Bittersweet Symphony

I had to stand on the front porch the other night and wait for the pizza guy (note to self: change the porch light bulb). As I was standing in the dark, I was blindsided by bittersweet memories of my brother Zac. He loved waiting on the pizza guy more than any human, stoned college kids included, ever has. He would sit on the top step and patiently wait with a smile on his face when we had ordered pizza. Some days, he would sit and wait even if there was no pizza on its way just because it made him happy. How could I have forgotten that?

Zac was born two weeks before my 16th birthday. His older sister was already living with us due to their birth parents' own issues. Zac did not last long in the home due to life threatening medical issues and his parents' inability to care for them. He was born with biliary atresia, a congenital liver disease. To be honest, I don't know what all he had done to save his life but when he came to us at just a few months old, he looked like an Ethiopian baby with his stick limbs and big, distended belly. There was a horrible scar all the way across his poor belly that looked like he had been roughly cut in two and crudely sewn back together. His medicine regimen was a nightmare and took hours to prepare. He was a sick, sick little boy. 

This is quickly trying to turn in to a treatise on Zac's illness and how his short life was a a long string of hospitalizations interrupted by a few days of false health. That's not what I wanted to share. I wanted to share his love of life, his spirit, his sweet smile and remember his bright spirit while I still can.

This picture was made on Zac's third birthday, a mere five months before he died. Look at that smile! His beloved Beth gave him that cowboy hat and six shooter. At that time, I was a freshman in college and not at home most of the time. I came home for his birthday and made a cake shaped like an ambulance and he was ecstatic  When he wasn't naked (which was most of the time, to be honest) Zac was in overalls. I think we liked them because the billowiness helped hide his watermelon belly. Look at those pitiful legs!

Zac was one of 6 foster children under the age of 6 in our home and half of the boys. He loved terrorizing the girls when he was feeling well. When he mastered the manly art of aiming, he would chase them around the backyard, naked, trying to pee on them. Usually while singing the theme song to "Cops."

Zac's life was too short and filled with too many mind numbing hospital stays and emergencies. I don't know how many days I stayed with him in the hospital, how many hundreds of banana Popsicles we shared. He knew being in the hospital was a one way ticket to unlimited Popsicles  He quickly learned to work the call button and I can still hear him calling out "heeeeey lady! Bring me a Popsicle please!" His body was so ravaged with infection  he always ran a temperature. I can still feel his hot hand patting my cheek, telling me that he loved me. The last time we were together was right as he and Mother were rushing to New Orleans for the long awaited liver transplant, Seeing how upset I was, he climbed in my lap (as much as my 8 month pregnant belly would allow) to comfort me. He was fresh out of the bath for his trip and smelled so sweetly of strawberry shampoo. As he had so many times before, he patted my cheek with his little, hot hand and said "Don't be sad, Beth, It will be okay."

Dammit! There goes the sad again. Banana Popsicles  Strawberry Suave shampoo. Ambulances. Cops. He was deathly afraid of the storm drain in the parking lot of my dorm because he had watched IT with me. His smile slowly becoming blue- tinged as his poor lungs and heart started to suffer from the bastard liver taking up too much space. I think Zac was the one that started the habit of calling my ex by his first and last name that persists to this day. Waiting on the pizza guy, Skinnamarink.

Three years is not enough time to make a lot of memories.

Fight Like A Mom

Tomorrow is October, which marks the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. However, that means today it is still September for one more day. And September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. That is what has been on my heart and mind all week. I am no stranger to childhood cancer. Or cancer at all. Acute myeloid leukemia robbed me of my mother 18 years ago. My dear cousin Heather battled ALL as a teen. I can think of four other classmates from my small town that battled their own cancers. Another sweet friend from Talladega was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. And then there's Emma, sweet, energetic, bright Emma. So Cancer and I are not strangers. But I became more intimately acquainted with the bastard that is Pediatric Cancer this week through the stories of Aidan and Donna. Those are hard stories to read, especially in light of what my family is facing right now, but they are filled with faith and hope and love and strength. They are also filled with what I see as horrible injustice. Not just to Aidan and Donna but to all of our children.

The National Cancer Institute, the government's (our tax dollars) research arm, spends only 4% of it's budget on pediatric cancer research. Four percent. That's only $26.4 million dollars. For leukemia, brain cancer, bone cancer, ALL THE CANCERS OF CHILDHOOD. Compare that to the $254 million AIDS receive and the $584 million allocated to breast cancer. Just typing those statistics has brought me to tears. Breast cancer is a bitch, a heartless bitch that steals so much from so many. I have read so many stories of how the insidious part of breast cancer is how it strikes at a woman's femininity and allure. Yes, women have to brutally chop off their breasts, the first outward sign of womanhood that we all long for so fervently in our childhood, breasts that we have nurtured our children with, breasts that we enticed our lovers with. I am not discounting that. However, treatments for childhood cancers steal from the future, things children don't even know were theirs to begin with. Aidan's Army reports these as the most common long term effects of treatment:

1.  Radiation to a child’s brain can significantly damage cognitive function, limit the ability to read, write, do basic math, tell time or even talk.

2.  Physical and neurocognitive disabilities resulting from treatment may prevent childhood cancer survivors from fully participating in school, social activities and eventually work, which can cause depression and feelings of isolation.

3.  Childhood cancer survivors have difficulty getting married and obtaining jobs, health and life insurance

4.  Cancer treatments can affect a child's growth, fertility, and endocrine system.  Child survivors may be permanently immunologically suppressed.

5.  Childhood cancer survivors are at significant risk for secondary cancers later in life.

6.  Loss of limbs, or shortened limbs whose growth was stunted.

7.  Cataracts, poor vision, damage to the optic nerve or other effects to the eye.

8.  Hearing loss.

9.  Cardiac problems including an abnormal heartbeat, congestive heart failure and increased risk of a stroke or blood clots.

10.  Kidney failure.

11.  Weak or thin bones that can break easily.

12.  Teeth and jaw problems including missing teeth, smaller teeth, tooth decay and gum

Part of the problem is that all of the currently approved drugs (and there has not been a new one approved in 20 years) are adult drugs. Think about that. Think of the heated debated over vaccinations. The furor over BPAs in baby bottles.  All of the trivial hot buttons that fill innumerable message boards. Then think about critically ill child being poisoned with decades old technology that have only been approved for adult use. Would you give YOUR child an adult medicine that had not been improved on in over 2 decades? For anything? No, you wouldn't.

 Why are the children, the babies as I call anyone under 18 at work, being treated so horribly? One of the rallying cries for Breast Cancer Awareness is "Fight Like A Girl!" I titled this "Fight Like A Mom" because the disparity in research funding offends me as a mother. Moms are the ones that sacrifice, do without, eat the fried chicken wing instead of a breast, all so our kids can have what they need and be able to thrive and be happy. We need to do more to ensure childhood cancer research gets more attention and much needed research. For Aidan. For Donna. For Emma. For all the tomorrows that are being stolen in some form or another by cancer.

Walk That Walk

Thanks to Texts From Last Night, I know all about the walk of shame. In my many trips around the sun, I have never had occasion to experience this as either the walker or the walkee. Until now.

I went on a work related conference that included an overnight stay. Normally, this is cause for great celebration because the conference is at one of the nicer hotels around, children are not allowed and it's a mini-vacation from work without the guilt of not being at work since technically it is work. I think there's supposed something about building supervisory capacities and networking with colleagues in there, too, but those are secondary.

One minor drawback to this conference is that the participants are required to share rooms. Since there were three of us my office going, I assumed I would be rooming with one of them, as always. If you are reading this, you are my friend and surely by now know that I don't like people. I don't like being touched. I don't like socializing. I don't like having my "space" invaded. And this is with my friends and people I love. I had been mentally preparing myself for sharing a room with a friend for days and was ready! I could do this!

When the three of us checked in, Nicole and Wanda were given keys to the same room and mine had a different number on it. No, that couldn't be right. That would mean that I was rooming with neither of them. I quickly reasoned out that since I registered for this conference after the deadline, I was in a room by myself. Nicole, utilizing her wealth of social work skills, comforted me with the knowledge that she saw a name on the check in list next to mine. She coolly pulled rank and shot down my plan of sleeping in her car. As always, I offered to spell "insubordination" for her when she wrote me up.

Instead of going up to our dooms, ummm, rooms, we decided to skip the dinner at the hotel. After dinner, we went shopping because that's what women do. Despite posts that may or may not have been made on Facebook regarding the trip, shoe shopping and Hell, I did have a good time. My ability to look at not just shoes, not even a shoe sale but SEVENTY PERCENT OFF SHOES without so much as an inkling of interest pass through my body still astounds many of my friends. Same with purses. One friend had the nerve to text me and tell me to go to the Coach store and sniff the purses. That's just wrong.

We got back to the hotel some time after 9. I felt like I was going to my doom. Walking the 1589 miles from the elevator to the room, I had convinced myself that this was not going to be as bad as I thought and I would survive. I admit that in the eternity between sliding the key card in the slot and waiting on the green light, I prayed a thousand prayers that there was no one in the room. My heart soared with hope when I turned the knob and pushed open the door and broke in to a million shards when I realized the break-in bar was engaged.

My "Honey, I'm home!" was met with a slight yelp and half glimpses of a figure in a very skimpy robe flitting around the room like a hummingbird, picking up things and moving stuff around, including what I am 93% sure was a towel from her bed. I introduced myself and I think she told me her name. Maybe. She was too busy clutching the itty bitty robe closed and making apologies for having her belongings every where. Was it Kim? Diane? My mind kept wanting to remember her name as Mulva. (Damn you, Jerry Seinfeld!)

Kim/Diane (Mulva) flitted to the bathroom and came out in pajamas that she clearly had not been wearing when I got there. We made some awkward small talk for a few minutes about the conference, the oil spill, an embarrassing drug bust from my county that had made the regional news. She arranged for a 6:30 wake up call and told me that she had already bathed so I could have the shower first thing.

What followed was one of the longest, most miserable nights of my life. The air did not work and the temperature only reinforced the feeling of being in Hell. Sleep came in fitful spurts. I would lay awake, heart pounding with anxiety (how am I supposed to sleep with a stranger 4 feet away? Please God, don't let the shrimp etouffee I ate for dinner come back to embarrassingly haunt me.) until I would doze off. After about 15-20 minutes of sweat drenched sleep, I'd wake with a start, convinced that Mulva was standing over me in the dark waiting to, ironically, stab me with a fork. I almost wept with relief when the phone rang at 6:32.

Mulva (Kim? Was it Kim??) shot out of her bad as fast as any bad cliche I could write. Before I could even sit up, she announced that she would brush her teeth and then the bathroom would be all mine. By the time I got out of the shower, it was only 6:55 and she was already fully dressed, packed and ready to go. Huh? Was I such a bad roomie that she had to leave so quickly? I know I snore on occasion but didn't think I had a chance to do any serious log sawing in 15 minute increments.

I was perplexed. How dare she run out on me like that?! I didn't even know her name or what she looked like. I couldn't point her out to Wanda and Nicole. Worse, I couldn't talk about my experience during any of the lectures because I didn't know who her friends/colleagues might be. Every time I saw someone that resembled the blur that was Mulva, I cringed, especially if she was talking to someone else. Was Mulva going around telling people about what a horrible roomie I was? What if I talked in my sleep? Oh lordy! How do people do this to themselves??

I Review An Episode of Doctor Who

I have watched one whole episode of THE GREATEST SHOW THAT WAS, IS AND EVER SHALL BE (or so I've been told). And since this is America, that makes me more than qualified to render an opinion on this, and many other tangentially related, topics.

The episode I watched was "Rose" from 2005 and featured the Doctor in the pimping leather jacket. Speaking of pimping, the first 10 minutes or so reminded me of a bad porn, minus the porn, with the lighting, mood and scene set up. Plus, the chick had porn actress lips.

Bow chicka wow wow

If you've seen 5 minutes of porn,and I'm betting all of you have, you know what I'm talking about. It's impossible to look at them and not wonder where they've been or why they might be so puffy. Anyways, I've always been intrigued about how you're supposed to watch this show since it's been airing since 1788 or something like that. In my family, if you miss the first five minutes of a movie, you're screwed and you may as well kill yourself instead of trying to muddle through without those pivotal opening minutes. So how in the bloody hell (see what I did there?) are you supposed to just pick this show up at any point and know what's going on. I was very pleased with how things were explained without being heavy handed and pedantic or treating the viewer like they were totally brain dead, like most American shows do.

Do you see the moron?

I'm not going to discuss the actual story, there's no need to. One thing I do know is that if you watch this show, you really watch this show and can wax poetic on every single, minute detail of everything ever related to it. That dustbin that ate the nice bloke? A true fan can tell you every piece of rubbish that was ever deposited in it. No fooling.

Typical Doctor Who Fan

The acting was cheesy, slightly above bad porn level, but not unbearable. The effects were cheesy, which I've been told are part of the charm of the show and a BBC thing. 

SPOILER ALERT! The Doctor gets a new TARDIS next season.

Overall, I would rate the show as tolerable and something I could watch again and actually pay attention to, sorta. In every day terms, that would be better than Kate + 8 but not as good as iCarly.

White Girl Problem #45

Annabeth had to have bloodwork recently, a task that is not easy to accomplish. She doesn't do well with medical procedures, this oddly healthy middle Heathen, and some intreresting and dramatic times have ensued during her rare forays in to the world of hurty things to make you better. Yes, this is the child that told me she needed medicinal marijuana as the doctor was repairing her ripped off toenail last year. Usually an obscure quote or two and a nice threat of something vile happening (I'm a big fan of breaking off toes and fingers for some reason.) plus an ocean of tears (Another paranthetical here, God have mercy on whatever male falls for this one because the tears she can shed with those big blue eyes and the freckles and the...it's bad.) and she can be convinced to cooperate. I was feeling so bad that morning with my own health problems, I had to actually rely on Tradional Mothering Tactics and let the tech work with her patient. And let me tell you, this little girl was good. She did a great job talking to Annabeth, giving her a choice about where she wanted to be stuck, giving her time to process and breathe, didn't even look mortified when I replied "I don't know, it's been a while since I stabbed her" to questions about how easily she bled. Fabulous job with a difficult situation and things were going so smoothly. We were almost done and then "OH MY GOD! DON'T LET HER STAND UP!! LOOK HOW PALE SHE IS!" A nurse that had nothing to with Annabeth walked by and saw her face and decided she was about to pass out. She barged in, threw a trash can around and was barking orders to the tech, the tech who was doing an amazing job. I kept insisting Annabeth was fine. Annabeth said she was fine but this woman insisted my child was about to pass out and throw up. She was nice enough to get a cold cloth for us which really helped clean up from all the tears. Then she left. The point of this? Annabeth was not even pale. She's just one of my kids.

The Mighty T. Mex Cooks, Part the Dos

The second phase of my Mexican cooking indoctrination involved pastel de tres leches. My main sponsor for Mexicanism and BFF insisted (I believe there were some threats involving knives at one point but that's how we roll. I'll kick him in the teeth and he knows it.) I make this and was adamant that I'd like it.

I did more research for a recipe for this cake since there are so many variations. The choices for the cake part seemed to be a basic sponge cake, angel food type cake or a more sturdy version of the sponge cake. I went with the sturdy cake because I didn't want soggy, gross cake. All of the recipes I looked at used evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk (Pet milk and Eagle brand, respectively, for my Alabama readers) and either whole milk or heavy cream for the third. I opted for heavy cream since I was making a whipped cream topping. I also looked at recipes that used a cooked Italian meringue topping and one with cream cheese in it. Making whipped cream is one of my favorite things to do so that was the topping of choice.

Okay, time to cook! I read over the directions and got a little intimidated. My typical cake baking technique is to dump all the ingredients in one bowl and mix it up, regardless of what the directions may call for. This is an effective method 99% of the time. However, I wanted to do JB proud (even though he wouldn't even get to have a single bite) so I resolved to follow the recipe to the letter. Holy Cheezus, this was going to require a bunch of dirty dishes and effort.

First I had to go all racist and separate the eggs.

Separate but equal, my foot. Tell that to my broken yolks.

Then the whites were beaten until stiff peaks formed and the sugar was incorporated.

Stiff peaks, don't give me limp peaks.

 Next, the yolks had to beaten separately until they lost their color (more racism?) and gently folded in to the whites, so that no volume is lost. Although my recipes typically involve instructions like "mush, smash and crockpot the hell out of," I do know how to utilize proper terms and techniques.

Gently fold the yolks to incorporate them in to the whites, bitches.

After gently re-introducing the egg components to one another, flour was gently added to the mix, a culinary   menage a trois of sorts.

Gently fold in the flour to the white and yolk mixture.

Into to oven for twenty minutes or so, then on the counter to cool completely. Then the poor cake had to be stabbed repeatedly to allow the milks to permeate (HA! another fancified cooking term) all the way through and not just sit in the bottom of the pan and get yucky. Luckily, I had an assistant to do this for me...

Mr. Stabbity, Le Cordon Bleu Class of 2009

This is the part that I messed up a little. The recipe called for a can of evaporated milk but did not specify what size. I went with the 5 oz can instead of the 12 oz and the cake was a little dry. Live and learn. I mixed the leches, uno, dos, tres and made a lovely milk syrup.

Yeah, not much happening here.

Poured the milk over the cake and then popped it in the fridge for a bit to set. While that was happening, the metal mixing bowl and beaters hung out in the freezer for an hour or so to help combat the Fourth of July heat in my kitchen. Through much trial and error, I've learned that an icy cold bowl and beaters make for a better whipped cream. The key to the topping I wanted to make was to beat the cream hard and fast to get it past the Cool Whip stage and more of a frosting consistency.

You know you thought it.

 Right before that stage was reached (it's an intuitive process, I can't tell you how to do it.), I mixed in a little powdered sugar for an oomph of sweetness. Perfect! 

I've edited this 8 times, just turn your head.

As I mentioned earlier, the cake was a little dry in the middle because I didn't use enough evaporated milk. However, I was very pleased with the texture of the cake. Also, the cake was not overly sweet so the milks were not too syrupy. My cake lounged in the fridge for almost a week and retained its integrity (i.e. did not turn in to soggy slime) and flavor. I will definitely be making this again. I saw one variation called pastel borracho (Google translate hehehe) that I really want to try at some point. I didn't take a picture of me trying it but I give it two thumbs up.


Chente agrees with me.



The Mighty T. Mex Cooks

I haven't blogged in quite some time but I think all of you know that I am now a probationary Mexican (I may get around to telling that story one day.) working on full Latina status. My two mentors got in to a heated debate over what was the better dessert, flan or pastel de tres leches. I agreed to try them both and thought I'd make them myself because, why not? Flan got chosen first because I had everything I needed for it at home except ramekins and I needed to run to the store to get some cash back while I was out and about. After a fun night out with a friend that I had not seen in years, I decide to tackle the flan at 11:22 PM.

The recipe I chose seemed to be very simple and straight forward, sugar, eggs, milk, vanilla. Easy peasy. This was going to be a slam dunk. The first step said to brown two cups of sugar in a saucepan for 5-8 minutes for the caramel topping. See, 5-8 minutes.

Right there, in black and white.

In goes the sugar, and I stir. I wonder if I have time to watch a movie when I'm done. And I stir the beautiful, white sugar.

Sugar

As that is heating, I go ahead and prepare the rest of the sugar, eggs and vanilla so that everything can be assembled efficiently. And I stir the sugar. Ten minutes later, this is what I have....

I swear, it's not the same picture

Hmm, is the eye on? Yep. Is it hot? Yep. Crap. Let's stir some more. Half an hour (and 6 pictures) later, still the same thing. It is now midnight. My boiled milk has cooled, my eggs and sugar have collapsed in to a gross mess of yuck and I still have nothing but lily white sugar. You know what would make the sugar caramelize faster? Margaritas! What an excellent idea...My Drunk Kitchen, Alabama Edition. I don't even take responsibility for this decision, I blame James Marsters. He was staring at me the whole time, using subliminal messages to make me want a margarita.

Spike, Jose and Bethany, a winning combination

After hanging out with Spike and Jose, taking a picture of the sugar every two minutes seemed like a stellar plan, judging by the photos I uploaded. I will spare you the riveting sight of an entire album of two cups of sugar in my saucepan. After 73 minutes, achievement caramel was unlocked. There was much rejoicing in the kitchen, but careful rejoicing because melted sugar is hot!

Rejoice, dammit.

The bottom of the ramekins were coated with the molten sugar, in went the rest of the goop.

Goop

Somehow I even managed to correctly prepare a water bath to bake the flan (which was now flan de cafe since I added coffee to the milk while stirring the sugar.) without making a mess. By now it 12:45 and I know I will fall asleep while the flan is baking. My friend Fernando says flan is to die for but I don't think he means it literally so I set my alarm to wake me up 40 minutes later. Fast forward 40 minutes later, and my alarm goes off. Have I mentioned my alarm is the intro to Slayer's Raining Blood? Guaranteed to wake you up but still stops my heart for a half second every time.

Rise and shine, beautiful.

I run to the kitchen, still mostly asleep and not totally convinced Satan is not chasing me...Did I succeed? Will I be one step closer to taking the training wheels off my black eyeliner? BINGO! Flanny goodness has been achieved. The flan was a perfect creamy color, the jiggly factor was somewhere between cheesecake and jello, the aroma was heavenly caramel coffee. By Jorge, I think I did it. However, I had to wait until the next day to taste the fruits of my efforts to give the flan time to chill and set.

Just chillin'

The flan was easier to dislodge than I thought it would be. It plopped right down on the plate and retained its shape. I was very disappointed when I saw how much of the caramel remained in the ramekin. Seriously? I stirred sugar for 73 minutes for 90% of it to be trashed? Not cool at all.

Flan.

Now for the moment of truth. Would I find this to be the slice of heaven I was promised? Would it feel like a cold loogie as I feared?

Loogie. You guessed loogie, right?

Overall, this was much too sweet and the texture was as disgusting as I feared it would be. My cooking fiend Denise has assured me she has a recipe with a much improved texture and I am willing to try it eventually.

Mexican 1UP

Big Changes A-Comin'

See this baby? This sweet, bald, melon headed baby?

I swear that picture was taken last week, it had to have been. Surely fourteen years haven't flown by. Is this the same sweet thing?

As if turning fourteen on me wasn't treacherous enough, Annabeth has gone and gotten herself accepted in to the Alabama School of Fine Arts. She submitted a hefty application that included a portfolio of recent writings and some essays about herself and why she wanted to attend ASFA. Out of 65 applicants to the creative writing department, she was one of 21 invited to audition. She received her acceptance letter during her birthday party Saturday. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, what do you think this one is saying?

A Week In The Life, Day 7

Wow, I am just a little behind in getting this done but since my Day 7 happened to be the last day of my 30's, you all can just bite me.

Sunday, March 4, 2012, started out quiet and slow because the Heathens were at their dad's. He gave Annabeth tickets to see the Broadway production of Wicked for her birthday so she and Savannah were gone to that. Annabeth is mad for musicals and this is one of her favorites. I was a little bummed that I did not get to go with her but happy that parental guilt scored her front row seats. She's so pretty!

To be honest, I was totally useless this day. I played around online and goofed off with my bestie a large portion of the day. The plan was for Savannah to take me out to dinner for my birthday after Wicked. She and the little ones (14 and 11 and I still call them that) came breezing in and pronounced me presentable and we took off to O'Charley's.

When we arrived, I knew something was up because Savannah and Emmy were stalling for time and they are as subtle as a dead skunk in August. I was rushed in to the building amid much squealing, whispering and giggling. Even though I spoke to my best friend Wendy and her entire family standing in the lobby, Savannah whisked me to the bathroom because apparently I had to go and didn't know it. After more stalling, I was allowed to come out and act surprised at seeing Wendy and her crew there bearing gifts. To be honest, I was totally and completely surprised that Savannah did this but come on, I had just seen them in the lobby! I'm not that blonde :) A few minutes later, my other dear friends Mowry and Emily (Big Emily to some of you) came walking in and I truly was surprised then! They both live an hour away and have small children. Plus, Emily's sweet Buster was not feeling well. But they came to party with me and brought cake! Targaryen Dragon Cake no less!

Savannah and Emmy made me a poster that was presented to me in the restaurant with a little song and dance.

The Heathens even got me a cake, in Lannister colors of course.

And I'm telling you, I really need to go ahead and change my name....

The meal was very nice and I enjoyed my two worlds colliding and was beyond thrilled that they all liked each other. Did I mention I was wearing a tiara the entire time?

It says "Happy Birthday" above the tinsel. I thought I carried the look off with my usual grace and poise.

Savannah had to rush back to the land of college and fun after dinner. I always hate to see her go. Annabeth and Emmy had gifts that came in my birthday box the day before so they got to open them. They were most pleased.

Emmy has never even heard of Thundercats but she thought the hat and matching wrist band were the best thing ever. She even slept in them.

And that was pretty much the last thing I saw before I turned 40.

A Week In My Life, Day 6

Saturday, March 3, 2012. Do not expect much at all because it is Saturday. :)

 I woke up around 7 because that seems to be my preset wake up time. Annabeth, Emmy and I hung out around the house. Savannah breezed in a little before lunch and I was very happy to see her. Especially since she was taking her mountain of dirty laundry to her dad's. They went on to their dad's and I was left at home alone. I puttered around the house. Around 3 PM, the mail man knocked on my door and delivered my first birthday present!

The poster tube contained a promotional Game of Thrones poster and some kick ass chile mango suckers. At least I think that's what the poster is since I've yet to be able to get it out of the tube. >.< The suckers, however, are out and delicious.

The complete haul included a copy of Aztec with a very sweet inscription, a red felt thing, a southwestern thing, some magnets off JB's refrigerator (including one from Tombstone, hellz yeah!), a 2011 calendar, a Buffy CD, a Scrabble dictionary and a wee ass. As if that was not amazing enough, I also have the first season of Game of Thrones on the way. My bff > than yours. Any day of the week.

There was also some gifts in there for Annabeth (her birthday is next week) and Emmy (she's spoiled rotten) but I won't say anything else because they haven't gotten them yet.

Later, my best friend Shannon and her family came up and took me out to dinner. I got to eat dinner with a squark. Be jealous.

Savannah and Emmy came out to see us a bit at the restaurant then went back to their dad's. After dinner, I went to BAM and picked up a copy of The Once and Future King and some Starbucks. All in all, a good day.

A Week In My Life, Day 5

Friday, March 2, 2012. Finally! Today was the first day in almost 3 weeks that I did not have to bandage anything. Aside from a weird scar, I think the staph infection has cleared up.

Today was the funeral for Mr. Gentry. It was a sweet service that celebrated his life. He had been a part of my life for many years. My older brother Patrick has been friends with Steven since they were little boys and as the baby sister, I always seem to have tagged along. My sister Vicki married in to the family and, again, I seemed to have tagged along. Since my divorce, the Gentry clan has become my second family and I spend most of the (eating) holidays with them. Despite the circumstances, it was very nice to spend time with everyone.

The entire state was under a severe weather advisory for the day. Since the deadly tornadoes last April, we seem to go in to overdrive when it comes to preparation and most of the ares shut down at lunch. This is what the sky looked like at the time.

This was the view right before I turned off on to my road going home at 5.

After work, the girls and I went to eat dinner. I missed my turn and we ended up taking a very scenic route to our destination. It still amazes me that I get lost in the towns that I've lived in for years. All of the televisions were on coverage about the weather. It had already been pretty bad in North Alabama earlier. My sister's neighborhood was hit pretty bad but thankfully, they appeared to have been spared.

There were some spectacular storms on in the night but our area was spared. I think the NWS is now saying that 6 tornadoes touched down across the state.

A Week In My Life, Day 4

Wow, I'm behind. March 1st, I think I remember this day. I was running a little behind in the morning, so I did my tried and true trick of putting my make-up on in the parking lot at work. I actually do this a lot, as my steering wheel can attest.

Emmy did not feel well so she stayed at home, despite my asking her not to. As soon as I sat down at my desk, she called and wanted me to come and get her so she could stay with PawPaw. Luckily, PawPaw is a life saver and he drove all the way to my house to get her.

This was another busy day at work. My good friend Mowry brought lunch for us, homemade paella and black beans. I also discovered sweet potato tots at Sonic that went perfect with the meal. YUM! Thanks, Mowry.

When I got off work, I flew back up the highway to grab Annabeth and then went back down to Talladega. The visitation for my sister's father in law was this night. Afterwards, the girls and I went out to eat with my Daddy and stepmom. My daddy can perform coffee magic and make his spoon stand straight up.

Emmy was tired and out of sorts and fell asleep right after eating.

We drove home and all went straight to bed because we were tired. It happens sometimes.