Hole-y sheets, sandy feet

So tonight, I was making up the bed ...

Why make up a bed at night, you ask, when the imminent undressing of said bed for nightly slumber is only a couple of hours away? Well, the sheets were freshly laundered this afternoon. You see, the imaginary maid just didn't get the sheet washing/remaking of the bed done during the day, so we working folks gotta make do in our off time.

Anyway...

I was making the bed, smoothing the fitted sheet [more like wrestling an elastic alligator] at the foot of the bed on my husband's side when I came across this:

Hole-y fitted sheet!

And that? That ain't cool.

Now I must preface this by saying that hubs told me over the phone this afternoon he had noticed a hole in the sheet at the foot of the bed on his side when he undressed the bed to wash the sheets. He asked if we should use another set of sheets and I said, nah ... I hate it when the sheets don't match and besides, how bad could a little hole be?

[Side note: He washed; I dried. How cute are we?]

This? This is not a "hole." It's a freaking crater. As in moon landing. As in one small step through the material and one giant-ass leap through my household budget for new linens.

And really ... how did he not notice this before today?  He does the laundry; it's his gig. I feel like this 8-inch sinkhole to the mattress cover abyss did not develop between last week and this week.

And really ... what the hell does he do with his feet while he sleeps? He doesn't have talons for toenails. He must be like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption, just chipping away behind the Raquel Welch poster during his REMs while I'm the (ZzzQuill-addled) warden just figuring it all out.

So I move on to make up my son's bed. Relieved to see sheets are in good-enough shape.

But then there's this:

Tiny tear in comforter that will soon become a gaping hole that threatens to swallow my teenage son whole in his sleep.

Yes, we washed the comforter this evening too. Now I might suspect that my washing machine has developed teeth and is feasting upon our bed linens. But the fact is, we have relatively cheap linens.

Why don't I spend more money on high-quality linens?

Hint.

Another hint. This game is easy, right?

Aside from that, there's also the matter of how I choose to allocate our hard-earned - but rather limited - resources. I'm trying to put money away for a little trip to the beach soon. I want to spend my extra money to sleep a couple of nights on hotel sheets, not home sheets. I want to put my feet in the sand, even if that means my hubs is going to have to put his feet through our bed sheets a few more nights.

It's about priorities. And right now spending quality family time together counts more than spending money on quality thread count.

But it's also about compromise. So this Friday, I will dip into the vacation fun fund and buy some new sheets for our bed. But we'll just stitch that tear in the comforter for now. I'm pretty sure my teenage son won't mind - or notice - and we'll eventually get a duvet cover. On sale. For cheap.

Because my sweetest dreams have nothing to do with the pedigree of the pillowcase.

A tale of two feet

It started with a loogie.

I was walking from my car to the allergist office this morning for my weekly allergy shots, sporting the cutest little pair of camel-colored flats, when my right foot slid out from under me, like a kick in a chorus line. Standing there like a tightrope artist, I quickly steadied myself, avoiding a parking lot tumble. When I looked to see what had cause me to slip – and making sure it wasn’t under my other foot – I saw it.

A loogie. Smeared from my step and .... substantial.

I just gagged a little at the recall as I type this.

<shudder>

I wiped my feet at the office door and tried to be generous in my reaction. Good thing the perpetrator of that is at the allergist, I sweetly reasoned.

Is it possible for shoes to be traumatized? Because these girls are gonna need some therapy after what they done went and stepped in.

Anyway, I went on with my day. It was a long, busy day with some highs and lows. But I did the best I could with the time given me and made my way home.  Once I got home, I changed out of my flats, slacks and sweater set and into shorts, a tee and white sneakers, suitable for the many errands I needed to run this evening. 

While out and about, I popped into Payless Shoe Source  in search of black flats. I have about seven pairs of black flats already, but I wanted shiny flats that would look cute with skirts.

And I wanted them cheap.

So I slipped off my sneakers and slipped on a pair. While I was admiring the choice in the ground-level mirror, I heard a vociferous woman in the next aisle proclaim, “Oh, lawd, I had ta gets outta dat aisle cause of da smell.

“Lawdy, lawdy.”

Apparently that would be the reek of my bare feet and/or the sneakers that house those sockless suckers.

Thanks for pointing it out. To everyone. And the Lord.

Bitch.

It’s freaking Payless, lady. I’m pretty sure these are not the worst feet in the house. By a long shot.

So I stuffed my stinkers in my sneaks and left with a cute and soon-to-be defiled pair of shiny black flats.

My next stop was the grocery store. As I was loading my bags into the car, I stepped squarely on a pile of gum that had been spat by some asshat earlier in the day. Gooey strings of gum tethered my right shoe to the blacktop. I slipped both my shoes off, dumped a Target bag’s contents into the seat and set my offending shoe on the bag to avoid gumming up the floor mats.

Being barefoot in that enclosed space for the ride home had me thinking that maybe the Payless patron had a point after all. I rescind my bitch tag from earlier with apologies.

Finally, I was home and was met at the door by an overly enthusiastic dog while trying to juggle a gummy shoe, four bags of groceries and a 12-pack of Diet Rite. The sodas started to slip from my grip and I was afraid they would crash on my toes, so in a swinging motion toward the kitchen counter, I was able to land the sodas  … and drop everything else, including a tub of hummus and a 64-ounce jug of shower spray directly on my right pinkie toe.

Harmless? My pinkie toe would beg to differ.

Collecting myself - and then my groceries  off the floor - I soldiered on.  I let the dog out (explaining his intense enthusiasm at my arrival) and placed my stinky, gum-riddled shoe in the freezer. Yes, the freezer. Ten minutes later, I scraped the gum right off. And then tossed that nasty fiend and its mate in the washer.

That is exactly what it looks like: My stinky, gummy shoe … and the food I feed my family.

I stepped out on the back deck to play with the dog, who was racing the fence line, barking at every passing walker in the neighborhood. My attention was on him and not where I was stepping, but I immediately felt the stab on my left foot and stopped midair before pressing whatever it was further into my flesh. I pulled a patio chair to me and sat down to see a splinter barely piercing the skin … and by splinter I mean stake of wood that Van Helsing would gladly use to impale Dracula.

If I were a vampire, I would be undead no more.

My sweet generosity of the morning was gone, and as I pulled that splinter out, I let out a torrent of swearing that I will not repeat here. Let’s just say that if I were writing rhyming poetry, it would have involved stanzas with ducks and brother truckers.

It’s not so much that it hurt – I had caught myself before I stepped down on it and really rammed it in – but it was pure frustration. I hobbled in and cleaned the puncture site with soap and peroxide. No blood, no mess.  Can’t even tell where it struck. Walk it off, I told myself. And I did … right into the squish of a hairball.

Seriously.

Look, life’s like that sometimes. It’s messy. It smells bad. It tries to trip us up and slow us down. But we have to look ahead. We have to put one foot in front of the other … no matter what we step in or what gets dropped on us along the way.

Dog day morning

My Monday started early.

At 3:12 a.m., to be exact.

My bladder prodded me awake, as a middle-aged bladder will sometimes do in the middle of the night.  I managed to take care of business and settle back into bed with only a minimum level of consciousness so as to ensure continued restful sleep.

It’s a ninja skill.

But my restful slumber was not to be. My ninja skills were no match for the highly evolutionary hearing of my dog, Jax. Once he heard me climb back into bed, he decided he:  1. needed to pee too; 2. wanted to dig in the compost pile near the garden; and 3. wanted to patrol for rabbits. Or moles. Or ninjas.

Starting at 3:14 a.m.

I heard him come down the steps and I was very still in my bed, hoping he was just doing a security check. Usually if he gets up during the night, he looks in all doorways and, satisfied of our safety, goes back to sleep … on the den couch.

He is not allowed on the furniture, I swear.

But instead he began the pee prance. It’s a delicate ballet that involves a circle around the bed, trip down the hall to the kitchen, stop at back door for a three-second pause (in case I’ve followed to let him out), and lap around the table. Then a repeat of the loop until sleeping people get up and let him out. This choreography includes a percussive element in the rat-a-tat-tat of his toes on the kitchen floor.

I tried to ignore it and get back to sleep. It’s not like he’s a crying baby and I have to tend to him.  But just like a baby, he will make a mess if I don’t tend to him. And unlike a baby, he ain’t exactly wearing a diaper.

So, at 3:32, I was at the back door to let him out.  He slunk off the deck into the blackness of the night and quickly took care of business.

Like a ninja.

Except he didn’t slink back in the door. I waited for him to do a quick security patrol of the fence. He’s diligent like that. But he circled back to the garden area and I knew he was up to no good.

I called his name in a hoarse whisper so as not to wake the neighbors … you know, those sleeping people with sleeping dogs who live all around me. I offered treats. I closed the door, playing hard to get (hey, sometimes it works). But no. Instead, I spied by the security light of the garden shed, dirt flying and his nose to the ground.

Digging.

That bastard.

So, at 3:45 a.m., I was in my back yard dressed in PJs and flip-flops, and adorned with a severe bout of bed head, a Breathe-Rite Strip and retainer (S-E-X-Y, I know), luring (more like chasing) my dog in the wet grass with a piece of ham in my hand.

I finally fell asleep (with dewy ankles, no less) at 4:17-ish.

And awoke at 4:31 a.m. to the sound of scratching above my head.

That bastard.

You see, our den is located upstairs directly above our bedroom. And it seems Jax was inexplicably clawing the carpet. At 4:31 a.m. Directly above my head.

By the time I reached the steps, he had stopped.

That bastard.

The rest of my night – though it was technically morning – was fitful dozing until the alarm finally sounded and I had a full, busy day to jump into on a little more than four hours of sleep.

As mad as I was at him, all was quickly forgiven. For all his faults – digging in the garden, goosing the cats, barking at the neighbors, getting on the furniture, pawing the carpet, eating cat toys, farting and walking away, tracking muddy paws … wait, what was my point?

Oh yeah … he has a lot of good qualities too.

He’s usually very well behaved (usually).

He always says please.

He is playful.

He is diligent.

He is inquisitive.

He apologizes.

And that’s what love is all about: forgiveness, tolerance, patience, kindness. Recognizing the good and the bad ... and accepting us just the same.

Sure, there are some sleepless nights.

But there’s always lots of smiles to get us through the day.

Garden views

“The best place to find God is in a garden. You can dig for him there.” - George Bernard Shaw

Roses and more roses.

You might call it a rusty fence, but we like to think of it as aged patina.

I don't know what it is, but I love it, I do.

Bright and sunny in the red pots.

Petunias beginning to climb.

Love, love, love red geraniums. Always have and always will.

Peek-a-boo frog has seen many seasons from the back porch; so has the antique crock.

I know why they call them impatients - I can wait to see more purple-y blooms.

That tiny, tiny bud? Gonna be a tomato on my salad very soon.

"To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves." - Mahatma Gandhi

A week or so

Since the last time I blogged, I’ve done all the mundane, everyday things that I do each week, as I am sure you have too. Groceries were purchased, several trips to Target were made, work was endeavored, gas was pumped, laundry was done … blah, blah, blah.

Yet, in the midst of that blah, there were some notable things. Here goes: 

School is over and my son is now considered a freshman in high school. He is done with middle school as of last Wednesday and he would tell you it was a great experience – the opposite of my own experience – and I am so glad for that. He won several awards for academic excellence and musicianship (he rocks – literally). Proud of my nerdy cool kid.

Lorri vs. dental floss: floss, 1; Lorri, 0. I was flossing my teeth Wednesday night and the floss inexplicably shredded, bunching up in a big, inaccessible mound between my teeth, rendering it utterly impossible to remove. And painful. And completely ridiculous. I had to visit an emergency dentist the next day and pay him an inordinate amount of money to magically floss what felt like a sock out of my teeth.  

The dog got a bath. Here's the thing: we don’t give him baths at home; he goes to a bathing station at a pet supply store. But at 11:30 p.m. Thursday night, he came in from the backyard reeking of rolled-in death and so in the tub he went, all 80 indignant pounds of him. And then I had to clean the whole house to mitigate the loose dog hair and wet dog stench. 

Hello. My name is Jax and I immediately regret my decision to roll in or otherwise associate myself with materials of a possible organic origin that may or may not currently be dead. Furthermore, should such an occasion arise and I am not able to resist such activities of my own accord, I do solemnly swear to avoid coming back into the home my family has generously provided for me and make a run for the den sofa, despite the pleas of said family to “freaking stop right now, Mister.”

The house was full of teen boys. They celebrated the end of school with a matinee of the latest Star Trek movie, video games, DVDs and a round of paintball as part of a sleepover at our place. Observation: teenage boys eat a lot.

My sister came to see me. On Saturday, we shopped. We ate lunch. I introduced her to Home Goods, her new favorite store. Members of my own family rarely come to see me, but she does with ever more frequency and I enjoy the time we share.

Brick patio is done, complete with fire pit. My guy? He’s awesome. He did it pretty much by himself, with a little help from our son and me. My wish of sharing the space with friends came true last night. And after everyone had headed home for the night, hubs and I sat outside together under the moon’s creamy glow warming ourselves from the chill and enjoying the last dance of the fire. Damn romantic if I do say so.

A 12 x 11 slice of backyard brick paradise.

Dreamy moon on a cool night by the fire pit.

We hosted a cookout. Twenty-three friends joined us at our humble little house for good food – what is better than a potluck, really? - and laughter. We are so very blessed with good friends.

Lawn Twister for the kids. Spray paint the circles and play in the grass.

My son sliced off part of the tip of his finger. He is ok. No stitches even; just a notch missing. He was slicing potatoes as prep for our cookout yesterday and, well … um, culinary school is not in his future. And judging by his drop in blood pressure at the sight of blood at the Urgent Care Center (there was a lot of blood), he can also rule out a future in the medical profession. Could have been worse, but, thankfully, it wasn’t.

Murderer.

Planted all my flowers and veggies. There is no better therapy than digging in the dirt, as its rewards are plentiful. Taking a little something and nurturing it into something more, something glorious, something that lives and reveals God’s love to us through its beauty … that’s cool. 

I took nap today. A long nap. It was scrumptious. Never underestimate the power of letting go in the middle of the afternoon, surrendering to your dreams and visions, to really right yourself.

None of these things were grand events. But I greatly appreciate the fact that I was able to do these things in and near my home because I have a home and my heart goes out to those who have recently lost their homes and so much more due to catastrophic storms.

And on this Memorial Day, I send a heartfelt thanks to veterans still here, and those already gone, for their service. My little life would be forever changed were it not for their sacrifice, and I am humbled. Thank you.

Finally, I also spent part of my time last week at the hospital with someone I love who is struggling, both physically and emotionally. Prayer. That’s all I got to offer.

I hope you have a blessed, wonderful week.

Springtime sprucing

There's a bag of dog poop on my porch.

My son has been on backyard pick-up duty (or doodie duty, I like to call it … because I am a 6^th grade boy at heart) and that’s a good thing. In fact, the whole yard is finally getting some springtime sprucing, even though it’s practically summer (only two days left in the school year!).

Unusually cooler weather has kept our planting efforts at bay the last couple of weeks. Early last week, we covered the newly-relocated hostas because of the threat of frost. Yesterday, it was 90+ degrees.

Spring in Indiana … what ya gonna do?

But I love how pretty our little house looks when spring arrives. Hubs has been busy pulling out dead bushes and replanting, moving existing plants to better locales, scooping load after load of fresh mulch onto tired, faded beds, and generally making our little slice of the world utterly precious. He’s good at this and enjoys it and it shows.

I also love how the days stretch long in the Eastern Time Zone. It’s almost 9 p.m. and I can still hear the rummm of the lawnmower. Hubs loves that it’s our son manning the push mower in the fenced portion of the yard and not him. Hubs is busy shoveling dirt into a wheelbarrow, having started a brick patio project this afternoon. It’s only the first step of the project, but I can already envision us sitting around the fire pit, enjoying a laughter-filled evening with friends in the near future.

It’s going to be a brick patio. Eventually.

Eventually.

Never misses an opportunity to play in the dirt.

For now, though, the sun has eased into a soft teal sky, with a puff of pink fading into orange. A shiny moon beams silver as it rises. There’s just barely enough daylight left to finish the push mowing. Tomorrow, perhaps, hubs or kiddo will finish cutting the rest of our yard with the riding mower.

See those bricks in the background? You know where they’re eventually headed. Eventually.

I’ve watered the little Cleveland pear tree that hubs planted two weeks ago to replace a Bradford pear that was plucked and tossed by a violent storm a few years ago. We left the spot empty all these years for no reason in particular. It just seemed right to plant something now.

I also tended to the lilac bushes hubs relocated last week. They seemed to have recovered from the shock of the move. Our hope is that they will have more room to bloom and flourish away from the overbearing knockout roses. When we planted the roses two years ago, we had no idea they would eventually become petulant toddlers, bullying the tender lilacs into submission. So we separated them like sparring children. Of course, the roses can only blame us for their rude behavior, as we have been remiss in our parenting duties by not pruning them properly. 

She’s pretty, but she’s mean.

There’s a new evergreen to replace the old dead ones and in the distance you can see the lilacs in their pretty new digs and their hulking siblings, the roses, safely beyond. 

Our house sits on a half-acre corner lot and now the lilacs have a pretty new bed that really adds to the curb appeal along the side you can see from the street rounding the corner. The other side of our house? Well, I haven’t had a chance to plant anything there yet this season, so the neighbors get a view of the “bird garden” – birdbath, bird feeder, bird houses - complete with a bird-bombed St. Francis, until some coleus blasts it with color.

Technically Saint Francis wasn’t a martyr, but he’s definitely taking hits in the bird garden.

The veggie garden beds are getting fresh dirt and I will dig into them this weekend to plant tomatoes and bell peppers that we will enjoy as salsa long after the garden has gone into hibernation. 

My planters still sit empty, staring at me with sad, dirty expressions. But soon they will beam with red, yellow and purple smiles, and I’ll happily relax alongside them with a glass of lemonade and a good book, listening to the buzz and hum of the neighborhood. 

Some day they will be glorious.

The sun has set on this lovely Monday and so I am left to dream of my garden for the rest of the night … as soon as I dispose of that bag of dog poop that was abandoned on the porch.