The power of words

by on Sep 20, 2011 (1) Comments

One night as I passed Gracie’s closed bedroom door I heard both of my children talking in there. They were discussing weather. The discussion then changed to tomatoes. I listened at the door because I was incredibly curious as to why my kids would be having a tomato discussion. It was that night I learned that there are good tomatoes and bad tomatoes. The good tomatoes are the ones you put in your salad. The bad tomatoes are the ones that blow hard and knock houses down. Now that’s one powerful tomato!

A few weeks later I learned that Gracie was writing down her most secret thoughts. One day Gracie was in her room with the door closed. I knocked on her door and asked if I could come in. She replied that she needed privacy because she was writing in her diarrhea. Luckily, when I opened the door it was her diary I found on the bed and not a pile of stuff that would require hours of clean-up.

 I wonder if this is how it all began for the hairstylist who trimmed my husband’s hair one day. He had asked her whether he should do anything about the increasing gray in his hair. She shook her head and said that his gray hair made him look extinguished.

Counting the days

by on Sep 17, 2011 (7) Comments

September 20th will find David and me packing our suitcases and my in-laws into the car to head for Cairo!  And I don’t mean Cairo, Illinois either, I mean Cairo, Egypt!  David (who is a closet travel agent) has spent the last 9 months painstakingly researching hotels, cruise ships, tourist sites and private guides for our 15 day trip to Egypt.  It would have been easier and less stressful to just book a tour through one of the big tour companies and then sit back and let them figure out all the details, but that’s just not the Allen way.  David has hired private transportation and private guides every time they were available to make travelling in a hectic foreign country just a little bit easier with two parents in their 80’s and a wife with a gimpy back.

For the last several months we have been watching every TV documentary on Egypt we can find and reading our travel guides until the pages are tattered.  Mom and I have shopped for Egypt-appropriate clothing (no knees or shoulders showing) and I have even tried to learn a few key phrases in Arabic to aide us in our journey.   Since the majority of the country is dark skinned and brown eyed, some of the travel guides warn people with far skin, blonde hair and blue eyes to not be surprised if people reach out and touch them.  The nightmare playing in my mind is a picture of me trying to find a bathroom for my mother-in-law while I am mangling the Arabic language as only a true southern woman can while being ogled and touched by a crowd of Egyptian people enthralled with my bright blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes.  Since I am not used to speaking in foreign languages or being the center of attention (wanted or unwanted) I will not have to worry about the pale skin part because mine will be a nice brilliant crimson.

So for all our Loon Watchers out there, I will be sending Pam a post of our day’s activities and photos to go with.  I look forward to sharing the adventures of the Allens as we discover the wonders of Egypt.  By the way, if you hear on the news that a small blonde woman has started some type of international incident, please give generously to the “get Kae out of the Egyptian jail” fund!

What changed me

by on Sep 12, 2011 (6) Comments

This past weekend, as everyone knows, marked the 10th anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks. On Sunday, I spent time talking with my daughter and answering her questions about the images she had seen on TV and the things she had been hearing the last few days leading up to the weekend.

As we talked, I also shared with her how the events of 9/11 changed something unexpected inside my heart. After that tragic day I spent so much time looking at my life and what it meant. What mattered most to me in my life? Before September 11, 2001, I was an ambitious, career-driven woman who had no time to stop and think about children or family. As a young woman I was told that I was infertile. After years of failed fertility procedures, I decided to turn head-first in another direction: career. After September 11, however, I realized that the one thing I thought I didn’t want was actually the very thing I wanted most of all. I wanted to be a mother. What I had been putting off might now forever escape me. We will never run out of excuses for things but at some point we will run out of time. So a few weeks after that tragic day, I walked into the bedroom where my husband was reading a book. I sat down next to him on the bed and announced that I wanted to be a mother. .

And that was it. From that moment on I became a woman on a mission. In the months that followed I learned everything I could about adoption. I kept my lesson from September 11 in my heart. We have no promise of a tomorrow.  We signed with an adoption agency and began what is commonly known as “the paper pregnancy.” Ironically, nine months after handing in our paperwork, we received news that our daughter was born. The moment she was placed in my arms everything in my world changed. Colors became brighter, music became more beautiful, sounds became sweeter and touch became like velvet. I had missed so much in the first 47 years of my life. I couldn’t take back my yesterdays but I was going to fully embrace today.

As I watched the images on television this past weekend I wept, I prayed and I held my children just a little tighter.

I stink at birthdays

by on Sep 08, 2011 (8) Comments

Every person has a super skill.  David’s is being able to walk directly to any item in any Wal-Mart in the country.  Usually he is making a Geiger counter noise and therefore people think it is his “special” skill.  Remembering birthdays is not one of my super skills.  My grandmother used to say that the road to “you know where” is paved with good intentions.  If this is the case, I have paved myself a four-lane super highway.  I just recently found out that I have been sending my stepmother flowers on the wrong day for the last 30 years.  She said it was so sweet I remembered her that she didn’t have the heart to tell me I missed the actual day.  I sent my niece, who was 17 this year, a birthday card announcing “Happy 1st Birthday” because it was the first year I remembered her birthday on the right day.  I actually completely forgot David’s birthday one year and then had to institute the “Week Long Celebration of Dave” for the next few years to soothe his hurt feelings.  The worst though is poor Jess.  Her birthday is March the 1st.  I really didn’t understand what “tax season” was when I decided to birth a child in March.  I have spent 22 years in a panic on the last day of February making sure Jess had the requisite cake and gifts the next day.  In an effort to save her birthday celebration, Jess started announcing the number of days until her birthday in the hopes that I would get the subtle reminder. 

Because of our new book Cookies for Dinner I was forced to log onto Facebook and enter into the 21st century and the arena of social networking.  The wonderful unintended consequence of this is that there is a little birthday box that pops up as a reminder that it is someone’s birthday.  Late one night I logged onto Facebook and up popped the little birthday box announcing it was Kenny’s birthday.  Kenny is Christi’s boyfriend.  Looking down at the corner of my computer screen I realized it was 12:04am.  If I hurried I might be the first person to wish Kenny a Happy Birthday.   I would still have to go to the Publix in the morning and get a variety of ice cream sprinkles (Kenny’s favorite) and put them in the mail.  I felt like a great girlfriend’s mother until my cellphone rang.  It was Christi.  It was NOT Kenny’s birthday.  He just uses this as a way to weed out his real friends from the clutter of people who end up on his Facebook page.  So now, not only do I still stink at birthdays but my daughter’s boyfriend is going to be the first person on Facebook to “unfriend” me.

The Two Loons do a guest blog!

by on Sep 06, 2011 (4) Comments

We were asked to do a guest blog. So there’s no escaping the Two Loons. We’re starting to spread. Check out our guest blog called The Privacy Act. We have very different takes on how much privacy a mom needs in the bathroom. Thank you to Tracy at Book Room Reviews for being brave enough to ask us to be guests on her site.

Nothing good happens when Daddy brings home a doughnut

by on Sep 05, 2011 (12) Comments

The day started out with Daddy announcing that he had a leftover doughnut from a meeting he attended the day before. Since my kids don’t see many doughnuts in our house, this news was met with squeals, jumping up and down and hugs for Daddy.

The kids wanted the doughnut immediately but since it was not even 7:00 a.m. and they hadn’t had breakfast yet, they were told that nutrition would have to come first.  

Jack was assigned the duty of taking the dog out as Gracie set the table.

Breakfast was eaten with lightning speed. Then moments before the doughnut was to be cut in half and shared by two eager children, I noticed that the kids had left the sunroom a mess last night even though they had been told to clean up before going to bed. Drink cups were left on the coffee table, sofa cushions were on the floor and toys were scattered on the carpet.

So before the doughnut could be enjoyed, the children had to clean the sunroom. In the process, Jack mouthed off and got sent to his room for a time-out. Gracie got to enjoy her half of the doughnut. Jack cooled his heels in his bedroom for 10 minutes.

When time-out ended Jack came running from his room to claim his half of the doughnut and stepped in dog poo in the hallway. Jack, whose job it was to take Griffin out had been in such a hurry to get back inside and inhale breakfast so he could get his doughnut, hadn’t let the poor dog finish taking care of personal business.

Jack spent the next five minutes cleaning poo from between his toes while I cleaned the hall carpet.

Finally Jack was able to run to the kitchen counter and claim his soon-to-be stale treasure. With doughnut in hand he ran toward the sunroom to join Gracie in watching their favorite Saturday morning television program. He tripped; the doughnut flew through the air and landed on the floor. As fast as Jack is, he is no match for a dog who spots a rare find: a half doughnut on the floor in the Bennett home.

The sound of Jack wailing could be heard throughout the house and perhaps even the neighborhood.

Nothing good happens when Daddy brings home a doughnut.

The Joy of Life

by on Aug 30, 2011 (1) Comments

 

One day Christi came into my office after school, slammed her backpack to the ground and declared “I am never having children!”  Christi was in 7th grade and had just been shown the “Joy of Life” video in her health class.  Being the ever sensitive mom, I laughed until my sides hurt and tears ran down my face as she recounted the horrors she had witnessed.  Then she turned her astonished blue eyes on me, “why would you possibly do that once much less three times!”  You might think she was amazed by her mother’s astounding strength to endure the horrors of childbirth on three separate occasions and still survive to live a happy productive life.  Instead I realized that even though it endangered her literal “being” she thought I was mentally challenged to knowingly subject my body to such abuse.

 

Christi is now 25 and living in Phoenix with her boyfriend, Kenny and my female granddog, Fuji.  One of Christi’s co-workers has just had a baby.  Christi and Kenny babysat for her one day so she could go to work.  After the baby went back to its rightful owners, Christi called me on the phone.  I was ready to hear about how much she enjoyed the baby and maybe give me some hint that the trauma of the 7th grade health video had been mellowed with time.  But alas, this was not to be.  As we finished up the conversation she made it perfectly clear that babysitting was fine but having one of her own was not something she was prepared to do.  Luckily for me I did endure the “Joy of Life” three times.  Little did I know at the time but I was hedging my bet on someday having grandchildren.

 

Look before you eat

by on Aug 25, 2011 (4) Comments

I had a craving for something sweet. Normally the only sweet things in my kitchen pantry are desserts that no one over 12 would want to eat. This week, because I had actually remembered to bring my coupons when I went grocery shopping, we had a box of cookies thanks to a seventy-five cents-off coupon.

In order to prevent a cookie feeding frenzy with my kids, I had placed the bright yellow box on the very top shelf of the pantry. No one paid much attention to it up there. It sat undisturbed for an entire week, until my sweet tooth came knocking and there was no relieving the craving with the more reasonable answer of fruit. I wanted cookies.

 

Without paying much attention, I opened the box and the plastic bag inside. I reached into the box, pulled out a cookie and ate it. Then I decided to grab a couple more before closing the box.

As I ate the third cookie I noticed something odd. The edges of the cookie were very ragged and not smooth the way I recalled these cookies to be. I reopened the box and looked inside. Many of the cookies had ragged edges. I also noticed something else. The plastic bag had tiny holes in it – tiny holes that almost looked like bite marks. I then lifted the box up for further inspection and noticed a ragged, rather large sized hole at the bottom.

I’d like to say that I didn’t panic and didn’t immediately jump to any gross conclusions but that would be a lie. I don’t know about you but when I think I’ve eaten something that a mouse has also snacked on, vomiting comes fast and furious.

 

The box of cookies was immediately brought to the outside trash can. The next day my pantry was emptied out, thoroughly cleaned and every box, can and bag inspected.

Now, when I go down the cookie aisle of the supermarket, any cookies packaged in bright yellow boxes cause me to dry heave. Well, I guess that’s one way to control my sweet tooth.

 

 

 

Slippery when wet

by on Aug 23, 2011 (Comments Off on Slippery when wet) Comments

Golf is my summertime passion.  Once the weather gets warmer and the chaos of tax season is over, I’m ready to turn in my bowling ball for a golf club.  This summer, 4:30 most afternoons will find me at the driving range of the Longboat Key Golf Club smacking balls as far as my little chicken arms can send them. We are spending the summer with my in-laws and they are members.  I do have to say, I am extremely intimidated by the atmosphere at the club.  No one at the bowling alley ever runs up to my car and insists on carrying my ball to my lane.  When I’m done bowling, there is never a little guy standing at the ready with a crisp white towel waiting to wipe down my ball and put it in my locker for me.  There is a lady at the club that comes to the driving range a lot of afternoons as well.  She is probably somewhere in her 60’s, trim and toned, nicely tanned, has a beautiful golf swing and drives a red corvette.  Needless to say, I want to be her when I grow up. 

 

Standing in my little box with my pyramid of balls I begin my daily drill.  Each practice session involves hitting the exact same number of balls with each club.  This way I can keep a running percentage in my head of worm burners (balls that never get off the ground) to golf shots (balls that arc gracefully into the air landing gently on or around the target).   Generally, I am about 50% worm burners to golf shots.  Sometimes, when my lady I want to be when I grow up is there I get a bit nervous so my percentage may go down to 30%.  Unfortunately at today’s practice session my percentage was way off.   I seemed to be having difficulty with my follow through.

Like most golfers, I have the same routine for each stroke.  I sit the head of my club behind the ball holding the shaft in my right hand.  Looking over my left shoulder, I take aim at my target allowing my right hand to adjust the club head.  Once I have lined up the shot I place my left hand on the club and address the ball with my knees slightly bent, rear end sticking out like I’m about to sit down on a bar stool.  Now the brain takes over with the dreaded “swing” thoughts.   Head down, deep breath, pull into the backswing, let club head do the work on the way back down, don’t try to “hit” the ball, just swing the club, concentrate on keeping arms long bringing club up through the target and hold the final pose until the ball hits the ground.

 

Everything was going fine at first.  I always start with my nine iron and work my way up through the clubs to my driver.  Nine, good. Eight, good. By the time I got to my seven iron things began to fall apart.  It was hot, very hot and I had already begun to sweat.  In my annual summertime effort to do better for my body, I bought some body lotion that is supposed to have Q-10 to firm up your un-firm places.  When changing from my swimsuit to my golf clothes, the mirror made it apparent that this was a great time to slather on some of the skin firming lotion.  Since I’m barreling toward 50 like a freight train, my entire body except maybe my feet could do with a good dose of skin firming, so I slathered away with reckless abandon.   Unintended consequence…sweat plus copious amounts of body firming lotion plus woman having hot flash equals one slippery little duck.  So here I am, one sweaty, slick mess making every effort to keep my arms long and bring the club up through the target while the underside of my bra slides up over the bottom of my breast.  Instinctively I ditched out on the “hold the pose” portion of my swing routine and tugged my wayward undergarment back to its correct position.  With each subsequent swing, the sweaty, moisturized path from below my girls to above my girls was revisited.   This wardrobe malfunction put a complete halt to the long arms, swing through target and pose portion of my golf swing.  It seems quite unfair that while most women are worried about making sure their girls don’t escape out of the top of their bra, I’m wrestling to keep my bra from popping up over my girls and snapping me in the face.  And to top it all off, yes, in the box directly behind me is the lady I would like to be when I grow up gracefully sending balls out onto the range with her girls totally in check.

 

 

Shopping with “the girls”

by on Aug 16, 2011 (9) Comments

Bra shopping. As a young woman, venturing out to buy bras was fun. The hardest part was deciding between the lacy, dainty ones and the silky ones that made you feel as if you were keeping a very mysterious and sexy secret underneath your t-shirt. Well, those days are long gone now. At my age, bra shopping becomes a practical outing as I attempt to remind “the girls” that pointing down at my belly button isn’t the look I am trying to achieve.

Yes, when a woman reaches a certain age, the breasts seem determined to acquaint themselves with the belly button. So those lacy, dainty bras that worked so well years ago can’t handle the job anymore. At my age I need the industrial-strength bras that yank the boobs back up to attention. Unfortunately, these bras are the type that you definitely want to remain a secret under your t-shirt.

Bra shopping when you have breasts that are losing the war on gravity not only reminds you that this venture has forever changed from being  fun to boring, but it also unleashes another horrifying fact: you are now buying underwear that your mother would approve of.

Luckily, in a few years I’ll be able to enjoy shopping for those lacy, dainty bras in beautiful colors instead of the typical hospital white and boring beige “breast hoists”  that make up my bra wardrobe now. When my daughter and I go out to shop for her first bra I will allow myself to be transported back to the age of choosing a bra because it looks pretty and not because it keeps my breasts out of my waistband.