Candy Jars and Florida Rooms

Dear Diary,
I'll be forthright.  This post is mostly for my own indulgence. 

I had quite the trip down memory lane the other day -- no, literally, I was driving, so I was on a literal trip that took a figurative turn down memory lane.

I drove past a home that triggered my earliest childhood memories of visiting grandma and grandpa's house when I was still in the single-digit age.

In my early childhood, I actually had the benefit of having both sets of grandparents in the same 'hood.  So if we visited one, we usually got to see the other too. (And we got to walk down the block to church, where my granddad was the pastor!  So novel!)

Seeing this house immersed me into a daydream about my grandparents' homes and what I remembered, tangibly, about each one....

Climbing the backyard fruit trees and playing outside in the concrete window well.

The room the adults oddly called the Florida Room, but my young mind was confused at this label since we were in the middle of the Midwest!  I can still smell the vinyl from the indoor/outdoor furniture in that room, and remember listening to the ocean from a conch on an end table.  (Yes, the room does seem obviously named, but you aren't seven years old, either.)

I remember a special stool in the kitchen we cousins would sit on, and loved the icy-cold feeling of an aluminum cup in my mouth, which offered up water or lemonade on a hot summer day.

My other grandparent's home had the water bed.  A jiggly, gurgly, rockin' and rollin' kind of bed from the '70s, which really could make a kid nauseous trying to sleep on it. Even reaching to scratch an itch could cause a tidal wave effect for the surfers sleepers.

I remember drinking Pepsi at this house. We were Coke and Tab kind of people so Pepsi was such a fizzy, sweet treat!  My grandparents had a fridge where ice and water came out of the door!  That was a novelty to me. 

I also remember the green glass candy jar with chewy, sugar coated jellies in it.  The fragile nature of the jar ensured I had to ask an adult for candy, rather than sneaking one myself.  I am the lucky owner of that jar now.

I also remember a naked lady lamp.  Well, maybe in my maturity I would now call it tabletop Greco Roman light-up art.  A Grecian style female was the centerpiece, surrounded by 360 degrees of wire pillars, which dripped beads of oil so it looked like water was constantly raining down around her.  I remember it glowed a soft yellow and I couldn't resist touching a drop of oil occasionally. 

I am not the owner of that piece of memorabilia.  (Maybe my brother nabbed it?)

I was so lost in thought on my trip down memory lane that I emerged from my past only when I found myself pulling into my present day driveway. Ever wonder how you got from Point A to Point B sometimes?

For folks blessed enough to grow up with visits to grandma's house, I hope this instigates candy jar and Florida Room memories of your own!

And if you still are reading this,
thank you for indulging me.

LJ

The Thing's the Thing

Dear Diary,
I am wondering what is happening to the brain cells of my family members.  Are they vanishing because we are nearing the end of the school year, the finish line looming before us, waiting to be crossed at break-neck speed -- except we checked our brains out at the last mile marker?

For example, I recently overheard a statement from daughter #2 the other day that went something like this:  "You need to get the thingy-thing and put it over there on the thing."  (To which daughter #3 would say, "I know, right?")

OK, that's cute the first time.
But saying "the thingy" or "the thingy-thing" is becoming the thing in her normal conversation.

A couple of asides:
1.  I actually understand what she means most of the time, and
2.  Hearing it several times a week has inspired me to change my "What?" to "Whaty-what?"  At least that's what the voice in my head wants to say.

I will use the phrase "totes adorbs" just to give my girls a reason to roll their eyes at me, but otherwise I try to use my middle-age brain cells to form a cohesive sentence most of the time.

However, some of the phonetic faux pas stories I have told my daughters over the years are coming back to bite me.  Recently, when sitting down to dinner, daughter #1 reminded me of one such story from when I was her age.  Her three-word statement was a dig at my story of mistaking the word ravishing for ravenous, which, at the time, made for quite the brouhaha when I announced exuberantly to the family at the dinner table, "I'm sooo ravishing!"

These are the things our families don't let us live down.  Even, apparently, after you have started your own.

OK, so I've migrated a little off topic, but just know that as the days get warmer and the count to the final day of school gets smaller, the brain cells in our household become neglected, which, I guess, is our way of preparing our minds and bodies for the lazy days of summer.

When all nouns get replaced by a creative form of the word "thing."

Linguistically yours,
LJ

My Xtreme Vacation

Dear Diary,
So, I'm back from Christmas vacation.
This was not just another pack the dog, kids, and husband into the minivan and "off to grandmother's house we go" kind of vacation.

Nope, this excursion was Xtreme at every turn.  Before I go on, I must provide a warning to my more sensitive readers that some descriptions and comparisons may be too graphic for your sensitive natures.  Steel yourselves.  Or look away.

I originally wanted to write about my first surf lesson -- and it will be mentioned. But I realized there were other things worth highlighting as well.  Let me itemize just a few of the Xtreme moments.

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Worshipping the Almighty God on Christmas Eve, who humbled himself to become a helpless, human child, because he loves me so very much.  That is undeniably, Xtremely awesome!

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Finding myself with my finger stuck in the barrel of a Glock.  Surprised?  Yeah, I was too. The circumstance of this event is too Xtreme to even explain here, so maybe it's better left to the imagination.  Assuredly, it was not loaded and I still have all ten fingers.

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Plunging 200 feet on a 90-degree drop aboard SheiKra, the Diving Roller Coaster of Busch Gardens, Tampa Bay. 
Oh. Yeah.
One second, weightless; the next, pulling so-many-G's at 70 mph. 
That is Xtreme, especially at my age.  My 13-year-old daughter was on one side of me.  Another boy about the same age on the other side.   I giddily warned him I would be screaming my head off.  He gave me the "OK, lady" head nod, then proceeded through the whole ride in the Hallelujah hands-to-heaven position.  Showoff.

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Fishing for the big catch 8.5 miles off the coast of Clearwater.  Plenty of fish caught, the biggest by my husband (grouper, 26").  Perhaps the Xtreme moment was throwing a cast-off, 12-inch grouper back into the water and watching a pelican dive for it -- and successfully scooping it into his sack of a beak.  It was like watching him snag a 5 lb. barbell!  How would he swallow that thing?  He flew off a few yards to contemplate this without an audience.  Good moment for the National Geographic Channel I'd say.

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Surfing for the very first time!  For all the times in my life that I've been to the coast, surfing was not something I have tried.  Not until the spontaneous invitation from my cousin hit my eardrums.  Yes, I will try it, but no, I don't have my suit and isn't the water freezing?  Oh, you have a wetsuit I can borrow?  Well then, I have no more excuses!

This was a head to toe wetsuit.  I have never put one on in my life.  Stuffing myself into this thing took all of the concentration and muscle effort I had.  And to boot I was in the bathroom where I couldn't escape the mirror showing me just what I was trying to put into this thing. I panted, pushed, and prodded my flesh into the neoprene tubes.  It was like stuffing Jell-O into a straw.  I think it took me 10 minutes to get it on, and I was weak, so weak, from the effort.  My cousin kindly called through the door, "I'll help you get the zipper up."  Good.  I was too fatigued to do it myself anyway.  I open the door to be told, "Uh, the zipper goes in the back, not the front." 
WHAT????  Now I gotta put this thing on ALL OVER AGAIN, after I first EXTRICATE MYSELF from its rubbery grip???  Close door.  Tug, pull, peel, pant.  Pause.  There it lay.  A rubbery blob of a body suit that WILL NOT get the best of me!  The bathroom walls and mirror were closing in on me.  The fatigue was overwhelming, but, no, I am not a wimp!  I will show it who is boss!  Weakly tug, shakily stuff, and breathlessly prod.  Victory!  Another assist with the zipper and I was off to the beach, weak-kneed and shakey armed.  (Thank you for carrying the board, cuz.)

The rest of the experience I will summarize as a salt water cleansing.  I learned that it is very important -- nay, essential, to stay to the back of the board while surfing.  This lesson was taught over and over again.  The picture here is of a rare moment when I became one with the wave while kneeling.  The rest was pretty much a water boarding experience.

So, my Christmas vacation had its moments of new discoveries and experiences along with the familiar traditions and events.

But there is one thing I have wanted to do for a few years now.
Something so horrifying and outrageous that even my husband tells me, "No way." 
I know people who have tried it that say "never again."
My Xtreme desire?

To have just one meal at the Waffle House.

It's Xtreme, but YOLO!
LJ