I Talk to Dead People, Don't You? Granddad's Message

No, I'm not channeling "The Sixth Sense". For what it's worth, I've been talking to dead people since before that movie came out. Perhaps I should explain myself before you think I'm completely nuts.

Many years ago, I was lying in a hospital bed with no real clue what was wrong with me. Other than an abscess in the vaginal cul de sac caused by "an infection", the doctors didn't know what to treat. The IV gave a steady drip of antibiotics while the needle was busy leaving a scar in the back of my hand. (Ask me to show you some time.)

Suddenly I was at my Grandmother's house. Various other relatives were there, milling about as if it were Thanksgiving. (All this is a normal dream thus far.) Next I realize that not only is my Grandfather present, Grandma can see him. She's busy pretending she can't see him while he's quietly talking to her.

I rush over to him and grab him. Dear God, Granddad is SOLID! He's not a ghost, he's solid! I hug him tight, wrapping myself around his neck. I haven't hugged my Granddad in over a dozen years. Too thrilled to think of anything else, I ask, "What are you DOING here?!?"

Granddad patiently peels me off him and holds me at arms' length. "I've been talking to your Grandmother, getting her ready. I want you to know...

"Everything will be all right. You are going to be FINE..."

These words ring in my ears as the nurse speaks to me, ready to do my vital signs. She gives me a second to awaken before she starts. I suddenly realize I have a slight problem. "The bed is wet. I've been sweating..."

"Your fever must have broken," the nurse says as she reaches over and touches me. The nurse quickly finishes recording my vital signs, then suggests I go to the bathroom while she changes my bedding.

The long story made short is this: just as Granddad promised, I was eventually fine. I've learned just last year that I was most likely suffering the after effects of an amniotic embolism. The next day after my "dream", the doctors drained the abscess. There was no bacteria in the fluid. (Amniotic fluid doesn't like to let bacteria grow...) The doctors were mystified and wanted to cut on me some more to see what else they could find. God forbid that they should admit I was in that state due to one of their idiot doctors' bad judgements during the delivery of my first child. After their "exploratory surgery" got postponed the third time, I took the hint from God and refused to let them treat me again. When I had my tubal ligation several years later, my doctor spent several minutes trying in vain to find this "damage" the first doctors had insisted I had.

Just Ugh

It is never fun being sick. This one seems to be a short-timer.

I awoke Tuesday morning feeling a bit on the icky side. I found some Wintergreen Altoids on the head of my bed and ate a couple. No help. I found the Pepto Bismal and drank some. Slight help. I took a quarter of a nausea pill. I went downstairs and got a clear soda. The first burp almost wasn't. I laid down with a large restaurant soda cup. After less than 30 minutes, all that I had ingested found its way into the cup. It was indeed a stomach bug and it affected "both ends".

I remained calm and took a half of the nausea pill with only a sip of water. On the empty stomach, the pill had a chance to work. Now we were getting some where.

Oldest left for the bus. Youngest threw cereal across the room. Middlest packed her lunch. I took them to school, then asked the principal to call me if I was "more than a few minutes late to carpool."

I returned home and set an alarm. I crawled into bed and passed out. When the alarm went off, I almost didn't get up. I finally crawled out the door several minutes late. When I walked into the office to fetch Youngest, the principal said "I just finished calling your house." I thanked her and dragged the screaming brat outside.

"Mommy is barely doing good to pick you up. We are NOT going to visit anyone. We are going HOME."

He ate lunch. I vaguely recall watching cartoons. The afternoon alarm went off and we set out to fetch the sisters. I felt pretty awake as the nausea pill was finally wearing off. However, when we returned home, I sacked out on the love seat.

Hubby returned home and took the children off to karate. I once again passed out. I awoke and glanced at my watch. I was startled that over 45 minutes had passed. I finally got up and ate something. I was vaguely aware of being dehydrated most of the day. I started drinking the clear soda again.

The children returned home and they had their baths. I stretched out on the sofa while Middlest read me a story. I don't recall her going upstairs. Hubby woke me and asked if I was ready to go upstairs. I decided to stay so I could watch my show at 10 PM. It being only 9:45 at this point, I got up and found some food to eat.

After Boston Legal ended, I congratulated myself for actually staying awake for the whole show. I then brushed teeth and fell in the bed fully dressed. I think I remembered to change my socks.

This now brings us to Wednesday morning. I woke after some interesting dreams. I changed my clothes and took my temperature: 99.7 F. Enough to feel icky.

After getting the children off to school, I ran to the grocery store. I had to wait for the checkout and by then I was feeling wimpy. I returned home, unpacked the cold things, then sacked out again for an hour.

Today being Ash Wednesday, I tried to attend the service. Note "tried". Youngest threw a fit. I took him outside to talk about it and only slapped his hand. (I think he deserved MUCH more by this point, but I was TRYING to be nice.) We went back into the service and he cranked it up several notches. I took him outside again, then went back inside to fetch our things. He screamed in the hall the whole time.

We returned home and he went straight for a nap. I do not tolerate that sort of behavior and, if he felt the need to behave thusly, it MUST have been past his naptime.

I ate a normal dinner with the family, but I still feel "wimpy". I think the fever went away this afternoon. Let's hope this was all there was to it. I think I'll go wash the ashes off my forehead now.

Snakes on a Crowbar

Do I really need to point out that this really happened? So it was only ONE snake, but "Snake on a Crowbar" doesn't have the same ring to it...

Dad had purchased the house down the street. It was a junker and he bought it for a song. The original hope was that the house could be renovated and we would just simply move down the street. It was not to be.

Cleaning up the back yard, Dad was attacked by a swarm of wild bees. The bees had taken offense to a lawn mower passing over their dirt home. Imagine you are the bees for a moment. Here you are, setting up your home in a yard that hasn't been mowed for almost 20 years. I guess we can't really blame the poor bees. Dad got some super strength anithistamines and recovered. You can't keep an old bee keeper down.

As Dad, Mom, my brother, and I worked on the house, we discovered that more than half of the boards were rotten. Dad's dream of a simple renovation went down the toilet. We set about disassembling the house. Sometimes Dad managed to get his brother to help. Sometimes we kids would bring a friend or two to help.

So here it was one Saturday. I had my favorite job: the burn pile. (What can I say? I'm from a long line of pyros.) The Jerk was there, pretending to help. As usual he was doing little actual work. We heard the screams and thumping from inside. Brother ran outside. Here's what happened in less than one minute:

Dad was ripping trim boards from over a window.

His tool of choice was a crowbar.

A snake had taken up residence in the space above the window.

When the trim board was pried away, the snake fell out.

It landed on Dad.

Dad screamed, "SNAKE!!!" and proceeded to make it DEAD.

With many thumps and whumps from his crowbar.

Dad looked up to discover his helper (Brother) was GONE.

At this point, The Jerk wanders inside to see what sort of snake it was. "It was only a non-poisonous black snake," he opined. "There was no reason to kill it. I could have just released it out back."

Dad's response?

"It touched me. It died."

Can you imagine having the gall to inform a very surprised man that he was supposed to stop what he was doing and ensure whether the snake was poisonous or not BEFORE killing it? Come on! This was inside a house! It might have been so old and rotten that no one was ever going to live there again, but A SNAKE WAS INSIDE HIS HOUSE! Do you really want to take a chance on any snake getting away and taking up residence in another part of your house?

Besides, Dad has had issues with snakes in the past. I won't tell you about the cobra in the chicken house tonight.

Is it just a "kid thing"?

Does anyone else have trouble getting their children to do their chores?

Hello, there's a basket of your clean clothes sitting on the family room sofa. Do you know what to do with them? Here's a hint: your closet and clothes hangers are upstairs in your bedroom.

I put those clean dishes at your place at the table so you could admire them.

Your bathroom sink will not clean itself, even if it is about to burst into life. Likewise for the contents of your trash can. I lined all the trash bins with multiple bags, so no one in this house can ever say, "I won't take the trash out now because there would be no bag left in the can."

A list of daily, weekly, and occasional chores was posted on the front door. A copy was posted on the bathroom door. Don't ask me what it says. You can read.

Your allowance depends upon it.

Okra, Tomato, and Kielbasa Soup

You will need:
One package of turkey kielbasa
Two large cans of whole or diced tomatoes
Frozen okra (one pound package)
Italian seasonings

Start your rice cooker or pot of rice now.

Slice the turkey kielbasa and saute until slightly browned and warmed through. Set aside. It doesn't have to be "done" as it will be cooked some more.

Saute the okra. (Yes, you babies that have never had okra cooked correctly can leave it out. Let me fix it for you once and you'll change your mind about okra!) Cooked okra changes color. It goes from pale, bland green to a bright green. Obviously, if it gets browned, there will be brown on it. The point is to cook the okra until it starts to get tender. It will fall apart if you are too rough. Yes, it will be "slimy".

Add the tomatoes. Watch out for the steam when the juice hits the hot pan. The acid in the tomato juice counter acts the slime factor of the cooked okra. Aren't you glad you used the okra? The okra "slime" will thicken the mixture. Carefully scrape the bottom of the pan to remove all stuck okra pieces.

Sprinkle Italian seasonings to taste. Do not use salt, as there is usually more than enough salt in the tomatoes and kielbasa. If it is a spice you put it on Italian foods, you should try it in this dish.

Add the kielbasa back to the pan. Cook on medium or medium low until it is done. Hopefully your rice will be done just as the soup finishes. If not, the soup can be turned down to low until your rice is ready.

Total prep time: I've never really timed myself, but this all takes less than one hour.

Alternative to okra: I really think this soup benefits from having something green in it, so I occasionally use canned green beans. If using green beans, saute the kielbasa, then add the tomatoes and green beans.

My Muse Doesn't Like the Computer Room

I have tons of ideas for things to write about here. Unfortunately, I'm usually far away from the computer when the Muse strikes me.

She likes to talk to me when I'm driving. Of course this means I never have pen and paper handy. She also reminds me of things while I'm busy doing work. It doesn't matter what kind of work, but usually it's the sort of work that means both hands are busy. The bathroom is another good spot for inspiration, but there usually isn't WRITING paper available. I think she likes the hum of the sewing machine because as soon as both of my hands are dealing with fabric, thread, and pins, she begins whispering in my ear.

What does she tell me? I don't really recall now that I'm at the key board. I know we talk about things that irritate me.
"Don't you just hate it when..."
"Remember when that Jerk said..."

I occasionally tell her to either shut up or change the subject, as she seems to harp on a single topic per session. Yes, I tell her, we've examined how I felt when that thing happened twenty years ago. Could we please, PLEASE move onto something else? I told you what I would say TODAY and what I would have said THEN with perfect future knowledge, but I was stupidly fumbling along at the time.

Anyone else have the same problem?

In the book "Stephen King: On Writing", the prolific Mr. King talks about his Muse. His Muse is "male, overweight, balding, and usually chomping on a cigar." According to Stephen King, the main thing I am doing wrong is I fail to "make an appointment with your Muse." Perhaps one day my life will be organized enough that I can schedule most of my daily tasks. An appointment with my Muse will be one of them. She and I will sit and chat. We will pick a subject, then I will type what she tells me to type.

I shall dream of the day.

Busy Week with No Computer Time

It's not often I'm at home and don't even turn the computer on for five days. Surprising enough, the emails totalled less than 200. (Thank God for "digest format".)

The Hubby was out of town all week. Billy Joel had just finished singing the National Anthem for the Super Bowl when Hubby called to say he had arrived safely at his destination. I fumbled along pretending to be a single parent for the week. Wednesday I had sent the little people to bed, then crawled between my covers to watch "Medium" on NBC. The phone rang just as the story was getting good. I knew it was Hubby on the phone. I really wanted to talk to him, just not at THAT moment. I chatted with him for about ten minutes, then excused myself. Thank God for reruns. Maybe one day I will find out what Cowboy said to Allison's middle child.

I played with spray paint this week. Indoors. With no ventilation. This can be chalked up to another "well timed plan of action". Hubby was out of town. The bathroom cabinet was rusty. I removed everything from it, scrubbed it clean, and treated it with Ospho. After giving the cabinet a day to dry, it was lightly sanded with steel wool, then sprayed with white metal primer. Another night to dry. The Rustoleum spray paint was rather stinky. I could have chosen to sleep in my bed, but I really didn't want the scent of spray paint firmly lodged in my sinuses. We have a nice couch downstairs, so I sacked out there. The smell was barely detectable in the hallway, so I felt safe letting the children sleep near it. By morning the smell was almost gone.

When Hubby returned home, I proudly showed him my hard work. The cabinet looks clean and new. I can't say "shiny" because the Rustoleum was a flat, even though the cap was glossy. When we had returned Hubby's rental car, he went to bed. It was only 7 PM. I chased the children off to bed, then went downstairs to crochet and watch TV. When it got to be my bedtime, I decided to stay on the couch. At 5 AM, Hubby came downstairs to get something to drink and noticed me on the couch. "What are you doing down here?" he asked as he tried to snuggle and not fall off. He had been so hard asleep that he didn't even notice I had failed to come to bed with him. I told him to go back to bed. When next I woke, it was after 9 AM and the children were just starting to make some noise. We all needed that restful sleep.

Nixon & Ford

I have to say up front that I have a special relationship with Richard Nixon. We share a birthday. He's also the first President I remember. Telling my age just a bit, what I first remember about President Nixon was that the evening news would NOT shut up about something called Watergate. Why do they keep only talking about that, I begged my parents.

Mom and Dad were wise. "The President told a lie, then told some more lies to cover up the first one. See why we tell you not to tell lies?"

You can spend days arguing with me about what my parents told me, but it's the truth. Honesty is the best policy. Add or subtract all the political intrigue you want, but to a young child this was just the right answer. Even presidents can get into trouble if they lie. No matter how high you climb, you can always be knocked down. No matter how smart you think you are, there is always someone smarter. Skeletons in the closet always come to light. Dirt will eventually be dished.

Concentrate on being the most honest, best person you can be and you will be all right most of the time. Once again this falls back to my summation of What Jesus Said: stay busy being good and you don't have time to be bad.

The American news industry tells us "what really happened", as they see it. With great glee they told me what a terrible man Richard Nixon was for telling lies. I've never forgotten this point: Don't tell lies. Now, I'm sure you will pardon me when I don't feel very forgiving when I discover that some news personality told a lie. Weren't you supposed to know better? Don't we have the marvelous example of "what can happen to even a president" to supposedly have learned from? What the heck were you learning in journalism school anyway?

Since President Nixon was the first president I recall, of course it follows that President Ford was the second president of my experience.

I remember Bob Hope's jokes about President Ford's golf game. I also remember watching video of President Ford stumbling down the steps of Air Force One. We were supposed to believe this quiet, firm, honest man was a bumbling fool that couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time. I was shocked that anyone would want to kill him, let alone have two women try to shoot him. When we heard how the would-be assassin pulled the trigger and nothing happened, my mother turned to us and said, "God doesn't want that man to die. It's not his time." I guess Mom was right. I wonder if Gerald Ford is playing golf in Heaven with Bob Hope yet.

Remind me some other time to talk more about Heaven. I've got a few weird dreams to pass along if you are interested. I'll just say for now, some dreams are real.

Bruises & Rust

Wow, I haven't posted anything for more than a week. Let's see if I can make this worth reading.

We've each been busy in our own way. I've been getting those allergy shots and the last one gave me a bruise. It's only the size of a postage stamp, but it hurts. It BOTHERS me. Make it stop! A call to one of the nurses this morning assured me that the bruise itself was not an indication of an adverse reaction. There is no itching involved and it's whatever they are pumping in the left arm. All the same, I plan to wait a week between shots this time. I still think the bruise needs to heal a bit more before I get another shot near it.

I've been trying to sew. Really, I have. Why don't I sound convincing? Maybe it's all the junk I have to trip over to get to the sewing machine. Perhaps it's the loopy stitches Lady Singer is doing all over my teal tunic sleeves. I guess I need to find where Lady Kenmore got stashed and take her in for a tune up so I don't have to go completely without a machine. I've heard the people work wonders over at Ward's Corner, but I have never used them. I'm hesitant to send my most useful machine to stay with them for an undetermined length of time. God help me if I'm forced to hand sew something.

I cleaned out the medicine cabinet. It seems the small spot of rust has grown and grown. I was assured it was all my fault for having bought a rusted cabinet to begin with (seven? years ago) and has absolutely nothing to do with a damp razor being placed on the bottom shelf every morning. FWIW, my side of the cabinet has only sparse speckles of rust, much like the upper shelves. Being a white painted metal cabinet, some of the edges have flaked off the paint and started to rust. We are talking a damp bathroom after all.

So, you ask, what are you doing about the rust? Ever heard of Ospho? It is an acid wash that turns rust BACK INTO METAL. Really. My Dad uses it on vehicles all the time, so I called him for advice. (It was the Super Bowl. They EXPECT me to call them a dozen times.)

Me: Is there any reason I can't apply the Ospho with a cotton ball? It's really a small spot with various tiny spots all over the cabinet shelves.

Dad: Well, it can burn the pee out of you. If you have any cuts on your fingers you will find it.

Thanks, Dad, that was SO delicately put. He suggested I use Q-tips and the bottle cap. I decided to try layering two plastic Dixie cups (or does being plastic make them Solo cups?). It worked great. The main rust spot is now mostly black and grey. The cups held up just fine, but I had to use two Q-tips. Some of the tiny rust spots stayed rusty colored. I was instructed to "hit 'em again".

Now I just need to either locate the white Rustoleum or go buy some more. The garage can be scary, so a trip to the store might be in my future.