What's in a name?

I had a lovely conversation with a friend from across the country recently. I found his email to be spectacularly entertaining, and I thought it would be fun to share on here.



Is it just me, or does the following strike you as The Worst Product Name in History?

I was listening to NPR while cooking, as I sometimes do. At some point they mentioned that the preceding show was sponsored in part by--and here it is, The Most Disgusting Product Name Ever--an herbal laxative tea someone thought would be a good idea to call Smooth Move.

In my experience many herbal teas, once steeped, turn a distinctly brownish hue. Now why, in the name of all that is holy, would anyone name a product which promises loose bowl movements, a most-likely brownish liquid, intended for oral consumption, Smooth Move? Who in their right mind would part lips and swallow Smooth Move in hopes of same?

In case I'd misheard, or it was some type of joke, I Googled and as you can see the stuff really exists.



Fasten your Depends, there'll be a Smooth Move tonight.


Now, drink up.

PS. I created the above tagline. Think they might use it?

Hell hath no fury...

I love living in the middle of nowhere. If we have a party at our house, I don't have to worry about the neighbors complaining about the noise. Actually, to be truthful, it's more of a competition of who has the loudest music. I have the grace of my 'neighbors' (about a 1/4 - 1/2 mile away) being youthful enough to appreciate the joy of having parties.

The mind doth wander again...

Recently, I had a letter to the editor published in our local paper. I won't bother expounding on it, as it does a good enough job explaining things. I thought this letter would serve as a decent enough post that I want to include it here. I have edited it only in the regard of removing the phone number, as I don't feel that needs to be publicized on the internet. However, everything else is exactly as it published in the paper.

And now, without further ado:

My children are far from innocent. I’m not one of those delusional mothers who believes her child can do and has done no wrong. They’re kids. They make mistakes. They make bad choices.

On Sept. 17, my son played at a neighbor’s house.

We live in the middle nowhere, which means there aren’t really any kids his age nearby.

Our road had recently been pea-graveled. Being immature, like a 13-year-old with severe ADHD can be, my son, in his infinite boredom, starting throwing the pea gravel. He threw some at a passing truck for which he has been punished. From what I under­stand, it hit the man’s tires.

The driver, rather than acting like an adult, finding the child’s parents and speaking to them about the problem, decided it was in his best interest to tell my child that if he saw him on the road again, he would run him over with his truck. The driver actually felt it necessary to physically injure a child over a possible chip in the paint of his truck. Is this really what we have come to as a society?

I’ve had windshields cracked due to stones thrown from passing cars. I’m not going to run that car off the road and try to kill the driver. If the paint job on the truck was that important, why are you driving on pea gravel to begin with? If your truck is more impor­tant than human life, I’m amazed you can bring your­self to drive it, instead of hiding it in a garage where it cannot be damaged. If the sun fades the paint, are you going to try to remove it from existence?

To the driver, if you feel you deserve compensation to repair whatever damage my child may have done to your vehicle, call me at XXXXXXX. A meeting can be arranged. If you decide to follow through with your threat of running my child over, remember: if you think hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, try ra­tionalizing with a mother whose child has been in­tentionally injured.

Spread your wings and fly...

There are many aspects of parenting that are joyful beyond belief, and many that cause untold anxiety issues. Empty nesting, I would have to say falls somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. As a mother and step-mother of 5 ranging in ages from 9 to 22, we have the full gamut of events, from losing their first teeth, getting their first glasses, and hitting puberty, all the way to getting their first apartments, graduating college, starting college, and being on-call for military service.

The oldest 3 are not my biological babies, but I've raised them since they were 6, 8 & 11. For all intents and purposes, they are mine. Their biological mother has even told them to view me as the mom and her as a 'friend.' I'll not post my thoughts on that topic, as that is a whole separate wandering of my minds.

The oldest has not lived at home for the last 3 years. He moved in with some friends at the same time that my mother moved in with us after my father died. Since there were still 7 people in our house, and he came around regularly, I did not face those growing pains then. Even when he went off to college, he was only 3 hours away. In Michigan, and in a family of travelers, 3 hours is little more than a jaunt. If something were to happen, I could be there in reasonable time. And if it were an emergency, that 3 hours became 2 (with the aid of a lead foot and a radar detector). Sometimes we get there unnoticed by authorities. Others, we were not so lucky. But the ticket was worth it if I got to my child fast. I'm wandering...

Then he joined the National Guard and left for basic training. 6 & 8 states away, yet I still did not feel the absence. Of course, I cried every time I dropped him off at school, and I cried when he left for basics. But, he never saw that. I held myself together until he was gone.

Back in May, he moved to Virginia. This time, he saw me cry. He laughed. Children. LOL. He lives about 14 hours away, which is much more than a good stretch of the legs, and not a trip to be made in 1 or even 2 days. He has invited his oldest sister to move down there with him, where he can help her learn to live on her own without having instant culture shock right away. So, we have spent the last 3 months sorting, packing, and deciding what goes and what stays.

I only post this online because I have said as much to my children, but this time, I am almost more nerved up than my daughter. I am beyond nerved up, really. I am terrified. If something happens, I can't be there in a short time to help them figure out how to fix the problem, pick up the pieces and move on. Yes, I'm only a phone call away. And, the joke at our house is that the kids all have to move out before they find us worthy of conversation. So, I know I'll hear from them all the time. I actually expect to hear from E nearly daily for at least the first 2 weeks.

Still, she has never worked outside the house. She's never been very far away from the parental figures. The girl is almost 21 and hasn't even had a first date.

Terrified doesn't even skim the tip of my and her emotional icebergs.

K, #3, moved in with her boyfriend the very night of graduation. The superintendent's annual graduation joke involves seeing suitcases on parents porches on the way to the ceremony. Well, they weren't on the porch, but they were packed. Granted, in the first 2 weeks after she moved out, we knew where she was every minute of every day, and we'd seen and spoken to her more than the entire preceding year. She laughs when I say that, but it's sadly true.

What really drove home the empty nesting sadness was a phone call from J. He'd been injured at work and didn't realize how worker's compensation worked, so he was really flipping out about the bills and whether he would even have an apartment for his sister to live in when we move her down there in a few weeks. That thought spiraled him into many other sad thoughts, and the major fear of failure surfaced hard and fast. By the time I got off the phone, hopefully having re-encouraged him and set him up with fresh ideas how to go forward, I sat down ready to bawl.

I wanted so much to crawl through the phone and wrap my 22-year-old child so tightly in my arms, and just kiss the problem to make it go away. I wanted to reassure him that Mom would take care of everything, and not to worry. But, I couldn't do that, even if he sat in my own living room to tell me his woes. I couldn't be the superwoman I've been for the last almost 12 years. It's no longer my place to fix his problems.

I have to let my children spread their wings and fly, and just pray that we've taught them enough to soar on the up draft, fight the down draft, and store any unused energy for the next fight. It's humbling, to say the least.

I've not slept well in the last few weeks. Partly due to the anxiety of moving E down with J. Partly due to this thudding realization of powerlessness over my babies' fates. Mostly due to the lack of trust in myself at having done a good enough job of mothering to prepare them for the real world.

I faced 2 separate amniocenteses within 1 week with less trepidation than I feel now.

Let's face it. Mom is always the boss. And the boss's job sucks.

Still, as each hurdle is passed, either successfully, or not so much, we get to rejoice that our children at least tried. Even if they fall on their face, they tried. They didn't let their fears hold them back. And that means we did something right.

So, hopefully, once we have E and J settled into their apartment, and I make the long drive home alone... Hopefully, I can rest my head and sleep.

At least until the next phone call. :)

Blessings to all the bosses out there; you need it.

Can't see the forest through the trees.

I have always loved that phrase. It was one of my parents favorites, especially in regards to the federally declared disaster area that was my bedroom. :)

Recently, though, I have found a new, fitting situation for the application of that phrase. The book club to which I belong recently attempted to read a title written by Laurie R King. "The Art of Detection." Two ladies made it through to the end, one made it halfway, I only made it 34 pages into the first chapter, which happened to be 51 pages long.

I write. And, obviously, I am one very wordy woman. However, the first chapter sets the tone for the rest of the novel. Even in short stories, the first chapter establishes the reader into the story. In the case of this novel, I could not see the story through the words. Narrative overkill suffocated my mind with a pillow of verbiage until it fell into a dark realm of unconsciousness. (Prime example of narrative overkill in that sentence. LOL.) This was a murder mystery, and after 34 pages, the detective and I had still not arrived at the location of the body.

The next title chosen is one which my favorite SAHM and I have wanted to read for a while now, and I am entirely looking forward to the crafty enjoyment. Gregory Maguire's "Confessions of an Ugly Step-sister."

Kendra and I have both read "Wicked," which made us actually feel pity and sorrow for the Wicked Witch of the West. I cannot wait to learn how Mr. Maguire has twisted the Cinderella story around.

Anyone wishing to join in discussion of this title, please feel free to leave a comment.

I'll leave off this one with many fewer words than my prior posts, so that the readers can actually reach the end without frustration. Bon soir, ma petit!

Don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.

**I'm wordy. Get used to it.**

Simple words, very cliché, yet, disgustingly true. We all tend to take advantage of the little things around us, ignoring just how important those things are. It isn’t until something or someone takes them from us that we even realize we should care.

This is a bit of a maudlin post. Yet, at the same time, it is a bit celebratory. Let me begin with the celebratory part.

After nearly a year of having blood drawn every single month, testing this, that, and another thing, I have at long last gotten good news more than once. Trial and error to get the right combination of medications have finally led to having my levels all come back close enough to normal that I get to wait 6 months before I see the endocrinologist again. Yes, I have to take 12 pills a day to keep them stable, but I’m stable. And, that, my dear readers, is what matters.

This is where the maudlin bit comes in. My dear friend K has spent the last year nursing me through my ‘self-pity’ days quite well. A few of those opened with emails from me to her stating, “Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. Just let me wallow. I don’t want to hear it.” And, she did just that.

See, I cycle emotionally, especially in dealing with such a screwed up disorder that messes with the levels of all sorts of important stuff in your body. For the most part, my days pass just fine. I’ve learned to recognize when I’m in danger of over-exerting myself so that I can slow down or stop and rest. Yet, every once in a while, even though I’ve taken my meds, and I’ve been cautious not to over-exert, my levels will still drop, and I will suddenly find myself unable to hold my own weight on my legs. This has only happened once since we got the right medication combination, but when it does, it is very difficult not to feel overwhelmed and betrayed by my body.

However, it has now been nearly a full month since that last episode, and that occurred on a high-stress day, so I am not surprised. The longer I’m on the meds, the longer spans of time between ‘down’ days.

And that, dear readers, is another reason to cheer. I might even be able to rejoin the choir in the fall. I would like that. I miss it.

How does all of this tie in? Think about it for a moment. Imagine you are a very active participant in life. Hiking, camping, biking, gardening, playing with the kids, just simply never sitting still. All of a sudden, you’re standing there, watching the amazing Michigan sunset when your knees start to tremble. Before you can even realize it, the tremble has become a seizure-like shake. Then, all strength is wiped from your legs, knocking you to the ground. Your legs just won’t work hold you up anymore, no matter how many times you try to stand or walk. You might be able to manage a crawl, except that your arms have started to tremble, too, and you’re now afraid that you’ll literally fall on your face if you try.

That is when you realize just how precious the act of walking, or even just standing without help, really is.

I thank my PCP (Primary Care Physician) all the time that she was able to actually recognize the disorder and order the right blood work, and more so when the blood work came back, since very few PCP’s, or any doctor outside of Endocrinologists, have any sort of clue about this ‘thing’. I also thank her that she sent me to this particular endo. While his name may be different, I view it that I am being treated by ‘Dr. House’. Other clinic workers see his name and cringe, while at the same time, my PCP flat out said that if she were faced with this, this particular endo is who she would want.

That faith has proven well-earned, and I was even able to help with the landscaping over the last 2 weeks, with only losing strength for a couple of hours, rather than the whole weekend, and that was only after 2 hours of seriously manual labor moving heavy rocks around.

I may have to deal with a counter full of medicine bottles for the rest of my life, but it’s worth it if it keeps my muscles cooperating. I know I’d survive if I did lose my mobility. After all, there are worse things that could happen.

But, I know what I’ve got, and I want to keep it.

A rose by any other name...

Losing a loved one changes so many things in a person’s life. It is a very hard adjustment to make, trying to heal the open wound in your heart and soul, while maintaining your life as close to normal as you can get it. September 5^th, 2006, my father lost his fourth battle with cancer. However, when we buried him on September 8^th, I didn’t say goodbye to just my father. Apparently, I lost that entire branch of the family.

I didn’t realize it right away. At first, I just assumed that everyone was dealing with their grief. No big deal. I’d dealt with mine as soon as we got the terminal diagnosis with the wonderful prognosis of, “It could be three weeks; it could be three months. We just don’t know enough about this particular cancer to be more definite.” So, after three weeks of listening to the suction machine, trying to get anything to go through the feeding tube, and watching the man who had been a six-foot-two-inch pillar of strength for most of my life waste away to less than eighty pounds, when he breathed his last breath, instead of the monumental grief suffered by my siblings, I felt relief, as if a giant boulder had been removed from my soul.

I already supported physician-assisted suicide before this for patients in such terminal situations. Having lived through the torture, I would now gladly help contribute to the defense of any doctor put on trial for being an angel of death to a patient in such suffering. But, that is a different topic for a different day.

Back to the withdrawal of the family.

I started noticing the solid changes over the last year. Suddenly, the out of state aunts and uncles only forwarded stupid emails that we’ve all received a couple dozen times. Then, when the Texas branch made the trip north to visit, I only found out about it because my cousin (and one of my best friends) knew about it. That alone made it an interesting fact, since that uncle of mine, being the cousin’s father, had about as much to do with them through their lives as a dog does its secreted feces. Yet, they knew he visited. He went there before anywhere else.

Then, when the ‘family’ had a group meal to commemorate that the uncle visited and to give everyone a chance to socialize, my branch of the family (mom, siblings, etc.) were never notified.

Well, that was lovely.

But, what really drove it home: This last weekend was my #3 (of 5) child’s graduation open house. She worked her tail off to get good grades, she graduated near the top of her class (not in the top 10%... only because the class only had 18 students. Gotta love small town life.), and I couldn’t wait to celebrate our third child’s advent into adulthood and ‘real life.’

We mailed all the invitations. We bought enough food and drinks to feed two hundred people. We worked our tails off getting the yard ready. I devoted two weeks nearly nightly composing an awesome slideshow, complete with wicked picture transitions and favorite music, using an unfamiliar program, 380 photos, 17 songs, and a lot of trial and error. We begged and borrowed awnings, tables and chairs from friends. And, finally, the day arrived. The storms which had been predicted moved through faster than expected, and the day grew warm and sunny, though the wind was ferocious for most of the day. Still, the sun meant that I didn’t have to worry about trying to fit all those people into my little house.

My husband’s family all arrived. My daughter’s friends all arrived. Even friends I hadn’t seen in months/years managed to get time off of work to come help us celebrate.

Of my family: My mother? I finally texted her with only a half hour left asking if she was going to make it, especially since she’d not been able to make it to the graduation itself due to an anxiety attack. Nope, she was too tired. My younger brother? Nope. My second oldest sister? No sign of her. The oldest sister and older brother live four states over, and I never expected them to make it at all. Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? No, no, and no.

Only one person in my entire outrageously huge family could be bothered to show. And, he never even received an invitation. He’d spent most of his life as a drunk bastard, and the only time I’d heard anything from him in the last five years was when he needed something from me. Yet, HE made it.

None of the others could even be bothered to give a phone call, a text message, or even an email. No one expected them to come bearing any sort of gift. After all, the older three children are my step-children, even if I don’t think of or behave toward them that way. But, at least a polite decline would have been acceptable.

In discussing this with my cousin/best friend/sister/confidante, she told me, “I don’t understand why you let this surprise you.” Unfortunately, she was not the only one to tell me that same sentence.

When I got married, I kept my maiden name and hyphenated it with my husband’s last name. I was proud of my heritage, and I wanted people to associate me with that family name. Now, I see no point in clinging to something that apparently means so little to anyone other than myself.

Today, I believe I’ll call the courthouse and ask what it costs to have my name changed.

Opening Wanderings

Honestly, I didn't want to start a blog. I thought, "Do I really need something else to take up my time?" However, it's nice to have a place to put those thoughts which I don't mind being public. And I have a few. Especially in regards to political topics.

However, without much time today to get this one started, I'll leave off and gather my ramblings for my next post.