January 28th

So.

Here I sit.

It's been a sitting day.

I went a couple of places with Daughter on Saturday and am still getting over it.  Thank you Lupus.  Hey, at least I felt well enough to go.  So...really...Thank You Lord.

Dog just circled the bed and threw herself across my hip.  Did I mention my hip had a heating pad on it?

Daughter and I have decided that there is a storm coming or *something* as both our backs, as well as Husband's are hurting.  I sincerely hope FIL (Father In Law) who is in hospital awaiting surgery on ruptured disc is not weather forecasting with *his* back.

I am missing my jaw harness.  I wonder if Mei Mei ran off with it.  Daughter has rigged an elastic headband to keep my mouth shut while I sleep so that the Vader machine will work.

I purchased a balloon animal set for Younger Son so that he can begin to "think outside the box".  Making the animals, for him, would definitely involve a type of thinking different to his usual.  So today, with Older Son's help, he made a wasp.  A very impressive wasp.

The two bad butts asked to borrow one of my sewing finger condominiums (read down for the whole story).  I refused.  If it can't be made out of the supplied materials, I ain't helpin' any further knowin' those two.  I believe tomorrow is a mouse.

He also wrote  a rather impressive response to his first critical essay from the book used by Daughter's developmental English class that she taught last semester.  The class was designed to prepare students for Eng 101.  At 14, Younger Son did very well.

Yesterday was Sheba, the tiny toy poodle's ninth birthday.  It doesn't seem possible that nine years have gone by since my grandfather passed.  Husband bought her for me as an early anniversary gift so that Papaw could enjoy her.  We knew he didn't have much time.  He was so thin.  But Sheba would race up his body, little paws flying over skin covering bones, and then she'd smother his face in kisses and he would *laugh*.  My grandfather had the most special, most infectious laugh.  He was wonderful.

Tomorrow, I'll either work on Steven's quilt (which is going to take forEVER) or finish the last three big triangles on the wall hanging.  It's turning out nicer than I expected.  I like hand quilting when you're doing a design.  Insides of squares?  Won't make that mistake again. LOL.  But Older Son and Daughter will have lovely quilts that will last when I'm done.

As for me, I'm finishing that flower basket that my grandmother started, and I have a plan for a celtic knot design based on a stained glass window I made.  I think it will translate to quilting well.

Bored yet?  Lol.  I'm boring myself.  Time to go to bed.

January 22, 2008

I sent the boys, 14 and 18 yrs of age, respectively, to Walmart. 

On their list was something called finger cots.  I told them it should be in the band-aid aisle.

You see, since I took up quilting, I have cut a piece out of my little finger where the thread slides across it at the outside bend.  I have tried tape, band aids, all manner of things, and the thread gets caught on stuff, so I remembered seeing these little finger things for secretaries to use or for bandages.  Daughter, a former CPhT said to look in the band aid aisle.

So I sent the boys, told Older Son  and that he didn't have to ask if he couldn't find it.  He wanted to  know what it was.

So I put it in terms he could understand.

"They look like little finger condoms."

Well that got me a look.

It seems that as they searched the aisles at Walmart, Youger Son hollers to Older Son "What are we looking for?" as he rounds a corner.  Older Son answered, "It's called finger cots and they look like little finger condoms."

All this occurs just as Younger Son runs into Strange Woman Standing Between Older and Younger Sons In The Walmart Aisle.

Younger Son apparently has the 'deer in the headlights look', as he cannot wrap his head around the fact that his mother is looking for condoms for her fingers, and now a Strange Woman knows.

"Mom is cutting her fingers on thread as she's quilting."  Older Son is still looking and unaware of Younger Son's horror.

Fortunately, Strange Woman took pity on Younger Son and whispered, "It's alright," as she quickly exited the aisle.

So that settles that.  I'm going back to calling them condominiums.

When the children were little, we took the cue from Jeff Foxworthy and referred to the aforementioned prophylactic as condominiums.

Then Older Son asked me one day about a year or so ago if condom really was short for condominium.

*headdesk*

I guess graduating from college at 17 still doesn't assure that one knows *everything*.

Mama's home!

Isn't it ridiculous that at 44 years of age, I get so excited when my mom and dad get home from their world travels?

Or is it?

I love my parents and they love me.  How many people can say that in the world today?

I distinctly remember being in a group of women one Christmas Eve.  We were seated in a circle during an Open House type thing, and it seemed that each of them were complaining about their mothers, one at a time as they went around the circle.  When it got to me, everyone was looking at me.

I said, "Don't look at me, I like my mom."

They all happened to know my mother and all liked her too.  But I don't know that they liked my saying it.

Too bad. 

My husband didn't get to know his mom because she died when he was little.  He'd give anything to have had her around, to have her know our children.

Now don't get me wrong, I know there are people who have mothers who make Cinderella's stepmother look like Mother Of The Year.  I even know them.

But I like my  mom.

And I feel lucky to be able to say it.

January 17, 2008

 

You know, I had something right amusing to write about when I started this, but my website system has gone to a newer, friendlier (hear my teeth grinding?) system of adding/editing your website.  By the time I'd worked myself through all the commands just to get here, I'd clean forgot what I was going to write about and can't remember.

 My poor, precious MeiMei hurt her neck and had to go to the doctor and get a shot.  She's still moving very gingerly when she's able to move.  My poor baby.

 Okay.  My name is Jennifer and I'm a reality show junkie.   

I do have a little taste.  I stick to Project Runway (*love* Tim Gunn), American Idol, Are you Smarter than a 5th Grader (I ain't tellin'), America's Smartest Supermodel (the guy who did long division on the banana peel with a knife when he was too lazy to find paper and pen????), America's Top Model (love Tyra!), Top Chef.

 I like to think I have some standards.  I don't watch those  Bachelor  (anymore)  shows or Survivor (too much of the same) or  that  Tequila girl...oh  please. 

 But I would watch singing shows even if I hated them just to see the looks on the faces of my boys.  First off, how could MOM possibly know all those songs?  Secondly, WHY would she sing them when my friends are over?  Does she think we're deaf?

 LOL

Age and treachery overcome youth and beauty every time.  Heh heh heh. 

January 13, 2008

As many of you know, the Not Cancer that was removed from my jaw turned out to be something called seborrheic keratosis, or, by its less formal name, Barnacles.

There's something rather strange about knowing you have had a Barnacle on your face, regardless of its real, medical sounding name.

In reading about this odd little growth, I came across a piece of trivia that I'm not sure I want my boys to have.

It seems that the wart on the end of the Wicked Witch's nose was likely not a wart at all, but was...you guessed it, a barnacle.

The Wicked Witch had a Barnacle.

I had a Barnacle.

There are parallels to draw here that I'll leave you to.

I'm going to feed the flying monkeys.

So here I sit, breathing machine going so that I hopefully can get accustomed to it before falling asleep.

I've already had three pairs of eyes rolled at me as I made my kids lean over the bed and I took a deep breath in and out then said, "(Insert child's name here), I am your fathah."

It's very easy to do the Vader with this thing on.

Of course, when I have a bad cough, and my voice gets deep, I can do Jabba the Hutt. "OH, ho, ho. AH, ha, ha."

Speaking of Sci Fi, don't you love it when they waste your time with "recap" shows about the time of the season when budgets get low, or they spent too much on last week's CGI space battle?  I'm watching Season 8 of SG1 and sitting thru yet another of these recaps.

I don't really understand people who don't watch Sci Fi.  Now I'm talking actual science fiction, not that horror crap that sometimes pops up labeled as sci fi.  If ever there were metaphors for life, you can find them in every sci fi show ever made.  I'd utterly bore you with examples, but I'm tired and don't want to think that hard.

Yes, I realize that people who like that horror crap probably can't understand why I don't like it.  The reason is simple.

I am a big chicken.

(Loud Exhalation) "Luke, I am your chicken."  Bok bok.

January 8, 2008

Argh matey.  Yo Ho Ho, where's the rum?  (Blech, I hate rum, but have to stay in character.)

Last week, I had to have a small growth removed from my face, on my jaw, near my ear.  It came up rather suddenly, changed over a few weeks and made me uncomfortable.  So I saw a doc, he said "That needs to be cut out" and made arrangements to do it.

He'd said if it were cancer, he didn't think it was the bad kind and he wasn't even sure it was that.

Okay.  No big deal.  Local anesthesia, let's get it off.


I went, got it off, got stitches, that was that.  Of course, the day before I'd had a four hour cardiologist appointment, complete with EKG's and echocardiograms and stuff, to get my sleep apnea results...positive.  I went as long as 78 seconds without breathing.  No wonder I'm confused! 

So I got this little machine that, in my loving daughter's words, makes me look like a deformed elephant.

I don't care, if it gives me air when I sleep, that's all that matters.

But I digress.

So I have stitches and bruising on my poor little face. (Snort...it really didn't hardly hurt)

SO  I called today for pathology report and it is NOT cancer, Thank You Lord.

It is something called seborrheic keratosis.

Of course I have to look it up.

It says it is difficult to tell from melanoma, comes back sometimes, comes in clusters sometimes.

But.

And here's the kicker.

It goes by another name.

Are you ready?

Barnacles.

I had a barnacle on my face.

Do you suppose they'll cast me in the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie?

I have my own eyepatch.  Mom's on a cruise, I told her to bring me a spyglass.

Time to swab the decks.