Dapoppins

Everyone is invited to my house for Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I guess that means I will have to sweep the floors or something.  Heh.

Actually, my family is scattered to the four winds, so I invited some other families instead.  If my own folks won't eat my food, I bet some near-strangers will.

I'm not good cook, or a gifted hostess, or a ferocious hospitality offer-er.

I'm sure I will get a bit frazzled, even though this was my idea.

But If I want a big family gathering and my family is out-of-town, what's a girl to-do?  

Your going to help me put this together, aren't you?  Right? Please?  Offer your good ideas?  Special food? Tell me how to make sweet potatoes in a way that everybody will eat them? 



You all will have to help me pick out an apron to wear.

 (warning, this post isn't particularly upbeat and deals with death...)


It's days like these that I wish I could reach into a hat and pull out a funny story to share.

The way I do at parties and such.

I have a little story I tell when ever I get to go to a baby shower to share with the expectant mother--"Once I was at the video store and I looked down at my shirt and thought, how did I get mustard on my shirt?  Huh. Oh. Wait, that's not mustard!"

And whenever I go to a bridal shower I can ask the future bride if she is really prepared for the amount of time her husband is going to spend in the bathroom, and all the matrons will chuckle with me.

When I go to a group gathering where I haven't seen people for awhile I can put on my fake "New York Grandmother" voice and say, "Oh Honey, you look wonderful!  I haven't seen you in so long! Isn't that the same dress you wore 4 years ago?  It looks great, a little more snug abound the middle, yes? Here, I made pie, would you like a piece?"  And usually I can get a laugh as someone recognizes the same compliments and critiques they get from their own Grandma. 

But I don't really have anything funny to say at funerals.

My Grandfather died last Monday.  I am not sad...he was given three days to live and lasted almost four more months, and some of those were very good days.  He was ready to go.  Had said his good byes.  And even though I could dredge up a dozen positive things to say, all I really want to say is how much I hate death.

I know how the myth of the grim reaper got started.  If you have ever been in a room with a body that contains no spirit, you can almost feel that huge, black specter.  Like a walking black hole.  Like a vortex sucking at life, laughter, and soul.  Sure, there may be light at the end of that vortex, but the living don't see it.  We see only vacancy where there was once vibrancy. 

The image of that empty shell stays with you.  For me, it's not because of the pain of loss, or the gruesome ugliness of a body... it is because the person on the bed is so obviously empty, and nothing is going to change  or rewind the moment.  The instant is frozen in a picture of startling unreality.

I haven't seen a movie capture the true horror of death yet.

Sure, Hollywood can imitate blood and brutality, but pictures can not hold the specter standing invisible in the room with the body of a loved one.

Sorry for all the gloom.

But I am just reminded that Death is the enemy.  An evil, enemy that I can hate without prejudice and without good reason.  I don't have too look on the bright side, or compromise or agree with any aspect off it.  Some might claim peace is a reasonable reward, but standing in the room with the Grim Reaper, I could feel no peace.

An absence of life is NOT peace. 

Death is my enemy, and I will fight it with every bit of life that I have been given.

There are things I like about Halloween and things I don't.  Candy, dressing up, community, crisp night, getting spooked, are all good.  We don't really celebrate Halloween, we don't dress up or go trick-or-treating, but I still like these things about October 31.  What I don't like is the things teenagers do while all hopped up on the sugar drug.  There were lots of nightly news reports about pumpkins being thrown through car windows, and kids playing with a baseball bats in apartment parking lots.

Now that the night is over, I can heave a sigh of relief and suck on my caramel apple lolly's  without worry of having to call my insurance company.

Now it is time to vote.  Since we haven't mailed our ballots, we will have to be taking in our ballets.  I don't know really what is even on the thing yet other than the little color-in bubbles.  Should I go for a snowflake pattern this year?

Actually, I take voting fairly seriously. I only feel I have the right to complain about politics if I actually voted.  And I never like to pass up a chance to complain.

There is one of those "gay marriage/civil union" things on the ballot again too. .  Being the good conservative that I am, I want to vote to protect the traditional meaning of marriage and the foundation of our society.

I mean, that is what you would think, right?

But...I can't do it. I just can't.  Legalizing their relationship is the only way for two people to protect themselves in the tangle of lawsuits and junk of the court system.  Legalizing their relationship with the state is the only way to protect their children from life changing decisions made by other people, including a judge, or some disgruntled relative.

Once I would have stood firm on my moral high ground.  And I still do see the world in black and white...but the horse on this moral question left the barn and got lost in the mountains long ago.  We are not ever going to be put that horse back in the barn. 

This is how I see it...look at Rosie O'Donnell and her partner.  They were/are?  married.  Kids were adopted and brought into the equation.  They had a family, weather it was traditional or not, with all the demands and blessings there-of.

But say they weren't married...never had any legal backing.

And if Rosie's father, who she had huge issues with and who was abusive, steps into the picture and says he has as much right if not more to the kids than Rosie's partner...(heh, I don't know her name)  And Rosie has a heart attack. Her dad (who is no longer alive, I think) could step into the lives of children he has no relationship with and wreck havoc on their lives.  This may be far-fetched, but it happens.  It happens a lot.

What if  Rosie had no legal relationships, what if she got into an accident and in a coma and her Dad wanted to pull the plug, but her partner insisted Rosie be given a chance to wake.  Who would get to decide?  The best friend and co-parent of the children, or the estranged relative?

Because Rosie O'Donnell and her partner agreed on a document of marriage, now if they separate, those kids are protected.  They will have to share them, weather they want too or not, Rosie will have to help provide for them in the form of child support and such and they will have to work out  parenting agreements, just like other divorcing couples.  No one gets to walk away and forget the last ten years ever happened.

Our court system is not the fault of children who's lives can be so devastated by a stranger's choice.  How else do you protect a non-traditional family that is still very much an emotional, relational family, then through the law?

Since I don't think it would be right to solve all of this by forbidding parents who sin to have kids...(which obviously is a category I would fall into,) I can't see any answer other than to protect all families within the law.

Can you?

This is a re-post, but I think I am so funny I just had to post it again. (What is your favorite post?  Want to post it again?  If you do, let me know!! .)


I am already preparing what kind of Grandma I plan to be.


I am going to say lots of outrageous things.  I plan to ask loud embarrassing questions in public places (not that I don’t do that now.)  I am going to eat whatever I want and drink coffee before I go to bed and when I get up.


One of my Grandmothers was always perfectly dressed, and the other put on whatever was clean.   I think I will pick and choose between outfits, wear slacks with elastic waistbands to church, and skirts with high heels to my grandchildren's softball games.


And hats. I’m going to wear hats again.  Right now, my head is too big for the average size hat, but when I’m eighty I’m sure I’ll shrink enough to be able to wear any hat I choose. I am especially fond of big floppy ones.  When my grandchildren come to visit, they can try on all my hats.


I’ll always have food with me.  Where ever I am. A child can say, “I’m hungry,” and I’ll magically produce a roll of life savers, or some toast and cheese left over from lunch wrapped up neatly in a napkin. I’m going to have a cookie jar on the counter, and if my grandchildren check to see what’s in it before they greet me, I won’t ever be insulted. And when My daughter-in-law tells them they are being rude, I will say, “No they aren’t dear, this is Grandma’s house.”


I will always ask my daughter in law if she has lost weight while handing her a piece of pie.

I promise to eat any half-nibbled, slimy bits of food a baby offers me, but when I get a cold from the baby I will blame my husband. Even if he’s not alive anymore to blame.


I’m going to travel.  Some people make a list of things to do when they are young, places to see, adventures to complete. I’m saving my list for when I turn 70. I’m going to visit exotic places like China and Turkey, and send home post cards from every place I go.  I’ll bring strange things back for my grandchildren, such as a stuffed piranha, cactus candy, the spikes of a poisoned urchin, and a top made from real coconut halves.  And every time I visit, I am going to ask to see the treasures, just to make sure the adults of the house hold haven’t put them in the basement or the garage.


I have every intention of outliving my husband. And then, with the life insurance money, I’m going to buy a motorcycle. If it is too heavy for me, I am going to give it to my oldest grandchild with the insistence that he or she drive me to church every week. I am going to have a bright red motorcycle helmet with Sexy Grandma printed on the front.  I will have a matching red leather jacket and cowboy boots too, and of course, a big matching purse.


My best friend, Bee, and I are going to go sky diving for my eightieth birthday.  I’ll take so many anti-nausea and decongestant pills beforehand that I’ll get a little loopy.  On the plane’s assent I am going to moan about never surviving this day, and sing “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” Bee will hold tight to my hand in comfort, the giant ten carrot diamond ring that she bought herself for her seventy-fifth birthday, sending sparkles over my face.


When I am feeling better, I’m going to pinch my instructor’s bottom. I am going to tell him he is a really fine man. “Do you work out? May I squeeze your muscles? Are you married?” I might just let slip that I have a beautiful granddaughter.  I am sure, I will also invite him to the next family dinner.


When they strap us two old ladies to our instructors I am going to say, “I haven’t been this close to a man since Bush was president. Is that your parachute or are you just feeling happy?’’


I’ll scream my head off during the jump, and then laugh hysterically. There is a good chance I’ll pee my pants too. If my instructor notices, I’ll just say, “Not to worry dear, I am just happy to be with you too!”


And if that is too much information, well, it’s okay, because I am eighty.

I am not a monster shopper, up on the latest trends. A few weeks ago, when my mom was in town, she gifted me with some snazzy new duds.  One of which was a pair of bell bottom jeans.  Now, I know these have been back in style for a year, at least, and are actually going out of style again.  I hope.  But the jeans fit, sorta, and they were $15 bucks.  Who can resist that?  Who cares if the bell of my bottoms are going to get caught in the chain of my cool banana seat bike?  A deal is a deal.

Bee was over the other day and we were chatting and she pulls out this new trendy stuff from Bath and Body.  I have never even heard of it.  Body cream, but a new scent completely.  Oooo.

Bee always knows the latest things. Music, clothes, all things Twilight.  She has a female teenager.  I guess that helps.  Whatever. (insert eye roll) She was in the store and saw this and the sales lady said that THE Stephanie Myers helped create the scent and it REALLY is the signature scent.  Don't you just love that?  And let me tell you. It smells wonderful too. Very pretty.

Now go out and buy some.

And stop buying my favorite scent, while your at it.  Mmmm'kay?  Maybe I would be considered trendy again if people stopped smelling like me. Buy Twilight Woods and stay away from my Japanese Cherry Blossom.

My pictures do not do this cute, local, fabric store justice.

I am a scrapper, not a sewer.  The most I can sew are simple sock puppets.  Every time I get near a sewing machine, the thread magically breaks or knots. 



But this juicy, light filled store ~Aunt Tam's~ is a wonderland of bright color, vintage style, and creative inspiration.  Every time I walk in, I need to take pictures.