Locked and Loaded

Tahoe washed and vacuumed, check.
Oil changed, fluids checked, gas tank filled, check.
Manicures and pedicures for The Girl and myself, check.
Kids’ suitcases packed, check.
Hugh instructed to feed the cat and water the tomato plants, check.
Board members instructed to leave me the hell alone, check.
iPod playlist downloaded, check.
Case of fresh local sweet corn ordered for morning delivery, check.

I guess I’m ready to leave tomorrow!

Except for packing my own suitcase, that is.

A full week of eating my mother's home cooking, sleeping past six a.m., sunning myself in their backyard while reading a good book, watching my children enjoy the company of their grandparents and cousins and re-connecting with old classmates while memorizing snarky details to later share with my younger sister....

.....can you say, squee!?

And Lo, the Weekend Cometh

Come 4:00 this afternoon, the shackle around my ankle magically unlocks and I begin my much needed and, much anticipated, vacation. Can I get a hallelujah!

Now, the actual travel portion of the vacation won’t begin until Tuesday but; I’ve got a lot of stuff to get done between now and then. Like, say laundry. Because, unlike my children; my preferred wardrobe for travel actually includes clean clothing. I know! What a concept!

Speaking of travel; I would love to say that we are headed for the tropics or to a lovely seaside village in Italy but, no. We are headed to Mayberry for my 20th High School reunion. And, by we; I mean the children and myself since Hugh has to work until Friday at which point he will join us at my parent’s house.

I actually don’t mind making the two-and-a-half-hour drive without him since it gives me an opportunity to bond with the children and, by bonding, I mean slapping headphones on them as they watch movies on the DVD player so I can play my music way too loudly while singing, also way too loudly. And, you know, badly.

I’m looking forward to the trip for a number of reasons. For one, I get to see one of my college roomies and her family. Also, time spent with my parents is always enjoyable. And, while I leave secure in the knowledge that Operation Hottie by July was a spectacular failure; I also have the satisfaction of knowing that Starbucks and Krispie Kreme can claim higher earnings for this quarter.

I’m sure they know they have me to thank for that, by the way (also: must remember to buy stock in Starbucks and Krispie Kreme).

My reunion should be a blast or, at the very least will provide gossip fodder for me to write about for at least a week.

I’m sure you all thank me for that too, by the way.

Of course, were it not for the reunion, I totally would go to some aforementioned tropical island or to a fabulous Italian village. Unfortunately, I would have to do so without the Man-Cub as only Hugh, The Girl and I are in possession of official documentation that would enable us to actually get back into the country following our glorious vacation. The Man-Cub’s passport appears to be lost somewhere in the fantabulous clusterfuck that is the United States passport system and I would be lying if I said that I wasn't becoming the slightest bit anxious about that fact.

The Cub isn’t the least bit concerned however; last night, I teased him about the possibility that he might be left home alone while his sister, father and I jetted off to some exotic locale and he shrugged his shoulders and reminded me to buy Oreos before I left. Oh, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, could I put fresh batteries in the TV remote? Great, thanks.

I’m sure he was hurting. On the inside.

Look Who Came to Visit

I am in awe.

God Is Good and the Grapevine Sucks

Contrary to what the Mayberry Grapevine had to say (oh my god! He’s on the verge of death! He’s going to be a vegetable for the rest of his life!); the man who was The Boy is doing well. He was even released from the hospital and allowed to go home which, come to think of it, is information that also comes courtesy of the Mayberry Grapevine so, really, who the fuck knows?

But! I prefer to think happy thoughts.

Also, I prayed hard, y’all and the Lord did not disappoint which means I should probably do something godly in return like, um….give up cussing or start tithing on a regular basis.

Right. I’ll get right on that.

Hugh will be thrilled to hear this latest development. And, by that, I mean the development about The Boy's health, not about my sudden ban on cussing (Hugh likes the salty wench side of me thankyouverymuch) or about my decision to start pledging ten percent of our monthly income to the holy Catholic church. He will welcome the good news about the Boy's health because, since I first heard about The Boy’s aneurysm, or stroke, or whatever it is they finally decided to call it; I have been acting as though Hugh is the next in line for a heart attack or something. Seriously, I made him promise to stop eating bacon, people. And, Hugh likes his bacon.

So, to recap:
The man who was The Boy, much healed.
The Mayberry Grapevine, total suckage.
God, freaking awesome.
Bacon, back on the menu. Maybe.

Put It In a Memo

Memo to: Co-Worker I
From: Chelle
Cc: Co-Worker II, Co-Worker III, Volunteer Personnel
Re: File for Future Reference

Our workplace encourages Courtesy Flushing as a rule. My enjoyment of our local sweet corn will be forever ruined by the sight that greeted me in the staff restroom this morning.

Because that is exactly what I needed today. NOT.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Hugh was not the first love of my life. Shocking, I know, but true, nevertheless.

Last night I dreamed about The Boy. The one who first stole my heart and it took me back to a time when the most important things in my life were The Boy, my friends, my wardrobe, my cassette collection and my family. Pretty much in that order.

Because, hell, yes; I was shallow.

And young, sixteen going on seventeen. The Boy, for his part, was four days shy of his eighteenth birthday, which at the time seemed so mature to me. Now, technically, I had known him for years and years; it was, after all, a small town and we attended the same schools. I would have to have been dead not to be aware of who he was, but for romantic purposes, let us just say that we met the fateful autumn of 1985. Ok? Great.

The Boy had taken notice of me that fall (most likely due to the short nature of my cheerleading skirt although he always denied it) and had wrangled a date with me through mutual friends. You know the drill, my best friend was dating his best friend and, if The Boy and I dated we would fall in love and get married and we would all buy houses next door to each other and raise our babies together and we would all be 2gether 4ever!

Or something like that.

However, while The Boy was a looker, my sights were already set on a boy from the rival school, so I had little interest in dating “one of my own”. I only agreed to the date for my friend’s sake, and, ok, because I wanted to make the other boy jealous.

This didn’t work, by the way. I am sure he was gay. How else could he have escaped the charms of my little cheerleading skirt?

And, I digress.

Our first date was on September 14, 1985. If you are having trouble believing that I can remember the exact date; you will really have a hard time believing that I can remember exactly what I was wearing. But, I do.

On the date, we accompanied our mutual best friends to a school dance where they unceremoniously dumped us to have sex in the car. So, it should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was, in fact, the most comfortable evening of my life (all sixteen years of it). We danced that night and there was no hesitation in the steps, no ripple in the fluidity in which we moved, I felt graceful that night on that gym floor, like I had never felt graceful before.

Little did I know when he walked me home that night; that I was writing a chapter in the book of my life. But, how could I have known?

We talked on my parent’s front porch that night until way past our curfews. We talked about everything and anything; I suspected, even then, that we were trying to post-pone the inevitable moment when we would have to part. Funny, the things that I remember from that night.

The moon was full, a harvest moon. It got quite cool as we stood there and he put his varsity athlete’s jacket around my shoulders to keep away the chill. We could have gone inside but I remember not wanting to. I did not want to share him, to share that moment in time with my parents or my sisters. I wanted it to myself. And I didn’t even know what it was yet. Not then.

The hours flew by. I was thoroughly entertained by him; The Boy was smart. He was funny. He was sweet and he was handsome. And he smelled so damn good; like clothing dried in the sunshine.

When he left, I missed him. I denied it, though. I told my friend that the date had been “ok”. I was still determined to catch the other boy.

My mind was set. Totally set.

My heart overruled.

After that first night, The Boy and I were inseparable.

Months later, on a cold winter night, in the front seat of his Ford pick-up; he told me that he loved me. My head laughed at his boyish declaration; it was too early, we were too young. This was crazy talk.

But, my heart. My heart swelled to three times its normal size; cutting off oxygen to my head until it saw reason. My heart knew.

My heart kicks ass and takes names.

I loved him. And, I continued to love him for the next six years so, overall; I would say that first date went pretty well.

Last night, he was smiling in my dream; he smelled like sunshine.

I love my husband and my children. I love the life that I have chosen. I love the person that I have become; I am not perfect, I have flaws, but they are my flaws and I embrace them.
My head recognizes that The Boy wrote part of the history of me; the lessons he taught me were invaluable and, for that, there can be no regrets.

And, sometimes, my heart misses The Boy.

The man that The Boy grew up to be isn’t someone that I know well. In fact, I don’t know him at all so, when my mom called me yesterday to tell me that he had suffered an aneurysm and was not doing well, I was surprised at how sad it made me and, obviously; that is why I dreamt about him last night.

If you are of the praying sort, please say a prayer for the man who was The Boy and for his family. As you may recall, they lost his brother in May and I cannot imagine the heartache that another loss of this magnitude would mean for his parents and siblings, not to mention for his own two young sons.

I really can't.

On that note, remember when this blog used to be funny? Yeah, me neither.

Not Your Average Bear

I love yoga. I’ve been practicing the discipline for the past two years and feel that I have benefited greatly from the increased strength and flexibility that it has provided me. Hugh, not placing much faith in Eastern medicine, scoffed at the notion that it could prove beneficial to him as well, but; I insisted that it could, especially considering the lower-back problems that he has been experiencing since being involved in a car accident a number of years ago.

A couple of nights ago, I finally convinced him to give yoga a shot and, as the children looked on in amusement, we proceeded to run through a number of poses and transitions.

The following day, Hugh was extremely sore. And, you know pissed.

But! I convinced him that the soreness was a sign that his body needed to continue with the practice and that, in time, he would be limber and free of pain. And, since he is a sucker; he believed me and agreed to try again last night and.....

....he could barely get out of bed this morning which leads me to believe that he is probably not destined to become a yogi.

His children, on the other hand, just might be.










And they totally get that from their mother.