Blue Butter

There was a special on TV today. It’s sort of a “Christmas on Ice” presentation. I hated it. Oh, I don’t mean I hate the sport in general, but I do hate the fact it makes me a nervous wreck. Worse, I hate knowing why I feel that way. You see, I’m about as graceful as a drunk man trying to flirt - there just ain’t nothing attractive about it.
Off the top of my head, I can think of six recent events that prove my point. Most recently was the trip over the extension cord I left on my front porch. Don’t go judgin’ me - let me tell the story first.
Let me lay the groundwork - trust me, it puts me in a far better light than if I just told the story with no foundation. I live alone and my yard behind the privacy fence is small enough that I can use the weed eater in the summer. The only problem is I have no idea how to mix the oil and gas and my Dad, God love him, has long since given up any hope of my learning how to mix it either. His solution was to arm me with his two electric weed eaters. My daddy is a wise man. He once told me, after I’d moved about an hour and a half north of my hometown to be careful with the gun he left me. He told me to be sure I hit what I aimed for and to be even more sure of my target - he had no intentions of making the drive in the middle of the night to bury one of my dogs I’d mistaken for a burglar. But that’s another story. So, here I am, with my weed eaters I plug into an extension cord. I have one of those big orange ones that will cover the entire parameter of the yard. One particularly hot day, after I’d finished with the yard work, I left the extension cord on the porch and I clearly remember thinking to myself, “You better get it out of the way….you know how clumsy you are”. But me, in my own delightful world that no one else is privy to, I convinced myself that I’d just avoid it until I managed to gather enough energy to put it away. That energy was a long time coming because two days later, it’s still on the front porch. And then I trip over it. I busted my knee up something fierce. The scar is horrendous and even though it’s been months, it still pops from time to time. But it gets better. A few weeks later, after I’d managed to heal to some degree, I’m doing my yard work again on a Saturday morning. I had an electric hedge clipper at full speed and heard my cell ring. And yes, I know better. I turned for a split second to see who was calling and when I turned back, I misjudged the distance from the handle to where the little hedge thingeys were moving at warp speed. All I remember is a flash of red and my finger flying past my head (don’t go judgin’ me - let me finish my story). I dropped the hedge clippers and reached into my car for a t-shirt that’d been in the back seat for God knows how long, closed my eyes and wrapped my hand in it to catch the gallons of blood. Then I called Mom. I think I told her I cut my finger off. I was traumatized - I don’t remember exactly what I told her. I was too scared to look. What seemed like ten seconds later, she comes wheelin’ in the driveway in her truck. It’s funny now, but so tragic as it was happening - the dogs were trying to greet her (or maybe trying to make their escape - again, I was traumatized and I don’t remember clearly). She takes the t-shirt off - I think I was in shock and near the passing out stage - and the next thing I remember is, “Donna, you didn’t cut your finger off!” I finally muster the courage to look for myself and all my fingers were still attached. She bandages it up for me and sings the chicken soup song and doles out the appropriate amount of maternal “oh baby, it’s OK” reassurances before she goes home to tell Daddy my latest mishap. For some reason, Daddy waits until Monday morning to call me - from work - to tease me about it. Yeah, something about an audience made it that much funnier, I guess.
Anyway, back to the ice skating. I find it so difficult to believe the grace these athletes have. It’s truly an art - but I just don’t know how they do it, time and again, and never manage to fall or trip or something. Of course, I don’t want them to, but I do want to know how they do it. I want to know how they manage these incredible and graceful moves when I can’t even drink a diet Coke without spilling it down the front of my shirt! And in case you’re wondering, my finger I swore I saw fly past was a twig that was in the hedge clippers.

Eight years ago, my ex husband come in from work with a puppy.  I was a little bothered because we’d just gotten another puppy, a border collie that I adored, but who was deaf and received all of my attention. I’d been training Cinderella and teaching hand signals to her, so for Mr. Jackass of The Year (he won that award ten straight years!) to come through the door with a six pack of Miller Lite in one hand and a black and white puppy that barely fit in his other hand, I knew what that meant - I’d be the sole trainer for yet another new member of the family.  Still, Little One grew on me just as Cinderella did.  When I gave the ex hubby back to his mother so she could finish raising him, I kept the two dogs.  It might interest you to know the dogs were raised, the ex?  Last I heard, his mom was still trying.  Anyway, Cinderella and Little One had been with me all these years.  Cinderella died two years ago, while Little One is still the “tramp of the neighborhood”.  My mom has sworn for years that Little One is gay.  Other than the way he sits and holds his left paw, I’ve no idea why she says this.  She can usually figure people out instantly.  She can spot a man who’s cracking the secretary from ten paces, she can accurately predict which marriage will last and which won’t make it through the first year - and she does this sitting in the pews at the church, watching the bride walk down the aisle.  So, naturally, as a rule, I’m inclined to believe her.  But this nonsense with Little One?  Nah - not true.  He roams the neighborhood too much.  Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder.  Maybe he is gay.  I sort of come to this conclusion when I read this post and found myself laughing at the entire blog - it’s great reading, for sure from one of the only other people on this planet who “gets” it.  Don’t get me wrong - it makes no difference to me if Little One’s gay, it’s just the fact that once - just once - I’d like to find myself in the rare position of being right at the same time Mom’s is wrong.  Who the hell am I kidding - I’m forty years old and it ain’t happened yet. 

So, if a cat a can be gay, maybe all those times I thought Little One was following the natural inclination to procreate; maybe he was following the male dogs that were following the female dog that was in heat.  And yes - I know what this means - I’ll have to call mom and declare, once again (just as I did in high school when she told me I’d get over my first love and each time over the years she told me my hair looks better blonde) that she was right. 

Think of the holiday traditions that were started when you were a kid.  Most parents love to define new ideas with their own unique touches that are repeated every season.  I have one sister and no brothers, so there’s one gift we can always expect under the tree.  It’s been that way since we were kids and it just evolved into our adulthoods.  It wouldn’t be Christmas without these gifts from Mom.  Of course, little girls always get their baby dolls from Santa every year, but my mom has made it a ritual, even as little sis and I are both staring forty in the face, to make sure there’s a “baby doll” under the tree.  It’s like comfort food for our souls.   The only year that Mom ever swayed from the expected was the year I had my son.  This is the only year I got a baby boy doll, the rest have been little girl dolls with brown hair or blonde hair or even red hair - just depending on which color our own hair was at the time.  These aren’t expensive collectible dolls that can be defined as monetary investments, instead, the value of my collection is intimate and personal and treasured.  Even in the years that were things were tight in our home, Mom always made sure there were two “happies” under the tree, usually wrapped in identical paper, with my name on one and my sister’s name on the other.  And the years things weren’t so tight financially, those two matching gifts would still be there, regardless of anything else under the tree.  Money just never played into it.  I have every doll from every year and can remember every Christmas each doll symbolizes - whether it’s 1986 or 1999. 

Dad’s ritual, though, are the little brass ornaments you buy at the jewelry counters in Wal Mart or Target that can be engraved with a name or year the ornament was bought.  He didn’t begin this tradition until after my son, the first grandchild, was born.  From then on, he’s bought one ornament, and then two and finally, three ornaments each Christmas - one for each grandchild as he or she was born.   He’s particular in what he chooses and he insists on engraving these shiny tree decorations himself.  He carefully  engraves each with the name and the year for each grandbaby on his chosen ornaments.  He usually picks his ornaments based on what the year has brought for the kids.  Sometimes it’s a truck or a football or a doll.  My niece loves cats, so there’s one of a cat with her name and the year and now that she’s into horse riding, I’m sure there will be one of a horse this year.  Every year, the tree displays these ornaments along side the ornaments my sister and I made in elementary school.  There are crinkled construction paper angels with bits of glitter that hasn’t fell off over the years and bells made from pipe cleaners with pieces of yarn looped through the tops for easier hanging on the tree’s limbs. 

As more and more stories hit the news of parents arrested in meth houses with their kids crawling on the floors and stories out of Nebraska of yet another teenager being abandoned with no consequences to the parents, thanks to a poorly worded (and soon to be changed) safe haven law, these ornaments are proof of a solid and happy childhood.  They’re proof that Mom was right each time she’d say, “One day you’ll thank me” every time we told her how horrible our lives were because we had an eleven o’clock curfew or were refused permission to run away from home (yes, we actually thought we needed permission!). 

We’re gearing up for Mom’s traditional pot of seafood gumbo for Thanksgiving, complete with Daddy’s potato salad and maybe one of my red velvet cakes.  My sister usually brings the baked yams with marshmallows melted on top.  The odds of us all actually being together at the same time are pretty slim, but only because of extended families and hunting trips that are always top priority.  Eventually, though, my sister and I always cross paths at some point over the long weekend.  Our topic of conversation is always what we’re getting Mom and Dad for Christmas.  Do we go in together and get a big gift for both of them?  Is she shopping in Mobile or online this year?  Did Mom tell us how much more sugar we needed in the tea (hers is always the one pitcher that’s sweet enough)?  You know, just girl stuff between two sisters who share an incredible childhood.

OK - I can’t stand it for another second!  We all love the holidays, yes?  And we know it’s time to start gearing up when those cheesy and teeth grinding commercials start hitting the airwaves.  And no matter how hard I try, there are times I can’t reach the remote fast enough to mute the commercials.  I know, I know - I need a life.  Get in line - my mom has dibs on reminding me of that fact.  But back to the subject.

Every year, the jewelry stores start with their exclamations of how some lucky gal is fortunate in that her special someone went to this jewelry store, proposed in front of 43 family members with the goal of selling a “happily ever after”, and finally, it begins to fade out with grandma’s smile,  just as the news of where the guy went makes its rounds at the restaurant.  Ugh! It drives me crazy.  And let’s not forget what every kiss begins with: apparently, it’s a jewelry store.  And aren’t those sugary women’s voices in the voice-overs nauseating?  A particular toy manufacturer comes to mind where the kids are happily sharing the “toy of the moment”.  I’ve never known two kids with only one toy between them not go to war.

The truth is though; it’s not just during the holidays the mute button gets a workout.  Think of the one that includes a small family taking bets on how many “sheeters” any spill is going to take to clean up. That one has me convinced I had a mean mommy.  I can’t ever remember Mom peeking over the counter and declaring with a smile, “Nope.  That’s a one sheeter.”  In our house, it was “Donna Janell - get that spill cleaned up and you better make sure it’s done right!  I don’t want feet sticking to the floor!  And don’t blame your sister…I saw you knock that glass over!”

Oh, and remember the cellular phone commercial a couple years ago, where the two sisters were battling one another over the cell?  They were scrapping it out in the middle of the living room while the dad was trying to watch TV over them.  Now that’s a realistic commercial!  There was a particularly memorable fight between my sister and me when were teenagers over the telephone (way before cells invaded our lives).  I’ll never forget it - Mom was out, probably grocery shopping or something, and Daddy’s trying to watch a boxing match (how ironic!) on TV.   We were in the middle of the floor while Daddy was trying to see the professional fight over the fight going on in the living room.  He didn’t say a word until one of us managed to hit the recliner.  We knew we were close to getting him riled up (and trust me, it takes a lot to get Daddy riled up), but when we nearly knocked him out of the chair (I think I had my sister by the hair and was dragging her around), we knew it was on then.  In one fell swoop, he reaches down, grabs the phone we’re fighting over and declares, “Both of you - go to your rooms NOW!”  And that was it.  Party over.  But we knew if Mom came in before Daddy had cooled off, we’d not be a part of a phone call for no telling how long.  She’d have restricted us in about two seconds flat.  Luckily for our social lives, Mom never found out (well, until now). 

Now, not all commercials drive me crazy with their unrealistic images.  There are a couple that break my heart.  Two that come to mind have celebrities speaking.  Both tell of some of the horrors animals endure.  One is regarding dogs and cats in animal shelters while the other tells of how global warming is making it difficult for bears to survive due to melting ice. 

And finally, just when we get used to “Smilin’ Bob” and have learned to tolerate his face across our televisions seventy two times a day, they retire him and come out with different uhm….enhancement products.  There is nothing ickier than a bunch of grown men sitting around and singing an old Elvis Presley song while giving each other these “cat that ate the canary” looks.  Kind of a visual high five. 

And now, I’ll wrap this up with a couple of honorable mentions:

The internet dating sites where we’re lucky enough to overhear a conversation between two people who met on the site promising to never do this or never do that.  The actors in both commercials look more like siblings.

The commercial where you’re invited to order an egg shaped foot filer that catches the “dust”.  Why is it these commercials never allow the women to paint their toes!?  It’s icky enough, a little color can’t hurt.

The croissant commercial where two people at the table are debating over who gets the last one.  Any woman who spends all day cooking a holiday feast and can still smile while telling her guests to not worry, there’s more cannot possibly be human.

Every so often, something happens that reminds us of an incredibly good decision we’ve made in some area of our lives.  Sometimes our spouses do something that causes us to send up a quick prayer of gratitude.  It can as simple as hitting the clothes hamper instead of the floor or as exciting as a surprise vacation to Italy.  Most of the time, it’s the little things.  And sometimes, it has as much to do with an initial decision that was made in desperation.As we all know, the mortgage industry has taken a huge hit.  I think for the first time in my life, I was able to see how national economic issues affected my own life.  Since I was in the mortgage business and worked for a small brokerage company, in a small town, no less, the loss of my job was almost imminent.  I was also one of the rare ones who received a salary.  Although I had my originator’s license, my job was on an administrative level.  I handled the payables and receivables, worked as the go-between with the banking and consumer finance division of the state and was the office manager.  It never really occurred to me that I’d have a problem finding a new position.  In fact, I’d never had a problem.  This time was different.  I sent 52 resumes out with absolutely no offers.  I must have reviewed my resume a thousand times, looking for that one typo or poor sentence structure that stuck out like a sore thumb, inhibiting my efforts.  There were no typos and my references were solid.  On a fluke, I did a quick search for freelancing positions.  I was looking for anything that would provide an income.  Well, almost anything.  My mom would’ve kicked my ass if I considered prostitution.  And besides, I’m too old.  And have too  close of a relationship with Blue Bell ice cream that keeps me from wearing those little get-ups.  And if I thought I was broke before, trust me, this line of work would’ve ensured I became homeless.  So, without that being a consideration, I looked for anything else would’ve provided an income.  I found an excellent outsourcing site and the rest is history. 

Now for the epiphany.  Yesterday, as I was going into town, I had the radio on and heard the DJ say something along the lines of, “Up next, your favorite afternoon personality comes on.  And you know what that means: you’re two thirds finished with your workday!”  And it hit me.  If I can continue doing well in the freelance arena and can support the bills and Blue Bell addiction, I will never have to view working as a 9-5, nicely boxed and constricted “duty”.  It hit me that for the first time in my life, my assignments are based solely on what I choose them to be.  I’ve known since beginning this journey that I was doing what many wanted to do, but this was different.  This was some kind of thumbs-up from heaven.  Just the fact that I haven’t set an alarm clock in two months is blissfully fulfilling.  My only problem is ensuring I don’t become too much of a hermit, which is going to be a challenge, since I’m sort of a loner anyway.  The whole “too much of a good thing” aspect is a bit worrisome, but manageable and certainly doesn’t go into the “con” side of my list.  In fact, in my list of “pros and cons” that I seem to have for every aspect of my life, this is the only unbalanced list, as everything falls into the “pros” side while the “cons” side is well, blank.  If I choose to work within a typical and traditional work day, that’s fine, but usually, I’m vacuuming at 3 a.m. and anyone who stops in is just as likely to see the computer alive and kicking at 1 in the afternoon as it is at 1 in the morning.  The point is, all of the stress - and when you notice your hair coming out in your brushes in clumps, you know it’s stress - but the stress I felt only a few months ago is replaced with a peace and contentment.  The bills are still due, but I’ve learned it’s one crisis at a time and one day at a time.  And although is a gruesomely slow dance, the bills are beginning to lose their weight on my shoulders.  The burdens are being lifted and I’m grateful for the absence of any fear that might could have prevented me from pursuing this under different circumstances.  Maybe it’s one of those things that God knows better than any of us ever can.  Sometimes it boils down to knocking our heads against the wrong walls so that only the right ones, the painless ones, remain.

I was plundering through various sites tonight, looking for a topic to post that included a legal angle for a blog.  This is a daily routine for me, as I’m contracted to post at least five times a week.  I always get sidetracked with some of the insanity I find.  With headlines describing in five words or less of how teenagers are killing their classmates over a girlfriend, mothers who are using the Nebraska safe haven laws to drop their teenagers off in front of hospitals and other designated areas, only to return to another state with the freedom to do their drugs all day and all night and other equally disturbing displays of human nature, I’ve realized the charmed life I truly live.  Couple this with the privilege of being able to cast a vote in only six hours that will play a role in this American life I live, I’m really beginning to see things in a different perspective. 

As I’m sitting on my sofa, able to watch at least a hundred channels, thanks to satellite TV, I look around and see this:

I have books on my shelves that will take me anywhere I want to go, books that have the power to broaden my horizons simply by opening a page and learning the definition of a new word and even books that remind me why the movie version is one of my all time favorites.  Think Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.  To this day, Gregory Peck is the ultimate movie star in my eyes because of this classic.  My eyes scan to the walls that are solid and provide shelter for me and hold pictures and physical trinkets that are a witness to my having been on this planet.  I have a picture of my mom when she was around five years old. It’s still in the same frame that it was probably displayed in when my grandmother had the picture made.  Her tiny hands remind me of my own at that age and her little pink socks match the pink summer dress she’s wearing.  Hands in her lap and her legs crossed at her ankles - she was such a cutie.  And then, I look two feet to the left and I see a picture of the one reason that makes my life so spectacular - a picture of my son.  He’s sixteen in this picture and is sitting in a boat, watching the pier with his hand on the boat motor.  His baseball cap is on backwards and I can tell he’d spent the entire day on the river because his shoulders are already a dark shade of pink. There’s the shelf my dad nailed to the wall when I moved in to my little place and on this shelf, is a framed photograph of my niece and nephew.  Bittersweet thoughts when I look at this picture.  My heart hurts and I say a prayer.  And so this slow dance goes, from these treasured pictures to the area in my tiny living room that holds a desk and printer, but is seldom home to the computer since it’s always on my lap on the sofa or on the counter as I’m checking email and waiting for my Pop Tarts to warm.  And of course, the dogs are driving me crazy.  Trixie can’t stand for Little One to be near me and Little One tolerates it until he finally gives up to wait by the door, ready to dart as soon as I open it. 

These daily things, mundane and routine, are why our votes count.  We honor the freedoms by recognizing their meanings.  Let’s face it, there are places I could be right now that my nail polish and tattoo wouldn’t be allowed.  And my ability to let my mouth overload my ass (as my mom says so eloquently)?  Not in a million years would I be allowed to live to tell the tale.  And speaking of moms and dads, mine would never have abandoned my sister or me in another state.  There were times we wish they would have, but each new story that comes out of Nebraska makes me that much more grateful and too, it makes me that much sadder for these kids who live with that knowledge of knowing they were abandoned. 

So tonight, I choose a safer topic for my blog posting, one that doesn’t hurt my heart and after it’s posted, I pull the Pledge and dusting rag from under the sink and begin polishing my treasures - well, most of them.  The dogs tend to make a run for it.