Is there a DOCTOR in the house?

YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I would like to introduce you to the Princess of Pretty Cool Insects, Duchess of Dragonflies, Queen of a Quadrillion Bugs, DOCTOR of all doggone awesome six-legged creatures.....

ABBY ROSE STILWELL, PhD

I am sitting in the local coffee shop while Abby kicks back and takes a well-deserved nap before we celebrate with some some good Nebraska beef and champagne.  I should also be somewhere taking a nap because I think I got all of four hours of sleep last night.  It's hard to sleep when you've made a deal with the stress demons.  You know that thing mothers do....."take me! give me the stress and the worry! give it all to me....just keep it from my child."  That and the fact that the high school football championships are being played this week and our hotel was filled with every citizen of a nearby small town, each of them dressed in red.....bright red....Nebraska red....every one of them.   And they ran up and down the halls in their bright red shirts and sat in the lounge drinking in their bright red jackets and they had Husker stickers on their cars and .....uh oh.....I am wearing red.............and I wore my red coat..................and my purse is red(ish).......is that (gasp) a Husker sticker on my car..........? And it's not even football Saturday........oh no........I'm ONE of them!

As it turns out there was no need for me to take on all that stress so that now I am feeling rather zombie-like; like I've already had more than my share of the bubbly.  I sacrificed myself, threw my body in front of those stress demons for nothing because Abby captured any and all demons in her trusty insect net, deposited them in her special insect jar, stood with her hands on her hips, said, watch this you evil demons and then

 stood tall and presented her findings in a clear and confident voice

Get up there and pose for me before it starts Abby.......pleeeez......

and  won the day.

Waiting to begin

She did herself proud and even the mites and thrips were clapping.  Okay I didn't see any mites or thrips, they are tiny after all, but I have a feeling they were there nodding in appreciation and stood on their tiny little legs and clapped til their little legs almost fell off.

Update Wednesday morning.....

I am now back at the coffee shop while Abby sleeps the sleep of the victorious.  Somehow as yesterday's celebrations went on my voice became more and more hoarse until this moment when I  am nearly voiceless.   Hey!  Is THAT why Dean's been smiling so much  this morning?  I'm sure my temporary state of silence has nothing to do with the number of times I said, "Dr. Abby.....Dr. Stilwell.....hey, Dr.Stilwell would you come here for a moment....Oh, Dr. Stilwell, I have a question for you.....yes, we are celebrating Dr. Stilwell's PhD tonight ...Yes, this is our daughter, Dr. Stilwell.  I'm positive it wasn't enough to cause me to lose my voice.

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Is there a DOCTOR in the house?

Really? That's What It Took?

Have you ever wondered why it's so hard to make yourself  your husband get up, grab whatever manly tool is required and repair things that have been staring him you in the face for weeks, months, or more likely, years?  You know, things like a toilet that sounds like a bull moose in heat whenever you flush it.  Okay, I haven't actually heard a bull moose in heat, but ...  oh, wait, that would be because only women moose, women mooses, a woman moose would go into heat.  I meant a bull moose making those manly bull moose sounds to attract a female moose in heat.  Like she would really be attracted to some big-nosed, ugly, bellowing, clumsy moose who thinks he's mother nature's gift to ungulates.  She just wants baby mooses.

And then there are things like fences with planks (or whatever those straight up-and-down parts are that keep your neighbor's dog out of your yard and garden) that are so old that on occasion one or more of them just decides to fall over and leave a big hole in your fence.  Did you know yellow labs love pumpkins?  Oh, and some people have stacks of paving stones neatly stacked next to a nice big area of dirt (formerly known as grass) just waiting for the perfect moment to create the perfect path.

And there's the  painting and staining which always seems to take a back seat to more important things like gardening or rocks or did I mention gardening?

What is the secret?  What does it take to get that ever-growing list of projects crossed off the to-do list?  I've put a fair amount of time into thinking about this and I've come up with a few solutions.  One of those is to decide it just isn't worth doing.  Cross it off like it never existed and lessen the guilt.  So what if the toilet sings?  Maybe it's a method of water conservation.  You know, if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down. 

Then there's the just wait solution.  If you wait long enough, somebody will take care of it for you.  The guilt your neighbor will feel after their dog has brought home 15 pumpkins from your garden through a hole in the fence is an amazing stimulant to fence replacement.  Paying for half the wood will ease the guilt you your husband feels because the week the fence is rebuilt he is forced to work late every night.

But the solution that never entered my brain, not even in my wildest imagination, that caused me to open my eyes in wide but happy surprise is this.  Point out that in a very short time your daughter will be bringing her beloved fiance home for Christmas.   I know.  I'm shaking my head in wonder and amazement right along with you.  It's only been three years but yes, we now have a kitchen with painted walls.  And not only that, I've heard whispers that soon there will also be real stuff, like things in frames, hanging on those newly painted walls.

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Really? That's What It Took?

Men and Their Toys

We have  a new yoga instructor for our Saturday morning class.  Early in the summer, Elaine, our former 76-year old  instructor announced that she was giving up the class because she didn't want to have to commit every Saturday to this class. When you're 76, isn't every day Saturday? Can't you pretend like one of those Saturdays is Monday and that's your "yoga work day"? Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe no matter how old you are, Saturday morning is always Saturday morning and who in their right mind would want to commit all of their Saturday mornings to anything other than sleeping late, drinking coffee, cleaning your house and doing the laundry and ironing? Who would want to teach a bunch of tired, creaky, stiff people with butts formed to the shape of their office chair? 

Our new instructor, Elizabeth, didn't begin teaching until late in the summer.  Not that I noticed since I got to spend so much quality Saturday time with the shhhhhh....BFD.  Part of me misses Elaine because she was into the "this is Saturday and you've all had a long week at work so we're just going to have a laid-back, easy stretch yoga class."   It was easy; I didn't have to push too hard.  But the part at the end when you "play dead" went on way too long.  I wasn't really tired or sore and it's hard to pretend you're relaxing and recovering when you're not and are really just making a mental list of what you want to do when you leave.

Elizabeth, our new instructor, is young and doesn't seem to care that we've all worked hard all week; we're tired and stiff and we're only here because of guilt.  We would rather get up and drag our sorry office chair butts to a Saturday morning yoga class than sleep late and live with the post-butter and syrup slathered pancakes guilt.   She works us hard.  This morning we did the bound warrior.  It looks simple in the link.  No, not the partially naked woman ....the pose below it.  Be patient.  It's not.  Try it.  And then clap your hands for me.  I did it.  Once on each side.  That's twice.  And Dean told me he even completed it .... on one side.  I know.  Who knew.  Amazing.

At the end of a yoga class of other "really? my body should be able to do that?!" moves, when Elizabeth says  "lie on your back with your eyes closed and your feet splayed out in this dim room with soft music, and pretend like you're dead" I'm happy to oblige, because I am so sore and tired I can't even muster the energy to make a mental list.  And she doesn't give us much time to do that anyway.  Before you know it we're up and dragging our sorry, but guilt-free butts home. 

But I digress.  What I intended to write about was what happens at our house before we put our chair butts through tortuous moves on a Saturday morning.  Here's what I did yesterday morning before yoga.  I slept in, read the paper and drank coffee.  Yes, caffeinated. Before yoga. Where you go to unwind and relax and find your chi or be in the present.

Here's what Dean did.  Before yoga.  He got up at the insistence of Shadow who has not figured out yet that Saturday morning is different than Monday morning, or Tuesday morning, or Wednesday morning ... and whose doggie clock still goes off at 5:30 a.m. at which time she begins pacing back and forth from bedroom to hallway, click, click, click go the toenails, back from hallway to bedroom ... click, click, click.  Stand and stare at Dean.  Back to the hallway ... click, click, click, click.  Back to the bedroom ... click, click, click, click.  Stand and stare at Dean.  Sometimes Dean gets up.  Sometimes I yell "SHADOW!  LAY DOWN!"  Sometimes Dean even yells at her but mostly he just sighs and gets up.  Once they returned from their walk, he put on his "I mean business" coveralls because Friday night he received this:

It not only blows those pesky leaves and debris away but it sucks them up and uses its

metal impeller to DESTROY them! 

So yesterday morning, before yoga, while I was basking in the sun at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the paper, he was outside doing this.

I had several titles for this blog post.  One of them was "a man in love" but when I asked Dean to gaze upon his new friend with the love and affection I knew he was feeling he did this

and made gun noises.  Geez.  Boys.

This morning he has taken it to Ryan so he also can experience the unbridled joy of destroying innocent leaves.  There's a saying that women marry men who remind them of their fathers.  Be careful Ryan.  Be very careful.  You may begin to feel an uncontrollable urge to wear sandals with white athletic socks.  If you do, seek help.  Seek it quickly.

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Men and Their Toys

How Do You Know?

The past week or so I've been mentally off.  I've been kind of cranky.  I've been sleeping more.  I've been tired.  Little things have been annoying me.....more than usual.  Was it the never-ending cloudy days we've had all of October?  Or was it the way-too-early-even-for-Wyoming snow that I would have been excited to see in December but I complained vociferously about each time I saw a flake fall. 

This is the view when at least a portion of the interstate opened after being closed three days last week after the big snow 
and the trucks are re-routed through our city.  This steady stream  of semis continued for at least two hours that I know of.

Could it have been the fact that I spent most evenings in the past week using my grandma's Featherweight sewing machine (I hate sewing on a machine) to finish Myra's quilt. 

Now all I have to do is quilt it.

Maybe it was those pesky hormones rearing their ugly heads? Dang them! Or ...... what if I am I just .... CRAZY?  

This morning the sun is shining brightly and there is no wind......yet. I'm getting closer to feeling human again. I'm getting closer to being that carefree, chatty, goofy, cheerful ray of sunshine everybody around me expects. Wait, that would mean I'd totally transformed into Cheer Bear. Okay, maybe I'm not always chatty, I'm rarely carefree and if I'm goofy it's not on purpose...but I did talk at breakfast this morning and I haven't complained about or been annoyed by anything this morning--yet. This morning I marched right up to Dean and gave him a big hug.  When he took a small step back and looked at me warily with raised eyebrows I realized I'd better confess to him that I'd been a bit off but I was better now. I compared myself to a bad apple.  Apparently he'd noticed my offness because he said I'd been more like a piece of meat that sat out too long.

However, why was it that yesterday when the sun came out, the skies were blue, the air warmed up and the snow melted, I didn't instantly shed that bad meat aura and become a shiny, tart red apple?  (Even on my best days I would never be a sweet apple). Instead, I still felt like I was in a cold, slimy cave peering out at the sun and not sure I wanted to make the effort to crawl out far enough to actually feel it. If I didn't perk up once the sun came out does that mean I am crazy or hormonal or just too rotten to be salvaged?

How do I know which it is? If it's the lack of sun, in January, February and March, when Dean tells me he "has S-A-D" I won't be able to roll my eyes and tell him to "get over it" anymore and I'll be forced to admit I was wrong all those times I told him he was making it up.  I'll have to project understanding and empathy which will cause more stress in my life---like trying to change my whole personality into one that includes traits of understanding, empathy and sympathy.  I can feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.   Not only that but I'll have to convince myself there really is a disease that makes you nutso when the sun doesn't shine.  Then I'll have to empathize with myself because I can't control the stupid feelings and that will be close to impossible.  Oh, I can empathize and sympathize with myself til the cows come home.  But believe I don't have control over everything---no way.  Can you see it? Dean s-a-dly shuffling around, hangdog look on his face, broken up with occasional sparks of hope in his eyes when I empathetically ask him how he's doing and then the hang-dog look again when I tell him to get control of himself and suck it up. It's just too s-a-d.

If the past days of glumness have been due to the torture I subjected myself to by using a sewing machine (because hand piecing the borders on Myra's quilt would have taken two lifetimes) I can remedy that by keeping the machine in it's special case tucked away in the back of the closet.

If it's hormones or a diagnosis of crazy, there is no hope because there is no cure.   And if it's hormones I might think I should start eating more chocolate to make myself feel better and then I'll have to go to the gym more and spend more time on the elliptical and I hate the elliptical so then I'll  be cranky because I hate the elliptical but I'll eat more chocolate to make myself feel better.  And just thinking about it has made me eat four bite-size Snicker candies left from last night's Halloween candy.  Oh, please don't let it be hormones! 

Myra seemed to exhibit similar symptoms to mine Saturday morning after she, Pierce and Emerson had spent Friday night at our house. 

Nothing was going right for her.  She didn't want pancakes, she wanted juice, no! she wanted milk, no! she wanted water.  She wanted the toy Pierce was playing with (who refused to give it up), she didn't like the placement of her chair at breakfast.  She was just generally off and not happy-go-lucky, goofy little Myra.  

Pierce and Emerson were happily forking down pancakes when Myra stood in the kitchen, brushing her red, bedhead hair out of her eyes, screwed up her face, took a big breath and said, "I'm angry ... I'm really angry ...   I'm just fwus ... I'm frush..." and then finally with a big rush of air, "I'm frustrated!" 

This blog writing thing always takes me forever and it's a rare day I sit down and type one post without hours or days passing in between the beginning and end of the post.  Six hours after I started this post I'm beginning to feel progressively less rotten-meaty and more red appley.  Even the animals have been soaking up the sun and seem more relaxed. 

 

 

 

So I'm going to tell myself it's not the hormones and I'm not really crazy--not crazy as a loon anyway. I'm going to tell myself it's the lack of sunshine and bright blue skies that turned me into that stinky chunk of meat.  By the end of the day I plan to be a delicious cinnamon and raisin filled baked apple.  And it won't get the best of me ever again!

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How Do You Know?