Libby, the Bichon Frise

We adopted a five year old Bichon Frise named "Libby" over a month ago.  She has a history of not really liking men all that much, they intimidate her and she is a lil on the skittish side anyway.  She was a breeder, at a puppy mill for several years, until her uterus pretty much crumbled and fell out.  Then the woman decided she wasn't useful and had to go.

That was last fall.  In November, a couple adopted her and took her home.  But then in January, they returned her to the foster home, because it wasn't a good fit.

In the beginning of February, I drove down to meet Libby at her foster home.  She wasn't really too thrilled, but was very submissive and complacent.  Our trip home was quiet and uneventful.

Libby came with a lot of stuff, a puffy doggy bed, a smaller doggy bed with fuzzy sides, a super soft blanket, toys, squeaky toys, tug toys, dishes, more toys, and so on.  I set a few things around the living space in various areas, so that she would have choices and also so that our strangeness had a few familiar things for her.  She seemed to prefer a lil chair that is next to my husband's.

Three Dog Night:  Jerry's angels
Libby, Sophie, & Chiquita

Within days, Libby and my husband had bonded.  She would whine when he went outside and she remained in.  She would curl up in his lap, with our other two lil ones and cozy down into just the right spot.  She would come running when he held the door open,  And when we went to bed, she would lay right up against his chest.

I credit this to my husband's extremely gentle and patient behaviour with Libby.  He voiced concern when we were considering adopting her, because of her history with avoiding men.  But Libby warmed up to him with no problems at all.  He made it possible for her to like him, on her own terms in her own time.

There are several lessons to learn here, some principles that can be applied to relationships in general.  Watching my husband and Libby learn to trust each other and patiently accept the other's quirks has really been good for me.  Libby's adapted to her new environment, as have we to her.  It's a learning process that will continue, but I think she's finally home.

So are we.

The Seat of Grief

Just after Thanksgiving 2014, when it became more apparent that my mom might not be making a speedy recovery, when it became more apparent that she might actually not make any sort of recovery, when I realized she might actually die at some point in the very near future {which I was still considering a few months, not a few days}...I looked up "grief", because I had quite a bit of time to google things while I waited for the next allowable visitation within the Critical Care Unit.

I wasn't thinking, "great, how do I do this "grieving thing" properly?"; altho I do try to get things right in some ways and be prepared, which is why I've gotten to be so good with research and know an amazing amount of completely trivial stuffs.  I was thinking more about the fact that her life was changing and that even though she was not the sort of person who overly lamented much of anything; I did realize that one aspect that is often ignored in a changing situation is the grief you can hold for the loss of the dreams, assumptions, and goals that you once held for possible futures.

What I mean is that sort of vague feeling that people can have, when they realize that contrary to their childish beliefs that they could accomplish anything and be anyone, those options are not quite as broad in range as they had once thought.  Midlife crises are often about the grieving for dreams that will never be, even if you had not really wanted to be that astronaut who undergoes cryogenic suspension so that you can come to millions of light years away, you might grieve the letting go of that unrealistic dream you once had had.  So I knew that you can grieve for all sorts of things, including possible futures.

Or impossible futures.

So I looked up "grief" because I thought that mom's life is changing, and she will accept those changes, of course; but how can I help her to make the adjustments and accept the limitations even better.  That's what my thoughts were at that time.

Here's what happens when you google "grief", most of the articles and references focus on helping you through grieving the loss of someone you love.  Your spouse, a child, a parent.  That makes total sense, of course.

But not really what I thought I was looking for.  Apparently, I thought wrong.  Turns out, that was exactly what I was looking for.

The one big thing that stuck out to me, in the review of  "grief", was that lots of folks who are grief~stricken are very tense and they carry their grief, in a very physical way.  They develops aches and pains and often will seek medical assistance for discomfort that had not been present before.

"Wow," I thought, "good to know."

So I was not surprised at all, when I began to get achy over the past few months.  I didn't panic.  I didn't jump to the conclusion that I had flu.

One day tho, I realized, my ass hurts.  Not my entire ass, just the same place that had been problematic a few years ago.  A very deep pain in the right ass cheek.  And immediately, once I paid attention to it, the pain bloomed.

Several years ago, as I was getting out of my car at my mom's, deep in my right ass, a cramp seized so hard that it took my breath away and tears sprang to my eyes instantaneously.  I limped in severe pain and mom stood on her front deck, laughing her ass off at the rather humorous picture I presented, yelling at me, "walk it off, just walk it off".

I was laughing even as I cried in pain.

Turns out, I ended up in physical therapy, for a pain in the ass.  Most likely it was my piriformis, which is a muscle that is linked with sciatica.  Everyone knows that pain in the ass.

It is not an easy place to reach yourself.  And it is an awkward thing to ask of others, "would you rub my ass?  just get in there, really hard, and deep".  Misunderstandings arise and you can lose a few friends that way.

a few days ago, I finally had enough; so I contacted a massage therapist and made an appointment.  When describing the pain and location, after having explained that I was tense in general and that my mother had died in December and that I suspected that part of the reason that I was tense and achy was related to that; the massage therapist told me something that made complete sense to me.

Apparently, the seat of grief is in the complex layering of muscles in the pelvic and hip region.  Your center of gravity is there, and when you lose someone, your entire world is rocked.  So it makes sense that the seat of grief is found within your sit~upon.  It may seem less than polite to think that the loss of your loved one is directly related to that locale.  But I know that mom would be laughing her ass off about being a literal pain in mine.

2014, the year of mom's demise

One thing that long~time readers will have noted is that I tell on myself.  I very rarely knowingly lie about myself because the truth is far stranger than fiction and I figure that if I keep it real, then there is no one that can honestly say that they didn't know what they were getting when I showed up to the proverbial party.  Usually early.  Sometimes hours early.  With a vegetable tray that no one else will eat, thus ensuring that my husband will have noshing bits for the next week.  There truly is a method to my madness, no matter how trivial it may seem to others.

So while I do realize that it has been almost a year since I last posted here, there were several reasons for that.  Some of which I may hit on, here or in future posts; it depends on relevancy and timing, I'd say.  Thanks for welcoming the return of a rather errant writer of sorts.

First off, I won't be able to recap this past year in a way that will capture everything...so just accept that.  I can hit on a few things, but I'll try to keep it fairly light, and not dwell, dwell, dwell...altho I will want to, I won't; I need to move on.  Having said that, understand that there will be times when I dwell, and that's ok.  I'll do that if it helps me to move thru this next part and get on with things.  Seems contradictory, but ya know how these things work.

The long and short of it was that 2014 brought lots of heartrending tears, most of which were not actually wept then, but are now.  Here is the thing:  my mother died on Friday December 5th 2014.  It was a long, exhausting year that didn't seem quite as long or nearly as exhausting at the time as it does now, looking back.

Second, grief is a weird thing.  It grows arms and legs and tentacles and teeth, both mad sharp incisors and dull painfully grinding molars; but mostly it becomes a parasite that takes over and dissolves all my social filters.  On a regular basis, it turns out, also noted by looking back ~~ cuz hindsight can be perfectly crystal.

When my mom died, I was relieved for her; we'd spent most of November in the hospital, after she'd been through one thing after another all year long.  Stents, meds, open~heart double coronary arterial bypass graft surgery, etc., nothing was working the way it was supposed to and nothing was slowing down the rate at which her heart was failing.  When she began to die in earnest, Mom was ready, it was time.  She died on her own terms, which is really the only way to go; isn't it?

So it isn't her death that I'm grieving.  It's her absence in my life now that sucks the very marrow of my presence into the horrible vacuum of grief.  Quite often, I do not realize how awfully devastated I am until after I've done something that reflects the complete and utter absence of my social filters.

In some cases, most actually, this is actually pretty funny.  If not at the time, later I realize there were some very humorous aspects and elements involved, which give the entire situation a rather unique pithy, yet witty, tone.  It's good that I can appreciate that, because there are those who most certainly cannot {ew}  nor do not.  Because they are simply not built that way.  But I am.  It's almost as tho I am rediscovering who I am exactly.  Some of which is not pretty, some of which is rather bitter, and some of which is downright wretched.

But that is all part of me, of who I am.  And ya know, I embrace that; if for no other reason than the fodder for the grist mill that in part makes up the totality of me.

First there is a mill, then there is no mill, then there is. {Starkville, MS}

A few years back, I got lost in the Cotton District {what?!?  How is that even possible?  Trust me, there are lots of lil dead~ends, one way streets, and cul~de~sacs just waiting for the unsuspecting driver to get stuck in the never ending loop of right of ways and do not enters}.  As I topped the hill on Maxwell Street, I was faced with the looming, mammoth brick building facing me across Russell.  Yes, I knew that it was the EE Cooley Building for MSU, housing the physical plant facilities.  But when I first faced that central tower, full on, a lil eerie voice popped up, “ooooo, spooooky” with glee and I immediately had visions of possibilities, involving movie sets and novel locations and Stephen King and John Saul and children’s orphanages {or boarding schools, same difference} and old abandoned mental asylums.  Obviously, horror fiction is fun for me; if I actually did encounter any horrific oddities in real life, I’d probably piss my pants and do other unspeakably disgusting things like squeal like the lil girl I used to be and attempt to stuff all ten of my fingers into my mouth to stifle the screams that were sure to follow.

It’s all fun and games til someone loses an eye.  Or a mean spirit rises up, drives you mad, causing you to run into oncoming traffic, impaling yourself on a car’s hood ornament, and you die with an appalling death rictus that never shows up on CSI.  But in the meanwhile, it’s cool to imagine what these older buildings housed and oh, if only walls could talk.

Around that same time, my childhood friend {from Pennsylvania} and her family were planning to come spend a week with me in Mississippi.  I wondered what each of the children found interesting, so that I might be able to find something in this area for them as well.  The teenage girl was into spooky things, ghost stories, and hauntings.

Perfect!  My inner eerie clapped with relish, squirming and wriggling.  Amongst the other places to show her, like Waverly, cemeteries, certain roads, and such; we drove into the paved parking area in front of the EE Cooley Building.  It was hotter and more humid than the Okefenokee Swamp in August 1995 {different story}, so none of the five of us wanted to muster the energy to get out of the lil yaris and then squeeze back in {a notion that is akin to putting toothpaste back in the tube}.  So I took a picture of the name plate by the entrance, which listed all the members and their positions on that very first board of the John M Stone Cotton Mill.  Then the teenage daughter and I talked about how that building just begs for a good story or two.

Sure you could make one up, but a good story based on even the barest smidgeon of truth deserves to be researched some.  Get the facts straight and then venture off into fiction.  Or perhaps, a good juicy urban legend already exists in connection with the old brick building.

So over the years, I've done a lil digging here, and a tad searching there.  What I've often read is the same sorts of facts, rearranged from one article to another.  Sometimes there are more data included, like the actual measurements of the behemoth.  But for the most part, accounts agree with each other and reflect a fairly comprehensive history of the building, from its conception at the turn of the last century, to the present, over 110 years later.

to be cont'd

oh so wrong...

Once again, gov'ment agents have astounded me with their smug ignorance.  A loooooooooong story somewhat shorter, mom had stopped at the Social Security Administration offices here in Starkville to see if she could get her mother's ss#, to include on a form which is requesting her mother's death certificate so that she can then send that to the insurance company.  There is so much laughably wrong with the entire story, like why the insurance company is just now wanting a death certificate for a woman who died 36 yrs ago.  But I'll just stick with one element of what occurred today.

The SS Gov'ment agent insisted that my mom was not spelling her mother's name correctly.  Why?  Well because he entered the name three different ways into the system and could not track the number down.  So mom suggested that it might be possible that her mother never had a social security number {after all, Grandma would now be 100 years old, had she lived}.  OH no, ma'am, that's not possible.  Why, it's the law that babies are sent home from the hospital with one.  Well, since the lady was born a full two decades before the Social Security Administration was founded, and since she was NOT born in the hospital, and since it's most certainly not the law to send babies home with one....but the Gov'ment Agent assured my mom that he knew that her mom had to have a number.  And he was also sure that if my mom contacted her mom's school that she graduated from, they would have the number on file in their records.  Mom, who knew that continuing the conversation was an exercise in futility, made one last attempt to reason with the pompous ass:  mom pointed out that her mom only finished eighth grade, that records were most likely not in existence anymore, especially since the school does not exist and has not for at least 75 yrs.  Well, if mom wanted to, she could request a number for her mother, all she needs is the death certificate.  WTF?!?

{sigh}  Ya can't make stupid shit up like this.

The Sweetest Lil Girls

 I know that every parent is biased toward their children.  Even those of us who've adopted lil furry babies of other species are prone to think our babies are the bestest ones of all; the pick of the litter, so to say.

But really, how can you not think these two are adorable?

These two lil girls get along nicely and are constantly curled up together.  When not faux~fighting in that snarly way they have of playing, that is.

Sophie, our chiweenie, is now three and altho she is now an "adult", she still gets very puppyish and playful.  She is our watchdog of sorts.  She has a big bark, especially for a relatively lil body.  For a chiweenie, she is a bit on the bigger, denser, broader side.  But for a dog, she's on the smaller side.

Then the lil'st one, Chiquita our chihuahua, is about ten months old.  She was born the first day of spring last year and came to live with us July 3rd. She's pretty much adjusted to our home and all of the occupants.  There are still the occasional mishaps, the poop that doesn't make it onto the pPad when we are not home.  But for the most part, she loves her sisters and her humans.  She is not a yappy yippy yuppy dog, tho we do have to remind her from time to time to use her inside voice.

Welcome

Long time readers will remember that I have certain fondness for my local public library.  I adore the young ladies who've worked hard to build the various programs into what they currently are.  Life moves on and so have those women and a new batch of folks have stepped up and continued to nourish those programs and add new ones as well.

Our newest staff member at Starkville Public Library is Meredith Wickham, Young Adult Librarian.  {and the crowd roars...and sighs in relief and relish}  Newly arrived from Seneca, SC, Meredith brings her sunny personality, her sincere love of reading and writing, and her wittiest of wits to us here in the lil city with a big heart.  So stop by and met her, it's worth the visit.

Welcome, Meredith, glad you're here!

SteamPunk'n

SteamPunk Coffee Roasters, a new coffee shop in Natchez, has our interest piqued.  So we'll visit them tomorrow morning, on our way out of town, to return to Starkville.  I'm really pretty psyched!

Four years ago

This day goes by many names.

Some call it "samhain", some "all hallow's eve", some "halloween".

I call it "my anniversary".

I love you, my Jerry, my sweetheart.

Dancing with the Stars

I love this picture!  She looks like she is spinning out from a twirl at a 50s sock hop, with her lil arm and hand in correct position and everything.  I can't wait to see her again, in about two months.  Wow, how much she will have grown!

SS Wolf: Newest Member to the Pack

Mania: The Flip~Side of "Manic~Depression"

Fortunately I have not had to deal with this excessively so for the past few months.  I have done a fair amount of self~monitoring and have been able to pace myself appropriately.  Or at least I think so.  It's hard to tell with Mania, cuz there are times when hypo~mania occurs, unnoted.

This is because hypo~mania is the preferred state of many who deal with manic~depression.  It's a slightly elevated state of euphoria when you are firing on all cylinders, optimistically juggling multiple tasks and deadlines, lots of ideas springing forth, and the flow of creativity seems effortless. Most people like those who are experiencing this level of mania.  Cuz these slightly off folks are gregarious and charming, they seem energetic and pleasant.  They're peppy and upbeat and joyous and eccentric.  They're artistic and a fount of wonderful suggestions and problem solving solutions.  They're just far enough off average to be outstanding, but not so far off they seem crazed.

Is it any wonder why most manic~depressants love, Love, LOVE hypo~mania?  It's a no~brainer why folks do not want to take note that this might be a sign that should be noted, cuz it might be a warning that just after this state is the mania, the true mania, the hyper~mania, the mania that passes into frantic frenzies and racing thoughts and impatience with folks who cannot conceive of the amazing ideas that have occurred to those in the throes of mania.

For many, depression is the most dangerous aspect of manic~depression.  It's crushing.  It's draining.  It's painful and true despair settles in and sucks your very soul in depletion.

For me?  Mania is the most dangerous aspect of this delicate balancing act.  For many years, Rapid Cycling {even ultradian} was a way of life for me.  It quickly becomes exhausting, it accelerates at such velocity that I would dash right thru the hypomanic, optimistic stage and tumble right into the Red Shoe Syndrome {I dub it that, cuz it's appropriate; but you'll not find it termed such in a medical text or the DSM V}.  Are you familiar with the old tale about the girl who wants to be a dancer and so she is given a pair of red shoes with the caveat that once donned, they may never be removed...until death.

The Red Shoe Syndrome is when I can't stop dancing at death~defying speeds, twirling and spinning, flinging myself from task to task, unable to slow, momentum feeding the dizzying rush til it scares me and everyone around me.  There is no relief.  There is no choice.  There is no slowing down.  There is no jumping off the cyclone~go~round.  There is no "take a break".

Unlimited irritation, rage, frustration, sharpness, violence erupts within my head, out my mouth.  Frantically, I'd try to contain myself, knowing that I am accountable for my actions at all times, and yet, I was sure that I was bursting from my skin.  Hyperaware of every single thing.  Unable to tone down anything.

For years, I'd cycle thru the range so quickly, so rapidly, that within five minutes, I'll have gone from tears of despair to the other extreme end of elation and back again.  Days on end of no sleep.  Those days adding into weeks, my heart on the verge of giving out, my brain exploding into horribly vivid nightmarish slashes of screaming color that howl and sharp shadows whose edges cut into my vision with such precision that I was sure blood was leaking from my eyes for all to see.  Anxiety ridden moments stretching into hours of panic attacks that physically, emotionally, mentally, intellectually, take a toll an every aspect of my life from being a grad student, to relationships, to being able to complete any task including brushing my teeth without turning the toothbrush into a tool for scrubbing my entire kitchen floor.

After years of this, I ground haltingly to a smoking stop.  My resilience shattered like an aged frozen rubber band that was dipped in liquid nitrogen, then dashed to the jagged glass embedded concrete.  I crumbled into a million pieces that would never be put together, I would never be restored to a complete whole.  The dust of me blew away in the savage gusts that ate holes into my life.

Then began a loooooong, arduous rebuilding process.  The process itself either so exhausting that I would sink into depression or so demanding that it would trigger mania and I'd spin out of control only to crash again.  And again.  and again.  yet again.  again.  and each time, I'd try again.  Cuz the alternative was not viable.

So now, where am I now?  How am I now?  I'm good.  I'm usually better than ok.  I'm sometimes in a bad way, but very rarely do I reach the extremes of either pole.  I stay in the mid~range as much as possible.  I know I need lots of rest.  I know that anxiety is a sign.  I know that what are some common triggers for me.  I monitor myself, all the time.  I have an amazing support system, made of an awesome husband, wonderful care givers like a counselor who I've seen for years and a general practitioner who has seen me in every single situation that is possible, a mother who continues to learn more about me, and a community that allows me to be me, within bounds.

I will not attempt to describe in detail the healing process here.  Except to say that it takes a team of truly committed folks to have a hope of moderation.  And it takes a deeply intimate knowledge of self to know when to say when.  I've reached my limit for today.  Perhaps I will discuss the reconstruction process here some other time.  Or not.  It depends on too many uncertain elements at this point.

Today, I am good.  And that's the best place to be for now.

Two lil knitted blankets for Lil Suthern Belle

I don't always take the time to upload and post pix from home, preferring to wait til I am at the BookMart & Cafe' DownTown and use their faster speed WiFi to accomplish in a flash what would take my DialUp a looooooooooooong time.

So here are two lil baby blankets that I've made for the newest member of the family, who should arrive in just a few weeks:  Miss Lil Suthern Belle.  She's my husband's youngest son's first child.

He and his wife chose to go with a coral and grey, with white accents theme for their daughter's room.  So the first blanket pictured here is a simple garter stitch, done on the diagonal, in Caron's Simply Soft persimmon and grey.  It's small, just 2'x2'.

The next is a simple 1x1 rib stitch, done in Sensation's Classic Rainbow, coral.  It's also variegated with a soft grey and white.  This is a slightly fuzzy fabric that is nice and squishy.  It's a lil bigger, 3'x3'.  mmmmmm, sleeeepeeeeee time

I also have some Caron one pounders.  I thought about what to do, have come up with five or six different ideas, considered and discarded them.  I think I have a solution, tho.  It involves a grey hippo with white eyes and toenails on a persimmon background.  This one will be crochet, from a graph of a cutely squashed baby hippo.  It makes ya wanna hug her and squeeze her and call her "George".

The Depression of "Manic~Depression"

It seems like there isn't much that I can say that isn't intensely personal right now, but I feel I let that interfere with my writing and other activities.  In the past, when I would feel that I couldn't get out of my own head or events in my personal life; well, then I'd withdraw from most of my interactions with acquaintances, groups, and public activities; for fear that I'd alienate folks by saying the wrong things or focusing too much on personal stuff while in the company of folks who might find that inappropriate.  My filters begin to slip or simply vanish and then I say and do things that I later wish I had not said or done.  So the way I dealt with that was to withdraw for a time.

Some consider that isolation.  But I think that it can be a smart thing to do.  Sometimes, personal reflection, rest for the mind and body, is just the thing.  This type of behaviour can be restorative, healthy.  Withdrawing becomes problematic, or isolative, when it contributes to life's malfunctions instead of helping to solve those troubles. 

For instance, about ten years ago, I discovered that I sometimes needed complete peace from interactions with the outside world.  At that time, I found the phone to be particularly irritating.  It was an insistent interruption and would bring the outside social world right into my own peaceful place that was my sanctuary from invasive chaos.  I was experiencing heightened anxiety and would have panic attacks in public places often.  There were triggers that would startle me into losing my shit quickly and with a frightening intensity that seemed to never quite abate completely.  One of those triggers was a ringing telephone; so I silenced the ringer on my land line {I had no cell} and would periodically check caller id or the messages if needed.  My friends and family knew to leave a message if they wanted a return call.  Cuz really, I lived by myself, was not responsible for anyone but myself, and what sort of emergency was any one going to have that would require my immediate response?  Really?  Absolutely none.

So for five years, I didn't use the phone, wouldn't take incoming calls, and rarely made outgoing ones.  At first, that was fine, it was what I needed.  But then others began to worry because they felt that I was isolating myself.  I can see from their perspective, and in our society, at this time, yes, it probably was a bit excessive.

But then I rejoined the world at large.  Or rather, my community.  I met a wonderful man who become my husband within a year.  I began to get involved with several smaller groups, a few who met monthly or even less frequently.  I was careful not to commit to any obligations that would overwhelm me.  I was gingerly moving; but still, it was forward movement.  And that, my friends, is something.

I've made lots of progress over the past decade.  But then there are times where something so completely blindsides me, that I don't just have a set~back...I seem to fall to my knees, die a cutting death with great agony, and sink into the mucky mire of dreaded despair.  Then I want to retreat.  I need to retreat.  I crave that retreat so totally, it scares me.

Here's the thing:  when I feel this way, I feel like I will always feel this way.  Even tho I know that I won't.  It feels like I will.  And that feeling swallows me whole and with such relish that I cower in corners, under covers, shutting out the world.  Or at least I think I want to cower in corners, under covers, and shut out the world.

But I don't.

Cuz to do so, would be too easy.  It would lead me too easily into isolation, an unhealthy dark dank place that deadens me and scares my loved ones.  And that is what depression is like for me.

Welcome

Dear College~Student,

This is a hugely exciting time of your life.  You are meeting new folks, getting acquainted with your roommates, and stretching your wings.  There's a new town for you to explore, with all its cute lil boutiques, cafes/restaurants, and such.  I get that.

You've got lots of emotions running rampant.  Yea!  You finished a life~long endeavor to get here!  Be proud of graduating, completing thirteen plus years.  Yea!  You're starting something new, hitting the big leagues.  Wahoo!  You're leaving home and moving on.  Get that.

And I get the whole text book, class, professor thing.  It can be overwhelming.  It can be exciting.  You might say and do all sorts of things while you're finding yourself, trying this and that.  You might even say and do things in fits of nervousness that you'd probably never say or do at any other time.  I get that, too.

So go have fun.  Within reason.  Have a blast.  Within reason.  Enjoy the whole college experience.

BUT, {and you knew one was coming right?}  keep in mind that while YOU are not the center of the universe, neither are you alone.  Lots of others are willing to help you thru this process.  BUT you have to be willing to help yourself too.  Please get that.

Understand that not everyone around you is experiencing exactly what you are.  And neither do we want to do so.  I really Really REALLY do not want to hear about your dilemma over which ice~cream you choose and why you did so, and I certainly don't find the process of how you chose the ice~cream that you did nearly as fascinating as you do.  Please get that.

If I can hear your squeals of excitement while your describe your great love for Snickers Nutcracker, while I have earbuds routing Garbage's "Shut Your Mouth" into my head; then there is a likelihood that you are too fricken loud.  Just sayin'.  Please get that.

If I can hear your one sided conversation {that'd be a monolog, right?} as you chat away on your cell, while I am eating across the restaurant from you; please get that the entire room doesn't share your exuberance in finding just the cutest lil boots ever and on CLEARANCE {especially since it's AUGUST in Mississippi, you do get that, don't you?}.

And dudes!  If you are standing in line in a store, while the cashier is ringing up and bagging your purchases; be ready to pay.  If you and your roommates have turned shopping into a group event, and want to pay as a group; then try to work your strategy out ahead of time.  Huddling up at the end of the counter, while more folks queue up, is not effective.  If you can't divide the total bill by the number of housemates {or whatever your plan of attack is}, then just pay; and worry about divvying up expenses fairly later.  The cashier is not amused with your witty excuse that you are all poor college students.  Especially if you are dressed in clothes that would require an entire month's wages.

Please respect others; like the residents of this town, the employees who serve you, and your fellow students.  You will receive more respect yourself, if you treat others accordingly.  If you want to, get involved in the community.  Volunteer with some of the excellent efforts in the area.  But at the very least, be responsible for yourself.

Welcome to college, may you enjoy your years here.  May we enjoy your years here too.  Let's work together to make them good.

chairs

My new~to~me leather chair that I will love forever.  And ever.

The lil girls, all nestled on top of my husband's chair.

lil girls

I snapped this right before I walked out the door this morning.

What I did with my weekend...

Have I mentioned lately how very sweet my husband is to me?  Well, he is!  We have been considering how to store/display/organize my yarn for quite some time.  Long time readers may recall when I had posted some pictures of my stash.  Here's the link:  debrasdose.blogspot.com/2011/05/crafty-room.html

Part of the problem with the two large wooden shelving units was that if I would take one skein off the shelf, most of the yarn on that shelf would come off too.  This meant that I was constantly trying to hold my arm up to block the other yarn from falling off the shelf and/or replacing skeins on the deep, wide shelves.  They were not meant for holding yarn.  So I thought this and I thought that, and then I considered that and I considered this.  Then I weighed that alternative and this idea and I was still not satisfied that I was coming up with exactly the right solution.

So let's skip ahead two years and two months to just about two weeks ago...we decided to get interlocking wire cubes that are about fourteen inches.  kMart had a six block unit for twenty dollars.  So I purchased some at the "local" store {next county over}, made sure they would work, and then made a larger purchase online {free shipping right to my home!}.  My order arrived on Friday.  Saturday, my husband and I moved the wooden shelving units out into the living space {which brought an entirely different idea to mind for future use of them, which in turn made me very excited, wahoo!!}.  I had already rearranged the other things that needed to be moved back in that room.

Saturday, my husband and I built a wall of wire cubes.  It's five cubes high and eight cubes wide.  That's forty friggen cubes of delight!  I almost peed my pants, I was giggling with so much glee!

Then today, my husband helped me move some projects {works in progress, yarn projects, sewing projects, embroidery projects, monk's cloth, other fabric, the beginning of a quilt, all in various stages} so that I could get to the stacked up and bagged up and stored up yarn.  {cue choruses of "yarn glorious yarn"}.  I'm a big girl, I sweat.  I get out of breath much easier and faster than I used to.  And this is JULY in MISSISSIPPI, INDOORS.

So my awesome husband went to WalMart, bought an air~conditioner, came home, and INSTALLED it right then!!  That man is so sweet to me.  Lemme say that again:  he is amazing and he is amazingly sweet to me.

Then I began to organize and stack all that yarn that had been in ONE room {I have yarn spread throughout the house, it seems}.  My husband let me play back there, let my brain buzz away with joyous glorious happiness, let me interrupt his movie watching several times to exclaim my discovery of rediscovering my stash, and then let me drag him back into the room to point out all my lovelies.

So I had to brag on him.  And my stash.  Or at least, the bulk of it.  The rest of it needs to wait til the front room is ready for it.

La~la~lah!!

The lil girls

Our lil girls at rest, after playing.  Sophie lets Chiquita set the pace.  Chiquita sort of rears up and then paws the ground, or stomps with on leg.  Then Sophie dodges forward and tries to put her nose under Chiquita.  Then Chiquita runs away, a short distance.  Then Sophie chases her and then Chiquita turns and Sophie runs the other way and Chiquita chases Sophie.  The rest of the play consists of either or both stomping and pawing the floor and chasing each other for short distances.  Sometimes they bump noses and it's funny to watch them get all excited about the other.

Shaddow has been keeping to herself, often going into the bedroom to lay in there.  This is even if the lil ones are not playing around.  She really values her sleep and it's dark and cool in the bedroom, peaceful.  I should know, cuz I visit it often!

Chiquita, the Chihuahua

Jerry had a lil surprise for me yesterday.  Meet Chiquita, the Chihuahua.  She is fifteen weeks today and two and a half pounds.  She's a lil cutie, that's for sure!