Chicken and Sponge

No Purchase Necessary

 

The remodeled interior of the Wheelwatch.  The new wall separates the bar from Pel-Mart, our new grocery store which has been given the green light to go.  We're legal now.  This picture and caption have nothing to do with today's post.

 

Last night I filled out a couple of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes entries.  According to their records, I have been a good friend since 1997.  It seems longer and actually, it has been.  I used to enter under my maiden name, but apparently we're not good enough friends for them to realize that.

A person's chances of winning the big prize used to be about 1 in 150,000,000.  Now, it is 1 in more than 1,000,000,000.  Not very promising.  So, why bother?  Most of the time I don't.  At other times, I just figure there's no reason  not to enter (can't win unless you do), and I can mess around with all the hoopla while watching something not particularly riveting on television.

Besides, it can be quite entertaining.  I am NOT making this up.  Here isjust a portion of what last night's PCH entry had to offer:

*   Pecan Nougat Logs  (do people actually eat these?) .  Can't remember the price.

*   Ozzie and Harriet DVD for four payments of 4.99  ( haven't people heard of TV Land or Nick at Nite?)

*   Microwave Potato Baker, four payments of 3.99.  ( I stab my potato and wrap it in a paper towel)

*   Lint Catching Brush, four payments of 2.99 ( who mail orders a lint brush?  Try Walmart)

*  Sterling Silver Kitty Pendant, four payments of 3.99 ( no comment)

*   10 in 1 Precision Sprayer, four payments of 4.99 ( I confess--I would buy this)

*   Frog Plant Ties (set of 4), four payments of 2.99 ( NO WAY.  Sorry, but no.  Use bread ties).

My glass of wine may have had something to do with how entertaining I found my PCH sweepstakes last night, but certainly not all of my mirth was alcohol-induced.  I am guilty of sometimes buying from PCH.  Can't help it.  It's like the 10 in 1 precision sprayer.  Wow!  Ten tools in one!  Cool.

On the other hand, I want the job of the person who gets to pick out all this crap.  To be kind, it's an eclectic mix.   If I was feeling less generous, I'd have to say that it's a bunch of crap.  I did buy some glucosamine cream one time that makes extra strength tiger balm look like baby lotion.  I love it, but use it sparingly because I have no idea if I'll ever be able to get more.

Last year I made a mistake and ordered the Nearly Black Rose from PCH.    In what Mick and I refer to as the immediate back yard ( as opposed to the far back), we have Nearly Black Roses alternating with John Paul II (white) roses.  I got all of our roses from Jackson and Perkins because they have very high quality plants.  However, sometimes something will die.  Like one of my Nearly Black Roses and it messed up the symmetry of the planting.  So, then I decided to be cheap and when I saw that PCH had a Nearly Black Rose, I ordered it.  And my symmetry continues to be messed up.  The replacement rose can be named whatever they want to name it, but that thing is bright magenta.  It's also puny.  It looks like the unloved step-child, but I can't just yank it out.  For one thing, Mick wouldn't let me.  I may one of these days.  I can give it a home in my ridiculously large flower/ weed garden.  But I digress...

With the price of postage (speaking of ridiculous), entering sweepstakes may be more than just an investment in time.  But for the most part, that's what it is.  You may not have to purchase anything, but you do have to go on a treasure hunt, looking for the appropriate stickers to lick and stick on the entry form ( and WHAT is with the glue they use?  Toxic AND nasty).  Because, of course they want you to look at all the crap they have for sale and buy something.  Most of the time PCH doesn't even send magazine offers, only once in awhile.

The current drawing for a big prize is on August 13.  Someone may potentially win $100,000. a week for a year.  Wouldn't that be fun?  The chances of winning are something like 1 in 1.7 billion, but hey!  You've got to enter to win.

Where Did They Go? Bring Them Back! They Cancelled My TV Shows (Again!)

 

You've no idea how hard it is to get two people in the same frame while swinging.  My girls, once again at Dallas City Park, Miranda helping to keep Sam entertained.

Miranda:  Mom, it's really sad, but there are only three shows on that I like to watch.

me:  That's ok; we all watch too much TV anyway.

Miranda:  Yeah, but two of them are on Sunday and the other on Monday.

me:  Ok, In Plain Sight and True Blood on Sundays.  What's on Monday?

Miranda:  (slight exasperation in her tone, as if I should automatically know the answer), The Secret Life of the American Teenager.

me:  Oh, yeah, I forgot.

Now these choices could probably tell you a lot about us as individuals and as a family.  What, exactly, I don't know, except that I seem to be ok with inappropriate television for my kids.  On the other hand, while many wouldn't approve of my kid watching True Blood, that choice is balanced out with the wholesome, teen drama The Secret Life of the American Teenager.

While Miranda was on her big D.C./ NYC field trip, the group toured the NBC studios and saw a big HBO facility.  True Blood was advertised EVERYWHERE.  "What's True Blood"?  all the kids wanted to know.  Miranda explained.  "How do you know?"  they asked her.  "Uh...I read the books," she replied.  She later explained to me that she's the last person any of her classmates or teachers would suspect of watching the graphic vampire series, True Blood.  "Why?"  I wanted to know.  "Oh, I have a reputation of being such a goody-goody".

And she is and that's why I don't mind her watching what I watch.  However, she will not be watching the new series Hung and she doesn't want to.  Thankfully.  I have my own comfort level to think of, too.  Anyway, Miranda has always been a morally intelligent child and has not been sullied by her TV viewing habits.  She's perhaps become more lazy, but not morally bankrupt. 

The only problem with only three shows to watch in this era of DVR is that she watches those same three episodes over and over until a new episode appears the following week.  In fact, she "Housed" me out.  Enough was enough.  So this brings us to another question.

The question circulating on my blogging platform, Typepad,is " If you could bring back a cancelled TV series, which would you choose?"

First of all, I don't like re-makes.  I don't like them at all.  And I feel so strongly about THAT that I could write a whole post about it and just might.  But if I could bring BACK a series, here are my hopes, dreams, and wishes.

WHERE IS EARL?  I was so damned mad, hey, I"M STILL MAD, that the network has decided to cancel My Name Is Earl.  They decided to cancel it, but left the last show of the final season as a real cliff-hanger, which is a favorite ploy with returning series.  Obviously when they wrote that last episode, and taped that last episode, no one knew that they were going to be cancelled.  This really bites.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who is perturbed by this turn of events, (I'm sure because Miranda has made it clear to anyone who would listen that she is LIVID).

Why would I even care about My Name Is Earl?  It certainly didn't look like anything I'd be interested in when it was first advertised.  But a couple of years ago, late at night--well, ok, maybe it was 8:00 p.m., but we're talking about the Shockey household, so that is late--I couldn't find anything to watch and Mick had basketball on in the bedroom, so I gave Earl a try.

I sat in the dark by myself and laughed myself to tears.  Joy, supreme bitch and ex-wife, was naked in a dumpster and being pursued by the police when she realizes that there is a homeless man in the dumpster with her. He's pretty disappointed when the police haul Joy away.  It's not so funny in the re-telling.  It was everything that lead up to this turn of events.  I realized that I'd made some erroneous assumptions about this show.  I'd thought that because this show was about a bunch of red-necks, it would be as entertaining and stimulating as Are You As Smart As A 5th Grader (in case you don't know--lame, lame, lame).  But that wasn't the case at all.

My Name Is Earl is to red-necks, what All In The Family was to bigots.  I couldn't really give it any higher praise than that.  Although the characters were stupid, and believe me, they WERE stupid and they did stupid things, episode after episode, the writing was intelligent, the acting was on the money, and the show was so funny and superb.  So where is it?  What happened?  What lame-ass show is going to be on Thursday nights at 8:00 p.m.? 

While I was sad and disgusted at the cancelling of Earl, it is nothing compared to how I felt when I heard that The Riches had not been renewed.  I was bereft, inconsolable, and still am. Maybe you don't know what The Riches was, but if you don't, you missed out and you need to go to Walmart or Target and get yourself the first ( and only) two seasons of this riveting, unique, and hugely entertaining series.

The Riches were a family of American gypsies known as Travelers.  Travelers really exist.  They live off the grid and you may have had contact with them before without realizing it. They look like you and me. They may have scammed money from you, did a poor job of re-roofing your house for too much money, or they may have even stolen your identity.  In fact, that is what The Riches is all about.  For the Riches aren't really the Riches.  The Riches died, and our family of Travelers has assumed their identities,totally, and complications arise.  The past follows them and tries to get in on the ultimate scam.

Oh, woe is me!  I could go on and on, but no words of praise and adulation will do justice to one of the most absorbing and fascinating series that I've ever seen.  I watch a lot of TV that might not be considered "family-friendly".  Much of what I watch comes with warnings about language, nudity, violence, and "adult situations"--whatever those are.  But there was no graphic sex, violence, and I don't really remember any objectionable language in The Riches.  I may have been too dazzled by the story line to notice, but I can't recommend this series enough.  One of my favorites.  Note to people who always ask me what I would like for birthday or Christmas and then I can't think of anything:  "The Riches, Season 2".  That works as a combined gift for me and Mick.  Yes, he actually does love the series, too.

I'm sick of reality shows. The plus for the networks is that they don't have to hire writers and they really don't have to hire actors either.  But most of the reality shows really have nothing to do with reality.  I know I'm not the only one who's sick of them.  Speak up people!  Speak up, because THAT is the villain behind these cancellations, I believe.  No, I've no proof, but look at the line-up.  They were actually advertising a series called "Dance Your Ass Off" and it looked like a bunch of big, fat women in a dance contest.  Believe me, I've nothing against big, fat people.  We love The Biggest Loser, but that is enough.  New subject.  And what about "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!"  Hey, you're a celebrity wannabe.  Those aren't REAL celebrities.  I mean, this is the age if You Tube, everybody and their DOG is a celebrity.  And if we want to watch just anybody do just any stupid thing, we can watch You Tube.  That's what it's there for.  So the networks need to do some housecleaning, but not by getting rid of entertaining, viable series.  They need to clean house by shipping out all these idiots who decide who stays and who goes.  They need to get rid of the people who though Parks and Recreation should be a series and not a skit.  Get rid of the people who actually thought Kath and Kim was funny (NOT!), and whoever decided to cancel Earl and the Riches should just be getting coffee or walking celebrity dogs or something.  Hey, maybe they could make a series out of that!  Celebrity Dog Walker...Oh, geez.

Miranda:  Mom, I just realized that there is one other show on that I like.

me:  Oh?  What's that?

Miranda:  (again, like I should already know), Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List, on Monday nights.

me:  Oh, yeah.

Yes, yes, I know.  She's probably the only 14 year-old in Dallas, Oregon watching.  We call it balance.  At least Kathy Griffin is funny.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 16

 

 

 

 

I have to admit that I found Tim attractive, and having been shell-shocked by a series, ( can two be considered a series?), of bad relationships, it had been awhile since I’d been with a man who wasn’t a crazy, violent ass-hole.

But for some reason I hesitated.  Without being a crude pig like Enrico, who could make me shiver with revulsion, Tim would occasionally cut loose with a base compliment that would warm me to my toes and a few other spots, too.  His most attractive quality was his silent and not-so-silent admiration for  yours truly.

That may sound completely conceited and self-centered, but you’d have to understand that by coming to Alaska, I wasn’t only running away from Steven Kane, but I was also kind of running away from who I’d been.  Although my old self was reasonably attractive and reasonably intelligent, I’d made some piss-poor choices that left me feeling insecure, pathetic, and kind of mousy.

And where were all the cheerleaders, sorority girls, Hooters’ waitresses?  The girls that caught all the guys’ attention and snapped them all up?  Not in  Pelican, Alaska.

I was thinking all this as I managed to apply lotion and slide into clothes while I slipped out of my towel without exposing anything more than a bit of thigh and my bare back.

My audience was awestruck and dumbfounded.  As well they should be.

“How’d she do that?” Tim asked Joy and Clark.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Joy replied, “but I can’t do that, so you two have to wait out in the hall for a minute.  Don’t worry.  My talent is that I’m fast.”

Obediently, the two guys walked out.

Joy quickly turned to me, “OK.  How the hell did you do that?”

I grinned and shook my head, “Years of dorm living.  Maybe a few awkward mishaps, but years of perfecting the technique.  And always buy large towels.”

Joy made the smallest attempt at my technique, but even  in her robe couldn’t manage.

“Oh, shit,” she said, standing there stark naked.  She gave up and, as promised, was quickly clothed.

I’d sat down to comb my hair, which dries extremely fast, and apply makeup and jewelry.  Tim and Clark also sat down at the table and watched me, still apparently fascinated, as though they were trying to pick up some good techniques for applying their own makeup or something. 

Joy was standing in the middle of the room with a brush and battling her glorious hair.  Her hair was winning.

“You don’t need to wear makeup,” Clark spoke to me for the first time.

Joy’s hairbrush ceased struggling.  I stopped and turned to look at Clark.

“Do you have a problem with women wearing makeup?” I challenged quietly.

Clark smiled enigmatically.  “Nope”.  And I continued with my chore.

Clark was one of those guys who managed to be nerdy and kind of cool at the same time.  It was like he was torn between the two extremes.  He had a day-glo crew cut, black horn-rimmed glasses, black t-shirt, black jeans, and a black pea coat.  He was  cross between punk and beatnik, fun-loving and lonely desperation, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“I give up!” Joy looked disgusted and threw her brush at the dresser.  “Are you about ready or are we going to watch you apply makeup all night?”  Joy was impatient, arms crossed and toe tapping.

“I don’t mind,” Clark smiled.

“God!  Have a bit of patience, Miss Sitting-On-the-Shower-Floor!”  I stood up and began searching for my long-lost coat, unworn since work had begun.

“You’re not wearing that, are you?”  Joy pointed at my blue lace t-shirt.

“No, you’re not wearing that, Petra.”  Joy reached into my cupboard and pulled out a black, rib-knit turtleneck. “Wear this.  It’s still tight, but no flesh showing.”

“What are you going on about?”  I started to argue, but Tim and Clark both pointed to the turtleneck and nodded.

After a quick, furious change, I grabbed my coat, brushed past my companions, and headed out in a huff.

I was five steps ahead of them, then Tim’s big hand softly enclosed around my upper arm.  He spoke softly into my hair and I tried to not visibly quiver.

“Hey, don’t let it spoil your night.  You looked great, but believe me, you still do.  The bars are going to be full of really drunk long-liners and they’d have been after you if you’d shown up in your dirty work clothes.  This isn’t like being on a campus.  No need for overkill.”

I wrinkled my nose at him and then sighed.  “Not going to let me sulk, huh?”

“Oh, you got about a good minute or two in.”

I slowed down until Joy and Clark caught up with us, then linked my arms with theirs, and we half-skipped, four abreast the boardwalk.

Old Nightmare Re-visited: Dark Shadows

 

This is about as dark as the night scenes were in the episodes I watched of Dark Shadows.  Note:  this picture was taken in my backyard at dawn.

When I was a really little kid, about four, my best friend was the next door neighbor, Little Brian Hess.  Completely unrelated to this story, he was Little Brian, not because his father was a Brian--his father was Jay, as I recall--but we were a pretty close neighborhood and an older boy named Brian--that would be Big Brian Coty, lived on our street.  The Hess family had four kids, Brian, Jill, and the Twins ( younger, not a clue what their names were--they were always referred to as "the twins").

Little Brian's mom was a housewife.  Remember housewives?  They morphed into Home-makers and Stay-At-Home Moms, and some have referred to them as Domestic Goddesses (give me a break! Try to feel like a goddess with baby vomit down your front and back) and we'll probably eventually have to be called Domestic Engineers or some other lofty, p.c. title.  You can call me anything you want if this job ever comes with a paycheck.  Yes, I digress..

...Little Brian's mom used to love Dark Shadows and watched every afternoon before Jay came home from work.  You remember Dark Shadows, don't you?  The eery estate Collingswood, the governess Victoria Winter, Daphne, Julia, whoever the family matriarch was, and Barnabas Collins, the two-hundred (or so) year-old vampire.  The music was properly creepy and disturbing.   This was a very popular series, though short-lived by today's standards.  And I was forbidden to watch it.

I played at the neighbor's house for most of the day since both my parents worked.  No, I wasn't a latch key kid, my grandmother lived with us, but I was a typical kid of THAT time ( meaning I liked to play outside--no Nintendo, Blackberries, text messaging, hell, we didn't even have cable back then. The remote control was the couple's children).  I also liked playing with the neighborhood kids, mostly with Little Brian because we were the youngest in the neighborhood.  Actually, the Twins were the youngest, but they were so young that they barely counted as being human.

Anyway, I probably out-stayed my welcome on a daily basis, but they put up with me anyway.  And Dark Shadows gave me nightmares.  Consistently.  Every Night.  So, I'm assuming it was my parents, the people who had to put up with the screaming and tears and crawling into their bed nightly, who forbade the watching of Dark Shadows.

But Nancy Hess must have really liked that show, possibly the daughter Jill, too, because Dark Shadows was on their TV every weekday afternoon.  So, I had to start ducking behind the couch when it came on so that I couldn't see Barnabas Collins.

Not good enough.  Even the theme music was enough to give me bad dreams, so eventually, when I heard that eery music start, I knew it was time to head home.  My mother must have told Nancy to send me home when the show came on, probably fed up with my middle-of-the-night gothic melodrama.

Needless to say, Dark Shadows has always lived in some hidden corner of my brain with the elevated status as being the scariest thing ever--the thing of nightmares, literally.  But I was four years old when that show was on and have no clear memories of the characters or story lines.  And I've been curious, very curious.  My mom can't forbid me to watch anything anymore.

There is now a channel called Chiller.  It's the scary channel.  It's also often hokey, campy, especially when showing some of the older syndicated shows, and that is its appeal.  It also shows The Night Stalker, another old favorite of mine.  By the way, I love scary, but I don't do gory.

I couldn't believe it when I saw that there was going to be a Dark Shadows marathon.  At long last I'd be able to see, through adult eyes, what all the fuss and hoopla was about.  At last, I'd be able to see what had inspired nightmares in my childhood self.

It was a strange experience.  Stranger still once I realized what I was watching.  First, understand that since reading the Twilight books by Stephanie Meyers, I've been all about supernatural, paranormal novels.  I love the Charlaine Harris books (particularly the Sookie Stackhouse books which HBO's Trueblood series is based on) and the Laurell K. Hamilton books.  Basically one gets magic, wonder, adventure, action, and romance.  Great escapist fare.

I expected the special effects in Dark Shadows to be crude and amateurish.  I expected it to be somewhat over-acted.  I was right.  I was particularly taken aback by the Collingswood handyman who was a TERRIBLE actor, no matter what era we're talking about.  Barnabas's attacks on women were laughable.  But then I saw something strange that sent me straight to the computer and Google (actually Blackle, which IS Google, but the environmentally friendly version using a black screen and less juice.  Be responsible, and from now on go to www.blackle.com for all your searches).

I remembered that Barbara Eden had not been allowed to show her belly button in I Dream of Jeannie.  So how could it be, when Dark Shadows was from the same era in television that a female character
was allowed to wear a camisole on what was apparently a cold day?  Yes, visibly erect nipples.  I was shocked.  To the computer I ran and discovered that I was watching a REMAKE from the early 1990s!

CHEATED!  I felt so cheated.  The acting was so bad and the whole production was so campy that I'd been sure I was watching the real thing!  I mean, all the night scenes had obviously been filmed during the day--THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS!  You'd think with this production being filmed in the '90's that they could have at least made the night scenes look like it was actually night.  With all the out-of-work, high-quality actors in the world, surely someone better could have been given the part of the handyman.  CHEATED, absolutely CHEATED.

And then I found out that what I was watching was actually the third incarnation of the series.  In disgust, a fit of pique, I grabbed the remote, went to my list, and hit delete.

Now Miranda is disgusted with me.  I'd forgotten that we talked about the show one night when she called me from D.C. and had wanted me to save it for her.  This conversation took place before the GREAT REVELATION.  I do have some regrets.  Honestly, I was enjoying the series, it took so little of my attention that I could wander in and out of the room and miss little, so I, perhaps, over-reacted to what I perceived was a betrayal by the Chiller network.  But I had wanted the original.

So that is what is on my hypothetical list for birthday or Christmas:  the ORIGINAL Dark Shadows series.  My curiosity remains unsatisfied.

Marriage By Phone

 

Mick is looking just thrilled to be in the camera's eye as he sits in his regular spot at the Wheelwatch, now a much smaller bar and restaurant with the addition of the soon-to-be-open Pel-Mart.  Kind of looks like a member of ZZtop, huh?  Is that scary, or what?

Does absence make the heart grow fonder or does familiarity really breed contempt?  I think both are true.  How about "out of sight, out of mind"?  This, too, can be true.  Right now, in the dual Shockey households, the first is the current reality.  Some days Mick and I will talk about eight times during the course of the day.  These are rarely short phone calls.  Hopefully he will soon be too busy with the new Pel-Mart store and the bar/restaurant to spend as much time as we do on the phone. Phone-ear is making me irritable.  Not to mention my aching butt ( and leg).  Soon, hopefully, my hamstring and behind will allow me to be more active in the up-keep of our property.  Because that situation is REALLY making me irritable.  Watch as the couch potato gains a pound a day.  Oh, please, no, and no, not more than that!So,for now there's some down-time and occasional long pauses in the conversation when Mick and I realize that NOTHING has happened worth speaking about.  He can't talk Mariners' baseball with me.  With Mick gone, sports have been 86'ed from the television.( We may start DVRing "Keeping Up With the Kardashians".) Besides, that's (Mariner up-dates and play-by-play, post-game commentary) his brother Frank's department.

I may call him later to share two minuscule observations.  First, Miranda quietly disappeared while one of her shows was on.  I thought nothing of it for several minutes and then decided to find out what she was up to.  I lucked out and found her on my first attempt.  I opened Sam's bedroom door and there was Miranda, buried under about six (after all, it's summer, and the normal twenty would be excessive) blankets ASLEEP!  I need to call Mick and tell him that his daughter has pulled a Randy.  Mick's brother Randy was notorious during his summer fishing visits with us in Pelican, for quietly disappearing without a word once dinner was over.  Stupidly, we'd always assume that he was in the bathroom or getting a beer or pop and would be back any moment.  Then we'd realize that he'd been gone for two hours and realize that he'd GONE SNEAKING OFF TO BED!  Why he'd be so stealthy, I've no idea.  Did he think someone would actively try to prevent him from sleeping?  Maybe he was afraid that someone would point out that it was absolutely obnoxious to get up at 4:00 a.m. and make coffee and omelets and wait impatiently for everyone else to wake up?  That would be correct, of course, that's exactly what we would have done.  So he became a sneaky sleeper

Now, Miranda doesn't have the excuse of getting up at 4:00 a.m.  She does have the excuse of being a teenager.  She's probably still tired from her trip, but I'm hoping she wakes up on her own soon so that I don't have to be the mean one.  Although, this napping on the sly will compel me to tell her again that I wish we'd named Sam Francis instead.  What?  you ask.  Why?  If the girls had been Miranda and Francis, their nicknames could have been Randy and Frank, the same as Mick's brothers.  Horrifying.  Absolutely horrifying in Miranda's estimation.

Oh, no!  Realization has struck and I feel like a heartless shrew!  Luckily, I didn't throw water in Miranda's face or scream abuse ( for those who don't know me--I'd NEVER do those things).  I did have one of those light bulb moments, though, when I realized that the poor kid has jet lag.  Jet lag?  Yeah!  They put more than 67 miles on their feet during their Smithsonian field trip and I'm sure every kid that went on the trip is probably looking like a zombie. Of course they ignored lights out and stayed up much longer than what was allowed.  They're 14!  They mistakenly think it's a thrill to stay up all night long.  They don't realize that billions of dollars are spent each year with adults trying to get some sleep.  Miranda has been trying to help me.  Now, Randy, on the other hand, on his Pelican fishing visits, can NOT claim jet lag when there is only a one hour difference in time zones.  He can try to claim a genetic anomaly or some kind of disability or just thumb his nose at us.  He'll continue to sneak off to bed and we all know it, legitimate excuse or not.  NOT.  But Miranda I will cut some slack.

I'm procrastinating on some aggravating paperwork that I need to deal with.  I will procrastinate for perhaps another day and then will be overcome with a sufficient amount of guilt to get the job done.  What I'd give for a personal secretary!  Of course, that secretary would be grossly overpaid because I really don't have much in the way of paperwork, meetings, social events, or other secretary-like activities that need to be dealt with.   I  just resent the few that I do have.  I guess he or she will have to scoop poop out of the yard,too.  We can dream...

Sam has been dreaming of life in the fast lane--her idea of the fast lane, that is, which consists of visits to restaurants and Wal-Mart and Target.  Sam suffered a bitter disappointment this morning.  The day began with her requesting (aka demanding) "Salad restaurant car fast".  She repeated this several times and though I told her, "no, we aren't going to ANY restaurants today", I couldn't help but wonder what Salad Restaurant referred to.  So, it was time to call Mick.  We pondered this request.  It was a new one on us.  Miranda joined in and tried to figure it out, too.  We couldn't do it.  We couldn't crack the code and finally gave up, feeling decidedly dissatisfied.

I've cracked the code!  I know what Sam wants now, where she wants to go.  We're not going to, but at least I know what she's referring to.  Salad Restaurant is Olive Garden.  Time to call Mick.  After all, we've only talked on the phone five times so far today.  We're getting behind.

And Then There Were Three

 

Miranda and Sam swimming at Dallas City Park.

Miranda returned from her big Washington D.C./ NYC trip at about 12:30 a.m.  Needless to say, Sam and I were in bed.  Well, I was in bed and Sam was on the camping pad on my bedroom floor where she has camped for the past week.  She was quite excited, (at least there appeared to be added interest and spark in that flat, autistic affect she sometimes wears) when I set up Miranda's mattress pad next to hers.  Naturally, not an inch of floor space was left  in my room once the camp beds were set up.  This makes putting the two beasts to bed in their crates more than challenging.  Especially with my sore butt and screaming hamstring.

So Sam was asleep, I wanted to be asleep, and Miranda wanted to talk.  I don't blame her.  I decided to be a good mother and listened to her for about 4.3 minutes, but then enough was enough.  Tomorrow was another day.  I think Miranda was asleep before I was.

So, this morning I let her sleep.  In fact, if it weren't for the beasts, we'd all be able to sleep, but two of the four pets became demanding somewhere around 6:00 a.m.--which is pretty good for them--so I got up to let the dogs out and make pet breakfasts, after which I collapsed on the couch and slept again until 8:00 a.m.  That is like a vacation for me.

We're all still beat, though.  After a grueling walk around the perimeter of Safeway and a short jaunt to the park for "Subway eat fresh picnic park swim" we are home once again and ready to do nothing at all.  Writing this little bit today is almost more than I can manage, due to the sore butt, screaming hamstring once again.  Miranda unpacked her belongings onto the floor and there they lie.  For today.  My injury may end up being harder on her than on me because she isn't used to giving the amount of help that I'm going to need.  She's willing.  So far.  But I'm sure my desire (no, it's my NEED) to have crap picked up off the floor and things put away is going to seem excessively demanding and unreasonable to her.  Luckily (???) I'm still in enough pain to garner her sympathy.  This shall be a learning experience for both of us.  Stay tuned.

Injury Leads to a Change in Plans

Well... this summer is definitely not going as planned.  I'd had visions of working my land, harvesting my garden, and having the yard, all one acre of it, looking amazing when Mick returns--whenever that may be.  I'd had furniture refinishing on my list and a shifting out of furniture to somewhat transform this humble abode.  I'd also planned on a personal transformation.  In fact, I'd just placed some of my best exercise DVDs next to the player in the living room thursday morning, with the best of intentions and great determination--if Mick is going to come home skinny, I wanted to surprise him with my appearance, too.

Then thursday evening came about. All plans abruptly changed.  ALL plans.  There I was, minding my own business, being a good little haus frau and doing the evening dishes, when apparently I spilled a small amount of water on the floor...Then I stepped in it and a scene out of the best slap-stick comedy ensued.  Forgive me if I found it less than humorous.  I'm going to spare myself the revelation of all humiliating details, but suffice it to say I WIPED OUT BIG TIME.

Slow motion, a sense of startled surprise, an inability to stop the motion that had been put into action, and then a prolonged agony.  And, oh yeah, a real sense of horror.  The implications began to bombard my brain through the acute pain. Can we say excruciating?  I lay on the floor, writhing, moaning, nauseated, and saying more than just a few bad words.  Most of them were repetitive.  None were particularly creative.  They were heart-felt.

I seem to have a tear in my hamstring.  Considering the many different directions my legs flew in as I flipped up in the air and then crashed, I'm lucky that I just have one injured leg.  However, I think my  left leg may have suffered two injuries, possibly small  tears, because, boy, does my left butt-cheek hurt, too.  By hurt, I actually mean mind-numbing agony.  This is no stubbed toe or paper cut, and everyone knows, those injuries can draw tears.

I needed to get myself into the bathroom after this to clean myself up and compose myself again.  As thursday turned into friday, I still hadn't managed to compose myself much.  I did look in the mirror as I left the bathroom and was startled by the raised corpse staring back at me--grey skin, grey lips, yuk.

I called Mick to tell him that I was hurt and that it was bad, really bad.  I explained what had happened.

Mick:  Sure it isn't your knee?

me: (momentarily wordless, I pull the receiver away from my ear to stare at it and shake my  head).  Yeah, hon, I'm SURE.  My knee doesn't hurt in the slightest, but I have sharp, shooting pains racing up and down the back of my leg, from ABOVE the BACK of my knee and up my butt!  Pain so sharp that I can't get my breath and I want to puke. 

Mick:  Oh, no!

me:  Oh, yeah!

Mick:  Want me to come home for awhile?

me:  NO, NO, NO!  You can't do that!  You have to stay there and get this store going and all that!

Mick:  I can have Lace watch things-

me:  -no.  I will manage.  Somehow.  But you can't come home right now.  But when you  do get here, I'll probably still be fat and the yard will look like crap.  Sorry.

Mick:  Don't be sorry.  None of that matters.  You're going to have to stay off of it, you know?

me:  Yeah, I realize that.

Mick:  I'm serious.  Hamstrings take a long time to heal.  Athletes end up on the Disabled List for two months before they can play again.

me:  Huh?  You've GOT to be kidding me.

Mick:  I'm not.  This is serious.

me:  (sigh...sigh...sigh), Crap!

That was basically the end of the exchange.  Mick now calls me a ridiculous number of times a day to check up on me.  It will be good when the store can open. 

Mick's sister, Cheryl, has been a LIFE SAVER!  This woman has driven over, picked stuff off the floor because that action will make me break into a cold sweat and have to stifle screams.  She fixed the sliding screen door which was refusing to slide; she got the sewing machine back together!!! And then she came back and started mowing the lawn.  You know, the ONE ACRE of lawn.  Her friend Joannie scooped poop for me!  They took Sam out to the park.  Oh, and Cheryl even bathed stinky Zeus, who shouldn't have needed a bath, but had found something foul to roll in.

I'm so grateful I could cry.  However, tears are never far away these days as I try to figure out how to move without agony.  Sleep is tough.  Really tough.  Having children's programming on all night, a night-light substitute for Sam, doesn't make it any easier and my dreams, when I do sleep, have been plagued by creepy talking babies in high chairs.  Weird.

Miranda will return in the wee hours of the morning from her big trip.  She knows that she will have to help much more than she's ever been asked before.  Somehow, I will have to convince her that the less I do now, the quicker I'll get back to normal.  I hope.  This is maddening.  I hate being so inactive.  I have so much to do.  I had such plans.  It hurts to sit at the computer and it hurts worse to sit on the toilet.  So a liquid diet and short posts are probably going to be the norm for awhile.  If not, Miranda may do some more guest writing.  She can write posts about what a pain in the butt her mother is and how did her mother ever manage to slip in the kitchen and get the kind of injury a professional athlete would get?  How?  How?  How?  As sorry as I've been feeling for myself, we'll all have to feel sorry for Miranda.  This is going to be a shock to her system.  Stay tuned...more pain and more drama are on the way...

Miranda Visits Arlington National Cemetery

   

  Arlington Cemetery is home to people who have lost their lives and some even their identities. We went to Arlington and I began snapping pictures. But, I found many things that proved interesting.

    We visited the Tombs of the Unknown Soldier. I watched as the guards switched shifts. It began with the ringing bell. Then marches began to happen. Soon wreaths were laid on the tomb and it felt more like we ALL had paid our respects as our hands were over our hearts.

    JFK was an amazing president. He is one of my favorite presidents. I walked up the marble steps. All was silent except the sounds of people in the distance. I looked at the grave and of Jackie's and even their two children.[note from Vicki:  ???  I will ask Miranda of this later, since Caroline is still alive.  Miranda has been sending me posts LATE at night and the exhaustion is beginning to show].I saw the eternal flame, never blowing out never needing re-lighting.

    Arlington was great. We saw many graves, many tombstones, many people. But most of all we saw many graves of people who were in their deepest time of rest.

Room Mates and Group Mates: Miranda Shockey

     

Group mates and room mates. They are what wakes me up (well, I guess the hotel lobby does),  they are what keeps me giggling all night, and finally, they are the reason the security guard down the hall hates me.

        Alyssa: She is the "responsible" one, she is the one who lets America borrow her phone to call her boyfriend, she is the one who enjoys stupid scary stories about hairy toes. Alyssa is the one who has a sense of fun, enjoyment, and reason mixed together in the quirkiest way known in the species of humans.

    America: She is the crazy, goofy girl you see in the mall and you know that her friends can't stop laughing "with her." She talks all night with her boyfriend and tries to explain simple things in a twisted way. She doesn't kick in her sleep but, she knees your spine. She constantly says "Guess what? I got a postca- wait that's what they're calls, right?" She may be crazy, goofy, and twisted but, she's all of those things in a good way.

    Shelby: She reads, laughs, and goofs around. Shelby has a great sense of humor and still tries to remain reasonable with our insane giggles. She is great and I'm glad to share a room with her.

    Layla, Keely, Robyn and, that's almost it: All of them are great. they all use the bathroom SO much. And they all wander. But they all have awesome personalities.

    Janay: She is the only one with a bladder  that's not microscopic. She actually watches PARTS of the tours but, that's better than some of the other groups. Janay has a great personality that is full of sarcasm that is only 1/4 of the time pointed at me.

 

I find all of these people great and great to be with  and any character flaws add to their character of quirkiness EVEN more!

Little Sleep Big Adventures: Miranda Shockey

    

 D.C. started with the most fun of travel days! Not really! We got 4 hours or less of sleep on the bus. We all started off like Layla (pictured above) we were wide awake and perky. Like I said we 'STARTED' we didn't end perky.

    

 We went to the air and space museum first. Let me tell you, this museum reminded me of my nightmares from science class after the movie is over and we are stuck after class for talking during a movie about space and a monkey. BORING! Although to create your own universe was interesting.

    The Holocaust museum was great! If you haven't heard there was a shooting a week ago that killed a security guard. So, they decided to have an evacuation drill. The delayed start sucked more than you can imagine. We finally got in to the most crowded rooms in the galaxy. It was fun and one of the saddest things I have seen. My favorite was the hall of pictures. It was one of my favorite things of the day.

    .

    But the Smithsonian History museum was great. But, not the best. I loved seeing the original Dorothy ruby slippers. It was AMAZING! I loved seeing the pop culture of the museum. I would come back again. Although the gift shop was full of political books and  how-to books there were marbles and those were fun.

    D.C. is great and maybe someday I can spend a month here with more than 3 hours of sleep. So far my roommates are great. That is, everyone but America, who has 'indecision' --and I have a suspicion of being a former blonde.