It happened one night

My Dad's been gone nearly 3 years already. Sometimes it seems like yesterday and yet my life has changed so much.

"Dad, I got the promotion you helped me prep for the interview for..." he's not there.
"Dad, they named him Easton James. Yes, just like the baseball equipment manufacturer."
"I love you Dad."

I was doing so well. Getting by fine. Went with Mom to select flowers and place them on his grave where I carefully cleared the grass clippings from around the marker which finally bares the date of his passing. I was fine, it was fact.

It happened one night. I went to the Hallmark store. There before me was the massive display of Father's Day cards. I was told this would happen. I thought I was past it. But I'm not. I miss my Dad.

30 years or 30 days

He's nearly 21. She's the 50-year old mother of one of his friends, a girl. She intimates to her daughter that of all her friends, he's the one she'd most like to get to know. . . (No, her name's not Mrs. Robinson). Of course the daughter tells him.

One night late the conversation evolves to sharing stories, the kind of which only come out after midnight. The two of them end up alone, and they talk. Would she really? No, she thinks not. She's so much older than he, and that's only the beginning of the list of why not.

"What's 30 years? It might as well be 30 days, it's only time."

Nearly 10 years later he still thinks about her and he wonders. Words tumbled out of his mouth at the time, confident and brash in their naivete. Was it a great line?

He asks those of us who find him adorable, how we would respond. . . we melt. That's all, we simply melt.

Wacky, wacky wedding

First of all, the bridesmaid's dresses were hideous. Absolutely hideous. Don't know what else I could say on that subject. (Who among us couldn't write a little something on this subject?) They didn't fit anyone well and were really poorly made. The most unfortunate thing is that my daughter had to wear one. Thankfully her mother-in-law was able to tack in some fabric here and there to make it a little less/more "bearable."

They wedding party gathered in a lovely garden for not one, not two, but three full hours of photographs prior to the wedding ceremony. The exciting part of that was the mentally disturbed woman who ventured along and wanted to be a part of things. The police were called, she responded to their questions in a variety of languages. She told them everything but her name. That was one 'guest' that didn't make it to the reception.

The cake fell over. Yep, you heard me right, the cake fell over. Lost the top two tiers to the floor before most of the guests arrived.

Speaking of guests, and this is where it gets interesting; there was a segmented guest list. Some were invited to the small wedding ceremony, some for dinner, and some for dancing and cake. Unfortunately the invitation didn't indicate into which category we fell. We skipped dinner to show up, at the time indicated on our invitation, to find that the reception was in full swing. No one welcomed us to the reception. Never had contact with the bride or anyone else. There was plenty of cake available despite the loss of the upper tiers, but we were hungry for dinner. The buffet was still set up in the back of the room so it was clear someone had been fed, it just wasn't going to be us.

After about half an hour our table of folks headed to our house and we picked up pizza on the way home.

Really wacky (which rhymes with tacky) to say the least.

Pecksniffianism

Pecksniffian. It's a word. I found it in the shiny, red Websters on my desk. Now I want to use it in a sentence but can't, for the life of me, figure out how!

Let's see what you all can do. Don't look it up. Just use it. Run free!

Lift us up where we belong

The spring in my flip phone has died. My perky little white phone used to fairly jump to life at the mere touch of my hand. Now I have to help it open and hold it there for fear of hanging up on my mother. I was demonstrating the phone's lack of enthusiasm for life last night when my husband suggested my Nokia needed some Viagra. After the roar of laughter subsided (he doesn't usually say things like that) it occurred to me that I may be in need of a touch of Viagra in other areas of my life.

My breasts for example. They're just not hanging out where they used to. I was at the chiropractor the other day where the perky little assistant takes you to the room with the floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall mirror and helps you stretch. That's really nice of her and all, but I didn't feel any better after stretching. I just kept looking at the body in the mirror in front of me. The legs weren't bad, for a grandma. The shoulders and arms were covered so as not to distract. What kept drawing my attention were the breasts that were situated somewhere well below the arm pits. Even with arms lifted high in an attempt to unkink my back, the breasts were still not even close to stretching with me.

That night I tried some modifications in the mirror. Lifting and squashing as if I had purchased a new bra that actually fit and wasn't also in need of Viagra. The problem was, to get the breasts where they looked like what they should, caused fat to back up clear to my arm pits. I looked great from the front but I couldn't put my arms down for the rolls under my arms.

Sort of like when you put on those super-elastic undergarments I call, "squooshy pants." Where does all that squished up tissue go exactly? The world may never know...

Like the plaintive wail at the end of Officer and a Gentleman, "Lift us up where we belong!" Perhaps if I hum that constantly my breasts will get the message. Think that could work?

Nah, don't take me seriously.

Dream jobs

The University of Nebraska Medical Center has hired someone as the Director of Communications and Emerging Technologies. The woman gets to blog for a living! Is that not the dream of every one of us?

Speaking of dream jobs, my friend Tosca has published her first novel. Check out the link below to her website. Then go to Amazon and order the book. I'm reading the advance copy. Trust me, you won't be disappointed. She's working feverishly on her next project, the story of Eve. Want to meet her or have her come speak to a group? She would love to hear from you!

Ever wonder why they're called 'slides'?

My husband and I, being as environmentally conscious as two people who own not one but two SUVs can be, drive to work together every day. Not only are we taking away Al Gore's platform, but we save a ton of money on gas. This serves the dual purpose of allowing me a few extra minutes to primp and prepare for the day while he drives. We also play along with a radio game show, "Battle of the Sexes" but that's a story for another day.

One day in early spring I notice that my heels are particularly dry. Not that my feet are ever in great shape, but this was something even I couldn't ignore. Thinking quickly, because that's what I do in the morning, I grab lotion out of my purse. The label says to "Apply liberally to thirsty skin." If these feet aren't thirsty I don't know what is. I'm applying, my feet are lapping up the bounty, and before you know it we're in front of my office. Unfortunately for me, my feet weren't done yet. They were still drinking when they needed to be gripping, the soles of my slides! I didn't go down, but it was only by sheer force of will.

It was at least noon before I could stay on my shoes. Guess that will teach me to be liberal! Some of us are just conservative, all the way to our toes.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful sister Kathleen! A woman who has all the grace anyone could ever hope for...