Adults Say the Darndest Things

I haven't posted for a while because I have been traveling for fun and work. However I have had an opportunity to think about some really odd things that people have said.

Here are some examples:

A woman was talking to my mom. She related that her husband had "phosphate" surgery and that they had planted "scrubbery" around their house and "uranium plants." The funniest part is that we knew what she meant. Who could make this up?

I should note that the conversation took place while the couple was sitting on my parents' bed in their hotel room. When the woman added that because of her husband's "phosphate" surgery he had to "urine all the time," my parents jumped up out of their chairs and said quick good nights to the couple and ushered them out of the room.

While in Hawaii, my mom told me that when my sister came to Hawaii with her high school choir, her choir director reminded them to be on their best behavior because they were representing "their country."

Also while in Hawaii, a fellow traveler noted that all she ever saw were cars with Hawaii tags and, "Why didn't people from other states drive their cars to Hawaii?"

Silence can be golden!

You've Got the Cutest Baby Face

There are people who are photogenic and there are people like me, who are not. My niece, Claire (fondly known as Baby Claire by the family) is such a cutie. She instantly puts on the best expressions when her picture is being taken. I have yet to see a bad picture of this very cute child!!

I always put together the family calendar each year because I am the scrapbooker of the family and I love to do it. This year's calendar featured Claire on every page. Not one family member complained. We all knew that as the resident baby of the family, you get headline coverage. And Claire always delivers!!

Bless the Beasts and the Children

My brother called me with some sad news this morning: he had to put down his dog Shelby. He cried as he gave me the awful news and I knew that his heart was breaking. We love our animals.

His news took me back several years ago when we had to do the same to our cat, DA. DA was a real gift from God. Let me explain.

When John and I were first married, we lived in an apartment on Valley Avenue in Homewood, Alabama. Our neighbors had this really great cat, Moses. We started helping the neighbors out by feeding their cat when they went out of town. Then it progressed to Moses spending the night at our house to Moses having his own toys. You get the picture. I know that the commandments say not to covet the neighbors wife or goods, but they never mentioned kitties. I know. I read them carefully.

And oh, I loved that cat. And that cat loved me back. Except the time that he wet on one of our umbrellas which led to a fight between John and me. I’ve already covered that fight in an earlier post, if you really care. Moses would wrap himself around my neck. Closest thing to a cat hug.

Then we got news that the neighbors were moving. I was crushed. They came over and let us know and we all cried. A lot. The wife said that she had been struggling and wanted very much to give me Moses, but she just couldn’t. I understood. As much as I coveted the kitty (ok, so maybe I did break a commandment) I knew that she loved him equally as much. But she also let me know that she had been praying for another kitty to come my way that I would love as much.

We moved into our own home. My sister came by and said she was going to get a cat at the pound. I immediately jumped on that idea and soon we were off cat shopping.

I will never forget her. She reached through the bars. She wanted to go home with me. She gave a whole new meaning to kitty hug. And yes…she was a tabby. She was close enough to be Moses’ daughter. It was starting to sound biblical!

I brought her home and she immediately took over the house. We were happy to accommodate because we were trained kitty servants.

Several years later after I had Casey, I can remember the look on our kitty’s face: Who is the pet and when is she going home? But she also grew to love Casey and Casey loved her back. There was little “sibling” rivalry. Poor Casey. Because we had cats before we had a kid, we would mistakenly refer to taking Casey to the doctor as going to the vet. We learned to correct this and I don’t think she had too many scars from this. We had a family!

Then we came home from vacation to find an awful note from our neighbors. During our trip our cat had become critically ill and they knew she needed to go to the vet. We rushed her to the weekend emergency clinic and the news was dire. She was in serious trouble and wouldn’t live long. The vet recommended euthanasia to keep her from suffering. I held her in my arms and it was peaceful. I was inconsolable.

The next morning Casey bounded into our room, dressed in a Sunday dress. She told us to get up because it was time for the funeral. She had plans. We got up, put on our good clothes and followed her outside. John found a stone that looked just like a gravestone. Casey picked some flowers. And we gathered. We ALL gathered. The cats and dogs from all over the neighborhood came and stood in a semicircle around the grave site. These were animals that normally fought, well, like cats and dogs. But if was if they knew. I witnessed the most peaceful coming together. It was beautiful. Bless the beasts and the children. Amen.

Happy Ground Hog Day

I don't have much to say about this "holiday." Come on, about the best we could do is get a possum (preferably a live one) and dress it up.

I do however, have a mildly amusing story. When I was in the first grade, the teacher asked to see my mother after class. It seems that earlier in the day the teacher had announced to the class that it was ground hog day. She asked any of us if we knew what a ground hog was. I replied, "Sausage." She was still laughing when she reported this to my mom.

I answered the question like a true Southern child.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!!!

The birth of a child is definitely something to be celebrated. The happiness we felt when we found that we were pregnant was second to none. Let’s go to the back story…

I wasn’t sure I wanted to have children. I had taken care of lots of brothers and sisters when I was growing up. I was no stranger to stinky diapers, Similac, and getting up in the middle of the night. I was so afraid that I would be tied down if I ever had children.

I don’t know what happened! I went from being scared to having to children to it being the center of mine and John’s world. Poor John. Every month he watched me sobbing in the bathroom as my unwanted monthly “friend” showed up to rob us of our dreams of having a baby. I started a round of infertility treatments that included Clomid, taking my temperature every single day and charts—lots of charts. I can remember telling John that we had to do “it” tonight and he responded, “This is not romance, this is reproduction.” Actually I could see his point of view. Three and a half long years went by. I even missed a period for 45 days. Things were really looking up. But unfortunately, it ended badly.

In the summer of 1985, my sister Diane had even done a Ouija board with one of her friends, Maria who told Diane that “Marie very sick” and then she further pronounced that I was definitely going to get pregnant. I told Diane that I thought I would be pregnant in December and that it would be a girl.

But as the summer went on to fall, we were no closer to our dream. Then came that fateful day in October 1985 when I was sitting in Dr. Orso’s office and reading the magazines. I was no stranger to spending a lot of time looking jealously at the pregnant women. This day, however I found a McCall’s magazine that had an article on infertility. Eureka!! I found information that described exactly my symptoms! I knew I had endometriosis.

I can remember taking the article into Dr. Orso’s office and he, too, was just as interested as I was. He immediately scheduled me for a laparotomy. Sure enough, my intuitive side was correct.

John could not stay with me because by this time, his company had sent him to Augusta, Georgia for a long term assignment. He was unable to stay with me for my three day stay at St. Vincent’s Hospital. John’s mom, Marie, came and spent that time with me. We stayed up and talked at night, every night. I filled her in on the whole ordeal. She was so excited that we had been trying so hard to have a baby. She and Tony had no idea that they even had a chance of being grandparents. We talked about John as a baby and stories about his family. Little did I know just how important this time together would be.

I spent the next several weeks staying at my parents’ house. By this time Diane and Jim were living there with Kelsey and I got to spend a lot of time with my shy little niece.

And wow! My intuition was definitely working overtime! It took six weeks to heal and then Christmas Eve, 1985, I went to the doctor. I was veryyyy late and just knew I was pregnant. I couldn’t wait to see Dr. Orso. I was having visions of having my whole family sitting around and breaking the big news. But that never happened. Dr. Orso came to me with an ashen face. I knew before he spoke that it was not good. I was just simply late. But the thought kept nagging, what if the test was wrong?

Christmas was good, but I to admit that I was really disappointed. John and I “celebrated” with mimosas (champagne and orange juice). What the heck?

The next day, I woke up—I had to be pregnant. I just knew. I showed up at Dr. Orso’s office with another urine sample and begged for one more test. By this time, the whole staff knew me and looked with pity as they saw my little jar of pee.

I’ll never forget it—Dr. Orso came running down the hallway—we were pregnant!! And I don’t mean the royal “we”! John, Dr. Orso and I started jumping all around!! Then I started crying because I was worried about the champagne. Dr. Orso quickly told me to let it go and enjoy.

We drove home talking ninety to nothing. We had to have a celebration. I still wanted the “moment” in which we made the BIG announcement. We had to do it right. We quickly invited Bobby and Bebe, Marie and Tony and Sally and Grant for an “after Christmas” dinner. And the menu!! Standing crown with the frou frou hats, madelines, all the best dishes I knew how to make.

We got out the best dishes and laid a gorgeous table in our dining room at our house in Bluff Park.

Then they all came. They all ate. We had so much fun. We went down to the den. It was time for the surprise. We gave out long boxes (the kind that hold necklaces) to everyone with directions to open them up at the same time. Inside there was a poem that described all of our ups and downs, ending with the wonderful news! I will NEVER forget the looks on their faces. Clearly, we all agreed that it was the best Christmas present ever. My mom commented that all the old ladies at St. Aloysius were going to be thrilled because we had been on their prayer lists. We took pictures. We still didn’t know what was ahead.

What was ahead was I was sewing the following Sunday afternoon. I was busy making maternity skirts. We got a call to come to the hospital. Marie was sick.

On the day she died she called her sisters into the hospital room and told them that she was going to be a grandmother. Everyone cried. I went into shock. Uh oh. The rest of the prediction was coming true.

She died January 8, 1986. I can remember shutting down. I was so afraid that if I allowed myself to truly grieve I would surely lose this baby. I went inside for the remainder of the pregnancy. I put up a wall to keep from coming to grips with our family’s tragic loss. I had weird dreams. I dreamed about watermelon. I dreamed about grapes. I dreamed that our baby pulled my stomach and was standing in my car near the steering wheel. I dreamed that Marie came to me and comforted me. She told me not to worry about anything that she was doing well. It was not the last time that she was going to help me.

I kept teaching aerobics. I let that belly grow and I showed it off. This was in the day long before this was popular. I was definitely a pioneer! I was so happy and relished every Braxton Hicks contraction, morning sickness at night (go figure), learning to sleep with six pillows, child birth classes, learning the Bradley method—it was quite a ride!! We even went to Spain in my last trimester since we knew we were never going to travel again.

My due date came and went. True to form, our baby was coming late. Yes, she was going to be a real Lovoy. Then the day came when I had had it. I went to the doctor in a foul mood. I was done. I went to the doctor that day and he sent me back home. Wahh.

That night we ate well—I remember having some chocolate cake. Then late that night—I knew it was time. John helped me get showered and then off we went. What a trip!! I was throwing up the entire way. Yuk!!

We got to St. Vincent’s and there was apparently there was full moon that night because there were tons of pregnant women there. Yep, the hospital was pretty full as well. Darn it!! And no delivery rooms!! They put me in a stainless steel room with a lone bed. It was eerily like a laboratory. I started crying because this is not what I pictured. Bring me a barf bag. I was getting worse by the minute. I stayed there for what seemed like hours but in reality was probably not very long. The minute the luxurious birthing suite came available, I was in!

We had a crazy delivery! I was dutifully doing my Bradley deep breathing, asking about sea urchins and worrying about whether the single delivery room nurse had a full dating life and what we could do about it. I remember feeling Marie’s presence again in the hospital and knowing that she was helping me again. Meanwhile the cheerful hospital chaplain priest wanted to come in and I was not very happy about that and I let him know my feelings. John’s Aunt Nancy made a surprise visit (also in a cheerful mood) and I wasn’t the happiest camper in the room. I was being pioneer woman and trying to tough out the pain. These cheerful visitors were driving me nuts!

Meanwhile, I was seeing other doctors in the practice but not Dr. Orso, he wasn’t on call. Finally late the next afternoon, Dr. Orso came on! Let the games begin!!! He said Casey/Elizabeth/Rebecca/Suzanne was in trouble. I should mention at this juncture that we still hadn’t settled on a name. Nothing like waiting until the last minute. Back to the baby. Dr. O said that she was getting stressed and he needed to do a C-Section ASAP. He also said that he had to give me drugs. By this time, my protest was pretty faint. When the meds started working, I was soooo happy. John stayed in the operating room while I listened to Dr. O tell all the attending folks that he remembered when we worked at Lloyd Noland Hospital together. He also talked about how badly we wanted our baby. He said that he had delivered a lot of babies but felt like this was one of his own.

By this time we knew that we wanted to name our baby Casey. Casey however, had other ideas about being born. Dr. Orso had to practically drag her out because she had nestled as high up as she could go. To this day, she loves being warm and I know the roots of that habit!

We were tired but happy. All of my family showed up and they were so excited!

Our elation turned into being scared. In the middle of the night the pediatrician came by and said that Casey was in trouble. She had swallowed meconium in utero and needed to go into intensive care. Oh no. John and I both got very quiet. We were so close to having our baby and then losing her.

The next several days were so scary. Wires, monitors, glass incubator, structured visitor’s hours. The only light spot was when Dr. Bill Johnston came into the room and told us that he hated to tell us that she was going to be short. Then John stood up. The baby doc saw quickly that Casey had gotten no help from her parents in the height department!

He also performed another miracle. I didn’t want to go home even though that was the normal practice. I could barely walk (I think my knee was sewed to my chin during the C-Section!) He decided to write an order that I had to remain there for Casey. Lovely man…

Then came the day when we hobbled to the nursery and I got to hold her. I will never forget that face looking up at me.

Hello, Sunshine. Welcome to the world, baby girl.

Casey Williams Lovoy

Don’t know why we waited so long.

My Grandmother's Attic

You know, my grandmother on my dad's side was never the big lap, big chested, cookie baking grandmother. Instead she has been a trim woman who sent herself back to college after her husband died. She got a degree and became a high school biology teacher. Though she didn't fit the stereotypical grandmother mold, there was one area in which she truly topped all grandmothers: her attic. It had to be the coolest (or hottest!) place on earth! Because it was the attic, it could get as hot as Hades or stinkin' cold, depending on the time of the year. But that never seemed to matter to us as kids.

There were exotic oriental rugs on the floor. And, no, these didn't come from Wal-mart; she actually went to China to get them. In fact, she traveled all over the world! And because she was a biology teacher, there was a skeleton up there (no, not the "family" kind) but the real thing hanging on a rack. She had scales and enamel pans and other weird assorted stuff you might find in lab.

But as a dreamy adolescent, that wasn't the thing that I loved the most. I treasured the right hand side of the attic. That where all the cool mementos, furniture, and souvenirs from other countries lived. My Aunt Lucy had dried corsages, jewelry, and various stuff that girls save while in high school. My aunt is really cute, so I loved envisioning her high school days. Additionally there were postcards from around the world, strange lamps, big overstuffed chairs, odd tables, vintage clothes, an old "Pin the Donkey" set that now lives in my scrapbook room, you name it. My brothers and sisters and I spent hours discovering all the treasures packed in tissue in the mysterious boxes from stores that existed in those days such as Pizitz, Loveman's, and Burger Phillips.

When we arrived at her house, we would go through the perfunctory, "My, how you've grown stage," (or really it was usually, "Can you explain the DNA molecule?" question) But after we got all that visiting (and pop biology quiz-yikes!) out of the way, we headed straight to the double wooden doors that lead us straight to Narnia. Whoa! We didn't need a wardrobe.

Victoria's Little Secret

One Saturday morning several years ago, our doorbell rang very early. It seems that the cute, single woman who was the house guest of our neighbors, had locked herself out of the house. What struck me was how she was dressed. She had darling house shoes, beautiful sexy pajamas and a silk robe. I quickly compared my own "evening attire" of a t-shirt and underwear to her ensemble. Needless to say, I came up short and felt a bit shabby.

When the neighbors came back home, I asked her if her visitor always looked that good. She smiled, ruefully, and said that she had gotten to see quite a collection of feminine nighttime attire and she found herself paying more attention to her own choices for what she wore at night. I confessed that her appearance at my doorstep had caused me to take a step back with an appraising eye at myself and I realized that I needed to shape up. And that lasted for about 6 months. I have gradually slipped back into something comfortable that would never be found on the pages of Victoria Secret. Hmmm, the Victoria's Semi-Annual Sale starts tomorrow. I think I need another house call...

Dirty Santa: Can't we all just get along?

Dirty Santa can be so much fun! Coming into it with the right Christmas spirit, that is stealing from your closest friends or family and its all legal are the hallmarks of this tradition. However, in my 55 years, I have seen some real disasters!!

For those of you unfamiliar with this game, the tradition is to bring a wrapped gift, put all the gifts in a pile, draw numbers and then whoever has number 1, opens a gift. Whoever has number 2 can either take the gift from number 1 or open a new gift from the pile. Stealing is legal. Don't forget that it is supposed to be fun.

I'll never forget the year we went to our first neighborhood party. We didn't know very many people and wanted to put into practice, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." We brought our mandatory $10 ornament. Then came time to draw the numbers for the big game. Being new and naive, we didn't know there was a neighborhood bloc and I don't mean "block." Turns out there was a group that would look at the numbers as they drew them and made sure they got the higher numbers that would be picked at the end so they could build alliances and walk out with all the best stuff. There was lots of collusion among these folks that made "love thy neighbor" a REAL challenge.

The next year I was elected president of the neighborhood association. It had nothing to do with popularity. I wasn't even at the meeting where the "election" took place. But one of the perks of the position was getting to run the Dirty Santa at the next Christmas party. Ha! They didn't know who they were dealing with. I showed up with all the numbers. Sure enough, the old bloc was up to their old tricks and got all the high numbers. But they sadly underestimated the skills of their president. I showed up with a SECOND set of numbers from which to draw. In other words, we didn't go in numerical order, we DREW to see who went next. Double Ha!! because none of the alliances worked because everyone was off kilter that year. We walked out with a pretty good gift if memory serves me correctly. Even better, it was a little easier to show the love.

My sister-in-law has told me some real horror stories of going to her husband's Dirty Santas at his families houses. I think stitches and visits to the emergency clinic were involved because people got so angry and started accusing each other of stealing. Talk about dysFUNctional.

In my own family we play Dirty Santa. We seem to have trends. There was the year that the hot item was the casserole dish with handy dandy carrying case. The next year, there were three of them added to the mix. But that was so LAST YEAR and no one wanted the lowly casserole dishes anymore. Then there was the year that my grandmother picked batteries. When one of the grandsons tried to steal her batteries she gave the hairy eyeball look. Whoops. The grandson made a hasty retreat. And yes, you guessed it , there were loads of batteries brought the following year and my grandmother could have cared less. Another year was the roadside emergency kits. You could tell that there were a lot of parents of 16 year old drivers in the room who had visions of their children off in the ditch with no way to get help. The only problem is that the 16 year old drivers didn't have the same concerns and those roadside kits languished. Then because my brothers are all in construction there are loads of tools.

In another group I belong to we also play Dirty Santa. We have some crazy folks that will put on anything and I mean anything. Antlers. Red noses. Big Santa underpants. No, there wasn't any immodesty in the group. Picture the underpants pulled OVER the clothes because they were so big. Nothing distasteful, just funny. There also seemed to be a trend for a while of who could bring the best angel because angels were the item that got the most attention. We also have family blocs in this group who can gang up together. This family is usually mild mannered, but you get a whole passel of them in the room together and they go from Dr. Jekkyl to Mr. Hyde. All in all, this entire group has the most fun stealing and feelings never get hurt because we enjoy laughing and being silly.

I hope you and yours enjoyed playing Dirty Santa. And don't forget that stealing is supposed to be fun.

Sears' Wish Book

Today I was looking at the newspaper. You know the one. The one that comes on Thanksgiving with all the "After Thanksgiving" sales. It was huge. Sunday paper huge. But one thing that was not huge was the Sears sale paper with the toys. Sadly, this seems to be the replacement for the coolest book of all: The Sears' Wish Book for Christmas. I know, I know, there is an on line version, but this will NEVER replace the real Wish Book. When I was little I can remember when it arrived at our house by mail. Seven kids would breathlessly wait for their opportunity to study every single page and dream, really dream about the coolest things that Santa might bring. By the end of the week, the Sears' Wish Book was dogeared, but cherished.

But the Christmas Wish Book was not the only wonderful thing about Sears. I can remember going to camp and seeing that all the girls except me had bras. Though I had nothing to train, I remember coming home and asking my mom for a "training bra" which in itself is a really curious term. She dug out the regular Sears catalog, went past all the cool clothes (I find it weird that I thought their clothes were cool at one point in my life) and found the "unmentionable" section and handed it to me. I sat for hours and tried to figure out which bra I "needed." Sigh.

Then came the fateful Friday night. Back in those days we went to Sears on Friday night as a regular family outing. We all piled in the station wagon, fought for the perfect seat, made our brothers sit in the back (we were a bunch of tough sisters!) and headed out to the best store in the world! Sally and Grant (our beloved adopted grandparents) also went on the trip. We knew we were getting close when we could smell bread at the Tip Top Bread Company located nearby.

Our first stop was always the candy counter where nuts and candy were sold in bulk. We would stop there and dream about what we might get if Sally and Grant offered to buy us some candy.

We spent hours in hardware, toys, you name it; there wasn't a "boring" section of the store; it was ALL fun.

But on the "bra shopping" night, I can remember that my mom and I slipped off from the rest of the family into the "unmentionable" area. Wow. There was even a bigger selection that I had seen in the catalog! Choosing the perfect bra was going to be tough! Not. They had one style of bra for a flat chested pre-teen, and one style only. It was white, had stretchy cups, not an inch of support and worst of all, no extra help in the cleavage area. My mom bought me two bras and I was dying with anticipation of my movement in the world of adulthood. I even went into the dressing room and put on one of the bras so the training could start immediately.

We rejoined my family and I flexed in my arms so that the outline of my bra would show through the back of my blouse. I started noticing just how immature my sisters were. They clearly didn't fit into my new image of the world of WOMANHOOD. That lasted all of 5 minutes because we again hit the candy counter when Sally and Grant announced that we could each get 1/2 pound of our favorite candy or nuts. True to our ritual we circled round and round and invariably got the same exact thing we had gotten last time.

Back in the car, perfunctory fight over places to sit and we dove into our paper bags of candy or nuts with a lot of bartering taking place. However, my sisters and brothers didn't know that now they were bartering with a woman instead of a little girl. Sigh. Two thoughts entered my head: When would they EVER grow up? And even more importantly, when was my chest ever going to grow OUT? I also believe, looking back that I thought the big chest came with the bra. Yep, all part of the Sears' Wish Book!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year--Not!!

Ooo! You look at the title of the entry and you might be thinking, "What is she talking about?" What I'm talking about, my friends, is that 25% of the population that fall into the area of preferring introversion. If you have ever taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator®, you may well have a sense of what it is that you prefer. In the discussion of Extraversion vs. Introversion (by the way, "Extraversion" is spelled correctly because the original spelling had an "a" instead of an "o") there are some preferences in what gives us energy and what leaves us like boneless chickens.

This entry is all about Introverts who might be looking ahead at the calendar and thinking, "Oh, Heavens, here comes all this togetherness at the holidays!" Actually it would probably be like this, "...all this togetherness." (with no exclamation mark, just a period)

Who are introverts? They are not shy people, my friend. We do them a huge disservice by confusing shyness with introversion. Shyness refers to degree of self confidence and introversion is more about needing time alone. In fact, time alone is not a luxury; it is a NECESSITY. In fact if these folks are with people ALLLL day long and then immediately go home and are with people ALLLL night long, and there is not 45 minutes to an hour of alone time built in, they will be STRESSED out.

Example: We see someone who usually lunches alone. We think to ourselves, "We feel sorry for that person." And then we proceed with a well-intentioned, "Come on, have lunch with me." And the introvert responds with, "Oh, that's OK, I'll just sit here and _____ (insert: read, pray, contemplate my navel or whatever)

We respond with, "Come on!" Thinking: "Poor thing, doesn't have any friends!" Not realizing that the person actually WANTS to be alone and doesn't feel a bit pitiful.

The introvert puts a sign outside his or her cubicle: "Working on project, please don't interrupt." Extraverts barge on in, thinking it must apply to everybody else.

The introvert shows up to work early, just to have some time alone, and the Extravert thinks, "Oh, goodie, this person is here early, just for my convenience."

The introvert gets up earlier than everyone in the house or goes to bed later than everyone else, trying to get some precious time alone. Keep in mind, it must be WAKING time and not sleeping. Sleeping just doesn't do the trick. And now the poor introvert is sleep deprived, trying to get some time alone.

The introvert turns on the History channel where some war is being played on a continuous loop (at least that's what it looks like to me) but is not really watching the T.V.; it is just "white noise" to get some alone time.

How did I get so smart? Because I am married to an introvert! When I first married John and he would disappear for hours right after dinner, I thought that he didn't love me or was socially handicapped. I really thought that after a few years of being married to me, he would get over this "problem." When I finally learned about introversion, I realized how I had trampled over his time alone. The big moment came when he was listening to "Car Talk" and I asked him a question in the middle of the show. He said, "Honey, I don't ask for much, but can I have this hour uninterrupted?" Yikes!! He was right!!

How have I reformed?

• I get his running clothes clean every single Sunday so he can run everyday at the Y
• I do a lot of work with his company, but I never intrude on his lunch time
• I make sure that if we have a lot of company on the weekend, that I leave the house for a few hours on Sunday night so he can have time alone
• I do not rush him home at night because I realize that he is probably having to play "catch up" after being bombarded with extraverts all day
• I have taught our daughter about introversion and now she is worried about how he is going to get time alone when we are all on vacation together
• I realize that the introverted family members will get worn out from all this holiday time together and don't need me to make derisive comments that they are being antisocial if they need to pull back for little while

That's why we have been married for almost 29 years. That's why I will make sure that during all this family time, my sweetie can escape so he can really enjoy the holidays. And that will be the best gift of all.

I Want the Wish Bone

I absolutely love Thanksgiving. I know, I know. Part of the reason is that my birthday always occurs during that week (hint, hint :), but it is more than that. What's not to love? Food, family and fun.

And this is the time of year for the recycled stories. You know: the ones that family members recite to humiliate other family members.

I am going to tell these two stories for all the world so hopefully THIS Thanksgiving I can escape without having to relive them again. Let me lay down on the couch and tell all.

The first one occurred when John and I had received a smoker for a wedding gift. We were so excited! We decided to have my parents and John's parents over for a big turkey dinner. Sounds good so far, huh?

There is the matter of my housekeeping or lack thereof. Even though we only had a two bedroom apartment (probably all of 300 square feet) I was unsuccessful in keeping it clean. Nothing like the parents coming over to get me going to do the deep cleaning. I remember that I had asked John to take out the umbrella that the neighbor's cat had peed on. As I write this, I am beginning to notice the theme of cat pee in my entries. I digress.

John apparently forgot and I started crying because he didn't do the one thing I asked him to do. OK, probably the truth was that he had already done 500 other things to get the apartment cleaned up, but that would take away the drama. Great start for the family gathering.

So we have a turkey smoking out out on the grill and John has to go to the store. When left alone, I usually start talking to myself. One of the questions I asked, but didn't have an answer was, "How does one know when the turkey is done?" OK, it probably wasn't asked exactly like that (who uses one anyway?) Anyway, I dug out the booklet that came with the smoker and found the handy-dandy chart. Ah, there it was: TURKEY Leg moves easily 180 degrees

John was gone, it was just me and Buster (yes, I had a habit of naming our turkeys) Soooo, I thought, hmmm, leg moves easily, 180 degrees. I had to lift the lid (even though that was against the smoker code of conduct) I had to move the leg. Yep, I was right--it DID move easily! And more than 180 degrees! I also tested the other leg just for good measure. The lid was quickly replaced. No harm done! Right?

So John returns and after checking the gauge, according to the smoker code of conduct, to see if it was OK. He lifted the lid, fully expecting to see the Butterball picture with Buster in the legs back position, all golden and pretty. Instead, what he found was a bird with gnarled leg joints, each leg jutting in different directions. John, knowing full well that I was the only one left at home with Buster, demanded to know what happened. I pulled out the chart and showed him just how smart I was to make sure Buster was ready for the parents. "See?" I asked. "TURKEY Leg moves easily 180 degrees" John, not to be outdone, pointed out to me that it also had a ham listed and that there was nothing to twirl on the ham to test whether it was done. He said, "Sharon, that is not the degree of movement, it is the internal temperature!" Yikes. Gone were the dreams of pulling out the turkey and showing it off to our parents. We had to act fast. John got out our electric knife (another wedding gift) and assumed the scrubbed surgeon position and cut ol' Buster up as fast as he could.

I quickly got the broth and whipped up the gravy. Whew. All in time before the parents arrived. We presented the turkey in all of its sliced glory. No one was the wiser. Except one thing: don't ever make gravy with smoked broth. It is seriously nasty. Busted by Buster.

Story number two: Just a small assignment. Bring the LeSeur peas. Not Del Monte. Not any other brand. LeSeur. Got it? 5 cans. Tough assignment, huh? Go to Costco, get the little case which costs about 4.89 for 8 cans. Purchase made. Peas in the bag on the counter.

We get to the family gathering. The whole family is looking forward to the peas. The LeSeaur Peas. Not Del Monte. In the bag on the counter. At our house. Not at the family gathering. Yikes. Did you know that NO grocery stores are open on Thanksgiving? What's with that? John had to drive around and he finally found a gas station with a convenience store attached. Yep. They had them. 1/2 the size of the regular cans. And four times the price. No kidding. John had to buy 10 cans to equal what we had at home at a whopping $2.63 PER can. Yikes. $26.30 for peas. Cans were dusty and even a little rusty on top. The gas station owner was probably really giving thanks for people who can't get their act together on Thanksgiving. Glad somebody was happy.

OK, now you know my dirty cooking secrets. No need to be retold. I'm hoping for a pass this Thanksgiving! Pass the Constance (this year's turkey's name). Yes. We are bringing the turkey this year. I can guarantee no whirlybird legs. Just say a prayer that we don't forget to bring it!

Help! My Grandmother is Using My Body!!

My grandmother was the type who got on to everyone. You had to watch out for Mrs. Jones. She was barely 4’ 11”, but she could be so tough. I can still remember her behind the wheel of her Dodge. There was absolutely no talking or playing the radio. She made it clear that when you got in the car with her we were to be perfectly quiet. She was also the one who would grab a girl in church if she did not have a prayer cap and take out a Kleenex and a bobby pin and pin the tissue to the poor girl’s head. Yikes! She was definitely the original church lady.When I look back on family pictures I cannot find one picture of her smiling. She has been gone for a long time, but there are times in which I feel like she is using my body to keep everyone in line.

True story that occurred many years ago when my daughter was in grammar school: There was a dad who was coaching my daughter and several others in volleyball. One of the moms was yelling at the coach about her daughter not getting played. I pulled her aside and said, "I didn't know you were going to coach next year..." She replied, "What do you mean? I don't want to coach." I said, "Wow. I find that hard to believe since you are yelling at Bob. He has made a commitment to play all the girls and is giving his time to make our girls better. Have you ever thought about how your comments are undermining him and his efforts?" She didn't say another word the rest of the season.

I hope my grandmother is resting in peace knowing that some days (ouch!) I am on the job. Amen.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

Every year we have our one fight a year and it comes at the time of year when there is supposed to be peace on earth and good will to men: Christmas.

What does it center around??? Getting the stupid Christmas tree. “Whoa,” you might be saying to yourself; “what kind of attitude is that? Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Let me explain.

We have this family tradition (documented in photos and everything) where we go to the Boy Scout tree sale and get the perfect tree. Sounds good so far, huh? Helping out the little kids, what’s not to love?

What’s not to love is that when we get the perfect tree home, it turns into World War III, fought and lost. Getting the stupid tree in the house is always terrible because it scratches up the door frame. Then let’s don’t forget trying to get it straight in our stupid frame. It never is straight, the tree scratches, and don’t’ forget how it is to clean up all the stupid needles that get in the carpet. Let’s don’t forget (oh, no, I’ll tell this part forever) about how the cats peed on the tree while it was waiting on the deck for the right time to bring it into the house. No matter what we put on the tree, we could NOT get rid of the cat pee smell. Then there was the horrible job of getting this 10’ monster down with murky water at the base. That was it. The real tree had to go.

The next year I was at a Christmas tree shop and there it was: the perfect tree. Tall. Dark. And handsome. Well, not really dark because it was pre-lit to boot. And here’s the best part: Half price. I bought it. Literally.

I went home and broke the new to John. Being the great husband that he is, he went with me, trailor in tow, to get our new tree. I was happy. The U.N. Peacekeepers were not needed at the Lovoy house.

It took two men to load the two huge boxes in our trailer. John briefly considered tying it down, but knew there was no way that those babies were going anywhere.

We got on the interstate. John sensing my happy mood, approached me with the idea of at least getting a small tree for the living room. I felt amiable—why not?? I had what I wanted. Then a man got beside us on the interstate and started doing this weird sign language. We couldn’t comprehend what he was trying to say until he pointed to the back of our car. We looked backward. Box #1 accounted for—but where was the second box? Dang, it was out on the interstate. I quickly contacted the State Troupers and explained in frantic terms what was happening. They wished me good luck. Thanks a lot.

John turned the car and trailer down the median and got to the other side of the interstate. Casey and I were crying at the top of our lungs as John waved off cars on the interstate as he approached the box that was languishing in the center of the road. Cars were weaving and dodging trying to miss the box. Powered by adrenalin, he dragged the stupid box that had taken two men to load, clear across the interstate. He tossed it in the trailer as Casey and I continued our wailing. Now we had another stupid tree. This was not a good start to having a happy home.

We made our way to our Boy Scout destination only to find out they had already closed for the season. We found a second Boy Scout place where we discovered they were also closed but they had left a few trees. A few sad, very sad trees. We got our tree and put it on top of the fake tree.

We made it home without incident. We put the new fake tree up and it was gorgeous. But so was the little sad tree because it was working so hard to be beautiful despite not being perfect. Don’t tell John, but the new tree can’t quite measure up to one of God’s creations. Except that the fact that the cats have never once thought about peeing on it. Merry Christmas!!

A House Divided

The story of how we met is another subject for another page. But the fact is, we both married the enemy. What am I referring to? Rival football teams! In the state of Alabama, when you are asked to declare your allegiance, it’s not to your religion, but rather are you an Alabama fan or an Auburn fan. We have an agreement—we don’t watch the big game together. Except for the horrible birthday party that we couldn’t get out of—our relatives’ Mom was turning 65 and every other family member refused to come because the party was set at the time of the big game. So—sigh—we ended up at the party glued to the little TV (we had just purchased a huge TV for our lovely basement room that same year) and yet we found ourselves sitting next to each other watching the game on a bad TV in a room full of relatives from out of state who clearly just didn’t get it and insisted on carrying on with the party. Our thoughts? Couldn’t you have been born on another day? But I digress. How has this rivalry influenced our marriage? This story has two sides:

He says: I had a roommate at Alabama. My roommate and I married a pair of Auburn sisters.

She says: My sister and I were roommates. We married two roommates from Alabama.

He says: Alabama has the better football record over all.

She says: Quit living in the distant past. The really bad fans (not my precious husband) keep propping up Bear Bryant who died a long time ago. Auburn has won the last 5 games.

He says: Auburn fans have a “poor me” attitude that got old a long time ago. They pretend to be shocked when they win.

She says: Alabama fans expect to win. They ARE shocked when they win. And yes, I am surprised when Auburn wins. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop!

He says: I do root for Auburn when they are not playing Alabama.

She says: I do root for Alabama when they are not playing for Auburn. My precious husband even said that when Auburn was close to a national championship that he didn’t mind if they beat Alabama. He is the kindest person I know.

He says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. I do know that the year we went to Mt. Zion we couldn’t watch the game together. Sharon kept coming out of the restroom with a big grin on her face. Boy, they must have really good restrooms there.

She says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. However, a few years ago we were at Mt. Zion so we couldn’t watch the game together. However, there wasn’t a rule that I couldn’t go into the restroom and text message our daughter who was in the stadium and find out the score. We won.

He says: My worst memory? 17-16. I was at Alabama working on my car. Auburn won in the last 30 seconds. Couldn’t believe it. Everyone our age knows exactly what game I am referring to just by mentioning that score.

She says: I keep hearing the voice of one of our rabid Alabama fans. He says AH LA BAHMA in this most irritating voice that John likes to imitate because he knows it makes my skin crawl…Oh, and did I mention that John’s relatives put on a game at the Thanksgiving family party and played the game over and over again? That was the year Auburn lost. Come to think of it, they haven’t done it for the last FIVE years.

He says: My best memory? It was fun while Bear Bryant was alive.

She says: See what I mean? Living in the past. But if we are going to go back, 17-16 was so exciting. I had a bad date, but the game had a great score.

He says: Superstitions? Nah, don’t believe in them.

She says: One day when Auburn was winning, I was upstairs watching the game on the little TV in the kitchen. John came upstairs from watching the game on the big TV and said, “You’re doing laundry. I’m going to do laundry.” Everything got washed that day. Maybe I should do toilets during the next game…

He says: Sharon takes Auburn losses very personally and hates to see the Sunday paper the next day. It affects her mood for a day. Fortunately she has a bad memory for sports scores and gets over it quickly. What she does hold on to are all the little slights that happen over the years.

She says: John keeps the losses in perspective and realizes that he can’t control the games. He doesn’t get emotionally invested. I admire that…I should mentioned that he attended all the home games when Casey started at Auburn. It was hot as Hades but he endured the games to see Casey! I do remember that he refused to say “War Eagle.”

He says: They make great women at Auburn. Sharon graduated from there and Casey is still a student there.

She says: My sister and I agree: they make great men at Alabama. I got the coolest husband from there. And did I mention that he is precious?

When our daughter was trying to decide where to go to college, we truly didn’t mind which college she attended. Alabama is closer which would have been great for those times we go to campus to see her. I am down there a lot (I teach on five faculties for Alabama). But I am glad that she chose Auburn.

PS: The relatives who continued to play the game where Auburn lost all during the Thanksgiving family party have gotten their just reward. Their daughter fell in love with the grandson of Hare (Jordan-Hare is the name of the stadium at Auburn). Their daughter got married in Auburn (that was a pretty good day seeing all those Alabama fans on Auburn soil). The funniest moment was when the Alabama mascot, Big Al, showed up at the reception. Those rabid Alabama fans are now at Auburn all the time because their grandbabies are being born there! I love a happy ending!!

You Must Be Present to Win

I have a niece named Kelsey. She graduated from Vassar and is blessed with intelligence and a caring heart. After she finished her college education, she wanted to give two years of her time to others. She narrowed it down to the Peace Corp or Teach America, an organization that rescues failing schools. She chose Teach America. Her first year was extremely challenging. She had no resources for her class [like enough desks (!), text books (!)] She stuck it out with help from people like Bill Rush and his fabulous wife Rhonda whose Key Club adopted Kelsey's cause. Some of my husband's coworkers didn't even hesitate to send checks. Mary Anne Parks Antonio and Sue Hengel pitched in as did other caring friends (sorry if I failed to mention anyone who lovingly contributed). Kelsey had to battle a grueling environment, parents who were uninvolved, and sometimes emotional challenges from constantly fighting an uphill battle.

She again came out with a request for help this year. Her story is so compelling:

I am just starting my second year with Teach for America. I'm teaching high school chemistry and physical science at a public charter school in what is arguably the most dangerous city in the U.S., St. Louis. The public school system in St. Louis had fallen into such horrible condition that it lost its accreditation at the end of last year and was taken over by the state. With the public schools in disarray, students are flocking to charter schools, even though these schools have their own set of problems. This is the third year that the charter school I work at has been open and its plagued with disorganization, debt, and lack of resources.

Nearly 90% of our students are on free or reduced lunch plans. Gang violence, poverty, teen pregnancy, disrupted family situations, pressure to be involved in crimes, and low expectations for achievement are realities that my students live with everyday.

I've had students who have been arrested, ended up pregnant, been left homeless, been shot, and been killed. Academically, the students come to me with math and reading levels well below grade average. Their previous schools have failed them.

Even the extremely bright students are at a considerable disadvantage when competing for college admission with students across the country who went to successful schools. Once they get to college, the students will be ill-prepared for the academic demands of higher education.

I have to try to pull them up to grade level and lead a science class that is on par with science classes in the best school districts in the country. However, my school doesn't have a science lab or budget for obtaining supplies to use in my classroom.

Anything that I need for my classroom comes out of my own pocket.

It's definitely worth the investment if it helps the kids learn but I would appreciate any help with obtaining the basic school supplies that my students can't afford and which help make my classroom a much more hands-on and engaging learning environment.

Thank you for your help!

Kelsey

Kelsey's Wish List:

Hi Sharon! Here's the list of school supplies I need if anyone you know is still willing to help me out this year.

Scissors
Simple calculators
Index cards
Dry erase markers markers
Colored pencils
Crayons
Pencils
Pens
Gluesticks
Elmer's glue
Tape
Folders
Notebooks
1-inch binders
Binder dividers
Notebook paper
Construction paper
Computer paper
Thanks for your help! Love, Kelsey

Again, the Sue Hengel's and Mike Moss's of the world as well as the ever-giving Mary Anne, stepped up. And there are probably more who have been quietly stepping up to the plate. I am so lucky to be surrounded by friends who take on the needs of my family as their own. Thanks, guys. And thank you, Kelsey, for caring enough to put away a chance to earn big bucks in order to invest in our teenagers. You are the best.

Casey Lovoy: Joymaker

Today is my daughter's 21st birthday. This event brings me absolute joy and causes me to think about her self-described role in life. When she was 9 years old, my husband John, Casey and I were sitting at a restaurant on Riverwalk in San Antonio, TX. We were dining al fresco and it was a glorious night. Casey turned to me and asked me, "Mom, what is your role in our family?" I can remember thinking, "Where on earth did she learn that word?" and my second thought was, "What in the heck am I going to say?" I remembering giving a very lame answer, "Oh, I am the caregiver; I find ways to take care of you and your dad." Not a very good answer, but it was the best I could do for a fill-in-the-blank pop quiz. Casey then turned to her dad and asked the same question. John quickly got a "deer-in-headlights" look that must have mirrored my face a little earlier.

It is important to point out that John is part of that introvert crowd, and generally they don't do as well on oral pop quizzes when they haven't had a chance to ponder the question in advance. He choked out, "I am the protector; I find ways to keep you and your mom safe." Whew, dodged that bullet with an ok answer.

Casey looked at us with pity because she had clearly been considering her response. She said, "I know what my role is, I am the 'Joymaker;' it is my job to bring joy to both of you." And she wasn't finished. She continued by stating, "You are in such a hurry that you might miss all the beautiful things in life and it is my job to point them out." Yikes...out of the mouth of babes...

She has lived up to this title. Every moment, I think, "This is the best day/month/year," and I am always wrong, because the next one is always better. She is the first to point out the rainbows. She is quick to note that it is rude to be on the cell phone when we are together in the car. She gets us all out for family walks where we get a good cardio workout and even better face time with one another. She cherishes all of her friends. She worries about those who are in trouble. She has more emotional maturity in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. Happy birthday, Joymaker.

Hot Dog, What a Lady!!

As I have previously noted, I am one of seven children. When I calculate it out, that means that my mother was pregnant 63 months of her life! That figure astonishes me. But another figure that astonishes me is the wonderful black and white photo of my mom that I have where she is wearing her black Jansen swimsuit. She has long flowing black hair, she is casually leaning against the wall of the pier with a fishing rod.

I can recall that as little kids we were playing on the beach. My mom was walking by herself, several feet away, wearing that black Jansen swimsuit. There were several young men, probably of college age, passing by, who caught a look at this brunette beauty. I distinctly remember one of them saying, "Hot Dog, what a lady!" Word quickly spread among the kids and we ran up and told her, thinking that was really a funny comment. I can remember the guys' faces fell when they realized that she had a whole tribe of children.

We laughed for years and would repeat that comment to my mother who always giggled. When I found the photo a few months ago, I looked at her again through new eyes. I now see what they saw: not a mother of 7 children with all the chores and challenges that go with the hardest job in the world, but a woman blessed with long, flowing hair, grace and beauty. Hot dog, what a lady!

Take Your Daughter to Work Day, Uh...Year

My father has always been ahead of the times. Long before the "Take Your Daughter to Work Day" was initiated in 1993, my dad discovered the value of having your daughters present on the job site. Keep in mind this was in the 1950's and 1960's. It was not done in the spirit of feminism, but because we were cheap labor. Let me explain.

My parents have seven children. I can remember how tight money was. I can still picture my mom sitting over the grocery list and calculating the cost of every single item. She would add them up and if the amount was too much, something had to go. Feeding a family of seven, particularly with boys who could eat an entire box of cereal in one sitting using mixing bowls was tough. By the way, that was ONE box of cereal per boy. That was also in the days of home milk delivery. The milkman got quite a workout bringing our order.

My dad worked three jobs to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends wouldn't quite come together and he needed help on the job. Another factor was that my mom, who is an introvert, would be at her wits end by the time Saturday rolled around from coping with seven, rambunctious children. My dad taking us to work represented a few hours relief for my mom from the chaos. So hi ho, hi ho, it was off to work we go.

It was so much fun. We were little enough to crawl down holes and thread wires. We spackled holes in baseboards, played with all the tools, learned the difference between flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers and played with mercury (that was before it was known that it was dangerous). We rode bush hogs, road scrapers, and dump trucks. OSHA inspectors would have had a field day with all the safety violations, but we never got hurt. I was never in the dark about what my dad did at work. We knew that he had to do hard physical labor. All of my brothers could wire a house by the time they were 12. I felt totally comfortable operating a hammer and to this day, I still get a thrill when the box says, "Some assembly required." I know that I am up to the task. The smell of sawdust is better than any fine perfume. Any ol' day I would choose a trip to Home Depot or Lowe's rather than a department store.

When I got married, my wish list actually included tools and I still harbor a dream of getting the Sears tool box (the one that is shiny red and has the waffled silver border).

The benefit of going to work with my dad is that not one of my siblings has ever used the terms, "girl chores" or "boy chores" because we knew that we all had to pitch in. The work ethic of each kid is remarkable and we had tremendous role models who showed us that whether you worked inside the home or outside the home, it all counts. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

I remembered the first time I heard these words on a commercial and frankly, it annoyed me. For some reason today, these same words occurred to me today during Yoga with a whole new meaning. I originally started taking Yoga because my dear cousin, Anne, who was dying from breast cancer, asked me to go. I couldn’t imagine what you could do for an hour without loud music with an instructor shouting directions akin to that of a drill sergeant at the top of her lungs. What would I do for an hour without lots of action, punishing movements and throbbing, heart pounding music? I found an oasis of quiet, poses movements that taught me to be flexible and a wholesome outlook when considering the other women in the class.

As I was thinking today during class, I was taken back to my younger years when Nan Pizitz took me under her wing at the YMCA. I wanted to be an aerobics instructor and thought I was graceful. Nan, however, saw in reality, an awkward young woman whose graceful movements were a figment of her own imagination. She must have felt a good measure of pity for me because she invited me into her basement studio and spent hours teaching me how to hold my hands, move in true rhythm and make that inner grace an outer reality. I will always be thankful for her investment in me.

From there I went on to teach at the Y and a local hospital and reveled in instructing dancing aerobics and later step aerobics. I dropped out when my travel schedule became impossible but also because this field became about breast augmentations, thong leotards, and comments that were full of comparisons and chalking up body failures.

I eventually came back as a participant but consistently avoided anything that had quiet connected to it. Then came Anne’s request and I grudgingly showed up for a class that was conducted in a dark room enveloped in slow music and included a whole new language involving downward dogs, cobra, and sun salutations. I was determined that I was going to give it one shot and then report back to Anne that I tried, but it just didn’t fit my personality. But I was so wrong. I found a group of people who were encouraging, cognizant that we are built so differently, and that I could settle down. I found that I could pray, contemplate all kinds of things (like this entry), and that the quiet was wonderful. I looked around the room today and saw Dot and Joyce who are in their 70’s and literally going strong. Joyce has gotten back the 3” in height that she lost due to osteoporosis. They are beautiful. Then there is Dana and Peg who are both built like graceful ballerinas but are graced with inner beauty that is so much more powerful. They are beautiful. LeAnn has this tiny, powerful body. She has a passion for Yoga and is challenging instructors to be better in their practices. She is joined by Marsha who works hard to make sure that each class experience is a treasure for that day. They are beautiful. There is Bettina a new mom and Deidre who just lost her mom. They are women of color, however very different. They are beautiful. There are the best friends in the back of the class who are in their 50’s, look like twins, and have fun carving out time for their friendship. They are beautiful.

All these wonderful women have reminded me that I am a treasured child of God. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Namaste....

Love Thy Neighbor

We are very lucky to have two sets of neighbors who are also our close friends. The three families have spent many a warm day around the pool, which fortunately is not at our house. The neighbor who owns the pool will probably rethink asking either family to watch their house while they are on vacation.

Let me explain. It all started with a "quick" trip by the house to check on the dog. The dog was fine but so was the giant ant population that had gathered in the basement. They had discovered a Cherry Coke left by one of the vacationing daughters. Coke may not realize that they have an untapped customer demographic. We, however, realized that this was a bad case of PESTILENCE. We looked around for some kind of bug spray. We couldn't find the Raid®, but we did find some hair spray. Being creative, we found that this stuff works!! The ants died, but they looked good. This might work on head lice! But I digress. One problem solved.

Then we noticed that the basement had one inch of water! Now we realized that we had a FLOOD. We figured out the problem (OK, John figured it out) was the condensate pump. John volunteered that we had an extra one at our house (OK, this really random--who stocks extra condensate pumps for heaven's sake?) The womenfolk set out to find the fuse box while the men were drying out the basement. We never did find the fuse box which was cleverly disguised behind a picture. Our brave husbands fixed the pump anyway. We later found out that the pump was the wrong size. But I digress.

Then Tim, the neighbor in charge of the pool, noticed that the pool had turned a horrible shade of green. It seems that the vacationing couple's married daughter had stopped by to take a dip and she wore a swimsuit that she had used in a lake. The pool was now infested with algae that would make any biologist proud. The pool doc had to make a house call and recommended a protocol that was very labor intensive. We nursed the pool back to health.

After this adventurous evening we called the neighbors. They asked about their house. We lied. "Things are fine," we croaked (none of us are good at this sort of thing but we knew they shouldn't cut their vacation short over ants, a flooded basement, a broken condensate pump and a green pool) They wondered why we were all gathered at their house. We told them, "You know how a pool brings people together." They replied that they were happy that we were enjoying it while they were gone. Yeah, right. That's our story and we're sticking to it.