My Christmas Picture Selections

Is this not the reaction we're all looking for when we give someone a present? This is my nephew after he opened his present from Hannah.


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I've included this one simply because it makes me laugh. The intended subject was blue-shirt boy. I didn't realize I had captured the funny face of my other nephew on the right.



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When asked what she wanted for Christmas, Hannah said, "A hat."

"What color hat?"

"A weh-woh hat," was her reply. Grandma Janis (Wonderworker Extraordinaire) made the yellow hat that my sister is placing on Hannah's head.



Of course Wonderworker Extraordinaire couldn't stop with just a hat. She also made mittens and a poncho you can barely see on the floor behind Hannah in the picture below.



The open mouth look is Hannah's biggest happiest smile.
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You can't quite tell what's happening here, so allow me to enlighten you. My niece, wearing the pink shirt, received the gift in the large box pictured below. For whatever reason Hannah decided to claim it and refuse passage to my niece by sitting on the box and folding her arms in the standard defiant-child stance.

They learned how to share the Bounce & Spin Zebra. Because the children were happy we tolerated it's lovely music for hours before we discovered we could turn it off.

All-in-all we enjoyed a wonderful Christmas. We are blessed with abundance...or cursed, however you look at it.

My Favorite Christmas Present

This is the first year Hannah understood that all those fancy packages wrapped in colorful paper and bright ribbons (unless you live at Sheri's house -- hee hee) might be for her to unwrap. When she received her first present this holiday season, she eagerly ripped off the wrapping paper to expose a plain brown box. I don't remember now what was inside the box. She looked at me with bright eyes and a huge smile and said, "Yook Mom! A box!!"

Of all the presents I received this Christmas season, that was my favorite: a daughter satisfied, even excited, to have the pleasure of unwrapping a gift and receiving a plain, brown box.

No New Year's Resolutions Here

I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions. Actually, I love making them. I love making lists of any kind. In fact, I would go so far as to say I am an expert list-maker. I have lists printed on bright paper and posted on the refrigerator instructing Katie and Hailey before and after school and immediately before bed. I have shopping lists, to-do lists and lists of requirements for completing the never ending building project. I once ran across an old list of items I hoped to one day acquire (like a specific vacuum cleaner, among about five other things that I can't recall right now) to find that I had acquired them...without actually consulting the list. I even have packing lists for different occasions: mountain vacations, island vacations, weekend trips to Wichita.

Making lists gives me a sense of accomplishment without my actually doing anything. It's deceptive that way. My fulfilled list mentioned above shows me that some form of power is born when list-making, but you and I both know that completing any list requires that one first get off her you-know-what.

Because my mind thinks in list form, I don't need New Year's Resolutions so much as I need momentum and motivation. Ah, that will be my one New Year's Resolution: to find what will motivate me to do what I already know I should be doing and to create some momentum in doing it. Any suggestions???

My own inner critic just answered me: Step one: get off your you-know-what.

The Flood

December 5 my hot water heater bit the dust. I tempted the powers that be by writing, "I'll put away my perfectionistic ideals of how this holiday season should look and make a special effort to simply enjoy it--spills and all."



After that I lived without hot water for six days, celebrated St. Nicholas Day, lived through an ice storm, lost everything from my computer hard drive, purchased all my Christmas gifts, helped organize a 5th grade party-of-all-parties, found out my dad has a form of epilepsy that causes him to lose hours at a time to amnesia, travelled to Wichita for the holidays (you know how that goes), last-minute-shopped on Christmas Eve & attended Carl's family Christmas party Christmas Eve evening. I was in charge of chips.



The topper: I spent Christmas morning in the emergency room. I swallowed my horse pill medicine first thing that morning, it lodged and I couldn't breathe. A cute fireman gave me the Heimlich maneuver before the ambulance arrived. I felt like an idiot when it was all done, but I was scared out of my wits for a moment. Towards the end I apologized to the ER doctor and expressed my emarrassment, to which he replied, "Hey. At least your pajamas match." Yeah. That made it all better.


All of my December drama doesn't constitute a spill. It's been a freakin' flood.

Make-up? For a 4th Grader???

...And a 5th grader? Katie & Hailey both brought home play make-up from their school gift exchange. I agreed that they could put it on, as long as they removed it before leaving the house or allowing any non-family-members to see them. Here is how Hailey looked AFTER removing her make-up. Note to self: spend any Christmas money on new camera.




That is not a natural lip color. And I need to introduce Hailey to oil-free eye make-up remover. All of the darkness you see is an unnatural remnant of make-up not easily removed with tear-inducing facial cleanser.



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Not to be outdone, Hannah found my mascara--not toy mascara--and applied it, as only a five-year-old can do. Here are the results:

I don't think Hannah applied a even a smidgen on her lashes, do you? In addition, she has the Solomon holiday hair. We don't have to go anywhere, so Carl and I neither one have done much with our hair today. In fact, over the years I have frequently called my genetically red-headed husband "Heat Miser." (Both of his parents are red heads, though he is merely ruddy complected with dirty auburn hair).

My "Heat Miser" reference pertains to the hair, not the belly...or the wardrobe. For a trip down memory lane, check out the Heat Miser video in the next blog entry.

Snow Miser/Heat Miser Video

I'm married to Heat Miser...well, someone who frequently has Heat Miser hair. Personally I'M Heat Miser, preferring "green Christmas, sun, and 101."

Merry Christmas All! Be safe out there.

Bear or Stream? My Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, triggers hope in my intellect that will hopefully migrate to my heart. It will. It always does...sometime in March. For now, I connect on a deeper level with mother bears who hibernate at this time of year: growling when bothered, wanting nothing more than to climb into my cave and hide from the world.

Until then my electric bill will skyrocket as I turn on every light in the house, including my "happy light" (one of those special lights that make the room glow like the inside of a tanning bed) in an effort to overcome Seasonal Affective Disorder--appropriately acronymed SAD. Is acronymed a word? Probably not.

I don't know whether to consider the holidays my salvation...or a twisted joke. My salvation because they force me out of my cave to interact, to be human, not bear. A twisted joke because that's the last thing I really want to do and I'm still naive enough to believe I don't have a choice.

Whether I actively engage or not, I'll flow through the next few days--maybe as a peaceful stream, maybe as white water clashing against those who innocently stand in my path. Either way, I know a basin awaits to collect me at the bottom and dispense me evenly throughout January and February, where I'll lie in wait for the clearly-sunnier days of March.

Dandy Updates

A couple of couples have been in the news lately, increasing awareness about Dandy-Walker. I've opened the following links on my computer recently, while Hannah played on her own computer beside me. Every time my computer spoke the words Dandy-Walker, Hannah's eyes would brighten, she'd turn to me and ask, "Dah-ee Wah-tewh??"

Of course, at five years of age Hannah doesn't understand the full implication of that label. Heck, she doesn't even realize she's different in any way. She innately expects that everyone she meets loves her and wants to connect with her. Not surprisingly (I'm not biased, of course), they pretty much do.

Hannah is not the "typical" Dandy-Walker child, though the more I read, the more I realize there is no "typical" Dandy-Walker person. However, a large percentage of children diagnosed with Dandy-Walker present hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain) which often requires surgery to implant a shunt to drain the fluid. Hannah does not.

If you're interested, these videos show other families who love their children, children who happen to have been born with Dandy-Walker. My personal first reaction was Why haven't I been more proactive? Why haven't I been on TV...or something. I guess it's never too late, but truthfully, I'll probably hang onto the coattails of these two much-younger families and do my part by tapping these posts onto my blog. Oh, and making phone calls to my congressmen.

This first link will play the trailer for a documentary that will be released January 17, 2008.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=21753856



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This link is a public service announcement. It's pretty cool to see Dandy-Walker getting television coverage of any kind!
http://www.dandy-walker.org/Flash/Samuel_commercial.html




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Here's a link to a newscast covering a family who is very proactive when it comes to Dandy-Walker.

http://www.wusa9.com/video/player.aspx?aid=53086&sid=65595&bw

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My own special girl...who happens to have Dandy-Walker.

WE DID IT!!!

My Christmas was "in the bag" so to speak...until last Wednesday, December 12. As I drove to Joplin early that morning to finish my Christmas shopping before the real crazies hit the stores, my cell phone rang. To make a long story short: my friend, Sheri, called to ask me to help with the 5th grade class Christmas party. Don't be confused. This was not to be the typical gift-exchanging-small-snack-eating-stay-in-homeroom party. Ha! This was to be the equivalent of a semi-formal, catered brunch for 37; organized, prepared and served by parents of fifth graders.

"How many parents are helping so far?" I asked.

"Well, you and I are it...so far," Sheri answered.

Gulp.

For a humorous replay of the conversation, check out Sheri's blog at http://crazybutlovinit.blogspot.com/2007/12/only-in-small-town.html

In a mere seven days we planned a five-course Mexican lunch, sent out letters to the parents BEGGING for help (OK that's a little exaggerated--a LOT exaggerated), purchased all of the necessary food and supplies (Sheri did 90% of that--I bought ten bags of red and green tortilla chips and strawberry pop--woohoo), prepared the taco meat & chopped veggies on two separate nights with the help of one other mom and several wine coolers, set up and decorated tables (couldn't-a done it without our awesome husbands), then lugged everything to the school this morning at 8:00. There we met the other women who made it all happen. Here we all are.

Well...we're obviously not all women. That's my husband, Carl, beside me. Hey Sheri--did Carl stink or something??? :)

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These are two of my favorite people in the world serving some of the fifth grade students.

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This picture is a little fuzzy, but it's the only one that shows the table before the fifth graders arrived.

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These are Katie's awesome fifth grade teachers. It's not the greatest picture, but that's entirely the fault of the photographer. And the photographer blames her camera.

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These are the fantastic fifth graders we served. Earlier this week as Sheri, Regina and I prepared food, we questioned our decision to have candles. Would the kids accidentally burn down the grade school? How much stuff would be spilled? Would they horse around? Or would they rise to the semi-formal occasion? We decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and they didn't let us down. Nothing was spilled. Nothing went up in flames. These kids behaved BEAUTIFULLY!

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We finally let them horse around.

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I included this final picture because I'm the mom & I can. Beautiful Katie.

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The clean-up is done, everyone is home and now I'm REALLY fried. I'm into the second book in The Golden Compass trilogy...I think I'll put my jammies back on, crawl back into bed and read.

To everyone involved in the fifth grade Christmas party--parents, teachers, kids, staff: HIGH FIVES, THUMBS UP & BIG HAND SLAPS! WE DID IT!!

She's Back

Hannah's meltdowns continue to decrease in severity and frequency, though we're still far from normal. Frankly, I don't expect that normal and Solomon will ever be used in the same sentence.

Lately her meltdowns consist of any combination of stomping, screaming, biting herself, pulling her hair and/or banging her head on the wall. They often begin abruptly, precipitated by something as benign as NOT being the one to turn off a light, close the curtain...or even to flush the toilet (regardless of who used the toilet).

Ending the meltdowns has been an uncontrollable mystery. She might carry on for fifteen minutes, or we might distract her quickly enough that the meltdown ends in seconds. Lately, though, the scenario has gone something like this:

Carl takes off his own shoes without letting Hannah untie them. Hannah consequently screams and hits herself on the head, but is not soothed by anything obvious, such as stopping the shoe removal and allowing her to help. Carl defines it as Severe Disrobing Anxiety. Whatever. By the time Carl begins the shoe removal process without considering Hannah, Hannah has entered an entirely separate realm, a realm with laws and consequences that I have yet to learn.

The new element is this: Hannah suddenly stops screaming, filling the room with silence broken only by her anxious breaths. She then approaches the nearest adult and says, "I'm back." After that she's calm, as if nothing happened.

Back from where???

If only Hannah's little realm had a name or some written law I could follow. Alas, no. She travels and returns, while I remain here, baffled and helpless.

But at least she comes "back."

Fried

I am fried...

like green tomatoes
like french fries
like my hard drive
like a bad elecrical connection
like too many margaritas, though I've had none tonight...yet
like one-more-meltdown-and-I'll-join-ya

like a stay-at-home-mom-whose-husband-works-late-during-the-Christmas-season-even-though-she-otherwise-overbooked-her-life, in general...

fried

My Christmas Poem to You

This one week in every year
Is the week that fills me most with fear
That never will I get things done
Or find a moment just for fun.

Stacks of mail clutter my desk:
Photos Norman-Rockwell-esque,
Bills that I have yet to pay,
Christmas letters that seem to say,

"Look at all you didn't do."
No more time to think things through,
So hurry, scurry, pull out my hair,
Yell at my children, husband beware!

Clean your room! Wrap this present!
No, I don't know how to be pleasant.
No, I don't want to "fool around"
Touch me again--you'll be on the ground!

But wait, halt, count to ten.
This isn't the mindset I want to be in
During a season set 'round a child
Born in a stable surrounded by wild
Beasts and oxen, lambs and such.
Instead, I'll be thankful I have so much:

A husband that loves me, still thinks I'm "hot,"
Though you & I both know that's something I'm NOT.
In spite of several "special needs,"
My children are healthy, I must concede.

My lights are on, my home is warm,
My friends are the kind that stay through a storm.
Hannah Savannah is good for a laugh.
My glass is half full: the better half.

So Merry Christmas, Seasons Greetings!
Because you don't know who you're really meeting,
Be aware, look deep in the eyes
Of loved ones and enemies, you might be surprised...
Or maybe you won't...to find at their core
The Child born 2000 years before.

©2007. All Right Reserved

The Rheumatoid Factor: Hands

I've cheated by posting this on Monday, then changing the post day for my poem to Tuesday because, while I'm striving towards the acceptance I mention in this blog, I still haven't achieved enough of it to be comfortable having these pictures at the top of the page.

These are my hands, my thirty-nine year old hands. They are the part of my body about which I am the most self-conscious, the most uncomfortable. I think I'm even more uncomfortable about my hands than I am my cellulite-covered thighs. I've earned the thighs. I didn't earn this.

I need to make peace with my body, a body that has betrayed me, a body that has let me down. You would think that after 20+ years I would have "accepted" the fact that I have arthritis, but that's not the case. Now I need to apply a lesson I've learned in other aspects of my life: acceptance does not equal approval. Posting these pictures, treating myself to acrylic nails (did you notice those gorgeous nails, by the way???) are small steps towards accepting that this is my life, this is part of me. Yet, while I accept it, I can still say it unequivocally sucks.

I imagine that women feel the way I'm feeling right now when they take "before" diet photos: exposed and ugly. And these are my "after" photos!

So...here are my hands. Aesthetically, they flop. Yet, these hands have held my crying babies, have tied thousands of shoes and have wrapped their share of presents. These hands have planted flowers in the spring, chopped vegetables for countless meals and have, yes, spanked a few bottoms. They once played the piano, now they tap the computer keys for creative outlet. You don't want to know how many butts they've wiped (notice how I separated that sentence from the vegetable-preparation sentence).

I anticipate that my struggle to accept will continue for the rest of my life. Most of us have that part of ourselves that isn't wrong, it's just not, well, pretty. Maybe it was physically damaged in an accident or maybe it's more of a difficult personality trait. Whatever it is, sometimes it helps to take a big photograph of it, look closely and finally decide...OK.

For today, it really is OK.

They're Coming to Take Me Away!

Continuing with my video theme tonight: this video expresses how I'm feeling on my countdown to Christmas.

Also, I just received a phone call from my dad, telling me he had a second dizzy/nutty spell accompanied by amnesia. The local very-small-town ER blew him off and sent him home. When Ardy's (my new step-mom...that sounds strange...I'm going to come up with my own title later) MD son called to check on my dad, MD son was appalled that the ER had released him. Therefore, my dad is leaving tonight for Tennessee where MD son's practice is. Please pray.

Crack That Whip!

Am I the only woman whose house is a total disaster??? Tonight I have HAD IT and have cracked that whip and gotten my house whipped into some semblance of shape. For any other eighties gals out there, have a good laugh and watch Devo's 1980 music video.

My other video for the night is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fm4iU0yx9GY "I GET KNOCKED DOWN, BUT I GET UP AGAIN!" ...and yes, I'm pi**ing the night away right now. Merry Christmas from the Solomon nuthouse!

Hannah: My Five Year Old Computer Guru...and Destroyer

Yes, I'm still confident that Hannah contributed to my hard drive crash...but maybe the brownouts we experienced during the ice storm played a role, too. Destroyer status aside, Hannah LOVES electronics. While I "play" on my computer, Hannah plays on her Barbie computer...well, not actually her Barbie computer, but the computer left here by the neighbor girl.


Hailey loves electronics of every kind, too, but she was not given the...opportunities...Hannah has been given. When Katie and Hailey were younger, I scoffed at parents who allowed their children to play "mindless video games" or who allowed the television to babysit for them. Once again, Hannah has her own rules. She has spent more hours in front of a television or computer screen in her five years than Katie and Hailey have spent in their entire combined lifetimes. Maybe I exaggerate, but not much.

For her birthday we gave Hannah a "Leapfrog ClickStart My First Computer" that turns our television into a computer controlled by a wireless toy laptop keyboard. As a result, and in spite of the Dandy-Walker, Hannah excels at using a mouse and has accumulated 99 "bones" for Scout the ClickStart puppy. 99 is the limit--a design flaw as I see it. I've been surprised and amazed at the things Hannah has taught herself while using these toys...things she wouldn't have learned if her control freak mother had "played" on the computer with her.


Maybe all this pre-adolescent practice will make Hannah so proficient on the computer that she can make up for the massive amounts of computer damage she has accomplished in her five short years: damaged hard drives, keyboards relieved of their keys, strange happenings (for example, an unusual code appears every time I hit "page up" or any other key in the far right column of my keyboard.)


I must digress for posterity. In 2005-06 Hannah made it a practice to remove keys from my laptop keyboard every time she was left unattended for any length of time...which is probably more often than I should admit. I purchased a replacement keyboard on ebay, but could never figure out how to install it, even with the help of two computer-savvy acquaintances. In 2006 my hard drive crashed. Because it was still under warranty, I sent my laptop in along with the replacement keyboard. When I asked the computer geek at the counter what it would cost to have them replace the keyboard at the same time as the hard drive, he said, "To be honest, it depends on the technician."


Great. "What do you mean? How could it depend on the technician?"


He said, "It depends on whether the technician declares it normal wear-and-tear."


"You're kidding, right? Who would ever consider twenty-four missing keys to be normal wear and tear?!"


"You'd be surprised," was all he said.


He was right. I was surprised. They charged nothing. I wonder if they would have even supplied the keyboard.


Maybe someday Hannah will be the next Bill Gates and I will look on these computer-problem days with a laugh and a bulging wallet. For now, though, I'm not laughing.

Everybody's Minds are in the Gutter!

My mind is decidedly clean (for once), but not those around me.

Before I go on: this entry is not suitable for young children or for people who are easily offended. With that said...

First, I am planning the 5th grade Christmas party with a friend of mine, for which we originally decided to serve meatballs. Bad idea. Katie doesn't like meatballs. My friend e-mailed me that her daughter doesn't like meatballs and the other mother helping us said, "Not very many kids like meatballs." In reply to my friend's e-mail, I thought I would be witty and use pig latin and thus typed, "It sounds like ixnay on the eatballsmay."

I didn't think anything of it until my friend replied, "Did you actually say eatballsmay???!!!"

I have been so slow today that I had to re-read it a couple of times before I realized her point!

Second, I have given my Christmas wish list to my husband: Fried Green Tomatoes DVD, coffee mug, Van Morrison CD, and an external hard drive on which to back up my computer. Carl called a few moments ago and asked, "What was that computer drive thing you wanted for Christmas?"

I enunciated, "Ex...ter...nal...hard...drive," hoping to make it memorable.

"OK. By the way, did you get something for Bryson from me for Christmas?" Carl asked.

"No, that's your (one and only responsibility in the gift-giving realm) job. I have no clue what Bryson wants. But if you call his parents, Gary (Bryson's dad) is the computer genius that recommended I get an EX...TER...NAL...HARD...DRIVE." I could tell Carl hadn't written anything down, so I was repeating it to embed it in his memory.

I'm sure you can see where this is going, but I promise you--I was too busy for my mind to even trickle NEAR a gutter, let alone flow directly into one.

Carl finally said, "Would you stop saying that. It's distracting."

OK, he said something different than It's distracting, but you get the idea.

Merry Christmas season, happy shopping, try not to go insane in the next week, keep perspective.

Goth Meets Innocence

Yesterday, in the hallway of a nearby high school where Hailey takes her weekly piano lesson, Hannah and I happened upon a high school guy and gal sitting on the floor. Both wore all black and both had dyed their hair an unnatural shade of ebony. Hers included a bright red streak on one side, topped that day with a cheap Christmas bow. She looked up at us through eyes blackened with make-up, then looked back down with apparent boredom.

Walking half a hallway ahead of me, Hannah neared the couple. I knew their appearance reflected a style, but five-year-old Hannah knew nothing about style. Hannah wore khaki pants; sky blue boots with fur at their tops; and a multi-colored-striped, fuzzy sweater. Nothing matched. At least the high school couple...matched. Monochromatically. Very Goth.

I wondered what Hannah would do. Would she turn around and come back to me? Would she walk around them? Would she be frightened? Personally, I thought they were scary-looking.

Hannah's line of travel slowly arched towards the couple until she reached the girl. For a second I thought Hannah was going to walk on the papers between the couple, but she stopped, waved her little hand, and said, "Hi. Whuh-yame?" (Hi. What's your name?)

The girl looked up at Hannah (yes, up...hard to believe) with a pretty smile and said, "What's my name? It's Dawn." Surprise number one: Dawn understood Hannah.

The guy acted as if Hannah didn't exist, but--oblivious to being ignored--Hannah asked him, "Whuh-yame?" He continued to ignore Hannah, but Dawn answered, "His name is James." Surprise number two: Dawn seemed to care.

"Oh," Hannah replied and continued to stand there, expecting they would follow her personal rules of etiquette and ask her the same question. Dawn didn't let her down. Surprise number three.

"What your name?"

Hannah eagerly answered, "My-ame Han-nah." Then she pointed at me and said, "Hewh-yame My Mom." (My name is Hannah. Her name is My Mom.)

When Dawn laughed, looked at me and said, "Hi My Mom," I caught myself feeling judgmentally shocked. Interesting. I assumed the clothes, makeup and hair were chosen, at least on some level, for their shock value. Instead, the smile and sense of humor shocked me more.

Hannah hasn't lived long enough to judge people by their appearances. I marveled in her fearless innocence and wondered...When did I lose my own?

The Rheumatoid Factor: Pros & Cons of Chronic Illness

First, a little point of information: Most people with rheumatoid arthritis are given a blood test, one of MANY, to see if they test positive for a "rheumatoid factor." Hence, the name of my supposedly-on-Mondays posts...and here it is Thursday.


THE PROS:

1. Handicap parking...especially during the holidays

2. People's expectations of me are lower

3. I have a legitimate excuse for just about anything



THE CONS:

1. Pain, fatigue, brain fog...and did I mention pain?

2. I feel particularly vulnerable in icy weather

3. People's expectations of me are lower


That's it for today...soooo much to do (I'm sure I'm the only one): 5th grade Christmas party, rewrite everything on my calendar that has been rescheduled due to ice storm (preferably before brain fog erases it from brain), plan supper (read: plan pizza order), buy last-minute Christmas gifts, reinstall ALL my software onto my now-blank hard drive, Thursday piano lessons, deposit birthday checks from September,...

FIRST, though: ensure all ingredients are available for killer margaritas.

The Aftermath of War

It is a winter wonderland here. Ice everywhere. The branches behind Hailey usually hang far above our heads, but the ice has pulled them to the ground. It's beautiful, but destructive...




As you can see, some large limbs fell yesterday, causing quite a bit of damage. When limbs hit the roof, we all scrambled as if we knew where in the house to find safety. Even the smaller limbs sounded HUGE when hitting the roof. Notice our new gutters in the background. Bummer.



As the limbs fell, I thought, "Well, one good thing should come out of all of this. That huge, dead branch will finally fall without Carl's attention." I've posted a picture below of the very branch. Though difficult to tell in the photo, the dead branch doesn't even appear weakened while resting on our phone line. I guess Carl will have to get the chain saw out this spring after all.



The worst of the storm is over according to the weatherman. Later this week we'll be dragging limbs to the curb and calling the insurance company. Today, as it rains and remains basically bleak outside, we'll remain inside enjoying a snow day at home.

Hannah Dumped my Hard Drive

It's gone. Erased. Everything. I might as well have a brand new computer.

No, I don't know how she did it. Yes, I'm sure it was Hannah. I shut my computer completely off last night. This morning it was on, via Hannah.

I have my suspicions. For about four seconds when the computer boots up, it has a message that says "Press F11 for recovery." I'm pretty sure that if you press F11, it prompts you to back everything up, then does exactly what mine did. On my computer the F11 key is near the "on" button, which is near the "enter" key...which is evidently a recipe for disaster.

Fortunately, I have backed up recently. By "recently," I mean I backed up more frequently than I did just before the crash of April 2006...which was never. I think the last time I backed up was in...October maybe???

I can re-enter business bookwork. God knows I have practice with that (the crash of 2006). But I'm sick about the pictures. I had some cute video that I could never figure out how to get onto a disc...gone.

Well, I've cried. I've felt sorry for myself. Now I guess I need to get to work.

Oh...can you please e-mail me? I've lost all of my e-mail addresses. I don't want to post my wave wireless e-mail address, but if you have it, please use it. If not, e-mail me at solomongirls@yahoo.com.

It Sounds Like a War Zone Out There!

I can see our neighbor's oak tree from my front window. The accumulated ice has forced the branches to bow to it's authority, leaving the tree open and vulnerable at it's crown like a huge mouth that can't close itself.

Carl and I drove around earlier today to see if the power was out all over town, like at our house. It was. We drove around longer just to take in the eerie, stunning sight. A thick sheet of ice wrapped every visible surface in a surreal Christmas-like spirit and icicles hung, dripping from power lines and roofs. Limbs were down everywhere, breaking chain link fences, covering lawns, blocking driveways. As they cracked free, they sounded like rifle shots going off all over town, then littered lawns like casualties of war.

Later, in the safety of our house, one of our own tree limbs snapped, then boomed on our roof like a bomb. I was talking on the phone when it happened and said something like, "Oh no! Oh my God!" just before we lost our telephone connection, like in a low-budget movie. My friend called me back to make sure I was OK and we laughed and laughed at the whole situation.

Thankfully our electricity has returned and we have a back-up generator, plenty of batteries and candles, as well as some awesome subzero sleeping bags. We're ready. And we're blessed. We don't HAVE to have electricity. It's a convenience, not a requirement for life. We're thinking & praying for you Isabella (http://isabellagudde.blogspot.com/ ), because we know you need electricity for your vent. We'll fight that battle with prayer while the trees continue their war with nature outside.

Iced In!

Note: I late-posted an entry for Saturday below this one...if you're interested.

Outside frozen needles of rain fall from the sky and occasionally I hear thunder, a disconcerting sound in December. Icicles hang precariously from every object; my new gutters, weak tree limbs, power lines. It's picturesque in a perilous sort of way. Inside I sit in my jammies surfing the net for Christmas gifts. Mass has been cancelled and I'm prepared to spend the day in my warm cocoon of a home reading, Internet surfing and sipping hot chocolate.

I won't be taking a warm bath or hot shower, though, because we STILL do not have hot water. Carl has been swamped at work this week and hasn't been able to complete the hot water heater installation. Every December, usually at the first hint of freezing, nasty weather of some sort, Carl receives a rush of requests for remote starts (you know, the handy gadget that allows you to start your vehicle from the warmth or your home). You would think that after eleven years of self-employment and 25 years in this business, we would be prepared for this rush. Nope.

Hailey and Hannah entertain themselves by playing a game of hide and seek. Hannah doesn't quite get the concept.

"OK. I'll count and you go hide, Hannah," Hailey instructs.

Even with below-freezing temperatures outside and that drafty cold feeling inside regardless of insulation, Hannah wears only a pair of panties (actually, that's a step up...she must want her cheekies warmed). Hannah replies, "OK!" and Hailey begins counting in the kitchen. Hannah runs five feet, hears Hailey's counting, and halts. She hides her own eyes and joins Hailey in the counting, "...fooowh, ive, ix..."

"No, Hannah. Go hide. This way," I whisper.

"Oh! OK!" Hannah says and runs to me. After I instruct her to hide behind the couch, she goes there and waits in full view.

"No, get down. Put your head down so Hailey can't see you."

She complies and I let Hailey know Hannah is ready.

"Ready or not, here I come," Hailey shouts.

After about five seconds Hannah shouts back from her hiding place, " 'Ere Yam! (Here I am!)"

We need to work on some strategy here.

Everyone out there keep warm and safe. We're warm and safe here, still have electricity unlike some folks in the area, and all is well. I'm going to continue tap tap tapping inside on my computer while the icy rain tap tap taps outside on my windows.

Tested

You know how in Wednesday's post I wrote that I would "baptize" my own attitude? Ha! It seems that whenever I make pious declarations like that, I am tested. To the max.

First of all, I wrote that I would take pictures of the laundry cubby. That's difficult when one can't find the camera. The last time I recall having it, I had allowed Katie and Hailey to borrow it so that they could take a picture of the layout of the "town" they had created before moving said town to their upstairs bedroom to keep their downstairs bedroom neat. The camera has since disappeared. As you know, I don't have any pictures of St. Nicholas Day as a result.

I also wrote that I planned to pace myself to prepare for St. Nicholas Day, a day we have celebrated for about seven years now. On the Wednesday morning prior to the Thursday celebration, I had the following conversation with Carl.

"What kind of day do you have today?"

"They're stacked deep." Carl replied, rushed.

"What do you think of rescheduling some of your work to Friday so you can get home at a decent time? Tomorrow is St. Nicholas Day and I could really use the extra help." Carl does not work on Fridays, a decision we made several years ago to allow more family time and to help us cope with my arthritis.

"That's a great idea. I'll think about it."

I've had "St. Nicholas Day!!!" with a smiley face on the "control center" calendar we keep so that all family members can communicate and know what's going on in our house. Plus, as I've written, we've celebrated this day every December 6 for seven years. I continued with my day, assuming that Carl & I were on the same page, until about 6:30 when I called Carl.

"How's your day going?" I asked.

"Not good. This job is kicking my butt and I have two more after it."

"What?! Where are you? Were you able to reschedule any of your jobs to Friday?"

Sounding confused and off-kilter, Carl replied "I'm in Coffeyville." That's 45 minutes from our home. "No, I didn't reschedule anything," he said in a way that made me think he didn't know why I would ask to reschedule.

"Did you try?"

"No."

"Do you remember our conversation about rescheduling? Tomorrow is St. Nicholas Day," I responded with rapidly growing irritation. I detailed our previous exchange to him.

His exact words: "I don't know how I missed that."

I won't continue with the conversation because it doesn't portray me very nicely. Carl arrived home at 8:45 p.m. I awoke at 2:30 Thursday morning with my mind racing through the preparations that still needed completed, so I got up at that time. Can you say sleep deprivation? Needless to say, my good-attitude-intentions have been flushed down our barely-flushing toilet.

Friday I agreed that Carl should go to work to catch up on some remote start installations and make a few needed extra bucks before Christmas. No problem there except Hailey's first basketball game was Saturday morning, a game I expected Carl to attend not only to support Hailey (not selfish on my part), but also to help me carry the parenting load (maybe a little selfish on my part). Carl, on the other hand, could not see the logic in leaving for the tournament at 11:00 when he needed to install a hot water heater and the local hardware store closed at noon.

He attended the game, expecting--as I did--to return right afterwards. It was a tournament, meaning they played more than once. We should have realized that, but we're new to this basketball business. Plus, by the end of the crazy week, I wasn't exactly on top of my own game. I took a silently fuming Carl home, returned Hailey to Parsons to play her second game, then travelled back home. When I arrived I found Carl installing yet another remote start in our garage instead of finishing the hot water tank. I vacillated between being grateful that Carl is a hard-working provider and being aggravated at the intrusion. To my credit, I remained silent.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, we still have no hot water. Carl needed a few more parts, which I'm assuming he couldn't get because of me...but I'm not crazy enough to ask. We've had a disagreement about priorities and I know I'm partly wrong...but I'm not ready yet to admit it. For now, in the words of Terri Clark, I just wanna be mad for a while. If you click on those lyrics, make sure you read the chorus if nothing else.

So much for my intention to keep a good attitude during this holiday season. Fortunately I have several more days during which I can improve my current attitude, but I'm not making any promises...I'm not yet up to the challenge.

Pre-Christmas Conditions

Inside the Solomon house the television sings Frosty the Snowman at a ridiculous decibel, my table displays the evidence of today's bookwork and our water remains shut off while Carl replaces the hot water tank. Dirty dishes dictate over the kitchen. Hannah, naked as usual, swiffers the floor with the fourth swiffer of the night...at least someone is cleaning.

Here in southeast Kansas we brace for our first winter storm of the season, but you wouldn't know it from my front porch. I step outside for a moment to see if the anticipated winter storm has arrived and when I shut my front door I arrive in another world, a world I had almost forgotten. The air feels cold, wet, still. And quiet. Very quiet. It smells like late fall, the musty scent of wet leaves with frozen rain in the distance. I can see the town's streetlight Christmas decorations illuminating the street.

CHRISTMAS! SSScchhllluuuurrrrp. That's the sound of my being sucked back into reality. I return inside to hear John Goodman's voice singing loudly through Frosty's mouth. My "mommy magnet" immediately draws every family member to me the minute I step back inside.

"Mom, do you want to know the highlight of my day?" Katie asks.

"Sure. What was the highlight of your day."

"V bit C in the library." (The names have been withheld to protect the not-so-innocent.)

"You're kidding!" I respond with the expected incredulousness.

"No. I'm not! V lied and said that he bit C because C whapped him upside the head. But really, C whapped him upside the head because V bit C."

I struggle to keep up. "Did anyone go to the principal's office?"

"Yeah. V had to go. So did A and Ca because they were witnesses."

Suddenly Hailey pipes in, "V is always in trouble. He's a," get this... "a hypological liar."

A what? I laugh out loud, then send the girls to get ready for bed. I long to go back to the quiet place, though I'm not much for cold and wet. However, we begin our Christmas traveling on December 20 and I still have shopping to do. Preferable Internet shopping. Walking around a mall-sized superstore amongst other frazzled--and faster--shoppers is not conducive to Christmas spirit. I'm the shopper with the cart moving at a slow speed that occasionally earns a dirty look or heavy sigh. That's in the superstore. In comparison, I'm a whiz at Internet shopping. Except for the time I waste browsing.

Still no water. We've filled the tub so we can flush the toilet (thanks, Lori, for that bit of information.) Did you know that's the reason you should fill your tub during inclement weather? It isn't to drink. It's to flush. A Florida friend of mine learned that the hard way during Hurricane Andrew.

This has certainly been a meandering blog entry. I spent about three minutes trying to think of a way to tie it all together. No luck. This is it.

Happy St. Nicholas Day!

"I am so sorry to have failed you, beloved daughter," Emre said with tears in his eyes to his eldest daughter Meryem.

"I will be fine, father," she replied stoically, though inside she felt a chill that matched the cold, dark air seeping through the thin walls. Their small shack on the outskirts of Istanbul provided poor shelter. "Maybe I will be purchased by someone kind."

"I have spent the last of our money, even your dowry, on food. We have no means for finding you a husband." Emre began coughing, a cough that sounded nearly like crying. Because their father was usually a proud man of few words, Meryem and her sisters, Yeter and Simge, were surprised and confused by his unusual display of emotion. Meryem had been aware of her fate for months now. She helped her mother in every aspect of keeping their home; trips to the market, preparing their meager meals, sewing clothes. She knew her mother spent money frugally and still they didn't have enough for the bare essentials.

Emre coughed a deep, harsh cough that left him gasping for breath. "Emre, you must calm yourself. Please. Please rest," his wife, Umut, pleaded.

"Mama, will father ever be well, again?" Simge asked with fear in her little voice.

"Hush now, Simge. Of course he will."

"It's been so long, though."

"Simge. Enough. Bring your father some hot tea," Umut said sternly to her youngest child.

As Simge busied herself making the tea, Umut wished she could speak privately with her husband. But the cold air kept them close near the fire in their home's one small room. She settled for quietly contemplating their circumstances. Umut had been sick for two years. They had prayed daily that Emre would be healed, but instead they slowly sold their belongings simply to stay alive. Meryem should have married last year, but they had spent her dowry on doctors and medicine, planning to bring Emre back to health and replenish the dowry.

When Meryem was a baby Umut had observed several poor families selling their daughters into slavery. When they could not provide adequate dowries to attract husbands, even poor husbands, selling daughters was their fourth century Turkish response. At the time Umut was astonished and revolted that those women could so easily give away their children to selfishly keep themselves alive. Now faced with their same predicament, she knew that they, like she, would have starved themselves to keep their oldest daughters. But they, like she, had other children to consider. Custom and circumstances collided, leaving her to make an unthinkable decision.

Determined to make this last evening as normal as possible to avoid alarming Simge and Yeter, Umut said, "Girls, prepare our mats for the night. Meryem, help me heat the rocks to keep us warm." In her heart she prayed, "Lord, You know we love you. Please send us a miracle."

As the poor family slept close together for warmth through their last night with Meryem, a young wealthy man awoke abruptly, burdened to pray for them from his stately home. Nicholas had been aware of their dire situation for a week and earlier in the day had learned that they intended to sell Meryem the next afternoon. "Lord, this is wrong. So wrong. Please help this poor family. Send someone to rescue them." Something stirred in Nicholas' spirit, something uncomfortable. Disquieting. "Lord?"

He continued praying, concluding with rote prayers. Unable to return to sleep, he walked discontentedly to the kitchen to fix himself a midnight snack.

As he stood at the counter eating crusty bread and olive oil, Nicholas' spirit stirred again. "Yes, Lord?"

I am sending someone to Emre's family.

"Thank you, Lord," Nicholas replied, yet still his spirit grieved. Continuing to crunch his bread and look around his lofty home, his eye rested on a small bag of gold coins he had brought in from his day's work.

I am sending you.

Suddenly Nicholas understood. Quickly he put on his warmest cloak and awakened his servant to saddle his horse. He bundled the small bag of coins next to his chest, feeling their coldness through the cloth, and rode through the moonlit darkness. The frigid air filtered through his clothes before he had ridden one mile, but his spirit warmed him. "Thank you, Lord."

When Nicholas neared Emre's house, he dismounted and tied his horse to a small cypress tree. Walking to the shack, Nicholas became uncomfortably aware of the difference between the hovel and his own home. "What now, Lord?"

The window.

"But surely it's latched against this cold."

The window.

Knowing better than to argue with God, Nicholas pushed against the window. After it quietly opened, Nicholas dropped the small bag of coins to the floor inside. Afraid that the jingle of the coins would awaken the family, Nicholas ran to his horse, mounted it hastily and hurried home.

The next morning Umut awoke earlier than usual and quietly restarted the fire, hoping to warm the room without waking her family. Soon she heard muffled sobs. "Meryem?" she whispered.

"Oh mama, I'm sorry."

"Hush child. Come over here. Let's not awaken the others just yet." They moved to two chairs sitting near the window. As they sat down Meryem asked, "What is this mother?" Reaching down, she grasped the small bag, heavy for it's size.

"I don't know. Hand it to me."

Taking the bag, Umut loosened the drawstring and peered inside. Tears sprang to her eyes.

Startled, Meryem asked, "What's wrong? What is it?"

Umut dumped the contents of the bag into her lap, the coins jingling loudly and reflecting the small fire's light. She paused, looked Meryem in the eye and replied, "It's an answer to prayer."


©2007. All Rights Reserved
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Above is my own version of the legend of St. Nicholas (the original Santa Claus), whose feast day in the Catholic church is today, December 6. Legend has it that Nicholas did the same for the other two sisters. I thought my story had gone on long enough, though, so poor Yeter and Simge kinda got left hanging.

We celebrated St. Nicholas Day this morning as I said we would. We set the table with my grandma's china and sterling silver. The girls awoke to each find a small stocking stuffed with 5 shiny, gold $1 coins and a Rubik's cube. Hannah received a Charlotte's Web DVD (no Rubik's cube for her). We couldn't find my camera (big surprise) so we shot some footage with the camcorder Carl received for his birthday. BIG mistake. I have no pictures. None. The camcorder died ten seconds into recording.

That all (except the lost camera part) sounds idyllic, doesn't it? Well...I'll tell you the story behind the story in another post.

Happy St. Nicholas Day!

Tax Tip (RE: Hot Water Heater)

Note added Feb., 2009: Please note that the following information does NOT apply after Dec. 31, 2007.

I'm sure that everyone has several hundred dollars laying around during the holiday season. :::guffaw::: It might benefit you to consider spending a little of it on a home improvement that increases the energy efficiency of your home. Why? Because good ol' Uncle Sam is providing a tax credit (even better than a tax deduction because it directly reduces your bottom line tax liability) for things like energy efficient hot water heaters, windows, heaters, and other specific etc.

Of course, the IRS has issued limitations: you can only deduct a certain percentage of windows, the credit itself has a dollar limit (something like $500 total), and--I think--everything must replace existing stuff (no "new construction") AND meet certain energy standards. No "new construction" items? Bummer. I could have maxed out the credit on our building project!

I'm going to receive a $300 tax credit for my new hot water heater. However, the cheapies didn't meet the energy requirements. It's actually a "wash," except for the fact that my new water heater manufacturer claims that the part of my gas bill devoted to heating hot water (the second largest gas-sucker behind natural gas central heat) will be reduced by 50%. I'll believe it when I see it.

Disclaimers seem to be all the rage, so I'll put mine here. I'm no tax accountant. I know just enough to be dangerous, which is, well...dangerous. So, don't take my word for it. Check out the IRS information at

http://www.irs.gov/newsroom/article/0,,id=154657,00.html

and at

http://www.irs.gov/pub/irs-drop/n-06-26.pdf

Hurry, though. You have to make your purchases before January 1, 2008.

ONE MORE THING: If you've already done some of the aforementioned improvements, AND paid for them after December 31, 2005 you could have received this same credit in previous years. Ask your tax preparer.

Laundry "Cubby" Baptism

My not-so-old hot water heater sits near my washer and dryer in our laundry cubby, a space too small to be complimented with the title "room." It baptized the floor yesterday. Water everywhere. The *#@!! hot water heater is only eight years old AND we have a water softener. It died much too early.

Twenty minutes before getting the girls from school, I noticed the puddle. I had my typical-Tuesday babysitter lined up last night so that I could make a dent in my Christmas shopping. At least it leaked before I left for the evening.

I am mechanically challenged and intend to stay that way. Carl's grandma, a real spitfire, once advised, "Never let a man know you can do something, because from then on it'll be your job." Truer words I have never heard. My first phone call went to Carl. "What do I do?"

"Well, you could find the shut-off valve and turn off the hot water tank. Or you could find the tool I made to shut off the water to the house."

Struggling NOT to hear him in the wa wa-wa wa wa way Charlie Brown hears his teacher, I replied, "Where's the...what did you call it...shut-off valve?" I didn't want to look for a tool in the maze he calls his shop.

"I don't know. You could call General Services."

Sigh. "What time will you be home. I have a babysitter coming. I've got to get started on my Christmas shopping."

Starting to get annoyed, but trying--unsucessfully--to hide it, Carl replied, "I don't know. Seven? Eight?"

"Fine. I'll handle it." Click.

I called General Services and received instructions for shutting off and draining the hot water tank. I got the shut-off lever to move, left the hot water running in the kitchen sink to drain the tank, herded a screaming Hannah to the Tahoe and went to pick up the girls from school. I live a "Plan B" life.

Later that day I left instructions regarding the hot water heater with the babysitter and left for Joplin. I talked to my dad on the way and determined that I probably did not get the hot water tank shut off all the way. Oh well. I had plenty of towels laid down.

By the time my babysitter called me later that night to tell me my puddle had grown quite large, I knew that Carl was closer to home than I. I left it to him. To his credit, by the time I got home, he had the puddle cleaned up & the water turned off to the water heater.

This morning Carl pulled the lever to turn the water back on so we could run the dishwasher. The lever broke! So he spent another thirty minutes buying and installing a new lever. Thank God my husband is a handyman!

At this point I just have to laugh. I have a huge day tomorrow, for which I had set aside today to pace myself and prepare. We celebrate St. Nicholas Day every December 6, complete with a fancy breakfast served on my grandma's china set with her sterling silver. I'll post pictures tomorrow. In addition, I volunteer on Thursdays at the school, starting between 7:30 and 7:45 a.m. Before tomorrow the china needs washed (hot water, please), the fancy breakfast needs prepped, tonight's supper and tomorrow's lunch need prepped and my house remains in it's usual disaster state, made worse by the fact that Liz didn't clean it this past Monday.

Thinking of the laundry cubby as "baptized" made me realize that maybe my attitude needs baptized, i.e. purified, too. What use are holiday rituals like St. Nicholas Day for us as well as Christmas in general if we spend the entire time frazzled and irritated, screaming at the people we love most and living like martyrs (Why do I have to do everything? Whine whine.). I'm going to go take some pictures of my chaotic laundry cubby to keep along with the pictures I take of tomorrow's celebration. In the meantime, I'll put away my perfectionistic ideals of how this holiday season should look and make a special effort to simply enjoy it--spills and all.

A hot shower would help, though.

Monday: The Rheumatoid Factor

I'm going to try something new. Every Monday I will post about some aspect of having rheumatoid arthritis. Today I'd like to share with you how it all began.

Oddly, I don't recall the year or even the season when I experienced my first symptoms. Did I have my first attack in the spring as the semester ended? Or did my flare while driving the combine during wheat harvest occur first? Maybe it started during the fall semester. One would think that something so life changing would have it's own birthday on my life calendar, but that isn't the case.

In 1988, while attending Fort Hays State University, I lived off-campus in the tiny one-bedroom house I rented. The idyllic location surrounded me with brick, tree-lined streets that lead to ivy-covered campus buildings. I made a group of good friends and together we played co-ed intramural water polo (well, I tried to play, but I had no idea what I was doing) and co-ed intramural softball, went out on weekends and generally enjoyed a freedom we didn't understand we had. I jogged regularly, ate lots of starches because that was the healthy way to eat at the time, and drank my share of beer on the weekends. I worked part-time and took classes full-time. Majoring in music and accounting, I was an above-average pianist who loved the absolute-right-or-wrong aspect of accounting. Until the arthritis.

At first I felt exhausted and ran a low-grade fever, like a mild case of the flu that never went away. I developed an odd plaque-like rash on the underside of my left arm so that the first doctor I sought was a dermatologist. He performed three separate biopsies that resulted in no specific diagnosis. Next, the top of each of my wrists puffed up as if a small finger of liquid rested just below the skin. They ached. I ached.

Did I mention exhaustion? Do you know the weak, fatigued feeling you get when you have the flu or a major infection? Suddenly, for no reason, I felt like that all the time. I slept hours and hours. I looked normal so my friends didn't understand why I suddenly became a sleeping hermit. I continued my normal working schedule at Wal-Mart, but by the end of a shift my feet and ankles were so swollen that I called them "Flinstone feet" after Fred Flinstone.

Originally an almost-straight-A student, I began sleeping through and failing my classes. Too tired to even fix myself simple meals, my weight dropped. My lowest point occurred when I stepped on the bathroom scales and discovered I weighed under 100 pounds. Realizing I couldn't take care of myself, I called my mom. She came the next day to move me back home. I quit my job without notice and flunked the entire semester of classes.

Reading back over this post, I realize it's a real downer. I've considered leaving it unpublished. I've considered making it lighter and injecting a little humor. Ultimately I've decided to do neither of those. Those dark days gave birth to compassion, patience, empathy, humility and a host of other traits I otherwise would not have. Don't misunderstand. I do not claim to have those traits in every area of my life. Ha! I can be screamingly impatient. I battle pride and a surplus of other character defects. Just ask my family.

I also know that my situation is far from the most difficult situation out there. Some women are losing the battle with cancer and living their last days with their loved ones; barring anything unforeseen I'll be around a while. Some women are facing chronic illnesses that have left them bedridden and unable to care for themselves or their families; I've been reading a woman's blog that tells her story of living with sarcoidosis. She spent the Thanksgiving holiday in the hospital and is now home, but in tremendous pain.

This point in the story marks the end of the beginning of my current life. Like all births is was painful and no matter how much a woman loves her resulting newborn, the truth is...it's ugly. Sometimes the baby is born with a defect that, at first glance, is unattractive. Hideous even. But a beauty emerges.

I hope to make my life beautiful.

Gift-Receiving Dilemmas

As I've grown...um...older I've discovered that I can be a difficult person for whom to buy a gift, especially for Carl. I've been trying to find an eloquent way of saying this that might present me in a sympathetic light, but it's impossible...

I'm a little spoiled.

If I really want something, I get it. If it's not ridiculously expensive, I buy it for myself. I'm not talking about new cars (I drive a nine year old Tahoe that's paid off) or expensive jewelry (I own none--though Carl did buy me a delicate ruby necklace two Christmases ago--good one, Carl!) or even big televisions (our TVs are all dinosaurs in today's technology & we get four channels) or stereos (even though I'm married to The Radio Man.) However, one year I bought myself a new Kitchenaid stand mixer. I bought the mattress about which I recently blogged. I have a laptop. These buying habits make it difficult for my family to know what to buy for me. Or to beat me to the checkout line.

This year for my late June birthday Carl shocked me. While shopping together at Target (we rarely shop together, as it's usually torture for both of us) I commented that I had been wanting a patio lounger, but that I had been waiting until they went on sale at the end of the season to purchase one. That comment, intermingled amongst many comments that day, was not intended as a hint. Nevertheless, guess what I received for my birthday. Yep. The patio lounger. Before I go on, I must say in my defense, that I was amazed and impressed that Carl had picked up on that statement. Believe me, he hasn't always had that ability.

Here is where my difficult side glares and would blind my poor husband if I allowed him look at it directly. As it is, I hide it as much as possible. (note to self: don't blind husband). See, he didn't get the right lounger. I've never told him that and he'll never read this blog, so my "secret" is safe. But the truth is I specifically wanted a lounger that was chair height instead low-lying as many of them are. Because of the arthritis, once I got into the low-lying lounger he bought me, I couldn't get out!!! And it's lightweight enough that I couldn't use the lounger itself as leverage because it simply scooted across the patio. Have you ever seen a pregnant woman trying ungracefully to rise from a low seat? That's me--minus the baby.

Wait, there's more. When he bought the lounger he applied for a new Target card to get 10% off. In and of itself that's great. I'm all for frugal. However, he failed to tell me that little detail. One month later I received a Target statement billing me for a purchase I didn't recognize. At that point I realized I hadn't seen my own Target credit card since the last time Hannah had emptied my purse of all it's contents--credit cards, money, you name it. Frantically I searched for the missing card, tearing my house and vehicle apart in the process. When I couldn't find it, I went online and tried to access the statement account using the last four digits of my (I never considered using Carl's) social security number. Nothing. I finally called Target directly, but couldn't give them the correct information to access the account. Several hours later, frazzled and worried that a stranger had found my card due to my failure to clean up adequately after Hannah, I approached Carl.

"I have something to tell you. I'm kind of worried."

"What?" Carl asked with a little concern. I rarely approach him in this fashion.

"Well, I have a statement from Target and I haven't purchased anything from them on my Target credit card. I can't even find my Target credit card. I think someone else found it and is using it."

He took a moment to look at the statement, then said nonchalantly, "Oh, that. I applied for a card to purchase your lawn chair." Then he proudly added, "I got 10% off."

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!! I would've gladly taken the $6 that equalled the 10% in exchange for the hours I had just wasted!

As calmly as I could (remember note to self--avoid blinding husband) I said, "OK." I paused to compose myself. "For future reference, a gift does not count as a gift if I have to be involved in any part of the transporting, assembling, and most importantly PURCHASING of the item."

Suddenly squinting, Carl pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. "OK. Whatever you say. Sorry."

Yeah, buddy. Sorry.

This year nothing on my wish list can be wrapped in a box. I'd like a nice evening out with my husband that ends with our returning home to a clean house and sleeping, bathed children. I'd like time completely alone. I'd like to spend more time having fun with friends and family and less time feeling guilty when I do. I'd like my entire family to be healthy.

Of course, if my yard were newly landscaped and our building project were completed, I wouldn't complain. Much.

You Can Win a Digital Camera???

Honestly, I've been getting some things accomplished this morning, but I just took a break to eat lunch & do some escapist blog surfing. I happened upon a mom-of-special-needs kids' blog. She's supposedly having a contest for an HP Digital Camera.

The deadline is tomorrow.

It seems like an authentic contest to me. Of course, it's possible that she's shamelessly advertising her blog, but I prefer to believe the best...and if I happen to win a digital camera, all the better!

http://slurpinglife.typepad.com/slurping_life/2007/11/its-christmas-a.html

Pacing Myself

Now that it's officially December, my thoughts and activities turn to Christmas. My mantra: Pace yourself, Angela...Pace yourself, Angela...Pace yourself, Angela.

Pacing myself has been my most difficult concept to grasp since the arthritis hit. My brain gets an idea and, other than brain fog, my brain is untouched by the arthritis. However, as my brain zooms forward with it's latest grand plan, my body hobbles along behind yelling with arms waving, "Hey! Wait for me! Slow down!" If my brain doesn't heed my body's demands, the outcome is predictable: CRASH! After a short time period of hyper-productivity, a fatigue-driven flare will settle into my joints and relegate me to the couch where I will helplessly watch my house and plans slowly deteriorate before my eyes. My family shoulders the brunt of this mistake: grouchy mom/wife (that's an understatement), fast food (if any food), no clean clothes, late bill payments...the works.

OK, maybe that's a little dramatic...but closer to the truth than I care to admit.

I have nineteen days to be prepared to leave town for the holidays (more holiday traveling). I issued my first edict to Katie and Hailey yesterday; one borne from eleven years of holiday lessons.

Before I tell you the edict, I want to lay the groundwork. Katie and Hailey are so close in age (16½ months apart--that was not planned) that they enjoy the same toys and the like. Couple that with the fact that they have seven aunts and two sets of generous grandparents and we have a "problem." It's a nice problem on the problem scale, but still a problem. TOO MUCH STUFF!!! And because they are so close in age, it's like a doublemint commercial: twice the fun.

Now for the edict, one I issued for the first time before Christmas of 2006: When we arrive back home from the Christmas holiday, they may not play with or use a single gift until they have given away or put away every single toy/item they own. This means broken items need to be tossed, unused or unloved items need to be donated and everything else must have a home...and be in that home.

Did you hear an unusual groaning sound yesterday afternoon at around 4:00 p.m. central time? It was the moaning, complaining and groaning of two Solomon adolescents. "Mo-om! That's not fair! We don't know where everything goes!"

"That's the point," I explained. I turned from them and could actually feel the eye-rolling vibe in the room. "You have twenty days before we leave for the holidays. If you do a little each day, you'll be able to finish easily." Do you see the "pace-yourself" theme here? They may not have been convinced, but they were forewarned.

I hope to help them with this endeavor, but did not offer that help verbally. At eleven and almost-ten years old, they are old enough to take care of their things...though they haven't been given the greatest role models. Nevertheless, I adhered to the edict last year and fully intend to do the same this year.

Escapist blogging does not equal pacing, so I'll hit "publish post" and get a few things done around here. I have plenty to do...but that's another topic.

Happy Holidays!