If Only...

There are regrets in life, we all know things that come up here and there that catch us by surprise and we say "If only..."  I believe I qualify in the "If only..." realm when it comes to leg shaving.  I've probably lost a couple of pints of blood over the years to my inability to properly hold onto a razor or trying whack the hair at a peculiar angle.  A true mother/daughter bonding moment was missed all those years ago.  My mother showed me her razor once, it was electric and she could easily glance over her legs in two shakes of a lamb's tail.  She was effortless when it came to her appearance. Funny that I mention a lamb, I could have had a professional sheerer come in twice a week all these years.   My father had the regular razor, drop the blade in, twist the bottom and go for a ride around your face. He too seemed to be effortless in keeping up his appearance.  I may have been a female genetically but the hair that grew on my legs seemed to come directly from my dad.  I didn't need elastic to keep my socks up, the hair did it. I could feel the breeze from the wind not just from it bristling through the hair on my head but the hair on my legs.  I swear they could get tied up in knots just from scratching.  I was warm in the winter months and sweating in summer.  You get the point.  It wasn't dense but it was enough.

 So you can imagine I couldn't wait to shave my legs for the first time.  Let the wonderment begin, what did I know.  I just wanted to be the girl who said "Who wears short-shorts?"  I remember being 13 and it was time to join all those women out there who were themselves enjoying smooth, hairless, glossy looking legs.  I tried my mom's electric razor but it wasn't a good match.  I think I would need hedge clippers to cut back on the growth THEN begin shaving.  But being the baby bear, momma bear's razor was too rough.  Then I thought of dad's razor.  YES! the Holy Grail, all would be well because Jack Gallagher was shaving his face and it always looked and felt perfect.  I would use dad's razor.  I was in the shower, using soap and did both legs, now I was about 5'5" at this point so not too much in the square footage department yet. I didn't know it would take so long but I persevered and started at my ankle.  I got past the ankles on both legs and then went up the backs of the legs, no problem with those spots. Then I went for the shins, here I ran into some problems.  I pressed down too hard and the razor dug into the skin and caught on the bone taking a layer all the up the leg to right below the knee.  The red strip of blood started right away.  I couldn't believe there was so much blood.  But I was also thinking I had another leg to do. So, of course, I pressed on the shin on the left leg as well.  Same result, twin shins bleeding.  I was scared at this point because they wouldn't stop, it was as if I cut the main artery in each leg.  Water and blood running down the drain and me unable to stop it.  I grabbed a towel (nice, clean white towel smelling of bleach) and tried to dry off before doing the legs.  The tub was looking sad and yet festive at the same time.  I applied pressure to the legs and reached in the medicine cabinet for band-aids.  Now, here is a quiz:  What amount of band-aids does one need on two legs?  About 20 in total  is what I think I used.   I had now been in the bathroom for about half hour and for a family of six with one bathroom that is an eternity.  Dad was knocking on the door.  I quickly got dressed, realized how painful this truly was and tried to clean up the best I could.  I grabbed his razor and put it back on the shelf above the sink.  Cleaned up the blood in the tub and then hid the towel as I opened the door and sped past him.  Thankfully, my room was next to the bathroom and I bee-lined in there quick.  I inspected the towel closely and decided I could wash it out later and I put it on the back of the bedroom door.  I brushed my hair out and made my way downstairs.  I hoped no one would notice I was walking a little weird but  they didn't pay attention.

Now about 10 minutes had passed when we all heard a crack of thunder, in this case, my father letting us know something terrible had happened.  He came downstairs and we all looked at his face, little pieces of toilet paper were dotted on his chin, neck and the corners of his lips.  This didn't look good and I knew immediately what I forgot to do.  Clean out the DNA I left in his razor.  I tried to not pay too much attention and was getting something to drink from the fridge.  Just then, Dad blurted it out "Who used my razor last?"  It just hung there and I again didn't pay any attention.  My brothers said "No", my mother said "No."  Then who?  Who could it be?  Everyone then looked at me and I looked at Dad and said it was me.  My mother asked, "Bridget, you were shaving your legs?"  "Yes, mom."  She countered "Did you cut your leg?"  "Yes, Mom."  One of my brothers chimed in "How bad did you cut your leg?"  I added "legs."  I slowly raised my pajama pants and showed the procession of band aids and the blood that had seeped out around them.  It was a horrendous sight.  I started to cry and said I was sorry and hoped Dad wasn't mad at me, I just couldn't stop crying, for one reason, my legs were killing me.  I had the first realization at this point that being a girl sucked and shaving my legs would be my hell.  The only good thing is the freckles and what an ample supply.  I can hide shaving my legs for a day or two past the point of hearing a kid say "Mommy, why does that lady have hairy legs?"

Every time I take razor to leg, I am extremely careful but being careful still means accidents can happen.  I have gotten to the point where I dare the cut to bleed and for some reason it doesn't bleed for more than a second.  Till this morning.  I carved a nice happy face into my upper calf.  But it only took one BIG band-aid.  I must ask someone when the follicle says "screw it, I'm done growing on this women's legs.  We've done here a great injustice and will cease growing."  Please hair follicle, hurry up with that.

Breakfast with Charlie

A friend posted "How do you like to spend your Sundays?"  First thing that came to mind was building a maze so I can hide the toast with cinnamon sugar from Charlie.   All I want to do is eat it without tearing a section off for him.  And by section, I mean a half of a piece of toast.  We share because he is insistent we do so!  You see, Charlie is a 95 pound Golden Retriever/Lab mix who has a major talent for not finding a bird to retrieve but can hear you opening the bread bag (he hears the twist), then you dropping the bread into the toaster and then you pushing down the lever.  His excitement grows when he hears the toast pop!  When you are buttering the toast, the water works begin.  He needs a drool bucket at this point.  He's in the kitchen during this process because its lonely waiting for food to be ready.  He knows, he's a dog and has to wait all the time for someone to notice that he's down an ounce and needs sustenance immediately.  Charlie's talents abound, he is world champion at love, hugs, drool, kisses, stepping on feet, lying on feet.  He can jump into bed with a five minute pep talk from the occupant(s) and once in bed nudges the female occupant out so he can be with his beloved daddy.  I'm used to that.  He depends on me while the males in the household are at work/school.  Charlie is my beloved and I am his, until 2:45 p.m. strikes.  We walk and talk, I talk and he sleeps actually. Typical male. But we roam the our village greeting shopkeepers and then Charlie begins insisting they give him a treat.  Reminds me of stories of days gone by when the cops or local hoods would shake down the shopkeepers to keep their stores safe.  Although in this instance, Charlie is given a treat and the shopkeeper is more than happy to do so.   Win-win all around.  Except the idea of taking him out for a walk and getting him exercise is quickly replaced with the need for his next "fix".  He's less expensive than taking out the boys that's for sure. Charlie is a people magnet, the boys aren't. People scratch his ears, toddlers want to ride him (I don't recommend they climb on him) and Charlie wants to eat whatever treat is in their hand, especially ice cream.  He loves ice cream for sure.

But Charlie's greatest, most impressive talent by far, and one he did not keep secret for too long, is his devotion to all that is FOOD.  If we trained him better, (flunked out of obedience school with a German teacher, I might add) we would have avoided about 30 pounds.  We should change our name to "Frankenstein" since we created this monster.  He was sickly when we first got him.  Charlie is a rescue and almost died three times before he was 3 months old.  He had Parvovirus and $1,600 and a week and a half in the hospital later, came home to us, his adoring family.  This is where the bonding began between doggie and daddy.  So its been that way for almost 10 years.  He hears food, he comes running; he sees food he won't lunge but he will be patient until you have a tiny morsel that he almost wills into his mouth.  He likes my cooking but doesn't chew it, just swallows it and goes to a different family member for his next piece.  My husband and I are the biggest offenders and our sons are his least favorite targets.  He is so patient at dinner.  I've thought on many occasions giving him an I.V. drip because the drooling resembles a leaky faucet and as such must be suffering a bit of dehydration. Charlie can work it, there is no doubt. Hell, at 3 months he was climbing into the dishwasher to get any scraps I missed in the sink.  I remember shutting the door on him thinking it would scare him.  Nope, he just kept on licking.  Good thing I had that load on sanitize.

 As I'm writing all those words I just now thought my husband is an enabler because he thinks of Charlie as his fourth son.  I must remember to begin torture to stop hubby from giving in to Charlie all the time.  I'm guilty as well and will undergo psychoanalysis to change my behavior.

So there it is, how I have to spend my Sundays.  Off to the pool now, where Charlie is not a member.  He will be recharging his batteries no doubt for dinner tonight.  I, in turn, will begin badgering my husband quietly enough so no one at the swim club will hear me chastise him for his bad behavior these past 10 years. Which, by the way, he learned from his dad (hehehe).

D Day 70 Years Later

I grew up listening to my history-crazy father discuss different points in the timeline of the history of  the world.  He loved American history and a particular devotion to the Civil War.  He gave me my love of history and I am forever grateful for the things he brought to my attention and taught me.  But World War II mesmerized me.  Since I was a little girl, I was either reading books or watching movies targeted for that part of our history.  D Day or “Operation Overlord” has always garnered my particular attention.  All those years of training and conditioning, knowing when the call came they were ready to go where needed.  What an impressive fighting force!

There is no greater intimidation than parachuting from a plane hoping the German soldiers and their supply of guns miss their targets so they can make it safely to Terra Firma.  In watching “Band of Brothers”, “The Longest Day” and other movies, they gave me just a glimpse of what their hell was like. As soldiers approached Omaha Beach or Utah Beach  they were weighed down by 60 pounds or more of equipment meant to sustain you for two weeks or longer, you were lucky.   These guys came out of the water even losing their guns or worse, drowning because they so heavy and couldn’t swim away from the landing boats.  How horrible. But then some get out of the water and make it onto the beach where they are a target, their helmets caught in the crossfires of someone hidden on the cliffs above. To survive you hide behind the body of a fallen comrade.  This is a case of survival of the fittest.  They must survive and move on to the cliffs looming in front of you.  The German guns are saturating the beach, and they begin to see Army Rangers climbing up their ladders hoping to get the upper hand finally.  When the beach is finally in American hands you take that look around and suck in a breath and see blood in the ocean waves, bodies strewn on the beach, body parts no longer assembled as bodies.  These men end an ugly journey only to pave the way for the road of the continuing journey for more soldiers needed to secure freedom for the French and all that lies in their way to Berlin. 

I know my respect for these valiant men who answered the call from a nation in crisis to come to their country’s aid knowing there would be the possibility of a bleak future.  At the tender age of 18 and sometimes younger, they take an Oath stating “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States, etc….”  These men had at the time a modern military with equipment that they hoped would win the war.  Great minds gathered together to give the United States the edge they needed. 

Americans at home sacrificed to give whatever they had to support their military men and women and did it without tears, grumblings or cries of it all being unfair.  They all came together and together they defeated an evil that wanted what they wanted and wanted the ultimate submission with maiming, killing and destroying everything in their way.  War raged on for a total of six years. Americans battled on for 4 years on two continents.  How amazing their strength and fortitude!  God bless the men and women of the Greatest Generation.  These men undertook a task that seemed daunting and unrelenting.

Now we are 70 years since D Day. 70 years since the beginning of the end.  I didn’t have anyone involved in D Day but my uncle died at Anzio in July of 1944. My husband’s uncle died at Monte Cassino around the same time.  Many families have stories to tell of their loved ones and in my personal estimation, they should continue on with those stories.  New stories will be told in time of loved ones in Afghanistan and Iraq.  God Bless them all and maybe there will be a time when there is not one battle being waged in our lifetime.