Take a picture -- it lasts longer

As a parent, you'll occasionally have moments when all is right with the world, at least within the confines of your own little world. Everyone in the family is getting along, the sun is shining in your hearts, the love is flowing, the future looks bright.

That's when you need to pull out the camera. Even if there's no major event, no happy holiday, no striking of a pose, no magical reason to record the moment, I urge you to take a picture.

Really. Take a picture. Because that moment won't last.

All of a sudden, with no warning whatsoever, the dark clouds will roll in and the ground will shift then crumble beneath your feet.

I know. I've been there. Several times. In fact, I offer that advice as Jim and I sit atop a pile of rubble, looking at each other, shaking our heads, asking "How did we get here?"

We'd been down this road before, thought the lessons had been learned, thought we'd never have to pass this way again.

Yet here we sit, dumbfounded, asking "WTF?"

And our daughter just shrugs her shoulders and waves from her pseudo-solid ground, oblivious to the way she's knocked our world off its axis.

So we pick ourselves up. We dust ourselves off. We start all over again.

And out of the blue, as we go through the motions of daily life, one of us mutters, "This sucks. This really, really sucks!"

"Yeah," the other responds, "this sucks."

We don't know what else to say.

Mere days ago we had a brief moment when all was right with our world.

I wish I had taken a picture.

('Nuff said.)

Today's question from "If...(Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to cancel one hour of the day, every day, which hour would you eliminate?

I'd eliminate 5 a.m. That's the time I usually glance over at the clock on the night stand and realize I have only one more hour to sleep.

Charmed, I'm sure

On Saturday, Jim and I had to go to Walmart, one of my least favorite places in the world. I can't stand the bungled mess of a parking lot or the even more-bungled aisles. And the carts scare me: All the disinfectant wipes in the world can't get rid of the copious amounts of germs on them, and I'm finding as I get older, copious amounts of germs creep me out.

But Walmart is closer to my house than Target, and the place does have some pretty good deals. Still, it was a shopping excursion I wasn't looking forward to.

As we walked the 2.3 miles from where we had to park, I saw a penny (heads up!) and picked it up. Then Jim found one within a foot of that. He picked his up, too (even though it was heads down). With two good luck pennies in our pockets, I figured it would be a successful and survivable trip into hell.

It wasn't. Which isn't surprising, as I think it'll take a whole lot more than good luck charms to make Walmart a place I enjoy visiting.

But those unhelpful pennies reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in years: rabbit's feet, the go-to good-luck producers of the past.

Decades ago, rabbit foot keychains were everywhere. It was quite common to see a pink, green, purple or yellow foot dangling from a gal's purse or a guy's blue jeans, announcing to the world what a lucky chap or chapette they were -- or hoped to be.

I never had a rabbit's foot when I was a kid, but many of my friends did. I was partial to the non-Technicolor ones, the rabbit's feet that looked like the real thing. They were the creme de la creme of good luck charms, in my opinion, and my friend who was special enough to have one often let me hold her precious white rabbit's foot. I'd stroke the soft fur, hold it up to my cheek, feel around the tip of the foot for that little bunny toenail I knew was there.

I coveted that keychain and wished I were the kind of kid who could steal from a friend with a clear conscience. But I figured that even if I did manage to pocket the paw with no problems, the luck associated with the charm would disappear if I acquired it under less than scrupulous circumstances.

Now that I'm older and could afford a rabbit's foot if I really really wanted one, I no longer want one ... and haven't for about 35 years. They're actually kind of a gross little trinket to give a kid. I imagine many a bunny limped around with only one paw or, worse yet, had their tootsies removed just before being skinned and thrown into the pot for some hillbilly's wabbit stew.

So is that why rabbit's feet are no longer popular? Did PETA step in and educate the country on the true horrors associated with them?

And what has replaced them? Do kids even believe in good luck charms anymore? Is there a new version of the rabbit's foot, maybe a kinder, gentler charm?

I'm pretty sure kids aren't picking up pennies they find on the ground, happily picking it up and grinning at their good fortune as they stick it in their pocket, because even a kid -- maybe especially a kid -- knows that a penny doesn't get you very far nowadays.

Not even at Walmart.

Today's question:

What personal item do you have that you consider a good luck charm?

Fave photo of the week

My hero: A firefighter in training.

Today's question from "If...(Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to cast living actors to play you and one other person in your life in a film about your life, who would you choose to play each person?

I would choose Laura Linney to play me and Javier Bardem to play my husband. (He's nothing like Jim and vice versa, but it'd be interesting. And hey ... it's the movies!)

The Saturday Post

Today is the day Brianna finally makes the official move into her new home!

We think it's a pretty good one, as I wrote about here. It seems structurally sound, she got it for a good price, and there have been no horror stories as of yet.

But when purchasing a new (old) home, you really just never know ...

(Ignore the subtitles; it's in English but the only clips I could find of this specific scene were uploaded by folks in other countries.)

(SORRY... THIS VIDEO LOST IN BLOG MAKEOVER)

Congratulations and best wishes on owning your very first home, Brianna! Here's to hoping you never, ever, EVER experience any scenes even remotely similar to the one above!

Today's question from the Zobmondo "Would You Rather?" board game:

Would you rather have your grandmother's first name -- OR -- her haircut? (If she's passed away, think of the haircut you most remember her having.)

Basing this on my maternal grandmother, I'd rather have her first name, Mae. She always wore a wig, as far back as I can remember, so if she so desired to cover up her natural look, I don't really think it's one I want to sport.

Trash talk

I've found that since being laid off, there's far less garbage in my life.

I'm not talking about office politics, primadonna designers, "other duties as assigned" or all the other garbage associated with the working world. I mean that literally, there's less garbage in my life.

It used to be that the garbage service we pay for allowed for three big garbage cans. And we often filled those three big garbage cans ... to the brim ... and then some. (The service also allowed for two additional garbage bags along with the cans, so that's where the "then some" went; we didn't leave it scattered around the cans for the friendly garbage man to pick up.)

But then December 2008 came. And I was outsourced from my position. And I now only work a part-time position (which really is okay with me).

And about five months ago, I saw the need to change our garbage pickup to be for just one measly can.

I admit that I changed the service to include one can and one recycle bin (I am trying to do that green thing that's so popular of late). But what ends up in the recycle bin isn't enough to fill a garbage can. Which means we're generating about half the trash we did while I was fully employed.

Even the day after Christmas -- a day that in the past meant that three full cans were surrounded by three additional lawn-and-leaf-size bags plus a pile of the boxes from the gifts and goodies -- saw only one full can ... and one full recycle bin.

The diminished garbage pile can't be just because my kids have grown older and the gifts come in smaller packages. We were in the same boat last year and still had piles of Christmas garbage.

And the smaller daily accumulation of garbage certainly isn't because any of us are on diets around here.

No, I honestly believe there's less garbage because I make less money. Because I make less money, I buy less stuff. And because I buy less stuff, there's less garbage. (Which clearly speaks volumes on the trap of consumerism I'd fallen into!)

I bet garbage collectors all across the country are emptying lighter cans -- fewer cans -- into their trucks each day. They probably get through their rounds faster and get home earlier.

So forget all the predictions and prognostications of the economists and financial gurus, it's the garbage men who can give us the real scoop. They'll be the ones to tell us when the economy is looking up, when we can all breathe a sigh of relief that the worst truly is over. They'll be the ones to see the bigger piles on the horizon. And bigger piles will mean bigger smiles ... for all of us.

There you have it: The truth is in the garbage!

Today's question from "If...(Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you could change one thing to make life easier for your own gender, what would you change?

I would get rid of that whole menstruation thing and all that goes along with it!