Searching for gold

Here in Colorado, the aspens put on a spectacular fall display -- if you catch them at the right time.

Last weekend Jim and I guessed the timing was right to catch the yellows, golds and coveted reds in the mountains not too far from home. So we packed up Mickey, Lyla and some sandwiches and headed for the hills.

Turns out we guessed wrong -- at least in terms of the aspens at the relatively low altitude we visited (9,000 feet). We've heard the aspens in the high country have turned, but what we saw on our outing were just bits of yellow here and there, with plenty of green still taking center stage. The best colors likely will be this coming weekend.

We still had a pleasant day, though, and managed to get some good photos ... even some of Mickey climbing up into my lap, which the 60-pound pit mix never does. Seems our big, bad dog doesn't get out of the city often enough, and the gravel and brambles were too much for his sensitive tootsies.

Here are the highlights of the day:

Today's question:

Where is your favorite place to view the changing colors of fall?

My swollen heart

Sunday afternoon as I sat out on the patio listening to the waterfall gurgle and the birds chirp and warble as they flitted from the waterfall to the birdbath to the flower-covered vines decorating our back fence, an overwhelming sense of gratitude came over me.

Out of nowhere, my heart swelled with gratitude for my crazy house and overgrown yard and that, despite a house payment that doubled when we bought this house -- and the stress accompanying it when we both lost our jobs relatively soon after -- this is the place Jim and I plan to call home for the rest of our days. I love my house. I’m so grateful for my house.

Yes, it’s a material thing. But this material thing makes me happy and content … and grateful.

After a week of thinking about, writing about, cussing about all the things I think suck in my life, all the things I worry endlessly about, it was nice to suddenly, inexplicably realize a plethora of things for which I’m grateful. Things I’m blessed with that truly trump all the fears, doubts, worries and complaints I let get in my way each and every day.

I’m grateful my family – immediate and extended – has never suffered a true tragedy. We often succumb to fear and trembling over imagined tragedies when the reality is that we have been tragedy free and have it pretty darn good.

I’m grateful I was laid off and given the opportunity to consider and pursue a career path that matters to me.

I’m grateful for Jim, who supports that career path even though it means far less money than the one I previously fell into. I'm grateful for Jim for countless other reasons, too.

I’m grateful my girls grew into such lovely, amazing, thoughtful, intelligent, empathetic women … something I never thought would happen while in the throes of the teen years.

I’m grateful for Bubby. And that I get to see him more often than some long-distance grandparents get to see their grandchildren. And that Megan and Preston happily share him with me -- a consideration not all grandparents are afforded.

I’m grateful Megan and Preston are doing the right thing by my grandchild -- another thing not afforded all grandparents.

I’m grateful for a twisted childhood because it twisted me into an unusual shape. It may be a weird shape, but it’s different. And different is good.

I’m grateful that Jim and I continue to have the money we need. Plus some. Plus lots, considering what many others have.

I’m grateful for those who read what I write, who act like the gunk and junk that flows from my head to my fingers and onto the page and screen is worth reading.

I’m grateful for the unexpected gratitude that filled me up, made me consider what matters, what’s important and what’s worth being grateful for.

Photo credit: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What are you grateful for today?

Farewell, summer!

Yesterday I stumbled upon -- and posted -- photographic evidence of how wacky my neighbors are. I came upon that photo while searching for photos for a collage of some shots I took around the yard this summer.

Here is that collage:

As we head into fall -- my favorite season -- these are my reminders of how pleasant summer can be, too. Well, minus the 100-plus degree temps, of which I took a photo of the temperature gauge to remind us of the misery we endured due to heat when we're whining and complaining about the cold during the dead of winter.

The photo in the bottom left corner was meant to be a shot of our resident black squirrel meeting up with one of our resident albino squirrels. Unfortunately the white one ran off just as I snapped the photo. Eventually I'll have such a depiction of natural diversity and tolerance to share with you ... once the white squirrel gets a little better about the "tolerance" part of the picture.

The photo in the bottom right corner is a bit difficult to see at that size, but it's a baby robin in a nest in one of our trees on the patio. The nest was visible right from our deck.

In my area, the forecast for this coming weekend makes it ripe for one last fling with the heat -- a glorious hail and farewell to summer!

Today's question:

What will you miss most about summer?

My life in numbers

I'm not a number person. I'm a word person. Which is why I get a little frazzled when it seems my life's focus is on numbers.

Last week, the numbers of highest importance were the number of literacy tutors versus the number of students in need. As a site coordinator for the local children's literacy center, it's up to me to pair up students with tutors for my site -- a true juggling act when the numbers go up and down more erratically than the stock market. Things finally leveled out, luckily, just in time for yesterday's start to the semester.

While tutoring numbers were top priority for a week or so, they were far from the only numbers battling for space in my psyche. Here are nine more:

1. My age. Yes, it's on my mind more than in the past. Surprised? Nah, I didn't think you would be.

2. My bank account. Unlike the number of tutors or students, my bank account numbers aren't erratic. No, they're just always low. Too low for my liking. Which is why I think about them a lot.

3. My weight. I snack more than I should. Salty stuff. Fatty stuff. Even sugary sweet stuff that never used to appeal to me. Paired with the amount of time I spend sitting on my cuss makes for a very ugly number.

4. Steps recorded on my pedometer. I try daily to get in a high number of steps to lower that No. 3 number. Some days it works. Some days it doesn't. Some days I feel like flushing the pedometer down the toilet so I don't have to know the truth about that number.

5. Rejections from editors. I keep my head partially in the sand on this one. The rejections come, but I don't count them. My agent e-mails to say "Here's another very nice rejection" and I write back to say "Thank you very much for that nice rejection." Then she keeps submitting to editors, I keep my fingers crossed. My agent has faith in my book, I have faith in her judgment. One of these days her e-mail will announce a YES, and I will then count up all the rejections it took to reach that answer. Until then I pretend the number doesn't matter. Yet it does. A lot.

6. Blog stats. Visitors, comments, subscribers, bounce rates. Aack! Why do I keep checking the numbers? These are the numbers I'm most obsessed with. These are the ones I'm most tired of thinking about. These are the ones that make not a whit of difference in my life, yet I still obsess over them. Why?

7. Posts not yet read in my Google Reader. I really want to read them all. Honest. Mostly because I have a feeling at least a few of those bloggers -- my friends -- might be as obsessed with their numbers as I am with mine, and I hate to think my not clicking to read might add to their digit distress in even the smallest of ways. Besides, most simply have some really cool things to say that I don't want to miss. I will get through them. Eventually.

8. Books not yet read in my review piles. Spending far too much time on No. 6 and No. 7 has left me with more books waiting to be read and reviewed than I care to admit. Friends have graciously offered help and I've declined any new books until I get through my current stack, yet I still want to kick myself for letting this get so out of hand. And will continue to kick myself until the number of books gets pert near zero.

9. Days before I see Bubby. I thought there'd be a visit in October; now it's not happening. Which means there are 71 days until I see my grandson at Thanksgiving. That's a number I don't like. Maybe I'll get lucky and No. 5 will become a non-issue (meaning I get a big fat YES from an editor!), which means No. 2 would see an uptick, which means I could buy a ticket to see my grandson sooner than Thanksgiving.

Which means No. 9 could be removed from my list.

Or replaced by another number of concern.

Of which the odds of happening are pretty darn high.

Even though I'm really not much of a numbers person.

Really!

Photo courtesy stock.xchng.

Today's question:

What numbers are currently causing you distress -- or elation?

The Saturday Post

A truly lovely story.

True.

Love.

And only 5 minutes long.

Have a lovely Saturday!

Are you there God? It's me, Grandma

The past two weeks have been filled with distress over a situation with one of my (to remain unnamed) daughters. I go to sleep praying about the mess, wake up praying about the mess, have prayers about the mess taking up lots of space in my brain, my heart.

I keep praying and praying without seeing much in terms of answers ... yet (I hope). I told the daughter in question that all the praying is wracking my brain and it sure would be nice if I could simply send God an e-mail with a "READ Receipt" attached so I'd at least know the prayers were under consideration.

I told Jim the same thing. To which he replied, "Yeah, just like in Bruce Almighty."

I'd forgotten about Bruce Almighty. Maybe it's another example of my memory fritzing out here and there, or maybe it's because I don't really care much for Jim Carrey. Once Jim mentioned it, though, I remembered. And I couldn't help but search for a clip of exactly how the e-mail to God thing worked ... at least in the movies.

This video -- for which I have only a link because it's copyrighted and embedding is disabled -- is what I found, what I remembered, what I kinda sorta long for. So go ahead: Take a look at this Bruce Almighty answers e-mailed prayers scene. I'll wait the minute-and-a-half it takes to watch it.

Ya back? Good. See, that is what would be oh-so wonderful, oh-so helpful.

Well, except for one thing. In the video, God/Bruce/Jim Carrey simply says "Yes" to all the requests in one fell click of the mouse. But that would never work in reality. For most things -- including the situation causing me such distress -- not everyone praying about it is praying for the same outcome. Even when it comes to praying for world peace, I'm pretty darn sure there's some folks somewhere wishing only to be the ones to win. When it comes to ending pain and suffering in the world, well, we all have different theories on how to do that, what to pray for, and some of those theories likely conflict with the theories of others. Even when it comes to praying to win the lotto (not that anyone I know does that), it obviously wouldn't work to say "Yes" to all those praying for the big bucks.

Bottom line: Bruce Almighty's simple "Yes" simply won't work.

The real God, though, I'm pretty sure he could figure out a way to make it work. Which is why I want a direct connection, a valid e-mail address to the real God. I could zap out my concerns and send them on their way.

Of course, if such a thing did exist, there'd naturally be a "READ receipt requested" option. I would choose that option, and upon receiving the receipt, then I'd know my request was under consideration.

Then I'd know I could stop praying about it, stop worrying about it.

If only things worked like they do in the movies.

Photo courtesy stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is your favorite Jim Carrey movie? (HA! And you thought I was going to ask something about God, didn't you!?)

The alien has landed ... again

I had my tonsils out in the sixties. (That's the 1960s, not when I was in my 60s!) I remember only three things about the experience:

1. The book read to me to prepare me for the hospital visit. I recall there being brightly colored pictures of a little boy who's hospital gown didn't stay closed very well and nurses in white uniforms with the matching hats they wore back in the day. I search for that book every time I vist a used-book or antique store. I'm determined to one day find it.

2. Jello being served to me in the hospital bed afterwards.

3. Quisp. The character from the cereal. Somehow Quisp figures into my tonsil-removal experience. I think I received the stuffed Quisp doll from someone ... or maybe a lucky child in the bed next to me received the quirky alien ... or maybe I've imagined the entire thing. Imagined or not, the Quisp doll and tonsils go hand-in-hand in my mind.

(Let me stop here and say that if you are one of the young-uns who don't know what the cuss Quisp is, you can catch up by reading all about the cereal, the character and the battle with Quest right HERE.)

So last weekend, Brianna and I were out shopping for butt-toning shoes for my walks, along with a few other things. I bought my shoes, she bought two pair (not butt-toning ones) and we moved on to Target.

No, I do not fill my ceral bowl this full. Illustrative purposes only.We're toodling toward the kitchen gadgets -- or whatever the heck it was we were there to get -- and what do I happen upon but an end cap stocked to the brim with, you guessed it ... no, not Jello ... but QUISP cereal!

The quirky little pink alien smiled from the blue box, just like I remembered from 40 years ago, beckoning me to the shelf. My eyes widened, my heart leapt and phantom pains from long-gone tonsils squelched squeals of delight. So I didn't squeal, but I did smile wide, pick up a box and share my Quisp story -- or my imagined Quisp story -- with Brianna.

I also bought a box. How could I resist?

When I got home, Jim, too, squealed upon seeing Quisp. Okay, he didn't really squeal, but he was just as excited to see the little guy as I was. Which surprised me because he certainly didn't know me when I had my tonsils out and never had the good fortune of seeing my Quisp doll. And he definitely is not a fan of cereal (I've never seen him eat a bowl of cereal in our entire lives together).

"Now that's a cereal I could handle," he said. "Dry, of course." (His aversion to cold cereal has something to do with milk, I've been told. Never, ever will he eat cold cereal with milk. Dry, apparently, is another story. Especially if it's Quisp, even more so apparent.)

So I happily placed the alien cereal in the cabinet, looking forward to having a bowl or two during the week. Which I did yesterday. And it was everything I remembered: little flying saucers that hold smidgens of milk ... and float in the milk as the saucers become few. A sweet, crunchy taste much like Cap'n Crunch -- without the damaging-to-the-roof-of-the-mouth crunchiness of Cap'n Crunch. Soggy saucers if if not eaten quickly enough. And the nausea that comes soon after swallowing the last bite.

Nausea? Yeah, the stuff always made me sick to my stomach for some reason. But I loved it so much -- call it successful marketing, maybe -- that I ate it regardless of the nausea, regardless of how I'd feel afterwards.

Also regardless of the nausea: I plan to buy two more boxes of Quisp before it disappears from Target. Not because of the taste -- nausea's not as easy to ignore as it used to be -- but because <insert drum roll here> with just three proofs of purchase and $4.95 for shipping and handling, I can receive by mail an authentic Quisp T-shirt!

I am so ordering it! And I plan to forevermore proudly wear my Quisp T-shirt as I peruse used-book stores and antique shops in my hunt for the out-of-print picture book featuring a little boy's hiney peeking from his hospital gown as he visited the hospital for his very first medical procedure. A little boy who wasn't as fortunate as I to receive a Quisp doll during his visit. Or to even imagine receiving a Quisp doll, as my case very well may be.

Today's question:

What do you remember about your very first hospital visit (well, first other than being born)?

And I would walk 10,000 steps

So ... I bought a pedometer. I've had one before but I don't think it told me the truth. All I had to do was jiggle my hips a bit and it would try to flatter me with sky-high numbers.

My new pedometer doesn't lie to me, doesn't try to butter me up with untruths. And it has nifty options that tell me not only how many steps I've taken, but how those steps convert to miles, how many calories I've burned, and how many of the steps were in the "moderate walking" range. Oh, and it keeps each days' numbers in memory for seven days.

"Seven days ..." (Couldn't resist.)

Anyway ... I need a pedometer because I want to know how close I get to the "10,000 steps a day" health advice.

I've never been much on exercising. I don't lead an active lifestyle. I do walk Mickey and Lyla daily. But since starting Grandma's Briefs, I've definitely noticed I'm getting blogger's butt ... and a blogger's belly to match ... big time.

Bottom line: I need to get moving. And I want to make sure I'm moving as much as necessary to have the desired effect. Hence the pedometer.

Surprisingly, the first day I wore the pedometer, I came pretty darn close to 10,000 steps. My daily walk clocks in at nearly 3,000 steps. And it scores in the "moderate walking" range because I don't just walk it, I march it. To a military-style marching song. With words.

At risk of making you all think I'm a wacko -- if you don't already -- here's my daily march:

"I don't know but I've been told. (I don't know but I've been told.)

Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old. (Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old.)

I don't think that it will be. (I don't think that it will be.)

Cuz they go on daily walks with me. (They go on daily walks with me.)

Stay young. (Stay young.)

Not old. (Not old.)

All the way home. (All the way home.)

Five, four, three, two, one ... We're done!

All at a fast, four-count beat. Shouted. In my head. (I'm not THAT wacko, to be marching and shouting out loud all around the neighborhood. Although Jim's convinced if I did it aloud, the dogs may fall in and we'd be quite the spectacle. Maybe even end up on YouTube. To which I say: Uh, no. I'll keep my marching song to myself, thank you very much.)

So my marching walk gets me about 3,000 steps. I fit in the other 7,000 the first day by doing my daily doings -- adding a few quick jogs in place along the way to amp up the count, much to Jim's amusement. (I told him "Thank God we've been married nearly 30 years! I could NOT do such things with a new mate!" One of the perks of longtime marriage, I readily admit.)

The first day, I hit 10,307. By 9 p.m. Which was good because I'd told Jim I would not be going to bed until I hit 10,000.

Converted by my nifty new pedometer, 10,000 steps is four miles, at my average stride. If 10,000 steps (four miles for me) supposedly maintains one's weight, my goal now is to walk FIVE miles a day in order to lose the blogger's butt and belly. Which means I gotta add about 2,500 more steps to my day.

The second day I had my pedometer, I didn't wear it. I knew in advance that most of my day would be spent sitting in the car driving to my mom's then sitting at the table eating the Coldstone Creamery cupcakes I bought her and my sister in honor of their birthdays. (Happy birthday, Mom and Debbie!) No use wearing the pedometer for such limited activity.

The third day (the day I'm writing this) I marched a little farther with Mickey and Lyla, traipsed up and down the billions of stairs in the house and yard a little more than usual. I figure one or two whirls around the yard each day (it's a big yard,) and I'll be at my goal.

Now I just need to get some of those groovy New Balance shoes that work the butt and thighs while you walk. (Not the funky "rolling, rolling, rolling" Skecher ones.) My blogger butt and belly will be gone in no time!

Question is: How well can I march while donning butt-working -- and balance-threatening -- workout shoes?

I'm crossing my fingers that the answer isn't that I can't, that I actually end up falling and busting not only my butt, but a leg or two in the process.

For if that happens, I certainly won't have much use for my nifty new pedometer.

Today's question:

How many steps or miles do you think you walk each day?

The Saturday Post

While still feeling bad about myself for being such a cry baby, I experienced a moment of serendipity in coming across a post from Sandi at Deva Coaching on finding our signature strengths. Her post directs readers to Authentic Happiness, an awesome site filled with personality and character assessments and more.

So to pump myself up a tad, I took the Brief Strength Test to find my signature strengths. Here's what I learned are my top five character strengths (out of 24):

Love of Learning
You love learning new things, whether in a class or on your own. You have always loved school, reading, and museums - anywhere and everywhere there is an opportunity to learn.

Love
Capacity to love and be loved - You value close relations with others, in particular those in which sharing and caring are reciprocated. The people to whom you feel most close are the same people who feel most close to you.

Fairness
Fairness, equity, and justice - Treating all people fairly is one of your abiding principles. You do not let your personal feelings bias your decisions about other people. You give everyone a chance.

Humility/Modesty
Modesty and humility - You do not seek the spotlight, preferring to let your accomplishments speak for themselves. You do not regard yourself as special, and others recognize and value your modesty.

Gratitude
Gratitude - You are aware of the good things that happen to you, and you never take them for granted. Your friends and family members know that you are a grateful person because you always take the time to express your thanks.

Nary a word about crying ... which is just fine with me!

If you'd like to learn a bit about yourself, head on over to Authentic Happiness. You do need to register on the site in order to take tests, but nothing intrusive. Then I'd love for you to come back and share your tops strengths with the rest of us!

Today's question:

What is your top character strength, based on either the test or on what you personally consider it to be?

The town crier

I'm so mad I could spit. But before I explain why, I need to tell you something: I cry. A lot. About all kinds of things. I cry when I see something sad ... or joyous; when I hear stories of huge emotion -- happy, sad or otherwise; when I listen to songs that make the heart swell ... or break; and when I tell someone of such things.

Yep, I'm a crier. Not because of PMS or any other hormonal horrors; it's just who I am, always have been. Everyone in my family knows it, understands it, no longer even skips a beat when mom's a little verklempt and needs a moment to collect herself.

That's the backstory. Now the story:

I was at Walmart Wednesday, picking up items I needed for Bubby's visit: diapers, baby wipes, Danimal yogurt thingees, frozen waffles and more.

Of course while I was there, I just happened to pass the toy aisles all the way on the opposite side of the store and ended up throwing into the cart all kinds of things I didn't need -- but that Bubby would enjoy during his visit: sandbox toys, Matchbox cars, a rug printed with streets for those Matchbox cars to traverse. I even got a pair of pint-sized swim goggles. Not that we'll be swimming while Bubby's here (Grandma can't swim to save her life, much less his) but I bet he'll enjoy wearing them around the house anyway.

So I'm in line with my cart piled high with things I don't really need, things Bubby doesn't really need. There's three people ahead of me, the one at the register being a young mom in her early 20s with a baby in a carrier and a five- or six-year-old boy waiting patiently at her side as many of her goods are being scanned ... in the opposite direction, removing them from her bill. She's holding a handful of cash while produce and school supplies and a little boy's backpack are stacked to the side for returning to the shelves. She silently picks through her cart, deciding whether she and her little ones really need the grapes or the toilet paper, steering clear of the baby formula. The formula's a necessity; other things aren't. Like the little boy's backpack. To which he simply, quietly, watched move out of his grasp when the cashier placed it in the return pile. He just stood there, silently waiting as Mom searched for more ways to pinch her few pennies.

The two people in line between the mom and me -- with my big ol' cart of unnecessary items -- huffed and puffed and shuffled and moaned.

As they shuffled, I looked from the backpack to the boy, back to the backpack, to the mom. I desperately wanted to step forward and tell Mom that I'd pay for the rest, to hand over my debit card for her remaining items, including the backpack. Especially the backpack.

But I didn't. I just stood there. Because I felt the tears coming and I couldn't live with myself if I broke down in tears at Walmart. Even if I overcame the humility and moved forward, the poor young mom wouldn't understand what the cuss I was saying because when I'm verklempt I'm hard as cuss a teensy bit difficult to understand.

So I watched ... then stared down at my cart, scrunching up my face to keep in the tears. I said nothing, did nothing, as the mom finally reached a grocery bill she could afford. Then she and her little ones quietly wheeled away to the parking lot. Without the backpack.

The parking lot! That's what I'll do, I thought. I'll hurry and find her in the parking lot and give her some cash. I quickly looked in my wallet, found $6 and determined to give her it when I headed to the car, to tell her to go back in and buy the cheap little backpack for her son.

But I didn't do it. For when I finished paying -- fighting tears the entire time -- I got to the parking lot, watched the mom buckling baby into the car ... and felt tears and blubbering threatening to erupt. I couldn't approach her. She'd think I'm crazy. And I'd likely offend her -- and scare her little boy -- with my bawl-baby antics over their situation.

So I wheeled right on by and filled my trunk with my junk, just as the tears started down my cheeks.

Then I got in my car and kicked myself all the way home. I was so mad at myself I wanted to spit. But instead I cried. And hid my face when I passed the neighbor. And continued crying while unloading Bubby's bags o' fun.

Then I sat down at the computer to write this because I simply had to let someone know how very mad I am at myself for being a cussin' crier. For taking no action because I'm a crier. For not doing the right thing, the thing that would have made a world of difference to one little boy and his cash-strapped mom. Because I'm a crier.

I just needed to tell someone that. But I couldn't tell it to someone in person.

Because I would cry.

Today's question:

What is something you do despite hating that you do it?