Pollyanna I ain't

Last post deleted due to whiny nature.

And that differs from my usual posts how exactly ... ?

Anyway. I've been in a funk all week, and since I can't seem to muster any happy thoughts, I'm going to post some happy photos.

Have I ever mentioned how much I loathe cold, gray, rainy weather? No? Hate. It. Give me summer, with its soaring temperatures and endless sunshine. Seriously. I'll take the heat any day over this dreary crap.

OK, time for pics, before this post continues to devolve ....




Daughter romping through the daffodils



Hubs will flip if he finds out I posted this. Which makes me giggle. Note dog drinking from pool.



Tricycle for two


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Bedtime.





Easter. Freezing. But we refused to put on jackets.



The beach. Where I'd like to be right now.

For my Hubs, size DOES matter

There's a reason we don't have a membership card to The Giant Store that Sells Supersize Items in Mass Quantities.

My husband, you see, has a problem.

I refer to his belief that Big is Better, to his theory that we save money by purchasing six bottles (at a time) of an alleged kitchen cleaner that doesn't clean a damn thing.

Now I have nothing against his desire to purchase 100 rolls of toilet paper in one go. We use it. Well, most of us use it. The younger people in this house still don't understand that our butt-wiping requests are not negotiable.

I do, however, have a problem with the bottle of olive oil that's too heavy for me to heave down from the overhead cabinet. Or the lemonade jug that requires a crane to assist in the pouring process.

Each time Hubs has tagged along with our membership card-carrying friends on their trips to The Giant Store, I cringe.

But that's OK. Because in the near future, The Store that Aids in Clutter Elimination is opening here.

And boy, do I have plans for his deer antlers and antique family knick-knacks.

Because there's no such thing as too many cute, striped storage boxes -- and the bigger, the better.

20 minutes of sleet -- and oh, the drama!

The phone rang as I was getting ready for work.

"It's going to sleet," Hubs informed me. "You'd better hurry."

Ten minutes later, he called back.

"It's falling," he said, and from his tone you'd have thought a nuclear missile was hurtling toward the Hog State and I was belligerently refusing to head underground.

Note: Despite my bird flu phobia, we do NOT have a bunker, although I have fantasized about creating such a place and hoarding. ahem

"O-kaaay," I replied, in a tone that implied he was bothering me.

Tell me they've found a diseased bird at an Arkansas poultry plant, and I will spring into action. A little sleet ... ummm ... not so much.

A few minutes later, I made two quick stops -- drugstore and party store -- on my way into work. Yes, there was sleet. Big freaking deal. And bear in mind, I'm from central Texas, where any hint of wintry precipitation is cause for immediate hysteria.

So I'm not making fun. Well, much. Because my people exhibit the same lemming behavior: Must go home and hunker down RIGHT NOW!

By the time I arrived downtown, an evacuation was in process. The street was so clogged, in fact, that it took me 10 minutes to get into the parking lot. And then I had to slither between bumpers in my effort to walk to the building.

"What the hell?" I asked as I entered the newsroom. "Is there a blizzard in the forecast?"

No, folks, we had 20 minutes of sleet. Some of the bridges were glazed with patches of ice, but the other roadways were fine. Temperatures remained above freezing this afternoon.

Even so, state and city offices closed in rapid succession. Schools emptied. People mobbed the grocery stores. Accidents were reported all over the city. Because we here in these parts don't understand that when things get slippery, you slow down rather than speeding home with a month's worth of dry goods.

Tomorrow, our high is expected to be around 58 degrees.

And all I could tonight was how people of the northern climes would howl over our panicked reaction to a few minutes of sleet.

I mean, look at this. And this.

How embarrassing.

A post in which karma bites me square in the butt

Lesson of the week: Making fun of one's spouse and his ailments has been perceived as an invitation for yet another recurrence of The Mono.

Has anyone else had this virus as an adult? How long did it take to completely kick it?

These days, it shows up about once a month. Best I can tell, these mini-relapses are caused by too much physical exertion, long days at work or my period. They cause chills, body aches and this horrible ... tiredness. Not sleepy-tired -- more like my arms feel so heavy that I keep checking to make sure they haven't fallen off.

I had been feeling pretty good up until the holidays. But I did too much, got a nasty sinus infection and then, for some completely stupid reason, thought this would be a good time to resume exercising.

Yesterday, I drove all the way down to south Arkansas to cover a capital murder defendant's court hearing. Misery. At one point, I considered curling up in the fetal position on my court bench, but decided the judge might find it odd. I felt so bad, I would have hid out in the bathroom, but leaving the courtroom would have involved slithering down a very narrow aisle, which was now filled with people. When the hearing ended, I drove back here, straight past the newsroom, directly to my house, where I went to bed.

This is ridiculous, I thought. This can't keep happening. I don't have time for it.

Back to the doctor I went, figuring I had just enough time before I would have to file my story from that morning.

Neither he nor the nurse seemed to find it strange that I'm still not completely recovered EIGHT MONTHS after I first fell ill.

"Oh, yes," the nurse said knowingly, nodding her head. "This is so hard to get over."

Well, at least they don't seem to think I'm crazy. Maybe he won't remember that I'm the Googler.

The doctor arrived. He read my chart, then said, "You realize it can take a year to recover from mono, right?"

Blank look from me.

Don't tell him you've been Googling. Just maintain the look of mild interest in his explanation for your condition.

"Surely you've Googled this, right?"

Busted.

"Well, yeah."

"So what did you read?"

"That the magic number is SIX MONTHS. Everybody gets better by six months -- unless you have some sort of an immune disorder. By the way, do you think maybe I have lupus?"

"We tested for lupus back when we tested for everything else. You don't have lupus."

"Well then what's the deal with the six months?"

"Like I said, it can take a lot longer to get over this."

Thus followed a story about his friend who was still unable to work his usual 14-hour days a year after getting mono.

Oh shit.

"Look, I'm a busy person. I've always been an active person, although I realize you probably can't tell that by looking at me -- although bear in mind, I haven't been able to complete a good workout since I got this stupid virus. But anyway, I have to function. I can't keep running home to bed, especially when I have a story due by 6."

So we set up a regimen to help me build up some strength and endurance and, just as I thought we were done, he decided to check my lymph nodes, which would have been fine if he'd just stuck to ones located in my neck, but oh no, then he went for the underarms.

Note to readers: I get very nervous around doctors, which means I develop this sudden, inappropriate laugh and cough. And I sweat. A lot.

No, not the pits! my inner voice screamed.

"Lymph nodes are fine," he declared.

So maybe I shouldn't mention the worries about lymphoma, brought on, of course, by incessant Googling. No need to further emphasize my neurotic behavior. Maybe I should ask about the sweating though, thereby implying that this is uncommon, so he doesn't think I'm totally disgusting.

"OK, well, let's do some more blood work, just to check your thyroid again. We'll call in a few days. Meanwhile, go ahead and start trying to build up again. Maybe start with a 10-minute walk each day."

I went back to work and filed my story. Then I came home, sprawled on the couch, and whined to Hubs about her terrible I feel.

Karma, how I love thee.

Women only. Uncork the wine & pass out the liquor-filled chocolates.

One more truffle, please. I still feel faint.

Today — after scarfing down a carton of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream and shrieking at my poker-playing, computer-hogging husband — I accidentally stumbled into a men-only emergency meeting called by makeitadouble.

Oh, the horror! The scratching and belching and — well, let's just say I haven't seen that many mounted deer heads and so much wood paneling since a visit to my darlin' BIL's house during his batchin'-it days. (BIL's deer heads have since been replaced by Precious Moments figurines. Not sure which is worse.)

Anyway.

The Men's Association members gathered at makeitadouble's place were all in tizzy. (Translation: There was a lot of unintelligible grunting. And several of the members' expressions indicated severe constipation. Which, of course, would explain all the reading material in the bathroom. Clearly, they spend a lot of time in there, as evidenced by the dozens of battered issues of Men's Health (otherwise known as Cosmo for Guys) and scrunched-up attempts at Sudoku. I know, I know. Never use the boys' potty. But I really, really had to go. All those mint juleps get to a girl, y'know?)

Apparently, a "Him-pathizer" — hey, dude, reveal yourself, please! — recently stumbled across one of my posts and clued the guys into the Sisterhood's Standard Operating Procedures, such as PMS-related sex bans and the like.

This one guy, Mitch, didn't seem to get it. But the rest of them were pretty appalled. Guess it's a good thing my previous post didn't make mention of the cocktail-napkin sketches of our favorite sexual positions.

But oh my, the things I learned today.

Sisters, let me tell you: These guys are NOT a knowledgeable bunch when it comes to How Babies Are Made. It explains so much. Like how you could tell a man that you're not only a highly fertile women with a whole herd of kids to prove it, but also ovulating and experiencing a raging case of herpes and he would STILL WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU.

"It's OK," he would say. "I'll pull out."

So he can't control his sexual urges but we're supposed to believe him when he says he can rein in millions of sperm?

Ha.

Anyway, this guy Mitch kept asking stupid questions ("Why does my wife get mad when I am incommunicado every time I head into the deer woods?") and it turns out this club recently tossed out its only Sensitive Man. *gasp*

(Greg, sugar, you're welcome over here anytime. Just make sure you bring the cheese-and-cracker tray.)

Back to my supremely educational day:

After a this weird pissing-off-the deck ritual and a couple of recitations of the Man Code -- "I hereby swear to fight for the right to keep that ugly framed picture of my old, flashback-to-the-college-years Mustang hanging in the living room" -- things took a bizarre turn.

The men watched -- I kid you not -- THREE back episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

While sipping chardonnay.

Even more stunning, several of them seemed quite familiar with each of the characters' backstories. I caught one wiping away a tear when Denny died.

Up front, someone kept sniffling.

At first I thought it was another Denny mourner. After a few more sniffs, however, I realized it was the guy I'd overheard while I was gingerly lining the toilet in the Scary Bathroom. The Sniffler had been talking very loudly, describing to everyone about how sick he'd been all week, and how his wife was so unsympathetic to his weakened condition.

Then I heard a belch that could only be beer-induced.

What a whiner, I thought as I washed my hands with a grungy bar of soap.

And there he was again, during a pivotal moment in Grey's, trying to elicit further sympathy with all the sniffling. I contemplated throwing my vodka tonic at him, but just as I was aiming ... hey, the back of The Sniffler's head looks awfully familiar ...

Yes, my friends, it was my spouse, who only last week was sprawled on the couch, seemingly incapacitated by a sinus infection.

I hustled to the front of the room.

"Oh, sweetie-pie pooh-bear, you shouldn't be out and about in your condition. All this cigar smoke can't possibly be good for those inflamed sinuses. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were too ill to go see Juno with me. And what's this? A glass of wine? You know you shouldn't be mixing your sinus meds with alcohol. Remember my story about the time I took Benedryl and shot tequila? I ended being somebody's bad blind date."

I grabbed the Hubs' arm and hurried him from the room, cooing reassurances.

"Let's just get you home pronto, my precious. Don't worry. PMS was last week. I'll be ever so sweet and sympathetic to your fragile condition."

Just as soon as we got home, I tucked him on the couch with our toddler's blankie and a box of Kleenax. Before leaving the room, I popped in DVD 2 of Big Love's second season.

I'm considerate like that. Hubs claimed he wanted to watch High Stakes Poker, but after witnessing today's Grey's viewing, well ... now I know not to believe him. I've already updated the Netflix queue to make sure we get Big Love 3 and 4 as soon as possible.

Because it's the right thing to do.

**********************

Before wrapping up this gathering, I'd like to encourage you to drop in on Whymommy. She goes into surgery tomorrow, and I'm sure she'd appreciate your support.

Raise your glass and wish her a speedy recovery. She's a tough broad, a lot tougher than any of those Men's Association members I met today. Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, she's gone through relentless rounds of chemo while mothering two boys and writing informative posts for her sisters.

And lord knows, she's certainly got more stamina than my sniffling spouse.

*thinking of you Whymommy*

Now go kick some cancer ass.

I may be barefoot, but I don't want the backwoods.

On the occasional weekend, Hubs and I have been scouting out area towns in his quest to find a rural home.

The more we look, the more opposed I am to this idea.

Do. Not. Want. To. Live. In. A. Forest.

(My idea of country living involves rolling green meadows, dotted with clusters of towering shade trees and a two-story newly renovated farmhouse with all the modern fixins'. Located within 10 minutes of a large city. Not a town. A REAL CITY.)

And this process of "just looking," with two bored children in the backseat -- painful.

Here's a sample:

E-man: Daddy, are we there yet?

Cathy: Ha. We're still able to get a cell phone signal. No, sweetie, we're not there. If "there" is any further out than this, I am filing the divorce papers tomorrow. Or upping my medication.

E-man: I eat a booger! I eat a booger!

Tootie: Mommy, E-man's eating boogers!

Cathy: E-man, quit picking your nose.

E-man: I eat BOOGERS!

Cathy: [to Hubs] Can we go home yet?

E-man: Are we there? Are we there?

As we drove through an increasingly dense patch of woods yesterday, I tried to hide an episode of hyperventilation.

Oh my God, could we get any further from civilization? What's next, a two-room cabin?

Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply.

Just then, our daughter piped up from the backseat.

"Daddy, why do people live where there's not any grocery stores?"

I whooped.

My sweet, loyal little urban child.

That last post? Was not a plug!

Eew. Just re-read it and noted the number of times I mentioned IK*A.

I have equal fondness for, say, The Cont*iner St*re.

Was just trying to get my point across about the dreaded clutter.

In the interest of disclosure: Am editing previous post.

Then I am going to bed.

Living room wars

OK, so if you look to the left of my lovely stepdaughter, you'll see a hideous lamp...



Ugly, no?

Notice how the age-yellowed lampshade is held together only by peeling masking tape?

That atrocious lamp is symbolic of the disparity in Hubs' and my taste in home decor.

For the Hubs, all that matters to him is that something is old. He loves antiques, faded linens, knicky-knack things.

Me, I'm a minimalist. I hate clutter and what I will generously refer to here as "stuff." The comedian who moved temporarily into the IK*A store? That is my fantasy.

Clean and modern. Lots of light. NO KNICK-KNACKS. No dark, brooding furniture.

Like this hulking thing, to the left of cute daughter:



This, my friends, is an antique hall tree.

I refer to it as the Clutter Collector.

We've never had a hall to put it in, mind you, but it has accompanied us on each move. I LOATHE it. For one thing, it's just a depressing-looking piece of furniture. It's ugly. And — most offensive — everyone dumps stuff on it, thereby making whatever space it occupies CLUTTERY. ACK!

Jackets belong inside a closet, not dangling from an horned piece of furniture that takes up valuable space in my dining room.

When I have to shove my way through a dozen coats and scarves just to sit down at the table, I break out into hives. Oh, and the hall tree has a seat. So there's more junk under the bench and on the bench.

As I said — Clutter Collector.

I want to burn it. After I take an ax and chop it into itty-bitty pieces. Such is my hatred of the hall tree.

Anyway, back to the lamp.

On a recent trip to my parents', I hauled Hubs into the IK*A store.

Halfway through the vast, uncluttered store, as I fondled the floor lamps, he finally clued in.

"We're here for a new lamp, aren't we?" he asked.

I smiled. Evilly.

A new lamp was purchased and erected in the spot once occupied by the taped-together piece of junk.

And then the battle began.

"Why are you taking the old lamp outside?" Hubs asked indignantly.

"Because we can leave it out on the curb for pickup this week."

"You're getting rid of it?"

"Why would we keep it? It's broken. It doesn't even have that globe-thingy in it anymore."

"Yes, it does. I found one for it."

"Oh. Yes. The one that's just balanced in there because you can't attach it. The one that could fall out at any minute. The one that cost us more than the new lamp."

Sure enough, as I carried the old lamp outside, the globe fell out and smashed into a zillion little pieces on our front porch.

Hubs was appalled.

"Look what you've done!" he cried. "We could have saved it! It's probably worth $100."

I looked skeptically at the ugly, 70s-looking thing on our porch.

"Would you pay $100 for this?"

"Well. No."

"OK, then."

Bear in mind, this isn't some family heirloom. Hubs found the lamp while scavenging in an antique store and bought it for $25. It was ugly then. It's even uglier now with all the masking tape. (Son tipped it over and the shade ripped in half.)

In the next year, Hubs and I hope to move into a bigger house. If the hall tree goes with us, I'm leaving him.

For the comedian in the IK*A store.

An indomitable spirit

She sits at the counter of a St*rb*cks, a heavyset woman in a bright striped sweater and mom jeans, nursing a large coffee. Large gold hoops swing as she talks animatedly to the barista.

I'm slouched against a wall, indulging in a silent on-my-way-to-work whinefest.

The music changes to something jazzy and the woman dances on her way to the counter, cheerily asking for a refill.

She dances back, grins at me, and says, "This music reminds me of home."

The accent tips me off.

"Are you from -- "

"Yes, I am," she says proudly. "Been here a couple of years now."

"Oh. Did you leave when -- "

"Just before. I had family who had evacuated to Arkansas, so I came here too."

She grins again. "It's different, but nice. Maybe someday, if the city ever finishes rebuilding, maybe then I'll go back. But I'm doing OK."

Again, that brilliant smile.

The barista calls my name.

"Nice talking to you," the woman says.

She waves as I leave. Clutching a cup of steaming coffee, I walk out to my car.

Humbled.

Not in the mood

Not tonight. Not most nights.

And it's not just me. This is a frequent complaint made by my girlfriends.

He wants it. I don't.

My reasons vary:

1. I'm tired. Not sleepy-tired, but weary-in-my-bones tired. My brain is tired. I have other things on my mind, an endless string of must-dos and haven't-dones.

I forgot to get my daughter's shot records for the school.
... must plan her birthday ...
Did I write the check for daycare?

2. I don't feel like getting naked.

It's too cold.
I'm 30 pounds overweight.
My boobs plummet when I take off the underwire.


3. I filed two stories today. Went by the grocery store. Am busily gathering all the documents needed to request a kindergarten transfer.

Why do I always have to ask him to help with the kids at night? I work too.

He says: "Even if I'm not in the mood, I can be persuaded."

I can't. If I'm not, I'm not. And if I'm PMSing, I think about how I wouldn't miss sex at all, not one bit.

Does it change as the kids get older? Where's that mid-30s peak I've always heard about? My theory is that the alleged peak was created by a bunch of sex-starved men who hoped to convince their wives that they really were in the mood, like all the time.

Ha.

Each night, I can sense his expectations, even before he makes a move.

Pre-emptive sex doesn't work. As one girlfriend puts it, "In their minds, that's the appetizer. They just want more, more, more... It's never enough."

And so we wonder, who are these other women who have the extra energy? Who are these women who still have desire?

And, most importantly, where did mine go?

Wanted: Missing libido. Last seen in 2002 during an evening of rum runners in New Orleans. May be dangerous if confronted.

Edited to add: My husband is an attractive man. I love him. But after the kids are in bed, I just want to sprawl on the couch.

My uterus isn't the only thing that's worn out

If I'd known the physical toll of child-rearing -- not bearing, but the actual raisin' up of these youngins -- I'd have found myself a gym trainer willing to spend 24 hours a day prepping me for this motherhood business.

Or I would have had the kiddos 10 years earlier, back when I was young and spry.

I've got bursitis in one hip, a strained Achilles tendon and my baby-carrying, toddler-hoisting shoulder is just about shot all to hell.

I'm 37 and my poor body is falling apart.

Thank goodness I got rid of the bunions BEFORE having kids or my feet would be worthless too.

As for my appearance, well, let's just say baby-making has affected that as well.

I don't have saddlebags. No, siree. I've got a whole set of luggage on each thigh.



Am I not brave, posting that photo on the Internetz? No, not drunk. Merely resigned.

Tales from the Delivery Room

Or, more aptly --

How to Terrify Your Pregnant Friends


Conversation between a girlfriend and me in front of an expectant mother:

... So did you actually look in that rolling mirror during your delivery? Because all I was thinking was, Oh, that's so nice. Brown hair. NOW GET IT OUT!...

... Yeah, they offered me a mirror and were telling me how the baby had a lot of hair, but that's when my husband looked down there and said, "Oh my God, is that normal?" So of course I shot up and I'm like, "What's wrong?! What's not normal?!"

[Expectant mother interjects. "So were your hemorrhoids exploding?"]

... No, it was all the blood. And then at another point, after looking down there again, he leaned over me and said, "Are you OK? That looks incredibly painful. I am so sorry."

------------------------------

How to Scare Your Girlfriends Who are Still Contemplating Whether to Have Children


... So I always heard that you could *blush* you know, go to the bathroom during a delivery...

... You mean poop? ...

*blush*

... Well, I told my husband that if he saw any poop, I didn't want to know. Not then. Not ever...

... It happens...

... You mean ...? NO!

... Yes...

... [in unison] Really? ...

... Yeah. At one point, my doula told the nurse, "Oh, I'll get that," and removed the paper lining from underneath me. I had this bad feeling, but I didn't want to know at the time. So several months later, I asked my husband if that's what happened and he just laughed. That's when I knew for sure...

[Girlfriend contemplating future children interjects: "I think that, quite possibly, this discussion is worse than the night you made me watch the birthing show that featured the makeup of a placenta.]

My grandmother's secret

She is the reason I decided to write this, because her strength amazes me.

...........

During his 30-year career in electrical engineering, my dad traveled often.

Europe. Tokyo. California. North Carolina.

He was often gone for months at a time, especially when I was young.

My memories of that time aren't of my father's absences. They're of my mother's reaction to them, the way she cried on the phone to him each night, the way she compulsively checked the locks on our doors and windows, the way she hovered over my younger sister and me.

She was immersed in fear of being alone.

Her anxiety carried over into other areas — the playground, state parks, the local pool. At the time, I didn't realize she fretted more than the other mothers. I thought all her panicking was the norm, that all moms hovered with outstretched arms.

As I got older, I attributed the constant worrying to her upbringing in an evangelical, fundamentalist, communal setting. My mother fled that place in her early 20s, but we visited my grandparents there twice a year. I hated it. We had to wear dresses all the time and people were always watching, evaluating your behavior and eager to chastise.

Everything, it seemed, was a sin.

For years, I blamed this watchful, judging environment for my mother's behavior.

And I blamed my grandmother, a cold and rigid woman who never hugged us or said, "I love you."

My grandmother was a small woman who pinned her hair up each day into a steel-wool bun. She wore dresses with three-quarter sleeves — because bare upper arms were believed to incite lust — and sensible shoes.

My grandfather was a quiet man. He didn't say much, but, in his own awkward way, sometimes tried to play with us. I have few memories of him.

My grandmother died suddenly when I was a college senior. My sisters and I flew to Kentucky.

I hadn't been there in years, having chosen to shun the place I hated as a child.

My grandparents lived on the campus of an evangelical boarding school for children -- kindergarten through high school. It was nestled deep in the mountains, in the midst of cabins belonging to coal miners and their families. My grandparents headed there in their early 20s, drawn by a firey woman who had founded the "Holiness Movement."

They were engaged to be married and hoped to spend their lives converting the mountains' unsaved souls.

My grandmother was assigned to teach school in an isolated outpost. She lived with a young woman, also a teacher, who had grown up in those mountains. Grandma was an outsider. She was from Pennsylvania.

Years passed. By the time I was born, my grandfather was running the school and a junior Bible college with Grandma as his assistant.

For decades they lived in an immaculate small house on campus.

In the years before her death, my grandmother began sorting and labeling things. It would make her passing more efficient, she told my mother and aunts.

When we arrived at the house after the funeral, we found stickers on every single piece of furniture. They indicated who was to receive each item. The only thing she hadn't marked was a box tucked away in a closet.

It was filled with cards and letters from my grandfather, written during their lengthy engagement.

And in those cards we learned my grandmother's secret, one she had kept ever since her early 20s, when she lived in that lonely outpost cabin.

One night, as she and her fellow teacher slept, two men broke a window and crawled into the cabin. They raped my grandmother and her friend.

She must have been badly injured. We pieced together a timeline from my grandfather's letters. She was hospitalized for several weeks.

Those letters revealed something else — the love my grandfather had for a woman I had always believed to be unloveable. He wrote lyrically, passionately, of the life they would share after their wedding. He filled each note with endearments, promising lifelong devotion.

He wrote all this while my grandmother recovered from being raped.

My mother, aunt and I read these letters and cried.

They had always suspected something bad had happened, but never knew the details.

The letters told us everything, how one of the rapists was the brother of my grandmother's teacher-friend. How her family, prominent and powerful within the small rural community, instructed her not to testify against either man. How my grandmother refused to be bullied and described, in painful, intimate detail the horror of that night.

I imagine the time in which this happened. I imagine my grandmother's prim nature. I imagine how difficult that must have been for her, to share something so graphic with strangers.

The men were acquitted. And for the rest of her life, my grandmother lived in the same county as the rapists.

This I cannot imagine.

As we sat there, on my grandmother's guest-room bed, my mom and aunt recalled how, every time my grandfather went out of town, Grandma nagged them to stay close to the house. After dinner, she flitted from room to room, doublechecking the locks on windows and doors.

Oh.

My mother made the connection at the same time I did.

"I think that's why I got so upset every time your dad left town," she said. "I never realized it, but we grew up sharing her fears, even though we didn't know what caused them."

We sat there silently, amidst all those cards and letters piled on the bed, and I remember thinking how sad it was that unrelenting, constant fear -- though no fault of her own -- was my grandmother's legacy to her daughters.

And the men responsible went unpunished.


At Julie's request, I've added this post to Hump Day Hmm. Go here to read other contributions.

Pshaw! Those silly, blushing menfolk

Today, a friend of mine told some co-workers about my blog.

Male co-workers.

Who, upon pulling up this here blog and reading my previous post, reportedly turned scarlet and said, "Oh, I can't read this."

Which brings us to this evening's topic:

What did these two men -- both married with children -- find so disturbing?

Is it that women have (*gasp*) periods and PMS? That women have sex with their significant others? (when they're not PMSing, that is)

Or could it be the fact that women openly discuss such things?

My bet's on No. 3.

Hubs says, "There's just some things you just don't want to know."

He says he's referring to sex and periods. I think, however, that what Hubs and these men don't want to know is that their wives and daughters are out there -- either IRL or the blogosphere -- having conversations about this stuff.

Because -- *evil cackle* -- that means we might also be talking about them.

Boys, boys, boys: It's time you learn. Women talk about everything -- and yes, sometimes you are part of the discussion. Our mothers talked. Our grandmothers talked. We accepted the torch long ago, back in 5th grade, when we started comparing bra sizes or worrying about periods that hadn't yet begun.

It's called the sisterhood, guys, and I'm not the only woman who's grateful for its existence. How liberating to know that you can look to other women -- in the coffee shop, at a book club, or on a blog -- for comfort, commiseration, or just a long hearty laugh -- when you most need that kind of support.

We sisters turn readily to one another in times of trouble. We confess our vulnerabilities, share our darkest fears and yeah, toss out a few ribald jokes. And then, eagerly, we scan our comments pages, where we know we'll find words of encouragement or a few LOLs.


Sometimes, we stumble across a blog whose aching, raw honesty humbles and touches us. We continue reading -- this blog and others -- following our sisters as their stories unfold, thinking of them, reaching out to them.


The ability to be open and honest with other women is empowering.

Too bad you menfolk are so afraid of it.

------------------------------------- moooooooving on ..............

Finally, some belated holiday photos.

Here's C., my stepdaughter...


... with little sis and bro.



And here's a hasty group shot taken just so I could prove to you that C. does indeed make me look short and stumpy. Please note: I am wearing heels.

Random thoughts of a PMSing woman

As many times as I've snapped at him tonight, how can he still think he's getting the bow-chicka-bow-wow treatment later? That portion of the male anatomy must zap millions of brain cells every time it goes on high alert.

Has my son always possessed such a piercing scream?

Why did Hubs think it was a good idea to let our daughter watch some History Channel dinosaur program in which a newly hatched baby dino is consumed by giant ants? And why is he surprised that she is now afraid to go sleep because she might dream about carnivorous insects?

Dear God: If Hubs' ex-wife is ever again going to ask us to help buy a car for my unemployed stepson, please let her call tonight. And please let me be the one to answer the phone.

P.S. If the firemen ever have to come back to our house, please let my bedroom be clean. Oh, and if I could be wearing something cute (like clothes) as opposed to my raggedy flannel PJs, that would be mighty nice too.

Do nipples get bigger in proportion to boob sag? Because something's gone wildly awry here? All I know is none of the parts are where I last saw 'em.

A letter to my teenage self

OK, at Queeny's request, I'm writing a letter to my 13-year-old self to satisfy the meme currently circulating...

Dear Nerd Girl,

Don't worry about the bottle-thick glasses, the braces or the headgear. This summer you're getting contacts and a spiral perm. The braces are coming off. Also, you'll finally see a growth spurt in the boob department.

By the time you head back to school in the fall, people will think you're a new girl. For like a whole week!

A word of advice from someone who's been there: Don't use your dad's pliers to zip up those skintight jeans you just shimmied into. Because when the pliers slip off the zipper and you bonk yourself in the forehead with them, your mother will tell you that a purple goose egg is not a valid excuse for missing school.

Also, a cold spoon doesn't get rid of hickeys, just like makeup doesn't hide them.

Besides, your first kiss shouldn't be with a guy who just ate a moon pie. Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwww.

I think that about covers it.

Oops, forgot something.

That flashdance craze involving leg warmers and off-the-shoulder ripped shirts?

Watch the movie. Dance right along with Jennifer. But please, skip the compulsion to shop afterward. You won't understand now. But you WILL thank me later.

Ta-ta,

Cathy at 37

Goodbye 2007! Don't let the door hit you and all that ....

I can't say I'm sorry to see you go, really.

You brought me an injured shoulder, six freaking months of mono and a holiday season that will be remembered for my stepson's arrest and the three nights I spent in a doctor's office holding a sick child. Oh, yeah, and Hubs' Christmas Eve incapacitation, which involved more whining than my bout with mono. And, of course, the firefighters' special viewing of my maternity bra.

And the mutant rats. Can't forget those.

Or the hair-cutting incident, which occurred 24 hours after my husband shooed me from the house, saying, "You have to learn to trust me."

Even so...

... you also brought me many precious days with these precious little people.



So I suppose I can't complain.

(Much.)

I am grateful ...

... that I will be reunited with Hubs in the next hour after a six-day absence. I'm grateful for our life together. For my poised and gorgeous stepdaughter, even though she makes me look short and stumpy. And for my stepson, who is a good kid with a good heart, despite his efforts to convince us otherwise. (If you've found this blog, T., I mean what I said.)

Happy New Year, all!

(and yes, that is me in the background, in my usual sexy at-home attire)