If someone asked you to make a list of things that makes you happy, could you do it? What would you list? How many items would there be on your list? I was recently tasked with making such a list and I am at a loss. I truly do not know how to begin!
Of course, my family makes me happy as do my friends. They, however, are not "things"; therefore, they don't make the list. My dogs make me happy most of the time, when they aren't yapping, that is. But they, too, are not "things" so, nope, they aren't on the list either. See my problem? "Things", apparently, are what I can do to entertain myself so that I can bring joy into my life. "Things" are like reading, knitting, coloring, exercising, writing this damn blog; you know, "things"! Shopping....I like to shop....shopping brings me joy....buying things brings me joy; but it also brings my husband down on my back like a tornado, so that can't go on the list, either. So now I'm thinking that I'm 56 years old and I might be too old for "things" to make me happy. Exercising hurts, reading puts me to sleep, and coloring won't work because I can't see well enough to stay inside the lines anymore. Writing this blog gives me agita; it's fun, but joyful? Not so much! The sun makes me happy but that's not something to do. Warm weather makes me happy but I live in Pennsylvania so that's out for most of the year. A little, one story pink house in Florida, surrounded by flowers all year makes me happy but here comes that damn tornado of a husband, again. That's not gonna' happen!
So, basically, I've learned that depending on "things" to make me happy isn't a reality. How about you? What makes you happy?
Peace Out!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
This week I will take my first final exam in 38 years! That's right, 38 years. What the heck was I thinking when I decided to go back to college part-time? Who was I kidding? Granted, it's an online program and the tests are all open book; but 38 years is a very long time since the last final exam. I don't even know where to start. Suppose I fail? Or worse yet, suppose I pass? Then what do I do? I'm supposed to be working toward a degree, but in what? And what exactly will I do with that degree when I receive it at 98 years of age? The job market is tough enough for 22 year olds; can you imagine how hard it will be for a 98 year old to find a job? Then, of course, there's the Resume'. What do I write for previous work experience? Wife, mother, bed maker, toilet cleaner, accountant, scheduler, interior designer, cook, floor mopper, personal shopper, door mat.....not much I haven't done since the last time I took an exam; the problem is, none of it translates into a Curriculum Vitae for a 98 year old, or even a 22 year old for that matter. What have I done to myself? Why have I undertaken this stressful experience when at an age where a stressful life is well deserved? I will tell you why! ME! For once, I am going to do something just for ME! ME ME ME!!! Don't get me wrong, please. There is nothing that I would rather have done with my life than to have been a mother to my two amazing children. It has been my lifeblood; the thing that has given me purpose and joy. It is the reason I was put on this earth. My children are my everything! However, they are adults now and I am worried that my usefulness has come to an end. Sure, I could just sleep away the rest of my years but that is so not fun! I could do as others have done and drink away the rest of my years, but that can get rather boring unless sitting at a bar surrounded by palm trees and white sand. So, instead, I have opted to go back to school and now must face my first final exam! Or I could pour a drink and go back to bed! What to do, what to do, what to do.....
Peace Out!
Peace Out!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Bloody Confession
My darling daughter, Nina, is an 18 year old graduating senior at a local Catholic high school. I mention her age in order to point out that she is, by all rights, a fully functioning adult under the law of the land. As her older brother says, however, she lives in her own land (which I like to call LaLaLand) where, apparently, the words "fully functioning" and "adult" are never spoken in the same sentence. She is a wonderful young woman, full of spunk and humor. What she is sometimes not full of, however, are the magnificent brains that God gave her! As a matter of fact, what occured today leads me to believe that she suffers from some sort of weird brain spasm that only occurs when you mention one word - "Confession"! So here's the latest Nina story, but please sit down when you read this because I am afraid of what will happen to you if you don't!
Nina was born into the Catholic church, received the Sacraments of Baptism and First Communion and for whatever reason, that's where her sacramental journey ended. I freely admit that it is probably because I am lacking in the Catholic mother gene; but in actuality, it probably had something to do with the fact that Nina is very stubborn and absolutely refused to do anything else that involved preparatory classes or lovely dresses. So we quit just prior to the next step - the Sacrament of Reconciliation (or Confession as it is referred to on the Catholic street). That was eight years ago when she was 10. She is now 18 and, because I am getting older and thinking about "cramming for the final exam", I thought that it was time to evoke Catholic mother's guilt and get her back on the road to sacramental health.
A couple of month's ago I contacted her religion teacher, a lovely priest with whom she is much taken. I explained to him the situation and he agreed to prepare her to receive her first Confession. I had finally convinced Nina that this was something that she should really do, and we were on our way. Until the first time Father wanted to meet with her to discuss "it". She didn't post that time, or the next time, or the next time. Of course, she had appropriate excuses each time but I, the ever suffering mother, knew better.
Which brings us to today; the day that Nina and her fellow students were to prepare for Easter by participating in a Lenten Reconciliation. It was also the day that Nina was finally going to be one step closer to Heaven. To say that I was happy would be an understatement; I was thrilled. She had met with Father for a few minutes on Monday, after school, and he had declared her ready. All Aboard the sacramental train! Until, of course, the train derailed in a pool of...blood?
Picture this, a girl in a Catholic school uniform, wandering the hallways in a trancelike state caused solely by fear...the fear of confessing her horrible, horrible sins! That, in and of itself wouldn't be so unusual, but the fact that rather than going to Confession she managed to enter a Bloodmobile outside of school and spend the entire period designated for Confession with an IV in her arm is beyond belief. And, no it wasn't an enormous hankering for juice and cookies. It could only have been one thing; she was so very afraid of Confession that her brain spasmed, sending her into a trance. The biggest question, however, is what the heck the Bloodmobile was doing at just the time that Nina decided to wig out?
So here I am, sitting at home, believing that my only daughter had finally encountered a spritual awakening. That was until I got a text message from her, informing me that she had decided to skip Confession and donate blood. Donate blood, I asked? Where the heck did you donate blood? In the chapel? No, she answered, outside in the Bloodmobile! That is the moment when my head fell into my hands and I began rocking and keening, rocking and keening. How is this possible, I asked, you were supposed to make a confession. We had this all worked out, I said. I don't know, she answered, it was just there so I went in!
So here we are, a few hours later. Nina continues to be one step further from heaven, not to mention one pint short of blood. I am still rocking and keening, rocking and keening, not to mention wondering why the hell the Bloodmobile was outside of the school in the first place.
Peace Out!
Nina was born into the Catholic church, received the Sacraments of Baptism and First Communion and for whatever reason, that's where her sacramental journey ended. I freely admit that it is probably because I am lacking in the Catholic mother gene; but in actuality, it probably had something to do with the fact that Nina is very stubborn and absolutely refused to do anything else that involved preparatory classes or lovely dresses. So we quit just prior to the next step - the Sacrament of Reconciliation (or Confession as it is referred to on the Catholic street). That was eight years ago when she was 10. She is now 18 and, because I am getting older and thinking about "cramming for the final exam", I thought that it was time to evoke Catholic mother's guilt and get her back on the road to sacramental health.
A couple of month's ago I contacted her religion teacher, a lovely priest with whom she is much taken. I explained to him the situation and he agreed to prepare her to receive her first Confession. I had finally convinced Nina that this was something that she should really do, and we were on our way. Until the first time Father wanted to meet with her to discuss "it". She didn't post that time, or the next time, or the next time. Of course, she had appropriate excuses each time but I, the ever suffering mother, knew better.
Which brings us to today; the day that Nina and her fellow students were to prepare for Easter by participating in a Lenten Reconciliation. It was also the day that Nina was finally going to be one step closer to Heaven. To say that I was happy would be an understatement; I was thrilled. She had met with Father for a few minutes on Monday, after school, and he had declared her ready. All Aboard the sacramental train! Until, of course, the train derailed in a pool of...blood?
Picture this, a girl in a Catholic school uniform, wandering the hallways in a trancelike state caused solely by fear...the fear of confessing her horrible, horrible sins! That, in and of itself wouldn't be so unusual, but the fact that rather than going to Confession she managed to enter a Bloodmobile outside of school and spend the entire period designated for Confession with an IV in her arm is beyond belief. And, no it wasn't an enormous hankering for juice and cookies. It could only have been one thing; she was so very afraid of Confession that her brain spasmed, sending her into a trance. The biggest question, however, is what the heck the Bloodmobile was doing at just the time that Nina decided to wig out?
So here I am, sitting at home, believing that my only daughter had finally encountered a spritual awakening. That was until I got a text message from her, informing me that she had decided to skip Confession and donate blood. Donate blood, I asked? Where the heck did you donate blood? In the chapel? No, she answered, outside in the Bloodmobile! That is the moment when my head fell into my hands and I began rocking and keening, rocking and keening. How is this possible, I asked, you were supposed to make a confession. We had this all worked out, I said. I don't know, she answered, it was just there so I went in!
So here we are, a few hours later. Nina continues to be one step further from heaven, not to mention one pint short of blood. I am still rocking and keening, rocking and keening, not to mention wondering why the hell the Bloodmobile was outside of the school in the first place.
Peace Out!
Monday, March 21, 2011
A New Day
So, I woke up this morning feeling kind of ornery (sounds like a Ke$ha song), and decided that it was time to resurrect the old blog; a.k.a., "how an old lady speaks her mind when her family no longer listens". I have no plan other than to relate the truth about whatever topic pops into my head and, considering that I have no filter, this should be quite an interesting ride. I guarantee that there will be days when you love what I say, and days when you want to grab a spoon and gouge out my eyes. As always, your comments are very welcomed; just go easy because the old ticker ain't what it once was and I cry an awful lot these days, too.
On to today's topic - "unfinished wine and why on earth would I want to drink it!" I have chosen this topic because this past weekend I had the pleasure (said with tongue firmly planted in cheek) to particpate in a sort of moveable wine tasting thingy. The purpose, I thought, was to go from vineyard to vineyard getting increasingly "happy" with each stop along a preplanned route. Holy moly, was I wrong! Happy was anything other than what I got with each stop. Actually, the correct word for my descending mood was probably "isitoveryet".
Having never been to a wine tasting anywhere other than the "rich, fertile wine producing region" of southern York County, Pennsylvania, I am certainly no expert on the subject; however, if what I experienced this weekend is anything like what occurs in the Napa Valley, or Bordeaux, France, I'll be a monkey's uncle (actually his aunt but the humor would be lost). Around here, a wine-tasting thingy goes like this: long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 drops of unfinished, very bitter wine; another long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of an equally disgusting unfinished wine; yet another long boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of something quite medicinal tasting; move along to sales area for several doll-sized tastes of finished wine that continues to taste like medicine because my palate has been poisoned by the previous unfinished wine samplings; get out the credit card to purchase a bottle of wine that I really don't want or need but feel obligated to buy because the poor vintner is starving to death as evidenced by the shot-glass sized portions of food that are served to the incredibly stupid wine-tasters (Me!). Ok, you can breathe now...it's over! At least until 40 minutes later when we pull into the next vineyard after having practically tossed our wine laden "cookies" on the way.
That, my friends, is wine tasting in Pennsylvania; about as quaint as a horse-drawn Amish buggy holding up traffic on Route 30 during the Columbus weekend sales event at the outlets in Lancaster. Next spring, the only wine tasting event that I will be attending is my nightly drink(s) of a hearty and robust, fine Italian table wine served from a very large glass jug!
Peace Out!
On to today's topic - "unfinished wine and why on earth would I want to drink it!" I have chosen this topic because this past weekend I had the pleasure (said with tongue firmly planted in cheek) to particpate in a sort of moveable wine tasting thingy. The purpose, I thought, was to go from vineyard to vineyard getting increasingly "happy" with each stop along a preplanned route. Holy moly, was I wrong! Happy was anything other than what I got with each stop. Actually, the correct word for my descending mood was probably "isitoveryet".
Having never been to a wine tasting anywhere other than the "rich, fertile wine producing region" of southern York County, Pennsylvania, I am certainly no expert on the subject; however, if what I experienced this weekend is anything like what occurs in the Napa Valley, or Bordeaux, France, I'll be a monkey's uncle (actually his aunt but the humor would be lost). Around here, a wine-tasting thingy goes like this: long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 drops of unfinished, very bitter wine; another long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of an equally disgusting unfinished wine; yet another long boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of something quite medicinal tasting; move along to sales area for several doll-sized tastes of finished wine that continues to taste like medicine because my palate has been poisoned by the previous unfinished wine samplings; get out the credit card to purchase a bottle of wine that I really don't want or need but feel obligated to buy because the poor vintner is starving to death as evidenced by the shot-glass sized portions of food that are served to the incredibly stupid wine-tasters (Me!). Ok, you can breathe now...it's over! At least until 40 minutes later when we pull into the next vineyard after having practically tossed our wine laden "cookies" on the way.
That, my friends, is wine tasting in Pennsylvania; about as quaint as a horse-drawn Amish buggy holding up traffic on Route 30 during the Columbus weekend sales event at the outlets in Lancaster. Next spring, the only wine tasting event that I will be attending is my nightly drink(s) of a hearty and robust, fine Italian table wine served from a very large glass jug!
Peace Out!
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