The last time I sprained my ankle . . .

. . . was in the fourth grade. I was in Brownsville, Texas, visiting my best friend, Lynn, whose dad had taken a job there temporarily. Lynn is supporting me in this picture, and now that I think about it, she still is, even though she is miles away.

I remember so much about that trip, but the memories seem to come in snapshots. Palm trees--how exotic! Dark skinned girls named Maria and Juanita--how could Lynn have replaced me so easily? Dead frogs in her pool--eww! I don't want to go swimming ever again! It was December, and Hurricane Beulah had just paid a visit a few months earlier, leaving behind overturned trees and a Picasso-looking landscape as souvenirs. Man, those trees were the best for climbing...long, winding branches glancing the ground, giving me a chance to grab hold and follow them to the sky.

My chance for sky reaching was short lived, however, because I miscalculated a landing and turned my ankle minutes before we were leaving for a day trip to Mexico. I didn't want my mom to know, because I thought I would get in trouble for tree climbing, so I tried to hide the pain. As you can see in this picture, I'm doing ok with it, but the discerning eye can see something amiss. Boy, was that a painful trip to Mexico! I remember hiding behind racks of clothes or going into a bathroom to get all my tears out before I faced my folks with a weak smile, saying, "No, nothing's wrong. Why?"

So I was thinking of that tough little kid I used to be when I sprained my ankle last week during a 6-mile walk. That hurt like the dickens! (whatever a dickens is...does that mean it hurts like the best and worst of times?) By the time I got home, I was moaning and groaning and not waiting to hide my tears. But now that I think of it, I did walk 5 more miles on my bad ankle before I'd had enough, so maybe I'm not such a crybaby.

The doc said I should stay off it completely for a week, so I caught up on my reading and enjoyed some awesome books. One in particular, The Glass Castle, was amazing. I love the range of emotions it led me through, and it surely made me rememeber what blessings I have instead of complaining about the ones I don't have. I've been thinking about jumping from the frying pan and into the fire lately, and even though there isn't much difference in the temperature between the two, Lynn reminds me that the fire isn't the only place to land. And if I land the wrong way, she'll be there to lean on.

In the iron-sharpens-iron department, I've got to share this quote she found written in the margins of her grandma's Bible:

Be careful of your thoughts, they become your words. Be careful of your words, they become your actions. Be careful of your actions, they become your habits. Be careful of your habits, they become your character. Be careful of your character, it becomes you.

Photo credit: my dad

An Amazing Weekend...

That's how I'll forever refer to the experience I had a weekend ago in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. It was the best of times and the worst of times. Actually, no. I'm wrong. It wasn't the worst of times, but I have to tell you, the fact that this wasn't the absolute worst of times is more a testimony to times I've had that are worse. And I'm already seeing the good that has come from the experience.

I'll just tell you about the pleasant part, even though the nightmarish part is, as usual, much more interesting.

Actually, I'll be back later to tell you about it, but I wanted to post this picture I took of one of the places along the way of the cajun bike tour, at Sacred Heart Academy.

Photo credit: me

"Mama, please please please can you see if we can get tickets to the Michael Buble' concert?"

Ahh yes. Music to my ears, that my hip-hop, hide-that-she's-listening-to-disgusting-lyrics-from-me child would show an interest in something more genteel. That and the fact that she was wanting a girls' night out with me made me highly motivated to find tickets for us. I was just so grateful to see she had an interest in something besides hip-hop, and I was willing to pay just about anything to support that trend.

My daughter said she would pay me back for her ticket, so I found a scalper online and paid way too much money for great floor seats. But seeing him perform was worth every penny. He is made of awesome. His voice is like silk, his phrasing is impeccable, and his aura is captivating.

It wasn't, however, worth every penny to end up paying for what was supposed to have been my daughter's seat. What can I say. She was offered back-stage passes after "we" had already bought the tickets, and I ended up giving her ticket to a friend. I had the choice of making her pay for the ticket, with me sitting next to an empty seat, or paying for it myself and inviting someone to sit next to me. So it more than kinda messed up our mother-daughter outing, but I couldn't begrudge her the chance to ride to the concert in a limo and actually meet the guy.

That's the Susan [insert last name here] Story.

What is it about us parents that make us so overindulgent? You know, if you take a moment or two to observe children--or even ourselves--you realize that the worst thing that could happen is not hardship, or even trauma (provided you walk alongside them and they are shown how to endure these things). One of the worst things that happens to them is overindulgence. And yet, I find myself giving them more things than I can afford myself. I mean, here I am, worse off than Job's turkey, and I'm spending you-don't-even-want-to-know-how-much on tickets.

But I'm glad she had the chance to meet Michael Buble' and have her picture made with him. Hopefully it will inspire her to be more diligent on stretching her music abilities. I know he was inspirational to me.

Interesting observation on this stage in my life: At another point in time, I would have daydreamed about what it would be like to be with him; now I'm daydreaming about what it would be like to BE him. He was just so cool and . . . warm.

Oh wait. That IS what I am. ;-)

Now, if I can just find my way back to my piano and start playing music . . .

[photo courtesy of my friend Michelle Tripp]

Tired of words today.

But this picture is worth a thousand of them.

Photo credit: me

What am I doing in the background

...of my daughter's ex-boyfriend's facebook profile pic?

I was looking over my daughter's shoulder as she visited her ex's facebook site and noticed his new profile pic. So as I drew in for a closer look, I noticed a familiar woman in the background of the pic and asked my daughter who it was. Yeah. I didn't recognize my own face. That alone deserves a separate post. . . well, maybe that and a conjecture on why we females are drawn to our exes, even when we are "through" with them. Perhaps it's because our exes are only a couple of letters away from being excess?

Do guys do that too?

Anyway, just wanted to say that seeing myself on facebook and yet not seeing myself was a strange feeling for me.

I Miss Italy . . .

. . . so much so that I'm planning another trip there. I know when a person gets another chance to go to Europe, she shouldn't go back to the same place, but I am completely enchanted by Italy.



My friend Lynn and I are trying to decide where to go if we are fortunate enough to take a trip overseas next fall. I was thinking Ireland or some other place where I know the language, which pretty much limits it to Spain, Italy, or some English-speaking place. Not that it helps me all that much to be able to speak the language here . . . Still, I think it would enhance the experience. But I just keep coming back to Italy. I love the language, the people, the atmosphere, the wine, the smells, the music . . . pretty much everything. Except for how the dollar fares against the Euro.

Photo credit: me

"Just look unhappy and act like you don't care if you're there."

That's my son's secret to being mistaken for a New Yorker. Hmm. That wasn't my experience of New Yorkers--I remember being amazed by how nice and friendly everyone was the last time I visited, and said as much to him. But then he clarified, "They aren't all unhappy, but if you want to be mistaken for one, that's the fast way to get there."

And apparently it worked for him. He was asked for directions and advice on the subway every time he rode it. Not just advice for which line to take, either. There was one guy who was waiting for the train who saw a porn magazine on the tracks, and he asked my son if he thought he had time to jump down and get it. My son answered, "Well, there's a train coming."

But the guy jumped down anyway, grabbed the magazine, jumped back on the platform, and stuffed the rolled-up magazine into his back pocket and said, "That's eight dollars I just saved!"

I'm not sure what was more shocking: that he would risk his life for eight dollars or that a porn magazine costs that much.