tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26903391409842737882024-02-18T22:57:35.815-05:00Days in the Life of MerryMeredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-66294420309365412572009-06-19T09:37:00.005-05:002009-06-19T10:57:48.363-05:00Where, oh Where, has my Little Girl Gone?Watching my little girl change every day since the day she was born has been beautiful, exciting, and challenging. She has been changing in what seems a blink of the eye and continues to change right before my eyes, and all for the better. She is turning into a brighter and better version of her younger self. It is happening and has happened that quick.<br /><br />It seems it was only yesterday that my daughter loved everything pink and princessey. Then she loved everything blue and Barbie. That transition seemed a natural progression and wasn't so rough, or at least I didn't think so at the time when, three years ago, we gave her permission to pick the paint color she wanted for her room - a bright turquoise blue. It went well with the Barbie theme that we bought in the form of curtains, wall border, and bedding.<br /><br />The next thing you know, she started giving some of her toys away to other, littler girls who would appreciate them. She's always been generous like that, and it was okay with us - change is normal. The next to follow were the curtains - bye, bye pink flowers - and the wallpaper border and decals were decidedly too princessey and too Barbiey. Soon her room was sporting just the bright blue walls and white trims adorned with blue sparkly curtains. It all had seemed harmless at the time.<br /><br />She, like so many other young girls, was into the Camp Rock craze, and that's when she first found out about the Jonas Brothers. We bought her a cool and pricey comforter set. No problem, it went with the blue. Then over the months, she began boxing her "little girl" toys and things up "to sell in the garage sale." Again, I said, "No problem, she's simply growing out of them." And it was a good way for her to declutter, organize, and make a little pocket change.<br /><br />And also during that time, she had been into the High School Musical craze. I remember when she just had to have a cool embroidered hat, the one she had to wear all the time and could barely get off her head. The day I took her and one of her best friends to see the third movie, she gave that same hat away. And while I should have known what was coming with her waning interest, I didn't, and continued to think of her in the same way - my little girl.<br /><br />Because somewhere floating in my mind and lurking like shadows were the memories of the girl who loved Blue's Clues, My Little Ponies, and the Disney Princesses; the girl who loved to wear pigtails, pink dresses, and high-heeled shoes.<br /><br />Something was happening that I couldn't see, or perhaps didn't want to see. Right before my eyes and without me noting it, the little girl had begun growing up.<br /><br />Then she started begging to check for the latest issue of <em>Tiger Beat </em>every time we went to the grocery store. Soon her once bare bedroom walls were becoming papered with posters of the adorable-moody pouts of the Jonas Brothers - Nick Jonas in particular. Now multiple sets of eyes are watching me whenever I enter her room.<br /><br />As her fifth-grade year progressed, wound down, and ticked away, she became the owner of an iPod and several CDs that she plays loudly on her CD player/radio, she watches music videos online and follows Fred, and she has her own website with her friends.<br /><br />This summer she's busy, busy with classes and camps. For the first time, she's going to overnight camp just like the big girls and will be doing something she loves - riding horses.<br /><br />As for me and my feelings about my little girl growing up... I can't say I mind. I think I've accepted it because there is nothing else I can do. I will admit that her growing up has felt as though it has snuck up on me even though in reality it hasn't. I think I have known what has been coming all along...or at least I think I have.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-41333473907591077552009-05-11T09:15:00.002-05:002009-05-11T09:36:03.699-05:00For My MomOn Saturday, my daughter and I went to the Mother/Daughter Tea at my Mom's church. Parishioners were asked to submit memories of their mothers. My Mom wrote one and it was included in the program for the tea. I told her that because it was so good and her writing was so good that she should start up a blog and post it. Since my Mom doesn't have a blog and isn't thinking of starting one up, I decided that I would post it on mine and, of course, give her all the credit. So here's to you, Mom, and to your wonderful memory of your mother!<br /><br /><em><strong>A Few Ruffled Feathers</strong><br />by Yvonne Walsh<br /><br />Back in the 40's, when we had moved from the city to the farm, my mother, who was just a tiny bit of a woman, always kept a flock of chickens, mostly for fresh eggs, but any pikers in the egg laying production were most likely to wind up in the pot for Sunday dinner. Her chickens "free ranged," that is they were allowed to run completely free all over the farm, so it was easy for a predator, either a fox or hawk or raccoon, to eye them up for the menu of the day, always on the lookout to waylay an unsuspecting hen before she made it safely to the coop or the pot, whichever came first.<br /><br />One day, when Mom stood at the kitchen sink doing dishes, she glanced out the window and saw what she presumed to be a large hawk in the process of air lifting a plump hen. The hen was squawking her head off and running around the yard as fast as her two legs could carry her, with the hawk swooping down in hot pursuit. It had just latched its talons onto the hen when a small tornado wielding a broom burst out of the back door of the house.<br /><br />Lickity-whop!<br /><br />"Let go of that chicken, you buzzard!"<br /><br />Lickity-whop-whop-whop!<br /><br />The startled white feathered creature flew up into the air with the hapless hen still in its clutches and came right at mom, its wing span all of six feet wide. This definitely was not a hawk! But was mom daunted -- ! No, she drew back with the broom and got in a few more lobs, for all like a Wimbledon champ, and the would be chicken snatcher decided to cease and desist. He knew when he was on the losing end of the stick. He dropped his would be lunch and reeled across the field to a fence post where he lighted and sat for several hours, trying to get his aching cranium and addled thoughts in order. Perhaps the greatest injury was to his pride.<br /><br />The poor dazed and bedraggled hen was restored safely to the coop but a defiant mom still stood guard with her trusty broom in hand, just in case of a counter attack. It wasn't until she went back into the house and her adrenalin had returned to normal that she thought about the size of the feathered predator and of the harm that he could have done to her with its huge claws. And, being our mom, later on she made a trip to the library -- this was WAY before computers! -- and found out that what she had assumed to be a hawk was actually and Alaskan Snowy White Owl that definitely decided that it was not advisable when traveling to stop off in Michigan at a bed-and-breakfast, especially when it was managed by a feisty little lady with her trusty broom in hand.<br /><br />For some reason we never saw Mr. Owl again.</em>Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-44703097904460762252009-03-13T09:30:00.005-05:002009-03-13T11:06:44.047-05:00The Case of the Missing ButtonsAbout a month and a half ago, I was helping Hubby pack for a trip to a warmer weathered clime and as we took out the appropriate clothing, we inadvertently began cleaning his side of the bedroom closet.<br /><br />I would have to say that I can't remember the last time his side of the closet was cleaned, or my side for that matter, because if I'm the Princess of Procrastination and the Queen of Clutter then he's the King of Kan't Throw Anything Away Because His Highness Might Need it His Next Reign. We are a pair.<br /><br />But as there is so much stuff in the closet, we barely made a dent in the mess as it was as we went along, tossing through the clothes, separating the short sleeved from the long and summer from winter.<br /><br />In our excitement, and going off on a tangent, Hubby began looking at his sport coats as well, trying them on and asking my opinion on their conditions. One sport coat in particular was a tan corduroy coat that he's had for several years and also one of his most favorite, but, being a bit worse for wear, he was finally convinced that it had seen better days and that it was time for it to go into the rag bag along with several other items.<br /><br />He handed things to me - old shoes, a stained shirt, broken shoelaces - and I plunked them into the trash with determined finality. (I had impressed myself for my strength of will.) Distracted, I wasn't paying much attention to what he was doing, just took things as he handed them to me for disposal. I seem to remember he also offered me a handful of leather buttons.<br /><br />"What are these for?" I asked, puzzled.<br /><br />"I was thinking that we could save these," he said, "as they might come in handy later."<br /><br />Disgusted, I replied, "Oh, what do I need a bunch of buttons for? I have loads of buttons downstairs and I've never used one of them!"<br /><br />That said, the buttons went into the trash. I gathered up the discarded items and took them downstairs to add to the garbage.<br /><br />When he had returned from his trip, Hubby was grumbling at me because he had set aside a couple of coats from his closet for dry cleaning and I hadn't found the time to take them to the cleaners while he was away. That week I got them dropped off and had him pick them up on his way back from work on Friday night.<br /><br />The following Monday, he had been running late in the morning and so I had left before he did to take the kiddies to school. When he came home that evening, I noticed that he had on one of the sport coats I had had dry cleaned.<br /><br />"Wow, that coat looks pretty good," I commented.<br /><br />"Yeah, it does," he said, "but do you notice anything unusual about it?"<br /><br />"No," I replied, checking from top to bottom, "I think it looks nice." And it did look good, and here we were going to throw it away. It's amazing what a little soap and water can do.<br /><br />"I had to run out for a meeting today but had forgot my coat," he said. "Being cold, I tried to button my jacket but couldn't because there were no buttons on it."<br /><br />"What?" I exclaimed, and, sure enough, there was not one button on the front of the sport coat, and not even one on the sleeves.<br /><br />"I had to go to the meeting like this, but I made do," he said. "I don't think anyone noticed." <br /><br />My mind reeled. I couldn't fathom where the buttons had gone.<br /><br />"What kind of maniacal dry cleaner would remove all the buttons from a coat and not put them back on!"<br /><br />I continued my rant and rave, but that wasn't all I did. I retrieved the phone book, looked up the cleaner's number and gave them a call. A distracted sounding young man answered.<br /><br />"Speedy Cleaners, Chet speaking, can you hold for a moment?"<br /><br />"No!" I snapped. "I will not hold. Now listen here," I fumed, "I brought in my husband's coat for cleaning and now all the buttons are missing. What kind of a cleaners are you taking all the buttons off a coat?!"<br /><br />"Uh..." There was a long pause.<br /><br />"Well? What are you going to do about it?" I was really steamed and could feel my red hair glowing redder.<br /><br />"Um, bring in the coat, ma'am, and some buttons and we'll sew them on for free."<br /><br />"Buttons!" I really couldn't believe the audacity of this guy. "The coat had buttons and you were the ones who took them off. I'm not going to buy anything!"<br /><br />"Uh..." Chet was at a loss for words. He didn't know what to say except for, "Just bring in the coat, ma'am, and we'll try to take care of it for you."<br /><br />I snapped out a hostile, "Thanks," and ended the call. Who could believe those people?<br /><br />"You need to take the coat in," I informed Hubby. "If you go right now you can drop the coat off before they close."<br /><br />Now my Hubby was repeating what poor Chet had been, "Uh...Um..."<br /><br />"Well, what's the matter?" I said. "Get going!"<br /><br />"I'm too embarrassed," he said. "Why don't you take the coat?"<br /><br />At this point, I too began to feel embarrassed as I hadn't been very nice on the phone.<br /><br />"Oh, alright," I relented, "I'll take it tomorrow."<br /><br />Well "tomorrow" came and went and the next business day and the next one. All that time, I couldn't forget about the coat and tried to piece together what could have happened. As I examined the coat more closely I noted that all of the button threads had been cut. And then the horrible truth came crashing down as I remembered back to the closet cleaning day and Hubby offering me a handful of leather buttons which had ended up being tossed into the trash.<br /><br />To this day I still haven't gone back to Speedy Cleaners, and, though I have tried in vain, I still have not been able to find any look alike leather buttons at the store. Hubby still has the sport coat, too. Though no longer useful, the favorite is hanging there in the time capsule of a closet that will doubtfully get cleaned again for fear of what could happen...Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-1245368110394209372009-02-24T11:04:00.006-05:002009-02-24T19:13:12.293-05:00Beware What You Load Into the Dishwasher<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Hindsight is 20/20 - people wouldn't use this expression if it wasn't true, and I find that the more years I have behind me the more I use it. If the reader can remember, back in one of my older posts I mentioned that we had our house on the market and that, in preparation for an open house, we had stuffed all the painting tools, etc., into the dishwasher while we were frantically getting ready and for lack of another, smarter place to put them.<br /><br />We had bought the dishwasher used, last year. It did work about three times, if that many, and then stopped. It ran, but didn't wash properly, leaving all the dishes wet and dirty. We were planning on having it serviced or replaced if we sold the house, but since our contract had expired before any sale was made and for lack of extra funds, we just left it and I continued washing dishes by hand. In the meantime, I forgot all about the tools and paint inside.<br /><br />Last month, as I launched into another tirade about the defunct dishwasher, showing hubby my dishpan hands, he opened up the machine to find all the painting junk right where we had shoved it. He started taking all the junk out, grumbling that it was high time to put it where it belongs when, what to our wondering eyes did appear? Not a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, but something much worse...<br /><br />The back story to this critical part of my post is this: In preparation for listing the house for sale, our Realtors asked us to spruce up the front porch and door. Back in 1998, when we had painted our house, we had also freshened up the front door with a rich cranberry red paint. I still had this old gallon of paint stored in the basement, so when I needed to touch up the door in 2008 (This is so ridiculous I can barely type the words...) I went to the basement and retrieved the old gallon. Of course, ten years later, the lid had rusted closed to the can! Using a screw driver and loads of stubborn determination, I managed to open the can - ripped it open, actually - and, for lack of another container, had used an empty plastic ice cream pail as it had a handle and a lid. Marvelling at my own cleverness, I carefully emptied the contents from the rusted can into the new, clean bucket and touched up the door.<br /><br />...at some point, when the painting tools and stuff got crammed into the dishwasher, the bottom of the plastic ice cream container became punctured by one of the tines of the rack and, you guessed it, the paint had oozed out and into the machine. As we had no clue when this may have happened, the paint had now dried into a rock hard, latex puddle around the base of the drain and washer arms! (Grrrr! Stupid, that's my middle name!)<br /><br />That was a bummer of a discovery for us. We knew it was all our fault and that we couldn't do anything about it. There would be no way to save this machine and we'd have no other option but to purchase a new one. Once again, we put all the painting tools back where they had been and shut the door.<br /><br />A few weeks later (yes, there's more), it was a Sunday afternoon and we decided to go to an open house and then to a store. We were gone about two hours and upon opening the back door we found the kitchen filled with a strangely perfumed steam. Somebody had turned on the dishwasher! Well that "somebody" had apparently been our daughter. She had pushed one of the buttons on the front of the machine before we had left, turning it on. The dishwasher had began filling with water in the bottom and the element had began heating up and was therefore "cooking" the latex paint. We got the machine turned off, took out the junk once and for all, and aired out the kitchen accordingly.<br /><br />Sometimes I think if this hadn't been such a stupid situation to begin with that I might laugh, but, to this day, all I want to do is kick myself in the pants. Like I said, hindsight is 20/20, but in my case I think it's 10/10.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-28539824396540318282009-01-29T14:26:00.004-05:002009-01-29T14:38:44.128-05:00Freelance Contributor, Extraordinaire<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>I can now add Freelance Contributor to my curricula vitae, albeit short lived!<br /><br />Yes, it's true. I received a call from an acquaintance who is working as the editor for a small weekly paper about needing a Freelance Contributor to cover two local school districts. This happened about three months ago and I have published four articles since.<br /><br />The nicer thing about writing for newspaper versus magazine is that the editor doesn't change as much, just edits for style and content. Now I have more "real" clips to add to my credits and more entries for my writer's resume. May it never end!<br /><br />I'm still looking and hoping to find a part- or full-time steady paying writer's job, but, in the meantime, I'm going to continue working as a freelance writer and am that much closer to becoming the Real Writer I've longed to be.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-31108183613255054842009-01-29T13:17:00.008-05:002009-02-24T19:12:49.982-05:00Mom's Sordid Past<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Living with growing kids has its challenges - seems like they're always hungry, fighting, or wanting every minute of every day, and just when I think this is a new phase they're bound to grow out of, it stays put until I'm near crazy. And as they have been growing up, they don't act or say those cute things like they used to when they were small. It's tough, but I can accept it, even though I think about how things used to be not so long ago.<br /><br />What they're doing is asking questions about when I was their age. I answer to the best my memory will allow. It still amazes my daughter that when Mommy was a child there were no cable or satellite dishes, no videos or DVDs, no Internet or MP3s, and, especially, no cell phones.<br /><br />"What did you do for fun?" she asked while we were eating dinner, "play with your pet rock?"<br /><br />"Well, yes," I replied. "There used to be Pet Rocks for sale when I was a kid, but we were so poor," I said, using The Old Prospector voice, "I jes had ter go outside and catch me a wild one to play wit."<br /><br />(Yes, I'm that funny.)<br /><br />"Yeah, sure, Mom," she said. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"<br /><br />"Kind of," I replied. She didn't appreciate that comment and went back to her plate.<br /><br />Actually my sister BB and I did have pet rocks. We went outside, found some rocks, and named them. Voila! Pet Rocks. We even made beds for them to sleep in and had lots of adventures, but that is the subject of another posting.<br /><br />My son wasn't as preoccupied with what I had to play with, instead he jumped right into my immediate past and began questioning me like an experienced interrogationist.<br /><br />"So," he said slowly, sizing me up out of the corner of his eye, "just how many times have you been in jail exactly?"<br /><br />"What!" I exclaimed. I couldn't decide if I should ground him for a week or laugh. I chose to laugh because if you don't find a way to laugh, you're gonna cry, and who wants to go through life crying? "Why would you ask me a question like that?" I asked.<br /><br />"I just wanted to know, that's all."<br /><br />"For your information, mister," I said, "I have never been in jail!" Jeez, what kind of mother does he think he has anyway? "Eat your dinner!" I grumped.<br /><br />Meanwhile, daughter was choking on her meatloaf and not because I'm a bad chef. Her face started turning red until she couldn't help it and laughed outright. I tried to resist, but couldn't help myself either. Pretty soon we were all laughing, especially when my daughter began ad-libbing.<br /><br />"Yeah!" she exclaimed, "Mom went to jail for ten years for stealing grapefruits from the store! No! It was a stick of gum! Yeah! And when she tried to get away she peed her pants and fell down in the mud and the police chased her and she fell down again and then...then she ran into the street and got hit by a garbage truck and died!"<br /><br />Brother's milk went shooting out of his nose. Sister nearly fell out of her chair. Mom was getting perturbed at all the tomfoolery. The dinner table was breaking into complete and utter comic chaos. <br /><br />It could have gone on and on, ad nauseum, but I broke it up.<br /><br />"Actually, it was for robbing the bank," I added dryly. Their eyes got really big then. When I knew I had them I added, "Haven't you noticed why I never want to go into the post office?"<br /><br />"No!" they said, "Why?"<br /><br />"It's 'cause my picture's up on the wall."<br /><br />"Huh? The wall?" son asked.<br /><br />"Yeah, what does that have to do with robbing a bank?" daughter said.<br /><br />"Never mind."<br /><br />A joke loses its funny when you have to get into lengthy explanations and my dinner was getting cold.<br /><br />Just like Front Porch Dude said in <em>It's a Wonderful Life</em>, "Youth is wasted on the young!" Ain't that the truth?Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-9712880369799006632008-11-26T07:04:00.006-05:002009-02-24T19:12:34.634-05:00Find a Reason for Thanksgiving<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Hmmm...What's the weather doing now? I'm glad you asked. It snowed yesterday and the white stuff decided to stick around, albeit in brief patches on the leafy and frozen ground. And it's certainly cold out there as you must have figured. I wonder what could possibly be coming next?<br /><br />All kidding aside, or perhaps not...you might be wondering what's been happening with me and why I haven't been writing anything at all? Well I guess I could answer by saying that it's not that I haven't wanted to write, but that I can't seem to decide what angle to come from when I write.<br /><br />Lately I've been thinking that maybe my blog is just a bit too lighthearted and silly and that I should perhaps instead be dedicating my writing to something more intellectual and serious. The Election Fever would have been a prime topic prior to Nov. 4 as would the Economic Fiasco. But I don't know the reason why I didn't write something about it as it was all everyone could talk about then and is talking about now - I just couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. And really, does one opinion matter, especially mine?<br /><br />The reason I say this is that it just seems as if the only thing that makes the world go around is money and that's all world leaders and decision makers care about anyway. Money-Power-Greed-Corruption. What is best for the people doesn't seem to matter, nor any plan that is logical, fair and sensible. Perhaps that's what I'm really grieved about.<br /><br />So today, this morning, trying to put all my feelings and thoughts aside, I had originally decided to simply put up a post to say, "Happy Thanksgiving" to my Readers, though by now you may be few and far between. The holiday greeting now comes in strange contrast to what this post has become.<br /><br />How can we be "happy" in times like these? It's a valid concern. I guess I don't know what to say except for we should just try to find some happiness somehow, and for one day try to push what's unpleasant aside and know that there is always at least one positive thing in life that we can be thankful for. It's just a matter of looking a little closer.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-37956586010899424412008-10-01T05:21:00.004-05:002008-10-01T08:20:08.430-05:00Fall Has Arrived<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>You always know you're boring when all you can think to write about is the weather, that's the first sign of mediocrity, and I'm falling into this category, unfortunately! Last week, as many of us know, was the first day of Autumn, but here in sunny Michigan we had a week of above-average temperatures - it was up in the 80s almost every day. This week is another story. Our temps have fallen and the nights are down in the 50s. Some of the trees are changing color and the leaves are lining the sidewalks and streets, but what was the first indicator, for me, that Fall had arrived?<br /><br />The dog is sleeping on the couch again.<br /><br />Most of the time Raaf the dog sleeps on the floor and he normally behaves himself at night. Some mornings I get up to find that he's had an "accident" next to the back door - I have to wonder why, as I always put him out before I go to bed. I think if they made a pill for overactive bladder syndrome for dogs that I should get him some because he can never seem to hold it for very long.<br /><br />This morning, woken by a strange dream, I was up really early, like before five, and came downstairs. Usually, Raaf is there to greet me, wagging his tail, but this am there wasn't a panting dog-swishing tail to be heard. After some investigation, I found him, curled in a ball on the couch and looking as guilty as he could. I put him down and then directed him to his dog bed. You know, those padded, pillow-type things that they sell in the stores for dogs? Well we all know what those are for, but Raaf doesn't seem to remember. I told him, "Raaf, this is your bed, right here," and patted it. He climbed in obediently and is still there, snoring contentedly.<br /><br />Now I know that the Fall/Winter battle has officially begun: When I have to fight with the dog over where he sleeps at night. Another indicator of Fall? I turned the furnace on yesterday, but dialed down to 60 degrees just in case it gets that cold in the house at night. The furnace didn't come on last night, but every thing's eventual!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-90874141745800847962008-07-15T07:22:00.003-05:002008-10-01T08:14:32.448-05:00Summer Daze<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Here it's halfway through July and I haven't been blogging a thing! What kind of writer/blogger am I anyway? And overwhelmed one, perhaps? Seems like I've been running like a chicken with my head cut off since the last day of skool and I still haven't caught up. With that in mind I think I shall dedicate one post on updates, that is, if anyone's reading my blog anymore!<br /><br />Let's see...<br /><br />Kiddies - Been keeping them busy, going here and going there with things like the library, playing/walking/swimming, the beach, playdates, some crafts and visiting friends/relatives. Trying to keep them away from too much computer and too much TV. Trying to read every day to complete pledges for the summer reading program at local library. They have been rebelling frequently and moan and groan over simple things like going to the store! When does skool begin?<br /><br />House - The market is sooo slooow. I do feel relieved that it's not only our house, it's all over. Of course, if we drop the price to $1.98 then the house will sell tomorrow. I don't think we're going to lower the price that much (although that's what buyers are expecting - greedy buggers) and we're going to keep trying to sell.<br /><br />Job/s - Nothin' honey. My freelance work has slowed to a crawl because of summer and kids at home. Hopefully it will be picking up again in September. And there's not much out there anyway. When I do see a great job it either requires loads of experience that I don't have yet or I see an okay job for which I have too much experience. I haven't been able to find a happy medium!<br /><br />Anything else I'm forgetting? Not really. Life in the summer seems to slow down, although my days are always busy with caring for my family. I still try to make an effort at my various organizing projects - striving to keep on keeping on. Oh, and I really should get back to my flowerbeds, but, quite honestly, just have been feeling lazy about doing backbreaking labor under the scorching sun! (hee-hee what a slacker) We are planning on taking a small family vacation and then it will be time for the kids to go back to skool.<br /><br />Wow! Life can't get any more exciting than this!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-69602448023979182112008-06-09T10:26:00.009-05:002008-10-01T08:14:15.367-05:00Skool's Out for Summer<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Today is the first official day of summer vacation.<br /><br />And what's happening at Merry's house?<br /><br />We have been watching movies all morning! First it was daughter's movie, something about Part II of Little Orphan Annie, and then son's movie, <em>Space Jam</em>. I missed LOA, but tuned in for <em>Space Jam</em>, and have to say it was pretty good and funny. I look at it this way, if I didn't watch many movies ten years ago because I had little babies, then I get to watch them all now because I have big kids.<br /><br />So, what's next on the day's agenda?<br /><br />The Mother of all Projects ... CLEAN THE KIDS' BEDROOMS!<br /><br />That's one project that's at the tippy-top on my list of Personal Favorite Things To Do. (yuck!) But upon Impending Doom of Death by toys, stuffed animals, clothes, books, shoes and you-name-it, all of which could topple onto my children at any moment, I must clean their rooms. After all, I do love them, even if it's just a little bit, especially now that's it's Officially Summer Vacation and I am facing three months of hard time and being driven into Swirling Vortex after Swirling Vortex of Confusion by them... The least I can do is clean their rooms. (hehe)<br /><br />So, after I finish blogging this, checking my email, watching the Newz at Newn, making lunch, oh, almost forgot, letting the dog inside, talking on the phone and, uh, doing whatever else I possibly can do other than cleaning the rooms, I will go upstairs directly, with the kids, and begin!<br /><br />Sounds like a plan doesn't it?<br /><br />I thought you'd agree with me.<br /><br />So, other than the Bedrooms Project, what am I planning to do with these kids all summer long?<br /><br />I have absolutely no clue.<br /><br /><br /><< Suffering from a lack of ideas, Super Mom declares an Emergency Brainstorming Session where she draws up a Plan of Action to SAVE SUMMER!<br /><br />Hooray for Super Mom! [Cheers and Applause]<br /><br />To be continued... >>Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-56485202882421703472008-05-22T08:32:00.008-05:002008-10-01T08:14:00.544-05:00Merry-Merry, Quite Contrary, Where Have You Been?<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Gosh, is it spring yet!?! It doesn't exactly feel like it around here. (I think I'm obsessing on this topic - Spring.) It's been colder than average during the months of April and May. One good thing, it has stopped snowing. Everything's green out there. I still haven't planted any annuals, but have been working on the flower beds. Have even been doing some painting.<br /><br />I guess I've been preoccupied with the house as it's on the market right now, and thing's aren't going so well in that department. Could be crazy that we decided to try and sell, with all the real estate problems happening across the country, but we are. And it's not that we don't "love" our house, it's just that we're finally ready for a change. I've been ready for a change for the past five years or so. (That's code for I'm sick and tired of trying to clean and maintain this rat trap.) If you detect a sneer in my writing, you guessed right. I've been so busy "doing" that I haven't had time for much else, including blogging.<br /><br />I was thinking about my blog yesterday, saying, "Man, I really have to get back on top of it. Write some quirky, funny posts." The truth is that I haven't been feeling very quirky or funny lately. I blame my house for my lack of animo.<br /><br />We put it on the market in March, and I've been cleaning, decluttering and painting ever since. Like, I wonder, does it ever end? Seems like the more I clean, declutter and paint that the worse it gets. How much junk and disorder can one family have? (That's a cry for help disguised as a question.) And we haven't even touched the garage. We've replaced two windows, too. And have been hacking, chopping and weeding in the yard. Thrown away loads... Given away tons... And it never ends!<br /><br />Over the past two months, we've had two official showings. Just two! What's up with that? I ask. The Realtors are convinced that our price is too high. Perhaps it is, I'm not sure. One thing for sure is that all the fliers in the box out front have been flying away (pun intended). That must count for something. Last Sunday we had an open house, so the week prior was the week from hell. We worked our butts off. I can say that I worked double time, as I'm here at home all day and would fill my day with a mental check list and then work on gettin' er done. Consequently, every night I was passing out on the sofa between eight and nine from exhaustion. Last weekend was no different, I was truly drained.<br /><br />When Sunday came, we were ready though. Of course, there were last minute things, like all my painting tools and drop cloths getting shoved in the dishwasher. That was a classic move if I do say. The thought of someone checking out the dishwasher and the look on their face when they did so had us in stitches. "What kind of people are they, washing tools?" Oh well, let them look. Much to our chagrin only three families came through during the open house, with the second family being the Previous Homeowners.<br /><br />For whatever unknown, sick-twisted (perhaps pre-planned, perhaps not) reason they decided to take a tour down memory lane of their old home. Basically it sounds like they monopolized the time of my realtor, leading the realtor to miss conversing with the potential "real" buyer who slipped in and out as this transpired, as they shared all their happy-happy joy-joy stories of the happy-happy joy-joy days when they lived in their happy-happy joy-joy home. But the creme de la creme of their rapturous reunion was when they spied the old painting in the basement.<br /><br />Let me give you some back story. When we bought the house The Painting was hanging on a wall in the basement. It is a simple painting, a borderline primitive/realistic (albeit two-dimensional) still life. It has its grace, though, and being a former fine artist I liked it from the first. Anyway, it's been hanging on the same nail on the same wall in the basement for the past twelve years. The important part of this equation is that because The Painting was left in the house and because twelve years have elapsed, The Painting now belongs to me. (Possession, my dears, is nine-tenths of the law, as my Dear Old Dad always used to tell me.)<br /><br />Well, to make this long story longer, PHO comes upstairs, painting in hand, surprising the realtor, to exclaim, "I finally found the long-lost painting that my dear dead relative painted for me years and years ago that I thought I had lost during the move!" What's my realtor to do? I bet they felt between a rock and a hard place to say the least. PHO plunks the painting down on the counter and leaves a note, explaining all this and requesting to have The Painting back again.<br /><br />WHAT?!? When I heard this from the realtor at the end of the open house - It got my dander up to no end. Who does this person think they are coming into my home and touching my things like that? There's so many holes in this whole thing. Number one, if the painting was so precious WHY WOULD YOU FORGET IT IN THE FIRST PLACE? Number two, If you noticed that the painting was missing WHY WOULDN'T YOU RETURN TO YOUR PREVIOUS HOME, KNOCK ON THE DOOR AND ASK FOR IT BACK RIGHT AWAY? Jeez, I'm not a complete hard ass. If PHO were to have contacted me within a couple of days or the first week, heck even the first month, after moving I would have gladly given them the painting, but TWELVE YEARS LATER! Give me a break! The Painting was obviously not so precious to them after all now was it. (I think I'm foaming at the mouth after this rant, better end it.)<br /><br />Needless to say, the open house was a complete flop. All that hard work for nothing - We were expecting more people and a potential offer. We were hopeful. With hopes dashed (nearly to pieces) we're wondering what's the next move... We haven't decided yet, but I assume we will keep on and drop our price and see what comes next.<br /><br />So, that's where Merry's been for the past two months, contrarily lost in the house from hades, contrarily plugging along, contrarily getting things done, and just as contrarily contrary as usual. Whew!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-74225381284220720852008-04-01T09:54:00.004-05:002008-10-01T08:13:45.543-05:00Is It Really Spring?<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Ah, the First Day of Spring, but is it really Spring? I have to wonder, as the next day it snowed again! We had been doing pretty good around here - all the snow had melted away, well, almost all of it, except for that patch that was persistently clinging to the ground next to the garage.<br /><br />When I put the dog out that Friday morning, what did I see? Poor Robin-Redbreast perched in my backyard tree, feathers puffed up and shuddering in an effort to stay warm. I believe that Robin must have been just as excited as I was for the coming of warmer weather and had flown directly to Michigan in anticipation of the event. But Robin's plans had run amok, and it looked like it was frozen to the tree branch.<br /><br />Fortunately, the fresh covering of snow didn't last and soon melted away. The days have warmed up since and, yesterday, I saw Robin swooping over the front lawn, possibly looking for a frozen worm to eat. I'm sure it was just as glad as I was that things are looking brighter and the winter weather is finally going to end - I mean, it <em>has</em> to end eventually, doesn't it?Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-10462978904071722312008-02-22T09:23:00.005-05:002008-10-01T08:13:28.893-05:00Winter Blues<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Just a few days ago the Weatherman announced that this February was an official record breaker - we have seen the snowiest February EVER! I knew I wasn't getting crazier! We <em>have had </em>one heck-of-a-lot of snow around here. Storm after storm and it kept snowing, until today...<br /><br />The latest storm just missed West Michigan, cruised across the midwest, hitting the states south, and is now pounding the eastern seaboard with ice and snow and rain. In the meantime, we're predicted to have delightfully sunny weather and temps in the upper 20s for the entire weekend.<br /><br />I am beside myself. "Is it really safe to go out?" I wonder. Now I know how the groundhog must feel from year to year as he contemplates sticking his head out of his burrow. As I look out the window, it <em>is</em> delightfully sunny out there and looks like it will chalk up to be quite a day. But one can never be too careful...<br /><br />And here I have been hatching plans on how to counteract the bad weather and it looks like it was all for nothing. Just like in the movies where the Native peoples use a shaman to call down the rain during a drought, I have been contemplating performing a ritualistic sacrifice to get the snow to stop falling... Does anyone out there know where I can find a goundhog? It <em>seemed </em>like a good idea - offer up the groundhog and Spring will be just around the corner - okay, I admit, it must have been the Cabin Fever talking...<br /><br />Just two days ago, it was snowing so much that I had to keep shoveling the walks everytime I went out. I had a lot of errands to run and, after the third time, I finally gave up. As I went to grab the shovel handle for the fourth round of shoveling in a matter of a few hours, I felt the horrible pangs of mental anguish. I threw my hands up and cursed, something like, "I'll never go shoveling again!" (Well, this is only paraphrasing and sounds much more like what Scarlet O'Hara would say, but what I said was something close.) And I <em>didn't </em>shovel anymore that day. We just waded through the snow from the back door to the car doors and from the car doors to the back door, and, as far as I know, it's still there as I write this.<br /><br />There's no escaping from the fluffy white stuff. It's no wonder I have the Winter Blues.<br /><br />Like I said before, to combat them, I have been trying to clean the house. I'm not sure what's more fun, going utterly nutz or cleaning. You tell me. But I have been able to accomplish some strange things like clean under my bed and organize the gift wrap bin. Hmmm, perhaps a good old fashioned drinking game would be better suited to my needs? Up and Down the River, anyone? Forget it! I'm too old and too responsible for that now... Hence all the house cleaning.<br /><br />Today I am debating. What to do? Stay inside and clean something? or Go down to the Y for a swim or go sledding at the park? But, it is a glorious day out there and the sunlight seems to beckon as it glistens across the snow... Decisions, decisions.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-9479698741335600812008-02-11T09:16:00.001-05:002008-10-01T08:13:09.737-05:00Cabin Fever<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Once again we were hit by a storm. Saturday night a "clipper system" rolled into the Great Lakes, dumping several inches of snow. That wasn't the bad part. The system was followed by an Arctic cold front, which dropped the temperatures down into the single digits, and accompanied by 20 to 30 mph winds, which dropped the wind chills into the below zeros.<br /><br />We had gone to our friends' house for dinner on Saturday night and the drive back to our home was nothing less than treacherous. The roads were slick with ice. Visibility was difficult in the white-out conditions. The traffic crawled along and there had been numerous slide-offs. Just beyond our exit on the highway was a multi-car accident, so, thankfully for us, we didn't have to negotiate around the pile-up through that dangerous spot. We made it safely.<br /><br />Sunday morning, what ho? Snowed in again. Hundreds of churches had canceled Sunday service. Authorities recommended avoiding driving unless absolutely necessary. It kept snowing and the winds howled, rattling the windows and doors. Even though I turned up the thermostat, the house felt like a walk-in refrigerator. The kids were complaining for the cold and the dog refused to go outside. On the news was reported a 30 car crash on one of the major highways. No one had to tell me to stay home.<br /><br />I have to admit that, even for a die-hard Michigander like myself, I am getting restless. There's lots of things one can do to stay busy - watch a movie, play games, work on a project, etc. Those are all grand suggestions on how to be entertained and pass the time, but what did I opt to do? I cleaned house.<br /><br />As you may or may not know, I happen to be the Queen of Domestic Dilemmas and the Princess of Procrastination, so when I opt to "clean" anything you could pretty much chalk it up to the end of the world or an invasion of aliens (you pick). That's how cooped up I felt on Sunday. None of the traditional pasttimes appealed to me. Because of this, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that I am suffering from a mild case of Cabin Fever.<br /><br />I decided the best way to combat my symptoms was to retreat to a part of the house which is particularly neglected - the second floor. There I dueled with dust bunnies, tackled the trash, and swabbed the decks. I conquered the clothes piles, tussled with toys, and battled the books. A few hours of my time later and things were shaping up nicely.<br /><br />Next I went into the basement, empty baskets in hand. I had to finish some laundry and also thought I'd see what else I could accomplish. Of course, there were clothes in the drier waiting to be folded and stacks of clean clothes on top of the machine. I took care of both and started a load to wash. As I stood there, revved with adreniline, rocking on my heels, I spied it... Mount Ironing.<br /><br />Now, I usually have good intentions, telling myself, "I'll do 15 minutes of ironing a day and will have it done in no time." Since I am a resident of the Land of Procrastination and Denial, what I really do upon seeing the pile is cringe, avert my eyes, and walk past as fast as I can. The truth is that I never make time to iron because I HATE IRONING! But yesterday, what did I do? I forced myself to start digging through the clean clothes until I uncovered the ironing board and plugged in the iron. The embarassing part of all of this was that I was finding summer clothes in the ironing pile and clothes that my children have actually grown out of!<br /><br />Some people would have hated their flaws more and spiraled into deeper self-loathing, "I'm such a loser because I haven't ironed since last year!" but not me. I forgave myself for my flaws and faced them, "Who cares?" I said, and put in an hour's worth of ironing. I have to say I made quite a bit of progress. Don't worry, I didn't try to tackle Mount Ironing in one day. I worked for a while and then called it good. Outside the wind was howling still and the world was a blustery one as seen from my window. The kids were excited about the possiblity of NO SKOOL the next day. We had dinner and then watched two of my kids' favorite Sunday shows - America's Funniest Home Videos and Extreme Home Makeover - and then it was time for bed. I felt better for having accomplished some things that day, but inside I was secretly dreading the possibility of being imprisoned by the weather for a second day in a row... Chalk it up to Cabin Fever!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-6716301798865832812008-02-08T09:15:00.000-05:002008-02-08T10:06:32.152-05:00Snow Days<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>It's February, in case you hadn't noticed yet, and I'm already sick-and-tired of the main staple of Michigan in winter - the snow.<br /><br />Oh sure, when December rolls around, I feel excited for the first snowfall - heck, I even used to record it on the calendar, "First Snow." Such an important event around these parts that it ranks right up with "First Robin." But, by the time February comes, I've had it.<br /><br />How can I describe the drudgery of snow for someone who hasn't experienced it? When you look out the window all you see is the world covered by a blanket of white. The eaves and roofs are studded with icicles. The steps and sidewalks are snow-covered and icy. Each time it snows, you have to shovel a path. And, on top of it all, it's cold outside.<br /><br />After year after year and winter after winter of this, I'm almost to the point where I don't know if I can stand it anymore. But, not everyone in my household feels the same way. My children love the snow, and especially snow days.<br /><br />On Wednesday a giant storm swept up through the Great Lakes and we were under a winter storm warning, predicted to get 6 to 12 inches of the fluffy white stuff. Wednesday morning it was calm, so the schools were open, much to my children's chagrin. By noon it began to come down and fell steadily all afternoon and into the evening.<br /><br />At six on Thursday morning, as I peered out one bleary eye at the TV to read all the closings and delays, I saw that my children's school was included in the listings. I gratefully reset the alarm and went back to sleep, an extra hour does wonders. The kids got up later, between eight and nine, and daughter and son were thrilled to find out they could stay home.<br /><br />We spent a pleasant day together. They found things to amuse themselves with during the morning hours - watched a movie, played computer games, read books - and in the afternoon we worked on homework, school projects, and addressed Valentine cards for next week's party. We got everything caught up and done for school. It was a productive day.<br /><br />It was as I prepared lunch, that I commented to my son how glad I was that it had stopped snowing. What did he say?<br /><br />"Not me," he said, "I wish it would snow and snow and snow so that school would be closed forever!" He said this with entirely too much gusto for my taste, leaving me speechless. Just the thought of the quantity of snow his proposed scenario would require left me dumbstruck. When I recovered sufficiently, I could only think up a lame reply, "It could never snow that much!"<br /><br />"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, "I don't want to go to school tomorrow!" While he may not have wanted to, Mommy wanted him to, and was glad to find that this morning no ticker was running across the bottom of the television screen.<br /><br />As I blog this and look out the window, ruminating on my inner grumblings about the Michigan weather, there is only one thing that keeps me going and keeps me here in my home state - It's the thought that Spring is only weeks away.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-18303607617568215772008-01-25T09:15:00.000-05:002008-02-08T09:14:21.369-05:00The Washing Machine Blues<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>If your automatic washing machine's instruction manual says to be sure to "remove the cotter pins," take my advice and be sure to.<br /><br />Have you ever thought you were doing everything right and later realize you hadn't done anything right at all and had one of those head-smacking "DUH!" moments? Well I have, and it was just yesterday...<br /><br />For the past several weeks, well months perhaps, my washing machine had been making some strange sounds - some clanking, clunking, and chugging sounds to be exact. And since I love to live in the surreal reality of Denial, I heartily did my best to ignore it. As the days went by I noticed that every time I put a load in the washer I winced, cringed, or otherwise jammed my fingers in my ears and singsonged, "I can't hear you! La!La!La!" as I skipped away as fast as I could.<br /><br />Friday, when I went down to take a load out, lo and behold, the clothes were sopping wet and soapy. Of course I fiddled with the machine and set the dial to "spin," forcing myself to believe that the power had gone out, hence the reason why the clothes hadn't finished washing. Ah, the Power of Denial!<br /><br />Instead of the usual mystery sounds emanating from the machine, I heard the overwrought sounds of the motor as it struggled to kick into gear, replaced by a horrid buzzing, and then, nothing at all. The washer had finally given up the ghost.<br /><br />"Aw, great!" I muttered. "What else can go wrong?"<br /><br />Most decidedly, I was being very unfair. My poor old washer had given me twelve faithful years of service - it hadn't failed me once. How could I complain? At the time, I think I had a reason to grumble as in the span of a few months the dryer had died, the furnace blower had clunked out, and the car had needed several repairs and new tires... I just couldn't help myself but wonder, "What could possibly break next?"<br /><br />I had to rinse and wring out the clothes by hand and this pleasant task forced me to remember the good old days when I worked as a turn-of-the-19th-Century washer woman. I picked up the phone and direct dialed my hubby.<br /><br />"We're buying a new washer this weekend!" I threatened.<br /><br />He had a more practical approach. "Let's see if we can fix it first," he said.<br /><br />I reluctantly agreed. After all, we're not millionaires and if we could save a few hundred bucks by doing a homeowner repair, why not?<br /><br />On Saturday, after consulting with a few friends, we replaced the belt, but even with the new belt we found that the problem was the motor, it just couldn't do it anymore. We ended up buying a new washing machine online - the mate to the dryer we had purchased a few months before - and we picked it up on Sunday morning.<br /><br />It was a pain hauling the old machine out to the curb and bringing in the new one, well, I wouldn't know as hubby and a friend were the ones who did the heavy-work, but they sweat and swore a lot, so I suppose it was difficult. After the new machine was installed, we did our best to get it level, and then, thrill of my day, I would be the first one to try it!<br /><br />By this time, hubby had wanted to go out for a bit. I didn't mind. I was going to wash skool clothes and get the kids ready for bed, no big deal. What happened when he was gone? I heard the worst rumbling I had ever listened to in my life. At first I thought it was a snow plow. The dog barked ferociously. Then I thought it was an earth quake, but those are few and far between in this area of the country. And then I knew what it was...the washer.<br /><br />I ran down the stairs to find the washer "walking" all over the place, most specifically "spinning" and ready to rip the hoses from the pipes. Needless to say, my first thought was that the machine wasn't leveled properly, so I spent the next hour or so fiddling with that and trying to finish only the necessary laundry.<br /><br />At the time I didn't think too much about it and decided that I'd take care of the machine later. When I returned to the machine in preparation to wash I started from zero, re-leveling the machine from square one and liberally referring to the instruction manual. I washed some more clothes but, when it came time for the final spin, was still having troubles.<br /><br />I was covered with lint and spider webs and my knees were aching from lifting and tugging at the machine, to say I was a little bit upset was an understatement. I had been over and over the instructions and could find nothing in the troubleshooting that was helpful. There was a brief mention of washer walk, but nothing more.<br /><br />I called my hubby to complain and he promised that we would fix the problem as soon as he came home from work.<br /><br />After dinner and dishes we went downstairs to try again. He leveled the washer from zero and we put a load to wash. The Walking Washer Syndrome persisted and we didn't know what to do. Call the manufacturer? Return it to the appliance store? Beat it with a monkey wrench? We didn't know.<br /><br />Finally, with a flood light at hand and the instruction manual, we propped up the machine and looked underneath, feeling the undercarriage with our hands to see if something was amiss. Then I saw it.<br /><br />A long silver pin attached to a plastic strap in which the electrical plug had come encased.<br /><br />What did the manual say? "Make sure the cotter pins have been removed," and nothing more.<br /><br />I gave the strap a hearty tug and pulled it out. We put the washer on its feet, checked for level, and commenced to spinning the last load of clothes.<br /><br />What happened?<br /><br />The machine worked perfectly. Actually, it worked like a dream.<br /><br />If that wasn't the biggest "DUH!" moment, I don't know what was.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-43564723020025931922008-01-25T08:44:00.000-05:002008-02-08T09:14:00.884-05:00Freelance Writer, Extraordinaire<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Just as in the 1994 release of "Little Women" starring Winona Ryder, I, too, can exclaim as Jo did when she discovers that she has sold one of her stories, "I'm an author!"<br /><br />Yes, it's true. I was given a freelance assignment and the piece was published in a local magazine. And, while it's not like "The Lost Duke of Gloster," it is something I've written and now my name is out there for people to see. Even though it took quite a while for me to become published for pay, it has happened and I couldn't be more pleased.<br /><br />I've entered contests and worked on fiction and poetry pieces since 1999 and, while I've won a few of these contests, I have never had anyone purchase something I've written. It's a good feeling, and a strange one, too. There's something about looking in a real magazine and seeing the article that you took such pains to write and, despite looking it over with a critical eye, when your name is in the credit you realize, "Wow! This is mine, this is me, I wrote this!"<br /><br />The thing about magazine writing is that, technically, the article isn't mine anymore - they bought exclusive rights - but, it's mine in the sense that I wrote it and the editor did make some changes for consistency in style and space limitations, but it's still mine. Now I have a real "clip" to add to my credits and another entry for my writer's resume. Cool!<br /><br />The next step for me? My dream would be to find a part- or full-time paying writer's job, but a goal can be to begin and continue as a freelance writer; either way I'd still be the happiest Real Writer around!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-36019584304516244982008-01-08T09:18:00.000-05:002008-02-08T09:13:42.492-05:00The Holidays Are Over<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Where does the time go between Thanksgiving and the New Year? They say time flies when you're having fun, and I ask, Are we having fun yet? It was all a blur for me and now it's over. But I guess I'm not too sad. While preparing the house for Christmas has its nostalgia, it certainly is tiring. And I'm not even including the presents and the food and the partying!<br /><br />We have loads of decorations and, with kids in the house, we can't get away with not putting them all up. So, every nook and cranny had a decoration - swags of greenery over the doorways, strings of lights, candles, various nativity scenes, lots of Christmas tree decorations, door hangers, and window decals - you name it, we've got it. Well, one thing we didn't put out was the giant inflatable snow bear...I cleverly forgot to unpack it this year! (tee-hee) All in all, we decorated for a day straight and then had to maneuver around it for several weeks.<br /><br />The kids helped me decorate the Christmas tree, of course. I handed over the ornaments and they hung them. Each and every one. And since they are restricted by height, the decorations were clumped around the middle and bottom of the tree. Mom had to do some rearranging. And I'm forgetting to mention that I absolutely can't dispose of any previously crafted item - children have memories like elephants. "Mom, where's that paper advent ring I made in preschool? How come we can't put that out too?" I have an entire box dedicated to these treasures of Christmases Past. It takes some fast thinking to fire off reasons why we can't put them on display.<br /><br />Like every year the present wrapping takes place two days before Christmas. By the time I got the kids to go to bed and go to sleep, it was eleven o'clock, and then mom and dad had to spend an hour up to our elbows in wrapping paper. To top it off is the cat. Scotty, my Scottish-Persian Sailor Cat, is fascinated by anything and everything rustley and crinkly, so his favorite part of Christmas is the bows and plastic shrink wrap. As I put the finishing touches on each present - name tag and bow - he was waiting patiently in the wings. I'd place a present under the tree and, when I'd turn my back, he'd pounce.<br /><br />After he ripped off the fourth or fifth bow, clamped in his mouth like a prize mouse, he bounded into the dining room to devour it. I snatched the bow away and hubby replaced it with a smidge of scotch tape stuck to Scotty's ear. If you have a cat you know that they hate to have their ears messed with. Boy was Scotty mad! He sat in the corner and pouted for a while, ear flicking furiously because of the tape. He finally pawed it free and, thankfully, left us alone and we finished the wrapping.<br /><br />The next two days went by too quickly, but we managed to pull it together by the afternoon of Christmas Eve day; went to church and then got everything ready for our guests. We had a great time, lots of friends and family came to eat, drink, and be merry (hey, there's only one of me, but you've got to want to try!) and pass the time together. The nice part is that even though many of our friends don't have family living in Michigan, we made them feel like they were a part of our family.<br /><br />Christmas morning was nice, even though we slept until ten (perhaps a world record in a house with kids). The children seemed pleased with their presents and spent the rest of the day playing and enjoying and us relaxing and recovering.<br /><br />The days between Christmas and New Year were full - I would have to say that this year was very nice and we truly enjoyed ourselves with all the get-togethers and gatherings. Before we knew it, New Year was upon us, and then it was time to take down the decorations and return them to their respective bags and boxes to guard in the attic until next December.<br /><br />One thing is certain, it seems if I don't blog about things as they happen, when I do have time to muse on them I can't seem to remember their pertinence, if they had any to begin with. Not that Christmas doesn't have pertinence, but that there are many things that happen in our lives that do and if we don't make note of them, the fine details slip away. But I won't cry over what is done and gone, only look forward to more Christmases to come. And it is on that note that I am glad that January has begun.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-49403193949562108782007-12-27T09:09:00.000-05:002007-12-28T10:21:08.723-05:00Got Heat?Denial is such a peaceful place, much like sticking your fingers in your ears as you singsong, "I can't hear you...La! La! La!" It's nice here. Unfortunately I had to come back to reality sooner or later...<br /><br />I guess I should have wondered what was happening whenever I went into the bathroom.<br /><br />You see, I have a half-bath which was one of the warmest places in the house last winter. This winter it changed. The bathroom was so cold that I preferred to "hold it" rather than go in there. Nobody wants to bare their backside when it's thirty degrees out, myself included, but because I was vacationing in Denial, I refused to think about it.<br /><br />"I wonder why it's so cold in here?" I'd wonder as I'd hurry up and get the heck out of there. And, come to think of it, it wasn't just the bathroom that was cold, it was the entire house. While we have been trying to keep the heat set at an economical level, when ice started forming on the doorknobs it makes you think something else might be going on. But, La! La! La! I can't hear you!<br /><br />As the days grew steadily colder inside and outside, it wasn't until Christmas Day that the house seemed colder still. And it wasn't until the next morning that we realized what had happened. The furnace had clonked out. The blower had stopped working completely. We still had heat, technically, but there was no way to distribute it throughout the house. No wonder we had been freezing!<br /><br />I called the Furnace Guy and, thankfully, he was able to come over in the afternoon. The problem was indeed the blower motor and he installed a new one. Also, despite the furnace's age (40 +/-) it's in great shape and should last for several more years. Furnace Guy said that the actual furnace will die before the new blower motor does. I wondered if I was supposed to feel relief or fear? Anyway...<br /><br />With the heat off for two hours during the repair it was colder in the house than it had ever been, unless you went outside, and as soon as the furnace was running again I cranked the theromostat right up there. Up to seventy, in fact. (Yes, I splurged.) The heat pored out of the vents and with new power - I had forgotten how it was supposed to feel. Denial is a real place, boys and girls, but not a place you want to stay in. Here's to the Real World!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-63423238594721956292007-12-15T09:24:00.001-05:002008-02-08T09:13:23.586-05:00Ban the Family, Why Not?<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>My son's an artist and an extremely talented one.<br /><br />Last night as I trekked up the stairs to bed and as I reached out to open my son's bedroom door to tuck him in for the night, I saw a sign.<br /><br />My son loves drawing pictures and taping them to his bedroom door, but this one beat them all.<br /><br />The sign was two pieces of thin paper, joined together with poster putty, and with the same putty, stuck to the door. At the top of the page were two identical crests: an uppercase "K" on a silver shield and, behind, two crossed swords. In the middle was the following writing: No Mom & Dad! No Dog & No Cat!!!! At the bottom was a series of drawings: A mom, a dad, a dog, and a cat - all with X's for eyeballs and long tongues hanging out. (A sure sign of what the future would hold if one of the members of the List of the Banned crossed the threshold.)<br /><br />Laughing, I called to my husband to come and take a look. By the time we had recovered, we called to our daughter. You see, she wasn't included on the List. She cracked up too.<br /><br />"Since you're not on the list," I said, "can you go check on your brother?"<br /><br />"Okay!" She was truly agreeable about it and went inside.<br /><br />For whatever reason, the "storm" had passed, and my son seemed to have forgotten what he had been angry over and came out. We asked him what it was about, but the only part he would describe were the crests.<br /><br />"The 'K' is for 'Kids'" he explained. Embarrassed, he tried to take the sign down, because after all, he did want to be tucked-in and have a bedtime story read to him.<br /><br />We took the sign for safekeeping and to join the host of other mementos that he has created. I snugged him into bed and read him a story. He hugged me extra tight and kissed me goodnight.<br /><br />I had been forgiven for my "crime" and, hopefully, retired from this List and any more to come... At least for one night!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-79018055371536620862007-12-06T22:16:00.000-05:002008-02-08T09:13:02.825-05:00The Last of A Generation<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>My aunt passed away this week, she was 86 years old, and the last surviving sibling of my father.<br /><br />I guess it wasn't a surprise for any of us. She had been sick for quite a while and had lost her husband not even two months before. But what struck me was how she was the last one. In a span of seven short years, my father and all his siblings have passed away. A whole generation has been, and gone.<br /><br />This saddens me, although I know the passing of generations is a part of life, because those times, those places, those people - that past - is now no more. Someday, I know, me and my siblings will be gone too, and gone will be our collected memories of the times we lived in and of each other.<br /><br />My father and his siblings were Depression Era kids, and when I heard them tell their stories from their childhood I couldn't help but imagine them as if I was watching old black and white films of <em>The Little Rascals</em>. I could see them plainly - independent and scrappy, and always in a lot of trouble.<br /><br />My aunt was perhaps the scrappiest one and always the most independent. For a woman, she was truly "liberated" in an era when it wasn't the "thing" to do. And perhaps liberated isn't the word. My aunt said and did whatever she wanted to and didn't care what anyone else thought. I won't say this was the best thing to do, because I have heard she hurt many people's feelings in the process, especially her mother's, but I'm sure she must have regretted some of it though. Then who knows?<br /><br />She was gruff and tough, basically the type of woman who didn't take any crap. She was a truck driver for a time, and a taxi driver in Detroit. She smoked, drank, and swore, and didn't shave. (And here Madonna thought she was such a trend-setter!) She was married and divorced several times, no one knows for sure how many. She settled down later in life. She loved bingo and reading, she played the organ and gardened. She always had a host of yapping lap dogs and a talking Myna bird named Charlie. All in all, she was quite a character, to say the least. And now she's gone.<br /><br />So, here's to the last of a generation. Here's to my aunt and her brothers and sister. Here's to all of them. May they live on in the family's memory.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-7096260481873422072007-12-01T11:20:00.000-05:002008-02-08T09:12:40.450-05:00Getting Long in the Tooth? Not This Girl!<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>This month marks the 9th anniversary of my 29th birthday. Yes, I'm still 29. Well, at least in my heart.<br /><br />I don't have a problem with aging. As one grows older, one grows wizer, or so they say. But something in my head can't help but think things like, Half of your life is over; It's all down-hill from here; Pretty soon you'll be in a home wearing diapers, and other such nonsense like that. And it is nonsense considering I've always considered myself the Glass Is Half-Full type, or have always tried to.<br /><br />I guess it's normal to start thinking of life in those terms. We do have to be realists and see (and accept) things for what they are. People age, people get gray hair, people forget their underwear, people die. (hee-hee)<br /><br />While I could allow myself to start treking down the wrong path, I won't do that. Instead I try to focus on the positives that celebrating a birthday bring:<br /><br />I have completed another year of life.<br />I am healthy (most of the time if you don't count for things like the Swirling Vortex of Confusion and going Half-Nuts - they fall under the mental health category, and it's in that department where I'm lacking).<br />I have family and friends who love and appreciate me.<br />I am intelligent and good looking (hey, ego-boosting never hurt anyone).<br /><br />Well, this list could go on and on, but I think you get the main idea here. It's all about being thankful (and grateful) for everything that you have, and I'm going to go into yet another birthday doing just that.<br /><br />So, Happy Birthday to me! I'm so thankful for having completed another year and hope that I will be here to celebrate many, many more!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-17336344740234614742007-11-28T08:58:00.000-05:002007-11-28T10:34:14.919-05:00Back to the Drawing Board<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>After a two-hour interview over a month ago, then a half-hour phone interview two weeks later, and previous employer and reference checks over the last few weeks, I still didn't get the job.<br /><br />Talk about sucking!<br /><br />A while back I had applied for a position and received a call. Everything went really well, at first, but after waiting and waiting (getting my chain jerked) I have slowly and painfully realized that in order to get a job at one of the major corporate entities of this city you basically have to... Have to what? Be related? Sleep with the boss? Commit a crime? If I knew, perhaps I'd have been hired already!<br /><br />So it's back to the drawing board as far as the Job Department is concerned for me.<br /><br />It's not that I haven't been looking. I've been scanning the Moron's Wanted (still) and keeping an ear peeled for any news. Believe me, I'm trying and there's nothing out there. And just yesterday the evening news said that Michigan's unemployment rate had reached 7.7% (still the nation's highest) but had started to fall slightly based on summer employment having ended and seasonal employment kicking in. Ya gotta love the good ole' service industry.<br /><br />Keeping with the trend, I guess I'm going to have to cast my credentials aside and just go look for one of these service-industry positions too. Not my top choice, but I need something. We can't keep on like this - Something's Gotta Give (to off-quote the famous phrase), but it can only get worse before it gets better. Thankfully, I have a lot of relatives... I think one of them can give us a place to sleep!<br /><br />Well, it's not that bad, really. I'm just exaggerating (imagine that!). So in the meanwhile I will Keep on Keeping On, that's my motto. A writer can never give up!Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-40061550716591877152007-11-22T16:13:00.000-05:002007-12-15T08:53:18.198-05:00Look Out, Tom Turkey!<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>Thanksgiving morning. So much for sleeping in until the alarm went off. My bladder woke me up at 5:11 a.m. In all the confusion I must have forgotten to go to the bathroom before I tucked the whole family into bed the night before. Up and out of bed I went, the only one who noticed was the cat and he just winked a lazy eye and went back to sleep.<br /><br />The power had been out all night. I lay in bed thinking of everything I had to do, primarily stuff the turkey, which didn't bother me as I've cooked turkey before, but as I mentally prepared for the task I realized in terror that there was no way I could cook the turkey without the necessary electricity to regulate the oven temperature.<br /><br />What did I do? Well, I said a prayer.<br /><br />"Dear Lord" I prayed, "I have to cook that turkey or there'll be no Thanksgiving dinner today, and I've got all those people coming over. What am I going to do?" I asked.<br /><br />I'm not too kooky (despite popular belief), so I didn't expect to hear a voice come out of the ceiling telling me what to do. I didn't hear anything. I just lay there worrying and dozed off.<br /><br />As if in answer to my prayer, twenty minutes later I heard the familiar beeps and chirps of appliances returning to life and all over the house the lights, that were on the night before, were illuminated again. I had to get out of bed once more, but did so happily to turn the hallway and bathroom lights off so's not to wake the family, oh, and the cat, who gets really grumpy if he doesn't get his beauty sleep.<br /><br />As I said my thanks, I felt completely relieved because now the heat was also working, I prudently decided that since it was still before six that I should lay down and catch a few more winks. I overdid it, and somehow ended up turning off the cell phone alarm and sleeping until seven. And then I had to get up!<br /><br />I didn't bother dressing, just tied on my apron over the pajamas. I had left Tom in the sink overnight to thaw and it seemed to have worked well. I clicked on the oven and pulled the onion and celery out of the fridge to start chopping them and add to the stock pot where a stick of butter lay melting. I always make my own stuffing, but whereas I used to chop stale bread into cubes by hand I have wised up and now buy unseasoned croutons from the bread store, saving me a lot of extra time and elbow grease.<br /><br />In no time I had the stuffing ingredients sauteing and I prepared the turkey. First of all, let's just say that dead poultry is disgusting. I know that with all the advances we've made in food production that I shouldn't complain. Gone are the days of going to the market, selecting your bird, and bringing home a really fresh one, but there's still something gross about it anyway. And because Tom weighed 23 pounds I soon realized that handling him was going to be difficult. I could barely handle him at all. Have any of you seen the commercial where the woman has a 50 pound turkey in the sink and can't pick him up? Well that was me, and that's where my husband came in. He washed the turkey and put him in the roasting pan and we stuffed it together, chucking Tom into the oven at 8 a.m.<br /><br />The rest of the morning went smoothly and as the hours ticked away... I dressed myself and the kids. Basted the turkey. Set the table and decorated it. Basted the turkey. Gathered the chairs. Checked the turkey, "Hallo, Tom!" Took out the serving dishes. Basted the turkey. Popped the other dishes into the oven. Basted the turkey. Greeted the first guests. Basted the turkey. Had a few cups of holiday cheer with the guests. We <em>all</em> checked the turkey. The rest of the guests arrived. I buttered the turkey. Everyone was present and crammed into the kitchen. Buttered the turkey some more. Helped prepare the dishes the guests brought. Poked the turkey with a meat thermometer as the pop-out timer was still popped in. Had some more holiday cheer. We consulted over the turkey, "Is it done yet?" Made merry and were feeling dizzy. Decided, "What the heck! hic The turkey's got to be done!" Finally.<br /><br />By 3:30, we took Tom to the table. I must have done something right as everyone said just how delicious he was. The meat was cooked to perfection - not too tough nor dry. The guests were in good cheer and all the food was great. We took our time eating and, halfway through, shared what we were thankful for. The adults sat at table for a long while, relaxing and conversing. The finale, of course, was the dessert and the pies.<br /><br />Despite all the preparation involved in hosting a Thanksgiving dinner, at least two days worth, the best thing about this holiday is being able to share, abundantly, the many things we have with others. Thanksgiving isn't just about the turkey, but about appreciation and gratitude, and about passing a pleasant afternoon in the company of family and friends. I know this sounds cliche, like the subject of a greeting card, but if you can look past any of the negatives, you'll find that the sentiment rings true.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2690339140984273788.post-29632851929794203112007-11-21T09:19:00.000-05:002007-11-28T16:13:03.334-05:00When the Lights Go Out<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-1412910-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script>The day before Thanksgiving is not a day for slackers. And since I can potentially fall into this category, I made sure I was up early, considering the kiddies didn't have school, quietly making breakfast and coffee so's not to wake the little heathens, er, darlings. I saw hubby off to work and finished some housecleaning - about two hour's worth during which the children finally woke up and I made their breakfast, helped them dress, and also served as referee when, from time to time, they would have minor outbursts and otherwise start punching each other.<br /><br />Fortunately for me I managed to get most everything that I had to do done and just in time. I showered and dressed and started making lunch - a simple tuna casserole - as an old friend of mine was coming over to visit. We did have a nice and relaxing afternoon, considering, but soon enough it was time for her to go and for me to perform the Dreaded Six-Letter Family Ritual like I always do, wash a mountain of dishes, and then roll up my sleeves, slap on an apron, and really get to work.<br /><br />With my son's and daughter's help, I made seven pumpkin pies from scratch, popped the cranberries for the sauce, sliced, sugared, and buttered the yams, slopped the green bean casserole together, and submerged Tom, the 23 pound turkey, in a cold water bath. I was hosting dinner the next day and wanted to be prepared.<br /><br />Let's just say everything went as smoothly as it could with children running to and fro, tussling over who gets to help Mom with the pumpkin pies as son nearly sneezes into the bowl of raw filling, daughter insists she just washed her hands but has black lines under her fingernails, and the cat jumps on the kitchen table and onto the floured surface that's waiting for the pie crust. Oh yes, dear reader, that's just a sampling of what it's like around my house.<br /><br />As I juggled all this, the hours were creeping away. Soon it was eight o'clock, then nine. Somehow, the children had listened to me enough to put on their pajamas, but kept running up and down the stairs. They were having a high time of it. At ten to ten, under threat of bodily harm and imprisonment, I ordered them upstairs (for the hundredth time at least) to start brushing their teeth and that's when it happened.<br /><br />The lights flickered out for a few seconds but popped back on again. It was a little odd. We had been under a high wind advisory, but there was no real bad weather. Just a cold rain. I didn't think much of it. I had taken the last two pies out of the oven, had been washing dishes and utensils, and was nearly finished with everything (not counting the next morning). Not bad considering it was ten thirty. Of course, without my constant supervision, the kids still hadn't brushed their teeth! (Now you know why I'm half-nuts...)<br /><br />What happened next?<br /><br />The lights really went out!<br /><br />The house plunged into darkness and I could hear terrified calls for help from the upstairs bathroom. Of course, inside I was howling with laughter. Serves the little scamps right! If they would have listened to me in the first place (brush your teeth and go to bed) about two hours ago they wouldn't be in their current predicament. And on the outside I was groping about for the matches because, wonder upon wonders, the flashlight was dead (hmmm...now who could have been playing with the flashlight?) Just as I struck a match, the kiddies came stumbling, huddled together, into the kitchen.<br /><br />We lit several candles, found a working flashlight, and I rekindled the fire from the coals that remained from when my friend had been over hours before, because when the lights go out, so does the heat. The kids were even more excited, if that was possible, and were having a great time of it, for some unknown reason running about the dark parts of the house and tripping and falling or running into each other. I finished covering and putting away the food and the pies. Soon the kids were hatching plans.<br /><br />"Can we all sleep in front of the fireplace tonight?" they asked, hopefully.<br />"Are you crazy?!" I exclaimed. "I'm sleeping in my bed." The last thing I needed was to sleep on the floor the day before I had to cook a turkey and put on a dinner. I'd never be able to stand up straight and walk the next day.<br />Hubby added, "Are you sure? There's no heat."<br /><br />I don't like to pull my Laura Ingalls Card out unnecessarily, but I had to. I had earned the moniker "Laura Ingalls" from the time when I shared with a group of friends how I had grown up. It was the first and the last time that I had done this because, personally, I think they were just plain-old jealous that they hadn't lived like the pioneers as I had.<br /><br />So I pulled the card, told my kids why we didn't have to sleep in front of the fireplace (making my rendition of Little House in the Big Woods brief), started snuffing out the candles, and made my way upstairs.<br /><br />"Just put an extra blanket on the bed," I said over my shoulder as they scrambled up behind me, "and you'll be fine."<br />"Mom," daughter pants, "can I sleep with a candle in my room?"<br />"Oh, yeah, sure," I agreed, "and I'll be the first one to come and visit you in the burn unit tomorrow. NOT!" I said firmly.<br /><br />Who were these kids and where did they come from? Planet Pyro?<br /><br />I went and got an extra sweatshirt and a pair of thick socks to put on each of them. My son had his favorite dinosaur tucked under his arm and my daughter had her pillow. They were waiting by the end of the bed, looking at us expectantly.<br /><br />"Oh, alright!" I exclaimed, "you can sleep with us."<br /><br />Hubby skooched over to make room in the bed, thankfully it's king-sized. The kids clambered up and I tucked them in, safe and snug. I was the last one to get in; we were stacked up like cord wood (Laura Ingalls here I come) when the cat jumped in too, curling himself into a ball at the foot of the bed, right next to my feet (what's new?).<br /><br />By this time it was midnight. I set my cell phone alarm (six thirty and the turkey come early) and somehow, balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, with an elbow wedged into my rib cage, unable to move my legs, and with only half of my body covered by the blankets, I managed to fall asleep.Meredith Walsh-Betetahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04075118406413403220noreply@blogger.com0