I’ve often wondered what men think about during sex or do they even think at all? Somehow I think the latter is probably closer to the truth or at least it is for my husband. That man could be dying and still want to get a little while absolutely nothing flows through his brain. Don’t get me wrong though, I have no problem with his lack of thought during sex. As long as he does his part, I’m happy.
Now, me…I am a woman and I can guarantee you that there are a million different things going through my mind even during a little lovemaking. In fact, sex is a great time for me to think about home improvements. No, really. Many decorating changes to our house have come about because of good sex. What am I supposed to be thinking? Ooh…aah…ooh?
What about you?
Gut-wrenching fear struck me as I looked at the name that popped up on my phone, Deanna Deanna. The name was supposed to only say Deanna, but apparently I had a brain fart the day I entered my Aunt Deanna’s name into my contact list. Just seeing her name once was a enough to make me nauseous, but twice put me over the edge. Deanna never calls me unless there is a problem, specifically with my Mother. As I live 90 miles away, my Mother’s sister is her first line of defense is something were to happen. Considering the fact that Mom is 80 years-old things are bound to happen that are out of our control.
For years my Mom and her younger sister have been daily lunch partners with the latter picking her up. They hit almost every restaurant in town during the week and when they are done with that they go to the surrounding cities for lunch. On this particular day they were sitting at the local bowling alley getting ready to order lunch. Before they even picked up the menu Mom turned a pasty white, started sweating bullets, and had difficulty moving her left arm without extreme pain. Aunt Deanna rushed her to the emergency room then gave me the call that made me start sweating bullets.
Everything turned out OK with Mom for now, but it still frightened me to the core. I stayed with Mom for a few days, then did something that put me in the doghouse. Before leaving for home I drove her to the Home Health division of the hospital and told her this was it, she’s getting a Life Line. Yes, Life Line. You know those annoying commercials “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”? Talk about an unhappy camper. Mom was not pleased at all with the fact I was forcing her to do something against her will. She is very independent and stubborn but she wasn’t getting her way this time. She informed me that she wasn’t one of those old ladies and she always has her cell phone with her (no, she doesn’t).
I didn’t back down and got my way this time but it made me feel awful. My mom is my closest friend in the world and felt as if I had betrayed her confidence. That feeling didn’t last too long though. By the time I drove home I felt so much more secure knowing Mom would be safer in her home now. In fact, it’s been several weeks now and she no longer even mentions the help button that hangs around her neck. Maybe that’s because she is now upset with me for mentioning the dreaded word “walker” or the fact I said no more driving her car. I guess we just have to take baby steps. Momma raised me which couldn’t have been easy. Now the tides have turned and I am taking care of her (when she lets me).
Promises, promises, promises…..I make them to myself frequently and then fail to follow them. One of those promises has been to keep up on my blogs. Yeah, I haven’t been very good at that one, have I? It’s not that I have giving up writing; I do that every day while working on my first book. I am also big on posting my strangely perverted, happy thoughts on Facebook, so if you are “friends” with me you aren’t missing out on much. If you want to be my little friend, you can find me at my Happy Blonde Facebook page.
Life in Happy Blonde land has included a lot of snow lately; in fact we received about 13 inches with the last storm. That equals about 1.6 inches of rainfall according to the Snowfall to Rainfall Calculator or basically not crap considering the drought we’ve been going through. See this picture? This is our neighbor’s pond last spring. It is now completely empty. Who knows, maybe with 13 inches of snow it might pass as a cup of fish soup now.
Anyhow, I am going to try and keep up my goal to blog more instead of just writing. It’s good outlet that I should utilize more, maybe I’ll be less crazy.
Saying goodbye to my Dad while he was lying on a cold, hard slab was one of the most difficult things that I have ever done. He had only been gone for a couple of hours, but the coldness had already crept into his whole being. I held his hand anyhow while the tears streamed down my face. Thank God my husband was there to keep me standing; otherwise I would have hit the floor from the overpowering grief. While my Dad was not the first relative of mine to die he was certainly the closest. He was not only my Father, but one of my closest friends.
Dad had his first massive heart attack at 59, causing his and my Mom’s life to change forever. After having open heart surgery, he was forced to retire early because of his health. He was a good, strong man though, and didn’t let this destroy him. Dad had been a nurse and an ultrasound/x-ray technician during his career, so he knew all about caring and giving to others and this is exactly what he did for the next 18 years. He became involved in numerous volunteer projects and was even named senior volunteer of the year at one time. No matter how much pain he was in, he always had a smile on his face for others. Over the years Dad had numerous health concerns and surgeries causing him to physically die on the table, but always come back. Maybe this was one of the reasons his death was so hard on me, he had always cheated death before.
In the weeks before Dad passed he had been to the emergency room numerous times for severe back pain. Since they didn’t feel it was his heart, he was medicated and sent home with Mom. I lived a little over an hour way, so in between visits, I spent a lot of time on the phone with my parents. In fact, I called them two or three times every day. When Dad’s back got worse, I started to call him at 7:30 in the morning on my way to work. Since I already talked to him several times a day, I decided to cut out the 7:30 call so he wouldn’t get dependent on it and be upset if I forgot. It was one of the worst mistakes I ever made.
The night Dad died my Mom called to say they had been to the emergency room and had been sent home once again with pain medicine for his back. I offered to come home and be with them both to see what I could do, but my Mom reassured me it was OK. It wasn’t. At four am I got the call that Dad was gone. I just held the phone and couldn’t even function. My husband pretty much dressed me and we made the longest, most difficult journey that I will ever remember.
The moral of this story is to never take anyone for granted and give them that extra moment whenever you can. If I had kept on calling Dad at 7:30 every morning, I would have been able to speak to him fourteen more times before he died. It took me a long time to forgive myself for that but I finally did and I know that Dad is always watching over me.
For the longest time I had an antique rug in front of the fireplace. It was from circa 1920 and I loved that rug, yet was starting to fray a bit and didn’t deserve to be stomped on by four dogs and three cats, so I sold it. I didn’t want to spend $200 or more on a new rug, so some hunting and scavenging was in store for me.
A while back a new Habitat for Humanity ReStore opened in town. Restores sell used building materials in good condition and at great prices. I love thrift shops, garage sales, and craigslist.org, so it didn’t take long for me to check it out. I was able to find a large piece of Berber carpet that had obviously been removed from a room. The color was a light cream but not the color I was looking for. It also had a dark stain in one corner. However, priced at a whopping $9, it wasn’t something that I could pass up either.
The stain was covered easily by furniture and I cut the carpet to fit. The cutting left the edges looking frayed so ribbon (bought on clearance after Christmas) was glued on. Although this made the carpet look decent enough, the color just didn’t go with the rest of the house. While surfing the net for options I came across a site about painting carpet. It seems that Berber is the perfect carpet to paint.
So with a can of left-over maroon paint and a brush, I went to work. It only took about 45 minutes to paint and then over night to dry. I figured at the time it would need several coats, but have decided that I like the brush-stroke look. Besides, if I get tired of it I can always add that second coat.
Sometimes a smile and a laugh can take away a lot of pain. My daughter Amber gave me one of those moments this morning and it was really needed. Yesterday was my first visit to therapy for a consult. I was under the impression that following therapy would be basic Tai Chi in a nice, warm pool. Of course, this wasn’t the case. It’s never the case when it comes to me. If the weatherman said there was a one percent chance of rain, then raindrops would land on my head.
The day before my visit, I made sure to take a long bath and shave parts that haven’t seen a razor in quite a while. I even used the scraper on my feet and painted my toenails. Didn’t want to wear a swimming suit and frighten the therapist. I’m sure they have seen worse, but I do have some pride left. After going over paperwork with the front office, I was slowly whisked away by my therapist Susan. She was a very nice lady and explained that they treat a lot of patients with fibromyalgia, so I was in good hands.
Then the torture started. Susan needed to have me move in every direction possible to determine my range of motion and the level of pain. This only lasted for a little while, but seemed to go on forever. I can’t blame her for the pain, she was only doing her job, but oh my! I’m not doing that again for a while. Susan was very sweet when she was done putting me through agony, she brought me heat packs to lie on. Those packs almost made up for the misery.
This morning was like another round of torture thanks to therapy. Every muscle throbbed with pain. Now, mornings are tough for me anyhow and it takes a while for me to get going. This morning was unbelievable though. It took me three hours to get moving. I woke up at seven, took 800 mg of ibuprofen, then went back to bed, and just snuggled with my dog Foofers. He is old, so hopefully through his doggy dementia he had a little bit of empathy for my struggle. Probably not though, because he was busy snoring until I finally crawled out of bed at ten.
Amber called not long after and that I told her it took me three hours to get out of bed. She made some weird noise, huffed, and informed me I better get my butt to the emergency room. It seems she had the impression of me trying to sit up for three hours. That was definitely the laugh and smile that I needed to get my day going.
Ever have that awkward moment when you run into someone you should know, but you have no clue who they are? I can honestly say this has happened to me more times than I care to admit. I usually just smile, chat along with them, and pretend like I remember who they are. It’s really kind of embarrassing. Sometimes I open my mouth and something stupid comes out of it.
For anyone who grew up in Abilene, Kansas, the Central Kansas Free Fair is a big deal. Anyone who is anyone goes to the parade and fair. Even those of us who have moved away make a point to go home once a year and walk the fairgrounds. Like most kids in Abilene I grew up belonging to 4H and showing my rabbits, dogs, and projects at the fair. Going back is always fun and exciting, if not interesting.
A few years ago I went back for the yearly walk of the fairgrounds and to take the kids on the rides. I’m not sure they felt the same rush and excitement that I did at seeing who was there. It’s always fun to see who goes to fair and how much they have or have not changed. Not that I am one to talk, I certainly don’t look like I did when I was sixteen.
Walking around the carnival that night I kept seeing a dark-haired man with a mustache and goatee. He looked so familiar; I knew that he had to be from my past somehow. How on earth did I know him? Old boyfriend maybe? No, that wasn’t it, he had to be about ten years older than me. Maybe we were related. He did look a little like my cousin Paul. It was driving me absolutely insane. So, after stalking him and his girlfriend for several minutes, I finally worked up the courage to walk up to him.
“Hi, my name is Michele. You know, you look an awful lot like my cousin Paul”.
He just looked at me, shook his head, and said “Michele, you moron, I am your cousin Paul.”
Oops, OK, so I hadn’t seen Paul for a couple of years and he definitely didn’t have a mustache and goatee the last time I saw him. It’s been ten years since this happened and I still haven’t lived this one down.
(n.d.). A carnival at night time. [Print Photo]. Retrieved from http://www.freestockphotos.biz/stockphoto/14058
I have never been fond of going to the doctor or the emergency room when something happens to myself. This is not because I am afraid of the doctor, but because I am frugal. Take for example my last little trip to the ER. The entire thing plus hospital stay ended up costing over $20,000. Fortunately we have health insurance, but we still have to pay our portion. It seems like one doctor bill gets paid and a new one shows up on your doorstep. It’s a never ending battle.
Sometimes I refuse to go to the ER because of time constraints or when the kids were little because no one was able to watch them for me. The latter was the case when I broke my finger and possibly fractured my wrist years ago. My husband worked night shift and wasn’t home when I slipped off the back porch putting the dogs out in the middle of the night. It was icy and I should have been more careful, but that doesn’t always matter when it comes to ice. I flew off the steps and landed on my right hand, hearing more than one crack. By the time I made it into the house my wrist was throbbing and I didn’t even want to look at my hand, but I had too. My middle finger was not only obviously broken but standing straight up! Talk about some serious pain.
We lived in a small town at the time that didn’t have a doctor in the emergency room over night, just one on call. I knew that I would have to wait quite awhile for the doctor to come in to fix my wrist and finger. That wasn’t going to work since both kids were under three at the time and my husband wasn’t home to watch them. Both my parents and in-laws were out of town as well. There was no WAY I was going to drag two screaming children to the emergency room unless I was on the verge of death. So, I iced my finger and wrist for awhile, had a few shots of vodka, then did the unthinkable. I grabbed my finger with my left hand, pulled up and then out, straightening it. It’s remarkable that the kids didn’t wake up or the police didn’t come to my door, because I did my fair share of screaming. Once the pain settled down, I splinted my finger and wrapped both it and my wrist. I never did go to the doctor, but probably should have.
So, while it is possible to fix your own broken finger, it isn’t something that I would ever suggest. Pain pills or a shot sure would have helped. At least my finger isn’t crooked, so I guess it could have been worse.
Spent some time watching my beautiful, new Granddaughter, Harper this evening. She is a daily reminder of just how precious life really is. I am blessed to be able to spend so much time with her. Even though this is a blessing, it is also something that I am having to learn all over again. One would think that taking care of a baby would be like riding a bike, something you never forget. Not true, at least not in my case.
The first hint that I was going to have to do a little re-learning was when I changed her diaper the other day. I quickly removed her little bottoms, the dirty diaper, and then proceeded to clean up the lovely surprise. I was so proud of myself for multi-tasking and getting the job done. The only problem was that I took just a little too long to place the clean diaper under Harper’s tush allowing her to pee on just about everything. A simple diaper change turned into a complete outfit change. Lesson learned
One task that I haven’t seem to forgot completely how to do though is bottle feeding. Good thing, couldn’t have Harper hungry on my watch. Now, just because I haven’t forgotten how to do it doesn’t mean there haven’t been some issues. Come on, this is Michele the Happy Blonde, would you expect any less? Well, Harper was hungry this evening, so I got the bottle out of the diaper bag that Amber sent so I could warm it up a little bit. After sitting down with Harper, I did the old-fashioned test of squirting some of the milk on my inner forearm to make sure the milk wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t until Harper was greedily sucking at the bottle that it dawned on me that I had just squirted my daughter’s breast milk all over my arm. At least I didn’t do a taste test, that would have been just a little bit creepy.