That's What He Said

Last Sunday I took myself out to lunch. It was about noon and church had just let out. Living near a retirement village it's not hard to spot so many carefree, retired, restaurant-going, golf cart-driving, gray-haired folk who seem to have lived a good life and now have no worries in the world. So, as I sat and observed the patrons coming and going I noticed this foursome in particular. And this is why. The man on the left spoke across the table to his friend with constant hand movement. Was he telling a fish story? or how to rotate a tire? All the while his sweet little wife next to him delighted the woman across from her with a 'who-knows-what-she-was-saying' monologue. Grandkids or gossip? Who knows. But they talked for a good half an hour, non-stop, while the couple on the right listened. Non-stop. I thought about my husband and how many years we've been together and how did we behave in restaurants? And it occurred to me; are we that old? And do we look that good? But the real question looming was, which couple would my husband and I be in this scenario?? The mind reels. But the fact is, we will never look this mature nor this responsible. Ever. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. 
Then I went home and took a nap. People-watching is exhausting business. Maybe I am that old. pshh... Which couple are you?

Thoughts on Mother's Day 2012

Mom's Wedding Day

I grew up a Navy brat in the 50's and 60's, moving every few years, and after 20 years of serving his country, my dad reluctantly retired and moved us to the Antelope Valley in southern California. There were four of us kids and I was somewhere in the middle. After entering civilian life, my father found a perfectly respectable job in civil service while my mother was a perfectly normal stay at home working mom. And work she did. The woman was domestic as all get-out. Our house was cleaned and spit-polished daily. Our clothes were hand-sewn, starched, and wrinkle-free. Our hair was curled and our bangs were short. Our pillow cases and my dad's handkerchiefs were ironed for crying out loud--even the garage was organized and clear of clutter. We ate three home made meals a day and I can count on one hand the number of times we ate out during my first 16 years of life. We had a formal living room that we NEVER used. We kids were only allowed to step foot in there barefoot and right after our baths. It was a special treat to sit on that pristine white sofa, scrubbed and red-cheeked in my jammies, wondering if I would have such a nice white sofa when I was grown up.

Grandma, Mom holding me, Dad and Sherry in front

Being a religious woman, she taught us geeky sayings like “Pretty is as pretty does”, and “Look before you Leap” and (my favorite) “If you don't have anything good to say about someone then say nothing at all”. She taught us the golden rule, “please” and “thank you” and how important it is to use proper grammar. I rolled my eyes and sighed whenever she would open her mouth, but she was right, as we all know by now. I look back on those days and in my mind I see my mom vacuuming the living room in a dress, heels and a pearl necklace. I know she didn't but she may as well have been. She was the perfect June Cleaver.

Now I thought my mother was average. I thought that every kid had a mother like mine and a comfortable home with fresh baked cookies waiting for them after school. I thought every mother was a strong matriarchal figure, holding the family together while my dad was called away, sometimes for months, to serve Uncle Sam. She was virtually a single mom and carried our burdens, shielded us from stress or, oftentimes the truth, to keep us from worrying. I never gave her much thought, unless it involved her meeting my needs and expectations; new clothes, a ride to the library, hot dinners, popcorn on Friday nights and a warm bed with clean sheets to slip into at the end of the day. As we became teenagers and o-so worldly-wise, my sister and I were regular know-it-alls, noticing my mother's faults and eagerly bringing them to her attention. We mocked the way she pronounced certain words (she was from Arkansas, we were California to the bone). She took up the ukelele and would sit in that white living room playing and singing to her heart's content...but we were too cool to appreciate that and scoffed at her from the other room till she finally gave it up. Oh mom...we were such jerks. We were so selfish; so self-absorbed.

Mom and Me a few years ago at the Whistlestop Cafe in GA.

For the record, I did apologize to her for that in my later, adult years and even bought her another ukelele hoping she'd play again. But by then the arthritis in her hands had taken away any ability she had to play. I also apologized to her in later years for the stress I caused her during my checkered past...like running off at 18 with an AWOL sailor to live in a van near San Francisco with my other hippie friends...and without the benefit of holy matrimony. She just smiled at me and said “I know, Mary Catherine. I know”. During the last 15 years of her life, we became close. She'd listen to me as I'd pour out my heart about the difficulties of raising teenagers and the nuisance of annual pap smears. She'd just smile. She knew.

She passed away almost four years ago. She was going on 83 and had lived a good long life. It was her time and she was ready to go. But I sure as heck wasn't ready for her to leave. I almost drove to the desert today (Mother's Day) to visit her grave—but she's not there, so I stayed at home with that hollow feeling in my heart I get around this time of year. My own adult children came over and I let them distract me with their various stories of the difficulties of raising kids and the inconvenience of their annual OB/GYN visits. I nod and listen...she taught me well. I like to think mom is listening in, laughing at our jokes and nodding her head in wisdom.  I like to think that someday I'll see her when it's my time to “shuffle off this mortal coil”and fly to heaven. I can see the look of excitement she'll have on her face when she sees me for the first time, and I imagine she'll be waiting for me with a fresh pot of coffee and a twinkle in her eye as we sit and visit and talk about the old days. I know we'll skip over the trying times, and only talk about the good cause that's the way we'll remember it. I'm glad I have that to look forward to.

Happy Mother's Day, mom.


Mary Catherine ~

Feeding the Baby

I finally figured out what sport comes to mind when feeding my beloved 6-month-old grandson. 

Yep. This is it. Target shooting. But without the arrows or sharp pointy objects. Just one spoon. One baby. And 180 degrees of moving target. If this were an olympic sport, I'd be so ready to compete.

Whitewashed Fences

Recently my husband, Jim (not his real name) and I have been seeing a "life" counselor.  Roderick (not his real name) talked about the importance of us having someone other than each other that you could confide in and feel safe with. Well, I just sat up a bit prouder in my chair and put an imaginary notch in  my imaginary book of self-righteousness.  I DO have someone I can confide in and she (not her real gender, ok that would be weird, IS her real gender) 1) does not pressure me to call her every Tuesday, 2) does not demand that I tell her first before I tell anyone else anything of any importance that happens in my life and 3) she doesn't judge me. I'm pretty sure about #3. I'm feeling pretty confident so I'll go with it. So, my safe-to-purge-on person? Yeah, I'm talking about my tea-toking sister, Cathy. (not her real name).  She's seen me in some very low places (not real places) and has always been there to lift me up, even if it's just to get me to smile. I sometimes think that making someone smile is a lot like whitewashing a wooden fence. It's not a terribly glamorous job, but it sure makes the house look nicer.  So I was thinking about that today (smiles, not fences) because Jim and I had to cancel our counseling appointment tomorrow (nothing serious). And she's my go-to gal so naturally I'd think of her... is any of this making sense? She's the husband I never knew I always wanted. OK, that's not true either. But here's the thing with Cathy and me. We work on our friendship everyday, and it's called texting. And it's FREE. Inevitably one of us will get a headache from tap-typing on our iPhones, so when the mood strikes we will email. I don't try to wax eloquent when I write to her, I don't always spell check, although that is incredibly difficult for me to NOT do.  My sister is extremely low-maintenance and she always lifts up my spirits, and I know that's what she wants to do. Because she loves me. I just love her for that.

Here's a typical short-version of an email from today. It's not Mark Twain, but it got my fences whitewashed just the same. And that's what mattered.  It's all that mattered on this particular day.

On Dec 5, 2011, at 2:26 PM, Susan Fernald wrote:

> I opened my email today and now there's 192 unopened emails there.Lurking. Most of them are stuff i've started "following", and SodaHead crap. oy. my head hurts again. I was up all night and couldn't sleep so I watched White Collar on Netflix. It's a funny white collar crime series. Catchy title huh? Then I got up at 7, showered and dressed, drank some coffee, watched some Top Gear with Evan then went to see my baby boy. OMG. He's grown, sissy. And he didn't even wait for me. He sits in my lap now and smiles and chews HARD with those newbie teeth of his. He's 17 pounds and 4 feet tall. He's gonna be a husky kid, and he's gonna be Gramma's care bear when he's old enough to hug me as great as his daddy does. I call Sam our family's care bear, and he is. Then I came home and saw that new Pinterest deal inviting me to join via my Facebook account. I'm pretty sure the banks are in cahoots with Facebook and you'll have have a driver's license, ss# and a FB acct to put money in the bank. So anyway I checked it out since Lisa told me she had a "board". huh? I started up just a peck and a paw on that and OMG how many hours will this snag out of my already sedentary day? Pinterest is WAY better than Farm Town. Do you think I can do both? I may have to sell off one of my 12 farms. You think i'm kidding but I'm not. Lisa got the 4S iphone and now sends me great pictures again. She sent one that had a picture of B next to a photo of her that I had taken after she'd gotten her cast off at 4 months. They look exactly alike. Well, you and I both think that. And I was thinking how MUCH I'm enjoying that baby who was just sitting in my lap, not doing anything special except brightening my world, and I think maybe I got to get Lisa twice, so I could love her all over again. But this time I'll do it better. And then I'm all crying and now I can't stop and my head hurts even more. How can happy tears hurt so much? OK, enough out of me. How are you doing sissy?

From Cathy Berthiaume -REPLY- 

>Now i"m crying too after that last bit in your email. Yeah. Grandkids are like getting a chance to do it all again and we WOULD do it better. If only our grown children would listen...
I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. Man that flu really took you downtown to China town.

Here's a random story:

Sometimes I use Mike's glucose meter to check my blood sugar level. It's always around 75 or 80. He's always burnt that its so low. "You should have diabetes too" he says. "You are more of a candidate for that than I am". And I just say "tch tch. Don't sulk. Now excuse me cause there's a donut int he kitchen calling my name".

But seriously he shakes his head like "it doesn't make sense". Well he has the family history of diabetes, right? But he really eats healthy and has always taken loads of vitamins and walks so really it isn't fair. he is keeping it down to below 120 though by diet and exercise alone. I saw my endocrinologist this morning for my thyroid and I told him about Mike and he said that only 3% of people with diabetes actually keep it under control without medication so yay for Mike. If it was me I am SURE I'd be on medication.


ps my under achieveing thyroid is fine.

pps tell that baby to STOP growing for crying out loud

See what I mean? Whitewashed fences. And I didn't use spellcheck either.
~Susan Renee~

The Pirates of Riverlakes

Ian and Jared, age 3

I have eight grandchildren. The score is even; 4 boys and 4 girls. Each and every one of them are my heart's delight and believe you me, I KNOW I am blessed. Smack dab in the middle of the line-up are two boys; Ian and Jared. These two boys are thick as thieves, closer than brothers, and can even finish each other's sentences. They are inseparable—in crime as well as punishment. Ian is a little older than Jared but for three months out of every year they are the same age, and right proud of it. This month, they are both 9. Together they have obsessed over Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...you name it. If there is sword fighting, karate or blowing stuff up, they're all in. Jared doesn't mind girls. They are ok by him—in their place. Ian has always been a card carrying member of the “He Man Woman Haters Club”. After watching Lara Croft Tomb Raider they both gained new respect for the feminine gender. Thank you Angelina Jolie for increasing those boys tolerance. But they don't just love the most popular action movies, they become the characters in the movies. During the Star Wars phase (which comes and goes) Ian was Han Solo and Jared was Anakin Skywalker. They dressed the part, they looked the part, they could duplicate every light saber fight in every movie and did so with gusto. I must have at least 6 light saber in my house at all times and it prompted #4 of "Gram's Top 10 Rules for Raising Grandchildren— You can never have too many Light sabers”. The two younger grandsons, Ryan and Calvin, and at least one of the girls would agree with and appreciate that.

Jared and Ian, age 4

When the families all get together I can't help but watch them play and wonder what it will be like around my house when they are all teenagers and older. How much quieter it will be when they are no longer running shrieking through the house chasing each other with water guns or playing hide and go seek at the top of their lungs. In hind sight I know all too well that my own kids grew up in the blink of an eye, and against my better judgement. I am helpless against the tides of time and watch in amazement how much faster it seems the grandkids are growing.

In an effort to save myself from constantly washing cups, last summer I had the kids all write their names on the kid-sized acrylic cups I have—so when they come over they'll know which cup is theirs and use it all day, instead of always getting new cups. Brilliant, Gram. I amaze me. Then a couple weeks ago I decided to buy myself all new, matching acrylic cups for the grown ups. Four different colors, sixteen in all. I've always wanted all my cups to match so I figured it was time and I had a 20% off coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond. The kids have their cups now and the adults have theirs. I'm sure Martha Stewart's cupboards look exactly like mine. Maybe organized better but I bet her cups match.

Ian and Jared, age 8

The next day Ian and Jared came over to spend the night. They saw my new cups, immediately located the permanent black marker and wrote their names, each on their own cup. It was at that moment I walked into the kitchen. They were proud and showed me their brand new personalized cups. The first thing out of my mouth was “Oh No! I just bought those. You weren't supposed to write your names on my Brand New, 16 matching, Bed Bath and Beyond Grown Up Cups!” I saw their deflated faces. Ian put the marker down and they both looked me in the eye and said “I'm sorry Gram. We didn't know”. They shuffled out of the kitchen in silence and then I noticed the cups. Both were scrawled with their 9 year old handwriting and both said the same thing— “Captain Jack Sparrow”. 

Captain Jack's cup

Right then and there the proverbial ton of bricks hit me and my timbers were shivered. I melted. I sighed. I darn near cried. I thought how fleeting this time is with my Captain Jack Sparrows and how these 16 matching Bed, Bath and Beyond cups will be cracked and thrift store fodder long before they start liking girls for real and put up their light sabers for good. Cups I can replace. Two Cap'n Jacks...irreplaceable. I found them in front of the X Box and suggested we go out for ice cream. “C'mon Captain Jacks. Last one in the Granny Van walks the plank!” Grabbing their swords and screeching like banshees they jumped up and ran out the door. Oh how I love those two villains.


~ Mary Catherine 

Call of Dooty

When my kids were babies I breastfed them exclusively. Thus, their poop (or "dooty" as I call it) didn't ever stink. Well, not until they started eating food anyway. That was just one of the perks of breastfeeding. When my grandson, Brayden, was born it was the same. He was, for the most part, breastfed and I don't recall him yet having a stinky diaper. But, stinky or not, I made it my goal to never change a "dooty diaper" if I could avoid it. Let's face it, boys are just harder to clean up; too many nooks and crannies. I used to have a baby boy. I know. So, it became a little goal of mine and I was determined to go as long as I could without changing a single dirty diaper. And it lasted... for 12 whole weeks.

Brayden Mason

When B's mommy, Lisa (my daughter) returned to work 12 weeks after his birth, I offered to watch him for her. Hallelujah! What a deal. I waited for so long to get this grand baby I was in heaven at the idea of playing this role in his life.  Besides, I was already head-over-heels in love with him.


When the day arrived for my daughter to bring over the "supplies" I would need, I hadn't quite counted on a case of pint-sized disposable diapers to be included. What was I thinking? Of course I needed diapers. It had finally hit me. "I'm gonna have to start changing some dooty diapers now! Ugh and Yuk." My winning streak just ended by answering the Call of Dooty. But ya know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. Our "dooty times" have been some of the sweetest moments between my grandson and me. While I do the changing, he spends most of the time smiling up and gooing at Gramma. It's so precious my heart usually sheds a few tears of joy. 

I love this little boy in ways I have never known before. And I am so blessed to be in a position to care for him while his mommy must work. I have to say I am proud and happy to have answered the call.  And now I wonder if I'll always think "my grand baby's dooty don't stink"? But I know it won't. That would be a little too optimistic. 

Not a Creature Was Stirring...

January 10, 2011

We have a mouse in the house. Or maybe a whole mouse family, I don't know. OK I see the little smile on your face as you are picturing an old Tom and Jerry cartoon and the cute little gray mouse running amuck around the kitchen table with a smirk on his snerk while my cat Patty Cake gleefully chases it and almost (but not quite) catches it. Well slap that smile off your face. Mice are NOT cute. They are dirty rodents who leave their little mouse droppings behind the fridge and out-wit even my most fail-safe mouse traps.

January 18, 2011

I am decidedly a captive in my own house. Last week I set out 12 mouse traps around the house and in the garage. Every day I inspect them and they remain empty. My home used to be my sanctuary, the home that Mike and I built with love and have worked hard to keep—we've kept it relatively clean and artfully decorated (she said humbly). My house is a reflection of who I am. My place of Solace and Zen when I come home from a stressful day out in the cruel world. Or at least it was. We have been invaded. I am determined to evict the varmint(s) and I am not going down without a fight. This is our territory and just like the last episode of Little House, I'll blow this town to pieces before I let any mice keep permanent residence here.

January 27, 2011

Not my house but isn't this cute?

I admitted defeat and called Pest-Be-Gone. The fellow came out the next day and the fact that his name was Ben did not escape my attention. After a thorough inspection he declared that we don't have mice. (No no no, that would be too easy.) What we have is a big RAT he announced with a toothy grin. (did he say ONE? Oh please God let there be just one) My stomach turns at the thought. Evidently the rat has been living in the house for some time now. I'm going to puke.

Truth is I should have guessed. Last week I caught my cat staring at the crack between the stove and the refrigerator. Staring intensely and in her best Pouncing Position. She has no claws. How can she expect to catch a rat half her size? But stare and threaten to pounce she must. I think its in the cat handbook.

So Ben set out several packets of Extremely Lethal RAT poison in tucked-away places around the house and in the garage. He told us RATS are difficult to catch, then quickly looked at his watch, slithered out the door and bade us good luck. Um...bye Ben.

January 30, 2011

Still no dead RAT(s) (please GOD let there be just one) I checked the poison packets. All in place. I called Ben for the fifth time. No answer. I recollected how day before yesterday, Patty Cake assumed the Pouncing Stance next to the couch, staring underneath it. Last night she sat on the couch in my bedroom staring, unblinking, back behind it. That doesn't bode well. Did Ben leave me his cell number? No.

With new determination, I schlepped to Lowes and bought 6 RAT traps. The most expensive ones. Humungous things that sharply snap with enough authority to kill a small child. YES! I set them out in the house and garage, wondering who the patron saint of Rodent Killers is and if Protestants are allowed to pray to saints.... I am officially in panic-mode.

Jan 31, 2011

I pulled out the refrigerator this evening to inspect the packet o poison behind it. (It's on wheels, it's not that heavy) As I did so THE RAT RAN OUT FROM UNDER THE FRIDGE, SKITTERED ACROSS MY TOES AND RAN UNDER THE COUCH. I screamed bloody murder, jumping up and down. It was HUGE and it was HORRIBLE. Mike came running into the kitchen with the stun gun. I don't know if it was for me or the rat. He quickly assessed the situation and said he would call our son, Shane and together they would get rid of that rat for good. I grabbed my purse and marched out the door, vowing not to return until the R.A.T. was D.E.A.D. Driving away (perhaps forever) I thought nostalgically that we've had 12 years in this house. It's been a good run, good times and great memories but every party has to end.

Is it legal to buy dynamite?

Patty Cake....skulking

Two hours later I called my husband needing a status update. It turns out that Project DEAD RAT was a Fail. He said he and Shane tore the living room apart to get it out from under the sectional. Patty Cake was standing by in anticipation and when the RAT finally did emerge in panic from under the couch, she was on the job. She chased it down the hall and into the laundry room. Mike and Shane were on those critter's tails and quickly slammed the laundry room door shut, trapping the RAT inside.

Now here my Fool-proof Plan; shove a towel under the door to the laundry room and never ever go in there again. That room is now dead to me.

February 5, 2011

It's been five days since "Operation RAT in the Laundry Room". The door remains firmly shut. I considered putting yellow police tape over it in case anyone forgets The Plan. Our dirty clothes are beginning to smell. This morning I suggested we toss them into the trash and buy new clothes. Mike thought that was funny. I am dead serious. He then told me not to be such a wimp and go into the Laundry Room. He said surely the RAT is dead by now.

No one calls me a Wimp so with pride intact I mustered my courage, cracked open the door and peered inside. I had little hope at this point and assumed the RAT had chewed a hole in the dryer vent and escaped to the roof. But NO. THERE HE WAS D.E.A.D on top of the dryer. Victory at Last! O Happy Day! Hallelujah Jesus! I screamed...er I mean politely called for Mike and he took care of the disposal of the Deceased Body like any good husband would...after snapping a photo with my iphone so I could post it on Facebook.

Adios  D.E.A.D.  R.A.T.

Thank you Jesus. Kudos to Mike. Props to my son Shane. A tiny sliver of thanks to Ben (who turned out to be a disappointment for the most part and quit taking my calls after the third day). But most of all, loads of thanks to Patty Cake for waking up and moving her lazy butt off the sofa long enough to do what a cat is supposed to do!