Wednesday, April 25, 2012


Who says happiness doesn't come in a bottle?

Every year my neighbor allows me to clip branches from her lilac bushes.  Their blooms herald the much anticipated arrival of spring.  Right now, the blossoms are scattered through out my house.  Cheerful and fragrant, their perfume and the sunshine streaming through my windows have me absolutely giddy.  

No, seriously.  I'm breathing so deeply, I'm light headed.

Sunday, April 15, 2012


 At six p.m. a week ago last Saturday night I got a call from my niece.  That's her on the left, the smirky one holding the egg.  She was a little incensed that her family hadn't been invited over for Easter dinner.  So I invited.  Then she told me they wouldn't make the trip if frozen lasagna was on the menu (it was) and could I please change my plans (I you see the pull this girl has?!?!).  I talked with her mom and pulled together a proper Easter that didn't involve pork (they worship pigs, not eat them).  Also on darling Maddy's agenda was an egg war.  Each year we boil, color and then destroy the eggs.  We roll 'em out and then do our best to smash into each other's masterpieces, carefully dyed works of art that would make Carl Faberge...curl his lip in disdain.  So I stayed up and boiled eggs.  I Googled for details.  It takes 17 minutes to properly boil eggs (according to one site that has lost all credibility in my eyes).  I set the timer.  I let them cool in the pot as directed.  Yet as my nieces and kids were dying the beauties, the insides were sloshing!  Grrr.
These eggs were pansies in battle. Some (mine) exploded after the first toss.  Others made it for one or two rounds.  We set a record for the shortest egg war ever.  Mad didn't mind though.  She won.  So now you understand the smirk...

My youngest contemplates the incredible, edible (raw) egg

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


I stumbled across Ashley Judd's blog, following a link from a news article.  It added credence to my contention that a woman's power in the world today is measured by her bra size and irrevocably tied to her sexuality, conveniently overlooking what lies beneath the surface.  In the article she addresses rumors that she's had "work done."  What is surprising; it is other women who hold her to the standard promulgated by the media.

I love what she had to say and add my "Amen."

Monday, April 2, 2012


What my eleven-year-old should understand:

When you leave the house with your Ipod and an attitude worthy of its own atmosphere, I still see you in pull-ups toddling through the kitchen, asking for chocolate milk.

When your friend calls to talk to you and I ask him if I can talk to his mom, you are not always in trouble.  I happen to be a person too, and your friend's my friend.

When you bring your friends into your room to check out your "man cave," I'm laughing in the laundry room (and listening to your conversation).

Homework, chores and piano practice are not a known cause of death in eleven-year-old boys.  Nope, they're not.

It doesn't matter how well or badly you do in school, it doesn't matter how much you fight with your sister, it doesn't matter how much lip you give me.  I'll always love you.  That won't change, rub off or molt into something else.  It's just a fact of life that will never go away.  So...peace already.