So Deep

I have been disengaged of late, too caught up in work and house stuff and whether Jill or Jessa Duggar will get engaged first.

So, when Bart suggested we squeeze in a day sail on a recent Sunday all I could think was sure – that pile of laundry in the corner of our bedroom probably won't come to life and murder us in our sleep. But I am a pleaser*, so we went sailing.

It is not easy to sail here on the Coast of Illinois. Oh sure, that Gold Coast has a Great Lake right there. But thanks to geology, we here on the Southern Coast have the Mississippi River – which is great if you are a barge operator or Mark Twain, but not so great if your boat is a 15 foot, Bermuda rig with a small electric motor. There are logs floating downstream which are both larger and faster.

Yes, this picture is from the dead of winter but use your imagination and switch out those ice flows for logs.

The Army Corps of Engineers has tried to rectify our lack of one enormous lake but placing various smaller lakes within a short drive. Armed with coffee, cheese and Margaritaville Radio, we choose the medium size lake 90 minutes away.**

I love road trips. Conversation generally rambles from one topic to the next spurred on by road signs and movie quotes but my brain was stuck in a continuous loop – work~bills~upcoming events~laundry~dinner~work night dinners~upcoming bills~laundry events – you get the picture.

It wasn't until we had launched, cleared the cove, caught the breeze and Bart handed me the tiller and main sail sheet that my head cleared. 

no, my toes aren't cold, the polish matches the stripe on my swimsuit. it was purely an accident. shut up.

Because here's the thing about sailing – you have to be 'here'. With a shift of the breeze you can speed across the lake and just as quickly the wind will change, the rail will dip into the water and your fizzy water will shoot across the deck as your cheese and sausage flies off the cooler. You have to pay attention to the sail and the wind or the boom will take you out of the boat and into a great big wet, slightly chilly wake-up call.

this is the view from over the rail (or 'side of the boat' for you non-sailors) you probably will never see this sort of view unless you are hanging over the edge with the camera, or throwing up.

As Bart so elegantly put it, "the minute land moves away and the boat catches a rolling wave, everything else rolls away too. Now, grab my tiller...hehe...hehe.."

Sailing can cause very deep thoughts. And turn your husband into a twelve year old boy.

But essentially what he said is true.

I have been on water most of my life, in power boats and skis, even a canoe or two. I have always felt more connected to who I am when I am on the water.

I probably have a hundred sail pictures. I just love them.

And while I have only been sailing for three years; really paying attention for six months...the minute the sails catch a breeze and we begin to skim across the water with one rail in the spray I reengage. 

looks like I know what I'm doing, doesn't it

*by 'pleaser' I mean 'a person who will do anything to put off doing chores on a sunny weekend'.

**Rend Lake was our choice on this particular sail.

 

There is no serious conversation, unless it concerns the weather and possible boat names – "Endlessly Groovin'" -good name- "Colon-Oscopy" – bad boat name. "Exsanguination" – really bad boat name but "Sangria Nation" most excellent boat name.Our boat is 'Blue Skies'.

Before You Fire Up That Grill

Memorial Day Weekend.

Summer's kick-off.

I don't know about you, but after this heinous winter I am more than ready for 200% humidity and thunderstorms every evening at rush hour. The deck furniture sports its cushions. The flower beds are popping with color which theoretically should last until autumn and the one week of 0% humidity we have here on the Coast of Illinois.

But, I digress.

Memorial Day is more than Summer's welcome mat. For those of you who live outside the United States, and maybe a few of you who do...this is a designated time to remember and thank those who have served or continue to serve our country. 

As a ten-year old, I was more interested in protesting than thanking. The Vietnam War was in full swing. The nightly news was filled with stories of Laos and Cambodia and long-haired men in khaki jackets and long-haired women in flowy dresses and flowered headbands waving protest signs.

My neighborhood buddy and I spent hours, hiding out in the back room of our chicken house devising clever protest slogans and dissing the current administration. Christy wore one of those green khaki army jackets.

There was nothing I wanted more at the time than to wear one of those over-sized, heavy canvas, khaki green jackets. I begged my Dad to allow me to wear his. I begged him over and over. To which he always replied, 'you can wear one when you enlist and get your own'.

This really annoyed me. Mostly because I was only ten. I was being denied an awesome fashion statement because of my age. (It never occurred to me that, as a woman in 1970, my job in the military would have been pretty much limited to secretarial jobs or nursing. This inequality would have triggered another wave of chicken coop protests.)

Military service has always been controversial here in the Land of Free Speech. Sometimes we forget that our freedom of speech is directly protected by those same people, policies and actions we condemn.

I think the jacket Christy wore had belonged to her Dad and she wore it in support of her brother who was in one of those exotic sounding Vietnam locales. She DID NOT wear it in support of the war.

And that is an important distinction. It is a distinction that our country has been slow to learn.

I am lucky. There is a long history of military service in my family. Everyone came home.

My mother's dad - WWI

My father's dad - WWI 

                                                                    Doughboys?

 

My uncle WWII

                                                                           Fly-boy?

My father-in-law WWII

                                  Thus making my son an actual Son-of a- Son- of a- Sailor

My Dad. Army Reserve.

                                                       That adorable baby would be me.

Neither of my children have chosen to serve and I can't say I am sorry. But many of my friends have children and spouses in service. And to them I say:

Thank you.

Say thank-you in a more concrete manner by supporting our Veterans through the many organizations available. The ones closest to my heart provide support for PTSD and injury recovery.

For my friend Penny in honor of her son Adam...

http://www.hope4ptsdvets.org/

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/

Have a wonderful holiday weekend. Drive safely. Wear your seat belt and sunscreen. Cook all pork until 145-160 degrees.

And HELLOOOOO Summer!

The rare Coast of Illinois Flamingo in its natural habitat.

The Writing IS on the Wall

Hi all! Been a crazy month here on the Coast of Illinois, highlighted by a super fun visit from my niece who lives several million miles away. (Okay, she lives in Germany, but still...)
Consequently, I am taking the easy way out and posting a Wordless Wednesday picture. And because I have an unexplainable love of graffiti (as long as it is not too graphic-ly gross or murdery) it was not a difficult choice.
                                                              Happy Wednesday!

disclaimer - this was actually take on Illinois's other coast, the Gold one. But I feel the sentiment is still the same! Go CARDS!

 and... I obviously don't quite get the gist of  'wordless Wednesday'. Hope this doesn't upset anyone. Keep Havin A Good Day!! anyway!
See you next week!

Evidence Based Practice

Evidence Based Practice

Theorem: Alcohol dehydrates people.

                    It is difficult to start IV s on dehydrated people.

Case Study:

The night before a hands-on clinical, the entire class felt it would be a good idea to go out and 'party'. The entire class arrived, sleep deprived and slightly hung-over, to find that clinical was being held in the multi-purpose room of the hospital school.

The lesson – How to start an IV.

The practice dummies – each other.

Results: Theorem proved.

Lessons learned.

Well played Deaconess Sisters.

It's been thirty years....! 

the last time that uniform was white...

Happy Nurses' Week!

Deaconess Hospital School of Nursing Capping 1981

Otter models my cap.

@Random

So, this happened...

I had finally coaxed my ratchety grocery cart from the automatic door of the Major Market across the parking lot to my car. The cart was loaded to the tune of 'this is the only day in nearly two weeks in which I have been able to make it to a store and the next ten days aren't looking too promising either'.

The bag boy had completed a small architectural miracle with his artful stacking.

This was a very full cart.

As I opened the trunk and prepared to load my retirement account in the car, a woman approached. She was nicely dressed, late fifties to early sixties. She paused beside my car and said. "You have the nicest looking grocery cart I have ever seen."

I looked from her to my cart and back again.

She smiled.

I smiled.

My head spun.

Could she really be complimenting this load of food?

It was a colorful array of reusable bags. (Which has taken five years for me to finally get use to carrying them. You're welcome Earth.)

Perhaps she had followed me through the grocery and noticed my 'perimeter only' purchases: huge green watermelon, a rainbow of fresh vegetables, carefully chosen organic meat, locally cultured yogurt, a huge bouquet of brightly colored daisies. (Okay, the meat may have been from the $5 meat rack and I am pretty sure the daisies were totally GMOed. Those colors don't exist outside of the Crayola factory. She would have appreciated the carefully chosen bottle of wine but it was buried under three bags of chips which were crushed hidden under the watermelon.)

She smiled again and began to walk away and I realized it did not matter the reason for the compliment. I felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment. My mood had been bolstered by her kind words. I smiled back and with a gracious yet questioning 'thank you' I took credit for it all – the bags, the contents, the arrangement, the craftsmanship of the cart maker.

As I proudly related the story to my family, it was pointed out that perhaps, she was the bag-boy's mother. After all, it was really his handywork which so carefully filled and stacked the bags.

I waved the naysayers off with a tip of my wine glass and took my crushed bag of chips to the deck.

You haters can't bring me down.

It really is a delightful haul.

 (I was so surprised by this incident that I didn't even think to take a picture of the stacked cart. I did, however, unload everything and arrange it in a pleasing manner just for the photo for this post. I probably should have put away the ice cream first.)

It's a Marvelous Night for a &*^%&* Moondance

It is 3am. I am lying in a crumpled heap on the concrete pad in front of our garage door. My palms burn. I can feel blood dripping down my left knee, absorbed by the shredded remains of my pajama pants and terry cloth robe.

It was really only a matter of time.

There are three sets of stairs into/out of my house. One inside and a choice of two to get to the driveway.

Five carpeted stairs from the main floor to the landing...where my heels got caught, bilaterally, in some invisible fiber sending me careening onto the carpet at my husbands feet while he stood watching in amazement. If he hadn't had the oak door open I would have died.

Six concrete stone stairs making a winding pathway through the ivy under the big pine tree lead to the driveway...where I slid on an invisible patch of ice, pitching into the air in the manner of Tara Lapinski, landing on my butt. It took an hour before the vibration up my spinal column turned to actual pain.

And finally the five traditional concrete steps to the concrete pad by the garage door.

You would think this would have been the safest way down the steps at 3am.

I mean really. In math terms I had a 1:3 chance right?

Why was I walking down the steps at 3am in my now ruined pajama pants and blood soaked terry cloth robe?

I wanted to see the Blood Moon.

The night, here on the Coast of Illinois was cold, crisp, clear. The moon was fabulous. Big and round and moon-like. A shimmery deep pink. To the lower right a bright twinkle, Venus, I believe. One more brightly twinkling star a little further to the right.

Mystical.

Awe-inspiring.

I would have taken a picture but my iPod was not spared injury,receiving cosmetic damage to its face. And although the iPod still works, the moon being eight gazillion-paradigm miles away, is really too far for my tiny iPod camera.

If you are interested it looked just like my scraped up left knee.

I would have posted a picture of that but there is just too much sensationalism in journalism today.

Crossing that line would be a slippery slope.

Like the stairs.

And This is How an Idea is Born

So I was sitting around with a group of co-workers the other day. We were pouring over the latest Vogue – critiquing the outfits, the models, the prices...

The conversation went something like this:

"Too short."

"Too young."

"Won't wear it. Won't wear it. Might wear it...no, won't wear it."

"Wow, she's scary..."

"He's cute."

"He's my son's age."

The median age of this group is early 50's.

But there was one outfit – The model is dashing across the white page, presumably to meet some exotic friend after a long hard day of international finance and shopping. She is wearing a thin black turtleneck and short white skirt, black knee socks and black chunky shoes. Totally do-able, if the skirt were a little longer and the knee socks were black boots.

"I could see myself in this." I said, optimistically, a vision of me dashing to the local cafe after a long hard day of shopping or museum wandering, in my mind.

My co-workers gave me that 'are you serious' look so I amended my previous statement with, "I mean, I couldn't pull off the knee highs. I don't think I even own knee highs anymore...."

And at that moment it dawned on us all. We simultaneously pulled up our pant legs to reveal BLACK KNEE HIGHS.

They were orthopedic knee highs, but still.

We had discovered the basis for Calvin Klein's newest line.

May I present to you, Calvin – The Menopause Collection.

A line of dresses and skirts in lengths somewhere between daytime hooker and Pentecostal Sister. Blouses in a variety of styles, including halters and thin straps but with BUILT IN BRAS. Real, adjustable banded bras. (Because honestly, those shelf bras are neither shelf nor bra.)

No 'empire' waistlines. (If we wanted to look pregnant we would just stop working out and eat all the Carbs after 5pm.)

And no 3inch or shorter crouch zippers.

No.

We mid-life women want to look put together, fashionable and even a little sexy sometimes. But we do not need to be draped in leopard print, or taupe three quarter sleeves or those ridiculous 'high-low' flowing blouses. Some of us live in the Midwest for Pete's Sake. It is HOT in the summer. Have you ever tried to wear three quarter sleeves in 90 degree, 100 percent humidity?

It is not pretty.

And way too fragrant.

And not to worry Mr Klein. I even have a name for your new line. It embodies the style, grace and experience of the over 50 woman while remaining youthful and en vogue.

Are you ready for:

Haute Phlash

(Just to be safe, I googled 'Haute Phlash'. It seems it is MY ORGINAL IDEA in regards to a clothing line. The only true link to the words used together was to an Alpaca Farm which named one of its babies Haute Phlash. It's daddy being Jumping Jack Flash. And as most of we over 50 women can relate to Mick Jagger, Jumping Jack Flash and alpaca sweaters, and as there is no one on earth who doesn't love baby Alpacas, I am feeling the need to contact this farm for a picture to use as the symbol of Calvin's new line. I feel it will totally solidify our working relationship if I have all the basics ready.)