WHEN COUNTING SHEEP, DON'T FORGET THE MOO!

“Baa-baa!”  Counting sheep, ever done that?  I never have.  I’ve had trouble falling asleep.  Many’s the time the bed's suffered my tossing and turning, my brain’s been on fire and couldn’t settle down, and my aches were too attention-getting to let go.

Since it’d been a trying day and housework was all done a 10-minute nap sounded delicious.  Just 10 minutes, that’s all I needed.

As I lay there I thought of the cartoons we grew up with…you know Foghorn Leghorn, Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry…and how some character or another would be caught sleeping with a little conversation bubble overhead showing his dreaming self as counting sheep. 

There it was - the blue sky, the green hills, the white fence trailing up, and those cute little fluffy puffball sheep bounding up and leaping over the farmer’s fence.  Three in a row, the first one LEAPS!  Next.  The second one LEAPS!  Next.  No matter what, there’s always three lined up ready to cross to the other side. One in the air, another on his way down, LEAP!

What a novel idea.  Counting sheep.  I could do that.  I’ve never tried it before.  Wonder if it works.  Wonder if it’ll work for me. 

Ah, the bed is so cozy, pillow’s mushed up just right, room’s curtain-shut dark, and air’s crispy clean.  Close my eyes and relax the bones.  Ahhhhhhhh, nice.

There they are -- adorable, sweet, rounded puffy cloudlike sheep.  Pure white; innocent.  One.  Toddle up, LEAP!  Two.  Toddle up, LEAP!   Three.  Waddle up…waddle up?  Wait a minute.  He’s too fat, he can’t leap.  SQUEEZE!  This one squeezes between bottom and top rungs of the fence.  What on earth?

Okay, brain’s playing tricks.  Relax.  Go back to sleep.  Slow breath.  Back to the sheep.   One.  Toddle up, LEAP!  Two.  Two?  Two.  These are twins. LEAP-LEAP!

Though eyes are closed, my lips grin.  Well, now that’s funny.   And this is funny, too.  A very little one, a lamb, LEAPS between the rails.  Nice.  She cleared the low board. 

Here comes another little one, ah cute, he has little horn nubs.  LEAP!

What’s this?  Daddy?  Hum-mm, big horned black nosed Daddy is guarding off to the right.  Next.  Extra-fluffy momma.  Silly momma, I saw eyes.  She had a very tiny one tucked into the wool of her back.  LEAP!  Shew.  She lands solidly.  They made it.

Daddy sheep, “Baa….baaack to your own kind.”  Huh?  Oh, yah, I see him now.  It’s a goat.  Pshaw, goats don’t belong.  Next.  Ah, a featherweight, LEAP!  “Whee” he says, clearing the fence nice and high.

Deep breath.  I’ve got to stop this silliness.  I want to know if counting sheep works.  Relax.  Slow breaths.

Big Daddy’s still watching, shaking head.   Next.  Miss Actress Hips swings up like Mae West.  LEAP!  Next.  Lil Sis does a pirouette.  LEAP!  Next.  Siblings carry “the baby” up and over.  LEAP!   Bully brother drags little brother up gives him big shove over.  Brushes off his hands.  LEAP!   Next.  Daddy says,  “Baa.  Baaaaa-ack of the line.”  Why?  Oh yah.  I see now.  There’s the black sheep of the family.  Next.  Big Daddy's last in line.  LEAP!  THUD!  He was a heavyweight.

Next.  Twinkle toes who’d obviously taken gymnastics tumbles through.  Forget the leap, it’s CARTWHEEL!  Next.  Lumber Jack can’t leap either.  Forcing through he breaks the bottom rail, off he TROTS.

Sheep counting is relaxing, but shoot, I’m not sleeping.  This is too funny to sleep.

Ah, breath out.  Here we go, three in a row.  One puffy white sheep.  Toddle up.  LEAP!  Two.  Toddle up, LEAP!  Three.  Toddle up.  Hey, wait a minute.  Just ‘cause you’re bigger doesn’t mean you can push ahead.   No cuts!

Relax.  Relax.

Next.  Toddle up… he’s not toddling up, he’s dragging a leg?  Good lands!   Good thing the fence is already broken, he can squeeze through.

Relax.  Relax.  Breathe.

Three sheep ready.  White  fence.  Blue skies.  Green pastures………….

“MOOO!”

Moo?  What on earth!  MOO?  Where did “MOO” come from.  Oh, for heavens sake!  It’s a cow!  You ol’ Jersey cow.  What are you doing in my sheep dreams! 

This is too funny.  This just proves it.  I can't count sheep.  Forget the "Moo"; and forget the sheep,  they don’t cooperate.

MONIKERS FOR GRANDMA?

New grandbaby!  The first!  How wonderful!  Unwittingly (I thought I was third) I got to hold her first.  Darling Hubby is always quick witted and the first thing he did was call her Miss Lilly.  

He'd called Clint's house to check on mother and daughter and told Clint, "Put Miss Lilly on the phone."  That's how she got her moniker from grandpa.

I'm still on the search for mine.  I need a grandma name.  Miss Lilly's mother keeps calling me grandma and I don't prefer it 'cause she's calling her own mother the same thing.  I want some differentiation, even just a smidgeon.

They call her dad papaw and John grandpa, so it would feel nice to make a difference with the grandma's as well.

In the meantime, I've been scouring the internet, checking any websites I find.  I've tossed a few out there to my FlyFriends to get their take on some of them.  And I've tried out a few on the boys.  From them I mostly get jokes and snickers and silly suggestions.  Of course, they insist on ones I refuse to use.

John's mother was Granny.  And let's be honest, though she was a good woman, raised a good son, was clean, and smart, and capable, and I respected her, she was odd.  The older she got, the odder she got.  And in her dotage she was also angry.  NO!  I do not want to be called Granny.  Besides that I was never a Bays, I was born a Leeman.  Well, the boys are okay with my refusal so they've come up with a new suggestion.  Grrrrrrrrrrrr.  Maybe I'll become angry in MY old age!  

Calling me Granny 2.0 just won't do!

THANK THE GOOD LORD FOR MONDAYS

I love a Monday.  Thank the Good Lord for Mondays.

Do you know I don't mind Mondays?  A Monday never bothered me.  I like the feeling of change, thinking that the week ahead is a blank slate and I can make it what I want.  It's a lot like the New Years tradition of making resolutions that will make a difference...empty, full of potential, brand new.

My Kentuckian maternal grandmother always did laundry on Monday.  Now that was a task!  I remember my own mother using a wringer washer in the kitchen to wash our clothes, and how murky was the water!  So I can't imagine how my grandmother did it.

We wee kids were admonished to "keep away, you'll get something caught and it'll hurt bad."  Never did she tell us we'd die, that meant an end.  She said we'd get hurt and we knew what hurt was.

Anyway, grandma's washing was quite the ordeal.  First, warm up the house.  There were two coal burning stoves -- one in the dining area that was open to the kitchen through a half wall.  The other was in the living room which also heated the connecting bedroom and new bathroom.  Yes, she had an outhouse until my father built her a plumbed bathroom.  That thing was a two seater and one side had a cracked ring, you absolutely did not want to sit there!

Those coal stoves were quite the intriguing monsters.  You opened it's mouth on top to make sure the fire was stoked.  It seemed to say, "Waaaaaaa" and shoot red flames at you.  Then you opened it's bottom to pull out the tray of ashes to be discarded.  There were red fireballs in there that we, again, weren't allowed to bother, "You'll get burnt and it'll hurt."  Their brand names were Warm Mornings -- appropriate.

Grandma had to get those up and running before carrying the water from the cistern out back to heat up and then wash the clothes.  Little doilies that she made from crochet thread onto wooden spools with nails in the end were always starched.  To dry she stretched and pinned them onto a board so they'd keep their shape.  

That was her Monday work, I've always tried to emulate her in that way.   What a nifty idea, to have a day assigned.  Then you don't have to panic the rest of the week over laundry!  

Monday -- reclaim the house from the weekend, plan the project to get done throughout the weekdays, and rest the brain from all the jabbers of weekend peoples.

On Mondays those peoples are back in their own homes, then you can send the other boys off to school, kiss the hubby goodbye for work, and the bulk of the day is yours.  Take a nap after lunch?  Who me?  No way.  Grandma would, but I wouldn't do that!

Besides, I gotta help Dr. Sloan, Matlock and Perry Mason solve some murders.
Yah, that's the ticket.  I've got sleuthing to do!  Did I say sleuthing, I meant sloshing.  Gotta slosh some water in my new electric agitating clothes washer.

LOL, thank the Good Lord for that!
Thank the Good Lord for ALL of that!
Happy Monday! 

p.s.  If you've read this, would you mind pretty PLEASE leaving a comment below.  It can even be negative and/or constructive.  Thank you.  Thanks bunches.

MR. HANDYMAN, DID HE OR DID HE NOT

We called in a local handyman.  Our house needs some attention that it hasn't gotten in the last few years.  The family room floor needs replaced, it has big worn out places.  DH, darling hubby, put down a floating laminate floor about 12 years ago which we have since learned manufacturers have improved upon and that that kind is no longer available and the computer chair has worn off the surface. We have 3 doors that are difficult to shut and secure.  And we have a couple of problem vents on the roof above the bathroom.  

So, I started experiencing CHAOS, Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome, right?  Even though you have to go to work, you look around with a visitor's eye and wonder what to clean first.  Before heading to work I straightened up everything --  straighten couch covers, hang up a coat (who's coat is this anyway????), clear the table, ditch the slop, flush the toilet, you know, base things.  Red cheeks here.  Well, pink anyway.

Then after work, I dived in sweeping floors, washing countertops, and hiding dirty dishes (which means I put them in the dishwasher but couldn't start it since there wasn't a full load).  Never mind that Mr. Handyman might see the dust between the rungs of the chairs, or that the sink isn't shining, or the door he's checking out has forehead grease spots on it.

Yes, my boys and their Cousin, still little boys just below the skin, stand at the door to look out over DH, Darling Hubbie's, empire and lean their foreheads on the glass.  This is a continuous state of my life.  (dramatic eye rolling.)

Speaking of little boys, when Ian was 6, he and I had a bout of scabies.  Scabies has a connotation of being an old, and dirty disease.  It lasted several months and WE WERE MISERABLE.  Now anytime someone gets a little itchy red raised spot, it's a joke in the making, "Ew, she's got scabies!"

Anyway, back to Mr. Handyman who pulls into the drive with a black Big Ram truck and long trailer.  Knocks on door.  Smiles.  Exchange business cards.  Take him on tour of house.

And then.  There it is.  There it always is.  The thing you overlooked, the thing you thought no one would ever see.  The thing that makes you wish you were perfect Mrs. Beaver or better yet, Mrs. Casper the ghost.

DH and I plop notes around the house because with our jobs we're like ships passing in the night.  I had spied a water stain on the bathroom ceiling and left him a note pinned to the curtain with an arrow pointing up

"Is that a new spot?"

We have clowns.  Someone wrote in the left corner  "What spot??"

And in the bottom corner some other clown wrote, "That's a bad Sadie. Never open this window!"  And the biggest clown of all wrote the most embarrassing thing of all.   

Did Mr. Handyman see?  Did he read?  Do I play hide and seek?  But no, he's a gentleman, and my cheeks are no longer pink, they're slapped in the face bright red.

The last comment written in black ink was, "Mom!  I think we have scabbies."

~~Pamela~

"A morning is not only Sunrise, 

but a beautiful Miracle of God!,

Good morning, God." 

LET'S GO! LIFT YOUR TOES!

Good morning, Thursday!

It's a nice day today.  I can tell 'cause I'm not cold, eeeeee.  Just checked the weather (I stuck my head out the door) and it's damp and cool, aka nice.

It's a nice day also because I'm finally getting back into my exercises.  Those 1/2 hour episodes have been put on the back burner while I got used to working two jobs, but I'm finding the warmups, leg kicks, arm circles and butt clinchers help alleviate arthritis and make me more limber.

Now I didn't say "limber", just less stiff!

At almost 60 y.o., it's a trip to exercise with someone who's 40.  There she is, the instructor with her skin tight shiny peachy active wear with a skin tight body (and if you've reached any sort of age at all, you know what skin tight means) on a blue mat on a sandy beach with the Acapulco Bay in the background telling me to make my elbows point straight to her.  So I look at my elbows assured I'm doing this correctly.  Durn.  They were pointing East and West!  Snort.  So I tell them, "You go, girls!"

Then she says, get this, she says, "Sit on your heels." Okay, so I get into the doggie position, let go of the floor, to sit back on my heels.  Ut oh, somethings not giving.  It's more like I'm sitting back on a giant air ball!  Uh huh, I think I'll just exercise on my knees now.

And best of all, at one point little miss perfect bod who never had a jelly roll in her life (yes, that's a pun) says, "Lift your toes."  Okay, that I can do.  I lift my toes.  Um.  Uh.  I looked down at my toes and you know what, they looked like 10 little piggies that ate their own blankets!   Snoring, too, they were!!!!!

Anyway, enough of that self-embarrassment.  I just popped in to say good morning.  And now I gotta go, have another shift today.

Yah, when I say shift, I'm talking work, not seizing muscles!

~~Pamela~

"A morning is not only Sunrise, 

but a beautiful Miracle of God!,

Good morning, God."

SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR

Today on a message group to which I belong we've been challenged to match up socks, and then toss any mis-mates.

First about the message group.  My pen pal Jeani of 40 years, introduced me to FlyLady.net, a website geared to helping homemakers get out of CHAOS which stands for Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome.  You've been there.  Someone knocks on the door, you look at yourself with hair pointing to Jesus, and floors covered in Hot Wheels cars, Legos, and toddler clothing that's been shed because little Johnny said his belly button was hot, and you just know one look around and The Knocker is screaming internally "Run away, run away!"

So you go to the door, strategically place your PMS bloated body (really you ate 3 donuts yesterday) in the crack of the open door to block their view.  Then it's "Oh, isn't the weather nice." as a fall leaf with water droplets from the "scattered showers" that morning wind-whip up and smack The Knocker in the face and you budge your body out the door toward said knocker to make sure any further communication is conducted in the wonderful crisp autumn air, ROFL.  Yep, we've all been there.

Anyway, back to the message group.  FlyLady.net says if you sign up with her she'll send you messages and missions and tasks and reminders and routines of things to do daily to help you get out of CHAOS.  Then she devised a way for members in each state to come together in Yahoo message groups, and subsequently those members get together in their county every month at what is called a FlyFest.

So here I am with a little mission of matching socks.  It'd be more fun to distract myself with typing up a poem.

Where do socks go? I may know. 
Resitin' in the cupped corners of your sheets, 
down the sleeves-- into your son's everyday T's.  
Chewing pet thought it quite yum, 
smells like his friend who pets 'im. 
 
A bleached sock doesn't match its mate,
a stretched sock looks as wide as a gate.
A sock found in the crevise of a couch,
smelly, dirty, hard to the touch, ouch! 

The washer has it's own game to play
sucked up agitator's gap - sashay, sashay -
somewhere hidden in the overflow space
or the sliding seal casing might be the case.

You just never can tell, it doesn't pay to beg,
but you might spy your eye down your hubby's pant leg!


And there ya have it.  No magic fairy came in to match socks while I played, they still hang in a bag behind the door waiting for me with Little Chuckie glee.  

I gotta go.
Been nice talking to you.
Oh, look!  Hear that?  Someone's at the door.

SADIE FOUND ME

This is Sadie.  Say, "Good morning!" Sadie.

At the bathroom window, from the outside, "Bloop!"  up popped ears, then eyes, then long black wet nose.  "It's Sadie!  Sadie you found me!"  This photo is of our German shepherd at 10 months old, still a pup.  She'd been running around outside within the invisible fence. I was inside, in the bathroom actually, washing my hands when, "Whoah, what's that?"  I'd caught a glimpse of big black movement out of the side of my eyes.  LOL, sigh of relief, "Well, hello Sadie."

Most of us know the story of Sadie, how she came to us from Spencer given to Ian because Spencer figured Ian would be a bit lonely when he'd leave home to live in Pendleton.

She's just a bundle of long brown and black fur, big as a man, and full of curiosity and friendliness.

Last night I complained to Ian, then to John, how I hadn't seen Sadie all day.  I even went outside 3 times, once to get something out of the truck, and twice looking for her.  She never appeared.  Ian rolled his eyes, "Yes, mother, I've seen Sadie.  I fed her.  She's probably in her dog house."  Well, that was hard to believe, Sadie usually likes to sleep under the back deck with the rabbits.

Next thing I knew Spencer was here, but not.  He'd gotten waylaid at the gate.  There they stood.  He was laughing and smiling and rubbing and scratching and roughing up this huge creature that had his paws on his friends shoulders, his eyes open and happy, and his tongue doing his doggy greeting.  There's Sadie.

Back before Christmas, after the sunset but not bedtime yet, I'd just started the washing machine and was washing my hands when there was a strident knock on the sliding glass doors, our front door.

It was a deputy sheriff.  He shined his flashlight up and down his body so I could see that he was from the Hamilton County Sheriff's department.

He'd stopped to explain about all the car activity in ours and the neighbors driveways and how they'd put out stop strips and now there was a car at the corner changing a flat tire.  We've always got something going on here, don't we?

And then, 

he apologized for letting Sadie in the front yard.  She didn't bark, she just shuffled up.  Mr.  Sheriff said, "This large shadow of a dog came out of the darkness and crowded me at the gate."  His exact words were, "Your dog scared the crap out of me."

LOL, and that's Sadie.  

Say, "Good morning, Sadie!"

THE QUEEN'S Bs WELCOME

What a new venture!

All the technical mumbo-jumbo, scrounging around for USB sticks to find that one decent self-photo, and the angst, oh, the angst, of starting up something new and going public.  Well, here I am.  Welcome to my blog!  Sheesh!

Guess I'm too pensive since it took me forever and then a day to come up with a heading.  Do I want to epitomizes what I've been, reflect me that grew during the "wonder years", embody the days of marriage with children, or ...  not.

Well, ya can't be what you're not.  "Not" is sometime in the future, right?

So, I'm married with children.  A dear friend once said, "You're the Queen Bee, and since you have all males in your house, your vote counts for two!"  LOL, yep, my vote counts,  it's a strong vote, and it counts twice!

Then there's the B's.

DH, dear hubby, was one of three boys with last name of Bays.  Growing up on the farm, they'd come over and my brothers would call them the Bays' Boys.

Now, having raised males on 4 acres, we have our own set of Bays' Boys -- 6 of 'em.  You'll get to know them from Rusty to Ian;  Rusty, Mitch, Calvin, Clint, Spencer, and Ian.  Don't forget John.  Can't discount John.  He's the daddy!

And, you can't forget the excited mark.  Ut-hum, that would be Cousin Jack.  Yep, he's a cousin.  Yep, he's most often excited (full of pranks and glee).  Yep, we adopted him, in mind and spirit and enveloping love.

Speaking of enveloping love, recently Rusty and Clinton added to our burgeoning bunch two females, their wives.  Then Clinton had to add just one more itty bitty one, a girl baby, hence another B.  That's for Babygirl, you know, she's Miss Lilly.

There ya have it.  You've gotten the Queen's Bs welcome.

Welcome to my blog and hope it brings you much -- hugs and chuckles.

~~Pamela~

"A morning is not only Sunrise, 

but a beautiful Miracle of God!,

Good morning, God."