Woody & Jessie

You've got a friend in me.

http://www.hark.com/clips/fvbkhlrzkc-toy-story

My life these days is a living, breathing Toy Story 3.


I'm packing up the last of Janie's room today before the movers come on Monday to load the container for the overseas shipment.  It's been a teary day already, but she did well with the ship/store decisions I wanted her to make.


In addition to Duckie and her pillow pet, she was allowed to choose 10 stuffed animals for shipment.  The rest are going in the attic.  She was sad but efficient making her choices.  Woody, Jessie & Bullseye did not make the cut, but they are together.  


I labeled and taped the box, moved it to the hall.  Then I turned my attention to other things in her bedroom.  At the bottom of the first box I saw was Woody's hat.  He's going to need that while he waits for Janie to come home.  

Victory

My sweet Brazilian cleaning lady asked me this morning if she could cook for me before we move.  She says that I have given her clothes, shoes, coats, food, work -- what could she do for me?   She is entirely on her own, dealing with some health issues and hasn't been home to Brazil in at least seven years. 


She loves the Lord and faithfully serves Him with a joyous and loving heart.  I told her the best thing she could do for me and my family would be to pray for us once every week, to pray for God's blessing and protection on our family.  She smiled and said "I pray for VICTORY!"  So there you go, we will have His Victory in this next adventure for our family.

The Calendar

Today cannot POSSIBLY be February 7.

When God Closes a Door ....

... maybe  it means we should keep Daryl's convertible for a few years instead of selling it. 


Daryl left last week for the UK, and I'm trying to find a buyer for his fabulous, fun car (2004 Volvo C70 convertible, black, 5 speed manual transmission, 37K miles).  Several friends have come for test drives, but no takers yet.  Yesterday a friend in the neighborhood called to see about her husband coming to take a look in the evening.

Since I can't make a long story short, here's what happened: 


Before they arrived I went to the garage to back the car out and put the top up -- a convertible is not much fun in the sleet.   Push the garage door button. Motor runs, door lifts maybe 2 inches, then stops.  Hmmmm, maybe I didn't pull the car in far enough on Sunday.  No, that's not the problem. Push the button.  Door goes down 2 inches.  Maybe I should push the button three or four times and that will fix it.  No.  How about holding it down for a few seconds?  Aha, actually went up a few feet then nothing.


Hey, let's bother hubby on Skype with this.  We connect, he is not ironing, and I describe the problem, making dramatic garage door motor noises and gestures intended to indicate measurements.  Surprisingly, he cannot diagnose the problem from 6,000 miles away.  But I have clearly made the case that this is HIS side of the garage, and I promise I did not do anything to the garage THIS TIME.  (I may have severely bent the garage door track on the side when I ruined his last car, but that was almost 18 months ago.  Statute of limitations has run on that.)


I make multiple trips up and down the basement/garage stairs trying to answer his diagnostic questions.  No, it is not locked.  No, I can't manually lift it more than 2 or 3 feet.  


On about the 5th trip I finally spot it:  Yes, I know, someone with a clue would've seen this on the first trip, but I make no claims about my mechanical abilities.  I am the same woman who cursed at the gas pump for my failed multiple attempts to get the diesel nozzle into an unleaded tank.  Who knew they made them different sizes just to prevent idiots like me from ruining their engines?


The wheel thingy at the top of one side is hanging by a wire and is off the track.   That can't be right, but I don't know what it means.  Fortunately at this point, the hoping-to-test-drive friends arrive.  The husband takes  one look and says, the spring is missing on this side.  So we look for it, sure enough it is under the car and it is broken.  Very thankful no one was hurt when it ricocheted off the track and into the garage.


Sooooo ..... no test drive.  I hope they don't think this means God has closed the door on their buying the Volvo.   Garage door repairs scheduled for Saturday.

State of the First Grader's Bedroom Address

Sweet Mother of Abraham Lincoln.


Certain members of this family are not on board with the current goals of this administration.


As this family moves forward and out of the country, it sometimes become necessary for the mental health of the mother to THROW THINGS AWAY.  Things that will be relocated to the Ginormous Contractor Clean Up Bag include, but are not limited to:  (these are hard facts of life, but now is as good a time as any to learn them)


1) garbage -- this includes sticker sheets with one sticker on them, dried out markers, lip balms with no lid, hair bows with no clip, past issues of Clubhouse and National Geographic Kids that have been so well-read that the pages are silky and scarce, AND empty doll boxes from past Christmases and birthdays.    


2) puzzles missing pieces


3) games missing parts


4) Barbie dolls and Polly Pockets with missing body parts


5) books that look like they were in a third-world mission barrel 15 years ago


6) socks missing mates


7) swimsuits (see previously listed criteria in last week's swimsuit post)


8) any toy or gadget that was at some point part of a fast food kid's meal.


9) "life size" Barbie doll with her dislocated, detached leg and home-cut hair


10) items purchased from the Dollar Tree or dollar section at Target that have helped fuel China's ownership of our future.


With these goals in mind, do I or do I not root through said black garbage bag that is sitting in the driveway to unearth the empty, torn Madeline doll box that apparently was serving as Madeline's bed; at the time of it's relocation, Madeline was not in the box-bed.

Inertia

I should be cleaning out, sorting and packing.  I should be guiding the girls through their Monday school assignments.  I should be dropping off the dry cleaning.  I should be walking the dog.  I should be working on the swim team coordinators' manual.


I am goofing off.  I am reading Edith Wharton "The Custom of the Country" and playing Triple Town on the Kindle.  I am going to "The King's Speech."  I am adding to the Ikea shopping list for stuff to tide us over in the new house until the crate arrives.  I am examining in minute detail the surrounding streets of the new house on google maps.  I am fiddling around with Facebook.  I am blogging.  I am stalling.


The movers arrive for the international pack four weeks from today.  We leave four weeks from Thursday.  

Kate Takes her Favorite Suit Tubing

My favorite suit in the Discard Pile was a royal purple halter-tie bandeau with a lightly shimmery band across the top where the halter straps attach.  I've had this suit for so long, and yet it has remained in the drawer summer after summer, quietly serving when needed and deteriorating in the interim.

This suit has a particularly fond memory.

Summer 2006: My dear friend Elaine has returned from their mission posting in West Africa for a short vacation in the states.  A girls' weekend to the North Georgia mountains is organized.  I'm remembering the crew as me, Elaine, Leigh Anne, Carol & Shellie; maybe others joined us later, but these are the primary guilty parties.

We've decided we are going to be more active than usual and plan to go tubing on a large creek/small river in the area, the Coosawattee.  Saturday morning arrives and we load up the trucks with semi-inflated and just plain flat inner tubes from the rental cabin.   They seem a little small, but we'll worry about that later. 


Now to get them filled and then we can go freeze our butts off in  the river.

The nearest place for air is a large Shell station at the corner of a busy intersection that leads into town.  This is the variety of southern convenience store that offers gas, ice, bait, ammo, sandwiches, lottery tickets, cigarettes -- everything you need at 10 a.m. on a sunny early summer Saturday.

We manage to get the tubes in a pile near the air hose and begin the process of filling them, discovering as we proceed that several are flat for a reason.  But we seem to have enough that may leak air slowly enough to get us down the few miles of Coosawattee that we plan to navigate. Enough small tubes.

It's hot work and I take my shirt off, leaving my shorts and the top half of my oldie but goodie purple bathing suit.  Now you have to understand, while I'm no swim suit model, this particular suit seems to highlight certain aspects of my physique.  And apparently the good ol' boys in the North Georgia mountains don't mind a "traditionally built woman" (anyone else read Alexander McCall Smith?)  So while every local in a truck at that intersection was overly interested in my assets, I was blithely giving them quite the show.  Nice to be appreciated in a little redneck corner of the world.

The fun really starts when we try to tube.  Not only was the mountain water a few degrees above freezing, Georgia was under drought conditions and the water in the river was just a trickle in several areas.  With rocks for that water to trickle over.  Hard, bumpy rocks.

 As the tubes slowly deflate, we float and pick our way down the creek.  Every shallow patch requires a "bottoms up" approach, followed by rolling off the tube and gingerly maneuvering among the slippery rocks until clear.  It takes us two hours to go barely a mile, but we reach the trucks with frozen feet, bruised bums and warm hearts.

And I will always be wearing the purple suit  in this story.