Not Me Responsible For Many Household Mysteries

Recently I have become aware of another being living in my home.  His name is "Not me."

I have no idea how Not Me came to live here or who let him in.  I have not actually met him either although my husband and two kids have.  I envision him as having reddish hair, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and a chipped front tooth.

Not Me is responsible for all sorts of mysterious occurrences under this roof. For instance, Not Me has eaten all of the ice cream that I bought a few days ago. When I asked my two kids who ate all of the ice cream, they replied, "Not Me." Recently, Not Me left the fence door open letting the dogs out. Luckily for us our dogs are fairly smart. The dogs were either scared or suspicious that it may be a trick so they waited patiently on the front lawn never venturing beyond the yard. Again, I asked my family who left the gate open and they replied, "Not Me."

Not Me hasn't ended his pranks there. He has left a trail of dog food from the garage to the dog bowls, left wet towels on the wood floors, cancelled a program I had set on the DVR, lost ear buds and the most concerning, spilled something on my iPhone. The latter has caused me to use my phone in speaker mode or it's extremely difficult to hear callers. Which I guess isn't all that bad until you have to take a call in the grocery store and put the person on speaker. The result is they get to hear me and the manager's daily special. And before you say, "well, why don't you just take it to an Apple store?" I will tell you that I am -- in San Antonio, three hours away, where the nearest Apple store is located as soon as I can find the time.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not sure that Not Me is a kid at all. I distinctly remember a Not Me from my childhood. One time he let a lizard loose on my mother's shoulder as my family travelled from East Texas back to Fort Worth in our station wagon. Another time, Not Me backed my friend's parents car out of a driveway striking a speed sign. To cover his tracks he tried to Super Glue the rubber strip back to the metal bumper. Her parents asked, "Who did that?" to which we replied, "Not Me."

I hope to meet this Not Me someday. I'm sure if he's keeping a diary of all of his pranks then we will have a good laugh and maybe I'll learn the whereabouts of my missing Henckel knife. I'm sure I'll also learn that Not Me is a close friend of the sock thief. You know that guy. He steals one sock out of each laundry load.

Wondering if Not Me and the Sock Thief are relatives of the Dead Battery Miser who takes used batteries out but doesn't throw them away.

The Wondering Texan



 

Summer Activities and Memories Made

It's a little more than two weeks before school starts and I'm running out of activities for the kids. We've done the water park, lake house, Boy Scout camp, beach, city pool, library reading program, VBS, art camp, excursions to the dog park, drifted around on a bay cruise, and seen five movies.



Last night my son tried on his dad's suit. In a hurry to grow up.

OK, I begged them to get a decent photo. My daughter looks pained doesn't she?

Biting on worms.



Up on ski's.

When I was a kid my mom's answer to summer was, "go out and play. Be home by dinner." There was a huge field behind our house where the neighborhood kids, my brother and I would play all kinds of games. Hide and seek, pirates, Indiana Jones, and assorted other imaginary games. But what I remember most was climbing a huge sycamore tree, riding on a piece of cardboard down a hill, and putting miles on my green Schwinn bike. The good old days pre-DVR, cable, Game Boy, IPod, Xbox, $100 earphones, and waterproof, decorated Band-Aids.

One thing that bridged my childhood and my children's has been a heated game of Monopoly. It is a game where experience and wisdom comes in handy. As I bought property, my kids scolded me for, "spending all of my money." When I bought Park Place and Boardwalk, they chided, "no one lands on those. What a waste." Well, a few hours later they were begging me for mercy or at least a payment plan.

But this summer hasn't been all fun and games for my kids. They have started taping into the retiree and young parent market. Our daughter has been babysitting typically earning $60 a night. Plus, she is working on her reading program for her freshman year. She has to read six short stories with worksheets and read a book of her choice. The short stories range from Marigolds by Eugenia Collier to The Last Rung on the Ladder by Stephen King. Our son has been spreading fertilizer and mowing. OK, not everything has gotten easier for today's kids.

And as hectic as this summer has been, I'm truly dreading next summer when my daughter will be taking driver's education.

I can't believe my husband and I are on the downhill side of parenting, albeit probably the most challenging years. Teenage crushes, driving, attitudes, making or not making school sports teams, dating, homecoming, and acne. It's not going to be easy and I'll probably have to medicate my husband for parts of it, but we will struggle through. And when all is done we can apply our discretionary money to trips instead of volleyball knee pads and t-shirts with sharks on them.

Wondering if beating my kids in Monopoly will scar them for life?

The Wondering Texan













 

A Hot Little Mess

It's summer here and I'm hot and bothered. What can I say? I live on the Texas coast where the humidity is about 100 percent, the heat index is about 105 Fahrenheit and the mosquitoes are the size of Hereford calves. What I wouldn't give for a cool front or a walk-in refrigerator.

This seagull may be able to stand on the sand, but it's hot for humans.

Speaking of refrigerators, do you know what the best thing about Walmart is? It's the frozen foods section. Yes, it's pure joy to open up that door holding the popsicles and stand there soaking in the cool dampness. And it's not just me. I've noticed quite a few middle-aged women standing there with looks of ecstasy on their faces as they reach for a frozen pizza.

Today I went to yoga and had a hot flash. How is that possible? I thought yoga was suppose to be calming. I was standing there on my little green mat when I felt the rush of heat rolling up from my mid-section to my face. And no, it wasn't just because I was in the downward facing dog position. Which brings me to another point. Who names yoga positions? I mean really, have you ever seen a dog with it's butt up to the roof, head between the front legs and stomach taunt? All I could think of was my hot flash and my yoga pants riding up.

These days quite honestly, I don't know if I'm having a hot flash or if it's the Texas heat. I've actually asked people, "Are you hot or is it just me?"

And don't even go there like Jessica Tandy in Fried Green Tomatoes when she tells Kathy Bates to "just yourselves some hormones." I can't take hormones because of my cancer diagnosis three years ago.

But it could be worse I guess. I could be living in some Third World country without air conditioning. I could be trapped in a turtleneck sweater. I could never have discovered the bliss of an Arnold Palmer drink (with or without vodka).

So, all in all, life could be a lot worse. But what I wouldn't give for a life of cool.

The Wondering Texan



 

A Hygenist Nightmare

My husband went to the dentist yesterday to have his teeth cleaned for the first time in about 2 years. And as you can imagine, he handled it like a man.

Let me first answer your initial question. Why? Well, again, he's a man. Second question - why didn't I make him. OK, let's see. I have nagged, bullied and begged. Finally, I did what only a wife can do. I threatened not to kiss him anymore.

Well, he finally went. But he refused to go to the same dentist our kids and I visit. Probably because he knew the dentist and I would have a good laugh about it.

So as he left the house yesterday I sweetly gave him a peck on the cheek and told him, "I hope they have a jackhammer ready."

The appointment started at 8:30 a.m. and finished at 10:20 a.m. Luckily, the hygenist put on a topical anesthetic.

He called me afterwards and our conversation went something like this:

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Well, I bet your teeth feel really clean.

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Take some aspirin.

Him: I hate going to the dentist.

Me: Don't you love that fresh-from-the-dentist clean feel?

Him: My mouth hurts.

Last night as we sat on our patio, he was in a much better mood. A couple of Tylenol, and gin and tonics did wonders.

"I think the hygienist got tired," he told me. "She actually poked me once in the lip."

"I'm never going to do this again," he said.

What? I've got to fight this battle again?

"I've learned my lesson," he said. "I'm going back in six months."

As he finished telling me about his two hours in the chair, I didn't have the heart to tell him that this year he needs to schedule his first colonoscopy. I'm working from up to down on bettering his health.

The Wondering Texan


 

What Perfume and Lard have in Common

It's after spring break, the crowds are gone and so is the sunny, warm weather. Today is a gray, misty, cool day, and in a little while I've got to get blood drawn for my upcoming oncologist visit, and afterwards I have an appointment for my annual OB/GYN visit. As you can tell, the weather outside mirrors my day ahead.



The small skillet was filled with rust and leaves.

But as I reflect on the past weeks, I have to say it's been overwhelming positive and chaotic with many firsts for me. To start, I participated in my first Relay for Life event to raise money for the American Cancer Society. So far, this little town of about 8,500 people has raised about $70,000. During the event I received ACS's Hero of Hope award. I was shocked. So shocked in fact that when my first name was called I just stood there looking around for the recipient to walk forward. Then I felt stupid. Feeling stupid while standing on a stage receiving an award is awkward to say the least.

Next in the "firsts" department when I tried this week to "cure" an old cast iron skillet and Dutch oven for the Boy Scouts. The boys were busy last weekend cleaning out their storage shed and trailer and came across the two rusted pieces of iron. I brought them home with the promise that I would revitalize them. As I told my neighbor, a West Virginia native, of this latest project of mine she looked at me as if thinking:

1) She's going to drop those on her foot
2) She's going to set her kitchen on fire
3) The poor dear has snapped
4) All of the above

She then asked, "Do you know how?" I stammered, "Um, well, I thought I would Google it." That's when she took charge telling me to thoroughly clean the pots with steel pads and liberally grease them down with lard, "Not Crisco, butter or vegetable oil. Lard," she told me. Then cook the pots in the oven at about 275 degrees for hours. Clean and repeat as needed. She then looked me square in the eye and said, "You got it?" Shish, of course. Just one more question, "Where do I get lard?"

So I tried it on Tuesday. The results are mixed. The pots are better than before but not what Paula Deen would be proud of, but then again, this is for Boy Scouts so maybe they won't be critical.

Then last night, my husband and I spent our first night in our guest bedroom. You see, our son came home from baseball last night with about five pounds of red dirt on him. He took a shower and then proudly came out telling me, "Mom, the bathroom was all stinky so I sprayed it with your perfume." My bedroom and bathroom still smell like Chanel. I wonder if my West Virginia neighbor has a recipe for perfume detoxification.

I know there have been other recent firsts, but my mind has drawn a blank and/or they are too mundane to mention. So, signing off for now.

Wondering if I have the energy to tackle the pots again this afternoon.

The Wondering Texan





 

Fish Sticks and Middle School

The other night my husband asked why I'm not writing as much anymore. I told him I'm really busy and besides, I haven't had much to write about.

He looked at me and said, "Seriously, you work in a middle school."

True, middle school is a target rich environment with acne, young teenage drama, drug sniffing dogs and  adults who are simultaneously trying to maintain control and stay sane.

Last week was my first encounter with a drug sniffing dog. He was black and white with a patch of black fur over one eye. He was so cute I wanted to pet him but figured that probably wasn't allowed. Anyway, the principal, the assistant principal (who is a giant of a man), and the police officer came into the classroom asking everyone to leave the room minus backpacks, jackets and purses.

Afterward I told my husband who asked if the dog found anything. "No, except probably my leftover venison chili."

Which brings me to another school topic  -- lunches. Occasionally I will eat a school lunch. And let me tell you, the school lunch matrons are as intimidating as they were back in the '70s and '80s when I was in school. Hair nets are never a good look on anyone. Anyway, right before Christmas I was going through the line when one of them asked, "Why are you here?"

I was stunned and felt like Oliver Twist asking for more porridge. She then caught herself and said, "It's just that in the teacher's lounge a special holiday lunch has been set up for you guys."

Last week, my husband made my lunch. I hate making lunches. I would rather clean an entire kitchen after a tornado than make lunches. I went to the teacher's lounge and opened my bag. Inside he neatly tucked a little note saying, "I love you. Have a good day." And then I pulled out two pieces of cold, leftover pizza; a handful of red grapes, and about six pieces of Hershey's kisses in red and green wrappers. It looked like a five-year-old's lunch. Poor guy, apparently packing lunches isn't his favorite thing either.

Occasionally at school some students will ask me if they can eat in the classroom with me. It's OK with me as long as they follow my rules: 1) clean up their own messes 2) don't be too loud, and 3) don't bug me when I'm reading my Kindle.

But I imagine they are eating in the classroom for the same reasons as me -- it offers a quiet refuge from the noise and drama of middle school.

Some of these kids are in desperate need of a hug. But since I can't do that I smile at them, listen to their stories and tell them to take another bite of their turkey melt.

Wondering why after all of these years the basic dynamics of middle school haven't changed?

The Wondering Texan

Miles and Miles of Texas with a Deer on the Hood

Skull on the ranch.

As with everyone else, I've been busy with post holiday craziness -- packing up Christmas ornaments, trying to lose the extra 5 lbs. that has landed on my hips, and cleaning out the refrigerator of unrecognizable leftovers wrapped in red Saran Wrap. So far, I've be successful with clearing the clutter and tossing the bio-hazards from the frig.

But we did have a nice holiday seeing friends and family in Fort Worth, and trip to our friend's ranch in Noodle, Texas, where my son killed his first deer. No 11-year-old could be prouder. You know that scene in Family Christmas Vacation when Chevy Chase ropes a huge Christmas tree to the top of his family's vehicle? Well, for the seven hour trip back home, we had the deer affixed to the top of the SUV. You know you're in Texas when you pull through a McDonald's for lunch and not one person is surprised, startled or disgusted by the deer. They only register a mild raised eyebrow. So, us and deer headed home through Paint Rock, population 273; crossing Hog River; and skimming through the Hill Country. As the song by Asleep at the Wheel says, we saw miles and miles of Texas.

Now, our son has the hunting bug and last Sunday he and my husband went duck hunting at a nearby ranch in Fulton, Texas. Rain was coming down and it was something like 40 degrees outside. Surely they wouldn't go hunting I thought. I was wrong. When they came home, my son raced through the den as I asked, "How was it?" He immediately shot into a steaming hot shower where he stayed for 10 minutes. His lips were purple for an hour. But he had fun and they shot a duck.

So, to my friends who have only girly daughters and/or husbands who don't hunt, let me tell you what it's like to live with these types of men and a tomboy girl.

1) I have waders drying from a hook on my patio. They will probably be there for a while since it's been raining for two days now.
2) I have shotgun shells drying out on my laundry room counter.
3) I have a deer head on my patio shelf that the dogs have pulled down in an apparent attempt to make it a raw hide.

Our wonderful Abilene hosts.

4) I have to separate my laundry in the usual fashion -- whites, colors, darks. Plus add one, camo/hunting clothes which stink like dirty feet and cheese.
5) I have homemade dried venison jerky.
6) I have to light candles to mask the smell of gun cleaner out of the house.
7) I have to be the sane one when my husband suggest we should put the gutted deer on the front lawn as a deterrent against neighborhood deer eating our plants. I told him we would probably be reported to MHMR and PETA.

An old gas station in Albany, Texas.

8) I have to find an ice pack for my daughter who got a huge raspberry between her eyes from the rifle scope as it kicked. Yes, my daughter. And I had to reassure her that it would be gone by the start of school.

So, add all of this to the normal routine of managing a house. Not that I'm complaining. I'm really not.

Wondering how to cook duck.

The Wondering Texan

An Albany church.

Albany has a few cute shops dotting it's old town center.

A House of Jokers

Well, we just couldn't help it. Over the last few weeks my husband and I have been having quite a lot of fun playing jokes on neighbors, co-workers, kids and the likes.

The first recent joke was my husband's irritating ribbing of co-workers who are UT alum. When TCU beat UT in Austin (the first time since like 1969 -- almost the same amount of time of us being on this earth) he had to crow a little. So, for a week he wore nothing but purple shirts to work amid a sea of UT alum. One told him, "You can't possibly have that many purple shirts!" to which my husband proudly defied. OK, he's obnoxious at times I admit.

Then down the street our neighbors suffered the best practical joke. Winnie and Warren carefully placed cute, lighted deer on their lawn for Christmas.They sparkled so prettily it was too much to resist. So, instead of doing the obvious joke of putting the deer in inappropriate positions (a thought we had but feared the retirees would be too offended), we speared the deer with arrows. The baby I pulled out of the ground and put him on his back with an arrow through the gut.We should have taken photos of the crime. Maybe the real deer in the neighborhood will run in fear!

By the way, speaking of jokes, my husband has launched an all-out war on the moles in our backyard. If you have ever seen Caddy Shack with Bill Murray then you can imagine my husband in our backyard. Seriously, the man (my husband) is possessed. He's tried setting traps, flooding the moles out with the garden hose, training our bird dog to smell out moles, and the most scary, spraying ether in the holes and lighting a match. I shudder at the thought. I can just envision the conversation with the insurance man: "Well, you see, my husband was trying to kill moles and he accidentally set the house on fire. Yes, he was using a gas. Yes, he lit a flame. But can't I claim my husband as a natural disaster? Will this increase our insurance rate?"

So next week, I'm going to Fort Worth for a final cosmetic surgery for my breast reconstruction and to meet my oncologist. This means my husband is left alone to his own devices for a few days. The kids are starting to get nervous and our neighbor has offered to provide food and provisions.

Wondering if suffering and disorganization really ever hurt anyone and if my house will be standing?

The Wondering Texan

Two Little Boys Dish Out Life Lesson

Last Saturday night, two little boys ages 5 months and 2-years-old did what parents and health teachers only wish they could accomplish. After babysitting the boys, my daughter and her friend have decided never, ever, to have kids.

This suits us just fine. Considering the girls are 14 years old, we realize that this proclamation probably won't hold up, but hopefully it will get them through college.

When the girls got home at 12:30 a.m., they both rushed up to my husband and I saying, "It was horrible! They were everywhere, the baby wouldn't stop crying. How did you do it?"

Then the girls looked at each other and decided that THEY couldn't have possibly been as much work.

"I wasn't like that was I mom?" my daughter asked.

Well, in all honesty, her brother at that age was more difficult to get to and stay in bed. In some respects, he hasn't changed.

At one point, the two-year old wanted to talk to his dad, so my daughter called my husband who pretended to be Tripp's dad. "Are you being good?" my husband asked. "Now, listen to the girls."

So the night went on. Putting the baby down. Putting the 2-year-old down. Trying to rock the baby back to sleep. Putting the two-year-old back down. Changing the baby's diaper which my daughter said, "luckily it was only pee." Putting the two-year-old back to bed. Bouncing and walking the baby around. Putting the two-year-old back down.

Of course, I had to use this as a teaching moment. "See, that's why we tell you it's important to have a baby only when you're totally ready. As a parent, you don't get to go home at midnight. And no one pays you."

So, the next morning the girls slept in. At 9 a.m., the smoke alarm in her bedroom started to beep for a new battery. My husband went in clanging the ladder around to change the battery. The girls didn't stir. Then I went in to put up some laundry, they didn't even turn. We had the TV on, our 11-year-old son running around, and two dogs barking at squirrels in the backyard. Armageddon could have come and the girls wouldn't have opened an eye.

When they finally got up, all they wanted to do was watch TV.

So, it doesn't look like I will be a grandmother in the next decade which is A-OK with me. But when it does come, I'm going to relish holding and cuddling a new baby. Then giving him/her back to my daughter to change the diaper.

Wondering if I could now get my daughter to swear off junk food?

The Wondering Texan

Working On My Relay for Life

Well, it's been a while since I've written here. I've started substitute teaching, had some more surgery for reconstruction (which looks fantastic I might add) and started volunteer work for the upcoming Relay for Life for the American Cancer Society (ACS). As my mother-in-law told my husband, "she can't stay still can she?" Guess not.

Anyway, my friend Dana recruited me to the planning committee for our area's upcoming Relay which will happen March 22, 2013. As I attended my first meeting talk came around to the kick-off dinner. One of the planners said, "We need a speaker." Then someone else said, "Someone new. Someone people haven't heard their story."

I could feel the stares burning my skin and hear the tapping of fingers on the table.

"Someone who recently battled the disease," ACS lady said.

OK, I give. When I offered to speak, they all acted surprised. Gee, they are REALLY BAD ACTORS! No Oscar winners in this group.

So I jotted down some comments and stood before about 30 organizers the following week. I tried to hit the fine line between depressing and naive or worse, Polly Anna. I started off by saying, "Well, when I first got the diagnosis my husband and I sought some solace. We went to a bar." That got some laughs.

I rattled off some positives of cancer -- get to try a new hairstyle; people bring to you loads of food; you can take a guilt-free nap at anytime. I also said that some people thought my death from Stage III breast cancer was eminent, I became a walking, 5'2 confessional booth. Now those people are starting to look a little worried.

That got more laughs.

Anyway, after I finished, the newspaper editor rushed over to me, asked for my notes and interviewed me. Then the ACS lady came over.

"That was so good!" she gushed. "I didn't know you could speak. Why didn't you tell us? You should do this more often."

So now I'm on their Speaker's Bureau.

But what was really great for me was hearing other stories. I met someone whose sister was diagnosed with terminal cancer. That was 15 years ago. Then I heard of someone who has successfully battled three bouts of cancer over several decades. I also met a woman my age who was diagnosed at age 25 with breast cancer.

"I had been married for a year and a half," she told me. "We didn't have children yet."

She went through surgery, chemo and reconstruction. She's accomplished raising a family, working full-time and being a multi-year Relay for Life participant.

So this weekend I'm off to San Antonio for the South Texas Summit. I've been told to wear purple which should be pretty easy since that's TCU's color too. From what I gather, the Summit is a planning, sharing, and bonding experience. I'm really looking forward to hearing more inspirational stories.

But between now and then, I've got to pay bills, walk the dogs and do laundry. Life doesn't stop even for cancer.

I'll let you know how the Summit goes.

Wondering if I should spray paint my hair purple? Nah, maybe I'll just buy some super purple eye shadow.

The Wondering Texan

Cruising Through Mid-Life With B-12 and Kim Kardashian

 Last night I was invited to go on a "moms' sunset cruise" with my friend Cindy. Our boys go to school together, and as such the case, we parents have formed a friendship.

As the five of us watched the early fall sun lower over the horizon, we talked about what most middle-aged women talk about. Weight. And organic health food. And B-12 shots.

Forget the hot guy conversation, the new car debate, or the recently purchased cocktail dress talk of yesteryear. Today my life has become a series of conversations on how to avoid weight gain. Every once in a while, the topic will change to sore joints, but I digress.

We meandered through the bay looking at cranes and searching for dolphins while we sipped wine and ate cheese, which I thought was kind of funny given the topic.

"I hear if you give up alcohol, you can lose weight pretty fast," I said.

You would have thought I pulled the drain plug on the boat.

"Well, yeah, but who wants to do that?" asked Sara. "I give myself B-12 shots." Apparently, she buys a monthly supply at a very reasonable price.

We were like the Sex and the City girls except more accurately named Weight and the Married Women.

Then one of them said, "We should go dancing at Sharkey's. It's so much fun. Let's go eat healthy Mexican food at this restaurant, then go dancing."

Cindy asked, "Is it safe?"

What? The food or the bar? Or possibly the dancing? I didn't get the question.

"It's totally safe. The people are preppy and they play '80s music," Sara said.

Flashback 1986. I lived through the'80s and not sure if I'm able relive it.

Of course, not having been to a dance club in about two decades I had to ask, "Do we bring our husbands?"

I could hear the gurgling sound of salt water rising around my ankles. I almost said, "Just joking!"

Obviously, I was batting a 0 on the conversation scale. Eventually they started to talk amongst themselves and occasionally nod over in my direction.

Then they started talking about frozen fruit slushes. Peel and cut up a banana into chunks. Place in a freezer bag, but don't neatly place them in the bag because it makes it harder to break apart and put in the blender. Then add some other fruit or coconut juice, not milk which is higher in calories. Of course, you can always add rum or vodka, they said.

I was eager to jump into the conversation, so I said, "Well, last week I went to an interval training class and couldn't sit down for days. But, I kept going because I wasn't about to let a woman 20 years older than me beat me."

Blank stares.

"Well, I have to do something to get my butt off of the back of my thighs," I laughed.

They politely smiled, then one asked, "How much weight do you want to lose? A half a pound?"

They all literally looked me up and down, laughed, and took another swig of wine.

So I tried to steer the conversation to brighter ground -- hair dye.

"Who does your hair?" I asked. "I haven't found anyone here yet."

Yes, I was back in the conversation! They were all eager to give me their hair stories.

On the latter half of the cruise we picked up another couple and their college-age daughter. They started talking about the new IPhone 5 which of course the daughter has ordered. Then they started talking about storing photos in "the cloud," and other technology advancements.

I had to say to Miss College, "I don't understand Twitter."

I could feel her eyes roll. "You don't understand what Twitter is?" Miss College asked.

"No, I know what it is," I said. "But why do people like to communicate that way?"

"Well, a lot of celebrities communicate that way," she said.

"OK, but why do average people want a Twitter account?" I asked.

"Well," Miss College said. "You can directly talk to celebrities. People like Kim Kardashian can respond back to you."

"Why do I want to talk to Kim Kardashian?" I asked.

Again I was sent back to the familiar four walls of my dog house.

So, this is what I have learned thus far in my life - I've never really outgrown my odd girl personality. I'm a dork. A card carrying dork. Leading the 'hood of dorkdom in stares, smirks and furrowed brows.

Oh well, it's nice to know some things remain consistent in life.

Still wondering why I would want to talk to Kim Kardashian? I mean, really?

The Wondering Texan




 

Substitute Teaching Middle Schoolers

Well, I'm about to embark on my latest adventure - substitute teaching.

A lady in my water aerobics class gave me the idea saying she thought I would be good at it. I guess she figured if I can control a couple of menopausal ladies in a pool of water, then I shouldn't have any problems controlling hormonal middle schoolers in a classroom. At least I won't have to contend with hot flashes other than my own. Plus, it allows flexibility for my reconstruction process, adds a little extra cash to our account, and gives me new purpose.

So, I applied and went through the background check. I've been finger printed and been given a pep talk by the school district official. The substitute teacher coordinator gave me six substitute teaching assignments at the middle school. All in math. The last time I was in a math class was when they didn't allow calculators in the class. The other week, my husband was watching a YouTube video on how to operate my daughter's calculator for advanced algebra.

"Don't worry, we're basically looking for people who can control the class. You'll been fine," she told me with a smile.

I guess she figured that since I have two middle school children of my own, I am uniquely qualified.

Tomorrow is my first day at the school. And you know what most people are asking me? What am I going to wear. Yes, it's true.

"You're not going to a corporate office," my neighbor told me.

Then there's my daughter's comments.

"Mom, don't tell them your last name," she said. Then she added, "So, how are you going to be?"

I wasn't following her question and asked for an explanation.

"Well, are you going to be a mean substitute or a cool sub?" she asked.

'Well, I don't know. I guess I'll be myself,' I told her.

A moment of silence. Then she said, "Well just don't tell anyone your last name."

Then I called my dad figuring I could at least get some parental support. I overreached.

"Really?" he said. "Math?"

A moment of silence.

"Oh. Well that should be ...good."

At least he didn't tell me not to tell anyone my name. Or tell me what to wear.

I've faced a corporate layoff and cancer, so how hard can it be to face seventh graders?

I'll let you know.

Wondering if I can bring candy into the classroom as a motivational tool. Without peanuts of course.

The Wondering Texan

Burning With Fall Expectations

It's hot and dry here along the coast which makes the fall season seem like a mirage. I hope it's somewhere out there, but don't think I'll see it anytime soon.

My neighbors just got back from Lake Michigan and told me they actually had to layer on clothes. This has put me in a melancholy mood. I mean, last weekend my daughter went to a beach party and they couldn't play volleyball because the sand was too hot.

Even the hummingbird migration seems to have stalled in the heat. A few have been flitting around the feeders and, in my optimism, I bought a 5 lb. bag of sugar in preparation for the feeding frenzy. The sugar is still in my pantry collecting more dust than hummers. The local HummerBird Celebration is this weekend with special speakers, bird banding and other special activities. Hopefully, it will be full of hummers, not bummers.

One of the hummers from last year's banding activity.

Although there's not a flock of hummers, certain other animals have made their presence known. Moles have made our yard look like a field of land mines. Traps have been set, yet remain waiting. So far, the traps have netted none. Our dogs, one. Yes, one of my dogs caught a mole and brought it to the back door as a sacrificial offering. I've never seen a mole up close. In a way it was kind of cute with its long, pink nose. But, not cute enough to receive a pardon.

The heat has taken a bite out of fishing.

Then there are the roaches. The nasty, flying, size of a city bus, roaches. With 22 Live Oaks in our backyard and the drought, they have set up camp around our home. I called an exterminator and bought a can of Raid. It's all-out war. I don't know why I think I may win this war considering they have been around since the dinosaurs.

Yesterday I pulled out some of my fall decorations and bought a few chrysanthemums. But of course, I can't plant those in the front yard due to the deer. Our other rodent. As I planted the flowers, a stream of sweat rolled down my back. That kind of takes the fun out of decorating.

So, I'm hoping cooler weather (I'm not even going to wish for a cold front) arrives soon. It's supposed to be in the mid-90s today. Better than the low-100s. But still not hot toddy weather.

Oh, the weatherman just said we may get some "isolated showers." Wondering if he's just teasing us? He's such a joker!

The Wondering Texan

The Long Process Back to Cleavage

Back on June 22, I had my breast reconstruction. As I mentioned in my previous blog, it wasn't an easy surgery. Luckily, growing the "girls" is a lot easier.

One of the charming scenes in downtown Fredericksburg.

I was in Fort Worth for three weeks to receive weekly injections to stretch the skin and muscle. Ironically, this coincided with my 30th high school reunion. I have to admit, having perky new cleavage for my high school reunion was awesome.

The view from the Pedernales Cellars winery.

One night I modeled for my husband several dresses looking for the perfect one for the reunion dinner. A side product of having reconstruction is that you almost get a new wardrobe. You wouldn't think having cleavage would be a big deal. And I wasn't hugely endowed before. But it's amazing how even a little cleavage helps fill out dresses or tank tops and what it does for your morale.

No, we didn't see Waylon and the boys.

So, with the perfect dress packed, I left for Fort Worth for my "fills" and reunion. Getting a "fill" is kind of like expanding a water balloon. Not knowing exactly how this was going to work, I imagined the nurse coming in with a huge needle attached to something like a Super Soaker water gun in which she would pump me full of water. Well, I was semi-correct. The nurse came in and rolled a port finder over my chest.

"Hey, it's like a stud finder," I joked. "My husband has one of these in his toolbox."

The finder shows the nurse where the port entrance is, then she inserts a tiny needle which is attached to a little tube and syringe. Slowly, the water is injected. And here's the weird part. It really looks like a water balloon filling. It's instantaneous gratification.

Yes, the injection stung a little but as the nurse quipped, "That's good. Well, it's not good that it hurt you, but it's good that you still have some feeling there...you know, that it's not all numb...for you will...well...it's just that sometimes..."

"I know what you're trying to say," I offered her.

Then the doctor came in and spoke to me about the differences between silicone and saline implants. He suggested silicone.

"But, I want the safest implant," I said. "I don't need anymore drama."

But he assured me silicone is nothing like the previous generations. "It's kind of like a gummy bear," he offered. "If I cut a gummy bear, nothing leaks out."

The difference between the two is that saline can be adjusted to make both sides perfectly symmetrical. But it will be hard like a melon.Whereas, the silicone is a softer, more natural feel.

"If it were me, I would prefer a more natural feel. But you do what you feel is best. It's just that the silicone will be softer..."

Then a funny thought came to me. This is so awkward talking to a man about what feels more natural. But although he is a medical professional with countless hours of medical school and probably a nice school loan to go with it, he is in basic form a man.

Two weeks into my filling process, I met my husband in Fredericksburg, Texas, for a getaway weekend. He had to stay home and work while I underwent my transformation.

When we got to the hotel room, I burst out, "So, you want to see them?"

"Wow, they look good. They're already bigger than the originals."

I don't know why, but I was insulted.

"They are not," I said.

"They are," he said.

"Are not," I said.

"They are bigger," he said.

Then we both looked at each other and smiled at the stupidity of this disagreement. I mean, just what was the point?

"Do you want to go out and walk around," he offered.

So, now I'm in the holding pattern. I have to wait six weeks for the skin and muscle to completely adjust before I can get the expanders taken out and have the permanent implants put in.

Oh, and my high school reunion went great. No one was the wiser of my ordeal and I felt great. And here's a bonus, I was voted as one of five women who physically have changed the least since 1982.

I told me husband, "Isn't that funny? With everything I've been through in the last 2.5 years, my classmates think I haven't changed."

The Wondering Texan

Getting the New "Girls"

Well, it's been a busy summer for me. A week and a half after returning from vacation, I traveled up to Fort Worth for the beginning of my reconstruction surgery. I can't believe it's been two and a half years since my life changed forever.

My back scars about seven weeks after surgery.

I won't gloss this over for anyone who is facing breast reconstruction requiring "flaps." Let me just tell you, it sucks donkeys. That being said though, I'm really glad I went through with it.

First, it's about a four and a half hour surgery in which the doctor takes muscle and skin from the back and relocates it to the chest. Then he/she puts the expanders underneath the skin which will be filled with solution over the next few weeks to stretch the skin out for the permanent silicone or saline implants. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The very first thought I had when I woke up was 'What the hell was I thinking?' I felt like a herd of elephants had stampeded over my body.

My wonderful nurse gave me hope when she said, "Here's your morphine drip button. You can press it up to three times an hour." Click.

My second thing I thought was 'Thank God for morphine.' Click.

I was told not to move much. The nurse said, "Pretend you are a T Rex with the short arms. Keep your elbows close to your body. That's your range."

OK, that may sound easy. But have you ever tried to wash your hands without extending your arms? Or even pull up your pants without stretching too much? It's not easy. It makes a good case for being a nudist.

On the second day in the hospital, I decided I needed to get up and walk. It would help me feel normal and relieve my back ache. As I held on to my young nurse's arm, we walked past the nurses station. I noticed that all of the nurses seemed to be in their 20s. Then I heard one of the nurses behind the station "whisper" to the other, "Who is that?" The other young nurse responded, "Oh, that's Mrs. X, she's the sweetest lady." What bothered me was the tone of the voice. You know, the sing song kind you save for two-year-olds and 90-year-olds. I guess to them I looked like an old lady shuffling around in my bathrobe and no-skid socks.  I felt like saying, "Girls, I can hear you! I haven't lost that yet."

Joking aside, the most unpleasant part of the whole thing were the four drainage tubes protruding from my body. I also had one "pain pouch" strapped around my neck with a tube going to my back. I guess it's similar to an epidural. They didn't hurt, it's just hard to move, put on clothes, and sleep.

Speaking of sleep, it didn't come easy. As I told my cancer survivor friend Sara, 'I was like a newborn. At first all I did was eat, sleep and poop.' And Sara responded, "Except that you can't poop for about a week after surgery." Thanks Sara for that reminder.

I don't know if it was because of all of the medications, the difficulty moving, or worry, but I seldom got more than three continuous hours of sleep.

Which brings me to a very important point. If going through this surgery, one must have someone there at all times. I will say this is no light duty care the person gives the patient. This person must:
1) Help drain the drains twice a day
2) Help the patient get into and out of bed
3) Make meals
4) Help the patient get dressed
5) Track all medications given
6) Help monitor healing
7) Drive the patient to doctor appointments
8) Be a cheerleader
9) Be on call 24/7

For doing all of this, my dear husband has elevated his status from mortal man to near god status. He has earned his right to throw his dirty laundry on the floor, forget an item off of the grocery list, and most of all, force me to watch three straight hours of PGA coverage on cable. The latter did help my sleep status.

But a week after the surgery, two tubes and the pain tube were removed. Slowly I was returning to normal. But the most encouraging news was when the doctor saw me and said it looked great. He then left and let the nurse remove the tubes. Suddenly, we heard a knock at the door and he popped his head back in. I thought he was going to ask the nurse to help him with something, but instead he looked at me and with an excited voice said, "You really do look great!" He was obviously proud of his work as was I.

Next time, I'll tell you about the filling process. Imagine filling water balloons. Until then, I hope this helps someone who is facing what I have faced.

Wondering which I should get? Silicone or saline?

The Wondering Texan

American Family Loose in France

Chenonceau started in 1513 in the Loire Valley.

Bonjour! My family and I recently returned from 10 days in France. It was the first time my husband and kids have traveled abroad. And it was the first time ever my family have been together for 10 days nonstop.

Well, as evidenced by this post, we all survived each other. I wasn't worried about getting lost in France; gypsies or terrorists; lost bags or the language barrier. I was worried that we would be scratching each others' eyes out by Day 5. 

Chateau de la Tortiniere built at the end of the 10th Century. Now a hotel.

Seriously, before leaving I tried to remember a time we have spent that many days together without an escape route. I think the closest thing was back in 1995 on my honeymoon. And that was without kids or a language barrier.

When I voiced my concerns to my friend Carol, her advice was "drink lots of wine." I did, and it was delicious. We quickly learned that in France, the dollar doesn't buy much. However three things are reasonable if not cheap -- wine, bread and cheese.

Our bedroom at de la Tortiniere

We went to the Loire Valley, Provence, and Paris. We saw castles, dungeons, gardens, museums, open markets, the Eiffel Tower and cobblestone streets.

But what was really fun was seeing another country through the eyes of a pre-teen and teenager.

When we arrived at our first hotel, our daughter plopped on the couch and started flipping through TV channels. "It's all in French," she stated. "Ugh."

Ruins of the historic town Eygalieres.

"Well, that's probably because we are in France," I told her.

My husband is a sort of tech nerd, so he reprogrammed the TV to English. I was a little bummed by that.

But then, the real horror came. Our adapter, which we borrowed, was for England, not France. Now that was a bigger problem and one travelers didn't have two decades ago. The chargers alone must weigh a total of five pounds. But he figured out how to charge by plugging into the TV.

Gordes, built into a side of a mountain.

As we made day trips around in our little rental car and navigated France's many roundabouts and tollways, my husband quipped, "I feel like that guy in An Idiot Abroad," referring to the BBC show of three guys one of whom is sent around the world to test out new experiences.

"Maybe we could be the American version," I mused. "American Idiots Aboard."

Roman coliseum in Arles which is under renovation.

Another learning experience came when we ate lunch in Arles one day. Upon finishing our lunch we tried to pay only to learn that they don't accept credit/debit cards. My husband had to scurry around to find a cash machine which he found six blocks away.

When traveling aboard, one quickly begins to appreciate things both countries have. For instance, in France, the countryside is clean with many wildflowers in bloom. No trash lining roadways. But here's my rundown of each country's top things.

France:
* Clean streets, yards, and towns
* Excellent wine, cheese and bread

Our Hotel Buci room in Paris

* Beautiful countryside and quaint towns
* Long, luxurious lunches (two hours)
* Fresh vegetables and fruits
* Cute boys (this one is from my daughter)

USA:
* His/her bathrooms with sinks and toilet seats
* Manned tollways
* Highways that aren't tollways
* Clothing/shoes at reasonable prices
* Pharmacies open at night
* The can-do spirit
* The consumer driven economy.

Family portrait in Provence.

When Does "Older" Translate into "Old?"

Remember this cute advertisement from the '60s? Then you're getting old.

Yesterday my friend Amy called to wish me a belated 48th Happy Birthday. She's a month late. Her "senior moment" got us talking about growing older and had me wondering when exactly does "getting older" become "you're old."


"I'm having hot flashes and have been a little light-headed," said Amy who is 49. And she missed her last period. So she ran to the drugstore for a home pregnancy test.

"I felt like a teenager hoping that no one I know would see me with an E.P.T. kit in my basket," she said. "It was awful but luckily the test came back negative." Which made her even more nervous prompting a visit to her doctor for tests.

"He came back and told me I'm in full blown menopause," Amy said. "Apparently all of my hormones nose-dived in about a day. So he put me on some mild hormones."

I can relate to the hot flashes. Since being on Tamoxifen to reduce the chances of my cancer recurring, I've been in menopause too. But I can't take any hormones. I never know if a room is warm or if I'm hot.

"Well you're lucky you can take hormones," I told her to which she quickly responded.

"But you're getting new girls this summer and they're going to be all perky and pretty," she said.

 "True, but although my new ta-ta's will be circa 2012, the rest of me will be circa 1964," I laughed. Plus, I wouldn't wish cancer on anyone just for new speed bumps.

This led to talk about our body parts that at one time used to be taunt, perky and wrinkle-free.

Since turning 40, my thighs somehow incurred hail damage. But lately the hail damage has melted into ocean waves crashing down on my thighs. Apparently, Amy's thighs have had the same fate. And we're ladies who have BMI's proportionate to our height!

Then there's the diminished eyesight, gray strands and chin hairs. The ladies in my water aerobics class tell me, "Oh, that's nothing! Wait until you get to be ...60, 70, 80."

I shudder at the thought.

So, I wonder when do you just give up and let the chin hairs grow?

Don't know, but for now I've decided not to go down easily. Now pass the wax.

The Wondering Texan

One City Kid and One Farm Equals New Adventure

Can the farm survive this silly kid?

This weekend is a big weekend for my son. He has been invited to spend the weekend at a friend's farm in a nearby small town. He couldn't be more thrilled.

A few days ago while I was bringing him home from school he turned to me and said, "oh mom, I hope I get to lift some hay. You know, to build these muscles up," while pushing up his bicep on his skinny arm no thicker than a willow branch.

So I called Tracey, the other mother, and relayed this message. "I hope you put him to work," I told her. "He's your little slave laborer for the weekend."

"Oh no, I guess we will have to let some cows out for them to round up," she laughed.

Then, their son told us, "pack a fishing pole because we have a catfish pond."

With this information, my son might not ever come back.


And in typical 10-year-old boy fashion, his packing requisites are a little humorous. He handed me his packing list written in green ink:
* Lego's
* DVD's
* Fishing pole
*Nerf gun and swords
*Cap

Oh, and he added "clothes, blanket, and pillow." I added the toothbrush, socks, swim trunks, pajamas, antibacterial gel, mosquito spray, and underwear.

So, he's off until Sunday. Now the scary part begins. My husband is off at a golf tournament part of the weekend and I overheard my daughter telling her friend, "Hey, my brother and dad are gone this weekend. It's just us girls." And they started to giggle.

I wonder if it's too late for me to go to the farm. Wondering how much hay I'll have to lift to earn my keep?


The Wondering Texan

What Skin Cancer and Espadrilles Have in Common

Yesterday, I had the unpleasant experience of having some skin cancer removed from my cheek. Ick.

 I don't know how the nurses and doctor do it. I'm sure as they work on people like me their thoughts are, "dummy, if you hadn't laid out in the sun covered in baby oil in your teens and early 20s, then you probably would be spared this." But no, I just had to have the golden, even tan that many European descendants covet. Somewhere along the line, I heard that rubbing lemon juice on your face would lighten the freckles dotting my nose and cheeks. It doesn't work.

In my younger years, I tanned along the shores of Cancun; Padre Island and Galveston, Texas; Nassau, Bahamas; and San Diego, Calif. So, my skin cancer has quite a travel log.

But now I'm older and wiser. Emphasis on older. Today I have a lot of weapons to help contain, and hopefully prevent, skin cancer. I have sun lotions with high SPF's. By the way, my dermatologist recommends a lotion called "Aloe Gator Sunblock" because he says it absorbs into the skin and will absolutely not rub or sweat off. It literally has to be washed off with soap and water. Additionally, I sit in the shade at my kids' baseball/softball games. Sometimes I bring an umbrella to create such shade. And of course, there's my sun shirt, wide brim hat and sunglasses for water aerobics. As my husband says, I look like an old lady. That may be, but he hasn't had to have his whole cheek area deadened.

"Now, don't panic at the area we are deadening," the nurse told me. "We're just want to make sure there's no pain because all of the nerves connect."

Then I heard, "wow, nice shoes."

"Are you talking to me, " I asked. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be moving my mouth. Yes, they were talking to me. They liked my new striped espadrilles. Or as my husband corrected me, "the ladies at the office said they are called 'wedges.' They have never heard of espadrilles."

Well, now I'm feeling like an ancient mummy in my bandaged face. But I do have really cute shoes.

When I left the office, I was like the late actor Dudley Moore in the movie "10" after the dentist scene. I probably shouldn't have been driving since my left eye was drooping. When I got home, it was lunch time and I was starving. Half of my lunch ended up on my shirt.

The good news is the doctor told me to rest and relax for a few days. Ahh, doctor's orders. No lifting anything heavier than 5 lbs. (does that include laundry?), no bending over (does that include picking up shoes off the floor?), no exercise (oh darn!). And the other good news is that the Doc got all of the cancer.

So, that's what I'm doing now. Watching TV and finishing this while holding an ice pack to my face.

Wondering if I should tell my family the "rest and relaxation" orders are only for 48 hours. Nah, I'm going to push it to 72 hours.


The Wondering Texan

Love is in the air in a small town

Today I'm wondering if I can withstand the teenage years. You see, my daughter is 13 and has a crush. No, it's not Justin Bieber or one of the Big Time Rush boys. Oh, how I wish it were.

Dillon from all outward signs appears normal, respectful, intelligent and funny. He has only two faults -- he's a boy and he's a teenager.

But living in a small town poses hazards for any young person. First, chances are you will know the family. Secondly, chances are you socialize with the family either personally or through one of the many community events.Thirdly, if you don't know the family, someone you know knows. It's the Bermuda Triangle of dating in a small town. Except our daughter isn't allowed to date for a few more years. So, I should more accurately say, crushing in a small town.

In my daughter's case, Dillon is the son of my son's baseball coach. And since she has observed this, she is more than willing to go to 10-year-old baseball games and practices.

But what really got me laughing was the conversation today between my kids in the car on the way to school. It went like this:

Son: Did I tell you Dillon told me to tell you "Hi" last night and that he likes you?

Daughter: He did? What did he say?

Son: Hi and he likes you.

Daughter: How did he say it?

Son: What?

Daughter: Did he say, 'Hi or did he say 'HI!'

Son: I don't know. Why can't you just accept it?

Daughter: That's it?

Son: Well, I think he was tired. He kept getting hit by balls.

Me: Was he being intentionally hit by balls or accidentally?

Son: Both.

Daughter: Well, tell him 'Hi' from me the next time you see him.

I just had to start laughing at the humor in this situation. To trust a 10-year-old brother to communicate with the 13-year-old boy is just doomed for massive failure.

It also made me remember all of the late nights talking and analyzing with my girlfriends over the boys we dated. Remember "What do you think he meant by that?" "Why hasn't he called?" "When he said this, do you really think he meant this instead?"

Boy, has my daughter got a long road ahead of her! May the force be with her.

Wondering if my husband can handle all of these boys?


The Wondering Texan