Zachman, #72 on Asheville High JV Cougar Football made this Texas Momma Proud

     Been absent from the blogger world for a while, but that happens. So a brief catch-up is necessary. In case you're interested.
     I've just had a 2nd corneal transplant and am healing and hopeful this next chance at sight is the blessing I've been waiting for since I was 9-years-old. That's when I got hit with a glow-in-the-dark super ball straight up in my wide open left eye while visiting kin in Texas City, Texas.
     And Zach is now a sophomore at Asheville High and has the whole world opening up for him and the opportunity to reach academic and personal achievements I'm not sure that kid ever believed he'd be able to do. But the academics story is for another time.
     This tale is about a born and bred Texan momma who gets rather peeved at football games when people don't yell enough at the kids, the coaches and anyone else who might get on your nerves. I got to see my 6'1, 210 teenager start at his first home JV football game.

     Zach looked SOOOO awesome on that field last night. He's HUGE!!! He's not a perfect player, but that's what JV is for - get him broken in. Tore my heart apart though when I saw him get upset and fall down on the field, mad at himself and then Coach giving him a going over. I wanted to kick the coach's you know what, but hey, if the man didn't think Zach was worth anything, he wouldn't be giving him a talking to. You're supposed to get on your players. But Coach also told Zach he'd finally got some things right, so he's not on my full kick-ass list just yet. Zach played the entire game on offense except for two plays that he got pulled out of for holding. It happens.
     The best part was at the end of the game when he came running up to us on the field with the biggest grin ever and grabbed us, about knockin' me over. Sweat, OMG. but it was wonderful!!! What an incredible momma moment.
     You probably know football in Texas IS everything. (Forget that Rick Perry dude.) So I started out yelling and screaming, making my eyeball hurt so bad that Alphie had to go beg someone for some extra strength Excedrin for me. And the field lights ... oh man... I had to put my blind girl sunglasses made to fit over my regular glasses back on. I looked like some dumb white ass Stevie Wonder woman wanna be sitting up in those stands with those things on. But I didn't care; there was no way I was leaving that game!!!
     And there was no way I wasn't going to get that slobbery hug.

A Mother's Day tale not to be shared on Mother's Day

Ok. I can write this down today. My cherished Mother’s Day card from Zach has fallen on the floor, landing amongst the dust bunnies behind the couch. My morning intake of caffeine is now sipped out of the odd-shaped ceramic coffee mug he lovingly made for me in electives class. And, I absolutely love the chamber pot (odd name I know, but it’s not for bathroom usage) he also created with his two ‘tiny always to Mommie’ hands. My eye drops fit perfectly in there upside down, helping me squeeze every $10 squirt out of there that I can. Those buggers are expensive.

I did not participate in the ever so social online posting of a picture of my mother a week and a half ago. I have two mothers. And neither one were ever much of a mom. One birthed me. The other raised me. Ain’t neither one getting elected for Mom of the Year.

The one who birthed me met me in my early 20s. She’s even seen a picture of my teen, her blood grandson, yet she cares not. She once told me, “How do we know whose baby they put my signature with? You’re dead to me. Leave me alone.”

The one who raised me, the one who I called Mother did love me in her own way. I think. I have a favorite picture of her. And it’s a beautiful one. I've always wished I had a picture of myself like that. I want to post it and maybe I will add it as an update. But, right now my computer has just recovered from a hard drive crash and I can’t yet connect to my scanner. And it was time to write this story. (Yes, an excuse, but the truth … love those kind.)

Anyway, Marietta, my adopted mom, was gorgeous. She was a ‘40s knock out. Her black and white portrait hints of a dark-haired Lauren Bacall. She was even a Rosie the Riveter, worked at Bell Helicopter in Fort Worth, Texas during World War II. She was one of the few skinny ones who could fit in those small spaces and for that, she got lots of attention. And dates, I’m sure.

She was a true Bohemian of that era. Wish I knew all of her stories, but she wasn’t that kind of mom. We never really talked much.

Instead, she took to the bottle when she should have been putting her natural artistry into the drawings and paintings she could have produced, or playing the piano or organ with the touch of an angel.

She’d met my Dad while he was still in the military. He was a dashing young Navy cook, wild as they came. They fell in lust, married, and were off to California to live a life of drinks, art, music, smoky nightclubs and who know’s what else. But that didn’t happen.

Instead, one day while Daddy was visiting my mom’s Methodist church with her parents, he up and joined and committed that very day to spending the rest of his life speaking from a pulpit and visiting those in need of the kind of Christian minister that was for real He’d been there, done it all and was truly given the Calling. He didn't judge. He talked of Grace.

Nope. Marietta didn’t like that too much. She tried. For a while, she played the organ like the good little preacher’s wife, tried to keep the smile on at all the churchly functions. But it just wasn’t meant for her. She had the style of Jackie Kennedy and the looks of a movie star, but lived in a glass house under the watchful eyes of many a judgemental sinner.

She tried to share some of her creativity with me. I still sometimes redraw a painting of hers that hung in the living room of whatever parsonage we were in at the time. And she did sit me down at the ripe young age of five and go over and over and over ‘Ke Sera Sera’ with me until I finally got it right so I could star in the Weatherford Kindergarten School Musical Finale. I had a voice, she said, but I’d been hanging around my father too much and I was acting tone deaf just because he was.

And there was the key to our very awkward mother/daugther relationship. She was jealous of me. All because I loved my Daddy. Just the way he was.

Thank God for Zach. Through him, with him, I have learned how to be a good Mom. Happy Belated!

Buying that Texas ranch and apartment in New Orleans French Quarters

I really thought my numbers were up this time. I was going to be the single winner of the $750+ million in last Thursday's North Carolina Cash 5 Lotto. Because .... I'd bought 5 tickets from two other set of winners, amounting to a total earnings of $5, in that day's Cash 5 Lotto. Perfect. Five is my one of my numbers and last Wednesday (the day of purchase) was a number five day, according to certain numerology charts. I'm not really sure about all that numerology stuff, but I do live in Asheville and I was here when all the whirly twirly ideas really started taking root all those many years ago. You couldn't turn a corner downtown without someone offering to read your charts for 20-25 bucks. Anyway, the lottery winnings had gotten way up there. It was going to be won by someone that night. Might as well be me. Right?

I hardly ever play the lottery. And I never used to play it except maybe when I was in some other state on vacation and thought 'well ... just maybe.....'

'But it's the economy, stupid.' I don't visit my favorite dancing, drinking or eating spots as much as I'd like any more. In fact, don't get out much at all right now. Do take advantage of a home delivery service that makes and leaves a week's worth of organic meals right at my front door. I'm not a total organic veg head, but the food is good (albeit usually needing a few extra spices), healthy, prepared by someone else and breaks down to about $7-$8 a meal. No cooking necessary. Heat up and chow down healthily. Another great type of business for a place like Asheville.

But back to my #5 day.

I was so danged positive that my numbers were up that I checked them in the early hours of the next morning. I never do that. The quick pick tickets I do sometimes buy are usually stuck for days down in an old, stained coffee cup in my car that is loaded up with other little pieces of papers ... and my driver's license. I even have to remind myself to pull them out and check to see if I maybe won a dollar. But not this time. I just had to look on the Lottery website and get ready to claim my big bucks. I'd soon be waking up the family screaming, "I won. I won. Gonna buy that Texas ranch and New Orleans French Quarter apartment now. Yee-haw!'

Of course, it was not to be. I'd have been better off keeping those numbers stuck down in their protective Styrofoam shield for a few more days. Because then, I would still have been thinking I was at least possibly the newest overnight sensation made rich by the NC Lottery. I'd read headlines waiting for the unknown winner to come forward.

Oh well ... like I said, I'm not really sure about all that numerology stuff. But I can say this: I'm even less sure now.

Planning on parking my derrière out by a fire pit in the woods

I've been far too busy lately. Not that busy is bad, particularly since it's been a while that I've been 'far too busy' because of my bad eyeball and all. But it's not been a harmonious sort of busy that my soul needs. A giddy-like happiness of a child without a care in the summertime.

I'm changing that this weekend. Finally getting to enjoy a full weekend off where I don't have to be at work at 7 am Sunday morning, thus cutting my Saturday night lights off at 9:30 pm, in preparation for the early rising.

Hopeful we'll get some sun this weekend, but if we don't, that's okay too. Going to spend much needed time with my family, extended family and aim to find someplace to park my derrière other than on the couch, too exhausted to deal with much else. Preferably out by a fire pit in the woods, nearby a grill and a cold, frosty filled ice chest.

Weather permitting, I plan to plant some roses, some wildflowers, deal with the fact that my spring garden might just have to be a fall garden and get the ground prepped for the sturdy stuff like peppers and tomatoes. Dig in dirt and compost until I feel Mother Earth deep down in my bones.

I'll be busy this weekend ... but it's going to be a very welcomed kind of busy.

Will Mom survive that milestone every teenager waits for - driving the car?

Man, oh man, oh man. I'm having a bit of panic attack. Okay, you can't have just a bit of a panic attack, now can you? It's either an attack, or it's not. But what if it's just ordinary worry that every mother or even father goes through when a child is learning how to drive? So, panic isn't the word. It's me realizing that my son has fully embarked upon his travels to becoming an adult. He has finally reached that milestone that every teenager waits for - driving the car.

Doesn't matter if the car is beat up and old or somewhere inbetween new and old. Of course, it would help if it's a really brand new 'fly' car, whatever teenage boys like these days, but the real issue is being able to finally get behind that wheel.

I don't know why I'm worried. I did fine. My dad wasn't worried about me. He let me loose in a pasture beside a church parking lot and said go. He didn't even get too upset when I freaked out and hit the gas pedal instead of the breaks and had the folks sitting in the baseball bleacher on the other side of the church pasture wondering if the Methodist minister's daughter was just about to wipe out the entire Baptist church's baseball team's parents. Hmm. Wonder if that was my Dad's idea in the first place? Wouldn't completely surprise me. He did love messing with the Baptist preachers in those small Texas towns. But, I digress.

My learning how to drive is what is totally freaking me out. I learned in the flatlands of Texas and where people believed in using their blinkers to let you know where they were actually going to go. Asheville drivers are not so great at using their turn signals. Perhaps that's because the public school's driver's education doesn't require that many hours behind the wheel. By the time Zach is let loose to get his learner's permit, he will only have about 10 hours of actual driving time behind the wheel. I had like two weeks total, and they taught me how to parallel park. Zach is not going to get that lesson from his school. Oh, but he will learn. That, I guarantee.

I also remember flying out to Lake Brownwood, which was at least a 30-mile round trip from my house. I'd hit 90 to 100 easy, particularly when I was given a 1976 baby blue and white Cutlass Supreme to drive. Yeah, that was one sweet drive. So, I guess I shouldn't be so suprised that I'm worried about Zach behind the wheel. I know what stupid stuff I did and that was in the flatlands in a small town with a population of about 20,000. Zach has hills, curves, mountains and 80,000+ drivers (just in the city) to have to figure out. (Although, I first started learning to drive in Ennis, an even smaller town of about 13,000, but only 30 miles south of Dallas, so my dad made me drive in Dallas also. And, if you didn't use your blinkers in the Big D to let other drivers know where you were going, you could just about kiss your ass bye-bye.)

Oh, and did I mention that we have to teach him how to drive stick shift? I love my stick shift. Once I learned how to handle a clutch and manual transmission, there has never been one thought about going back to automatic. I have so much more control over my engine and don't constantly hit my breaks. But ... I also remember learning how to drive that stick shift. On one very odd occassion, for some reason my older brother offered to let me take out his power muscle car ... I believe it was a Pontiac Road Runner. Anyway, he let me go for a spin on my own with maybe one trip around the block for a lesson. But Brownwood is one of those small towns that the saying "miles and miles of Texas" is a fitting description. And the *drag* was miles away from my house. I remember getting stuck at a red light and just could not get that damned cool car to go for nothing. Some guys from the nearby gas station had to come help me push that car to a start. As hip as that car was, I never asked to borrow it again. (I was in my 20's and living in another state before I learned how to finally master a manual transmission.)

As a teenager, I also had access to a huge ugly Chevrolet Impala my dad owned. It must have had like 20 different colors of paint on it, all in the shades of blue and grey. It looked like the car Robert Blake drove in the '70s tv series "Baretta." Named it "The Bomb." For that car, I had to carry jumper cables around with me so that when I stopped somewhere, I'd be able to get going again. I always had a gang of my best girl buds along with me; we really didn't care about the jumper cables. We were just happy to have any car and to be able to drive around and around and around, singing all of our favorite songs. We were tasting freedom. Just like any teenage girl from any generation, right?

So, maybe I've written my jitters away. I'll find some of the less traveled roads in the area, and help Zach learn how to drive my stick shift around the back and forth curves, down the slopes, up the hills and he will be fine. But will I? I guess that test comes when I start handing over the keys so the teenager with the learner's permit can continue his journey into manhood - with mom sitting watchfully at his side. While I still can.

Don't you just love having one of those annoying off-kilter days? Not!

I know everyone has had these kind of days, so I'm not even going to ask the question. Just going to share my day that started off-kilter and has continued to stay that way.

Got up later than I wanted. That's not so unusual in itself because I'm a true night owl and don't feel or act right until it's at least mid morning. But I've got to make a change at work to get there on some days by what I consider to be an un-godly hour to be ready to do anything for real - 6 am. That means I've got to get up at 4:30 am and in bed by no later than 10 pm. I'm just not used to that. Normally, by 4:30, I've only been asleep for about 2 hours. So ... obviously I need to get up earlier on my days off and get to bed sooner. I tried, but it just didn't happen. Oh well. not the end of the world if I got up later. It is my day off. I can deal. Will just have to drink some sleepy tea tonight in preparation for tomorrow's early rising and going to work while the moon is still in the dark of the wee am hours and the men folk are still sound asleep.

What I'm not enjoying today is my computer somehow playing pranks on me and jumping all around like it's hopped up on some sort of ADHD medication and skipping from place to place in Word and page to page on the internet. Don't like that at all. I usually read my daily horoscope for fun and then forget it just as soon as it was read, but I am wondering if there's something going on with Mercury being in retrograde and messing with all electronics today. But, again, I can handle my computer going wanky as long as it's not a permanent adjustment and it doesn't appear that is the case.

However, my dryer on/off switch decided to quit working between loads and that has done in my very last nerve. Of course, I just had to wash and dry the bedding first, and then wash my wardrobe I want to wear this next week. The bedding is dry and folded. But no, the dryer switch wouldn't start and my clothes are now sitting wet and crinkled. I tried to make it work with a turning of the pliers, but with my blind eye and lack of patience with the broken switch, I figured I better stop and wait for one of the Hyorth's who have better vision than I to see if they can get it fixed. Or else, I could make it worse and it might require even further attention. I did hang up some of my clothes to air dry, so not all is lost.

And now, I must rapidly bring this to an end, because the electricity is flickering on and off and I will once more be rather peaved about an electrical something gone wrong. Maybe I could go work on setting up a clothes line once again in the back yard; but, alas, it's starting to rain.

Happy Monday!

Wild woman dance workouts good for the soul

Geez whiz. What a gorgeous day it was here in Asheville today. It didn't quite hit 60, but it's supposed to reach that temperature tomorrow. After all the snow and freezing temps we've had lately, it made me downright giddy. I didn't actually get to enjoy it myself, except during my walk from the parking lot to my regularly scheduled weekend duties, otherwise known as work. But just because I didn't get to enjoy the sunshine myself doesn't mean I didn't fit some exercise in today. I like those heart healthy aerobics that also includes a workout for other muscles like abs, or biceps, triceps and even the calves. Sometimes I'll put together my own routine, also known as Tracy's RockAerobics.

That's usually best done when no one else is in the near vicinity. Tracy's RockAerobics is simply a wild woman dance workout to my some of my favorite tunes downloaded on my ipod. Dancing like I used to on those disco floors or those jerky moves I enjoyed during the alternative 80s of Talking Heads and R.E.M. Even Madonna is good when it comes to a dance workout. Whatever. It doesn't really matter. Music turned up as loud as I like and just letting it all go.

Just letting it all go ... something I probably need to do more often. Sooooo good for my soul. And beautiful days that tease of springtime certainly don't hurt either, even if only enjoyed for a brief three-minute walk. Hints of what's to come ... and more wild woman dances. Oh yeah.