I had a dream: A new hello

From Left to Right are my paternal grandpa's siblings and their spouses.  Opa is at the far left, and Oma (with the tiered necklace and light hair) sitting in front of him: John Christ Roussos and Beverly Joyce (Stocks) Roussos. Of his siblings, the only one I remember well is his older brother, Socrates, and his wife, Aunt Dot--such wonderful people that I knew I was missing out by not getting to know the rest better.  In this picture all are gathered for a funeral.

I had the best dream even last night. Handshakes and knuckles became a thing of the past for trendy people, and though McMurrays have never been recognized for being necessarily with the times, the greeting of late was something Phil just couldn't pass on.

The new way to say, "Hello" was a friendly sparring match. That's right, you got to wrestle-on-your-feet with your friends. Men, women, kids . . . not everybody was doing it, but the trend-setters were.  Plus Phil. Now, you never actually fell the floor and put anybody in a triangle.  There were no half-nelsons (I don't even know what that is, so I couldn't have dreamed it anyway).

[remember I'm dreaming all this] The kids had seen Phil hello-spar with all his friends, and they were doing it with theirs.  Even at church. Now, one day we had just arrived at Oma & Opa's house and for some reason (even though she's been gone for nearly 3 1/2 years) Oma is there, hostessing.  Which means she was sitting down in her chair greeting everyone and telling people where to put things.  Well, among the guests that day was another grey-haired, song-bird-sweatshirt-wearing granny.

At the sight of another grandma, Oma gets up from her chair, her face turned to the lady, but isn't friendly (in real life she was always friendly; a little saucy and pretty bossy, but always friendly).  Oma stands facing the other grandma and crouches, shifting her weight quickly between her feet, her eyes never leaving other-granny's face.  Her lips purse and her eyes get squinty.

Nodding her head once quickly, Oma stares down granny and says, "Listen Lady. I may have emphysema a bad heart and bunions, but I'm gonna get you".

Shocked! We all stop and stare. Oma is not one for jumping on board with crazy trends, and usually isn't too concerned with even knowing about them. Sure, that the other granny is going to just be struck dumb, we turn to her, with looks of apology, ready to intervene.

No reason to worry on her behalf.  Other Granny says, "Oh yeah, sister." And matches my grandma's stance, shifting her weight too. Locking eyes with Oma she says, "Well, I've got osteoporosis, a trick hip and walk with a limp. Come and get it!"

Oma, grabs Other Granny's hand, but instantly falls to the ground, legs splayed, arms outreached, head to one side. During her instantaneous fall she yells, "She got me!"

 . . . then they both ccc-rackkk up!

Then I woke up.

A Farm Where Sheep Can Live Out Their Days

Yup. That was what I dreamed about last night. A lakeside farm where aging sheep can pass the time. A lakeside farm with researchers dressed in sheep fleeces--you know so as to put the sheep at as ease in order to facilitate easy mingling.

This was a popular sheep retirement center, and thus one filled with bused-in visitors, who were entertained by performing water skiers and a la boat chanteuses.

Regrettably for us (the McMurrays) we missed the final call for the bus, and had to stay and have dinner with the caretakers. Which was actually the creepiest part of the dream, and therefore the part I repressed.

As I awoke I slowly remembered this dream with mounting irritation as to what a waste of dream it was. Aging sheep I ask you! I asked Phil what he dreamed about: not sheep.

If you haven't fallen asleep yet reading this . . . and trust me I could make you comatose with all the ridiculous details I didn't include . . . I'll fill you in on the fact that I'm sick, bemoaning the fact that I can't take medication in the first trimester. Come on week 14!

Edible Arrangements

These Debbie-Downers are now appearing on Pinterest, and I've just gotta say that if anybody every thinks of surprising me with one of these little babies . . . well, they just might wind up skewered with a kabob.
Seriously, unless upon receipt, one is surrounded by a hungry hoard of fruit-craving folks, how does one store this unwieldy display? Do you chug all the milk, drink all the juice, cram containers into the veggie and cheese drawers, and madly devour that leftover casserole, then rearrange some fridge shelving? I don't even prep sliced strawberries in major advance of eating them, soggy berries-eww! Soggy skewered fruit? Uggh. How did this become a profitable business?

Also, let me explain the lack of posts: I moved the computer to use the desk for a drink table, and haven't put everything back yet, and my camera cord is in the desk drawer . . . way over there.

Prepare to cry [sob]

I have a blog-love blog, wherein I link favorite places to waste time. Today, I am compelled to share one of my favorite-favorite blogs (There are three. Yikes! Confessions are raw.) But if you are a woman who loves babies. Who loves kids. Who is married or single. Overwhelmed by life, or underwhelmed. If you love life at its smallest, most vulnerable and tender. You will love, at the very least, this one entry from this one blog.

Kleenex is a must!

At last!

Today as soon as Phil got home from work I quickly dashed off to the mall for a cheap, unscheduled pedicure.  Having attempted this twice in the last month--and been defeated by very long wait times--I told Phil that I'd likely be gone for over an hour at the very least.  Then I debated with myself over whether or not to take the book I'm reading.  In the end, I decided not to take the book when into my head popped the image of the salon's huge stack of beauty / celebrity magazines.  Ahh, the idea of an hour to pour through mindless dribble about clothes I'll never wear and teeny-bopper celebs I don't even recognize sounded so relaxing . . .

When I got there they were slamming with customers, all pedicure stations were booked, but the Pollyanna in me thought that on the bright side there'd be an "extra" twenty minutes to peruse the magazine dribble.  I saw a magazine in the hands of one patron: she was a healthy women who'd sausaged her body into the pedicure-massage chair and had her balding head nosed into Cosmo (at first glance you'd take her more of a Taste of Home reader).

So then, mistaking her for the sort that didn't actually purchase Cosmo, I assumed that all the magazines were over there, between she and the other pedicuree.  Alas!  When I tiptoed over there, and answered the funny looks I received with an explanation of what I was doing, "I just wanted to grab one of your magazines", the salon owners replied, "Oh yeah, we don't have them anymore . . . now you bring your own".

Well, now the wait had lost all allure.  While, I could sip my mocha and spend twenty minutes choosing a nail polish, that was not the relaxing dribble I sought . . . my predicament did not go unnoticed: one of the nail techs approached me with a book in hand, "The Kidnapping of Courtney van Allen and What's-Her-Name" for very-young adults (if the title didn't give it away).  This nice man was so pleased to have something for me to read, that I had to read it, or at least make the pretense of reading it.

Dutifully I thanked him profusely, and and looked at the cover: two girls talking on the telephone.  Arrgghhhh.  This would teach me not to do pedicures myself.  But, then again,  what else was I going to do.  Well, a (speedy) ninety minutes later my nails were done, I was relaxed, Courtney and What's-Her-Name were back with their families, and honestly, even though the book was written for fifth graders, it is always nice to finish a story in one sitting.