Save the Grandmas, Save the World!

Thank you all for your patience while I totaled up the Blogging for Betty site hits, comments, facebook friends and followers.  I had every intention of posting this blog on Monday, but I forgot that I'd have a crap load to do that day since my LASIK surgery was the next day. 

I will post later with a full blow-by-blow of the LASIK procedure, as the surgery details seem to be a popular topic of conversation lately.  Bottom line, I am seeing 20/15 less than 24 hours after LASIK.  If that's not an endorsement, I don't know what is. 

Back to our charitable donation totals!  Your efforts really paid off for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure.  Thanks to all of you, we raised $78.84!  Quite a bit more than I thought, but that's a great thing! :)  And, just to make it a solid round number (our accountant likes those!), I'll chip in a little extra and make it $80! 

Once again, my faithful readers surprise and amaze me!  The donation will be made today to 3-Day Walk for the Cure and, since every little bit helps, I hope to do this again next year.  Save the Grandmas!

Blogging for Betty: The Grand Finale

WARNING: This may be a tearjerker.

First, I want to start by saying thank you to all of you who became Facebook friends w/ this blog, "liked" this blog and commented on this blog for the past month+ of Growing on Goofy's 1st charitable endeavor: Blogging for Betty.  It means the world to me and my family that so many people care.

I struggled for most of this event, trying to figure out how to best sum it up.  How do you sum up the life and influence of one of the central figures in your life?  Well, my conclusion is...you don't! 

Anyone who has lost a grandparent, especially a same-sex grandparent who was a central figure in your life, knows how difficult it is.  You feel as though part, if not all, of your childhood dies with them.  And even though it's usually inevitable that your grandparents pass away before you, it still sucks.  I hesitate to say that it's worse when the death is unexpected (you can't say goodbye) or unpreventable (horrible diseases like cancer) than it is when old age simply claims them, but it's safe to say it's different. 

Our family experienced both ends of the spectrum.  One grandmother came out of brain surgery awake and talking, only to pass shortly after.  The other, of course, fought for over a year to rid her body of cancer, and ultimately lost that fight. 

I'd like to sum up this Blogging for Betty event by writing about how my life has changed since her passing. 
Yesterday, my sister and I realized that when she gets engaged/married, when either of us have kids, basically any major future life event...there will be no grandma to call.  No grandma to get advice from about crazy bridesmaids, your kids, your marriage, your LIFE.  Kristin and I were fortunate to always have "Grandma 911" when we were younger.  "Grandma 911" is when we kids got frustrated with our parents "not listening to/understanding" us, we could always call Grandma, and she would listen/understand and give advice accordingly (whether we asked for it or liked it, or not.  More often...not. :))  So, to the grandparents of our future children, I'd like to say, STAY HEALTHY.  I want my kids to have a Grandma 911 too. :) 

Little things are different too...not always sad things.  I pay more attention to rainbows and butterflies.  I trust my instincts more often.  I'm closer to my mom and other female relatives now.  I cry easier...but only because I have everything I want...and I appreciate it so much more now that I know what it's like to have the people and things you love taken away.

Like I said, you can't sum up the life of someone like Grandma Betty.  You can't close the door on her death as if it's just another chapter.  But what you can do is remember that her spirit, and the spirits of all the grandmas that have gone before her, remain alive, even if only in our hearts. 

I'm counting all site hits, friend requests and comments through the end of today, what would have been Grandma's 72nd birthday.  I will try to post the end result, which will be donated to the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure, by the beginning of next week.  Thank you all again, for everything.

Skid Goes to Canada

People always ask me if Adam ever gets offended by me blogging about his adventures.  The answer is no.  Believe it or not, I never publish anything without asking him, and usually reading it to him, first.  He might do some crazy stuff, but I'm not a jerk.  So rest assured, the following story is rated AA, Adam Approved. 

Adam's dad is turning 60 this year, and for his birthday, Adam's mom planned a really cool 7 day fishing trip in Canada.  No girls allowed.  (No worries, there is nothing about 17 hours of driving, outhouses or mosquitoes the size of a fist that appeals to me!)

Adam is notorious for being an "efficient packer," however that is partially due to his tendency to underestimate the amount of things you will actually need on your trip.  He suggested that I help make a packing list so he wouldn't forget anything.  Ok, sure, sounds reasonable...until we sit down to make the list.  Keep in mind, I've never been to Canada, never been on a fishing trip, etc. 

Me: Ok, so let's start with the basics.  Underwear.  You're gone for 7 days, so that means you'll need 7 pairs.

Adam: What?  7?  Why?
Me: (Silence)  Um...why not?
Adam: Well, whatever, I'm only packing 5. 

(Anyone beginning to see why I wasn't too sad to be missing out on this shindig?)

As he is loading the car, I realize his packing includes: 5 pairs of underwear for 7 days, 12 rolls of toilet paper and he's mad because his new Playboy has not come in the mail.  I'm like...are you going fishing or spending a week in an outhouse?  But I digress.

In the Canadian woods, there is obviously no cell phone reception, so this was the first time in our relationship that I didn't hear from him for more than a day.  That was a little tricky, but booooooooy am I glad.  The following story is worth it.

The boys arrive in Canada.  Adam meets the Canadian man who helped organize the trip on their end, for the first time.  And after 17 hours of driving, really, whose first question upon meeting someone for the first time wouldn't be "Uh, where's the restroom?" 

This is the shirt Adam was wearing while making his "special" first impression:

In case you can't read it, it says "Merry Christmas, Shitter Was Full."  (For those of you not in the know, that's a line from Christmas Vacation.)

Adam uses the restroom, comes out, and (while wearing said shirt) has to find his Canadian contact and report that he is in need of a plunger...because the "shitter was full."  The poor Canadian man was quite embarrassed and sent Adam off to the kitchens to track down two women who could help him locate the plunger.  He found one, and remedied the situation, but I think he ended up being the most embarrassed one there.  After Adam came home, he told me he didn't think he'd be wearing that shirt anymore, as it's "cursed."

Hate to break it to you, honey...it's not the shirt. :)   

On their way home, he called me from the road, just to let me know they were all alive and uninjured.  Thinking I was being funny, I asked him if he ran out of underwear.  He not only didn't get the joke, but reported that he actually still had an extra pair. 

Ladies, hands off!  He is MINE! :)

You Might Be a Redneck If...

I'm not in the burbs anymore. 

Last week, I woke up at 6:45 AM, because the dog was in the yard, barking like a maniac.  I realize most people reading this are probably thinking "So what?  Dogs bark."  Perhaps.  But not this dog.  And not this loudly or viciously.  In a way, that's the guard dog you hope for, right?  The one whose every bark means something is awry? 

Adam went outside to check out the situation, came back in and told me to put my glasses on because I was "not going to want to miss this."  Our vicious attack dog was right.  Something was awry. 

There was a horse in the front yard.

A HORSE. 

It had no saddle, no rider, no owner...just a stray horse, munching on our lawn like it owned the place. That is, until Bella's barking spooked the horse and he began to walk down the street towards the main drag.  I had no idea what to do, initially.  My first thought was to call the pound...until I remembered we don't have a pound. 

I thought perhaps some of our horse-owning friends might recognize the horse, or at least know what to do, so we called them and they called around as well.  Nothing.

Eventually I called the County Sheriff, because I was out of other options and I was afraid either the horse would get hit and injured, and/or someone would be injured hitting the horse.  Sure enough, I'm put on hold w/ the sheriff, only to have him come back and say someone reported a similar horse missing earlier that morning, and they would take care of it.  I never heard back, but I hope the horse made it back home safely. 

Thinking about the situation later, I realized I am beginning to assimilate into the local culture in ways I am not entirely prepared to admit. 

For example, imagine this situation had happened in a suburb.  In fact, I called my mom and asked her what she would've done if she'd woken up to a horse in her front yard.  Her reply?  "Oh honey, someone would've called that in long before I woke up and saw it."  Touche.

A few years ago, I would have called animal control, PAWS, a horse rescue...something.  Last week, I could think of at least 5 people to call, off the top of my head, BEFORE animal control or the sheriff.  What's happening to me?!

But that was not the end of my day o' weird.  Nooo no.  Later that same afternoon, I was speaking with a friend from a large metropolitan area, when I was forced to interrupt my own story about the horse, to inform her that I had just driven past a local restaurant which loudly proclaimed (via sign) "GATOR IS BACK ON TUESDAYS!"  Gator.  As in...alligator?  I thought it was a hot dog stand!  I guess you never really know what's in your hot dogs, but geez! 

As I continued my drive, I noticed something coming towards me from the opposite direction...It turned out to be a rusty Ford Escort, painted a delightful shade of spray paint red...on the parts that had paint, that is.  But this rusty ride was extra special.  Apparently its owner thought so too, because he took the time and energy to replace his front bumper with a 2x4 and spray paint "FRANK" on it.  In mirror-reverse...like on an ambulance.  This way, should "FRANK" come up behind you as you sail down Goofy Ridge Road, you'll be able to read his name.  Right.  Because the first thing I think when that steel shitbox comes up behind me is, "oh, that's Frank" and not "Dear Lord, WHAT IS THAT?!" 

I'd like to think I'm not a redneck, but all signs are beginning to indicate otherwise.  In the meantime, I've compiled a short list of how to tell if you might be a redneck, for those of you who aren't quite sure.

10. If you have ever had to stand on the side of the road and have someone pick sand burrs out of your butt.
9. If you've ever gotten out of a hot tub to pee, then decided you'd rather "go" on the deck.
8. If you have an ATM in your driveway.
7. If you see a restaurant sign advertising "gator" and you actually stop to try it.
6. If you know the difference, just by looking, between a frog and a toad.
5. If you no longer notice the sound of a crop duster flying over your house.
4. If you don't think it's weird to ask your friend whether they ate their pet rabbit after it died.
3. If you can think of 5 people off the top of your head to call regarding a random horse in your front yard, and none of the 5 are animal control or law enforcement officials.
2. If having a paved driveway means you're rich.
1. If this is your church:

Little Bunny Foo Foo?

No matter how long I live in this area, certain things still surprise me.  The following is no exception.

A few weeks ago, at our weekly gathering, a friend mentioned that her 16 yr old went out to feed her pet rabbit one morning...and found it half dead.  It lives in a nice outdoor cage, and something had burrowed under the cage, and eaten the rabbit's feet, leaving it to bleed to death.  By the time the girl got to the rabbit, it was too late. 

My husband, Mr. Sensitive, asked if they ate the rabbit. 

No, no, they did not. 

This was determined for certain not because my friend said so, but by my neighbor, who said they probably couldn't have eaten the rabbit anyway, because it likely wouldn't have been good after being kept in captivity like that. 

WTF?  Where AM I? 

Did I seriously just witness a conversation about why you should/should not eat your dead pet? 

You might think after the frog vs. bullfrog incident last year, that this kind of reaction towards animals wouldn't surprise me...but you'd be wrong.