Filed under: bits and pieces, Dewicate feewings, home and hearth, I feel so smart! | Tags: a weekend away, Home and hearth, responsible adult
There are so many reasons to love getting away for a weekend:
- The household chores aren’t yelling at you
- You get to eat stuff you don’t normally have (DIM SUM! YUM!)
- The day-to-day stuff at home doesn’t seem so boring.
This morning, even though it was kind of hard to get out of the bed (we actually stayed there until 6:20 instead of getting up at 5:30) was…nice. The dogs were happy to see us, as was the cat. At least I think she was. She yelled a lot and chased Rusty around, bapping him on the head,which is what she does when she’s happy. The coffee tasted good. We are spoiled with the coffee. Luzianne chicory coffee is what we prefer, and outside of New Orleans and Cafe’ du Monde, you just don’t find it in a restaurant. Except here. It is the coffee of choice in the Toot household.
The day has actually been faced with good cheer. It has been difficult lately, life and all that. The trip was much needed and to be honest I wasn’t positive we’d be able to take it until The Owner told Terry to turn off his phone and “take your lovely wife shopping in Atlanta.” I was pretty sure we’d go, but there was a nugget of doubt that kept saying some crisis would occur and we’d have to cancel.
BUT…no crisis, low(ish) gas prices, and a son who was willing to make sure the dogs were fed, and it all happened. I love it when things work out.
and there’s even some smoked gouda, prominently marked with warning of bodily harm to anyone who would dare to touch it. I love my kids, but not enough to share the smoked gouda or dark chocolate. They can have some of the “nee-shwa” olives, tho. I think that is mighty generous.
And now? It’s time to get ready for school to start on the 13th.Yep. Tuition needs to be paid by tomorrow, supplies need to be bought. Office Max has these big brown bags and they’ll give you 20% off anything that fits in the bag. Since #4 never actually USED the notebooks he had last year, he can “use” (or not…most likely) them again this year. The really good news is that I made him sit down and do his Summer reading and book report (To Kill A Mockingbird) in early June, before he left for camp, so all he needs to do is a quick review. It’s due the first day of school.of t
And I had a lovely, lovely list (how I do love a list) of things to get done today:
- Take the trash to the dump (I have CJ’s truck today)
- pick up prescriptions
- do a bit of laundry
- make 2 weeks of menus and a grocery list
- double check on the measurements for a garment for someone
- give the dogs their heartworm meds
- change the sheets on the beds
- clean out the fridge
- and I had every bit of it done by noon
- Go me!
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: a weekend away, Dachshunds, Home and hearth, Hotlanta
I am not yet ready for the weekend to be over. Even thought we’re home now (no traffic on a Sunday morning, so driving was easy and I did all of it. Terry napped) and the dogs have quit telling me all about the horrors of being left in Will’s care for 2 days, I am still not ready for it to be over. Therefore I have turned in the chair a little bit so the pile of overlooked dog poo (they do that when they’re disgruntled about something) is out of my line of sight.
Because I am a paranoid worrywart, and the person left in charge of the house while we were gone didn’t ever answer his phone or respond to my 127 text messages, I was slightly (only very slightly, mind you, which is a vast improvement over times past) concerned that someone had broken into the house in the middle of the night and I’d find his dismembered corpse in the bathtub and all the dogs hides stapled to the living room walls. I’ve said before that my mind is like a chapter from a Stephen King novel.
Instead, what I found were 4 dogs who tried to convince me they’d not been fed for a week (we were only gone 2 days, but dogs have a lousy sense of time) and the person left in charge was awake and cheerful and the house (other than the small pile of poo I am trying to ignore) was in good order.
It took a bit of time getting all the purchases put away, but it is SO satisfying to have the empty mason jars filled again with purple barley, kamut, and wild rice. (and other stuff necessary for culinary creativity). I get a great deal of satisfaction in having such variety to choose from, and plenty of herbs and spices. The Dekalb Farmers Market has a nice selection of fresh herbs, in big bundles for Not Much, so I buy the ones I don’t grow, and freeze them- dill and tarragon, mainly. Those are herbs that really need to be fresh, as they lose most of their OOMPH when dried.
Oooookay. I guess I’d better go clean up the poo. At least, with the food we give them (Pedigree Small Breed ) their poos are small and hard, and don’t smell like much.
Terry was happy that we got home in time for him to see the race, and I have to figure out what to fix for supper, tho I might pull out the “I never cook on Sunday” excuse, even though I didn’t cook on Friday or Saturday.
Filed under: bits and pieces, Hooray!, In The Southland, oh you self indulgent hussy!, spouse | Tags: Being Southern, Hotlanta, In the Southland, Spouse
I am, right now, on the 17th floor in a corner room of the Intercontinental Hotel in the Buckhead district of Atlanta. I can see the Atlanta skyline to the right, and Stone Mountain straight ahead. And trees. Lots of trees. Atlanta has so many trees and it’s lovely.
Yesterday traffic was horrendous thanks to several nasty crashes. so we went to the Dekalb Farmer’s Market to pick up some goodies for supper while the crashes cleared.
Cheeses (smoked gouda! Mah Favorite! And 4-pepper crusted chevre! Terry’s favorite! And brioche, and cherries, and Irish cheddar with red wine, and olives, and curried chick peas)
Also? A container of peach juice, to go with the bottle of champagne…bellini’s y’all…that’s what I was drinking…
We got up this morning (what a comfortable bed! And massive squashy pillows! And a duvet! And a thermostat we turned down to 65 so the duvet felt fabulous!), had breakfast, and sallied forth to Our Favorite Places.
Highland Hardware- where Terry got himself some woodworking necessities and I got him a coffee cup that said “He who dies with the most tools wins”. While Terry was hunting for things, I got into a conversation with one of the employees about the gold standard.
Then Gail K- where I got all the fabrics mentioned in that last post. The guy (a short Asian man of indeterminate age) was VERY helpful, especially when he learned I was intent on purchasing a lot of stuff.
Then lunch at The Oriental Pearl, where we ate ourselves into a near coma because they were serving dim sum and we do love us some dim sum. I am particularly fond of sesame balls, tho I cannot figure out why, since they are basically sweet and tasteless and sticky…but love them I do and I had 2 of them. Also? Dim sum is crazy cheap. We had huge piles of food and the whole thing came to $30. The only issue I have with dim sum is that I am lousy with chopsticks and too shy to ask for a fork, particularly since, in this restaurant with about 300 customers, we were the only Caucasians. So when I could, I kind of stabbed the food with the chopsticks and pretended I knew what I was doing. It worked. I am determined to practice using them so next time I don’t looks like an ignorant anglo.
After lunch we found our way back to the hotel, Terry walked half a block upwind and fetched me a tall coffee, and I watched him from my 17th floor perch, feet propped on the windowsill and feeling very well cared for.
When he got back, he napped and I fiddled on the computer.
I have no idea what we’re going to do now. It’s only 2:30 and we’re all done except for the groceries, and that will be done tomorrow morning, unless we go do it now.
Edwardian skirt and vest- fine charcoal grey wool flannel (a very soft and tropical weight wool, perfect for our mild winters), black jet buttons, line with superfine black twill
Feminine Edwardian blouse, full sleeves with deep cuffs- ivory cotton jaquard (to go with the wool suit above), mother-of-pearl buttons
Edwardian style coat, full a-line with princess seams and gathered sleeves, dark red twill with an ivory slubbed cotton lining.
I sense a style theme going on…and I was born a solid 100 years late. I LOVE Edwardian style stuff, and these will be modified enough that I don’t have to wear a corset or remove a rib.
OK let’s see…
4 pieces of yardage for Fall shirts-
a cream and dark red toile voile (say that 3 times fast ) pronounced (twall voil)…
A cream, blue,red,um….green…probably a couple of other colors…Liberty of London print cotton…
ok I have to say this because it’s one of the charms of Gail K Fabrics…they carry Liberty of London prints, the out of date ones…which, at the LoL website and in stores run upwards of $45 a yard. Gail K has last year’s models for…$15 a yard. I feel smug every time I buy a piece.
also a white with royal blue window-pane checks linen
and a dark red and white pinstripe cotton.
Also, buttons for everything. Fancy pants black jet and gold buttons, very Edwardian, for the red coat, and regular old shirt buttons for all the shirts.
I will also be making a bunch of skirts- dark red, khaki, navy blue, dark denim, light denim…black…whatever…
Probably first to be made will be the shirts, because I need them and it won’t get cold enough for the suit or coat until November.
Pictures forthcoming, I promise.
I am not, and have never been, the type of woman who can really put an outfit together. I do not have The Knack. Yes, about once every 3 or 4 years, something magic will happen (Coldwater Creek catalog) and an outfit will appear, then I’ll have An Outfit, and because it’s so magical and unique like some sort of fashion unicorn, I’ll wear it until it is no longer stylish because it is a Successful Outfit, and also that once-in-a-blue-moon fashion hiccup.
I am working on that. It would be nice if there were more than one Real Outfit in the closet. Boy, does it take a lot of work, tho.
Shopping for clothes, the actual going into a store, trying stuff on, all that? I hate that. I hate mirrors, I despise the stuff that is currently ‘stylish’, and the cheap quality of anything, even in the Good Stores like Talbot’s or Dillard’s. Finding something that fits right is as tricky as finding..well..that unicorn.
And this is where I am incredibly grateful to Mom, who convinced Dad, back in 1975, that I needed sewing lessons. Thanks Mom!
Because now, I can make what I like. Style and fashion be damned.
So, now I am working on putting together some Outfits for Fall and Winter. The aformentioned GailK (see previous post) carries a huge selection of worsted wool suiting, the stuff you see very expensive men’s suits made from (preposition ending of a sentence!!), for not much, considering the quality of the fabric. I am going to make a suit. A skirt (street length) and a vest, in charcoal worsted wool with black velvet trim, and a white handkerchief linen blouse. Also, a dark cherry red coat, lined with some vibrant print (view C- the white one). Because I want to, and can. I actually kind of love tailoring, as opposed to simply sewing stuff. The care and attention to detail in tailoring is akin to architecture. There’s also plans for an assortment of shirts and blouses to go with the large number of skirts in the closet.
All this, of course, will be in between paying sewing orders, which are happening in ways that haven’t happened since I was in college (and paid 2 quarters of tuition by making Square Dancing outfits and reenactor’s costumes).
I guess the point is that I’ve finally figured out My Style, which is never The Style, but now I’m old enough to Not Care. Now off to find some shoes to go with the suit…
Maybe these?(yes, I know they’re dance shoes…do you know how COMFORTABLE dance shoes are?)
Filed under: Awesomeness, family, food, Hooray!, oh you self indulgent hussy!, Rest and Relaxation, spouse | Tags: a weekend away, Hotlanta, Spouse
I can’t help it. I don’t like surprises and I am not one of those spur-of-the-moment types. I don’t like it when someone just drops in for a chat (unless it’s someone I know VERY well, whom I am confident won’t judge my floors or the pile of laundry) (Jerseechik…)
Because I am not the toothbrush-and-a-pair-of-panties traveler, plans are being made. O yes. Terry’s as non-spontaneous as I am and we both enjoy the process of planning. It’s not a Big Trip as time goes, but it is a Big Trip philosophically.
Thursday is our 26th anniversary,and also CJ’s 21st birthday. Yes, the child had the poor taste to be born on our 5th anniversary but I have forgiven him for that. Due to circumstances outside of ANYONE’S control, Terry has Work Things on Thursday, that will take him out of town until late that night. CJ is off that night, and also 2 nights following, so he is going to my parents’ place in Alabama, where 2 of his brothers (David and #4) are staying for the Summer. Which leaves me and Will here…maybe he and I can go to dinner or something. That decision will be made that day.
Anyway, Terry and I are going to Atlanta on Friday and staying until Sunday. We have a lovely room in a very nice hotel in Buckhead, and plans to visit Our Favorite Places, ones that simply aren’t anywhere else.
Terry wants to go to Highland Woodworking because they sell fancy tools and have great ideas and he needs a couple of bits for a thing so he can do something exotic and make a lovely and unique piece of furniture. This is an endeavor of which I highly approve. Also, I want to watch him in this Grown Man’s Candy Store because it’s fun to see him excited about something.
I want to go to Gail K because I have been saving up all the money I’ve made from sewing so I could spend it there on fine fabrics and interesting buttons. I have a list, and samples of the fabrics I already have so the purchase of matching stuff for blouses and linings can be made. And buttons. They have the best selection of non-typical buttons anywhere, ever. Buttons will be purchased, I guarantee you that.
And also The Dekalb Farmers Market, which is a food lover’s paradise O yes. I have a nice long list of spices and flavorings and grains and cheeses and maybe, just MAYBE, this time they’ll have Westphalian ham. They haven’t had it the last few times we’ve been there, which has been mildly disappointing. The stuff is the Beluga caviar of hams. The Napolean Brandy, the 30 yr Glenfiddich of hams. If they don’t have it, I’ll have to suffer with cappricola instead. O well.
See there, all plotted out, with a hearty breakfast at the hotel (they have what they modestly call “continental breakfast” which actually means there’s a guy standing there to make your custom omelet, and a pastry chef in the back making croissants, and probably a cow and a milkmaid churning butter and creme fraiche. We’ve eaten there before and it ain’t the breakfast you get at Motel 6. Not that there’s anything wrong with a cup of yogurt and a plastic wrapped muffin if you’re hungry and on a tight budget…anyway, now that I’ve offended someone…
We’re planning a trip. I love a trip. I love Atlanta. Even in late July. Which is why God put air conditioning in cars…Or someone did, anyway.
Filed under: family, home and hearth | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Home and hearth, responsible adult
No seriously, I really do love Monday. I also love Friday, Saturday and Sunday. And Wednesday because it’s the day I have Prayer Group and get to see my friends, and Thursday because it’s my self-appointed Day Off. I do not like Tuesday, because it has nothing special to offer. Tuesday is only good for mopping floors and cleaning bathrooms. Yuck on Tuesday.
Monday is the day after the weekend. Order is returned to the house. Laundry gets done, and tidying up after the slackery of the weekend. In less than a month (20 days, actually, but who’s counting?) #4 will return to school, and that means even more Order and Structure, which is a lovely, lovely thing.
Monday is the day I go around and gather up the piles and sort them. The house smells of laundry soap and dryer sheets, which is nicer than the usual Dog Aroma. I suppose if I did a load every day or so, the house would nearly always smell of dryer sheets, but that would require Change Of The First Order, and I have always done laundry on Mondays, as has my mother before me, and her mother, probably on back to when Eve rinsed her fig-leaf panties the week after getting booted out of Eden for listening to a snake.
Why Monday? Because everyone is gone the rest of the week, and doing this stuff on Monday (and Tuesday) means getting to appreciate a tidy and nice smelling house for the rest of the week, until Friday afternoon when the heathens all blow in and dump their crap on the floor and sit around smelling like pizza and burritos for the next 2-1/2 days.
Especially right now, because 2 of the heathens are with the grandparents, and have been so for the past almost-a-month. David, who is 22, has been YardMan for Mom, who has needed a yard man for several years but balked at it. They are paying him to shovel trailer loads of horse manure, to eliminate clumps of smilax and wild grapes and honeysuckle, and to tame the water-moccasin infested perimeter of their pond. He gets afternoons off and ammunition so he can practice target shooting. #4, who just turned 13, is there as well, also helping with yard work and target shooting. He is working on a Marksmanship merit badge for Boy Scouts. They will both return (with all their male aromas and laundry-generation abilities) at the end of next week.
I am certain, on that Monday after they return on Sunday, that I will kick into overdrive and do extra laundry and possibly even commit that act of Cheap and I-Can’t-Believe-You-Do-That-But It-Seems-To-Work peculiar air freshening thing of…stapling a dryer sheet to the ceiling fan in each room. No, not really, but it seems like it would work.
Speaking of cleaning and air freshening, I found a peculiar yet remarkably explainatory (is that even a word?) thing in David’s room when I cleaned it. Ok, he is 22. As such, he naturally has a certain involuntary aroma, especially since he is a particularly Manly sort of 22. And yet, his room didn’t stink. It actually smelled kind of…nice. Not a “he uses too much Febreeze” sort of nice, but a generally clean sort of, almost like a bathroom after someone takes a shower. Upon completely dismantling his room (lest you gasp in horror at my invasion of his privacy, I had his permission) I discovered 5 unwrapped bars of Irish Spring, located under and inside various pieces of furniture. At first I thought “what?” and then I thought “huh…not bad” so I put them back where they were found, and filed this information away for later use, when #4′s room gets cleaned.
Do you have a particular and unusual method for making a place smell cleaner than it probably is?
Filed under: church, Church type stuff, Dewicate feewings, God Stuff | Tags: Coping mechanisms, going to church, In the Southland, perspective, responsible adult
I’m not writing so much about God and Religion here, as I am about church- the organization- and my experiences with them. God will probably come into it, because He is,well, the reason for church, after all.
I was born into a family of Presbyterians. My father’s family could be considered Presbyterian Royalty, if there were such a thing. Ministers are in every generation all the way back to John Knox and John Calvin, and my great great grandfather was Hugh Cunningham (if you’re a Presbyterian from Texas, you’d know who he was. If you’re not, that’s ok, neither does anyone else who isn’t a TexPres, except the 27 people and companies in Texas named Hugh Cunningham, but that doesn’t have anything much to do with the Presbyterian church…try googling it and you’ll see what I mean), who brought Presbyterianism (thus True Religion, much to the irritation of the Baptists, who were already there when he showed up with his Calvinist Ways) to Texas even before it was a state, back when it was called The Republic of Texas.
Did you follow all that? Now that my dubious pedigree is established, on to more current and relevant stuff.
BTW, Terry amused by all this pedigree stuff, and the importance placed on it by my family. He is, and always will be even though we attend a Presbyterian church, a Free Will Baptist. Which is about as far from a Predestination Presbyterian as you can get and still call yourself a Christian. Fortunately for the sake of our marriage, I am not hard-core Calvinist, but more of a Methodist, but I prefer the Presbyterian liturgy and most of the Westminster Catechism (here’s the short version, if you’re interested.), which is a statement of belief. An even shorter version would be The Apostle’s Creed, which I see as a lovely concise statement of belief, nice and compact, and gets it all in there in a manageable way.
I grew up going to Presbyterian churches. The earliest one I remember was in Champaign, Illinois. About all I remember of that one was that it’s very contemporary architecture, and how I’d run up to the front after the service to blow out the fat candles and dip my fingers in the melted wax. I also remember that we’d ride our bikes to the services, if the weather permitted. And how I’d balk at wearing a dress. That had nothing to do with church, though. I always balked at wearing dresses.
Then we moved to Athens, Georgia. We started out going to a church (Friendship Presbyterian) that was near our house, then (as I learned was to become the normal thing) there was some sort of disagreement between my parents and the church leadership (or something), we left and went to First Presbyterian. First Pres was the church I attended during my high school years. During that time, a new associate pastor was hired, fresh out of seminary. He was, shall we say, (in the late 70′s teenage vernacular) Quite A Fox. One fine Sunday, it was the first time he was actually leading the service and giving the sermon. I and a couple of friends had come to know him fairly well,and promised him we’d sit on the front row as his cheering section. Midway during his sermon, we began making kind of horrified faces, and pointing toward his zipper (he was walking all over the stage-or whatever you call it in a church), making up and down motions, indicating his fly was open. He kept preaching, but turned bright red and stood behind the podium so he could check it. Where he realized that he was wearing his vestments (long black robe, etc). Calling the look he gave us “murderous” would be an understatement. We, of course, thought it was hysterical.
Between my junior and senior years of high school, we moved to Auburn, Alabama. We briefly attended the Presbyterian church there, but soon realized it was Too Liberal (or something). I am not sure why we quit going there, only that there was a fundamental difference of opinion between my parents and the other congregants. I was totally ok with that, because the youth group was comprised of 5 people who took great delight in putting me down for not being able to play a musical instrument with any proficiency. Never mind that I could sing rings around any of them (many years of voice training and a 4 octave range, but that meant nothing because apparently any goob could sing). We went across the street to the Methodist Church, and I quit participating in any youth organization. I like the Methodist sensibility, and it’s emphasis on order (method) and quiet evangelism.
However, that did not stop me from quitting church altogether at 18. As an adult (well, sort of…the law saw me that way) I was free to make my own decision, and I decided church was a waste of time and all this God Stuff was cramping my style. So all that got put away for a few years.
Then I met Terry, and we decided to marry. Which meant we needed a church. I was still a member of the Methodist church,and he saw no reason to change that. We attended, he did some work for them, and we were married there. Well, not THERE there, but by the minister of that church. Which lead to a brief and intense moment of excitement the day of our wedding. My grandparents (remember, Presbyterian Royalty) showed up the day of the wedding, and my grandmother asked the minister if he was PCA (Presbyterian Church of America- the Conservative Ones) or PCUSA (The Liberal Ones). Rev. Miller said he was neither, that he was Methodist. Grandmother Disapproved, and briefly considered leaving. I am not sure what convinced her to stay, but they did and I am glad of that.
A year later we moved to Tenille, Georgia, where Terry had his first job after graduating college.We sporadically attended the Methodist church there, but I didn’t enjoy it and really didn’t particularly feel like belonging to a congregation. I did it out of that ingrained sense of obligation. I’d always been a member of a church, therefore I was always meant to. Like it or not. Terry didn’t push it, bless him.
18 months and a baby later, we moved to Cordele, Ga. Methodist church, sporadic attendance, and a failed attempt to join the Women of the Church (I was new, and Cordelians were suspicious of anyone they hadn’t gone to Kindergarten with). 2 years and another baby later, we moved to Monroeville, Alabama. For some reason I got it into my head that I was going to be A Good Wife, and attend the church my husband was raised in. We visited a single Baptist church, and was visited by the preacher a couple of days later. He asked about my background and upon discovering that I was raised Presbyterian, said I would have to be baptized. I told him I’d already been baptized, and he disagreed. While I was in the process of puffing up like an offended toad, Terry said a couple of diplomatic things and saw him to the door. I stomped and snorted for a bit, and asked if, since I wasn’t married in the Baptist church and marriage is a sacrament just like Baptism, did that mean our 2 children were illegitimate and every time I’d taken communion I was faking it? Terry calmed me down and said we’d stick with Methodism.
This time it was better. The pastors were a husband-and-wife team that the congregation was united in their dislike of (yes, Ruth, I know I am ending sentences in prepositions). Fortunately, Methodist ministers are moved around every 4 years or so, so we knew what was really important was the congregation, and not the pastors. The next pastor was the one I hold closest to my heart, for he saw me through the most difficult period of my entire life, with compassion and wisdom, and through example showed the entire church what it means to show God’s love to His entire creation, not just other people who go to church. He also wore electric purple silk shirts, and took my awkward and lonely 2nd grade son fishing. His ability to show God’s love in a real and wise way rekindled my interest in God, and I am thankful that God used such a man in my life.
After 6 years, we moved again to Auburn, Alabama, where we rejoined the church we’d been married in. It had changed dramatically in those years, growing from a church of about 500 to one with over 5000 members. Some of the Old Guard (the pre-5000 ones) were still there, and knowing a few folks made the difference in staying or finding something of a more manageable size. We both disliked the massive worship services (3 per Sunday, each with 1000+ attending),because they were so impersonal, and no one every knew if you were there or not. We quit attending worship, but would come for Sunday school- classes of maybe 15-20, and people noticed if you were there- and I participated in mid-week Disciple studies and played in the handbell choir. I understand the appeal (I think) of these massive churches. Comfort in numbers, I suppose. The pastor there was…I don’t know…Squishy feel-good or something. His wife taught art at the local middle school, and Highly Disapproved of my free-thinking children who wouldn’t make art the way she wanted them to. Art which hangs on my walls because not only is it theirs, it’s Quite Good. I was not enamored of his feel-good sermons, and wanted some meat, some Biblical teaching, something more than “God loves you,so y’all be nice, now”
9 years later, we moved here, to Deepest South Georgia. For 4 years, we did not attend a church. We would go sporadically to this one or that, but none of them had the warmth and sense of community I so desperately wanted. I have a dear friend here, who knew we weren’t in a church, and knew we needed one. She harassed me every time I saw her, telling me to get to a church, find one, when was I going to get my child in a church, all those things Good Church Women say of to people like me. I needed harassing, too. Finally, one day she’d had her fill my lack of church-going-ness and (she’s Ethiopian, not White American) and said the one thing she knew would get me off my sorry ass and into a church. “Peggy, you are a White European Heathen Why aren’t you in church?” and I said OK FINE…I’LL GO. So, because Terry is nice that way, we visited the local Presbyterian church- the PCA (conservative, like just about hard-core Calvinist) one, not the SquishyLiberal PCUSA one. And…it was like walking into a family reunion held at Grandmother’s house. A small church with about 250 member, we were immediately recognized as visitors and greeted and asked who we were and welcomed and made to feel like people were genuinely happy to see us there. Even with the various doctrinal differences, we were welcomed.
It isn’t the kind of church that says “show up and you’re a member”. You take a class, where you can argue and ask questions and the various doctrines and beliefs of the church are explained. Then you’re interviewed by the Session to see where you stand in your faith, and they decide if you are accepted as a communing (that is, allowed to take communion) member. Now, if you are not accepted as a communing member (because you don’t believe in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior- refer to The Apostle’s Creed) that does not mean you cannot come to church. Anyone can come, I mean, that’s what we want, for people to come, to hear the message, all that. So don’t think it’s some Exclusive Club. You should see the people there, you would know right away there’s no exclusivity going on. It is…for me…Home. A return to the comfort of a familiar liturgy (the way the service is performed) with familiar hymns and prayers, and a simple unadorned sanctuary. I am back in Church again, and I don’t ever want to leave.
Filed under: *whinge*, Dewicate feewings, Disease and infirmity | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Oversharing, responsible adult
This week has involved Back Pain. And not the usual low-back-pain-from-picking-up-heavy-boxes, either. No, this was Upper Back Pain like a hot knife between my shoulder blades. Also? Heartburnish stuff of the gall-bladder (totally self diagnosed, too) which caused a panic as I realized these were all symptoms of female heart attack.
Except I didn’t have shortness of breath, nausea or extreme fatigue…so of course I didn’t call an ambulance or go to a doctor. Because I don’t go to doctors, unless I have to. I laid in the bed (the knife-in-the-back happened in the middle of the night) and evaluated the sensation carefully. Was it spinal, like maybe a slipped disc? Or muscular, like a bad cramp? At 2 am with my back on fire it was hard to tell. I eventually determined that it was muscular.
So, the next day, I took OTC painkillers and got on the internet to play doctor. I know real doctors just LOVE that, but I love it too. There were several possibilities, but the most likely suspect was Poor Posture, Laptop Induced. Well ok. The laptop has to go to a desk and be placed high enough that the screen is eye level, and the back needs to be straight at all times. In other words, no more laptop computing.
That has helped! Also, a hard back rocking chair instead of a squishy recliner. Also, twice a day massage from my handsome and capable masseusse, which I am pretty sure will need to continue for at least a month, maybe more…we don’t want to stop too soon, y’know. Also, OTC painkillers- Aleve is helpful. Motrin works better but is kind of iffy what with the kidney situation. Did I mention twice daily massages? Oh, and doing the floors (which requires a certain degree of stooping) is Not Allowed, so the floors,what with all their low-level dog population, look awful. They really require twice weekly cleaning, which I do once a week on Tuesdays, but this back thing happened Monday so they didn’t get done and now it’s Friday and ugh, they look awful. And no, I don’t like anyone else to do them even though they would if I asked nicely.
Which has nothing to do with not wanting to burden them with my job, and everything to do with they won’t do it right and for me that is more frustrating than not having them done at all. I know that doesn’t make much sense but don’t we all have quirks that don’t make sense to anyone else even though we understand them perfectly?
What I DO have is a good bit of Season 2 of Downton Abbey to watch. And a great excuse to watch them instead of moaning around about the floors and all.
And the gallbladder thing? It has happened before, without the knife-between-the-shoulder-blades drama. Vinegar and molasses, followed by a bowl of something starchy and low fat (noodles) takes care of it. I know eventually it will need seeing to by a paid professional, but currently it’s sporadic enough that it can be managed the old fashioned way.
I used to do what everyone else my age (and older) does, and whine and complain about getting older and things aching and making noises and generally complain about getting older. I could eat better and exercise and do all those things that will keep stuff running better. I know that. Complaining about getting older isn’t really sensible if one isn’t actually doing the things to stay healthy, it’s like complaining that your feet hurt when you deliberately buy shoes that don’t fit, or complaining that your curry is too hot when you deliberately ordered the green curry instead of the panang curry. I just haven’t reached the point yet where I am willing to go the extra mile to be fit. I am not yet willing to give up the stuff that tastes good in exchange for the stuff that is really good for me…not entirely, anyway.
What I am NOT going to do anymore, well maybe not as much anyway, is gripe and complain about how body parts hurt or make noise or don’t perform up to my expectations, because seriously, it’s my own damn fault. I’m the lazy one, and no one is tying me down force feeding me Uncle Shug’s fried chicken.