February 2019 project

Each month I'm to tackle a project for my 2019 New Year's Resolutions. I did not, however, say it had to be a different project, so February was still a carryover on January's project, which was to edit and tighten this blog. Whoa. Big job. I have 95 pages of this blog. Each page has 25 entries. I've completed 10 pages in two months, editing 250 blog entries. Not a mean fete considering all the other nonsense I'm doing--like writing that damn book.

With the help of my handy dandy Grammarly account, I've seen the mistakes that made my mother cringe. Those are being corrected. I've added photos to accompany blog entries, and I've laughed and lamented the loss of friends. I've remembered life occurrences I've forgotten. I've decided to repost some good posts, and I can't wait to have it all done so that I can make a book.

Maybe, and I can hear Madison's lecture now, I'll just add each project to the next project. At some point, one of them is bound to be completed, right? In the meantime, enjoy this little gem--my very first Out of the Mouths of My Babes. It's my favorite label in the entire blog and will probably just get its own book when the time comes. My kids say the darndest things...

From the Archives - January 4, 2005

Sarina: "Miss Cara, Darcy just ate something and then wiped her hands on her pants."

Me: "Well, Sarina, I suppose I could make my kids do their own laundry. Make both girls carry their laundry down to the river where they will have to wash their clothes with rocks."

Sarina: "Poor people have to wash their clothes in the river."

Darcy: "Why?"

Sarina: "Poor people don't have any washing machines."

Me: "Well, Kelly doesn't have a washing machine. But then again, she thinks she is poor."

Darcy: "Kelly isn't poor."

Sarina: "How do you know that?"

Darcy: "Because she has a purse."

From the archives - Now I know what he does

This blog entry from 2004 made me laugh at how we were back then to how we are now.

Now my husband does not touch the laundry unless I am out of town, but back then he couldn't stand it when the hamper got full. I actually remembered this entry, but only remembered the water pitcher part. The other thing I remembered that I didn't write about was how wonderful the pool looked when he came home. He was actually very impressed. I never touched it the entire five days he was gone! 

Of course, I told him I did. I told him I vacuumed and checked chemicals and scrubbed algae, but in reality, the only thing I did was check the chemicals once. The pool never needed anything else. Which then made me wonder what he was really doing when he said he was working on the pool every day.

May 24 and May 26, 2004

Now I Know What He Does

Tom left for a conference in Orlando last night. He was very unsure of leaving me. Ah, you think, still in love after ten years of marriage. Well, think again. He was unsure of leaving me to run the inner workings of the house.

Him: "You don't really know all the things that I do around here."

He counted them off on his fingers.

Him: "Like turning the lights off in the rooms. Turning the fans off. Can you remember the pool? I'm worried about the pool. I don't need it to be green and cloudy when I come back. And the laundry."

He did a lot of sighing and throwing his hands into the air. I immediately began to panic. How would I make it for five days having to turn off the lights and the fans all by myself? Could I manage the pool? Could I vacuum, scrub the tiles, adjust the chemicals?

Oh, heaven's to Betsy, hopefully, my seventeen years in the pool business would all come back to me so that the master would have a sparkling pool when he returned home.

As for the laundry...oh, to have actual control over my clothes! To be able to separate the whites and the colors! To not have to hide my dedicates in fear of his picking up the laundry basket and dumping the whole thing into the washer. To be able to actually dry all of my clothes instead of having them taken out when they are still damp.

I wrung my hands. How would I be able to do all of this while feeding and bathing the children?

Him: "I'm not worried about the kids. I'm worried about the pool and the lights. Leaving those fans on eats electricity. You think I'm kidding, but you don't really know all the things that I do around here."

It took two days for me to discover them:

Tom cleans up after the children. He is absolutely neurotic about a mess. Not a dusty-haven't-seen-a-rag-in-months mess. Not a wad of toothpaste left in the sink mess. Not a bathroom floor full of human hair mess. No, what Tom can't stand is the crayons and coloring books on the desk mess.

He hates it when the girls leave games, toys, Barbies, etc. on the floor. He cringes when he finds the remote control lying on the couch instead of velcro-ed to the television set like he intended it to be.

Leaving empty sippy cups anywhere in the playroom or bedroom can send him right over the edge, and finding a water stain on furniture? Well, his reaction to those things mirrors some of my mother's reactions from my youth.

He just cannot stand clutter, and so when he comes home from work-- before he can sit and join us at the kitchen table--he will take a run through the house picking up, wiping up, and cleaning up what he deems "messes". 

While he was gone, that responsibility fell to me. For years I have told him, "Honey, wait until right before bed and we will make the kids clean up their own messes." He hasn't listened to me and now I know why. The girls are not only incapable of cleaning up after themselves at home (although they do it at school), they are absolutely worthless at being forced to do it when they are tired. Each night after they headed off to slumberland I had to walk through the house picking up, wiping up, and cleaning up their messes.

Tom fills up the Britta water jug in our refrigerator. Our Britta jug was purchased at a closeout store several years ago. It is large and has two separate compartments for the water, and it is damn heavy when the compartments are full. I discovered this long ago when I filled and lifted it for the first time and it immediately went on the things my husband must do because I will not list. 

This past couple of days I have had to do the job. I never realized how much water we really drink in a day. I never realized how often he was working out his biceps with this thing. I wondered if he ever has back pains from doing so.

It was such a relief to finally be able to tell him when he called last night that I had discovered what he does around the house. I made sure to tell him how much I appreciated those things.

Him: "That's it? That was all you could come up with?"

Me: "What? You mean there's more?"

From the archives (part 2)

The second entry from my 2004 crown episode which I'm pulling out of the archives for my sister-in-law who had her temporary crown placed on her tooth on Friday.

A Cap For All Seasons
June 28, 2004

I went today to make the mold for the crown I must have for a cracked tooth. For eleven weeks I have worn a temporary cap. In the beginning, the cap felt funny. It was rough, too even at the bottom, and it was seriously ugly against my real teeth. But as the days, and then weeks went by, I grew to like my temporary cap. It is now as much a part of me as, well, as my glasses. I love my contacts, but when I'm tired or my eyes are sore, my glasses bring me great relief and comfort.

Because the temporary cap is bringing me much relief and comfort I did not panic when my 4 weeks of wearing it came to an end with no phone call from my dentist. I was supposedly waiting 4 weeks to make sure a root canal was not necessary. I even shudder to think what the hell that would entail. So 4 weeks, then 5, then 6 weeks went by. I started to wonder where my crown was and if someone else might be wearing it.

By the 8th week, I was imagining the technician looking at the mold of my tooth and shaking his head. "What the hell is this?" At week 9 I swallowed and made the call to my dentist. My crown was nowhere to be found. It wasn't until the 10th week that they discovered that I had never come back in (yeah, like I know all about the crown procedure, having had NONE before this one) after my 4-week temporary cap trial period to make yet another mold for my crown.

By the time week 11 and my new appointment rolled around, I had decided that the temporary crown and I were one. I seriously did not need the crown. I mean, hell, I'm not even a real princess. Haha! My dentist did not find this amusing. Probably because she had already pocketed the $600 for the crown, that no one had yet made!

Off came my temporary crown, and I wanted to cry. Not only could I feel my nub now, but it was sensitive to touch and water. I sat through another tortuous molding session, wondering if my temporary cap would have another job after being fired from my mouth. I could give it a glowing recommendation. It let no pain enter my mouth. It never wiggled or fell out, even past the recommended 4 week period. It sure as hell didn't cost $600 as the hygienist had made it herself right there in the office.

"Oh, Cara," the hygienist laughed when I told her how much my temporary cap meant to me, "You are so funny." Then she reclined my chair and once again sealed my temporary cap onto my tooth.

And again we are one....I'm told for at least the next 10 working days, which I'm sure I can stretch out for say, another 11 weeks?

From the archives (part i)

My sister-in-law has to have a crown put on one of her teeth. A few days ago she blogged about this on her website, http://www.susan-mythoughts.blogspot.com/, and asked for someone out there to tell her all about getting a crown. Since I had at one time received a crown on a tooth that I had cracked I let her know that is was no big deal, just time-consuming. I mentioned that I had some problem getting it all filed correctly, but that really it was no big deal. I reminded her that I had blogged about it on my old website and that I would find those entries and forward them.

Yesterday I found the blogs. Oops....guess my memory is going because apparently, it wasn't all roses, butterflies, and happiness.....


To The Dentist I Will Not Go
June 2004

I cracked one of my teeth. It is an upper tooth hidden safely in the back of the left side of my mouth. At the time of the crack, I was happily sucking down margaritas and munching on salsa and chips with my brother and his family. Life was good. Then I bit down on a chip. Suddenly I was seeing stars while still on my first margarita. The pain was amazing...a shooting, jabbing, knife-like stab again and again inside my mouth until it eventually climbed up my neck and settled inside my head. Sigh. I was off to the dentist.

I have to say that I despise going to the dentist. It isn't the dentist herself. My dentist is a beautiful, soft-spoken Indian woman with a gentle touch. She is a very nice human being. It is the whole idea of dentistry. The torture chair that looks nice until you realize what will occur in it. The loud, shrill, high pitched electrical water prick that will someday summon the neighborhood dogs. The latex-gloved hands of a stranger roaming around inside your mouth. The dental floss that falls apart between your teeth. The misery of bleeding gums. I feel that I have spent so much time (my mother would say money) in a dentist's office that every time my head falls back, my mouth automatically opens--dental chair or not. I much would rather go to my GYN for a pap smear then face the dentist.

But face her I did. She gave me the bad news that yes, I had cracked my tooth. Then she spent the next hour and a half torturing me, first with the three shots of numbing potion and then with the shrill noise of the drill as she ground down my poor cracked tooth. She kept patting me and telling me how well I was doing. She would lurk over me, her eyes peering out over the top of the face mask and she would give me the countdown. "Only 5 more minutes, Cara." Then back she would go to her drill. When she was finished and my poor tooth was as small as a newborn baby's thumb, she gave me the pat and turned me over to her hygienist. Thus began more torture.

This woman stuck the foulest, most horrible goop all over my tooth nub and then forced me to bite down on a mouthpiece for what seemed like an hour. It was nice of her to sit me up while this occurred, but of course, I realized soon enough why she did this. It was so I didn't die on my own saliva.

It was as if my tongue had summoned it. "Come quick," I imagined my tongue shouting. "An intruder is here. A terrible, nasty tasting intruder sent here to kill our lady." The saliva rushed out of every faucet in my mouth as if to wash away the intruder. Great. Except to get rid of the saliva I would have to swallow it, along with the intruder. Which I did. One time. Then I found out exactly what that paper napkin is for around your neck. By the time the timer went off, the napkin was saturated, my eyes were watering and my lips felt as swollen as if I had been stung by a thousand bees.

But it wasn't over yet. No, a temporary cap was made for the tooth. This meant the hygienist got to shove the cap onto my nub several times until I agreed that when I bit down it felt just like a normal tooth. Then more goop was applied to the cap, more waiting for timers to buzz, and more drilling to take off any excess goop on my teeth. Finally, I could rinse. Which I just want to say is not easy when you have zero feeling in your lips. Then I got to go home to lick my wounds. But alas, that wasn't to be either as my tongue was either hiding or was too exhausted to get to work.
Thank god I don't go back for 4 weeks.

From the archives

Saturday, September 7, 2002
In The Morning
My three year old woke me this morning--the one day that I sleep late. She came into my room and informed me of the following:

1. The goldfish had died and Daddy had flushed him down the toilet.
2. Her knee was hurting so Maddy got her a band-aid.
3. The light is shining outside so it is morning and time for me to get up.

She then climbed into my bed with her doll and her pacifier for "some lovin". We hugged, kissed and cuddled. She asked me if I wanted to hear a song. I did, so she began. She sang a song she wrote herself. She wrote it right then while singing.

 It was sort of what I call a "story song" along the lines of Kenny Rodgers, The Gambler or Conway Twitty's, 38 Special. Her song was about bad witches, Ariel the Mermaid, stepsisters and stepmothers, birthday cakes and more.

The song went on and on and finally developed into a full-blown stage show complete with costumes and talking inanimate objects. This I had to sit up to watch as it was played out at the foot of my bed. It didn't take long before I was on my feet and getting dressed.

If only every morning could be this magical!