Oh, By The Way.....Thank You, God

Hi, God--remember me?

I know, I know.....Thanksgiving.  The one day most of us take inventory and count our blessings and throw a little credit to you.  Sorry about that, and I wish I remembered to be thankful for what I have every day; not just today.  Anyway, here I am and I just want you to know, despite everything, it's really been another good year.  But, while we're talking, there's a few things I'd like to bring to your attention.

What is going on with this aging thing?  I mean, seriously, it was like one day I'm all dewy-skinned, not an ounce of fat, and I didn't need glasses to see everything.  I'm not able to skip the snacks and drop ten pounds like *that* anymore.  Well, no, I'm not actually using that 'Y' membership or the nice fitness center I have where I work........thanks for making both of those available to me.  Please give me the determination to use them.


And God?   I'm not looking so young anymore, and the wrinkles keep on a coming. It's funny, I used to think if I ever won the lottery I'd get a nice house, travel, and lavish the rest on everyone I know.  You know what? I don't wish for mega millions anymore.  All I want is enough for a good plastic surgeon to do something with my neck.  That's all.  That's awful, isn't it?  I'm fifty-two.  Not twenty-two. Not thirty-two.  Not even forty-two.  But, I have to admit--I look pretty decent for fifty-two.  Alright.  I will stop griping and settle for aging gracefully.  Thank you for the good genes you were kind enough to give me from my Mom and Dad that make the ravages of time not so bad for me.  


 My hair, God---MY HAIR!  Shhhhhh!!! I'm not really a blonde, but don't tell anyone.  I'm having to touch the roots up more frequently now and I hate it.  I suppose the time is going to come in the next decade when I'll just decide to let it go.  You know what?  Dad died when he was forty.  I never remembered him without his mainly salt and a little pepper hair.  I guess I got that from him, didn't I?  Okay, fair enough.  Thank you for the daily remembrance of my Daddy every time I check my roots out.  


Why the heck did you let me go through that whole kidney stone ordeal in August?  That hurt like a son-of-a.....oops, sorry.  Well, it wasn't pleasant, that's for sure, and the bill I have from that emergency room visit was just as painful. Come to think of it, though--I didn't have to pay anything out of my own pocket for that.  I am so fortunate to work where I do, and my employer credited a generous amount into my HSA account because I am in good health. Actually, that took care of the adjusted balance, so....yeah--nothing, actually. Thank you for that, too. 


Another thing, it's been an awful year with most of my kids.  We've had some trouble this year, as you well know.  How much do you think I can handle, anyway?  How about spreading some of that around, instead of clumping it all together in a small period of time?  Some weren't speaking to me, and when they did, it was just hateful.  I cried a lot, and prayed daily about this.  It just kept getting worse.  Now?  Well, yes, things are better.  Yes, you did answer those prayers, maybe not quite in the way I wanted things resolved, or as fast as I would have liked, but you did answer them.  Thank you.


God, I'm alone.  I guess I never pictured myself single at fifty-two.  I feel lonely, sometimes.  I wish I had someone to come home to, someone to cook for, someone who knows what to do when things break at home.  Yes, I know I have Sydney to cook for, but how many times can you throw frozen chicken fries in the oven and call it dinner?  That's all she wants to eat. And, yes, I've lucked out that most things at home I've been able to fix with my handy-dandy combo of duct tape, bobby pins, and hair scrunchies.  Nevertheless, I'm starting to take this personally.  I'm not dating, and no one seems interested in me.  Maybe it's because I'm getting old?  Sorry, I said I wouldn't mention that again, but what else could it be?  Oh, come to think of it, you've got a good point.  I do work a lot.  I do make myself unavailable because of being a parent.  I don't go out and put myself out there.  Wow--I just thought of something---I don't NEED someone, do I?  Sure, it would be nice to have someone, but I'm taking care of things on my own.  You've really blessed me with an independent spirit, a fantastic work ethic, and a sense of priorities.  Come to think of it, thank you for not allowing me to stay in a couple of relationships since my divorce that didn't make me happy, and for giving me the courage to walk away.  

God, God, GOD......what were you thinking giving me a baby at 40?  Here I am with a precocious, rambunctious, exhausting twelve-year-old at 52!  She is a challenge, and she insults me, too.  Needy, greedy, untidy......and she lives on her iPhone.  I'm only here to ferry her to dance practice all week, and the money!  The money! God, I don't know if I can continue to afford this little dance diva!  Pointe shoes, half-sole shoes, leotards, competition make-up....and that was just last month! Whenever she doesn't get her own way, I have to endure being told I'm the "worst Mother in the world!".  You and I both know I'm not, but she thinks so.  But, what would I do without her?  Without her, I really would be all alone.  I'd miss the energy.  She's pretty funny, too.  You know, it's funny, and probably a coincidence, too, that I seem to have overtime to work when I have those extra needs come up.  She's a talented little dancer, and I'm so glad and fortunate that she's able to pursue a dream in her little life.  Thanks for giving me the ability to help her do that.  I really feel bad complaining about her---I am so glad I had this little late-life blessing.  She keeps me on my toes and young at heart.

Okay, God, I'm tired.  I think there's something wrong with me, actually.  No one should feel this run-down.  I wonder what's wrong--do you think it's serious?  Well, yes....I do work at least sixty-hours most weeks.  And, you're right, anyone would be tired getting sometimes three hours of sleep a night, and yes, I am working these hours voluntarily.  Come to think of it, I seem to pep right up after a ten-minute catnap at lunch at work.  Everyone marvels at my ability to be able to drop into a dead sleep anytime, anywhere.  That's a talent, that's what that is!  No, that's something you gave me the ability to do to recharge myself during the day.  And all those hours?  That's a blessing, too.  I can take care of all I need, and some wants, too, thanks to having my job that you led me to almost ten years ago.  Wow.  Thanks for all of this.

I'm really going to work harder at counting the blessings.  Thank you for allowing me to experience life for 52 years.  Thank you for five children.  Thank you for my warm home, plenty to eat, a decent car, a cute little dog, and everything I take for granted every day.  Let me strive to see the good in things instead of dwelling on the negative so often.  I know this sounds strange, but thank you for the struggles.  They have made me strong, and I think they have made me able to weather the storms.  

For all I have, and for all I continue to be blessed with, thank you.  

Pay at The Pump (Or Not)

Pay at the Pump....Or Not

Every day of your life, you will learn something new, do something you've never done, or in my case, both. Take today, for example. While on the way to Indy to watch the state Winter Guard preliminaries, I made a pit-stop in Anderson for gas and a drink. To save time, I did something I rarely do--I left the pump unattended while I went in and got my soda. A few minutes later, I returned to my car, got in, and took off. I hadn't gotten one-and-a-half feet when I was jolted by a sickening, grinding, twisting sound. It didn't take long for the horror of what happened to dawn on me. In thirty-six years of driving, I have never de-hosed a gas pump. My record came to an abrupt end.

                                                                   

I got out of the car, and stood frozen not knowing what to do. Out came the young cashier, walking towards me with a smile, and through the window, I could see the second cashier on the phone. The young fella could see that I was one freak away from a full-on freak-out, and he seemed concerned. "Ma'am? Are you okay? Can I get you a coffee? A donut? A Valium?" We walked back into the store, and he reassured me everything was all right. He then mentioned that this wasn't the worst thing that had happened there all day. True to his word, he let me choose a large cappuccino and a donut. Free. The other clerk got off of the phone with the manager. All was fine. So, off I headed out the door with the cashier, and my free complimentary donut and coffee.
 

Once in the car, and calmed down, I began to muse about the new things I learned in the twenty minutes I was at that gas station: 1). Those hoses are specially made to break away to accommodate idiots like me. 2). Despite how bad it seems, you won't be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. 3). Not only will you not have to pay for any damage, no angry store manager will show up escorted by police to take you away. 4). You won't lose your license. 5). Not only will you not be out money, you will be given refreshments for your trouble. 6). That really WASN'T the worst thing that happened at that gas station today---earlier this morning, their detached car wash burned to the ground. 7). Yes. Car washes can burn.
 

Pulling out, I closed my eyes, basked in the aroma of my free hazelnut cappuccino, and took a bite out of my donut. Life was good. I looked in my rear view mirror at the carnage I was leaving behind--the smiling attendant holding the destroyed gas hose in one hand, waving to me with the other, and the faint smoke coming from the still-smoldering ruins of what used to be a car wash now surrounded by yellow caution tape in the background. Yes, another day---new experiences gained, lessons learned----my work here is done.

Mom Von Trapp's Christmas List

Here it is.....67 days til Christmas.  The Christmas decorations are in the stores already, juxtaposed with the Halloween candy and Thanksgiving trimmings.  Yes, Christmas is already in the air--the kids are dropping their hints of what they'd like and I'm thinking of what I will tell them when they ask me several days before Santa comes what I'd like.  I'm sure most Moms are much the same--we really don't want anything.  Tangible, that is.   Now, that doesn't mean that I wouldn't be happy to win the lottery, or I wouldn't squeal with delight if someone gifted me a pretty new Lexus with a big honkin' bow topping it.  Sure, those things would be great, but as far as material things, I'm good.  I have a job that pays the bills, we're all healthy, we have plenty to eat, and I'm able to take care of everything my children want and some of what they need.  No, I don't need anything that money could buy, but I've readied my list of what I'd like from my children this year.

And so, without further adieu, allow me to channel my inner Julie Andrews and break it down Sound of Music style..............
                                       

                                                                           

My Favorite Things--The Mom Version

♫ ♪  Caps on the toothpaste and towels that are picked up; ♫♪

Dog dishes filled and a clean and flushed toilet,

Rooms that are tidy and bathrooms all clean,

That's all that I want, does that make me so mean?

Fighting that ceases and kind words are spoken;

Dishes all washed and not one glass is broken;

Brushing your teeth with no prompting from me;

It's not about things, it's what you do, don't you see?

Boxes on shelves with some cereal still in them;
Keep your shoes mated and gloves in the right bin;
Color your hair red, that's okay I suppose,
Just don't get tattoos, or put rings in your nose.

Empty containers and dog treats in the icebox;

Water left running and "Mom where are my socks?"

Throw it away and go look for yourselves-

Remember I'm Mom and not one of the elves.

Pick your stuff up-

Keep your voice down,

Treat each other right-

Simply remember Mom's favorite things

and I won't need a gift, alright?

♫

Lessons From A Semi-Deprived Childhood

My youngest daughter, Sydney, asked me when we were going to buy a Halloween costume this year.  As the financial situation right now doesn't bode well for lots of incidentals, I broached the subject trying to plant the seed in her mind that we could probably make up a costume ourselves.  My mind wandered back to the days when I was a stay-at-home Mom with six children in the house and a husband with a very good job.  I made the children beautiful costumes having taught myself how to sew, and even after the divorce, I had a hard time telling the children they couldn't have something so small as a Halloween costume.  So, I didn't.

I began the conversation by asking Sydney what she wanted to be this Halloween.  "A Zombie!" was the reply.  The wheels in my mind began turning, and I remembered this past spring one of Sydney's dance numbers required the dancers to dress as Zombies.
 

There! We have a costume already.  Sydney, however, wasn't as enthused, but she's warming to the idea of using what she already has.  We have to.

I shared some stories with her from my own childhood.  As is the case with most adults who grew up in the sixties and seventies, we didn't get new things all of the time.  We used what we had, and when we got something new it was a treat.  And, if you grew up in a home where you weren't the only child, you shared.  A lot.

For at least six years, my younger sister and I shared two Halloween costumes. When it came to acquiring possessions, we didn't have much say in what was purchased, nor were there the myriad of choices as there are now.  We were pretty much at the mercy of whatever our parents bought us.  Halloween costumes were no exception.  My father, for reasons known only to him, bought his then two daughters two completely different Halloween costumes that were intended to last until they literally decomposed.   One was a pirate mask with a faux beard with a molded pipe at the corner of his mouth, and the other was a princess mask.  I am sure that these masks came with vinyl costumes to match, but as we grew, they fell by the wayside.  The masks, however, made it though Halloween after Halloween until we no longer wanted to wear them.    With two girls, you can imagine how we both wanted the princess mask, but only one could wear it.  So, every other year you wore the pirate mask.  I don't remember being too upset, as the main premise was to get my bag filled with candy, which we did, no matter what mask we happened to have the great fortune or mis-fortune to be wearing at the time.


This minimalist trend of buying new stuff wasn't just contained to Halloween costumes.  When my sister and I started school, my parents bought us lunch boxes.  What I do remember is going along to make the purchase, what I don't remember is being asked what we wanted.  I remembered the plaid lunch boxes with their thermoses, and most of the popular television shows of the day also had their lunchboxes:  The Beverly Hillbillies, Family Affair, Mannix, The FBI,  The Flintstones, and of course, assorted princess lunch totes. Musicians such as the Beatles, the Monkees, and the Cowsills had lunchboxes emblazoned with their likenesses and several popular movies of the day were also immortalized on lunchboxes, and since my father was along on this particular shopping trip, that is what he gravitated towards.  My sister and I watched in horror as he spotted the Mannix lunchbox, and breathed a sigh of relief when he put it down.  Then, he spotted it.  In all it's sexy, testosterone swelling, babe-a-licious glory, there it was:  The James Bond 007 lunchbox.



                                                                                     

  I can still see it-James Bond's likeness guiding a beautiful Indian Bond Girl away from the Taj Mahal, while in the other hand brandishing a Glock.  Think you could bring one of these into school now?  We watched as he picked it up, turned it around, opened it, checked the thermos, and plunked TWO into the cart.  For my sister and I.  I remember feeling awkward at first in the lunchroom with my bouffant pixie cut and my parochial school jumper opening my very manly little lunchbox.  Eventually, I got over it, and was able to see it for what it simply was:  Something that I brought my lunch to school in.


And so the years came and went, the Halloween's and the school lunches along with them.  Somehow, the trauma of not having everything, or everything exactly as I wanted it didn't traumatize me too much.  And then, there I was, standing on the precipice of young womanhood in fifth grade readying myself to go away from home for the first time ever.  To Girl Scout Camp.

Oh, the excitement!  The list with everything I needed to pack and take with me for those four days and three nights was scotch-taped to our avocado green Norge refrigerator.  By this time, my father had been gone for two years, and the responsibility for gathering the appropriate gear fell squarely on my mother's shoulders.  I had no choice but to trust her to make sure I had everything that I needed.  Much of what was needed was already at home--no need to purchase a new flashlight--we had one.  Sleeping bag?  Borrowed from one of my cousins (I didn't need one of my own).  I don't think Mom had to buy much of anything, so her main responsibility was just to have it ready and thrown into the car when I had to go.

The day finally arrived.    As we made our way to the Girl Scout Camp almost an hour away, I was starting to have a little fear of being homesick. This was, after all, my first outing away from home for any considerable amount of time.  My Mother reassured me that the four days would go swiftly by. As we pulled up to the camp, my mother dropped me at the gathering place where the rest of my troop was, and went to deposit my belongings at another location.  After checking in, I bade my mother a teary farewell.  Then, off we went as a group to retrieve our belongings and take them to our cabins.  As we neared the area where parents had deposited their daughters gear, I noted the cute little zippered overnight bags some of the other girls had; the neatly square-knotted secured pink sleeping bags, the little vinyl overnight cases.  But where was mine?  As I scanned the area, I zeroed in on a behemoth leather suitcase that dwarfed everyone else's bags.  I recognized that bag.  My heart sank as I watched the other girls gather their girly belongings, and there I stood, blinking back my tears and staring at my fathers suitcase.  The suitcase he took with him when he left for Korea.  The suitcase that languished in our garage and I would stare in wide-eyed wonder at all of the pin-up girl decals from the fifty states on it.  My attempt to pick it up gracefully failed, so I drug it the hundred or so yards to my cabin.  I could feel the other girls' eyes on it and I could hear snickering.  I wondered if they had spied the bikini-clad Miss Idaho astride a baking potato yet?



                                                       

I personally think we give our children too many choices.  We spoil them.  We spoil them because we want them to have it better than we did.  I didn't want any child of mine to have to share a Halloween mask, or any daughter of mine to have a manly lunchbox or any son of mine to have to take a princess lunch tote.  I certainly would have never allowed my young daughter to have to anguish over taking her overnight things in a young man's semi-pornographic luggage for all to see, but at the same time, how do you learn to do without or make-do when you've really never had to?  The embarrassment I suffered at the time didn't affect my life now, and as a result, I have never been a materialistic person.  I think the reason that I am not is because in the grand scheme of things, I've learned that it isn't the stuff in life that matters.  I think the proof is that I can smile at the memories now.


And so, Sydney will re-purpose her dance costume as her Halloween costume this year.  You know what?  I think she's going to be okay with it.  Maybe this will start a trend in our house.

High Maintenance

Up for a challenge?  You've already got one if you're raising kids on your own.  Making bank on the bills, running the Mom Taxi and shuttling everyone where they have to go, keeping everyone fed and in clean clothes.  It's difficult, but somehow, you get it done.  Pat yourself on the back.

Now what about the "Big Stuff"?

If you are fortunate enough to be in a relationship with a guy who is handy and willing to help, you'll be fine.  But what if you're not?  What if it's just you and the young'ens all alone in this crazy old world and it's all you can do to trap the raccoons, tan the hides, harvest the crops, and shoot at trespassers?



Well then my dear, you're just going to have to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and attempt to fix some things yourself.


I have always been an independent self-starter.  As a matter of fact, according to my mother, the first complete sentence I uttered as a toddler was "I do it!"  And so I do, or rather I try.  More often than not, I can figure most things out, if only just to patch something up to limp by another day until help arrives.  I feel it is my duty to share not only the things I have met the challenge with and won, but also those fixes that I have met with limited success and those you should never, under any circumstances, try at home.


Let's start with the disasters for now, and fortunately, it's a relatively small list:

Yardwork

Up until my most recent divorce five-and-a-half years ago, I hadn't been on my own for twenty-five years.  I rode that gravy train of having in-home help with very few bumps in the road.  It was always part of the unwritten contract in my two marriages that I took care of everything in the house, and it was the wasband's responsibility to take care of everything outside of the house.  

Once I was totally on my own, yardwork was truly the least of my worries.  How hard can it be?  I can mow the grass; I can plant some petunias, I can run a weed-whacker like a boss.  What, me worry?  I kept my cavalier attitude on yardwork into my first year being on my own.  Then, I started getting kind of picky.  I wanted the yard to look nice, and it looked presentable enough, but the dandelions and thistles were really overtaking the grass.  Unfortunately, I didn't make the connection to that big green thing hanging dejected from the rafters of the garage being the broadcaster that the wasband used to distribute the Weed n' Feed all over the yard every spring and fall.  By the time the weeds started to skeeve the holy hell out of me it was too late to be proactive; I needed to kill me some weeds.  Now.

"I'm not sure, but I think there's something you can just spray on weeds to kill them"

There is, but this isn't it

I suppose in my hell-bent rampage to find the easy way out of my ever-growing weed problem, I neglected to see that the word "grass" is prominently displayed immediately after "Weed &"  and before the word "killer".  That's the only excuse I have, so home I went with a gallon of the extended use version.  Extended, I reasoned, would keep killing.  I was correct.

So there I was, that late June Saturday.  With nozzle in hand, a song in my heart, and my eye on the prize, I meticulously sprayed each and every dandelion and thistle I came upon.  For good measure, I also got the grass directly around the weeds.  Just to be on the safe side.  As you can imagine, traversing the average size yard spraying one weed at a time takes quite a while.  While spraying my yard, lugging my gallon container with "Roundup" emblazoned very noticeably on the front, several neighbors wandered by; a few even chatted. Some of these were men, and all were smiling pleasantly.  "Yeah--see me?  Single-mom on the block is taking care of business!"  I imagined them thinking what a take charge kind of gal I was and that their wives wouldn't attempt such a task. I was basking in the pride of home ownership and lawn maintenance.  Once finished, I disposed of the empty container.

I remembered feeling disappointed that I would have to buy more tomorrow to tackle the even larger back yard.

So, inside I went to wash the noxious spray residue from my hands before making dinner for the family.  I couldn't wait to see how lush, green, and weed free my lawn was going to be. I should start seeing results in three hours!  I really couldn't wait for the next time my wasband came to retrieve the kids so he could see that I was managing just fine all by myself.

After dinner, I went out to see how the progress was going.  I'll be damned!  I could see some shrivelage and discoloration where I sprayed!  It's working!  Smug and proud of my efforts, I made a mental note to check tomorrow's flyers in the paper to see who was running the best deal on this godsend of a product.

I'm not sure what time I woke up, but it was fairly early. I know this because it was dark when I went to get the paper.  I walked out on my driveway, grabbed the paper, and in I went.  And so I set about my morning routine of reading the paper, cutting coupons, checking the ads, and drinking my coffee.  A piercing shriek came from my daughter. "Look outside, Mom!  What happened?"

Putting the paper down, I ran to the open front door.  "What happened to our yard, Mommy?"


                                               

I cannot put into words the devastation I felt.  I cried.  I spent all day the day before and a good chunk of change to do THIS to my yard.  I walked out, in disbelief.  Cars were going slower than normal as they passed my house.  People were out walking--gawking---smiling at my yard.  I ran to the side of the house where I deposited the empty bottle to see if I could find a clue why this had happened, for I was still in disbelief.  It was weed killer for crying out loud!  I dug the bottle out of the trash and feverishly scanned the label.  As God was my witness, I didn't remember seeing the word "grass" next to the word "killer" yesterday.  Then, I became angry, wanting to blame anyone I could. Why didn't the clerk at the store warn me?  Didn't he wonder why I wanted so MUCH RoundUp?  Why didn't any of those neighbor men stop me?  They surely knew what I was doing.

In desperation, I called my wasband to ask what I could do.  The answer was not what I wanted to hear--the quickest way to fix this, was to dig out the treated areas, replace the soil, and re-seed. Okay, but what if I can't do all that?  He then told me the grass would eventually grow in again.  In several years.  And so, for the remainder of that summer, the brown patches continued to spread. This was "Extended Kill" RoundUp, remember?  Our yard much resembled the footage sent back from the Mars "Rover".

I opted for re-seeding the following Spring.  I did that on my own, too.  I raked, I dug, and I cleared the area, I ordered the fill-dirt and grass seed.  Smiling neighbors walking about nodding in approval as I muttered, "Yeah.  Screw yourselves" under my breath as I toiled.  Unfortunately, the fill dirt was permeated with weeds, so weeds, along with the grass, came up and filled the barren areas in. You can easily tell where I re-seeded not only because of the weeds, but because I chose a different type of grass seed than what I had originally.   Well, Jimmy Crack-Corn and I don't care.  It's green. It (mostly) looks like grass. I'm not touching this again.

Five years later, my lawn is presentable.   Not award worthy, but presentable.  Thank God I never touched the backyard.

Never again, Wilson.  Never again.

                                                                         

99 Problems and Clearing Level 23 Shouldn't Be One of Them

I am a responsible adult.  I work ten-hour days.  I pay all my bills.  My kids are fed and clothed.  I have no warrants out for my arrest.  So why, oh why, have I fallen under the spell of that dark,cruel mistress that goes by the name of Candy Crush?

                                                                            

It seems a lifetime ago that I peered down my nose as I watched all of my co-workers hypnotically switch their computer screens to that popular game the moment lunch time came.  I vividly remember 'tsk-tsk-ing" as I went about my lunchtime routine of worthwhile activities such as facebooking and pinning on Pinterest.  "What a waste of time", I thought to myself as I drop-kicked request after annoying Candy Crush request into the cyberspace abyss while they congratulated one another, conspired to send one another lives, and foamed at the mouth about their latest boosters.  As Eve was to the apple, I was repulsed, yet intrigued.

And so it went, day after day as I received countless requests ranging from desperate pleas for lives to out and out invitations to join those who have chosen to drink the Candy Crush Kool-Aid.  I knew how Sam I Am felt:



            Not online; not on an app
            I do not play Candy Crush
            So quit flapping your yap.

          You friends of mine, you friends of mine,
          I've told you all for the very last time
          I do not like Candy Crush, it's true
          Send one more request and I'll defriend you!


I was getting rather testy about it.  Of course I could have blocked the requests from coming in, I suppose, but that took effort on my part, and quite frankly, I guess, I just didn't feel that I should have to expend any of my own to put a stop to this.  Plus, it gave me something to bitch about in the form of some facebook posts.

And then, as a virus attacks it's weakened host, so did this insidious game.  I found myself in a rather bad mood at the computer one night last weekend.  My children were gone, I found myself alone.  On the computer.  With wine.

Opportunity knocked.

"So-and-so has invited you to play Candy Crush Saga". Well, well, well.....what do we have here? What a surprise-another request to play Candy Crush. I took a sip of my chardonnay.  I hovered the cursor over the request.  I took another sip.  I clicked on it.

Spill the wine; clear that jelly.

To be honest, I cleared the first two levels pretty quickly and lost interest in it just as quickly. I logged off and found something else to do.  I may have just gone to bed.  The next morning on facebook, I noticed a notification from a friend to a post I had written just two days before poking fun at the whole Candy Crush thing.  She went on to tell me that while she was playing, scores for players who previously played came up and lo and behold!  There was my name.  She was poking fun at me, I'm sure, but now I felt like the ultimate hypocrite.  I went rapidly into damage control mode.  If she saw my name, EVERYONE who sends me requests and I offended about it in my post saw it, too. I wrote her back, doing my dead-level best to let her know I just wanted to see what the buzz was about.  I played a couple levels, so what?  I haven't ventured back on.  Get off my back.  I then felt it needed to be said to everyone, so I posted on my timeline about my Candy Crush experience, and how I must be of a stronger constitution than most, as I had absolutely no inclination to play again.  There. I no sooner posted that confession and absolution, than the notifications started showing up.  "So and so has sent you a life on Candy Crush". Gaaaahhhhhhh!


Several days later, I found myself again without children and a bit of free time.  I got online, paid some bills, read and answered a few emails, and got onto my facebook.  The first item on my feed was an item shared by one of the myriad of "Crush Heads" in my inner circle.  "So and so has just cleared level 26 on Candy Crush Saga".  Big deal.  I posted something myself, and uploaded several pictures from my daughter's band competition the previous weekend, and busied myself.  I have no explanation of what transpired after that time, all that I can tell you is that I was overtaken with an overpowering urge to see if I, I, could get to level three.  "I'll just get on, see how fast I can do it, and get off", I said to myself.

And so, I cleared level three.  And four, five and six.  I was really good.  But, it's time to stop.  Just one more, let's just clear lucky level number seven and THAT'S IT FOR TODAY.  This is where I ran into trouble.  I didn't pass level seven.  I clicked on to "Play Again", but it wouldn't let me, not without putting up bank, anyway.  What?  What do you mean I can't play?  The timer clicked the seconds down.  I had 28:57 until I could attempt this again.  "Okay, OKAY.....I'm calling bullshit on this right now!", I said I believe out loud to the computer screen.  What do I do?  What do I do?

Well, golly gosh gee willikers, there must be someone online right now that knows what to do.  I decided to put it out for all my facebook peeps to see and get the message out.  "Hey! I guess I need a life to continue playing Candy Crush.  Can someone send me one?  Thanks!"  I sat back and waited.  It wasn't long before a notification came back.  A friend sent me a life!  I also noticed she commented on the post.  "Welcome to the darkside, LOL"  I'm alive!  I live to clear another level! 

And so it has gone for one week, now.

I am ashamed to say that I spent nearly an entire Saturday that could have been immensely productive clearing virtual jelly and bringing ingredients down level by level.  My eleven-year-old felt ignored.  "Can we have lunch, Mommy?"  I suppose.  I ran out of my last life on this level and I have 23:16 until I can play again.  I loaded her in the car and drove a mile to a car dealership up the road that had a radio stations promotional hotdog wagon there.  I screeched in on two wheels, got her a free lunch and sped home just in time to claim a new life.  I am despicable.

 I am now on level 23.  I'm stuck.  I can't clear that bastard no matter how hard I try.  What exactly is the lure of this?  There are similar games, but what is it about Candy Crush?  Is it the large, icons for the vision challenged?  Is it the lilting "Oom Pah Pah" tune that accompanies it?  Is it the pseudo-sexy male voice purring "Sweet!"  "Divine"  "Sugar CRUSH!"?  Who knows, but I'm losing interest in my appearance, I'm eating like crap, and I'm not flossing as often as I should, all because of THIS.

"My name is Sheila.....and I play Candy Crush"