INDIANA JONES HAS NOTHING TO FEAR, UNLESS HE MEETS ME IN A DARK GARAGE

Okay, tonight I did a boneheaded move. Actually, I did four boneheaded moves.

I had to go to my niece's house, enter in the secret code that opens her garage door, go into her house, let her dog out, then go out. The problem? I didn't know how to reclose her garage door and I couldn't walk out the front door because I couldn't lock the door after me without the key. Big problem because they're out of town. Now, the last time I had to do that, my stepson, Elijah, was with me. The way we solved it then was as follows: I left the garage and watched in awe as Elijah hit the button to close the garage door from INSIDE THE GARAGE, then RUN and take his graceful, svelte body and roll out under the descending garage door before it hit the ground. He did it like a dance move. It was a beautiful thing. He didn't even pause to check for bruises afterwards, he simply hopped up and got into the car. He was simply stunning to watch. I have never forgotten it and I don't think I ever will. Truly, it was breath-taking. He's just one of those people who has beautiful control of his body. It's irritating. The only thing I can rejoice about is that I can steal his jeans and wear them. SCORE!

Anyway, I had a real problem tonight, but since Elijah did this magnificent Indiana Jones move, I thought, "Hey, I still have some moves in this old body, I think I could do the same thing and really, I have no other choice".

So, I put my purse outside of the garage door on the driveway (because I didn't want to be hampered), said goodbye to Max (the dog), took a couple of big breaths and shook out my limbs, hit the garage door button on the wall, and then ran as fast as I could toward the garage door, bending down at the last minute, and kind of rolling/squatting under the door. Huh-uh. Didn't work. That door bounced up and not only did it NOT close, the light flickered on and off several times in an effort to alert the neighbors, who for some reason were ALL OUT doing things in their garages and lawns at that time. So...back to the drawing board.

I went back into the garage to figure out what I did wrong. I checked for bruises and couldn't find any. I reshook out my legs and arms and cracked my neck. I hit the button, ran to the garage, DROPPED to my knees, and rolled out. No. The door bounced back up and yea...the lights flickered again.

Now, the guy across the street that was mowing his back lawn has stopped and is looking at the garage. The guy next to HIS house is holding his door open with his groceries still in his hands and staring in my direction. I pick up my purse and place it in my car like I meant to roll out of the garage. I then proceed back to the garage for another try. I know I can do this.

On the way back to the button, I have a slight limp. No problem. The adrenaline should take care of that. Deep breaths. Hit the button. Limp limp limp drop roll. LAME!!! Lights flicker. I didn't even make it all the way out. You could hear the door stifling a laugh.

I kind of crawled back to the button. I waited until everyone went back to their business and stopped watching. This took awhile. Plus, I needed the time to staunch the bleeding. I hit the button, leaped off the steps, attempted a "slide into home base" type of move...flicker flicker flicker.

I stomped/limped to my car and called my sister. Thankfully she answered even though she was at a huge party. I asked her if there was any way she could come over and lock the front door of her daughter's house because I had to leave. I told her what I had done, or attempted to do. When she stopped laughing, she asked me one question... "Can you do it one more time?" and then she gave me the code to close the door.....

The bruises can be covered by clothing...the shame?...that may take longer....

I NEED TIPS ON HOW TO TREAT INSOMNIA-AND NO, IT'S NOT "READ THIS BLOG"

It's 1:39 in the morning on a Sunday and I am physically exhausted but my eyes won't close. I don't know how or why this happens, but it's aggravating and I don't know what to do about it. I don't drink milk, or I would warm some because that is supposed to be very effective. I could take some xanax, but by the end of this post, I won't make much sense and then I won't remember it tomorrow and when I read my blog and find something that I don't remember posting, that's a rather disturbing event. It's happened before. I get nocturnal amnesia and it's troubling. Can you imagine? I have to really watch myself. I have to make sure car keys are put away in a manner that would require a lot of effort to get to them. I have to stay rational.

I have awoken to find food in my bed and no memory on how it got there. One morning I woke up and found a pan full of grits-untouched. I asked Peter how it got there and he said, "That would be your doing, my dear". I had no memory of actually making grits, but there was the evidence that I did. So...I proceed with caution when it comes to sleep aids. On the up side, how nice/out-of-touch is Peter? Never a word.... Of course, then he promptly forgets because he has raging ADHD and can't remember squat. So...win/win, eh?

So...here I sit, playing on my computer, listening to mother cough, and waiting for sleep to overtake me. I should just force myself to lay in bed and go to sleep....because forcing oneself to sleep is always effective. Sure.

What are some good ideas for insomnia? The people that read my blog are the smartest people I know (for real) and I know there are things I am missing...little help?....please?

What are some tips on getting to sleep?

Please and thank you.

*deep bow*

*deep wide awake bow*

*deep wide awake and while-I'm-down-here-I'll-play-with-my-shoe-laces bow*

:D

HALLOWEEN CAUTION, 2010.....

HERE'S THE DEAL WITH IRISH BUTTER-AND WELCOME TO THE KATZBOX!

If you Google "Irish butter", I think this blog is the 7th reference on the page. That's kind of big. I get more international hits for my, "What's Irish Butter Got That American Butter Ain't"? entry than any other entry. Second place is any entry with the name "Christian Bale" in it. For real. I get hits every single day from countries all over the globe looking for, I guess, clarification on what exactly constitutes Irish butter.

If you go to "http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/1962097", you will find information on what makes butter Irish. This information is supplied by Kerrygold Dairies. Here's what you'll find:

Butterfat

Like several European-style butters, Irish butter has a higher butterfat content than used in American butter. As a result, Irish butter melts more easily and at lower temperatures for cooking.

Texture

Irish butter has a smoother, creamier texture than American butter. It tends to be less waxy than its American counterpart.

Cooking

Because of its high butterfat content, Irish butter takes only 15 minutes to come to room temperature and easily burns when used for frying foods. Blended into pie crusts and pastries it produces a flakier product and is particularly well-suited for flavorful whole grain home-baked breads.

Taste

Irish butter has a richer, almost cheesy, character. It tends to be saltier and less bland than American butters.

Color

Irish butter is a startling golden sunshine yellow color, far more yellow than the whitish butters found in North American varieties.

PICS OF A YOUNG ELI....AND A LITTLE BIT LIKE CHRISTIAN SLATER.

Just thought I would post some pics we found of my son, Eli, from high school. These were taken by a photographer for an agency here in town. Actually, as I recall, the photographer was actually from Colorado and was passing thru town, but he did work for the modeling agency that wanted Eli. So...here they are. Cutie patootie.

I still think he looks a little like Christian Slater in these pictures and he can make a face that looks like him STILL...all these decades later...j/k....not decades....just a few minutes. :)

BRAIN/BODY/LOVE CONNECTION....

A friend posted a link to this article on facebook. It's the results of a study (a "meta-analysis", which means the data from many many research studies) which, when boiled down, indicated that, "falling in love can elicit not only the same euphoric feeling as using cocaine, but also affects intellectual areas of the brain. Researchers also found falling in love only takes about a fifth of a second" (Sciencedaily, 2010). It's what's called a top-down, and bottom-up process, which means the brain activates the heart and gut and the gut and heart can affect the brain. Falling in love feels a lot like doing cocaine...and it happens quickly. Good luck with those teenagers. But that's the fun stuff, the romantic stuff, the lets-go-to-Vegas-stuff.

But the research didn't stop there. It found deeper, more meaningful data. Different areas of the brain fall in different kinds of love (thank goodness). The article said, "For example, unconditional love, such as that between a mother and a child, is sparked by the common and different brain areas, including the middle of the brain. Passionate love is sparked by the reward part of the brain, and also associative cognitive brain areas that have higher-order cognitive functions, such as body image" (Sciencedaily, 2010).

So...it appears that love is in the lab.

We're screwed people.

Love is powerful. It makes us take bullets for people. It's makes us look at ugly babies and think,
"Good Heavens, this is one perfect human specimen", except in my family, they really are. :)

Love makes us wipe the drool off of our baby's teething chin, as well as our aging parents' shirt.

It compels us to leave divorce court and buy new make-up (after a time...or is that just me?)

Love takes us back to the cemetery and lay flowers at the stone while rubbing our fingers over the top of it to remember the texture...

Different parts of the brain? Perhaps. Same emotion? Feels like it. Screwed? Probably. Blessed? Most Definitely.


Reference:
Syracuse University (2010, October 25). Falling in love only takes about a fifth of a second, research reveals. ScienceDaily. Retrieved October 26, 2010, from http://www.sciencedaily.com­ /releases/2010/10/101022184957.htm

LIVVY, SINGING IN THE RAIN...OKAY, IT WAS THE SHOWER, BUT YOU GET THE PICTURE(S).

Except for the little face peeking out of the corner of the photo in the 3rd pic down, this is my grand daughter Livvy. The little face peeking out of the corner of the photo in the 3rd pic down is her twin bro, Charlie. Since Charlie is the HUGE face that is now decorating my blog, I thought Livvy should have equal time...at least somewhat.

I spent the night at their house on Saturday and spent Sunday morning with them. Oh, the joy! So, I thought I would share a few pics of the angel faces I got to spend time with. That's all.

They're fun and funny. Again, that's all.

:)

OLD COMER SCHOOL-SIX GENERATIONS OF GRATITUDE.

Above are the little desks that my mother sat in when she was a very little girl. We visited her one-room school house that was erected in 1850. Her parents and grandparents attended the same school house.

Above is the old coal stove that kept the school warm. I can't even imagine how cold those winters were and how chilly that room got. I would have lobbied for a seat next to that stove.

I love the above shot. It's the natural light filling the doorway at the back of the room. When I think of the generations of family that attended that little school, I'm reminded of where I came from and how far we've come. I think about my children and grand children attending warm, dry, excellent schools and now, we even have college graduates in the family. Eli's degree from THEE Ohio State University is a far cry from these humble beginnings.
And here's 90-year-old Mom with me and three of my four children, as well as FIVE of my grandchildren. That's four generations on the porch of that little one roomed school house. I wish we could see Grandma and my great grand parents standing behind us. Well, metaphorically they were there. We were standing on their shoulders, held up, supported, and pushed heavenward. Here's a delayed "Thank You". And a hug. Until we meet again.

LIVVY IN THE VAN-THE HUMAN PUNCTUATION MARK!

SURPRISE ON THE LUGGAGE RACK!

This poor guy. We saw him on the 55 in Orange County heading to Laguna Beach. His little VW Bug had a suitcase on the luggage rack on top and it had been blown open and was empty. EMPTY! I couldn't stop myself from snapping a couple of pics as we blew past him. I can only imagine his expression when he stopped....yowsa....

DOES THIS REALLY NEED AN EXPLANATION?

BECAUSE DEATH ISN'T CREEPY ENOUGH...

This is the grave of Calamity Jane. She's buried next to Wild Bill Hickok. Her dying words were reputedly, "Bury me next to Wild Bill", and therefore she was. She was said to adore him. I snapped this picture of the monument over her grave site. People leave crosses and rocks at the memorial. What I can't understand is this face that is engraved on all four sides of the headstone, which is quite large. It looks a little like the drama mask symbols, and she WAS an entertainer with Wild Bill's shows in South Dakota, but it's only the "smiley" mask, not the grimacing mask...so I'm a little bit at a loss....there is a definite creep factor here....

Wild Bill's original grave marker was removed. It was made of wood and people kept plucking away at it, so it was replaced with this metally coppery one.
It's sad that "Custer was lonely without him", but I feel that Custer was otherwise occupied in the days to come.

So there you have it. These two people worked together in life. Calamity loved her Bill and was finally united with him in death. I have a soft spot in my heart for Calamity Jane because that is our grandmother's nickname. She was...well...a skosh ahead of the curve for her day and age. She was a corn-cob-pipe-smokin'-votin'-prayin'-bingo-playin'-throw-your-head-back-till-your-belly-shakes-from-laughin'-GRAND-mother. So, paying tribute to THIS Calamity was kind of like paying tribute to OUR Calamity.

Here's to all the Calamity Janes in spirit. Rest in joy.

SANDWICHED IN LOVE...NO QUESTION ON WHY I TRAVEL TO OHIO...

Here's how my morning started. I woke up in my mother's bed, next to my mother, with her trembly fingers stroking my back. My daughter, who is also visiting from California and staying with my mother, was standing next to my side of the bed and she was rubbing the top of my head. They were each speaking about how much they loved me. Sandwiched in love. I wish this for everyone.

When I get down or weary or anything-less-than-satisfied-with-life, I will consider this morning and know that I am loved...and that I am no different than most people, who simply haven't had it as dramatically demonstrated. I just had the pleasure of seeing it and being aware of it.

Ain't life grand?

RED DENTAL TABLETS, FLOSSING, SPIT

My friend was talking about the dentist on her post the other day. It set me to thinking about the times I've been to the dentist. I just can't stand it...I get sweaty and anxious-not unusual, a lot of people respond like that to dental appointments. Things are better than they used to be.

But what irritates me is this, "Do you floss"? What? Are you serious? Who doesn't floss? I floss everyday. Sometimes I floss several times a day. The situation is, I don't produce a lot of plaque. This is a good thing. It's good for my heart and it's good for my teeth and gums. I just don't make plaque. Or at least, I haven't yet...maybe aging changes that. So far, so good.

I remember as a youngster, they used to give us those red tablets to chew in school. The tablets would leave a stain where plaque build-up would be. We would all be standing in line for the teachers to look into our open and smiling mouths to check our teeth. Inevitably, the teacher checking mine would call another teacher over and I would get this questions, "Deborah, did you eat the red tablet like you were supposed to"? Even after answering yes (I was very obedient, they already knew that, they were moronic back then) they would make me chew ANOTHER one while they watched, rinse my mouth out, while they watched, but then I got the satisfaction of watching their faces as they studied my teeth and say, "Hmphf. Looks like they're clean" or "Well, she looks fine, send her back to class"...or words to that effect.

So, anyway, next time a dentist or her/her assistant asks me if I floss, I'm going to respond thusly, "Well, I know the answer to that question, so why don't you tell me what your training and experience are telling you"? Cause I'm just that much of a rebel....and I'm paying for that visit....and I don't have to chew those red tablets anymore...

SPIT!

DEAR MEN, WOMEN HAVE CURVES. DEAL WITH THE CURVES, OR DATE EACH OTHER.

Celebrities love to tout diet tips to an adoring public. They're eager to give the world nutrition tips on how they stay skinny and "cleansed" and feeling free. Demi was doing the maple syrup/lemon juice/cayenne pepper thingy for awhile. I worked with a girl who did that. Yuck. She was miserable. We watched what she did, and we smelled what she drank, and that was enough for us. Demi tweets it to millions of people (without the benefit of the smelly part, thank goodness) and who know how much damage she caused.

Gwyneth Paltrow is a super cleansing fanatic-after a time spent being on a macrobiotic diet. She now suffers from osteopenia, which is the precursor to osteoporosis.

I love being in my fifth decade. I love having life experience. It's not that I get to sit in some magnificent comfy throne and throw out advice (tho a comfy throne sounds magnificent). It's that it affords perspective. I've been really really large and I've been really really thin. I think I've hit a nice medium right now. I think the culture is maybe coming around a bit.

I think "real" women are taking back their bodies and saying to men, "These are our terms; we are women, we have curves, deal with them or date each other." They have to deal with our womanly curves. That's it. DEAL! I'm not drinking maple syrup and cayenne pepper for anyone. I'm not eating a 9-grain cracker and calling that dinner for any soul on this planet. WOMEN = CURVES. Deal!!!