Me, It's who I am...

I recently had an email conversation with a friend in which I recounted my most obnoxious traits. Being me, I saw the humor in it and thought i would share.

I am whiny, selfish, demanding, and prone to "diva moments"

I leave my clothes in piles on the floor.

I have a shoe and purse obsession that can only be called "out of control".

I cook for an army, then bitch that I am  overweight.

I'm moody.

I am beyond disorganized.

I hog the bed. And the blankets.

I chew gum constantly, because it keeps me from smoking. And I chew it with my mouth open when I'm driving.

I have to have music on constantly. Seriously. All. The. Time.

On the other hand....

I love with my whole heart.

I put everyone else's needs above my own.

I would give someone the shirt off my back if I thought they needed it more.

So that, my friends is me. Take me or leave me. It's who I am.

that one perfect moment....

There are always moments in our lives that live in our memories forever. Sometimes they are big things, like weddings, births, deaths. Sometimes though it's the little tiny moments that we hold tightly. My current favorite moment was one where for just a second, everything was peaceful and right with the world. A couple of months ago, I woke up in the arms of someone I cared about. His arms were around me, and I had one dog in my arms, another on my feet, another next to my face, and a cat at the top of my head. It was the first time in a long time I woke up smiling. At that exact moment in time, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Of course time goes on, and things change. We've gone our separate ways, but that one perfect moment remains. It's the kind of memory that makes me hope I don't end up with dementia.  When I'm ninety, even if I end up alone, I want to be able to look back and say. "Yeah, I had that perfect moment and I wouldn't change a thing."

Canning Season 2011 Opener

So the other day I was looking for a jar of jam in my pantry. That is when I made the awful discovery. I was down to my last two jars of jam. This may not seem like much of a tragedy unless you realize that it is March in the North Country. There isn't much in the way of fresh fruit available. Two jars of jam doesn't go very far either when you average ten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a week. Yes I could go to the store and buy jam, but have you met me yet?

About the only fruit available, that's worth doing anything with, is citrus fruit. So I dug out my trusty blue book, and looked up  marmalade recipes. I have never made marmalade before, and had no idea what on earth I was getting into. I chopped the citrus peel, chopped the pulp. Then you have to boil the peel, then change the water and add the pulp and reboil. Then you let it sit for about eighteen hours. Then you bring it to a boil again, add the sugar, and let it boil some more. I was starting to get annoyed by the whole process until I decided to use it as a zen exercise.

I stood there stirring, and stirring, and stirring some more. I used the time to run the last couple of  weeks through my head. I thought about everything I've said, and everything I wish I had the guts to say. I kept stirring and let everything go in my mind. Finally the marmalade gelled, and I could put it in the jars and processed it. In the meantime I processed the last couple of weeks. I'm at a changing point in my life. Between putting my mother in the nursing home, and making some other decisions that were just as hard, I've been through the emotional wringer. It was nice to take the time to just meditate on it. Who knew that making marmalade could also be a lesson in patience?

The Joy of Kids

This is my weekend with the boys. I typically get them every three weeks. Usually it falls on a weekend with little to no extra income, but the boys have gotten used to that. So we find things to do. This is a lot easier in the summer of course, when there are plenty of free events going on. This time of year is a little more challenging. Between the weather changing every thirty seconds, and the mud that is up to our knees, Outdoor activities are usually out. I'll be honest. I am not "outdoorsy". I like to go for walks, and sit on the beach. I don't hunt, fish, camp, ski, snowmobile, or anything like that. My idea of a good time is putting in a cd and curling up on the sofa with a good book. We've discussed my lack of green thumb before, so obviously, I don't do much gardening either.

The boys don't seem too bothered by my lack of "outdoorsiness". Fox is pretty similar to me in that regard. Except instead of curling up with a book, he'd rather play video games. At least with the Wii, he's getting some exercise. Stone, at not quite four is happy riding his little tricycle in circles through the living area. His other favorite activity involves watching the movie "Ghostbusters" on endless loop. If I have to hear that theme song one more time, I may snap. Seriously.


Weekends with the boys though are special. Not just because they make me appreciate the weekends they are at their dad's more. (I'm only half kidding here.) It gives me a new perspective on them. I don't usually get to see them interact with each other. During the week, Fox is at school during the day, and I tend to work at night. On the weekends I get to see them play together, and drive each other bananas in a way that only siblings can. This morning for instance was a two hour argument about whether Fox was going to play Wii, or Stone was going to watch "Ghostbusters". I managed to get them to compromise, but eventually it just became easier to just leave the house with them.

Last night was a study in obnoxious. A friend of mine joined us for dinner. My darling boys took the obnoxious to the next level. I sent them into the living room to watch television so Bob and I could chat in the kitchen. Fox sat backwards in the recliner staring at us through the pass window. I told him repeatedly to go watch television, play in traffic, something, anything. But he kept interrupting. Stone kept running in to ask questions. The dogs kept jumping up and licking Bob in the face, sticking their head in his crotch, the whole nine yards. After he left I read the boys the riot act, sent them to bed, and poured myself a glass of wine.

It's a good thing they are so stinking cute. I really do love spending time with them. They usually manage to make me laugh. Fox got my sense of humor. To the point that I made a joke at his parent teacher conference, and one of his teachers looked at me and said "There is no doubt which kid is yours!" He has a dry sense of humor. The kind that people sometimes don't get. I cannot imagine where he got it from. Stone is just so energetic and loving that it's impossible not to smile around him. So back I go to spend time with the boys. Until next time...

Kerouac

I wanted to talk a little about my profile picture today. The cute sleeping orange and white cat is my late cat Kerouac. I know it seems morbid to use it as my profile picture, but he was the closest thing I've ever had to a soul mate. That cat could read my mind. He could also take the finish off furniture with that rough tongue of his, but that is another story.

When I met Kerouac, he was going by the name Treble. He had this ridiculous high pitched meow. He was sitting in his cage at the adoption center in the Dewitt PetSmart. We hadn't even had our grand opening yet, and he sat there watching us go by. One day I had stopped to talk to the man running the adoption center, and had leaned against the plexiglass wall.

"Turn your head to the left, slowly" he told me. Over my shoulder there was Treble, rubbing his head against the glass as if to say "Hey you, look at me". At that moment I melted. Pat asked if I wanted to see him. And when I took him out of the cage, he burrowed his head into my neck and started purring. Needless to say, that cat chose me. He came home the very next day.

However, the name needed rethinking. It just didn't fit the little guy. He and I spent a lot of time staring at each other while we tried to come up with a new name. Nothing seemed to fit. Until I realized that the little orange patch on his chin gave him a beatnik appearance. My favorite author is Jack Kerouac. Jack didn't work. Kerouac did.

Kerouac lived with me for five years. He started slowing down. The downside to his adoption was that we had no idea how old he actually was. He was my constant companion, greeting visitors, warming my lap, sleeping on my pillow next to me. One day in October of 2009, I realized that I hadn't seen Kerouac all day. I went looking for him and found him in the corner of the laundry room. He had passed away.

I buried Kerouac on the ridge behind my parents' house, underneath the lone thorn apple tree. I think he would have liked that. I've tried to find another cat, but Kerouac was a once in a lifetime kind of friend.

For want of a working vacuum....

First off, I am the least technically inclined person you will ever meet. I am boggled by computers, digital cameras, mp3 players, even cell phones.  My old camera's menu was in German. I didn't know enough German to be able to put it back into English. On the other hand I am also dirt poor. So when my vacuum cleaner started acting up, I decided to attempt to fix it on my own.

I can do basic repairs on my vacuum. Little things like changing the belt, and taking it apart to clear clogs. So I dug out my trusty phillips head screwdriver and went to town. To get the proper visual, this happened in the morning before work. Picture me doing this in a suit, complete with skirt, pantyhose, and high heeled shoes. The belt wasn't broken, but I pulled a wad of fur out of the tube that was roughly the size of one of the pet rats. Unfortunately that didn't do the trick, so I put it aside until I could be dressed more appropriately.

A couple of days later, I pulled on my ratty sweats and favorite nasty t-shirt and really pulled the thing apart. I got out a wire hanger, and cleaned out all of the tubes, changed the belt, and changed the filters. Feeling confident, I plugged it in and turned it on. It seemed to work for a little while, then started blowing the dust back out. Sighing, I turned it off and sat on the floor trying to figure out what to do next. The last place I had to look was in the motor compartment. Unfortunately the screws holding it shut were a weird shape that my meager collection of screwdrivers just didn't cover.

So I borrowed the tools from my dad to take the blasted thing apart. Nothing. It still keeps clogging. At this point we are at the score of vacuum 3, Sharon 0. My sister in law gave me their old one, so I can at least clean. Dad said he'd take a look at mine and see if he can figure out what's going on. I will prevail. I play to win.

Today

Today was the day that I had been dreading since we moved home.

Today I felt guilty

Today I cried.

Today I told my mom I love her, and I'm sorry.

Today we put my mother in a nursing home.

Today Sucks.

I'm ready for today to be over.

Finally in a happy place.

We're having a "Biggest Loser" style weight loss challenge at work for the next couple of months. Normally this is something I get right on board with, so I did my first weigh in. As I  was getting ready to pitch in my money, I had an epiphany. What on Earth was I doing? I am happy with who I am and what I look like. And on a purely selfish note, since I'm only carrying maybe an extra fifteen pounds, there is no way I have any chance at winning this. Granted, I wasn't always so comfortable with myself. I've been super thin, and morbidly obese and neither made me happy. You know what makes me happy?

My son waking me up with a kiss on the head.

My boys smiling faces when I get home from work.

My dogs curling up with me at night.

The rare alone time I get with someone special. (ahem...hint hint.)

Pink Tulips

Cupcakes with butter cream frosting.

A full night's sleep.

Notice nothing on that list has anything to do with how I look. I am at the lowest weight I have been at in years, but that's not what's making me so happy with my life. I'm happy because I'm healthy and there are people that care about me. Neither of the boys has become a serial killer, and my life is in a good place.

So thanks, but no thanks. Extra fifteen pounds or not, I am not going to do the weight loss challenge.