My husband and I had a long weekend in Las Vegas. We arrived on Friday and returned home on Monday evening. That was about three days too long. We went for a special gathering with some of my high school classmates and I was very excited about reuniting with them and reliving our glory days. Vegas is a destination we have long enjoyed for its never-ending bacchanalian party, the constant stream of “interesting” people to watch, and the cheap drinks and food. One of us has changed – either I have become more discerning or Vegas has undergone a major transformation.
As Robert Earl Keen so brilliantly states, “The road goes on forever and the party never ends.” But, I’d like my road to be a tad bit shorter and for the party to stop at a reasonable hour. I cannot believe I am about to admit this, but - I can only take so much hell raising and then I would like to go rest for a while. My feet hurt, I needed to remove my contact lenses due to all of the second hand smoke, and I was just plain t-i-r-e-d. I tried, I really did try, but I just couldn’t stay up until the wee hours of the morning drinking and gambling and hanging with my friends. If memory serves, I don’t think they were up for the late nights either. At one point my husband looked at me, asked if I was having fun. I couldn’t lie – I said, “No,” and we called it a day.
Oh, my God – the crowds. I thought America was experiencing a recession, but someone forgot to tell the zillions of people crowding the streets and casinos of Las Vegas. And the noise, there was nowhere I could go to escape the constant drone of humanity mixed with machinery. From the United Nations mix of languages on every street corner and in my hotel corridor to the ding-ding-ding of the slot machines there was no escaping the sounds. Even in the confines of my over-priced hotel room I could hear the conversations of every guest and every hotel worker who passed my door. I craved silence. On more than one occasion I asked myself why I hadn’t spent this vacation money on a trip to a secluded beach.
And spend money we did. There is no such thing as a “cheap” meal in Las Vegas anymore. We used to enjoy some nice dinners for reasonable prices while visiting the casinos – but no more. Now every restaurant boasts a big name, celebrity chef which apparently means they have the right to charge $57 for a plate of butternut squash ravioli. Let’s not forget the alcohol – I certainly didn’t. I did however, end up paying $12 to $17 for a glass of mediocre red wine. The same mediocre red wine I can buy for less than $12 a bottle at the grocery store. The cutesy little cocktail waitresses on the casino floor brought me several glasses of wine for only a meager tip, but once I sipped it I was afraid I would wake up blind the next morning and so I opted to continue on with the overpriced mediocre red. (Note to self: If I ever open a winery I should call my wines Mediocre Red, and Mediocre White.)
All-in-all I was not sad to leave Las Vegas. The highlight of the trip was seeing old friends and reminiscing about our high school days. Thanks guys for making the trip worthwhile. As far as I’m concerned what happens in Vegas can certainly stay in Vegas – I sure don’t want to take it home with me.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Five-and-Dime
I write more than just this one blog, I have a blog called: http://doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com/
It is a much easier blog to write; therefore I post more often to it. Tonight when I was selecting a word for the vocabulary blog I came across the word “five-and-dime.” Selecting that as my word for today reminded me that I have long wanted to write something about the dime store my sister, brothers, and I frequented as children when visiting my grandparent’s house in Tyler, Texas. The store was called Perry’s and it was on the block behind my grandparent’s home. We walked out of their back door (slamming the screen door), across the Saint Augustine grass-covered back yard, through the creosote alley, alongside a neighbor’s garage, crossing a street and finally arriving at the magical five-and-dime store. We were really young when allowed to make the trek alone – something my adult mind has a hard time accepting, but it was one of the highlights of visiting our east Texas grandparents.
As soon as we arrived at our ancestral home we began begging our parents and/or grandparents for money to go to Perry’s. As soon as the car was unloaded and Daddy had poured himself a highball he would give us his pocket change (usually supplemented with coins from my MaMaw’s coin purse) and send us on our way to the magical emporium known as the “10-cent-store.” Even in the 1960s I doubt there was much we could purchase for a dime, but we perused the aisles like any discriminating shopper, trying to make the most of our money.
I can vividly recall some of the purchases made at Perry’s. There were wooden paddle-ball racquets with elastic strings which usually broke before I could get the rhythm of the game, balsa wood airplanes, plastic faux Barbie dolls, and sets of marbles and jacks. My siblings and I horded our new toys and plotted how to trade with each other as soon as the novelty wore off (or as soon as we broke ours).
All too soon I graduated to Cutex nail polish and Tangee orange lipstick. It wasn’t long before the allure of the Perry’s five-and-dime wore off. I was too sophisticated at thirteen to beg my parents for pocket change to buy cheap goods from the dime store.
How I miss those simple days. How I long to go back to Perry’s and browse the aisles for little treats. It was such a small, simple pleasure, but one that doesn’t exist anymore. Oh, sure, I might get a small thrill when I find a really interesting item at the Dollar Store, but nothing can compare to the childhood pleasure of selecting my own merchandise and spending money without adult supervision that I felt on those long ago days at Perry’s.
I feel sorry for the children who will never know that feeling, the feeling of being a bona fide consumer. I don’t think the Mega-Store, Wal-Mart experience can bring the same exhilaration. There are no longer store clerks willing to wait on a child with only a quarter to spend, no longer store clerks willing to make a child’s solo shopping experience one they will recall forty years later with such nostalgia.
Thank you Perry’s for giving me such grand memories and thank you Daddy for giving me your pocket change.
It is a much easier blog to write; therefore I post more often to it. Tonight when I was selecting a word for the vocabulary blog I came across the word “five-and-dime.” Selecting that as my word for today reminded me that I have long wanted to write something about the dime store my sister, brothers, and I frequented as children when visiting my grandparent’s house in Tyler, Texas. The store was called Perry’s and it was on the block behind my grandparent’s home. We walked out of their back door (slamming the screen door), across the Saint Augustine grass-covered back yard, through the creosote alley, alongside a neighbor’s garage, crossing a street and finally arriving at the magical five-and-dime store. We were really young when allowed to make the trek alone – something my adult mind has a hard time accepting, but it was one of the highlights of visiting our east Texas grandparents.
As soon as we arrived at our ancestral home we began begging our parents and/or grandparents for money to go to Perry’s. As soon as the car was unloaded and Daddy had poured himself a highball he would give us his pocket change (usually supplemented with coins from my MaMaw’s coin purse) and send us on our way to the magical emporium known as the “10-cent-store.” Even in the 1960s I doubt there was much we could purchase for a dime, but we perused the aisles like any discriminating shopper, trying to make the most of our money.
I can vividly recall some of the purchases made at Perry’s. There were wooden paddle-ball racquets with elastic strings which usually broke before I could get the rhythm of the game, balsa wood airplanes, plastic faux Barbie dolls, and sets of marbles and jacks. My siblings and I horded our new toys and plotted how to trade with each other as soon as the novelty wore off (or as soon as we broke ours).
All too soon I graduated to Cutex nail polish and Tangee orange lipstick. It wasn’t long before the allure of the Perry’s five-and-dime wore off. I was too sophisticated at thirteen to beg my parents for pocket change to buy cheap goods from the dime store.
How I miss those simple days. How I long to go back to Perry’s and browse the aisles for little treats. It was such a small, simple pleasure, but one that doesn’t exist anymore. Oh, sure, I might get a small thrill when I find a really interesting item at the Dollar Store, but nothing can compare to the childhood pleasure of selecting my own merchandise and spending money without adult supervision that I felt on those long ago days at Perry’s.
I feel sorry for the children who will never know that feeling, the feeling of being a bona fide consumer. I don’t think the Mega-Store, Wal-Mart experience can bring the same exhilaration. There are no longer store clerks willing to wait on a child with only a quarter to spend, no longer store clerks willing to make a child’s solo shopping experience one they will recall forty years later with such nostalgia.
Thank you Perry’s for giving me such grand memories and thank you Daddy for giving me your pocket change.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Nice People
Any time my husband accompanies me to an event he comments on the quality of folk I know. Yep, he is right. I know a lot of great people. It is sometimes awesome to be me. Thanks to my friends for making my life so great. I love you all.
Monday, April 12, 2010
House of Cards
I think my life is like a house of cards (or maybe like the plate twirling acts on the Ed Sullivan Show). Over the years I’ve become adept at the construction – multiple stories made from multiple decks of cards, but lately I feel as if I’ve maxed out my building capabilities. One more card and the whole shebang will come tumbling down. As it is, I feel like some cards are beginning to slip and I’m working extra hard to shore up my house of cards.
The majority of the cards are face cards, but instead of the Jack, Queen, and King looking at me, I see the faces of my friends, family, co-workers, and clients. I see the face of illness, the face of death, and the face of demand. And every one of them is yelling at me to hurry up, do more, be better.
One more card and it is all going to topple. What will that card be? I’ve recently added the most likeable card to the repertoire – gardening. It is a seasonal card, but one I enjoy. I hope I can find a place for it among the other cards without bringing down the house. We shall see.
The majority of the cards are face cards, but instead of the Jack, Queen, and King looking at me, I see the faces of my friends, family, co-workers, and clients. I see the face of illness, the face of death, and the face of demand. And every one of them is yelling at me to hurry up, do more, be better.
One more card and it is all going to topple. What will that card be? I’ve recently added the most likeable card to the repertoire – gardening. It is a seasonal card, but one I enjoy. I hope I can find a place for it among the other cards without bringing down the house. We shall see.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Epiphany
Epiphany:
Merriam-Webster’s collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition (2003)
epiphany noun (plural -nies) Etymology: Middle English epiphanie, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Late Greek, plural, probably alteration of Greek epiphaneia appearance, manifestation, from epiphainein to manifest, from epi- + phainein to show Date: 14th century 1. capitalized January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ 2. an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being 3. a. (1) a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b. a revealing scene or moment
I had an epiphany (see definition 3 above) of sorts at my grandmother’s house this past week. Until that moment my mindset was “let’s fix this,” much as it was after my mother, Carol, was diagnosed with lung cancer. On my first trip home, after receiving mother’s medical news, I arrived like gangbusters, ready to take on the entire Houston, Texas medical community to find a cure for my mother. I passionately and positively roused the rest of the troops (family) and convinced them all that a cure was in the cards for Carol Louise Owen Primo because we were special, we were blessed, we were determined. Four months later, when the battle was over and Carol was gone and hindsight was focusing in on twenty-twenty, I realized I was wrong. If I could repeat my mother’s final four months I would arrive at her house a kinder, gentler daughter to enjoy our last days at home with the help of pain killers instead of in the hospital undergoing procedures and pain. I can’t blame her doctors, they all fell in love with my mother and wanted to cure her with the same vigor that her family was demonstrating. No one knew when it was time to accept fate.
I found myself in the same “champion of the sick” mode when I entered my grandmother’s bedroom to make her get out of bed, to make her go to the surgeon’s office so we could find a way to cure her. I quickly remembered that no one can make my 103-year old grandmother do anything.
When I saw her frail-bird body lying under the fluffy down comforter, and when she politely, yet firmly, told me “No,” it came upon me, as an epiphany, that she was right. She did not have to get up from her soft, warm cocoon of a bed. She did not have to do anything. All of the frantic energy I was focusing into finding medical help for her ebbed. I lay down beside her, felt the softness and warmth she was wrapped up in and realized she was still the leader of our family, still in charge in spite of her frailty. I was at peace.
The term “quality of life” is much tossed about when a person has died of cancer after grueling months of chemotherapy and radiation. I have rarely heard the same term used when talking about old age and illness. What is quality of life at 103? I think it is staying at home and staying in bed as late as you wish – warm and snuggly under the covers. It is eating what you want, when you want. It is having your family around you to minister tender loving care. It is knowing you are loved and respected and held in esteem. It is when everyone around you allows you the dignity you have earned during your long life. It is calling your own shots and making your own decisions.
I am proud my grandmother is enjoying such immense quality of life at her age. I am sorry Carol didn’t have the same opportunity, I hope I will.
Merriam-Webster’s collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition (2003)
epiphany noun (plural -nies) Etymology: Middle English epiphanie, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Late Greek, plural, probably alteration of Greek epiphaneia appearance, manifestation, from epiphainein to manifest, from epi- + phainein to show Date: 14th century 1. capitalized January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ 2. an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being 3. a. (1) a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b. a revealing scene or moment
I had an epiphany (see definition 3 above) of sorts at my grandmother’s house this past week. Until that moment my mindset was “let’s fix this,” much as it was after my mother, Carol, was diagnosed with lung cancer. On my first trip home, after receiving mother’s medical news, I arrived like gangbusters, ready to take on the entire Houston, Texas medical community to find a cure for my mother. I passionately and positively roused the rest of the troops (family) and convinced them all that a cure was in the cards for Carol Louise Owen Primo because we were special, we were blessed, we were determined. Four months later, when the battle was over and Carol was gone and hindsight was focusing in on twenty-twenty, I realized I was wrong. If I could repeat my mother’s final four months I would arrive at her house a kinder, gentler daughter to enjoy our last days at home with the help of pain killers instead of in the hospital undergoing procedures and pain. I can’t blame her doctors, they all fell in love with my mother and wanted to cure her with the same vigor that her family was demonstrating. No one knew when it was time to accept fate.
I found myself in the same “champion of the sick” mode when I entered my grandmother’s bedroom to make her get out of bed, to make her go to the surgeon’s office so we could find a way to cure her. I quickly remembered that no one can make my 103-year old grandmother do anything.
When I saw her frail-bird body lying under the fluffy down comforter, and when she politely, yet firmly, told me “No,” it came upon me, as an epiphany, that she was right. She did not have to get up from her soft, warm cocoon of a bed. She did not have to do anything. All of the frantic energy I was focusing into finding medical help for her ebbed. I lay down beside her, felt the softness and warmth she was wrapped up in and realized she was still the leader of our family, still in charge in spite of her frailty. I was at peace.
The term “quality of life” is much tossed about when a person has died of cancer after grueling months of chemotherapy and radiation. I have rarely heard the same term used when talking about old age and illness. What is quality of life at 103? I think it is staying at home and staying in bed as late as you wish – warm and snuggly under the covers. It is eating what you want, when you want. It is having your family around you to minister tender loving care. It is knowing you are loved and respected and held in esteem. It is when everyone around you allows you the dignity you have earned during your long life. It is calling your own shots and making your own decisions.
I am proud my grandmother is enjoying such immense quality of life at her age. I am sorry Carol didn’t have the same opportunity, I hope I will.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Yawn
Tired, very tired. I have not been sleeping well and feel that I am suffering from sleep deprivation. I can’t think straight, my work is suffering, my house is a mess, and I am a wreck.
Sleep, I need sleep.
I wrote those words yesterday. What a difference a night makes, a night of sleep. With the help of a much-touted pharmaceutical wonder I was able to get NINE hours of sleep last night. I can’t remember when (if ever) I’ve slept for nine hours. I awoke feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to tackle all of the work I haven’t had the energy to pursue of late.
That energetic feeling lasted about an hour and I reverted to my normal self, but oh-well, at least I’m rested. Sleeping felt so good I think I’ll give it another try tonight, but without the prescription sleep aid. I’ll try it on my own tonight, without the “training wheels” and see what happens. Hopefully my body has gotten the hang of it and will do it on its own.
I don’t know if it is a sign of aging or maybe an indicator of too much stress, but lately sleep has been elusive. This is fairly new for me, I’ve never had a difficult time falling asleep or staying asleep. Well, except for when the snoring husband wakes me, but even then I can fall back to sleep once I’ve kicked him in the head and told him to roll over.
I’m afraid my new sleep pattern, or rather – lack of sleep pattern, will become a habit. I’m practicing good sleep hygiene, as prescribed by all of the Google insomnia sites I’ve visited. No television in the bedroom, no exercise or alcohol before bedtime (guess which one I don’t mind eliminating), a dark room, no noise, etc. I’ve given up caffeine after lunch and even tried warm milk and chamomile tea in the evening. Next I’ll have to make a trip to the health food store for melatonin to see if that works or if it is just a new-age snake oil treatment.
When I was a child I tried hard to avoid sleep, refusing naps and holding out until the last possible minute before acquiescing to my appointed bedtime. When I was a teen I stayed up late and slept until mid-afternoon when I could. As a young mother I never got enough sleep because of infant feeding schedules and a most hectic lifestyle. I suppose I’ve always had an odd relationship with sleep, but now I’m developing a relationship with sleeplessness, a relationship I don't want.
The kettle is whistling, the chamomile is calling, and I feel like an old woman complaining about my ailments. Maybe tomorrow I can write about the arthritis in my thumb.
Sleep, I need sleep.
I wrote those words yesterday. What a difference a night makes, a night of sleep. With the help of a much-touted pharmaceutical wonder I was able to get NINE hours of sleep last night. I can’t remember when (if ever) I’ve slept for nine hours. I awoke feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to tackle all of the work I haven’t had the energy to pursue of late.
That energetic feeling lasted about an hour and I reverted to my normal self, but oh-well, at least I’m rested. Sleeping felt so good I think I’ll give it another try tonight, but without the prescription sleep aid. I’ll try it on my own tonight, without the “training wheels” and see what happens. Hopefully my body has gotten the hang of it and will do it on its own.
I don’t know if it is a sign of aging or maybe an indicator of too much stress, but lately sleep has been elusive. This is fairly new for me, I’ve never had a difficult time falling asleep or staying asleep. Well, except for when the snoring husband wakes me, but even then I can fall back to sleep once I’ve kicked him in the head and told him to roll over.
I’m afraid my new sleep pattern, or rather – lack of sleep pattern, will become a habit. I’m practicing good sleep hygiene, as prescribed by all of the Google insomnia sites I’ve visited. No television in the bedroom, no exercise or alcohol before bedtime (guess which one I don’t mind eliminating), a dark room, no noise, etc. I’ve given up caffeine after lunch and even tried warm milk and chamomile tea in the evening. Next I’ll have to make a trip to the health food store for melatonin to see if that works or if it is just a new-age snake oil treatment.
When I was a child I tried hard to avoid sleep, refusing naps and holding out until the last possible minute before acquiescing to my appointed bedtime. When I was a teen I stayed up late and slept until mid-afternoon when I could. As a young mother I never got enough sleep because of infant feeding schedules and a most hectic lifestyle. I suppose I’ve always had an odd relationship with sleep, but now I’m developing a relationship with sleeplessness, a relationship I don't want.
The kettle is whistling, the chamomile is calling, and I feel like an old woman complaining about my ailments. Maybe tomorrow I can write about the arthritis in my thumb.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I Am So Out Of Here!
I really thought I’d make my goal of writing everyday during Lent, but here I am with only two more days to go and I’ve decided to call it quits. Not just on the forty days of blogging, but on the whole blog idea. This will be my last blog. I am finished, kaput, out of here.
I began this blog on September 13, 2008. During that time I have posted 230 separate blog entries, each one painstakingly written and monopolizing a fair amount of time – time which I could be using for really important things, like cleaning my house.
If I felt like anyone was actually reading and/or enjoying and/or appreciating my efforts I might not quit – but I just did a quick check of my blog stats and out of all 230 blogs I have only received 75 comments. Only 75! That really tells me that no one cares; no one gives a @#% about anything I write. So I’m stopping.
After all, I’m doing this for you – my so called eager readers. I am toiling away hours and hours daily to try to make you happy. If anyone is still reading this entry I hope you have realized by now that today is April Fools Day and I really don’t give a @#$% if I have any readers or if anyone makes a comment. This is my therapy; I’m doing this for me. But if you would like to comment, feel free. Don’t forget that sometimes you have to hit the submit button a couple of times before it actually works.
I began this blog on September 13, 2008. During that time I have posted 230 separate blog entries, each one painstakingly written and monopolizing a fair amount of time – time which I could be using for really important things, like cleaning my house.
If I felt like anyone was actually reading and/or enjoying and/or appreciating my efforts I might not quit – but I just did a quick check of my blog stats and out of all 230 blogs I have only received 75 comments. Only 75! That really tells me that no one cares; no one gives a @#% about anything I write. So I’m stopping.
After all, I’m doing this for you – my so called eager readers. I am toiling away hours and hours daily to try to make you happy. If anyone is still reading this entry I hope you have realized by now that today is April Fools Day and I really don’t give a @#$% if I have any readers or if anyone makes a comment. This is my therapy; I’m doing this for me. But if you would like to comment, feel free. Don’t forget that sometimes you have to hit the submit button a couple of times before it actually works.
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