A GOOD MANY DRAMATIC SITUATIONS BEGIN WITH SCREAMING

At my x husband...?...

Just as Brian was getting really good at football and showered with attention, he decides to stop playing.

His backstage dad and the main coach were driving him nuts.

You can always tell the over-involvement of a parent in a child's life when the child makes a decision the parent doesn't like.  I was trying to pound home the point to my x husband that he was behaving like a fanatic-lunatic-over-obsessed-football-x-jock dad. Of course my x disagreed (as he tried pulling on Brian's jersey to see if it fits him) thus let the arguing begin.

I tried warning him.

Brian is self-aware and rather like an engineer, a type of man my x husband cannot understand.  When Brian has had enough of something wild horses cannot drag him forward.

So, Monday night Brian comes to me and says "Dad is driving me crazy.  I think the coach is scary\weird (he is) and I am starting to hate football.  I want to stop."  I grin to myself as I picture my x husband's head exploding when he is told this.

"Are you scared to tell your dad?" I ask him.  "Sorta.  He acts like this is the NFL." he looks at me like he is about to ask me to jump off a mountain.

Then ... he asks me to tell his dad with him.  OIY.  Can we wrestle a bear instead?

Are these the times we love parenting?  

At least Brian is to the age where we can talk openly about different subjects and negotiate an outcome.  However, this time it is about delivering news to his dad he isn't going to want to hear.  It is often hard to explain to some dad's that children don't belong to them, they come from us, but we don't own them.  If we are lucky, we can manage our children into adulthood and teach them to make positive choices in their lives.

Forcing a child to be what we might want them to be makes for one very screwed up adult later in life.  A kid has to find his or her own passion.  The kind of passion for something where they nag us to take them.  Tiger Woods wanted to golf and bugged his dad to teach him -  not the other way around.  So Brian has decided football isn't his thing right now.  It isn't like  he went out  a lit someones house on fire or  robbed a bank.

The season has not started, positions have not been picked.  It is an ideal time to withdrw from the team - before he is given a position they count on him to play.

To me - no biggie.

To his Dad...

We just ruined Christmas.

It isn't like I don't understand this.  What if I don't like Brian's wife someday?  I can't imagine this, but if it was a problem I'd find a way to be a Tour guide and travel the world.  I'd go get a life and leave my son to his own.  We need to understand that if we REALLY love someone, we must let go.  Love is always about allowing space for people to breathe - to be themselves.

Isn't there a song "Hold On Losely"?

Why do we treat our partners better than we treat our kids?  Why do single parents show compassion and understanding with their dating partners and then be closed off and rigid when it involves their kids?

C

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ONE WEEK AND SHE ...

It is interesting what can happen in the contents of a week.

My niece went away to college in Colorado.  Can we be this old?  It was just yesterday when she’d crawl up into my lap and order me to read a book, comb her hair or let her direct what I am doing.  She fascinated me.

Now, my brother is suffering at the empty nest left by her absence.  He is fighting the urge to get in his truck and go beg her to come home.  It has just been a week.  We never understand how much we love our family until we are separated.  Why is this?

I, in turn threw my back out.  At the age of 19 I was in a bad car accident.  I have had this back “thing” ever since.  Every now and then I abuse my back and it lets me know who is boss.  I spent two days in bed until I thought I was going to scream from boredom.  I then practically crawled to my truck, drove myself to my x husband’s condominium, and got in the hot tub in my gym clothes!  My aching muscles began to relax and I got up, went into the pool, and began to swim for hours.  Later, Brian joined me and I was able to change into my suit and continue swimming.  I love water.  Water took the bulk of the pain from me.

It is intriguing how water can eliminate pain.  By the time I was done I was able to walk upright and the pain was bearable.  Today I got up and was able to walk 3 miles.  The only thing one can do with unbearable pain is to work through it - just like I fight my thyroid symptoms.  We must never give up or give in.

Every time I look in the mirror...all these lines on my face getting clearer...

Brian is in 6th grade and hating the idea of being a boy trapped in school.  What do I say when I think the system absolutely sucks at teaching boys?  Let alone kids who learn differently.  Funny how in school they want the kids to learn the same, not think out of the box and work alone.  When you get into corporate America they embrace those who are mavericks who push the envelope and can motivate a team effort.  School can be terribly diconnected from the real world.

Most of the successful businessmen I know either never graduated from college or dropped out.  However, this said, I want Brian to have a love of learning.  I am hoping school doesn't beat this out of him.  And college is important, even if you only go a semester.  It creates a canyon between high school bullshit and a more profound life.

I want him to see the magic, wonder and possiblities of searching out an amazing life.  Just like my niece has these possiblities stretched out to her like a long wide open freeway for as far as the eye can see...I want him to go experience the same - and then some.

I gues at that point I will have to really let go and get a life.

Holy shit.

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

ODE TO BRIAN

Sharpened pencils
No swimming pool
Peanut butter sandwich
It's back to school

Parents rejoice
Brand new shoes
Stuffed backpack
It's back to school

Yellow buses
New pants, cool
Oh God - homework
It's back to school

Another teacher
Recess rules
Screaming girls
It's back to school

Stuck indoors
It feels too cruel
Summer is over
I'm back in school

~ C

I love you Brian.

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MANGERO LE MIE SCARPE ROSA!

Lately, I haven't written much about my Hashimoto's disease.  I guess it is time for a check in.  I want my story and struggle to be a part of this blog so that anyone else who is a single parent that gets sick may come here and get inspiration.  I still have my good days and bad days.  I am better when the weather is warm.  I notice when the fog moves inland here my symptoms seem to kick up a notch.  Honestly, it can be depressing and I must fight through the urges to stay in bed.

Many of you who have been reading my blog over the past year know my fight to find the right doctor and correct combination of thyroid meds to be able simply to function.  I was lucky enough to find Dr Gardner and have been working on me ever since.

He was the first doctor to acknowledge the correlation between how cold I always am to lack of functioning free T3 in my body.  He told me I wasn't nuts.  I was cold.  It angers me to think of the men I have dated who shrugged off the fact that I was often freezing cold - even in layers of clothes.

I still get brain fog and with all the exercising and careful eating I am having on hell of a time loosing weight.  Sleep comes and goes, as I have good nights and bad nights.  But I am better with T3 than without and now a new study finds -

The National Library of Medicine and the National Institute of Health has published the following:

"Supraphysiological cyclic dosing of sustained release T3 in order to reset low basal body temperature.

• Friedman M,
• Miranda-Massari JR,
• Gonzalez MJ.

Friedman Clinic, Montpelier, VT, USA.

The use of sustained release tri-iodothyronine (SR-T3) in clinical practice, has gained popularity in the complementary and alternative medical community in the treatment of chronic fatigue with a protocol (WT3) pioneered by Dr. Denis Wilson. The WT3 protocol involves the use of SR-T3 taken orally by the patient every 12 hours according to a cyclic dose schedule determined by patient response. The patient is then weaned once a body temperature of 98.6 degrees F has been maintained for 3 consecutive weeks. The symptoms associated with this protocol have been given the name Wilson's Temperature Syndrome (WTS). There have been clinical studies using T3 in patients who are euthyroid based on normal TSH values. However, this treatment has created a controversy in the conventional medical community, especially with the American Thyroid Association, because it is not based on a measured deficiency of thyroid hormone. However, just as estrogen and progesterone are prescribed to regulate menstrual cycles in patients who have normal serum hormone levels, the WT3 therapy can be used to regulate metabolism despite normal serum thyroid hormone levels. SR-T3 prescription is based exclusively on low body temperature and presentation of symptoms. Decreased T3 function exerts widespread effects throughout the body. It can decrease serotonin and growth hormone levels and increase the number of adrenal hormone receptor sites. These effects may explain some of the symptoms observed in WTS. The dysregulation of neuroendocrine function may begin to explain such symptoms as alpha intrusion into slow wave sleep, decrease in blood flow tothebrain, alterations in carbohydrate metabolism, fatigue, myalgia and arthralgia, depression and cognitive dysfunction. Despite all thermoregulatory control mechanisms of the body and the complex metabolic processes involved, WT3 therapy seems a valuable tool to re-establish normal body functions. We report the results of 11 patients who underwent the WT3 protocol for the treatment of CFS. All the patients improved in the five symptoms measured. All patients increased their basal temperature. The recovery time varied from 3 weeks to 12 months."

Well Halla-feckin-luah let me eat my pink shoes.

C

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THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN...

It is said that my mother taught me about weather..."It looks as if a tornado swept through your room!"...

If I had a dime for every time she said that to me I would have retired in opulence at age 30.

I am trying these years to take on more of a parent role with my mother, which my older brother scoffs and tells me to forget.  To him it is like trying to tell a hungry tiger who is boss ... eventually you will realize who really has the power...as you are being rushed to the hospital.

So this week I find out that my mother is planning on calling a cab to her house at 3am in the morning.  One of my cousins is getting married in New York and she is going.  Should I tell you that she is 78 going on 20?  I think it is great that she is so active, but if I told her that I was calling a stranger to my door at 3am she'd comment with one of her famous quotes like, "What in the hell were you thinking when you thought that was a good idea?"

I was thinking of a ride...

However, I would never ask her what she is thinking.  I do want to live to be 50.

I did volunteer to go to her house and stay the night and get up at 3am to drive her to the Airporter.  Call me nuts.  I don't want her riding in a cold cab (with a stranger) oat the beginning of her vacation.

It is rare that my mother allows us kids to take care of her.  She is so damn independent, and treats me and my brother like we are still teenagers.  I love her to death though.  This was a chance to take care of her for a change.  I cannot begin to count the number of times she picked me up and dropped me off at the airporter during my days of past work travels.

Walking into my mothers home is like walking into a time capsule.  I often think of the scene in "Peggy Sue Got Married" where Kathleen Turner goes back into her old home and suddenly it dawns on her that she gets to spend time with her family again. Her reaction as she moves down the hall is surreal.

My brother and my high school graduation photos greet me at the entrance to my mother's home,along with the living room furniture we never could sit upon growing up.  It smells of "welcome home" and the comfort food of love.  Everything is always the same - the furniture, the figurines, the photos and the lighting.  There are no surprises.

Stew is cooking on the stove as the smell of all day home cooking fills the room, making me feel spoiled before I give her a hug,  Her petite frame stands over the kitchen counter as she reviews her latest Irish catalog.  Soda bread rests on the counter, a martini next to the stove.  I collapse across from her on a bar stool, just like I always did growing up.  She reaches for a wine glass and pours me a glass of wine, anxious to tell me the details of her trip.  I sip my wine and return to 21.

I love watching her.  She pushes the Irish catalog over to me as we eye the Gaelic jewelry.  She is already thinking of my Christmas gift.  Hell, I haven't even shopped for Brian's school stuff yet.  I enjoy the moment and show her the watches I like.  We talk of Ireland and travel.  I am my mother's focus.  Funny how we still enjoy being the center of our parent's attention - even at my age.

Her dinner is wonderful, as she fuses about me - refusing my help.  We retire with tea to her computer. I check for it to be in working order.  Suddenly at 8:30, I feel exhausted.  I retire to the spare room to dress for bed.  You'd swear my mother spent time in the military for the way her beds are made.  It is this perfect origami of sheets and blankets combined with the fresh scent of outdoors - like bedding should.

I pause for a moment to smell the pillows.  My old rag dolls grin up at me.  Their imaginary voices fill my head.  They are glad to see me home.  I decide to lay on the bed and hug my old favorite doll.  The next thing I know I awake to a dark room.  For a minute I can't figure out where I am.  It dawns on me that I fell asleep.  At some point my mother covered me up and turned the lights out.  I am still curled around my old rag doll.  Somehow the sight of her 46 year old daughter in bed with her rag doll doesn't seem to phase her. 

I am overcome with a sense of peace and drift back to sleep.  It is the best nights sleep I have had in years.  My mother gently shakes me awake at 2:45.  So much for taking care of her.  I get up, throw on my sweats and place her luggage in the back of the truck.  It looks as if she has been up for hours.  i see her off on her bus and drive back to her home.  I could have returned to my place, but I still wanted to languish a little longer in the feelings of security I experience in her home.

I sleep until 11:00.  Holy crap.

C 

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THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA

Ah see...here I go again...

It has been a week since I have laid my fingers to this keyboard and added my latest thoughts here.

There now is ...life from the back of a bike...

I like it.  It is funny when we move past age 40; past worrying about the silly things we think important the first 30+ years of our lives.  We enter into this stage of life where we just don't give a shit what people think.  We have a rather amusing comedy going on our heads about this world we travel through.  It's like it suddenly becomes this game of how odd we can make strangers think of us - and even a few people we would like to leave us alone.

Maybe this is what happened to Mel Gibson?  HA!  I doubt it - poor chap.  Nothing like telling the world how ugly one really believes it is and showing how ugly one is inside.  I have been on the receiving end of such an ugly drunken tirade from someone who called them self a friend.  It makes one ponder, "How long have you hated me this much?"  Then you shrug your shoulders, figure it is their demons and get about your life.  Mel sure has some religious demons... maybe he knows this so-called friend?

Bigotry. (Sigh)

Back to bicycling.

Yes, I have become one of 'those" women who rides in a skirt, flip flop sandals and hair blowing in the wind.  No football helmet or riding gear.  Just the wind and me.  It makes me feel eight years old. Back to the days of riding my stingray with its banana seat, high handle bars and those long summer days.  Two of my best friends could ride with me on my bike.  Down the streets we'd go screaming and laughing.  There were no helmet laws - only the wind flow and motion of energy from the back of a bike.  If I could ride in my bare feet these days - I probably would.

This bike has made me realize how long I have beentaking life oh so seriously.  For someone to whom one's friends find to be the comedian in the crowd - I have been stoically serious within my soul.  Maybe when we get sick, bundled with our responsibilities to our children - we forget to do the silly things.  The little pill bottles, which line the windowsill, in my kitchen, remind me daily of the gravity of my disease.  But when did I forget to kick off my shoes, put on a skirt, hop on a bike and coast down a hill - legs extended wide to my side?

My son Brian loves it.  Hopefully I won't break my baby toes - like I did so many times growing up.  My ballet coach was forever harping at me the danger of going bare footed outdoors.  I never listened.  I still prefer to be bare toed.  We came into the world this way.

I have found myself yelling "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" as I race down hillsides, racing swiftly by cars.

I don't think I have ever yelled that during sex.

No matter how much I liked it.

People do yell how much they like my bike.  People in the neighborhoods I ride through are beginning to yell hello and my name.  We miss so much in the world from behind a windshield, talking on our cell phones with music playing.

I think they enjoy seeing this nut of a redhead cruising by on her retro bike with her Channel purse and flip flop sandals.  Some days Boonie the dog races at my side.  Nothing like a dog to show us the pure fun of racing through the wind.

I bumped into one of the Curves instructors who was concerningly apprehensive with me.  I was lost until I realized a neighbor probably directed her to my comments on this blog.  I forget this neighbor enjoys hunting down those I write about.  Talk about ones need to get a life.  But hey, just one more reader to this journal, right?  I find it humorous that some just cannot stay away.

This instructor is a nice person, just caught in a job she needs to support her son.  I like her, in spite of the silly Curves ways.  Hell, it isn't her fault - she is just doing her job.  And if it wasn't for the place I would not be riding my bike for an hour every day....right?

My bikes name is Betty.

Maybe that is what the guys are liking as I speed by ... girl on girl.

I am sensing some of you think I need to get out more.

Football season began for Brian this week.  It is back to nightly practices and sweaty gym socks.  I have missed the other parents and the kids.  It seems Brian is the boy with the largest chest and has proceeded to push every kid off the line.  This year'scoach is all over him, and the boys are gathering around him - shocked at his strength.  He is puffing up like a peacock.

So much so, that when the group of boys noticed that sometimes he can't get his words out, he was not daunted.  They asked, "Brian, why is it hard for you to get your words out sometimes?"  There he was - exposed -in front of his peers.  His answer, "I sometimes think faster than I can get the words out.  It happens to really smart people” The other boys, without missing a beat answer, "Yeh, that happens to me sometimes too".  And that was the end of it.  Later that night I asked him if that moment hurt his feelings, He responded, "No, they were just curious and probably want to help me".

Now that, my friends, is a big change.

I asked him if he thought I was a nut on my bike to which he replied, "No, I like your bike - you look cool."  I think he is really hoping for that new XBox 360 this Christmas...

We enjoyed a little rockin and rollin last night to the tune of an earthquake on Roberts Fault.  Somewhere a redhead was having sex...

I have become so used to them through my life. I rather think they are fun.  My very first earthquake experience was in grade school one night when my parents let me stay up late.  "Then Came Bronson" was just starting on the TV.  I was sitting on the couch next to my mother and the house began to shake.  I remember all the loud popping noises.  Our family stood under the front door frame.  There was a large blue flash over the Northern night's sky.  I was hooked.

Last night's ride was more the rolling type that comes without sound.  It even caught all the pets by surprise, as they did not respond until about 5 seconds into the quake.  Of course, I then had one hell of a time getting Brian to go to sleep.

School is just around the corner.  Brian is now in 6th grade.  Where do the years go?  It was just yesterday I was on the blue stingray bike with the banana seat riding up the middle of Alta Avenue ...

Bare feet and all.

Until next time-

C

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NIGHTMARE ON MOMS STREET

I had a bad nightmare tonight...

I haven't had one of these in ages.  I don't get much rem sleep, so dreams are rare.  Nightmares, more rare.

I have this recurring dream where I am in a Hotel and all kinds of things happen there.  It isn't always bad, often I am searching for something, which takes me out on to some large city street.

This nightmare, I cut my leg and then set down and pulled my leg bone half way out.  The visual was so disturbing that I awoke from my dream screaming in pain.  My neighbors must have loved it.

Don't you hate nightmares?  It is always such a relief to wake up and know it was just a dream.

I read that to dream that you have a cut, refers to feminine sexuality and feminine attitudes toward sex. In particular, if the cuts are on your legs, then it symbolizes an imbalance. You are unable to stand up for yourself. It goes on to state that to dream that you are cutting yourself, indicates that you are experiencing some overwhelming turmoil or problems in your waking life. You are trying to disconnect yourself from the unbearable pain you are experiencing. And, to see bones in your dream is symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized.

So ... my feminine sexual side is unbalanced, not being able to stand up for itself thus causing turmoil during the day because my underlying strengths are not getting attention...?

Hmmmm .... maybe I just need to be more of a bitch.

Hell...I'll scream at birds if it keeps these kind of nightmares at bay.

Maybe it is some sort of reaction from working out at Curves.  Being around all that chatter made me want to pull my bones out - rather than my hair.

God, I love my bike.

Until next time-

C

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CURVES UNNERVES

Do I start this blog entry with "Why I can't stand Curves gym"?  Because I have only been going for a month and a half and I hate it.  Not the working out part - I am loving working out.  It's this fluffy odd female place, that is like the Stepford Wives of gyms.  I don't like the Curves version of a workout place for women.  I think knitting burns more calories.

I am odd I admit it.  But when I pay money to go work out I WANT TO WORK OUT!  I don't want to chat, socialize or pretend to move.  I want pain, sweat and a lot of grunting.  I want results.

Apparently this is not what Curves gym is for.

At Curves (at least the one here) they arrange the workout sequence in a circle so that women can face each other to chat.  The instructors (who don't instruct) walk around the middle asking you about your day.  I am counting reps I DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY.  It takes me back to my ballet years where if you talked in class the coach would throw resin at you, or a shoe and the pianist would stop playing.  It was focus, focus, focus. I am wishing my old coach was in Curves to shout "Be quiet" and throw something at the chatters.  But alas, I only scream in my head.

I am told this is the idea of Curves.  To socialize.  Some sort of corporate cult that thinks that all women want to do is chat instead of actually working out hard.  I feel like I am in the Wal Mart of gym experiences and I am done.

Apparently I am not alone:

http://www.diet-blog.com/archives/2005/03/15/curves_for_women_a_lot_of_hype.php

The America's Council on Exercise writes the following about Curves:

"Greany warns that women should avoidthe temptation to turn their Curves workout into a social hour. Although the camaraderie and social reinforcement is an integral part of the franchise's success at attracting and motivating non-exercisers, on many occasions the researchers noted that some women seemed more interested in chatting than exercising. "Sometimes it really is kind of like an old fashion beauty salon where women go and catch up on what's going on," says Greany."

I am just not interested in this kind of Curves experience.  I think the women that go - keep their Curves.  I have run into quite a few women outside of the gym who also complain about the same.  They loved the concept, hated all the chatting and lack of professionalism.  Curves advertises that it is affordable, but around here for just 30 dollars more a month, you could join the Montecito Health Club and gain access to two pools (one in a hotel), tennis courts, weight room, classes in yoga, spinning and the like, sauna, jacuzzi, shower, lockers etc.  I think your dollar buys more at Montecito.

And at least if you are in a class with an instructor you don't have to worry about anyone bugging you during your workout - including the instructor.  So in frustration...

I bought a Retro bike!

And it is a blast.  Her name is Betty.  I have decided to ride her every day with Brian.  Brian has been bugging me to work out with him as football season fast approaches.  Now we can ride all over together and I am not hunched over on my nasty mountain bike.

The office is just a few blocks from his school, both only about a 10 minute ride from my place.  I can now bike everywhere.

And this bike feels like a Scooter ride,  It is so damn fun.

Also, our broker is paying for a YMCA membership for us all, So Brian and I can go lift weights during the children's time in the weight room.  I can now kiss this goofy workout place of Curves goodbye. 

You know, no wonder men think all we do is talk.  I can see where we drive men nuts with our blah blah blah.  I am canceling a gym membership to get away from the constant talking.  I bet men have moved far away from women just to get peace.  I think some of those women work out at this gym.  No men would ever join Curves - the talking would drive them screaming from the building.

With me right behind them.

Now we will have the adventures of Catherine as seen from the seat of a Retro bike.

Until next time-

C

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DOES IT ALL HAVE TO BE LIKE WAL MART?

This time each year the Bohemian Grove is in full swing and the Sonoma County Fair opens with the Champagne Preview of the Flower Show.  My mother calls her children to gather around her...one would think to take in the amazing display of delicate floral beauty that abounds ... but mostly it is a mother's desire to have her children near.

My brother brings his girlfriend Terry and I invite Stephanie, as McYummy is in Ashland Oregon and I share a common spirit with this friend:  we both have mothers who are Gemini.  Forgive me KB, but it's true...

In sweltering heat that touched 110 and felt like the surface of the sun, we drank champagne and dripped sweat.  The humidity filled the showroom floor and the flowers stood at attention.  I am thinking the contestants should have filled their landscape entries with flowers of a tropical nature, because I wonder how the flower show exhibit will last the length of the fair.

Sonoma County is rapidly changing.  It is readily apparent in this local fair.  It used to be the Flower Show Preview was hosted by the Welfare League.  The Welfare League was a local volunteer organization - a virtual who's who of old Santa Rosa money.  It was a honor to be a volunteer associated with this charity group.  We used to joke that you had to have a foundation in your honor just to be a member.  Each year the Flower Show preview was their grand ball of events.

Local caterers prepared the hor d'eovers in some secret back room.  The Welfare League volunteers served the paying patrons in full-length black tuxedos and ball gowns.  Diamonds dripped like the tulips that bare their namesake.  The Flower Show Preview sold out every year and you were lucky if you made it into this grand event.  And, of course, my mother invited me back then too.  I think she loved seeing what kind of gown I was going to wear and hoped I'd marry a doctor's son.  Unfortunately for her I always liked the guys that got their hands dirty for a living.

The Flower Show Preview was one of those events where you couldn't walk three feet without seeing someone you knew, in the packed crowd of 1400 and it could take 30 minutes to move 25 feet.  It was wicked fun.  Sometime back in the early 90s the Fair Director changed and a fight broke out between this Director and the Welfare League.  The Welfare League stopped hosting the event, and since then it has never been the same.

The flowers are always beautiful of course.  But, the original designer of this Hall of Flowers died some years back.  His designs were breathtaking.  He like to suspend art from the ceiling and make it the backdrop to the floral gardens.  One year, he built a replica of the Golden Gate bridge that hung across the ceiling from one end of the building to the other.  His water falls were legendary.  You'd swear you were entering Niagara Falls when your feet touched the ground at the enterence to the Hall of Flowers.

Now patrons wear shorts and jeans, there are lines for the food and no one walks around in a tux filling your glass with champagne over the roar of laughter, chatting and the famous water fall.  The exhibits are pretty, but don't take your breath away, or force a gasp and "wow!" from your mouth.

The back room off the floral showroom floor used to be filled with ammetuer entries from local gardens.  Now, it only carries a small assortment of succulents.  The room was once filled with roses of all varieties.  I guess there are no more women (or men) raising roses for competition at the fair.   Is this now a lost art?  The caterer use this room as an overflow, so the presentation of having a treat served to you from a plate from somewhere unseen is now gone.  People stand in line like cattle waiting for a feeding.  Now, I usually eat dinner before I attend, as I have no desire to stand in line for food.

The local wineries know what they are doing and step away from their serving tables to pour you a glass as you stand admiring a local landscape entry.  I don't know many people.  I am now among a few hundred strangers.  It is fun to be with family and friends among the smell of flowers.  But, I miss the endless stream of old Santa Rosans stopping to say hello, introducing you to someone new.  Sonoma County was a tight knit community.  Everyone helped each other, everyone liked each other. It was a forgiving place.

My family was always one of the last to leave every year...walking along with employees from Rosenburgs.  Mr. McNeany's voice bellowing somewhere in the distance. It is just the ghost of memories past that remind me of the days we were all friends in this community.  There was a sense of grace, trust and the feeling of being a part of a town that embraced and supported you - through all the stupid things we do growing up.

Like the Vegas of old, with it's dress codes and style the Preview of the Flower show has changed its grandeur to appeal to the masses.  Funny, it has never once sold out since they changed it...

Until next time-

C 

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SALAGA-DOOLA, MENCHIKA-BOOLA, BIBBIDI-BOBBIDI-BOOB

Only in my world, is humor mixed within tragedy...

Saturday, Dale stops by my home to drop off some financials and commercial development deals for me to work through while he is up North dealing with his father's death.

Now mind you, I didn't know he was coming, so there I was in house cleaning mode. Cleaning mode is no shower, hair up in a high bent pigtail, ugly sweats, barefoot, no make up and some god awful holy t-shirt.  Oh yes, and my worst bra.

You see ... I am one of those old-fashioned cleaning types, who scrubs everything on their hands and knees.  The very last thing I do is take a shower. I clean the tub just before I bathe.  I end the cleaning day all clean myself, and sit down to a nice glass of Pinot.

However, Dale arrives at 11:00 am, just after I scrubbed the kitchen floor and am in the bathroom cleaning the toilet.  This is definitely not clean, Pinot Catherine. Visualize bright green rubber gloves with your lovely picture of my cleaning self and you can imagine what I look like as I round the corner to the sound of his "Hello" coming through the screen door.

There he is all 6 foot, god-of-something feet tall, dark Amazon man in shorts, a pressed t-shirt - sporting a tan.  I'd smile big to distract him, but I haven't brushed my teeth.  I don't want to turn him to stone.

In he comes right into my mid-morning cleaning.  I notice Brian has dirty underwear at the entrance to his bedroom.  I am hoping Dale won't look that way, as I wonder how they missed the laundry I just completed.

Dale sits right down at my dining room table piled high with folded laundry.  He opens his leather bag and begins pulling out documents.  We make small talk, as I try to smell myself when he's not looking.  I am sure I smell something of laundry soap, boys old socks, pinesol and dirty water.

Then my heart stops.

His left arm is resting on the pile of my folded underwear. 

To the left of his hand, my folded bra - looking like some white boob laying face up on the table. 

"Please God strike me with lightning at this moment and remove me from this place - NOW!"

God rarely listens to me these days.

Luckily Dale doesn't seem to notice, or he is ignoring the pile.  I, however cease to hear another word he says, because my eyes are mortifiably fixated on my folded panties and white lace boob sitting on the table.  Good God I am in hell.

After what seems like three years, Dale finally has to leave.  He gets up and says goodbye.  To my relief my underwear isn't clinging to his arm hair. Brian begins to come out of his room and steps on his dirty underwear while saying bye to Dale.  Of course, Dale glances down at Brian's feet.  He grins.  Well... Dale does have 5 children - 4 boys and 1 girl.  He says nothing but a "Bye" to Brian. 

Is there is big hole for me to jump into yet?

As he walks away I check out his backside to make sure none of my laundry is sticking to him.  I am sure Cinderella had it better.  At least no mice ran across Dale's path as he walked out the door...

Until next time-

C

PS.  Now ... what in the hell am I suppose to do with his stack of papers?    

 

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GONE IN A FLASH

Man killed in collision with semi on U.S. 93

Thursday, July 13, 2006 5:38 PM PDT

ELKO — A California man was killed Wednesday after his vehicle hit a tractor-trailer rig on U.S. 93 about 15 miles south of Jackpot.

Eugene Edmund Palsson, 74, of Myers Flat, Calif., died at the scene, according to a Nevada Highway Patrol report.

Palsson had been driving south at 12:30 p.m. when he allowed his pickup to drift into the northbound lane and into the path of a semi.

The semi driver, Darryl Troy Wendlund, 37, of Calgary, Alberta, attempted to avoid a collision by steering to the right but the pickup’s left front struck the left front of the tractor trailer, according to the report.

Upon impact the pickup rotated violently counterclockwise and came to a stop on its wheels. The tractor-trailer stopped on the east shoulder.

Wendlund and Palsson’s passenger, Dustin Brown, 23, of Sacramento, both were injured and transported to Magic Valley Regional Medical Center in Twin Falls.

A SUMMER CAROL

We've all seen them, those contemptibly narrow in outlook people with 'petty little comments or deeds' who disgust us with their small-minded pettiness.  Those passive aggressive fits they have over relatively nothing... the obsessing over crap that just doesn't matter.  The girl that uses her keys to mark cars she thinks are parking in the spot she wants.  The the guy who pees on another's gym bag because he got the starting shot.  The the woman who must email other women they believe their boyfriend might have an affair with, even though the other women live 5 million miles away.  The the person who slows down when you are in a hurry.  The co-worker who tries to sabotage your work.  Sometimes it shows itself in people who get upset over nothing of great importance.  They take their anger to a level few understand, twisting and turning over and over in their heads the deed that gave them their self righteous indignation over something trivial.  Leaving the rest of us to scratch our heads in a "Huh?" as we slowly back away and try to distance ourselves.

I don't know if it is the full moon this week, but I noticed this petty mindedness and pondered what makes people like this.  You'd think they'd understand life is just too damn short.  My theory is people like this are so miserably unhappy in their life with no goals, plans, or real thoughts for their life (and taking the necessary steps to implement their dreams) so they stand around and stare out at the world through a very pessimistic and jealous view.  Some have a grandiose view of their importance in this world and have no clue that we don't give a shit.

I notice that my friend Stephanie, who is very fit and very beautiful, deals with women who immediately don't like her because of what she looks like.  I have seen it happen to her first hand and it blows me away.  I think beautiful, wonderful women are great.  So are men of the same type for that matter.  I guess there is prejudice of varying degrees no matter who or what you are. I prefer to admire a person's soul, not what they look like or what they drive, wear, etc.  It is the inner person you end up hanging out with - the other fades with time. When Stephanie notices the looks and comments from other women I am at a loss for words to comfort her and want to apologize for the small minded women everywhere.

This week I was also thinking about the loss of my dad, and how terribly short life is.  Maybe when you get sick and have to take tiny little pills the rest of your life you begin to really value your whole entire life - even the itty bitty details.  Every day I thank the heavens above for Brian and every aspect of my life.  It only takes a day for everything to change.  Do I want more from life?  Sure, but every day that I take a breath and walk this earth is a piece of heaven spent - no matter how difficult or laborious.

Maybe I was feeling signs of things to come as Stephanie calls to inform me that a friend's sister was in a car accident and the sister's boyfriend died.  The sister is in the hospital.  They were in a car accident leaving the party Saturday night.  I said my prayers for the family and then thanked God for my life as it is thank you very much.

Today Dale, my boss, friend and hero calls me.  "I need your help with some things" he says beginning the call.  I reply in humor "I'm BUSY!! Leave me alone!" as we both laugh.  He stops, "Cath, my father died last night."  A pin drops.  "What?" respond, as I go into shock, "He wasn't sick was he?" I ask.  "No, he was driving back from Utah and fell asleep at the wheel and hit a semi head on.  He died instantly."  Tears begin to fall down my face as I say, "I am so sorry, oh my dear God, I am so sorry."  We talk for a while about his dad, my dad and the loss of those we love.  He lost his mother at the beginning of this year.  Years like this knock you to the floor.  I still remember all to well the year my father died.  We swam in the mud swamps of hell.  The sticky mud of pain clinging like glue.  One bad experience after another, slapping us back down into the mud.  You begin to think you will never laugh again, or be free.  The mud seems to cling to you forever.  Until one day you remember how precious life is, and suddenly you hear the sound of your own laughter.  The magic that is life returns.

So there it was with Dale, the moment that makes us remember what really matters in life.  The story that makes us remember the mud and how everything can change in just one instant.  The love I feel for Brian, my mother, brother, family and friends is all that matters.  The things we do that make people remember our love for a lifetime is the most important gift.  Nothing else.  Not the who-is-parked-where-I-want-to-park so called problems, or who-did-what-to-whom prejudices, or the pouting-for-what-we-think-we-want behavior.  It's about trying to experience love every free breathing day we have.  There is an end to everyone's life.  The story does finish.  It doesn't matter if you are the President or the homeless man on the corner - it will end the same for both.  I make sure every time I say goodbye to someone I care for, I include those precious three words, "I love you."   

How do you want to remember life or be remembered?

I want to remember how much love I gave away and how lucky I was to be loved by the people who love me - past and present.  I don't need some Christmas Ghost of past or present rattling his chains on Christmas Eve to remind me the value of this life, and how unimportant so many things are.

My dear Dale, how my heart goes out to him and his family.  "God bless us, everyone."

C

PS.  I love you too.

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I INTEND TO LIVE FOREVER...SO FAR SO GOOD...

I once was told birthday celebrations came to be in ancient Ireland where evil spirits were thought to be more attracted to people on their birthdays. In order to keep away the evil spirits, big celebrations full of joy and well wishes were thrown for the birthday person.  I think the Irish side of my family believe the Irish created everything...

Oh, and there is also this silly Irish tradition of holding a child by their feet and bouncing their head on the ground the number of times equal to the child's age.  I am guessing this is why Irish men love Rugby.  Luckily Brian was born the weight and thickness of a football player, so no head bouncing in his world...yet.

But maybe the head bouncing thing does explain a great deal about MY personality...

Speaking of rugby, Brian begins summer school and football camp next week.  Frank Scalercio, an old high school friend will be coaching him at camp.  I swear we are not this old.

Luckily Frank is Korean - not Irish.

My fourth of July birthday always seems to stretch over a week or two like some pagan celebration. Rarely is it celebrated only on the fourth itself.  This year, it began with the Pennegrove Parade on July 2nd, a funky little home town parade in the city of Pennegrove.  It lasts one city block - well Pennegrove is really one city block.  All the bars are open (there are three on this farm town block) serving cocktails at half price in plastic cups.  I think they start serving at 8 that morning.

If we are in town (not away on vacation), my entire family, along with a group of cousins, meet there and treat me like the parade Marshall.  I am given this posh seat with a table and a front row view of the parade. This year Brian brought a friend and they caught so much candy it appeared as if they had gone trick-or-treating.  I was cool because basically I was allowing them candy for breakfast.

Once the parade is over, everyone in town walks down the street to the Pennegrove Park where a traditional fourth of July celebration begins.  There is a chicken, steak, hot dog, hamburger, and oyster bar-b-que.  There is a margarita bar, beer and wine.  A country western band serenades the crowd to dance.  Cotton candy abounds and the local FFA kids provide homemade desserts.  There are more cowboy hats than sandals.  Families pack the large checkered picnic tables, relaxing and enjoying the day.  The kids run wild among the buried large tractor tires, swings and vast blond fields of un-cut hay.  It is a child's paradise and I love watching how dirty Brian gets by the end of the day.

While seated on our circle of camping chairs, enjoying our drinks and telling family stories, I am approached by the photographer and journalist for the Village Voice.  The Village Voice is the Pennegrove newspaper, which is smaller than most high school newspapers.  He has heard the fourth is also my birthday and wants to know what represents a traditional fourth of July to me.  I tell him that besides the fireworks, it is corn on the cob, bar-b-que and sunshine.  I ask him if they need a free lance writer.  Hey - I never stop pursuing this dream.  He was a nice kid.  When I get a copy of the article I will try and scan it here and give everyone a good laugh.

The day ends at my mother's place where she serves her traditional cheese cake and gives me a gift.  This year it was a shirt that looks like something she would wear and a new make up mirror.  I swear I am not this old.  Brian is so dirty he looks like he is black.  These wonderful years with him are going by too fast.

For my birthday itself, Brian insists I take him to the beach.  Funny how our birthdays also become about the kids.  I finally agree, only if he is willing to wake up early and go at breakfast time.  Me and my big mouth... on my birthday morning he awakes me with a shake at 6:30am.  My bad, I guess I need to clarify breakfast time on a holiday.

I fix breakfast through sleepy, half open eyes and pack a picnic lunch.  Brian gathers Boonie the dog, blankets, pillows and anything he can get his hands on that qualifies as a digging tool - including my garden shovel.  We are out the door at 8am heading west through fog to the Pacific Ocean and a wonderful state park beach: Doran Beach.  By the time we reach the state park entrance, the fog has lifted exposing a beautiful sunny blue day.  Happy birthday to me. 

We have our choice of parking spots and unload our beach gear.  We hike over the soft sand dunes on to a wide white sand beach.  We are almost alone except for the local runners and hikers that exercise by the waters shore everyday.  What a life they lead.  Brian runs about finding just the "right" spot and we set up camp.  Before running down to the waters edge with the dog, he pulls a small bag from his things and hands me a birthday gift.  "Here mom, I love you" he says as he darts off in a dead run to the water.  I don't even have time to say a "Thank you".  I open the card.  He has written about a hundred "I love you's" inside.  I start to cry.  He is such a great kid.  I am so lucky.

Inside the bag is a digital camera.  He comes running back up from the water and dives on his knees to the blanket, sending sand everywhere.  "Isn't that cool?  Now you can take pictures for your blog like you want to", he smiles at me as he grabs the package ready to explain what a digital camera is.  Yes folks we are approaching the age where he thinks he knows more than me.  I let him explain until the dog is barking at him to return to the water.  Up he jumps with shovel in hand heading back to the softly cresting waves. "COME ON MOM" he yells back at me. 

I arise and look at this perfect morning at the beach.  Brian is truly brilliant sometimes at knowing exactly what my soul requires.  This ideal setting is precisely what I need.  I run down to the shore.  I chase Boonie and collect shells to remember the day.  Handsome men hike by remarking at the site of mother, dog and boy.  They see it is a classic Norman Rockwell morning for us ... and likely remembering their lost boy days of years past.

We wrap it up at about two o'clock as the beach becomes crowded for the fourth.  I am having my mother over for dinner and a group of us are walking up the street to watch the fireworks from the side of the hill.  Brian plans on making me a cake and helping me cook the dinner.  We need time for this project.  I thank him for a perfect birthday,  He grins and looks away from me.

Later that night as I am fretting over the fact that he is growing up, due to his ability to cook, chose presents and think of others ... he walks over at the beginning of the fireworks and sits on my lap.  He is almost the size of me now, but in this moment he is my little boy again.  I love the fact that cities all over set off fireworks just for me.  I remember last year we were with my cousin Mitch on the reservation setting off illegal fireworks.  No wonder Brian loves me.

I roll into my office on Wednesday to presents all over my desk.  Andrea has left me a bushel of hand picked lavender.  Barbara sends me a bouquet of flowers with a card saying she is making my x husband buy all of us lunch.  Stephanie stops by with a bag full of shoe desk accessories.  It is mostly a day of laughter.  Too bad work isn't like this everyday...

Thursday evening Stephanie takes me out for cocktails at the restaurant up the street and Friday is "Girls Night With Johnny".  Saturday I am invited with Stephanie to a private party up in the hills of Santa Rosa.  Jaysus, I need a vacation from my birthday.

I am another year older and so the fight continues...

C

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COMPUTER FLU

Ok, either it is my computer, AOL, or both, but I am having one hell of a time updating this journal.  I am working on my computer issues, but the AOHELL thing is out of my control.  I know it is time to move this journal to my own web site, but my x husband's business is booming (thanks to my marketing savvy and business knowledge).  Then add in Brian, family, friends and working out.  It is difficult to find the time to create and manage my own web site.  Plus, I want to go back to night school.  I used to always take college courses every year - just for fun.  Since Brian was born I have not been able.  He is now old enough, and my relationship is good enough with my x to start back taking fun college classes again.  I am feeling healthy enough to handle it all.

So bear with me as I try to update this journal without canceling AOL or throwing the CPU across the room-

C

PITSTOP

I know...I know.

I am not writing.  It isn't that I don't have ramblings to type - good lord you should hear my head.  My mind is a constant scrabble game of words.  It's just that I have been busy. 

And...I have developed this new thing where my legs are so exhausted at night they keep me awake.  It's like I must get up and dance, but really I recognize it as exhaustion without the ability to relax.  I cannot relax.  What the hell is up with that?  My legs require movement and they drive me nuts.

Then I find out this is called "Restless Leg Syndrome".  Oh fuck me for yet feeling just one more thing with my body.  What in the hell did I ever do to my body to piss it off in such a way that it makes every day living like a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with a 50 pound pack on my back and four inch heels?

So once again I am not sleeping through the night.  If I was married I could drive my husband nuts through the night, but alas I only have the TV remote to torture. 

I have received some emails from a few people wondering if I am ok.  I guess if one doesn't go back into the old archives, they wouldn't know that I have been dealing with Hashimotos disease for three years now.  Each day is a fight for me, I just don't always show it or talk about it.  People don't want to hear about someone's illness.  It makes them uncomfortable.  Sometimes when I am at work, without makeup, hair in a pig tail and gym clothes, I wonder if anyone realizes the effort it took just to be there.

No, instead it is as if everyone wait for me to arrive to get things moving.  I am followed about like a dog being chased by fleas.  Perfectly healthy people needing me as their touchstone to their day, including my x husband. 

Does anyone notice when I go off to a couch and lay down "just to rest a bit" ... or cut an evening short to go home to bed?  Or that I often have to sit down to take in a conversation?  No, I don't believe they do,because I am always laughing and making fun.  I love to laugh.  It's wonderful if I can get people to laugh at my craziness.

Maybe they need to think I will always be fine... that I am not sick... or note that I am in a fight for my life - especially the quality of my life.  Maybe it scares them, so to pretend not to see my suffering makes them believe it will go away.  Catherine the great always triumphs at everything - she won't let us down.

Now... my mother on the other hand just looks at me and always says "When was your last bowel movement?"  I would rather she pretend I am fine, but no, she looks me over and grills me with medical questions.  "Are those bruises on the back of your legs above those shoes?  Are you going to wear those shoes?"

Or, "I see a lot of cleavage there , do you have a safety pin?"  "No mom, we are not safety pinning my top" ...

It is the week of my birthday.  Happy fourth of July to me.   Yes, I was born at 5:30pm on the fourth of July many years ago.  I was to go out of town this weekend, but I am not feeling up to it.  Instead, I will surround myself with family and friends and look forward to a new birth year.  Maybe we will cure this disease yet ...

I am thinking of college in the Fall....

C 

MORE HASHIMOTOS STORIES

Towards the end of my thyroid hell, when Doctors were still attempting to figure out what was wrong with me, I dated this guy, Bill who was sure my illness was all in my head.  I dropped him like a burning frying pan handle to the floor.  I knew it wasn't in my head.

Mary Shoman, a crusader for people suffering from Thyroid disease manages a web site to raise awareness about this particular type of auto-immune disease.  I often go out to her web site for support, understanding and the knowledge that there are others out there who suffer just as I have.  It is wonderful to know one is not alone in this disease.

In Mary's push to get Oprah to pay attention to this disease (still unsuccessfully), she posted stories from women who suffer from this disease.  I found a partner in symptoms from this article posted at:

http://thyroid.about.com/cs/publicawareness/l/bloprahletters.htm:  (<<--click here)

"I am a highly intelligent woman who spent my youth coasting through school, taking all the top honors classes but never having to study to make my straight A+ grades. I graduated at the top of my class with twice as many honors credits as any of my peers. I had participated in so many extracurricular activities that I earned four separate letter jackets! My bedroom was filled with my trophies and awards.

On a full academic scholarship, I headed off to college where I majored in math. It was just as easy as high school; I rarely had to study to earn top grades even though I also worked part time. I graduated Magna Cum Laude and was active in numerous clubs and social service groups throughout my college years. I married an Air Force officer and happily moved across the country with him.I worked part time and served on the board of our Officers' Wives Club; as a matter of fact, I held THREE board positions and wrote 2 different articles (on 2 different topics) for our monthly magazine (as well as being the asst editor). My life was rich and full and I never felt too busy or overwhelmed. It was easy..."

Please click on the link and read her full story.  It frightens me how much our stories are alike.  My closest friends will recognize me there.  The years of suffering, thinking I was going mad.  I think the problem was there for years, as working out made me tired and I worked out every day.  I chose night work outs because the exertion would exhaust me and help me to sleep.  Patrick thought I was crazy, able to work out an hour and a half every night before bed.  We should have guessed my metabolism was nuts.  I should have weighed 100 pounds. 

Please learn about Hashimotos and thyroid disease.  You may be able to help a woman you love, be it your wife, mother, daughter, sister, girlfriend... who is suffering needlessly not understanding what is happening to them.  My dearest friends know how I fought with the doctors to find out what was wrong and make it right.  Disease to me means that our bodies are out of sorts and without the knowledge of what is wrong we cannot support our bodies in a way that promotes healing.

I take liquid high dose vitamins everyday and make sure I rest.  I take my thyroid meds at the same time every morning and I track what is happening with my body and then give my notes to my doctors.  They either think I am the best or worst patient they have ever had.

So I am on a mission to let people see how a single mother deals with life while fighting a disease, raising a boy and living life through this blog. I never want anyone to go through what I have gone through - ever.  Maybe my blog will help just one person out there...

C

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TAMPONS WILL NOW MAKE GOOD CHRISTMAS TREE...

This online journal is like a long winding river which flows from a mountain peak, finding the path of least resistance as it travels back to its source, often running high and wild, other times still and almost dry.  It has been a week since I have done significant writing of any type.  For shame.  This would be known as the "river is dry" period...

I was a good girl this week and rested, restoring my energy.  I am getting better at managing my Hashimotos.  However...

I am in menopause.  TA DA. There, I said it.  Actually I am glad, as I understand that often menopause allows the thyroid to return to normal function, so maybe I will get lucky...?  This menopause thing is a new development.  Will I be sad not to have more children?  No, I love Brian and he fills my soul.  Besides, obviously my thyroid problem made getting pregnant difficult these past 25 years. 

Alas, FINALLY I am warm - let's throw a party.  We can make tampon angels and burn them...

Felicita's memorial service was Saturday.  We said our formal goodbyes to the end of an era.  My niece leaves for Boulder Colorado August 15th.  I wonder how much I will see these kids in the next 20 years....

La nostra pietra di paragone italiana e anddata.

C

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SETBACKS

{Sigh} I have gone and done it to myself. 

This crash started about on Thursday when the heat wave began.  It was a stressful week.  The old aching from my toes to my head crept back with a vengence.  I ignored it, and ran out of my thyroid meds on Thursday.  I skipped Friday's dose and told myself I'd get around to refilling the prescription at the pharmacy up the street.  I mean, come on, I have been doing so well...

I suffer from my own pride of still not fully admitting that I must take extreme good care of myself.  I am not able to treat my life, and my body like I once did.  It has a mind of its own and brings me to my knees when I disobey.

When the nights are miserable and I am in severe pain caused by exhaustion and no recovery, depression settles in as I realize I am still fighting this dreaded thyroid condition.

I went to the pharmacy after my third nap today, and took the pills right at the counter.  My throat hurts terribly where my thyroid is located and it is difficult to swallow.  Now I must rest and try to recover, with lots of water, vitamins and soup.

Sunday I am suppose to help McYummy start his own blog and we were going to discuss the next step in my book...a whole day of artistic creating.  Now, all I feel like doing is sleeping.  It is times like this I wish I had an older relative on a ranch that could invite me out to stay a piece.  I'd rest, walk among the fields, write and be taken care of.

But alas, I do not.  Ebet usually does this for me, but I have not been able to make the trip to Folsom.  There is no way I could handle driving myself the three hours to get to her now.  She is also dealing with her own troubles at this time, and I would be in the way.

These are the times I do miss living with a man, one who could run things so I could take a break.  Although many of my friends complain that their men never take care of them when they are sick and the house just falls apart.  I think often men do more than we realize, they just don't do it "our way" so we don't give them their proper due.

I did manage a birthday dinner for my mother Friday evening.  SHe told me it looked like I had one shoulder lower than the other.  HUH?  Why do mothers do this to their daughters?  Why not just tell me my ass is sagging?  She did point out the bruises on my legs.  I think she forgets I am raising a boy, and I tackle a large garden.  My thoughts were "I AM EXHAUSTED - CAN"T YOU SEE??" but I didn't express them.  I just continued preparing the trout with my hump shoulder, sagging ass and bruises...

Thank god for the men who tell me I am pretty - including my son.  Yes people, I have asked my mother many times to stop, but she does not.  I can't be perfect, so I stopped trying a long time ago.  My mother forgets I gave up that quest.

I have taken three Alleve, a Sominex and a large glass of water ... hopefully I can now retire and get some sleep in the hopes I can recover enough to see McYummy and take another step forward to my dreams.

I'll try counting hump shouldered sheep...

C

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