You Don’t Have to Change Your Mind

This is different, but at least it will be unpopular.

You don’t have to change your mind.

Instead of shifting your attention from one thing to another like a raccoon with a hatful of shiny objects:

STOP THINKING YOU HAVE TO HAVE AN OBSESSION ALL THE TIME.

That’s right. I said it.

Instead of committing your life to something because the cool kids ‘like’ its page on Flackbook; why not sit quietly sometimes and think about important ideas? Have a conversation about something besides carnal pleasures.  [Don’t get mad because I used the word ‘carnal‘ properly.  The word means “related to the needs of the physical, temporal; rather than the spiritual”.]

You know what I mean…

“I need a latte.”  The hell heck you do.  Have a cup of strong, black Folger’s.

“Your HAIR! What are you using on it?”  Shampoo.

“Have you seen the new [shirtless hairless effeminate male pin-up] movie?”  Why?  So we can argue about whether, evil or soft-smooth-hands-that-have-never-done-a-day’s-work are more attractive?

“I LOVE [fried chicken sandwiches].  They are AMAZING!”  They are poison.  Whether the founder attends church or not.

“Should I get [another] tattoo?”  No, start chain smoking.  Dumbass.

Put down the game controller.

And the freaking phone.

Your mind is starving to death.  If you think [chocolate milk with a shot of coffee] is amazing, your life is too darn small.  If you are amazed by that, it’s because so few really great things have crossed your consciousness.  Amazing isn’t a synonym for pleasant.

You don’t need to be obsessed with something.

All the time.

It’s okay to be interested in a variety of things.

You don’t have to be “passionate about something” or “have a passion for” it.

You can just do your thing.

Read good books.  Eat what’s served.  Go interesting places.  Have hobbies.  Try new things.  Like them or don’t.

Do your best in high school.

If your parents are letting you pick your path, find some post-secondary training of some kind.

Get a job.  Don’t be idle.  There is honor in work.  Whether it is the paycheck kind or the building the family blessing kind.

You can do any kind of work.  You don’t have to get famous for it.

It’s only bacon.  Bring it home.

I think you should work just a little bit more than you play.  Believe me or don’t, but if you haven’t worn yourself out with work, you will not enjoy the play as much as you would if you did.

Just live.

The passion of Christ, refers to his journey to the cross to be poured out as an offering for us.  His commitment to do what His Father desired.

Are you ready for that definition of passion?

Good.  Because Jesus, too, did a regular job, hung out with his family, attended worship regularly, and obeyed the law of the land.  He’d never heard of [chocolate milk with a shot of coffee] or [fried chicken sandwiches].

The passion will find you.  Though it will not know where to look, if you are always running from one silly, trivial, shiny thing to another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing Up

Growing up is when you stop expecting people to already know what you are thinking.

Growing up is when you realize the laundry not being done is as much your problem as anyone else’s in the house.

Growing up is when you can admit you don’t know something.

Growing up is when you ask someone who knows better than you do.

Growing up is when you can trust their answer and use it.

Growing up is when you know what you like and don’t let your friends talk you into something else.

Whether that’s fashion or boys or food or colleges.

Growing up is when you can clean up another person’s vomit without having a holiday named in your honor.  Some people do this.  Some never ever do.

Growing up is when you take personal responsibility for turning off lights and water and closing doors and putting the leftovers away before they become a biohazard.

Growing up is when you realize that if you shouldn’t complain about a mess you aren’t willing to clean up.

Growing up is when you realize that if you aren’t willing to clean it up, you don’t really care.  You are a bitchy slob.

Growing up is when you realize that life isn’t a contest to see who can do the least.

Growing up is when you stop needing your mom to nag you to feel like you have permission to do the tasks that belong to you.

Growing up is when you keep loving someone who doesn’t love you back.

Just because God gave them to you.

Growing up is when you know that love doesn’t mean hanging out.

Growing up is when you have been lied to and lied about and you don’t demand apologies.

Growing up is when you are willing to wait to let the truth come out.  The easy way or the hard way.  The other person gets to choose.

Growing up is when you live with the hurt and pray for the other person to heal and have the best life God can make for them.  Without you.

And you let God be God while the pain sizzles, knowing He wastes nothing.  He’s growing something beautiful in you.

Growing up is when you get that Christmas isn’t presents and love isn’t kisses.

Growing up is when you learn to wait your turn.

Because it’s coming.

 

 

 

 

Something at First Sight

At the end of the major street that split the subdivision, was a lake.  Next to the lake, were ball parks, a playground with picnic areas, a golf course and a sailing club.  When school was out, ball was on.  So, being healthy 15 and 16 year-old girls, we climbed in Mikayla’s massive family wagon (In my new color block top that had the tie on the side.) and headed down to the ball park.

All the usual suspects were there.  And someone new to me.

He was taking our dollar at the gate and selling the cokes.  Red hair, exceptional medium build.  Eyes.  Eyes forever. My heart still squeezes.

We hadn’t even been seated in the bleachers for five minutes, when someone told Mikayla he wanted to talk to me.

Being so young and so unused to that kind of attention, I didn’t leap right up and run over.

The game had barely gotten underway, but Mikayla was soooooo boy-crazy, she wouldn’t even leave me alone.  So it was get up the nerve or be gnawed to death by Mik, I had my choice.  I went with getting up and walking over there.

I went to the concession stand and waited quietly; while a BUNCH of our friends bought candy, interspersed with people who weren’t nosy; they wanted a snack.

Then some people came and needed to pay their dollars to get in.

Then he had to go unlock something.

Finally, he was free to chat a bit.

I stood there in the shade of the concession stand.  Our eyes met and held.  It felt promise-y and comfortable as broken in jeans.  Not silly or self-conscious.  Seen.

We’d barely started to talk, when Mikayla had to leave.

When we got in the car, she jabbered away in her usual style.  Completely unaware.  You didn’t tell her anything remotely confidential.

His family was moving.

That week.

I guess they must have.

That was 1982.

 

 

 

With Miles to Go Before I….Sleep

While we waited at the light just before the post office, a ’78 Z-28 turned left in front of us and cruised up Washington Pike.  I startled, then sighed, “Mike drove one of those…”

“Mike, who?”

Another sigh.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then why’d you bring it up? You can’t just do that.”

“Surely, I’ve told you about Mike.”

In the small hours this morning, I remembered Mike, again.

It was Valentine’s Day, but for my friend and I, just Wednesday.  We were taking a walk.  We paid no attention to the Z-28.  We couldn’t drive and the car didn’t belong to anyone we knew in the neighborhood.

The he must have been lost, because he passed us four times, before he stopped.

“Do you know where Joy Miller lives?”  We gave him directions and he took off.

Then he came back.  He hadn’t needed directions.

We managed not to faint as he introduced himself and asked for my number.  He was a junior and I was still in junior high, a freshman.

Valentine's Day 1982

Valentine’s Day 1982

He called a couple of days later.

We talked on the phone.  He made me laugh.  Somehow, I made him laugh, too.

“NO, you can’t date, you’re too young,” and it was true. I’d barely had my 15th birthday.

I had to tell him I couldn’t go anywhere with him.

Several calls and several nights later, after the house was quiet, the tap on my bedroom window was not a surprise.

I climbed on a chair, and opened the high window and there he stood.  Looking up.  Tennis shorts. Expensive haircut. Halston 1-12 thickened the warmth that radiated up to me.  Glad for the window, he’d never know I was trembling so I could barely stand.

We talked for a long time.  As I watched him walk back up the driveway, a strange feeling passed over me I’d never felt before.

Several nights later, we’d agreed again on the same signal.  This time, he was more persuasive or I was bolder, but I wasn’t trembling when I slid open the door, went to the gate, and let myself out.  Or him in.  Who really cares?

We talked for just a minute.  He stepped closer.  He had not come there to chat.  We could do that on the phone.

He took my face in his hands.

And he kissed me.

For an hour.

When my knees went weak, he put his arms around me.

And he kissed me.

I forgot I didn’t know how.

His hands never traveled.

Not so it’d matter.

For another hour.

“Go back in the house and go to bed,” he whispered.

And he kissed me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Art of the Wild Ride

Last week was a wild ride.  It reminded me of a wild ride of my own…

When I was in college, I set out on a quest to entice my earthly father to love me.  Admire me.  Say something.  Pursue me.

As a result, I did some things he shouldn’t have wanted me to do in a million years, but that’s the whole point. I have no idea what he wanted me to do.  Except major in something to do with money.  Not relationships.

So being as dad wore boots and jeans and raised cattle, I thought I should be a cowgirl.

So I bought some boots and went dancing.

Then I fell in with a bunch of kids who wore boots.  And hats.

Who drove filthy trucks to tumble down farms where they kept their own and other people’s horses. (I actually think we flipped a truck that day, but that’s another story).

This one little feller…

Was training a wild mustang someone he knew had bought from one of those protection organizations.

The rest of us stood around and watched him for forever.  While this crazy-eyed Appy on the other side of the barn tried to tear down his pen.  While we got hungrier and hungrier.  Thirstier and thirstier.

Finally, about 4:30, he declared her trained and moved her from the round pen to the arena.

They helped me up and handed me a bicycle inner tube.  Look, I know.  But I was just doing what I was told.  They said to take it.

We did a little figure eight and were pointed away from the house.  I gave her a little tap with the smooth heels of those ropers.

She ducked her head.

By the time I could lean back, she was in midair.

She was coiling for a spring.  The boys were beginning to yell and leap down from the fence.

I was scrambling to reclaim my seat.

She hit the ground the second time.  Front legs stiff.  Back legs spring loaded and ready to fire.

The boys were running and screaming but I didn’t know what the commotion was.  I had my hands full.

Those back legs fired, and we were flying.

One.  Two.

On three, she ducked and I did my first solo flight.  Over her shoulders, through the air.  I landed on the tip of my cute nose with my Rocky butt to the sky.

I scrambled to my feet.

I still had the inner tube in my hand.  I’d never used it and never let it go.

She was standing there with her front feet planted, sides heaving.  Like it’d been done to her.

I tightened my grip.  And started walking toward her.

A hand caught my arm.

When I looked up… three pairs of boy eyes glowed.

I’d ridden her.

I had a little dot of dirt on the end of my nose. But other than that, was completely whole.

I received the back slapping.  The trophy of spurs.

And they took me dancing.

Late in the evening, that horse trainer kid got a couple of beers in him and started crying, and asked me to marry him.

I still have the spurs.  They are on a table right inside my front door.

 

 

 

Pick Me! Pick Me! I Can Aim Low!

Blogging, little as I understand it, has become my thing.  I am a big starter and a so-so finisher.  I’ve been blogging for nearly three years, which is HUGE for me.

Blogging walked me through the adoption of our son from China.  I started following a few adoption blogs from the agency’s yahoo group.  As I followed, I gained the courage to hold the course through the uncertain nature of adoption.  I started my own, in hopes of sharing my story for those who’d walk that path.

One day, I saw a “blogs I follow” list.  Too new, to know a niche or that I had wandered away from camp, I found this blog. I laughed until I snorted and tears ran down my cheeks.

I stay home with my kids.  It can get lonely.  In December 2009, Jennifer posted to a meme at that blog.  Since then, we have built a friendship that I care about as much as some of my dearest IRL friendships.  She has encouraged me, mentored me, laughed when I laughed and cursed when I could only cry.  Like the finest friends do.

Blogging saw me through the adoption, my husband’s miserable job situation, walked with me through some health issues and realizing what a mid-life crisis is.  I think there were a lot of laughs, along the way.

I found Aiming Low several months ago.  They sound like how I speak in real life, except I can’t use the the eff word. I  do think it.  Remember, I am homeschooling two (2) 15 year-old girls.

Aiming Low has a Non-Conference.

The first time I saw the ad…

I peeked.

Yep, it’s what I think it is.

The next time,…

I took a longer look.

It’s not that far away.”

Then, when all my blogging crushes role models went to BlogHer, I got serious.  I looked at the cost to stay at Callaway Gardens,

“…and done.”

From then on, I diligently looked from references to Non-Con.  It wasn’t expensive.  On the contrary, it’s quite reasonable.  It’s just that in recovering from our season of going without food so the company owner could vacation in Hawaii economic recession, we need to plan for  things that come next–Christmas and extra-curricular activities.

Then, I saw it…

Simply Sassy Media Wanted to Send Me to Aiming Low’s Non-Con.

I wanted to write a sassy post.  I wanted to write a clever post. But the truth is…

I’ve nearly imploded in the last three years.  The blog probably saved my life.  Now, it’s time to build a soapbox to stand on to tell my story.  If there is one thing I am, it’s smart enough to know from whom I like to learn and for whom I’d like to fetch coffee.  Non-Con is “slam-packed” with the kind of stars I’d like to hitch my wagon to.

That’s, All Y’all.

Tell, Ree, if she’s of a mind to take the weekend off, I’ll bring rolls.

 

Thanks to Simply Sassy Media for the challenge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music Shapes Minds and Hearts

,A week month or so ago, Jennifer @ Momma Made It Look Easy asked a question on Facebook:

“Let’s talk song lyrics. What do you do about sexually suggestive song lyrics when they come on the radio? For example, Flo Rida’s new song Whistle, Katy Perry’s Peacock, DEV’s Dancing in the Dark. Do you change the station? Tell your kids they can’t listen because it is inappropriate? Does that open up the door for more questions? How do you explain it is inappropriate? Or do you just hope that they don’t figure out the meaning or start singing it in the produce aisle at the grocery store?

I started by trying to listen to the link to a video that Jennifer had provided.  Oops.  That’s not one I would even listen to with the kids in the room. By the time I scrambled to stop it, 24 seconds had passed.  Plenty of time.

Whistle, indeed.  It was an oral sex tutorial.

My simple answer: I turn it off.

Is anything that simple?  When your children are small, maybe you can turn it off and if they protest, say,”What?  Oh.  I wasn’t paying attention to the song. I’m just trying to find a station with the weather on.”

Not here.  Not anymore.

When I was a kid, we listened to the radio, a lot.  My husband’s favorite freakish gift of mine is that I have a nearly complete catalog of 1970s pop lyrics in my head, accessible at any time.  Off the top of my head, I can list several that are about  intercourse, oral sex, or masturbation–all hits on the Adult Contemprary Top 40 before 1985.

 I went around singing whatever was on. I wonder what boys thought.  I wonder what random men in public places thought.  I don’t wonder much.  Neither, do I wonder, now that I am an adult, familiar with idiom and euphemism, what men think, when my daughters sing along to the greatest hits of their time.

Periodically, I take the lyric of a song and parce it out for my daughters. They hate this.

Yet, I’ve noticed, if they are listening to the AC station regularly, they become even more oppositional, even more self-centered, and begin to dress with less regard to fashion or self-respect.

Some songs have to do with suicide, stalking, infidelity or one night stands. The middle ground is selfish, self-centeredness and inflated ego, mixed with tales of co-dependency and a search for meaning in mediocrity.

We become what our hearts meditate on.

It’s a parent’s privilege, not only to guard their children from too much information too soon, but also to grow those people’s hearts into unselfish, hard-working, imaginative, healthy adults.

Trouble is, the radio station is marketing to young adults aged 18-24, and they like it dirty.

The strategy that works best in our home is a full toolbox:

–Ask them to turn it off.

–If it’s my option, I turn it off.

–If it’s somewhere that the radio doesn’t belong to us– a)distract,  b)re-direct, or c)leave the area.

— “Please don’t sing that song. I know it’s just a catchy tune, but it says two things and one of them is not nice.”

“What, Mommy?”

“You don’t need to know.  You just have to trust me.”

Just like God says to me, when He asks me to relinquish something mediocre for an excellent promise I will not receive until much later.

Grounded. Together.

If you’re new here, and I hope at least 50 or more of you are, my blog is to record things I want my children to know.  Now that my face is actually blue, I need a transcript, so when they say, “WHY DIDN”T YOU TELL ME!!!”  I can say, “See, Honey, I tried.

Another function of the blog is to give a gentle heads-up to the parent of young children.  A significantly filtered look into the future.  An opportunity to prepare, but not enough information to scare.

Or whatever.

This is the first time the girls are completely grounded.  There have been times we’ve removed certain privileges, but never an across the board “cultural lockdown.”

Here is why.

There’s this wise-sounding piece of parenting advice that reminds parents not to punish themselves.

That is wrong and deceptive.

First, that ship sailed when the pee hit the stick.

Second, If you aren’t willing to be inconvenienced to make an impression on your child’s heart and mind, you will visit judgement upon your future self in the form of the kind of sludge I am shoveling now.  It shows what is most important…the child’s character or getting to girls’ night.

–leave Target and take her “I’ll-by-gosh-have-this-Barbie-or-know-the-reason-why” tantrum throwing butt to the car.  Text your husband to bring you a magazine and a hot black coffee and whatever was on your list.

–cancel the play date, skip the birthday party: tell the mom, “Sorry.”  If she asks why, she’s rude.  You can’t make it.

–call the coach and tell him you are missing practice.  Yeah, I said it.  Another day, I’ll climb on my soapbox about young athletes thinking they’re above the law.  Not today.

I count on the above activities as a break from being the organ grinder’s monkey who has to perform if they drop a penny in my cup.  Maybe because it’s summer, I hear an endless, “CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?” (Recently, I told them to stop asking coming to me for permission to do things(that call for a ruling) and look around for things they already know they have permission to do.)  They’re hip-deep in pre-qualified, socio-cognitively rich, entertainment options.

I digress.

I was on inconveniencing yourself.

Do it, now.  Just a few startled looks from now, that child will believe you when you talk.

Don’t be like me.

They are just wrapping up week one of a 35 day “cultural lockdown” (it’s the new grounding [Not really, I made it up and hope it catches on]).  I COULD NOT BE MORE GRATEFUL THAT THE ISSUE IS WHAT IT IS. While I am not glad to have “Flaming-Trousered Prevaricators”, I could be dealing with worse.

Currently, I haven’t been alone except to bathe (and then only 77% of the time) in a week.  We started school this week. I did it because if we had more to do we would not have had so much time to come up with stupid ideas (or join our sister on the crew of the SS ‘Ignorificance’).

They are ‘killing me softly’.

Being grounded when you’re a kid, you’re not observing yourself.  I’m watching them, and can tell they don’t get that they took the risk and, by extension, chose whatever happened when they got caught.  They don’t see “this hurts me more than it hurts them” and may cause my death if I don’t get some time away from them.  They don’t see the whole point is that they’re missing things they’d like to do.  And I don’t care.

But I do.

No, I don’t.

It all depends on when you want to put in the time.  You can do it early.  Or later on.

Most things in life are like that.

So we’re all just…grounded.  Together.

 

 

 

 

Yesterday’s Music, Tomorrow’s Dance

If you’ve been following along, SOMEBODY hates a cliche.  That same somebody, is one.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Maggie is having a mid-life crisis.

As we left our heroine, she was apologizing to the mother of a grown man for the accuracy of her remaining vision-the simple ability to discern an attractive adult male from a troll in the visual field.  Having forgotten almost entirely that the man in question is 10 months older than someone she’s been shooing away from her daughter for a year. She joined her 15 year-olds watching interviews on You Tube.*

Finally registering the distant sound of tires screeching and horns blaring.

HEY MAGGIE.  IT’S GONE.  THERE IS NO GOING BACK.  Step back and look, Darling.  No one will ever sing to you again about your flipping hair.  You worry about being that mom who is acting like her teen.  This is her.  She thought she’d take a break in the fun to raise some kids and then go back to charging around being spontaneous and irresistible.  Now her kids are approaching that time in their lives, she’s thinking she’ll just dust off her dance moves and join the fun.

Then she takes a new picture.

And. Sees. Her….  Jowls.

No, that wasn’t her, that was me.

Let’s tally up the score.

1) Face it.  You aren’t getting around like you used to.

2) You are old enough to be the ‘cool aunt’ for people who own their own homes.

3) You are appalled by little kids singing, “we-broke-up-but-Imma-stalk-you-or-you-stalk-me-K?” songs.

4) You keep thinking you’ll get back down to the weight you were in college.  No, Girl. You need that last ten pounds to fill in the loose skin.

5) Barring accident or injury, you are halfway to death.

6) Go quietly.

Back in my time, we had a saying,…

“Like hell.”

ACCIDENTAL MANIFESTO FOR THE SECOND ACT

Grow up. Stop thinking magic works like that.  Magic happens when the callouses on your work-hardened hands click together and make sparks.

You can’t be the cool grandma, when the time comes, if the baby gets scratched on your navel ring**.

Nothing is as sexy as dignity.

 

By the time you were your daughters’ age, you were managing your life.

Stop complaining about them expecting to be waited on, if you won’t let them do the job.

All your “reasons” are legit.  If you don’t move on, they become “excuses”.

Do NOT pass that on to your kids.

Quit being vain.  Take care of your appearance.

If you won’t exercise because you’re embarrassed, the arthritis will come for you.

If you won’t take care of your skin and hair because of money or time or “those products don’t really work”,

the mirror will not pull any punches. Don’t complain about the lighting.

Get over your boobs.  No one cares.

There’s no promise you’ll get to keep them.  Appreciate them.

Keep them under control, but don’t apologize.

Dance.

Work.

Feel Beautiful.

Love.

This second act, unlike the first, which was largely written by others, must be entered on purpose.

Head up, eyes open.  Because you learned in the first act what you can trip over.

Enter strong.

This is when the reviews are written.

 

* If you are dancing in the 100th row, with a phone you just fished out of Chelsea’s Sprite, the video sucks; be ashamed to upload it.

**This is not to say I’ve ruled out the navel ring, but there will be no ink and a granny must categorically never sport a bare midriff.

***photos have been removed because I can’t

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writer’s Workshop: Back In Time

1.) Recycle a favorite post from July of any year that you have been blogging.  This post is actually from the ‘now defunct’ adoption blog, with updates per the ones that are accomplished.

There are 100 things I’d like to do before I celebrate my 100th birthday.  Well, quite number more than that, and the fun stuff more than once.  But you know…I have to digress in some direction(the jury is still out on whether I need some meds for the ADD)  [In 2012,I have not one, but two doctors opinions.  It’s not ADD.  I’m just annoying]  .  Since encouraged to take a moment to contemplate the future’s starlit canvas ( what?), here is the list of things so I have it written down in a place I might be able to find it to mark things off.

CRAZYBELOVED ONE HUNDRED THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I TURN ONE HUNDRED

  1.     Be debt free–all debt: credit cards,
  2.     Home
  3.     Auto. Did it, paid one off.  Bought a new one on Monday.
  4.     Save to pay for College,
  5.     Weddings
  6.      And retirement.
  7.      Be finished with this house, by renovation or evacuation.
  8.      Participate in the Neighborhood Christmas Tour of Historic Homes.  I volunteered, again.  Got my fill.
  9.     Find a vacation rental we can return to year after year…we are thinking Outer Banks.
  10.     Be well-read instead of just a reader.
  11.     Finish the story that lives on my shoulder and never skips a day of asking to be written.
  12.     Publish.
  13.     Become known for my hospitality (don’t think Martha, think iced tea in mason jars and laughing until 3 a.m; not moving from the dining room to the living room because it might break the spell).
  14.     Learn to like feta or some other objectionable trendy food.
  15.     Become a REALLY good cook.  Not a gourmet chef.  A Good Cook.
  16.     Own a little neighborhood coffee shop.
  17.      Enter the Pillsbury Bake-off.*
  18.     Figure out a way to share with others in a way that meets needs that are beyond shelter and food.
  19.     Get consistent with my nutrition and exercise.There are not really days off in life.
  20.     Lose 10 more pounds. Change this to twenty.
  21.      Be organized. Real life, finished singing the same old tune, once and for all.
  22.      Have a house that appears to have been decorated with any amount of deliberateness.
  23.      Have 15 minutes of fame for something pleasant.  Not for being a stupid idiot.
  24.      Be a good listener.
  25.      Visit the following: Grand Canyon.
  26.      Philadelphia
  27.      Washington D.C.
  28.      Alaska
  29.      Mount Rushmore
  30.      Kenya
  31.      Spontaneously jump into the car and take off for the beach.
  32.      Get an slr and learn how to use it*
  33.      Kick a bad habit– TV, caffeine, sugar.
  34.      Go geocaching*
  35.      Farm (you know, a garden and a goat and some hens)
  36.      Dress Fabulously
  37.      Have a “signature scent”.
  38.      School my kids to graduation. To the option to go to a really good college.  If they choose.
  39.      Get through this “teen” stage with my girls and move through to a fun healthy relationship.
  40.      Be the mom who has the fun ideas and executes them simply and economically.
  41.      Be the good grandma.
  42.      Have enormous great holiday celebrations.
  43.      Meet some of my favorite bloggers in person*  Met Shell, at Blissdom; sent by Jennifer.  Found a ton of new faves.
  44.      See some important relationships healed on both sides.
  45.      Invite my cousins, SILS, and nieces & nephews to come visit and have them come or want to come.
  46.      Get a cabin in the mountains for Christmas
  47.      Be the family with season passes for the good stuff (not the living history museum).
  48.      Have the courage and wit to stand up for the right so well that people are persuaded without being angry first.
  49.      Learn to scuba dive (from Lance who promised it to us for a wedding gift).
  50.      Learn to climb rocks.
  51.      Get proficient at some sort of textile related craft.*
  52.      Dance in the rain, again.
  53.      Take Mickey to see the Yankees.
  54.      Buy him a(nother) ’65 Mustang.
  55.      Be better at my job.
  56.      Hang out with the Fergusons, again.  Did it.  Last Mother’s Day…Already time to put it back on the list.
  57.      Win something big.
  58.      Own an RV.
  59.      And the big @#$ truck to pull it with.
  60.      See a miracle.
  61.      Visit Boston.
  62.      Know someone who eventually becomes REALLY famous.(Every Oklahoman who knew Mary Hart when she was on Dannysday.)
  63.      Help my kids search their heritage when the time comes.
  64.     Go snowskiing.
  65.     Spend Christmas in New England.
  66.     Do something that would make my aunts and cousins proud.
  67.     Raise beautiful flowers.
  68.     Keep a journal.
  69.     Have another transcendant friend.
  70.     Be really old and have people asking what the secret is and saying crazy stuff like eating bacon, smoking tiparillos, going without sunscreen, drinking a shot of cheap tequila every time I go #2.  Or whatever.
  71.     Build a home in the plan of either the 83rd street house or my Grandmother’s house.
  72.     Not skydive. So far so good.
  73.     Watch the sunset over a rocky shoreline, drinking wine, while my flat stomach peeks out the bottom of my camisole over the comfortable expensive jeans.
  74.     Visit all the amusement parks so my husband can ride all the roller coasters(I like a day at the park, but don’t particularly care for coasters.  Mickey and Diva E’s joy would be enough).
  75.    De-clutter my house.
  76.    Learn to speak Chinese
  77.    Stand-up at an Open Mic Night
  78.    Enter a Chili Cook-Off.
  79.    Win.
  80.    Love.
  81.    Help.
  82.    Sing.
  83.     Rejoice.
  84.     Be a cause for rejoicing.
  85.     Encourage others.
  86.     Teach my kids the same.
  87.     Teach my kids our family history and theirs.
  88.     Get the Thank Yous out in a timely fashion.
  89.     Get a niece from China. 
  90.     Move the washer and dryer downstairs to the right spot.
  91.     Have a collection of something interesting (-er than coffee mugs and cookbooks).
  92.     Have good hair and skin (please God, one time before I die).
  93.     Not end my 15 minutes of fame by being a stupid idiot.
  94.     Never EVER meet Tom Cruise (or Angelina Jolie or Kate Gosselin or Meredith Viera or Nicole Kidman).  Right on schedule.
  95.     Be prepared in case of an emergency.
  96.    Get a boy’s room ready with a cowboy theme.
  97.    Finish raising the funds for this adoption.
  98.    Pack well.
  99.    Fly to China.
  100.    BRING MY SON HOME!!!!

Now wouldn’t it be fun to pass your list to the person on your right and help make each others lists happen?

 

This is my first time to choose a Mama Kat prompt to write on.  It is a load of fun. [I try to link up often.  It’s still fun.]

I am linking this post to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop, still.

 

 

*some of these need to give credit to Jennifer @ Momma Made It Look Easy.  These are the ones I might not have remembered if I hadn’t read her list.  Any other duplication is because we seem to look forward to some similar things.

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