It's Still a Small World

A while back I wrote about my buddy John meeting a friend of mine while on business in San Francisco -- a long, long way from here. Now it's happened again.

Sister lives in Colorado. Sister was training a new employee. New employee and sister soon realized that they were originally from the same state. Then they realized they were from the same town. New employee told sister about the neighborhood where she grew up. Sister told new employee "that's the neighborhood where my sister (me) lives." New employee asked where in that neighborhood. Sister told her. Then... "does she live in a big brick ranch with a huge yard?" Sister said "yes." New employee asked her at "123 X Street?" "Yes." New employee told sister her maiden name, which sister immediately recognized, and told sister that she had grown up in the house in which I currently live!!!

It's an eerily small world!

He's Only Twelve

But in his very short life he's had to deal with some very big, huge issues. He's a smart one (bragging mom hasn't disclosed, until today, that he's in the honors program at school). You'd think that might help, but sometimes it just makes things harder. He can't help but think too much -- a chip off this old block.

The night before last, just before bed, he asked to talk to me. His tone made me pause. This would be serious. He then teared up, but went on to tell me that one of his good friends had been cutting herself and that he was worried she'd do something worse. After detailing her horrid home life, he told me he's worried she might kill herself. Then he really started to cry and told me that he couldn't handle it if she did. We talked for a long while. He decided that he was going to talk to one of the counselors at school, even if it meant that his friend would no longer be his friend. "I don't care if she's not my friend anymore, at least she'll still be alive."

What makes this horrendous situation even worse for him is that my little guy (and to see him like this, so mature, somehow reminded me that he is still a boy) is no stranger to death. His best friend died of cancer when they were only eight. Your friends aren't supposed to die when you're eight years old. Then, just a few months ago, another friend of his died suddenly at the ripe old age of 13 of cardiac failure. Your friends aren't supposed to die when you're twelve years old. Death is all too real for him.

At his age, I was still playing with Barbies. He's still a kid at heart. I can see it when he's acting silly and carefree. But, unfortunately, due to his life's circumstances, he's grown wise beyond his years.

He's only twelve.

Eeeeekkkk...

See a mouse? No. Just the bit 'o flab that mysteriously appeared, seemingly overnight, that has ruined the look of my favorite swimsuit. Eeeeekkkk...or maybe it's eeeeewwww.

Working Hard

Scrubbing, sweeping, brushing, pouring, vacuuming -- from this on Sunday afternoon...


to this, this morning.

Can't help but give myself a little pat on the back. This is my record, my personal best -- three days to up and running!! Bring on the holiday weekend.

?

Ever sit down to write, thinking you have something to say, and then that something flies right out of your head?

It's one of those days.

Who Me?

Last night a friend called.

"Can I ask your professional opinion about something?"

"Sure." (Who, me? Am I flashin' back to the 80's?)

She proceeds to ask her question. It's more about the politics of business than the mechanics. I answer as best I can.

"I knew you were the right person to ask. You always do the right thing."

We chatted a while, said our goodbyes, and of course I got to thinking. "You always do the right thing." Sound virtuous, don't I? But I don't feel that way. I certainly try to do the right thing. I suppose I almost always do. Doing the right thing usually feels good. But there are times when I don't want to do the right thing. I want to say "the hell with it" and do exactly what I want to do.

When you do the right thing, even when you don't want to, perhaps only because you're concerned that God is watching, does it even count? And when you think certain things but do the right thing by not acting on those certain things, does it count against you for even thinking them?

And who is it exactly who decides what is right?

I'm tempted to do the wrong thing just to find out. Is that wrong or right? I'm not sure. I do know that I don't always do the right thing. I only try.

A Perfectly Nice Day

Sometimes that's the only way to describe it. A perfectly nice day.

Finished lots of odds and ends this morning. Nice. Actually had enough time to play around in the garden for a while. More nice. Then I had a wonderful chat with a friend. The nicest.

Got the kids all settled. Lessons finished. Homework done. Went and had dinner with the folks. All very nice.

Oftentimes I get blue when hubby isn't around, but today was different. Nice.

Soon the kids will go to bed. I rented a "chick flick" to watch all by my lonesome. I'm glad I don't feel that way though. Nice.

A perfectly nice day.

Mother's Day: Before and After

Not Far From the Tree

My little apple. She's got her first crush. And it's on the bad boy from the class. Of course, he isn't really that bad being only nine years old, but he's the baddest of the third grade boys. He's extremely intelligent, wears dark clothing, and has an air of indifference about him. He is "way cool." All the girls love him, especially mine.

I always loved the bad boys, too. And it was never good. Fun, certainly. Exciting, absolutely. Good, never. I can't bear to watch history repeat itself. I've got about a million bad boy stories, none of them with a happy ending. But I remind myself she's only eight, so I'm going to be rational and calm and not run screaming at her to be careful and to watch out. I'm just nervous that one day that's exactly what I might have to do. Eight going on eighteen.

My little apple. Oh no.

Being One of Them

On several occasions and on several blogs I've read about how narcissistic teeth whitening is. I confess, I am one of them, a narcissist. I whiten my teeth once a year. For the rest of the year, I do things that make one's teeth turn yellowish (we all know what they are), and I'm not yet willing to give up those things. So with a little help from a "whitening system," I go back to pearly, or as pearly as they will ever be again.

Generally speaking, I've got a thing about teeth and taking good care of them. I also confess that I am a regular flosser. I know that most people aren't quite as obsessed as I am, but brushing and flossing should be a part of everyone's every day. I do not understand how people can show their smiles in public when it looks as though they haven't seen the end of a toothbrush in months. I actually know a couple of these folks. I DO NOT think all people are required to have the perfect smile. Having a not-quite-perfect smile is perfection. I DO think that all people are required to practice good oral hygiene.

Today is day one of seven. I expect to end up three to four shades whiter within the week. If only losing weight were so easy. I can just imagine taking a little strip thingy and slapping it onto one of my thighs or my butt. Okay, it would have to be a large strip thingy. Seven days later ... no more thunder thighs or big butt. I can also imagine taking a strip thingy and slapping it onto my face and watching the wrinkles disappear. That would be something! I can't believe that someone hasn't already invented these. I'd do it myself, but I'm too busy whitening my teeth.

Blog Sounds

Do you ever wonder what other bloggers sound like? I do, all the time. When I read their posts, this is what I hear.

Mary -- a gentle southern drawl, not too "twangy," a bit on the deeper side. Authoritative.

Liz -- of course, all I can imagine is a lovely Welsh accent. I've only ever met two Welsh people. I liked how they sounded, but I couldn't understand a word they were saying! I wonder, would I understand Liz? And how in the world do you pronounce words with no vowels?

Winston -- a very deep, yet gentle (like Mary) southern accent, punctuated by a hearty laugh. Sort of like James Earle Jones (maybe not quite that deep).

Joy -- a melodic mid-Western (like all the folks on t.v.) accent. Maybe it's her poetry that makes me think this.

Jack -- who the hell knows? I think he might be an American ex-pat, but I'm not sure. He could be either an "oooo-la-la" or a "yeah, but." Either way, I bet I'd like it.

Jim -- like a news anchor. Perfect diction. I can't imagine anything else.

Peter -- since we met, I don't have to wonder. He sounds like a cross between New England and LA, just like he is.

Then there's me. Yes, I know what I sound like, but I thought I'd try to describe it for you. People from outside New England would probably say that I sound like a typical New Englander. But people here consistently ask me where I'm from. I don't generally drop the "r"s -- butta, chowda. And I don't pahk the cah, eitha. But I do have the bad habit of "gonna" (going to), "wanna" (want to), "shoulda" (should have). Dad was very strict about our diction and pronunciation. I try to remember his words, "You should sound as educated as you are." He doesn't sound like a Rhode Islander either.

Time to take the girl to the docta (she's not feelin' good), so I gotta go. Talk to ya late-a.

The Street

Early morning on our street. It's nice to drive past this cove every day on the way to and from the house. Looks like some boats have already hit the water, and the crane waits for more. Now it's time for some green. I like it anyway.