Passing The Test

Today is the day the people with the rubber hoses rule my life. My 1996 Oldsmobile (our newest car) flunked the DEQ (department of air quality) test set up by our friendly government. After several new parts on visa and wads of cash paid out to our mechanic, it still...didn't pass. Today is it. The last day we can legally drive the thing. Maddening part is..it drives FINE. Always starts. Sure the driver's side window no longer goes up or down, and the dash board rattles when you drive over 40, but who's picky? Owen our trusty mechanic and loyal friend replaced one more worn out hose and did everything his hand held computer told him was wrong with the silly thing. Now we just have to try again and pray. My question is, what do people do in this situation that have only one car? What if that car is the only one they have to get to work, and it runs fine but will not pass? They have two choices. Lose their jobs, or drive illegally. What kind of a choice is that? I'll admit it makes me want to go right out and buy a new car. Well, at least one that has less than 100,000 miles on it. That's really new to us. Trouble is the ads for those kinds of cars are worrying me. Here's a sample from the list I found yesterday:

Only needs one head gasket
A little hard to steer when turning left...
Smokes sometimes when you take off from sitting at an idel for a bit.
Car has a "rod knock" but the rest of the car is in real good shape.


Guess I'd better make sure the Oldsmobile passes. I'm driving right over there this morning. Don't worry I won't resort to trying to bribe a government official or anything. Although, there is a Krispy Kreme donut shop nearby....

That's My Story, and I'm Stickin To It!

Today is one of those days I'm not sure how to define. Happy? Sad? Or just wondering how it all works. I've had such an incredible high. Trouble is...I'm not sure what's next. I am so incredibly grateful for the blessing. I won the Erma Bombeck Humorwriter's Award. Me. It was just a year ago I sat in that big ballroom at the writer's conference in Dayton, Ohio honoring Erma. I looked around at all of those people who had been "published" and wondered if I would ever get there. Wondered how disiplined they were, how many degrees they had, what they ate for breakfast. Stuff like that. I still can't believe it. And the best part is, I won with a story about my mom. That's so cool. It feels like, even in death, she's helping me. She's still connecting. I knew she'd find a way. She was that kind of mom. But what now? What is God telling me to do next? I tried working on some stories today, but I found out something. Writing is hard, brain splitting work. I treasure the days the words just come pouring out of my head, like when the kids flood a bowl of lettuce with ranch salad dressing that overflows and seeps between the crack in the table and drips down to the floor. That kind. It's hard to sit at the keyboard and not think about our blue oldsmobile that won't start because maybe it needs a new alternator, but the mechanic isn't sure, which is after we already put $300 into it, and it still wouldn't pass DEQ and what are we gonna do because we only have till the end of the month before the plates expire, and then the good car the Mazda...the 17 year old van, was boiling over last Saturday when I returned home from a two hour drive on the freeway. Well anyway...it's hard to concentrate sometimes. But I will. Honest. Because I heard it said that we should be grateful for what we have. And what I have is the greatest award I could ever dream of. I owe for that. I will keep on plugging away. That is, as soon as I go upstairs and eat something. In the meantime...here's my story! http://www.wclibrary.info/erma/2007globalhumor.asp

Go Melinda Doolittle!

I just can't believe it. I know, I know this has no doubt been already blogged to death, but really. How could they dump Melinda Doolittle on American Idol? I rarely tuned in...really! But, the few times I caught her tunes, I actually agreed with Simon...she has it. So why did twenty million people decide to vote her off? Can we really believe the network? Hmmm. I guess what really worries me is the thought that these same people may be voting for our next president. Let's just hope without sequins and a back up band...they just won't bother. In the meantime... you go Melinda....you're gonna be a star!

Do You Speak Triangle?

How many little old ladies do I have to squash before I "get it?" Last week, we were visiting my step-mother who lives on the second floor in one of those assisted living places. She has a walker, and we were all piling into the elevator to take her out to lunch when it happened again. I couldn't figure out what button to push! I scooted inside first and frantically searched the panel with all the buttons for the word "open" to hold the doors. Guess what? The word has virtually disappeared from all electronic devices. In it's place are triangles. Sometimes there are two trianges going left and two going right. Sometimes they're going upside down. Sometimes they're hitchhiking. I don't understand triangles. I don't speak their language. I definately don't know which ones to pick. All I want to do is keep two doors from amputating a loved one's arm. Yelling "Help! help! what triangle do I pick?!" doesn't work either. I tried it.

I thought I was over the stress of the dillemma when I decieded to remove a DVD from the player last night. The remote wasn't in its usual spot (under the couch cushions) so I got up and stared at the buttons. More triangles. It's still sitting in the player. I think I'll just go "open" a book while I still know how.

That Will Be One Dollar Please....

My eleven year old daughter Melinda got off the bus, and I couldn’t believe what she had in her hands. Fistfulls of dollar bills. Tons of them. Turns out her hall mates were paying her to organize their lockers. And that was what she had left over after she admitted blowing most of her windfall on Tic Tacs. My daughter! Do I need a DNA test here? This is from the mother who only knows where things are by remembering the last place she stepped on them. It really must be true--some people are just born organized. Of my six kids I have about half claiming that impressive trait. Really, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Why can’t I be more like that? I too yearn for an escape from CHAOS, (can’t have anyone over syndrome) but I keep failing to make the grade. If I made the grade, I sure wouldn’t know where I put it. Each New Year I promise this will be the year I really change. I stand in the living room (next to the wadded up socks) and proclaim as the ball drops, that this year my family will have clean clothes, delicious dinners and couches free of newspapers, hairbrushes, and buried remote controls. Why can’t I achieve such a simple thing? I knew I needed help, so I called in some experts. I’ve started checking in with flylady.net and taking baby steps to my clutter addiction. One of fly lady’s goals I really liked was just to do one load of laundry a day. One load to sanity. Who knew? I love that tip! I now can see my laundry room floor , after..well…after a really long time. I also enrolled my youngest daughter with the house fairy at housefairy.org. The house fairy makes visits like the tooth fairy and boy does my eight year old buy it. She now has a magazine cover room, but mine still looks like Goodwill exploded. If you are a recovering, or not yet recovering slob, maybe these sites can help you. As for me, I think I need to have a chat with my inner brat. I met her at bratfactor.com. and boy is she stubborn. All she wants to do is play!

Of course, if none of these ideas work for you, feel free to send in your dollar. Melinda is getting low on Tic-Tacs and you will have the cleanest locker in town.

Breakin Up Is Hard To Do....

It’s time I made a final decision. I know what you’re thinking…twenty years is a long time to be together and I should really be sure I want to leave. I tried separation, and you know what? It felt great. Yes…the time has come to leave my warehouse membership for good. It all came to a head last night when those dreaded words were spoken at the checkstand. “You’re due to renew.” Gasp! Could it be true? Already? I had to face reality. Was I really getting my needs met, my freezer stocked, and fifty dollars worth of chicken on toothpicks? No. The time had come for us to part. I walked out of those guarded doors with no receipt and never looked back. Should I re-consider? Try counseling? Only time will tell. Oh there were good times to be sure. The jumbo hotdogs, the 5000 calorie muffins, the beep beep beep of a moving pallet of dog food. But, let’s face it, I did have a growing list of complaints… like why can’t we use our Visa? Why can’t we limp out behind a few muscle bound carry-out guys, and how can a place that’s big enough to park a jet plane not have dressing rooms? These were the questions that kept me up at night…made me really look inside myself…am I really having my needs met in this relationship? I can no longer deny the truth. I’ve been fantasizing about spending time with other discount stores. I’ve been sneaking out to Grocery Outlet and flirting with the Safeway meat counter markdowns. I’m afraid, eventually, the whole town will know. Yes, it’s time to leave the black conveyor belt of barn size bargains for good. I will forever cherish the years spent with the hairnet ladies… hovering over their toaster ovens and paper cups of nuts. But, I must move on to a life of bags and smaller parking lots.


Destiny and the day old bread cart is calling my name.

Whatsoever You Do...

I knew I was staring, but I just couldn’t stop.

The second grade classes were lined up in the hall soon to walk on stage for the annual music program. From my hard metal chair in the darkened gym I squinted to see if my seven year old daughter was among them yet. It was 1pm and I reluctantly shed my sweats and tennis shoes, climbed into something a little more decent and headed to the school even though, as usual, I had a million other things to do. After all, she was the narrator, a very important job I’m told. I did guiltily wonder if this was a waste of time as they’d be repeating the hour long show again that evening and really how many pictures can one mother take? But I came just the same. Searching the lined up kids for my offspring, I spotted what had to be a much older child in the line. That couldn’t possibly be a second grader! She stood almost 5 feet tall and looked…how else can I say it? Pregnant. Of course that wasn’t the case, but I couldn’t stop myself from openly gaping. This poor child. She was everything you wouldn’t want in an eight year old girl. Overweight and clumsy, stringy hair pulled carelessly back in a low ponytail, a raggy print dress that fell to her knees, and ugly black shoes. It was apparent she walked on the outsides of her shoes…at least the one that faced me. Her eyes were tiny non-descript slits. I couldn’t even tell what color. But that stomach. I couldn’t stop staring at that stomach. What went wrong? Could she have such a protruding stomach just from being overweight? Did she have some other kind of medical condition? What? Sitting in the darkened, cavernous gym the bright lights of the hallway surrounded her being. The line stayed put and she stubbornly stayed directly in my sight for a good fifteen minutes. There was no doubt what to do. I began praying for all Gods angels to surround this precious one and change her life. As long as that child was in my view I was going to pray for her. Once in place on the stage she stood and sang obediently with the others. So out of place. Again I prayed. “Lord please pour your blessings on this child, and any others on that stage that need my prayers.”

'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40.

I hope she felt my motherly hug across the gym.
It was the least I could do.