Picture it: a husband and wife, companionably eating breakfast and watching the morning news. Suddenly a sinister fog creeps over the woman, her eyes glazing over as a forked tongue pokes out from clenched jaws. The desire to rip off a table leg and gnaw on it skitters through her head while her husband munches obliviously on his bagel. He reaches for his juice glass and she snarls, "THAT'S MY GLASS!!" (It's not) Life as he knows it is about to end for a week...as they enter...THE PMS ZONE.
I'm really not that bad. I've never once chewed on a table leg, though I've considered it. I used to get backaches and headaches and sore boobs once a month--but now I mostly just get MAD! Everything annoys me: the TV anchor-woman's hairdo, all the junk e-mail in my inbox, the way Fred's lips flap when he snores. The cats hear me say words that I'd never use any other time. Sometimes I wonder if people on the street can tell from my facial expression that it's wise to give me a wide berth. Any mugger, solicitor, or bear who dares approach me is going to be one unhappy camper.
Sure, the experts give us advice on making it through these days with minimal disruption. "Avoid caffeine, chocolate, salt, and alcohol." Are they nuts?! Those are the four food groups of PMS!! Dumping a pounder bag of M & Ms into a bucket of popcorn before plopping on the couch to watch "The Biggest Loser" just might get me through the evening without committing assault and battery. Having a glass of wine might make my face turn crimson and cause sweat to pour out of my hair, but is this a freaking beauty contest?!!
"Get exercise." That might be a good idea, but I have officially declared it "No Bra Week"--not just Sunday--and thus, energetic movement is unwise. Living in PJ pants all day is also a sensible alternative to those binding zippered waistbands when you're feeling bloated.
"Take magnesium to decrease symptoms like sugar cravings and breast tenderness." And oh, yeah, it can cause sudden diarrhea, too--just what a woman on a rampage wants to have.
In addition to being mad, I also become ultra-sensitive. Sniffling in the Walgreens parking lot after the clerk said I had the wrong coupon. Fighting back tears when the bank teller asks for my ID, like she hasn't waited on me at least twice before! Fred asks, "How was your day?" and I wail, "Why are you always ragging at me???!"
Then, just as suddenly as the scourge came upon us, it quickly departs. All is now right with the world. The cats come out of hiding, Fred moves back in from the dog kennel, and I hum, June Cleaver-like, while ironing his shirts. It has once again been convincingly demonstrated that when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Happy Birthday, Katie!!
Today our baby is 20 years old. Wow! The years have flown by, but I can still see her in my mind from the moment she arrived until now. Born at 10:50 AM on a Friday, she looked just like Erica had--thick black hair and close to 9 pounds. We named her Katelyn Nicole, but she soon became Katie Patatie. She was a smiley, cheerful baby, even though she had me up every night of her first year. She had Fred's blue eyes, and by two, her hair had transformed to curly blond ringlets. She didn't talk until she was 3, but quickly made up for lost time.
In the kindergarten play she was a bear, wearing a costume made by grandma. We cut her long hair, and she "graduated" with perfect attendance. Throughout her elementary years, the teachers' consistent comment at conferences was that "Katie talks too much."
The night before her 7th birthday, she was mad at me for some reason and "punished" me by cutting her bangs to within an inch of her hairline. Another time she packed her little suitcase with mismatched clothes and a bunch of fruit snacks to run away from home. She went as far as the corner at our Westboro house before coming back. At the cabin, she found a fuzzy brown and black caterpillar and named him Isaac. He didn't survive the trip home, but it wasn't from lack of love. Katie has a heart for animals of all kinds, growing up with bunches of dogs and cats and volunteering at the Humane Association.
Over the years, her "big loves" were Justin Timberlake, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Walker, and Christian Bale. She loves music--except the kind where she had to practice her clarinet for band! She and I went to two concerts together during junior high, Smashmouth and Good Charlotte.
In high school, with Erica away at college and Fred often gone for work, she and I were the Gilmore Girls--minus the witty dialogue and cool soundtrack. I did most of the behind-the-wheel driving practice with her, and we nearly took out several mailboxes before she lost her fear of the center line. She got her license on the first try, and a bigger smile has never been seen! She's had or still has jobs in fast food, retail, and hotel housekeeping--pretty ironic for the girl whose bedroom always looked like the aftermath of a tornado.
High school graduation came all too soon (for me) and we took her to St. Cloud for her first year of college. Leaving her there was harder than I imagined, and I cried half the way back to Wisconsin. After a year there and a second, now, in Eau Claire, she is spreading her wings. She got a taste of travel from our San Diego trip last month, and yesterday found out that she's been accepted to study in Ireland for spring semester next year. She'll turn 21 surrounded by pubs!!
Have a great birthday, Patatie! Make the most of the next 20, and always know how much you're loved.
In the kindergarten play she was a bear, wearing a costume made by grandma. We cut her long hair, and she "graduated" with perfect attendance. Throughout her elementary years, the teachers' consistent comment at conferences was that "Katie talks too much."
The night before her 7th birthday, she was mad at me for some reason and "punished" me by cutting her bangs to within an inch of her hairline. Another time she packed her little suitcase with mismatched clothes and a bunch of fruit snacks to run away from home. She went as far as the corner at our Westboro house before coming back. At the cabin, she found a fuzzy brown and black caterpillar and named him Isaac. He didn't survive the trip home, but it wasn't from lack of love. Katie has a heart for animals of all kinds, growing up with bunches of dogs and cats and volunteering at the Humane Association.
Over the years, her "big loves" were Justin Timberlake, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Walker, and Christian Bale. She loves music--except the kind where she had to practice her clarinet for band! She and I went to two concerts together during junior high, Smashmouth and Good Charlotte.
In high school, with Erica away at college and Fred often gone for work, she and I were the Gilmore Girls--minus the witty dialogue and cool soundtrack. I did most of the behind-the-wheel driving practice with her, and we nearly took out several mailboxes before she lost her fear of the center line. She got her license on the first try, and a bigger smile has never been seen! She's had or still has jobs in fast food, retail, and hotel housekeeping--pretty ironic for the girl whose bedroom always looked like the aftermath of a tornado.
High school graduation came all too soon (for me) and we took her to St. Cloud for her first year of college. Leaving her there was harder than I imagined, and I cried half the way back to Wisconsin. After a year there and a second, now, in Eau Claire, she is spreading her wings. She got a taste of travel from our San Diego trip last month, and yesterday found out that she's been accepted to study in Ireland for spring semester next year. She'll turn 21 surrounded by pubs!!
Have a great birthday, Patatie! Make the most of the next 20, and always know how much you're loved.
Monday, April 6, 2009
On the Street Where You Live
Moving from 720th Ave. in Elk Mound to Silver Lake Road in Rhinelander was a step up, in my opinion, because I like the name of the street better here. In Elk Mound, all rural roads were called by number, with a "real" name in small letters below it. 720th Ave. was also Skyline Drive, which I thought had much more character and ambience. Fred thinks I'm weird, but I gave consideration to the names of the streets when looking for a new house to buy. I really didn't want to live on Dump Rd. or Van Nocker Rd. Silver Lake had a nice Laura Ingalls Wilder flavor to it and looked good on my address labels. Every time I drive to town, I pass by Dead End Rd. and Lonely Drive. I feel sorry for those people, especially the Lonely ones! Then I turn onto Pinos St.--which is probably pronounced differently than the immature way I say it!
Every city has unusual place names--maybe even the city's name itself is rather unfortunate. It would be interesting to learn where these names originated. In Eau Claire you can live on Epiphany Lane, Fear St., Seclusion Drive, or Uranus Ave. (Yes, all the planets are represented there, but again--I'm immature!) In the subdivisions you could reside on Erica or Katelyn Court.
On the way to the cabin Friday, I kept my eyes open for strange street names in the little towns and rural areas we passed through. I wouldn't want to live on Fatla Rd., but Petite Lane would be ok. Black Sam Rd. seems awfully racist in this day and age, and Dirt Road Drive is just plain sad. Any poor kid who lives on Drury Lane is bound to be known as the Muffin Man.
Let me know if you have any humorous, unappealing, or bizarre place names in your neck of the woods. In the meantime, I won't be moving to Athelstane.
Every city has unusual place names--maybe even the city's name itself is rather unfortunate. It would be interesting to learn where these names originated. In Eau Claire you can live on Epiphany Lane, Fear St., Seclusion Drive, or Uranus Ave. (Yes, all the planets are represented there, but again--I'm immature!) In the subdivisions you could reside on Erica or Katelyn Court.
On the way to the cabin Friday, I kept my eyes open for strange street names in the little towns and rural areas we passed through. I wouldn't want to live on Fatla Rd., but Petite Lane would be ok. Black Sam Rd. seems awfully racist in this day and age, and Dirt Road Drive is just plain sad. Any poor kid who lives on Drury Lane is bound to be known as the Muffin Man.
Let me know if you have any humorous, unappealing, or bizarre place names in your neck of the woods. In the meantime, I won't be moving to Athelstane.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Fun at the Amberg Hilton
Fred built our cabin, the Amberg Hilton, in 1990. It's on acreage in Marinette County given to him by his grandpa, the first Fred W. Andrist. We have added to the land since then and now have 79 acres. In the early years, we spent many weekends and summer vacation days at the cabin, Fred making improvements while the rest of us provided minimal help and mostly relaxed. When the girls were little, they loved going up there and playing in the dirt, swimming in the Pike River, playing "fort" on the bunkbeds, and getting sticky with s'mores around the campfire, usually past their bedtime.
As they got older, though, cabin time cramped their teenage style. Dad always had the "w" word planned for them--and working outdoors among the mosquitos, ticks, and heat wasn't much fun. They've picked rock, done firewood, raked, painted...whatever needed doing--sometimes with a smile, but just as often with a pout. They spent days at a time there being his "carpenter's helpers," even getting paid for it! But having to wash up in the Pike and use the outhouse during the night was less than civilized, almost more than no TV! It can be scary going up those steps to the biffy in the dark, when every shadow looks like a bear or coyote. (Trina once took a header down the stairs in her hurry to get back to her warm and safe bed!)
Fred would live over there full-time after retirement, but I've told him I'm as far east as I'm going. Over the years we've had many friends and family there for canoe trips, hunting, and hanging out around the campfire. The photo albums up there chronicle the bruises and scrapes from the spills in the Pike's whitewater rapids, the deer and turkeys Fred and his buddies have taken, and Fred's projects in progress, including the front addition (in the picture) that will get finished this summer. Now that we have the Mule, it's fun riding around on the roads he has made through the woods with a backhoe. We have our pet cemetery in the red pines, with old Kaya, Kimo, Beatle, and Baby the Hamster as residents so far. Fred even has a big granite rock picked out as his tombstone, on the edge of a hill overlooking the swamp.
We were over there this weekend and enjoyed a walk in the woods, painting, several games of cards, and relaxing with reading and a crossword puzzle. Sleeping over there is the absolute best--10 hours or so was our average. We visited Uncle Johnny, who had just finished his maple syrup season, and had Fred's sister Wendy over for supper last night. When he opened the grill to make chicken, a red squirrel jumped out of the huge nest she'd built inside! I heard Fred scream like a girl! (We caught two mice in traps, too!)
On my "life list", I've made it a goal to spend at least 20 nights at the cabin this year. I can think of nothing better than an all-day Harley trip this summer that ends at the Amberg Hilton. Our annual canoe trip is the first weekend of June, and we'd love to have visitors the rest of the summer, too! We promise not to feed you red squirrel.
As they got older, though, cabin time cramped their teenage style. Dad always had the "w" word planned for them--and working outdoors among the mosquitos, ticks, and heat wasn't much fun. They've picked rock, done firewood, raked, painted...whatever needed doing--sometimes with a smile, but just as often with a pout. They spent days at a time there being his "carpenter's helpers," even getting paid for it! But having to wash up in the Pike and use the outhouse during the night was less than civilized, almost more than no TV! It can be scary going up those steps to the biffy in the dark, when every shadow looks like a bear or coyote. (Trina once took a header down the stairs in her hurry to get back to her warm and safe bed!)
Fred would live over there full-time after retirement, but I've told him I'm as far east as I'm going. Over the years we've had many friends and family there for canoe trips, hunting, and hanging out around the campfire. The photo albums up there chronicle the bruises and scrapes from the spills in the Pike's whitewater rapids, the deer and turkeys Fred and his buddies have taken, and Fred's projects in progress, including the front addition (in the picture) that will get finished this summer. Now that we have the Mule, it's fun riding around on the roads he has made through the woods with a backhoe. We have our pet cemetery in the red pines, with old Kaya, Kimo, Beatle, and Baby the Hamster as residents so far. Fred even has a big granite rock picked out as his tombstone, on the edge of a hill overlooking the swamp.
We were over there this weekend and enjoyed a walk in the woods, painting, several games of cards, and relaxing with reading and a crossword puzzle. Sleeping over there is the absolute best--10 hours or so was our average. We visited Uncle Johnny, who had just finished his maple syrup season, and had Fred's sister Wendy over for supper last night. When he opened the grill to make chicken, a red squirrel jumped out of the huge nest she'd built inside! I heard Fred scream like a girl! (We caught two mice in traps, too!)
On my "life list", I've made it a goal to spend at least 20 nights at the cabin this year. I can think of nothing better than an all-day Harley trip this summer that ends at the Amberg Hilton. Our annual canoe trip is the first weekend of June, and we'd love to have visitors the rest of the summer, too! We promise not to feed you red squirrel.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Remembering Daddy
Today it is 23 years since my dad died of a heart attack at 49. While I can't remember where my car keys are, I remember every moment of that night like it just happened. My sister Tracey calling at midnight to say he was in Mauston in congestive heart failure. I was four months pregnant, shaking and praying as I held his picture and waited for Fred to get home from late bowling. Driving to Mauston as fast as we could, arriving at 3 AM to learn he'd just been flown by helicopter to La Crosse. Getting to the hospital there at 5:30 to find out he had died at 4:42. Going in to see him and touching his curly hair, saying "I love you, Daddy..."
My dad was so many things to us. He was funny. After my fifth grade science fair when my project was Organs of the Body, he wrote me a note: "I'm proud of you with all my heart and liver." He brought a baby pig into the house and it got loose--to our delight and our mother's dismay. When I was reading Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," he scratched on my window screen in the middle of the night, pretending to be a vampire.
He was a hard worker, usually having more than one job. Sometimes I rode in the gas truck with him after school and filled out delivery sheets for him. He would always sing, and we kids learned all the truck driving songs of Dave Dudley and the albums of Johnny Cash. He knew everybody, had connections everywhere, and would help anyone who needed it--which accounted for the steady line of people out the funeral home door for three hours at his visitation.
He could be stern. I would have preferred a spanking to the dreaded "talking to" from Daddy. To know I'd disappointed him was the worst punishment ever. He didn't tolerate foolishness. Once he had us picking corn by hand in a December snowfall, and I was blubbering over my boyfriend dumping me. After listening to this awhile, he told me to knock it off or he'd give me something to cry about! My sister and her high school boyfriend got stuck in the mud when they were "parking." My dad took the tractor and pulled the car out--I was already away at college and don't remember how he reacted to that one! Yet he didn't get mad over the really big things when he knew we needed his support and understanding. Inside, he was a big softy. The first time I ever saw him cry was over my brother having to be hospitalized again for his spina bifida. He cried at "Old Yeller" and when he took me to college and at our weddings.
My biggest regret is that he didn't get to meet his granddaughters. Erica was born exactly 5 months after he died, followed by Molly, Anne, Katie, Depresha, and Alexis. He adored Tracey's boys, and would have so enjoyed watching them all grow up.
I still have a birthday card that he sent me from the road when I was in college and he was driving semi. I dug it out of a box the other day. He wrote, "Annie, don't get carried away on your birthday. I think of you every day. Love, Daddy." I think of him every day, too. I was lucky to have married someone who is a lot like him. But I still miss him--with all my heart and liver.
My dad was so many things to us. He was funny. After my fifth grade science fair when my project was Organs of the Body, he wrote me a note: "I'm proud of you with all my heart and liver." He brought a baby pig into the house and it got loose--to our delight and our mother's dismay. When I was reading Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," he scratched on my window screen in the middle of the night, pretending to be a vampire.
He was a hard worker, usually having more than one job. Sometimes I rode in the gas truck with him after school and filled out delivery sheets for him. He would always sing, and we kids learned all the truck driving songs of Dave Dudley and the albums of Johnny Cash. He knew everybody, had connections everywhere, and would help anyone who needed it--which accounted for the steady line of people out the funeral home door for three hours at his visitation.
He could be stern. I would have preferred a spanking to the dreaded "talking to" from Daddy. To know I'd disappointed him was the worst punishment ever. He didn't tolerate foolishness. Once he had us picking corn by hand in a December snowfall, and I was blubbering over my boyfriend dumping me. After listening to this awhile, he told me to knock it off or he'd give me something to cry about! My sister and her high school boyfriend got stuck in the mud when they were "parking." My dad took the tractor and pulled the car out--I was already away at college and don't remember how he reacted to that one! Yet he didn't get mad over the really big things when he knew we needed his support and understanding. Inside, he was a big softy. The first time I ever saw him cry was over my brother having to be hospitalized again for his spina bifida. He cried at "Old Yeller" and when he took me to college and at our weddings.
My biggest regret is that he didn't get to meet his granddaughters. Erica was born exactly 5 months after he died, followed by Molly, Anne, Katie, Depresha, and Alexis. He adored Tracey's boys, and would have so enjoyed watching them all grow up.
I still have a birthday card that he sent me from the road when I was in college and he was driving semi. I dug it out of a box the other day. He wrote, "Annie, don't get carried away on your birthday. I think of you every day. Love, Daddy." I think of him every day, too. I was lucky to have married someone who is a lot like him. But I still miss him--with all my heart and liver.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Losing It
Yesterday I couldn't find my cell phone. I employed my often-used method in these increasingly common situations: backtracking. Filled water jug for dogs, put dog food in pail, went to the bathroom (oh please, don't let me have flushed it!!), put in contacts, got a pop.....and there was my cell phone, on the top shelf in the fridge. That's pretty bad, even for me. Call them senior moments or brain farts, they happen to me every day. ( See Hell's Kitchen last week.) Actually, I don't know if I have enough functioning brain cells to produce a cerebral fart.
Twice this week I tried to enter a car that I wasn't driving. In my defense, I was using a loaner car--but still. At the post office as I struggled with the key, I noticed a combination lock beneath the door that I didn't remember being there before. Just then a smiling young woman appeared and said I might have better luck with the right car. (Snot!) I did it again not two hours later in the parking lot at Fred's office, where there are only four other cars!
I regularly push my cart around store parking lots, convinced someone has stolen my car. Sometimes I find it, but other times I resort to pushing the horn button on the clicker.
I put important papers in "safe places" and forget what those places are. I still haven't found my current photo album since we moved five months ago. Fred's glasses got tossed in the garbage with the junk mail, and the keys I left on top of the truck are lying in a ditch somewhere. I've walked off several times with someone else's cart, lucky that no one has yet accused me of stealing a purse. Last fall I took a disposable camera over to the cabin to use up, and it has never been seen again. It had our pictures of the Harley 105th anniversary weekend on it, and we turned the cabin and outside area upside down--no luck. Of course, we didn't bother looking down the outhouse hole...I locked my keys in the house and had to break the kitchen window to get in....wrote a $518 check for the phone bill, which was actually the balance in the checkbook...have spent at least a year of my life going into rooms and then wondering why I'm there.
Is there a support group for this? If not, maybe I'll start one. "My name is Cheryl, and I'm here because...I forgot."
Twice this week I tried to enter a car that I wasn't driving. In my defense, I was using a loaner car--but still. At the post office as I struggled with the key, I noticed a combination lock beneath the door that I didn't remember being there before. Just then a smiling young woman appeared and said I might have better luck with the right car. (Snot!) I did it again not two hours later in the parking lot at Fred's office, where there are only four other cars!
I regularly push my cart around store parking lots, convinced someone has stolen my car. Sometimes I find it, but other times I resort to pushing the horn button on the clicker.
I put important papers in "safe places" and forget what those places are. I still haven't found my current photo album since we moved five months ago. Fred's glasses got tossed in the garbage with the junk mail, and the keys I left on top of the truck are lying in a ditch somewhere. I've walked off several times with someone else's cart, lucky that no one has yet accused me of stealing a purse. Last fall I took a disposable camera over to the cabin to use up, and it has never been seen again. It had our pictures of the Harley 105th anniversary weekend on it, and we turned the cabin and outside area upside down--no luck. Of course, we didn't bother looking down the outhouse hole...I locked my keys in the house and had to break the kitchen window to get in....wrote a $518 check for the phone bill, which was actually the balance in the checkbook...have spent at least a year of my life going into rooms and then wondering why I'm there.
Is there a support group for this? If not, maybe I'll start one. "My name is Cheryl, and I'm here because...I forgot."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Letter is Better
When was the last time you took a pen and some paper, or maybe a pretty note card, and wrote someone a letter? Stuck it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and thought about how the recipient's face would light up in a couple days when it showed up in their mailbox?
With all of today's "immediate" methods of communication, writing a letter is becoming a lost art. Why compose something that won't arrive for 1-3 days when we can send a text or e-mail message that's instantly available? Well, allow me to tell you.
A hand-written card or letter is like a gift, a heart-felt piece of yourself that you create for someone you care about. It involves your time, thought, preparation, and expense. Those things alone tell the receivers they are special--before they've read a word.
Saying "I don't have time" is probably the #1 reason many people don't write anymore. I say that's baloney! We have time for TV, video games, sports, Facebook, shopping--making time is the difference. We all have free time and make the choice on how we spend it. I have a big box and full scrapbook of handwritten letters from soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen that I've received over the past five years. If they can make time in a war zone to write to someone they've never even met, how can we not have time for the important people in our lives??
I have saved hundreds of letters over the years, many from those dear to me who are no longer with us. Just looking at the penmanship on them can bring back so many wonderful memories, and the words convey the personality that I loved. These letters are treasures, still with me long after the deleted e-mail or text message are gone.
This isn't meant to be a lecture or guilt trip. (though the girls will probably say it sounds like that) I hope it will be encouragement for anyone missing out on how special personal correspondence can be. So buy some stamps and pick up a pen--you just might start a trend.
With all of today's "immediate" methods of communication, writing a letter is becoming a lost art. Why compose something that won't arrive for 1-3 days when we can send a text or e-mail message that's instantly available? Well, allow me to tell you.
A hand-written card or letter is like a gift, a heart-felt piece of yourself that you create for someone you care about. It involves your time, thought, preparation, and expense. Those things alone tell the receivers they are special--before they've read a word.
Saying "I don't have time" is probably the #1 reason many people don't write anymore. I say that's baloney! We have time for TV, video games, sports, Facebook, shopping--making time is the difference. We all have free time and make the choice on how we spend it. I have a big box and full scrapbook of handwritten letters from soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen that I've received over the past five years. If they can make time in a war zone to write to someone they've never even met, how can we not have time for the important people in our lives??
I have saved hundreds of letters over the years, many from those dear to me who are no longer with us. Just looking at the penmanship on them can bring back so many wonderful memories, and the words convey the personality that I loved. These letters are treasures, still with me long after the deleted e-mail or text message are gone.
This isn't meant to be a lecture or guilt trip. (though the girls will probably say it sounds like that) I hope it will be encouragement for anyone missing out on how special personal correspondence can be. So buy some stamps and pick up a pen--you just might start a trend.
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