If I won the lottery

Lately, I've thought about winning the lottery and what I would do if I did win. I don't play the lottery, mind you, but ever so often I like to dream.  

Of course, there is the usual list of things I would do like secure my children's education, pay back my mother for ALL she has done for me, help my brother in his new business, buy my friend a house (not too far from me) so she doesn't have to worry about rent or a mortgage every again, but of course, she would feel so indebted to me that she would want to babysit my children for me daily, etc. But in my dreams lately, I've really thought about what I would spend the money on if I won.

• Fly 1st class in an airplane - I have never done this and would like to be served free drinks and warm towels. Imagine...a warm cloth instead of a baby wipe.

• Go to the U.S. Open and Wimbledon - Two sporting events I think would be exciting to see in person...that is in the first row of course. Going to Wimbledon would also take care of another dream.....

• Visit England - I would just like to see another country where I speak the language. And the whole royalty thing is a significant fascination.

• Head to Hawaii - Magnum P.I. may not be filmed there anymore, and Tom Selleck has sold his house, but Hawaii is still a place that is calling to me.

• Stop off in California....on the way to Hawaii, of course - I need to stand outside the General Hospital studios and get a glimpse of some real stars!

• Hire a maid - Let's face it...cleaning house takes up way too much time; time that I could be spending on this website.

A visit from the bug man

I live in Florida, the cockroach capital of the world, but that doesn't mean that I like them living with me IN MY HOUSE. They stay outside with the gigantic grasshoppers and the lizards, and we are good, but once they enter my house? Ah, hell no.

My husband is our bug master. That means that when I see a roach and then complain, he goes out and gets some spray and uses it around the house. His idea of maintenance is to have a can of Raid for roaches close at hand. We differ there on that subject.

Recently, I stumbled upon one of the disgusting critters as I refilled my nightly water glass. I keep water by my bed. Always have. I wandered through the dark house, opened the refrigerator to fill my glass with cold water, and saw, by the glow of the refrigerator light, a cockroach sitting on the counter next to where I was standing. The spray? Not anywhere close at hand. It was in the garage, and the thought of opening the door into another dark room that houses roaches didn't appeal to me one bit. For days, I avoided the kitchen at night.

Then, not long after getting past that episode, I opened a drawer to get out a cloth, and my daughter informed me a roach was living in there. She then opened the drawer again, and there he was the biggest daddy cockroach ever. And with him was his wife and two children. Four roaches! FOUR! Living in my kitchen drawer. I managed to exterminate them all. A process that took twenty minutes of spraying and smacking and jumping all before getting the kids to school. I informed the husband that if he didn't rid this problem immediately, I was calling in an expert.

Tom: "Yeah. Yeah."

I bought some roach traps, cleaned out all my kitchen cabinets, and sucked up all the roach droppings in my vacuum. I placed the traps in all of my cabinets. I felt better. Until the next night during my water glass fillup. There, I spied another. Seriously? I made Tom get out of bed to get this one and let me tell you, he isn't any more fond of these guys then I am. He's probably more nervous, actually.

The final straw came the following afternoon, where I worked on my computer in the playroom. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and there, walking up the wall was...you guessed it...another mack daddy cockroach. This thing was the size of my hand, and Darcy and I had to work very hard to kill the sucker. I might have gone a little overboard in my whacking of it.

Me: "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."

This, of course, has been imitated over and over again in Darcy's play. Sigh.

I called the bug man. When I informed my husband of this, he went right out into the garage and got his spray and sprayed the house. The next night....another roach in my kitchen. Not a bug that was drunkenly stumblingly, but a cockroach doing the jitterbug on my cabinet. I didn't feel a bit guilty at not having canceled the bug man.

Carl arrived the next morning. He was a big strapping hulk of a man who looked like he would squash a cockroach with his bare hands. He and I roamed the house where he took out every drawer and sprayed behind them with three different sprays. He lifted, pulled, and removed cabinetry and sprayed. He spent an hour spraying the hell out of the outside of my house as well as the inside. He did every place but the attic but assured me that he would come back and do the attic if I still saw bugs. He also told me that if I ever saw another roach or bug, I was to call him.

Carl: "I'll do the exterminating, but you're responsible for the funerals." 

Carl had a sense of humor.

It's been three days, and I've not spied an issue. I have not seen ants (which we had in our bathroom as well). I have not seen any insects. Nor a roach.

Have I seen my family?

By the dawn's early light

My husband says I have a weird thing when it comes to lights. I'm either "turn out the lights," or I'm, "turn on the lights," depending on the scenario. 

For example, when I'm driving at night, I need street lights. This might be a night vision problem that needs addressing, but I also need a light on when I watch television. Not while in the theater, only while watching tv at home. Why sit in the dark? I don't like it. 

Our living room doesn't have any overhead lights, only a lamp. There are no windows in that room, and the lamp doesn't put out much of a glow. I tried adding lighting with a halogen bulb, and if I have both turned on along with the lights in the dining room, I can manage to see when I iron, sew, read, and watch television. It drives my husband batty. He thinks its too much electricity.

On the other hand, I don't like the light. I love night lights, however. I grew up with night lights. We had them in the bathroom, in our bedroom and in the hallway growing up. Nightlights are like little guides showing you the way. 

The first gift Tom ever got me was a night light he bought for use in his bathroom. I was touched. That same night light is now in use in our master bathroom today. It is on when I shower, and when I brush my teeth and when I go through my nightly routine. I don't ever turn on the light at night in my bathroom. Showering by night light is quite soothing and relaxing.

I also don't turn lights on in the morning. I dress in the dark. Do my hair in the dark. I look great in the dark. Only on rainy mornings do I turn on the night light to put in my contacts. My husband, however, flips on the light every time he enters the bathroom. I'm surprised he isn't blind by now as bright as that thing is when you come in from complete darkness. My father used to wake me for school by turning on my bedroom light. It was so unnecessary. He knew though that I'd get out of bed to turn it off, and he counted that as a plus, I guess. 

I am quite good at navigating in the dark. In Indiana, I moved from one room to the other in the night without tripping. I never used lights because we had the nightlights for guidance and because I could see very well in the dark despite not consuming many carrots. In Florida, I do the same, only turning on lights in areas where there might be creepy, crawling cockroaches. It is quite a contradiction to my no lights in the night routine. But I'm afraid that is a dilemma that most likely will not get solved anytime soon. 

I do not like lights on when I sleep. As a child, I had a night light. As an adult, I like it dark. My bedroom is a cave. I have blinds and curtains on my windows. My clock radio has a red amber light that puts out a glow with just enough light to tell the time. My husband's CD clock player has an obnoxious bright, green, neon light with 3 different settings: bright, suntan, and burn your eyes out. It is always pointed at me. He also has the baby monitor pointed my way. It has a red, laser light that is like an eyeball staring at me. I use a stuffed dog to block out the glows from his nightstand. 

I've never really thought about this "weirdness" as my husband calls it. I like lights at times and I dislike them at other times. All perfectly normal, I think. My favorite lights? Christmas tree colored lights. As a kid, I loved crawling under the tree to read. Maybe Tom will join me there this year. Get an understanding. I'll ask him. 

Love-40

Every time I watch tennis on television, I get this urge to grab my racket and hit the courts. I see myself bouncing on my toes, crouched in the position, ready to take the serve. The urge doesn't last long. First of all, I don't own a racket, let alone a can of balls, and secondly, memories of my tennis days usually squelch any urge quickly enough.

My parents put me in tennis lessons at our country club. I guess I should be grateful I also didn't have to take golf lessons. My mother wanted me to exercise, I think. Or maybe she was hoping I'd be an athlete. After swim practice, we would change out of our suits and hike down to the lower tennis courts, which were located at the lower level of the parking lot. Almost everyone on the swim team took tennis lessons too. I think our parents were all hopeful. It at least made it more exciting to go with a bunch of my summer friends than to go by myself. Unfortunately, I was not a tennis player.

For one, it was hot. There we were on the court in the blaring sun during prime skin cancer burning hours. I would immediately start sweating. I'm like my dad, who would sweat in the middle of winter walking to the mailbox. We are sweaters. 

So, put me out in the sunshine on a green court running after balls? Yeah. Sweat galore. Running down into my eyes stinging because I didn't have a fancy headband like tennis players on television. Well, truthfully, we didn't wear those because we thought them dorky. The best I had was a sweatband on my wrist. Better yet, the tail of my shirt. 

Secondly, I wasn't good at tennis. We'd start out learning the forehand where we'd step forward, arm back, and hit the ball. Then we went to the backhand. The pro would show us the correct form, have us practice a few with him, break us into groups to practice, and then he'd turn us over to the wall.

The wall was a solid thing built on one end of the court. Its purpose was to allow people to practice without needing a partner. One could hit the ball against the wall, and it would bounce back as if you had an opponent. The problem was that there would be fifteen kids banging balls against this wall at the same time. Balls would fly crazily, bouncing every which way, and I'd spend more time dodging and ducking then I did returning.   

Lastly, the game of tennis was boring. Too much standing. In line for a turn with the pro, and with only four nets, standing in wait to play the game. And if you hit a ball over the fence? Ugh. You'd have to leave and go outside to retrieve it. Sometimes I hit the damn ball over the fence on purpose so that I could escape the wall or the game.

My favorite part of the tennis lesson was when it ended and I could return to the pool.

I am glad I had the experience because it enhances watching tennis on television. I love imagining getting out there and tossing that ball high up, reaching behind with my racket to serve, crouching into position to return my opponent's ball...then most likely jumping out the way before it hits me.

More an athletic supporter than an athlete.

I am a sports fan

Today I watched the U.S. Open women's semi-finals. I love watching sports.

I grew up doing so. There was always a sporting event on our television every weekend. Mom did the laundry and ironed. Dad sat in his black recliner and drove Mom crazy by offering comments on the plays, the players, the coaches, and the referees. We knew where to find them on the weekends. 

Every significant sports tournament graced our television. Besides the obvious, the Super Bowl, the World Series, the NCAA Finals and the Olympics, we watched the Indianapolis 500, the Kentucky Derby and the Masters. Breakfast at Wimbledon was a massive ordeal in our house.

While we studied sports in P.E. at school, those classes consisted of learning the rules, but then we graded on how well we performed various activities from those sports. Things like how well we could serve a volleyball into taped off sections, each representing a grade. Or how well we performed a routine on the uneven parallel bars. Or graded on how high we jumped over the bar or how far into the sandpit.

Please. I received a better education in my own home, listening to my parents.

I know how to keep the scores. I can keep the stats on players in any sports. I learned about golf and baseball sitting in the stands, watching my brother play. I learned tennis from lessons I was forced to take as a child, and I learned to swim from my mother. I bowled on a Saturday league where I excelled and won multiple patches and trophies. And basketball...well, I am a Hoosier. That was a given.

The rest I learned by watching television. And I love all of it.

Today, watching tennis, I realized that my bucket list would include attending many sporting events. I want to see the U.S. Open and Wimbledon. I'm want to experience a Pittsburgh Steelers game in person, and heck, I'd even walk the course at the Masters.

I get a rush watching sports. I'm very competitive and very vocal. I pump my fists like Jimmy Connors, and I scream like Bobby Knight. I like that I can dance with excitement like the Chicago Bears in the end zone. It's exhilarating!

I can't imagine not having sports in my life. I hope one day I can pass that on to the girls. Maybe they too will want to join me on the couch and listen and learn as I did. I'm grateful to my parents for a lot of things. A love of sports is high on the list.

Third dress

Get this, people. Not only did I make a third dress, but I also put in BUTTONHOLES. I read and reread the manual, and I had to add this massive contraption to the sewing machine, but I did it! I put in two buttonholes and ADDED A POCKET.

Look how excited that kid is!

Okay, well, the picture doesn't do her or the outfit justice but suffice it to say that she wore it to school and told everyone her mother had made it. I feel so accomplished. Who wants one next?

I am a seamstress

My MIL has created a monster. A sewing monster. I must keep sewing. I can't stop. Mary Anne left for vacation, so I am on my own, but I shall prevail! Because I am determined. Hooked. Full of renewed confidence.

Darcy and I went to Wal-Mart, and she picked out three different types of fabric. I have no idea if the material is of good quality, but I'm not creating dresses to be worn at the Academy Awards. These were on sale, so I'm taking advantage. I choose a design for kids that said, sew in 1 hour.

My kind of sewing, thank you very much.

I asked the saleslady to cut two of the fabrics according to the new pattern and the other one for my latest design. Of course, the amount was different for each pattern.

I picked out buttons, thread, pins, and a good pair of scissors that cost more than the fabric! I bought them because a good seamstress needs her equipment. We returned home, and I immediately began cutting out the new pattern. The one hour pattern. First, I opened it and read the directions. My last pattern had five steps. This one had twice as many, and it had a ZIPPER. What? I don't have a clue about zippers. Jeez, I don't even know how to sew in a buttonhole because I didn't pay attention during that lesson. How the hell can I do a zipper? With my teacher out of town? I store that pattern away and pull out the other one. 

Darcy: "But I want the Barbie dress first, Mommy."

Of course, she does. Tough. That's a no can do kid. I went back to the other pattern and managed to cut out the fabric and apply the interfacing. For steps one and two. I had to stop for a while because my back began hurting. Sewing is tough on my back. All that bending and hunching over the table. I gave up for the day and returned to it the following day.

The material is a Winnie-the-Pooh pattern. Cute, but not durable. I must keep that in mind when I pick out stuff for Madison's dress. I might have to go to the fabric store on that one. Wal-Mart, with its low prices, isn't exactly better quality. You get what you pay for. Lesson learned. 

Another thing about sewing is the ironing. There is a lot of ironing in sewing. I hate ironing. I mean, genuinely hate it. My husband goes to work with wrinkled shirts. My kids go to school in wrinkled clothes. I don't iron if I don't have to. My mother sighs in disbelief when she sees my family in rumpled clothing. She loves ironing. She finds it peaceful, and she hates wrinkles. 

Well, she won't be complaining any longer. NO MORE WRINKLES. I have taken up ironing now that I'm sewing. I mean, might as well iron some shirts while the ironing board is out, right?

I finished steps three and four. I had to read the chapter on buttonholes in my sewing machine manual. I have decided that the dress doesn't need buttonholes because it is large enough to go over Darcy's head. Why add another unnecessary step? I decided to sew on the cute buttons permanently. What a great idea. Brilliant even!

I finished the dress. There were a few problems. I cut too close to the stitches when I trimmed, and I did have to redo some things, but it came out decent. I'd give me a B-. Okay, maybe a C+.

Yep, call me a seamstress. I'm working on a dress for Madison next. Then I'm going to make every girl I know a dress. Because every little girl deserves a Cara homemade dress. 

I AM A SEAMSTRESS!

Sewing Part II

I have tried to sew. My MIL Mary Anne purchased a book on sewing for me, and I have read the entire book. I made it through the first two instructions, which were to sew around the collar of the back and front pieces. I had to do this twice. The first attempt was brilliant, but then I realized that I had not backstitched. Backstitching, according to the book, is VERY important. The machine I am borrowing backstitches automatically in the beginning, so I thought I was okay. It does not, however, backstitch at the end. Which must be done. It is imperative. I had to take out the stitches and start over. I got very frustrated.

Instructions number three had to do with the interfacing mentioned above. Honestly, I'm still clueless about interfacing. I'm not sure of its purpose even after studying the pictures and reading the instructions. I also had Tom study the images and read the directions because I figured he learned from my MIL, so he must know, right? No, go. I had to call my MIL. She laughed. Then she explained. I still didn't get it. She laughed some more and suggested I bring it with me when I come to her house for dinner. Whew. That's a relief.

I brought the sewing stuff. The woman is a genius. A true seamstress! She explained step #3 and took me through it. I now understand interfacing. What a great concept that stuff is. I zipped through that step and right through step number four. Darcy then tried on the dress, and I measured her for the hem. Then I got to use my MIL's $2,000 machine (she bought it used she says) and oh, my, what an excellent tool that thing is compared to the one I'm borrowing. Smooth. Electronic buttons. Snazzy. Slick. I'll probably need one of these soon now that I'm getting the hang of this sewing stuff.

Mary Anne took over and put in the buttonholes. I took the time to stretch my back and did a puzzle with Madison. I realized later I should have been studying the master so that I could learn how to do my own damn buttonholes. Oops.

Mary Anne turned it back over to be for the next step, and then I sewed on the buttons. That I am very good at doing. The buttons are cute little duck buttons I found, and they match the dress fabric. They are a pain to get through the newly sewn buttonholes. I guess I didn't think that one through. Sigh. Thank goodness the dress is big enough to fit over Darcy's head without unbuttoning.

I now consider myself brilliant. I have created something. I have sewed a size 3 toddler dress!

Behold!

The Tooth King

My daughter's friend, Brianna, has a loose tooth, and her permanent tooth is already coming in behind the loose tooth. She whines quite a bit about her tooth hurting, and so I took a look into her mouth and wished the Tooth King was here. 

The Tooth King was my father. He pulled all of the baby teeth in our family. And in our neighborhood. He had a system, and it never changed, but we still had him pull the teeth. He was a wizard at doing it. 

First, he would ask to look at the tooth. He'd smile and act jolly and silly, and you'd trepidly open your mouth so that he could take a peek. Then he would reach in and wiggle the tooth. At this point, we would whine. Something along the lines of "don't pull it yet, I'm not ready." Then he would question that.

Dad: "You don't want me to pull it? You're sure? It's ready. It's loose. You don't want me to pull it?"

Then he'd remove his hand, and immediately your tongue would go to the tooth, and SURPRISE the tooth was gone, and you'd taste blood. My father would try to look innocent, but he would break into a grin at the disbelieving look on your face, and he'd hold out his hand, and there would be the tooth! You never felt a thing.

Sometimes there might be a slight tug, and he'd groan and say he couldn't get his fat fingers around it, but of course, he'd already yanked the tooth. He was slick and sly, and it would be over before we knew it had even begun. 

Dad: "Let me see that loose tooth."

Me: "Look at it. Don't pull it, Daddy. It's not ready yet. Just look at it."

Dad: "I just want to see it," 

Me: "But don't pull it. Okay? You won't pull it?"

Dad: "Well, how can I pull it if I haven't even seen it?"

Although it never hurt, I was always sure that this time it would. My Dad would lose patience, and out would come the roar.

Dad: "Dammit, let me see in there."

And of course, I would dutifully open my mouth, and once again, the tooth would end up in his hand, and once again, I'd be shocked that I didn't feel a thing. Sometimes he would play with us and not take the tooth at first.  

Dad: "Yep, it's almost ready. Maybe another two days. Or more. Let me wiggle it again." 

Poof! The tooth would be pulled. It never hurt. I'd feel the gap, be shocked and surprised, and then I'd freak out that I was bleeding. But that was only because I thought it warranted some reaction. I'd rinse out my mouth, and then I'd stare at him in wonder. How did he do that? How did it not hurt? He'd laugh his big, booming laugh and beam. He loved it.

We thought he was terrific. I was sure he had a gift. He was the Tooth King!

My father pulled all of my baby teeth except for the one that came out while I was chewing gum in the back of our station wagon, traveling on vacation. I remember being horrified at first that my tooth had come out, then elated that I'd done it myself, and then sad that I'd missed out on the whole Tooth King ritual. 

I miss my Dad. I miss the Tooth King.

Girl Scouting

Madison and I had her first Girl Scouts meeting. Actually, it's for Daisy Girl Scouts. Daisy Scouts is a troop for Kindergarteners, and it focuses on having fun through socializing. I thought it would be good for Madison to socialize with students outside of the private school she goes to, and well, her friend Brianna is doing it, and Krista is always good at trying to include us in other activities. Mostly I see Daisy Scouts as a bunch of arts and crafts, singing of songs, and helping people.  

Daisy Girl Scouts do NOT sell cookies or do fundraising. Thank God.

I was a Brownie and then a Girl Scout. It was something my mother had me do because she loved her time as a scout. 

Connie: "I lived for scouts."

I did not live for scouting, but I don't want to foist my feelings on to Madison, and I suggested we give scouts a try although it isn't high on Madison's list. 

I have few memories of Brownies. My memories of Girl Scouts includes my mother as a troop leader and one of the girls in the troop, her name was Whitney, telling the other girls that my mother was a meanie, and she didn't let us have any fun. Whitney ignored me from that moment on until we ended up in the same homeroom in High School. I asked her if she remembered that at all. She didn't.

Other memories of Girl Scouts included camping where my mother was the swimming instructor for our swimming badges, and we swam in a lake and slept in cabins, and selling Girl Scout cookies. My father was a salesman, and so selling was something my brother and I learned at his knee. Our goal every year was to sell enough cookies to get the reward the scouts offered. I remember it usually being a poster of some kind. I was a decent seller of cookies, I think. 

I still have my Girl Scout sash and patches and pins. I have my book, my hat, and my scout pouch with camping paraphernalia like a knife and fork. I'm picturing Madison one day using all of it. 

I have opted not to be a Daisy troop leader.  I have signed up for "bringing the Daisy snacks."  

Learning to sew

I have decided to learn to sew.  My children are both in school, and from 9:15 AM to 11:40 AM, I have time to myself.  I have made a list of projects, and learning to sew is at the top. My mother-in-law, Mary Anne, has agreed to teach me, and my neighbor, Howard, has offered me the use of his late wife's sewing machine.  I am ready.

My last time sewing, besides sewing on buttons or cross-stitching, was in my Home Economics class that we were required to take my 8th grade year. That would've been in the '70s. They split up the 8th graders with half the class taking Home Ec. and the other half taking Industrial Arts for the first half of the year. Then they were switched. Both classes stand out clearly in my mind. In Home Economics, we learned to sew and to cook.  My first project in sewing was a wallet that I made out of denim. It ended up quite large, and I painted my brother's initials on it in green fluorescent paint.  I vaguely remember him saying he would never be caught dead with it.

The second project (and our final grade) was to sew an outfit that we would model in a school-wide fashion show. Most of the girls chose dresses. I decided instead to sew a jumpsuit. The fabric was gabardine.  I had never heard of gabardine then, and I have never run across it since.  The gabardine fabric was beige.  I imagined how great I would look modeling it.

Most of the time, as it is with my children, my mother was the one I turned to for assistance with homework and school projects. Not, however, in sewing. This was not her forte. At all. When my father had holes in his pants pockets, she stapled them together. While she could sew on a button, that was the extent of her abilities. She turned to our neighbor Sue for any and all sewing and alterations. But she was not without ideas, and so, when it became clear that I was not going to meet the deadline for the sewing project, she packed me and my gabardine fabric into the car and drove two and a half hours to my Great Aunt Helen's farm.

Aunt Helen was a retired Home Economics teacher, and it was up to her to help me finish the jumpsuit. Her sewing room was in her bedroom, and I tried very hard to pay attention and to listen to her instructions, but I probably spent way more time taking in the things about her room as it wasn't one where we ever ventured. Plus, sewing and cutting and marking and all that other nonsense were just too tedious and back-breaking. I hated it. I always messed up the bobbin, and the threading and my stitches were crooked and UGH. 

Realizing this, my Aunt Helen finally ended up finishing what was left. I'm not sure what I got on the outfit. Probably a C. The jumpsuit was worn in the fashion show and a few times after, but I don't know what happened to it. I do know, however, that that was the end of my sewing. 

Until now... My MIL began with a simple pattern, and we set to work.  Surprisingly, my 8th-grade education returned. I could thread the machine. I remembered bobbins. I recalled backstitching, pining patterns, and the chalk thing used on the fabric. If I had known how to contact my Home Economics teacher from 8th grade, I'd have let her know she did something right. 

We began by laying out the pattern on my dining room table. Can someone explain why in the world patterns are made with tissue paper? Why not something more durable? And why for heaven's sake are all the sizes on the same tissue paper so that you have to get out your own tissue paper to trace the pattern of the size you need?  It's all so time-consuming. And boring. My back started hurting from bending, and eventually, my MIL finished that task and cut it out. I love to cut. I find it peaceful, and I'm very good at it.

We had to stop when we realized we didn't have the interfacing. I had no idea what the hell interfacing was then, but I've since gone to the fabric store and purchased it. I do not, however, know what it is.  I've looked at all the dresses in my daughter's closets, and I don't see any with interfacing.  I should look it up in a dictionary.

Since we had no interfacing, my MIL left.  She handed me the instructions and told me to start sewing, and then SHE LEFT.  That right there had me paralyzed for a day. Then I got the interfacing and began following her instructions to read the instructions and start sewing. Suddenly more memories of my 8th-grade sewing class came back.  

Memories like the machine jamming.  The bobbin thread losing its place.  How to pull out a stitch with that special puller outer.  The fact that I hate sewing. All of that came back with a vengeance. 

I think I should've started with a pillowcase or something easier first.