Good News!!!!

We just got back from the Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa. The news is all good. Although the melanoma was fully double the depth they originally estimated, the removal of the toe . . . sorry if you are squeamish . . . eliminated any chance of leaving any errant cells behind. And . . . the sentinel lymph nodes that they removed, proved to all be negative, meaning it had not spread. Does the news get any better???? I think not. Thank you, Lord.

Now for the toe jokes. You have to understand that the kind people over at Moffitt do nothing but deal with cancer and it's devastating effects all day long. So to survive, they have a little fun here and there. As we checked in for our appointment, Frank was kidding around with Kymberly, one of the receptionists . . . the same one we've dealt with the last two times. She finally decided it was safe to let loose with a goodie. Who do you call when you lose a toe? A toe (tow)-truck!!! Groan, I know. Bad. But cracked us up none the less. So Frank, to get even, retells his goodie from our doctors office. When we went to have the bandage changed, the nurse was carefully removing the bandages and gets down to the last one which apparently left one little fiber behind. Frank, with a straight face, looks at the nurse and says, "Careful, if you pull that string, another toe falls off." Double groan.

And now under the heading of you know I love him if . . . We have two cars. His three year old Vette and my nine year old Miata. After trying them both out for size, the obvious choice for comfort was to take the Vette to Tampa . . . with me driving. Now in three years, I can literally count on one hand, the number of times he has let me drive his baby. We made it as far as the gas station to tank up . . . one block away . . . before he said, "Get your @ss out of that seat. I'm driving." To which I replied. "No! and stuck my tongue out at him." I wish you could have seen the man's head at the other pump swivel. Frank and I just lost it. So much for our auspicious start. The trip over there was uneventful.

On the way home, things started heading down hill. We were getting tired. His foot was starting to rebel. We hit rush hour traffic, some idiot cut us off with inches to spare and to top things off, his message light kept coming on announcing that his left rear tire was losing pressure. Even though he has run-flat tires, doing the interstate in excess of 70 mph, is not the best of options. We pulled over to add air and limped the rest of the way home. He is distraught. His baby is in the garage . . . ailing.

And the highlight . . . other than being cancer free of course . . . As we hit Tampa early, we stopped at Five Guys for lunch. Ignoring the fat content, we noshed down on THE best hamburgers and fries ever.

(In answer to your question . . . yes, I take my camera everywhere.)

predictability . . .

While we all have our little routines we follow, for the most part our antics, since we are both retired and Katie is away at school, are rather unpredictable in that we can and often do, follow the wind. That is until we get to Sundays. Sundays just seems to flow on their own around here. Month after month, year after year, the routine stays the same. I get up, print off my grocery list, head out to thump the fruit, check fat contents and drool in the bakery aisle, come home, unpack, grab a cup of Swiss Mocha, wrest the comic section from Frank's paper, divest it of the crossword puzzle, make hash of my newest eraser, apply tape to those spots where I have worn clear through, crawl back into bed with three furry beasties tucked along side, wake up, divide and conquer the laundry, putter in the kitchen for dinner and crash in front of the TV with Frank, laptop . . . well, in my lap.

The only time this routine varies is if we are out of town or something major occurs. Prior to 2000, the other staple in our Sunday morning routine was a huge breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes, hash browns, juice etc. Until the fateful day I stuffed Frank full of goodies and watched him totter off to the living room to read the paper. Twenty minutes later we were flying through red lights and screaming into the ER. Once he stabilized from a full blown heart attack, they did a triple bypass. No more big breakfasts in this house. I was terrified I would murder him with food. Now his predictable Sunday morning breakfast is, as always, Wheaties, 1% milk, a banana, OJ and coffee.

But this morning eight years later, and a tad under the weather, he asked for pancakes. My heart still skips a beat at the thought of feeding them to him and was delighted to discover that the pancake box, shoved in the back of the fridge had expired in July of 07. No pancakes today. Yay, Wheaties!

So what is it about predictability that is so comforting? Why does it reassure that all is right with the world? That things are copacetic. Is it just the sheer pattern in our otherwise chaotic lives? I don't have the answer. I just know I love Sundays. They make me feel good, like hot chocolate on a cold morning or flannel sheets still warm from the dryer. Maybe I am just getting old. What predictable things make your life warm and fuzzy? I'd love to hear.

cringe . . .

the other night was our annual Homeowners Association meeting. I generally go to watch the fireworks. I know, I know, I should be there out of civic duty, but, nope . . . it's the fireworks that gets my blood stirring. With only thirty six households tucked away in this small enclave, this isn't exactly the stuff senatorial dreams are made of. At the last meeting, one of my less beloved but certainly more exuberant neighbors threatened to quit as chair of the association three times before she realized that no one was imploring her to stay and finally really did quit. Ha! She also tried to usurp the Secretary which caused yet another donnybrook. Let me tell you, there is great entertainment value to be had in this microcosmic political venue for a bored housewife.

While she decided not to grace us with her presence, another neighbor with a meticulously manicured lawn, took up the slack with a tirade about the condition of his neighbor's yard. Three sentences into said rant and I felt my first cringe. You see, while he was displaying photos of the offending weeds, recalcitrant leaves and mold encrusted tiles, at each shot, I was cringing, each deeper and more intense than the first, until I found myself wishing I could merely slither under the table only to reappear after said meeting was adjourned. If he was upset about his neighbors yard, he would be all but apocalyptic about mine. Where a photo showed two dead banana leaves, I have an entire dead tree, where they showed small patches of weeds, I have fields! Now if you've followed this blog for very long, you know my house is never going to win an award from Good Housekeeping. No, I don't qualify for an episode of Clean House . . . everything being rather neat and orderly, but the dust bunnies and cobwebs . . . ah, those are rampant. And so my philosophy or rather lack thereof sort of filters out into the yard. Before you even go there, no, you won't find an old tufted sofa/rocker on the front porch sporting errant springs and missing stuffing, there are no vintage 1952 washers, no rusted wheelbarrows, no stacks of half used paint cans. But there are weeds to be pulled, sidewalks to be edged, and the truth be told, my yard is in much worse condition than the offending neighbor's. And as they decided to forward said neighbor with a copy of the covenants clearly stating that should the yards not be kept to standard, the association will right the wrong and send the owner the bill . . . I will be the one hiding behind my front door waiting for my bell to ring, to receive my notice . . . cringe.

I'm having a love affair . . .

with templates. Since I finally 'get' them, I can't get enough of them. All those downloaded and stashed templates that have been hidden away for months are coming out of the closet. So much fun to play with. Hooray.


Credits: Papers: Julia Makotinsky and Amy Teets
Template: Katie Pertiet, Fonts: You are Loved and CK_Alis_Writing.

been fooling around again . . .

This little guy is so adorable. He's my second favorite scrap subject.

Credits: Background paper, layered photo stack, leaves by Katie Pertiet. Cardboard tab by DSSM, Fonts: You Are Loved and Fluoxetine.

I am an unabashed thief . . .

and I flat out stole this layout from my friend Anke. If the truth be known, I actually consider myself to be showing great restraint in not stealing almost every layout she does. She is a stunning digital artist. I was absolutely fascinated with her use of the number 5 and had to try and replicate it. The other thing I played with was the Dodge Tool. I have used it before but not in this manner. I think I like the effect of lightening better than the darkening of the Burn Tool, I had been so fond of.


Credits: Background paper and circle sticker: J. Crowley, Fonts: Fluoxetine, Jane Austin, Palatino Linotype, Charms Blue Flower Sticker: Jessica Sprague, Swirl: Fei, Background swirls: Scarlet Heels.

Thank you Anke, for being such and inspiration and making me grow my skills.

I'm forever blowing bubbles . . .

As I perched this morning, as I do every morning, upon the golden throne, I knew the second I gave the handle a downward thrust that all was not right with the world. "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction" . . . I get that . . . but apparently no one had ever told my toilet that. Mt. Vesuvius had nothing on the inner workings of my second story sewer system. With Frank incapacitated, I did the only thing I knew to do. I screwed off the water valve and called a plumber. Poor man, he comes here too often. We knew each other's names. Heck, I know his cat's names. He is brilliant. He fixed the mountain and did some reconstructing of bowels in the only other toilet yet to have regurgitated its contents. Hooray. I live to flush another day.

You'd think that would be enough excitement for the day. Nay, I say, when you are a dork, there is always room for more. Sitting atop the throne, was stored a beautiful decorative jar of bath salts, given to me by an old friend especially to complement the bathroom decor. It is a rather squatty hand blown glass affair with a wide mouth cork plopped in its mouth. I am very fond of it. I am also a curious soul. I carefully lifted the lid of the throne to view the new "guts". I was doing well until said jar decided to dive head first into the tank. Without trepidation, my hand followed to retrieve my object d'art. Alas it came forth with the container but neither lid nor contents. So there I stood with a toilet tank full of bath salts and an uncontrollable urge to flush . . . yep, I got bubbles. Pale iridescent blue and green bubbles dancing around in circles heading for greener pastures. Somewhere, in the local reclamation plant, there is some poor soul scratching his head in utter amazement. I didn't mean it sir, I really didn't.