Move the Orange Cones

I have before me a row of orange traffic cones. They aren't really blocking cars more symbolic of my thoughts.

Some people are just really good at posting everyday. I am not. If I don't feel it, something moving to write about a story is not able to dance off my fingers onto the keypad. This is not to say funny stuff, emotional happenings haven't occurred...just nothing that I can sing out in a read worthy fashion. I have typed, deleted, typed, deleted only to realize I am at a block, a blogger's block.

With the weather ever so perfect this week (that heat wave needed a snap good-bye) I am off for a late morning walk where if luck will have it the orange cones in my head will get lost along the way.

The Box Speaks of the Past

Summer at the Avery humble abode is all about closet cleaning. Every week of this summer break from work and school we, well mostly me, pick a closet and purge. It feels so good!

This week it was M who tackled a closet--the second closet in her bedroom. Without boring you with stories of all the treasure finds, let me say the trash man's job secured by the number of bags M loaded up. Now second closest holds a mirage of fashion selections that have spread with plenty of room for the fabric fibers to breath. I believe closet one is devoted to pants and shirts while closet two is the keeper of the dresses and skirts.

When you clean a closet it has a tendency to domino. When King Ralph's grandmother passed away M inherited her sewing machine and her sewing box stool. The stool was pretty much a kin to Pandora's box. Filled with a mess of threads of many colors, bias tapes, measuring tapes, needles and pins galore to prick the fingers-- enough to keep Sleeping Beauty resting. Then deep down in the bottom of the stool was a small stack of receipts, the receipts to the sewing machine. It was sort of like finding a love letter. The first receipt was dated December 12, 1970 with a total of $504.95. King Ralph's grandfather it seems purchased the sewing machine as a Christmas gift. It shows he traded in a sewing machine which he received twenty bucks credit for, which he didn't turn over to the Singer Company till December 26...I suppose to keep his secret under wraps. He made a fifty-dollar deposit and promised to make fifteen dollar a month payments. The other receipt is dated December 28, 1970 and says simply, "parts", at a cost of ten dollars. GeeGee, as the great grandchildren affectionately called her, must have bought an accessory for her new machine? When you think about five hundred dollars in 1970 that would be about a thousand dollars today...not a bad Christmas gift I say.

King Ralph then told M all about how he remembered his grandmother and his mother sewing dresses for his sisters on the machine. "They would have that rice paper", "you mean patterns dad?" M said. "Whatever, the paper was just really thin and it would be spread out all over the floor and they would pin and cut." Funny how time replays itself. Although I am not a sewer, M spreads her "rice paper" all over the floor and pins and cuts and creates on the same machine that her GeeGee once lovingly created from.


M kept the receipts, tucked them back into the bottom of the sewing stool. I can only assume as a reminder of where the machine came from...chapter one of a sewer's love story.

it's a hot one!

I walked outside to the car and the only thing rolling around in my head were the words of the Wicked Witch of West I'mmmmm melllllting. Rolling on my head were sweat droplets the size of lemons.

Holy crap-a-roola it's an oven in the Saint Louis suburbs--feels like it is 102*. If I may use the words of the great artist Santana-- "man its a hot one like seven inches from the midday sun." It is so hot I cannot, even trapped inside my air conditioned house, motivate myself to accomplish much of anything. I managed one very necessary errand and came straight home suffering from heat exhaustion. I can't even begin to think about cooking dinner. The idea of being anywhere near flame turns me off. I think I will serve bananas and ice water for dinner--no cooking required.

You know it is so hot that a pool wouldn't even be refreshing...it would be bath water, so not refreshing!

When I think about cooler days all I end up thinking to myself is, oh brother, it's only June 22. It is even the dog days of summer yet.

Ugh!

You Are Going to Have to Do Better Than This

This weekend DirecTV has given dad's across the country a gift--all the premium movies channels for free.

Now I have one question...how do you entice father's to want to splurge by adding a movie channel,or two, to their existing satellite plan when-- the movies offered for preview where box office hits in the 1980s and the 1990s? Not to mention they play, commercial interrupted, on TNT and AMC. (Smart ones, like me, would TIVO the movie and fast forward past all those commercials making it a commercial free viewing on a package channel.)

I mean really people, come on, entice me with a mass of just released to DVD selections. National Lampoons Christmas Vacation is not going to get me...great hilarious movie but not a grabber. Neither is Pretty Woman. Bratz isn't going to grab dad's wallet either; it's more of a deal breaker.

Just my personal observation. However, if you're a dad stretched out in your Lazy Boy taking the day off tomorrow, good for you...enjoy a movie.

For us, we're turning off the TV and sticking the dad of our house on a raft in a pool, beer in hand, smelling the waft of BBQ being grilled by the ladies of his life--sisters, wife, daughters,niece...

Happy Father's Day all you dads.

The Dreaded Summer Chore

Is there anything wrong with cultivating a suburban clover farm? One that grows in the middle of a dog track? I don't think so. Uli doesn't think so either, she rather enjoys a flower garden in the center of her Kentucky Derby style homespun track. But, I am sure, a few of my neighbors would beg to differ and tell me there is. I just loath the idea of having to mow the backyard--today.

I actually enjoy mowing the grass, as crazy as that might sound. However, somewhere between Sunday and yesterday Saint Louis made a mad dash into summer--heat, humidity, steam rising off the cement sidewalks, air you can cut with a knife. Basically hell on earth. Knowing the only real relief would be submerged in a barrel of water or inside where cool air is pumped while the meter spins like an out-of-control top. So while I sit, no lay in my bed, peering out the window at my backyard heavily sprinkled with papilionaceous; those sweet little white flowers...probably all three hundred species of the trifolium family consuming my yard I am trying to sike myself out of the task.

I just cannot motivate myself to take to the outside air where the temperature at 7am is already 81* with a looming heat index of 105. Who in there right mind would willing take to outside chores on a day like this?

Then I glance to the right and notice the dreaded renter's yard I will not let myself fall into his pit of laziness. What I love about "renter" is that when he moved in he introduced himself to King Ralph through a half opened screened kitchen window; the first thing he said to ole' King was he once had a neighbor he had to get on mow the grass. Now it's a running joke between us and the neighbor who butts up to other side of the house--when will he mow his grass and should King Ralph remind him of that moving conversation? The thought crossed our minds to go in half-n-half on a goat, a little grazer to keep "renters" yard manicured. Then we decided we would have nothing to laugh about together, maybe it is more like roll our eyes.

Oh well, I braved the heat and mowed the backyard. Tomorrow I will feed my suburban clover farm a little snack of weed-be-gone. (Sorry Uli you will have to enjoy a more Irish view of a green meadow) Then I will perform a voo-doo ritual on the "renter".

Note to self: purchase voo-doo doll when in New Orleans.

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world of astro turf.

She Told Me She Wasn't Going to Work at McDonald's

I wish I could say "good morning", well it is a good morning it's just I am dragging tired. You see Uli, our cute but stupid pooch is terrified of storms. As luck has it a 3am summer storm rolled in and the fact I was being nice by not locking Uli in her cage meant she was spinning in 90mph circles at the foot of my bed and yapping with fear. It is a most comical sight...but not at 3am! This went on for an hour... even from her cage; where I decided she was best to be trapped.

However I have woke early today...one because King Ralph couldn't find his clean uniform pants (which I retrieved for my wardrobe challenged hubby) and two because Princess A started her new job in a most familiar place.

I have been threatening my little princess since the week she took hard to the pavement failing to find a summer job that I was driving her tail to McDonald's to get employment. I explained-- it was either flipping burgers or no sorority life when she returns to college. We pay tuition but not sorority dues so she needed a J-O-B in a bad way.

The week we left for vacation we had our regular visit to the eye doctor. We all love the eye doctor, you almost have to when let the guy constantly cut on your daughters' eyeballs and sew their muscles in different locations. Anyway we are always laughing in doctor's office, ribbing each other and teasing the doc about years of being in his holding tank watching episodes of Veggie Tales to entertain while in the holding pattern. We laughed that M has so many specialist that her middle name is "million dollar co-pay" but that eye doc is our favorite of all her specialist. He then said we are his favorites as well. How sweet is that? His whole staff is so warm and inviting, so truly caring. You aren't just a number-- at least we have never felt that way. He has made a generous donation to the school's marching band for the Rose Bowl Parade trip, he has called as soon as we get home from the hospital to make sure the girls are comfortable, his assistant has shed tears with and for my nervous girl. You learn to trust and they in return care. With two kids with unusual eye concerns we spend a great deal of time hanging around in that office.

Princess A went into her exam room solo for the first time where she had "grown-up" conversation with the doctor. In the conversation was discussion on if she was working this summer, to which she commented she was on the prowl with little success. While were gone on vacation the doctor's assistant called and left Princess A two messages, which included her cell number. Hmmmm what could she want? All I could think of was that they would want Princess A's permission to use her unusual and difficult eye condition/case for a teaching tool. That wasn't it at all. Nope. The doctor wanted to offer Princess A a summer job. Go Figure?!

So this morning Princess A rose before seven, put on a lose and home spun version of the office uniform, I slapped some lunch money in her palm (because that is what moms do), then I crossed my fingers that her first experience in rush hour traffic down Highway 270 would be successful...because the best way to learn rush hour driving technique is to dive head first into the ocean of bumper to bumper traffic.

Then I waited. Waited for her to call me to say she arrived safely. 8:21am she called and I rolled over to drift back to sleep.

Now I wait,wait to hear all about her first day on the job. How she is taking her relationship with the eye doctor's office to a whole new level and learning to perform in a "real" working world with important purpose. How she maneuvered the rush hour drives. What she spent her lunch money on. I'm just really excited that she has this opportunity to grow. I'm thriled she has a J-O-B!

There's No Place Like Home, Really Vacation

We'rrrrre hooooome. Of course coming home leads to moments of reflection.

Like these: When we walked down to the beach on Thursday morning our fine sand castle stood intact, which gave us fortuity to expand...until we decided a total makeover and reconstruction would allow our inner artists to dance. Passer-bys stopped to comment on her beauty, some even came to snap pictures, some came to ask how to build a castle of such proportion. Others said they watched from there balcony all day as we built her. A structure built of family fun and love. Is she not grander the second time around? Oh-yes-she-is!

Then we went to dinner at LuLu's. While we waited for our table we sipped "Marina Mama's" from plastic cups while peering around the marina at luscious boats and listening to the band play great tunes that coaxed a sing-along. Then we came back to the beach, hoping to see our spectacular castle glisten under the big bright moon light. Not this time. Either jealous marvelors or no-good teenage sand castle vandals came by and knocked her down. Her beautiful shell enhanced exterior, her perfectly sculpted cathedral staircases and her sea weed roofs were no more. How dare! But it is just sand which means our large pile, the building block, the base of many sand granules was there to offer pallet to a new group of artists to mold and form into a new sculpture of sand exquisiteness.

We are known for taking a day on the path to home and just stopping at an unplanned location...this time it was New Orleans-- a 3.5 hour jog over and across the Lake Pontchartrain bridge. It was actually fun being there, knowing M, D and I will be there again next month for the Youth Gathering...it gave us opportunity to find our hotel, it's correlation to the dome and map out a few dining choices. Of course New Orleans offered a few "oh brother" murmurs as we passed down Bourbon Street-- the whores all clad in there nightwear were hanging in the doorways peddling their stripper delights. Oh dear God! I needed a hurricane in a paper cup after that sight...come to think of it I had one in my hand already, I was in need of a second, as my mind drifted to the 36,000 Christian teenagers who would glance this sight next month. (And there will be no hurricane sipping for this role model on that trip--unfortunately).

The N'awlin's heat. The humidity. It was like Hell. I can only dare to allow myself to think about what it will be like next month. Water, water, water, we will all need to drink plenty. I mean gallons or I will be doling out Tylenol for the heat related head aches like a back door drug dealer. I have made a notation on the info sheet that the Gathering is not supplying water bottles like they have in the past. We need to bring our own, and not just small bottles but big a** bottles.

So while in NOLA we rode the Street Car (don't call it a trolley), ate a dozen yummy beignets at Cafe Du Monde, walked and gazed at architecture, ate a dinner of traditional Cajun and Creole goodness at The Market Cafe before heading back to our cool mod hotel sprinkled with fun art for a dip in the roof top pool.

The next day it was on the road to home. This is was another favorite restroom/gas stop:Jackson MS, Dixie Gas. Exiting the car we four girls bolt into the gas station where I let my eyes dart around looking for the restroom sign. I cannot locate so I ask the attendant, "where is the restroom?" She replies "we don't have any." "No restroom?" "No mam, no public ones." "What the hell kind of gas station is this?" "The old fashion kind" she responds. Then we hoofed it next door to the Shell station (and it's modern facilities) while King Ralph continued to pump that cheap $2.43 a gallon gas. As we all crammed in the single toilet restroom I looked at the girls and said "an old fashion gas station would have someone checking my oil, cleaning my windshield and motioning me to the restroom which requires a key on a large wood block style key chain followed by an ice cold Pepsi in a glass bottle from vending machine." What the hey, does this gal really get the pleasure of a restroom while at work or does she have to pee in the field behind the building? Then the girls tortured King Ralph with Patsy Cline's greatest hits by singing each word perfectly and in perfect harmony. A sign they can only take so many hours trapped down by a seat belt while feet are restrained by M's million over sized purses filled with sttttuff.

Eleven hours and a barrage of tunes and moans from Princess A that she can't handle a drive that long during her waking hours we pulled in the driveway to a happy pouch greeting, luggage to unload and reality that real life has to kick back into gear.

Goodbye Respite of Relaxation

I sit staring out at the sands and vast pool of water--Gulf of Mexico and begin to think all my goodbyes.

Goodbye beach, oh great respite of relaxation. Goodbye boy who never fails to show at 730am arranging the lounge chair cushions and umbrellas. Goodbye morning fishermen--though y ou may have not reeled in a single fish you can sense the tranquility the rod and reel give. Good bye seagulls and pelicans. Goodbye morning beach walkers and joggers--how I enjoyed joining you. Goodbye mojitos. Goodbye rafts and sand toys--you brought out our inner artists so strangers could marvel at our great builds. Goodbye sunshine, you danced down on us all and kissed our skin ever so right. Goodbye sand in which we twinkled our toes. Goodbye sneaky granules of sand that sprinkle into our beds and reminded us that a sandbox wait to greet us each day. Goodbye novel with your rippled pages that have the mark of love and beach stamped upon the edges.

Goodbye-Goodbye-Goodbye. Till we meet again.

The Last Act

I sit on the balcony, as I have for the last several days, listening the waves crash and eating cereal. I sit here watching the beach lounge chair rental boy arrange the blue cushions and the coordinating umbrellas just perfectly so to reflect the sun...every morning without fail he arrives at 730am to tend to his task (and then sits all day watching over the seldom purchased elevators from the sands and protectors of the sun.)

I gaze out and see our castle of the sand has remained intact. Happy. Happy I am. I watch morning walkers stop to marvel at her beauty and grandeur. So, we will expand today, turning her from castle to cathedral. We will soak the last droplets the Alabama beach sun offers as today marks--time to move on.

The Sand Is Our Clay

...from Alvar Aalto to Frank Lloyd Wright to the Avery Girls...a masterpiece that has captured the attention of all those who take to these sands.
And, a masterpiece of such greatness requires me guarding and gazing at its mammoth beauty. The queen of the sands, that is what she is--not me, the sand castle.

How I hope the evening vandals of the sand structures leave this masterpiece to stand tall and proud for another day.

Chillaxin...

...is exactly what I have been doing for the last several days. I know this by the color of my skin--a swirl of tan and red and by the pages of my novel--that have damp rippled edges from the waters of the Gulf and by the chilled beverage choice in the cooler--mojitos. Aaaaahhhh the sand and the sun...and people watching.

Of course boom box boy was back later in the day making his hit again-- leaving me to wonder if he thought I was a cougar or it was still the 1800's, with my Princess A requiring a suitable chaperon when in the company (or pursuit) of the opposite sex. There was the older woman who wore calve high white sport socks as she walked down the beach (boom box boy told us when his posse giggled at her as she passed she exposed her very sun burnt feet...then why go for a walk in your socks down the beach, strange sight?) There is the odd couple that emerge from 10am-noon, just stare at everyone and when they aren't looking you stare back; mostly at the man and his James Bond swimsuit. There is the little girl whose "nanny" brought she and her brother to the beach with no entertainment devices--no rafts, no sand toys...and so little girl wants ME to play with her...and feed her my crackers...and float on my rafts--to which I do with an emotion of empathy. King Ralph watches it all perched in a chair under the god of shade--the E-Zup canopy.

When I wake early in the morning I sit on the balcony watching people fish and pelicans swoop down for a breakfast that is surely surfacing as the poles lure their meal in...a game of cat and mouse between the bird and the fisherman.

When the clock strikes 8am I walk down the shore, sit in the quietness and serenity it offers at that hour of the morning waiting for the rest of the world to join me.

Coo-yôn on the Beach

Aaaahhhh the sand and the sun...and the entertainment-- of a group of college aged kids on a family beach acting like they are on spring break in Daytona. Yep, they were there acting like idiots for all to watch while I wondered if we would be scraping one of them off the bottom of Gulf by five o'clock. Entertainment. Girls not fit for teeinie-weenie bikinis but wearing them anyway. Girl in fabulous raft drinking a pitcher of spiked punch while floating on fabulous raft (first pitcher red juice, the second yellow juice). Boy walking in Gulf with mini boom box on shoulder; certainly having consumed some high octane beverage prior to the noon hour, feeling the vibe of an era gone by. Oh beach entertainment you have not failed us.

And then...as the clock struck the 3 o'clock hour and the gang of entertainment began to thin out boom box boy made a smooth move over towards myself, M and Princess A... "do you mind if I sit here and talk to you all for a while my buddy is on the phone with his girl friend and...?" What do you say, no? Of course bikini clad Princess A, the obvious target for his desire "to talk", nicely said (as I taught her to be) "ya that's fine." Then the slight pick up lines dropped trickled out right in front of mama. There was the usual small talk of where do you go to school and where are you all from...but when I walked back to our canopy to giggle with King Ralph, who keep his intimidating position from a distance did boom box boy dare to ask my princess if she had a boy friend...to which she replied "yes" and he replied back something in the manner of, cause I don't want your boyfriend coming up to me saying why are you talking to my girl. Princess A laughed when she later told me and said her guy would have beat him up with his spiked yamaka and his Torah. Oh the Jewish boy--still a story for another blog, soon I promise.

Boom box boy invited the three of us to the party with him and his drunk friends at The Hangout and dance the Stanky Leg. Of course without verbally expressing our no pass we all just nodded and smiled. Boom box boy even told me, yuck, that I would look hotter in an LSU hat. Excuse me I was looking all mom-40ish-swimsuit-cleavage-bearing-tractor-ass-hot in my STL Cardinals hat, thank you. Then he found interest in learning SLT slang words, so we obliged and he tossed a few Louisanna slang words our way. Although today I find his definition of coo-yôn meaning cool not in relation to the French Cajun dictionary's definition meaning, stupid. That is exactly how he and his friends behaved on the beach...they where being coo-yôn.

According to boom box boy he is here for yet one more day of sun. So the entertainment of coo-yôn fun and behavior continues-- for our entertainment pleasure.

This is only one reason why you gotta love the beach!

Good Morning Sweet Summer

Monday June 8

Okay so a girl can’t stay awake much past 930pm when she lacks proper sleep—both in quantity and comfort from the night before…I find myself awake at 545am sitting on the balcony, sipping morning beverage and listening to the crash of the waves on the sandy shore. Peace. Not the tranquility of the mountain peace I so love that our vacations usually deliver, but peace and beauty nonetheless. Good morning Gulf of Mexico. Oh bright and beautiful Alabama sun please kiss my alabaster skin and turn me a golden shade of brown. Let us laugh together, build sand castles, let there be cocktails in plastic cups sipped while our toes twinkle in the white sands and let us nap under the warmth of your healing and rejuvenating powers when not turning the pages of our many novels.

Let this be our repeated pattern for five glorious days of family loving vacation time.

I'm Constipated and That Is Really Okay

Sunday June 7

Good morning…wait I can hardly say that as I have nearly gone to bed, and I count the minutes till I wake King Ralph to a packed and snack stocked car to begin the drive for our very last minute vacation—so not the Avery style. I am a planner. I like to research, map, and calculate everything about a destination before we venture out. No, not this time…this time we waited and waited for word if King Ralph’s momma would be having a quite delicate surgery. Once we got word that her surgery was scheduled for July we went into vacation mode on Friday afternoon and booked a condo on the beach. (Our window of opportunity is so meek with all the girls’ high school activities. This week was our open window.) No camping, no mountain trekking trip this year—I know and we all seem to miss it, but we followed the sun and the sun was not shining anywhere else except where we are going.

At 3am away we rolled…towards Gulf Shores, Alabama-- the beach and the sun.

There is something about being together in the car that gets us all laughing—especially at rest stops. We stopped for gas and potty break; we stomped into the ladies rooms like a pack of sorority girls and stood waiting our turn. I went first (as the girls unaware that we taking the age before beauty line up for our much needed relief), testing the toilet seat for safety (the toilet seat was about 5 inches smaller than the toilet bowl)…finished with my turn I stood checking out the options from the vending machine (such delightful exotic options), then proceeding to the “Magic Scale” that would not only tell me a fortune for a quarter but also announce my weight—which by the read of the suggested height/weight ratio it would have read me as--tractor ass. Then I turned to tell D something when we hear an odd pained groan and moan coming from the other occupied stall, with intermittent courtesy flushes. I looked at D with a very queer and scared looked on my face, she looked back in the same fashion and then…my baby lacking all public restroom manners laughed, hard…and I bolted out of there. Thanking the good Lord above that travel makes me constipated.

So onto the next gas and restroom stop, where laughing before we got through the door…the sign on the front door read, “pants must be pulled up and a shirt must be worn for service.” Oh brother, I guess here in Chicora, Mississippi they like their ass hanging out of the pants. Never mind they had boys running around the joint with feet as black as coal [from ground dirt]…but their pants where pulled up and there were on well enough to get those icy beverages. We laughed all the way back to the car with M snapping a picture of the sign like the paparazzi.

We kept on driving...me trying to figure out how I could find comfort for my weary I-never-really-went-to-bed-left-the-house-at-3am-body anywhere in the car. I never managed much more than 20 minutes here and there. M on the other hand took her bad crocked back to the “way back” seat of the mini-van and stretched out like a queen while the rest of us cocooned in our micro space. After doling out our on-the-move breakfast and lunch of buttered slices of homemade banana bread, croissants, Mike-n-Ikes, DOTS, Fritos and mozzarella dip, sub sandwiches, carrots and dip, diet cokes, juices and coffee from the backseat kitchen—we arrived at our destination.

The beach!

Just a Little Chatter

Since Memorial Day weekend I have been trying to fight off a sinus aliment. I have gone days in a row with headaches that are lodged behind my eyes and pan up to my forehead while I wait for my head to explode. My nasal cavity so full of sinus gunk putting pressure on my eyes that I would swear my eyes resembled that of a basset hound's. When I went to pick my ring up at the jewelers on Tuesday I had Princess A drive me; as I reached my tolerance level. I walked in wearing part of my "summer uniform"--sunglasses and a STL Cardinal ball cap. It was suggested by my jeweler that I was incognito, when really I was attempting to keep the glare of some wonderful warm sunshine from crippling me further.

Yesterday I laid around all day-- unshowered and in bed, on the couch, anywhere I felt I could drop. Then I watched TV and ate...eating suddenly out of sheer boredom instead of hunger. I napped, unnecessarily-- a lot.

This morning I woke at 6am did my daily ritual of morning meditation, then realized a lazy day cannot be repeated and so I rose, dressed and went for a long walk. The Saint Louis suburban morning air was cool and fresh; like mountain air. I popped my ear buds in and started up my iPod...Supertramp Breakfast in America and I walked. I let my soul talk to me. I listened. Then Peter Frampton sang to me over the chirp of the birds . A morning walk, fresh air, owning the sidewalks...it's all so very cleansing.

Then I drug the trash cans to the curb, because Thursday is trash day and forgetting trash day...well one is pretty much screwed if trash day is forgotten.

Now I begin my other ritual, the summer break ritual--doctor visits. We will start with the eyes and work our way down the body. It is off to see Princess A and M's "BFFs Andy and Rose." This moniker Princess A has given to her eye doctor/surgeon and his assistant is a sure sign that the girls spend entirely too much time there. Of course for good reason and cause. One of these days I am going to walk in with a new eye examination tool for "BFF Andy". I have told him for years now that he needs a more adult [female] friendly tongue depressor thingy with a picture attached to it for eye tracking-- one with a hot shirtless dude flexing his six pack, not that ridiculous bird. The thing is if I did bring "BFF Andy" a present of such nature he would laugh at me and love it. A matter of fact I should ask ole' Andy, who happens to be Jewish, for his mother's matzah ball soup recipe. I forgot to mention to you all that Princess A has been dating a Jewish boy. That is a story for another day, blog.


*****

So we made it through our double doctor appointment without having to schedule a surgery. This is always a prize--for us. It is not to say we are not in the running for a fourth M surgery. I can always tell just by looking at her when her eye is not functioning in the manner and fashion an eye should. Even M could tell--a signal she is maturing and learning her own body rather well--and she mentioned it before I had a chance to express my motherly concerns. She realized during her exam that she should have asked for a discount when she went to see the movie Up and Away. Being she has no depth perception she got no benefit of the 3D effects the film offered up. We also realize why driving is such a challenge for her. (It is kinda a scary experience for me as the instructor passenger.) We are off to get new lenses in her frames and a refill of contacts. Which brings me to this question: why do we to have our same contact prescriptions renewed? Why do they expire? I mean it isn't like I am asking for a prescription of narcotic drugs, it isn't like M is going to overdose on contact lenses. We laughed about this all the way home. M was giggling in the car saying "man mom I'm on my fifth pair of contacts lenses today, send me to rehab." But it never fails that when I drag myself into the Walmart eye center to offer my blood, sweat and a kidney for a 12 month supply plastic pliable discs and solutions; I hear "Mrs. Avery that prescription is expired." Not this time, no this time I come armed with the wanted ammunition... and patience. For the love of God why do they ever only have one person working in the vision center? I aged ten years waiting to order. I was almost being to wonder if I should consider a seeing eye dog for M--that the child would go blind before we got our turn with the guy in the white coat.

Well now I have more exciting and pressing things to attend to. I will surely let you know soon what we are up to. It's gonna be fun, really fun.