Boo!

In recent years, one of our busiest residential streets in the heart of town has developed a trick or treating tradition that has grown to the point that the city shuts down about a half dozen blocks of that street to safely accommodate all the little goblins and ghouls that will traipse through there tonight. They expect somewhere around 3,000 kids to show up. Whew! Wouldn't you hate to buy candy for that many kids?


It started when a couple of houses on the block got a little carried away with decorations, and before you know it, everyone else was getting into the spirit and now, every Halloween, the yards are filled with elaborate decorations that even include a real coffin or two. Some of the houses start getting ready a couple of weeks prior to Halloween, giving you sneak peeks of what's to come. Since I run on that street just about every day during lunch, I get to watch the decorations come together, and today that street was a beehive of activity as homeowners got their houses ready. Some houses go the traditional route:

Others create mazes that will likely be kind of dark and scary at night.

Others, like my buddy D. and his wife, build mad scientist labs, complete with old freezers and fake body parts.

In fact, there were fake arms, legs and heads scattered up and down that street today, tucked into bushes and peeking out from under flower beds.

My favorite house changes themes each year and they usually lean toward whimsical. Last year, they went with Peter Pan. This year, they teased us for the last several days with a big sign in the yard inviting everyone "to tea", and today, Alice and her buddies were setting a table and getting ready for company.

So cool. The Hula-gen's do not go to extremes like that, although I might throw on Teen Angel's bumble bee costume for answering the door to trick or treater's. With Papa T. still in the hospital, we're lucky we have candy. Thanks goodness I bought it two weeks ago because I had coupons. And thank goodness, we won't have 3,000 visitors. I didn't have enough coupons for that many goblins.

A Bigger Prize

Thursday, we had the Business and Professional Women's Luncheon where they named the winner of the local Business Woman of the Year award. I was one of sixteen finalists. Hubby and Teen Angel were there, along with mama and daddy for moral support. You couldn't keep mama away from something that recognizes one of her babies. In fact, if it had been some kind of election, she would have wrapped up enough votes for me to win two weeks ago. She's been campaigning for me since the nominations were announced. Despite her efforts to tout my achievements to anyone in three counties who would listen, I did not win. Another very well deserving colleague of mine did, and I couldn't be more happy for her.


I did not expect to win, and that's the gosh honest truth. Hand to God, I was just very honored to be included on a list with such wonderful dynamic women, and it was great to have my family there to share that joy. It truly was an honor just to be nominated. My family though, was convinced I was going to win. Hubby swore the day before that I would. Right before the luncheon, daddy so cutely whispered to me, "Now the only one I'm worried about is Mrs. ****. She's got a pretty good resume." And THEN after the winner was announced and had made her speech, mama leaned over to me, patted me on the leg and said, "Well, you're number one in OUR book." And she meant it.

And that, my friends, is why it didn't bother me that I didn't land on that podium last Thursday. I had already won before I walked in the door.

Revealed

Happy-Because he loves nothing better than to snooze in the chair with his best bud, especially if there's a good western on TV.

Sleepy-Because you can count on two hands and part of one foot the number of hours he has slept since Papa T. landed in the hospital Sunday.

Grumpy-Because, well, because she's just a bit of a bee-atch. I think she's harboring a grudge because of how much we made fun of her swollen teat this summer.



Sleepy, Happy and Grumpy. You figure out which one is which.

In case you were wondering if we're still enjoying the Big A** Chair....we are.  Well, some of us are, anyway.



Anyone Smell Beans?

So, last night I read Super Cop's comment about my post on throwing up in the car when I was a kid and got just as tickled as he did. In fact, an hour later when I was laying in bed trying to go to sleep, I got to laughing about it again and laughed so hard I shook the bed. Fortunately, Hubby was so exhausted and sleeping so soundly he didn't notice, but I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from cackling out loud and waking him up. I had forgotten how annoyed Daddy was with me that day and how much he griped about it when it happened. As I recall I threw up right after we got in the car to go home, so everybody had to deal with the smell and mess for most of the thirty mile drive to the house. Nice. All because I didn't have the sense to realize that if you eat a hot dog right before you try to set a personal record for Tilt-A-Whirl rides, that dog is likely to come flying back up later. Or that I probably should have given everyone a heads up that maybe we might want to wait a few minutes before getting into the car so I could throw up OUTSIDE the vehicle. But ya' know, when you're a kid on an amusement park high you get a little addled. It was the one day of the year we got to ride all of the rides in that park free, and I took full advantage of it. If memory serves me correctly, that was also the year one of us won a sleeping bag with pictures of Dots candy all over it during the picnic's Bingo games, so the excitement was overwhelming.

Now, some of you without children might be wondering why daddy wasn't a little more sympathetic to my plight, but those of you with children fully understand his response. It was one of those moments when your children have driven you crazy all day, danced on your last nerve and then pushed you right over into delirium. The things that can fly out of your mouth in those moments rarely make sense.

There's no accounting for your reaction to some of the things your kids do. I've had many of those moments myself, so that's probably why I find it so funny now. Honestly, I found it pretty funny back when I was driving my parents crazy. There were many times when I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud at daddy's response to something we did, or anything that caused a mess daddy had to clean up. Like that time we stopped at Stuckey's and Super Cop begged for the large grape drink, even though he couldn't drink a large drink. He whined until he got it and then promptly spilled it all over the floor before we got to our table. Nothing brings down a road trip like spilling a sticky drink in front of a restaurant full of people. To this day I cannot see a grape soda without smiling.

One of the times I saw daddy get the most frustrated was when we were headed to my aunt's house for some kind of family meal, maybe Thanksgiving. We had a large crock-pot full of baked beans in the back floorboard, and daddy turned a corner too sharp and turned over the crock-pot. Baked beans were everywhere, and for some reason us kids thought that was funny. I mean, who doesn't laugh at beans? Daddy, that's who. There we were, pulled over to the side of the road with all three of us kids rolling in the backseat and daddy flinging beans onto the ground and swearing like a sailor. The fun didn't end there though. He was never fully able to get that bean smell out of the car. For as long as we owned that Chrysler, whenever it rained and it was damp outside, you could get a faint whiff of beans in that car. And every time we smelled beans, we would laugh and say, "I smell beans." Daddy would say something not family friendly.

And then, there was the time Daddy had a little trouble fixing the brakes on the car. He did all of the repair work on our cars, and I seriously did not know until about age thirteen that you could pay someone to fix your car. Whenever he worked on the car, one of us was expected to stand close by and either hand him tools like a surgical assistant or hold the work light above his head with your outstretched arm like one of those infernal lawn jockeys. The best job though came when he put on new brake shoes or pads because that required him to be under the car while one of us sat in it and pumped the air out of the brakes. That basically involved scooting up to the edge of the seat, hanging onto the steering wheel and mashing the brakes with the enthusiasm of a jack rabbit until you couldn't press the pedal to the floor anymore. It was great fun. On one particular day I was the designated pumper, and daddy was having a terrible time trying to work on the brakes. I could hear every word he said and in between pretending like I was driving and playing with the cigarette lighter I picked up on his growing frustration. He finally bailed out from under the car, threw a rag on the ground and shouted, "I wish Ralph Nader that this emission control thing shoved up his a**!" It was a great moment in family history, and I slumped over and buried my face in the seat so he couldn't see me laughing.

Teen Angel has been laughing behind my back for years, and I have no doubts she will laugh in the years to come about stupid things I've said or done when she was growing up. I've had more than my share of delirium during her growing up years. In fact, if I had to guess which moment tops her list of my goofiest gaffs right now, it would be the time when she was approaching middle school age and had told one butt joke after another. I finally got my fill of telling her to stop when I barked out, "Enough with the butt cracks!" I paused, realized what I said and started laughing. And I'm not really sure, but I think I caught a faint whiff of beans at the same time.

The one Where Papa T. Professes his Distaste for Chicken

In the interest of keeping things lively around here, we like to work in a trip to the emergency room every now and then, preferably when the ER is at its busiest. Despite a great Saturday evening that included Teen Angel taking him to dinner, Papa T. woke up Sunday morning feeling like he had been run over by a bulldozer. He hurt so bad he was moaning, and had he not had a fever I would have blamed it on the jumbo sized platter of catfish and gallon bucket of coleslaw he ate the night before. We thought he might have an infection of some sort, so we loaded him into the car, throw up bucket and all, and headed to the hospital. By the way, why is it you can go for years without transporting a nauseous person in your car, and the minute you buy a new car, somebody has to puke while riding in it? I rode in the backseat with him all the way to the hospital, shoving the plastic garbage can under his nose every time he groaned. It took me back to that time when I was about twelve and got sick on the way home from the company safety picnic due to a hot dog and too much Tilt-A-Whirl. Tip: Do not eat a hot dog covered in ketchup and ride the Tilt-A-Whirl seven times in a row. And then drink a big Pepsi.


We made it to the hospital without any big messes, and much to our surprise, Papa T. had some pneumonia, probably a result of that bad cold he had a couple of weeks ago. He was very weak and achy, so they admitted him, and he'll likely be there for several more days. And I'm not namin' any names, but when all of this is over, somebody is gettin' a pneumonia shot whether he likes it or not. Although, after the catheter incident, getting a needle anywhere close to his body will be a big achievement.

This means a week of running back and forth to the hospital, which really isn't as bad for me as it is Hubby. The poor man is exhausted from staying at the hospital. He has the brunt of the work. Teen Angel and I just fill in the gaps as needed. It also means a week of erratic meals. So far this week, I've had for dinner: Popcorn, Sunday night and a salad with a side order of mashed potatoes last night. That still beats the steady stream of fruit salad, tuna sandwiches and chicken breasts Papa T. is getting on his cardiac diet. I don't know where hospitals get their honeydew melons, but they are like green bricks. Papa T. is not the most patient of patients, so it should be an interesting few days. If I'm lucky, tonight's special in the hospital cafeteria will not be tuna.

iHeart Faces Photography Challenge-"Let Them Be Little"

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Twiddle de de, Look Who's Three!

I have no idea where the last three years have gone, but I turned around the other day and Special Delivery was having his third birthday.  Great Googly Moogly!

And while he seems to be growing up right before my eyes, that is not facial hair around his mouth folks, just blue frosting.

Roar!

Because of his vision and hearing issues, Papa T. is pretty limited in his entertainment options. They pretty much amount to books on tape, which get a little old, and debating politics with me and Hubby, which is downright dangerous. He also spends a fair amount of time with the radio, listening to talk radio and various ballgames. He's mildly entertained by local high school football, but he's about to get really wound up because basketball season is about to begin. Around these parts University of Kentucky basketball is huge, and he is a card carrying member of the Big Blue Nation. As in he's been known to jump out of his recliner and say bad things when the Cats lose. Kentucky is ranked number 2 in the nation going into this year's season, and he couldn't be more excited. We ordered him a subscription to Cat's Pause, the team's monthly magazine, and a copy of the 2011 Wildcat Yearbook, thinking he would enjoy that. And the yearbook arrived in the mail the other day.

And because I apparently have the best enunciation in the family, I have been elected to read it aloud to him. All 300 plus pages. Folks, by December, I may be the only person who doesn't watch college basketball who can recite every stat on each Kentucky player. Ask me how tall Eloy Vargas is. Go ahead.

These Old Walls

Driving through the countryside on the way to the little cemetery where we buried my uncle we passed by this old store.

Even though it's tucked in the middle of nowhere with just a grain bin and a couple of houses for neighbors, at one time, it was a very busy place. When I was a kid, daddy would sometimes take me there when he stopped in to see his farmer friends and fill up his gas tank. Regular or ethyl? Those stops usually resulted in me savoring a strawberry Crush and a Hostess cherry pie while he played cards with his buddies. If those old walls could speak they would crackle with the voices of farmers chewing the fat and solving the world's problems over lunches of ring bologna, crackers and ice cold Pepsis drawn from the chest cooler that hummed in the corner. They would spill the secrets of country wives picking up sugar and gossip and the bark of the neighborhood dog who reigned over the long gone porch. If I close my eyes and listen hard enough, I can hear the ding of the gas pump bell and the slam of the rusty screen door. And I can taste the stickiness of that cherry pie on my fingers and the tingle of that liquid strawberry as it slides down my throat.

I Just Drove By

Why is it we want certain things connected to our childhood to stay the same? Is it comforting for some things to be immune to change, to remind us of that wonderful time of life when most of us had fewer worries and challenges? As I drove to my uncle's funeral in my old hometown yesterday I drove past my grandparent's old house. I had not done that in a long time, and I felt like wading through memories a little.


For the last twenty or so years of their lives, grandma and grandpa lived in town, having moved from the family farm for their senior years. When grandpa passed away, grandma stayed there until her health forced her into a nursing home for the last months of her life. Her house was a small green structure with a wide front porch flanked by matching hydrangea bushes. It sat on a quiet street, populated mostly by widows who tended to their flower beds and kept their yards neat. It was nice, the badge of people who were not wealthy but were proud for carving out an honest living in between the Great Depression, a World War and Watergate.

When I was a child we were usually there at least once a week while Daddy mowed grandma's yard or helped around the house. I played up and down that street, bouncing between the nearby tennis courts and the alley that ran behind her house. There were a couple of kids who lived on that street and grandchildren who visited their grandparents, too. We played in backyards, chatted over fences and made playhouses out of carport sheds. It was a time when kids could play out of the sight of their parents for hours on end without the fear of abduction or the distraction of computer games. Occasionally, the ice cream truck came by and brightened our day. I have fond memories of time spent on that street. It was an enchanting place for a little girl who grew up out in the sticks with few neighbors and nary a Wal-Mart in sight.

As I turned down the street yesterday, I slowed to a stop and took a minute to absorb what has happened on 9th Street in the last decade or so. Now, I know nothing ever seems as big or grand as it did when you were a kid, but things really have changed there. It seemed so different. Run down even. Some of the homes are in disrepair, including grandma's. The beautiful hydrangeas are gone, the yard was a mismash of broken toys, and the neat little white house that used to sit across the street was gone. It seemed dirtier. The pretty brick home that used to seem so fancy when I played there with my friend K. now seems small and common. Gone is the old grocery store with the big screen door just up the block where us kids trudged up the hill with penny change in our hands to buy small pieces of candy. Time has changed the street so close to my heart, and that heart got heavier and heavier as I eased up the street.

Later at the funeral, my mind drifted briefly back to the other changes that have occurred in that small town of 6,500 people since I moved away 25 years ago. Storefronts have changed, the full service gas stations have moved aside for self service convenience stores and familiar buildings have disappeared.

On the twenty mile drive to the cemetery, the town gave way to trees and pastures as we rolled through the countryside. I saw parts of the area I haven't seen in a while but remembered as the miles ticked by. The stomping ground of my youth. My uncle was buried in a small rural cemetery that sits close to a nature preserve, the same cemetery where my other uncle was buried just a couple of weeks ago. It was a beautiful October day, the kind of day when the sky is sparkling blue with wispy clouds and the foliage is the prettiest colors in the crayon box. The weather was fitting I thought, for a man who loved the outdoors and the farmland of his southern Illinois upbringing. Perfect even. And as we drove along, every car in the oncoming lane pulled to the side, out of respect for a sweet, gentle man they didn't know but honored because it was what they were taught to do. A good old fashioned tradition that you don't often see anymore. And when I say every car pulled to the side of the road, I mean literally, every car along the thirty minute drive. Some turned on their headlights.

As we turned onto the narrow dead end road that leads to the cemetery, cheerily named Sunflower Lane, John Denver came on the radio and Back Home Again serenaded me. I smiled at the irony of that moment. When I hopped out of the car I automatically hit the door locks and then almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous need to lock a door anywhere within fifteen miles of that place. My uncle was buried with military rites since he was a World War II veteran. With the sharp crack of the rifles and the words, "A grateful nation", the soldiers honored him with their words and prayers as they gently laid the American flag in my aunt's weary hands. Most of the gentlemen were elderly, performing their duty at the funeral very seriously but very gently. Not a sound was heard while the commander spoke, except for a lone cough from the crowd, and I couldn't help but be grateful for those men who, on any given day, take time out of their lives to honor one of their own in front of grieving families. It seemed such an old fashioned and honorable thing to do. And it occurred to me on the drive home that while the buildings and streets of my childhood have changed, the people haven't. They are still hard working, common folks who hold onto traditions and rituals that are dear to them, and they care deeply for those they love. My uncle died peacefully at home because his wife and daughters worked very hard to take care of him there during his last days. Some things change on the outside, but the things that count the most don't, and for that I'm grateful. This is the stock from which I hail, and for that I'm proud.

iHeart Faces Photography Challenge-"Pink"

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I'll Take Public Transportation for $200, Alex

I have started this post a half dozen times and stopped because I feel a little silly writing about my life when the best I have to offer is that I managed to get my books back to the library on time and I finally got around to shaving my legs. Things are very routine around here, which is actually quite an achievement since it's usually a bit of a roller coaster. I have no major excitement to report except for the fact that the truck has crapped out on us again. But I guess that's what happens when you drive a 1983 pickup truck. I don't run as well as I did back in 1983, either. The scary thing about that though is that our other vehicle, the 2001 Town and Country van, is starting to near the end of its life, too. We like to say we drive vehicles until they drop, and that's the honest truth, but we're beginning to think the van is close to dropping so we've started car shopping, and I've decided to take the defibrillator with me the next time we price cars.


Hubby reads about six car magazines a month, so he keeps up with auto trends. My car research is done during my bathroom reading and even then Motor Trend has to compete with the Farmer's Almanac and the Word Power quiz in Reader's Digest, so I don't really pay much attention to the new styles or prices. He's been telling me that new and used car prices are out of sight, but I kind of let it go in one ear and out the other 'cause nothing bores me more than a dissertation on motors and fuel mileage. Except for the Western Channel. Anyway, I just didn't realize how expensive cars have become since we last bought one ten years ago. Until we went car shopping last weekend. Holy mother of Mabel! It's a wonder more people aren't riding bicycles.

We rolled onto the lot of our favorite Chrysler dealer Saturday because Hubby had his eye on a Chrysler 300. A salesman was on us faster than a jackrabbit on a date, and pretty soon we were test driving a sweet little ride. We drove two 300's. One was fancy, and one was plain. We made the mistake of driving the fancy one first because once we'd zipped down the road in that little number we really weren't interested in the one without the heated seats, the heated and cooled cup holders and the peppy engine. BIG mistake. Then we drove a sporty red Charger just for the heck of it, and before we'd gone two blocks down the road we knew THAT wasn't going to work. Hubby's knees were up to his chin, and there was no room for Papa T. in the back, and well, that's a problem 'cause he doesn't like riding on the roof. We need a sedan that's easy for Papa T. to get into, that gets decent gas mileage and gives Hubby that smooth ride he's looking for. Really, I don't know why he doesn't just go ahead and get a Buick. He already gets AARP magazine. The 300 seemed to be a good choice for us.

Back at the dealership we went inside for the cost discussions. Now, understand, this particular dealer is someone we've worked with several times. He knows we just want his bottom line price, and he doesn't fool around much. He just lays it out there, and we decide whether or not we can afford it. We asked him to give us a price for purchase and another price for leasing the car. He diddled around with the numbers, and then gave us the news. Because there is no interest on leasing a vehicle right now, the monthly cost would be virtually the same. $670 for 72 months. I tried to keep my composure as a bit of pee trickled down my right leg. I smiled and nodded. Hubby smiled and nodded. We gave him the hmmm, we'll talk about it and see line and then sauntered to the van, where we got in, shut the doors and shouted, "OH MY GOSH, $670 FREAKIN' DOLLARS A MONTH?! ARE THEY OUT OF THEIR MINDS??!" And then we drove in silence for about five minutes, until we could wrap our brains around the idea of how expensive that really is and the fact that some people would actually make payments for six years on something that doesn't come with at least three bedrooms and two baths. I couldn't believe it. And neither could Hubby. It practically took my breath away. In fact, for hours afterward, we'd look at each other and go, "$670?" Needless to say, we did not take that deal. And we decided to look at slightly used vehicles. We'll go back to the tactic that has worked well for us on the last two vehicle purchases. We'll find a program car or a used car that comes from someone who trades theirs in every couple of years and leaves the dealer with a really nice car that's still under warranty and has had some depreciation knocked off of it. We will NOT be getting a brand new car. Unless the money fairy lands on our house in the next few weeks and waves her wand and shakes her fanny hard enough for $100 bills to fall out of her butt. Besides, even if she does, I'm gonna need that money for heart surgery now.

Well, I'll Go Far as to Admit That I Like the Colorful Skies

So, I'm not really an autumn fan, but it does make for some beautiful sunsets around here.  Don't push it though.  The flip flop days are still over.  For now. 

Hula's Word of the Day-"Assault"

as·sault

Pronunciation: noun \ə-ˈsȯlt\

Definition:


1.  a : a violent physical or verbal attack b : a military attack usually involving direct combat with enemy forces c : a concerted effort (as to reach a goal or defeat an adversary)


2 : a threat or attempt to inflict offensive physical contact or bodily harm on a person (as by lifting a fist in a threatening manner) that puts the person in immediate danger of or in apprehension of such harm 


Origin:


Middle English assaut, from Anglo-French, from Vulgar Latin *assaltus, from assalire

First Known Use: 14th century


Used in a sentence: "Hula violently assaulted the toilet paper dispenser in the public restroom when it repeatedly refused to give up more than half a square of paper at a time."


Okay, perhaps that's an exaggeration. Or not.

iHeart Faces Photography Challenge-"Hands"

I love this picture of Teen Angel.  So reflective, so soft.  Oh, if only I could keep her this way for the next few years.  She really is going to grow up, isn't she?

For the other entries, you can pop over here.

Surprise!

Please ignore the fact that this picture is out of focus, crooked, underexposed and generally bad, but Mama showed up at her surprise birthday party about five minutes before I had my act together, and I barely had time to turn on the camera before she walked in the door.  I didn't get to focus, check my settings or even turn on the flash.  Never mind all that.  It still gives you the general idea of her reaction.

Girlfriend didn't have any idea there was a party for her until she reached the bottom of the church steps and saw everyone sitting there waiting on her.  We got her.  We got her gooood.  Ha!

Happy Birthday, Mama!

To the best mama ever.  And by the time this posts, we should have already surprised her with a big ol' party.  Tee hee.  I love a surprise.  And so does she.

It's About Time we had Some Good News Around Here

Although you probably can't tell it from this picture, that, my friends, is a teeny tiny baby. 

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say it took a year and a half of determination to create this little being, which will be Special Delivery's baby brother or sister.  Super Cop and Mrs. Scrubs are having a baby!

Hula's going to be an aunt!  Hula's going to be an aunt!  Insert happy dance here and cue Elton John with that whole Circle of Life number he does. 

Do you miss me yet Paris?

Because I certainly miss you.  Sigh.



We're Probably Not Nearly as Funny as we Think we Are

Date: Saturday, Oct. 1, 2011



Location: Cracker Barrel, Western Kentucky


Time: Approximately 5pm


Hula: “What is the vegetable of the day?”

Server: “Lima Beans.”

Hubby: “Ooh, lima beans. I love lima beans!”

Hula & Teen Angel: “Really?”

Hubby: “Yes! I might get two orders of them.”

Hula: “Really?? You like them that much?”

Hubby: “Yes!!”

Hula: “Hmm. You seem awfully excited about this lima bean situation.”

Hubby: “I am!”

Papa T.: “I like lima beans, too, but I’m not gettin’ ‘em.”

Insert uproarious giggling from Hula and Teen Angel here.

About ten minutes later....a rousing round of whooping and hollering goes up from a large party at a table near the Hula-gen’s.

Hubby: “I wonder what that was about?”

Hula: “They heard there was lima beans.”

Insert high five between Hula and Teen Angel here.

I Just Thought This Was Cool

I loves me some macro photography because that lens allows you to see so many neat things that are invisible to the naked eye.  Like the bees in the sunflower fields.  Those fields were FULL of bees.  Everywhere you went among the blossoms, you could hear the hum of big bees and little bees zipping around.  But they didn't bother you as long as you didn't run amuck and flap your arms like an idiot. Why?  Because those fellas were knee deep in pollen.  See his little legs?  Coated. 



Happy, happy bees, drunk on yellow dust.  Cool.  I just thought you'd like to see it, too.