Ready or not, here the ants come.

Housecleaning has never been the thing to give me that sigh of satisfaction of a job well done. It's never increased my endorphins. It's never given me something to get up for in the morning. (Well, that overlaps another thing that doesn't thrill me: morning.)

The things i love, the things that make me happy, ahhh....give me a yarn store to peruse, or a stack of books to read, or the sound of the ocean. Give me a store with...well, pretty much any store will do (sadly.) Then my heart sighs. Then the endorphins flow. But making a house sparkle? Getting that stain out of that shirt? Stuff's just going to get dull or spilled on again, so big woop.

Recently we've been fighting the rebel hordes of ants who desire to live INside rather than in their cozy ant hills in the great outdoors. Seeking the Holy Grail of Honey Grahams and Cheezits, they have raised their tiny swords high and come full battle force over the hill and into my kitchen. i appreciate their organization, their ability to work as a group, but i don't appreciate them in my cereal. Therefore they must die (i know, i know, "we're all a part of life" and whatnot.) They leave a lot of work for me that i don't enjoy (see previous paragraph for things that do qualify under "enjoy.")

This is where i admire those women who believe firmly in "leave things better than when you came."

This is where i want one of those women to come use my kitchen. You get the gist.

Skimmer's Recap: Ants clever, still want them dead. Please come clean my kitchen.

i'm a winner. Yep, me.

Recently i received this award from encouraging blogfriend Connie, over at My Thoughts and Creations. By the time i put the picture on here the print got too small and blurry to read. But she says "This award is called the nobelpris and it has to do with being a nice Mom to children, animals, anyone." And Connie wouldn't lie to me, right Connie?

Anyway, i've always hoped to be a nice Mom, though i apologize often for all the mom-things i didn't know how to do when they were smaller. And i have the unfortunate leaning toward mothering my friends. (Sorry, grown-up friends! It's all well intended! My nurturing gene is over-developed.)

i do have a soft spot for animals, and have recently aided in the capture of two little dogs who went astray, and in the returning them to their worried families--in the past 3 weeks. In fact, if i'd known how much chasing i would do yesterday, i wouldn't have gone to the gym first.

Thanks Connie!

;-)

Why Cori makes me laugh.

Daughter Cori has always been able to make me guffaw in surprised laughter. Her timing and phrasing is guaranteed to unspool me. Here's an example.

Last night, for whatever reason, i was pondering the odd parental promise of "I'll give you something to cry about!"

Without any hesitation Cori said in her deadpan way, "I'll give you something to cry about--there's no Santa, and your grandma isn't in heaven, she was a bad, bad person."

i became helpless. (Also a little fearful for any future children.)

;-)

Like salt and pepper.

i have a friend. She inspires one to exercise greatness. Well, at least she inspires one to watch exercise greatness.

Recently i rejoined the gym i used to belong to, and that she has belonged to all this time i've been struggling with the whole fibromyalgia thing. She's over 40, toned and terrific looking. i am in awe. But the fact that i feel good enough to go back to the gym says much for the mighty and miraculous workings of Cymbalta.

She is sweet enough to come down to my level and join me on the treadmills. Side by side we walk and talk--she at breakneck speed, her incline at heart-strain steepness, me wandering slowly, which is all it takes to keep my heart rate in the goal range.

i was on the treadmill recently when she was taking a step class. Do you all know what a step class is?? There's a wide free-standing and stackable step in front of each participant. The work-out consists of various bouncy, constantly moving steps and turns and arm motions, all set to disco beat music. Think "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" on Ritalin. Friend Sabrina-Frugalina was a-boppin' and a-movin' through the routine with a spring in her step and constant motion for an hour. i gazed in amazement from my ambling gait on the treadmill.

It occurred to me what different roles in life we take--she is the spiciness of pepper, jazzing up anything nearby. She's a full-on participator.

i am salt. i count on simply enhancing other flavors, my life is more like a slow-simmer. Crock pot cooking.

Our gym and life soundtracks would greatly differ as well. Hers is the sound of an energetic disco Christmas, mine is the sound of Brahm's lullaby, slow and lulling.

i'm not judging the different styles, but she gets way more done. And has a tighter butt.

Faces.

The face of too much shopping.

Of goofy faces...

and happy faces.

The face of being played out...

and of girl-play...

and total cuteness.

The face of frustration...

of exploration...

and autumn leaves...

and leaf-play.

The faces of family.

The 50s Thanksgiving celebration.

Me playing at being the consummate 50s hostess.

left to right: Daughter Corinne's hubby Luis, his brother Fabian, Corinne in front of them. Son Jarel, barely peeking out from the back with my hubby Dean at back center. Dorothy (Candie's mother-in-law) with daughter Candie to her right. Fabian's girlfriend Hanna peeking out between them. Candie's husband Charles at back right, and their two lovely girls, Cassidy and Haley. Note the lovely cranberry gelatin mold in front. ;-)

Cassidy and Haley dressed up to match Grandma Julie's 50s theme.
i believe a good time was had by all.

Things that make you say "hmmm..."

The weirdest thing heard today over the loudspeaker at my local thrift store:

"There's a black BMW in the parking lot with its lights on."

Hmmm.

A 1950s Thanksgiving.

Well, i've been back from England for nearly a week now, and my body and brain might just be getting back on the right time zone. Between the usual loads of laundry and piles of dishes, i've been looking up recipes. When thinking about the Thanksgiving menu, daughter Cori came up with the idea of casseroles--from there we jumped to the idea of a 1950s theme. Jello mold anyone?

So i've been cruising the internet for foods in gelatin. What else says 50s like Jello with grated vegetables in it? i've found some great sounding recipes, though, to my surprise! i mean, for me personally, if it contains cream cheese i will come. Or cranberries and pineapple. These sound good to me.

i also need an interesting dessert, besides the pecan pie i can't help but make. Any 50s desserts ideas?

Oh--and i will be wearing my pearls and best apron.

Not my cup of tea.

Tea is a big thing here in England. i've known since i was a little girl that tea is very English and queenly, pinkies held high, full of mannerlyness and whatnot. And aren't tea parties pretty much the symbol of childhood imagination?

Tea is no imaginary happening here in the damp U.K. And tea has rules. To do tea properly there should be a teaPOT, not just a cup. Aforementioned teapot should be heated before making the tea, milk should go in the cup at a certain point... It's not simply a drink, it's an event. And there must be biscuits. And how much do i love a place where a "biscuit" is a cookie!

The weather is overwhelmingly conducive to the idea of a warming beverage. The boiler man comes in from the average gale force wind and rain to fix your boiler, and you offer him a nice hot cup of tea with biscuits. The moving men carrying boxes in the rain are offered tea. It is a polite and thoughtful country that way.

During this visit to England the house's boiler went out. Now, a boiler going out in winter England is like the time we rented a convertible in mid-summer Las Vegas--a bad idea. In England, the boiler is the source of not only hot water for bathing and dishwashing, but heat for the radiators. So, no boiler, no heat. No heat in this passage of autumn to winter in England? A bad idea gone tragic.

So the boiler guy comes in from one of the more thoroughly nasty days i've seen--freezing cold rain coming sideways, trees blowing, wind howling. He's covered in mud from waist to toes from his previous job.

"It's been quite a day!" he greets me cheerfully, wiping his feet. i am wearing two shirts, two sweaters, jeans, a scarf, two pairs of socks and am clutching a blanket around me.

Daughter Shawn says to her English hubby that she's going to offer the boiler man a cup of tea. Jon says, "Let me make the tea." Apparently there is some discussion in this household over what constitutes the proper cup of tea. Shawn has had a bad experience with tea-making for her fully British husband. He explains.

"When I have tea, I want it strong. And you should never use full fat milk, that's too creamy. You should taste the tea." i flashed back to a memory of my first cup of tea at his parents' house when we came to meet them years ago. His grandmother offered us tea and after pouring asked if we cared for milk in it.

"Oh no," i casually waved the idea away, "i usually drink it black," i smiled at her. One sip and i understood the offer. A serious cup of English tea peals the taste buds right off your tongue.

For Shawn and i, a cup of tea is sweet comfort. Creamy with milk, sweetened with honey, warm and soothing. i guess that for any proper Englishman or woman, if you come away with taste buds and without extra hair on your chest, you haven't had a proper cup of tea.

A very cool gift.

i'm quite sure Ellie decided to hold off on walking until Grandma Julie arrived from America. On her first birthday, November 7, she decided it was time. Lucky, lucky Grandma!

Need i say more?

Ellie (just turned 1) & big brother Elias (5 1/2)

mum Shawn with Elias & Euan (4 in January)
Ellie the charmer

Grandma julie's wet hair is pretty interesting.

Those sturdy English.

i arrived today in England.

It just so happened to be the day they're celebrating Guy Fawkes day and Bonfire night. Having been told "layers, think lots of layers," i put on 2 shirts and a sweatshirt under my coat, and 2 pairs of socks under my new warm boots. i topped the whole ensemble with my recently purchased scarf, gloves, and cute hat. If not prepared, i was at least adorable.

We drove tthe 3 kids to a friend's house to park, then several families set off in the pitch black muddy evening for the field where the celebration would take place. i was handed an umbrella and fell into step behind numerous strollers with babies and rain baggies over them, and countless more small school children in wellies (rubber boots) and raincoats. The cloud of well covered adults and children moved off in a large gnat-like cloud to the field. The cloud grew larger as excited children and parents gravitated toward the rope separating us from the huge bonfire in the middle of the field.

Did i mention the whole "pitch black" thing? Here were families upon families, chatting and playing and standing bundled in the freezing rain like they were having a tea party. In the darkness, everyone looked the same to me--tall and short dark bodies with vaguely seen faces above, cheerfully saying "hello" to me as i was introduced.

Normal, it was all perfectly normal to these sturdy English. Rain, blowing like ice needles into your face? Normal. Slogging along a country road through muddy piles of leaves in the pitch black? Normal. Fireworks in the rain? All normal. Me? i kept wrapping and wrapping my scarf around my neck and wishing for a third pair of socks under my new boots.

i looked around at the crowd and asked Jon, my son-in-law, "how many people do you think are here?" He said, "Oh, probably a hundred, hundred-fifty." He laughed and said, "You'd probably have a thousand!" (i do after all, live in a populated area in California.) i said, "Oh no-we would have totally called it on account of rain!"

A good time was had by all, and on the bright side, i think i will only lose the one toe to frostbite.

Here's a fun link to explain the Guy Fawkes celebration.

i'll wait for daylight to get photos of the grandBrits to post.

Talking life more than politics.

This election year has fascinated me.

i must admit to being pretty uninterested in years past. Partly that was a function of the party going on in my head, filled with parental voices and doubts that i could indeed live a viable adult life. i couldn't hear myself over the noise until my 3rd round with a mental health professional. (i view this process of understanding myself as peeling off the layers of an onion. It appears i'm a slow peeler, still peeling after 55 years.)

This year i have finally been able to watch and learn and listen to the issues. i have people around me voting opposite sides for various reasons. Problem is, i've been unaware of so many of the issues it's been a huge undertaking to try to understand even a portion. Foreign policy, wars, environmentmental issues, pro-life, pro-choice, issues of the economy as it heads for the Big Flush, and much more. i "get" more than i did, but i still understand merely a crumb from the cookie.

Foreign policy: i know little of foreign policy, other than the fact the U.S. has apparently ticked off a lot of other nations with our adolescent superiority. Not a good thing for getting along with the rest of the planet.

War: i know only a tiny bit more about war--and only from a personal-life basis. Between the war's effect on my father and the imbalances of my mother, my siblings and i grew up in a domestic war zone. i never heard of my father's training time in Australia, i only knew the horrors of combat in Korea. i knew the man who sat us down in the living room with a gun and threatened to put us all "in the ground." My sister tells me he was a bright and accomplished student. i'm sorry i never met that man--that would be a good memory in the mix.

Environmental issues: Again, a tiny bit. i grew up in the lush beauty of Portland, Oregon. When i see the green of a forest or woods my soul sighs with happiness. i'm pro-happy-environment. Now, at 55, i have many things floating about in the attic of my head--one is the childhood memory of building a snow woman (complete with breasts) in our front yard, another is the Snoopy on his doghouse i snow-sculpted one winter. i could honestly think i'm losing big chunks of brain cells, because now if i talk about the snow of my childhood, people act as if they should humor the crazy lady--it doesn't snow in PORTLAND. So my personal experience says the environment is changing. i don't know much other than the junk in the air bothers my asthma, AND IT DID SO USED TO SNOW IN PORTLAND!

The Economy: Experience tells me it's hard to get by. Partly because i'm not willing to give up satellite tv and other niceties, admittedly. Partly because our adolescent country is in that "I want to learn it the hard way!" stage. Two hundred years plus is pretty young as countries go, but the bad part about that? What takes a teen 4 years to learn takes a country decades. The me-first mentality hasn't been curbed in our adolescent economy. People are suffering, and not just the big guys who have to make do with two vacation houses instead of three, but the regular folk who just need to see a dentist but have no coverage and no extra money beyond their day to day costs of living.

Pro-life, Pro-choice--always an issue for me. i know my sister dealt with a childhood that was far less than affirming. Mine wasn't so great, but i was the baby and skated by more easily. But having grown up in an environment filled with the toxicity of cigarette smoke and anger, i still don't regret having the chance to live. i'm thankful i've been on this earth long enough to go to school, make friends, give birth, adopt, do foster care--and oh yeh, marry a really good guy.

Though formerly a girl who thought marriage was for suckers and child raising frightening, i had the chance to meet someone who changed my view on marriage. Then i learned i loved the nurturing-growing-teaching-loving parts of child raising. i know that none of them have found the path to adulthood a peachy-keen-no-sweat road. But they're all amazing, and make my soul sigh with pleasure, almost as much as those forests and woods. (KIDDING!) i'm beyond thankful for the opportunities i've had to nurture those lives.

i'm grateful for the chances i've had to care for foster babies and teens in distress, hopefully giving them some sense of self-worth by being loved without condition. Our son, now 20, was born nearly 3 months premature to a cocaine addict. 28 weeks gestation, a big 3 pounds, he fought for 5 months before being released from the hospital. He was the age of pre-born children some would still consider disposable. He's a tender-hearted boy with learning disabilities and his share of difficulties. And like my other children, i cannot imagine my life without him. i do worry about some of the changes in the U.S. Some have been a long time coming, but i do worry about the issue of "choice." Whose choice, the baby's or the mom's? i'm thankful, even with the difficulties i've faced, to have had a chance to live and grow.

Anyway, if you've made it this far through my mental life/political purge, congrats. If you had to skim a LOT, just read below.

Skimmer's recap: i'm glad i had the chance for this life of mine. i don't understand a whole lot about world issues, but i've gotten to do some pretty great stuff. And that includes building snowmen in Portland. Seriously!! i can show you pictures!

What's wrong with this picture?

i'll give you a hint: it's a cookbook and i've been using one.

i've been cooking lately. Purposely. And enjoying it.

Anyone who knows me well is aware of my many kitchen casualties. i've eaten the burned cookies/burned toast so often over the years that now if it doesn't taste like carbon it doesn't taste right. My children will not be gathered after the funeral saying "I only wish I'd learned to cook like Mom--"

But lately i've been cooking, making meals, trying new things. i've always loved cookbooks and recipes in magazines, and have ripped out more recipes from magazines over the years than there've been days in my life. i've thrown away piles of recipes i've never tried. But like i said, "lately..."

i've organized my recipes (again) and tossed a pile of them (again.) But i'm feelin' it, i'm feelin' the cooking vibe. It may be the season--the change to autumn brings visions of hot chocolate and pot roast with gravy (well, not together.) Possibly that's inspired me to look for new cold weather dishes. i actually made a pork tenderloin roast with a lovely orange and honey glaze with its accompanying chunky homemade applesauce. Don't remember what i served with it, i'm just so impressed with myself over the roast. Twice that week i cooked from a real recipe and twice it was good!

i refuse to discuss the other meals that week.

When credit cards amuse.

i received one of those "Important Notice of Change in Terms" papers in my credit card bill.

i must admit that sort of thing is usually filed without reading. What compelled me to read it this time i don't know. But what i now realize is that had i known how amusing these titillatingly titled missives could be i would have been reading them all along.

Paragraph 1 included many Boldfaced and Capitalized words along with this friendly statement: "Please see below for the Summary of Changes and your right to not accept the changes to your APRs." Oh! A choice! How very American of them.

Paragraph 2 gave the rundown of rediculously high rate changes for Overdraft Advances and Cash Advances. This included the invitation to accept their graciously offered rediculously high new Default APR with its new variable rate. Hmm. Such an offer.

Paragraph 3 told me of my "Right to Opt Out (not accept) the changes in the APRs." Very decent of them! All i need do is write them a letter politely declining: "As tempting as your offer for unbelievably higher and unpredictable rates sounds, I think I'll stick with your previously merely laughable rates."

Paragraph 4 clarified "What it means if you choose not to accept these APR changes." Ah! Let us see what provision has been made for this: "These APR changes will not apply." Cool. My letter changes everything. i'm pleased. Next sentence: "Your account will be closed and your card will no longer be available for use."

Huh. So much for "Options."

Skimmer's recap: When a credit card says you have options, it really means you have none.

On turning 55.

i turned 55 on the 9th, and the 11th was our 32nd anniversary. We had the anniversary date loong before it became a week to be filled with tv shows about the Twin Towers and terrorists.

i'm weirdly happy to be 55--i can get the Tuesday Senior's discount at Ross Dress for Less, and i'm sure other good things will come. i'm even celebrating the big 55 by making a scrapbook called "55 Things About Me" which i will fill with a list of stuff i like, places i've lived, stuff like that. i am "marking the occasion" rather than letting it slide by.

So today i thought "wonder what i'll get if i do a Google search for images about age 55?" And here's the first thing i found, thanks to Gosnell Realtors--

i am SO done looking.

"Good morning" takes on a new meaning.

poplar tree in our backyard

i've been having some good mornings lately.

i say this because i've never really been a morning person, but morning has been less friendly with the fibromyalgia. If you've read this blog before, you probably remember that i've whined heartily about the Fentanyl withdrawals and the fact of that experience leaving me with even less energy than before.

But changes seem to be in the wind--i've taken adrenal support supplements for a few months, and am now on Cymbalta, the pharmaceutical recently proclaimed on commercials as the answer to my fibro pain. We shall see how it goes, but whether from the time passed from initial withdrawals till now, or the adrenal improvement or the Cymbalta, i'm finally able to wake up at a decent hour and get out of bed! (By "decent" i refer to hours starting at 7, not the indecent time my hubby gets up-- 4:20am.)

The simple act of being able to wake up and get up is one i haven't been in touch with for a while. The fibromyalgia, diagnosed about 3 1/2 years ago, has changed my usual world of "i really don't want to get up" into "i feel really exhausted still and i'm too sore to move anyhow, so i really don't want to get up." They're simply different by degrees--did i mention i've never been a morning person??!

The extra good part of mornings lately is that in this end of a Castro Valley August, the weather is clear and even on the hot days the mornings are lovely and breezy. The balcony outside our second floor bedroom invites me to sit and listen.

my treehouse nook

i am a lucky girl. (Okay, a seriously over 50 girl, but still...) When our second floor was added and the balcony made, it had no covering over top. Me, being the delicate flower that i am, suggested that protection from the elements would be good. Dear hubby did that. So now i have a lovely treehouse nestled in the branches of the poplar tree, or so it seems.

Do you notice the sounds of morning are different than later in the day? And the sounds carry through the air differently in the summer? My nest asks me to shhhh and listen.....the constant soft swishing of the traffic on the freeway a mile away, the rhythmic thrum of my bedroom ceiling fan...the workman's tools two doors down...the rustling of the poplar tree's leaves. Listening has become a calming practice of feeling outside my own body and its pain, of being strictly in that moment, a meditation of sorts.

Skimmer's recap: Not a morning person. Mornings improving. Good morning to me.

The softer side of SWAT.

Enrico Colantini in Flashpoint

Apparently i'm drawn to Canadians.

First there's my dear friend Equichick8 and her totally enjoyable family from Manitoba, then came Corner Gas--introduced to me by my Canadian friend. Hubby and i have become quite addicted. It's light, it's funny, one of those things that makes me laugh out loud. Now there's Flashpoint, the new Canadian series on CBS. Here's the write-up from AOL television:

Inspired by the real-life Emergency Task Force of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, this taut police drama chronicles the efforts of the Strategic Response Unit (SRU), an elite and highly skilled group of cops charged with rescuing hostages, defusing bombs and breaking up gangs. The series title comes from another part of their job, however: getting inside a suspect's head and discoverying his emotional "flashpoint" that triggered the crisis in the first place.

i wanted to see this because i love the actor Enrico Colantoni--most recently seen as the father on Veronica Mars, the show where one could gain satisfaction from watching the cute high school outcast say all the things you always wish you'd said.

The curious bit to hubby and i in Flashpoint is the extremely sensitive overtones to the show about hard hitting SWAT team members as they go through their daily business of catching bad guys and saving lives. Now, SWAT and sensitive don't seem to readily go together in my brain, but who knows? Maybe SWAT teams regularly have the touching moments as shown on Flashpoint. Now, i do love Colantoni, but this jury is still out on the subject of the softer side of SWAT. But Corner Gas is here to stay.

.

My life as a toothpaste tube.

If the picture above symbolizes my energy level before the Fentanyl, Oxycontin, Morphine, & Methadone experiment....the one below is my energy level after.

From barely there to totally twisted, tweaked, and wrung out. (And a different brand and color, but who's counting?)

This week i have helped paint the house's front porch from top to bottom (new siding so new everything-gets-painted) and today i will help with either painting the trim on the house or cutting siding for the third outside wall of the house.

above: the new roof & dormer construction, with new siding, new windows, and new paint.

Therefore, i must assume i am beginning to come back from the dead! Maybe i will live past this Opiate Interruption after all. Woohoo.

Skimmer's recap: Ah come on, buck up!! This one was stinking short!!

Apricot Thoughts.

The bible verse that kept me going during my recent Fentanyl withdrawal experiment was the one about the vine and the branch, where Jesus says, "I am the vine and you are the branch. If anyone remains in me and I in them, he will bear much fruit. Without me you can do nothing." (That's a loose-ish paraphrase of John 15:5.) While i was feeling so detached from life i needed to feel attached still to my Creator, so i would repeat it but from my end of it: "You are my vine, i am your branch." It's yet another version of something i've said to God in the past while going through what seemed an impossible situation: "i may not be able to see You right now, but i will not turn my back on You."

You see, i remain aware of His thoughts toward me, and his persistence in loving me even when i don't seem to be able to carry off my end of the deal. Sometimes simply voicing that desire for connection with God has helped me hold on.

Anyway, later in reading a random bible verse i read something written by the apostle Paul to the Christians in Colosse, "Let your roots grow down into Him and draw up nourishment from Him so you will grow in faith, strong and vigorous in the truth you were taught." (Colossians 2:7.) These thoughts meshed for me. i choose to remain attached to the vine that is Jesus, and that is because i will then stay rooted to the source of nourishment, and will stay strong.

Recently i picked apricots from my daughter's tree with the help of her two girls, Haley and Cassidy. A few branches here and there had been broken away at their place of connection to the bigger tree. The only apricots they held were stunted and dried up, inedible. Other branches were heavy with apricots, growing vigorously from their solid connection to the tree, and were ripe and plump and beautifully colored.

Even i get the visual there--remaining strongly rooted to the source of nutrients grows plentiful, enjoyable fruit. The interruptions of life that we may let break us away from the tree causes dryness and immaturity of fruit.

Good stuff.

Skimmer's recap (and no, hubby of mine, i cannot set this blog up to send you only the skimmer section, sorry--): Attached to the tree= healthy growth. Not attached=little growth if any growth at all.