My playlist (which used to be posted in my blog but is now private. Well. As private as anyone’s playlist could be. I’m sure if anyone were dying to learn its contents, it wouldn’t be hard to find --for you, not for me, who has no idea how to do these things but have heard whispered rumors of such illicit activities—but never fear b/c I am just about to enlighten you as evidenced by the first two actual words of this blog post) contains (see! What did I tell you?!?!) a variety of music. (Whoa! That’s so darn illuminating!) In point of fact, I have rather catholic tastes in music (I have always thought it would be amusing to claim to be Catholic but in this situation, it means “broad” which is not to say that Catholics are broads but that they are numerous and cover the earth as do my tastes in music.) (phew!)

For example, just now I am listening to Robert Goulet sing C’est Moi from Camelot. Just before that I was listening to Ewan McGregor and Renee Zellwegger sing Here’s To Love. Prior to that I was listening to The Beat Goes On by Sonny and Cher. Lest you assume my tastes in music are elderly, mature, older, aged, i.e. not getting any younger, I also have I’m Yours by Jason Mraz, Breathe 2 AM by Anna Nalick, Apologize by One Republic and White Flag by Dido on my playlist (not that there is any connection between those four songs as pursuant to my actual life). Meanwhile, there’s lots of genres and eras in between.

In short, I love music.

Which is why it was a no brainer when Sherrie Shepherd asked if I would tell you all what I think of her new CD Solitude.

Things have been a bit grim around here so I am determined to “think positive”!

1. Yesterday the Middle Child and I watched The Scarlet Pimpernel (the title of this post being one of my fave lines there-in) during which she turned to me and said (simultaneously warming the cockles of my heart), “Oh! Anthony Andrews! Sir Percy, Baronet! Sir Anthony, Baronet! I get it!”

2. Adam Lambert—love him or hate him (or anywhere in between) the man has a set of pipes on him. He has his roots in musical theater (surprise!) and makes manna out of one of my most fave songs ever, Come To Me, Bend To Me, from Brigadoon. Can you say Swoon?





3. It seems my funny bone has been mostly broken lately. Turns out my thyroid has been a bit off-kilter which has slowed my metabolism. New meds should perk me up by the end of the month (here’s hoping!) (and praying) (and sobbing but I digress . .. )

4. At the Little Guy’s school open house last night, the mother of another student stopped me to rave about my kid's wonderful qualities. Words like “kind”, “smart”, “loving”, “even-keeled” (the last being particular pearls of great price in this abode), and even “perfect child” were used. I know better but was disinclined to disabuse her of the notion (mostly because I was so touched I couldn’t speak).

5. The children in LG’s class wrote and illustrated their own books which were on display last night. They were fun and colorful and all had titles such as: My Favorite Puppy, My Bunny Foo-foo and Let’s Go Hunting! My child’s book was called “How The Earth Was Made.” (Not sure where he got his info but it sounded very impressive.) Another assignment he wrote said, “I wish that everyone had a home. I have a home where there is lots of love and food!” (Since he rarely eats any of it, this one stupefied me but I figure I ought to keep that paper on hand should CPS knock on my door to demand I feed His Skinniness.)

6. The Middle Child had her Open House the night previous. Her art teacher, who teaches art six periods a day, posted one of her drawings on the wall in a place of honor and told us it was the best drawing of the year. He then showed us a note sent by a former student who just got an art scholarship to UC Santa Cruz and expressed his expectation and desire to receive a note just like it from the MC one day. (AHHHHHH!)

7. I am grateful the MC and the Big Guy take turns having meltdowns, else I would have to drive them to the desert, boot them out of the car and peel off into the sunset.

8. Suicide watches can be fun!! Really!!! Especially when lots of chocolate is involved. ("Are you feeling better, yet? No? Here’s another candy bar! Better yet, let’s go get ice cream! With lots of hot fudge!")

It’s going to get worse, my friends, before it gets better. Pray for us! Love you guys!

Growing up I (naively) assumed my life as a wife and mother would echo that of my own dear mother and older sisters. It would seem that God (or the devil—we’re not quite sure yet who to blame but blame we must) had different plans. Apparently, when the genes of a gal with my background and genetic make-up mix with those of a guy with my husband’s genetic make-up and background, well, things can get pretty interesting around here.

Case in point: my child who had the mental health crisis over the weekend (or: She Who Shall Remain Nameless)~

Monday, after posting my little sob story (thanks, by the way, for all of your loving comments! It really means a lot to me! You guys are the BEST!) I rushed SWSRN to her psychiatrist. Things were seriously low for her, clinically low and something had to be done, pronto! Seeing a doctor was super-uber important but the trip afterwards to the mall to buy clothes and Sbarro’s Italian fast food was what really did the trick. (Before we made any actual purchases, I warned her that as an adult she would be likely to develop a propensity to stuff her face with ziti while simultaneously donning band t-shirts whenever she feels blue. I also told her, by way of full disclosure, that if she were to find this to be the case, she would have no further claim on my monies or insurance in pursuit of professional “help”.) (We proceeded with caution.)

As we sauntered through the mall, sadly bereft of traffic on this late Monday afternoon (I swear most stores had more employees there-in than shoppers), so sadly bereft in fact, that we found our status increased from mere gnats-of-consumer-annoyance to full-fledged Mall Rat Royalty. I was asked “How are you?” (accompanied by gargantuan gratuitous smiles) so often I was tempted to have a t-shirt made up that read: “I’m fine! Thanks!!” and would have (which is to say, might have) if I could’ve figured out how to get the sarcasm across in print. Once we actually had a few shopping bags in tow, it got to the point where all we had to do was glance into a store from the (one would assume) safety of the mall to prompt an employee waaayyyyy down within the depths of a store to turn his/her head, flash us a smile and shout “How ARE you?” as if we were old friends, or at the very least, the direct opposite of old, smelly, garbage.

One intrepid salesperson employed at one of those kiosks in the center of the mall, had the gall (and plenty of opportunity to spy his lone quarry making its way up the mall) to actually step up and wedge his virtual shoe in our virtual doorway and say “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Since he was tall, curly-dark and handsome and spoke with a delicious accent (Russian, I think) it would seem I was tempted to say “Mais, non!” (SWSRN claims I actually slowed, shuffled my feet and blushed before I said, “Yes! I mind!” and went on my merry way. Good thing I didn’t hear him say “Then might I ask your daughter a question?” or I might have had to hurt him. I mean, really! I look faaaaaarrrr too young to have a daughter who’s 14 but looks 17.

I know there is a moral to this story but darn (and tootin’) if I know what it is.

I’m feeling like an utter failure today. I have been a bad bloggist. I haven’t been keeping up with all of your posts or responding to your comments in my comment box. I still haven't mailed anything won by anyone in my giveaways (I blame the paranoia I’ve been experiencing since my friendly small town post office became the scene of a brutal random murder a while back). Worse, I fear the quality of the posts I have been writing has declined. And today, well, I have utterly nothing amusing to say (it could have something to do with my still-not-vanished “it’s-not-swine-flu”, the mental health crisis of one of my children over the weekend and the death of a beloved member of my church congregation).

Novel-writing day tomorrow will be pre-empted by a funeral (tho I confess my lot is much easier to bear than that of the deceased’s family) and the fact that I have been a very bad writer (I am still about 5,000 words behind on my Miss D Two goal) as well as a very bad mom (major mental health crises are not the work of one day and I did not see it coming—plus, the Big Guy has no clean clothing, it’s past time to do grocery shopping and no one has done the dishes all weekend) on top of being a very bad bloggist is making me feel quite low.

Thank you so much to those who left comments on my latest posts or have sent emails this lately. Your words made my rough weekend much easier to bear. I appreciate each and every one of you so much! Go forth and have a great, sunny, wonderful spring day for me!

We're doing a mother-son date today as we do most Fridays. It usually consists of me driving him to a spot in which to procure some kind of chow beyond my culinary skills. He insists on getting it "to go". So we go. We come home and I sit and watch him eat because it's supposed to be a date, for pity sakes, and that's what one does on a date--spend time together.

Read more about my love for my Big Guy at Mormon Mommy Blogs (I'm guest posting!)

So, I’m stealing a Thursday. I’m going to make it work, too. 9,000 words in one day! Woot woot! To gear up for being British (know this: Ginny and Sir Anthony are clearly REAL but I’m the dumb American who puts words in their mouths) I've been watching Antiques Roadshow (the British edition) whilst I exercise on my trampoline each morning. It’s been thought provoking since I'm always picking up some odd bit of information that could prove useful in Miss D’s world. Mostly, I'm always struck by the major difference between Brits and Americans.

Let me elaborate:

When an American is told that his civil war gun is worth $2,000, he gets so excited, he practically loads the thing and starts shooting right there and then (or, at the very least, wets his pants) (very quietly) (below camera) (one can only assume).

When a Brit is told “I don’t want to shock you but, your tiny little enameled silver trinket was made by Faberge during the reign of the last Czar of Russia and is worth 20,000 pounds”, (forgive me father, for I have sinned—I do not know how to make the British pound sign) (or can’t remember how) (same diff) the owner merely curls her lips into what is meant to be a smile but looks more like a grimance and murmurs “Well, that’s really quite a sum of money, isn’t it? I think perhaps I’ll celebrate by taking a cab home instead of walking” (presumably right past a public restroom in which one can avail one’s-self of the proper facilities with some dignity).

The British stiff upper lip—long may you refrain from wavering!

Some of you have mentioned that you would like to stroll through my garden. Your admiration thrills me to the core but there can be no strolling in a garden that is a mere 400 square feet unless you take a little eyes-only promenade from the oh-so-remote distance of the adjacent window (same goes for the front yard minus about 200 square feet). The fact that 350 of those 400 square feet is cement, most of it pretty consistently pee’d and poo’d upon by the resident “bad-girl” princess-dog who is, as I write, sleeping off a particularly strenuous night of deeeeeep slumber, makes for an even shorter ramble.

Fortunately, I keep a number of plants in pots, a habit I acquired when our propensity to rent turned into a downright tradition. Most of my 13 rose bushes have been dragged from local to local (as we have an even deeper tradition of moving frequently) which is how, over the years, I have satisfied my thirst for roses at my fingertips.

However, we were so very lucky as to purchase our little cottage over three years ago, prompting me to plant many of my roses in the tiny squares of available dirt as well as to invest in (gasp!) perennials. Since I have long been an “annuals” (cheap, plentiful, frost-vulnerable, “I want it now”, floozies-of-the-garden blooms that give you instant results--sort of like “blue ruin” whiskey, but without the capacity to make you drunk) kind of gal, rather than a “perennials” (the more expensive flowers and plants one buys for the long run—responsible work horses of the garden that take time to develop and mature) lover, the pay-off of this trade-off (perennials for annuals, for those of you whom I confused) has been a very happy surprise.

To illustrate this point, I present a photo of my trellised arch as of August 2008.

See the tiny whitish-pink daisy plant at the base? (I no longer have the brain capacity to memorize the names of everything I plant but we waive that point. We do not press it. We look over it!) (Extra points to whomever can tell me from what play/movie/musical starring Kevin Kline that quote(ish) is from(ish).) See how sweet and petite it is? See, also, how my New Dawn climbing rose has only climbed as high as the height of the birdbath? Now take a gander of a photo of the same spot (different angle) I took in April of this year.

Little daisy plant is a huge daisy plant! My climbing rose has reached the top (and one month later is actually blooming!) Yeah. I know. It so rocks! The fact that, in my area, annuals such as sweet alyssum, lobelia, bacopa, snapdragons and nasturtiums just bounce right back in the spring, year after year after year, means that as the gardener of the household, I have pretty much planted myself out of a job.

In short, if you want to save on money in the garden as well as on fresh flowers to admire from within your four walls, perennials are the way to go, a lesson this floozy-lover took way too long to learn.

The New Dawn climbing rose bush finally bloomed! Fourteen months of anticipation gratified!

Eventually it will climb and clamber over and down along the other side of the arch--can't wait!

A pretty pink geranium.

The big leafy Hollyhocks are growing but I'm not sure if they will bloom again this year . . .

What I call the "Celtic Corner" inspired by the cool and verdant greenery of England.

Abraham Darby Old English Rose by David Austen. Smells like heaven.

This bougainvellia is just getting started ... .

My mother's day present last year . . .(it's a reproduction).

My newest rose acquisition . . . a Double Delight like the cover of Miss D. This was how it looked on Saturday. Below is how it looks today. I guess that's why they call it Double Delight!

Happy Mother's Day to all of my wonderful blog friends!

For those who wish to know a little more about how Miss D came into being, I was interviewed by Johnna Benson Cornett on Segullah. Click here to read it.

Whenever we move into a new area, I warn my neighbors thusly: “Terrible things always seem to happen in our vicinity." (In other words, be afraid. Be very afraid.) (This could be why they seem to shun us but I’m not jumping to any wild-and-crazy conclusions). For example, we lived in San Jose when the Loma Prieta quake hit, the Haley-Bopp mass suicide took place not many miles from our home in San Diego and we were covered by the blanket of grief that settled over the inhabitants of Littleton, Colorado as a result of the mass shootings at Columbine High School.

The terrible events of that day and the numerous connections we had to people who knew somebody who was related to somebody that got shot (and the fact that I could swear I saw one of the shooters in his long, black coat walking around downtown Littleton the weekend prior to the event) are too heavy to discuss on my self-proclaimed humor blog. However, the dark and terrible deeds of that day changed the course of my life forever.

As one can imagine, everyone was terribly upset. People entertained thoughts along the lines of: “They must have been crazy!” or “How could their parents NOT KNOW?” or the easy-to-jump-to-conclusion “They must have been raised by wolves!” As I watched the news coverage mapping out possible motives for the shooter’s horrific acts, the whole sorry mess felt so much more applicable to my life than if they had done their dour deeds a few states over. Because I had a pre-adolescent son for whom my earliest fears (starting at about three days old) was that he would grow up to be an axe murderer (a totally illogical fear yet eerie in how close to the mark it was), all I could think about were the parents of the victims, including those of the shooters. The phrase “There but for the grace of God go I” went through my mind over and over.

It was during the Littleton years that my then undiagnosed, multiply-disabled, mildly cerebral palsied, brain-damaged through birth-accident, depressed, anxious, bipolar child with learning disabilities and autistic-type tendencies (though not autistic) was holing up in the basement, living on a diet of soda crackers and water and freaking out every time I came down the stairs and turned on the light to do the laundry (you can imagine how downright acceptable dirty clothes began to look to me). One can see how I might have been a tad anxious about this child’s future. I thought I knew just how the parents of the shooters were feeling right about then and I would have cheerfully given my right arm in exchange for a guarantee that I would never have to feel that same way. However, I knew my time, patience, energy and wits would be a far more effective sacrifice--which meant I would have to completely and irrevocably give up pursuing the many-years-longed-for writing career I had dreamed of since I was little more than a tot.

So, that's what I did.

As it turns out, “Columbine” was the seminal event that led me to decide I would much less regret never becoming a published writer than being the author of an axe murderer. Because of the events of that day, I traded in working on my potential writing career for spending masses of time chatting up pediatricians, psychologists, psychiatrists, teachers, behavioral and physical therapists, pharmacists, neurologists and nutritional specialists.

And to think that Miss D might have been published close to ten years earlier than it was--I could have been an insufferable egomaniac that much sooner!

Then again, I could have been dead.

Heidi Ashworth, author of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind and this here blog, lives in domestic bliss with her husband and three children, including her multiply-disabled son who, in spite of his homicidal tendencies when not properly medicated, is a loveable teddy bear, deathly afraid of anything sharp.

Forcing myself to relax and not attend to my responsibilities has allowed me to reflect on a few things:

1. Doctors don’t like their time to be wasted
2. I love having a TV in my bedroom
3. Doctors think mere cold/flu symptoms a waste of their time
4. Watching TV is way easier than reading books
5. Doctors can get pretty aggressive with that throat culture stick thingy when they feel their time is being wasted
6. I could watch Malcolm in the Middle 24 hours a day!
7. It’s worth being sick in order to arrive at such significant epiphanies

(The Big Guy is doing better, the Little Guy went back to school today, I tested negative for strep throat in spite of the violent dig that, I swear, removed actual tissue from my throat, so, according to my doctor, I probably just have a cold or “the flu”. Since I have used a total of three tissues to control the tepid flow from my nose in the last three days and the Big Guy has been awash in effluvia of the nostrils, I don’t think I have a cold. However, since only two people have died of the swine flu in the US and the schools are all reopening (including The Spouse’s as of today) nobody cares if it is the swine flu or just the regular old flu. Meanwhile, my throat still hurts, I still have a fever, I’m tired, achy and dizzy . . . but, hey, I’m at Bloggers Annex today! You could be too! You can submit one of your own favorite posts! Find out how at www.bloggersannex.com)

"So flu me".

You get what you ask for. Apparently. Fever, chills, terrible sore throat . . . off to the doctor later to see if it's strep or something else.

Feeling totally bad that I am missing out on everyone's posts. AGAIN! Getting sick after recovering from a trip out of town, after being out of town, after getting ready to go out of town, after taking a week long blocation--well, I just wasn't thinking clearly, was I? (And, hey, Erin Ames, so sorry about the misspelling in my title yesterday but I'm sick, you know?)

And when I said I wanted a week where I could just lie on the couch and read books? Be careful what you wish for my friends . . .the weird thing is, it was pretty close to a year ago that I was in the emergency room with complications from flu. That was the last time I actually cracked open a book and read it from beginning to end for the sheer pleasure of it.

LG and BG are doing better--so far they just have regular old colds--thanks so much for all of your sweet concern and for laughing at my post yesterday. (I laughed too, in a drunken/feverish kind of way when I reread it last night which was good b/c even though every word was true, it was supposed to be funny.)

7 AM: Little Guy sick. Big Guy sick. Me: sore throat and congestion (not ready to commit to “sick” yet). The Spouse's school is closed for flu but he still has to go to work.

8:30 AM: Since I don’t have to take the Little Guy to school, I got a head start on my morning routine. Feeling good! Open a new gallon of milk, unwittingly put a hole in it while trying to remove that stupid adult proof band around the cap with a knife, pour milk in cereal as well as down side of carton and all over the counter. Attempt to pour entire gallon of milk into another recently emptied carton causing it to foam up and spill over the top to join the puddle already made by the milk streaming out of the extra hole. Meanwhile, oatmeal congeals in its bowl.

8:35: clean up milk mess

8:38: eat four bites of cereal whilst watching Angel (of, er, ANGEL), turn into a puppet (Angel: Smile Time, Season 5). Giggle and laugh as if it’s going to be a great day.

8:40: phone rings. It’s the Middle Child’s school nurse informing me that MC fell off her bike on the way to school, her leg is scraped up and she can’t move her (multiply injured, previously dislocated, gosh-darned, I’m so tired of it!) shoulder (AGAIN!) “Ummmm,” I say, “so does that mean I need to come and get her?”

8:43: Have managed to put on some clothes and am inserting my contact lenses when one falls to the floor.

8:44: frantically look for contact.

8:46: find contact.

8:47: Drive to school to pick up Middle Child, completely oblivious to the fact that my seven year old is still asleep in bed (so is Big Guy but he’s used to being left alone).

8:55: Arrive at school and argue with MC who doesn’t want to go home but who is clearly in a lot of pain. Load her into the car, drive around to the bike rack to get bike, wrestle it into the back of the car, drive home.

9:05: It is five minutes past Big Guy’s usual medication time (you know, those meds that make his bipolar, depression and anxiety somewhat livable) but first I have to give him some cold meds to clear his throat so he doesn’t gag on the regular meds and throw up. But FIRST-first, I have to call the doctor and make an appointment for MC. (The MC is very stoic & never cries unless the need is great. She is now sobbing like a stuck pig.)

9:06: attempt to do something with my face (such as create eyebrows—I’m less frightening with eyebrows) and drive to the doctor, but not before I remember LG and get him loaded into the car. He amuses us the entire way with a snot-nose symphony punctuated with cries of “I have to go to the bathroom!”

9:15: arrive at doctor, get MC unloaded and inside and tell the nurse that I am not staying b/c I can’t leave LG alone in the car nor bring him in b/c he might have swine flu. Try not to take looks of horror personally and hasten back out to the car. Listen to more snot-nose symphony and “I really have to go!”

9:30: MC appears along with doctor who informs me nothing is broken but that she needs to wear a sling.

9:32 Drive to Kmart to buy sling. None to be had. However, I find the Ballet Slipper Pink spray paint I’ve been craving and consider it a fair exchange. MC does not agree. She wants to return to school but doesn’t want to use the sling she used last time (and the time before that), a perfectly respectable rectangle of cloth that came with an honest to goodness emergency kit. She says the kids accused her of tearing it out of a bed sheet and that her PE teacher thought she was faking b/c her sling was so lame. I shove a candy bar in her mouth and tell her it will have to wait until I can get LG to a bathroom and BG medicated.

10:15: Drag into the house. Crush some cold medicine into yogurt and take it to the BG. Call friend and cancel lunch date. Taste oatmeal—yuck! Pour myself a bowl of corn pops and watch Angel in puppet form ask Nina, the werewolf, girl out for a date (very big of him considering she tried to eat him the night previous).

10:45: soooooooo ready to go back to bed but I still have to crush and serve regular meds to the Big Guy, acquire a “cool” sling for the MC, call the elementary school about LG’s absence and possible contagious/fatal disease, blogs to read, a post to write . . .besides, my bed is currently occupied by MC who is watching TV while icing her shoulder.

The good news: My pink New Dawn climbing rose I planted 14 months ago is about to burst into its very first bloom any minute—thank goodness for small miracles!

It’s looking like, when it comes to my little town, the Ashworth family could become ground zero for the swine flu. It’s not a comfortable thought (it's okay--being infamous is fun!). The Spouse teaches at a school several towns over that is richly populated with students who travel to and from Mexico on a regular basis. It was just a matter of time before a student came down with this new/old (depends on whom you’re talking to) flu. Sure enough, there was one confirmed case of it yesterday, leading the Board of Health to close the school for two weeks. As the school is at least ten miles away and our town is populated by those who do not regularly travel to and from Mexico, I feel like our home is a potential den of vibrant germs just waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting community.

I am as concerned about contracting the flu here in our house (we’ll know for sure in 7-10 days. Woo hoo!) as I am about sharing it with others. A few years ago, my Little Guy was hospitalized with dehydration after the flu, not once, but twice. The other day I made him swear on a stack of holy bibles (we don’t keep the unholy kind around) that if he should get sick, he WILL do as I ask (as in---EAT! DRINK!) whether he feels like it or not. He gravely agreed (no pun intended).

There is plenty of conflicting information out there as to what we should expect. I hope that those who are taking a very optimistic view of this situation are 100% correct. Meanwhile, if I seem a bit paranoid about a flu that might or might not be new, to which we might or might not have immunities, that might or might not spread like wildfire, that might or might not sicken and possibly kill lots of people (some of whom could potentially get it from us—eep!) I’m sorry, but it’s just not something I feel optimistic about.

So flu me.