It was just about 7 a.m.- and we were OFF.

It had snowed about 4-5″ and we were the only ones around, beside the snowplows.  Needless to say we were ALL positively ebullient: there was enough snow so the 3 kids were forced to do their bunny imitations. As lorra applied science to create a successful leash management strategy, the kids insisted on RUNNING, all with giant smiles on their open-mouthed faces. We were the first out after only the street plow, so when we got to the foot path along Riverwoods Road we were forging a new trail. Bravely. Lots of conversing: “o, is there something good to smell there? let me, let me!” and ‘if YOU’RE gonna pee there, I’M gonna pee there…”– stuff like that.

Meanwhile, between managing the leashes and the ankle deep snow, lorra was joyfully engaged, waving at anyone who drove by. (Again, mostly snowplowers.) She was particularly impressed by Penny, who was as energetic as the others, and as incessant. In addition to the heavier load she carries, she had the biggest, baddest snowballs around her feet and ankles. She found them annoying, but she didn’t let them stop her!

After several blocks our tracks joined some others; from a dog and person who’d gotten there first. We went quite far, until lorra felt going any further (farther?) might have meant having to carry someone at least part of the way home. There was quite a bit of running on the return.

Then came the good part.

With a fresh bowl of water in placed the garage, the 3 were let off leash while lorra shoveled the driveway in the coming-down snow. So many decisions to make! Barking and chasing the lead edge of the shovel, or scream-barking at Dixie, the golden barking back from her end of the cul-du-sac, or barking at the snow plow (back again to redo the street), or just running like crazy together thru the yard? So so so fun. for everyone. for about an hour! But we weren’t done yet.

Next stop- laundry room. Where each doggie got his/her own time in the sink to melt off those annoying snowberries with comforting warm water. Followed by a long, cuddle-massage in a giant towel. And some blowdrier on the warm, gentle setting. Penny couldn’t get enough of this part. Winnie was concerned about Penny’s safety, being attached by the roaring drier, until Winnie got her own dose and understand that it was okay.

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Normally, this phrase is a desperate cry, often through tears, in times of frustration, sadness, fear, disappointment. From a little kid.

Now, it’s often a soft internal utterance. Just stating a fact. From the part of me who will always be your daughter. From the little me for whom you will always be ‘my mommy.’

When I want to ask you a question about something that happened, that no one else would know, to clarify my memories, I want my mommy.

When I feel a new appreciation for something you did or who you were, when I want to thank you, I want my mommy.

When I want to share, mother-to-mother, I want my mommy.

When my son does or says something I am proud about,  I want my mommy.

When I see the late autumn day sun illuminating wildly colored leaves, I want my mommy.

When I realize no one has critiqued the recording on my answering machine, I want my mommy.

When I want to revisit a conversation we had 45 years ago, I want my mommy.

I know, I know. I can speak to her. I can hear her. She is alive in me, certainly. In a way.

Still, I want to see her make a goofy face, hear her sing quietly to my son as he falls asleep. I want to hold her hand and play with it during services, hear her talk in funny dialects and watch her laugh till the tears come.  I want to see her (my) feet. I want to smell her skin, smooth her eyebrow with my finger, to give her head a scratch and scratch that same place on her back under the bra strap, to love her.

Still, I want to give you happiness. Make you happy. See you being happy. Give you love. Love you. Lay with my head in your lap, your hand stroking my hair. Get your love.  That unique, uplifting, universe-filling, life-saving love I always got, could only get, from You and Dad.

I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.

This was Julie’s idea: our HWW logo on a pink shirt. So there you have it, black with white dots on the BEST pink cotton shirt.

now available @: http://www.hardworkingwoman.com/store/catalog/

Submitted by: jennmarie russell

Shaunna Russell
Why she deserves to be celebrated as a hard working woman: Shaunna is a mother of 2, a wife, a minister, a full time cook for a catering company.  She never has time for herself.  She is always thinking of others.  She takes kids to camp in the summer and teaches them how to cook in her so called spare time.  She is the absolute hardest working woman I know.  She never just has down time.  When she does have time to do anything else, its spending time with her wonderful family and remodeling her beautiful house.  Shaunna deserves to be recognized as a hard working woman, as she is the epitome of what that actually means.

THANKS, Shauna, for all you do.

Love, HardWorking Woman

I like to play games with myself while I’m doing other things. For example, while I’m walking Zippy, holding the leash (and the recyclable plastic bag) in one hand, I gather litter with the other. Not just any litter, of course. I have rules: nobody else’s um, dog-poo-bag, no used tissue (icky germs). Other than that, it’s just what I can pick up and carry with my one free hand. Of course there are the challenges of arranging the items to fit the most possible, etc. The goal is to gather as much as possible, or totally clean up my path, whichever comes first. I actually have fun doing this. Perhaps it indicates my need ‘to get a life,’ but as far as fun goes, I’ll take it wherever I can get it.

Another trash game I have has become a ritual. It’s when I’m on the golf course. When I see a little piece of litter (again, NOT including used tissue) I pick it up and stuff it into my golf bag. Here’s the good part: that one teeny act insures that my next shot will be a good one!! It’s the karma effect. I mean, one gum wrapper is not going to turn me into an Anna (Sorenstam), but if I’m on the karmic line between making a great shot or a poor one— having just done a good golf deed makes a big difference.

Give this woman a HWW tee!

Women respond to ‘Sad’ men about lack of sex

Cheryl Lavin

Tales from the Front

June 4, 2008

Recently, men like “Sad” and “I’m Sad Too” have complained about their wives for not wanting sex more than once a full moon, at best. They said they’ve contemplated everything from divorce to affairs to suicide. Today we hear from wives of men like “Sad” and “I’m Sad Too” …

Mia: My husband put “Sad’s” letter in front of me and said that he could have written it. He’s right. And this is my reply to him. Things were good when we dated, then we married and had, by today’s standards, a large family.

Now my responsibilities include cooking and baking, shopping on a very tight budget, cleaning the house, taking care of the pets, doing all household repairs and upkeep (including minor wood and tile working).

Also, planting the flower and vegetable gardens (I moved eight 100-pound railroad ties), all the gardening, everything concerning the kids, including homework, behavior, illness, school functions and sporting events, emergency runs to the store to buy poster board they remembered they needed at night, teachers, rules, activities, punishment, hygiene and laundry.

Also, doing his laundry, making special meals for his dietary problems, being sure that he has relaxation time before meals, fielding all phone calls, previewing the mail, washing windows, cleaning the garage, power washing, staining the deck, shoveling snow, corresponding with his family, sending out Christmas cards and thank-you notes, running errands, etc.

I do all this and more. I worked outside the home part time for many years and at one point I had two part-time jobs. Even when he was out of work the list didn’t change. I spent years begging him to help.

What does he do? He works his 40-hour week, eats his meals, complains about everything, watches TV and golfs.

He reaps what he sowed. Women want to be loved and treated with respect. Marriage is not servitude. If one partner consistently puts his own selfish interests before that of the other, he is not deserving of the respect and unity that a marriage needs to survive.

I don’t know one woman who wants to have sex with a man she doesn’t respect. It isn’t making love at that point, it’s just another chore.

After finally deciding that I couldn’t and wouldn’t be intimate with my husband any more, he actually helped me do one thing on my list. I do not look upon this as a victory. I’m not the kind of person who’s going to do something vindictive and hurtful every time I need help. I feel it shows a lack of his respect for me that I have to take something away from him in order to get him to listen.

To my husband: If I’d known marriage was this painful, I’d still be single.

Colleen: “Sad” really makes me angry. His wife is probably past menopause, and he has no idea about sex after that time. I was hit by instant menopause at the young age of 40 after a hysterectomy. I was put on hormones and I had the sex drive of a 20-year-old. But once hormone-replacement therapy was designated as dangerous, I was taken off of them. Ugh, it took all the fun out of sex. Without hormones, your desire disappears completely. After menopause, sex hurts.

Yes, men have sexual needs and desires—I realize that. But is it worth hurting the woman you love to satisfy that need?

Judy: I’m 51 and have been married to the same man for 30 years. He has the equipment, so we only have sex when he wants it. I’ve lost all interest in sex because it’s always been wham, bam, get dressed let’s do something else now. I would be perfectly happy if I never had sex again, but I go along with him every so often just to get him to stop nagging me.

I’ve tried talking to him, but he’s really not interested in putting any effort into pleasing me. It’s all about him. My husband will read this and feel sorry for the poor guy I’m married to and not realize it’s him. I’m really sad.

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