Bing, Nat and Rosemary et al

Ok, I have held off long enough, but it is that time of year when I need to lay down my Christmas music rules.  And I don't care if you agree or disagree, these are my rules and if you don't like them, don't ride in my car.  Don't go caroling with me.  Do mess with my CD collection.
There is a finite number of people that can sing a good Christmas song.  There is the obvious, Bing, Dean and Frank.  And all of those crooners that sound like those three.  Johnny Mathis, he's got a mighty fine voice. Nat King Cole, let me say that one again, Nat King Cole.  Rosemary Clooney.  Burl Ives. Louis Armstrong.  Boris Karloff.  OK, that may be a stretch, but he does the best rendition of You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch. 
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir is an excellent choice for those big religious numbers especially the Hallelujah Chorus.  They do a nice job with that one but so did The Immaculate Conception Catholic Church Adult Choir from my youth.  I loved, loved, loved it when Mom and Dad practiced that at home.  I need to take a moment to remember that.
For the most part, there is no one alive today that ought to make a Christmas album using new material.  All the good ones have been done and going out on a limb to try something new is not necessary.  The Michael Buble's of the world can sing the classics, but this new stuff...not needed.  I will also suggest an end to all ridiculously sappy songs that are about Christmas shoes, Christmas pants, Christmas cardigan sweaters with elbow patches.
If you are so inclined to a search of all the artists that have made Christmas albums, you will find that Billy Idol has recorded his own version of the classics.  I love Billy Idol and I love White Christmas.  But this?  This is what keeps Bing Crosby from resting in peace (that and some other child rearing issues).  There is a whole CD of Monster Christmas Ballads.  I don't think there was a need for this CD.
When it comes to country music and Christmas, I am on the fence.  Gene Autry has one of the greatest songs ever, so great that a movie was made from it.  And from that movie came all kinds of trinkets and figures, toys and villages that now fill my dad's and my own house at Christmas!  Martina McBride, Faith Hill and Cary Underwood are remarkable.  But then there is the other side of country music, the too twangy.  When I feel like I should be knee deep in horse poop instead of reindeer poop, well, it's too country. 
When I think about my collection of CDs, I think of what is missing.  From my dad's collection is, and my memory will be fuzzy, an album with Jack Benny on the front.  There is a bit where Jack Benny plays Jingle Bells on the violin, just a few opening notes.  Dad had made me a cassette of that album, but who has a cassette player now days?  I don't even have one in my car.   And my How the Grinch Stole Christmas read along album.  I remember putting that on the record player, already in my pj's, book in my lap.  It was like having the movie on DVD!
I love the religious and the secular.  The serious and the silly.  I love how the CD's of the old classics kept the scratchy record sound.  I love that I can hear my dad singing right along with Bing and Dean.  Christmas music is such a gift.  It takes me back to the record player and the red record.  Yes, it was a red record.  The cover of the album was kind of like a stain glass window.  It was so exotic!  And we could dance, but we couldn't jump because the needle would jump. 
When we got M-TV, Bing Crosby and David Bowie's rendition of Little Drummer Boy was in high rotation.  I don't know if I liked the song but I liked that my dad would tolerate David Bowie for a moment because he was singing with Bing Crosby.  Now the song is just another Christmas warm fuzzy from my youth.
Another song from my youth that I DO LOVE is Christmas Bells.  And it must be the version that has The Red Baron and Snoopy in it.  Snoopy is battling The Red Baron over World War One France.  It must have been Christmas, 1917.  Terribly cold, Snoopy had ice on his wings.  It didn't look good for him.  The Baron, it was a Christmas miracle, did not shoot Snoopy even though he had him in his sights.  Snoopy had to land behind enemy lines, a goner for sure, thought Snoopy.  But the Baron had other plans.  With a toast and a "Merry Christmas Mein Friend!" the Baron flew off.  Oh, they would meet another day, but on Christmas, there was peace.  What a freakin classic that song is. 
And now, my own kids seek out the classics.  The crooners and the Muppets are what classifies as classics to them!  Ashlyn is a bit more of a purist and does not start listening to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving, but not Hayley, she is tuned into 104.1 as soon as they make the Holiday switch.  My favorite is when all three of them sing the songs from Muppet Christmas Carol. 
There is one song that does not meet any of my criteria to be an acceptable Christmas song.  It is not sung by any of the approved; it is sung by many of the unapproved.  It's sappy.  It's maudlin.
It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid
At christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy!
Throw your arms around the world at christmas time
But say a prayer - pray for the other ones
At christmas time
it's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
Go on, finish the song...you know you want to!

Harlow Louise

Tonight I want to talk about my big, little girl, Harlow.  Harlow is an American Mastiff.  She is six now and weighs 170 pounds.  My road to Harlow was a bittersweet one.  It all started when I was randomly dog searching online and came across The Flying W Farms.  Flying W Farms breeds horses and dogs. The  American Mastiff breed was originated here.  The breeder bred English Mastiffs to Anatolian Shepards to create a massive drier mouthed dog.   I announced to Danny that this was the next dog I wanted.  And that was the end of that.  Until December of 2003 when Danny's National Guard unit was called up to Iraq and Danny told me to "get my dog." 
I began an email correspondence with the owner of the farm and was approved for adoption of a female.  I had decided to name her LRS Louise.  LRS was the acronym for Danny's Guard unit.  It seemed appropriate.  My sister and I drove out in June 2004 to pick her up from Ohio! 
LRS was a beautiful little thing.  She loved Barron, followed him everywhere.  She was the joy we needed during Danny's deployment.  We were awfully happy for those few weeks.  Then LRS got sick, very sick.  And her little body could not fight whatever it was that was attacking her.  And she died in the night at the vet clinic.  She is buried in the backyard. 
The breeder offered me a refund or another puppy.  I took the puppy.  This was done as a pure act of kindness from the breeder because LRS's death had nothing to do with her breeding or care prior to her living with us.  In fact, the cause of her death was probably due to poisoning.  Our best guess was that someone in the neighborhood had put out poison.  A wild animal got into it and then came through our yard.  LRS may have shared a water dish, or sniffed something up in the yard. 
Twice, we were notified that our puppy was ready.  But both of those puppies were not meant to be ours.  One turned out to be a boy and the other was accidentally killed by her mom.  It wasn't until the fall of 2005 that we finally got Harlow. 
Harlow is an Olde English word for troops on the hill.  Danny's unit spent a great deal of time in the mountains of Northern Iraq.  I wanted to keep her name in tradition with LRS's.  And they share a middle name.  LRS and Harlow were also cousins. 
Harlow started out as a very social puppy.  She went where we went as much as we could.  Soccer games and Petsmart.  Walks around the neighborhood, Cedar Rapids.  She loved the attention and the new adventures.  Then it got cold and she got too big to go easily to all those places.  When spring arrived, Harlow did not want anything to do with new people or places.  A walk was usually out of the question.  She would do pretty good if Barron was with her, but on her own, she was a nervous wreck.  I found some help in a dog trainer book and we could have some good walks, but all in all, Harlow was now home bound.  There were even occassions where we would get to the corner and she would stop.  Outweighed by 30 pounds, I didn't have much choice but to end the walk and go home.
When new people came around, there was a very long introduction process.  Harlow did not want anyone to approach her.  She would do the approaching, slow and unsure.  There are some people that have seen her for six years and have never petted her.  We have learned to accommodate her and it seems to work.  She stays in our room if there is going to be a lot of activity.  People respect her and make no sudden movements toward her or surprise her from behind.   Harlow gets plenty of love from those that she knows and she seems completely satisfied with that.
Harlow and Barron were very good buddies and when Barron died, I was terrified that Harlow would be soon to follow.  But she bounced back ok without him.  We had several good months where Harlow did just fine.  But recently, there have been episodes of I don't know what.  She has freak outs over people she knows and loves.  She has lost control of her bladder from time to time.  Sometimes I don't think she hears me, I have to tap her butt to get her attention.  There are days where she paces and paces.  Days where she follows me everywhere.  Sometimes, she reminds me of my mom when my mom was sick.  Harlow just seems confused. 
But this girl of mine.  This great big little girl is so very sweet.  Her head must weigh 20 pounds and she will rest all of it in my lap.  She will put her nose ever so close to me, prickly whiskers tickling my cheek, moist exhale in my face.  Harlow often has a furrowed brow, like she is deep in thought or confused.  I go with the latter.  Harlow likes to hold hands and sometimes, she likes to stand chest to chest.  Only she is taller than me so her head rests on top of mine.  Harlow is the only one in this family that can see what is on top of the refrigerator.
Harlow bounds about the back yard.  She used to look like a horse when she ran, before she put on her weight.  She looked like Scar from the Lion King when she walked.   Harlow adores Jacob.  She is his own personal pillow pet.  Harlow loves to be there with him when he watches TV.  With Ashlyn and Hayley, she just kind of presents herself for love and attention.  They will be busy doing whatever it is that they are doing and Harlow will decide to get up, walk over and say hello.

Tonight, Harlow is sick.  She cannot control her bladder.  She whines a lot.  She paces around and never seems comfortable.  I thought about taking her to the emergency vet, but they don't know Harlow and Harlow does not know them.  Unlike Barron, Harlow does not see a friend in everyone and she fears new and different places.  So we are going to wait this out and go to the regular vet in the morning.  I am nervous.  I don't know what is wrong with my girl.  I don't look forward to the list of tests that need to be run.  My stomach flips at the thought of the bill.  And I know that I shouldn't be thinking about the cost right now, but Barron's final bill in April ate up all the excess vet emergency fund that I had, and then some, so another hefty vet bill at Christmas time is weighing heavy on me, too.  But it is the thought of something serious being wrong with this big headed girl of mine that is making me cry tonight.  I know that I won't have her long as it is, a mastiff's life expectancy is around eight years.  But I already lost Barron this year, I am not ready to even thing about losing her. 
So my prayers are to Saint Francis tonight.  For Harlow's health and well being.  For my own good judgement tomorrow.  And for a simple diagnosis with an easy treatment both for Harlow and me. 

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Ashlyn is on the couch watching A Charlie Brown Christmas.  I can hear it from the family room.  35 years ago, I would have been in there watching it, too.  But I am spoiled now and with the slightest twitch of the wrist, I can slide that DVD in the player and enjoy the ridiculous antics of Snoopy on the ice rink any time I like.
But it wasn't always like that.  When I was a kid, this time of year meant a lot of things, including knowing when the specials were on.  With TV Guide in hand, I would sit on the couch and carefully page through to find A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red Nosed  Reindeer, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and if I were really lucky, A Year Without a Santa Claus.   There were other specials, too.  There was one with mice and a clock.  There was The Little Matchgirl and The Little Drummer Boy, too.  But these weren't as good as the first ones I mentioned.  Luckily, they were usually aired back to back on Sunday nights.  And with only three channels to check in the TV Guide, I never missed them!
I also had a softcover book of A Charlie Brown Christmas that my oldest brother gave me.  I still have it.  The cover is torn and the pages are dogeared, but it is one of my most favorite books.  I also had the book and album of How The Grinch Stole Christmas.  It was narrated by Boris Karloff and was fantastic.
There was also a random singer or movie star that would have a Christmas Special.  There would be a few skits, a special guest or two and lovely music.  Mom and Dad usually watched that show with me.  I don't remember any specific shows, but Julie Andrews and Paul Williams come to mind. 
After we got cable and HBO, I was introduced to Freddy the Freeloader starring Red Skelton and Emmit Otter's Jug Band Christmas created by Jim Henson.  We watched Freddy the Freeloader for the first time in twenty years last year and it still is as sweet and warm as I remember. 
My kids have added to the must see Christmas movies.  There is now Elf and A Christmas Story.  A Christmas Story is older, but somehow, I never saw that one as a kid.  We also watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation quite faithfully.  A Muppet Christmas Carol is the sweetest Christmas movie I know.  Even after watching it a trillion times, knowing Tiny Tim makes it in the end makes me smile.  I think the fact that Tiny Tim is played by a little frog makes it all the more appealing.
My first Christmas in Southern California, with Danny away and me and the kitties making the best of it, I bought my first holiday movie.  White Christmas starring Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney.  Two of the greatest Christmas crooners the God ever made.  I watched this movie every day.  I had it on constantly because it reminded me of home and of Danny far away.  And Bing Crosby's rendition of White Christmas is my hands down favorite Christmas song ever. 
I think these movies offer a trip down memory lane, a sweet escape, an hour or two where the real world is shut off and a winter wonderland prevails.  When the opening number starts to play, all of us gravitate to the family room.  The couch gets a little more crowded.  And our spirits get that needed holiday boost. 

Dividing Ding Dongs

I am the youngest of five children.  The oldest, a boy was born in 1960.  He was followed by a girl, another boy and another girl in 1962, 1963 and 1965.  In 1969, I was born.  My birth really screwed things up for my family.  The three bedroom house was no longer evenly divisible.  The Ding Dong box was now divied up unfairly.  The kitchen table got really crowded.   
Sometimes being much younger than my siblings made me feel like the odd duck.  I couldn't play with them because they were so much older.  My nearest sister did play Barbies with me, but not for a really long time because she was nearly five years older.  So just as I was really getting into Barbie, she was on her way out.   My oldest sister might pop in to do Barbie's hair, but she never stopped in to play.
I used to hang out in my brothers' room when I was little.   Their room was in the basement and before it was officially a room, just an area they goofed off in, I would roller skate on one side of the basement while they built models on the other.  The old transistor radio would be on and I clearly remember doing an interpretive skate to Barry Manilow's  I Write the Songs.  They didn't seem to mind me too much, and later, in my early teens, hanging out with my brother was often a life saver.  But again, the age difference was a big difference.
Being the youngest brought me a lot of extras.  After everyone else moved out, Dad and Mom could pay attention to what I was doing and what I was usually doing was wrong.  When the older ones would come home late, maybe slightly intoxicated, Dad would be asleep on the floor and I would be watching Creature Feature.  They would come (stumble) in and go get something to eat in the kitchen.  Then they would go upstairs.  When they reached the top of the stairs is when they would tell me to wake up Dad.  I had no idea what the real situation was.  When I was older, Dad would be waiting up for me or worse, out looking for me.  I got in trouble a lot, but it was because I got caught a lot.  It is a lot easier for a dad to watch one kid than five!
But, I got the station wagon when Mom and Dad bought a new car.  I also got a lot of other perks that the others missed out on.  When it was just me at home, eating out became a more frequent option.  I got to paint my room any color I wanted.  I didn't have to share the TV with anyone unless a game was on.
I often asked my parents if I was planned.  I know I wasn't.  Who is crazy enough to want one more after almost five years and a pretty good balancing act.  Dad tells me that none of us were planned and Mom would tell me that we were all a gift from God.  I think they were just taking the kids as they came, but probably thought that they were done after the four. 
The ruined Ding Dong division still comes up in conversation, but I never remember Mom buying Ding Dongs.  Though the kitchen table was crowded.  We had a perfectly fine dining room table that we never used, we just squeezed in around the too small kitchen table.  And in all fairness, my oldest brother moved out when I was eight so I didn't screw things up for that long.
I think back and know that there were times when I really struggled with the idea that I was not wanted.  That I was an accident instead of a surprise.  I don't think my parents were ever unhappy about having me.  I do think some of my siblings sometimes were!  It's funny how those feeling can stay and how easily it is to fall back into those old roles. 
My own children were sort of planned.  Ashlyn was not not planned.  We were going to take that first one whenever it happened.  Hayley was the most planned.  Jacob was planned, then shelved then SURPRISE!  None of them ruined the Ding Dong box, in fact, I try to buy things that come in tens so we each get two!

Thankful

Danny, who loves me in spite of and because of all my unique qualities.
Ashlyn, Hayley, Jacob, who entertain me immensely.
Barron, who was the bestest dog friend I ever had.
Harlow, who is the sweetest, most confused little girl I know.
Sophie, Elsa, Emmitt who add an element of ridiculous in my life that I thoroughly enjoy.
My family in Eastern Iowa and Western United States who support and tolerate me.
My friends, who find me terribly funny.
The police and firefighters et all, who keep me safe.
The military, who keep watch.
The Dallas Cowboys, who pulled out a win in the last three seconds.
Walgreens, who continue to employ me even though I am a pain in the ass.

An Evening with Old Friends

Tonight we spent a couple of hours with some old friends.  We all went to the new Muppet Movie and it was wonderful.  There was singing and dancing and cameos and ill timed explosions.  There were a few new friends like Walter and the cactus, but most importantly, there was Kermit. 
Kermit the Frog has been a friend of mine for as long as I can remember.  I wasn't a viewer of Sesame Street, but was a faithful follower of the Muppet Show.  I used to watch it with my oldest brother, Bobby.  I don't know who enjoyed it more!  There was always the anticipation of what Gonzo would do in the opening number.  It was never as planned, I am sure.  And the guest hosts, that had to be the highlight of their careers. 
Then there was the Muppet Movie.  I recall seeing that in the theater, maybe the World downtown, but most likely the Plaza out at Linndale.  The opening notes of the banjo are some of the sweetest notes ever written.  Every time I hear those notes, I cannot help but smile.  My heart is warmed and my soul is rejuvenated.  Though in the Muppet Movie, I always felt so bad for Jack.  He was just a moment too late to catch a ride to Hollywood.  But he made it in the end!
There were other Muppet movies, but none that tugged at my heart like A Muppet Christmas Carol.  It was the first Muppet production after the death of Jim Henson.  I remember Jim Henson's death in 1990.  It was like losing a true friend.  Because losing Jim Henson also meant losing Kermit.  Watching A Muppet Christmas Carol for the first time was hard because the voice was not quite the same.  My kids couldn't tell the difference and enjoyed the movie as it was.  But I knew that there was a different man behind the frog and it was bittersweet.  But A Muppet Christmas Carol has now become such a favorite.  I probably watch it a dozen times between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  There is something about singing fruits and penguins that really cuts to the core of Charles Dickens message of love and friendship.
I have seen Kermit at the Smithsonian and last year in Chicago.  I cannot describe what it was like to walk around the corner and see my old friend.  And to share that with Danny, Ashlyn, Hayley and Jacob.  At the exhibit in Chicago, it practically took my breath away to see him sitting there.  And then turn another corner and see Rowlf, the Manamana Muppets, and Bert and Ernie.  
Seeing the Muppets tonight on the big screen felt good.  It brought back such a flood of happy times and was really what I needed as I head into such a busy period of the year.  It is hard to be irritable when Animal is there ready to play the drums, breathing heavy, furrowing his brow.  Or when Kermit rallies the gang with one of his amazing pet talks.  I feel very lucky to have grown up with the Muppets and I think my kids feel the same way.  In the words of Kenny Ascher and Paul Williams through the voice of Kermit the Frog...
Life's like a movie, write your own ending
Keep believing, keep pretending
We've done just what we set out to do.
Thanks to the lovers, the dreamers, and you.

Time Warp

It’s 10:24 at my house on Tuesday night.  And it feels like old times.  The kids are in the family room singing songs in odd voices, changing up the words, maybe dancing a bit.  I am in the dining room, just listening and being thankful.  Thankful that my kids are hanging out together.  They could have all chosen to have gone their separate ways tonight.  They could be with old friends, boyfriends or video games, but they have chosen to be together singing show tunes and Jason Mraz.

When you read the ‘about me’ portion of this blog, blessed is a word I use.  And this is partly why.  Danny and I had three kids in four years, three months.  Danny was five when his sisters were born and my closest sister was four and a half when I was born.  We were a little more ambitious, or crazy.  Anyway, we wanted out family to be friends.  There were times when that wasn’t the case, but as everyone has grown, they have grown closer.  I envy the inside jokes, the secret language, the memorized songs.  I didn’t have nearly enough of that with my own siblings. 

Last night, the girls watched Sleeping Beauty.  The Swan Princess will probably be put into rotation before the week is over.  These are childhood moments that have stayed with them.  A shared love of blonde princess’s and strikingly handsome prince’s with excellent archery skills.

They have always laughed more then they have loathed.  They get on each other’s nerves, they pick fights, and they go off and pout.  But they are bound to each other.  There is this shared experience of making fun of Danny and me.  Supporting each other when the going got tough.  And in their lives, it has gotten tough a time or two.  They have been there for each other through deployments, sicknesses and deaths. 

I have three children who know all the words to “Time Warp” and they know most of the actions.  And they are doing the time warp again two rooms over.  Years from now, they will have this moment to fall back on.  If their friendship should falter, they will always have these times.  And years from now, at a Thanksgiving far in the future, this song just might get played.  Kitchen towels will be set aside, babies will be passed to grandpas and the wishbone will have to wait…because it’s a step to the left and then a jump to the right…

Elsa Jane

We got Elsa Jane and her sister, Eleanor, as young cats.  They were past the aww stage of kittendom, but were still sort of little.  We adopted them while we still lived in the apartment on Grand.  We already had Sophie and I am not really sure what made us think that two more cats were a necessity, but apparently it was.  So we got two more kitties.
Eleanor was black and white.  Elsa all black.  Both polydactyl.  Eleanor had a potty problem and could not continue to live with us after she ruined our leather couch and chair.  Now, I am not one to give up on animals quickly, but a cat that likes to pick her own potty spot is a problem that is hard to overcome.  The vet would not keep her on the medicine that helped the problem (because it could cause other problems) so she had to go back to the place hence she came. 
Elsa did not have a potty problem so she got to stay.
Elsa Jane, or Janie, as she is often called is the most exotic of our kitties.  She is all shiny black. In the dark, she is invisible.   
She is here on me now as I attempt to type.  She purrs loudly as if to drown out the typing sound.  She is not very affectionate so I feel extra special when she wants the love.  Kneading my tummy and rubbing up against my hand.  I have to keep correcting her/my typing errors.
Elsa, with her extra toes on all her paws, is a bit of a loner.  She is often found in the folds of a comforter on someones bed.  Where Sophie seeks out the comfort of another, Elsa enjoys the solitude. 
Elsa smokes a pack of Camel unfiltered a day.  Or at least that is what it sounds like when she meows.  It is all raspy and kind of bitchy like.  Even when she is trying to be sweet, she sounds like a crab. 
Emmitt, our other cat, is sometimes allowed to hang out with Elsa.  Elsa doesn't like us to see this side of her so when we happen to walk in on the two of them hanging out, one of them (Emmitt) quickly leaves.  It makes me smile to think of this cat with her street smart attitude hanging out with the sweater vest cat.
Elsa is Jacob's girl.  She hangs out in his room.  Comes around to rub against his leg.  She is also buddies with Harlow.  Elsa doesn't show her soft side to too many people.  Especially if those people are little. 
Our Elsa, with her disdain for most, is so sweet to us.  She may appear to be mean or aloof, but she is just misunderstood.  She loves her Jacob, her rolls in the sun, her treats and her alone time.   

Happy Birthday To ME!!!

I'm 42 today.  And I am a happy girl!  This birthday was spent with Danny and Jacob.  The girls are away at their big girl schools.  Won't be home until tomorrow evening.  Jacob and Danny took me to Puss in Boots and then we got McDonald's.  It was easy and fun and it was the best because my best guys were with me.  And honestly, there is nothing I would rather have for my birthday than that!
Birthdays on Park Ave had some reoccurring themes.  Out to eat followed by cake and ice cream at home.  I always chose Bob's Big Boy.   I always got the fish 'n chips.  It came in a basket with fake newspaper.  I also got the chocolate shake.  After dinner, we would go home and have cake and ice cream. 
Cakes were generally the same, angel food cake with white frosting.  Sometimes I would opt for yellow cake with chocolate frosting.  But angel food was my favorite.  I remember it cooling on a pop bottle.  Hanging upside down on a glass Pepsi bottle back when there were glass Pepsi bottles.  We had a cake plate.  It wasn't a fancy glass plate, just a plate that the cakes always went on.  And the cakes were stored in a silver domed cake saver.  It had little locks on the side. 
Anyway, back to the cake.  Angel food, frosted in white.  Decorated in my choice of two colors.  And traditionally it looked like this.  Happy Birthday Anne on the top in a semi circle on the top of the cake.  Current age on the side of the cake, once on each quarter.  Then a row of stars on the bottom alternating my two color choices in frosting OR two rolls of stars, one row for each color.  This pattern would repeat itself at the top of the cake, too.  All leftover frosting would find itself between a couple of graham crackers.  Graham cracker cookies are the best part of left over frosting!
Cake got candles, we all sat on the couch, presents were neatly arranged on coffee table, photo was snapped.  I look back at those photos to see the year I got my first pair of jeans (1975) or which year I got a stuffed animal (most of the '70's) or when my feet were puffy (1971).
I remember the year that Susan Kath gave me a box of chocolates.  I didn't have a party, she just gave it to me.  It was real grown up, too.  That was pretty neat. 
There was the year that I was late to celebrate because Crissy ran a stop sign or something and the cop took forever with us because he was sure that Crissy and I were twins and he needed to see both our ID's.  I don't know if she ended up with a ticket but the cop must have felt pretty stupid when he saw that we were over seven years apart. 
There was the year that Danny was in Saudi Arabia and Mom and Dad had flown me and my little belly home to Cedar Rapids from Oceanside.  I turned 21 that year.  Danny sent me roses.  Crissy took me out to the bars so I could drink water.  I got hit on that night.  Guy asked why I was drinking water and I said that I was pregnant (didn't take that hint).  He then asked where my boyfriend was and I told him my husband was in Saudi Arabia (took that hint)! 
Danny and the kids have always made my birthday wonderful.  There have been breakfasts in bed.  Amazingly wrapped presents.  Really thoughtful gifts.  I got a surprise roller skating party for my 38th birthday and a party at the house for my 40th.  Even the years that Danny and I were apart, he was making it special for me. 
So tonight, as I blow out my 42 candles, I don't really need to wish.  I have a man that loves me like crazy.  A son that loves me so much he would go to Puss in Boots with me.  Two daughters that will shower me with birthday love tomorrow.  I have an amazing family that is far flung but through the miracle of Facebook, is right here with me!  I have friends, old and new that support me and tolerate me.  so other than the winning powerball ticket, I really wish for nothing more than this life I have and another 42 birthdays plus 8!

The IC Bazaar

Fondly I look back at this time of year, the week before Thanksgiving.  At my house, it smelled of permanent marker and pie.  It was IC Bazaar time. 
Mom, as a member of St. Cecilia's Circle, would be busy in the kitchen making pies to sell by the slice from the kitchen at IC school.  I don't remember what else was served, but Jan Doyle made the most amazing cupcakes.  The frosting was meringue and there was a chocolate kiss stuck on top.  They were like nothing I had ever seen before.  Quite spectacular!
Dad, as the resident artist, was commandeered to make signs.  I remember laying on the old couch (the one with the two pieces) and watching him.   Big sheets of white paper spread out on the floor.  He would use the yard stick to make the faintest of lines on the paper so his words were straight.  (Then he would smack one of us kids with the yard stick.  That part was just a bonus for him.)  He would again use the faintest of pressure and write out the words on the sign.  It was usually the menu for St. Cecilia's.  Then it was time for the markers.  Standford brand, black, red and blue.  Chisel tip.  Smelled up the whole downstairs.  My dad was the best damn sign maker.  He had such a steady hand.  I especially remember how he would make the 0.  He wouldn't make a circle motion but instead he would make a ( and then a ).  It was always perfect. 
Then is was Sunday, Bazaar day!  This always fell close to my birthday, sometimes on my birthday. The day before I was born was a Bazaar Sunday.  My 5th birthday was a Bazaar Sunday.
IC school was an old school.  The gym and cafeteria were in the lower level.  The gym was also the auditorium.  The bazaar was set up in the gym.  A huge tarp was put down to protect the parquet floor.  Tables were set up all along the wall, and in the middle.  Every circle had a table.  A circle, as best as I could tell as a little girl, was a group of women that got together and made stuff to sell at the bazaar.  Each circle was named after a saint.  And the Mexican women belonged to the Lady of Guadalupe circle.  Mrs. Hernandez was in that circle.  I loved the Lady of Guadalupe table because Mary was always in such pretty dresses at that table. 
In addition to the tables was the Fishing Booth.  OH MY GOD!  The best booth ever.  It was always a good prize because the people behind the booth could look out and see who it was, girl/boy and age.  The other best table was the Mrs. Larkin's circle's table.  That was a table with wrapped presents on it.  The presents were marked with an age and sex.  We would try to feel what the present was through the wrap.  I got so much crap from that table!
And then it was time to eat.  Other than the cupcake, I have no idea of what I ate.  Then, off to mom or dad for more money so I could go fishing again. 
I hung out with the Derby girls at the Bazaar.  Jean Derby was in the same circle as my mom.  Bill Derby was hanging out with my dad doing booster club type of stuff.  I think they were usually with Father Hess shooting the shit by the back door.  Dad would be in his IC sweatshirt or IC windbreaker.   Father Moelner might come by in his collar but he would have a royal blue sweater on over it.  IC colors were blue and white. 
If we could, we would go up stairs to look at the mural outside the office door.  It was a mural of life in the school.  IC used to be a high school, too.  So 1st grade to 12th grade were once in those halls.  The mural was grand.  I remember it showed a basketball player towards the end.  But the story of IC is for another day.
One year for my birthday I got a trio of Sock Monkeys.  Mopsey, Flopsey and Topsey.  It was a mom, dad and baby.  And they were genuine sock monkeys made from real socks. 
There was something so amazing about those times.  I knew just about everyone at that bazaar.  IC was a close knit parish.  Families raised their kids together.  They socialized together and they made this community on the corner of 3rd and 10th.  The bazaar was the start of the Christmas season.  It was my birthday time.  It was magical.  I long for one more Sunday in November, with fishing pole in hand, hoping for something good.  I long for my Mom and Jeanie Derby behind the counter.  My dad sneaking out the door for a smoke.  And I long for my sock monkey family, the smell of magic marker and the squeaky sound it made on the paper in the living room while I laid on the old couch. 

Night Trax...

The Eagles, Chicago and Toto, I despise them all.  And don’t get all ruffled up and start to tell me what a great band The Eagles is.  I know that they are a great band.  Just like Tom Brady is a great quarterback and we all know how I feel about him!

I suppose I should have started this blog with some sort of disclaimer:  the opinions expressed in this blog are of the author’s and you don’t have to agree with them, but they are right. 

Picture, if you will, pre MTV days at my house.  Music videos were on Friday nights after the Tonight Show. Aptly named Friday Night Videos.  And Night Trax on TBS!  That was on Friday and Saturday nights.  There you have it, my two nights of music videos.  If I did not catch Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet on one of those two nights, I had 6 to 7 days of just radio.  No John Taylor, no Roger Taylor.    

So there I am, on a Friday night circa 1984.  There is no remote for this television so I must get up, walk to the box on top of the TV and make the switch from NBC to TBS.  Thankfully, it was only a slight turn of the knob because TBS was channel 4 and NBC was channel 7.  On a good night, I would get a heavy rotation of The Cure, Thompson Twins, Duran Duran and Culture Club and then (Son of a Bitch) The Eagles, or one of the band members doing a solo project.  Well, I might sit through Don Henley, but if it was Joe Walsh or the creepy looking one, I would have to get up, take the seven or so steps to the TV, turn the knob three or four clicks and hope…

And what do I get “Hard to say I’m Sorry”.  Oh, Peter Cetra, you will be sorry if you continue to screw up my Friday night with this maudlin crap!  I am not interested in your 40 piece band; I would like some men in make up with better hair than me singing something poppy.  So, I turn the knob again and I hope…

And what do I see, that bitch dancing up against the fence.  Ok, she is probably a very nice person, that Mrs. Swayze.  But get off my TV.  Rosanna.  Seriously, am I supposed to buy into the crazy idea that Rosanna would be interested in the likes of that ragtag group of men.  Africa?  Yes, please sing about a continent.  Why don’t you follow that toe tapper with some other geography based song. 

Oh, I can go on and on.  Get a couple beers in me and I will.  Music television wasn’t made for the likes of them.  It was made for the likes of Billy Idol, WHAM, Pat Benatar and Aha!  Oh, and Bonnie Tyler.  Let's not forget Bonnie Tyler and her creepy school boys with their glow in the dark eyes.  And the horsehead, what the hell is that at one in the morning, almost a horror flick.

Say what you want about The Eagles, tell me of all their hits, their awards, their honors and accolades.  And I will tell you that they were an ugly group of men made for radio.

Her name was Rio and she danced upon the sand…

 

The Dallas Cowboys

I clearly remember having procured a large piece of grey paper.  It was actually the unfolded folder from a Mead three ring binder.  But it was grey which was close to silver and that was going to have to do for this little art project.  I was drawing a Dallas Cowboys helmet to hang on my wall.  I had never tried to draw a helmet before and because I had chosen to draw the finest helmet in the world of football, no one at my house was eager to help me.  Had I been working on a Bears or Packers helmet, there would have been many available hands, but I stood alone as a Cowboy.
So, how does a young girl like myself become a fan of America's team?  It had to of happened prior to the 1978 season because I remember Roger Staubach quarterbacking.  I remember Terry Bradshaw being my arch nemesis. I remember thinking Fran wasn't a very football player type of name, but neither was Rosey and look at him!
I remember Tom Landry and his suit.  And today I look at the likes of Bill Belichick and am embarrassed for him and his flashdance styled sweatshirt.  And his long haired hippie QB.  (oh, that's another story!)
I suppose it was the cheerleaders that I first noticed.  What girl didn't want to be a cheerleader?  And to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, Holy Cow.  And I had already been a rhinestone cowgirl (thank you, Glen Campbell) for Tot Lot.  So I am sure that that was the initial draw to the Cowboys. 
In 1985-86, I jumped onto the Chicago Bears bandwagon and learned the Super Bowl shuffle.  The Bears were always my second favorite team so this wasn't a big leap at all.  I remember watching Walter Payton play and my dad would point out to me how he always pushed the ball forward when he was hit.  Walter Payton will always be my definition of a class act. 
In 1988, I fell in love with another Cowboy, Danny White.  The fan, not the former QB.  Though Danny was named after him.  Beginning in 1991, we have successfully raised three additional Dallas Cowboy fans.  Ashlyn, Hayley and Jacob.  There was a period in 1994 that Hayley wanted to be a Vikings fan because she thought they were the Lion Kings.  Once she understood that there was no greater team than Dallas, she came back into the fold.
It is never easy to be a Cowboys fan.  If we are having a great year, we are hated.  If we are having a bad year, we are ridiculed.  But I continue to wear the Blue and Silver.   I continue to yell at the TV, swear at Tony Romo and curse Jerry Jones for picking up Terrell Owens and letting Marion Barber go.  (Good thing the Bears are my #2).
And today, we put another hash mark in the win column.  Had it gone the other way, well, I would have been disappointed, but I would still love the 'boys, wear the blue and silver, be a fan of America's Team!

Ready for some football

I screwed up this year.  I only made it to two high school football games.  One small town game and one big town game.  Early in the season, Danny and I drove out to Guthrie Center to watch the Tigers play.  Last night, Alice and I drove to the UNIDOME to watch another Tiger team play.  Both teams won, but on very different fields.
The Guthrie Center Tigers are a Class A team with 37 players.  Danny and I watched them win against Riverside.  It was a great game played with a lot of heart.  The GC Tigers ended up with a 2 - 7 record.  But there was that Friday Night Football feeling out in the stands.  The parents, bundled under blankets, the kids running amuck around the stands, the cheerleaders clapping and stomping their way to team spirit.  The student section full of oddly dressed, face painted kids. 
The West Des Moines Valley Tigers are a Class 4A team with 81 players.  I went to the semifinals at the UNIDome with my friend, Alice.  It was a great match up with Ankeny, but the game was not nearly as exciting as I hoped.  I suppose the two teams were pretty evenly matched and Valley made a few too many mistakes for me.  But Valley won and will play in the championship game next Friday.  Their current record is 13-0. 
A typical Valley home game finds you in a beautiful state of the art stadium.  It feels like a college stadium and that's ok.  A lot of people think it is silly, but it is built and that's that.  Besides, the only real difference between the GC Tigers game and a Valley Tigers game is the size.  There are more chilly parents, more kids, more cheerleaders and a lot more students. 
But football is football.  It is well padded boys/men trying to get a ball across a thick white line.  It is how, and how often, that they get the ball there that matters.  I don't care if I am watching pee wee or pros.  The love of the game keeps me coming back for more.  And there lies my problem, I have not watched enough football this year.  I waited too long and my physce has paid dearly for it.  There is no other place that I can eat a walking taco while wrapped in a fleece blanket under bright lights.  All while watching the game.  Where else can I mutter "getem! getem! getem!"  under my breath?  Followed by "son of a bitch!" when he doesn't. 
Next year, I will be in the Tiger stands.  Either Tiger.  Small town, big town, it doesn't matter as long as it is Friday night under the lights.

Happy 236th Birthday Marines and Happy Veteran's Day

I am not a Marine, never have, never will.  But I have known the Corps for most of my life.  My oldest brother, Bobby joined when he was 17.  I would have been eight.  I remember when the recruiter came to our house to pick him up.  They drove those awful mint green cars.  The recruiter looked so sharp and my brother so not.  He spent eight years in the USMC, going to Okinawa, Moscow and Wellington.  My other brother, Dick, joined when he was 19.  I was 13 and clearly remember missing him terribly.  He stayed in four years and spent a lot of those years in Hawaii.
I was proud of my brothers.  I liked to brag about them, especially to my friends who had brothers in the Navy.  I didn't know why that was an important dig, but it was.  My brothers were part of something bigger.  I was a proud little sister with a stuffed bulldog and a USMC t-shirt.
When Danny and I were dating and he started to talk about the military.  I was hoping that he would chose the Marines.  I knew what it did for my brothers, and I was excited about what it could do for Danny.  18 months after we met, Danny headed to MCRD San Diego for bootcamp.  I would not see him again until the night before our wedding.
I cannot begin to explain what the Corps means to me.  For four years, I was married to it.  And proudly so.  I knew "if the Marines wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one."   I was sort of prepared for the deployments and long training days.  I had been warned by my brothers, by the recruiters, by every other Leatherneck that we met on our way to the altar.  But I don't regret my days a Marine wife.  I relish them.  There is a pride, a sense of honor, an esprit de corps like no other branch of the military.  And I mean no disrespect, I spent four years as an Army wife and loved every moment.  But there was a difference.
I could not be any prouder of my Marine, my Army Airborne Ranger Marine.  He has followed a long tradition of Leathernecks, Devil Dogs, Jarheads and so many names that I am too ladylike to repeat. 
I have been to the Marine Corps Museum twice.  It is amazing.  It is humbling.  It is gratifying to know that there are men and women, that for 236 years now, walk that line every night so that I can sleep soundly.  
And tomorrow, 11-11, I will thank God, or providence or my lucky stars that I was fortunate enough to be from a nation that raises boys and girls up to men and women that want to serve and support and protect me and my family and the dirtbag down the street that doesn't do anything but put them down.   It takes a person of extraordinary strength, faith and courage to say "Yes, I will protect and defend these Untied States with my life, if necessary"  I am so very grateful to you and to your families.  Thank you.

Tonight I had the honor of attending the Marine Corps birthday party at a local bar.  The oldest Marine was a Korean war vet and a "China Marine".  The youngest was 6 days out of bootcamp.  In between were a bunch of old marines, reserve marines, drunk marines.  And the caption on the cake read "Old Breed?  New Breed?  It does not make a damn bit of difference as long as it is the Marine Breed."  LtGEN Chesty Puller.

1992

Jello Mousse

I’ve got a lot happening this week and my mind isn’t what it ought to be.  So I asked my friend Carly what I should blog about.  This is what we came up with.

We have a display of Jello at work and there is a photo of four perfect squares, two red, two green.  The green are garnished with something twirly and cute. 

“That’s how I want my life, like Jello Mousse.” I said.  “Easy, neat and fun?”  responded Carly.  “And festive.”  I added.

There, I want my life like Jello Mousse squares.  I want there to be just three easy steps with three simple ingredients.  I want four corners and fancy garnish.  I want to be ready to celebrate.  I want to chill.  Just like is says in the directions. 

But my life is more like gravy right now.  Lumpy and full of fat.  And sometimes it won’t set right and it really isn’t any good.  Except to the dog.  Oh, I don’t mean that my life isn’t any good.  My life is great.  It truly is.  But it is not easy, neat and fun and festive.

It is a little hectic this week.  This week came up on me fast.  Danny is gone, I have homework, a crappy computer and two cakes.  And then it snowed and I was dumb enough to try and scoop some of it off the front step so my back has been aching all day, too.

The kitchen looks like I have been making cakes.  I tend to get powdered sugar everywhere.  I have two sets of bowls, measuring cups and measuring spoons and they are all dirty.  I didn’t even need a ¼ cup of anything but both are in the sink.  I have run two dishwasher loads and am still at it. 

And when I get knee deep in cake, the rest of the house suffers.  Jacob folded clothes tonight.  Emmitt rolled around the dining room floor and I counted that as sweeping.  I purposely leave the lights off as I go about the house just so I don’t see what I need to get done.    

But fun?  My life is fun.  I pulled into the driveway today to see Jacob in his new Christmas sweater.  $3.87 at Goodwill.  It is 1% wool and he spent part of the evening discussing with me where that one percent could be.  It was an interesting conversation to be having as I mixed up dark gray frosting.  And cake making is fun for me.  And it will be fun tomorrow when I deliver the 2x2 cake to the party.  And it will be fun when I take the other cake to Carly so she can be the coolest girlfriend ever!  (And that will make me Carly’s coolest cake making friend!)

And festive?  That will really come together in a week or so.  The house should be cleaned by then and we will have Christmased up the joint.  I will get some Bing on the stereo and by then, my life might be a little closer to the four perfect squares.  Or maybe I will just forget about the Jello mousse and I will just chill!

Truly Scrumptious Cake Company

If you could see my kitchen right now, truly atrocious cake company would be a better title.  There is cake paraphernalia everywhere.  It is a batterery, flourery, spatulaery mess.  And I am content.  Oh, there was some cake stickage and an  egg shortage, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a run to the store and another cake baking.  And when it comes out of the pan just like it ought to, then all will be Truly Scrumptious.
I don't do anything fancy, just buttercream, baby.  There is no rolled fondant or sugar roses.  I don't use chocolate ganache filling.   I have a book of cakes I have made, but there is no guarantee that the next one will turn out the same.  If you don't want perfection, than I am your girl.  All I ask is the price of ingredients unless you invite me to the party.  Then its free!
This little company of mine started a few years ago and really hasn't grown much!  The idea came to me when Ashlyn volunteered at St. Joe's Family Shelter.  I couldn't really get past the idea of having to celebrate a birthday in a shelter.  Store bought cakes are fancy and all, but nothing is quite like a cake made just for you.  So I asked the shelter if I could make cakes for celebrations that they had.  The shelter bravely said yes and I made my first cake for them to celebrate the graduation of one of their guests!  Here's how it works:   I get an email with the details.  I bake the cake, deliver, sign the volunteer clip board and am gone.  But what I do, lingers just a little.  I remember when Ashlyn was sick and I had an order.  This girl was about Ashlyn's age and didn't know that a cake was coming for her.  She was there the day I delivered and she couldn't believe that someone would do this for her.  No one should ever feel like that.  A few days later, I got a thank you note from her.  (And I love thank you notes!)  She was praying for Ashlyn and was so thankful for the cake.  And I was thankful for the distraction and thankful for this small connection that I had made with this girl.
I had been making cakes long before I got a name.  I had acquired the Wilton supplies while in high school.  I never took lessons so don't ask for a rose!  I started out making the kids' cakes and then when we moved to Germany, it actually became a semi regular gig.  I did the neighbor's cakes and even did a couple for pay. 
When we came back to Iowa, I had several years of steady work in October making cakes for our friend's little girls.  There is also a young man that has some pretty awesome parties and always challenges me with a cake.  This year it was Yoda with a baseball bat. 
I have another client (that sounds so business like!) that trades me egg rolls for cake.  Such a deal!
Tonight I am working on two orders!  One for a friend who is surprising her boyfriend with a custom cake.  Her idea, my frosting.  The other is for The United States Marine Corps 236th birthday party at a local bar.  This is the 5th year that I have done this cake and it is an honor.   I am no Marine baker, but I will say that I have made some pretty spectacular cakes compared to the one they bought from Dahl's in 2008. 
Two years ago, I entered a cake at the Iowa State Fair.  I took third.  It might have been out of three, but lets not get bogged down in the details.  I took third in the Iowa State Fair!  I also was recognized by Bishop Charron for my work at the shelter.  That was better then third place at the fair. 
Truly Scrumptious Cake Company

A Not for Profit Celebration Cake Emporium

I Am Not Snow White, I Am Girl

Who in the heck is Girl?  I don't know any girl in any of the movies and she will not answer to any other name, including her own.  So I call her Girl.  And this works for a while.  Until she tells me that she is not Girl.  She is The Witch.  And as she says this, she holds her hand up to me and says,  "An apple, have a bite."  And then she cackles the cackle of the witch.
This was the second to third year of Hayley's life.  She was always someone.  She was always in a twirly dress and pretty shoes.  She was singing and dancing and playing Barbies.  She was Snow White, Dorothy, The Witch and Girl. 
Hayley had a lot to say, and said it.  Even if it meant interrupting her sister, Ashlyn.  Who also had a lot to say.  But Hayley would say it with an accent, or very loud, or when it wasn't her turn. 
And Hayley had these cheeks.  Oh, my goodness.  These big cheeks and the blondest of hair.  And blue eyes. 
She was such a neat little girl.  But also very angry.  Hayley had this way of looking at you.  She cocked her head down, furrowed her brow and looked up at you through her eyebrows.  When that look came your way, it was on.  She didn't take much from anybody. 
In Germany, we had one television station, so most of the time, the kids watched movies.  Often, musicals.  We had the complete collection of Rodgers and Hammerstein's classics.  The opening of each movie was a musical montage of each movie and bits of each song were played.  Hayley knew this opening by heart.  Once when we were in Salzburg the girls sat outside a t-shirt shop with me and the dog.  Hayley would not look at anyone but sang that montage at the top of her lungs.  It was awesome.
Years later, when Hayley was roughing them up on the soccer field, the other parents found it hard to believe that this defender was ever twirling in pretty dresses and wearing fancy shoes!  They could definitely believe all the rest.
And Girl?  Turns out that's Lauri from Oklahoma.  The pretty blond (Shirley Jones) in the twirly dress. 

Delivering Papers at 4am

I was a paper carrier.  All of us kids were.  I got my route when I was ten.  It was an afternoon route, five blocks long, but one block was a school and playground.  I had 50 to 60 papers on my route.  It was pretty easy and my sister was on the other side of the street with her route.
And then it went to mornings.  My sister quit her route and got a real job.  I was on my own except for my parents.  They helped me out a lot.  Sometimes, Mom would do the lower half of the route while I did the upper half.  But most of the time, Dad and I would do the route together before he went to work. We would put the stack of papers in the middle and Dad would drive and I would fold.  We had a great system.  I would jump out and deliver a long stretch and Dad would pull up to the single house and toss a paper on the porch. 
Sometimes I would do the route on my own and that was always a little unnerving for me.  I would find myself looking for the houses with lights on, just in case.  I would also keep an eye out for the Des Moines Register delivery boy.  He always did his route with his doberman pincher.  And the doberman was never on leash.  I would always let out a sigh of relief when I saw that sleek black dog lollop down the sidewalk.  Sometimes, he would be on my side and we would greet each other.  The delivery boy always waved to me, too.  Then I didn't feel so alone. 
One time, while I was doing a stretch of houses, a man followed me.  It wasn't like he was out for an early morning stroll, he crept from tree, to car, to tree.  Dad saw him and quickly got the truck to me.  I was completely oblivious to this and couldn't understand why we tore around the corner, totally skipping two houses.  Dad couldn't find the guy.  I was followed once while I was collecting the bills.  I did that in the afternoon.  I had a little money on me and I would have been an easy target to mug.  Again, I was completely oblivious to the man walking behind me.  Luckily, the guys playing basketball on the school playground had noticed.  As I cut through the playground, one of the guys approached me.  I wasn't scared of him.  I saw him every week and all of them always said hi.  But this week, he came over to let me know what was going on.  The man following me took a different route and the basketball player walked me to the next house.  I was a carrier at the same time that the boys in Des Moines and West Des Moines were kidnapped, it was never lost on my parents that I would be an easy target.  I often think that they were torn between me being safe and me learning some responsibility.  They sided on my safety.
Several years after I had my paper route, I had a recessed memory come to the surface.  I had just started my route and it was still in the afternoon.  I was in front of Pooky Hobbs house (that is another story).  I car pulled up and the man inside asked me for directions to JCPennys.  He told me that he was a catalog photographer and said that I could be a model for him.  He asked for my phone number and address.  Now I don't think I had ever really heard of stranger danger.  Nor did it occur to me that a grown man that needed directions would not ask a ten year old.  And as I am thinking about that incident again, what the hell was he doing on Park Ave.  It was no where near downtown or any street that you would take to get downtown.  Well, when I got home, I told Mom and Dad all about this guy and they flipped out.  I was thoroughly educated in Stranger Danger and I never approached a car again.  Years later, after I was an adult, it occurred to me that this man had his fly wide open and his junk on full display.  How freakin lucky was I that I wasn't pulled into that open window and never heard from again.  Thank you Guardian Angel.
 I loved it though, especially in the winter.  We were the first to make tracks in the snow.  I would be all bundled up in my brother's old camo snowsuit.  Dad would have the heat cranked in the truck, his window would be down so I could hear the crunch of the snow under the tires.  And Dad's truck only had A.M. radio.
A.M. radio at 4:30 in the A.M. is fantastic.  The DJ didn't have much to say, probably because he was so damn tired.  But he did play the best music from the 40s and 50s.  I would start my day with Frank and Sammy, Dean and Rosemary.  Dad might sing along or tell me a little something about them.  I loved my dad's voice and I always felt special because he was singing just for me.
I will forever remember the Christmas that I fell in love with Bing Crosby's rendition of White Christmas.  From Thanksgiving on, I listened for it.  I heard plenty of Perry Como and Andy Williams.  There was some Johnny Mathis and Burl Ives, but never White Christmas.  The morning of December 25th had arrived and this was it.  If I didn't hear it that morning, I was out of luck for quite some time.  And then those distinctive notes began to play, Dad pulled the truck over and we just sat there.  The papers were going to wait for just a couple of minutes.  I thought Dad's voice blended perfectly with Bing's.
I kept that route until I was sixteen.  My mom saved half of what I earned, which was enough to get me to Europe when I was seventeen.  It was a good job with good pay.  I met a lot of neat people.  And I can toss a newspaper on to a porch without ever slowing down my stride!

A Little Privacy Please

Going to the bathroom hasn't always been a private affair for me.  I cannot say that it was by choice though, I am not one to pee on the side of the road if a reststop is within 100 miles.  But you tell me it is 200 miles and I will probably give in and go. 
When I was little, very little, I could go potty by myself but I needed help with the wiping part.  I still am reminded of this fact.  But at least I knew my limitations and wiping my butt was one of them.  Eventually my arms grew and I could handle that little chore all on my own.  But in order to be heard, I had to leave the bathroom door open.  Otherwise I could have sat there for hours.
Now if I was using the upstairs bathroom at my house growing up, I never closed the door.  You see, the lights in this room were hanging on either side of the mirror above the sink.  They were older fixtures and you had to turn a little knob at the bottom.   I couldn't reach the knob without putting my other hand on the sink for support.  For whatever reason (I am no electrician) I would get shocked.  Well, when one already has to pee, the idea of throwing a shock in the mix was not very appealing so I learned to turn the hall light on and leave the bathroom door open.  I still had privacy because the toilet was behind the open door. 
Fast forward to 1992.  I had privacy up until we moved back to California and Ashlyn was walking.  I didn't dare shut the door because when ever I did, she found something to get into.  And as soon as I could trust her, Hayley was walking, then it was the naughty dog.  Peeing in privacy was a distant, yet fond memory.  And wasn't just peeing, if I were taking a bath, then important things had to be discussed!  Or someone wanted to drink bath water (Leisl) or someone else wanted to "just put my fingers in". 
And then privacy came back.  I remember an some point that I made the 3 B Rule.  I could only be disturbed in the bathroom if someone was broken, bleeding or barfing.  It was such a wonderful rule.  Sometimes I went in the bathroom to do nothing but enjoy the privacy!
Today, two of my children have moved out and my third child understands the idea of a closed door.  But privacy still alludes me.  And I am being invaded upon for no good reason.  I have pets.  Pets have no idea what personal space is.  They think that they are welcome everywhere, at all times. 
Our bathroom door sticks a little when you close it.  I am in the habit of not forcing it closed because I make such a racket trying to open it and Danny is often sleeping when I am in there.  So I just kind of swing it shut and go about my business.  Well it turns out that a closed bathroom door is an open invitation to a cat.  If it is Sophie, she will knead her little paws against the door and meow mournfully.  If it is Elsa, she will just meow in her three packs of Camels a day voice and rub the door.  If either of them can muster the strength to get the door open, they will slink through the smallest crack possible.  And then there's Emmitt.  Emmitt is twice the cat that the girls are.  He talks all the time.  ALL THE TIME.  He has no inside voice, doesn't consider that Danny is sleeping, has no regard for my privacy.  He busts open any closed door, especially bathroom doors, leaves them wide open, yells about something and runs out.  And there I am, just sitting there too far from the door to reach and close it and too unprepared to throw something at the damn cat.
I feed them, I love them and in return, all I ask is a little privacy, please!

You Got a Friend In ME!

I went to a Pampered Chef party last night.   It was hosted by one of my Farrells friends.  Meaning I met her when we both worked out at Farrells.  That is how all my friendships are described.  By how I am friends with them.  I have old friends,  Army friends, my kids friends parents friends, Farrells friends, cop wife friends, work friends and church friends.  Oh, and Facebook friends which is all of the above and then some.  But none of these groups are very big. 
And that is kinda sad.  Am I not a good friend?  I suppose to some, I am not.  In fact, I know that there are a few Facebook friends that really don't like me, they are just being polite.  I may have been unfriended by them by now.
But I want to be a good friend.  I want to have these wonderful histories with these people.  I want them to be a part of my life because they find me funny and enlightening and full of shit in a good way.  Because that is what I find them.  But I am afraid that they find me odd, annoying and full of shit in a bad way.
My oldest friends, the ones that knew me in high school and even earlier, were the ones that knew me in the troubled years.  Sometimes they may have contributed to the trouble and sometimes they saved me from it.
I have a few Army friends.  They knew me as I mothered my babies.  They were sisters in arms as the menfolk went on training exercises and peacekeeping missions.  I think because we were all in the same position, with kids similar ages, it was just so natural.  Kind of like the mommy and me groups.  We were Army and me groups.
My kids' friends' parents friends, say that three times fast.  These friends have changed as my kids' friends have changed.  We all hung out on the soccer sidelines and colorguard performances.  I don't see these women as often as I used to, but I still count them as good friends.  They all rallied around me when Danny went to Iraq, when my mom died and when Ashlyn was sick.  They loved my kids like their own.
Farrells friends were who I sweated with.  There were a lot of Farrells friends as different classes came through.  There were different types of Farrells friends as well.  There was one group that loved Danny and tolerated me.  Then the rest of them loved me as much as they loved Danny (I hope).  And I always felt fit and beautiful and energetic with the second group.  They were also so supportive with Ashlyn was sick.  It was so cool to see all those Save Ashlyn shirts sweaty and gross at the gym.
Cop wife friends are great.  They seem to be as sarcastic as I am.  We are all in different places in our lives.  I haven't been a cop wife as long as some, and a lot longer than others.  We have kids all different ages.  This group is very eclectic.   One thing we all have in common is the love of our man.  And at the same time, a very low tolerance for their shenanigans.    Like Army wife friends, these women know where I am coming from.  They can understand my fears and frustrations in a way that some of my other friends cannot.
Work friends are also overlapping into friends.  I don't have to make that distinction with them.  They know my day to day fun and fears.  Because they don't completely understand my homelife, work friends are great sounding boards.  They bring a completely different perspective to my issues.  We vary greatly in age (I'm the oldest) and background but we are commonly bonded by a hatred of coupon scammers and thieves, homewreckers and creepy mustache mailman.
My church friends are so sweet.  They don't see me very often (though they have seen me five weeks in a row).  They don't judge me, just are happy to see me.  They always make me feel like I could be more involved with my faith and my church.  I would like to have more church friends.  I have been a member there for eight years and I probably know eight people. 
And there are Facebook friends!  I think all of the friends that I have already mentioned, except two, are my Facebook friends.  I don't have a lot of FB friends, 157.  I know them all, some more than others and some, only through Facebook.  But that's ok.  Because I have made some wonderful friends just by commenting on their status'.    And some of those friends have come off Facebook and into real life, but because we are all so busy, we stay connected there.
So back to the Pampered Chef party.  After the party was over and I wrote my check, the representative asked me if I would be interested in hosting a party.  I declined saying I didn't have any friends.  Well, I have 159, but 3 were there last night, and over a hundred live in another city, state or country.  Then there are my 4 family members, they wouldn't come.  So that leaves me with about 40 people.  Half of which are men or teens.  I could invite 20 women, but then I would have to clean my house to host a party and I already bought my stuff!  But I didn't want to say that!.

Mom's got my back

One night I was out to dinner with my parents at the local Knights of Columbus hall.  Danny was deployed, Ashlyn was just a little thing.  Mom was entertaining her at the table when one of mom's old acquaintances stopped by.  This lady was cooing at Ashlyn when I walked up.  Mom introduced me.  And this lady responded with "are you old enough to have a baby!" 
Well, I had heard that a lot.  When I was receiving care at the Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton, I was frequently asked for my father's information, not my husband's.  That was always awkward.  I also was used to the looks I would get at the stores in Cedar Rapids, look at me, look at my baby, look for a ring, look for food stamps.   In Oceanside, I looked a lot like the other wives so I didn't get the once over there.
 Mom had never experienced a moment like that and I must say, she did not care for it!  My mother, God love her, came to my defense so damn fast that I didn't even have time to react.  I have forgotten a lot of the remarkable things that my mom has said over the years but this is etched in my brain.
"Yes, she is old enough to have a baby.  Anne is married to a marine.  He is in Okinowa right now, he was in Dessert Storm last year.  She has lived in California and decided to come home with the baby so we could spend time with her."  And it was all said with kind of a oversimplification of the words.  Mom was pissed.  It was the first time she had ever seen someone pass judgement on me.  Though Mom wasn't a fan of our young marriage, she was a fan of the union and of the little girl we made.  And no one was going to judge me as long as she was around.
I have clung to that moment for such a long time.  It was such a valadation for me, I was doing it right and Mom approved.  Mom had reservations about me moving home with Ashlyn.  She was afraid that I was going to expect her to be my babysitter.  But Ashlyn was mine.  And I was hers.  Oh, she spent a lot of time with her Grandma and Grandpa Snow, but I was usually there, or just running to the store.   
There were times when it was very hard to be living with my parents again.   I just wanted my own space and I wanted to be with my husband.  But, Ashlyn got to sit beside her grandpa while he watched the game.   She would throw all her toys off her rolly chair tray and Grandpa would pick them up for her.  They were both entertained for hours.  And Grandma would put Ashlyn on her lap while she read the newspaper.  And then she would pull newspaper out of Ashlyn's mouth.  My parents were proud of this little girl I had.  They got to see me doing something I was really good at and that was fun for me.  Mom was thrilled that I was breast feeding (it was not encouraged when her children were born), she loved that I took Ashlyn with me whenever it was feasible (not too cold or snowy or icy) and she loved that I was a happy, fullfilled mom that loved the job.

He Called the Wrong Anne

May 19th, 1988.  I was sporting a awesome paisley shirt.  I had bleach blond hair and a braided tail.  I was working at the local hardware store.  After work, I was going out to my boyfriend's farm to see the baby pigs.  I had been dating Justin for about six weeks.  He was a year older.  He was farming with his brother in law.  I am not the country girl type, but I was liking this guy quite a bit. 
I had known Justin for years, but not well.  His sister was friends with my sister.  Justin had a lot of problems with drugs in high school.   Got himself cleaned up and had found a good life with his sister and brother in law.  I felt like this was a guy that could be worth it.  He wasn't partying, he had future plans and he treated me well. 
So there I was, May 19th, 1988.  I called his house from work to let him know what time I was leaving and all those details.  He wasn't home, left the message with his sister to "call Anne."  Pretty simple right.
Fast forward to 9pm.  The store is closing and I had not heard from Justin.   My manager, Stephanie says to me "you can come over to Dixie's house with me and you can finally meet Danny."  Dixie, Stephanie's good friend, I knew.  She had been in the store a couple of times.  Danny, her son, I only knew of.  Stephanie had told me about him, but was always adamant that we never date because she didn't want to be responsible for that!
I had nothing else happening so hanging out with my 35 year old manager and her friends seemed like the perfect thing to do two nights before I graduated from high school. 
Now, I must tell you this.  When Stephanie said "and you can finally meet Danny" my stomach did a flip flop, back handspring kind of thing.  I kid you not, an Olympic type feat.  Thought that was odd. 
So over to Dixie's we go.  Dixie lived on the second floor.  The door was on the first floor and the stairs were inside the apartment.  Danny answered.  He led the way up the stairs.  Keep in mind that Danny was 16, size 27 inch waist and maybe 1% body fat.  Needless to say, but I will say it anyway, nice view. 
So I get to know this guy and he seems nice enough.  And honestly, I don't think I was giving Justin much thought at that point.  But as it turns out, he gave me no thought at all...
I called him the next day to let him know that I was going to try something new.  He wanted me to know that he was going to go back to his old girlfriend.  His old girlfriend, the one he did drugs with, the one that was toxic for him, the one that he called the night before instead of calling me, because her name was Anne, too. 

In July of 1990, I was five months married to the guy that answered the door that night. Justin, having returned to the drug infested life that he had escaped from previously, was broke, had lost the farm and had run out of options.  My mom sent me his obituary.  He had killed himself.  He was 22.
When I same that I am fortunate, lucky and blessed.  It really begins here.  There is no guessing what could have been had I seen those baby pigs.  But that doesn't matter much now.  He called the one that he really wanted that night and that I followed my dream up the stairs.

This Part is Always so Surreal

Here it is, a Tuesday night.  And I am blogging away.  And I have no idea what my husband is doing.  An hour or so ago, his pager went off and in a dash of black, he was out the door and gone.  I know that he told Jacob a little of what was going on, but I didn't even ask.  I knew he just needed to get going. 
SWAT.  Or METRO STAR or whatever you would like to call it is a pain in my ass.  I just cannot get used to it.  Danny was in the military for 16 years.  I am pretty sure that he did some interesting (i.e. dangerous) shit while in the military but I didn't know.  I was sleeping while he was creeping about.  I had time differences and many, many miles to separate myself from the situation.  I don't have that luxury here.  I could turn the TV on and see the local news station with their camera zoned in on Danny.  It has happened before. 
I don't know that I really worry about Danny's safety.  I think after Iraq, I have stopped worrying.  It almost drove me mad so I let that one be.  Danny has had excellent training.  And if you have read my previous post, no one really ever messes with the dog on a chain. 
Danny joined SWAT in the fall of 2006.  He was out of the military at this point.  The huge pile of green that always smelled of gun oil and something indescribable was gone.  And in its place was a not quite as huge pile of black with that same indescribable smell.  I couldn't be excited for him.  SWAT is real time and that is just very different for me.  And some days it is immediate.  With the military, I didn't know until it was over.  And if I did know that Danny was going to be busy.  That is what he would say and I would just kind of fill in the rest on my own.  He really may have been just goofing off in a Northern Iraq town as the photos depicted. 
But I would never ask him to stop doing what he loves to do.   I knew he would have opportunities in the military to go to schools and various training missions.  He would choose to leave us but it was for the betterment of his soldiering. And in turn, made him happier.  I have always supported that.  And SWAT makes him a better police officer.   So, based on my last sentence, I should support SWAT.  (Trapped by my own words!) 
So St Micheal and I wait for the text message.  It will be brief, but that's all I need.