tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199758472024-03-06T19:46:30.336-08:00Life's A Funny ThingA place to ramble about the funny vagaries of life. And anything else that crosses my mind.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-13329638618898499522012-05-18T16:01:00.001-07:002012-05-18T16:18:23.690-07:00And Then There Were TwoIn my last post, we established that years ago, in order to provide Dad with some companionship (and apparently to give Dad a chance to carry on conversations in which he is always right) Mom got him a dog.<br />
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We've established that this dog and I did not immediately become best friends. True, P.B. mellowed over the years. Not much, but enough that we can now attribute her insane barking and need to be within three inches of my face at all times to what I like to believe is her dementia rather than puppy ignorance. (Seriously, how does a dog sense the person who dislikes them most and then make it a personal mission to permanently attach themselves like an insane groupie to that person's side? Is it just to annoy me? Is it that she hopes that proximity will earn her my affection? Nah, gotta be the thing where she does it just to annoy me.) <br />
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Dad has become even more deeply attached to this dog, which honestly, we did not believe was even possible. I personally believe the only thing that has pulled him through a few of his health scares is his belief that we won't love P.B. enough in his absence, and she will be sad, so he'd better stick around.<br />
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In my defense, I'm not the only one who feels this way. I sense huge therapy bills in the future for certain nieces and nephews of mine who may never recover from being greeted and herded by an animal larger than they are, which barks at decibels the kids shouldn't be hearing until they discover whatever horrifying music arrives to define their teen years. This doesn't include Son, of course. Oh no. He loves to go roughhouse with P.B. And then pass out from the handful of Benadryl he needs if he spends more than a few minutes with her.<br />
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Still, everyone had kind of settled into a resigned acceptance. Mom has Dad. Dad has a dog. We have Mom and Dad. Breaking them up would be like breaking up the Beatles and nobody wants to be the Yoko Ono of the family.<br />
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And then, P.B. started getting sick. Super sick. As in, "Get her affairs in order, say your goodbyes" kind of sick.<br />
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Mom was more torn than I have ever seen her. Obviously she couldn't make P.B. live forever, she admitted before looking up hopefully, and asking "Can I?" No, Mom. Even you can't bestow immortality on a dog, she was told.<br />
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And so a plan a formed. Let's get Dad <i>another</i> dog. Before anything happens to P.B. we'll get him attached to a <i>new</i> dog and that way when P.B. eventually, uh, departs and goes off to the big farm to chase real sheep and be very, very happy, Dad will survive the loss because he still has something to love and care for. You know, in addition to his wife and children. Ahem. (Dad, if you're reading this, I swear, I'm not hoping for that day to
come. And I'm certainly not trying to hasten that day's arrival. Honest.
Because that would be wrong.)<br />
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Well, the only way Mom could put this plan in motion was to tell Dad he could choose the new dog. And I'm pretty sure that's when things went irrevocably awry. She was thinking something along the lines of a West Highland White Terrier. You know. Something she could fit in her purse.<br />
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She spent hours on-line researching dogs and different breeds and how
to train them and what kind of dogs would be less likely to eat her grandchildren. And
then, after considerable discussion, I was asked to drive them one day to pick up their new dog. Their new Shetland Sheepdog
puppy. Oh that's right. You heard me. Now they're up to TWO of these hounds.<br />
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And that number could stay at two for awhile, because guess what? P.B. recovered.<br />
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Mom works
full-time. And Dad doesn't quite get the
how-to-train-the-dogs-so-people-don't-hate them thing. Which means the
whole herding, barking, shedding circus fun has been doubled! Although
we've discovered these dogs are almost entirely all bark and not much bite. P.B. doesn't
really bite; she just fakes it. But L.C. has been known to get a bit carried away with her attempt at appearing as a fierce, scary, threatening-in-some-way dog.<br />
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Because she's totally not. One windy day, the back door blew open and a small dog, probably about 10 pounds, if that, wandered into the house. Instant mayhem. I hear banshee-like screeching and snarling and, most disturbingly, Dad yelling, "Oh no! Oh no!" Knowing there was no way I'd get out of there with all limbs intact, and equally certain that I'd forever be "The Bad Daughter Who Let Dad Get Eaten By Dogs" if I did try to escape through the front door, I headed for the front door. Then, remembering that the front door is a bit difficult to open, and thus deciding I could probably be brave enough to face down whatever was going on in the kitchen, I headed back.<br />
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And that's where I found Dad and both dogs huddled, and trembling in the corner (although Dad was probably trembling more out of sympathy for his dogs than anything, oh, and I'm sure he was also protecting them. Or something.) while the little, tiny, intruder yapped at them. I shooed the pup out of the house and boy, the second that door was securely closed did my parents' dogs ever spring into protective action. I know I sleep more soundly at night knowing my parents have two such protective dogs. Well, at least the barking should wake them in time.<br />
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Some plans are good. Some plans, well, aren't. Hopefully we learn from the not-so-great plans. Because Dad's kind of getting along in years. His health is not what it once was. And there is <i>no way</i> I'm bringing in a younger, healthier man for Mom, so she won't be so sad when Dad, uh, joins his dogs on the big farm. <br />
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<br />staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-70912802610796773322012-05-11T18:03:00.000-07:002012-05-18T16:11:50.062-07:00The Hound of HellThis was actually written a few years ago. The saga continues. Part 2 Coming up.<br />
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Several years ago, Mom decided to get Dad a dog. He was home alone all day and she thought a nice little dog might give Dad some companionship. So off they went to the pet store, returning with a little dog whom they named "Little Dog." (And my brothers and I all breathed sighs of relief that we weren't saddled with names like "Baby Boy" or "Baby Girl".)
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Sadly, not long after, Mom and Dad learned that Little Dog had come from a puppy mill and had health problems that could not be resolved and they had to have the dog euthanized. Dad was devastated but Mom promised he could pick out a new dog. She had something in mind like a terrier or a shitzu. Something small, which she'd no doubt dub "Even Littler Dog". Dad, however, fell in love immediately with a Shetland Sheepdog. As a puppy this dog was about the size Mom had hoped to have in the first place and though she had her doubts, in the end, Mom took pity on Dad who was still mourning the loss of Little Dog and they adopted the sheepdog.
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They call the new creature P.B. (Which is not her full name, but even for that much I do have to give them points for creativity.) I call her "Patricia" mostly or "Patty" because calling someone by the wrong name is considered an insult in most cultures and I'm hoping this is something which holds true in dog culture as well. We have a love/hate relationship. She loves to do things that make me hate her. I'm certain it's deliberate, though Mom swears I'm just being mean. And I'm pretty sure P.B. laughs at me as soon as Mom leaves the room. I tend to view P.B. as the the daughter my parents have always loved best. Seriously, they refer to her as my <i>sister. </i>And I am responding in what I recognize is an unkind and juvenile manner. I have tried to be nicer because I paid attention to that last lecture about how not loving their dog is the same as insulting one of their children. (And really, one would think that having their children insult each other is something they'd be used to by now, but moving on...) Also, my brothers have never pounced on me, slobbered on me (well not recently) shed their hair all over me when I'm thoughtless enough to wear black. Nor do they bark constantly for no apparent reason.<br />
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This is a sheepdog who believes herself to be, and is in fact treated as a pampered lapdog. This presents a few complications. The herding thing, for example. She was bred to herd. She would have been superb at this. I have begged my parents to buy a few sheep for P.B. to chase, but perhaps it's better they don't. Dad would likely insist on keeping those inside as well.<br />
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No one in that house is allowed to stand without P.B. hurling herself against their legs and going into complete hysteria until the person either takes a seat or somehow escapes the house. (Note: Mom has been working with P.B. and around Mom, the dog behaves. Mom's the disciplinarian. Dad's the one who breaks the rules, gives unwarranted, unlimited treats and lets the dog do whatever she wants. It's pretty much the way they raised us.)
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There aren't words to adequately describe how much Dad loves this beast. It is a deep and devoted-beyond-reason-to-the-point-of-utter-insanity kind of love. Huh. Maybe there are words.<br />
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But basically, the dog is loud. And she sheds. And there's the whole herding thing. Plus? She's HUGE. When she sits on my little mother's lap, Mom nearly disappears.
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And so, while my mother is also deeply devoted to the dog, she still really wants "a little dog," which of course she won't be able to have as long as P.B. is around because P.B. would either herd it to death or eat it. But a couple of weeks ago we had the following conversation about a TV program she'd watched:
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Mom: It was so cool! They're making these new dogs and they aren't like all those scrawny little dogs that are nothing but hair and feel all skeletal when you pick them up. These are strong and sturdy little dogs.
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Me: They're making dogs? Like in a factory? On an assembly line?
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Mom: Actually that's a puppy mill and puppy mills are horrible. Do you remember Little Dog? DO YOU? You know what I mean. They're cross-breeding these dogs and anyway they're really cute and really sturdy because they make them out of real dogs!
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Me: "They make them out of real dogs." What exactly are the real dogs made out of?
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Mom: Um...meat!
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Me: Meat. So can we start calling the dog "Meat Patty"?
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Mom: You'd better not let your father hear you say that.<br />
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Fine. I won't let my dad hear me. But I saw the longing on my mother's face as she talked about how one day, after P.B.'s gone, she wants to get a small, sturdy dog.<br />
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I'm not making accusations here, but the next time we go to their house for dinner, I'm only eating salad.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-63905330268111282072012-05-11T11:42:00.001-07:002012-05-12T06:40:20.867-07:00Dusting off the BlogIf this blog were my child, I'm quite certain social workers of some kind would have shown up, noted the obvious neglect and the blog would be taken from me and put into a foster care blog service. It would possibly be mistreated there. Need therapy. Maybe get into drugs. (Not that all foster care families are like this. I'm sure most are wonderful, caring and loving. I'm just aware of a few that, well, aren't. And I know nothing whatsoever about blog foster care, other than it doesn't appear to care about what happens HERE.) <br />
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Let's see. Just a bit of catching up to do. Son and I now live in a very tiny apartment. We're very close. We kind of have to be unless one of us goes out on the balcony. (And by balcony I mean "In any other place it would be called a window ledge.")<br />
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Don't misunderstand, we're very happy here. And it's great preparation for the day he moves out into his own little apartment. (And probably even more similar to the current situation because I'm afraid I'm going to be one of those mothers who wraps her arms around the boy's knees and cries, "Why are you leaving me?") Either that or he'll be one of those guys who lives with his mother until he's 40 and neighborhood mothers warn their children not to talk to him.) I'm very good to him and particularly to his future wife this way. I set the bar really low with cooking and stuff, so she'll never have to be intimidated by me. So Son's Future Wife? You. Are. WELCOME.<br />
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I've been on my own for two years now. I'm starting to get the hang of being an adult. I guess it had to happen some day. It's quite impressive, the progress I've made. I've even figured out how to use a hammer and kill spiders. And it's surprising how often those activities happen simultaneously.<br />
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I know now that an allen wrench isn't a wrench we once borrowed from Allen and forgot to return. I've even used one to help Mom assemble a table. (It was a proud, proud moment for us, when we got that thing put together.) Don't ask how I've made it this far in life without knowing the basics. I don't really know, but apparently it was pretty easy. I didn't even notice that I was a basically helpless human being if left to my own devices. Well, not anymore, baby! I'm not there yet, but I'm getting there. I hope.<br />
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Anyway.<br />
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Life has been interesting. And funny. And sad. And depressing. And hopeful. Pick an adjective; it probably applies here.<br />
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Most of it, I can't write about on the blog. Although, those who know the story encourage me to write a book. This includes my therapist. Because you just can't make this stuff up. And when your therapist's jaw hits the floor when she hears what's happened to you, you can be pretty sure this kind of thing doesn't happen to this degree all that often. So I've been working on that, which is why the blog's been so sadly neglected.<br />
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Plus I've had to figure out a different way to type. Why? Well, if you know me at all, you'll realize I've probably injured myself again. And by golly, you'll be right! The doctor's report says, "Accidentally stabbed herself in the hand with a steak knife." Now doesn't<i> that</i> sound interesting. And typical. For me, I mean. And I'm <i>so</i> glad he included the word "accidentally" because I'm really not the type to go around stabbing myself deliberately. Also, just one correction, it was a carving knife. I don't think I'll be volunteering to carve next time we have turkey. (Hello? This is why we have<i> ham</i> for Easter. Pre-sliced. It is also why we don't allow me to handle sharp objects.) <br />
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Apparently, there is a point at which one should <i>stop</i> the cutting of the turkey, and personally, I'd appreciate it if the turkey came pre-marked with little dotted lines so I'll know exactly where to cut. And where not to. <br />
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The cut itself? Tiny. Very tiny. As in, if anyone saw it, I'd be called out immediately on what a wimp I am. And if I did get called out? Then I'd have to come back with my doctor's report showing that, though the cut appears tiny on the outside, on the inside there's a fair bit of damage. I cut the digital nerve, and probably a tendon and this is why I'm being such a drama queen over this miniscule little cut. And also because I'm just kind of a drama queen anyway. Though, it should be noted, I did NOT cry. See? Progress. It would also explain why I can no longer feel or move very well the 2nd and 3rd fingers of my right hand, so if I should pass you and that middle finger seems to be saluting you, I promise, it's probably not. Unless you cut me off in traffic, and even then still probably not but I may be thinking bad words, just so you know.<br />
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The other problem they found is that the ulnar nerve is having problems and surgery is going to be required for that as well. This takes out the 4th and 5th fingers, which have kind of been slacking off for awhile now, so I wasn't too worried about that until the specialist said, "irreversible damage if you wait much longer." (By chance are doctors like mechanics who tell you the car will explode unless you have some exorbitantly expensive and totally unnecessary repair work done?) So I'm now down to a thumb on the right hand. But this still puts me<i> way </i>ahead of creatures like dogs and rabbits and, um, fish. You know. Things without opposable thumbs. Plus I have a whole other hand that works, and YAY, I just happen to be left-handed. So see? I am a <i>lucky, lucky,</i> if extremely, wimpy girl.<br />
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Plus, this gives me, in a very small way, the chance to experience the world of someone I love who only has the use of one hand. He can do anything. Including teaching me how to type with one hand. Bonus! New skill!<br />
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So, yeah. Life's been a funny, awful, ironic, horrible, fantastic, thing for awhile now, but I'm better than fine and I seem to have more spare time to write now. So perhaps the Internet Social Workers won't have to take my blog away after all.<br />
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<br />staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-17273563732204284252011-07-05T18:15:00.000-07:002011-07-05T19:50:30.726-07:00It's In The BagI have a confession to make. Even worse than my revelation that I could not make Jell-O if my life depended on it. And in Utah, that's pretty serious stuff. (The confession is serious, I mean. Although we're pretty serious about the Jell-O thing too.)<br /><br />I just spent the past hour shopping for a purse. And now that thud heard round the world is everyone who knows me passing out from the shock. Because here it is, the big confession: I. Detest. Purses. I may have to turn in my functioning female card. (I do buy a lot of shoes, though, so that should make up for some of my failure. Ok, I don't actually WEAR the shoes, but I buy them so I'm counting it.)<br /><br />In my defense, I wasn't shopping for myself. Mom spotted one my cousin had the other day. It was big, baggy, grey with a rose-like ruffle on the front. Cute, if you're into that kind of thing. And I guess Mom is into that kind of thing because she decided right then and there that if she did not have one for herself she would surely die. And having Mom die right now would really be a problem for me personally, so tonight I headed over to the mall. I furtively looked around. Nothing. Finally I asked for help. I SHOULD have asked for help for Mom because nobody needs this many purses. There should be medication for people who need this many purses.<br /><br />But I love Mom and we can't have her dying just because some purse caught her fancy. So the clerk and I looked. We searched. The nice girl finally offered to call each and every store and wouldn't you know each and every one was sold out? And I really don't get why this particular one was gone, because there were plenty of other equally huge, flowered bags about, but whatever. And despite the plethora of purses available, no way am I making that call on my own. A purse is purse-onal. (sorry, I'm very tired here. Forgive me my bad puns.) No, I decided she must go herself and find that one magical bag that claims her as its own. Then she'll take it home and stuff it with candy, gum, Kleenex which will soon smell like gum, and heaven only knows what else, because I'm for sure not looking in there. Pretty sure she won't have money in there though. That is just not the way the purse works. At least not any of mine.<br /><br />So tonight I pondered where and how I developed this distaste for handbags. I suspect it had to do with a particular small beaded reticule I had when I was four. I loved it. I carried that thing everywhere. Slept with it, even. And one Sunday, I realized it was the perfect size to carry not just all MY pennies but all of Tyler's too. Oh, it was a tight fit, but I made it work. True, a couple of little purple beads popped off, but I figured it was collateral damage. Well worth the knowledge that I was carrying a veritable FORTUNE in pennies around with me. And I very happily played with my little purse all through the meeting, until karma showed up and pointed out that purloined pennies have no place in a house of worship. And sometimes karma has really bad timing.<br /><br />It was at a point during the service where I was meant to be reverently reflecting on holy matters, which apparently did not include "What will happen if I close the clasp then squeeze the bag really hard?" Because that's what I was thinking and that's what I did. Do you have any idea how much noise a few dollars worth of clattering copper makes? On a wooden pew? In a chapel with fantastic acoustics? Well, it's A LOT. I froze. I couldn't even look at my mom. I didn't need to, I knew we'd be nose-to-nose momentarily and so I scooted closer to Dad and looked up at him entreatingly. Being taken out by Mom was most unpleasant. She could time exactly how long I could tolerate having her hand over my mouth muting my wailing before I had to breathe or lose consciousness. Then she'd raise her hand long enough for a quick gulp of air and then the hand came back down. And this lasted for ages and ages because, as we've discovered through similar instances, I don't learn.<br /><br />Being taken out with Dad? Well, it wasn't Disneyland but it was pretty close. We got to play with the water fountain, and I got to clomp across the stage in my patent leather shoes, pretending I was a tap dancer. Then we'd compose ourselves, arrange our faces in penitent reverence and return to the chapel.<br /><br />But no, this time I was out of luck. And pennies. Because not only had I <em>created a disturbance</em> I had <em>stolen. </em>Funny the things one remembers. I was certain creating the disturbance had been the more evil of my crimes. It took a minute before I realized that the stealing wasn't my best idea either. And as penance, I had to give Tyler ALL the pennies and worst of all, I lost my purse. It went into <em>The Permanent Box.</em><br /><em>The Permanent Box</em> was the final destination of toys that weren't put away, or used as a weapon of war against a sibling, which meant most of mine lived there. Away these things went never to be seen again. I once had a nightmare that I fell into <em>The Permanent Box</em> and had to live there forever and ever. But it was ok, because all my stuff was in there already.<br /><br />Since the loss of my little purse, I've never been able to love another one. I'm a one purse girl, I'm afraid. And it wasn't until I was about 8 and my cousin pointed out that carrying money in my sock wasn't particularly cool (or clean, for that matter) that I started grudgingly considering purses.<br /><br />I started out small. A wallet. A wallet was ok. I could stuff pictures of the current crush in there, phone numbers, movie ticket stubs and sometimes, not very often but sometimes I even put money in there.<br /><br />Eventually I graduated to something a little larger. After all, I had to accommodate car keys. And a driver's license. And lip gloss. And a comb. And, on rare occasions, money.<br /><br />By the time I hit college I had finally succumbed to bag large enough to contain all my books, notebooks, pencils, pictures of the current crush, and my favorite Wint O' Green Lifesavors. (with which I have struggled with a life long addiction.) Never money though. Because this was college. Money was something spoken of in hushed tones but rarely seen.<br /><br />Later on, when I did have money, it seemed ridiculous to pay money for something to carry money in, because then I would no longer have money because I used it to buy the purse, so no need to have the purse right? (Sorry, this is how logic works in my head. Be glad YOU don't have to live in here.)<br /><br />Mom finally decided that, since I was getting married and all I should probably grow up and have a real, grown-up sized purse and she bought me one. We argued for a time about the size. See, I figured out a looooong time ago that there's a good reason men don't carry purses. Know why? Because if they don't have a purse, they can turn their woman into a personal pack mule. Seriously, how many of us have heard, "Honey, would you mind putting this in your purse?" Yeah, I fell for it too, for awhile, but it was kind of a game for me. Because any man who has not been raised by wolves knows, the purse is sacred. I've never in my life witnessed a male looking into a purse. Unless it was a movie and the guy was about to die anyway. So any time That Man wanted to put any of his stuff in my purse, it became MINE. I win!<br /><br />The purse is sacrosanct. You just DON'T open another woman's purse. I'm not sure why exactly, but I have a theory. It's not like I have anything in there like a pipe bomb, or a sandwich with the image of Elvis burned into it. There's nothing to hide. Nothing I wouldn't willingly display if someone were really that interested. No, it's the PRINCIPLE. I don't know about you, but at my house no area of the building is child/man proof. Nothing is just mine that no one else can touch. I have no secrets. I have stashes of chocolate and stuff, sure, but they're not exactly secret. Apparently. (Looking at you here, Son.)<br /><br />The purse is the last and only item left to a wife/mom that is totally off-limits to the rest of the family. I seriously grew up believing Dad would get grounded if he opened Mom's purse. If ever he needed something she had in there, he would dutifully fetch the purse, avert his eyes respectfully, and then back away slowly after the transaction was finished.<br /><br />I myself used to retrieve the purse and bring it, like frankincense and myrrh to my mother and wait at a respectful distance while she pulled from it Kleenex that smelled like Spearmint gum. (I confess, I reached adulthood before I realized Kleenex doesn't actually come from the factory smelling that way.)<br /><br />So, given that the purse is the last sacred untouchable item in creation for me, why would I so willingly give it up? Is it really that I hate being a pack mule that much? Is it really because no matter how organized I start out, I invariably let it fall and be disemboweled on the car floor? Is it because it's something I have to carry, which means at some point I'll set it down, which means I'll then spend hours trying to remember where I left it? That may be part of it.<br /><br />But I think it may mostly have been the dance of joy I did the first time I was able to leave the house without a diaperbag containing everything an infant might need to cross the country on his own. It was a joyous day for me when I realized I no longer had Happy Meal Toys, crayons, Baby Tylenol and Hotwheel's cars in my bag and I could put things in there that I actually wanted. The possibilities were endless. A phone! A camera! Sunglasses! Lipgloss and a brush! Even, very daringly, a mirror! A driver's license, Lifesavors and the hand sanitizer I carry everywhere. (Still no money though.)<br /><br />But my needs are fairly minimal, and so since that time I've returned to small purses. Which for reasons I fail to grasp, bothers Mom. She says they look like little kid purses. And there you go. I've come full circle. I have at last avenged my little beaded bag which perished in <em>The Permanent Box.</em>staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-64582024280738196162011-04-18T13:40:00.000-07:002011-04-18T16:00:47.175-07:00I Can Still Hear the BellsNote: I can't seem to get the paragraphs to stay in place. Weird. But let's cut me some slack. I am EXHAUSTED. Last week I had the marvelous opportunity to see two performances of "Hairspray" at a local theater. It's the Hale Center Theater in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Orem</span>, and performances are in the round. Son was astounded that they were able to perform so much so well in such a small space. We are now attempting to launch a performance of Phantom of the Opera in our living room, just to see if it can be done. I'm a bit <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">concerned</span> about the chandelier crash, but I digress. I had been dying to see the show, because my cousin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Xandra</span> was playing the role of Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Turnblad</span> and knowing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Xandra</span>, I knew it would be incredible. Plus, it's a show I really enjoy. I get the song "I Can Hear the Bells" stuck in my head for days on end. And I don't seem to mind. To clear up a tiny bit of confusion, Xandra is actually my first cousin once removed. Her mother Laurie is my first cousin. For some reason, this confuses several people when I refer to Xandra as my cousin, but I figure, hey, close enough. Alas the show was sold out almost immediately. But, I had some amazing luck. First, my sister-in-law had two tickets she was unable to use and I was the fortunate recipient. It was a night <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Xandra</span> wasn't on, but her husband Ben was and the show itself was so enjoyable. Plus, it was such a thrill to just get away from the blah of current life and lose myself in a play. And then? THEN? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Xandra's</span> mom and dad worked it out so I got tickets to see another performance, with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Xandra</span>. Bless you, bless you Laurie and Eric! I enjoyed that so much. I'll love you forever. Not just for the tickets, but it doesn't hurt. Although I thought all the performers were fantastic and I enjoyed every second of the show, I must say there were some actors in particular that have remained with me, singing and dancing in my head ever since I left the theater. First is my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Xandra</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Ok</span>, technically she's not just "my" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Xandra</span>, but I would certainly lay sole claim if I could. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Xandra</span> (short for Alexandra) is tiny. As in, I would love to put her in my pocket and have her sing to me all the time. And it could be done because she would totally fit. (I have no clue how she performed those dances with that fat suit on, but she apparently can do anything.) Her person is so tiny that the only things that it can possibly contain are an astounding joy for life, a goofiness that defies all reason, an enormous heart, several inspiring talents and that voice. That voice has brought me to tears on many occasions. She has performed for years, here, California, New York...this is not just your garden variety talent we're talking about here. The first time I heard her sing, it literally knocked me off my feet. And all I could think was MORE! I want MORE!!! It's impossible for me to be near her and not be affected by her infectious humor, joy and appreciation for life. In short, (no pun intended, dear) I absolutley love this cousin of mine. She's always been quite special to me. Due to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">certain</span> circumstances when she was a couple of months old, I had the chance to just hold her for a couple of days. Even then, she was unusual. Her eyes would follow something around the room, tracking something I couldn't see, though I certainly have my opinions on just whom she was watching. My <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Xandra</span>, my little cousin. How I love her. She played Tracy in Hairspray. She WAS Tracy. That <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">joie</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">vivre</span>, her utter lack of prejudice or malice, and all that enthusiasm and talent...well, that's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Xandra</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Xandra's</span> husband was also in the performance. I haven't had the chance to meet him as often as I'd like. In fact, I wasn't certain he'd even know who I was, but he either recognized me as family or he's an even better actor than I thought. He was so kind and sweet when we spoke after the play. I suspect he went home and asked Xandra to identify me. Anyway, I was utterly stunned to see him in action. That boy can DANCE. Son asked me to point out which one was Ben. Well that was easy enough. Ben was the only only looking off stage while "Tracy" was kissing "Link." Ben adores <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Xandra</span> as much as she does him and they are delightful to see both on and off stage. My other favorite performers were people I've never met, but they were incredible. "Penny" had me in stitches, and Edna...oh Edna. For reasons I don't fully understand the part of Edna, Tracy's mother, is played by a man. I don't really care why. He was hilarious. I laughed so hard I think I may have injured myself. Adam, I will be a fan forever. And, the guys who played Seaweed? Good heavens. What talent! I've never seen people dance so well. Color me impressed. I really had only one complaint about the play. It ended. But on the bright side, I'm hoping I can get a private performance of "I Can Hear the Bells" out of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Xandra</span> later.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-70949353285374319662011-01-15T15:06:00.000-08:002011-01-15T16:45:54.884-08:00Cell Phone RantCan we talk about cell phones? I'm not sure when exactly the law was passed stating that I have to have a cell phone on my person at all times, answer it each and every time it rings, no matter how inconvenient or impossible that may be, and answer all my messages the second that icon pops up. (Assuming I know what the icon even means.) As my mom says, "I have a phone for <em>my </em>convenience, not so I can be on-call at all times." I have friends. I have a phone. I like to talk to my friends, on my phone. If you have my number, chances are good that I like talking to you. (Visa, obviously I don't mean <em>you</em>. I'm sure you get that a lot. Sorry.) But I think things would be a lot easier for all of us if we establish a few rules.<br /><br />1. I own a phone. You have possession of my phone number. Knowledge of my number does not entitle the holder to claim sole possession of my time/schedule/priorities/ability to remember to charge my phone. Sometimes I just can't talk at that very second, but I will be delighted to talk to you another time. You know, unless you're Visa. And sometimes I just have no idea where my phone <em>is. </em><br /><br />2. If I don't answer the phone, please don't be alarmed. Or offended. Especially not offended. I really can't handle one more "discussion" about how I'm deliberately not answering your calls. First of all, if you know me at all, you know I tend to lose things. My phone is no exception. And secondly, if you don't know me at all, why are you even calling me? And another thing: calling me again 30 seconds after the first attempt and still not getting an answer really isn't giving me a sporting chance. Aside from which, you're arguing with me NOW. That's kind of an indication that I DID answer your call. Eventually. See? Not avoiding you!<br /><br />3. Voice mail. My message clearly states that it's unlikely that I'll even remember how to check my messages. That is assuming I can find my phone. If you choose to proceed at that point, don't be surprised when I don't remember how to check my messages or can't find my phone. In fact, just go ahead and assume that's what happened when you don't hear from me.<br /><br />4. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Texting</span>. I don't know if there's something wrong with my thumbs. I think maybe they didn't evolve adequately for life in this century. I don't know. But I don't seem to be able to text very quickly. And in fact, I am just barely getting past my resistance to the entire concept. (I still think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">texting</span> is like reverting to the telegraph.) For one thing, when you speak to me, I have no idea that you can't spell and I don't get distracted by it. Chances are I'm going to pay more attention to what you're actually saying if you just TALK to me. You know, with your voice? Otherwise I'm going to be busy thinking, "Why do so many people think "definitely" is spelled with an "a"? Plus when <em>I </em>spell things wrong, as I sometimes do, or finally break down and force myself to abbreviate and write "u" instead of "you", I feel on some level I'm disappointing my English teachers. And I've got enough guilt already, thanks. So please be patient. I'm trying!<br /><br />5. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Texting</span> again. As mentioned, I'm not very quick with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">texting</span> thing. If you send me a text and then send me ANOTHER text while I'm still trying to answer the first one, and then I either have to forget finishing this answer and skip to the next one, or quickly finish and send it, knowing full well you've moved on to another thought...try not to be surprised or confused when I respond to your text "Where should we meet for dinner?" with, "Because the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">vacuum</span> is on fire and also I lost the chicken. Again." Actually, from me that answer shouldn't surprise you under any circumstances, but <em>especially </em>if you get it via text.<br /><br />6. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Texting</span> yet again. I know people like the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">texting</span> option because it allows them to send a message somewhat privately, thus sparing unfortunate bystanders the graphic details of their conversations. A quick text may be necessary now and then, to the kids or the spouse, or whomever. But I've been with people who are so absorbed in their texting it's like spending time with someone who's only half there. If that. If you're with me and you're <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">texting</span> someone else throughout dinner, through the movie, etc. the message I'm getting is, "I'd rather talk to this other person right now, so you just go ahead and sit on the back burner until I have time to talk to you." Seriously? I don't know anyone who enjoys being "multi-tasked". If you'd rather be talking to someone else, by all means, you go right ahead. Just don't be outraged when you come up for air and realize I'm no longer with you. Come find me when you're able to put the phone down. You know, the way I do for you.<br /><br /><br /><br />7. Yes, actually, I do know my mailbox is full. Maybe I just don't know how to empty it. Or maybe I <em>like</em> keeping it full, just so I don't have to deal with new irate messages about how I never check my voicemail. And? Leaving messages on my voicemail complaining about how I never check my voicemail? How effective do you think that's going to be, really?<br /><br />If you have any questions about these rules, feel free to call me.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-4059858381217864942011-01-12T12:52:00.000-08:002011-01-12T13:12:17.600-08:00I May Have Watched Too Much TVThis week, I had an appointment to meet another doctor in my continuing quest for answers to questions like: This…thing on my esophagus and stuff in my lungs, any thoughts? Can you make it go away? Also, one day when I’m strolling around the neighborhood, is there a chance an alien is going to rip through my chest and scare the neighbors? (Ok, actually that would be kind of awesome. And potentially messy. And painful, probably. Never mind.) <br /><br />While I was hiking the stairs of the doctor’s office (Unofficial Motto: “If you can survive the wait for the elevator then we’ll see you because clearly you are tenacious beyond words and we can use people like you in the billing department”) I kept thinking about the name written on my little appointment card: Dr. Douglas Ross. For real. I’m just going to admit, I was super excited to meet this man. Dr. Ross! Flawed but extremely appealing doctor on “ER” reruns by day, GEORGE CLOONEY by night! <br /><br />After working my way through the obligatory new patient stuff, I wondered if I’d be able to calm down in time to give the nurse accurate information when he took my blood pressure. Then I realized how silly I was being. I’m sure they adjust for that when someone is meeting Dr. Clooney, um...I mean Dr. Ross, for the first time. <br /><br />At last, the door opened and in walked Dr. Ross. First impression: I thought he’d be taller. And that he’d look more like George Clooney. All through question-and-answer time, I kept thinking: Wow. I thought the camera adds ten pounds, but obviously the magic of television has more tricks than I ever suspected.<br /><br />Oh, I’m not saying this doctor was some Quasimodo-like gnome. In fact, he was so normal looking, I probably couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup an hour later. (I’m not particularly good at remembering a face.) <br /><br />Finally, he gave me his diagnosis, reminding me that I was there for more than the possible meeting of a celebrity. “I’ve reviewed the reports and honestly I really don’t know what this thing is. I’d like you to see a thoracic surgeon and get his opinion about removing it.”<br /><br />I’ll bet the real (ok, the fictional character) Dr. Ross could figure it out. I’ll bet he could do it in under an hour, too, especially if we cut out the commercials. In fact, he might even bring in Dr. Gregory House to consult and between the two of them they could come up with an answer in thirty sarcastic-quip-filled minutes. But I’m sure this Dr. Ross did his best. As is the case with most professions, it’s probably a lot easier if you have good writers.<br /><br />I asked him for reassurance. “This guy isn’t going to meet me at the door with a scalpel, right? Because I really, REALLY don’t want any cutting to happen until we’ve exhausted all other options.” He assured me that I’d be treated as conservatively as possible and then led me to the front desk to schedule an appointment. <br /><br />My mother is convinced my brain shrinks every time general anesthesia is administered and if I go under one more time my brain will be just the right size to roll right on out of my ear. I’m not going to lie to you; I think she may be right. Because when I walk into the doctor’s office later this week? I’m kind of hoping I’ll be greeted by Noah Wyle.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-68798724391344223182010-12-31T08:42:00.000-08:002010-12-31T08:45:04.931-08:00SacrilegeIt started simply enough, as these matters often do. Mom and I were discussing the latest of a series of disasters in my life.<br /><br />“It’ll be okay, Honey. Sometimes blessings come in disguise.”<br />“Sometimes? SOMETIMES? How about ALL. THE. TIME, Mom?” <br />“What?”<br />“Every gift God sends me comes in the most atrocious gift wrap imaginable. He’s seriously got the worst gift-wrap department in the history of…of gift-wrap.”<br />“Stacey!”<br />“IT’S TRUE! You know it’s true. Look, everything has an opposite, right? Isn’t that what you’ve taught me?”<br />“Um…”<br />“Think about it. Satan sends things all wrapped up in pretty packages with shiny bows and you open them and there is NEVER anything good in there. NEVER. Whereas God? He sends us the most fantastic things but most of the time we don’t even realize it because the packaging is AWFUL.”<br />“STACEY LEE!”<br />“Am I not right about this?”<br />“Well…yes, but I just don’t think we should SAY things like that. It sounds sacrilegious."<br />“Oh, like God doesn’t KNOW me? Trust me, He knows me. He knows what I mean. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, I’m just saying. Great gifts, horrid gift wrap.”<br />“Well yes, God knows your heart and knows you don’t mean anything by it but…”<br />“But? Isn’t His opinion the one that matters?”<br />“We just need to be careful about how we say things.”<br /><br />I’ll try to remember that in the next life, where I will no doubt be writing to her from Hell.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-71260689699289512132010-12-30T10:05:00.000-08:002010-12-30T10:12:06.501-08:00TruthOne of the biggest challenges I’ve run into with raising Son has been getting him to appreciate the value of honesty; that integrity matters and really, life is so much simpler and easier if one just tells the truth. <br /><br />So one day my brother and I were commiserating about the challenges of raising our respective stubborn little people. <br /><br />“I don’t get it,” I complained. “It doesn’t matter how I approach it, or what I do, he just doesn’t seem to care. And the sad thing is? He‘s an only child. He‘s the ONLY ONE WHO COULD HAVE DONE IT! I am running out of ideas, here.”<br /><br />“Oh really? Don’t you remember what Dad used to do to try to get the truth out of YOU?”<br /><br />It was about then that I realized it was vitally important to change the subject. You see, Dad had some rather, oh let’s call them “creative” methods of getting the truth from us, and I never came out of those particular power struggles looking good. And to make me squirm even more, I know quite well that I was every bit as stubborn as my own child is. A trait which no doubt contributed to the desperation that drove Dad to such creativity. Sure as an adult I understand the necessity of personal integrity, but as a child…it was all about the power control. But my brother wasn’t about to let the subject drop.<br /><br />“Remember the ‘Flame of Truth’?” Boy, do I ever. According to Dad, if he simply held a flame beneath our palms and asked us a question, we wouldn’t be burned as long as we told the truth. It didn’t teach me much about honesty, but I do admit that I’m very afraid of fire. I have no idea where he came up with this stuff. And I probably should point out that Dad never reached the point where he actually started any fires. Or maybe he did but Mom wouldn’t let him. One of those things. At any rate, trying to teach me honesty by lying to me didn’t seem to have the desired effect.<br /><br />“Oh!” my brother went on, warming to the topic, “and weren’t you the one who lied while swearing on a bible?”<br />“Hey, I was SEVEN.”<br />“Whatever. You LIED under OATH! About eating TWINKIES!! You sold your immortal soul for a TWINKIE!”<br />“You know, technically I was holding my hand so it hovered just barely above the bible. I wasn’t actually touching it.”<br />“Wow. That’s just…sad.”<br />“It was NECESSARY. After the whole rat poison incident, perjury was the least of my concerns.”<br />My brother paused, thinking. “Okay, remind me about the rat poison, because I don’t remember that one.”<br />“Sure you do. Someone had liberated Dad’s stash of cashews and when he went to get them and found the empty can he informed us that he’d covered the nuts in rat poison, remember?”<br />“He threatened us with rat poison?”<br />“YES! He said that if one of us had eaten the cashews we needed to inform him immediately because otherwise we would die a slow and agonizing death. How do you not remember this?”<br />He was still drawing a blank.<br /><br />“Ok, Dad gathered us around and said that the guilty party had about 5 minutes to come forward if we were going to get to the hospital in time to get the antidote.”<br />“So who came forward?”<br />I shrugged. “Well that’s just it. No one did. Finally he just gave up and sent us all to bed.” <br />“And?”<br />“Yeah, pretty much the longest night of my life. Just lying in bed…waiting to die.”<br />“I knew it!”<br />“Yes, from that point on I figured I was pretty much invincible.”<br />“That explains a lot.”<br />“It does, doesn’t it?”<br /><br />We passed a moment in silent reflection. Finally I asked, “So, do you think it’s genetic?”<br />“What? The lying or the Gestapo inquisition tactics?”<br />“Hopefully just the lying. I haven’t been reduced to threatening my child with the Indian Rope Burn test. Yet.”<br />“Dad did that?”<br />“Dude, where WERE you? It’s like you were raised in a completely different house!”<br />“Maybe they just did it to you because you were the only one who lied?“<br />“No, I was just the only one who got caught.”<br />“Nope, I’m pretty sure you were the only one who lied.”<br /><br />Maybe. But honestly? I think he’s lying.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-67344237430993580712010-05-20T22:55:00.000-07:002010-05-21T02:42:56.728-07:00All Thumbs and Not a Single Green One Amongst ThemFor Mother's Day, Son presented me with a lovely plant. It's not one I'm familiar with. Being the awesome botanist that I am, I tend to call it "The pretty orange plant." Yes, I know. My knowledge is dazzling. <br /><br />Anyway. Since it was a gift from my son, I feel some obligation to make an effort to keep this particular plant alive. No easy task, my friends. You see, I have a certain...effect on living things. Plants in particular. No matter what I do, they just don't seem to thrive. Usually they see me coming and commit suicide rather than allow me to handle them. I'm not making this up. I once had a beautiful orchid that msyteriously fell from the table onto the floor, smashing its pot. I suppose it could be ghosts doing this, but the suicide theory is equally probable in my opinion. <br /><br />The execption to this law where I can't keep anyhing alive for long, would be Son. No one is certain why he's made it this long under my care. He keeps hearing he grows like a weed. That makes a little more sense. I am AWESOME at growing weeds. <br /><br />On Mother's Day, I was asked by my brother-in-law if I had gone to church and dutifully collected my geranium. (To honor mothers here, traditionally some token of appreication, generally a small potted plant, is given to each mother in the congregation.) I had, for various reasons, elected not to attend services that day. And so no. No I did not get a geranium. And seriously? I committed an act of agricultural humanity that day. I saved A LIFE, people. I'm a hero, really. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I feel a strong desire to care for and love Son's gift to me. Rather than the ubiquitous cut roses or orchids, he chose something so unique, unusual and beautiful. It's one I've never seen before, or anything quite like it. <br /><br />And so I turned to the internet, as I am wont to do in cases like this. <br /><br />"Oh no," I muttered as I read. Hubs wandered through and asked, "Problem?" <br /><br />"Well...apparently I'm supposed to take a sharp knife (already a red flag. Sharp knives and I have never had the most harmonious of relationships.) and then cut the mother plant away from the others. (Is it just me or does this sound like an odd thing to do on Mother's Day? Separating the babies from the mothers seems...cold somehow. But what do I know? Maybe they're like guppies and eat their young if not separated quickly.) <br /><br />"Ok, so after I violently separate this little family, I'm supposed to repot each plant individually." <br /><br />"So?" <br /><br />"No, in SPECIAL dirt. Like... Plant... Diva dirt." <br /><br />"They make dirt for plant divas?" <br /><br />"Yes. Yes they do. And I'm going to need some." <br /><br />"Ok, so then what, that's it?" <br /><br />"Oh you'd like to think so, my little friend, but no. Next we have to plant them over beds of gravel." <br /><br />"Sounds comfy," he replied. I glared at him for a moment because CLEARLY he has NO sense of urgency. Or botanical rescue missions. <br /><br />"No, beds of gravel, so the roots don't have to sit in water." <br /><br />"Sounds complicated," he observed. I could only nod my head in bleak despair. <br /><br />"So...what you're trying to say here is it's going to die, isn't it?" He asked. <br /><br />"I'm not going to lie to you, Hubs. It's not looking good. Not good at all." <br /><br />So really my predicament comes to this: <br /><br />Do I: <br /><br />A. Stock up on these plants so when one dies I can replace it quickly and pray he doesn't notice. It didn't work so well with the goldfish but you never know. <br /><br />B. Try my best to make it work and then tell him the plant went to live on a farm where there are lots of puppies and bunnies to chase...though that worked better with the dog, come to think of it. <br /><br />C. Buy silk flowers and plant them outside. And then repent for laughing about our neighbor who planted silk flowers in her yard for years. True story.) <br /><br />D. Realize that this is for my boy. And when it comes to that boy, I will learn whatever I have to learn. For him, I will even touch dirt. (But just diva dirt.) <br /><br />Keep your fingers crossed for me. Who knows? Maybe soon I'll have a whole garden full of Orange Star plants in their diva soil, and I'll tend them and baby them and love them...right up until I back over them with the car. <br /><br />And yes. Oh yes. It'll happen.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-31890418402742285982010-05-09T11:59:00.000-07:002010-05-09T16:20:47.789-07:00MomThere are so many reasons to love my mother.<br /><br />I love the way she laughs at something inappropriate then claps both hands over her mouth in horror upon realizing that she probably shouldn't laugh about it.<br /><br />I love the way she refers to Dad as "Joe-Your-Father" when she tells stories as if I would be utterly confused if she didn't clarify who "Joe" might be.<br /><br />I love the way she always walks me to my car after I visit her and then stands in the driveway blowing kisses and waving as I drive away. Sometimes there's even a little dance that goes with it.<br /><br /><br />I love that she's always a little startled to realize her children in any way take after Joe-Our-Father. I really love that she always attributes any weird quirks we may have to Joe-Our-Father's side of the family.<br /><br />I love that she still tries to buy my love even though she's always had it.<br /><br />I love her because when the unthinkable happens, she still has a shoulder to cry on, a knee to rest my head on and an irreverent comment to make me laugh in spite of it all.<br /><br />I love that she talks about dieting. While eating cake. Because Thursday is a cake kind of day and you can't diet on a cake day.<br /><br />I love that she talks in her sleep. I love even more that she sometimes screams and then gets mad at us for hearing her. <br /><br />I love that, like her mother before her, she has a very proper and sophisticated side that somehow covers one of the greatest comedic goofy sides I've ever known.<br /><br />I love that on her Facebook page she's never bothered to correct the alterations I made to her date of birth or her children's names.<br /><br />I love that for over a year, she didn't notice that the e-mail signature I set up for her included "By the way, Stacey has always been my favorite child."<br /><br />I love her because she's Mom.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-50137728083362109242010-05-08T21:34:00.000-07:002010-05-08T21:47:46.558-07:00I May Be Just A Little Too ImpressionableHubs: Uh...Honey?<br /><br />Me: What?<br /><br />Hubs: Well, it's just that this is the third time you've threatened to stab me today. It's starting to hurt my feelings.<br /><br />Me: Oh. Well I'm very sorry for hurting your feelings.<br /><br />Hubs: Well, that's ok, but where are you getting all this stabbing stuff? <br /><br />Me: Oh, that. Well I've been reading about The Wars of the Roses. You know. Yorks. Lancaster. They were kind of a stabby lot back then. <br /><br />Hubs: Well could you maybe read something less stabby? Because you're kinda freaking me out.<br /><br />Me: I'm sorry. How's this: If you don't stop doing that I'm going to have you drawn and quartered. Is that better? It doesn't quite roll off the tongue the way "stab" does, but I'm willing to work with you on this one.<br /><br />Hubs just walked out of the room. Probably because he hates history.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-2940430684815964552010-01-09T15:49:00.000-08:002010-01-11T12:50:44.726-08:00A Slight Flaw in His LogicNote: I have been informed by brother that I meant to say iPod Touch. Not iTouch. I stand corrected.<br /><br />For various reasons, Hubs and I have set family rules regarding Son's computer use. For example, any computer he has access to is to be kept in common areas of the house, no computer in his room, passwords have been set so he can't go on-line unless either Hubs or I log him on and he isn't to use the computer unless there's an adult present. Son has made it known that these rules are outrageously harsh and extreme. Our response: "Tough."<br /><br />We have relaxed some of the rules a bit over time as he has demonstrated the ability to stay out of trouble. For Christmas, Son received an iTouch. This is a HUGE show of trust since with the iTouch he can pretty much by-pass most of the rules. But, as I said, he has earned our trust. New rules have been put in place, of course. And he's so determined to show us he'll comply he's even set some himself.<br /><br />"Ok, Mom? I want you to know, I appreciate the trust you're showing by giving me this, and to prove it I've put a password on my iTouch."<br /><br />"Um...what?"<br /><br />"I put a password on my iTouch. So I can't get on-line unless you or dad enter the password."<br /><br />"YOU password protected your iTouch with a password that only YOU know?"<br /><br />"Yep!" He patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. "See? I'm totally obeying the rules."<br /><br />"Right. So you set a password and you're keeping it a secret from yourself so you aren't tempted to get on-line?"<br /><br />"Well..."<br /><br />"Are you planning to share the password with us?"<br /><br />"Um..."<br /><br />I'm not sure whether to be insulted or concerned that he thinks I won't see the flaw in his reasoning. Maybe both?staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-36856166536789712752010-01-09T15:20:00.000-08:002010-01-09T15:49:09.523-08:00If Only He Could Remember These Conversations The Next DayA few nights ago, I was in bed trying to defy the powers of the insomnia gods and actually go to sleep when Hubs came in. He climbed into bed and within minutes was snoring. This ability he has to fall asleep like that confounds me. I'm desperate to find out how he does it.<br /><br />Once the snoring had escalated to "affect the rotation of the earth" levels, I gave up and since my laptop is kept right next to my bed, I pulled it over and started reading some of my favorite blogs. A friend noticed I was on-line and we proceeded to chat. At last, I started feeling sleepy and so I put the computer back and tapped Hubs gently on the shoulder.<br /><br />"Hey," I whispered. "Would you mind turning onto your side?"<br /><br />"Why?" he mumbled. You're the one that's snoring. I'm not even asleep."<br /><br />"Well if you're making that kind of noise while you're awake you may want to have it checked out because that's not normal."<br /><br />"What are you talking about? I'm just laying here trying to sleep. Which is hard to do with you snoring and clickety-clacking on your computer."<br /><br />"What?? That doesn't even make sense. Ok, look, I'll admit to being on the computer. I'll even show you time-stamped posts which, due to their coherency and mostly correct spelling point to the fact that I was, in fact, awake when I made them."<br /><br />"I was awake. I know I was because I could HEAR THE SNORING."<br /><br />"It. Was. YOUR. SNORING."<br /><br />"Oh. Ok. So why were YOU snoring then?"<br /><br />"I WASN'T! I WAS ON THE COMPUTER!"<br /><br />"Well if I turn on my side, I have to take out my headphones. Are you okay with that?"<br /><br />"Why would I care one way or the other?"<br /><br />"Well if you start to snore it'll wake me up. If I have my headphones in I can't hear anything."<br /><br />"You can't hear anything? Like snoring? Or someone typing?"<br /><br />"Nope."<br /><br />"I give up."<br /><br />This. THIS is why I often need naps. Also, I'm stealing his headphones.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-69377845697471804832009-12-07T19:35:00.000-08:002009-12-07T19:48:50.954-08:00A Christmas Re-RunThis is one of my first blog posts. Yes, a re-run! How very surprising! This was requested by a reader and, well, 'tis the season. (Merry Christmas, Jules.)<br /><br />Monday, December 19, 2005<br />Christmas Decorating For OCD Couples<br /> <br />Hubs and I know better than to try to decorate the house together. It's not that we haven't tried, you understand. It's just that Hubs is somewhat, and I say this with great love and respect, "particular" about where the decorations go. And by "particular," of course, I mean a raving, perfection-obsessed, control freak who makes me ponder the idea of ripping my own fingernails from their beds just to distract myself from the agony of his constant adjusting of the scenery. Over the past several Christmas seasons I have learned how to handle this little quirk;I let him do his thing and I do mine. My thing includes setting up the nativity scene.<br /><br />Hubs still tries to oversee my work, however. Like a few years ago, after he finished hanging enough lights on the house to make Clark Griswold weep with envy, he came inside and stood watching me work for a few minutes. Then he just couldn't help it. He had to ask.<br /><br />"Um, Stacey? How come the Wise Men are on the other side of the room?"<br /><br />"Because they weren't actually at the stable that night. They didn't find Christ until quite a bit later. So I put them over there, like they're still en route."<br /><br />"But still, it's the nativity. I think they're supposed to all be together."<br /><br />"It's not historically accurate to have the Wise Men at the stable."<br /><br />"Okay, well, that may be true, but I'd like to point out that it probably isn't historically accurate to have the Obi Wan Kenobi action figure acting as a shepherd, either. I mean, he's a Jedi. There were no Jedi at the stable that night."<br /><br />"Oh yeah? How do you know? WERE YOU THERE? I didn't think so."staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-17934378719179241242009-09-21T07:19:00.000-07:002009-09-21T09:41:08.638-07:00The Greatest GameOver the weekend, Son finally realized a long-cherished dream of his: to own an Atari video game console. I'm not exactly sure why this was such a coveted item for him, nor am I sure he knows. He simply says, "It's a piece of gaming history." Nice. Something from my childhood is viewed by my son as "history". An antique, if you will. <br /><br />Although it was fun to watch Son eagerly catalogue and assemble his new toy, I admit I began to experience a small amount of panic. It should come as a surprise to absolutely no one that I lack the skills to play video games. Technology and I are not exactly on the best of terms. In fact, the other day, I was afraid I'd have to wait for Son to get home from school to set up the Wii for me. And then I'd have to bribe him to go away so I could play without being heckled. It was much like the time I had to wait for him to come home from pre-school to set the VCR for me. (Fortunately, my mother-in-law came through for me on the Wii thing, thus sparing me further mockery.)<br /><br />Son takes entirely too much delight in his video game prowess. Since the time he picked up his first controller, he has heaped the abuse on us, even stating repeatedly that he doesn't feel safe riding in the car with people who can't even negotiate their way around Wario World. And all these years, my go-to excuse has been, "I may not be able to play these games, but wow. You should have seen me play Pong. I was truly great." It seemed like a safe thing to say at the time. What were the odds that he'd ever find "a piece of gaming history" and actually WANT to play it?)<br /><br />So, yes. A bit of anxiety over the imminent blowing of my cover. I mean, I really WAS able to play Pong. I really was able to do a lot of things, once upon a time. I had skills. Skills that apparently fade if you don't practice them for a couple of decades. (And while we're on the topic, whomever came up with the phrase "It's just like riding a bike" clearly had never met anyone like me when they came up with that particular bit of nonsense.)<br /><br />Last night, after a day of evading Son's challenges, I finally agreed to play. And let me just say that when I beat him soundly, I have never in my life experienced more joy in a win. I was giddy with triumph. Sure, I know that in a day or two, he'll be able to take me out easily, but that's certainly not going to stop me from revelling in the moment while it lasts. <br /><br />The instant I realized he was starting to get the hang of it, I handed over the paddle and announced I was going to let someone else have a turn. I went downstairs and soon my mother-in-law came down and shared the information that my father-in-law was having a marvelous time trouncing Son. Earlier I'd had the opportunity of witnessing HER have a marvelous time defeating Son as well, so, you know. I couldn't miss the final blow. <br /><br />When I got back upstairs, I found Son scowling with frustration at the screen while my father-in-law was demonstrating, "See? I can even do it with my toes!" Sure enough, he had the paddle on the floor and appeared to be scoring effortlessly using only his toes. I sat and watched for a few minutes until my father-in-law grinned and said gleefully, "You should try this, Stacey, because (Son)...he's just not very good at this at all!" Son's scowl deepened as his grandpa handed over the controller. I moved it a few times and noticed something odd: No matter how I turned the paddle, my little player continued to move independently. "Um...this doesn't seem to be working..." Grandpa rushed to assure me, "Oh it works, just keep moving it." <br /><br />I was a little slow, but I finally caught on. And sure enough, I was easily able to defeat Son who could not BELIEVE how poorly he was doing. We played game after game, each one ending in the thrill of victory...for me. Son's grandpa kept trying to give him helpful tips, pointing out how I was smoothly moving my player up and down, and tracking the "ball". <br /><br />After several games, Son demanded to switch controllers, since his was obviously faulty and "jittery". "Oh no," Grandpa said. "The one you have is fine." Then Son demanded to switch to a different game. Grandpa informed him that the winner got to pick the next game, so until Son could beat me, he'd have to play the game of my choice. I chose to continue with Pong. "You know what?" I asked, as I proceeded to win yet another game, "I think you've been spoiled with all your cool graphics and sophisticated controllers. I think when it comes right down to the basics, this is the game where true skill is required. Back in the day you had to really KNOW how to play if you wanted to win."<br /><br />I showed Son all kinds of ways to play. With one hand. With my elbow. I even showed him how I could just listen to the sound of the game and still hit the ball every time, WITH MY EYES CLOSED. "This isn't fair!" he protested. <br /><br />"Sure it is. Besides, Son, part of being a good gamer is knowing how to accept defeat graciously."<br /><br />"Yeah right." <br /><br />Never have I seen such consternation. It was beautiful. On and on we went, Son losing more bitterly every time. Grandpa eagerly urging Son to keep going. Finally, Son appeared to simply give up. He sat back as my player continued to score points and eventually win, 21 to 0. It was around then that Son held aloft the other end of the controller's plug. "How are you playing without even being plugged in?" He demanded. <br /><br />"I'm just that good."<br /><br />"Ok, what's going on here?" he asked, suspiciously. I sat and pondered Grandpa's poker face for a few moments until the light finally dawned for Son. "I've been playing the COMPUTER??" He tried to wrestle the controller from me, between trying to tickle me into an admission. <br /><br />"I can't believe you did that, Mom!" <br /><br />"I can't believe it took you so long to figure it out! Playing by SOUND? Really?"<br /><br />Then Grandpa scored the best shot of the night: "I can't believe you didn't figure it out when I let the dog play. And she won."<br /><br />So, no, maybe I didn't deserve all those wins. (Okay, I didn't deserve any of them, though I still contend that I beat him soundly when I was actually in control of my player earlier in the evening.) But, oh, that was glorious!staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-81086020457769892232009-09-19T09:22:00.000-07:002009-09-19T10:52:54.798-07:00And a Little Child Shall Lead (And Amuse) ThemFor Labor Day weekend, Hubs, Son and I went to Yellowstone. With his parents. And his sister. And his sister's two children. In a motorhome. We became very close in many ways. Granted, it's an extremely nice motorhome, but at the end of the day, no one got up at night without running the risk of stepping on my sister-in-law's face because she drew the short straw and was sleeping on the floor. And yes, technically the fact that we didn't draw straws at all and just told her we did it using a proxy and her proxy lost should probably have caused us to lose a bit of sleep. However, I think the lost sleep can be directly attributed to my neice.<br /><br />K is three years old. We must be very clear on this point, because if you get it wrong, she'll correct you swiftly and loudly. K is probably one of the most emotionally healthy people I know. Seriously. When something upsets or hurts her- and she's three so this happens frequently- she screams. Loudly. And often at great length. With the loud, long, screaming screams. And then she cries. Also loudly. To the point that I was actually quite impressed that she had that kind of lung power and, as we waited for the storm to cease, I contemplated her chances at one day becoming an opera singer. I think she could do it. (She does an amazing rendition of "Old Macdonald Had A Farm". I especially like it when on that farm he has a Giraffe.) Also, she requires that everyone avert their eyes and avoid looking at her while she's upset. <br /><br />And here's the beautiful thing about this approach: when she's finished? It's over. Done, dealt with, complete. There are no grudges, no hurt feelings, no alliances and gossip with other family members, no Machiavellian plots to avenge the wrong. For that matter, after a couple of particularly lengthy displays of displeasure, she couldn't even recall for sure why she was upset in the first place. She explained to me, "Sometimes you just need to cry."<br /><br />I think this is BRILLIANT. And don't think I didn't contemplate doing exactly the same thing the other day when I got exceedingly bad news from the dentist. I still might. You never know. Seriously, why do we teach children not to cry? Or expect them to just stop being upset? She's three. That's what she does. And it works. I don't know about you, but I can't just turn off pain or hurt, and I'm considerably more than 3 years old. Instead I turn off the appearance of pain and hurt. Which accomplishes very little really. The pressure just accumulates until one day it blows up over something very trivial and we're left wondering just when exactly I completely lost my mind. I wonder if people become anxious around a tantrum precisely because THEY were taught that crying is bad. I mean, sure there are times when the tantrum thrower should move or be moved to a discreet location before letting lose. (By this, Son, I mean when Barbara Bush is giving a speech 15 feet away and you start screaming, we're not going to hang around and let you add to her sound bites.)<br /><br />Anyway. In addition to the wisdom of the art of the tantrum, K kept us amused. Vastly so. For example, one day we were in the car and she was playing with a little plastic box, which she decided for the moment was a camera. "Say cheese, Aunt Stace," she directed before snapping a picture. (At some point she dubbed me "Aunt Stace." I'm not sure if this is because she overheard Hubs calling me "Stace", since he's among the very few allowed to call me "Stace", or if she simply decided the extra syllable was just unreasonably excessive.) After taking my "picture" she gazed at the box with concern. "Oh no, you have your eyes closed."<br /><br />"I do? Let me see? Hmm. Yes, you're right. Want me to throw that one away?"<br /><br />"Yes, throw it in the garbage." (Apparently her "camera" produces Polaroid photos rather than digital images.) So I carefully took the imaginary picture from the "camera", crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage. She rolled her eyes in disgust. "No, Aunt Stace, you have to rip it up."<br /><br />"Oh. Right. Of course. Sorry." I sifted through the garbage sack and fished out the imaginary photo, carefully tore it into pieces, and put the remnants back in the trash. "Ok, now what?"<br /><br />"Now I'll take your picture again." She lifted up her little box and instructed, "Say 'Norma!'" <br /><br />"Um...what?"<br /><br />"Say 'Norma.'" To her credit she refrained from adding, "Like, duh, woman."<br /><br />"'Norma'?"<br /><br />"Yes, say 'Norma.'"<br /><br />This apparently did the trick since she was satisfied with the next picture. We never did figure out where 'Norma' came from. (Although every subject of every picture taken after that, including the moose and a nice Japanese tourist lady who asked my father-in-law to take a picture of her, was required to say "Norma.") My sister-in-law theorized that perhaps K has a friend named Norma. It doesn't really matter though. K is perfectly fine with random thoughts and seemed a little surprised that we were all so very clueless. <br /><br />She's also very encouraging. As we drove through the park, she handed me her Little Mermaid game. You know, one of those games with water in them, and you push the buttons and try to get the rings to go over the pegs? Turns out, I'm not very good at this. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart, I don't know if I can do this." She patted my arm consolingly and advised, "Be strong, Aunt Stace." <br /><br />Bedtime was interesting. And hilarious. As we were trying to get settled in, K was in her little bed shouting strings of random thought. And then out of nowhere, into the silence she demanded, "Are you KIDDING me? Are you REALLY KIDDING ME?"<br /><br />Hubs and I started giggling as silently as possible. Which became difficult when she announced, "You're gonna be kidnapped...and go to the hospital...and the library. And the County Jail..." At that point, our laughter got her attention. "Stop laughing!" And then she yelled, "YOU BETTER BE QUIET OR YOU'LL WAKE GRANDPA UP!" She had a point. We were laughing so hard I don't know that anyone in the campground slept much that night.<br /><br />During one drive, K became very annoyed with anyone who had the audacity to speak to me. "I'm talking to Aunt Stace. You don't talk to her. I'm talking to her." Grandma later observed, "I think Aunt Stace is your new favorite friend." K looked at her grandmother with an expression of wonderment mixed with grave concern that Grandma seemed unaware of a very important fact. Little K raised her hands to her sides, palms up as if embracing a large group and explained, "But Grandma, there's lots of friends in this world."<br /><br />Indeed there are. And how lucky are we that this very wise little girl is one of them?staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-61804268118455450032009-08-13T10:06:00.000-07:002009-08-13T11:32:39.221-07:00Intelligent Design. Anyone? Anyone?You know how there are people who get grumpy when they haven't eaten recently? Ok, yes, basically if you know ANY people, you know people like this. I married one of these people. And since I am one of these people too, you can go right ahead and assume that Son also has this trait. The condition of hunger seems to affect our ability to think, act or speak with any semblance of reason or logic. Depending on how long we've been afflicted by starvation, our response can range anywhere from mildly cranky to throwing ourselves on the floor and screaming simply because someone else dares to EXIST in the same house. <br /><br />The other night, I had taken Son to the Big City and happened to end our errands around the same time Hubs was leaving work. Son was already displaying symptoms. After all, it had been nearly an hour since he'd eaten last. So I called Hubs and asked if he'd like to meet us for dinner. After walking out of one restaurant because the server had the audacity to linger at another table asking inane questions about beverages, Hubs decided the appropriate response was to go elsewhere. I could almost see the "Low Fuel" light blinking on his forehead so off we went.<br /><br />We ended up at IHOP, partly because it was close, but mostly because Hubs has a thing about eating breakfast foods for dinner which is cool because so do I. And Son...he's 14. He'll eat anything.<br /><br />Once Hubs had chocolate milk and maple syrup on board and his blood sugar was stabilizing, we began to reminisce about a prior visit to IHOP which took place years ago.<br /><br />It was the good old days when Dad was able to eat in front of Mom without getting in trouble. Most of us had our Low Fuel lights flashing and that's how Dad, Mom, Hubs, Son and I ended up at IHOP. Again, because it was very close by and when it's time to eat we just don't want to waste time.<br /><br />We had started eating and were beginning the journey back to the land of the rational thinkers, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, when I noticed something had caught Hubs' attention. I assumed he'd been distracted by something shiny, and since I like shiny things too, I turned to see what he was looking at.<br /><br />Turns out it was more of a "whom" than a "what." I looked at Hubs. Hubs looked at me. We both looked back at the man who portrayed one of my most beloved movie characters.<br /><br />"Is that...?" I whispered out of the side of my mouth. Very nonchalant. Hubs nodded back, feigning fascination with his toast. <br /><br />"Yeah, it's gotta be. Look at his shoes." It was about that point when Mom, who was sitting across from me caught a glimpse as he was seated behind and slightly to the side of her. She stared at his reflection in the glass. (Staring at a reflection is obviously much less intrusive than staring at the actual person, am I right?)"Oh it's got to be him!" Mom announced with glee. "Who else would wear tennis shoes with a suit?" <br /><br />Son, who was about 9 at the time and had clearly not received the memo on how to fool a celebrity into thinking one is very sophisticated and is not star struck at all, immediately leaned across the table and in a whisper loud enough to carry across county lines asked, "Dry eyes?" I tried to shush him, but he had already moved on to "Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?" Then he started scrambling for a pen and asking us if he could go get Ben Stein's autograph. Meanwhile, Mike and Mom were discussing the fact that there was a limo outside and a driver-type person had just been seated with Stein. <br /><br />"It'll just take a second, Mom, c'mon, please?" I'm not sure why I didn't give permission. It just seemed like celebrities would probably really appreciate being able to eat in peace without being gawked at, whispered about and being pestered for autographs. And after all, we were already doing the gawking and whispering thing, but I like to pretend that we were somehow cool enough that Stein wouldn't realize what we were up to, despite being seated about 10 feet away. <br /><br />"No," I informed Son. "Let him finish his dinner without interruption. If we're still here when he leaves, you may ask then." Son then started eating with such extreme slowness I'm not entirely sure he even had anything on his fork every time he raised it oh-so-slowly to his lips. It was at about that time that Stein got up and headed toward the restroom. <br /><br />"Now, Mom? He's not eating now, can I ask now?"<br /><br />"Um...you know, I think this is probably not a good time to interrupt either."<br /><br />While Stein was out of earshot (I hope) we sat and dissected his life and career. We quoted his film work, his commercials, the fact that he'd been a speech writer for Presidents Nixon and Ford. And how weird it seemed that he would have been a speech-writer for these Presidents and how much more entertaining it would have been to hear Stein deliver those speeches himself. Then he returned to his table and we returned to our covert glances from the corners of our eyes. Or in Mom's case, the reflection in the window. I know. We are just so cool.<br /><br />Within a few minutes, Stein finished his meal and approached our table. Seriously. <br /><br />"Hiiii," he said. That voice. No question it was really Ben Stein, but he kindly introduced himself anyway, "My name is Ben Stein." We all pretended to have just barely noticed his presence and greeted him. Actually I started with "hello" but half-way through decided to go with something else, but couldn't think of what exactly, so basically I just greeted him with "Hell."<br /><br />"I'm participating in a debate tonight at the college across the street..." We all looked out the window as if just noticing for the first time ever that there is a college there. I told you. We're very cool.<br /><br />"We're debating Intelligent Design and we need people to come sit in the audience. We will pay you each twenty dollars (it's very important that you imagine him saying all of this in that voice.) if you'll come and just sit in the audience for two hours." Really? Go listen to one of my favorite actor/writers and get PAID for it? But before I could even get "Absolutely!" out...Mom and Hubs mentioned that although it sounded very interesting, it was getting late, it was a school night, Hubs had to work the next morning...or something like that. <br /><br />Stein was gracious. He thanked us for our time and approached another table with his pitch. I wondered briefly if he enjoyed being a celebrity who interrupts the mere mortals while at dinner. I know I appreciated the irony.<br /><br />As he was leaving, Dad, who was also a bit disappointed at missing out on twenty dollars for doing nothing more than he planned to do the rest of the night...sitting...watched Stein as he finally returned to his table, collected his things and prepared to leave. <br /><br />Apparently Dad's blood sugar levels had returned to normal around then. Dad, who doesn't exactly speak quietly, stared after Stein and mused, "You know...that guy kind of looks like that guy from the "Dry Eyes" commercial. <br /><br />All in all, it was probably a good thing we didn't go to the debate. It would have been unfair. With us there, the theory of Intelligent Design wouldn't stand a chance.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-78223727186804742532009-08-12T12:11:00.000-07:002009-08-12T16:04:06.781-07:00Blessed More Than We KnowLast week, Hubs and I got to take Son to a neurologist. There were a number of reasons for this. One, Hubs got to take the morning off work and hey, who doesn't want to spend a rare morning of family time sitting in a doctor's office? But the delightful prospect of spending hours catching up on our "Highlights for Kids Magazine" reading aside, we went primarily to see why Son is having seizures. <br /><br />Given the timing of the most recent one, we determined the cause is probably not just a desire to be liberated from school. I mean we haven't ruled it out entirely, of course, but we think there may be other factors involved. This time, rather than sitting in English class, he was getting ready to ride his bike when he announced to Grandpa, "I think I'm going to faint. Help me, Grandpa." Thank heaven for Grandpa. <br /><br />I was in Orem when my phone rang. (For those who, for reasons I cannot imagine, have not acquainted themselves with Utah geography, Orem is about 40 miles away from Nephi, which is where Hubs' parents live.) I don't remember much about the drive home, other than noting that my car goes a LOT faster than I ever realized it could.<br /><br />Grandpa handled the situation perfectly, and I am beyond grateful that he was there. He had the dubious job of letting me know my son, my only child, had just been taken to the hospital. In an ambulance. He told me I needed to get there ASAP and he managed to tell me all of this without completely freaking me out. (I didn't completely freak out until I was actually AT the hospital. I was just "mostly" freaking out on the way home, as I repeated over and over "He's at the hospital, he's in good hands.")<br /><br />Hubs was in Texas at the time and he got to spend the whole night freaking out all by himself, until he was able to switch to an earlier flight home. I spent the night holding Son's hand. I held his hand all night for two reasons. One, he wouldn't let go of mine, and two, I didn't want to let go of his. So there you go.<br /><br />I'm not going to go into any more detail here, even though Son has given the go-ahead to write about this. I'm just going to go with: He seized for 45 minutes. It was bad. It is not something we'd like to do again. And we recognize we were extremely blessed in many ways. It could have been so much worse. <br /><br />And so it came to pass that last week we were all hanging out with the neurologist. And we learned some interesting things. Among them was a directive by which Son was particularly dismayed; no caffeine. Apparently, caffeine can trigger seizures. Who knew?<br /><br />Now, you'd think a kid who has already been told by his parents "Don't drink caffeine" would not particularly have a problem with this. But this is a kid who has been told "Don't drink caffeine" and has done it anyway. Apparently quite frequently. I know. A teenager who defies his parents. Shocker. <br /><br />The reasoning behind this rule, aside from wanting to avoid potentially addictive substances, is Son on caffeine is kind of like Taz on crack; it may be entertaining to watch from a distance, but if you're on the clean-up crew or responsible in any way for him...not so much.<br /><br />Anyone who knows me well knows I am, myself, hypersensitive to caffeine. A can of Coke can keep me awake for hours. Hours that I spend talking REALLY FAST. We first discovered Son has similar tendencies when he was about 4 years old. Mom and I had gone to lunch leaving Son, in theory, in the care of my father. I returned to find Son bouncing off walls, speaking so rapidly I could have sworn he was speaking in tongues, and it would not have surprised me in the least to have seen his head rotate a full 360 degrees. "Dad," I inquired, "why is my child possessed by Satan? What did you feed him?"<br /><br />"Why? What did he tell you?" (This was also the day we realized that leaving Son and my dad together unsupervised is something akin to handing Bonnie and Clyde some ammo and a few Google maps to the nearest banks.) Dad admitted that they "might have had some ice cream. And a few Oreos. And a couple of York Peppermint Patties. And maybe some Smarties..." Nutrition has not always been a big priority for Dad.<br /><br />"Uh huh." I glanced around and noticed 4 or 5 Pepsi cans sitting on the counter. Empty Pepsi cans. "Dad...did you let him drink Pepsi??"<br /><br />"Um..."<br /><br />"Dad?"<br /><br />"What did he tell you?"<br /><br />"Dad, I'm asking YOU. Did he or did he not drink Pepsi?"<br /><br />Dad struggled for a minute, sputtering and stammering and resembling, in many ways, a deer in the headlights only somehow worse. Finally he responded with, "Well it was DIET Pepsi!"<br /><br />Oh. Oh good. Because everyone knows that should cancel out the truckload of sugar they had consumed. <br /><br />So, yes. We've known for awhile that caffeine and Son should not be spending a lot of time together. But to add insult to injury, he was also instructed to avoid soda in general. This is quite a blow. One of Son's favorite activities is going with his grandpeople to refill their mugs with fountain drinks (and really, at what point does it stop being mug and start being a bucket? 55 ounces is still just a mug? Seriously?) and go for a drive. We're looking at Gatorade now. Crystal Lite. Propel. That sort of thing. Which somehow just doesn't seem as appealing in Son's world. "How come all the good stuff turns out to be bad stuff? It's just not fair," he observed as he bemoaned his caffeine-free, non-carbonated fate.<br /><br />I totally get it. I'm still not completely over my shock and sadness about the whole "Alfredo sauce isn't health food" thing. Still. He's been deeply disturbed about not being able to recall any of the events during or the day after the seizure. "This must be what it's like to wake up after a night of drinking and not knowing what you did the night before, and hoping you didn't kill anyone while you were out," he observed as he was being released from the hospital the next day.<br /><br />"That's probably true," I responded. "So what are you going to with that?"<br /><br />"One thing for sure, I'm never to going drink or do drugs because I HATE NOT KNOWING WHAT I DID!"<br /><br />Doctor ordered abstinence from caffeine AND a decreased desire to experiment with drugs and alcohol? Yes, we may have been even more blessed than we realize.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-10461415542487101522009-08-03T15:09:00.000-07:002009-08-11T06:44:14.233-07:00I Really Did NOT See This Coming.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1eIRv4nsTPWc5gEhNp9OCVqnFAhvpLCwvnot2t7Hl3CRbMI7HtP_HZAb1RCU4mkCO529xc2ZN-Tu-44QdVR0qaJTfTkvshv71z7Kb345Z8GotaCcmw3-wymiUbz7EVQyEeab/s1600-h/Sopie+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 97px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1eIRv4nsTPWc5gEhNp9OCVqnFAhvpLCwvnot2t7Hl3CRbMI7HtP_HZAb1RCU4mkCO529xc2ZN-Tu-44QdVR0qaJTfTkvshv71z7Kb345Z8GotaCcmw3-wymiUbz7EVQyEeab/s320/Sopie+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368701578776361218" /></a><br /><br />I've been informed that I'm once again guilty of blog neglect. Consequences have been threatened. Bad consequences. And so, for those wondering, and those whose wonder has turned to alarm, yes, we're still alive. <br /><br />June was the month of THE MOVE: Phase One. (Do I really need to explain why THE MOVE is always written in all caps? No, I didn't think so.)I had supposed, naively it seems, that THE MOVE would be accomplished within one phase. <br /><br />It appears I was mistaken. <br /><br />Between various glitches and Hubs' need to evaluate, re-evaluate, reconsider, and then again evaluate every house on the market in Utah County (which conflicted, sometimes LOUDLY, with my own need to JUST PICK ONE ALREADY) June was a tad stressful for us. Much the same way the French Revolution was a bit inconvenient for some. <br /><br />And thus it came to pass that we realized by the end of June, if the new residents of our home had any kind of objection to our remaining there with them, we were about to become homeless. Gypsies. Bedouins. Nomads. <br /><br />And then one night Hubs came home and announced that he'd found a solution. Until we get the house deal worked out, we would be able to live with...his parents. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong, his parents are good people. To my knowledge neither of them has ever committed heinous wrongs like cannibalism, mass murder or participated in tractor pulls. And during our time here, they have done everything possible to make us feel comfortable. They have been incredibly generous and gracious and I can fault them for nothing. In fact, I'm a little worried that when we're on our own again, Hubs will return from work to a disaster of a house and an empty table and I will simply look around in bewilderment wondering why the house is no longer magically taking care of us. <br /><br />In the beginning, though, I was worried. I was very worried. And what worried me was...well, they have a dog. Or perhaps more accurately, a dog has them. Sophie is a shih tzu; a breed that Son takes great delight in pronouncing incorrectly. Although, as I understand it, most Americans who pronounce it "sheet-sue" are equally incorrect. (It's actually sure-ds. Or something. Still, you've got to admit the pronunciation "sheet-sue" does sound better than Son's alternative, which I probably don't need to describe here in detail.<br /><br />At any rate, here's the dilemma. Sophie, despite her own apparent beliefs, is in fact a dog. I'm not a dog person. Not anymore. There was a time,yes, that I, too, belonged to a little dog. But I kind of thought I was maybe a one-dog person. My dog, as dogs tend to do, got old and sick and one day Dad had her murdered. (Murdered, euthanized, whatever.) And that was it. I figure the same will probably happen with Hubs. I mean, I probably won't want to find another man once he's gone. I don't expect my parents to murder him. At least I don't think so. <br /><br />The point being, I'm not the sort that has an easy time with putting my heart on the line again once it's broken. I'm more the sort who, with very few exceptions, throws away every reminder, moves if necessary, and never allows the heart to be vulnerable that way ever again. <br /><br />So upon our arrival, I assumed my heart was locked up nice and tightly. Inaccessible. Invulnerable. Ice cold. I planned to tolerate the dog, as after all, it's her house. (I'm pretty sure her name doesn't appear on the deed to the house, but make no mistake. It's her house and she graciously allows her people to live in it with her.) Son and Hubs, of course had no such reservations. It did not help matters to see Hubs home from work and immediately run eagerly to greet...the dog. One of our first nights here, Hubs and I went for a walk. And his new girlfriend was of course invited. "Honey, what do you think about getting a dog?" he asked. <br /><br />"Honey, what do you think about getting a divorce?" I replied. <br /><br />I mean, I can see his point to a degree. She's got this little face. And it's a cute little face. Very cute. Ok, it's the most heart-melting adorable little dog face ever. And she's well-behaved. She can do tricks and she spends a lot of time snuggling with her people and playing with her squeaky toys. So, yeah, she's...ok. If you're into that sort of thing. And I most decidedly WAS. NOT. <br /><br />Son once told me dogs are the only creatures capable of complete forgiveness and unconditional love. (Lately I've been working on the concept of unconditional love, but I do seem to have a stumbling block when it comes to creatures who steal my heart and then just up and die. Death does seem to be a deal breaker when it comes to animals. Not with people though. Although I'm not, at the moment sure if that's a good thing or not.) I wasn't sure if Son was correct in his assessment of the unconditional love of a dog or if dogs are just really clueless. Because no matter how clear I have tried to make it to Sophie that I'm not interested in a relationship with her...here she is. Being cute and adorable and seemingly oblivious to my utter lack of interest. <br /><br />My father-in-law was also a bit chagrined to realize one evening, when he went to tuck Sophie in for the night and she ran to Hubs for protection. I believe it was about that time Father-in-law announced, "Tomorrow you guys need to find another place to live." At least I'm not alone in my feelings of abandonment. <br /><br />My first morning here, my mother called to make sure THE MOVE: Phase One was on track. She asked how I getting along with the dog. "Well...I have dog saliva on my ankles, but they also have Wireless so...you know. I'm good. It evens out." Mom said, "I don't know how you can't just fall in love with that little face." <br />"Mom," I explained for what seems to be the thousandth time, "it takes more than a pretty face to get my attention. Not. Gonna. Happen." <br /><br />(Side note, my parents are also owned by a dog. A big dog. A big dog that seems to have issues with her self-image as she is under the impression that she's actually a lapdog. And she most decidedly is NOT. She's a Shetland Sheep dog and no one, NO ONE is allowed to stand in that house unless they want to be "herded" back to their seat. Mom is the disciplinarian, Dad's the treat-giver who breaks all the rules behind Mom's back. It's pretty much the same way they raised us. It offends them deeply that I'm not in love with their creature. I can't help wondering if they think if I learn to accept Sophie I will somehow develop a feeling of fondness for their dog. Just a guess. But I digress. As usual.)<br /><br />So anyway. I'm chagrined to report that the other day we were riding in the car and Sophie climbed between Hubs and me and snuggled up next to me. (Told you she disregards my obvious lack of affection for her.) But then...she put her head on my knee. And I don't know what happened. Without thinking, I reached out and scratched behind her ears. Next thing I know she's got her head in my lap and I'm stroking her back. Naturally when I came to my senses I retracted my hand and liberally applied the anti-bacterial to BOTH hands, as if my display of affection could somehow be eradicated with enough alcohol-based solvents.<br /><br /><br />Today, when I arrived back after running errands, a memory was pulled kicking and screaming from the back of my mind; from that little box where it's been so securely locked for the past 14 years. I was reminded what it's like to be greeted with such enthusiasm and affection it was as if I'd been away at war and she'd assumed I was missing in action and I was never coming back. <br /><br />The wall is cracking. Or cracked. The carefully locked box in which I keep my heart is being slowly but surely unlocked. I'm falling in love with this little beast that I had every intention of merely tolerating.<br /><br />Nobody tell Hubs though. I can love him, but if he finds out I not only love him but his little dog too...I'm toast.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-8317986043319508872009-05-14T21:50:00.001-07:002009-05-14T22:22:34.836-07:00The RealistMy mother is a practical woman. A realist, if you will. Dad and I, though, we're the dreamers. Mom has spent most of her adult life trying to haul one or both of us kicking and screaming back into reality. I like to think I'm not quite as bad as Dad, though. I mean, when we play the Lottery game, I don't actually go out and start test driving Jaguars. (Ok, a Mustang once, and I wasn't really serious. Ok, ok, I wasn't THAT serious.)<br /><br />You all know the Lottery game, right? The "If You Won A Billion Dollars What Would You Do With It?" game. This is one of my favorite games ever. I love the "What if" games. All of them. Well, except for the "What If You Shut Up and Let Me Go to Sleep And When We Wake Up We'll Decide If We're Going to Stay Married?" game that Mike came up with one night. I'm not so fond of that one. <br /><br />But still, I love these games. Because, sure, it's IMPROBABLE that I'll one day be stranded on an island with only a kazoo, a pomegranate and Brad Pitt but it's not IMPOSSIBLE and I'd like to be prepared so I don't commit some horrible faux pas like NOT KNOWING HOW TO EAT A POMEGRANATE CORRECTLY(Because think about it, do you know how? And if not, would you want that to come to light in the presence of Brad Pitt? I did not think so.)<br /><br />Dad also loves the "What If" games. His real life may not be that eventful but let me assure you, his fantasy life is unrivaled. So anyway, one day Dad and I were playing the Lottery game. And Dad had gone on at great length and detail (he puts a LOT of thought into this) about the houses he'd buy for his children, the cars, and yes, I might even at last get that pony. You know, the usual. And then I detailed my list of dreams. (We had to up the amount from a million because we felt we should be somewhat philanthropic, but we still wanted to be able to finance the private island.) As we're doing this, Mom was wandering around the room straightening things, because that's what she does. She straightens things and rolls her eyes. But on this day, she actually was willing to play with us. <br /><br />I sat poised on the edge of my chair, waiting to hear what Mom would do with a billion dollars; what crazy wild dreams she has somewhere under all the perfectly combed hair. And as I waited, she gazed off into space and got a kind of dreamy look on her face before announcing, "Well, I guess I'd move into one of those cute condos by the office."<br /><br />"Why would you choose to live there?" I asked, thinking of all the exotic places she's mentioned wanting to see. And she did not disappoint. Still in that trance-like state of dreaminess she announced, "Well because then I could walk to work if my car didn't start."<br /><br />I love my mom. Not only is she a great mom, I can be confident she's not going to just fritter away those billions I plan to inherit.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-5955686447550201802009-04-21T19:50:00.000-07:002009-04-21T20:15:02.874-07:00A Moving ExperienceRight now, we're in the middle of another move. Why? Good question. I'm beginning to think we're just the kind of people who see the opportunity to experience prolonged and profound chaos and say, "SIGN. US. UP."<br /><br />Now, for those keeping count, this is the second move in two years. And if you're wondering if two years is really long enough to forget the horror, let me assure you, it is not. And yet, it became quite clear this evening, that Hubs is under the impression that this whole moving thing? Completely new to me.<br /><br />Tonight, Hubs informed me that he's been storing boxes in the garage. Not just any boxes, but the good copier paper boxes of which I am so very fond for moving purposes. <br /><br />"Ok," he tells me, leading me into the garage, "Here are the boxes. These are all empty, so use these."<br /><br />"The empty ones?"<br /><br />"Yeah."<br /><br />"And this is something you feel you need to specify?"<br /><br />"I just want you to know which boxes to use."<br /><br />"That's very sweet. Ok..let me see if I have this straight. You'd like me to use the boxes that don't have anything in them as opposed to the ones I've already packed things in? Is that right?"<br /><br />"Well, I just don't want you to haul a box all the way upstairs and then realize it's already full."<br /><br />"I see. So, if I notice a box is really heavy, and I haul it upstairs anyway because I, for whatever reason, assume that in this case the heaviness means something OTHER THAN THE BOX ISN'T EMPTY, what should I do then? WHAT?!"<br /><br />Wish us luck.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-39359171554186056022009-04-08T11:47:00.000-07:002009-04-08T13:57:52.469-07:00Doused and Drenched Dignity (Yes, I've posted this one before.)With the brief appearance of Spring, Hubs and I have once again been discussing what to do with the yard. Or if we should even HAVE a yard, given his lack of time and my propensity for killing all living things under my care. (How Son has survived this long is a mystery to us all.) Whatever we do, we'll have fun, which reminded me of this particular event I wrote about a few years ago. (Hey, Summer's coming. Time for re-runs!)<br /><br />Doused and Drenched Dignity<br /><br />I’m well aware that one shouldn’t marry a man believing that one can “change” him. So, when I say that I’ve had my husband under my personal care for intensive humor rehabilitation, I don’t really see it as trying to change him. Instead, I am merely trying to help him achieve his full potential. Don’t get me wrong, one of Hubs' most attractive qualities is his sense of humor. He’s a great connoisseur of the ironic and the absurd. However, he’s also a dignified and rather reserved man. Although he is capable of silliness in the privacy of his own home he does his best<br />to maintain his dignity in the presence of others. Considering who his wife is, this has actually been quite an accomplishment. Our neighbors have known Hubs all his life and until recently believed Hubs to be a cool, collected young man; serious and sober; a paragon of propriety. For most of his life, that’s exactly what he was. Then one day, he met me and life for Hubs has never been the quite the same.<br /> <br />I am pathologically incapable of maintaining the facade of decorum for longer than a few hours at a time. It’s not always deliberate, but I generally manage to trip, fall or somehow create an embarrassing or awkward situation. Sometimes I simply think of something humorous and begin laughing for reasons that are apparent to absolutely no one else. Hubs just shrugs indulgently, and continues whatever he is doing in his usual perfectly proper comportment.<br /> <br />The recent public unveiling of Hubs' silly side began, as is so often the case in these matters, with the highly hilarious job of mowing the lawn. Hubs, Son and I have developed a routine when it comes to lawn care. Hubs does the edging and trimming, I perform the arduous chore of driving around on the riding lawn mower (no sacrifice is too great when it comes to maintaining our yard, you know) while our son uses the leaf blower to remove the clippings from the sidewalks and driveway. <br /> <br />As I was doing my part, I noticed that despite the fact that we have asked Son countless times to put his “Super Soaker” water-gun in the garage when he’s not using it, the toy had been left on the lawn. Dire consequences have been threatened if this violation occurred again. So, I did what any responsible mother would do; I picked it up and took it behind the house to fill it. This particular water gun is approximately the size of Mickey Rooney, so it was a little difficult to conceal as I drove the lawn mower to the front of the house. Fortunately Hubs was dutifully focusing on making sure our lawn was perfectly edged. He never saw me coming. As soon as I was within range, I aimed and opened fire, dousing my husband from head to toe. He scarcely reacted, unless you count the look of censure and disapproval he directed at me. Realizing that Hubs was not amused with my attempt at levity, I did the only thing I could. I turned around, and retreated to the back of the house to reload. <br /> <br />As I returned to the front yard to continue my attack on Hubs' dignity, it occurred to me that he might get angry. But I am nothing if not dedicated to the task of getting him to lighten up. I realized when I turned the corner, that the edger was lying on the sidewalk. As I contemplated the implications of this development, I realized Hubs was in the garage, the big coward. As if that would deter me from my mission. I was caught completely off guard when from the dark interior of the garage came a forceful stream of water from the garden hose. I was shocked and stunned. He actually turned the hose on me. I beat a hasty retreat to regroup. <br /> <br />I realized I was at a distinct disadvantage since the lawn mower is only slightly less noisy than a Grateful Dead concert. After considering my options, I chose to hire the services of a mercenary. Fortunately, ten-year old mercenaries are easily bought. For the price of three cookies and an extra half-hour of Nintendo privileges, Son filled his spare water gun and went around one side of the house, while I acted as a decoy by driving around the other side. As I<br />predicted, Hubs was waiting for me. He turned the hose on me again, but this time, rather than retreating, I pressed bravely onward driving directly at him. It was like a bizarre game of “chicken”. He kept waiting for me to swerve; I kept waiting for him to duck into the garage. Frankly I felt fairly certain that I had an advantage being on a small vehicle complete with sharp, whirling blades. I have to give Hubs credit, though. He stood his ground. At least he did until he was attacked from behind. <br /> <br />After that, it became a free-for-all. Hubs managed to completely drench both Son and me. Then Son, who will <em>not</em> receive full payment for his services, turned traitor and joined Hubs in driving me from the lawn mower. Once I was unseated and vulnerable, Hubs and Son both put all their efforts into making sure I was drenched and defeated. <br /> <br />I realized I had no choice but to surrender. As I opened my mouth to utter the words that had never before crossed my lips – “You win”– Hubs turned on the leaf blower, moved to a huge pile of grass clippings and successfully covered me from head to toe in freshly cut grass.<br /> <br />It was at about that point that I noticed we were being watched. The commotion in our sedate little neighborhood had evidently prompted the neighbors to investigate. I also noticed that we weren’t receiving the customary covert glances our neighbors generally employ. Even the neighbors across the street had come to a standstill and were watching with dropped jaws and wide eyed stupefaction. For a brief moment, I wondered how Hubs would react to the realization that his decorous cover had been so thoroughly blown. He simply laughed, and proceeded to cover me with more grass. <br /><br />I have never been more proud.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-1210075708090188902009-04-01T08:16:00.001-07:002009-04-01T09:07:15.814-07:00Someday He'll Need TherapyYears ago, Hubs and I came to the conclusion that we will never again be able to speak to each other with any degree of privacy unless we actually have evidence that Son is at least 20 miles away. Even then we're careful. Son has also become more careful over the years. He no longer sits and eavesdrops in locations where he's likely to fall asleep and tumble down the stairs. Now he stands in the shadows in the hall.<br /><br />It's somewhat difficult for me to fathom why a child who acts like he's being put through physical and mental torture every time we speak to him still feels he has a right to be informed of our every thought and word, but I've found as long as we're not addressing HIM, we have his undivided attention.<br /><br />And so this morning, on this most glorious of all holidays, we decided to make this work for us. <br /><br />Hubs and I went downstairs and began a conversation about Son's school performance. This is not a topic Son particularly enjoys discussing. In fact, he tells us the very subject causes his ear drums to melt, which is a problem because his brain is then in danger of just rolling right out of his head.<br /><br />It's a chance we're prepared to take. <br /><br />Right on schedule we hear Son making his way to the kitchen. <br /><br />"...and so his counselor says if we want to, we can put him in that program and maybe he can be caught up by the end of the year," I begin.<br /><br />"Hmm. Well it sounds like a good idea. Kind of a pain having to get up that early on Saturdays though." The sound of Son's sharp intake of breath assures us our unseen audience is paying attention.<br /><br />"Yeah, I know. 6 a.m. is even earlier than he normally gets up on school days. Still, if we do this we can avoid summer school."<br /><br />"I guess we can alternate taking him. That way we can each sleep in every other Saturday." I grin and give Hubs a thumbs up. Sleeping in on Saturday is something very close to Son's heart.<br /><br />I continue, "There may be a solution that will work for both of us. His counselor said if we're within the boundaries, he can take the bus."<br /><br />"On Saturday?"<br /><br />"Well...it's not the, uh, regular bus."<br /><br />At this, Son can take no more. "WHAT?!? You're sending me to school on the short bus? On a Saturday??" I look at him reprovingly. "I'm sorry. But still, Mom! I'll get teased!"<br /><br />"Oh, I don't think so. You're going to be going so early no one will be around."<br /><br />"What do you mean 'early'? What are you talking about? They don't have school on Saturday!"<br /><br />"Eavesdropping, were you?"<br /><br />"I can't help it if I overhear you. You were talking about ME."<br /><br />"Son, when we're talking TO you, you don't listen. Why do you care now?"<br /><br />"I am NOT going to school on Saturday. I don't want to."<br /><br />"Funny, I don't recall asking you if you want to."<br /><br />"MOM!!"<br /><br />"Son, you had a choice at the beginning of the year. You made the choice not to turn in your homework. And yes, you have a right to make that choice. Unfortunately, the consequence that is attached to that choice is your loss of freedom on Saturdays until school's out."<br /><br />"But..."<br /><br />"It's out of my hands, Son. Your choice, your consequence."<br /><br />"But...for how long? How long do I have to do this?"<br /><br />"Until school's out."<br /><br />"That's three months away!"<br /><br />"No, actually, it's just two."<br /><br />"March, April..." The light began to dawn. "MOM!!! It's April. April first." Relief and irritation warred. Relief won. <br /><br />Then came the anticipated threats of retaliation. <br /><br />"When I get home I am SO going to get you for this," he promised.<br /><br />We're not worried. We're safe inside the house. Particularly after I have the locks changed today.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975847.post-35324182044962592682009-04-01T07:54:00.000-07:002009-04-01T08:10:49.540-07:00Time to update?So where have I been this time? Good question. For the past year, most of my good stories have been work-related and thus off limits for public consumption. A pity, since my eyes have rolled so much in the last couple of years that I'm no longer certain they're actually attached to anything. <br /><br />I've also been busy trying to retain my oh-so-fragile grip on sanity while trying to prevent Son from becoming an 8th grade drop-out. He tells me I'm "squashing (his) dreams" of becoming a software tycoon at the age of 13. Perhaps. On the other hand, he's squashing MY dream of not having him living in our basement when he's 40. So, you know, fair's fair.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided Son needs me more than the company does, and thus I am free at last! Well, if staying home, doing laundry, cooking meals, cleaning house and spending hours arguing the finer points of homework completion constitutes freedom. And for me, it does.<br /><br />So as promised, I have returned. Look out. I've got stories.staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17481564212911701259noreply@blogger.com1