Tell Me, Meme, What Were You Doing When...?

The sweet Irish Ali knows I've not been a blogging of late and sent me a little help. Thanks Ali for the meme push!!

The following are 5 major events and the impact they had on me:

Princess Diana's death - August 31, 1997

I heard about it on our car radio I do remember that but I cannot remember exactly where we were. In reading and hearing the story of her death over the following days I didn't shed tears but I know my heart was very heavy. Princess Di exemplified, to me as well as to so many people, grace, compassion and love in action.

Margaret Thatcher's resignation - November 22, 1990

No clue. But, I did Google the date to see if surrounding events would jog my memory a bit. Seems my memory doesn't like to exercise and still doesn't remember her resignation. I did see that the oh so very talented (puke) and highly acclaimed (not) Milli Vanilli were being outed as fakers (duh). This truly shocking and devastating moment in history might explain why I wasn't paying attention to the end of Maggie's political career.

Attack on the twin towers - September 11, 2001
This moment is unlike any other in my memory. It is the most vivid remembrance I have. (Yes, even more vivid than the birth of my children because dude, seriously? I'm a wuss and I was drugged.) Down to clothing, aromas, sounds and names, the most intricate details are there. I was in the pharmacy at the hospital, which is where I worked at the time. A co-worker came rushing down the aisle where I was standing along with 2 other co-workers and told us of the first plane. At the time it was thought to have been merely an accident and not one of the most horrific events in American history. Then the report of the second plane came and we were all dumbstruck. Several of us put aside our work for a moment and went to a nurses station where there was a t.v.. There we sat with many other employees, patients and visitors and watched as the towers burned and then fell. No one talked. No one said a word. But most of us cried. All around us, activity was continuing as usual in the hospital, it had to. But it felt almost profane for it to do so in light of what we were seeing.

England's World Cup semi final v Germany - July 4, 1990

I remember it like it was....no wait, I'm lying, I don't remember that at all. I wonder why? Oh that's right, I don't follow soccer or football as the rest of the world calls it. Oh and I Googled this date as well and yeah, nothing.

President Kennedy's Assassination - November 22, 1963

I was merely the ripe old age of -3 (yes folks, that's a negative) at the time. So, like Ali, I was not...um, not yet. And like Ali the first death of a celebrity I experienced (or that I remember) was Elvis'. However, unlike Ali, I was 11 and I did not cry. I know, I am a cold and heartless woman. I mean come on, it was Elvis! But alas, I am (gasp!) not now, nor was I ever a fan.

Now on to the task of passing this bit of fun on...
I hereby nominate for the post of the What Were You Doing When Meme:

Meg of Meg's Garden

Jen of Lessons Learned

Courtney of Schiskablog

Sharon of Shae's Window to the Soul

and drumroll please......

Nancy of Nancy's Monablog

Happymess is a State of Mine

Gah! Has it really been almost 2 weeks since I've posted?

Geesh. Sorry folks. I'm not sick, depressed, in prison or off on a top-secret mission in the jungles of some unnamed uncharted island fighting power hungry sinister villains bent on world domination. And vacation is over, so what could possibly be my excuse this time?

Perhaps it's the shock & awe of returning to the Real World. You know, the one where you have to wake-up to an alarm, wear something else besides flip-flops and a bathing suit, actually cook your own meals (with or without help), make your kids do their chores, put on your happy face (aka mask, make-up, camouflage or war-paint), clock-in and actually do some work so you can get paid?

This is, of course, the antithesis to the universally popular world of Dreamville otherwise referred to as The Vacation World. Sigh.

It was - how shall I say this? FANFREAKINGTASTIC. AMAFREAKINGZING. As well as AWEFREAKINGSOME. Just to throw out a few adjectives.

No really, it was just that nice. Here are pictures to prove it:

Ocean water as it should be.
Pensacola, Florida

Beach sand as it should be.
Pensacola, Florida

Good Lord Lawrence, that is beautiful!
Pensacola, Florida

I spy with my little eye gorgeous white sand, empty beaches
and beautiful blue water.
Pensacola, Florida!
Dang. You guessed it.

Ahhh.

It warms the cockles of me heart and truthfully I'm a little teary-eyed just looking at them....


Oh, you want to see pictures of us there? What, you don't believe me??? Okay, here is your evidence oh doubting Thomasessesess...

The day of our arrival, road weary but happy to Arrive Alive.
(Florida's ad campaign to buckle-up)
We made it!

Elena & her cousin Gina ready for a day at the beach. Literally.

Jesse & the girls.

Here is evidence that even my son had fun. Um, sort of.

Sort of because in this picture (look on top of our vehicle) he was bound and determined to "NOT have any fun! NOT going in the water or near that yucky sand!"


Yeah, that lasted all of five minutes....

Sand fight!!!
(I started it and dang! it were fun! I am SOOOO mature.)

J. Cool, posing all gangstariffic in his Sponge Bob swim-trunks.
He is sooooo dreamy.

Stop yer yic-yacking, I can hear you. I was too there. Who do you think took all of these lovely photographs??? Again with the doubting? Okay, okay...

HERE is your proof. One very white foot. In very white sand.

That is all you're getting folks.

There are things we didn't get pictures of...like all the road trip drama and laughter and hotel high-jinks.

Okay, no, there weren't really any hotel high-jinks...unless you count Jesse unplugging the elliptical machine in the hotel gym while some lady - who, if looks could kill, Jesse would be buried next to Eddie in the Florida sand, only much deeper and without any way for him to breathe - was trying to get her workout on...he was so embarrassed.

What? It was just a suggestion and he didn't have to listen to me! I just thought maybe it would help the treadmill start back up since the computer on the dang thing was frozen and he couldn't get it to do anything. What do I know??? Geesh.

Other than that it was completely mindless, effortless, work-free, exhausting, ended way too soon fun-filled vacation. We came, we got burnt and we went home with more sand than should be legally allowed. Good thing they don't charge you by the pound for that...trust you me, we took home half a beach and it was in everything and everywhere...Like Elena said, "Mom, I went to pull my bathing suit off and a sand dune fell out."

She's so cute.

Right Hand Red, Left Foot Green

I'll bet you know what that's from. That's right folks, Twister, the game that ties you up in knots. That's also the name of an exercise class that I've started taking.

No wait, that's just the way your body feels during the exercise class...and the tied up in knots part is what you feel for days afterwards.

You read that right me lovies no need to break out the reading glasses and call in the family to point at the screen and laugh. Me. An exercise class. Me. Who would have thought? Well certainly NOT ME...

Yes, yes, it was me who, if asked to go work out at a gym, would loudly profess "I don't believe in public humiliation."

And yes, it was me who swore she wouldn't be caught dead trying to keep up while sweating with a room full of shapely bodies. Bodies that don't actually need to sweat to the oldies.

Yes, yes, yes, I would put working out in public right up there with having your teeth pulled and trying on bathing suits - I thought of it as just that painful.

Yes that was me. Ah but how quickly the treadmills turn for that was me then and scarily, this is me now. And I've discovered crow goes down much easier with a little Crystal Light.

This is me now, in all my glory and all its jigglyness, poured into a pair of sweats huffing, puffing and flailing around the room and actually enjoying - quite profusely I might add - the torture being meted out to me and 10 others. I think I might need some intense psychotherapy folks because I'm not quite sure just who I am anymore.

And, if I am to be at all fair in giving you a complete picture, I must give you these bits of information, for it would be slightly untruthful and less than forthcoming not to. I am participating in this bit of human degradation at a gym in a church. This is an exercise class with co-workers, all of whom I know and love. And this is a beginners weight training class - well, supposedly for beginners but none of us are buying that bridge.

Now, with all that said, it is still a gym. And all that aside, there are still witnesses in the room. And, all things considered, this is still to be filed under the category titled public humiliation.

Now you would think when he started the class with how many? jumping jacks I would have run Forrest, run screaming out of the room. Nope. I obediently began to jump. If you could call it that - looked more like jack. I thought dude is this high school? It has that same utterly embarrassing feel to it. The instructor looks like my old high school gym teacher - thick mustache, big muscles and deep voice, except this time it's actually a man.

Then I hear the sound. I try to place it. Kind of sounds like hands clapping slowly. Who is that, is someone keeping beat???

Wait.

Oh. My. Word.

That. Is the sound. Of my thighs. Slapping together. Seriously? Oh yes. Gulp. This could get ugly. Truthfully, it already is quite ugly. Uber. UBAR.

Gratefully no one can hear the mini-ovation over the grunting and gasping for air. Either that or everyone is just too kind to laugh in my face.

The next hour proves to be one that shows - no matter how strong, healthy, in shape I might foolishly dream I am - I am not. I am a sad sack of jelly fish and every muscle in my body is at that very moment screaming for me to be taken down by a licensed professional at close range. And the gelatinous things that used to be my legs and previously had held me up so stoically now feel like I am being cattle-prodded and tasered simultaneously and the traitors have abandoned ship. They've mutinied along with my lungs and every other cell in my body.

Once class is over we look around taking a mental body count as we smile at each other. I hear myself pant and wheeze. I take a swig of water hoping to hide my asthmatic sounding breathing. I wheeze louder. And then I praise God I made it through without passing out or passing gas and wobble out the door. And look forward to next week for more of the same.

Sicko.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Because the rooster was chasing her.

No. Really.

Right smack in the middle of this very modern metropolis known as Houston. There we were - close to 20 cars - held to a standstill by two ten pound birds in the intersection of an otherwise busy street, waiting and watching rather amused (at least we were) while a rooster slowly chased a chicken across the road.

A second chicken was right behind them but seemed to change her mind mid-stream and headed back for the other side. Perhaps she didn't want to be a part of the re-enactment of this age old joke.

And this isn't the first time we'd seen farm creatures roaming the streets of our concrete jungle.

Two years ago we were in North Side (say it Nancy, North Sieeed) - which is a seedy area of Houston at its best - helping with a little something our church calls Houston Project. Approximately ten of us have set out on foot going door to door inviting the folks to come join in the fun at the local church when out of nowhere comes a donkey. A rather large, forbidding looking donkey who is quite agitated to say the least.

Now being the educated city folk that we are, we stood right there in the middle of the road and pretty much right smack in the middle of his path and not one of us is moving. I believe we were in shock. I mean it is not the most normal thing to see coming out of the backyard of a house in inner city Houston. Inner city anywhere for that matter.

A few seconds behind him comes his owner with a rope in his hand yelling in Spanish for the donkey to 'stop' and 'get back here' and I think that he called that donkey a few choice names which might have made matters worse because that darned animal seemed to take offense at whatever he was saying. Okay so I don't know nothing 'bout no donkeys, but I am pretty danged sure the yelling and name calling ain't a working. But that's what he keeps right on doing at the top of his lungs as the pair of them go running right by us standing there with our mouths hanging open.

Apparently this was a common occurrence - at least for these neighbors - as it did not warrant the slightest bit of attention from anyone else but us because folks went right about washing their cars, fussing at their kids, playing in their sprinklers and paying no mind to the man chasing the donkey down the road.

That's what's going on here in Houston folks. What about in your neck of the woods?

Support

More than just a good bra or a pair of Spanx. Support is in those who surround you, those who cheer you when you stand firm, who understand when you fall short and somehow carry you forward against the crushing rush of the tide.

Support is an assorted collection of family, friends and even, sometimes, absolute strangers. Strangers they may be, yet because they've walked in your shoes and you in theirs quite enough in life, these unfamiliar faces ring of familiarity.

Because in them you witness your hard-fought tears slip from their eyes, you hear your selfsame struggles in their voices and recognize the demons they have seen as the very same that have haunted you for years. The scars they bear - some old and barely visible, others fresh and still on the mend - are identical to yours for you have been warriors fighting a parallel battle. Synonymous lives.

I only remember a few of their names but I remember every single face. I remember them because we've come together gathered around a common purpose and have rallied for the same cause. I remember each one, because together we are strengthened by each admission of weakness; we take away a measure of courage in the fact that these weaknesses are normal and only temporary. I remember each face because I look around and I see victory in their expressions. I remember because I hear the triumphs declared in each of the voices. I remember the courage and determination of my circle who, against odds decided long ago, have clawed our way out of the dark prison cells of our own making and in to the light of freedom.

And freedom is a marvelous thing.

Wordle

My friend Sharon sent me this link for a website called Wordle. Instantly I was fascinated as - and I've said many a time before - words have always been my love language. (What the que is a love language you ask? Well silly, click on the link and find out...)

So, on this Wordle page, you can enter just about anything from your own selection of words to your blog URL and make word art.

I entered the URL for Ventage and here is what I got:



Click on the picture to see it larger. I think it's pretty funny that Chuck is front and center due to the recent post about Chuck E. Cheese.

Then I placed my own words on the canvas. I took my time and chose my words carefully, as I knew they would be viewed with many eyes. Do I always take such care?


Of course not. No.



I don't think I've ever thought of my spoken words becoming art but there they are. And whether it is an impressionists brush stroke offering reflection and peace or a hardened sculpture repelling its witnesses with its cold reality, words create impermeable moments in the museums of our lives.

What works of art do your words create?

Donna's Neighbors

Who the heck is Donna? Well, um, that's me.

And if we are going to be blog friends, then I think it's time you met my neighbors. Now, my neighbors pale in comparison to Nancy's fascinating bevy of Condo characters. Nevertheless, I feel it is an introduction far overdue.

And, yes, my name is Dana (Day-na) not Donna (Dawn-uh) however Donna is what one of my neighbors insists on and persists in calling me. Truly, I do not think she means to change my name. And I am more than certain this is not due to the fact that she is of another culture - such as Irish - which would perhaps pronounce my name differently, but to their ears, correctly. Nor do I think that she is willfully pronouncing it wrong and thereby letting me know that I and my name are of no consequence to her and hers. Like Endora with Derwood Darrin.

She just somehow has it in her head that Donna is my name. I ignore it. I mean, this from a woman who says she loves those mocho floppy-chinos more than lotties - how could you possibly dislike her?

Her husband ribs her about it. In fact he jokes with everyone about everything. He is never serious. It has to be frustrating to attempt a sober conversation with the man. It must be something akin to discussing the political state of the Middle East with Robin Williams.

The whole family has a great sense of humor and with a 3 bedroom house occupied by 2 adults, 7 children, 3 grandchildren, 1 son in law, various other in-laws moving in and out, 3 dogs, 2 puppies, 3 completely wrecked vehicles, 3 more vehicles in need of major mechanical work and 4 running vehicles, one has to have humor in abundance. Or insanity. Or both.

And one must have both good humor and patience in abundance to live next door to all of this. Not to mention we live in a rather decent neighborhood where this sort of multi-family farm slash car lot is not looked upon with favor. Neighborhood associations are so snooty that way.

So if I told you they were great neighbors would you believe me? Because they are. They always borrow stuff, leave trash in the yard, park in front of our house - all exactly what good neighbors are supposed to do. But we look out for them and them for us. Our kids hang out together. They make us laugh and give us something to discuss on those long cold winter nights. Oh wait, this is Houston and we don't have winter.

Sure, Mr. Roger's wouldn't have them and trust me, this ain't the Neighborhood of Make Believe...but they do make great fodder for stories.

Well, they don't bring us casseroles or get excited about trash novels by the pool, but they are ours.

For now.

Next up, the new neighbors. *cue the creepy music*