You really are as you act.

The older I get, the more I pay attention to the physicality of life. Maybe it's because, with age, I'm finding I have to be more active in order to stay more active. That circuitous statement makes perfect sense, right? What I mean is, I want to continue to be active, but I just can't get up and "do" like I used to. I have to work on it. I have to work to keep my body able and willing. I didn't have to do this in my 20's and 30's.

Now that I'm in my 40's, things come harder. Hard work makes me hurt, and it takes a lot longer to recover. All I have to do is look at certain food and I gain weight. So, I'm making changes. I make a point to exercise more; eat better; be "in" the moment and ask if this is doing me good or bad.

It's not easy. My daily schedule is a mess and I can't always carve out time for major workouts. I'm responsible for more than just me and after taking care of them, working all day, taking care of the house, I'm exhausted. My husband laughs at me because, more often than not, I'm upstairs in bed by 9:30. I didn't used to listen to my body when I get tired. Now, I have no choice.

But the whole point of this is a thought I had months ago. That is, you are how you act. If you act with purpose  - moving, exercising, taking care of yourself - your body reacts positively and allows you to keep doing the things you love. If you don't keep moving and taking care of yourself, your body mounts a mutiny and slowly betrays you, not allowing you to do things.

Case in point, two women, both of whom I know very well. One is 63, the other, 70. Yes, there's a bit of an age difference, but I don't think it's too much to prevent comparison. Both were very active in their younger years, but time has really changed that.

The younger of the two is my own mother. She's a real go-getter. She's always been very conscious of her health and lifestyle. In part, due to having two sisters who are both overweight and one of them has some serious health issues. She eats very well, even though she doesn't deprive herself of treats. She eats with balance. She makes a point to keep moving, even though she has arthritis and osteoporosis. And she does it every single day. Living like this, she's able to continue doing the things she loves. Like taking an annual summer vacation with the grandchildren that would wear me out. She truly loves life.

The other lady is not in the same boat. Even when I met her years ago, when she was close to the age I am now, she was not what I'd call an active woman (though I learned she was very active in her 20's and 30's). Yes, she was on her feet and moved a lot, and her job did require physicality. But outside of work, she wasn't really active at all. And over the course of time, that never changed. Now, she's gained weight, doesn't have a lot of stamina, and declares that "she's too old" to do this or that.

Really? Why does age have to have anything to do with it? Why do people believe a simple number precludes them from "doing?" I'd like to see someone tell my mom she's too old for multi-state road trips, going to the beach, the Grand Canyon, or Disneyland. She'd tell you what to do with that kind of attitude. But she'd do it nicely, without swearing, because she's nice like that.

That's NOT the life I want in 20 years. I want to be doing the things I do right now. I don't want to be a grey haired lady content to sit in front of the tv or out on the porch. I want to have a long and vital life, until the day death takes me kicking and screaming.

I've been MIA

I haven't even thought about, much less looked at, my blog in over a week. I've been just a wee bit busy. And when the busy stopped, the headache began.

First, my mom and her two cats, Abby and Cuddles, arrived last Friday. This is her first visit since last October and she's long overdue. She usually makes her first trip of the year during our spring break, but couldn't due to work obligations.

Abby, listening to the meadowlarks.

The weekend was a whirlwind of activity and people. My brother lives just down the street from me. His girlfriend and three of her kids came down for the weekend. Since we're an easy walk down the street, the kids, all five of them, made numerous trips back and forth. Meals for the crowd are always at my house and are a production! Saturday night we did homemade pizza and salads, Sunday brunch was homemade waffles, bacon, and tons of fruit. And Sunday dinner was tater tot hotdish and salads. Sit down meals for 13 are so much fun, and so exhausting!

Monday, grandma and three of the kids left for their vacation trip. Disneyland!! She's a brave woman! LOL

And they're off!

I celebrated Monday by taking a much-needed three hour nap. 

By Wednesday, I had my feet back under me. My neighbor talked me into going to a Zumba class with her. I told her I'd be there with bells on, which was a lie because I don't have bells. But now I do. Not only did I survive the 60 minute work-out, I had so much fun, I'm planning on making it a regular thing. 

My Zumba bells!!

The rest of the week hasn't been so great. Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday had me fighting headaches. Could be hormones, could be the wildly blooming Russian olive trees, could be the relentless wind that insists on blowing. I just know I'm tired of them. And I'm tired of popping pills to try to get the booming to stop. 

I'm planning on enjoying the weekend before the rush of people returns on Monday. It's time to garden and work on the closet projects. And do the laundry. Always the laundry. 

Weekend Frat Party

OK, it's not a true frat party. There are no kegs. There are no drunk young women taking half their clothes off. At least not the last time I checked. I haven't heard a single, "Dude, watch this!" There isn't any loud and raucous music, either. Which translates into no visits from the cops.

Maybe it really doesn't seem like a frat party at all...

In reality, it has been deemed "Work on your vehicle in our garage weekend." Three vehicles, so far.

And what I do have is a house full of young men. Really, there's only two extra, but around here, that's a houseful. And what is it about the word 'houseful' that looks wrong on so many levels?

Spelling lessons later, perhaps.

What it means is someone is always thirsty, always hungry, and always in the bathroom. It makes life interesting for someone like me who has to pee every 30 seconds or so. Who would rather not have to cook on the weekends. Who NEVER keeps anything but water, iced tea, and milk as available beverages. I do have kool-aid, but they have to mix it themselves, which is clearly too much like work. I also have a lot of wine, but they are all underage and better not touch my stash of vino! They're more of a beer bunch, anyway.

It also means that after a long day of grease, banged up knuckles, and foul language, the bodies tend to fall wherever they come to a stop. Including the extra dog who is clearly comfortable with his slobbery mouth on a couch pillow thrown to the floor.



Nearly every clean blanket is now contaminated with manchild dirt and cat hair. Including the large one that must be washed at the laundromat. There are shirts, sweatshirts, dirty socks, and footwear all over. And half-filled glasses of milk. I'm surprised the cats haven't found those yet. I'm also wondering, with extra beds in the house, why the living room remains the place to crash. And why are the curtains all askew?

Don't be fooled though. Despite my observations, I'm loving every minute of it. Even if I will have to cook up a hot breakfast.

Finally! Progress in the closet!!

Before I begin, I'd like to extend the warmest Mother's Day wishes to all the fantastic ladies out there! Kudos for a job well-done!!

And here we go...

It's been well over a month since I started visualizing and planning for my walk-in closet. I've been collecting treasures and bits and pieces that will all become part of the whole. And I know the speed at which I work; it's all or nothing. Needless to say, progress has been slow! Oddly enough, I still have to take care off all the other things in life, like working (so I can afford all my little treasures), feeding people, cleaning up after people, keeping said people in clean clothes, and when all goes well, sleeping a little bit.

But yesterday, it started coming together a little bit. After a little sweet talking to my brother, he agreed to come and help hubby move the office furniture out of my closet-to-be, down the skinny stairwell, around countless corners, and out to the garage for temporary storage. I really did have to do some sweet talking to both of them; when they moved it up there a few years ago, they told me they weren't going to move them again, and I agreed. Who is more delusional here? Me for agreeing never to move the offending pieces back out of the house, or them for thinking it would never happen? Seriously. They know me better than that.

And I didn't think to take any pictures of them working. Had I done so, I'm pretty sure the little conversation balloons would have magically appeared on their own. Full of colorful language. The desk is a monster. And weighs approximately the same as a Mack truck. The legs have to come off, the drawers have to come out, and it has to be tipped on end to make it around corners and down the stairwell. No easy feat. I'm pretty sure I owe my brother a batch of peanut butter cookies and my husband a steak dinner. But I now have room to work in there and the first of many projects is installed!

Dean helped here and there, cutting and sanding my reclaimed wood.

Because I wasn't as organized as I could have been - big surprise - cutting, sanding, and sealing the wood took several weeks. Partly because I still had to take care of other life chores and partly because I didn't have all the pieces ready to seal at the same time.

Proof that I really do everything in flip flops. I only coated my foot in polyurethane once.  It was a bitch to get it off, too. I didn't drag out the tool belt (yes, I actually have one), but my trusty tape measure followed me throughout the project.

Thank goodness for clamps. Everyone else bailed when I was ready to assemble.

Ready to assemble.

TA-DA!!! And there she is, with a small fraction of my clothes. I was dismayed to discover a wobble once all the pieces were attached and screwed in place. But it wasn't because I didn't measure right; I measured everything within spec to a gnat's ass. The old wood has some twists and bows. I can live with a bit of wobble, or put in some braces between the feet and uprights. 

All told, I have only about $30 in this for the casters and hanging rod. Not too bad since you can't buy a rolling clothes rack for anywhere near that. And that old wood looks absolutely beautiful with just a few coats of poly on it. I'm thinking I need to find an old glass door knob to install on the side so I have somewhere to put a hanger full of my belts. 

Now that I'm done with the first project, I'm really enthused to start the next. I picked up a 8-drawer dresser for Dean several years ago at a moving sale. I don't know what I was thinking at the time, as he doesn't know what the purpose of a dresser actually is. It's a very sturdy piece, but it's painted red, white, and blue. Not that I'm a painting professional, but the existing paint was poorly done. Every brush mark is visible and the paint has started to peel. I'll strip it down to the wood, give it a good sanding, and repaint with colors more suited to my taste. Maybe in a style such as this: 

I love this ombre finish, though the color is a little too bubble gum for me. 

I can't wait to get started!

Projects Past

Before I begin, I'd like to thank Enchanted Seashells and this post for inspiring my post today.

I've had to learn over the years to entertain myself. Having a husband in construction means he works long hours, sometimes out of town, and I'm left to my own devices. So, I've developed hobbies. One of my favorite activities is turning the old into something new again. I could spend days rummaging through thrift shops. I often wander my own house looking for something that needs new life. I scrounge through the scrap bins at work, looked for tossed out items that still have life in them. Basically, I drive my husband crazy because I have "stuff" stashed everywhere that is on it's way to a new and purposeful life. And, at any given time, I have numerous projects in some state of rehab. Some get done quickly, others get put on the back burner to be finished...eventually. As we speak, I've overtaken his garage to build a clothes rack out of reclaimed lumber I ferried home last summer. And I have the ingredients for four more projects crammed into my shed outside. As those are finished, there will be pictures posted. But for now, here are some of my favorite projects from the past.

Before

A couple summers ago, the owners of a local gas station retired and sold off everything they'd accumulated over the years. After the sale ended, I was invited down to rummage. These are a few of the things I came home with. Just look at all that potential!

After

A little cleaning, a little paint with no pattern whatsoever, and I have a porch full of pots. The great thing is they are portable and their locations changes every year. My favorite is the mop bucket. Don't mind the blue ribbon. That was a failed experiment of a way to keep the dogs from bailing off the porch THROUGH the flower beds. I don't want to put the money into anything permanent for that because the porch is on the rehab list and will be torn out and rebuilt. But that's another story. 

We have a wood stove and occasionally some rather large pieces make their way home with my guys. Last year, we decided to open up this side of the porch for easier access to the yard. But alas, we had no lumber to build steps. This was my solution. As my husband would rather I not operate the chainsaw for craft projects, I enlisted my oldest son. He cut ginormous slabs and notched them to fit together. I left them unfinished to dry and they are ready to be sealed this year. I love the natural look, but if I don't seal them they will eventually fall apart and become firewood. Now if only my husband had let me sand off that old fence wood he used to close that side of the porch. Maybe this year. 

I found this old glass jar languishing on a back shelf at the thrift store. I believe I paid about $.25 for it. It's large, like about a gallon. I have no idea what it was in its former life, but it is pretty. The glass on two sides is textured, though you can't see that in this picture. About all you CAN see is the dust. Eventually, as I root more cuttings, I will add them in to fill in the space. And by the looks of it, I need to spend an afternoon cleaning my plants. Dust. One of the nasty byproducts of living in farm country and having a wood stove. 

Before

I found this unfortunate little stool at the thrift store for $7. Scarred wood and the ugliest vinyl covering. 

After

Just 24 hours later, it has been transformed! A good sanding followed by a new coat of varnish, and a $.25 pillow case from the same thrift store, in colors that happen to coordinate in my living room. It usually sits near the aquarium and has become a favorite perch for the cats to stalk the fish. 

And now I'm off to work on current projects. Because I just can't get enough!!

Mothers and sons.

It is said that fathers and daughters have a special relationship, and they do. At least until said daughter dives head-long into her teen years, then all bets are off. I was a daddy's girl for many, many years. Sometimes, I still am.

But what about mothers and sons? Don't they share something special? You bet your football-loving, no clue as to wrestling, bicycle crashing, motorcycle revving ass they do!

Some days, I don't have the words to describe just how much I love my boys. Other days, my legs are tired from kicking them in the ass every time I turn around. I can't tell you how many times I've had to stitch my heart back together after it bursts in pride for some accomplishment. The well of tears I've cried as they grow and mature and take slow steps away from me is bottomless. The happiest tears of my life result from the out-of-nowhere hugs and the "Bye, Mama. Love you!" that I hear each and every day as they walk out the door or hang up the phone.

Yes, there is something special between mothers and sons.

I've been beaned with footballs. I've been run over with bicycles. I've been the unintended victim of wrestling moves gone awry. I've stepped on countless legos and matchbox cars at 3:00 am. I've learned to accept the sight of blood and not get bent about open wounds. Which is a good thing after Dean filleted his knee open two summers ago.

I've learned to understand auto mechanics and flying. I have a basic knowledge of welding and the proper way to ensure an awesome long distance spit. No, I will not demonstrate. Thank goodness I came into motherhood already knowing how to drive (and trucks, at that) so I had some sort of leg up on them.

The relationship I have with each son is as different as they are. One is known to seek me out in the garden, to visit and chat, and share what is bothering him. The other likes the same odd documentaries that I do, and doesn't overly mind going shopping with me. They both have physically picked me up and carried me past the shoe department lest we be delayed. They both eat themselves sick when I make homemade bread. Neither will eat peas, even if their very lives depended on it.

And they both know I will do anything for them, so long as it is in my power. Whether that be dropping everything to rush to their first accident, or slipping them $20 for gas because they don't get paid until the day after tomorrow.

My husband says I spoil them. That I let them walk all over me. Not so, I say. I love them. I nurture them (even when they think they're too old for it). I help them. I teach them. I bond with them. And when I've done my job, and they grow up and move out, I cry for what was, and what will be. Knowing that I've created something important beyond measure. Something that only another mother of sons can understand.

I need something.

This has been an unbelievable week. Bombings in Boston and suspects wreaking havoc following, explosions in Texas. When will it end? I'm torn between listening to the media waiting for word that justice and healing are falling into place, and turning it off because it's just too much. Honestly, it's just too much.

I'm also seeing family members going through tough and trying times, friends dealing with ongoing issues that are emotionally unbearable, and other friends at a crossroads that has them on their knees.

My heart feels heavy. I've been on the verge of tears most of the week. I'm emotionally worn out. I'm having headaches. I try to turn to humor, but that seems out of place amidst all this pain, suffering, and somberness.

I need time in my gardens. With Smalls along side for conversation. 

Maybe some time in front of the aquarium.

Maybe some time in my project corner, working on new ideas.

To start things off, I'm headed to the salon this afternoon. For the first time ever, there will be some colors other than blond on my head. Should be interesting. Not to mention shocking to my family. After that? Who knows. Maybe I'll head to the thrift stores in search of some project treasures. Or maybe I'll go home and play in the dirt.

Even if I have to wear a parka.

Because I have to do something.

An evening alone with...

Pinterest!

Hi, my name is Deni and I'm a Pinterestaholic. Yes, I admit I have a problem. No, I'm not looking for a cure. Quite frankly, after everything in the news as of late, I'm swearing off TV and internet news pages. So that leaves me with Facebook and Pinterest.

I've been searching for ideas to turn a newly vacant bedroom into my personal closet/dressing room/craft/sewing/couponing space. NIRRRVANA!! I'm giddy; all but doing cartwheels. Yes, it really is that exciting.

I've found a few ideas here and there and my imagination and crafty mind is chewing on them. In the meantime, I noticed a few things that, based on the popularity of repins, I should be doing. And, wow, am I way behind.

Sorry for that slight delay. An evening with no noise, children, and frying pans deserves a second glass of wine.

Those two mangy looking stumps in front of my house? I should be out there drilling holes in them and dumping epsom salts in there to kill the darn things. Actually, since they are small and rather odd looking, I'm planning to work them into the landscape. I just haven't decided quite how to accomplish that yet.

And all those pesky weeds ALL OVER THE PLACE? I just need to get out there with my vinegar. Not a bad idea since I refuse to use Roundup. And if I don't get them taken care of quickly enough, Mike is out there with some sort of poison, spraying away. Always on the windiest day of the week. Without regard to whether it is weed or flower. Only if it is clearly blooming is it safe from his magic spray wand.

Let's not forget, before picking up that favorite knife and slicing and dicing, I'm supposed to check on the gender of my peppers. Gender? Really? That sounds just a bit too personal to me.

Personally, I love this idea and I did pin it. If I had a picnic table you can rest assured that I would have a wine trough in the middle of it. Of course, that also means I would spend the entire summer drunk under the locust tree laughing at the squirrels that come to visit me. Might be a good way to spend the summer, actually.

This? My husband would kill me. Seriously. And he wouldn't eat the salad goodies anyway.






And since I value my life, and my ability to escape to my gardens, I think I'll just go off and regrow my kitchen scraps, collect some of ashes from the wood stove for fertilizer, and paint my stepping stones with glow in the dark paint.

Crazy or the Cat?

It is 4:20. AM. 0420. As in it is before the butt crack of dawn. I am up. Coffee is before me. I've even loaded the dishwasher. Two of the dogs have been out to potty, but they went back to bed.

I hate days like this. I wake up for whatever reason and absolutely can't go back to sleep. Don't get me wrong, I try. But then I start to toss and turn, and eventually, my bladder wakes up. Or a cat realizes I'm awake. Such was the case today.

Smalls has taken to sleeping all night with us again. Always on my side of the bed, and always as close as physically possible to my body. Sometimes, he crawls up on top of me. I swear it feels like a 25 lb sack of flour on me.

So mid-turn, he plops himself in my rib cage and stretches full out. Of course, I have to give him a few scratches. What kind of cat mom would I be if I didn't? That inspires him to stretch even further and roll over to expose his belly. He honestly thinks he's part dog and loves to have his belly scratched. Yes, I obliged. He stretches out his paws as far as possible, throws his head back in delirious joy, and the purring begins. When he starts kneading thin air, I know I've found today's sweet spot.

We remain like this for a good 30 minutes. The crazy lady awake and the cat purring happily while I tickle his tummy. And at roughly 3:45, it struck me. Does the lady have to be crazy before loving cats, or does the cat make the lady crazy? Since I've had a love affair with cats since I was old enough to pull their tails and pick them up by their whiskers, I'm guessing my crazy came first. And all the cats in my life have come along for what they knew would be a one-of-a-kind ride. Complete with belly rubs.

What's that smell?

Inhale deeply. Smell that? No? Well, that's because it's gone. The end...finito...hasta la vista, baby. There is no longer a STENCH coming from the kitchen sink, because the disposal is GONE.

That thing was nice, don't get me wrong. But it wasn't hooked into the drain system totally right, the dishwasher wasn't hooked into it correctly, and it frequently chewed with enough power to disconnect the drain pipe completely. Mike never responded positively to this. Never. And to top it off, the switch wasn't up on the wall where it belonged. No, someone came up with the bright idea of putting it on the front face of the bottom cupboard, right below the counter edge. Right in front of the sink. It is not a lie that everyone accidently turned it on. Like dozens of times a day.

When it broke, I was sad for...oh, about a millisecond. Then good sense kicked in and I realized I would no longer be dumping bleach by the gallon or soda by the pound through that cesspool of inadequacy.

Mike ripped it all out and totally reconstructed the drain pipe configuration. No more food chewer; no more cheap-assed pipes; no more blow-ups with nasty water going everywhere, which also means no more bucket under the sink either..

Truth be told, I don't even miss the damn food chewer.

And I'm so thankful that Mike fixed everything under there.

Following the crowd

Therapists recommend concentrating on positive life events, especially in times of stress and duress. Surely it can't hurt if I try it. And when things get really bad, I try to make the positive stand out anyway. I also try to get Mike to see more positives...not easy for a chronic pessimist, I must say. Now I just need a label. Daily Gratitude? Probably overused. My Daily Thanks? My Daily Thankful? Not quite right enough.

Daily Grace.

I'm blessed to have kids that love me! Moreover, I'm blessed that my 16-yr old will, without prompting, say "I Love You, Mama!" even in the presence of all his tough 16-yr old friends.

Now, let's see if I can make it a daily habit.