Sand in my suit.

I never understood why swim attire was called a suit. You wear much less than a jacket, tie, vest, button up shirt and slacks. If I were a different type of girl my suit would be small and held together by floss but, seeing as I have always been a full coverage gal my suit is like myself sturdy and with hidden panels for extra coverage. The best advice I ever got about going to the beach......Was from my friend Kim she said "My body is what it is. I like to go swimming. If people don't want to see cellulite they don't have to look". It made perfect sense and the veil of trying to hide my imperfections fell away. Armed with sun screen, sarong and shorts to cover my flab we headed to the beach. Wow is is bright there and hot and crowded and sand gets everywhere but, and this is a big butt.....If you love the feeling of throwing yourself against a wave and having it carry you toward the shore then you are willing to deal with SAND IN THE SUIT. In July my family went to Virgina beach for a few days of sun and fun. It is not an exaggeration to say that I am still finding sand in the modesty panel of my suit. Leaving the beach at the end of our day I had enough sand in the lining of my suit to give the illusion of having swum in a diaper or that I had not completed My gender reassignment surgery. That night I beat my suit against our porch railing doing nothing but spreading the sand around rather than dispersing it. But, hey I did get another souvenir. Two months later, I have gotten the bulk of the sand out but still it still haunts me like toilet paper flecks. I decided to go for one last labor day swim and later in the shower there was still grit swirling down the drain. Summer goes so fast when your having fun.

Sweat and Raspberries

On a wild bit of land near our house, my brother and I would trek up a steep incline to go blueberry picking. The hard little berries were more nut like than the berries you see in the store and my mother always gamely tried to make something out of them but the results would leave me less than thrilled. The berry to sweat ratio was not even and to add insult to injury I didn't like blueberries very much. Now Raspberries are a whole different story...Let's jump ten years into the future. I am living in my first apartment and the bush that marks off where I should park my car is a pricker bush that I almost crushed the first time I backed in my car. My usually sweet tempered landlady left a nasty note on my door telling me to be careful with her berry bush....You know the kind of note, black ink and underlining words like idiot and new growth. I laughed it off. Hello it was a bush right. Right? WRONG. Summer came and showed me what a error I had made. The bush survived my winter back up and grew into a leggy pricker. My landlady tied back each runner and kept them off the ground then as if by magic the berries started to appear. Huge ruby red and full of the most amazing, sticky, bits of summer. My landlady collected all she could (except for the few that ended up in my tummy) and then the cooking started, the smell in our shared hallway was enough to send me downstairs with a slice of bread and a hang dog look on my face. She explained she was making jam and it is not an exaggeration to say that I never got more than a spoonful for that one slice of bread. That was until the year she went away for the summer. One night when the berries were ripe I got the largest bowl in my house and picked berries until I could find no more. Sweaty and with fingers that looked like I had just killed with my bare hands, I snuck upstairs to my third floor apartment and learned to can. The perfume created from all that berry boiling lingered in the hall for days. I was sure that if she decided to come home early it would be the smell in the hall that would give away my thievery and not the lack of fruit on the bushes outside. Now for those of you who haven't tried canning it really is very easy. Crushed fruit is mixed with vast amounts of sugar. Then boiled until the sugar is dissolved. Pectin is added at the end to make sure that the jam jells and then the hot jam is ladled into hot jars, covered with lids and stuck in a pan filled with boiling water for 10 minutes. Magically delicious.
Which all leads me to today. My son who is 6 is carefully carrying a plastic Hanna Montana bowl filled to the brim with sweet ruby red berries. There is a slight swagger in the way he climbs the stairs to our kitchen. He has been picking berries for our jelly and I know that when he hands them to me to make into something good, the sweat to berry ratio is just right.

Music VS Fine Art....the fight for the girl

Ah "Music".......Now that was my first crush, I remember the day we met. I had been hanging out with this box of watercolors I won in art class when our eyes met across a crowded auditorium. It was all shine and loud noises, A crazy hormone filled time. We were happy together, yes we were.....for years. "Art" would call but I was always so busy with "Music". "Music" and I would see each other every day for hours and my parents didn't mind. My mom would say that "Music" was so much nicer than "Art" so much less mess. "Music" never left marks on my clothing or finger prints on the walls. "Music" was fun and new. "We tried new songs and instruments just learning and creating something special. Sure, I still saw "Art". I had to at school. High school hit and marching band started. It was fun. There was new compositions and cool uniforms but I began to see that there were others who loved "music" too. "Music" was popular. I tried not to be jealous but, cracks had begun to form between us. "Music" began to get into all sorts of things that made me feel a little uncomfortable, bands and big hair, people watching you perform on stage. It didn't like when I would have trouble with timing or difficulty learning new instruments. "Music" wanted the spot light and all the pressure that that requires. Then came the day when "Music" said it was time for us to cement our love in a more lasting way........yes, a bassoon solo. I thought it was too soon. I was 14 for goodness sake. We were too young to even talk like this. I refused. I wanted to save myself for senior year. "Music" pleaded with me, told me I was acting weak and said "If you really love me you would do this" I tried, I really did, but when it came right down to it. I just couldn't perform. "Music" seemed to understand. A week later I saw it talking to a cute trombone player with the same range I had. I knew the score and had seen the notes. I left my band uniform and "In The Mood" sheet music and ran. I never looked back. Music kept the band and I got the records. The next semester I had "Art" in a class I was taking called printmaking. There was something about the way "Art" smelled and looked. "Art had a maturity that was missing before when it was all about the crayons. What can I say. I saw how passionate "Art" was/is and fell deeply in love.
"Music" I hear has been playing with the DAVE MATTHEWS BAND for the past several years I can see that it is happy. I am so glad. We both know we always worked best as friends. "Art" and I have been together ever since and we are happy like that. My husband loves "Music" as much as I love "Art" so we still see each other socially, but it isn't the same.
Post Script........A year ago "Music" sent me a bassoon with a note saying no hard feelings, and my heart felt that old pull again. I talked to "Art" and we decided to take some beautiful photos and perhaps hang them up.

The care and feeding of my basement.

Recently as in yesterday, I was doing something that took me back to the good old days........Get your mind out of the gutter yet again perv. I was sucking water out of our basement. It reminded me of a time about 5 years ago when we brought home our last little sweet smelling bundle of joy who needed to be fed and changed every two hours. Now what pray tell could a flooded basement have to do with a baby. Not much really other than the two hour care and chaining the responsible adult to the house but, Lets look at this a little closer and maybe it will make sense to you too. The babies were not unexpected and the basement was. I would never flood the basement, no matter how much my family might joke about wanting an indoor pool. Indoor pools and raised ranches don't talk at the same water coolers. (get it water.....ah anyway) Babies once you took care of them would sleep for two hours not seep. A small bath towel and Johnson's baby wash and any baby mess no matter how brown would be cleaned up and sweet smelling at least for a short time. A basement well other tools are needed, a High powered Sucks all and every bath towel or unused blanket in the house. Need to take a shower with a baby....leave the bouncy seat in the room with you. Flood in the basement, Leave a kid down there to yell if it starts toward the furnace. (just kidding I wouldn't use kids like that).....but they do come in handy for other things like answering phones and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while Mommy and Daddy are busy. When stuff so vile that you vomit in your mouth comes out of a baby you can look at it and think "Wow, My kid is healthy" Your basement that is not healthy and it isn't your vomit you have in your mouth but your wallet clenched between your teeth because there is someone some where with their hands in your pockets with ways to "fix" this mess before it goes to mold. Now lastly, I don't know one kid or one basement that once the sun comes out and the windows are thrown wide doesn't start to perk up and have a much sunnier disposition.

The Veiw from 40

I have had the same conversation with many people lately. How to rectify the differences between what you envisioned for your life and what your life really is. Perhaps it is because I was 40 first? (lucky me) or maybe it was just that I had to come to terms years ago that I was never going to be what people expected of me. It is a bitter pill to look around and realize that world domination was not an option, my poor wasted Napoleon complex. It was cool to dream but, living it was a different matter. The Ah-ha moment was back in my 30's. I had only been married for a few years when I found that an acquaintance was teaching at an art college(my then dream job) and she had just been promoted to dean of one of the departments. She was someone I felt at least equal to (at least). I then stopped creating for the fun of it and set off to work to be the "Artist" I was supposed to be with my "talent". It felt like wearing a suit that just wasn't mine the pants were too short and the shirt never buttoned right. I could wear it but sooner or later the pants were going to fall down and everyone would see my undies. I was a fake and the work that I did from that time was fake as well. Which leads me to the JOY of being 40. (Feeling a little like a snake oil salesman) Yes my friends Joy! and I am here to tell you how to get it....for only 39.99.
By the time I reached 39 two things happened 1. my children were finally old enough that I could see beyond being a Mommy 24-7. (thank you sweetheart for putting up with me during that time) and 2. I stopped caring what people thought of me. A friend explained it like this. She said " I am old enough that I have my friends already, Those who like me like me. Those who don't I have no time for."(thank you Kim!) Wow, what a concept. I was just given permission to be me. Those who like me like me those who don't, oh well. 40 wow.
So, this all leads back to the conversations of friends who are now slogging through the - what the hell happened to my life moment. The big thing about 40 is there is still time. My head didn't explode on the stoke of 12:00. The carriage was still waiting and I could still get the dress on. What's more my idea of what is success changed to include my family, who run through me like grain in wood. The young rather more selfish me always thought that success should be global (with bwahahaha laughed in the background) Success with a capital S, yeah baby, but when the the real work, sacrifice and passion was needed to achieve that came knocking on my door I didn't answer. I put all that energy towards other things, and the liberty of 40 is, that I am not going to tell people that I didn't answer because I didn't hear it or I was changing diapers or my dog ate the painting that was going to get that door open. There is no shame in viewing success as I see fit and not allowing others to force me into a suit I didn't cut for myself. Success is not an off the rack item. 40 means I can say without reservation that I opened the door and kept just a little piece and that was all I needed.

Lube and Adjustment (thats what they call it these days)

Ah ha.....I know what your thinking......yes I do.....well OK maybe I don't but if I had just read the title of my blog I would have been thinking things that were not PG or even PG 13. Dirty minds are a terrible thing to waste. The problem with where my mind usually is, is it doesn't correspond with actual circumstances. Too bad huh, but on a good note I can tell you with no reservation that should you need any sort of body work done for you car I have found a place you can go. Yes it is true. I felt comfortable and it didn't cost me all the winnings I just collected from my jaunt at the casino. (That is an inside joke, I don't gamble too stingy). We (the Ramthun Clan)were having an issue with our minivans automatic doors closing. I am not partial to losing children on the interstate during hairpin turns so I felt it might be wise to have it checked out. The "Dealer" suggested I make an appointment for Friday to have them diagnose the issue. It should take about an hour and a half, and they could order parts if needed, "It would be best to leave the car for the day" they said. I could then stick my neck in the door track as they closed it neatly lopping off my head guillotine style in order to pay for all the work that would be needed. (no arm and legs that is small time) The fee before parts was $98.00 an hour flat rate fee to diagnose. So dear friends not having 98.00 to start never mind after diagnosis I, in desperation called the first body shop I can remember ever hearing about.
Drum Roll Please.................Don Mallon Chevrolet * Cadillac............Yes....I love them. (And I don't love easily) I called and a car angel answered, laughed at my very feeble jokes and told me to come right down. "Don't worry" Shelly said "We will fix you right up" I love having someone else do the mothering so I did what I was told. Shelly Brockett is the Body Shop Manager. She had explained to the gentleman working in the shop what I had called about and there was someone waiting for me when I drove up. Half an hour later the car was ready and the bill was less than $30.00. I was impressed enough to write this. If you happen to be driving by Don Mallon's on rte 32 in Norwich on your way to here or there please stop in and say "Hi" to Shelly in the body shop for me. You'll know her by her leopard print vans. It takes a cool chick to carry those off and she does it with flair.

Counting the Ceiling Tiles

Rushing home to shave my legs and clean all the important bits, I realized that one way or the other I would end up counting ceiling tiles today, desire for the task was not an option. I had actually considered myself lucky that I had not needed to do this for almost a year, not ideal granted, but there were certain things that needed taking care of and I wouldn't let fear stop me. No tooth paste on the clothes, check. Clean underwear, check although, that didn't really matter I probably wouldn't have them on long. Dread......yep dread. I think there is a pimple on my butt...can't do anything about it and I wasn't the first person in history to have that. Should I get a coffee a drink?....Nope (coffee and I need to drive after) I didn't even eat first my scale doesn't lie. How will I explain the bruises on my knees will it matter. Should I worry about grooming everywhere? Now that I am over 40 there are so many more hoops to jump through but thankfully this isn't something I have to pay for. I consider for a moment how hard it would be to have to pay "for services rendered". Damn, I am sitting waiting sweating slightly....I have heard so many horror stories and I realize that although I shaved my armpits I forgot to put on deodorant. I am grateful the heat is on and that I didn't have to wait outside. Why is this so difficult? The nurse walks in and we begin. In 10 (Girl Scouts honor)minutes I put my clothes on and I go home with paperwork for the next inconvenience designed to keep me healthy. The whole ride home I kicked myself for allowing negative thoughts and insecurities to creep into my thinking.......Every woman needs to make sure she doesn't have a silent time bomb ticking away in her. My doctor was wonderful and even comforting when she explained that now that I was 40 they were going to have to check all my "parts" and that no I would not need to turn and COUGH. (It wasn't that bad.......No really......)
It was a drop ceiling and there were no stains. 12 tiles and one poster of a horse and pony.
And no those aren't my arms and legs....