Thank You

Ahhh yes, it's finally a three day weekend. Everyone can plan picnics, break out the grill, do some yard work and enjoy the fact that Sunday night isn't really Sunday night because we get Monday off.

But why do we have the day off? Did the government decide that after a long winter we all need a three day weekend to officially kick off summer?

No.

Maybe some 'higher up type' owns a boat. He realized it is impossible to prepare your vessel for voyage in two days. You need two days just to get the dang thing seaworthy after its long winter's nap. You need the third day to be able venture out on the open seas. And drink beer.

No, that's not it either.

It wasn't a banker that needed a day off or a way for stores to empty the last bits of winter wear.

It wasn't an uprising in the mail room for a two day weekend. Those people never get a two day weekend, postal workers go postal for a reason. Where most people only have five days to get all their work done, postal workers have six. This allows them to move at the speed of molasses in January and still get their job done. Since they have a monopoly on the letter delivering business they can make us wait as long as they want because really, where else are we going to go?

But I digress.

Memorial Day was made to commemorate all the soldiers that died while in military service. All the Service Members who sacrificed their lives for their country.

I know, I bring it up and it's quite a buzz killer isn't it? It was much more fun to rip the post office.

It's easier to enjoy the barbecue, the friends and family and a game of bag-o than to take a moment to honor those that were killed giving us our many freedoms because it's a downer. But do it. Stop for one moment and give them the thoughts they deserve. The men and women who served of course, but don't forget the mothers, wives, sons and daughters that will be visiting a grave site today.

Remembering a man or woman.

A man or woman that spent Memorial Day weekends with them once upon a time.

A man or woman that danced, laughed, barbecued, boated, loved and stood in line at the post office. A man or woman who now leaves an empty space at dinner, in bed, at a wedding, at a graduation or at a party.

Thank you to all the families who have to remember today and thank you to all the military men and women who gave their lives for my continued freedoms.

Old People Say the Darndest Things

I work with the elderly. Most of them have some form of dementia or memory loss. I have blogged about this before here. These people make me laugh everyday. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes not. I tell stories about my day at work to friends and family and they continually say I should compile all these stories and make a book.

Instead I thought I would try a regular feature here on itsme. and once a week have a post "Old People Say the Darndest Things." I'm going to try and do this every Friday.

All names will be changed to protect the innocent. And for job security.

Hermione falls asleep in her chair for all activities. I am constantly trying to figure out ways to keep her awake. Poking, rubbing, prodding and making her participate in exercise. If she sleeps all morning she has trouble sleeping at night. If she can's sleep at night, she sleeps all morning. It's a vicious circle.

The other day she complained of being cold so I said if we exercise it will warm her up.

We started marching . This is seated marching. Most of these people need assistance to walk so our exercise is done sitting.

I said "Hermione, your feet aren't moving. You've got to move your feet to warm up."

H: "They are moving."

Me: "I'm looking right at your two feet and they are not moving."

H: "Well where are me feet then? The ones I'm looking at are moving."

Old people say the darndest things.

ABC 123

I keep jumping from thought to thought tonight but I am going to go with it.

I wanted this post to be about my math skills...or lack of math skills. But when I wrote ABC 123 to title it all I could think about was the Michael Jackson song. I even sang it and googled the lyrics. I wondered if other people also thought of Michael when they read the title or if my thinking is just 'special'. I really am curious. Did anyone else think of Michael Jackson when they saw that title?

Next thought.

I used that title because my inability to do math had to do with learning styles, which took me to school. I pictured ABC 123 written in chalk on a black board. I saw it as a border around a grade school classroom, with a ruler, a pencil and an apple thrown in. Sometimes the apple had a happy little worm in it wearing glasses. Now I am thinking this is confusing for young children. Later in our education we learn worms don't even have eyes. It would be more realistic if the worm were reading braille. No wonder students question everything a teacher tells them once they get to high school.

Next thought.

Back to the present, I then moved on to how to begin this post...Readin', 'Ritin', 'Rithmetic came to mind. This too is found in grade school classrooms. What the teacher SAYS is three R's all in a row are aesthetically pleasing. What I hear is it is okay to get artsy with your spelling if it looks good. But when I spell writing on my test as 'riting' it gets marked rong. I am rought with distress already and I am only in third grade.

Next thought.

When I spelled 'rithmetic above, my thoughts went to my fourth grade math teacher. She told us that a good way to always remember how to spell arithmetic was to use the first letter of each word in the sentence A Rat In The House May Eat The Ice Cream. Weird that I would remember that isn't it? To this day, I cannot see arithmetic without saying a rat in the house may eat the ice cream. I told her I thought rats were lactose intolerant. She says they don't really eat ice cream. I am thinking she should stick to math and leave the spelling to the English teacher.

Also in fourth grade we could not go outside for recess if the weather was inclement. On the bad weather days we were forced to play indoors. We often played peg leg tag.

In peg leg tag you have to pretend one of your legs can't bend. You had to limp around with a stiff leg...a peg leg. This prevented anyone from running too fast inside but allowed us to feel like we were on the edge of breaking the rules by still playing tag indoors.

I was it. I was chasing someone and tried to cut them off by squeezing through a tight little spot between the desk and a wire bookcase. The wire bookcase had two little prongs sticking out (totally would not be allowed in a classroom today but back in my day there was danger all around.) As I squeezed through, I raked my leg against the metal prong. It bled. A lot. I had to go to the nurse and when I came back from the nurses office all bandaged up I really was a peg leg. Isn't that ironic? I still have the scar.

I told you my thoughts were all over the place tonight.

Next thought.

My favorite math teacher was Mr. Kincaid. All the kids thought he was a robot. He had very few facial expressions and because he taught math he was very methodical. He never smiled. The kids logic was that robots don't have personalities, therefore he is definitely a robot.

They often joked that if someone stabbed him in the back with scissors green goo and sparks would fly out because he wasn't human. (Do you think the violent thoughts started with being tricked into thinking that worms had eyes? Me too.)

No one liked Mr. Kincaid. I adored him.I had a hard time with algebra. He worked out every single algebra problem on the board to help me understand. Because of his patience I got A's on my math tests that year. This had never happened before Mr. Kincaid and never happened after.

Next thought.

Which brings me to my original subject. I am not good with numbers. Bob, on the other hand, is. If I need some quick adding or subtracting done I just ask him and he answers. It is much quicker to ask him to do the math than to pull out my phone and use the calculator.

I made the mistake of telling Bob that doing math in your head is a good way to aid in the prevention of dementia. When I ask him a math question now, he walks me through it, like Mr. Kincaid. Because of his good motives (keeping my brain healthy) I humor him.

We were in Walgreen's the other day and Bob purchased two bottles of Niacin. Being the frugal shopper he is he was calculating the cost per day to make sure he was getting the best deal. There were 120 pills in each bottle, he takes two a day. How many months would the two bottles last him? I blurted out some number, not thinking but hoping it would be a lucky guess. He looks at me with disdain because he knows darn well I was guessing.

So now he has to 'learn' me the math. And he of course has to talk slowly so I can keep up. I am in no mood for math, I have M & M's to open, the sooner we get out of here the sooner chocolate can melt in my mouth and not in my hand. Before he can finish his 'lesson' I interrupt "Bob, 120 divided by 6 means the niacin would last you four months." He finishes his mental math and says "Wow! You did it!"I like that he is happy for my math skills but something about his tone made me think he was shocked that I could figure this out. Should I be offended?

Now with the math problem solved we continue our merry way to the check out when he stops and says "How did you divide 120 by six and come up with four?"

I quickly answer "Because of the 240." And I look at him with disdain because it was so obvious. But in my head I am panicked. He's not letting this go and I am madly trying to figure in my head how did I get four??? Now he is going to press the issue and in all honesty, I really don't know how I got the four. All happy thoughts of chocolate eating are dissipating.

He is now dissecting my logic. He is saying 120 divided by three might give me four somehow, but not six. Why did I divide anything by six?

Finally I've had enough learnin'. I stop and say "I got the right answer, does the method really matter? Why are you making me continue to think about this, the answer is four, I got it right, I passed the test, I don't have to have logic."

He says, "You have no idea how you got to four do you?"

We are so close to the register. I cannot figure out how I got four. I need to get out of this. I am so irritated by this line of questioning that chocolate is losing its appeal. So I am trying to think of a way to change the subject.

"Why do they show worms wearing glasses? Worms don't have eyes. And why would you call a really smart person a book worm? Worms don't even have brains."

Bob is easily distracted, I can see my plan is working. I throw in one last comment. "You are like a little book worm with your math skills. You are so smart. I am lucky to have a mini calculator with me all the time." I top that off with a hug.

Bait and switch. Change the subject, add a little flattery, show some love with a hug and you are in the car sharing M&M's. Math class is over.

And isn't ironic that I was used a "worm" in a "bait" and switch sting?

iPhone Apps Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

I have an iPhone. I love it. I love it in a sick kind of way. Last night as I was getting ready for bed I was looking for my phone (to tuck it in before bed.) I couldn't find it. Then I realized, I had left it in the car. Egad! My first thought was theft. I often forget to lock the car. What if someone stole my phone. Panic. I rush out the door to check. Forget my keys. (Just in case I remembered to lock the car.) Don't want Bob to know I am panicked about the phone so I calmly grab them and walk, unhurriedly, out the door to the car. Impending doom looming over me. I can feel the tears building.

Once outside I race to the car door and there it is. Right where I left it. In the cup holder. Looking forlorn. No, really, it looked forlorn. Did you ever turn around in a crowded place and can't find your two year old? The panic, the fear of losing your child. But then, when you turn around to start looking and there she is, right in front of you? You know that relief that floods your body? Yes, that's what it felt like when I saw my phone.

Now you know.

Part of the reason I have such an attachment to my phone are all the great apps I have. I have several camera apps. I can do all sorts of fancy things with my photos. I can make them look old, I can color them, I can blur the edges, I can crop and I can frame. I take pictures of everything these days. Mostly the cat. I have a lot of pictures of my cat on my phone.

I also have several games. I am not going to talk too much about the games because my family thinks I may have become obsessed with some of the them. Just for the record I can go a whole day without playing Pocket Frogs.

Words with Friends is one of my favorite apps. It keeps my mind sharp. Doctors say in order to ward off dementia you should play word games. So, playing this is like filling a prescription from my doctor. Yeah, I'm going with that.

Words with Friends is just like scrabble. Only on my phone. My sister, all the way in Florida and I play. I always have a game going with her and with my sister in law. My sister in law randomly puts letters out there and uses words I have never heard of that are worth about a million points and it really irritates me. I try and make up words using high scoring letters and it just never works for me. Not sure why I play with her.

But, what I really wanted to tell you about is iMapMyRun. This little app will log my walks, runs and even my bike rides (bike rides I am gonna do, eventually). It has a GPS so it very accurately tells me how many miles I have gone. It keeps track of the miles, how long it took and what my average pace is. Then it keeps a log of all the workouts I have done.

Before this app I would walk for an hour and be certain that I had done at least six miles. I mean, my body cannot possibly feel this sore and tired unless I had done six miles.

After this app I start recording at the beginning of my walk, walk for the hour and it tells me I have gone 3.23 miles in 55:01 minutes and yes, your body CAN feel that bad despite the fact that you were crawling along at 18 minute miles.

Apparently I was getting a better exercise before this app.

I like iMapMyRun because it keeps a real record. I used to keep a written record and would often round up to the next mile (as in 3.23 miles rounds up to six miles). I would also round down to the nearest minute (as in 55:01 minutes would round down to about 40 minutes because I stopped to let the dog pee and since I wasn't moving then I could legally shave off a couple of minutes-for accuracy.)

Because it keeps a log it will list all the workouts by date. It was hard for me to look at the log and realize that my last workout was in October of 2010. Arguably, I did work out on the elliptical a few times and those workouts are not listed in the log. Both of those workouts could be entered manually but as it has been awhile I am not certain of how many workouts there were and as you can tell I am all about precision and I don't want to guesstimate. We'll just say it's been a couple few weeks since my last workout.

You might say "Teri, only serious athletes need this kind of log." And I would say, meet a serious athlete. I could even toss out something like, "I need it because I am in training for the Disney Half Marathon in January of 2012."

It would be true. Crazy but true.

Let me say it again. I signed up for the Disney Half Marathon in January of 2012. Sounds funny coming out of my mouth doesn't it?

I thought it would be a great way to force myself to get in shape. Obviously I didn't think about this long enough.

Do you know what else I thought? I thought, wouldn't it be fun to blog about this? I am telling you, this blog is causing quite an upheaval in my normally calm life.

Oh and by the way, I am not getting monetary compensation for tooting this apps horn but I am not opposed to that idea so if any of you can hook me up with someone that could get me some money for this I'd really appreciate it.

Why do I Blog?

I keep coming back to why do I want to blog. So bear with me as I work this out.

I want to blog so that I can be rich and famous.

Not so rich that it takes the fun out of blogging and not so famous that my personal life is no longer mine.

Okay, okay, I realize I am not going to become rich and famous, just kidding about that. Sort of. I think everyone wants their fifteen minutes in some way shape or form. If blogging took me down the road to fame I'd be okay with that.

I want to blog as a way to journal.

Typing is so much faster for me than hand writing that the idea of a journal online was very inviting. But, I don't really want to put my internal messed up- ness out there for all the world to read.

Well, not really.

I'd gladly put all my internal chaos out there for everyone to enjoy. Judge away, that's what I say. It might make you feel better about yourself as in "Sheesh! I am not THAT screwy." Or "Whoa, talk about a whacadu." Or even. "Is this chick for real?"

But, in my journals, I am complaining. There is someone or some thing (something that someone is doing) that is eating away at me. I wouldn't be able to gripe about it or them without them knowing and inevitably someone's (several someones) feelings would be hurt. A public blog cannot be my journal.

I blog because I like to write.

Yes. That's a good one. One leetle problemo. I feel I have to come up with something interesting every single fricken day of the week! For example. I write one good blog, get a lot of positive feedback and then the next day am stymied at the key board because there is no way I am ever going to be able to write anything that good again today (maybe not ever!) and then people will know I am not that interesting and well, that is too much for my fragile self esteem to bear.

I blog because I want to be a better writer. Practice makes perfect so writing everyday is the best practice. I blog because I think there may be a book in me...if I don't ever write a book pretend I didn't say that.

I blog because I have a good sense of humor.

I am funny... LOOKING! I can find the humor in most things and I was once told that humor worked well for me as a way to deflect from what is really going on. Actually, I was told that more than once. Like that's a problem? Besides, I make you laugh, we forget we were talking about me and we can move on to you. (So tell me, what do you think about me?)

I blog because I am going through life by the seat of my pants and wonder if any others out there feel the same way. Maybe we can help each other.

I struggle with wrong and right. I struggle with God and my faith. I struggle with my children, my step children and that blended family thing. I struggle with eating vegetables. I struggle with gravity and the effect it has on my aging body. I struggle with procrastination. I struggle with alcoholism. I struggle with divorce. I struggle with my husband. I struggle with low self esteem. I struggle with depression. I struggle with money. I struggle with how many pictures of the cat on my iPhone are too many.

No, I don't struggle everyday. But stuff comes up on the radar. There are other things too but I think I will make that another blog: "101 Things I Struggle With". In bullet point.

Like everyone, I have good days and bad days. Don't get me wrong here, I know I am blessed, I don't really have any major complaints, I know there are people out there that have much greater things to struggle with. I mostly have it under control. I am mostly fine. But sometimes I hear others talking about their day to day stuff and they are struggling too.

So, I blog because of a combination of all the above. I suppose if I blog and it helps just one person get through just one bad day it will be worth it. Even if that someone is me.

(Oh, and I blog because Bob provides excellent fodder. Bob is funny....SMELLING!)

Captain Jack Sparrow

Friday at Midnight. Pirates of the Caribbean Four. I. Can't. Wait.

I am Johnny Depp's biggest fan.

Well, not Johnny, I am Captain Jack Sparrows biggest fan.

I think it is the dark eyeliner.

My girls know I love Jack. My girls friends know I love Jack. My coworkers, my family and the random person at the Jewel check out line, all know, I love Captain Jack Sparrow.

I have a T-shirt that says I love him. It has little hearts on it. For emphasis.

I had my Facebook converted to pirate language for a while.

I celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day with fervor. (September 19th every year!)

I have been known to play the movie with no sound and I pretend that Jack and I are spending some time together. It makes my housework feel less like drudgery. Don't judge me.

I got a poster of Jack for my birthday one year and tacked it on the ceiling above my bed. I was in my forties. My oldest daughter walked by as as I was standing on the bed trying to hold the poster and pin it to the ceiling. She stopped, stared and said, "You are soooooo paying for my therapy."

Bob knows if he wants to woo me, all he has to do is say "Arrrrrgggggg", in his pirate accent. I melt.

One day I was walking along the beach and lo and behold who should be sitting on the beach forlornly drinking rum? Yep, it was Jack himself. He'd had a spot of bad luck and was regrouping. He asked me to join him and I couldn't say no. We spent a lovely couple of hours shootin' the breeze and drinking rum right out of the bottle. I have a picture.



Three more days.

Still Crazy After All These Years

I really haven't blogged since Mother's Day. I can legally blame blogger for the last two days, as they were down. But the days before that...writer's block?

I think that my post on last Sunday was too emotionally draining. It was a bit scary to put something so personal out there. For complete strangers to see is one thing, you guys don't know me so I am sorta okay with that one but I put it out there for 'casual acquaintances' to see. You know, people I might run into at the grocery, or at work, or at my daughter's Lacrosse game. Now they know a deep dark secret about me. What if they judge?

But really, as I think about that, I am okay with that too. I realize I am not as important in other peoples lives as my ego would like to think.

I forget how emotional and squirrely I get around this time of year. They say that your life runs in a cycle. If you had an emotional trauma at one point your body will cycle through it every year around the same time. Your subconscious keeps it hidden until the anniversary . Then it surprises you with a little memory. If you are anything like me, you take that memory out and play with it until it is a full blown reliving of the event.

Not really sure if that is healthy, but that's what I do. As time goes by, I don't dance with the memory like I used to. It's no longer a month long event. It has even shrunk to less than a week, in most cases. But it is still there. Time heals all wounds but it doesn't erase them. That memory is my scar. Most scars have a story. You remember where you got your physical scars, can retell them with flourish. Of course you would remember the emotional scars too.

That blog was the first time I had ever written all that out. It's a lot. Why in a blog? I don't know, but all day it pulled at me to be written there. I wanted to write a joyous little story about a mom and her children, but that was not the story that was in me. Cathartic for me? Most definitely. But maybe my need to write it wasn't all about me. Maybe it was put in the blogosphere because someone else needed to know they weren't alone.

I blog because I have a need to write. I blog about my life because I am certain there are others out there plodding along in a similar pattern that maybe need a sign that there is another person out there crazier than them.

Nice to meet you.