Visitations

Up until 2AM committing to this blog, I dropped into bed heavily and ready for at least five hours of shut-eye. At 4AM my teenaged daughter crept into my bedroom to rouse me from a deep sleep. She was in need of parental comfort from the mother unit. (I believe it takes a house fire or break-in before the father unit is knocked from his peaceful slumber at this point in the childrearing game!) Hereditarily speaking, I've gifted her with pain and unrest on a monthly basis since she hit womanhood many years back. Though she has yet to crawl across the living room floor in agony, the intense abdominal twinges which also spread to her legs and back are bad enough. She wanted her mama to sleep with her in the 'queen's quarters.' There is no invite into her bed unless she's experiencing extreme discomfort.

Once I realized this was no midnight feeding - old habits die hard under the confusing veil of extreme exhaustion - I grabbed my firm pillow and my soft down pillow and followed her trail of moans and groans into the living room. I lovingly forced her to ingest 7-UP (yup! high fructose corn syrup and all!) and a slice of bread to prepare a cushion for her pain medication, unwittingly giggling, well, er, actually full-blown laughing, when the carbonation caused her to burp. (This particular child of mine is modest in her bodily functions. Not prone to gas at either end on a regular basis, even as an infant. When it occurs in rare instances, the occurence itself invokes humor for the rarity of the moment. Still, bad timing, oh maternal one!) The withering look she shot my way would have scattered a lesser woman to the four corners of the universe . . . I mumbled an apology as I fought to choke back the next round of inopportune guffaws.

Eventually, we managed to make it to her sleeping chamber. She scooted into her nest with heating pad in tow while I wrapped my 'leaf' blanket (a simple fleece affair sewn around the perimeter; given to me as a gift by my sister-in-law many years ago - a family favorite for couch cuddling) about me and adjusted my already assaulted sinus passages to the high-powered wind of her ever-blowing ceiling fan. Within a score of minutes, we lost consciousness until daylight and alarms beckoned as well as any farm rooster. My husband wandered in to check on us, to ask after his daughter, to grin at my tired form in repose. Once I managed to convince myself that awake was the state right after Tennessee, I thanked the Lord for the beautiful pain-free girl seated at her make-up table, running her hair straightener through her long hair. After a few well-meaning motherly comments, she requested that I leave her quarters so she could prepare for her first day as a high school junior in relative peace. My job was done for the time being.

The duration of my day was a race for a nap. Competing for my attention was the myriad piles of color-coded laundry, wilting hydrangeas not at all happy with the late morning sun, scads of dishes not yet cleaned and put-away in the hubbub of the previous night's activities, letters needing a stamp and raised flag. Though I convinced myself that a nap never visited my address, the neighbor boy who came by to drop off a check and returned home to his mommy with news that no one ever answered the beckoning siren of the doorbell seems to say otherwise. You see, lack of sleep stimulates that cortisol hormone response which causes me to raid pantry and fridge in an endlessly pseudo-famished state. It's either sleep or eat. Oh, or that most enjoyable of all activities during a sweltering summer afternoon in middle-Tennessee, indoor exercise to a CD! I did end up opting for 46 minutes of cardio before whipping up a light dinner of sauteed yellow squash in olive oil and thyme, steamed Yukon Gold potatoes in chicken broth, and shrimp seared with garlic, lemon and lime juice, Bay's Seasoning, and oregano . . . one more thing . . . ah, the crushed red pepper flakes. That was for my husband and kids at home; my eldest daughter and moi were set to gallavant down the block for our once-a-month Bunco Monday.

Our hostess chose a light fresh menu coupled with a blended white summer wine of pinot grigio and sauvignon blanc. Elements of melon and green grass were present courtesy of the sauvignon; I welcomed it warmly. An array of chopped fruits, peaches, berries, oranges, watermelon, were provided as crisp additions. I was a perfectly good girl, avoiding yet another trinity in my life, the trio of foods which saps me of my energy when I regularly imbibe - cow dairy, wheat, sugar - proudly steering away from the orzo-and-feta saladb and diving repeatedly and deeply into the 'Texas Caviar' concoction of tomatoes, corn, hominy, and Tex-Mex seasonings. All scooped into the confines of multiple crisp baked corn chips.

Alas, my resolve weakened when my eyes landed upon the showstopper in the midst of the tablescape. The holy grail of cupcakes - the fabled lemon cupcakes of which I had only ever heard Missy speak in the past tense. "I made THE best ever, EVER, cupcakes for this party. You simply could NOT turn away from them!" There they were. I did not turn, unless it was to reach a more advantageous viewing point. Simple pale yellow jewels in a paper shell, set atop a Martha Stewart-esque cake stand, each one adorned with a crimson fan of sliced strawberries. I committed myself to just one at the end of the evening. Okay, okay. I followed my citrus treasure with three bite-sized Dove dark chocolates with short 'fortunes' hidden on the inside of their wrappers. "Come in, Houston, we have a problem!" (There's that 3 again. Not even a conscious choice.)

The human company was better than good, lest it be thought that food comes ahead of people. Most of the time, this is NOT true! I was awash in a charming sea of blond-hued gals from around our hood, me being one of the only brunettes, our hostess the single redhead. (Interesting sidebar: a recent study revealed that redheads feel pain more intensely at the dentist and require extra pain meds before having dental procedures. Our hostess? A dental hygienist!) Their chatter lulled me in, stories of children and back-to-school, spinal surgeries gone wrong, hot flashes enhanced by the still evening air, PMS symptoms in need of control, websites for odd bra sizes, candy drives for the Iraqui-based American soldiers. This is what we go for, this amalgous stew of life events both significant and mundane, mixed well with ample servings of mighty fine gal food. Those bright dice with promises of 21-point tri-number rolls and the end-of-the-night prizes are actually low on our bulleted list of WHY I REMAIN IN BUNCO AFTER MORE THAN 5 YEARS.

Ending the day with the same visitor as I began the day - middle daughter came to fetch me back, we escorted a precious lemon cupcake home for dad. Most of it made it home and into the fridge until morning though, somehow, my greedy lips nibbled all around the circumference of the delectable dessert and it now looks somewhat less than enticing. If he closes his eyes, however, the sugar seduction effect will remain the same: a bright explosion of citrus sun on the palate with the power to briefly eclipse the light of the waning moon.

This is my second entry. Exactly what the nature of a blog is, I'm not entirely certain. I do understand I am not merely writing to an audience of family and friends. A blog has the potential to go 'round the world. It can be seen by people who know not one iota of my personal history. Thus, I must write with that in mind, taking nothing for granted. Assuming nothing, too, in this Internet community. We shall see what we see. At least, I'm hoping for a 'we.'