Suze's Muses

Back with a thud?

2011-08-05T19:22:00.000-07:00

I'd like to say that I'm back with a bang or a vengeance or even just back with the confidence that I'll blog at least once a month. Knowing my history of 41 years of not finishing anything (stay tuned for my dad's take....), I'll just say I'm back.

I've had several friends ask recently, "When are you going to blog again?" Seems they enjoyed my ramblings. Weird, I know. I can't figure it out but I do aim to please. Hey! Two character flaws in one!

Let me address the whole never finishing anything thing. I started college at Muskingum College, a terrific institution in Ohio. During our orientation lecture, we were told to look to our left and right, absorbing the fact that one of those idiots (my word) wouldn't be graduating. I wondered which dolt it would be, never thinking it might be me. It couldnt' be me. Much was expected. Much had been earned in scholarships. It wouldn't be me.

:::insert sound of long record scratch here::: Young people should google long record scratch sound bite. I won't do all your work for you for fear you'll turn out just like me.

Things didn't work out at Muskingum as I was 102 pounds, insecure and refused to eat. Didn't seem like quitting at the time but it was. Without "getting" it, I was quitting Muskingum by my actions. 'nuff said....

At about 103 pounds, I enrolled at Thiel College. I'd visited as a high school junior and got to see Thiel through the eyes of my fun loving, Lambda Chi Alpha, guitar pickin', dead-head brother. Seemed like a great Plan B at the time. Brian had a ball at Thiel. At least I'd have fun, right?

Seems no one told me about the work involved. Oh, I had fun. I had more fun than is legal to tell my kids about. I had more fun than is legal. I laughed and I drank and I smoked and laughed some more. I had terrific boyfriends, horrible boyfriends and boyfriends whose names I really wish I could remember. Some were all of the above. I pledged THE sorority. I wanted so much to be one of those pretty girls. I wanted those letters strewn across my back. Why? Because I loved all of them? Nah. I hated myself and believed AGD on my jacket (hung low,of course) would trick others into thinking I was pretty and worthy and all that shit.

I'm getting off-track, aren't I? Well, kind of. I didn't finish any of that,either. I remember handing a five or ten dollar bill to the Alpha Gamma Delta treasurer and saying, "I'm not coming to the meeting." I remember my dear, true friends saying things like, "Sue-Bee, Thiel isn't a hotel. You can't just live here. This isn't your apartment." You guessed it. I didn't finish Thiel.

What's a girl who doesn't finish college to do? Duh! She marries the hometown boy. Did that. Married him, got pregnant, won't go into details as his grandmother is still alive, left him... Another unfinished project.

GAH! What are we up to now? No. Don't tell me. I don't really want to know.

I've started numerous businesses and quit. I've started this blog and quit.

A few weeks back, I had to go in for a colonoscopy. Husband was out of the country, Mom was out of town, daughter was working. It fell to my father to take me. He was a great sport about it and was sweet about my nerves. When we first arrived, an aide said, "Come on back," only to be met with my, "Wait, this isn't how it's supposed to work. I have books to read. I'm early and thought I'd get to sit for awhile...." She took me back anyway but realized she'd made an error and sent me back to my comfort zone, the chair next to The Old Man in the waiting area. The Old Man and I chatted about many things until I told him that I was considering taking one course at a local college. I KNEW he'd be tickled because it's his alma mater. I knew it until he sighed and said, "You've never finished anything in your life...."

At that very moment, as if to prove God's existence, that aide reappeared and said, "Mrs. Karson, are you ready?" Ready for anesthesia? Ready for a camera to be guided up the pooper? Ummmmm, YESPLEASE!

She saved me from his words,his truth. She interrupted at precisely the right moment. Next time, I probably won't be so lucky and I might have to explore why I can't finish anything. For now, I'm simply thankful for that aide and that camera's schedule.

The Road Back

2011-03-28T09:09:00.000-07:00

I hesitate to announce that I'm back. After several years of deep, dark depression during which I spent the majority of my time hiding in my bedroom, I feel like I'm coming back. I'll always love a nap but they're no longer daily or eight hours long. This is a work in progress. I'm not done. This is a road and I'm hoping it doesn't have an end. My hope is that this road remains as fun and beautiful and eye-opening as it's been so far.

Where did this journey begin? And, did I just use that term? Journey is such an Oprah-y word. Yeee-uch. I'm gonna go with it but know that I'm ashamed of myself for using it. I think this began when I switched doctors. I'd been seeing a great doc who had allowed his practice to grow too big, too fast. I wasn't feeling heard anymore and I'd been handed more prescriptions than I was comfortable with. He's gifted but it was no longer the right place for me. Dr. Malvar was recommended by several people and he's the friendliest person in our neighborhood so I gave him a try. That's where the seeds of change were planted.

When I started with him, I was taking a maximum dose of concerta and high dose of cymbalta. I'd been diagnosed with adult ADHD and depression. I was also taking a pill for high blood pressure each day. That was a lot of medicine for a 40 year old woman who still felt like crap. My first appointment was spent sitting and talking about family history, the depression, work, kids, lifestyle and so on. Dr. Malvar spent one hour and fifteen minutes just talking with me. Unbelievable. He let me talk. He asked all the right questions. I trusted him immediately.

That day, I left his office with a plan. He agreed with me that the cymbalta wasn't working for me but heard me when I explained that I'd had one hell of a time coming off of other antidepressants and was terrified that I'd go through it again. He heard me. He didn't roll his eyes or nod and smirk. He respected my fear of brain zaps. After discussing my work vs. home life, he quickly realized that I did not have adult ADHD at all. My ability to perform at work but not at home was clearly a symptom of the depression and anxiety. Step one was to get me off the concerta. It was easy to come off of and I felt a little better right away. Next up was the scary part, weaning off the cymbalta. It took us several months but I got there. Because my depression is very real, he prescribed a different antidepressant and it's working very well for me. I've also stopped taking the blood pressure pill because my blood pressure is back to normal.

**Just because cymbalta didn't work for me doesn't mean it won't work for anyone. It put me into what I call a cymbalta-coma only because of my chemistry. It might be just the right medicine for many people.**

During my monthly appointments, we'd discuss my weight. I'd tell him what I'd bought that month, from my "magic shoes" to P90x. I'd also admit that I wasn't using them like I should. I think I had to get my head straight before I could tackle my weight. He was encouraging and gave me some great tips to start my weight loss. The exercise was just something I wasn't ready for. I never felt judged or scolded. I also never felt alone in this process.

My weight... This is hard. My weight, on my home scale, was up to....this is really hard... It was high. I mean really, really high. I'd been right around 100 pounds during high school and college. 120 after Meg was born. Ugh, I should just type it, right? This is going to hurt but here goes.... My weight had reached 204. My size 14 pants were fitting a little tight and some days, I didn't really need to tie my scrub pants. I was chugging diet pop, eating in my car more than in my house and to say I was sedentary would be laughable. I was comatose. So, there it is. 204 pounds.

Something in me clicked, finally. The desire to lose weight was always there. I have proof in the form of exercise programs, a full gym in my basement, a pilates machine in my bedroom and these "magic shoes" of mine. What I needed was a desire to get healthy. I was missing my kids' lives. I wasn't really living at all. I had to get healthy and I had to do it right.

As I type this, I'm still on the road to health. I'm down to 175 pounds and look much better. Sure, I'd like to lose fifteen more pounds and I will but it'll be a process. I'm going to write about the program I'm using in another post as this one has gone on too long already.

Why would I put this all out there? It's not the most comfortable thing to share. Here's what, though. I'm certain I have many friends who struggle with weight, depression, self-loathing, and more. I might be the only one to admit it so openly but I'm certainly not the only one to deal with it. I want people to read this and know that, when you're ready, there's a way out.

My Kindle Came Out of the Closet

2011-01-13T16:31:00.000-08:00

Dear Kindle,

While you've been hiding in my closet, I've been reading real books with paper pages and print and all that great stuff. As you know, per our conversation the day we met, I prefer a real book. I'll always prefer a real book.

Why will you never measure up, you ask? You don't smell anything like the New Castle Public Library. I can't flip through you. I can't stack you next to my bed in a pile that's high enough for me to rest my water on. I'll never plant my kids in the coffee shop area at B&N while loading up my arms with you. These are simple things but these things delight me.

Don't frown, Kindle. Good things have happened while you've been away. I've reevaluated my feelings. While I'll always, always prefer to read Diana Joseph's I'm Sorry You Feel That Way in paper form, I will finally concede that you have a place in this world of ours. You are the easy option when I cannot decide which book to carry to a soccer game. You are lighter than the laptop bag full of books that I've been carrying to swim team practice. You are lightweight and easy on my 41 year old eyes. After 183 games of Solitaire on my droid, my eyes thank you.

In other words, I'll compromise. You, Kindle, are NO book. You will never fill the shoes of a book. You will, however, fill a need. In the spirit of transparency, I admit that my initial search for you was only an effort to find, list and sell you on eBay. Now that I've found you, you're mine, all mine.

Fact is, I'm not sure if I found you, really. I choose to believe that you hid from me while I learned the lessons necessary to appreciate you. I think you crawled into that tote bag in my closet, knowing all the while that you'd be blanketed in clothing and laundry and bags and receipts in no time at all. I think you are a clever one, Kindle, and for that, I thank you.

G'night, dear friend. I will love you until the next upgrade......

Resolutions? Sure. I'll play.

2011-01-05T16:14:00.000-08:00

I used to do the whole new year, new me thing. As I became more self-aware, I realized that I was adding unnecessary pressure to an already fragile sense of self. With this realization, I Quit with a capital Q. I would even go so far as to say that I was anti-resolution. I puffed myself up as I said things like, "That is such a silly tradition," and "I'll make changes when and how I see fit."

After this past year-from-hell, I'm ready to shake things up a little. This year, I resolve to do some things. This year, I will write them and even click that scary little "publish" button. Yes, this year, I will make resolutions and I will share them with you. Readers, your job is to keep me accountable. Trust me, it's not asking much. Read on....

In the year 2011, I shall:

1. Watch This Is Spinal Tap from start to finish. I won't laugh because I feel I must. I will laugh only if it bubbles up within me. I will also watch in their complete form, the following: Gone With the Wind, It's a Wonderful Life and The Godfather. I might hide my eyes a few times during The Godfather. This is the year I stop pretending to have seen these movies.

2. Do a flip turn. I think my last flip turn was 1980ish? Yes, I swam on swim team. I was no Donna DeVarona but I loved it. I felt at home in the pool and swam my little heart out without ever winning a thing. I returned to swimming when my Jack was a baby. I swam five days a week at the Sewickley Y. I swam but I didn't try a flip turn. Why would I? I was in shape. I was proud. I didn't need no stinkin' flip turn. While watching my girls practice and work their tails off at swim team several times a week, I realized it's time. As The Duchess so kindly pointed out, I'll need to get in the pool to do a flip turn but she's promised to help me with minimal laughter.

3. Get this house together. Look, I am no Martha Stewart. Note that I didn't link to her site. That's because she falls in the pressure category for me. I don't insist on a crazy clean, perfect home. I just want to be able to walk into any room without having to goose step. I don't want to wonder any longer if My Heart has hidden a body in his room or if that is, as he says, just dirty laundry. I don't want to search for a pen or a screwdriver or, well, wine.

4. Make every single appointment for my kids/parents. I won't make an ortho appt months in advance and neglect to add it to my phone calendar. I won't insist my mother tell me what day and time her next appointment is with her oncologist, only to neglect to write it down and hear about it after the fact.

5. Blog at least once per week. Tune back in one week from now to find out what a loser I am. No, wait, this is a resolution. Resolve: –verb (used without object) to come to a determination; make up one's mind; determine (often fol. by on or upon ): to resolve on a plan of action. I WILL blog at least once per week. I mean it, kinda.....

6. Ride a bike. Again, it's been years. It won't be as difficult as the flip turn but it'll hurt the next day if I do it right.

7. Golf regularly. When we had Jack, I remember thinking that we'd become the perfect foursome. I couldn't wait to golf with my kids. Even when Katherine came along, I figured I'd golf with my kids when John was out of the country. Again, perfect foursome. This year, we golf! I don't care if we're at Borland's or the country club. We're going to golf. We will spend time at the driving range. We will laugh and carry on. I will drool over Big Daddy's calves mid backswing and when golfing only with him, I will bring a book to read during the back nine.

8. Drive to Wilmington, Ohio. That's no big thing, right? I'm going. I'd love it if all the New Castle-ish Wilsons could caravan but if I have to drive alone to Wilmington, I will. I will show my sister that she is as loved by us as we are by her.

9. Eat at The Tavern 2x per month. Alone. Yes, I will take a book and a $20 bill and enjoy some alone time twice a month. Do NOT tell my husband or kids about this. I miss The Tavern. One of the bright sides of chemotherapy was lunch at The Tavern after sessions. Naturally, I don't wish to repeat that reason but I do wish to repeat my lunches.

10. Do what I say. 'Nuff said....

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like a New Year.

2010-12-24T18:55:00.000-08:00

It's December 24, 2010. May I please start revving up for my kick in 2010's ass now? May I breathe yet?

I've seen some bad years in my 41 years here. There was the year my dad was laid off just as I became engaged. There was the year I had my heart shattered and left college. Most recently, there was the year I called my mom's "blood doctor" only to hear them answer the phone, "UPMC Cancer Center. How may I help you?" Yes, I've seen some bad years.

This year, this year of 2010, will likely be counted among my worst. This year started with the norm. The norm. Ha! Remember that? If you think you know the norm, you just haven't met reality yet. This year, we met reality. It was real, sure. It was also ugly and mean and painful and nothing we could have imagined.

2010 saw our continuing fight with Wells Fargo, a job loss and continued worry over the aforementioned cancer. Mostly, though, 2010 saw us trying to fight a machine for and with our cherished daughter. The year watched her go from popular kid in good relationship with great guy to a casualty of overblown egos who attack the weakest among them.

Our Duchess made some stupid, stupid decisions this year. As with most stupid decisions, she was held to responsibility for them. Her responsibility came far sooner than with most. She had to make life-altering, difficult decisions. She had to take ownership and step up. Wait, doesn't that sound almost adult?? It does. Our 17 year old found herself forced into adult decisions and faced them. She didn't beg us to fix anything or decide anything for her. She grew into a role of ownership. She knew she'd screwed up and she dug in and made up her own mind. Sure, it would have been easy to cave to pressure from friends (or their boyfriends) or society or even her mother. Glimpsing wisdom, though, she didn't cave. She lived.

We thought we were through the worst when the worst was over but, boy, were we wrong. We hadn't anticipated small-minded bigoted boys with less tolerance than a 4 year old and more bravado than could ever possibly be attributed to a mere 17 or 18 year old. We did what we had to do as parents. We fought for our child. We stood up and held administration to task. Sadly, our administration is so closely tied to our school board which is so closely tied to our precious, untouchable boy-heroes that our facts and insistence held nothing.

Sure, we could have sued. Some say we should have sued. Some say we should have shut the hell up and taken it. Others say we are alarmists. I say, "We are her parents." Would you have done less? More? I've seen, and believe me, I feel your judgement. It will NEVER outweigh our love for our girl.

As 2010 comes to an end, I can hold my head even higher knowing that The Duchess has a doll of a boyfriend with a terrific family. She has swim team to hold her up. She has siblings and parents who are supporting her when she doesn't even realize we're here. She has TRUE friends who haven't faultered one inch through it all.

She has taught us all a valuable lesson. We can and will all be dealt horrible hands throughout life. We could all learn from Meggie and meet them face to face, take a deep breath and tackle.

Thank you, Megs, for all the lessons you've taught us throughout this year. You're not yet a woman but you are well on your way. I am so proud of you!

Katherine's Manifesto, er, Christmas List

2010-12-23T11:23:00.000-08:00

We've been presented with quite a list from our Katherine this year. We've read it individually and as a family. We've puzzled over the meaning behind some of the items and giggled over others. I'm not sure what her grand plan is but you can be sure that there is a grand plan. The list is as follows, typed exactly as it's written:

A big tv with cable, a stuffed cat, a new backpack, fake glasses, dog tags, a jump rope, candy, books, a stuffed Spongebob and Plankton from Spongebob the tv show, pajamas and slippers for Rebecca the American Girl doll, Phase 10 and War game cards, a baby doll, a hair dryer, stickers, a beanie baby, some movies, a Taylor Swift cd, a dress, a piggy bank, new shoes, a ball cap, a laptop, a 64 pack of crayons, Vera Bradley pants size 7-8, a Vera Bradley purse, a Vera Bradley clipboard, a pack of markers, a fridge for my room, a radio, magnets, a digital alarm clock - make sure it's pink, a Hannah Montana bedset with Hannah Montana pillows, hairspray that is Tresemme, my own water bottle, a phone! a fake credit card, a pink cat collare that says Bella, a blue collar with the name Scout on it, a chair that can hang from the ceiling, a real clarinet, a 150 page notebook, a christmas box that has Santa on it, a free kid meal from McDonalds 6 piece chicken nuggets instead of frieds I want apples and I want a girl toy with it, 3 Barbie dolls, fake blood, glasses for my American girl, a small bed for Rebecca, Julie's slippers, Julie is an American Girl, Lanie the Amer girl and bunny and laptop and laptop case, Lanie's camper and everything inside it, Lanie's hammock, Julie's bed, Kit's dog, Kit, American Girl clothes, winter boots, A DSI, a DS, A DSIXL (on top of this page she notes, "Make all the DSIs pink but the DS dark blue!), a guitar lamp from Best Buy, a scrapbook, a Barbie Jeep, a Demi Lovato cd, a size 7-8 t-shirt with Winnie the Pooh, a big, giant mirror like Mom's, some money like 20 dollars, a small piano like Jack's, a poster with a pony on it, some papers with designs on them so i can choose what I want for my room, a tissue box, a Kesha cd, flowers to pretty up my room, a pink hair bow, an ipad, 2 picture frames, a children cookbook, a chalkboard, a white board, a locket necklace, a fake mustache, a sofa for my room, a bracelet box, a trophy shelf, a PSP, a new pair of clogs, a long, brown hair wig, a regular lamp, a long red silky dress, ear muffs, a spy camera, a toy that I'll like, a purse, a bookshelf, a toybox, stuffed dog, sweatshirt, Kicking and Screaming lyrics sheets, an encyclopedia, makeup!

She added a page that states in large letters, "MY TV WILL BE PINK AND CHANNELS UP TO 800. P.S. Same cable as family!"

I'd love to know which of these items jumps out at you. Any ideas as to why a seven year old girl would need a fake mustache and fake blood? What might she do with dog tags? Thoughts??

Home, Sweet, WAIIIITTTTT!!

2010-10-19T17:02:00.000-07:00

Gorgeous, right? You should see the backyard, the side yard, the two story shed..... It's kid heaven. It's the ONLY house we looked at when we moved because we knew it was ours.

This week, as soon as I receive more details and numbers from my husband, I'll be sharing with you an eye-opening, personal report of how mortgage companies are screwing families over across the country. It can't be just us. In fact, after our research, we know it's not just us.

Here's a tease, a reason to tune in a few days from now for more information... What began 2.5 years ago as a request to refinance at a lower, deserved finance rate became our worst nightmare. We're told, over and over and over and over again that we were put into the "wrong department" and that in order to rectify this, we'll have to jump through their hoops. Trust me, if you called my office and scheduled a cleaning and I accidentally (stupidly) scheduled you for a root canal, we'd FIX it. If you scheduled said cleaning with Wells Fargo, you'd HAVE to have the root canal first.

See, they don't fix it. Ask me and I'll tell you my opinion at this point. I honestly have to believe that a few years back, this was a common, intentional scam that may have worked for years. Thank God, I have a husband with a brain and knowledge of the legal wranglings involved. What they've done is illegal at best. What they've put John through is simply criminal.

When you read the number of hours he's spent on the phone with anyone who will listen at Wells Fargo, from the lowly customer service kid to the supervisor's supervisor, you will be floored. It's been a second job.

Here's what. They want paperwork that has been submitted more times than I can count. They want a hardship letter when no hardship exists. We can more than handle our mortgage. We just want them to allow us to pay it. Hell, we paid it for months and months only to receive a slap-in-the-face check in the mail for the amount we'd paid.

Look, we're ready. We'll hire an attorney and have already contacted the state. Thing is, that doesn't erase the shame of having your name in the paper with no explanation of Wells Fargo holding you hostage for years for no good reason. It doesn't help reclaim the hours and hours of time spent on the phone, resubmitting paperwork and tears over the situation.

Like I said, stay tuned for the cold, hard facts. Meanwhile, please, if you care, watch this episode of The Daily Show. It was the first time John and I felt like the TRUTH was being reported and exposed.

It isn't just the Karsons.

ENOUGH!

2010-10-19T16:42:00.000-07:00

Boys will be boys?

2010-09-18T16:19:00.000-07:00

Teenagers, right? They're dumb. They cry because their bangs won't curl to the same side. They can answer the question, "How was your day?" with, "Oh my GOD! I hate you!" To them, it makes complete sense.

As the mom of a teen, I've been watching these creatures and taking note. The girls are clearly insecure. You can see it in the eye-rolls, the neck bobs and the tooth-sucking. They worry about their hair, their clothes, the measurement of their hips and thighs. They worry if their teachers will like them and, God forbid, if their teachers will like them too much. They want to cheer or dance but don't want too much attention. During this time, we moms are the most vapid, clueless creatures on earth. Some days, my teen would sooner go to her seven year old sister for advice than come to her ancient, out of touch mother. Of course, thank God, there are enough days when she's willing to curl up with me and Daddy. She'll allow us to absorb her pain and allow us to speak and pray into her heart. Those days are the saving grace.

As for the boys, though. I'd never have believed it until recently but I do believe the boys are even more insecure than their gentler counterparts. Truth is, I've been praying for a bunch of teen boys lately and what God is telling my heart is that while their behavior is inexcusable, their egos are fragile and forming and very immature. They can be wrapped in community support and familial ego-boosting. They can appear to have overblown egos and appear to be huge jerks. What I'm hearing in my prayerful ear, though, is that they're scared. What if they didn't have a football jersey? What if they had severe acne or a limp or even big ears? What if they had once made a big mistake and people knew? If their cringing is anything like mine was about being too skinny or my shame for being such a "whitehead" in a sea of gorgeous Italian and Lebanese friends, then, God bless them.

Does any of this excuse vulgar behavior? No. Can it start to explain it? I sure hope so. My baby has been targeted in a very ugly way recently. If it was a case of "boys being boys," I'd not have wasted the time of office staff, our attorney and now, head football coach. But, this has gone beyond typical locker room talk. This has gone beyond "turn the other cheek." This has gotten ugly and scary. What motivates a young man to bully a girl? I pray and hope that it's the insecurity. If not, this town has one hell of a mess on our hands.

Be thankful that I didn't blog during any of angry Momma Bear moments. Those were reserved for Big Daddy and even he was scared. I'm struggling to understand the mind of what we're up against. Teens are tough enough without bullying. I hope to write again next week about my teen leaving for school feeling strong and confident. She's still shrinking and begging for cyberschool. We'll not allow her to be chased from school because of one mistake. We'll not allow her to be beaten down.

As I've told her and want to tell any other child who is being bullied, you are NOT defined by what that bully says you are. You are defined by who God and your parents created. Chin UP!

2010-07-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

This'll be a short one. This'll be one I'm writing as if I'm writing to Big Daddy. This'll be an apology within an apology.

We've all seen those commercials on tv where the woman is in bed, unaffected by her delightful children and supportive husband. In some commercials, she has the wind-up crank on her back. They crank, she stands, she goes on.

I want, more than anything else, to acknowledge those around me who have tried their best to turn that crank. Ever have a sixteen year old beg you to just "get out of bed" for once?? Ever have a loved one cry and tell you that this is no kind of life? I have. I know this is not normal. I know this is not me. I know that I am bigger and better than the confines of my bedroom.

My bedroom is the easy way, though. Upset me. Toilet-paper my yard. Upset my daughter. Offend my husband. Worst of all, throw me off even an inch. Any of these have driven me back under the covers for a day or two or four... I get up to go to "work," which is actually the easy part of life. Home again, I retreat to my bedroom.

I hear the loved ones who want to turn my crank. I get it. I understand, as a reasonably intelligent adult, that they are trying to help. Emotionally, though, I only see my failures and shortcomings and I get caught up in that cycle of I suck, therefore, I must suck some more. Am I capable of getting up and pulling weeds, cleaning rooms, doing laundry, smiling without trying? Absolutely. Am I capable of it today? Not so much.

My hope and dream is to get to the bottom of this "tumor" of mine. It does feel as though there's this growing tumor, not to be seen, that is sucking the Susan right out of me. It doesn't make me adore Big Daddy or the kids less. It just keeps me from telling them so. It's sucking the joy and the life from me. Do I want to fight it? Oh, YES. Can I? We'll see. I just hope and pray I can beat this depression before it beats down the life around me.

I'd never really considered the emotions of those living with a profoundly depressed individual. Is this the kick in the ass I needed? Will it take more? All I know for sure is that I do adore my family. I do love my husband of exactly 11 years. I love my kids more than there are words to try to express that love. I'm thankful for the many blessings God has given me. God, help me to come back.....

Beezus and Katherine?

2010-07-24T15:35:00.000-07:00

Most women my age remember reading about Ramona Quimby. Beverly Cleary gave us a lot of friends, we girls who preferred a book to a bunch of playmates. She gave us Ralph S. Mouse, Henry Huggins and Ramona's big sister, Beatrice, called Beezus. These were childhood friends within the pages I read and reread. I felt a little bit Ramona and looked at my sister, Barb, as my own Beezus.

I remember feeling that Ramona was misunderstood. She was bright and fun and trying so hard but nobody really "got" her. She had a wild imagination that often landed her in hot water and left her family and friends wondering what they were going to do with her. Life, though her eyes, wasn't very fair and she let the world know it. She was a character. That's all. She was just a fictional character in a series of books, right?

How can it be that now, thirty+ years later, I'm raising a little Ramona Quimby of my very own? My Ramona's name is Katherine. I often call her Little Gilda and have told folks that she's a combination of Ramona Quimby and Junie B. Jones with a dash of Lord Voldemort thrown in. There are other children like her, sure. They're just not all that common. Heck, by definition, they're not common.

You've seen kids like Kat. The little girl at the grocery store who's wearing a full Snow White costume with frog boots? That's her. The little boy who wears cowboy boots year-round, even in a swimsuit? That's the kid. The neighbor kid who can play backgammon for hours on the porch, talking like crazy and only upon stepping onto the porch do you realize that kid is all by herself? Yes, that's one of them. The picture above is not at all posed. This is how she dressed herself to go to Mimi and Pap's house. These children don't really live by our rules. Sure, there's a bit of indulgent parent thrown into the mix but mostly, the parents have just realized that it's not worth fighting who that child is. If last Thursday, that child was Batman, so be it. Not to say there aren't or shouldn't be boundaries. These kids just naturally lead. Try to stifle that and you'll have hell to pay and a kid who can't be herself.

I had an easy child. Meg slept from 8 pm until 8 am, never cried, breastfed easily, ate what was placed in front her of and smiled the rest of the time. I had a tough child. Jack had colic and a very strong will and an even stronger desire to cling to my leg for the first 6 years of his life. He was clearly very bright and needed challenges throughout his day. Then came Kat.

With Katherine, my childhood came rushing back. How do I raise a kid like Ramona Quimby? She's my little riddle, so angry and bossy one moment and making me laugh until I cry the next. She writes me loves notes and signs them, "Your beloved daughter, Kat." She imagines the sweetest scenes and tries the funniest stunts. She dresses herself and stands out and sings loud and loves hard. She makes my heart soar and exhausts me. Laughter is her drug and feeds her often as she's funny as hell. She feels completely misunderstood. She won't stand for anyone trying to trick her or talk down to her. She might be one of the strongest people I know and she's only seven.

I have two prayers in regard to Katherine. One is that I'll survive the next fifteen years and the other is a simple, "Thank you, God, for this gift."

Before you check out more Ramona-like pics of my Kat, order all the Ramona books for the little girls in your life. Who knows, she might be a mom of a Ramona one day. Seriously, if you have girls, you'll want these books. Enjoy!!

That Old Man Loves Me

2010-07-04T19:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, he loves me. Yes, That Old Man loves me. Yes, he loves me. He just told me so.

Forty years. A long time to me. To others, a blink of the eye. What I didn't know until yesterday morning was how much of a light I could shine (or not) on those forty years. Seems I'd forgotten that it's not all about the other, whether it be my brother, sister, father, friend.... It's also very much about me.

For instance, I've looked for nearly 11 years as me being rescued by Big Daddy. Wait, though. Didn't we both agree? Didn't we both invite each other into this marriage? We did but I missed it. I missed that JK didn't just plug me in like puzzle piece. He actually loved me. He actually thought I was okay and a great wife and mother and person. I missed it.

What of my kids? Yeah, they love me. They're my children. They're my babies. They kind of have to love me. Do I fear that one day they'll "catch on" and stop? Sure. It's my nature. This nature is mine and mine along. I cannot point or blame anyone. This is MY nature.

This brings me back to That Old Man. I'll not pretend to know what makes him tick. All I have is that he's my Daddy and I'm his youngest and that's something. I guess I reflected my self-loathing onto him. I think it was easy (-ish) to put that on his shoulders. I've been so busy trying to figure out where he went wrong that I completely missed that I went wrong and he didn't.

Did That Old Man ever set out to make me feel less than? No. I'd kick the ass of anyone who said he did. He never did. Did he ever intend to hurt me? Nope. He never, ever, ever did. Did he have all the lovey-dovey tools that might have fed my ego a little and made me walk a little taller? NO!!! Nor should he! I had to find that on my own. I'm getting there at 40.

So, the loathing. That's mine. It's not his fault. It's not John's fault. It's not even so much my fault. It is, though, something I need to face and kick square in the ass.

Know this, whoever shall read it, I adore That Old Man. I adore him and learn from him and love him. I'm pretty sure he loves and adores me back. He certainly has taken my children into his heart in such a way that they and he will never be the same. Hell, That Old Man took Meg and me back into his home after an angry, abusive marriage ended. He's taken in My Heart when My Heart is so bored at his own home. He's allowed that bellowing little version of her father in and let her kind of run things for a few days. He never had to do it.

Lesson learned? I'll say a partial lesson was absorbed and that I'm very open to more of this lesson. Let me add that if you're younger than 40, do this now. Don't wait. Stubbornness is no virtue.

I love my father. I love the man he was, he is, he will become. And, the bright side I find in everything?

He loves me back and then some......

Did she just admit she doesn't know something?

2010-07-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

I just had a rather uncomfortable conversation with the evil genius that is my seven year old. Little Gilda, over lunch, asked if she drank soy milk when she was a baby. This is a house full of packaged foods, hidden bags of candy bars and cases of diet pop. Soy milk? No, dear.

Then came the next natural question. "What kind of milk did I drink?" I answered very matter-of-factly, "Breastmilk, of course." Now, I've not often seen Little Gilda confused or thrown off or unsure. She's typically pretty sure of herself and her ideas, right or wrong. She's a confident little pisser and is happy to correct anything that sounds even slightly off. Yet, this answer threw her into a head tilt, furrowed brow pause followed by, "Ummm, what does that mean exactly?"

Oh, no. Little Gilda not only doesn't know about this but has admitted as much! This is a moment to remember. It almost never happens. So, I had to think it through and just as I was about to give a long, clinical explanation of why and how I breastfed, I stopped myself and said, instead, "You know, like a cat feeds kittens. Moms feed babies from their breasts, too."

She pondered. She stared at her soup. She took another sip of her cow's milk, wiped her mouth with her sleeve and said, "Oh. Makes sense."

Whew! I passed!! I did it with a smile, pretend confidence and simple words. I might just be on to something....

Did I mention a job loss?

2010-06-30T12:25:00.000-07:00

As if the past few weeks weren't enough, Big Daddy lost his job yesterday. It's happened before and he always bounces back but REALLY? I hadn't had enough already without a jobless husband lurking around the corner all day? I know, I know. That's selfish.

Here's the good news. This time isn't like any other. This time, he's downright jovial. He's confident and positive and cracking jokes and seems, as contrary as this is to a Karson man, relaxed. Don't get me wrong. The Karson men are terrific men. They're just, well, intense. Their knees constantly bob. They tap pens. They're in a state of perpetual motion and stress, not always a bad stress. Big Daddy has great contacts, a stellar reputation within his industry and this time, a very positive attitude. Yay, him!

He won't have to drive over an hour to work every day. He can actually take the kids to the boro pool or the movies. He is teaching Jack all about music and video editing. He and Meg have teamed up on the Make Fun of Mom team. Today, as he was reorganizing my pantry, I might have let it slip that he was getting a little on my nerves with his labels and wanting to show me precisely where to put the rice (not on the pasta shelf, thankyouverymuch). Next thing I know, he hands me a piece of paper and says, "This will be my daily schedule while I'm unemployed. You'll see that I work at least 16 hours each day. Put this up so you and the kids can find me when you need me." I took his list that I was certain would annoy me, read it and smiled. With a wink, I told him, "Oh, this'll be a blog post by midnight." See below:

Suze's what? Muses? Is that a boxed wine?

2010-06-19T16:50:00.000-07:00

Main Entry: 3muse

Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Latin Musa, from Greek Mousa
Date: 14th century
1 capitalized : any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology presiding over song and poetry and the arts and sciences
2 : a source of inspiration; especially : a guiding genius
3 : poet

Now that three helpful, well-meaning friends have informed me that my blog should be called Suze's Musings, I think it's time to explain the whole SuzesMuses decision.

Read the above first. Now....

I've thought of my children as my "muses" for quite some time now. It started long before this blog and, God willing, will continue long after. They are, in fact, my sources of inspiration. How could they be anything but that?

My Meg is my firstborn. She's my child of an angry, bitter, young marriage. She is the reason I left a horrible situation. She was my muse, my inspiration to start saving money to escape. She and I faced the world and we pretty much kicked its ass. She made me a mother. Twice in my life, my instinct has screamed no while my good-natured, people-pleasing self has smiled and said yes. First time, she had a horrible seizure in Jacksonville, FL. Most recent time was a prom night after-party. Will I ever ignore or shush that instinct again? Not a chance. It's there because she is a part of me. She is my first and my world and my blessing. I am her Mother Bear whether she likes it or not. She forgives my quirks and failings. She is my other half. Yes, The Duchess...she inspires me.

Jack. My baby Jack. My buh-puh. My Heart. He was the one I was most frightened of. I was so afraid another child in this new marriage might lessen the relationship I had with The Duchess. My instinct is what made me wake Big Daddy one night to bring her into our bed after months of needing space. I knew, somehow, deep in my soul that it would be my last night as a mom of one. The next day, I didn't suffer any losses. I gained and then some! He became, not only my son, but The Duchess' baby brother. I was terrified of having a boy after seven years of girly bliss. Little did I know the bliss a boy could provide simply by looking into my eyes and telling me he loves me. He came into the world red and pissed and crying and orange-haired. I've been "holding" him since, kinda. He grew this family and my heart.

Katherine. It matters not where or to whom she was born. She was meant to be a muse. She was created to challenge and question and push people right to the edge only to rescue them with laughter and joy. How is she my muse? Spend five minutes with this child. She is Junie B. Jones and Ramona Quimby rolled into a large cake batter with a dash of Lord Voldemort tossed in for good (?) measure. She will keep us all on our toes. She is her maddening father who also got the best of his qualities. She bellows and bosses and rolls through her days. She fears nothing. She is foreign to me yet a song I know by heart. She is laughter and madness and chaos and life. A muse, indeed.

Just a fruit cup for me, thank you.

2010-06-19T16:13:00.000-07:00

...he said smugly as I felt my balloon pop.

A few weeks back, My Heart played in his last U10 soccer game. They won. They always did. To celebrate, we told him that for lunch he could choose any restaurant without a drive-thru and we'd take Mimi along as she was his main transportation to and from soccer all season. We saw right through his request for Rachel's Roadhouse as it's The Duchess' favorite and she'd been spotted whispering to him. Finally, he made his choice.

Perkins! Yum! Something for everyone at Perkins. Table for five, please. Mimi, The Duchess, My Heart, Big Daddy and myself squeezed our hungry bums into a booth and started salivating over the menu. Breakfast at this hour? A salad? Appetizer? For the Karsons? Really?? Much confusion and excitement for all of us as I poked the chick in the next booth in the back of the head with my fork. Yes, we knew her and I felt she was sitting a tad too close to her boyfriend. We built up My Heart with praise and congratulations and nodded as he went over each play of the game, saying hopefully, "Remember? You saw it, right?" Yes, we can all nod and smile and pretend we saw every move made.

It was time to order and I realized that the Big Daddy was not only quiet but a little grumpy. That's the Karson Achilles' Heel. You can read a Karson mood from a mile away. You could be blind, deaf and stupid and read it. All it takes is a little intuition. There was a change in the atmosphere, much like you feel just before a big storm. I asked what was wrong and he grumbled something about the kids ordering way more than they could possibly eat.

Now, here's where the man/woman, John/Susan, Karson/Wilson thing comes in. I'm like the big, happy balloon that just wants to bounce around the room and spread the happiness. He's more grounded. To me, he's like a lead balloon. To his credit, though, I'm sure that to his brain, I'm the incomprehensible, plastic, brightly colored ball of air floating in the room for no good reason and he's, well, he's reason itself. We're both right.

So, it's time to order and Meg orders an appetizer AND a meal. Her little brother does the same and they giggle and discuss how they'll share and split and enjoy their bounty. Mimi orders her meal, as do I. This part takes awhile as I like my ham and cheese omelet easy on the cheese and cooked all the way through, you know, nothing wet on my plate. Oh, and while I'm at it, could you bring my blueberry muffin out separately and warmed up? To MY credit, I'm always sweet and apologetic while ordering and I tip well. Back to Big Daddy, though. I was seated just next to him. I felt something coming. I could not have named it but there was something coming. The waitress looked at the BD, said cautiously, "And for you, sir?" Smugly, he folded his menu and said, "Just a fruit cup for me, thank you."

Now, that could be a punchline, right? Instead, after weeks of being mortified by this while also chuckling at it, I've realized that he scored that morning. You see, he knew the kids wouldn't come close to finishing their food. He knew that since I'd ordered an omelet, hash browns and a muffin (on the side, warmed, thankyouverymuch) that I'd not be able to clean my plate either. I looked through my Susan eyes and saw a Buzz Kill. He, though, was right. He enjoyed his fruit cup and probably ate more than the rest of us after cleaning the plates of the kids and myself.

Let me be clear. He isn't always right. It's just that after 11 years and all those Father's Days, I'm starting to get that I'm not always right, either.

postscript: Little Gilda is missing from this story, isn't she? She was with That Old Man. If any of you tell her of our trip to Perkins without her, I shall call you a liar and my four accomplices will swear to it! Hear me?

A Brand New Day!

2010-06-17T06:28:00.000-07:00

Today's the day. Today, I turn over a new leaf. Today, I have a goal in mind and that goal is to have all laundry completed by the end of this day. Does this seem ridiculous? Sure, after 11 years of NEVER having everything done.

Today, I'll forbid my children to change their clothing until tomorrow. Pooped your pants? Sorry. Rinse them and put them back on until Friday because today is not the day for refilling the laundry basket while Mommy is refilling your closet and drawers. A little poop isn't going to kill them. This laundry that never ends might kill me. I win.

Why is laundry so hard, especially recently? Well, sure, there's my ADHD and my inability to finish a task. I believe that the main problem, though, is that I resent the tools I have. I resent having to run towels through the dryer on the highest cycle at least 140 minutes. I resent that the tools are ugly and old and scratch'n'dent specials. I resent that they often define my day, whether I'm using them or hiding from them.

Today, that changes. As I told Big Daddy the other day at Sears (not where we bought but where we negotiated), "I'm very sorry if this sounds a little too "Veruca Salt" to you but here's what... If you want me to take ownership of our gorgeous home and treat it as it should be for what we paid, I want a set. Do I need a washer? No. I WANT a washer to match my dryer. I am forty years old. I've had three children and now, a job. I'm in kind of a hellish place right now and I want a matchy-matchy washer and dryer for the first time in my life. I do not want top of the line. I'll not ask for you to pay extra for a fancy color. But, I do WANT A SET!" Poor Big Daddy didn't get the Veruca reference but I think he heard what I was saying.

Today, I shall sort and wash and dry and hang and fold. I shall smile and dance and perhaps nap upon my new appliances. Today, Allshouse Appliance will deliver the magic and I will thank them. Big Daddy will thank them. My children will be amazed at how many items of clothing they each have.

Tonight, I will sleep like a baby, knowing that there is no dirty laundry. I dare someone to wet the bed.....

This makes internet shopping FUN!

2010-06-14T16:54:00.000-07:00

Want to shop online, save money AND get some cash back? I've recently started using ebates.com and LOVE it. These are my words, not their suggested words. I saved so much on my kitchen rug and new dishes that it was almost like playing a game. If you'd like to check out ebates.com and how much you can save with coupon codes and rebates, please click the link below. If you like it as much as I do, you can recommend it and get an extra $5.00 for each friend you introduce to it. Happy shopping!!

Susan's ebates link

Birthdays of old...

2010-05-30T18:13:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to Benny Goodman. He'd have been 101 today. He gave us so much more than we realize. Please stop reading, go to youtube and enter benny goodman sing, sing, sing. Once it starts, I dare you to try to resist dancing or, at the very least, foot tapping.

I've always said I'd marry the man who brought me a little brown jug with a string of pearls. I'm on husband #2 and it hasn't happened yet. Glenn Miller would have to play directly to a man's heart for that to happen so I've settled. Eh....

Why does this music speak to a woman of 40 years? Why does that woman feel it deep in her heart, her soul?

That woman watched her Dad dance to swing at weddings and events for years. That woman and her father never really did see eye to eye about much. See.... That woman was called "The Piss-Ant" by her father for years. She'd do what she could to please that old man. That old man would find fault. In his defense, it kept the circle going. That woman was a little girl. That little girl wanted very much to dance with her Daddy and show the world that, although they bickered and appeared to loathe one another, they really did love one another. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that the Daddy in the story also wished for some sort of peace or middle ground.

Yesterday, while I was trying to plan a party and prepare Big Daddy for a flight to Houston at noon and was trying to talk bank teller into handing me over my bank card that was in her hand, "that man" was motioning to me through an alley (welcome to TinyTown) to find out what the hell was going on. Ohhhhh, that man can push the buttons. Then again, they're his buttons, passed to me through genetics and God's plan, I guess.
It's what we do, this old man and I. We bicker. We bitch. We disagree. We gripe to anyone who will listen BUT each other. We would do anything for one another. We love.

I probably ought to take that old man a little brown jug and a recording of Goodman/Miller/others tomorrow. He'd grumble but he'd get it. He'd get it.

I'm not asking you to burn your bra.....

2010-05-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

I can't figure it out. Is there no such thing as outrage anymore?

How do you not care that British Petroleum is the exact same thing as a doc who misinformed you and your child about her cancer, changed paperwork to make it look like he didn't know she had cancer, recommended the wrong chemo while the oncologists were swapping porn pics AND they're still making money off your child? Then, the doctor releases a statement saying that your womb isn't the only place children are made.......

Can it really be "no big deal" to people?

Look, I'm no fan of the "news" anymore. It's not really news. It's opinion and self-promotion and fluff. Sure, I love reading the Speidi are (or is it, is??) splitting. I love to watch the real housefraus of any city. I make a deliberate effort to expose my children to SNL skits and even have them try out characters in the name of good, ole comedy. That is my escape from the real news of the world. News should be based in FACTS. Remember those?

Merriam Webster defines the words as follows:
Main Entry: fact
Pronunciation: \ˈfakt\
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin factum, from neuter of factus, past participle of facere
Date: 15th century
1 : a thing done: as a obsolete : feat b : crime c archaic : action
2 archaic : performance, doing
3 : the quality of being actual : actuality
4 a : something that has actual existence b : an actual occurrence
5 : a piece of information presented as having objective reality
— in fact : in truth

I don't want to put the word "fact" into the same box in which I keep the smell of my Grandma Wilson's kitchen, the sound of Nanny Gibson's Hornet or the love of that college sweetheart or the moment my first baby was put into my arms and I was left alone with her. No, I want "fact" to remain alive and active and strong. I want to teach my children that "spin" is not stronger than fact.

I know that not everyone gives a shit. I get it. I remember being so caught up in breastmilk and diapers and antidepressant choices that the facts meant very little to me. But, I do think that something as huge as this oil spill (and can we please start calling it a disaster instead of a spill???) warrants the attention of ALL of us. I'm not just looking at my US friends. I'm looking globally. How easy it would be for us in little western Pennsylvania to be sad but motionless if this was a tiny oil "spill" off the coast of "insert country you've never heard of here." We'd be sad and sigh and pray, perhaps. Then, we'd have as much emotion invested in our choice of coffee at Mugsies ten minutes later.

I'm no PETA fan. If Big Daddy brought me a fur on a cold day, I'd likely wear it. If someone asked me to stop flying my American flag, I'd likely ask them to kiss my fat, American ass. If someone wanted a job working for me and asked me to fudge their paperwork as they aren't legal here, I'd tell them sayonara, adios or zai jian. Friends who call me "liberal", please read that again, k?

I'm sorry if this is read as mean or nasty or liberal or conservative. It's not at all. It's being typed from my heart. At this point, it matters not. BP does not care and is not catering to any side, middle, fringe, human. BP is catering to BP. Know that. Act on that.

Act on your heart and what it, by nature, knows.

Buy This for May 11, 2010

2010-05-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

The Book Thief

Now and then, you'll read a "Buy This" post from me. They aren't solicited. They're what I want you to buy and read, listen to, use, marry...whatever.

First up is a book. A simple book is often exactly what we need. This appeared to be a simple book about a simple girl. Not so. This book has wrapped itself around me and my heart. It will always be on my recommendation lists and my top ten ever books. These characters are still in my heart months after I put the finished book down. I believe this should be required reading for students. I also believe it can teach the rest of us so very many truths.

Bravo, Mr. Zusak. You and your words will stay with me for years to come.

If you've not yet read The Book Thief

No such thing as a simple memory

2010-05-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

I've been remembering folks from my past. But, I don't just remember the people. I remember the experiences, the smells, the music and the sensations. You do, too. You hear that song and it puts you somewhere else, back in time, back with friends who are long gone. You smell that perfume and remember your first love.

The memory of my first job isn't just a picture of the interior of the first floor of the New Castle Public Library. The memory includes so many micro-memories. I can smell the books. I can feel the grime on my hands after shelving several carts full of books. I remember the feel of the cloth I used to lovingly wipe the top of each book as I "read" the shelves, putting each treasure into its proper place. I can hear the descent of the elevator and feel the creepiness that came with walking down a long, dark, basement hall to the breakroom. The people, their faces and smells and hands that shaped my teenaged self are all there. Susan has smoke dancing around her as I hear her deep, true laugh. Jean is also in that smoke but is mixed with awe and fear and respect. Pat is there among the reference materials, wanting to know something new about me so that he can fill a perceived void with a mix tape, a book, a print, something. Jon Jon is there, another deep, genuine laugh. I feel myself tsk-tsking at his sudden crouching and stating, "Sniper. Down!" The memory of having a cousin who was more of a brother in that season of my life is still with me. I can taste the malted milk balls we bought each day and shared, Gibsons that we were.

Chanel No. 5. Black bottle. Just a container of fluid on my mom's dresser. Not so much, really. I smell it and suddenly, it's 1975. It's Sunday morning and I'm on my mom's bed, watching her get ready for church. I usually catch hints of baby powder with it because I'd be freshly bathed and powdered as I watched the most beautiful woman in my world, the world, get ready. In those days, getting ready didn't resemble my current version of getting ready. There were no hot curlers or baskets of potions and makeup and cover ups and lotions. Getting ready was mom pulling a comb from the top, left drawer to do her hair. She'd put on a slip and bra from the right side of her dresser. Perhaps she'd sit with me and pull on a pair of pantihose. Remember those? They predate tanning beds. Yes, it was a process. I loved every moment of it. She'd finally be dressed and would choose from her jewelry box just the right item to wear. Often, it was a rock that one of her children had polished, decoupaged and glued a pin on and that'd be her jewelry. I can still smell the glue and water mix we used to decoupage and I can feel my heart soar if she picked one of my creations. I can hear that bed creaking now. Yes, I catch a hint of Chanel No. 5 and I'm back on Northview Avenue, upstairs, with Momma.

It ain't all good, folks. Certainly not. There are songs that take me back to a very ugly time in my life. Most people see the state of Colorado as gorgeous, breathtaking, magnificent. To me, it will always be cold and windy and dark and frightening. I'd love to see the beauty in those mountains. I did once, early on. Now, that has shifted into fear and anger. No, I'll not ever be able to enjoy the majesty most others see. It's tainted by these memories of hate and of pain.

Back to the nice stuff, though... Recently, I've found a long-lost, achingly missed friend. She was my rock during good times and bad. She was my other half for awhile. For years, every time I tasted a cold, indistinct beer or heard a Tom Petty song, she'd creep to the very front of my mind and wave. The memory. Waving at me. Now that we're back in touch, those songs and tastes and smells don't bring about an ache in my heart but a jump in my heart and a grin and nod. Yes, Margie and I are dancing and laughing from our hearts again.

I wonder about memories. On a metaphysical level, I suppose it could be argued that a memory is concrete and real and whole. On that very same level, it could be argued that a memory is not a reality but an enhanced reliving of an actual event. Good thing I don't care much about the metaphysical, right?

I shall cherish these and so many other memories. I'd love to hear of yours. What memory evokes the strongest pull or reaction from you? Which senses bring about the strongest memories?

KitchenAid Mixer - Sponsored Post

2010-05-08T16:32:00.001-07:00

KitchenAid Mixer - www.bizrate.com

No raw meat in my rings since I got my KitchenAid mixer! Mixing meatloaf in it right now. LOVE it. @kitchenaidusa

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KitchenAid Mixer - Sponsored Post

2010-05-08T16:31:00.001-07:00

KitchenAid Mixer - www.bizrate.com

No raw meat in my rings since I got my KitchenAid mixer! Mixing meatloaf in it right now. LOVE it. @kitchenaidusa

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Names for My Loves

2010-03-18T19:33:00.000-07:00

I like to give my loves special names. If you get a nickname, I must kinda like ya. Here's a guide to my loves and why they earned the names given on FB and Twitter.

1. Big Daddy -- He provides for a family. He is an international businessman. To me, that reads, "international man of mystery...." and that is worth a few chuckles. He is my hero and has saved our sinking ship more than once. Oh, and we have sex but my mom might read this so.....

2. The Duchess. Meg. 16 years old. Gorgeous and popular and funny and goofy. My grandmother used to say to babies who ga-ga-goo-goo'd at her, "Ohhh, you're Dutch." I said the same to my baby Meg. Dutch grew into Duchess. I will never, ever forget finding a Dutch Barbie at the PX on Ft. Stewart. I bought it and placed it, unopened, in her closet. She was two. She asked me several times to open that doll and I refused. Then, my darling baby Meggie came to me and said, "Ohhhh, Mommmmaaaaa....May I please just touch her shoes???" Less than a minute later, Dutch Barbie was opened, her hair was brushed and she was naked. This is the rite of passage for all Barbies joining a family of humans. All these years later, that gorgeous child is still my Duchess.

3. My Heart. Jack. 9 years old. My only son. My HEART. He's had his problems. He's 9 and has had two therapists. Hell, I'll just say it, he's me. Self-loathing. Self-doubt. Self-punishment. This kid has the misfortune of my gene pool. But, this kid might be the brightest, most sensitive child ever. He is his Mimi's greatest caregiver. He's a doll. It's hard to put into words how this baby boy stole my heart, let alone became My Heart. It just "is."

4. Little Gilda. Stewie, Jr. Stewie's Evil Twin. HurriKat. Many names for the force that is my Katherine Grace. She's bold and bossy and ballsy and bright. She's funny and fanatical and frightful. She's my nemesis. She's my source of belly laughs. She's all these things wrapped up in this little Polish package.

5. Me. Stay tuned...........