Thirty four years ago yesterday, my mother was in a hospital in Charlotte North Carolina. She walked in as a wife and mother to a four year old daughter. Upon admittance, she brought her quick wit, and I am sure she immediately had the nurses doing her bidding as if it was the very thing they were put on earth to do. I can only imagine the pain my mother was in while she was in that hospital in 1976. Medicine was not as advanced back then, but giving birth to a child that was overdue was a relief with or without an epidural. Visitors came from miles and states away to see mom and the new addition to the family. They brought with them well wishes and congratulations. After all, the birth of a child is an exciting time that everyone wants to share. Mom walked out of the hospital with her husband and her two baby girls. She may not have had all of her strength back yet, but she had enough strength stored in her that during the next 34 years she would teach me what it means to be strong.

Yesterday morning I walked into a hospital in Fairfax Virginia. I walked in as a mother to a four and a half year old boy and a three year old boy. I held the hand of a man I have known as my stepfather for the last fifteen years. I thought of my mother as a rode the elevator to her room. I dug in my heels and tried to muster every bit of strength she gave me and I walked in the room she has lived in for over a week. I saw a woman that resembled my mother. Just days ago, this same woman thought Bush was the President and the date was May 2007. I said hello to this woman and she said “hi, baby”. There’s my mom.

I talked to my mom for a couple of hours before her radiation treatment. I tried to get her to stop messing with the stitches where the shunt had been placed in her head. I reminded her, as she has me so many times, to stop picking. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke here and there and at one point my mom flipped me off as her crooked smile curled. She was still in there. As I painted my mom’s fingernails I found myself counting them. I recalled counting the fingers and toes of my boys as I held them in the hospital after delivery and just being happy they were all there. I felt the same way about mom.

As my mother napped after radiation I sat with my stepdad in a small office near mom’s room. The two of us sat across from a doctor that would soon tell us the fate of my mother. The fate of a woman, that in her early 40’s beat breast cancer with one hand tied behind her back. The same woman, that in the last two years, all but beat an unbeatable lung cancer. The same woman that is called mother, sister, wife, daughter, friend and Senior Vice President of Sales.

“The oncology department is no longer going to follow your mother’s case”. “Palliative Care”. “Six Months will be a shock”. “A list of hospice companies”. They will offer my mother 10 radiation treatments and plan to send her home with hospice. There is nothing more they can do for her. The tumor in her brain that has metastasized from her lungs is incurable and due to the critical location is inoperable. Chemo would make her worse and the radiation buys us some time, but no one can tell me how much time.

Each time I visit my mother now, I wonder if it will be the last. Each time she closes her eyes I wonder if she will open them again. Each time someone says I am just like my mother I say thank you.

Like my mother 34 years ago, I walked out of the hospital a different person. I am still a mother, daughter, sister and friend, but I am stronger because of my mother.

I pee near you to you and yours!

]]> http://ourcrookedtree.com/?feed=rss2&p=972 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=966 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=966#comments Mon, 26 Oct 2009 04:01:04 +0000 ourcrookedtree http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=966

I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card. It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me.

Over the last fifteen or more years, I have moved back and forth between my Southern home and the Northland that somehow sucks me back like a pool vacuum trying to get the smallest piece of soot from the bottom of the pool…it is relentless. Like that last piece of pool gunk; I have finally given in to the pull that I cannot resist; my fate is inevitable. Although my changing ways were vividly apparent to my family; I denied the accusations that I was somehow being “influenced” by “those damn Yankees”.

The irony of the situation is that to my friends in New England, I currently live in Hillbilly Country. I try to remind them that just because we like our “throwed rolls” and our okra fried, it does not mean we are backward in any way. My friends in the first thirteen find it funny that I have to explain the difference between tin and ten to my children; not the actual definitions of the terms mind you but the way the words are pronounced.

Looking back, I suppose it started after attending school in Missouri.  I moved back to North Carolina where I announced in mixed company that I did not care for sweet tea. You could have heard a pin drop. That’s right folks; a pin, not a pen. The family blamed it on the six months I spent in Connecticut. I attributed it to the fact that I like my syrup on pancakes, not in a glass.

The hardest thing for my family to swallow is that I refuse to eat anything that I have affectionately named “geriatric food”. You know what I am talking about; meatloaf, gravy, and beans. These foods require absolutely no dental tools that should be used for consuming sustenance. I just have a problem eating food that I could drink through a straw. As you can imagine; the fact that I “suddenly” will not eat brown gravy was like personally going to the cemetery and rolling over every ancestor I have.

Fortunately, I was given a very short probation period. The committee gathered around the kitchen table while playing Pinochle, and after a heated debate on the merits of my home made pie crust decided I had not shamed the family enough to take my card just yet. I was given a strict diet of pecan pie, Sundrop Soda, and NC State. I think it is fair to say the punishment fits the crime. Now where did I put my Wolfpack sweatshirt?

]]> http://ourcrookedtree.com/?feed=rss2&p=966 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=955 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=955#comments Wed, 26 Aug 2009 11:48:30 +0000 ourcrookedtree http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=955 I rarely write about my family other than hubs and the boys. I guess I feel like the family beyond the nucleus should not be subjected to such scrutiny. This story, however, was just too good to pass up.

A woman (she is in her early 30’s) recently told me the most hilarious story I immediately told her it would be blog fodder but I would not mention her name. Imagine, if you will, a woman. This woman may not be all that endowed. She is wearing something that warrants not wearing a bra. This woman prefers to not show off her nipples so she get some “pasties”. See, here’s the thing; some woman feverishly try to prevent their nipples from showing and others just don’t care. I am of the don’t care group. But I digress.

So my lady friend attends a backyard party and leaves to head to the next event with her beau. The night continues with a couple more parties and my friend heads home. Upon taking off her clothes to go to bed she notices she is missing a pastie. Not much to get worked up about right? Probably in a back yard somewhere; even if someone finds it they will not be able to figure out to whom it belonged. Or so she thinks.

Seems her soon to be mother law stayed behind at the first party. Something catches the eye of said mother in law and she asks another guest what it is. The mother in law picks it up and makes her own assessment. The next morning my friend listens to a somewhat serious voicemail from her soon to be mother in law asking my friend to return the call as soon as possible with the closing “we need to talk”.

It seems that the mother in law was under the impression my friend had lost her diaphragm. I did not know that was a common occurrence or that pasties and diaphragms look alike for that matter.

My friend is slightly embarrassed and assures her soon to be mother in law that it was just a pastie. I guess the mother in law is not quite ready to be a grandmother.

I think it is obvious at this point that I have my pet peeves. Rather than dissect my laundry list of issues with others, I will concentrate on just one; eye contact.  Worse than a hand shake from a cold, clammy, dead fish; I cannot stand it when people do not look at me when engaged in conversation.  I am an eye person anyway.  Some woman like full lips, tight butts, strong arms, long hair, etc.  The first thing I notice on someone of either sex is their eyes.  The infamous “they” have said that the eyes are the window to the soul.  I am not sure if that is true, but I believe they can tell a lot about a person.

When I first meet someone I can tell how they feel about themselves by whether or not they look at me when introduced, and for how long.  Eye contact tells me they are confident but not necessarily cocky.  If they look at me too long I can get a little creeped out. You know what I am talking about; that guy that is still looking at you well after the introduction is over and you are looking at the introducing party.  Weirdo.

When I am talking to people I also pay attention to how often they look away.  It is one thing to get distracted by someone or something going on the room; especially if in a public place.  I too can get distracted by shiny objects. However, if I am having a one on one conversation and the other person looks away often, I start to wonder what they are hiding.  I read once that “A person who is looking to his left is accessing the memory; he is trying to recall the facts before relaying them to you. A person who is looking to his right is accessing the creative part of the brain. He is inventing a version of events or story to tell you.” I rarely pay attention to the direction someone is looking, I just get irritated they are not paying attention to the conversation. It’s just a mutual respect thing.

The one part of eye contact that we have no control over is the size of our pupils. In 1975, a study discovered pupils do more than simply react to light. When we are interested in the person we are talking to or the subject we are talking about, our pupils get bigger. When we’re bored, they get smaller. To verify this, next time you’re hanging out with a friend or significant other, talk about something you know he finds interesting, then suddenly change the subject to changes in this year’s tax laws and watch his pupils change. I have tried this with hubs and can verify the validity. What do you think I chose as my subjects?

]]> http://ourcrookedtree.com/?feed=rss2&p=929 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=941 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=941#comments Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:23:27 +0000 ourcrookedtree http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=941 I normally stray away from “those” posts.  You know the ones; all about how little junior is such a super star and is in the gifted program and blah blah.  Sure my boys are great and super cute but they also drive me nuts at times.  Then they redeem themselves by saying something like “mommy, put on this blanket; super heroes need capes”.  Where do they get this stuff and do they know what they are saying?  They break my melting heart.

I started this blog over two years ago with the objective of keeping my nationwide gypsie family up to date on what is happening with the boys; hence this post.

Little Man is graduating from preschool today.  I realize he only turned four in June but he is going to attend a super cool program at the elementary school!  The program integrates children of appropriate development with others that may be having difficulties.  I am most excited that LM will have the opportunity to be  in class with some hearing impaired kids. The idea behind the program is for Little Man and his counterparts to mentor the other kids and vice versa.

In honor of this exciting milestone I wanted to document some of his recent answers to a teacher:

My Favorites:

Food: Pizza
This is so true; the kid could eat his weight in pizza every day.

Music: Big and Rich
Another truth.  Every time we get in the car he asks to turn on Big and Rich.  It is a good thing we have a number of their albums or I would go crazy.

Sport: Baseball
Like his mama he doesn’t like to do anything if he is not good at it from the get go.  He has had the most success and fun with baseball.

Color: Red
Of course it is.  I bet he will marry a redhead too.

Movie: Batman and Spiderman
Big surprise.

Book: Lightning McQueen
I need to find out where he read this book.  We obviously need to get it at home.

Place: The Zoo
What kid doesn’t love the zoo?

Subject: Puzzels
This is the neurotic in him; the challange of putting things back in their place.  That’s my boy!

My Nickname: “No”
Well I normally call him crazy monkey.

My hobby: Playing with my kitty
I am not sure if Poco the kitty would call that playing.

If you could chose any animal to be what would it be and why: Big giant elephant because I really want to scare people.
I don’t consider elephants that scary.  Might need to get this answer analyzed.

What would you like to do or become in the future: A firefighter.
Not sure about this one.  Apparently we hang out with too many firefighters.  His favorite uncle is a firefighter and a friend of ours  that Little Man says is “super funny” is also a firefighter so we tend to visit a station regularly.  If I ask their wives they would say “mama don’t let your baby grow up to be a fireman” because the schedule sucks.  May need to consider new hang out spots.

So I am a little late on the new year resolutions but better late than never I suppose. I started working out with some family and friends last week and decided to throw in another test of my self control. As if getting up at 5:30 in the morning isn’t enough to make me cranky, I thought cutting out caffeine would add some “excitement”. Imagine if you will, being shocked out of bed by the alarm at o’ dark thirty. What is the first thing you want? Coffee. Of course on the way to the garage I pass my beloved Keurig as it looks at me longingly. Have you ever broken up with someone without warning only to be punished because you have to see them everyday and lack the balls to confront them?  That is me and my Keurig.  I dislike confrontation so I keep walking with my head down in shame.

First let’s get the “why” out of the way: I drink way too much caffeine. Ask anyone that sees me on a daily basis. My breakfast is a red bull and I am rarely without a cup of my favorite coffee in hand. Coffee is the only bean that I let cross my lips.  It cannot be good to constantly have a mood altering stimulant in me at all times; there is a reason hubs calls me a hummingbird on crack.

Now for the “how”: Not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. I have not had one headache but oh my god I swear if I sit for more than 10 seconds I will fall asleep and need a cattle prod to wake me. The first few days were easier than the last couple of decades. Saturday we had two birthday parties to attend; one fortunately served beer so I had a moment of peace. The other had lots of sugar so I was able to get my fix by consuming my weight in cake and punch. Yesterday was no fun for anyone at our house.; cranky mommy arrived. I did not realize there were so many places to get coffee in this town. Each one of them taunting me more with their drive through signs and aromas that could be smelled for miles. As I entered the gym today I even noticed they had red bull in the drink fridge! What the hell! I am not good with temptation but kept walking. After all, at this point I am too stubborn to give in.

I am not sure how long I will last. I give myself another hour or so before I head to meet a client and pass a coffee shop. It is true; all the stuff that is bad for us is the stuff we want the most. What is your vice?

]]> http://ourcrookedtree.com/?feed=rss2&p=937 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=878 http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=878#comments Tue, 18 Aug 2009 11:28:40 +0000 halfpastawesome http://ourcrookedtree.com/?p=878 WOW! My first guest post! This is so unexpected! What to say, what to say…..well first, of course, I’d like to thank The Academy. And of course, my entourage, my personal hygiene assistant Rico, Mother Dearest, and God. WOW! I, this, can I say WOW! I mean, I am the LAST person who expected to be up here tonight….I SO don’t deserve this, not with Mr. DeNiro sitting right in front of me, dragging his……what is that, his index finger?….across his throat. Ok, so I prepared this little speech thing, JUST in case I got the call to guest post, so, if Mr. Clint Eastwood would stop squinting at me (VERY distracting, by the way, Clint) we can get on with this whole business of breaking new ground.

In all reality, I appreciate the Jittery Redhead giving me a chance to write on her site; she’s good people. I love to shoot the bull with strangers, so this all dovetails nicely with a little writeup. The question lingering like an unceremonious fart in the room is “what should I write about?” Most of you out there are ladies, and while I love them, their issues are theirs and mine involve things like “dealing with excessive body hair” and “how to get away with purchasing more tools you really don’t need”. I can’t for the life of me relate to carrying a deadbeat renter in my stomach for nine months, I don’t trifle with emotions like empowerment and am lucky to remember where I last left my keys. In a fit of glorious madness, however, I DID stumble on the one topic upon which you and I can relate, perhaps in several ways: shoes.

Let’s get this awkward beginning out of the way: I dig women’s shoes. ON WOMEN. To be clear, let me repeat: I AM A FAN OF WOMENS SHOES ON WOMEN ONLY. I don’t have some nutjob shoe wearing fantasy of my own, I don’t find feet appetizing, and I don’t have some sadistic wish to have my berries crushed by a vindictive dominatrix (at least, not that I’m aware of). I am, on the other hand, a true fan of the form and what a nice pair of shoes represents. My own loving bride knows that she can’t ever get into trouble by purchasing yet another pair of sexy heels. Come home with Crocs or Keds? Then we might have issues (pun intended). To me, a fun, classy, sexy pair of shoes give a woman an edge. An edge of confidence and control. That is, provided she doesn’t walk in them like a drunken gazelle on roller skates. That is just painful to watch, promotes an air of awkward immaturity and comes across like you’ve been raiding your older sister’s closet.

Why do women like sexy shoes? I’ve been told it’s because it makes them feel good to look good, they promote confidence, class and style. Flip-flops do none of these things, nor do Birkenstocks. And, I guess what makes it such a turn on for me is that the same sensations I just mentioned come across to a man as supremely attractive. When a woman takes the time and effort to wear a pair of shoes that look like she pays attention to the details; this sends a signal to most cognizant guys, even if it looks like we last updated our wardrobe in 1987.

In defense of what may be coming across as triggering every creepster red flag on your bizzaro-meter, let me at least qualify the previous statements with some parameters to what is definitely NOT sexy:

• Stripper heels with clear platforms - because, well, they make you look like a cheap stripper. Or Pamela Anderson. Bad mojo either way, and not remotely sexy
• Boots that go over the knee - high heel boots are VERY sexy; however, when they go over the knee, you cross over into pirate territory. Not a good look, matey. ps- if they are ankle high boots, then you just look like a renegade cast member from The Sound Of Music or Harry Potters ancient aunt or something. Knee high, and knee high only.
• Heels that go over 5″ in height - we’re getting back to low-rent hooker status here, and dealing with the need for giant platforms on the front to accommodate the height.  Unless you got real fish tanks under the front, it is a look that rarely comes across as anything other than Victoria Beckham Whoretastic.
• Stockings with open toed shoes - No. Won’t do…..looks like your smuggling grapes in a bank robbers disguise. Gross. Rookie move.
• Ballet flats - If you are over the age of nine, you just look the fool in these things. Go out and find some Jellies for crying out loud. Then send me a note on folded brown paper asking me if I will “go around” with you. Beh.

I guess it is my hope that this sheds some light on one guys perspective as it pertains to a certain element of style. However, as my wife informs me on a regular basis, I’m no prize, so you must take that into consideration when judging my judgments. Some men are “ass” men, “breast” boys or “hairy leg” lovers. It’s all good and relevant, but I just happen to appreciate the fairer sex even more when she is wearing a really good pair of shoes. If this offends you, and we meet on the street,  at least have the decency to haul off and kick me in something other than Chuck Taylors. Red patent leather would do nicely, I should think.

About Uli: Born and raised in Santa Barbara, Ca., the madman went to school on the central coast, then moseyed up to Alaska for a stint on the North Slope, working the oil rigs in what might be the worst job ever. Along the way, he worked as a truck driver, heavy equipment operator, framer, substitute teacher, television station camera operator and whatever other work seemed to demand more of his back and less of his mind. He finally settled into an apparent career as a firefighter in Springfield Mo., where he is the driver of Ladder Truck 2 on the city’s north side (read: ghetto-esque). He enjoys the contradiction of working on Missouri’s third largest, very urban fire department, while living 10 miles out of town on a small plot of land (affectionately named “the compound”) surrounded by his wife, two boys, and the weirdest assortment of rednecks you could ever imagine. Most of his time is spent subjecting unsuspecting passersby with his so called “wit and wisdom” or shaking his fist in the air while grunting at the idiots the city makes him save. On his 48 hours off, you can find him offering a lighter side of firehouse life, pop culture, life in the middle of the middle of the country or just random venting at faceless institutions at Half Past Awesome.

When it came time to move hubs out of his house and into my place, the relationship I once had with the king changed. You see back then, hubs and I moved ourselves; we were not as fortunate as we are today to have selfless friends and family that are willing to spend an afternoon sweating and grunting while breaking their backs to help us move. Back then, we did not have the smarts, or funds, to hire two convicts and a truck to pack the truck for us. Back then, it was me and the mattress. After wrestling with the king for what seemed like nearly eternity, I convinced the man that the best, if not only way to get it out of the house was through the window; and its landing spot became its resting spot.

Upon moving in with me, hubs had no choice but to accept his fate; he would have to sleep on a queen mattress. As far as I am concerned the queen offers more possibilities than the king to meet in the middle when we choose. If you ask Brad though, he doesn’t really get his own space. He swears he has about two inches on his side of the bed.

There is a perfect explanation for this; I am a snuggler. Not the “hold me” kind of snuggler mind you; I just like to have some part of my body touching his while we sleep. An ankle over his ankle would suffice but that is just not conducive to sleeping on my side (and isn’t it all about me?). So we spoon; Brad clinging to the edge of the bed and me breathing down his neck. Paints quite the picture doesn’t it? Hubs would be perfectly content if we did not touch at all while sleeping; he claims I give off too much body heat or something lame like that.

Funny thing is, I sleep so much better when Brad is gone. I wake up in the exact same position I fell asleep and barely have to make the bed due to lack of ruffled covers. When Brad is home; we toss and turn and the covers are all tangled and twisted. As a neurotic bed maker it drives me nuts. Maybe I am unconsciously getting back at him by only giving him two inches of space in the bed?

In every relationship there is a big spoon and a little spoon. I happen to be the big spoon. Which are you?