"Whoever one is, & wherever one is, one is always in the wrong if one is rude." ~Maurice Baring
Manners. It’s a disappearing art form. Yet, it’s a much needed art form! I swear, when I was a little girl, the one thing my parents drilled into our heads [my brother, my sister and myself] was to always be polite, courteous, thoughtful and considerate. Now, they knew that we were human and would, on occasion, fall short of managing all those tall orders. However, one thing they were certain of and knew we would not fail at was with regard to our manners. They were in the driver’s seat where that was concerned. They demanded good manners from us, and they got them.
Sometimes, demands can be unreasonable or bad things. Good manners does not fall into that category. I truly appreciate that these basic courtesies were instilled in me. It’s important.
Let me tell you though, that good manners didn’t come easy for either of us! It’s like potty training! Some days, you do really well and make strides forward, where you’re confident the lesson has taken. Other days, not so much. My parents were nothing if not diligent where good manners were concerned. If we weren’t on top of that basic requirement in social skills, and they heard about it, well, let’s just say we were given a stern talking to! [Mr. Soulis wasn’t the only one with an attitude adjuster!] Like a dog with a bone or like white on rice – those are two terms that come to mind, when I think about my parents teaching manners. If they were around us, and we behaved like hooligans in public, one of three things happened: we got the dirty look from one or both of them - usually both. Aside from that, these were the options depending on how bad the infraction: my father would take us outside. Trust me, you did NOT want my father to take you outside, unless going outside was part of the original game plan. Plan B was that my mother would simply reach her hand across however many children it took for her to reach the one requiring her silent attention and, without a change in her facial demeanor what so ever, would dig her fingernails down into the flesh of our forearm. It left an interesting, half-moon pattern in our skin for the rest of the evening. She went deep lest we forget why she went there in the first place! It was on rare occasions that we experienced the second wave of instruction because, honestly, "the look" was normally enough to make us settle down. We didn’t want our mother’s nail-imprint design on our forearm any more than we wanted to see the outdoors with our father, in instances where our manners, or lack thereof, needed their parental re-direction.
Now, you may be wondering what the big deal was about "the look"? I can’t really describe it other than to say it was similar to one of those road signs that read: Warning! Rough patch up ahead. Proceed with caution! It was one of the few times, when the message that was in either of my parents’ eyes could NOT be mistaken. More clearly, the message was this: "You had BETTER straighten up!" Nothing ticked them off more than our wanting to challenge that statement with an "or what?" attitude - especially in public!
They weren’t afraid to show you "or what" either! It just wasn’t something they liked to do when all eyes were on them because discipline is never a pleasant thing for someone to dole out. Okay, I know there are some people who like to give and others who like to receive discipline. Let’s leave that as a discussion for another day. Or, let’s not and say we did. I like that proposition better. Back to my point: there is NOTHING worse for a southern parent or at least MY southern parents, then a smattering of heads turning and wondering as they glance around, who in the world does that unruly child belong to? When that happened, one of the two previously mentioned things occurred: we felt a stinging sensation in our hind parts against the backdrop of the evening sky, OR we had distinctive, little half-moon patterns on our arms for the remainder of the evening. Either way, we, the children were on the receiving end of unpleasantness. [My mother might debate that point!]
Have you ever heard the old adage: "Children should be seen and not heard?" I don’t typically prescribe to that philosophy. I like children. I don’t mind them expressing themselves in MOST situations. However, I do make two exceptions to my rule: restaurants and movie theaters. Kids don’t get to have a free-for-all experience unless you’re in a McDonald’s or a Pixar movie. Even then, some manners are in order!
With regard to the remainder of situations, PLEASE people, have more consideration for the rest of humanity who is spending OUR hard earned dollars to go out and have an enjoyable dinner or catch a movie. We’d like to do it without the squealing, screeching, wailing sounds of your children interrupting our desire for a nice afternoon out of the house! We aren’t unreasonable people. We know YOU need moments out of your house too, but be considerate! First of all, I won’t even comment on people bringing a small child into an R rated movie, but if you can’t find a babysitter and must bring them along, could you be more mindful of the other people who paid $8.00 to be there too? If your child begins a constant crying because the sound is too loud or whatever has traumatized them....be considerate and step outside. It’s NOT considerate for you to try and correct the situation inside the movie theater. It’s not being insensitive on our parts because we don’t want to listen to your crying baby or you trying to quiet them where you sit, making us miss the plot of the story because you don’t have common sense to excuse yourself with said screaming baby. Calm them down outside the realm of other paying individuals! It’s NOT too much to ask!
Likewise, and this one is more annoying than the above-mentioned infraction: if you’re sitting in a restaurant and your child is wailing, the way one would wail because CBS cancelled Joan of Arcadia, NBC recently announced that Mariska Hargitay will be leaving Law and Order: SVU mid-season or ABC screwed up most of its entire daytime lineup, how do you NOT hear that? How do you sit ignorant of the fact that all tables north, south, east and west of you are glaring, because your child is sending that Godawful, shock-wave sort of piercing screech – you know the one like fingernails clawing down a chalkboard? Why should the rest of us suffer because you waited until 3 o’clock to feed your two-year old lunch? And, what’s the matter with you anyway that you waited until 3 o’clock to feed your two year old lunch? In case the answer hasn’t come to you, here it is: take your precious darling outside until whatever tantrum he/she is experiencing passes! Is that thought process really that complicated to reach? For some, it appears so!
I told Tom, 10 minutes into the wailing yesterday that my parents wouldn’t have stood for such behavior! They’d have had our butt outside so fast it would have made heads spin, namely ours! And, if we wouldn’t straighten up, they’d have taken us home. They’d done it to us before. Case in point, my father got one block from the Dairy Queen after church one Sunday night but my brother just couldn’t stop picking on me and my sister. [Yes, it was usually Jeff’s fault! You know it’s true, Jeff...] My father, after telling us twice to "pipe down back there or you’re going to be sorry", meant what he said and followed it up with the whipping of the car around and taking us home – no chocolate milkshake, no double dipped cone, no ice-cream sundae. No nothing. He was unmoved by our crying, "we’ll be good, Daddy! We’ll be good!" Oh, he had NO doubt that we’d be good. Still, it was no cigar. Bad behavior wasn’t about to be rewarded. And when we realized he meant business and was taking us home, we cried and pled louder - trying to pressure him into taking us back, if he wanted us to shut up. We knew how to play that game, or so we thought. He didn’t buy into that tactic either. We got his veiled but very real threat, "If you don’t shut-it-up, I’m going to give you something to cry about!" he shot back, sternly and firmly. I remember sucking those water-works up and bone dry, giving an apologetic glance at my siblings because I was out! I didn’t want anything more to cry about other than the realization that my chocolate shake had just been ripped from my anticipating hands. That was trauma enough for one night, because it also meant we didn’t get any snack when we got home either. We’d blown [or let me clarify, my brother with his constant picking at us...it’s my blog, I get to place the blame ;-)] had blown our snack opportunity for the evening. I seem to remember rounds of "nice going" each of us spat at the other to which my father, having had enough of our shenanigans for the evening, once again, said, "Knock it off back there!" If only we’d have listened the first time he’d said it, I’d have been enjoying my chocolate shake as we drove home instead of pouting at my parents and glaring at my brother!
That’s one thing I give my parents, boy, if we didn’t conduct ourselves like little gentlemen and ladies out in public, we didn’t go out in public. What they understood is that it was a reflection on them if they couldn’t keep their 6, 8, and 12 year old kids under control. Gosh, I wish more people got that!
One thing I got was that I wouldn’t have made it to my 7th birthday if I’d ever have slapped my parents arm when they told me to "settle down" or screamed "NO!" at the top of my lungs for anything, or thrown my sippy cup at them. They would have set me straight REAL quick as to why you do NOT throw your sippy cup at your mother’s forehead or smack your father’s hand in protest. Had that or any other disrespectful conduct happened, I remember brows coming together as they looked at us and said in a voice of utter disbelief, "WHO do you think you are?!" Um....I’m the child and you’re the parent. Bingo!
There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of parenting going on these days with regard to some people. The kids are calling the shots – at least that’s how it seemed yesterday from the view due nouth of the table in question. The most amazing thing was when the mother got up to go to the bathroom, and the little girl screamed as if someone had stuck her hand into a pot of boiling water, and neither one of the two other women sitting at the table even looked up or checked on her. How does that happen? How on God’s green earth do you ignore something like that, in public, no less? They weren’t deaf because they spoke to each other. It’s mind boggling!
The only reason we didn’t leave was because I’d not had anything to eat all day, and I was hungry. I figured by the time we got in the car and made it to a drive through, it would be 15 or 20 minutes. Of course, it also became a test of wills at that point.
So, five minutes later when our food arrives, we felt victorious - almost at the finish line. The child had been quietly sucking on her pacifier for three solid minutes. Also, food had been delivered to their table as well. I thought, for a moment, we could all eat in peace. At least, that’s how it appeared. I fixed my burger the way I wanted it - got the mustard smeared across the onion roll, added the pickles that were on the side, then sliced it down the middle and wrapped a napkin around it. My mouth was watering. Boy, it looked good! Thank you God, I thought, finally for some peace and quiet and this delicious looking burger. Just as I got it to my mouth, the guy at the next table decides to blow his nose. HE finished his meal! I’m not talking about a gentle blow either. I’m talking about a full honker, blowing your brains out kind of blow! Let me tell you what I find more offensive at the dinner table than a petulant child screaming its head off: an adult who rudely takes it upon themselves to ruin anyone else’s dining experience with the disgusting display of nose-blowing! For crying out loud [and I almost did], excuse yourself from the table already! Nobody wants to hear that as they’re getting ready to eat!
I glared over in his direction with a seriously, Guy! look of disdain and dismay on my face. My husband and I had just listened to 40 minutes of Damianna screaming her little head off with NO adult intervention to make her cease and desist, we were starving, on our last nerves and THIS is how you follow up the less-than-desirable acts I and II of Nightmare in the Restaurant? He had been present for the first unsavory part of the dining experience! How dare he add insult to injury!
I closed my eyes and placed the half of my none-eaten burger down. My husband placed his fork-ful of eggs back onto his plate and took a sip of his coffee, as we tried to re-group.
I no longer cared how MY decorum appeared. I said loudly enough so that tables due north and west of us, I hoped, got an earful. "Doesn’t ANYONE have manners anymore?!"
My husband shook his head. "Doesn’t seem so!"
"Next time we go out, remind me to bring ear plugs!"
"That’s not a bad idea," he replied, as serious in tone as I was.
I don’t understand the rudeness of people? I really don’t! Going out in these troubled economic times is a luxury for most people. It would be nice if people acted in a considerate manner when out of their house. Your hard-earned dollars aren’t more important that mine. They don’t give you the right to behave badly! It truly makes me wonder where all the manners have gone? We desperately need them! Civility is another one that seems to have gone out the window. [Just look at Washington, D.C., if you don’t believe me.]
After our "left-a-LOT-to-be-desired" dining nightmare, I rested my head back against the seat of the car and closed my eyes. An old Peter, Paul and Mary song came to mind. I couldn’t help myself as I hummed it in my mind. One word changed for me. Manners was substituted for flowers.
My mind wondered the question the tune posed as it filled my head:
Where have all the manners gone, long time passing,
Where have all the manners gone, long time ago,
Where have all the manners gone....
Seems they left most everyone,
When will they ever return....
When will they EVER re-e-turn.
I apologize to Pete Seeger for "going there".....my mind couldn’t help itself. In the weariness of a world seemingly gone mad with little tolerance and civility towards one another and a great deal of profundity with regard to ill-manners, I just don’t get it anymore! I don’t understand blatant rudeness, or lack of good manners. It doesn’t compute in my brain that people can be so self-centered that they can’t hear a sobbing/screaming/upset child who needs tending to or that a person who has concluded his meal doesn’t have the right to ruin the meal of those who’ve not yet begun! Maybe I’m old school....but, at least, back when I was in school, we didn’t have to look too hard for our manners...
Written by Jhill Perran
July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Chuey & Elmer
Background to this blog entry:
A little over two years ago [July 20, 2009] my mother, husband and I went to pick out a Chihuahua puppy that was to be an early birthday present from my mother, which my father asked if he could go in on. We had been looking for awhile, but it’s no easy feat to find the perfect puppy! On that day, we found Chuey who was no bigger than a minute; with the sweetest disposition and the saddest, dark, chocolate-brown eyes. They make you just want to eat him up with a spoon! From the moment he was put into my arms, we all knew he was coming home with us!
As we settled into life with this little guy, we soon realized that we needed to find him a companion because he literally went into mourning when we left the house! He’d curl up on the sofa with a sad look of betrayal in his eyes at the very idea that we would even consider leaving him behind, not to mention alone. [He didn’t count Boo as company - a story for another day] It tore at my heart so much that I told Tom we needed to get Chuey a puppy.
In speaking with my sister-in-law, Kathy, who is an expert in ALL things dogs, she agreed that it would be a very good idea to get a companion puppy for Chuey, and the sooner the better. [More easily accepted & less jealousy issues down the pike]. I toss my head back in hearty laughter at the thought of that now because Chuey looked at us, the day we picked up Elmer, as if a dagger had gone straight into his heart and a "Et tu Brute" seemed to dangle on the tip of his tongue, as he looked at Tom holding the newer, littler guy in the air, while we all laughed over his extreme cuteness. Chuey saw NOTHING cute about him! But, I’m getting ahead of myself....
Kathy called us the second week in September of 2009 and told us that she’d found the perfect puppy for Chuey. "He’s SOOOOO cute!" She giggled. I can still hear the excitement in her voice. After much back and forth communication and picture swaps, we decided to bite the bullet and bring another puppy into our fold. We agreed to meet in Baltimore for the pick-up.
It was a beautiful pre-fall day when Tom, Boo, Chuey and I drove to Baltimore to pick-up our new addition. Chuey had no idea what was happening. He had merely gone along for the ride, happy to do so, because he loves car rides. Boo [our Amazon parrot] loves them too, but he was having nothing to do with us and merely eyed us in typical, Garfield put-upon fashion. He’d already branded us as traitors for bringing Chuey into the fold. [Boo– story for another day] I’ll never forget seeing Kathy walk toward us with this tiny little black and white puppy, no bigger than a half-minute, or the look in Chuey’s eyes as if Tom and I had suddenly become the abovementioned, Brutus’!
I remember reaching down and picking him up from his carrier, giving a faux, sorrowful frown as I gave him a motherly hug and said, "Oh, Baby! Don’t be sad! This is YOUR puppy!" Boo shot a curt look in Chuey’s direction that said, "Ha! Ha! Now you know how it feels, Pal!" I tried to sound cajolingly- comforting the way my mother had done for me, when I was told my best friend was moving to Pensacola. Come to think of it, Chuey turned away from the scene that was unfolding and buried his head in my shoulder, needing a minute - much the way I had at the mention of Pensacola way back when. I recall a faint whimper as he expressed his displeasure over the party crasher who was approaching.
I imagine if Chuey could have spoken, he would have shouted, "NO!" before he started wailing. "Send him back! I don’t want a puppy!"
It was in that moment that I finally understood the phrases: Mom and Dad know best! And You’ll thank us for this later! [Yeah, we know best alright! Now, we have two puppies who go into mourning whenever we leave the house, coupled with double disbelief that we would even consider leaving the house without either one of them! BUT, at least they aren’t alone in those thoughts and can commiserate with each other.]
So, we brought our new baby home, [Chuey pouted the entire trip, which I think Boo delighted in] then we got to the business of trying to potty train all over again. One would think that the elder puppy, who had already become potty trained, would help teach the new, little one what to do. You would think that. Our luck, [NOT] Chuey decided [yes, we suspect it was his way of punishment & payback] that he would regress and start having mishaps on the oriental rug again too. Why not? He’d not asked for this headache–this intruder–this interloper! He adopted the, "if you can’t beat him, join him" philosophy with regard to potty issues. So, back to square one we went, but with two puppies in tow. You are now up-to-date regarding the back story to this blog.
Now, the most important thing one can do, when getting a puppy, –even over potty training– is picking out the perfect name. Kathy had told us that the previous owner had called our little cowboy "Trouble". While that name isn’t far off the mark, because our little guy truly is a rascally one, I wasn’t about to call him something that seemed to put a questionable "karma" out into the universe.
So, Tom and I began looking at the meaning of Hispanic names, then we’d try them on for size. Nothing fit. We were going to name him Javiar Lugar which translates into "Bright Spot" because he’s got a perfect, black spot on the top of his white head. He’s got lots of black spots on his white body. He truly does look like a little cow puppy. We thought, naming him that, that we’d call him "Louie" for short. But, I soon came to realize that Chuey and Louie might be too confusing for them. Tom agreed. We didn’t want both of them to come running when we called one of them specifically. [Silly us!] Little did we know that it didn’t matter what we named, Chuey’s brother. They both come running no matter who you call! When they both come flying toward us after we call one of them, Tom and I chuckle. Thoughts of the characer, Mamie, in Holiday Inn pop into our minds. She was Bing Crosby’s character’s [Jim] housekeeper/cook. In one scene, she said, "Come on, Miz Linda! I’ll take you upstairs to your room!" Then, both of her children follow along, close on their heels, and Mamie turns and says to them with furrowed brow, "Is YOUR name Miz Linda?" We do that with our puppies. When we call one and the other comes, we say in a Mamie-like voice, "Is YOUR name..." But, I digress...
We called him "Baby Boy" while we were deciding on his name. Now, I know that can be a dangerous thing to do too, because we had a cat once who we called "Baby" because none of us could agree on a name, and finally, she just started answering to it. Still, we didn’t think a day of calling our littlest one "Baby Boy" would lock us in. Did I mention that our littlest guy looks like a baby cow? He’s white with funny black moo spots over various places on his coat, his tummy – even inside his mouth on its roof are little black circles. So, imagine my surprise, when I went to glue something after a day of having our new puppy, and I looked at the glue bottle and there was its mascot staring at me.
Jokingly, I called to Tom, "Hey, maybe we should call him ‘Elmer’ since he looks like a baby cow!"
And, do you know that little rascal came running to me when I called out that name? I kid you not! He ran right to me.
I looked at Tom and groaned, "Oh, my God!" Naming our newest puppy Elmer had been the furthest thing from my mind!
Tom said it was a just fluke so he called, "Elmer". Lo and behold, he went scampering in Tom’s direction – this bundle of hyperactive, cow-puppy energy.
We started to laugh. What else was there to do? He wiggled excitedly each time that name was called. It seemed that an off-the-cuff, joking comment had determined the name of our little cowboy. Tom even tried "Elmo" to see if that would work for him, but he looked up at both of us with a "huh" confusion in his little charcoal-colored eyes. So, I tossed "Elmer" back out there, and his entire little body began again to wiggle and worm in excitement. With resignation, I looked at Tom and said, I guess we’ve found his name.
He didn’t disagree. He’d seen the proof right before his eyes. Continuing to test it out to make certain Elmer was what his name truly should be, we’d say other names to him. He wouldn’t give us a second glance, but when we called "Elmer", he was all life and energy again. It was amazing when you really stop to consider it.
"Well, we have to give him his Hispanic name!" I lamented. He’s a Chihuahua after all.
I believe Tom just looked at me with a humored "if that’s what you want to do look".
I liked Javiar. When I said, "Elmer Javiar", it fit - not sounding bad together - actually having a nice little ring to it. Tom tried it out and agreed. It worked in some weirdly funny way, which is an appropriate description of this little cowboy puppy who brings us both so much joy.
I’m sure some people who know us think we purposely gave each of these puppies a name that started with one of our initials: Chuey Tulio and Elmer Javiar. I assure you, it just kind of worked out that way. It was not a purposeful intention. However, I’ve told you I’m a sign person, and I jokingly mentioned to Tom once that we should call our house TJ’s Lounge! There’s something j’nais ces quoi i.e. I don’t know, in naming one’s house like the really rich folks do, in both real life and literature. Romantic? Charming? Fitting? At least I think so. Think about it. There’s Tara, The Breakers, Biltmore, Sandhurst Castle. So, why not TJ’s Lounge? It fits us quite nicely-aptly. I won’t tell you what Tom said about that suggestion. Needless to say, the hanging sign over our front door that says TJ’s Lounge, exists only in my mind! But, we are happily content in our "lounge" with these two fur balls of devotion and love.
Do you have a puppy/dog? If you don’t, you are truly missing out on one of life’s greatest joys! We have such fun with these guys! Who knew? They give such pure, unadulterated joy and love. They don’t care if you’re in a bad mood, if you’re holding onto a few extra pounds on any given day. It doesn’t matter if you’re grumpy, they’re right there with you. If you don’t feel good, they stay silently close, keeping watch over you. They bark and growl if something seems awry to them - just to let you know to stay alert and be on the lookout. But, the most basic, simplest yet purest joy we receive from them is that they just love us. It’s all they want to do and all they want in return. They allow us to start and end our days in complete and utter love with sloppy kisses and snuggle cuddles. I start my day with a giggle when these two munchy faces pop up in the bed, after I stir. If something new is going on or a change of scenery is imminent, they’re up and ready to go. I drift off with a smile on my face, after they lick our faces and hands like there’s no tomorrow, before we all settle down for the night. They are a blessing – a pure and joyful blessing!
They do a complete shimmy-shake when we return from anywhere, and they get so excited by something brilliant they think we’ve said, that they take off running throughout the entire house, as if they’ve personally got to spread the word about how smart their parents are! I’ve never giggled so much in my life, since we’ve had them. Even when I’m down, they make me smile. When I don’t feel good, they bring me comfort. When I’m upset, they stay close by until it passes. When I’m afraid, they monitor the situation until they are confident that no threat is present. On nights I can’t sleep, they hold vigil with me, occasionally nodding off, but never failing to get up, come over and lick my foot or jump up on my leg to check on me and let me know they’re in it with me for the long haul. The following day, all three of us collapse in a heap of exhaustion – me on the bottom with two puppies as my comfy, cozy blankets. The warmth they provide is better than any down comforter I’ve ever invested in!
And, always, always, always, they give us the purest, most genuine love. Our lives are the better for having them, and it truly is an understatement! I don’t know what we did before we had these two little fireballs of energy and fun? They manage to get their noses into business they have no business getting into nor do they care! It is a daily comedy in 24 parts. The ironic thing is that you can’t get angry with them either! If you do, it lasts for about 15 seconds. Sometimes, they can drive you to distraction, but when you call sternly to them, the Scooby Doo "Rer?" they give coupled with the nervous shake, rattle and roll moves added for good measure, melt your firm stance, and you wind up shaking your head in surrender and laughing. Once they hear that laughter, they join in by having one of many daily moments of frenzied shimmy-shake. And, once they realize that all is well, they go back to whatever it was you didn’t want them to do, but now they think you’ve given them a pass on it. Truly, they are not our puppies. WE are THEIR humans, and they indulge mightily in that sentiment.
Chuey and Elmer are a "don’t take yourself too seriously" type companion. They are a "love yourself just as you are" animal because that’s how they love us!" We don’t need to lose one pound for these guys, for them to think we’re the best things since Duck Tenders or Yam Goods. They accept unconditionally, only motivated by their love for us and getting our love in return. [It’s an even exchange and from our end, SUCH a bargain!]
Our lives changed two years ago for several reasons.....but I must tell you that on Christmas in July Day, my husband and I were so blessed that our little Elmer was born so that he’d be ready to come and join me, his Daddy and Chuey at just the right moment on that September day. And, it was the right moment on that particular September day, but that too is a story for another day!
We are so in love with our puppies! You may think from the sound of things that they’re spoiled. Perhaps, but why not? They make us laugh from the time we wake up until the time we go to bed and all the moments in-between. You can’t put a price tag on that. EXCEPT to say that these little guys are priceless. We feel very, very blessed to have them as part of our family. [If it tells you anything about how The Princes of Virginia are treated, our sister, Kathy, has expressed a desire to come back in the next life as one of our puppies! ;-) ]
As we celebrate Chuey’s 2nd Anniversary in joining our family [7/20/2009] & Elmer’s second birthday [7/25/2009] we realize how much happy-joy, and how many peaceful, easy feelings have come into our house. It’s true, some things do come in small packages. We’ve got not one but two bundles of love, that neither of us would trade for anything in the world! There’s not enough money, you see that would be a worthy price for two such precious, baby boys.....and that’s what they are to us. If you don’t believe me, try this exercise sometime. Hand a million dollar check to a puppy/dog owner. [It doesn’t matter if you have a million dollars in your bank account, it won’t get that far...] I guarantee you, they’ll tear it up as their brows furrow and they say in disbelief, "You must be mad, i.e. crazy!"
Let me go play now......The Princes of Virginia start to get antsy if night play is delayed. Besides, we’ve got a party to start. Elmer Javiar turns two today! There’s a love-fest waiting to commence. Enjoy your evening! We’ll be busy shaking, rattling and rolling in the Bosher-Perran household, a.k.a. TJ’s Lounge, as we have puppy cookies and ice-cream drops. Then, we’ll all bust a move over our great, good-fortune that life and a little finagling up above, allowed us all to find one another. I don’t have a problem dancing in front of our puppies. I rather enjoy it. You see, they think I’m Ginger Rodgers! I tell you, NEVER was there such a creature made that was so easily pleased and amused by another, as a puppy for their human!
One piece of advice before I go join the party, when life gets you down or you have things that ail you, get a puppy. It’s the BEST medicine money can buy, and the BEST money you’ll ever spend. Invest in your future! Buy yourself some pure puppy love. We at TJ’s Lounge highly recommend it...
Written by Jhill Perran
June 25, 2011:
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Saturday, July 23, 2011
It's Hot! D@mn Hot!
Several years ago, I heard the comedienne Steven Wright pose the following question: "If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back?" My answer to Mr. Wright would be "NO way! I would NOT wave for fear that it would want to stop and visit for awhile, but I WOULD wave it on in the direction of hell, [as far due south as space permits] where the air is suppose to feel like the inside of a furnace, and your feet are suppose to blister when you walk barefoot outside!"
So, in case you’ve been living under a rock or in Alaska where I don’t think they EVER have problems with this particular type of weather, it seems that parts of the west, mid-west and east coast have been experiencing a tropical heat wave [though it feels like weeks that we’ve been enduring this misery...]. My friends always marvel when I tell them that my husband and I prefer winter to summer. I present before you, exhibit A, the above-mentioned heat-wave as evidence of why we feel the way we do. You see, in the winter, you can layer on more clothes, add a blanket or two and sit in front of the fireplace where you’ll ultimately feel the toasty warmth envelop you like a welcomed kiss. In the summer, not so much! You can strip completely down to your birthday suit, have your AC cranked down to "extreme cool" as well as having both ceiling and standing fans oscillating on high and still be burning up, as if you have a wretched, wretched fever! [Yes, it deserves the double adjective!]
You know it’s hot when you’re puppy walks around carrying his water dish with him wherever he goes! You know it’s hot when it’s 98 degrees in the shade and still that same temperature at 11 pm, and you swear you can hear the drooping Oak tree’s leaves grumpily calling, "Hey, Pal! Can you hose us down, please?!" It could just be the delusion that comes after you walk outside in the ungodly hotness at 9 am, no less, and your brain feels like it’s been turned into a fried egg! I think that’s the point when you swear you fell into Alice’s rabbit-hole and everything becomes anthropomorphic, i.e. trees talking to you!
I was talking to my friend, Dee, the other day who lives in Texas, and she complained, in true lamenting fashion, that she and her daughter got into her pool for some cool relief from the excessive heat, only to have to jump out immediately.
"Felt more like a hot tub, huh?" I asked.
"That’s an understatement!" she told me. "It was miserable!"
And, that, my friends is the general consensus from California to Las Vegas, Texas up to Chicago, New York down to Washington, on into Virginia and on and on and on, to all the states that are burning up and miserable. [And, I’m not talking about because of the circus that’s taking place in Washington!]
Honestly, once you hit 100 degrees of unbearably, humid, sticky heat, does it really matter how much hotter the temperature reads? I mean, when you walk outside and your mouth drops open with a shocked, "Oh my Gaw....." and you can’t get anymore out because the heat has scorched the inside of your mouth, your nostrils and your chest gets tight because the oppressive heat makes you unable to catch said breath, then I ask you: does it truly matter whether it’s 100, 105 or 120 degrees outside?
Hold on as I plug my ears from the deafening yells I can hear from my friends in Arizona and Las Vegas, as they vehemently differentiate: "Hell, yeah! It matters! It can get up to 118 degrees in these parts and that doesn’t take into account the **heat index! A 100 degrees is like springtime, ya Baby! Quit your b*tch*n'!!!"
Yeah. Yeah. I hear you, and, not to take anything away from the extreme heat that is experienced in certain areas of our country, [I grew up in Florida, I get it!] but I tend to subscribe to the sentiment of Adrian Cronauer from Good Morning, Vietnam, when he proclaims simply: "It’s HOT! Damn hot!"
Exactly. 100; 105, 120, it’s all the same to me, and that is – no matter how you slice it, the temperature of the last few days have been hellacious! My poor plants, that I spent so much time potting a month ago, are screaming at me [we are in an anthropomorphic state right now, don’t forget...] as they droop over for dear life: "Help me!"
I had a chuckle the other day when Jim Romanovich tweeted that the temperature in Los Angeles was two degrees cooler than hell. I shook my head and shivered, thinking, "sorry, Jim, but better you guys than us cuz I just can’t deal with that kind of heat...I just CAN’T deal!" I tend to want to take to my bed like a put upon Scarlett O’Hara, vigorously fanning myself as I wish for another day with one caveat – it does NOT include this heat!
I don’t know if it will make Jim feel any better to know that we, on the east coast, are having to deal now. I think I’ll tell him to go ahead and have a chuckle because it’s now two degrees cooler than hell, here...turn about IS fair play!
In any event, I feel like raising my arms forcefully as Hecuba did in Bewitched years ago, as my brow furrows and I say with an unconstrained displeasure, "We are NOT amused!"
But to all my friends out there who feel, as I do, as if we’ve been tossed into the fiery furnace like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego [for different reasons] as outlined in the book of Daniel, let me just say, I feel your pain!
For those of you in various states that are about to step into this insanity, let me welcome you to our world! Misery LOVES company!
I think I’ll go take an ice bath now then take to my bed and pray for "another day" WITHOUT this grueling heat!
I wish us all cooler days ahead...
Written by Jhill Perran
July 23, 2011
**Shout out to Mr. George Winterling, the weatherman I grew up watching in Jacksonville, Florida. He worked for WJXT as its Meteorologist, and he created the "humiture" calculation in 1978, which the National Weather Service adopted as the national "heat index". His daughter, Wendy, was in a couple of my elementary school classes, and I will never forget the day he came to school one day to talk to our class about weather. [A story for another day...]
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Friday, July 22, 2011
An Apple A Day ~ NOT!
"The greatest mistake in the treatment of diseases is that there are physicians for the body and physicians for the soul, although the two cannot be separated." ~Plato
Do you like your doctor? I love mine! I never thought I could be as blessed as I was in Maryland with regard to doctors, but I was wrong. Man, if you’ve got a good doctor he/she is worth all the gold in Fort Knox!
When I was a kid, I use to hate going to the doctor. You wouldn’t know that from my frequent visits. I was a fairly sickly child. Not 24-7 sickly, but chronic stuff, and enough that the office staff all knew me by name. It wasn’t a Cheers moment where as soon as I walked in the door, everyone called out jovially, "Jhill" as they did for Norm, then slid a box of apple juice in my direction, but they knew my name.
The only benefit to being sick as a kid was not having to go to school. I wasn’t crazy about school either but you wouldn’t know that by looking at me, because I always had a book in my hand and was very studious. Go figure! The drawback of being sick and getting to miss school, was that come the end of the school day, you didn’t get to go out and play with friends after they got home. It was my first real lesson with regard to the concept "nothing in life is free". There is always a cost to an action – a give and take, so to speak. If you take the day off from school because you don’t feel well, then you’ve got to give up play time later with friends. My parents were sticklers on that point too! It was a weeding out tactic: finding out just how sick you really were. If you were willing to give up play time, they knew you were sick – well that, and running a fever or other various and sundry activities that no one, except your doctor, wants to hear about!
It was when I lived in Maryland that I found doctors who I really liked, felt comfortable sharing all of my unmentionables with and knew my medical well-being was in good hands. One of the anxieties I had in moving away from Maryland several years ago was that I was going to be leaving behind two doctors who I had grown to care about and trust, because they were worth their weight, or Fort Knox’s, in gold. It’s a rare thing!
In this day of primary cares, co-pays and the typical visit that last about 15 minutes, [unless you’re having a physical] it’s a rare thing, indeed, to find a doctor who isn’t motivated only with making money and seeing how many patients they can squeeze into an hour. I’ve seen my share of those kind of doctors. One even had a clock in each examination room so that he wouldn’t go over the allotted PCP time constraints! No, I’m not kidding! I draw the line at being mid-way through what’s ailing me only to have my doctor cut me off and say, "Make an appointment next week, and we’ll finish discussing this." To which, I stare blankly as if someone had just thrown ice-water in my face, sputtering. "But...." I never went back to him.
So, I was happier than a pig in mud [another southern colloquialism] when I lived in Maryland and had not only a great PCP but OB-GYN. They took care of me regarding minor things and the life threatening and altering things too: two years of back-to-back pneumonia, and the two times when I miscarried my babies, come quickly to mind when I think of them. I wanted to pack them up and bring them to Virginia with me, because I had an uneasy and uncertain feel about leaving them behind. I had a history with them, and I knew they were a special class of doctor. I was also disabled at that point, when we packed up and moved away from Maryland, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t find anyone who knew me and my history so well that they could treat me with eyes blindfolded and one hand tied behind their back.
Have you ever heard the saying, When one door closes, another one opens? Well, that’s what happened when we moved to Virginia. The door here opened wide for me! It wasn’t one of those single, solid wooden doors either but more along the lines of a double French door with lots of window panes shining a brilliant ray of light in my direction that led straight to Dr. Pam. Sometimes, God in the tenderest of mercies gives us a two-fer blessing. What’s a two-fer blessing you might ask? I’m glad you did! A two-fer blessing is one that packs a one-two punch of good fortune. You see, Dr. Pam is my ONLY doctor. She handles EVERYTHING for me! She’s my primary care as well as handler of the "various and sundry" female issues. She’s right there to make sure that the hitch to my get-a-long is as well-maintained and in working order and that my get-a-long itself is as functioning and operable as it can be in its current, less than ideal, state.
If I’m having a "Tin Man" day; she’s always right there with the oil can to spritz the "mineral" into all my cricky and achey joints – loosens me up for the time being, then sends me on my way. She’s a psychoanalyst of sorts; My personal trainer; or if I need a friendly ear, she’s always got one of those available too, no matter what. She’s like Smith & Barney in that when I talk, she listens– truly listens. She knows me, my history, my family and the stuff they’re dealing with. When I see her, she often asks me about one of them and something she knows is going on with them. [She’s not reading her notes when she does this, either]. She is a miracle worker as far as this old girl is concerned, and I’m not talking about pumping well-water from a cast iron gadget, then spelling the word, W*A*T*E*R*, into my palm. I’m talking about taking a tired, aching, breaking down, middle-age-old body and making it feel better and not hurt as much as it could hurt on a daily basis. I’m talking about making me believe that I’m still as valuable as I was five years ago, before life permanently altered, but altering the perception of where that value is and not the value itself. It’s a gift. I tell you, she’s a miracle worker!
I actually look forward to when I go in to see her, because I know I’m not just going to be poked or prodded. We talk about many things that relate not solely to physical well-being but mind, body, spirit well being as well. She doesn’t just view me as a patient. She sees me as a human being. She’s not just concerned with those things that effect my life and make it better but also with those things around me, i.e. my husband, and family dynamics and how it all works together, that make my life be as good and fulfilling as it can be.
I’m sure the fact that she’s a mother and is used to juggling so many things in the air at one time is part of what makes her such an extraordinary doctor! She reminds me of that breakdown sheet I saw years ago regarding stay-at-home-moms. Have you ever seen it? It shows you what it would cost if you had to pay a woman for each thing she does in the home: cook, housekeeper, accountant, laundry and/or ironing services, personal shopper, meal planner, babysitter, driver....the list goes on and on. I think it averaged out that if a woman was paid individually for all the different tasks she performs in any given day, she’d be in the millionaires club! That’s the way I feel about Dr. Pam. She’s that homemaker-mother kind of doctor because she does everything: regular exams, female exams, psychiatric duties, priestess duties [if a confession is in order] blood-work, this exam, that one and other lab work, as needed. One thing I appreciate about Dr. Pam is that she doesn’t wrestler you through your time with her, like herding a pack of cattle. If you need a minute longer, she’ll give you that minute because that’s just the way she is. And, man, she’ll go to bat for you like nobody’s business! Think David and Goliath, with her being David and Goliath being the insurance company! In this day and age, it’s a comfort to know your doctor is such an advocate on your behalf! Another rare and golden commodity in the climate we know as health-care.
I could sing the praises of Dr. Pam all day, but I don’t need to do that. She’s exceptional on her own merits, not just because I say so, though I do. One of the greatest reliefs I’ve found in being her patient is that we’re close in age [she’s younger]. My point is, it’s not like she’s 20 years older than me or vice versa. I bring this up because I had a nightmare once that she moved away. I told her about it the next time I saw her, recalling, with a shudder, the hives I’d woken up with, and she laughed, amused, as she assured me she’d be here for a good long time. She wasn’t planning, anytime soon, to go anywhere else. It was a relief to know it, because I really don’t want to have to move again! [I’m quite certain I’m not her only patient who would be willing to pack up and follow her if she decides a change of scenery is in order!] So, the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, Dr. Pam and I will grow old together, not like my husband and I will, but in its own equally significant way nonetheless.
I sing the praises of Dr. Pam today because we all need to have our praises sung every once in a while to know that we are truly appreciated! I truly appreciate her! If you’ve enjoyed my blog at all, she’s the one, along with my husband, who has vigorously pushed for me to do it. So, she gets a "shout out-thank you" for it. She knows I was a writer in my past life, and she knows it was important to me. She also knows that I’ve had some acceptance/struggle-issues as my disability advances and my health issues mount and some decline. She keeps me positive about all of that, while understanding the frustration that I feel over it all. I can’t do the things I use to do, and I told her once I feel like I’m contributing nothing to society any longer except taking up a big portion of space. She shot that thought down rather quickly, but I think she understood how hard it is being a 40-something year old woman who has serious physical limitations, and daily medial issues, at this point in my life as a part of my daily life.
She suggested this blog. It was her attempt to make me "snap out of it". Unlike Cher in Moonstruck, Dr. Pam didn’t smack my face, or anything, but she did valiantly cajole me out of my funk. She offered a suggestion of something that I could do at night, when/if I couldn’t sleep or during the day when I can’t move around very well, because my laptop sits just where it says, i.e. in my lap. It doesn’t require that I get up and dressed and attempt to get myself somewhere, which can be difficult for me to do most days. I can do it right where I sit or lay! I can type til my heart’s content or only 20 minutes, if that’s all that I can do. My college degree doesn’t have to stay in a box upstairs and gather dust. I can still use it. My body may not cooperate with me on a daily basis but my mind is still in tact. She encouraged me to use it! She gave me back something that’s been lacking in my spirit for about five years: validation. If I could give her all the gold in Fort Knox, it still wouldn’t be adequate payment for that gift alone. So, I’m giving her the only gold, so to speak, that I have: my words. It’s not Fort Knox, but, hopefully, she’ll see the value in them, and it will suffice.
I’ve begun to re-institute San ban Braneach’s Simple Abundance idea of writing down 5 things a day that I’m most grateful for. I was thinking about Dr. Pam today, because I’m going to see her tomorrow. So, I wrote her down on my list. [I’m sure she gets it a lot!] Still, it seems I should write something grand behind her name given that I consider her such a blessing in my life and one of the things I am most grateful for! But, all I can come up with is that she’s worth her weight in gold – certainly worth all the gold in Fort Knox....she’s extraordinarily exceptional as far as doctors go!
When I was a child, we use to sing a nursery rhyme: "an apple a day, keeps the doctor away!" And, I use to chant that louder than anyone. Now, not so much. I’ve not thought that sentiment in a long, long time and as much as I love apples, I don’t eat them every day for just that reason. Why tempt fate? If I had my choice of seeing my doctor on any given day, or not seeing her, I choose seeing her every time, hands down.
I would classify her in the way of Dr. Maya Angelou: she’s a Phenomenal Woman! She’s a wonderful doctor who takes good care of me. As my husband is my life partner, Dr. Pam makes me feel that I have a true healthcare partner. She is the Annie Sullivan to my Helen Keller, because at times, with the burden of the many medical issues I wrestle with on a given day, she’s right there, pumping the water onto my palm and spelling it all out for me as many times as I need her to, so that I can continue to feel comfortable and safe inside of my skin. She wears the magician’s hat for whatever doctor I need her to be on that particular day, when I see her. There are blessings in life, and then there are Godsends. I think the same thing that applies to having good health also applies to having a good doctor. If you don’t have it, you don’t have anything! Fortunately, for me.....I have a Godsend!
Written by Jhill Perran
June 21, 2011
Do you like your doctor? I love mine! I never thought I could be as blessed as I was in Maryland with regard to doctors, but I was wrong. Man, if you’ve got a good doctor he/she is worth all the gold in Fort Knox!
When I was a kid, I use to hate going to the doctor. You wouldn’t know that from my frequent visits. I was a fairly sickly child. Not 24-7 sickly, but chronic stuff, and enough that the office staff all knew me by name. It wasn’t a Cheers moment where as soon as I walked in the door, everyone called out jovially, "Jhill" as they did for Norm, then slid a box of apple juice in my direction, but they knew my name.
The only benefit to being sick as a kid was not having to go to school. I wasn’t crazy about school either but you wouldn’t know that by looking at me, because I always had a book in my hand and was very studious. Go figure! The drawback of being sick and getting to miss school, was that come the end of the school day, you didn’t get to go out and play with friends after they got home. It was my first real lesson with regard to the concept "nothing in life is free". There is always a cost to an action – a give and take, so to speak. If you take the day off from school because you don’t feel well, then you’ve got to give up play time later with friends. My parents were sticklers on that point too! It was a weeding out tactic: finding out just how sick you really were. If you were willing to give up play time, they knew you were sick – well that, and running a fever or other various and sundry activities that no one, except your doctor, wants to hear about!
It was when I lived in Maryland that I found doctors who I really liked, felt comfortable sharing all of my unmentionables with and knew my medical well-being was in good hands. One of the anxieties I had in moving away from Maryland several years ago was that I was going to be leaving behind two doctors who I had grown to care about and trust, because they were worth their weight, or Fort Knox’s, in gold. It’s a rare thing!
In this day of primary cares, co-pays and the typical visit that last about 15 minutes, [unless you’re having a physical] it’s a rare thing, indeed, to find a doctor who isn’t motivated only with making money and seeing how many patients they can squeeze into an hour. I’ve seen my share of those kind of doctors. One even had a clock in each examination room so that he wouldn’t go over the allotted PCP time constraints! No, I’m not kidding! I draw the line at being mid-way through what’s ailing me only to have my doctor cut me off and say, "Make an appointment next week, and we’ll finish discussing this." To which, I stare blankly as if someone had just thrown ice-water in my face, sputtering. "But...." I never went back to him.
So, I was happier than a pig in mud [another southern colloquialism] when I lived in Maryland and had not only a great PCP but OB-GYN. They took care of me regarding minor things and the life threatening and altering things too: two years of back-to-back pneumonia, and the two times when I miscarried my babies, come quickly to mind when I think of them. I wanted to pack them up and bring them to Virginia with me, because I had an uneasy and uncertain feel about leaving them behind. I had a history with them, and I knew they were a special class of doctor. I was also disabled at that point, when we packed up and moved away from Maryland, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t find anyone who knew me and my history so well that they could treat me with eyes blindfolded and one hand tied behind their back.
Have you ever heard the saying, When one door closes, another one opens? Well, that’s what happened when we moved to Virginia. The door here opened wide for me! It wasn’t one of those single, solid wooden doors either but more along the lines of a double French door with lots of window panes shining a brilliant ray of light in my direction that led straight to Dr. Pam. Sometimes, God in the tenderest of mercies gives us a two-fer blessing. What’s a two-fer blessing you might ask? I’m glad you did! A two-fer blessing is one that packs a one-two punch of good fortune. You see, Dr. Pam is my ONLY doctor. She handles EVERYTHING for me! She’s my primary care as well as handler of the "various and sundry" female issues. She’s right there to make sure that the hitch to my get-a-long is as well-maintained and in working order and that my get-a-long itself is as functioning and operable as it can be in its current, less than ideal, state.
If I’m having a "Tin Man" day; she’s always right there with the oil can to spritz the "mineral" into all my cricky and achey joints – loosens me up for the time being, then sends me on my way. She’s a psychoanalyst of sorts; My personal trainer; or if I need a friendly ear, she’s always got one of those available too, no matter what. She’s like Smith & Barney in that when I talk, she listens– truly listens. She knows me, my history, my family and the stuff they’re dealing with. When I see her, she often asks me about one of them and something she knows is going on with them. [She’s not reading her notes when she does this, either]. She is a miracle worker as far as this old girl is concerned, and I’m not talking about pumping well-water from a cast iron gadget, then spelling the word, W*A*T*E*R*, into my palm. I’m talking about taking a tired, aching, breaking down, middle-age-old body and making it feel better and not hurt as much as it could hurt on a daily basis. I’m talking about making me believe that I’m still as valuable as I was five years ago, before life permanently altered, but altering the perception of where that value is and not the value itself. It’s a gift. I tell you, she’s a miracle worker!
I actually look forward to when I go in to see her, because I know I’m not just going to be poked or prodded. We talk about many things that relate not solely to physical well-being but mind, body, spirit well being as well. She doesn’t just view me as a patient. She sees me as a human being. She’s not just concerned with those things that effect my life and make it better but also with those things around me, i.e. my husband, and family dynamics and how it all works together, that make my life be as good and fulfilling as it can be.
I’m sure the fact that she’s a mother and is used to juggling so many things in the air at one time is part of what makes her such an extraordinary doctor! She reminds me of that breakdown sheet I saw years ago regarding stay-at-home-moms. Have you ever seen it? It shows you what it would cost if you had to pay a woman for each thing she does in the home: cook, housekeeper, accountant, laundry and/or ironing services, personal shopper, meal planner, babysitter, driver....the list goes on and on. I think it averaged out that if a woman was paid individually for all the different tasks she performs in any given day, she’d be in the millionaires club! That’s the way I feel about Dr. Pam. She’s that homemaker-mother kind of doctor because she does everything: regular exams, female exams, psychiatric duties, priestess duties [if a confession is in order] blood-work, this exam, that one and other lab work, as needed. One thing I appreciate about Dr. Pam is that she doesn’t wrestler you through your time with her, like herding a pack of cattle. If you need a minute longer, she’ll give you that minute because that’s just the way she is. And, man, she’ll go to bat for you like nobody’s business! Think David and Goliath, with her being David and Goliath being the insurance company! In this day and age, it’s a comfort to know your doctor is such an advocate on your behalf! Another rare and golden commodity in the climate we know as health-care.
I could sing the praises of Dr. Pam all day, but I don’t need to do that. She’s exceptional on her own merits, not just because I say so, though I do. One of the greatest reliefs I’ve found in being her patient is that we’re close in age [she’s younger]. My point is, it’s not like she’s 20 years older than me or vice versa. I bring this up because I had a nightmare once that she moved away. I told her about it the next time I saw her, recalling, with a shudder, the hives I’d woken up with, and she laughed, amused, as she assured me she’d be here for a good long time. She wasn’t planning, anytime soon, to go anywhere else. It was a relief to know it, because I really don’t want to have to move again! [I’m quite certain I’m not her only patient who would be willing to pack up and follow her if she decides a change of scenery is in order!] So, the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, Dr. Pam and I will grow old together, not like my husband and I will, but in its own equally significant way nonetheless.
I sing the praises of Dr. Pam today because we all need to have our praises sung every once in a while to know that we are truly appreciated! I truly appreciate her! If you’ve enjoyed my blog at all, she’s the one, along with my husband, who has vigorously pushed for me to do it. So, she gets a "shout out-thank you" for it. She knows I was a writer in my past life, and she knows it was important to me. She also knows that I’ve had some acceptance/struggle-issues as my disability advances and my health issues mount and some decline. She keeps me positive about all of that, while understanding the frustration that I feel over it all. I can’t do the things I use to do, and I told her once I feel like I’m contributing nothing to society any longer except taking up a big portion of space. She shot that thought down rather quickly, but I think she understood how hard it is being a 40-something year old woman who has serious physical limitations, and daily medial issues, at this point in my life as a part of my daily life.
She suggested this blog. It was her attempt to make me "snap out of it". Unlike Cher in Moonstruck, Dr. Pam didn’t smack my face, or anything, but she did valiantly cajole me out of my funk. She offered a suggestion of something that I could do at night, when/if I couldn’t sleep or during the day when I can’t move around very well, because my laptop sits just where it says, i.e. in my lap. It doesn’t require that I get up and dressed and attempt to get myself somewhere, which can be difficult for me to do most days. I can do it right where I sit or lay! I can type til my heart’s content or only 20 minutes, if that’s all that I can do. My college degree doesn’t have to stay in a box upstairs and gather dust. I can still use it. My body may not cooperate with me on a daily basis but my mind is still in tact. She encouraged me to use it! She gave me back something that’s been lacking in my spirit for about five years: validation. If I could give her all the gold in Fort Knox, it still wouldn’t be adequate payment for that gift alone. So, I’m giving her the only gold, so to speak, that I have: my words. It’s not Fort Knox, but, hopefully, she’ll see the value in them, and it will suffice.
I’ve begun to re-institute San ban Braneach’s Simple Abundance idea of writing down 5 things a day that I’m most grateful for. I was thinking about Dr. Pam today, because I’m going to see her tomorrow. So, I wrote her down on my list. [I’m sure she gets it a lot!] Still, it seems I should write something grand behind her name given that I consider her such a blessing in my life and one of the things I am most grateful for! But, all I can come up with is that she’s worth her weight in gold – certainly worth all the gold in Fort Knox....she’s extraordinarily exceptional as far as doctors go!
When I was a child, we use to sing a nursery rhyme: "an apple a day, keeps the doctor away!" And, I use to chant that louder than anyone. Now, not so much. I’ve not thought that sentiment in a long, long time and as much as I love apples, I don’t eat them every day for just that reason. Why tempt fate? If I had my choice of seeing my doctor on any given day, or not seeing her, I choose seeing her every time, hands down.
I would classify her in the way of Dr. Maya Angelou: she’s a Phenomenal Woman! She’s a wonderful doctor who takes good care of me. As my husband is my life partner, Dr. Pam makes me feel that I have a true healthcare partner. She is the Annie Sullivan to my Helen Keller, because at times, with the burden of the many medical issues I wrestle with on a given day, she’s right there, pumping the water onto my palm and spelling it all out for me as many times as I need her to, so that I can continue to feel comfortable and safe inside of my skin. She wears the magician’s hat for whatever doctor I need her to be on that particular day, when I see her. There are blessings in life, and then there are Godsends. I think the same thing that applies to having good health also applies to having a good doctor. If you don’t have it, you don’t have anything! Fortunately, for me.....I have a Godsend!
Written by Jhill Perran
June 21, 2011
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Monday, July 18, 2011
The Angry Citizen
"Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm that gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth." ~William Shakespeare
Several years ago, my husband and I watched an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond that was called "The Angry Family". What was so hysterical about that particular show was that all of the family members in the Barone clan had gathered at an open house where son, Michael, reads from the colored booklet he’d done for school, about an angry family, with a yelling mom and arguing grandparents. The camera pans to each member of the family as shock and mortification register on their faces. Each believe that this young child is telling the entire audience what their family is like behind closed doors. Days later, all gather in the priest’s office for consultation, and each defend themselves against the allegation. They didn’t know why Debra and Ray’s child had told, through that assignment, what they thought his honest depiction of them all was. They were both troubled and embarrassed, while trying to explain where the young boy’s perception could have possibly come from, because, after all, WE knew that his accounting was spot on with regard to the Barone family dynamics. After a grueling session, the Barone’s return home, with a ton of parenting books in tow, only to discover that The Angry Family wasn’t about them at all but was a cartoon show that Michael watched, thought was funny, and wanted to share with everyone.
Cut to my point: I’m watching our Congress NOT conduct the business of this country in a fashion of fair play and compromise, and I find nothing funny or enjoyable about it! I’ve become a very angry citizen, much like I was when George W. Bush was president and no one could get along then either! Honest to God, and I mean that imploringly, what is it going to take for these bozos and yahoos to get their acts together and get something productive done?
I don’t care who said what! I don’t care, at this point, who did what because it’s done! You can’t put spilt milk back inside the bottle! All that’s left to do is clean up the mess. There’s no sense in continuing to cry about it! Get over it, already! We’ve got some serious problems that began 10 years ago in this country. TEN years. And, the name game and the blame game continues a decade later. It’s maddening; it’s frustrating; and, it’s ridiculous that grown men and women cannot seem to rise above partisan, rhetorical bullsh^t, roll up their sleeves and get to work trying to fix the seemingly cataclysmic problems that we face and what they were put in D. C. to resolve. We are wading through a deep river of do-do, and, I don’t know about you, but, quite frankly, I’m fed up with the stench emanating from Washington! It’s crap! It’s a BIG, load of crap!
I was telling my husband the other day that these congressional officers, in my opinion, need to be taken out to the woodshed. I don’t know where you’re from, but in the south, that’s not a place you want to go, because you know it’s going to involve a little @$$ whippin’ and a lot of funny walkin’ for the next day or so to the one being taken to the woodshed! Just the threat of it, in these parts, can make a big, ole boy tremble in his boots! Now, I’m not one who normally encourages or supports @$$ whippin’, but in this case, I’m willing to make an exception! I’m not talking about a flimsy little leather belt either. I’m talking about the paddle that was used in the principal’s office back in the day when corporal punishment was still a permissible tool of keeping unruly, troublemakers on the straight and narrow. [At least from 8:30 am - 2:30 pm] The lack of discipline in this country is sorely absent and that extends from our too-in-debt citizens to our too-overweight society. But, I digress....back to the paddle.
It was about two feet long and a half an inch thick, and one swat from that thing would straighten your butt right up, for a good, long time, I might add. Mr. Soulis, the Assistant Headmaster of my school, delivered that swat with a precision that made your eyes widen as a tear formed and the reality check that had just been delivered, settled in, while the slight burn began to roam over your hind parts. It was a painful reminder, later that evening, when you tried to sit down too. Still, the "smart" from that earlier disciplinarian measure lingered as it reminded you that you’d better straighten up and fly right, because some things weren’t going to be tolerated! You may be wondering how I’m such an authority on this subject? Let’s just say that I’ve been on the receiving end of Mr. Soulis’ attitude adjusters, and it was so good for me the first and only time I experienced it [a story for another day], that I never EVER saw him in that context again! Heck, I’d pay for Mr. Soulis to go to Washington right now, if I truly thought it would do any good. Sadly, I don’t think a swat on the bum would phase these yahoos. Maybe if we all bought a can of "Whoop @$$" and headed to Washington, these morons would give pause to what they were and weren’t doing, and start singing a different tune! [Forgive me God for name-calling. At this point, I cannot help myself.] Also, in my defense, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...
I don’t understand why they don’t understand the magnitude or seriousness of this situation? If they do, they certainly don’t act like it or seem to care. Perhaps, if they saw themselves through OUR eyes, they’d have a lightbulb moment of what jerks they’re ALL being! I watch the news every night with this large warning sign of numbers counting down how many days, hours and minutes we have until the "Great American Shut-down" takes place, potentially, for the second time in less than 20 years. What’s wrong with this picture? HOW have they let things get this far and WHY do we continue to let them? Surely, there must be some recourse WE have? Isn’t there? This is AMERICA! Don’t we as a people have some way of stopping this madness before elections? I mean, most regular Joe’s and Jo Anne’s don’t get a four year, carte blanche work opportunity, before they’ve got to worry about their job again. Most Americans who fail to do the job they were hired to do are out on their duffs pretty quick because they’re sub-standard performance is losing their employer time and money. Am I right? Somebody?...Anybody?...Thoughts?
Here are mine: as a child, I was taught never to play with fire because I might get burned. Worse, I could burn the entire house down with me in it! The other thing I was taught to do, no matter how long it took or how much sacrifice I had to make, was to pay my debts! After all, I incurred them, and it was my responsibility to take care of them. It wasn’t okay for me to steal from my friend’s piggy bank [Social Security and Medicare] !! It wasn’t okay for me to even CONSIDER doing that! You don’t get to rob Peter to pay Paul, and, if you do, you go to jail - you go directly to jail. You don’t get to cross "Go" or collect $200. Period. No discussion.
At one time, not that long ago, we were the greatest country in the world! We were the super powers of SUPERPOWERS! It’s not un-patriotic to say now that it’s seriously falling short of that description. Our country took a major hit to its image, not only for us who live here but in the eyes of the world, last week after Standard & Poor’s revised its outlook on the triple-A rating it had previously given us regarding debt from being stable to teetering on negative. If Barron’s follows suit....well, I don’t even want to go there, because I try to be an optimist no matter what the situation! Still, Congress is paying Russian Roulette in this cat and mouse game of non-compromise and dug-in gridlock. The stability and welfare of our country and our people is what is at stake here NOT their clout on the hill or their potential re-election odds! They need to remember that as they gamble with our future and our reputation!
I don’t know what it’s going to take for all these hard-heads to straighten up and fly right, but I’m sure one entity will fare well throughout all of this: Advil. I’d bet my bottom dollar that their stock has soared given how many of us have been gobbling up their product to alleviate the constant headache that pounds between our temples, as we continue to listen to the foolishness and inexcusable excuses that are coming out of Washington!
I’m a proud American! I believe in this country! I know it’s great! I was thinking about all of these things last night: the ups and downs this country has seen; the achievements we’ve gained in our, in the overall scheme of things, brief time as a country; the beauty, grace and resilience of our people! My lack of faith is with the people who are running this country, sadly–regrettably, into the ground!
I made a video last night of the America that I believe in and the ideals for which she stands. I didn’t make them up. My parents taught them to me, and their parents before them and so on and so forth. How many generations will there be beyond us to teach it to? I honestly don’t know, but, sometimes more lately than not, it feels like it’s disappearing, and slipping from our grasp. I hope these lawmakers remember one, simple concept: comes a time when you reach a point of no return. This isn’t a game of chicken, and I don’t care who blinks first but someone needs to. I guarantee you that the one who does will be seen as the bigger and better one for doing so. I hope and pray that the time when our country is viewed as a default nation; no longer a worthy adversary or ally and no longer anything desirous for people to want to run to, is no where in sight, but the distance between those realities and us keeps getting shorter and smaller.
"The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise," [as we say in the south] this will all be a Tums moment, and nothing more. [They’re probably doing alright too, now that I think about it!]
That’s my point: I don’t just want 2% of us to do well – have no worries regarding the roof over our heads, the food in our stomachs, the shirts on our backs and the prescription bottles in our medicine chests OR our ability to be able to pay for them! I want everyone to do well! I want our leaders to work in a spirit of cooperation to take care of business! I want our country to be the envy of ALL the world again, but, you see, that’s just the way I was raised: with the TRUE American spirit not this "I’ve got mine you get yours" or "Do unto them BEFORE they do unto you!" mentality. That’s not the American way, at least not the way I was raised.
I think I’m going to go take two Advil and roll up my pant-legs, because it seems like "wading time" is what we’re going to be doing for awhile. [Another thing I was raised to do: be prepared and it's always better to be safe than sorry...] In the meantime, God help us! I may not "call in" in the morning, but until I check back, peace out and a fervent prayer that all turns out NOT to be what it seems!
Written by Jhill Perran
July 18, 2011
http://youtu.be/lIdX2SQJTHY [America video/song of the same name by Phil Driscoll]
Several years ago, my husband and I watched an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond that was called "The Angry Family". What was so hysterical about that particular show was that all of the family members in the Barone clan had gathered at an open house where son, Michael, reads from the colored booklet he’d done for school, about an angry family, with a yelling mom and arguing grandparents. The camera pans to each member of the family as shock and mortification register on their faces. Each believe that this young child is telling the entire audience what their family is like behind closed doors. Days later, all gather in the priest’s office for consultation, and each defend themselves against the allegation. They didn’t know why Debra and Ray’s child had told, through that assignment, what they thought his honest depiction of them all was. They were both troubled and embarrassed, while trying to explain where the young boy’s perception could have possibly come from, because, after all, WE knew that his accounting was spot on with regard to the Barone family dynamics. After a grueling session, the Barone’s return home, with a ton of parenting books in tow, only to discover that The Angry Family wasn’t about them at all but was a cartoon show that Michael watched, thought was funny, and wanted to share with everyone.
Cut to my point: I’m watching our Congress NOT conduct the business of this country in a fashion of fair play and compromise, and I find nothing funny or enjoyable about it! I’ve become a very angry citizen, much like I was when George W. Bush was president and no one could get along then either! Honest to God, and I mean that imploringly, what is it going to take for these bozos and yahoos to get their acts together and get something productive done?
I don’t care who said what! I don’t care, at this point, who did what because it’s done! You can’t put spilt milk back inside the bottle! All that’s left to do is clean up the mess. There’s no sense in continuing to cry about it! Get over it, already! We’ve got some serious problems that began 10 years ago in this country. TEN years. And, the name game and the blame game continues a decade later. It’s maddening; it’s frustrating; and, it’s ridiculous that grown men and women cannot seem to rise above partisan, rhetorical bullsh^t, roll up their sleeves and get to work trying to fix the seemingly cataclysmic problems that we face and what they were put in D. C. to resolve. We are wading through a deep river of do-do, and, I don’t know about you, but, quite frankly, I’m fed up with the stench emanating from Washington! It’s crap! It’s a BIG, load of crap!
I was telling my husband the other day that these congressional officers, in my opinion, need to be taken out to the woodshed. I don’t know where you’re from, but in the south, that’s not a place you want to go, because you know it’s going to involve a little @$$ whippin’ and a lot of funny walkin’ for the next day or so to the one being taken to the woodshed! Just the threat of it, in these parts, can make a big, ole boy tremble in his boots! Now, I’m not one who normally encourages or supports @$$ whippin’, but in this case, I’m willing to make an exception! I’m not talking about a flimsy little leather belt either. I’m talking about the paddle that was used in the principal’s office back in the day when corporal punishment was still a permissible tool of keeping unruly, troublemakers on the straight and narrow. [At least from 8:30 am - 2:30 pm] The lack of discipline in this country is sorely absent and that extends from our too-in-debt citizens to our too-overweight society. But, I digress....back to the paddle.
It was about two feet long and a half an inch thick, and one swat from that thing would straighten your butt right up, for a good, long time, I might add. Mr. Soulis, the Assistant Headmaster of my school, delivered that swat with a precision that made your eyes widen as a tear formed and the reality check that had just been delivered, settled in, while the slight burn began to roam over your hind parts. It was a painful reminder, later that evening, when you tried to sit down too. Still, the "smart" from that earlier disciplinarian measure lingered as it reminded you that you’d better straighten up and fly right, because some things weren’t going to be tolerated! You may be wondering how I’m such an authority on this subject? Let’s just say that I’ve been on the receiving end of Mr. Soulis’ attitude adjusters, and it was so good for me the first and only time I experienced it [a story for another day], that I never EVER saw him in that context again! Heck, I’d pay for Mr. Soulis to go to Washington right now, if I truly thought it would do any good. Sadly, I don’t think a swat on the bum would phase these yahoos. Maybe if we all bought a can of "Whoop @$$" and headed to Washington, these morons would give pause to what they were and weren’t doing, and start singing a different tune! [Forgive me God for name-calling. At this point, I cannot help myself.] Also, in my defense, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...
I don’t understand why they don’t understand the magnitude or seriousness of this situation? If they do, they certainly don’t act like it or seem to care. Perhaps, if they saw themselves through OUR eyes, they’d have a lightbulb moment of what jerks they’re ALL being! I watch the news every night with this large warning sign of numbers counting down how many days, hours and minutes we have until the "Great American Shut-down" takes place, potentially, for the second time in less than 20 years. What’s wrong with this picture? HOW have they let things get this far and WHY do we continue to let them? Surely, there must be some recourse WE have? Isn’t there? This is AMERICA! Don’t we as a people have some way of stopping this madness before elections? I mean, most regular Joe’s and Jo Anne’s don’t get a four year, carte blanche work opportunity, before they’ve got to worry about their job again. Most Americans who fail to do the job they were hired to do are out on their duffs pretty quick because they’re sub-standard performance is losing their employer time and money. Am I right? Somebody?...Anybody?...Thoughts?
Here are mine: as a child, I was taught never to play with fire because I might get burned. Worse, I could burn the entire house down with me in it! The other thing I was taught to do, no matter how long it took or how much sacrifice I had to make, was to pay my debts! After all, I incurred them, and it was my responsibility to take care of them. It wasn’t okay for me to steal from my friend’s piggy bank [Social Security and Medicare] !! It wasn’t okay for me to even CONSIDER doing that! You don’t get to rob Peter to pay Paul, and, if you do, you go to jail - you go directly to jail. You don’t get to cross "Go" or collect $200. Period. No discussion.
At one time, not that long ago, we were the greatest country in the world! We were the super powers of SUPERPOWERS! It’s not un-patriotic to say now that it’s seriously falling short of that description. Our country took a major hit to its image, not only for us who live here but in the eyes of the world, last week after Standard & Poor’s revised its outlook on the triple-A rating it had previously given us regarding debt from being stable to teetering on negative. If Barron’s follows suit....well, I don’t even want to go there, because I try to be an optimist no matter what the situation! Still, Congress is paying Russian Roulette in this cat and mouse game of non-compromise and dug-in gridlock. The stability and welfare of our country and our people is what is at stake here NOT their clout on the hill or their potential re-election odds! They need to remember that as they gamble with our future and our reputation!
I don’t know what it’s going to take for all these hard-heads to straighten up and fly right, but I’m sure one entity will fare well throughout all of this: Advil. I’d bet my bottom dollar that their stock has soared given how many of us have been gobbling up their product to alleviate the constant headache that pounds between our temples, as we continue to listen to the foolishness and inexcusable excuses that are coming out of Washington!
I’m a proud American! I believe in this country! I know it’s great! I was thinking about all of these things last night: the ups and downs this country has seen; the achievements we’ve gained in our, in the overall scheme of things, brief time as a country; the beauty, grace and resilience of our people! My lack of faith is with the people who are running this country, sadly–regrettably, into the ground!
I made a video last night of the America that I believe in and the ideals for which she stands. I didn’t make them up. My parents taught them to me, and their parents before them and so on and so forth. How many generations will there be beyond us to teach it to? I honestly don’t know, but, sometimes more lately than not, it feels like it’s disappearing, and slipping from our grasp. I hope these lawmakers remember one, simple concept: comes a time when you reach a point of no return. This isn’t a game of chicken, and I don’t care who blinks first but someone needs to. I guarantee you that the one who does will be seen as the bigger and better one for doing so. I hope and pray that the time when our country is viewed as a default nation; no longer a worthy adversary or ally and no longer anything desirous for people to want to run to, is no where in sight, but the distance between those realities and us keeps getting shorter and smaller.
"The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise," [as we say in the south] this will all be a Tums moment, and nothing more. [They’re probably doing alright too, now that I think about it!]
That’s my point: I don’t just want 2% of us to do well – have no worries regarding the roof over our heads, the food in our stomachs, the shirts on our backs and the prescription bottles in our medicine chests OR our ability to be able to pay for them! I want everyone to do well! I want our leaders to work in a spirit of cooperation to take care of business! I want our country to be the envy of ALL the world again, but, you see, that’s just the way I was raised: with the TRUE American spirit not this "I’ve got mine you get yours" or "Do unto them BEFORE they do unto you!" mentality. That’s not the American way, at least not the way I was raised.
I think I’m going to go take two Advil and roll up my pant-legs, because it seems like "wading time" is what we’re going to be doing for awhile. [Another thing I was raised to do: be prepared and it's always better to be safe than sorry...] In the meantime, God help us! I may not "call in" in the morning, but until I check back, peace out and a fervent prayer that all turns out NOT to be what it seems!
Written by Jhill Perran
July 18, 2011
http://youtu.be/lIdX2SQJTHY [America video/song of the same name by Phil Driscoll]
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Saturday, July 16, 2011
Many Still Wake for Him...
"The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity." ~Seneca
When I was a kid, there was a pop-culture question people asked: "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" It was one of those conversational topics that was an ice-breaker in many ways, because most people of a certain age could recall exactly where they were when they got the news that President Kennedy had not only been shot, but assassinated. [This applies to Elvis, John Lennon, Princess Diana and most recently, when Michael Jackson died.] When someone has ever asked me that question, I say in complete seriousness with no intent of wisecracking that I was more than likely in my crib, asleep. I was, after all, little more than three months old.
I can, however, tell you exactly where I was the Saturday morning [July 17, 1999] at 7 a.m., when my father called me and said, "turn on the news, then call me back." No hello. No good morning. Just that simple, albeit, direct statement.
I crawled out of bed, mumbling and grumpy, because he had woken me up on my weekend morning with a cryptic message and no further detail. Still, I followed his directions, and went into the den to turn on the television. I felt my heart race, however, when I saw the headlines that John F. Kennedy, Jr.’s plane was missing. I sat there for a minute, trying to focus – trying to understand – trying to recall from my sleepy haze, if it was April 1st, or some other justification that might explain why someone was playing some kind of prank on America, that WASN’T funny, as the ticker-tape of information moved steadily across the bottom of the screen, and helicopters flew back and forth over the water looking for a small aircraft that seemed to have disappeared into the night, from the face of the earth. The thing was, news agencies weren’t in the habit of pulling pranks. I glanced at the calender and saw the date. It wasn’t April 1st. It wasn’t a prank. This was real.
"Holy S^*t!!!" I thought. It was, as it turned out, a true "Holy S^*t moment!
I put on a pot of coffee, fed the animals, then sat down and called my father back.
"What happened?" I asked. "Last I heard, he had left on Friday en route to a family wedding."
"It’s a mess!" my father said. "It seems to be a real mess for that poor family!"
I didn’t have too much to say. I wasn’t as up to speed as he was on the situation, so I told him I’d call him back later, after I’d had a little time to wake up, have coffee and get my bearings. Like millions of people, the Kennedy’s, for me, were America’s family. They didn’t just belong to them. What happened to them, happened to us. It had been going on for years! When tragedy struck them, in some way, we felt it too.
It was one of those long, eery days where you sat fixated in front of the t.v. screen watching the same helicopters moving round and round and round and doing it over and over and over with no results. You kept waiting for the media to report, "There they are! There they are! We found them!" and then everyone could break out in a relieved clap with backslapping, followed up with a "Whew! That was scary-close!" But, no such proclamation came. It was more like, "Houston, we’ve got a problem!" And, it stayed that way.
With every passing minute, deeper dread set in. Yet, you couldn’t seem to pull yourself away from the television screen, because you thought, somehow, the more eyes staring at the huge expanse of water, the greater chance that somebody, somewhere, would surely spot them all holding onto a rock, a piece of floating airplane debris or, hopefully, that they had washed over to a small, out of the way, piece of the island. Surely, that’s what happened! In those moments that were suspended between hope and doom, those are the thoughts one held onto, because anything else was inconceivable! The worst case scenario couldn’t be true! Not again!
All day, I sat there in front of the tv, staring at the screen and listening to the newscasters giving minute-by-minute then hour-by- hour updates. With every passing hour, it felt more and more dire. There was talk, later in the afternoon, of shifting from being a search and rescue mission to a search and recovery one. I remember thinking: How is that even possible? Don’t give up yet! I think I even screamed at the television, "WE CAN’T GIVE UP YET!"
This was my generation’s golden Kennedy. John, Jr. was the American within his family and within the "American political consciousness" to whom the torch had been passed. People who still believed in the dream that his father and his Uncle Bobby had espoused, and that his Uncle Teddy continued to fight for, looked to him and several of the Kennedy cousins to keep that hope alive. It didn’t seem possible that his torch might be extinguished.
I believe, and don’t ask me how, because I truly felt numb, that I got a load of laundry washed and folded as well as a load of dishes in the dishwasher that day. I lightly dusted in between reports of latest developments and vacuumed during commercial breaks. In such circumstances, the mind, at least mine, needs to occupy itself with other things, if only for a moment. It wouldn’t however, be long before I sat back down on the couch and bit my fingernails, waiting for some word that John Kennedy, Jr., his wife, Carolyn and her sister, Lauren, had been found. The minutes became an hour, the hour became two. Periodically, I would call my father or he would call me, and we would talk about any new information we had heard, on the off-chance that either of us had missed something. We were holding vigil as if this was happening to our family, and, in some, small way, it was.
Around the time we had to leave to drive over to Dad’s for supper, I felt certain that they’d all be located by the time we walked through my father’s front door. Tom carried a bag of groceries inside and I carried another. I’d no more gotten my key in the door and unlocked that I called to my father: "Did they find him?"
"No," he replied, glumly.
By this point, my husband, who had worked that day, had been brought up to speed regarding the tragedy that had been unfolding all day.
"Boy," he said to my father, walking into the den. "This is something, huh?"
My father glanced up from the position he was sitting in: arm folded across his chest, other arm on top of it with his index and third fingers pressing into his cheek and his thumb cradling his chin. This was a serious position for him. It meant that he was intently focused on something – solemn in thought and giving whatever was on his mind, careful consideration.
"Terrible," he replied, shaking his head. "Just terrible."
The mood in the house that night and over the next several days was heavy. It was a roller-coaster ride of emotions that had nothing to do with fun or excitement. It was an up-and-down of disbelief, mixed with concern, coupled with foreboding.
How long can someone survive, drifting out into the ocean without food or water? I didn’t know for certain, though I seemed to recall miraculous tales of people being found adrift, weeks after they’d entered the water.
I recall after the second day of endless searching, my frustration boiled over and I snapped.
"Why can’t they find them?" there was a demanding in my tone. I wanted someone to be held accountable for why this hadn’t been resolved YESTERDAY! "We can send a man to the moon, but we can’t find a missing aircraft?" I said in disbelief.
My father understood my frustration, but tried to offset my mood with a positive spin. "They’re doing the best they can, Sug!" [Phonetically, that’s "shug" for sugar; Daddy called me and my sister that at times. It’s a southern term of endearment.]
And, so it went for days and endless days. I recall, at one point, I didn’t want them to be found, because I knew it wouldn’t be good, if they were. As long as we could hold onto the belief that they were alive somewhere, we didn’t have to face the fact that something good had truly come to an end. The cause wouldn’t be lost.
Sadly, on Wednesday, July 21st, the news came in over the radio that they had found his plane about 115 feet down on the ocean’s floor just off Martha’s Vineyard. His body was located nearby. And, with that reporting, there it was – another sad indicator that the little that remained of Camelot had truly left us. As went the father, so went his son...gone too soon!
I remember walking down to my father’s office, after word came late on that Wednesday afternoon. He was sitting at the round table where he held meetings, with the chair pulled out semi-perpendicular from it, staring at the small tv screen. CNN was giving the latest updates.
I reached down and gave him a hug as I uttered a, "Man, this sucks!" commentary.
He shook his head and replied, "terrible! Just terrible!" Which, now that I think about it, was all I recalled him saying about the entire ordeal.
Dad pulled a chair out for me to sit and join him, since it was almost 5 o’clock.
Again, we were quiet as we both stared at the television, watching and listening to more tragic, historical moments being made.
After a few minutes of watching, I didn’t want to hear anymore. Tears were on the cusp, and I needed some air – a change of scenery. I rose from the chair and glanced over at Dad.
"I’ve got to drop by the store, but I’ll see you at the house in about an hour."
Wednesday’s were also nights when Tom and I went to Dad’s for dinner.
I think he could tell that the last thing I felt like doing was cook and clean up.
"Why don’t you call Tom," he suggested. "And see if he can meet us over at Il Porto."
I nodded as he pushed the phone, that was on the table, over to me and was relieved when I caught Tom before he’d left to go to Dad’s house.
It was one of those somber dinners – the conversation was sporadic, the mood was regretful but the food, as always, was good.
As a light interlude between the meal and dessert, my husband and father spoke of one of their favorite summertime topics: how The Yankees, The Braves and The Orioles were all doing at that point in the season. It was a welcomed hint of normalcy.
Two days later, came the memorial service, which was fittingly held at sea. It was the final ceremony that concluded the tragedy that had occurred a week prior, but it would definitely not be the end of it. Twelve years later, I can still hear the poignant words of Sen. Edward Kennedy, in my mind’s eye, as he eulogized his beloved nephew:
"The Irish Ambassador recited a poem to John's father and mother soon after John was born. I can hear it again now, at this different and difficult moment:
We wish to the new child,
A heart that can be beguiled,
By a flower,
That the wind lifts,
As it passes.
If the storms break for him,
May the trees shake for him,
Their blossoms down.
In the night that he is troubled,
May a friend wake for him,
So that his time be doubled,
And at the end of all loving and love
May the Man above,
Give him a crown.
We thank the millions who have rained blossoms down on John's memory. He and his bride have gone to be with his mother and father, where there will never be an end to love. He was lost on that troubled night, but we will always wake for him, so that his time, which was not doubled, but cut in half, will live forever in our memory, and in our beguiled and broken hearts. We dared to think, in that other Irish phrase, that this John Kennedy would live to comb gray hair, with his beloved Carolyn by his side. But like his father, he had every gift but length of years. We who have loved him from the day he was born, and watched the remarkable man he became, now bid him farewell..."
There are moments that make a person always wonder "what might have been" if history had not been altered in the way it had been at a given moment in time. How would things have been different? What might the landscape of the world look like if this event had not happened as it had? I remember my father verbalizing that sentiment on the 30th Anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination.
"I often wonder how different things might have been if those three hadn’t been gunned down and taken from the world, before they’d had the chance to finish what they’d set out to do?" he reflected.
I knew he was talking about John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy.
I wonder that myself at times, with President Sadat, Princess Diana and John Kennedy, Jr. added to that unfortunate mix.
Sometimes, when I hear the tragic news of movers and shakers dying too young – passing across the landscape of this life, like a shooting star, I go to my music file and pull up a rendition of Brian’s Song, a.k.a. The Hands of Time, which is the best and most moving version I’ve ever heard. I close my eyes, and I listen. Then, I do something that some say one should never do, but I can’t help myself: I wonder, "what if?", as I get lost in the beautiful melody of The Hands of Time...
http://youtu.be/4QUIzv1iJKg [Brian’s Song, a.k.a. The Hands of Time/Sandro Bisotti~pianist]
written by Jhill Perran
July 16, 2011
Remembering John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Jr. November 25, 1960-July 16, 1999
1 commentsLeave a comment
Friday, July 15, 2011
Mm Mm Good
"My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four, unless, of course, there were three other people in attendance." ~Orson Wells
Me and Terri, Circa late 60's
http://youtu.be/GOEcgQZu06Q - Good Friends & A Glass Of Wine - Leann Rimes & Joss Stone
Terri and Me in 1987
Background to this story:
My first, vivid recollection of a song from my childhood was How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees. The reason I remember it so vividly is because it was what was playing on the radio, the afternoon I trudged, spirit deflated, down the hallway to my bedroom. I needed a moment, you see, because my mother had just told me that my best friend, Terri, was moving away to a place called Pensacola.
"But," she attempted, valiantly, to offer some consolation coupled with a cheerful tone in her voice. "She’ll still be living in Florida, and they’ll come visit us, and we’ll go visit them." [As if that made the telling of this horrible news somehow better.]
In that moment, I didn’t care about, what felt to me, a VERY sub-standard offering! Big deal, I thought regarding the visiting "pitch". As things currently stood, I got to see Terri everyday. Why would I want to change that? It didn’t sound like a good proposition to me, and it hadn’t made me feel better either! All I knew was that my best friend in the whole, wide world was leaving our neighborhood and going to a place called Pensacola. It might as well have been to the moon as far as I was concerned, because it sounded just as far away.
I think the pillow on my bed took the brunt-force of my displeasure over this news, before I punched it one last time, then threw my face into it and wailed, in true Sarah Bernhardt fashion. There are few things that feel like the end of the world to a child, but telling them that their best friend is moving away takes the first or second slot, as far as I was concerned.
True to my mother’s word, however, we did visit back and forth. You are now up to date with the facts, and I can share the true story at hand regarding this entry.
Wait! I MUST digress again: I began having problems with my weight as I entered the fourth grade and truly became what can only be classified as "chubby" going into fifth. [I won’t bore you with all the gory details of what was going on that was part of the culprit of my poundage issues...let’s just leave it as a story for another day!] Anyway, I couldn’t wait for school to get out the year that ended the fifth grade, because I was going to spend a month in Pensacola with the Lombardos. A whole month! It felt like heaven! The vacation would culminate with my parents stopping over to pick me up after they’d finished up my father’s work-related convention that was being held in New Orleans.
My mother double-checked with me, to make certain I was alright being away from them for a month. "You sure you don’t want to go with us to Louisianna, then drop by to see the Lombardos on the way home?" she broached.
I felt like Jack Benny, crossing my arm across my chest, standing the other one on top of it and holding my cheek in the palm of my hand. "Why on earth." I asked. "would I want to go to New Orleans, when I could go to Pensacola for a month to see my best friend in the whole, wide world?!" I didn’t know the word "ludicrous" nor its definition, but had I, it would have been tagged onto the end of my thought.
That settled it, and I wasn’t asked again. The plans were made, the suitcases packed and off to Pensacola I went for a glorious, month-long adventure that was "Mm Mm Good" on so many levels.
I had the best time that summer! The Lombardos belonged to a neighborhood pool, and we went everyday - Monday through Friday. We swam and played for four or five hours at a time. I didn’t realize the weight I’d begun to drop, but pounds slowly began to disappear. When we weren’t playing at the pool, we were out riding bikes. Terri even had a tree-house that we’d climb up into and hang out in – just her and me. When we weren’t doing that, we lounged around in her bedroom, both reading Nancy Drew Mystery Stories. We had a contest to see who could read the most by summer’s end. I don’t remember who won. More than likely, it was a draw, because both Terri and I were voracious readers. [I still am but can’t speak now for Terri] We kept a log of our reading achievements in a spiral bound notebook. My name was on one side of the paper and Terri’s was on the other, with a line drawn down the middle. I wrote the books down that she’d finished reading in her column, and she’d do the same for me. It was one of the rules. We also traded-off. I’d read a book that she had in her library and vice versa, though, I only had a limited number that I’d brought over in my suitcase. When we’d finished reading what we had, Mrs. Lombardo would drive us over to the store, and we’d buy more. Outside of Icees and candy, books were my mainstay and what I spent most of my allowance money on, when I wasn’t saving for special gifts...;-)
I think we read two books a week! I remember them all too. [For a list of favorite Nancy Drew stories, please refer to the end of this post.] However, the main activity that summer was the fun at the pool. We swam and played–played and swam, until fatigue overtook us, and Mrs. Lombardo made us sit down on a lounge chair and relax for a bit; eat a sandwich; refuel so that we could swim some more. This was back in the day when people put Iodine in baby oil and peroxide in hair, and we baked in the sun all day because it felt good, and we didn’t yet realize there would be a little matter of the Ozone layer and harmful rays to worry about and contend with years later. Who would ever think that something so natural as playing in a pool and sitting outside for hours at a time could be potentially harmful? But, that’s a story for another day...
Back then, the days were golden and lazy. It was hot fun in the summertime, just like the song said. Now, all this swimming and playing, and even reading, can work up quite an appetite! I’ll never forget the night that Mrs. Lombardo made a delicious casserole for supper that is one of my mainstays regarding comfort food: tuna casserole. It was so simple but so good. I couldn’t believe my mother had never made it for us! I thought Mrs. Lombardo was a genius for creating it, which is what I’d thought back then.
She boiled the noodles then drained them off and added a can of tuna fish. Next, she stirred in a can of Cream of Mushroom soup, and some other stuff, then covered the top with crumbled potato chips. Some people, I later learned, were fancy pants and added June peas into the mix, but I was relieved Mrs. Lombardo didn’t do that, because I didn’t like peas back then. I remember devouring the first plate. She, happily, gave me seconds. I think it made her feel good that I loved it so much, because of the scrunched up, distasteful face that Terri had made when she found out that we were having tuna casserole for supper that night. Now, I’m a southern girl, and my parents instilled certain manners with regard to being "lady-like". It was alright to request a small helping of seconds, but it was more linebacker-ish instead of ladylike to ask for third or even fourth helpings of anything. I couldn’t help myself! I remember Mrs. Lombardo laughing and scooping another spoonful of that delicious concoction she’d made onto my plate. It would have just been easier if she’d given me the entire casserole bowl and let me finish it off, because that’s basically what I did. But, given my upbringing, I didn’t think it was proper to ask for the entire bowl.
Before I went to bed that night, I made doubly certain that Mrs. Lombardo wouldn’t forget to give my mother that recipe.
"I promise," she said as she tucked me in. "You can help me write the recipe down tomorrow if you’d like," she offered.
I nodded, feeling my insides relax a little, because it truly seemed that she would not forget.
I believe I saw Terri roll her eyes at me a couple of times that evening because it probably seemed like I was brown-nosing. However, I really wasn’t! The truth of the matter is that when you taste something that you really enjoy, it’s not unusual to want to have the recipe. It’s not unusual at all. It wasn’t my fault that Terri didn’t appreciate, in my opinion, one of the finer dining experiences of life back then!
Over the years, I’ve made that casserole more times than I can count, and I always think about the first time I ever had it. I also don’t like people messing with it, unless it’s to add a little sauteed onion, or, now that I like them, peas. Other than that, I’m a tuna casserole purist.
So, imagine my surprise, a few years ago, when I watched one of the food shows, where the contestants on the particular episode had a challenge to "re-invent" an old comfort-food classic. You got it! Someone drew tuna casserole. I watched, in horror, – I believe my face scrunched up much the way Terri’s did, when she found out we were having it that night for supper, so long ago. Only in my case, it was the finagling that was done to the recipe that furrowed my brow in displeasure. Fancy named noodles were boiled in a Morrell-infused liquid, then a Beurre Blanc sauce with freshly chopped mushrooms was drizzled over a half-cooked steak of tuna that was placed on top of a bed of said fancy-named noodles, then topped with a dice of crispy, fingerling potatoes. It was sacrilege!
"Ugh!" I replied, turning away from it in disgust. It neither looked nor sounded good to me. It certainly wasn’t the warm, fuzzy, delicious recipe I had grown up loving!
Tom laughed at my reaction. He’d never liked tuna anyway so he didn’t really get it. "What’s wrong with it?" he asked.
"That’s NOT how you make it!" I replied in an indignant tone. "Some things just shouldn’t be tampered with!"
To my husband’s credit, he knows when not to disagree, [the "pick your battles" philosophy of marriage applied here] so, he simply shrugged and said, "If you say so."
"Yes!" I replied, fervently. "I say so!" then, for good measure, I added. "I don’t understand why some people just can’t leave well enough alone?!"
He humored me but not in condescending way. "I don’t know why either, Sweetie!"
So, let me just conclude with this advisory comment: If you feel the need to "fancy up" the tuna casserole classic, just toss in those June peas that I previously mentioned – add a loaf of crusty French bread and a fresh garden salad. Simple elegance is just as good as fancy schmanzy, in my opinion – better in most cases. Comfort food is at its most impressive when it does what it sets out to do: comfort. All I know is that if someone put both dishes in front of me, I’d go for the tried and true version every time, because some things just shouldn’t be messed with. The original way of making Tuna Casserole is still, and always will be, "Mm Mm Good"...
Written by Jhill Perran
July 15, 2011
http://youtu.be/YPuIoVOEx1I [How Can You Mend a Broken Heart/The Bee Gees]
Jhill’s Top 10 Nancy Drew MUST reads [In no particular order]:
The Mystery of the 99 Steps; The Bungalow Mystery; The Hidden Staircase; The Secret in the Old Attic; The Mystery at Lilac Inn; The Password to Larkspur Lane; The Secret of the Old Clock; The Phantom of Pine Hill; The Clue in the Old Stagecoach; The Clue of the Velvet Mask
and, for good measure:
Classic Tuna Noodle Casserole
Ingredients:
2 cans (10 oz) of StarKist Albacore Solid White Tuna [packed in water/drained]
½ cup milk
¾ cup Lays potato chips, crushed
4 oz. (2 ½ cups) egg noodles
1 can (10.75 oz.) Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup
¼ tsp. garlic powder
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 cup of Baby June Peas (Optional)
Directions:
Preheat oven to 375°F.
Cook noodles according to package instructions, drain in colander.
In a separate bowl, mix together soup, milk, salt/pepper and garlic powder. Stir in noodles, and tuna (if you use June Peas, add them now)
Transfer into a 1-½ quart casserole. Bake 15 minutes; top with potato chips. Continue baking 5 – 10 minutes or until heated through and chips are golden brown.
Bon Appetit & Enjoy!
http://youtu.be/GOEcgQZu06Q - Good Friends & A Glass Of Wine - Leann Rimes & Joss Stone
Terri and Me in 1987
Background to this story:
My first, vivid recollection of a song from my childhood was How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees. The reason I remember it so vividly is because it was what was playing on the radio, the afternoon I trudged, spirit deflated, down the hallway to my bedroom. I needed a moment, you see, because my mother had just told me that my best friend, Terri, was moving away to a place called Pensacola.
"But," she attempted, valiantly, to offer some consolation coupled with a cheerful tone in her voice. "She’ll still be living in Florida, and they’ll come visit us, and we’ll go visit them." [As if that made the telling of this horrible news somehow better.]
In that moment, I didn’t care about, what felt to me, a VERY sub-standard offering! Big deal, I thought regarding the visiting "pitch". As things currently stood, I got to see Terri everyday. Why would I want to change that? It didn’t sound like a good proposition to me, and it hadn’t made me feel better either! All I knew was that my best friend in the whole, wide world was leaving our neighborhood and going to a place called Pensacola. It might as well have been to the moon as far as I was concerned, because it sounded just as far away.
I think the pillow on my bed took the brunt-force of my displeasure over this news, before I punched it one last time, then threw my face into it and wailed, in true Sarah Bernhardt fashion. There are few things that feel like the end of the world to a child, but telling them that their best friend is moving away takes the first or second slot, as far as I was concerned.
True to my mother’s word, however, we did visit back and forth. You are now up to date with the facts, and I can share the true story at hand regarding this entry.
Wait! I MUST digress again: I began having problems with my weight as I entered the fourth grade and truly became what can only be classified as "chubby" going into fifth. [I won’t bore you with all the gory details of what was going on that was part of the culprit of my poundage issues...let’s just leave it as a story for another day!] Anyway, I couldn’t wait for school to get out the year that ended the fifth grade, because I was going to spend a month in Pensacola with the Lombardos. A whole month! It felt like heaven! The vacation would culminate with my parents stopping over to pick me up after they’d finished up my father’s work-related convention that was being held in New Orleans.
My mother double-checked with me, to make certain I was alright being away from them for a month. "You sure you don’t want to go with us to Louisianna, then drop by to see the Lombardos on the way home?" she broached.
I felt like Jack Benny, crossing my arm across my chest, standing the other one on top of it and holding my cheek in the palm of my hand. "Why on earth." I asked. "would I want to go to New Orleans, when I could go to Pensacola for a month to see my best friend in the whole, wide world?!" I didn’t know the word "ludicrous" nor its definition, but had I, it would have been tagged onto the end of my thought.
That settled it, and I wasn’t asked again. The plans were made, the suitcases packed and off to Pensacola I went for a glorious, month-long adventure that was "Mm Mm Good" on so many levels.
I had the best time that summer! The Lombardos belonged to a neighborhood pool, and we went everyday - Monday through Friday. We swam and played for four or five hours at a time. I didn’t realize the weight I’d begun to drop, but pounds slowly began to disappear. When we weren’t playing at the pool, we were out riding bikes. Terri even had a tree-house that we’d climb up into and hang out in – just her and me. When we weren’t doing that, we lounged around in her bedroom, both reading Nancy Drew Mystery Stories. We had a contest to see who could read the most by summer’s end. I don’t remember who won. More than likely, it was a draw, because both Terri and I were voracious readers. [I still am but can’t speak now for Terri] We kept a log of our reading achievements in a spiral bound notebook. My name was on one side of the paper and Terri’s was on the other, with a line drawn down the middle. I wrote the books down that she’d finished reading in her column, and she’d do the same for me. It was one of the rules. We also traded-off. I’d read a book that she had in her library and vice versa, though, I only had a limited number that I’d brought over in my suitcase. When we’d finished reading what we had, Mrs. Lombardo would drive us over to the store, and we’d buy more. Outside of Icees and candy, books were my mainstay and what I spent most of my allowance money on, when I wasn’t saving for special gifts...;-)
I think we read two books a week! I remember them all too. [For a list of favorite Nancy Drew stories, please refer to the end of this post.] However, the main activity that summer was the fun at the pool. We swam and played–played and swam, until fatigue overtook us, and Mrs. Lombardo made us sit down on a lounge chair and relax for a bit; eat a sandwich; refuel so that we could swim some more. This was back in the day when people put Iodine in baby oil and peroxide in hair, and we baked in the sun all day because it felt good, and we didn’t yet realize there would be a little matter of the Ozone layer and harmful rays to worry about and contend with years later. Who would ever think that something so natural as playing in a pool and sitting outside for hours at a time could be potentially harmful? But, that’s a story for another day...
Back then, the days were golden and lazy. It was hot fun in the summertime, just like the song said. Now, all this swimming and playing, and even reading, can work up quite an appetite! I’ll never forget the night that Mrs. Lombardo made a delicious casserole for supper that is one of my mainstays regarding comfort food: tuna casserole. It was so simple but so good. I couldn’t believe my mother had never made it for us! I thought Mrs. Lombardo was a genius for creating it, which is what I’d thought back then.
She boiled the noodles then drained them off and added a can of tuna fish. Next, she stirred in a can of Cream of Mushroom soup, and some other stuff, then covered the top with crumbled potato chips. Some people, I later learned, were fancy pants and added June peas into the mix, but I was relieved Mrs. Lombardo didn’t do that, because I didn’t like peas back then. I remember devouring the first plate. She, happily, gave me seconds. I think it made her feel good that I loved it so much, because of the scrunched up, distasteful face that Terri had made when she found out that we were having tuna casserole for supper that night. Now, I’m a southern girl, and my parents instilled certain manners with regard to being "lady-like". It was alright to request a small helping of seconds, but it was more linebacker-ish instead of ladylike to ask for third or even fourth helpings of anything. I couldn’t help myself! I remember Mrs. Lombardo laughing and scooping another spoonful of that delicious concoction she’d made onto my plate. It would have just been easier if she’d given me the entire casserole bowl and let me finish it off, because that’s basically what I did. But, given my upbringing, I didn’t think it was proper to ask for the entire bowl.
Before I went to bed that night, I made doubly certain that Mrs. Lombardo wouldn’t forget to give my mother that recipe.
"I promise," she said as she tucked me in. "You can help me write the recipe down tomorrow if you’d like," she offered.
I nodded, feeling my insides relax a little, because it truly seemed that she would not forget.
I believe I saw Terri roll her eyes at me a couple of times that evening because it probably seemed like I was brown-nosing. However, I really wasn’t! The truth of the matter is that when you taste something that you really enjoy, it’s not unusual to want to have the recipe. It’s not unusual at all. It wasn’t my fault that Terri didn’t appreciate, in my opinion, one of the finer dining experiences of life back then!
Over the years, I’ve made that casserole more times than I can count, and I always think about the first time I ever had it. I also don’t like people messing with it, unless it’s to add a little sauteed onion, or, now that I like them, peas. Other than that, I’m a tuna casserole purist.
So, imagine my surprise, a few years ago, when I watched one of the food shows, where the contestants on the particular episode had a challenge to "re-invent" an old comfort-food classic. You got it! Someone drew tuna casserole. I watched, in horror, – I believe my face scrunched up much the way Terri’s did, when she found out we were having it that night for supper, so long ago. Only in my case, it was the finagling that was done to the recipe that furrowed my brow in displeasure. Fancy named noodles were boiled in a Morrell-infused liquid, then a Beurre Blanc sauce with freshly chopped mushrooms was drizzled over a half-cooked steak of tuna that was placed on top of a bed of said fancy-named noodles, then topped with a dice of crispy, fingerling potatoes. It was sacrilege!
"Ugh!" I replied, turning away from it in disgust. It neither looked nor sounded good to me. It certainly wasn’t the warm, fuzzy, delicious recipe I had grown up loving!
Tom laughed at my reaction. He’d never liked tuna anyway so he didn’t really get it. "What’s wrong with it?" he asked.
"That’s NOT how you make it!" I replied in an indignant tone. "Some things just shouldn’t be tampered with!"
To my husband’s credit, he knows when not to disagree, [the "pick your battles" philosophy of marriage applied here] so, he simply shrugged and said, "If you say so."
"Yes!" I replied, fervently. "I say so!" then, for good measure, I added. "I don’t understand why some people just can’t leave well enough alone?!"
He humored me but not in condescending way. "I don’t know why either, Sweetie!"
So, let me just conclude with this advisory comment: If you feel the need to "fancy up" the tuna casserole classic, just toss in those June peas that I previously mentioned – add a loaf of crusty French bread and a fresh garden salad. Simple elegance is just as good as fancy schmanzy, in my opinion – better in most cases. Comfort food is at its most impressive when it does what it sets out to do: comfort. All I know is that if someone put both dishes in front of me, I’d go for the tried and true version every time, because some things just shouldn’t be messed with. The original way of making Tuna Casserole is still, and always will be, "Mm Mm Good"...
Written by Jhill Perran
July 15, 2011
http://youtu.be/YPuIoVOEx1I [How Can You Mend a Broken Heart/The Bee Gees]
Jhill’s Top 10 Nancy Drew MUST reads [In no particular order]:
The Mystery of the 99 Steps; The Bungalow Mystery; The Hidden Staircase; The Secret in the Old Attic; The Mystery at Lilac Inn; The Password to Larkspur Lane; The Secret of the Old Clock; The Phantom of Pine Hill; The Clue in the Old Stagecoach; The Clue of the Velvet Mask
and, for good measure:
Classic Tuna Noodle Casserole
Ingredients:
2 cans (10 oz) of StarKist Albacore Solid White Tuna [packed in water/drained]
½ cup milk
¾ cup Lays potato chips, crushed
4 oz. (2 ½ cups) egg noodles
1 can (10.75 oz.) Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup
¼ tsp. garlic powder
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 cup of Baby June Peas (Optional)
Directions:
Preheat oven to 375°F.
Cook noodles according to package instructions, drain in colander.
In a separate bowl, mix together soup, milk, salt/pepper and garlic powder. Stir in noodles, and tuna (if you use June Peas, add them now)
Transfer into a 1-½ quart casserole. Bake 15 minutes; top with potato chips. Continue baking 5 – 10 minutes or until heated through and chips are golden brown.
Bon Appetit & Enjoy!
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Monday, July 11, 2011
I'll See Your Five Proteins and I'll Raise You Three Fruits
"When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hold on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn." ~Harriet Beecher Stowe
How many of you out there recall the quote: Today is the first day of the rest of your life, start it right with Total? [Am I dating myself?]
Anyway, with that in mind, I started back on my "Livid" today, only I started it with Kashi not Total. I believe, given that minor adjustment, it can still be the first day of the rest of my life! For those of you who don’t know weight-loss lingo, Livid is the term that Richard Simmons coined, because he didn’t like the word "diet". Yes. I agree with that thought! Diet should be one of those unacceptable, 4-letter words.
Over the years, I’ve tried them all, – those profane diets – the ones that never really had my best interests at heart, because the companies involved only wanted my money. They never worked for me. The reason being because I don’t liked to be used, and that’s what they did: they used me for profit. They aren’t totally at fault. I fell for their sell, hook, line and sinker. I’ve gotten smarter since then. [I like to think anyway]
I have had success with two programs over the years: Richard Simmons and Weight Watchers. I’ve kinda incorporated them together in my mind because they’re similar in approach and philosophy, and you don’t have to buy gimmicky food or pills. You have real food not packaged stuff; you eat from all the food groups, not just proteins or vegetables; and, you can have pizza or cake, you just have to account for it, and you have to realize you can’t have those things everyday. [There’s ALWAYS a catch, isn’t there?] However, both of these plans work, and my failure to maintain continuity has been because of my inconsistency of steadfast due diligence not the soundness of either program.
So, today, I began Dealing my Points! It’s not as easy as it sounds! First of all, I have to calculate how many points make up a specific food. This, however, allows me to hone my math skills [something that continues to be as needed as maintaining my Livid]. I also deal out, in the form of writing down, how many points I’m allowed to have each day. This involves hand-wrist movement, or as I like to think of it: exercise. It’s a win-win combination.
Richard is BIG on the "move to lose" philosophy. It’s not just any movement either! Trust me, I’ve checked. Sitting in my chair and sweeping my eyes back and forth across the room doesn’t count. If it did, I’d have lost 80 pounds by now! My problem is that I don’t move so good anymore! I’m disabled now, you see. My body doesn’t always do what my mind wants it to. It’s a problem - a very frustrating one! Trust me, there have been many battles between these two, with me stuck in the middle as a sort of biased mediator, because I agree with my mind. Trouble is, I live in my body. So, what are ya gonna do? It’s like a tug of war. Wait! Is that considered exercise? ...My luck, probably not! [Finger snap followed by a verbal, "Drats!"]
Back to the thinking board! The tricky thing for me is that when I try to accommodate my mind, my body makes me pay for it. I’m not talking about the typical pay back for working out the ole bod, either. I’m talking "take to your bed" payback. When I give into my body and don’t push it the way my mind would like, I feel the self-judgment begin to set in. Nobody is ever happy with this situation, least of all ME – the one in the middle! I’ve got three physical activities I can do: swim [no impact to the back], but who wants to get into a bathing suit at my size and go out in public? More power to Big Beautiful Women who don’t mind that. For me personally, it’s a horror movie just waiting to be seen....it’s not going to happen, unless I go to another town where the probability of running into someone I know is slim to none. See how slim just had to work its way into the conversation? Warning: Subliminal thoughts on the loose.
Then, there’s walking, and I do that - especially with two puppies. I enjoy walking too. The trouble is that I can’t walk more than 15 minutes at a pop before my back begins to spasm. The other problem is that I can’t walk a consistent 15 minutes at a time with two puppies in tow. They have a form of ADD for dogs: in a nutshell, they can’t walk for 15 minutes without stopping to sniff something, starting again, stopping to roll around on the grass, starting again, stopping to do their business, starting again, stopping to rudely bark at someone, resulting in being taken back home.
So, that leaves the recumbent bike that I got for Christmas. Basically, this is a tricycle for adults. It’s three wheels, with hand brakes. It rides low to the ground and has a back support, so that I can sit straight as I push the pedal round and round, in an effort to, as Richard says, "Move to Lose". The bike is great! I love it! It works for all involved parties because we also bought a small trailer that attaches to the back. Normal people would put a child in the trailer, but I stick my puppies in it for a tag-a-long, so they don’t tear the house apart because I would dare consider going outside and not taking them with me. We did this today – the bike ride. I was huffin’ and a puffin’ like there was no tomorrow. All I can say is that if there was an opening for an acting role in a certain children’s story that needed a wolf to blow down stuff, I’d have won the part hands down based solely on my stellar yet unsolicited performance of this morning.
"Take your time, Sweetie!" my husband called in a supportive tone from his neighboring 10-speed. "It’s going to take a little time to get back into shape....that’s all..."
"At this rate," I pant back. "I’ll be 50 before that happens!"
He laughs.
I’m nothing if not good for comical relief.
I am, however, going to do it this time! I’m determined to succeed for good. My goal: just to feel better. It’s not so much about losing weight anymore, though I’ll most definitely take that as a bonus, should it happen. At this point, for me, it’s more about my small-in-height and round-in-frame body simply becoming stronger in the hope that it doesn’t ache all the time. That’s what my focus is going to be, because the weight is just an overwhelming proposition– even taking it in stages. It looms large like the summit of an insurmountable mountain. I refuse, however, to continue looking at it that way. There will be no failure set-up for me this go round. It’s all about feeling better physically, so that’s how I’m going to approach it, as I embark on my umpteenth-hundred time at this "Livid" concept, with a WW shooter added in for good measure. I need to come up with a motto though. "Partially move to partially feel better" doesn’t work for me.
I need to think like the little engine that could, as I mentally prepare myself for this challenge. I am, after all, the Rocky Balboa of Livid training! I need something empowering yet gently affirming as my battle cry...
I know! I’ve got it! How about: "I think I can! I think I can! I think I can!" Followed up with a Stuart Smalley-esque cool down in front of my mirror: "You don’t need the numbers on the scale to necessarily go down. You just need to have them NOT go haywire when you step on it! Just be the BEST Jhill that you can be! You’re good enough! You’re smart enough! And, doggone it! People like me...." That’s it! This will be my mantra! It sounds encouraging, supportive AND empowering! I think I’ve just found the secret to my success!
Salad at one. Who’s in?
Written by Jhill Perran
July 11, 2011
http://youtu.be/6ldAQ6Rh5ZI [Stuart Smalley Daily Affirmations/SNL]
How many of you out there recall the quote: Today is the first day of the rest of your life, start it right with Total? [Am I dating myself?]
Anyway, with that in mind, I started back on my "Livid" today, only I started it with Kashi not Total. I believe, given that minor adjustment, it can still be the first day of the rest of my life! For those of you who don’t know weight-loss lingo, Livid is the term that Richard Simmons coined, because he didn’t like the word "diet". Yes. I agree with that thought! Diet should be one of those unacceptable, 4-letter words.
Over the years, I’ve tried them all, – those profane diets – the ones that never really had my best interests at heart, because the companies involved only wanted my money. They never worked for me. The reason being because I don’t liked to be used, and that’s what they did: they used me for profit. They aren’t totally at fault. I fell for their sell, hook, line and sinker. I’ve gotten smarter since then. [I like to think anyway]
I have had success with two programs over the years: Richard Simmons and Weight Watchers. I’ve kinda incorporated them together in my mind because they’re similar in approach and philosophy, and you don’t have to buy gimmicky food or pills. You have real food not packaged stuff; you eat from all the food groups, not just proteins or vegetables; and, you can have pizza or cake, you just have to account for it, and you have to realize you can’t have those things everyday. [There’s ALWAYS a catch, isn’t there?] However, both of these plans work, and my failure to maintain continuity has been because of my inconsistency of steadfast due diligence not the soundness of either program.
So, today, I began Dealing my Points! It’s not as easy as it sounds! First of all, I have to calculate how many points make up a specific food. This, however, allows me to hone my math skills [something that continues to be as needed as maintaining my Livid]. I also deal out, in the form of writing down, how many points I’m allowed to have each day. This involves hand-wrist movement, or as I like to think of it: exercise. It’s a win-win combination.
Richard is BIG on the "move to lose" philosophy. It’s not just any movement either! Trust me, I’ve checked. Sitting in my chair and sweeping my eyes back and forth across the room doesn’t count. If it did, I’d have lost 80 pounds by now! My problem is that I don’t move so good anymore! I’m disabled now, you see. My body doesn’t always do what my mind wants it to. It’s a problem - a very frustrating one! Trust me, there have been many battles between these two, with me stuck in the middle as a sort of biased mediator, because I agree with my mind. Trouble is, I live in my body. So, what are ya gonna do? It’s like a tug of war. Wait! Is that considered exercise? ...My luck, probably not! [Finger snap followed by a verbal, "Drats!"]
Back to the thinking board! The tricky thing for me is that when I try to accommodate my mind, my body makes me pay for it. I’m not talking about the typical pay back for working out the ole bod, either. I’m talking "take to your bed" payback. When I give into my body and don’t push it the way my mind would like, I feel the self-judgment begin to set in. Nobody is ever happy with this situation, least of all ME – the one in the middle! I’ve got three physical activities I can do: swim [no impact to the back], but who wants to get into a bathing suit at my size and go out in public? More power to Big Beautiful Women who don’t mind that. For me personally, it’s a horror movie just waiting to be seen....it’s not going to happen, unless I go to another town where the probability of running into someone I know is slim to none. See how slim just had to work its way into the conversation? Warning: Subliminal thoughts on the loose.
Then, there’s walking, and I do that - especially with two puppies. I enjoy walking too. The trouble is that I can’t walk more than 15 minutes at a pop before my back begins to spasm. The other problem is that I can’t walk a consistent 15 minutes at a time with two puppies in tow. They have a form of ADD for dogs: in a nutshell, they can’t walk for 15 minutes without stopping to sniff something, starting again, stopping to roll around on the grass, starting again, stopping to do their business, starting again, stopping to rudely bark at someone, resulting in being taken back home.
So, that leaves the recumbent bike that I got for Christmas. Basically, this is a tricycle for adults. It’s three wheels, with hand brakes. It rides low to the ground and has a back support, so that I can sit straight as I push the pedal round and round, in an effort to, as Richard says, "Move to Lose". The bike is great! I love it! It works for all involved parties because we also bought a small trailer that attaches to the back. Normal people would put a child in the trailer, but I stick my puppies in it for a tag-a-long, so they don’t tear the house apart because I would dare consider going outside and not taking them with me. We did this today – the bike ride. I was huffin’ and a puffin’ like there was no tomorrow. All I can say is that if there was an opening for an acting role in a certain children’s story that needed a wolf to blow down stuff, I’d have won the part hands down based solely on my stellar yet unsolicited performance of this morning.
"Take your time, Sweetie!" my husband called in a supportive tone from his neighboring 10-speed. "It’s going to take a little time to get back into shape....that’s all..."
"At this rate," I pant back. "I’ll be 50 before that happens!"
He laughs.
I’m nothing if not good for comical relief.
I am, however, going to do it this time! I’m determined to succeed for good. My goal: just to feel better. It’s not so much about losing weight anymore, though I’ll most definitely take that as a bonus, should it happen. At this point, for me, it’s more about my small-in-height and round-in-frame body simply becoming stronger in the hope that it doesn’t ache all the time. That’s what my focus is going to be, because the weight is just an overwhelming proposition– even taking it in stages. It looms large like the summit of an insurmountable mountain. I refuse, however, to continue looking at it that way. There will be no failure set-up for me this go round. It’s all about feeling better physically, so that’s how I’m going to approach it, as I embark on my umpteenth-hundred time at this "Livid" concept, with a WW shooter added in for good measure. I need to come up with a motto though. "Partially move to partially feel better" doesn’t work for me.
I need to think like the little engine that could, as I mentally prepare myself for this challenge. I am, after all, the Rocky Balboa of Livid training! I need something empowering yet gently affirming as my battle cry...
I know! I’ve got it! How about: "I think I can! I think I can! I think I can!" Followed up with a Stuart Smalley-esque cool down in front of my mirror: "You don’t need the numbers on the scale to necessarily go down. You just need to have them NOT go haywire when you step on it! Just be the BEST Jhill that you can be! You’re good enough! You’re smart enough! And, doggone it! People like me...." That’s it! This will be my mantra! It sounds encouraging, supportive AND empowering! I think I’ve just found the secret to my success!
Salad at one. Who’s in?
Written by Jhill Perran
July 11, 2011
http://youtu.be/6ldAQ6Rh5ZI [Stuart Smalley Daily Affirmations/SNL]
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