Well hello there 2010

My goals for the first 3 months of the year are:

1 Post here once a week

2 10 sit ups and 10 push ups a day

1 April I will re-examine those and add modify as needed.

Now it’s off to bed…

Dear CBS,

I’m sorry it as taken so long to get back to you. I’ve been going through the stages of grief after the loss of my good friend, Guiding Light. It took a long time but I think I’m finally starting to heal. I still miss it dearly, but I have some wonderful memories.

However I have now learned that my other dear friend, the one who has been helping me through the grieving process, As the World Turns, has been given a terminal diagnosis too. All the old wounds have been reopened and made even deeper by this news.

CBS, I have been a loyal friend to you for over 30 years. No matter where I’ve lived I have always found you.  From the time a woke till the time I went to sleep we were in constant communication. But now I realized it was a one way conversation, you never listened to me. You threw ‘Survivor’ at me, you took wonderful shows (CSI) and diluted them with spins off, not spin-offs, but copies of the original, a spin off would tell a new story not the same story in a new city.

CBS, I think the time has come for me to see other networks. The internet has some offerings from people that care about how I feel. I can watch the ‘The Young and the Restless’ on Soapnet. We can still get together on Sundays for Football.

But other than that I’m not sure that contact would be a good thing for me. You obviously don’t care, so I’m sure you won’t miss me. It was a good run I guess, but I can’t do it anymore.

Good Luck with the game show or reality show or what other crap you want to serve up.

To the people who read my blog.

Hello and thank you!!!

Please leave a comment and let me know what you think. I am seeking input to make my stories better.

Tina

363

363

          I used to watch television shows about sick kids who needed shots constantly. I thought I would never be able to do it. I didn’t see myself as someone who could poke my daughter with a sharp object.  Now I am one of those parents. Now I’m afraid not to give a shot, before every meal, before bed. It is funny how one little word, diabetes, changes your life.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

          Dani had returned from a trip to California, with her older sister Katie, to visit their grandfather. They had done all the touristy things: Sea World, California Adventure, and the big one, Disneyland. They spent hours at the beach. Dani had gotten sunburn on her back. Katie talked about the piano that Miss Vicki was teaching her to play. My dad said that Dani was sleeping a lot. Of course, she was tired; they had walked all over California.

          But the Dani that stepped of the airplane was not the Dani I sent out there. This child was pale. She walked hunched over like an eighty-year-old woman, not the 12 year old that she was. Her eyes were sunken, and her normally round face was now thin looking more like a skull painted flesh colored.

          “Are you ok?” I knew she wasn’t.

          “Yea, I’m just tired. I need to go to the bathroom.”

          “You went twice on the flight here.” Katie chimed in.

          “I know but I need to go again. I’m thirsty. Can we get something to drink?”

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

          Maybe, if I had caught the symptoms earlier Dani would not have been so sick or spent all that time in the hospital. Weight loss, constant thirst and frequent urinations are classic symptoms. As a first aid instructor, I had recited these multiple times. But this is something that happens to other people. Old people, overweight people, lazy people who don’t exercise get diabetes, not young healthy girls who play basketball, soccer and softball. Not my daughter.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

          “Where are we going?” Katie asked.

          “You’ll see when we get there.” My husband was driving. We decided to go out for dinner to Dani’s favorite restaurant, Fazoli’s. The girls had been home for 5 days and we wanted to celebrate. Dani hadn’t eaten more than a couple a bites at a time. She was too busy taking naps for a meal.

          “Fazoli’s! I love Fazoli’s!” Dani yelled from the back of the van as we pulled into the parking lot. I looked at my husband and knew he was thinking what I was thinking; God please let her eat a full meal.

          We ordered our meal and found a table. The girls told us more about their trip to California and we told them about the things we did while they were gone. All the while we were eating all the food off our plates. Except Dani. Her plate was still full of ravioli.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

          Diabetes tends to run in families. My husband’s father was diabetic, and I had a first cousin who was diagnosed as a child. Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmunity disorder, the body attacks the beta cells in the pancreas. The Beta cells are the ones that produce insulin. There is evidence that a virus may trigger it. It can also be set off by medicines such as oral steroids.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

        “Dave do you have your old blood sugar meter?” My husband had been diagnosed as pre-diabetic. I went right out and bought him a meter and test strips but he never used it.

        “Yea, it’s in the cabinets above the stove. Why?”

        “Just for shits and giggles, I want to check Dani’s sugar. I’m sure I’m wrong, but it’s just… She has all the symptoms Dave.”

        “Ok.” He reached up opened the cabinet door and moved things around until he found it. “I don’t know if it’s any good anymore. It’s been up there a while.”

        I yelled for Dani and started to read the directions. Dave turned the meter on. There was a canister with test strips. He took one out and put it in the slot in the meter.

        Dani lumbered down the stairs, “Yea mom, did you call me?”

        “Baby, I want Daddy to check your blood sugar?”

        “What’s that?”

        “We want to see if you have too much sugar in your blood. It might be why you have been feeling so bad this week.”

        “Will it hurt?”

        “We’ll have to poke your finger and get some blood so it might sting a little. Go wash your hands.”

        Her eyes got wide and she just stood there. She wanted to argue but just didn’t have the energy. I got my laptop and tried to look up information on WebMD. I wanted to appear calm so that she would stay calm. “Go on wash your hands.”

        “Ok.” Her feet scrapped along the floor as she made her way to the bathroom. I heard the water running and splashing as she ran her hands under the water.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

        The average blood sugar range is 70-120. For sports or physical activity, you would want it at the high end of that range. Reading higher than that could indicate a lack of insulin. Insulin is a hormone produced by the beta cells in the pancreas that unlock the door of the red blood cells, allowing the sugar in, providing energy that gets distributed throughout the body. Without insulin, the sugar can’t get in and stays in the bloodstream, causing the blood to become thick. The heart must then work harder to push the blood through the veins and arteries.

          With no sugar, the body will burn fat for energy. The results are a drastic weight loss and the production of ketones. High levels of ketones can cause bad breath, nausea and vomiting, difficulties breathing. Extremely high levels can lead to coma, even death.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

        David looked up from the meter. “363″.

        “363? Is that high?”                       

        “I don’t know…” We just looked at each other. Then we looked at her. She was asleep on her feet. I looked back at my husband and he nodded.

        “Dani, why don’t you get a book or something to do, baby. I’m going to take you to the emergency room.”

        “Why is something wrong with me?”

        “I don’t know baby. I just don’t know.”

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

          We went to St. Ann’s hospital and after 3 hours, they transferred us to Nationwide Children’s hospital. Her blood sugar had reached 900 before it finally came back down.

          The next few months were a learning experience for everyone in the family.  We had to take classes to judge carbohydrates, learn to give shots and read the strips that evaluate her blood sugar level.  Dani takes insulin shots before every meal. The amount is based on the amount of carbohydrates she’s going to eat. She checks her blood sugar anywhere from four to 12 times a day depending on what she is doing and how she is feeling.  We finally are starting to feel comfortable with the situation, but we also know that there are more changes and adaptations to come.

Of all the things to miss… (Rework of an earlier post)

Of all the things to miss…

“Are you dressed yet?” David yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“Not yet.” I know it seems like an easy thing to do. Pick out something to cover the body. I have plenty of clothes. My closet is overflowing with jean and slacks, sweaters and hoodies. I have drawers and drawers of t-shirts, some solid colors and some with stripes, some plain and some with slogans or funny sayings. However, nothing in this room tells you who I am.

“Well hurry up! I don’t want to miss our reservation!”

The Air Force has rules about what you wear for different occasions. You wore your blues to meetings and formal briefings. If it was a fancy affair, like a graduation or award ceremony, you wore your dress blues, which was your blue uniform with the addition of a blue, suit jacket. Not just any jacket but the one with all your ribbons. Ribbons, tiny multi-colored pieces of material glued to a metal backing, pinned to your jacket in a specified order established by importance, with little medal oak leafs representing multiple times earned.

There are ribbons that represent small achievements: one for staying in the Air Force a certain length of time, one for not getting in trouble during that time. There are ribbons that represent sacrifice: the ones you received for deploying to Saudi Arabia, Oman or other places you weren’t allowed to talk about. Then there are the ribbons of extraordinary accomplishments: revamping a training program so that new Airmen get qualified in their jobs quicker, a training program that would be picked up and used at Air Force bases around the world. Finding problems in the radar system of a jet while overseas, a problem that prevented the jet from doing its mission, a mission that gathered and passed on information to other aircraft and ground troops, information that protected the lives of fellow Airmen, Soldiers and Marines.

“How many out-fits are you going to try on mom?” my fourteen year old rolled her eyes as I came down stairs. This time I had black slacks and a short-sleeved teal shirt with a small ruffle along the neckline. It was the third time I had come down and asked her opinion on what I was wearing.

“Tomorrow is my first day of college. I want to make sure I look ok.”

“Mom, you’re going to be fine. Nobody will be looking at your clothes. They are all going at how old you are.”

            For everyday work, the Air Force mandated the wear of the battle dress uniform, lovingly (or lazily) called the BDU. It was a patchwork of ugly shades of olive green.  Even this uniform had significance. You wore this uniform every day for your 20 years. On the breast pockets are patches, one for the command the other patch represents your squadron. They are like prison tattoos or family crests. Your squadron is where you go every day to work. They are the people you deploy with, you party with, you sweat, freeze and stand on the flight line in the pouring rain with. They are as much a part of your family as anyone with matching DNA. The uniform shows that.

“What do you think of this skirt?” my mother asked holding up a white skirt. It would have come half way down my claves. It was lacy and ruffled; it was something I pictured on a woman living on a prairie back in the pioneer days.

        “I don’t know.” I replied. Everything in the women’s department in Kohl’s looked the same. “I kind of like this one.” I was holding up a plain black skirt.

        “Don’t you already have one just like it?”

        “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s just put them up and head home. I’m getting tired anyway. We’ll swing by KFC and get a bucket of chicken for dinner.”

When you are retiring from the Air Force, they send you to a Transition Assistance Program Class. One of the speakers is the owner of a local high-end clothing store. With the skills of one who comes from a long line of butlers he opens his case and sets up his display of fabric samples. There are different kinds of ties and fabrics in all different colors. He starts picking up the different samples, explaining how the colors work and how the different kinds of fabrics work. He waves his thin arms around, telling us the difference between business wear and business casual. He tilts his head down so he can point his blue eyes at the females in the class and very clearly states, “Slacks for a woman are never business dress. Not even business casual. Women must wear a skirt to be considered professionally dressed.”

I spent the first twenty years of my adult life in the Air Force, following the rules and regulations on dress and appearance. I looked forward to the day when I could wear what I wanted when I wanted. I longed to wear my hair in the current fad. Maybe dye it purple. The freedom to put on makeup that was too dark or startling was an intoxicating dream. I believed that when I retired I would revel in the independence of my wardrobe.

Yet nothing in a closet of civilian clothes can capture the unity of a military uniform. They are just pieces of cloth that keep you from being arrested when you walk out your front door. Even if your job has a required dress code, it does not create the unity that a military uniform does. Hangers full of skirts and jackets. None of them says anything of who I am and where I belong.

I miss the feeling of belonging to something big and important. I knew who I was and so did everyone else. Now I am just one of the crowd. The feeling of anonymity, of being lost in the crowd, is strange after all the years of knowing my place in the universe.

I didn’t know just how much I would miss the uniform, but I do.

Words of Love… (Revision of Things We Say for Love)

Words of Love

 

            My parents divorced when I was seven. My mother, brother and I moved in with my mom’s parents. My grandpa worked at the local factory and my grandma worked as a nurse’s aide at the hospital across the street from it. They drove together because my grandmother didn’t have a driver’s license. They went to bingo Friday and Saturday nights at local churches but didn’t play cards for money because they didn’t like to gamble. They bowled in a couple’s league and in a mixed four-man league. On Sundays, they would get up and watch Hour of Power with Rev. Robert H. Schuller. Grandma thought it was important to hear Gods word, but Grandpa didn’t want to get dress up.

            On top of the console TV was a brown wooden box. In white letters, all set at different angles were the words “CUSS BOX”. Every time Grandpa cursed, Grandma made him put a quarter in the box. On Sunday, after the Hour of Power Grandpa would go and get all the change out of his pockets, because he knew that he would need them for the football games, especially the Cleveland Browns’ game.

            “Damn it Sipe, can’t you throw the damn ball.”          

            “That’s fifty cents.” My grandma would yell form the kitchen.

            “But it was only one word.”

            “You said it twice.” with that Grandpa would put two quarters in the box.

For Christmas one year, my grandpa bought my grandma a gold necklace. One side of the charm was a bowling pin, white with two red stripes between the head and the body.

            “Turn it over.” Grandpa said.

            “Why?” she asked as she flipped the charm over. She rotated it 90 degrees counter clockwise and read it, but not out loud. I looked over her shoulder and read it. In bright red letters it said “Oh Shit”.

            “Dad” she leaned over and playfully smacked him.
            He laughed. “Well, mom, you never say it so I thought it would help you pick up those splits.” She wore it every time she went bowling. Whenever she got a split, or through a gutter ball, she would flip the necklace over so everyone could see the offending word, but she never said it herself.

            Grandpa died 3 months after their 40^th wedding anniversary. He had a stroke after surgery to repair an aneurism and he never woke up. It was hard on my mother and her brothers, but my grandma was strong, she held everyone together and saw them through their grief.

The summer between Jr. High and High School was the summer I thought I was all grown up. I put on make up to go outside. I no longer joined the neighborhood ballgames. My life revolved around “cruising the block” on my bike and of course, boys.

            That summer newlyweds moved in the house on the other side of the Myles’s place. That made them the neighbors of my neighbor. He was about five foot seven inches, with a starter beer belly. He always wore jeans and a white “wife beater” tank top undershirt. He had brown hair, styled in the fashionable mullet. His oval face contained blue eyes his nose was a predominate feature. It wasn’t that he was bad looking, he was just kind of average, but he was incredibly old 24, 25 maybe.

And he had a wife.

Her blond hair was one flat tone, obviously from a bottle, and feathered back in huge flips, heavily hair sprayed into place. It looked like a helmet sitting awkwardly on her head. She had a loud squeaky voice. On Friday and Saturday nights you could hear we cackling all over the neighborhood. She and her husband would be in the back yard grilling and drinking beer. Sometimes they had friends over and made it a party, sometimes it was just them and his brother.

            I could never tell if the husband’s brother lived there or not, but he spent a lot of time there. We knew he was the husband’s brother because there was a strong family resemblance. He had a smaller beer belly, and same wardrobe. There were two differences. The bother’s mullet was blond and he wasn’t as old as the husband. The brother was only 19, give or take.

I spent most of my time that summer with Trish. We had been best friends since 1^st grade. Her house was two houses behind me, down Hill Street and across State. Her older sister, Robyn, used to babysit me. Her older brother, Bobby, bought the house on the other side of mine. Trish and I often rode around the Three blocks that made up our neighborhood, talking about starting high school, current events, like the latest Madonna video, and of course, boys.

            I don’t remember who it was that noticed it first, but we realized the brother watched us as we rode by. We were just growing into our womanhood. Our shorts had gotten shorter and our tops had gotten more revealing. We took his attention as a confirmation that our bodies were growing in the right directions. Trish was further developed (i.e. her boobs were bigger), but I was bolder. As we rode by, I made eye contact with him. We rode side-by-side; taking turns riding on the side close to the house. We sunbathed in my back yard when we knew he was there. It never took long for him to come out and have a beer or two.

            There wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t something we set out to do. We were playing a silly, dangerous game. The attention of an older man thrilled us, but the danger was more attractive than the guy.

Over the course of the summer, we realized that someone else had taken notice of us. The wife. At first, it was just glaring looks and comments under her breath. Then it escalated to finger flipping. One day, the wife turned the hose she was using to spray her yard on us. Trish was quicker to react than I was. She got a big grin on her face and waved, “Thanks! That was really refreshing.” “Yea, thanks. That really cooled us down.” I said, catching up with Trish.

            From that point on the game wasn’t so much flirting with the brother, but watching the veins pop out on the wife’s neck every time we rode past her house.

            Finally, two weeks before school, she had all she could take.

            Trish and I had organized a baseball game for the elementary aged kids in the neighborhood. It was one of the few times we weren’t paying any attention to the house one down from mine. Suddenly we saw the wife stomping down the sidewalk toward my house. Still carrying the bat and baseball, I met her on the front porch of my house. Trish and our prepubescent posse followed

            “I want to talk to your mom.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her hips to one side. It was a tough stance, intended to intimidate me. It didn’t work. She was short. At age fourteen, I was about five foot 3 inches, 4 if I stretched. She didn’t make it to my shoulder. I towered over her. My height gave me a sense of superiority. As I looked down on her, I couldn’t help but smirk. She leaned in closer to me; I think she was trying to make herself scarier.

            “Well she’s not home.” I mimicked her pose. The kids from the ball game had circled around us. Their eyes were open wide; they had never seen a kid stand up like that to an adult. I was a hero to them. Seeing that look bolstered my confidence.

            “Well, then who is?”

            This caused me to pause. I could lie to her and tell her no one. Maybe she would go home and forget about me. At least I’d have time to set my mom in a proper frame of mind to defend me.

            Or, I could tell the truth.

            “My grandma.”  

She saw my pause for what it was fear. “Go get her”.

I walked to the front door, set the baseball stuff by the door and called for my grandma “Yes?” She was speaking at me, but looking at the wife. If the wife and husband were old then my Grandmother was ancient. She was short, but still taller than the wife, and thin. She was from the generation of quietness and manners, a time when women acted like ladies.

            “Your granddaughter has been fucking flipping me off and parading herself in front of my husband like a damn slut and if it she doesn’t stop it then I’m gonna fucking stop her.”

            Grandma stepped out onto the porch. “Tina, have you done those things?”

            “No, grandma, her husband is too old.” I almost said it was her bother we were flirting with, but I realized that wouldn’t help the situations any.

            I looked behind me and saw that Trish had ushered the kids a safe distance away. We made eye contact then she looked over to the house on the left. On the roof, Trish’s brother, Bobby, was watching us from where he had been working on his roof. If things got ugly, I was sure that Bobby would come over and help. I just had to keep this lady off my grandma.

            Suddenly the wife turned to face me. I felt her finger poking me in the chest repeatedly. I backed up trying to get away from her. I suddenly realized that this woman was angry and that this was not funny. “You better fucking watch your damn mouth bitch. I’m not afraid to kick your ass.”

            “THAT IS ENOUGH!” My grandmother bellowed. In the eight years I lived with her I’d never heard her that loud. She reached over and grabbed the baseball bat and pointed it at the wife, “You get your damn hands off my granddaughter and get the FUCK off my porch.”

            There was a beat when not even the air moved. Here was an 82-pound grandmother brandishing a bat and cursing angrily. The two women stared at each other until finally the wife looked around and realized that she was very out numbered. She heatedly turned around and looked at me. I was trying not to smile; I didn’t want to make things worse. But I just couldn’t stop the grin from spreading over my face, I just couldn’t get past the thought that my grandma could use, or even knew that word. The wife walked by me hitting me with her shoulder and walked back to her house.

The little kids gathered around me and all started talking at once. “We’ll go beat her up for you Tina.”, “She can’t treat our friends like that!” and even “She’s a big bully!”

“No. I don’t want you guys anywhere near her. You should all go home to your mothers. Trish, you should go home too and tell your mom what happened.” With that, my quiet demure grandmother was back.

Just then, my mother pulled in the driveway. She looked around at the small crowd that was leaving the house. “What’s up?”

‘MOM!” I said running over to her. “You’ll never guess what happened. Grandma said the F-WORD!”

“Huh? My mother said what? Start from the beginning.” I started telling her about the wife walking over to the house, knocking on the door, the wife poking me, and Grandma yelling. Bobby had made his way off his roof and joined us in the driveway. My mother stood there, jaw hanging in the gravel.

Trish and her mom, Shirley, pulled up in her squad car. Shirley was a lieutenant in the Sheriff’s office. She investigated break-ins, robbers and murders. She got out of the car wearing her badge; her gun was in its holster, hanging from her belt.

“Shirley, did you hear about this?” my mom asked.

“First words out of Trish’s mouth when she walked in the door were ‘Mom! Tina’s grandmother said the F-word’.”

“Yea”, said Bobby, brushing his long brown hair out of his face, “it was pretty amazing.”

My grandmother looked at us and in her usual calm demeanor said, “I don’t know what the big deal is. I was just speaking in a language she would understand.” Then she went back inside to finish watching T.V.

Trish’s mom asked us a bunch of questions: when we first met her, if we had any other encounters with her. We told her about the day she sprayed us with water. The only thing anyone could think about was my grandmother and the F-bomb she dropped. Then she walked over to talk to the wife, telling her to stay away from us. She told her that she would file a report, so that if anything else happened there would already be a record. When Trisha’s mom came back, she told us to stay away from them.

The rest of the summer seemed boring. Trish and I still rode our bikes but we found ways to avoid going past the house when we knew they were home. School started and it became less of an issue. With all the homework that came our freshman year, we didn’t have as much idle time.

My grandma died three years later from lung cancer. She and my mother knew a long time before they told me. I was graduating from high school and she didn’t want that hanging over my special day.

Then Trish and her family took me on vacation to Virginia Beach. It was our last big hurrah before she went off to college and I left for Air Force basic training. My grandma decided to wait to tell me again so that I would be free to have fun.

Two weeks after I got home, and about the time, they couldn’t wait any longer, my mother sat me down and told me. I don’t remember the words she used, just how they made me feel: the sting of my tears as they ran down my face, the tingling of my hands and feet as the blood rushed to my core- the body’s reaction to shock, the weight on my chest as I tried to catch my breath

I asked about treatments, chemo, radiation, transplants. I had two lungs; she could have one of mine.

Grandma was ready, my mother told me. Her children were all happy and doing well. Her grandchildren were growing up and moving on with our lives. And she missed her husband.

I don’t remember…

I don’t remember the last time I slept more than four hours. Last night. it was Dani and growing pains in her knees. She laid on the couch with warm washcloths on them waiting for the Advil to kick in.

The night before that it was my geography assignment, my professor writes in the same broken English he speaks. So not only do I need to find the answer, but I need to first translate the question.

Then there is the worry that my monthly check from the V.A. is already 3 weeks late. I need that money to pay the doctors bill. Doctors. Allie is having her tonsils out this week. Her doctor says it will take 2 weeks to recover. My husband is taking her because I have class.

Class. Isn’t next week mid-terms? What week is this? I’m hoping tonight, I can get to sleep early or at least get through some of the shows saved on my DVR. Maybe I’ll skip my geography class; go home and take a nap. It’s not as if I’m going to get anything out of it anyway.

Did I mention my geography teacher is 300 years old and Russian?

I love it when the teacher is older than me. I feel a little less out of place. I don’t feel so out of sync.

Sync. When was the last time I backed up my Blackberry? I wonder if Katie lost her phone yet? Does she know I picked it up when she left it at the restaurant?

I’m so tired that I could crawl up on this table and become a drooling lump. I wonder how the kids would react. Would they just politely ignore the old crazy lady? Would they call security and have me escorted out of the building? Maybe they would call an ambulance and have me taken to the med center. I could have any I.V. and a bed and quiet…

(This was a free write excersize from my Creative Non-Fiction Class. The prompt was ‘I don’t remember’. I did change some of it but not a lot.)

Things we say for love…

This is going to become a longer story for a class project. I’ll post the update when I get it done. If you have any feed back please leave a comment…

            It was the summer between Jr. High and High School. It was the summer I thought I was all grown up. I put on make up to go outside. I no longer joined the neighborhood ballgames. My life revolved around riding my bike “cruising the block” and of course, boys.

            That summer a couple of newlyweds moved in the house on the other side of the Myles’s place. That made them the neighbors of my neighbor. He was about 5 foot 7, with a starter beer belly. In my memories, he always wears jeans and a white tank top undershirt. He had brown hair was cut in the fashionable mullet. He wasn’t bad looking, kind of average, but he was old 24, 25 maybe. And he had a wife.

Her blond hair was one flat one, obviously from a bottle. It was feathered back in huge flips. She had a loud squeaky voice. On Friday and Saturday nights you could hear her cackling all over the neighborhood. She and her husband would be in the back yard grilling and drinking beer. Sometimes they had friends over and made it a party, sometimes it was just them and his brother.

            I could never tell if the brother lived there or not, but he spent a lot of time there. He looked a lot like his brother, same beer belly, same mullet hair cut and same wardrobe. But he was blond and not as old, 19 give or take.

            It really started out innocently I guess. My best friend Trish and I would ride around the 3 blocks that made up our neighborhood, talking about what high school would be like, current events, like the latest Madonna video and of course, boys.

            I don’t remember who it was that noticed it first, but we realized the brother would watch us as we rode by. We were just growing into our womanhood. Our shorts had gotten shorter and our tops had gotten more revealing. His attention was a confirmation that our bodies were growing in the right directions. Trish was further developed (i.e. her boobs were bigger) but I was bolder. As we rode by, I would make eye contact with him. We rode side-by-side; taking turns riding on the side close to the house. We would sunbathe in my back yard when we knew he was there. It never took long for him to come out and have a beer or two.

            We were playing a silly, dangerous game. But the danger that was more attractive than the guy.

            Over the course of the summer, we realized that someone else had taken notice of us. The wife. At first, it was just glaring looks and comments under her breath. Then it escalated to finger flipping. One day, the wife turned the hose she was spraying her yard on us. Trish was quicker to react than I was. She got a big grin on her face and waved, “Thanks! That was really refreshing.” “Yea, thanks. That really cooled us down.” I said, catching up with Trish.

            From that point on the game wasn’t so much flirting with the brother, but watching veins pop out to the wife’s neck.

            Finally, two weeks before school, she had all she could take.

            Trish and I had organized a baseball game for the elementary aged kids in the neighborhood. It was one of the few times we weren’t paying any attention to the house one down from mine. But suddenly we saw her stomping down the sidewalk to my house. Trish and I, followed by our prepubescent posse, met her on the front porch of my house.

            “I want to talk to your mom.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her hips to one side. It was a tough guy stance, intended to intimidate me. It did not work. She was short. At age 14, I was about 5’ 3”, 4” if I stretched. She didn’t make it to my shoulder. The fact that I towered over her wasn’t lost on either of us.

            “Well she’s not home.” I mimicked her pose. The kids from the ball game had circled around us. Their eyes were open wide; they had never seen a kid stand up like that to an adult like that. I was a hero to them. Seeing that look bolstered my confidence.

            “Well, then who is.”

            This caused me to pause. I could lie to her and tell her no one. Maybe she would go home and forget about me. At least I’d have time to set my mom in a proper frame of mind to defend me.

            Or, I could tell the truth.

            “My grandma.”  When my parents divorced 7 years prior, we moved in with my maternal grandparents. It was to be a temporary thing. But one thing led to another, my grandfather died and mom decided to take night classes, so we stayed.

            I must have shown my fear because at that point she brushed past me to the front door and knocked. I was standing behind her when my grandmother opened the door. “Yes?” She was looking at me, but speaking the wife. If the wife and husband were old then my Grandmother was ancient. She was short, but still taller than the wife. She was from the generation of quietness and manners. A time when ladies acted like ladies.

            “Your grand daughter has been flipping me off and parading herself in front of my husband and if it she doesn’t stop it. Then I’m gonna stop her.”

            Grandma step out onto the porch. “Tina, have you done those things?”

            “No, grandma, Her husband is too old.”

            I looked behind me and saw that Trish had ushered the kids a safe distance away. We made eye contact then she looked over to the house on the left. On the roof, her brother, Bobby, was watching us from where he had been working on his roof.

            Suddenly the wife turned to face me. I felt her finger poking me in the chest repeatedly. “You better watch your damn mouth bitch. I’m not afraid to kick your ass.”

            “THAT”S ENOUGH” My grandmother bellowed. In the 8 years I lived with her I’d never heard her that loud. What came out of her mouth next created an out of body experience for everyone who was there. “You get your damn hands off my granddaughter and get the FUCK off my porch.”

            There was a beat when not even the air moved. Then the wife walked past me hitting me with her shoulder and walked back to her house.

            The little kids gathered around me and all started talking at once. “We’ll go beat her up for you Tina.” “She can’t treat our friends like that.” “She’s a big bully.”

            “No. I don’t want you guys anywhere near her. You should all go home to your mothers. Trish, you should go home to and tell your mom what happened.” with that my grandmother was back.

            Just then, my mother pulled in the driveway. “What’s up?”

            ‘MOM!” I said running over to her. You’ll never guess what happened. Grandma said the F-WORD!”

            “Huh? My mother said what? Start from the beginning.” I started telling her about the wife walking over to the house and knocking on the door and poking me and Grandma yelling. Bobby had made his way off his roof and joined us in the driveway. As my mother stood there, jaw hanging in the gravel, Trish and her mom, a county sheriff, pulled up in her car.

            “Shirley, did you hear this?” my mom asked.

            “First words out of Trish’s mouth when she walked in the door were ‘Mom Tina’s grandmother said the F-word,”

            “Yea”, said Bobby, “it was pretty amazing.”

            My grandmother looked us and in her usual calm demeanor said, “I don’t know what the big deal is. I was just speaking in a language she would understand.” Then she went back inside to finish watching T.V.

            Trish’s mom asked us a bunch of questions but all anyone could think about was my grandmother and the F-bomb she dropped. Then she walked over to talk to the wife, telling her to stay away from us and letting her know that there would be a report filed. When Trish’s mom came back she told us to stay away from them.

            The rest of the summer seemed boring. Trish and I still rode our bikes but we found ways to avoid going past the house when we knew they were home. School started and it became less of an issue, since we didn’t have as much idle time.

            Four years later my grandmother died. Family from all over came to town for the funeral and everyone asked to hear that story, and I was glad to tell it. I felt like I had witnessed Haley’s comet or Elvis at the local sub shop. With each telling, the wife got cruder and I got braver, but my grandmother’s word were all ways the same.

a funny thing happened on the way to …

… The Spaghetti Warehouse. The four of us, (Dave, Katie, Dani and me) loaded up the van to go eat. Dave entered the address into his Garmin and we left. We got within maybe 2 min from the restaurant when I turned around to Dani sitting in the backseat behind her daddy in the driver’s seat.

“Baby, where’s your diabetes bag?”

We have a backpack given to us by the JDRF that we keep packed with needles, alcohol pads, nutrition book with carbohydrate information, hand sanitizer, glucagon, and Lifesavers.  All we have to do is throw her meter and insulin in it and go.

“I thought Daddy grabbed it.”

David turned and looked at me. “DANI…aarrgg.”

She did have a point. My husband does many things well; delegating is not one of them. He always takes care of it. Even if someone else starts, he follows behind checking or redoing it.

So we turned around, went home and got it.

We headed out again. Half way there, my husband looked at me.

“I don’t suppose you have the gift cards?”

We bought gift cards at Kroger’s. We got double fuel points on them.  It is actually a pretty good deal. We’ll get about $.50 off a gallon next month.

“No, you took them out of my coat pocket. I thought you put them in your wallet.”

“They were on my desk, you didn’t grab them?”

“Nope I had no reason to go near your desk”

“Shit.”

At this point, I had to laugh. We turned around and went through the Wendy’s drive thru (where they messed up my drink), drove home and ate.

But, not to worry, we did finally make it out to Spaghetti Warehouse last night, and it was very delicious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

… To school this morning. Katie left for school this morning about a quarter till 7.

I woke up at 7, got ready Dani and myself ready for school. She goes out the door at 8:00am to catch the bus. I get all my stuff together. I have everything but my keys.

“Dave, you drove last. Where’s my car keys?’

“I gave ‘em to you to open the door.  Where did you put them“

“I gave them to Katie to open the door so she could feed the dogs.”

We both stopped and looked at each other. Then we retraced her steps until finally we had to admit, what I’m sure to you seems painfully obvious. So, I called Katie’s High School and asked them to have her call me.

“Is it an emergency?”

“Well… I think she has my car keys in her pocket.”

“Well go get her and have her call right away.”

Apparently, car keys are an emergency. The phone rings about 3 minutes later.

“Hello.”

“Hi Mommy.”  She’s 15. She doesn’t call me Mommy often any more.

“Hi Katie. Do you have my keys in your pocket?”

“Yes. I’m sorry Mommy.”

Now I have to laugh, because this is just funny. My husband drove out to her school after his morning meeting and brought the keys home. I missed my morning class but my teacher lets us attend the afternoon session of the class so there was really no loss.

Of all the things to miss…

            When you are retiring from the Air Force, they send you to a Transition Assistance Program Class. The class is held in a small room with tables just long enough for two to sit side by side. There are two rows of tables with an aisle in the middle. At the front of the room, tucked in a corner, is a lectern; in the opposite corner stands a tall black metal T.V. cart with a shelf for a V.C.R. and another for a DVD player. Centered on the front wall are two tables.

             The first speaker comes in with a large black case on wheels. He is an old man; gentleman is really a better word. His dark suit only serves to make his white skin stand out even more. With the skills of one who comes from a long line of butlers he opens his case and sets up his display of fabric samples. There are different kinds of ties and fabrics in all different colors. He starts picking up the different samples, explaining how the Colors work and how the different kinds of fabrics work. He waves his thin arms around, telling us the difference between business wear and business casual. He tilts his head down so he can point his blue eyes at the females in the class and very clearly states, “Slacks for a woman are never business dress. Not even business casual. Women must wear a skirt to be considered professionally dressed.”

           What he doesn’t tell you is the sensation of panic you feel the first time you have to pick your own outfit. The Air Force has rules about this sort of thing. You wore your blues to meetings and formal briefings. If it was a fancy affair, like a graduation or award ceremony, you wore your dress blues, which was your blue uniform with the addition of a jacket. Not just any jacket but the one with all your ribbons. Ribbons are tiny multi-colored pieces of material glued to a metal backing that you pin to your jacket in a specified order established by importance, with little medal oak leafs representing multiple times earned.

There are ribbons that represent small achievements: one for staying in the Air Force a certain length of time, one for not getting in trouble during that time. There are ribbons that represent sacrifice: the ones you got for being deployed to Saudi Arabia, Oman or other places you weren’t allowed to talk about Then there are the ribbons of extraordinary accomplishments: revamping a training program so that new airman get qualified in their jobs more quickly, a training program that would get picked up and used at Air Force bases around the world; finding problems in the radar system of a jet while overseas, a problem that prevented the jet from doing its mission, a mission that gathered and passed on information to other aircraft and ground troops, information that protected the lives of fellow airman, soldiers and marines.

            For everyday work, the Air Force mandated the wear of the battle dress uniform, lovingly (or lazily) called the BDU. But even this uniform had significance. This was the uniform you wore every day for your 20 years. On the breast pockets are patches, one for the command, a large subsection of the Air Force, that you belong to. The other patch represents your squadron, a subsection of a subsection. Your squadron is where you go everyday to work. They are the people you deploy with, you party with, you sweat, freeze and stand on the flight line in the pouring rain with. They are as much a part of your family as anyone with matching DNA. The uniform shows that.

            Nothing in a closet of civilian clothes can capture that unity. They are just pieces of cloth that keep you from being arrested when you walk out your front door. Even if you have to follow a dress code, it does not create the unity that a military uniform does. They didn’t tell me just how much I would miss the uniform.

            But I do.