Roger That...Over.......And OUT.

I walked down the hallway on Sunday and as I passed by his room, I glanced in out of habit. Every single place my eyes rested, there was not a single inch of space that didn't have something on it. It looked like his entire room had been picked up, shook up, and dumped upside down.  I didn't say a word, I just kept walking. Three hours later, I walked back by again, and if it could even be imagined, it was worse. This time, I had to ask. What in the living heck was he doing? He stood there, smack in the middle of the menagerie of junk and looking a little overwhelmed himself said, "It was just time to clean up".

Six hours later when he was done, he had eleven, completely full garbage bags, the big heavy duty ones, full of who knows what. He said he had thrown away stuff that had been in his closets since the fourth grade. But on the right side of his bed were his awards, trophies and all of his framed certificates just stacked in a section of their own. I looked at him, then I looked back at that stack and I was too afraid to ask, so I didn't.

Since Zach was a mite of a little boy he has always been able to compartmentalize his life. Things are done when he says they are done. They are over when he says they are over. Always.

I took his bicycle away from him when he was four years old. He had been caught playing with matches, and fibbing about playing with those same matches. So I told him he couldn't ride his bicycle for about a week. I told him to put it on the back porch and latch the screen door. Instead, he took the bike himself, put a chain around the bike and the banister on the front porch and locked it down with a combination lock. He would decide where and how it would be locked up. This "stand" of his was not lost on me, but the bike was put up so I let it go.

Now that bike was Zach's best friend. If we were home, and there was daylight, he was on that bike.

One afternoon maybe into the second or third day of his restriction Mims came to the house and Zach was outside playing on his swing set. That was an odd sight for all the reasons already stated, so Mims asked hm why he wasn't riding his bike. Was something wrong with it? Zach's answer was, "No, he was just tired of riding it for awhile".

Even when he got his bike back the next week, he waited a whole day after he got it back to ride it. Again, because he was in control of that situation. I didn't take his bike, he gave it up and he would decide when he was ready to ride again.

I won't lie. I have been worried about football Spring Training 2013 since two a days Summer of 2012.  Last Spring as I watched some of the Senior boy's who were about to graduate, standing on the  sidelines, hands shoved deep into their front pockets, looking at the future and feeling left out and left behind, it broke my heart. And as I sat there looking out my windshield at the scene before me, my mind drifted to the not so far away future that would be here sooner than we could imagine. For both Zach and myself. Soon it would be his turn. And even as I thought those things to myself, I wondered if he was thinking about all of that as well.

I can't tell you that he's said much about it.  But I can tell you he doesn't hang around long after school these days. He's not standing on the sidelines when the last bell rings, watching the players warming up, running laps, or talking about new plays. He's in his truck and at the house in record time, slinging on his work clothes and throwing himself into someones yard work and bush trimming.

That same Sunday after a final trip to his room, I noticed all the trophies and certificates were gone. Out of sight. I did ask him that time where they were and he said he had boxed them up. That those days, those times were over. I said, the accomplishments were still there, the hard work was still there. He said "no, it's not Mama. That part of my life is over and it's time to move on." His tone was dismissive and I respected it enough to take it as that and left it alone.

So, he's had his Senior Trip, his last Spring Break, and the last in school Prom for him, is next. From there, everything else will be a blur. Baccalaureate, Class Night, then Graduation. Clean up the next day. And it's over. Just that quick.

As I walk through these last days with him, I watch his strong shoulders and firmly set chin and wonder where did all that strength come from, and find myself wishing that I had just a teeny bit of it myself.

He's already preparing for his own shut down. Shut down of the memories, the sadness and the emotion. He is compartmentalizing all of his thoughts from then and his thoughts about what is to come. He will not let the past take him down. He will not let the emotion control him or restrict him. He runs this show. He always has.

Capture Cupid With Coupons

Can you put your finger on the first time you began to notice? Can you remember when everything went fade to black. Can you actually name a date when you said to yourself, "Ok, here it is, it's happening".  I mean, it begins so gradually, don't you think? Just little things as first. Little things that nonchalantly begin to disappear.  You're pretty sure it just started. Surely you would have already noticed. Right? Seen the signs of it coming. There is no way it got this far and you never saw it coming. Right? You didn't just wake up one day and everything was different. Did you?

So one day, there you are, to stop the griping when you announce that it's overflowing and will he please come and take the trash out, you do it yourself. You're not only cooking all the meals, but you are cleaning the dishes and everything else that goes with preparing a meal, all by yourself. You are washing, drying, folding and putting all the clothes away, all by yourself as he sits in his recliner with his feet jacked up watching Westerns.

You come home for work, the day from hell, only to see everyone sitting on their behinds, watching TV, and the only reason they glance up is to ask, "What's for supper?" Or to ask, if you remembered to stop and pick up his prescription from the drugstore. The same drugstore he himself passed on the way home. Or to ask who drank all the water out of the refrigerator and didn't fill it back up? When you know he takes two bottles to work himself everyday and to have noticed it was empty and he chose not to refill it, but only gripe about it to make his point first? Or to walk into the kitchen to find the food bowls from their take to work lunches in the sink, instead of making the next natural step to the dishwasher.

They stop telling you how much they enjoyed dinner, breakfast, and supper. You don't remember the last time he opened a door for you. They no longer notice anything, because for them too, everything has just come to be expected. To have clean clothes, a clean home, food on the table, medicine ready to swallow, and all of their appointments made with reminders from you to show up.

All of that was said to say this, we don't need you to stand in CVS the eve of Valentine's trying to find us a card, weeding through a bunch of picked over mess, because you waited too late. We don't need you to run by Winn Dixie and grab some leftover half wilted flowers because you forgot AGAIN that you have to order from a real florist much earlier for certain holidays. Or worse, because you refuse to use your imagination, you spend close to $100 on flowers that are only going to die. And we don't need some crappy bath salts pre-made gift package from Wal-Mart that was a very apparent afterthought because you should know by we are allergic to flowerdy scented junk, it makes our skin break out in hives and an emergency trip to Urgent Care is not our idea of a thoughtful gift.

How about this lovely idea instead:

Present us with a coupon book. In this coupon book, good for 365 days, it will have the following:
A. 30 Coupons for dishwashing/cleaning the kitchen..
B. 30 Coupons for doing all the grocery shopping..
C. 30 Coupons for wash/dry/fold/put up all the clothes.
D. 30 Coupons for taking out the trash without being asked.
E. 30 Coupons for picking up his own shoes and clothes out of the floor.
F. 5 Coupons for FIVE movies WE want to go see..with NO WHINING from you.
G. 10 Coupons for you to seat on the Glider with us at night and carry on a real conversation without the TV being on.

H. And finally 5 Coupons for the month of December....for no griping about helping with the Christmas decorations. going up...OR coming down. AT ALL.


I just don't think thirty times, ten times or five times a year is so much to ask. We don't need flowers, clothes, cheesy gifts or diamonds. We need you to be partners with us. Just like in the beginning. When it really was just you and me. No kids, no grandchildren. Just us. When we were the only thing you thought about getting home to, and a hug was the first thing that passed between us when you walked in the door instead of demands and questions about menus and medicine errands. We want you most all of the time, and we just want you to want us. We want you to be interested in how our day went, the good ones and the bad ones. And we would really like it if for just one night of every month, we acted like our television didn't work.

Happy Valentine's Day to all my grown lady friends, for they are really the only ones who will understand anything that I have had to say. Because all the young gals are still being bombarded with every gift imaginable, mostly because the poor guys are still interested in trying to get it right. Trying to achieve the highest level of pleasure, the warmest smile and the tightest hug for their reward of accomplishment. They still care enough, to think enough, to try enough. The older guys, well, I guess we can hope they're just tired, and that they really think they just can't out do anything they have already done, so why try. We can hope that's how they think, but I'm kinda doubting it.

Eighteen Equals.....

Isn't it silly? That we wait half of our teenage lives to become eighteen years old. We stand by, transfixed on that magical number as if it holds some secret of great things to come. We talk and talk of "when I turn 18 this", and "when I'm 18 that", so much so that almost everyone around us will be so glad when it finally happens. And then, just as it's about to finally be that day, the count down is on. One month, two weeks, three days. We are so anxious one would expect us to burst into flames at most any give time.

Then it's here. That day is finally here. Some have parties. Some don't. Some have build ups so mighty as if to replicate the first man walking on the moon. Reincarnations of  Fourth Of July's gone by. Coming out parties filled with wine, beer and booze, all of which they are still too young for, and certainly not legally ready.

And then, it's the same. Maybe not that day. That night. But the next day, it is exactly the same. The world didn't change overnight. There are still rules. There are still curfews. And for some, still high school English in fourth period the next day.

Only it's not the same. Not really.  With that age comes a modicum of difference. And those differences should be recognized and acknowledged. As the adults 'in charge', we should respectfully announce that we are aware that there is a difference and discuss just what the limits for those differences will be.

My oldest son moved out of our family home when he was 18 years + 3 months old. I was no longer 'in charge' of him, what he did, who he spent his time with, how late he stayed out, or if he even came home. All choices and decisions were his to make. Right or wrong.

And now in March my youngest son will be eighteen years old. He of course will still be high school. And he will still be living at home. After graduation, his plans are to go to college locally and still live at home for a period of time.  The combination of all those things change the rules somewhat. How much you ask? Well, that right there was a hard thing to decide.

There is a lot to think about. A lot of what ifs. What's fair to everyone involved. What works for everyone involved. And yes, all of those things matter. It is up to us as parents to decide what is fair for everyone, discuss it with and without our child, and then maybe re-group and discuss it again. After all, if he didn't live here, I would have no say so at all. And since he does, I think/believe the decisions should be made together.

So curfews have been altered, with guidelines that will alter them again upon graduation. Firm but fair stipulations set in place for each instance I thought needed discussing. All with the promise of "you do your part, and I will comply with mine".

I never cared for my parents using the "this is our house, not yours, we just let you live here" statements. So I refused to go that route. My statement stands as this : "This is the house of everyone who lives here at any given time. That being said, everyone will participate in it's upkeep and what it takes to keep a home running. And that simply means, if this is still where you live when you are twenty five years old, you will still be taking out the trash and making your bed."

There are few smooth roads to complete adulthood, if there even is any such thing. But I hope to have as many as possible and I especially hope that by loosening the rope, I give leeway for my son to make good, smart, and healthy choices. Because everybody knows; bad choices and foolish choices always result in repercussions, whether those repercussions are dealt by me, or life itself.

Off we go, into the wild blue yonder. Down roads yet untraveled, filled with pot holes and land mines. Roads just lying in wait for inexperienced travelers and new adults blinded by the light of "I'm eighteen now and invisible". Go forward, step lightly, tread gingerly, and think often and hard about every decision you make. Act with faith, hope and courage, using your heart as your compass, and your head and guts as your leader. You will need all three of those things for the rest of your natural born lives. Use them wisely and they will serve you well.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Who Will Be The Next To Fall?

Will there ever be anyone else we can believe in? Will there ever be anyone else who is really special? Whose talents are real? Whose efforts are honest? Whose best is really the best? Every single week that goes by anymore, someone falls. Someone fails to deliver, and someone has lied. Lied to the largest of proportions. Created stories with enough words and logic to fill a book. And they travel with these stories for months on end. And in some cases, for years and years and years. Long enough that they begin to believe in those stories and lies themselves. They are truly living the lie.

Do we allow ourselves to believe the super dynamic feats they say they can pull off? Without drugs and made up girlfriends? Do they all need a gimmick to perform?  Can none of them rely on their own strengths and God given talents?

And more importantly, who do we allow our children to look up to? Who do we allow them to plaster their walls with posters of? And who do we encourage them to follow the examples of, but not too close, just in case they fall? And how do we explain to them when for the first time in history, no one was chosen for the Baseball Hall of Fame, because the voters are just too disappointed in people in general to try and make a choice?

I say, we find our children and grandchildren new Hero's. Hero's that really exist. People they may even know. Not some strangers on television who could be ready to disappoint at any given minute.

How about the high school Football Coach who guides them in all the right directions, teaching them morals and life lessons as they go. Coaches who go above and beyond AFTER school to keep the interests of their athletes clean and good.

Or the English teacher who teaches a classroom full of boys that Shakespeare can be fun and interesting.

Or the Custodial Manager aka SO MUCH MORE.. who has taught more life lessons and preached more righteous sermons right on the back of a golf cart or sweeping a broom.

Or the Math teacher who never lets any of them down, shows up at every school function, every football, baseball, volleyball, softball and basketball game and loves all those kids as if they were his own.

Or the Music teacher who regardless of his own health issues, leads them with dignity and teaches them the lesson to preserver above all else.

Or the lady who helps them open up their first checking account at the bank, and guides them gently into adulthood by teaching them about money, responsibility and business.

Or the Pastor, who takes the Bible and it's truths and changes them into a language that attracts the minds and hearts of all ages, young and old. Because after all, isn't it the children we need to lead into a life of believing, a life of prayer, and a life of goodness. I would hope that by now, we as adults, are already there. 


Or here's a novel idea, what about us? Why can't we be their Hero's? We should still be the ones teaching all of life's lessons, morals, rights, wrongs, and the reality's of love, pain and hurt. Teach them that hard work gets you through life, problems and love. That the truth will always set you free, guide you in the right direction, and result in victory. That drugs and alcohol will never enhance your sports career or your life. And repeat, repeat, repeat, that old adage, a cheater never wins and a winner never cheats. Convince them of it, preach it, and mean it, like our lives depended upon it. Why would we ever turn those responsibilities over to less than perfect strangers?


It's time for us to take control of our children's dreams and help steer them in the right direction again. Stop the rage of rising disappointments and failures in people they don't even know. Let them find success around them instead of looking into a television screen for things that don't exist. I'm not saying there will never be Hero's of that kind anymore, but I am telling you that my faith has been diminished to the point, that somebody needs to show me something. Quick.

Letters Make Words and Words make Stories

My name is Michelle, and I'm an addict. Have been all of my life. And worse than that, I'm an enabler. I not only have my own demons to deal with, I am constantly pursuing any way, and every way I can think of, to enable someone else.  My goal is to have everyone I know to be addicted with me. To pull everyone into my world. My life. My heartaches. Disappointments. Victories. My heart.

So I tell stories. True stories. Stories that engage. Stories that pull people in and pull people together. Stories that will make you think, make you cry, and make you laugh. Stories that will make you question yourself, make you question others, and work hard to reach resolutions. Stories that make you want to pick up the phone and call your parents or send a card to a friend who is hurting. Stories that will take you back down the road of your own childhood and remind you why you need to share those stories with children and grandchildren of your own. Stories that will remind you that our children and our parents are people too, and maybe, just maybe, we forget that sometimes.

It began for me in high school. I was Chief Editor/Writer of our school newspaper. I had a wonderful Journalism teacher who allowed freedom of speech, thought and process. I wrote controversial editorials, heartfelt stories and funny antidotes. But I wrote, and wrote and wrote, all to bring attention to myself, what I had to say, and to command involvement of the readers. To bring them to my world, if only for the five minutes it took to read what I had to say.  

When I created my Face Book account it was for communication purposes. To see my children, to see my friends, to socialize once again with people that had long left my life for lack of more accurate words. And then I found it again. My old love for words. For story telling. For inviting people into my most private thoughts.  I began to share my life. My family life. And all that is inclined to represent. I invited you to interact with my family, in my house, on our boat, in our yard and described it the best I could, in hopes that you would believe and feel as if you were here.

But that wasn't enough. I had so much more to say. So I created a Blog post. To enable me to tell even bigger stories. With more detail, more animation, more color, and even more involved intricacies of my life.  My only regret is that I could never make it real enough. That I could not create video and sound to corroborate my words. The faces, the expressions, the funny voices, and the absolute uncanny comedic timing with which my family seems to be blessed. 

Unfortunately, with these stories, posts, and status's, also comes notoriety. Sounds a little dramatic I am sure, but it's pretty real. Both of my children and my husband have become people that everyone seems to think they know personally, some without having ever even met them at all. Because of me, they know them by name, nicknames, their likes and dislikes. Their hobbies, their humor, accomplishments, their downfalls and weaknesses. And in saying all of that, I fully realize that is what I created. A sense of familiarity and sense of belonging.

For some members of my family, this has become just too much of an insight into their lives.  And I get that. However much I don't mind sharing, or making myself look ridiculous (all in the name of a laugh or smile) others are not as willing to share the most intimate parts of their being.

I'm not sure how much I can "entertain" anymore. I will certainly continue to share my own stories, but also realizing I am not anyone's favorite thing to read about. It brings me great joy that you like my family enough to read what I have to say. It brings me great pride to know that my stories are read in vast ranges of age, and it gives me comfort that every now and again, I can help someone feel better about themselves, their own relationships, and their lives.

I've appreciated your loyalty, your comments and your opinions. Thanks for reading. And I thank you for those of you who will continue to read my words still.

Don't Let The Wheels Fall Off

As I sat down to write today I knew in my mind, some of the words would not come easy.  I knew I would struggle with my thoughts and that there would very possibly have to be some deep soul searching. Owning up to your own faults and disappointments can be difficult. The truth can be painful and unpleasant. Self evaluation is the hardest thing to do. Because we can all make excuses for ourselves, our behavior, and our shortcomings. But to stand up and say, "I just didn't get it done", to look in the mirror without blinders on, now that is the brave and honorable thing to do.

Resolutions. They're hard. It's hard to decide what is important enough to set your mind to accomplishing, important enough that no matter what, you think you will do it, and important enough that in the end, it will make a difference in your life. Sometimes, not only in your life, but in the lives of the ones you love, and even more importantly, in the lives of people you have yet to know or love.

I have fell off the wagon more times that I can possibly remember. Last January, my mind was filled with such resolve and determination. I was finally, once and for all, going to get all this excess weight off and keep it off. I found me a couple of wonderful walking partners and off we went. Making long strides and walking literal circles around the doubt that it could be done. We walked most every day. Hot, cold, tired, frustrated, or worn out. We walked.

Then, at the end of June, I fell of the wagon. My walking partner had a problem with her ankle. I tried to go alone. To stick to it. I bought an IPOD. Downloaded all my favorite music, and I walked. Alone. For about two weeks. Then stopped.

A couple of months later I started walking with another friend. But by then it was August and 100 degrees at 7pm.

I found all kinds of reasons to not walk. Many legitimate, some not. Too hot, too late, working late. And course school began for Zach which brought extra activities and another host of excuses and reasons. 

In those seven months that I walked I didn't lose a major amount of weight, but I lost a lot of inches and gained back a lot of self esteem. My blood pressure went down, my sugar was in control and I just felt better. Better than I had in a long, long time.

I'm not going to make a resolution to do anything this year. It feels pointless and it's humiliating when I don't carry it through. I feel as if I set myself up for failure before I even get past the first week of the new year. I am simply going to do my best, to do my best, at everything I do. Whether it's losing weight, being more kind and compassionate, more understanding and reasonable, less judgmental and conclusive in my thoughts, less apt to butt in even though I know I could help, and have more patience on the days when I feel I have none left.

I'm pretty dang sure I can do all of those things. I know without a doubt I can certainly try. And that's all we should ever ask of anyone or ourselves is that we just try. To hold on tighter to the reins and stay in the wagon.

Happy New Year everybody. If 2012 was not your best year, I pray 2013 is better. If 2012 was the best year you have ever seen, I pray in 2013 you can maintain the excellence. And I wish and hope for you all the exact same thing, which is more peace in your heart, love in your life, and never-ending hope that your dreams come true.

And The Beat Goes On ...

I don't know a Mama alive who doesn't hear everything. Even in the dead of the night, having been asleep for hours, we hear it. Everything. A sick child crying out. A teenager two hours over curfew, creaking through the house on tiptoes and their best behavior. The neighbor's dog, two houses down and his barks, echoing endlessly into the night. We hear everything.

Three nights ago, or should I say, three mornings ago, I awoke to the strangest noise. Like soft, muffled music. I sat straight up. Listened for a minute, and thought to myself, are you kidding me?! WD has left his alarm clock setting to ON and he KNOWS we don't have to get up for work today! I began shaking his arm, telling him to cut off his alarm. He's trying to wake up, but not fast enough to suit me. I jump up out of bed, flip on the closet light which illuminates but does not blind, stumble around to his side, only to realize, it's not his alarm clock. Because I am looking at the clock, and it is OFF, and the time is exactly 5am. He's almost awake now, his C-Pack mask still roaring, the window A/C until blowing, and him mumbling through the mouthpiece of the mask that he hears nothing. I can still hear it. I'm snatching open drawers to the nightstand. Nothing. Snatching open drawers to the high mirrored dresser. Nothing. And then, the music stops. Just stops. I hear nothing else. I'm standing there wide awake, shaking from the cold, looking back at a crazy looking C-Packed face staring back at me, and I hear nothing.

I climb back in the bed, only to listen to C-Pack face fuss at me for waking him up. For nothing. For no good reason. There was no music, I am crazy, he rants. He rolls over and goes back to sleep. While I lay there face up, eyes adjusting back to the darkness and wait. Wait for the music to start again. It never does. And I drift back off to sleep.

Night number two. It is time to go to bed. The memories from the night before flood back in. Mainly because all day that day, Mims has been telling and re-telling that story to everyone who will listen and the weirdness of it all is still in the forefront of my mind. I'm not crazy I tell myself, I heard it. I know I did. But what was it? And where was it coming from?

I know I read too many scary novels. And I know I watch too many scary television shows. Criminal Minds, CSI, and anything else that makes the mind do crazy tricks on itself. But I heard that music. That creepy muffled music. I know I did.

As I was saying, it's time to go to bed. Now because my mind has had all day to think and wonder, it's stretched my imagination far and wide and I am considering that maybe something was IN my room and then left. Like the movie Gaslight. Trying to make me feel crazy. Well, I'll fix that by golly, I'll lock the bedroom door. And I did. I also left a light on in the living room. To make people think we were still up of course. All night long. People don't break into houses at night while people are still up and awake. Do they?

All night passes, no music. None.

Night number three. Last night. I'm alright now. I have forbidden anymore talk of "the music" all day long. And now it's time to go to bed. I'm still a little weird. But I'm alright. I leave the bedroom door unlocked this time. But I still leave a light on in the living room. Sometime about 2:30am, I wake up thirsty, I take a sip of water out of the bottle next to my bed on the nightstand. Evidently, I don't have the top on well, I fumble trying to put the bottle back on the stand in the dark, and I drop it. Water splashed out, on the side of the bed, and I began to whimper. Because I am cold, the water is cold, and now my sheets are wet and cold. Mims is awake now after all this commotion, wants to know what's wrong, I tell him, still whimpering, and he pats his side and tells me to come over there, where it's warm and dry. I fall back asleep.

I hear it again. Every sensory fiber in my entire body is on alert. That same creepy muffled music. I am slinging covers off, moving/running to the other side of the bed again, because it is clear that is where it's coming from. Mims is trying to adjust to my manic behavior, but I don't give him time to adjust before I am switching on the bed light on his night stand, the light searing into his eyes. He's carrying on about the light, his C-Pack is roaring, the A/C unit is blowing and suddenly we are in the reenactment scene from two night ago. Except the music does not stop as quickly, or maybe I got around to his side of the bed faster this time. Same motions, slinging open drawers, looking at his clock, which again, reads dead on 5am. And again, it's not his clock.

Now, some of you may remember me telling you a few weeks ago that my parents brought a lot of my grandmother's things to me. Love letters, her wedding dress, birth certificate, all kinds of personal belonging from many, many years ago. They brought them to me in an old fashioned hat box that has been sitting in the corner of my bedroom on the floor since Thanksgiving. My plan is to buy a trunk to put all these things in, but it just hasn't happened yet. So there, in that dark corner, sits that hat box with all those items that belong to my Grandmother who is in heaven now.

All of a sudden, my body got as still as the night. I leaned over and eased back the top of that hat box. And the music stopped. Just stopped. I stood there. Frozen. Mims had finally shut his mouth. And he was sitting up in bed. Frozen. I looked at him and he looked at me. I backed away from the box, walked back to my side of the still damp bed, climbed in, and said "I don't want to talk about it" and closed my eyes.

This morning after we were all up, had our coffee and were alert and awake again, I was the first to bring it up. Zach is staring at me like I have four heads as I recited the story back, for the first time out loud. Mims is carrying on to Zach about being blinded in the middle of the night by the beside lamp and that his eyes are still on fire from the brightness of the light. And I am still just baffled.But I tell them both, tonight, I am setting the clock for 4:45am and we are going to wake up and sit there, and wait for it. Wait for the music to start at 5am. And catch it! Whatever it is...catch it!

All of sudden Mims says, where is my old cell phone? I said I have no idea where is it? He says I think I put it in my dresser drawer a few days ago, go get it please. I walk back to the bedroom, look in the drawer, take out the phone that is no longer in use, and bring it back to him. He hands it to Zach. Zach begins to push buttons and make faces and then begins to laugh. Now they are both laughing.

Apparently, even though you have another phone now, and your old phone is no longer in use, some of it's functions still work. Like the alarm. Like the alarm that had been set to MELODIC TUNES for your wake up call. AT 5AM.

For sometime now, I have not been "allowed" to read my scary novels at night anymore. It may be that come the New Year, my nighttime TV watching privileges will also be reduced. It seems my over active imagination has gone to places that no normal mind should go and my family may be planning an intervention.

Personally, I'm a little disappointed. I kind of liked the idea that my Grandmother was trying to talk to me through music in a hat box. However, I would have much rather it happened in the daylight, while i was completely awake, and with a little warning. Like a fly by from a beautiful butterfly, or at the very least, the sound of her beautiful laughter somewhere in the background of my mind.

But by golly, I am NOT crazy. I AM NOT CRAZY.