recent pictures of the amazing girls

Breanne, who dressed up in her mom’s clothes and insisted on a photo shoot

Audrey, who insisted the cat bed was her bed

Cousins under the influence of Sesame Street on gramma's bed

Sweet, wee girl...

searching for gramma's voice

does this happen to them all?

We have a channel on the cable that airs concerts--some new bands, some bands who played when I was a teen, and most all of them are entertaining, perhaps not in the intended manner but entertaining just the same.

We watched and listened to a Moody Blues concert last week. Like many artists who performed in the 60s' and early 70s', (at least the ones who survived) the songs were in lower keys that occasionally still strained the vocal chords, but they brought back good memories.

I have to admit though, every time we saw a close up of their faces, I felt certain I was watching 60-year-old, doughy British women singing "Knights in White Satin."

they're back

Twice a year, these guys (in the masthead) come through the gardens--once in the spring and once in the late summer--and eat seeds from the sage. I think they're wild canaries. Their chests are bright yellow and they are tiny little birds. And they can sing.

There are usually six of them and unless I'm already out in the garden, sitting very still, the closest I can get is about ten feet away, through the window.

Winter must be on its way.

which of these things is not like the other?

Yes, you are in luck again--I have more than one image popping around in my brain, so I will attempt to keep the post short--oh jeez, who am I kidding. Get a drink and a snack and relax as you read.

1. Just now, Jr was trimming the collie, and for some reason I thought it funny when he asked me if he should keep the tufts. On the end of her tail. Like a sissy poodle. Please.

2. For dinner one night this week, I decided to serve Sugar's family's favorite meal that she cooks: fried chicken, mashed potatoes (she doesn't make gravy, but I did), and corn on the cob. Please note that I have never fried chicken for fear that it won't cook thoroughly, and I've never used shortening for anything other than baked goods although I did notice that my year's supply sized can of Crisco from Costco did have a picture of what appeared to be fried chicken. Anyway, I thought that if Sugar's family liked it and it was as easy as she said, then my family might love it and it might be as easy for me as it is for her. Result: the chicken did not cook all the way through and was slightly unseasoned, the mashed potatoes and gravy were fabulous, and the corn on the cob was crispy and sweet. The drummer is not a fan of corn, so when I asked him if he would like some corn on the cob, he replied, "Corn on the cob is the best kind of corn," and something about the way he said it and his facial expression and tone of voice reminded me, for just a moment, of his grandfather-- the man he was named after. Very cool and kinda mystical. ps Later, I told Jack I thought it would have gone better if I'd used boneless chicken, or if I'd used boneless, skinless chicken, but then I realized that if I'd cooked boneless, skinless chicken in canola or olive oil and seasoned it more, we could have had chicken parm. And we all know how I feel about that. It brings out the bad poetry in me.

3. Finally, have I ever mentioned political discussions between Jack and me? I think that for the first decade together we both leaned towards the left. Then something happened and knocked Jack towards the right. Apparently we were not in the same tornado or perhaps it was something exactly like a tornado where one house is dropped in Oz and the next door house is untouched, including even the flowers. Whatever it was, for the past few years, we have been unable to agree on much of anything about politics. I think that is because Jack insists that right is right, whereas I think right is wrong. er. Well anyway. Tonight we went out to eat and I told him I didn't think we could watch any tv this weekend because I wasn't going to spend a three-day weekend bickering (or rather, him discussing and me refusing to participate) about the wise move of John McCain to choose that woman to be his running mate. (Sorry, I tried to resist the urge to say that the use of 'running mate' in the same sentence as McCain is, if nothing else, seriously icky, but well, there you go, I couldn't do it.) Of course, politics was the topic we fell onto. As Jack started to get into the right, and it became obvious that it was my turn to comment, I looked at him, paused, and said, "In France." He gave me his usual, Woman- what - are- you- talking- about? look, and grinned (yes, kids, daddy grinned!) when he realized I was willing to talk as long as we kept it light. So talk we did, with an occasional "In France"--through the bread (honey wheat) and the salad (crispy and lots of stuff in it), and throughout the main course, (man do I love a good steak) and into the dessert, during which, he looked across the table at me and said, "Thank you for talking about this with me tonight. It means a lot to me." I had to admit it felt good and seriously, how could I have not done that for him and for me since earlier tonight, when we stopped to see my mom and dad (June and Mr. Cleaver), and my mom said, with a glimmer in her eye, "So, what do you think about the events?" And I said, "What events?" And she said, "The Vice President Woman." And I said, "What do you think about it?" And she said, "I think it's great" and before she could say anything more, Jack said, "Let's not get into that" to which June said, "What?" and he said, "Politics--Gilian seriously doesn't like to talk about it." How could I not love a man who has figured out when I need some help finding a way to gracefully leave the party?

a little of this, a little of that and an early picture of michael phelps

Things I've learned since I turned 50:

1. Do not attempt to self-diagnose by checking out your symptoms on google or wikipedia. See a doctor. Then check out her diagnosis on google or wikipedia. In French.
2. I thought I had finally learned how to swallow pills without gagging myself. As a kid, I was taught that the way to swallow pills was to push them as far back into the mouth as possible and then to swallow a bunch of water to wash them down--which is also a perfectly good way to wake up and highly sensitize the gag reflex. The other day, Jack explained once again the pill-popping method that involves tossing the pills under the tongue, swishing a mouthful of water, and swallowing the water with the pills. No gagging. I did it. Such a proud moment.
3. Swishing diet coke around the mouth with pills will not produce the same non-gagging experience. It will remind the gagging reflex of its lifelong job whenever pills enter the mouth--perhaps something to do with the carbonation, which, as everyone knows, has the lifelong job of fizzing when swished. After that experience, the gag reflex will be back, full speed ahead.

As a bonus, I'm posting a picture of Michael Phelps at an early age, that my friend, Sugar, sent to me that I'm certain she found on the internet. I would credit the author if I knew who it was, but I don't, so I won't except to say that because it was found on the internet, I know it's true. And you might have to click on it to see it clearly.

mothers and daughters

The relationship between mothers and daughters can seem mighty complicated at times. When Jessie, my only daughter, was close to giving birth to her first child, a daughter, I bought this figurine. It's called "Chrysalis" and the image of that word to describe this figurine and the feelings I have for my daughter seem obvious.

As easy as our relationship seems to be, there are times when it gets complicated. Usually the complication involves my inability to let go, but occasionally, recently, it is more about my girl discovering that I have flaws.

Cracks and even holes.

I am so relieved to realize that our relationship can weather a storm, even a tornado or frighteningly severe thunderstorm, and eventually find the calm after the storm. See for yourself.

I love this girl.

the best 50th birthday in my life

Yesterday was my birthday. Not only was it the best 50th birthday I've ever had, it was also a day filled with friends, family, good food, good times and only a bit of melancholy. This is how I will remember the day:

1. Happy birthday greetings throughout the day from friends and family--some in person, some by phone, and some in tender feelings.
2. Yardsailing with Sugar--only four or five stops, but what amazing stops they were! The Annual Brighton (pronounced brite-un) High School Cheerleader sale, followed by stops at two homes that were selling mostly brand new, still with the tags, baby clothes, and mostly brand new, still with the store tags, 50- year- old- women- sized- clothes- for- women- who- probably- don't- dress- exactly- their- age- clothes. Sugar and I couldn't decide if we really believed the explanations from the still-tagged clothes' owners (too many baby clothes to use, and his mother-in-law buys so many clothes that she will never wear them so we're selling them) or if they were all hot and we just bought a bunch of stolen stuff. By nature I am a trusting soul, so I chose to believe the explanations. In between the two new/tagged clothes houses, we stopped at a place that was selling two sofas--a teal colored leather sofa, and an oxblood colored leather sofa with fabric cushions. Both in brand new condition, one with the tags still on. Only $300. For both. Delivered to my house. The only bummer was that the lime colored faux leather chaise was already sold.
3. Food and more conversation with Sugar at IHOP, using my buy one get one free card, with an excellent server who understood us for who we are and kept the diet coke coming.
4. Time for blogging and dog bathing during the middle of the day.
5. Present time--a new Schwinn pearl pink Roxy coaster from Jack that I rode around the store and parking lot before we took it home on Thursday. A powder blue helmet from Stu, Shi, Audrey, Herschel and Jr as well as a basket, a bell, and an ah-ooh-gah horn for the bike. Two kid-safe tea sets from Jessie, Cory, Breanne, and Janey for many years of tea parties at gramma's house. Funny cards from family, friends, and the cats.
6. Barbeque dinner with Jack, the kids, and the darling girls. I sat in the comfortable chair in the corner of the dining room and watched as they prepared everything. Steaks, salad that contained spinach, peanuts, shredded cheese, diced apples and poppyseed dressing, fresh fruit, chips, soda. All on the deck out back in the gardens. Lovely.
7. NASCAR racing at night on the high-banked track of Bristol in Tennessee. Lots of action, lots of emotion, lots of fun. True I would have preferred to see the 88 car take the checkered flag, but that's racin'.
8. Yummalicious warm birthday brownies baked by Jr in between the coats of paint he was applying to the walls of his new bedroom.
9. And now, three years later, I did not spend most of my birthday with the intense feeling of the loss of my gramma. Losing her on my birthday three years ago was hard, painful, devastating. But it wasn't as bad yesterday as then or as last year--more like a twinge every now and then, that after allowing myself to feel instead of trying to bury or dismiss it, seemed very much okay.

All-in-all, it was a good birthday. I recommend 50th birthdays to all of the people in my life. They are not as scary as I'd been told.