I have to.  And I never ever want toilet paper that feels like sand paper.  I don't care what kind of budget a place is working with, two ply cannot possibly be the thing that puts a business in the red.  


I doubt the paper towel cost has been the ruin of many, if any, a business either.  I understand air dryers save trees and make less waste, but seriously, I don't have thirty minutes to stand there and try to get my hands dry.  Either upgrade to those wind tunnel type dryers or give me some actual paper towel please.


And while a need for cleanliness goes without saying, I'll say it anyway.  There's nothing more repulsive than dribble on the seats or an unflushed toilet.  It's bad enough when it's a relative leaving the mess behind, but when it's a perfect stranger...EGAD!  If you're big enough to use the big girls' potty, you're big enough to clean up after yourself.  


Ok, time for a bathroom break.  :-)

My Great Nemesis

I have a great nemesis.  Now perhaps the word 'nemesis' conjures up thoughts of Marvel Comic villains such as Lex Luthor or the Joker.  Or maybe it brings to mind that girl back in high school who always seemed to be able to 'one up' you in every possible way.  But for me, my great and formidable foe is a heaping basket of unmatched socks.

My nemesis lurks in the laundry room, daring me to take him on.  It is not a challenge I take lightly.  Many a day I have sought to defeat this mortal enemy only to retreat in utter despair.  He seems to laugh at me as he produces one mismatched sock after another, wearing me down with the sheer enormity of his arsenal.  

I have tried many a tactic to outwit my worthy rival. I started out trying to buy each boy a very distinctive style of sock...short black socks for this boy, tall white socks for another, and something with a colored heel for the third.  That should have made partnering them up quick and easy.  But somehow both socks never ended up hitting the laundry at the same time.  The random stray would later be found under the couch or tucked inside a shoe.  His perfect match would then take up residence in that blasted basket.


For a while, I tried to make sure only mated pairs went into the washer.  It was a huge inconvenience, not to mention a big irritation, to sort through dirty socks and hold on to the unmated ones until their counterparts revealed themselves.  But even going through such painstaking efforts didn't guarantee getting mated pairs back at the  end.  I was fairly certain my great adversary and the dryer were in cahoots on that one.

So with four males in the house, all wearing the same size socks, I decided I would just buy them all the same socks so everything would match everything else.  It sounded like the perfect plan to me.  But somehow, even two white socks fail to mate when one is white as snow and another is dingy brown from going through who knows what.   


And then there's the dress socks.  One blue. One black. One brown.  One with stripes.  One argyle. But a common theme among them all...just one of each.  All of them coming together in one place...that infernal laundry basket!

Unfortunately, it isn't only unmatched socks piling up against me.  That one dreaded laundry basket has become a depository for a plethora of old soccer and football socks.  I don't know how many pair of thick, knee high, never-to-be-worn-again athletics socks he has taken possession of, but he does so to my chagrin.    It isn't that anything is 'wrong' with these orphaned socks.  But one year on the red team and another one on the green team times three boys times multiple sports has produced a lot of socks over the years.  Many have made their way to Goodwill but many still have taken up residence with my archenemy. 


But last week, with Christmas coming and new socks on the way, I waged an all out war against my great opponent.  With reckless abandon, I overturned him, spilling his sizable accumulation of form fitting footwear onto the living room floor.  I gave everyone in the house a minute...maybe less...to quickly pluck from the pile anything they deemed worthy of saving.  And then, with no regard for whether anything else might be salvageable (which has been my downfall on many a prior occasion), I made one final brutal assault against my longtime opponent.  With a sigh of relief and a feeling of victory deep in my belly, I scooped everything up and threw it all away.  Having left my former foe completely decimated, I smiled with delight and proclaimed a new day...a new day for laundry at our house.


From now on, every man, woman and child in this house is responsible to wash, dry, fold and put away his or her own socks.  We have each been doing our own regular laundry for quite some time so this seems like a very reasonable, even ingenious solution to my sock problem.  However, I know from past experience to never underestimate this great nemesis of mine.  I will definitely keep my guard up...and my laundry sorted.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future

Merry Christmas!  

When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house.  Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together.  There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.

By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found.  I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be.  Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter.  When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.  


I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house.  It was really just a matter of necessity.  None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger.  At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house.  Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.  


Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere.  We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us.  Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day.  Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's.  Maybe it was just me.  I wasn't little anymore.  The anticipation of Santa was gone.  Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.


When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again.  It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore.  Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family.  I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.

Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis.  The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore.  In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years.  And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.


This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together.  It was grand.  A fabulous time.  My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents,  two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.  


It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different.  I wonder how it felt to the kids.  Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere?  I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night.  Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's?  And how about my siblings?  Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them?  Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.  


I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations.  The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.  


When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life.  How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other.  Oh how precious these days are.  How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over.  And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.

To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories.  May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another.  Merry Christmas!

Raging bull

I can be a bit of a raging lunatic sometimes.  Occasionally, I feel the overwhelming need to just let it all go.  Spout...rant...rave...just completely blow my top and let all the steam come out.  When one of my many hot buttons gets pushed, I quickly and freely let my thoughts, feelings and frustrations fly.  My husband thinks I am too quick and free with my fury fanned words and aggravation fueled behavior.  I often think he is too slow to respond or react.  I suppose we balance each other out enough to keep our kids from being manic messes themselves.  

It isn't like I go off for no reason at all.  Typically, my irritation driven tirades come after repeated discussions or instructions have been given on a particular subject.  For instance, if someone needs to use the washer and/or dryer but find they are not empty, do not throw those items into a laundry basket for someone else to worry about at some later time.  I say, just go ahead and fold the clothes no matter who they belong to or move that wet laundry over to the dryer.  Many a time, I have been so generous as to wash, dry and fold clothes that do not belong to me.  It really isn't that hard and it honestly doesn't hurt to just take a minute or two and do it the right way.  Few things irritate me more than finding a heaping basket full of towels that need folding or socks that need mating because whoever needed the dryer last couldn't be bothered and just piled them up for someone else, who almost always ends up being me, to do.

Turning off lights is another hot button for me.  We live in house that literally sucks up money.  It's an old house with a lot of room for improvement.  There is always something that needs fixed or updated.  And all of our do-it-yourself projects end up costing more than we expect.  While little things may not make a big difference, I'm fairly convinced they make some difference.  To waste electricity just because we can does not sit well with me.  I do not know how many times I have said..."The switch works just as well in reverse"...when one of the boys have left the lights on in a room.  It isn't just lights either.  It's television sets, space heaters, video games.  I'm constantly getting on someone about turning something off. I guess what bugs me most about this is how practically effortless it is, and how even after being nagged mercilessly their whole lives about it, it's still an issue.

"I'm not your maid" has been the opening line to many a hysterical diatribe unleashed on the people I live with.  So has, "Am I the only one who knows how to ______", fill in the blank...do a dish, run a sweeper, let out the dog, make an appointment, answer the phone.  The list is virtually limitless.  Unfortunately, sometimes that feeling of it never getting better or people never learning or wondering if I'm just beating a dead horse or worse, banging my head against the wall gets to be too much.  That's when it happens...the gasket blows...I take leave of my sanity and the verbal spewing begins.  

I say all this to tell another story.  The other day I came in like I do most every day after my paycheck producing job to begin my second job as wife and mother.  We have a different routine here than most families in that my husband works second shift.  So as I'm ending my work day, he's preparing to begin his.  For me, that means I immediately start making his afternoon meal and packing his lunchbox for the evening.  It's something I honestly don't mind doing.  My husband works hard and does so much for our family.  To cook for him actually gives me great pleasure.  But some days, I'm just tired myself, and this continuum of work work to home work gets both exhausting and exasperating.  In those moments, little things have a way of setting me off.  So when I saw that someone had done the forbidden by microwaving canned pasta in a good plastic bowl, well, that lit my fuse.  I launched into an adult-sized temper tantrum, vilifying the culprit as though he had committed a criminal offense.  How dare someone do this dastardly thing, ruining a perfectly good piece of $2 plastic ware like that!  

My husband went about his business as he usually does when I'm having one of these insanely exaggerated, over-the-top outbursts.  But little did he know he was about to get a double dose of my outrageous ranting.  As I opened the microwave, I discovered the wild red splattering of what appeared to be pasta sauce.  Oh, no, it couldn't be!  They wouldn't dare!  Everyone in this household knows nothing is to be nuked without being properly covered to prevent such senseless messes in my...I mean our...microwave.  Without missing a beat, I leapt from the stained bowl to the filthy microwave oven.  "I am not cleaning this. Whoever did this is going to clean it up!"  Since none of the logical three choices for who that might be were home at the time, I went about the task of cooking my husband's lunch, still moaning and complaining under my breath as I did.  

So imagine my shock when just moments later my husband took it upon himself to begin cleaning out that spaghetti sauce splattered microwave oven.  I was right down indignant.  How would the boys ever learn if he did everything for them?  Why would he spare them from having to clean up a mess they created?  Did he think me too harsh in my determination to have the guilty party pay for their misdeed with a little lecturing followed by a few minutes of scouring out the microwave?  

"What are you doing?"  I asked, my annoyance more than obvious.  "Whoever made that mess should clean it up."

To my great surprise, he replied,  "Whoever made this mess is cleaning it up."  Quite dumbfounded, I just looked at him.  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Funny how with just a grin, none of it mattered.  I guess it never really did anyway.

"I suppose you are the one who didn't fold the towels either."

"Could be."  We both laughed, that laugh that comes from knowing we both had been in the wrong but all was right again.

I'm just thankful my husband understands that anything under pressure needs a release valve or it will explode.  He doesn't mind me letting off a little steam from time to time.  And truth be told, I don't really mind folding towels or wiping up messes in the microwave....much.  <g>  

Meet my middle aged husband

I have what I consider the greatest husband in the world.  We have literally grown up together, having first met in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class at Elwood Haynes Elementary school.  Of my 40 years on this earth, I have been either dating or married to Dan for twenty seven of them.  That is a long time!  

Over the course of this lifetime together, he and I have changed in practically every way possible.  We went from being boy and girl to man and woman.  From young and free to married with children.  From living for the moment to making a whole life together.  The transitions have not always been easy.  Growing pains are an inevitable part of any maturing process.  But as we find ourselves firmly entrenched in our middle ages, I see my husband fighting it much harder than I.

With all his might, Dan is battling to stave off getting older.  However, no matter how he tries, the war is getting harder and harder to win.  Used to be, he could play basketball for hours on end and give just about anyone a run for their money on the court.  He claims he still can hang with the big boys.  The only difference is the big boys can still walk upright the next morning.  He loves to point out the gray hairs I have, insisting he has none of his own.  But his gray hairs are just choosing to sprout out his ears and nose instead of his head.  At least I can color mine!


For this man who has been living in sheer and utter denial, this week was a tough one.  Something happened that made my husband come smack dab face to face with just how middle aged he really is.  While getting his routine annual eye exam, the doctor gave him two pieces of not so pleasant news.  First off, he needs progressive lenses.  Back in the day, those were known as bifocals.  And while the technology has come a long way, the reason for needing it hasn't.  Old eyes.  Now Dan tried to deny that, but let's face it, there aren't too many twenty years olds who need progressive lenses. 


And that wasn't the worst of it.  The doctor also told my husband his high blood pressure was going to have to be addressed.  Dan generally avoids our family doctor at all costs.  It isn't that he doesn't like her.  He does.  The problem is that every time he goes in, she finds something wrong with him.  And this time, he already knew what that something was going to be.  Nonetheless, he had no choice so it was off to the doctor he went.  And he was none too happy to come back home with a daily medication to take. He said, for the first time ever, "I am getting old."  


Somehow this little pink pill was able to do what nothing else had to this point...push Dan over the hill.  He is becoming painfully aware that no matter what he does, the middle ages will have their way.  It doesn't mean that he's giving up the fight.  Knowing him, he'll deny he's old even when his teeth are in a cup and our grandkids are in college.  But rest assured, I'll always be here to gently remind him that he isn't getting any younger either.

Black Friday Shopping

It has become a Thanksgiving tradition at my house that, following dinner, all the womenfolk pour over the black Friday ads from the newspaper and plot our plan of attack.  We have been doing this for years.  Used to be, we could all go home, get some sleep and regroup at 2 or 3 Friday morning to begin our assault on both the stores and our checking accounts.  But now, if we have any hope of getting those super duper dirt cheap items, we would have to forgo sleep altogether and hit the shopping trail Thanksgiving day itself or at least get on the road late that night.

I'm just not sure I'm feeling this level of commitment.  Sure I like to save.  Give me a coupon, I'll clip it.  Show me a loss leader, I'll buy it.  But to spend my Thanksgiving day primarily preparing for my Christmas...not sure I'm on board with that.  

I enjoy my Thanksgiving.  Sharing a great meal with the people I love the most in this world.  Closing the gaps time and distance put on our relationships.  Laughing over the memories of yesterday all while creating the memories of tomorrow.  This isn't always going to be the way it is.  The kids will soon be grown and possibly off to other places for the holidays.  Our parents won't be with us forever either.  To give up such precious little time we all have together to save 50% on some electronic device, well, it just doesn't seem prudent to me. 

This year, I was most thankful for the time with my family.  Time is the one commodity I can't buy more of or substitute something else in it's place.  I can't get it back once it's gone, and I find the older I get, the quicker it's getting away from me.  I know the times are changing, and who knows, maybe next year you'll find me out loading up my shopping cart on Thanksgiving day too, but this year, I am glad I chose not to.

My mom, sister-in law, son's girlfriend and her sister and I did go shopping on Friday.  We didn't even bother going that early, leaving around 8 a.m.  We figured all the really great deals would be long gone.  But we had a good time.  We did get some serious shopping done and even managed to save some money.  And shockingly, we didn't even miss the craziness of most past black Friday adventures.  :-)

Girlfriends

I love my husband with all my heart.  I wouldn't trade him for anything.  I enjoy our time together immensely.  He is, in fact, my best friend. But I'll tell ya what, there's nothing like spending some quality time with my girlfriends.

It sounds almost silly to call them 'girl' friends when, truth be told, they are some of the most mature, insightful, interesting and entertaining women I know.  With them, there is no need to put on airs or puff up reality.  They know from experience that it's possible, even probable, to love a man with all one's heart and still be routinely frustrated by him.  They know that, no matter what I say, I do not really want to strangle, throttle or beat senseless any of my children.  They know that a clean house is both subjective and often overrated.  They know all this because, while our lives are all so very different, they are somehow still all so very much alike.

Married or single, little kids, big kids or no kids at all, working both inside and outside the home, thin, fat, tall, short, mild-mannered or boisterous...none of that matters.  When we get together, somehow what makes us different is less important than what makes us alike.

We understand that life is precious.  Accidents happen.  Miracles do too.  We know that when little dreams come true, big ones seem possible.  We know there's strength in numbers.  We know that the same person who will laugh with you over the most mundane things will also cry with you when your world falls apart.

With great friends, you can pick up right where you left off whether it's been an hour or a month since the last time you spoke.  There's no scorecard or seating chart or pecking order to worry about.  It's just easy, natural.  Come-as-you-are, be-who-you-are.  Sit and stay a spell.  You know what I mean? 

It's about venting over the struggles and stresses of life and knowing they get that you're just letting off steam.  It's speaking your mind and not being offended when they speak theirs.  It's about agreeing to disagree sometimes.  It's about being genuinely happy for their successes and just as genuinely hurt when they hurt, sharing the good times and the bad.

These relationship are developed through long phones calls, during shopping trips and over good meals.  They are tested by time and each participants ability to judge softly and support firmly.  They are rare and special treasures, not to be taken for granted.  So to the women I call 'friends', thank you for making life a little sweeter and the load a little lighter.  You bring so much richness to my life.

The little things

When I was newly married, my husband and I barely had two nickels to rub together.  We lived in this old house that had been converted into apartments.  It was dark and dank, the musty smell only occasionally masked by the pungent aroma of Indian food escaping from under our neighbor's door.  There was a huge purple paint stain in the middle of the bedroom floor that was only semi-covered by our bed.  A paper grocery sack served as the door to our apartment size freezer.  The bathroom was so small, my husband had to do his business sitting sideways with his legs in the kitchen.  It was quite a lovely place.

Back then, we couldn't afford cable or even a house phone.  We had to walk two blocks to use a pay phone. (Do pay phones even exist anymore?)  It was no fun calling collect from a pay phone to talk to our parents for three minutes.  I think prisoners even have better phone privileges than that.

All our furniture was hand-me-down or bought used.  We were fortunate enough to have gotten a couch, love seat, two end tables, and a small kitchen table with four chairs from another set of newlyweds.  It was the second time around for them so they had double of everything and were willing to part with half of it for a little bit of nothing. 

We drove the 1976 Ford Maverick, three speed on the column, that had been mine since I was sixteen. It was poop brown with poop brown interior. We did soon afterward upgrade to a Chevy Chevette with a $78 a month payment.  Oh, those were the days!

Our first Christmas, we had an ugly white artificial tree we picked up at Big Lots for ten bucks.  It was all of three foot tall and pathetically bare.  There wasn't much under it either.  But that didn't matter to us. It was ours, and we liked it.

It was a more modest way of life back then.  Simpler.  In a lot of ways, sweeter.

We couldn't afford to go out much or have many nice things.  Luxuries were out of our reach.  Back then, I was doing all my writing the old fashioned way, pen to paper.  Not that I minded too terribly much, but I certainly can type a lot faster than I can write.

When I got married, I had to leave behind the electric typewriter that I used all through high school.  My three younger siblings still needed it.  But I doubt they had the same connection to it.  Sitting at that machine, correction strips nearby, I pounded out not only many a Croxford paper (those from my high school alma mater will understand the reference), but I also spent hours spilling my thoughts and ideas all over plain white sheets of paper.  With the click, click, click of the typewriter keys, I moved stories from my mind to the printed word.  To me, that was like breathing life into something that hadn't existed until then.  With words, I could create whole worlds, tailored to suit me.  I could give birth to people, making them in whatever image I wished.  Whatever I could imagine, I could bring to life.  Writing was not only a means of escape but a means of great personal discovery.

My young husband, (we were eighteen at the time) did not seem to fully understand my need to spend large blocks of time filling spiral bound notebooks with stories and random thoughts and little notes with seemingly no real value to them.  He didn't mind that I did it.  He just didn't get why I did it.  How did I find pleasure in pouring over pages and pages of written words, first writing, then reading aloud, then writing again?  He just didn't seem to see the point.

So the afternoon he came home from his job at a small factory and announced proudly that he had something for me, I had no idea what to expect.  He was holding a large box, trying to balance it's weight as he stepped down into our meager little living room.  It could have been anything.  We needed so much.  He said the people at work were just going to throw it out.  He hoped I could use it.  He hoped I like it.  With curiosity piqued, I watched as he lifted this monstrous contraption from the box.  I didn't know for sure what it was at first sight, but I knew it had an electrical cord, and I knew it had lettered keys.  He quickly informed me it was a word processor, not a typewriter exactly, but close.  I remember clapping my hands and laughing aloud, tickled pink with my 'new' writing machine. 

Today I write with ease at a computer, watching each word fall into place on a big monitor as I go, spell check following along.  But as it turns out, the littlest things in life sometimes leave the greatest impressions on it.  Maybe that's because the little things rarely are. 

Even now, I look back on that moment some twenty two plus years ago with special fondness, not because the machine was so precious to me or because it forever changed my life in any way, but because at that moment, I knew my husband got me.  He understood that at least part of who I am is a writer.  He, whether instinctively or through insight, knew that nurturing me in one area would open me up to nurture him in others.  He showed me love in a brand new way that day, by giving worth to something simply because I did.

Pet Peeves

Am I seriously the only person in this house who knows how to replace an empty toilet paper roll?
How about fill an ice cube tray?
Or put my shoes in the cute little caddies I bought solely for that purpose?

I am not an easy woman to please, I understand that, but why do these people I live with not even try?!?  They claim to hate my nagging yet they provide me with an endless list of irritations and annoyances to harp on. 

For instance, what is the deal with refusing to finish off the last of something?  I mean, why leave half a swallow of milk in the jug, a smattering of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle or a single Oreo in the package?  What good is one Oreo??  And why leave a bread bag with just the heels in it laying on the counter?  Just throw it away!

Oh, and speaking of bread bags, am I the only one who knows how to use the twisty tie on the bread?  Or a chip clip? Or reseal a zipper baggie?  Seriously, folding the bag over does not in any way, shape or form constitute an air tight seal.

And more bag related vexations...Why is it that no one else in this house can figure out that when the trash bag is full, an actual human being must remove said bag and replace it with a new one?  And why, oh why, do the people I live with think that an acceptable solution to a full garbage pail is to sit excess refuse on the kitchen counter?!?   I don't know which is more irritating, the trash on the counter or that darn single Oreo in the package. 


Also, I'd like to know what's so hard about scraping one's plate?  We have a garbage disposal, for Pete's sake, so even if that trash can is full, there's no excuse for not scraping.  

And why when I tell someone to pick up something or clean up a mess do they feel it necessary to inform me that it isn't theirs?  Did I ask if it was theirs?  Do I care?  NO!  Just do it.  I pick up stuff and clean up junk that isn't mine all day long.  It doesn't kill me, and it won't kill them.

Honestly, if they'd just put things back where they belong, they wouldn't have to all that picking up and cleaning up to begin with.  Plus, if they'd put things back when they're finished with them, I wouldn't always have to go hunting for scissors, tape and my good ink pens.


I could go on and on and on, but by now, you're probably feeling like my family does...wishing I would just quit complaining already.  So...I will.  :-)