Vacation

We're off on Wednesday. Ten days in Bermuda. Should be great!

Here's my question for the men (and women) out there. When carrying money in a money clip (or a wad if you are so lucky), do the large bills go on the outside or the inside? There are two camps at my house. One -- put the small bills on the outside so that no one will know how much money you really have (Dad's rule). Or two -- put the large bills on the outside so everyone will think you're loaded. Which do you do?

I hope you all have a great time while I'm away. I look forward to reading all about it when I return. See you at your places then.

love,
elsie

Accomplished

Yup, that's right. I'm the proud owner of a new swimsuit. A fashionably modest creation. One piece. Black on the bottom (is there anything better for a hippy girl?) with a stylish tropical print tank top. No underwire necessary, so it is as comfortable as it is attractive. Bottom line -- I don't want to puke when I look at myself in it. Mission accomplished.

Watch Dog

I can't help staring. At my boy. At my poodle boy. What a day we had yesterday. I was reading the paper when crash, bang, smash, crash, bang. What was that?!! I run to the other end of the house to find my Hershey limping. I think, fool dog -- must have fallen off the bed. I call him to me to see how bad his limp is. He looks at me, stumbles and walks into the wall. I call him again. Again he stumbles and smashes face first into the wall. Holy crap. What in the world is going on?!!

It doesn't seem good. I immediately run to the phone. I dial. The number is busy! Redial! Busy! Run to the bedroom with the phone. Redial! Busy! Start tearing off the night clothes. Redial! Busy! Crap! Talk to the dog. "It's okay, Hershey. It's going to be okay." Redial! It's ringing! "Animal Services." I explain what's going on. "Bring him right in," she says. Get dressed all the while talking to the dog. "We're going for a ride." No response. Put the leash on and get the dog to follow me. He's walking a little straighter now. "C'mon. Hop in," I tell him when we get to the car. He loves going for rides. He climbs, ever so slowly, up on to the seat.

I start to drive. I start to cry. Something is definitely not right. This is bad. I talk to the dog the entire ride. Just before we get arrive at the vet's office, he sticks his shiny nose right into my right ear. "Hey, buddy. How are you doing?" He looks at me like I'm crazy. At the vet, he hops right out of the car. What?!!! I bring him inside where he behaves admirably. The vet asks me to have him walk across the floor several times. She then examines him while I explain what an idiot I feel like because "obviously, he's fine now." She gives me a pathetic "she doesn't get this" sort of look and says, "I'm pretty sure he had a seizure. You described the classic symptoms perfectly." Oh, no. She goes on to explain. She takes some of his blood. Then she tells me that for right now all I can do is wait and watch him. That he might never have another seizure again. That I should watch him. That poodles are prone to seizures. That I should wait and watch him. That it could be the first of many. That I just need to watch him. That she won't prescribe medication unless he has more than one seizure per month. That all I can do is watch him.

So that's what I've been doing. Watching and waiting. And watching some more. Here he is. I guess he looks sort of tired, and considering he was just coiffed a few days ago he's looking pretty scraggly. But he's here. With me. Watching me watch him. Just watching.

For Jack

Jack, with your inspiration (and my feeling so much better this year!), look what I've done! It's only been one month, but so far so good. Feel free to heap on the compliments.

Dear Old Dad

It's been one year since my first post on this, my third blog. Most of what I want to say about Dad was included on that post (June 18, 2006). We've been through a lot over the course of my 45 years. We've been through a lot this past year. Dad's feeling much better, having had a pacemaker installed a few months ago. Here he is a few weeks ago, watching his granddaughter's swimming lesson. Not only is he a great dad, he's a wonderful grandpa, too.

I know how lucky I am to have him still. Each moment with him is a gift. So to Dad and all the wonderful dads out there, Happy Father's Day. Love to you all.

Reality

No dreaming this time. Blame it all on the dog.

Ouch. But I still love him.

On a Mission

Woman on a mission. We all know how that is. A very short two weeks until our vacation, and I'm nowhere near ready. End-of-year celebrations and birthdays to plan. So much to do....

Deep breath. Take it one thing at a time, and first things first. I must get out there and find a new swimsuit. Nothing like trying on suit after suit in that little cell you're escorted to that has the least flattering light possible. Nothing like seeing those winter white thighs highlighting the area that should be least highlighted on this particular body. So...I know...I'll tan 'em up. Too late to go the real route. Nothing like tan in a bottle. Yup, that's the ticket. The bottle says to shave those ghostly legs first. No problem. A quick trip to the shower is all it will take.

Ahhhh. But there is a problem. I'm never quick in the shower. I think it all goes back to when the children were babies. The shower became my refuge from crying. Can't calm the baby? Put him/her in the crib and take a long hot shower. Can't hear the baby crying from in there. Old habits being hard to break, the shower has been my refuge for the past decade or so. It's the place where I can plan the day, think about yesterday, or simply let my mind wander.

So, my goal this day was to get in and out as quickly as possible. No dilly dallying. No refuge today. I hop in. Get the beautification process underway. And the next thing you know....daydreaming big time. There's nothing like having one deliciously sweet wicked thing on your mind. My mind got lost in the daydream and then... sting... "shoot" (not really the word I mumbled). I looked down in time to see one small drop of blood ooze from my boney ankle. Talk about being jolted back into reality!

I have never cut myself shaving my legs before. I couldn't believe how much one little cut could sting. It's probably exactly what I deserved given what I was thinking. That little nick sure got me moving. Just like that, the dream was over. And, in no time, I was out of the shower and on my way to healthy looking, tanned legs.

I'm working on the legs. Now about that swimsuit. I'm a woman still on a mission. Maybe today.

Picnic Perfect

A group of us went on a picnic yesterday at a park just two miles from home. It doesn't get any better than this.

"Just Gross"

We're in the planning stage for the big birthday party. Daughter has been preparing the guest list. "No boys?" "No. Boys are just gross."

Last week boys were cool. Now they're gross. I understand completely. Her comment made me laugh (on the inside) because on that very day I had the same thought about big boys. The weather was gorgeous. I was at the bank drive-thru. Windows open. Music almost blasting. The guy in the next lane was also obviously enjoying the day. Windows open. Music blasting. Spring Fever had definitely hit. Then something else hit...my car that is. The guy "hawked a loogie" right out his window, right onto my car. How disgusting can a guy get? The guttural, snotty sounds emanating from this guy's window called attention to him, and I looked over just in time to see the phlegm fly from his mouth. He saw me see him. Smiled. Shrugged his shoulders. Mouthed "sorry." I don't believe I smiled back. Did he get out of his car to wipe his DNA from mine? No. Did I drive home gagging? Yes. Did I immediately get out the hose? Yes. Ugh. Here's my question. What is it with men? I can't tell you how many times I've seen a guy in a parking lot get out of his car and spit. You don't see women spitting. Is there some sort of innate need to spit if you're loaded with testosterone?

And nose picking? What's up with that? Nose picking while driving must be outlawed. Do men not realize that windows are transparent. All the world can see you while you've got your finger shoved up your nose. And, heaven forbid, in an accident aren't you worried that you'll poke your little brain out the top of your little head?

And then there's the smell. Last week I went into the playroom where son was hanging out with his friends. The smell was... let's leave it as unpleasant. I made a comment which was met with peals of laughter. Turns out the boys had been having a contest to see who could produce the worst smell. I couldn't tell you who won as the competition was obviously very close. They all gave it their best effort. I do not understand what's so funny about it. And why am I surprised to see my boy reveling in that disgusting behavior?

And of course there's the whole hand washing thing. I realize that I might have OCD tendencies, washing my hands more times in a day than most people do but, in my opinion and that of most medical professionals, washing your hands after using the rest room is necessary one hundred percent of the time. And I know lots of men who don't do it (don't ask how I know, I just know). I want to tell ya, the thought of meeting a strange man and shaking his hand after his hand may have been shaking something else and not been washed gives me the heebie jeebies.

Yes, women can probably be as disgusting as men can be. We, however, know how to be discreet. When a man gets a wedgie, he picks his butt no matter where he might be. Women politely excuse themselves to run to the rest room to pick their butts in private.

Sigh. My son is now displaying some of the ultimate gross boy behavior. Guess he's becoming a real man. "Just Gross." And he's not invited to the party.

Arbitrary Thoughts

If my mother is a naturalized American and my father is a fourth generation American, does that make me a first generation or fifth generation American?

Why is it that every time I hear Squeeze on the radio I want to run out to by their East Side Story CD, but when I'm actually at the store I forget all about it and end up with something else?

Why am I one of those people who closes the bathroom door even when no one else is home?

Out of the workforce for 13 years, I still read the Wall Street Journal as often as I can, but now I only read the Marketplace section. And I'm not sure why.

There are still many reasons to be proud to be an American. Why is it then that I'm supposed to feel bad about flying the flag?

I read all the time, so I once joined a book club -- hated it. Dissecting a good book takes away a lot of the pleasure for me. If I wanted a Lit class, I'd take a Lit class. Do people really enjoy the book club thing?

Why does the concept "all you can eat" not seem appealing in any way anymore?

And lastly -- my children have many friends. They have many, many friends when the pool is open. (Guess I can figure this one out on my own).