This old gal...

Created a 'Then and Now' photo for that birthday girl of hers. Facebook always giving the nudge with what seems like a daily prompt.

And it was fun to see the change over time. Twenty-five years of change. That grown-up beauty of mine so different, yet still the same.

And not long after, a photo showed up in that Besties chat of ours. Those DC daughters of mine recreating the fun 'Love at first sip' memory.

And once again the heart of mama-me went pitter-pat. Fourteen years. Has it really been fourteen years? Those sipping ladies so different now, but yet still the same.

And then the kicker. Auntie Jenn snapping a random pic at the coffee shop. A picture of that little best friend of mine. Only weeks have passed and yet the 'then and now' difference is obvious and, not gonna lie, kind of an eye-opener for this grandmother so far away...

An eye-opener about that thing called time. It's passing inevitable. Fleeting. Flying. Waiting for no one.

Use it wisely. Make every minute count. Treasure it—like the gift that it is.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees...

For those of you who didn't know...

This old gal is obsessed with the Squishaboo—so cute, so cuddly, so deliciously squishy. They're the gift—to myself—that never stops giving.

Could not find a more perfect prop pillow. Prop the elbows, prop the knees. Prop the head, prop the feet. Prop the iPad, prop the phone. Prop for reflux, prop to stop...

Snoring—his. They're a blessing. A blessing indeed.

Went Squishy crazy one year giving all kinds of Squishies to those daughters of mine, and then, one day in Hy-Vee, what to my wondering eyes did I see? Harry Potter Squishies. Harry Potter Squishies mama-me wanted to buy for those Harry Potter lovers of hers.

But resisted. Went back to the store again. And resisted. Went back a third time. And resisted. Said to myself, "Self, do not buy your daughters any more Squishies. They don't need them. They don't want them. They only pretend to like them to humor you."

But wouldn't you know, not long after, that Besties chat of ours started blowing up. Blowing up with Squishy love.

Those Harry Potter lovers treating themselves. Little Mama finding uses for hers an old gal would never have figured.

And so it is... in life... Sometimes Mama knows best—even when it comes to the Squishaboo.
​
And those daughters of mine... agree.

This old gal...

Got a text from a friend of mine. A photo of a cat. A photo of a cat posted by the local Humane Society. And the mystery—the second mystery, at least, the mystery about what happened to Pretty Boy—was solved.

He was at the Humane Society. Not sure how he got there. Not sure who took him. But there he was in that picture—cuter than could be.

The post asked questions—the same questions curious-me asked on Community Chat earlier: "Is this your cat? Does anyone have any information on this cat?" And so, cat-lover me shared what she knew and then pondered...

If they didn't have Pumpkin. If they didn't travel in the winter. If they were ready for a full-time cat to have and to hold—she'd go get him.

Which is what the Humane Society people might have been thinking, too. That little message they sent solving Pretty Boy mystery number one: the sweet little cat was neutered, chipped, his owners nowhere to be found and would be up for adoption soon.

Which made cat-lover me ponder once again. About that pretty boy—how sad it was, wandering the neighborhood. Looking for food. Looking for friends. Looking for family.

And so it is... in life. It's all about connection. And we pray Pretty Boy finds his, just like each of us.
​
And this husband of mine... agrees.

Pretty Boy...

Was new in the neighborhood. Had never seen him before that day he dropped by—but suddenly he seemed to be everywhere.

Following kids as they walked to school. Sitting on this porch, laying on that porch. Visiting with this neighbor, engaging with that neighbor. Eating breakfast one place, having a snack at another.

He was a quite a charmer. Couldn't help but win your heart. But as charming as he could be, he lacked smarts. Street smarts. Smarts when it came to the streets.

Oblivious of traffic. That busy-morning-right-before-school traffic. Would step off the curb and saunter to the middle. Slowly—ever so slowly. Cars would stop. Cars would swerve. Cars would slow down.

But sadly, around here, there are a few vehicles that don't stop. A few vehicles that speed up on purpose. A few vehicles that speed up on purpose, especially when they see a cat in the middle of the road.

So, for two weeks, worry-warts-us got up early. Drank coffee by the window and kept vigil. Stopped traffic. Walked with him. Kept him safe.

And started to do research. Asked around. Posted in Community Chat. Who is this cat? Do you know this cat? Is he your cat? Is he lost, forgotten, abandoned?

And then two weeks from that very first encounter—No Pretty Boy. And the next day again—No Pretty Boy.

And the heart of this old gal... sank.
​
And this husband of mine...agrees.

This old gal...

Was in the back yard, conversing with that pretty boy, when someone heard her voice. Someone stuck his head under the fence and crawled out. Someone cut through the neighbor's back yard and under a plant. Someone made eye contact with his favorite human in the whole wide world—at least SHE'D like to think she is—and then froze...

Because THAT'S when someone saw Pretty Boy on HIS turf with HIS people.

Wasn't sure how Pumpkin would react. Always timid. Always shy. Wary of people. Would there be a squirmish? A hissing fit? A cat fight?

But Pumpkin behaved like a Pumpkin should—he just sat there. No sound. Little movement. Pretty boy came back around. Tested the waters a bit. Hissed at this orange fellow sitting there so stalwartly. Then headed off down the sidewalk.

And still Pumpkin sat.
Greeted him with a "Hello."
And still he sat.
Asked him to come inside.
And still he sat.
Offered him his favorite Fancy Feast.
And still he sat.

Finally, after some time, our brave boy came into the kitchen. Rubbed up against his favorite old folks. Paced a bit. Purred a bit.

And then threw up.

And so it is... in life. Be a lover not a fighter.
​
And Pumpkin...agrees.

This husband and I...

Were sitting in the front room enjoying morning coffee. That favorite cat of ours had come and gone after a crack-of-dawn Fancy Feast breakfast—the back door still propped open a bit after his exit—when what to our wondering ears did we hear?

Meowing. Loud meowing. Lots of loud meowing, which was odd because Pumpkin doesn't really meow. He purrs. He chirps. He whisper-meows in the middle of the night hoping to wake sleeping old folks, but this kind of meowing was a different kind of beast...

And that's because it WAS a different kind of beast. Well, not exactly a different KIND of beast, but certainly a beast that was NOT Pumpkin. A mystery beast. A mystery beast we'd never seen before. A mystery beast that was the cutest mystery beast ever...

Beautiful coat. Beautiful color. Sweet little face. Walked around the place like he owned it. Checked out every room.

Jumped on furniture. Had a snack. Took a nap.

And then Pretty Boy was gone, leaving two old folks a little bit mystified.

And so it is... in life. Sometimes you have more questions than answers.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

That youngest daughter of mine...

Sent a picture of corn in that Besties chat of ours. Three ears of corn—one not like the other two.

A funny little thread followed. Those girls of mine joking about the mutant corn, the mutant sister, who was who, when one of them said, "But you know what's important—that corn has a great personality and that's all that really matters in life."

And she's not wrong.

Wise words from a girl who knows a thing or two about personality—because she's full of it. Dynamic, bubbly, witty, fun. Kind, caring, with tons of compassion.

Has a spring in her step. A smile on her face. A twinkle in her eye. Leads with strength and humor. Supports with wisdom and grace. Encourages with confidence and positivity.

Has been told on many occasions that she's memorable—VERY memorable, but in a good way.

To know her is to love her.

And so today we celebrate that girl who shines with personality. Who is beautiful both inside and out. Who gives it her all every single day. Who makes a difference. Who brightens any room just by walking through the door.

Happy Birthday, amazing daughter of mine, you are truly one of a kind.
​
And those sisters of yours... agree.

This old gal...

Had an itch. A decorating itch. An itch to try to find a way to put more of her swing glass vases in front of a window.

Love the swung glass vase. Found the first one a few years back at Goodwill for under two bucks. Then the hunt was on, finding them here and there and everywhere.

And they are gorgeous. Specialized glass. Each vase unique. The colors brilliant, creating a stunning kaleidoscope when the morning sun shines through.

Researched shelving units. Nothing worked. Too big, too tall, too deep. Gave up and let it go, until...

Lawn-mowing day. Taking the grass to the compost facility. Didn't realize it didn't open until noon. Had time to kill. Decided to go back to a garage sale we'd passed on the way.

And what to our wondering eyes did we see? A table. A vintage table with the coolest carved legs. A table that was water-damaged because the owner's daughter used it for her fish tank. A table that they parted with for five dollars.

A table that that husband of mine refinished. Brought back to life. A table that fit perfectly in front of the back room window. A table that scratches an old gal's itch.

And so it is... in life. Sometimes you don't know what you're looking for, until you find it. And sometimes Someone answers prayers... you didn't even know you prayed.
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And that husband of mine... agrees.

This husband and I...

Started to have issues. Toilet issues. Issues with the toilets. Both toilets. One wouldn't flush. One wouldn't stop flushing. Both needing new internals.

Mentioned this to that neighbor of mine. Asked for the name of a plumber, but instead she offered wise advice...

"Do it yourself," she said. "Watch a YouTube video and just do it yourself."

Do it yourself. Do... it... yourself. Did she know who she was talking to? Those neighbors of hers, Ping and Pong, are not exactly handy. Crafty, maybe, but when it comes to fixing things, let's just say the skills are not innate.

Ping and Pong are clumsy. Bumblers. Laurel and Hardy-like. But those words. Those three words, stated kindly and innocently... became a challenge.

And so we did... do it ourselves. Headed to Menards for supplies. Watched videos on toilets. Armed ourselves with tools and tutorials and a magnifying glass to read the instructions—because it truly WAS the blind leading the blind.

And got it done. Not without fumbling. Not without bumbling. Not without the little hose popping off the pump and shooting water everywhere...

But also, not without laughter. Not without joking and certainly not without a little chest-bumping—figuratively—because Ping and Pong surprisingly...

Did it ourselves.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

This old gal...

Did it. Decided to make that sandwich spread of the past. That sandwich spread that mother of hers made. That sandwich spread she hasn't eaten in 50 years. That sandwich spread she thought she might enjoy now that she's older.

Because she likes all the ingredients: dried beef, onion, tomatoes, Longhorn cheese—which—thanks to Google—is actually Colby cheese in the half-moon shape (ahhhh, the things you didn't know you didn't know).

Dug the family heirloom out of the cupboard. Set up the grinding station.

And not gonna lie, grinding was fun. Just as fun as back in the day. Pressing the ingredients in. Turning the handle. Watching it ooze out the holes. Took an old gal back—way, way back.

Used instant onion instead of grinding one. It might be 50 years, but one doesn't forget the effects of hand-mushing an onion.

Put the conglomeration in a pan and cooked away, watching it blend together into a recognizable, hideous, mass—somewhat resembling the look of that less-than-delightful potted meat which started this whole sandwich spread adventure off in the first place.

And ended in a tasty lunch. One that husband of mine refused to join. One that was tasty in a way that brought back memories of childhood. Memories of a sandwich spread that was fun to make but tasted gross... and still does.

And so it is... in life. Some things never change, but it was kind of fun to try.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.