Life's A Funny Thing

It's In The Bag

2011-07-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

I 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.)

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But no, this time I was out of luck. And pennies. Because not only had I created a disturbance I had stolen. 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 The Permanent Box.
The Permanent Box 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 The Permanent Box and had to live there forever and ever. But it was ok, because all my stuff was in there already.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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!

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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 The Permanent Box.

I Can Still Hear the Bells

2011-04-18T13:40:00.000-07:00

Note: 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 Orem, 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 concerned about the chandelier crash, but I digress. I had been dying to see the show, because my cousin Xandra was playing the role of Tracy Turnblad and knowing Xandra, 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 Xandra 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? Xandra's mom and dad worked it out so I got tickets to see another performance, with Xandra. 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 Xandra. Ok, technically she's not just "my" Xandra, but I would certainly lay sole claim if I could. Xandra (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 certain 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 Xandra, my little cousin. How I love her. She played Tracy in Hairspray. She WAS Tracy. That joie de vivre, her utter lack of prejudice or malice, and all that enthusiasm and talent...well, that's Xandra. Xandra's 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 Xandra 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 Xandra later.

Cell Phone Rant

2011-01-15T15:06:00.000-08:00

Can 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 my 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 you. 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.

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 is.

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!

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.

4. Texting. 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 texting 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 I 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!

5. Texting again. As mentioned, I'm not very quick with the texting 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 vacuum is on fire and also I lost the chicken. Again." Actually, from me that answer shouldn't surprise you under any circumstances, but especially if you get it via text.

6. Texting yet again. I know people like the texting 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 texting 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.

7. Yes, actually, I do know my mailbox is full. Maybe I just don't know how to empty it. Or maybe I like 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?

If you have any questions about these rules, feel free to call me.

I May Have Watched Too Much TV

2011-01-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

This 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.)

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Sacrilege

2010-12-31T08:42:00.000-08:00

It started simply enough, as these matters often do. Mom and I were discussing the latest of a series of disasters in my life.

“It’ll be okay, Honey. Sometimes blessings come in disguise.”
“Sometimes? SOMETIMES? How about ALL. THE. TIME, Mom?”
“What?”
“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.”
“Stacey!”
“IT’S TRUE! You know it’s true. Look, everything has an opposite, right? Isn’t that what you’ve taught me?”
“Um…”
“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.”
“STACEY LEE!”
“Am I not right about this?”
“Well…yes, but I just don’t think we should SAY things like that. It sounds sacrilegious."
“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.”
“Well yes, God knows your heart and knows you don’t mean anything by it but…”
“But? Isn’t His opinion the one that matters?”
“We just need to be careful about how we say things.”

I’ll try to remember that in the next life, where I will no doubt be writing to her from Hell.

Truth

2010-12-30T10:05:00.000-08:00

One 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.

So one day my brother and I were commiserating about the challenges of raising our respective stubborn little people.

“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.”

“Oh really? Don’t you remember what Dad used to do to try to get the truth out of YOU?”

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.

“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.

“Oh!” my brother went on, warming to the topic, “and weren’t you the one who lied while swearing on a bible?”
“Hey, I was SEVEN.”
“Whatever. You LIED under OATH! About eating TWINKIES!! You sold your immortal soul for a TWINKIE!”
“You know, technically I was holding my hand so it hovered just barely above the bible. I wasn’t actually touching it.”
“Wow. That’s just…sad.”
“It was NECESSARY. After the whole rat poison incident, perjury was the least of my concerns.”
My brother paused, thinking. “Okay, remind me about the rat poison, because I don’t remember that one.”
“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?”
“He threatened us with rat poison?”
“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?”
He was still drawing a blank.

“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.”
“So who came forward?”
I shrugged. “Well that’s just it. No one did. Finally he just gave up and sent us all to bed.”
“And?”
“Yeah, pretty much the longest night of my life. Just lying in bed…waiting to die.”
“I knew it!”
“Yes, from that point on I figured I was pretty much invincible.”
“That explains a lot.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”

We passed a moment in silent reflection. Finally I asked, “So, do you think it’s genetic?”
“What? The lying or the Gestapo inquisition tactics?”
“Hopefully just the lying. I haven’t been reduced to threatening my child with the Indian Rope Burn test. Yet.”
“Dad did that?”
“Dude, where WERE you? It’s like you were raised in a completely different house!”
“Maybe they just did it to you because you were the only one who lied?“
“No, I was just the only one who got caught.”
“Nope, I’m pretty sure you were the only one who lied.”

Maybe. But honestly? I think he’s lying.

All Thumbs and Not a Single Green One Amongst Them

2010-05-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

For 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And so I turned to the internet, as I am wont to do in cases like this.

"Oh no," I muttered as I read. Hubs wandered through and asked, "Problem?"

"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.)

"Ok, so after I violently separate this little family, I'm supposed to repot each plant individually."

"So?"

"No, in SPECIAL dirt. Like... Plant... Diva dirt."

"They make dirt for plant divas?"

"Yes. Yes they do. And I'm going to need some."

"Ok, so then what, that's it?"

"Oh you'd like to think so, my little friend, but no. Next we have to plant them over beds of gravel."

"Sounds comfy," he replied. I glared at him for a moment because CLEARLY he has NO sense of urgency. Or botanical rescue missions.

"No, beds of gravel, so the roots don't have to sit in water."

"Sounds complicated," he observed. I could only nod my head in bleak despair.

"So...what you're trying to say here is it's going to die, isn't it?" He asked.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Hubs. It's not looking good. Not good at all."

So really my predicament comes to this:

Do I:

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.

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

And yes. Oh yes. It'll happen.

Mom

2010-05-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

There are so many reasons to love my mother.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I love that she still tries to buy my love even though she's always had it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

I love her because she's Mom.

I May Be Just A Little Too Impressionable

2010-05-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

Hubs: Uh...Honey?

Me: What?

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.

Me: Oh. Well I'm very sorry for hurting your feelings.

Hubs: Well, that's ok, but where are you getting all this stabbing stuff?

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.

Hubs: Well could you maybe read something less stabby? Because you're kinda freaking me out.

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.

Hubs just walked out of the room. Probably because he hates history.

A Slight Flaw in His Logic

2010-01-09T15:49:00.000-08:00

Note: I have been informed by brother that I meant to say iPod Touch. Not iTouch. I stand corrected.

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."

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.

"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."

"Um...what?"

"I put a password on my iTouch. So I can't get on-line unless you or dad enter the password."

"YOU password protected your iTouch with a password that only YOU know?"

"Yep!" He patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. "See? I'm totally obeying the rules."

"Right. So you set a password and you're keeping it a secret from yourself so you aren't tempted to get on-line?"

"Well..."

"Are you planning to share the password with us?"

"Um..."

I'm not sure whether to be insulted or concerned that he thinks I won't see the flaw in his reasoning. Maybe both?

If Only He Could Remember These Conversations The Next Day

2010-01-09T15:20:00.000-08:00

A 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.

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.

"Hey," I whispered. "Would you mind turning onto your side?"

"Why?" he mumbled. You're the one that's snoring. I'm not even asleep."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"I was awake. I know I was because I could HEAR THE SNORING."

"It. Was. YOUR. SNORING."

"Oh. Ok. So why were YOU snoring then?"

"I WASN'T! I WAS ON THE COMPUTER!"

"Well if I turn on my side, I have to take out my headphones. Are you okay with that?"

"Why would I care one way or the other?"

"Well if you start to snore it'll wake me up. If I have my headphones in I can't hear anything."

"You can't hear anything? Like snoring? Or someone typing?"

"Nope."

"I give up."

This. THIS is why I often need naps. Also, I'm stealing his headphones.

A Christmas Re-Run

2009-12-07T19:35:00.000-08:00

This 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.)

Monday, December 19, 2005
Christmas Decorating For OCD Couples

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.

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.

"Um, Stacey? How come the Wise Men are on the other side of the room?"

"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."

"But still, it's the nativity. I think they're supposed to all be together."

"It's not historically accurate to have the Wise Men at the stable."

"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."

"Oh yeah? How do you know? WERE YOU THERE? I didn't think so."

The Greatest Game

2009-09-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

Over 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.

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.)

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?)

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.)

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.

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.

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."

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".

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."

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.

"Sure it is. Besides, Son, part of being a good gamer is knowing how to accept defeat graciously."

"Yeah right."

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.

"I'm just that good."

"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.

"I can't believe you did that, Mom!"

"I can't believe it took you so long to figure it out! Playing by SOUND? Really?"

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."

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!

And a Little Child Shall Lead (And Amuse) Them

2009-09-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

For 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.

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.

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."

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.)

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."

"I do? Let me see? Hmm. Yes, you're right. Want me to throw that one away?"

"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."

"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?"

"Now I'll take your picture again." She lifted up her little box and instructed, "Say 'Norma!'"

"Um...what?"

"Say 'Norma.'" To her credit she refrained from adding, "Like, duh, woman."

"'Norma'?"

"Yes, say 'Norma.'"

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.

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."

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?"

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.

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."

Indeed there are. And how lucky are we that this very wise little girl is one of them?

Intelligent Design. Anyone? Anyone?

2009-08-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Is that...?" I whispered out of the side of my mouth. Very nonchalant. Hubs nodded back, feigning fascination with his toast.

"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?"

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.

"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.

"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.

"Now, Mom? He's not eating now, can I ask now?"

"Um...you know, I think this is probably not a good time to interrupt either."

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.

Within a few minutes, Stein finished his meal and approached our table. Seriously.

"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."

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Blessed More Than We Know

2009-08-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

Last 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.

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.

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.

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.")

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

"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??"

"Um..."

"Dad?"

"What did he tell you?"

"Dad, I'm asking YOU. Did he or did he not drink Pepsi?"

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!"

Oh. Oh good. Because everyone knows that should cancel out the truckload of sugar they had consumed.

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.

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.

"That's probably true," I responded. "So what are you going to with that?"

"One thing for sure, I'm never to going drink or do drugs because I HATE NOT KNOWING WHAT I DID!"

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.

I Really Did NOT See This Coming.

2009-08-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

It appears I was mistaken.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Honey, what do you think about getting a divorce?" I replied.

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.

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.

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.

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."
"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."

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Realist

2009-05-14T21:50:00.001-07:00

My 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.)

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.

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.)

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.

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."

"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."

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.

A Moving Experience

2009-04-21T19:50:00.000-07:00

Right 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."

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.

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.

"Ok," he tells me, leading me into the garage, "Here are the boxes. These are all empty, so use these."

"The empty ones?"

"Yeah."

"And this is something you feel you need to specify?"

"I just want you to know which boxes to use."

"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?"

"Well, I just don't want you to haul a box all the way upstairs and then realize it's already full."

"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?!"

Wish us luck.

Doused and Drenched Dignity (Yes, I've posted this one before.)

2009-04-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

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!)

Doused and Drenched Dignity

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
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
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.

After that, it became a free-for-all. Hubs managed to completely drench both Son and me. Then Son, who will not 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.

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.

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.

I have never been more proud.

Someday He'll Need Therapy

2009-04-01T08:16:00.001-07:00

Years 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.

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.

And so this morning, on this most glorious of all holidays, we decided to make this work for us.

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.

It's a chance we're prepared to take.

Right on schedule we hear Son making his way to the kitchen.

"...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.

"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.

"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."

"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.

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."

"On Saturday?"

"Well...it's not the, uh, regular bus."

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!"

"Oh, I don't think so. You're going to be going so early no one will be around."

"What do you mean 'early'? What are you talking about? They don't have school on Saturday!"

"Eavesdropping, were you?"

"I can't help it if I overhear you. You were talking about ME."

"Son, when we're talking TO you, you don't listen. Why do you care now?"

"I am NOT going to school on Saturday. I don't want to."

"Funny, I don't recall asking you if you want to."

"MOM!!"

"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."

"But..."

"It's out of my hands, Son. Your choice, your consequence."

"But...for how long? How long do I have to do this?"

"Until school's out."

"That's three months away!"

"No, actually, it's just two."

"March, April..." The light began to dawn. "MOM!!! It's April. April first." Relief and irritation warred. Relief won.

Then came the anticipated threats of retaliation.

"When I get home I am SO going to get you for this," he promised.

We're not worried. We're safe inside the house. Particularly after I have the locks changed today.

Time to update?

2009-04-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

So as promised, I have returned. Look out. I've got stories.

Something You'd Think I'd Already Know

2008-05-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

Last night, Hubs called and asked if I'd like to meet him for dinner. Let's see, get out of cooking dinner, get out of washing dishes (assuming Hubs remembers his credit card) and most importantly, get out of the HOUSE? My friends, this is not an offer I am ever likely to refuse.

Since I wasn't quite finished with some errands and Hubs had just left the office, we agreed that Hubs would go get a table and I'd meet him there.

Sounds simple enough, right?

As I was driving to meet him, Hubs sent me a message, "Seated. Give them your name, they'll show you where I am."

So I approached the hostess and told her, "Hi, I'm meeting my husband here; he's already been seated."

Very business-like she picked up her list and asked briskly, "Okay, do you know your husband's name?"

Blink.

Not sure I'd heard her correctly I inquired, "Excuse me?"

"Do you know your husband's name?" She tapped her pen on the list, impatience clearly setting in. And why not? I'd be irked, too, if confronted with someone who was unaware of her spouse's name. Well maybe not irked but I would certainly be inclined to snicker.

Still, I am nothing if not helpful and polite. Apologetically I admitted, "No. No, I don't know my husband's name. I've been meaning to ask but..."

At this point a nice server man stepped up and asked, "Miss, (and the judge awards 2 bonus points for going with "Miss" as opposed to "Ma'am"!) may I ask YOUR name, please?"

"Why, certainly! That I know!" I gave him my name and he kindly took me to meet Hubs.

On our way to the table, the server grinned and said, "Would you like me to introduce you to your husband?"

"Only if he's cute."

"I'm sure you'll think so. He looks like he's the kind who tips well, too."

And as it turned out Hubs was both. Plus he DID remember his credit card. While he had it out, I sneaked a peek at his name. You know, just in case this question comes up again. I want to be prepared.

A Deeply Philosophical Conversation About the Pope

2008-04-16T16:41:00.000-07:00

Hubs, Son and I were watching coverage of the Pope's visit to the White House. We watched as the Pope greeted President Bush and they walked along the red carpet. Suddenly Hubs announces, "He's wearing red shoes!"

"Really?"

"I think so, run it back. Wait...yes. Yes, he's wearing red shoes."

"Red. Interesting."

"Yeah, I wonder why he'd wear red shoes. Not that there's anything wrong with red, I just wonder if it's symbolic or something."

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"Well, if there are problems with the airlines, he can click his heels and chant 'There's no place like Rome, there's no place like Rome."

"Ah. It makes total sense!"

"Exactly."

It's at times like these that I worry about us.

Fooled

2008-04-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

With surgery scheduled for Tuesday morning, Hubs and I knew we had to execute our prank on Son early in the day. The night before, my partner in marriage and crime accompanied me to our secret headquarters (read: IHOP). Hubs busily poured syrup on his waffles while I called the meeting to order.

“So, what should we aim for? Trouble with a teacher? Extra homework?”

“Nah, that’s too…blah.”

I thought about events of the past week and it hit me. “Got it! When you were a young boy on the brink of the teen years, what was the most horrifying prospect you could possibly imagine?”

“Having my friends find out I have parents?”

“I thought that was currently your worst fear.”

“It is.”

“Right. Okay then. And what’s more embarrassing than parents’ existence?”

“Parents in the context of kissing, dancing, baby pictures, home movies, underwear or pajamas.”

“Exactly.”

April 1, 2008
Dawn

Hubs is in position, outside Son’s bedroom door. He calls the land line from his cell phone. There is no caller ID on the phone downstairs, so we don’t worry about covering our tracks. Hubs lets it ring three times before hanging up; enough rings for Son to register that it’s ringing, too few for Son to get to the phone in time to answer it. Moments later, we hear Son moving around in his room. This is my signal to ring the front doorbell. I press the bell, quietly close the door, and slip up the stairs. Then I run down the stairs making as much noise as I can, throw the door open and exclaim cheerily, “Good morning! I’m not sure if he’s awake yet, but come sit down and I’ll go get him!”

Hubs waits two or three beats then pounds on Son’s door. “Son? Mrs. Neighbor’s pipes burst during the night and the kids in the church youth group are going over to help.” I arrive at Son’s bedroom just as he opens the door and gets a look at my morning attire. I have taken pains with my appearance and am looking glamorous in mismatched socks, faded pajamas (from two different sets), and the remnants of the previous day’s mascara under my eyes. Not that Son looks much better; he’s getting ready to shower and is wearing a towel and a milk mustache left over from an apparent midnight kitchen raid.

“Hey what’s the hold-up? Your friends are waiting.”

“Oh right. April Fool’s!” Son shouts, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Huh? What are you talking about? Look, all I know is the youth leader called and a few minutes later your friends showed up. Didn’t you hear the phone ring or the door bell? You’ve got to get moving!”

“But…wait...it’s April Fool’s day. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Listen, Kid, I'm getting ready to take your mother to the hospital, for heaven’s sake. Do you really think I’m about to just hang around and play games with you this morning?"

"Yeah," I add. "Hello? I am having surgery in an hour. I don’t have time to goof around. So put some clothes on and get upstairs. NOW.”

“People? Upstairs?” Son’s bravado falters a little bit. He glances at me again, before moving on to do a head-to-toe survey of his father. Garbed in worn sweatpants and an undershirt, Hubs runs his fingers through a hairstyle that looks as if it could only have been achieved with the help of a tube of styling gel and a blender. Son looks back and forth at us while Hubs heightens the effect of Early Morning Chic by scratching and belching a couple of times. I wrap my arms around Hubs and kiss him noisily on the cheek. Horror begins to spread across Son’s features.

Sensing victory, Hubs pushes forward. Yawning and stretching again he points out, “Dude, seriously, if I were you I’d get it in gear and put some clothes on before those girls see you.”

“Girls?” It comes out as more of a squeak than an actual word. “Upstairs? And you answered the door like that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother answered the door.” Oddly, Son doesn’t seem comforted by this assurance.

“What? This is what I'm wearing to the hospital. They’re just going to make me put on a hospital gown anyway, and besides they said no cosmetics or hairspray.” Hubs and I head upstairs. “Honey, since I’m ready to go, I’ll go talk to Son’s friends while we wait.”

A few minutes later, the top of Son’s suspiciously well-groomed head appears around the door. He peers carefully around, inspecting the room closely before concluding that it is indeed teen-girl-free.

“I knew you were kidding,” he boasts. “I knew it was just an April Fool’s joke. I knew you wouldn’t let anyone see you dressed like that.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you went from wearing nothing but a towel to being fully dressed and groomed in less than five minutes.”

“Whatever. I’m going to get you guys for this.”

I’m not worried. The phrase “I will chaperone your next school dance” will give us the upper hand for years to come.

The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

2008-04-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

I'm off to have surgery in an hour. Seriously. This puts a huge crimp in my usual plans for celebrating the holiday.

However.

We totally got Son this morning. So the day's not a total loss!

Details to come!

Conspicuously Invisible

2008-03-27T13:31:00.001-07:00

It all started when Son wandered in and casually announced that he was going to go take a shower. Voluntarily. With soap and water and everything. Naturally, my response was to immediately go look for the phone book. As I was looking up the number of a good mental health professional, and wondering if my allergy meds were responsible for this obvious hallucination, it hit me; Son has been spending a LOT of time lately on his bike cruising the neighborhood. He has suddenly stopped feigning illness every school day, stopped claiming that the school bus is nothing more than Hell's taxi cab, and last week I caught him looking in a mirror. On purpose.

This could mean only one thing. I just wondered if he'd volunteer the information or if I'd have to probe for the girl's name. Fortunately, Son was feeling talkative.

"Mom, you have no idea how hard it is to notice someone without them noticing you're noticing."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Is there someone in particular you're trying to notice, unnoticed?"

Heavy sigh. "Yeah. I was trying to take her picture with my cell phone but I think she saw me."

The horror. Son went on to lament with disgust the difficulties of taking good pictures while pretending to nonchalantly make a phone call. Then he said, "You have no idea, Mom. You had it so much easier when you were a kid."

"I did?"

"Yeah, you could take pictures all you wanted and no one would ever know." I pondered that a moment, wondering how on earth he thought pulling out a camera, waiting for the flash to be ready, and snapping the picture was in any way inconspicuous. I gave up.

"What makes you think no one could tell we were taking pictures?"

"Oh, they could tell you were taking pictures, but with that hood over your head no one would be able to tell it was you."

That's what he thinks. Protecting my identity was next to impossible once I set my hair on fire with the flash.

Tagged. A Meme. (Does it rhyme with 'Amen'?)

2008-03-13T13:07:00.001-07:00

It seems I was tagged by Ronni to do this meme. (Question, where did that word come from, anyway? And how is it pronounced? Is it because it's about me, me? I have no idea.) Unlike most meme's this one appears to have no theme, no set questions, no rhyme and no reason. Just seven random facts about me, me.

1. When I was a child, I was absolutely terrified of the Pirates of the Carribean ride at Disney Land. This was not due to a fear of the Carribean, nor was it due to a fear of pirates; in fact I rather liked the idea of becoming a pirate when I grew up. I still may do just that. You never know. No, my fear has its roots in that time Dad told me to hold my breath when we went down the hills during the ride because we were, in fact, going under water. I nearly asphyxiated myself. When I asked Dad after the ride (and after I caught my breath) why we weren't wet, having spent all that time under water and all, he explained that in the Magic Kingdom they have magic water which dries immediately. I believed this wholeheartedly.

So, random fact number one: I am very gullible. Also, I'm afraid of boats and water. Coincidence? I think not. (Note: Mom only recently became aware of this little event in my life and was horrified to learn that my father had scared me like that. I knew I should have ridden next to her in that boat!)

2. I have a genetic abnormality that prevented me from having a full set of wisdom teeth. I had only one and was told if it hadn't come in by the time I turned 30 it never would. Naturally, six months before my 30th birthday, on New Year's Eve, I was in a dentist's office having an emergency extraction of my one little wisdom tooth.

3. No people in my life have ever brought me more joy, more exasperation, and more laughter than my husband and our son. Though my parents and brothers run a close second. I'm also quite fond of the Godiva Chocolate's people.

4. If you eat mayonnaise in my presence there is an excellent chance I will throw up on you. If you cut my sandwich with a knife that has been used to cut another sandwich that did have mayonaise, I will not be able to eat my own sandwich. I don't care what you say; you can't scrape it off, it IS that much (one mayonnaise molecule can infect an entire sandwich. It's true. It is too.) And though I concede that it may not actually kill me to taste it, I'm not taking any chances.

5. My mother believes I invented Velcro. Or at the very least, I identified the need for it. This is because as a child I refused to tie my shoes. Ever. (Also I could never quite manage to get the heels of my socks on my heels. They ended up on top of my feet every time. But that's a different issue.) One day in frustration, I apparently announced that when I grew up I was going to invent shoelaces that would just stick to themselves so I could just slap them together. So there you go. Velcro on kids' shoes. You're welcome.

6. I would sell off every possession I have before I would sell my books. I need books like I need to breathe.

7. I've never really understood the point of Barbie dolls. They don't do anything. Baby dolls could be strolled around the neighborhood, I could pretend to feed them and put them to bed. It made sense. All Barbie can do is change her clothes, ride around in her car and hang out with men without jobs. Not coincidentally, I've never understood the point of Britney Spears.

So now I guess I get to tag someone. I choose Abby, Lisa and Todd.

The Year in Review: Good News / Bad News

2008-03-13T13:07:00.000-07:00

So, here we are. March. It's been a long year. To sum up:

JANUARY
Week one: Finding myself in need of Hubs' assistance, I call his cell phone. He doesn't answer, but thoughtfully, he sends a text message:

In a meeting.

I text back:

In a car accident.

Good news: Son is safe at home at the time and no one else is seriously hurt.

Bad news: I do get a concussion. Which brings us to:

Week two: Concussion from car accident + emerging from a hot bath + tile floor = Broken nose. Never have I looked more lovely. (Note to the people at work, the store, and at church: The question, "Did your husband beat you up?" is neither original nor funny. Nor likely, since the last time I saw Hubs make a fist he had his thumb tucked inside. Do you see his hand in a cast? DO YOU? I didn't think so.)

Good news: I can still breathe through my mouth!

Bad news: When I speak, I sound like the secret love-child of Darth Vader and Fran Drescher.

Week three: Surgery to reduce the nasal fracture.

Good news: Two days off work!

Bad news: Ever had your nose packed? Or worse, unpacked? Ouch. Still, TWO DAYS OFF WORK! Totally worth it.

Week four: As I drive Son to an appointment, a tire blows out.

Good news: We have Roadside Assistance and I somehow remembered my cell phone!

Bad news: Due to adverse weather conditions, we're told the wait will be eight hours. Eight hours. In the adverse weather conditions. Because it's January, in Utah, where we aren't the best drivers even during GREAT weather conditions. "Ice on the roads? Awesome! We should drive three times as fast, in as many different lanes as possible and see if we can achieve flight!" Huh. As I think about it, eight hours may be a somewhat optimistic estimate.

FEBRUARY

Week One: I get a phone call from the school. Son is fine, but he's bleeding quite a lot and can I please come and get him before the secretary passes out?

Good news: Mom works for a pediatrician and we can get right in to get Son's finger stitched back together.

Bad news: Son interprets "Keep the stitches dry" as "You never have to shower again!"

Week Two: Hubs and I are stranded in a blizzard. In the car. All night. (Upcoming entry on this event because, oh my gosh, you can't even believe how bizarre this night is.)

Good news: The road is closed and I can't go to work! Yay! Hubs and I are exhausted after being out all night and we need the time to sleep.

Bad news: The road is closed and the neighborhood kids can't go to school. They CAN, however, play outside in the snow! While screaming. Loudly. With the loud screaming screams. All. Day. Long.

Week Three: I find out at my follow-up visit that the surgery for the nasal fracture was unsuccessful. They'll have another crack at it in April.

Good news: More time off work!

Bad news: More packing. More unpacking. Oy.

Week Four: Parent Teacher Conference.

Good news: My sitting next to Son every day after school doing every assignment with him should result in his being nearly caught up!

Bad news: If Son didn't actually turn the assignments in? He didn't get credit for the work. WHO KNEW? Son is, of course SHOCKED by this development. You'd think someone might have warned him about this. Oh wait. Someone did. His teachers and his parents.

MARCH

Week One:
After months of warning Son that the state of his toothpaste tube suggests that he either never brushes his teeth or has discovered the secret to self-replenishing dental hygeine products, we go to the dentist expecting dire results.

Good news: Somehow, Son has no cavities!

Bad news: Son now believes my other warnings about acne, dandruff and the downside of smelling like a mountain troll in a sauna are worthless.

Week Two: Hubs finally finds time to hang some pictures around the house.

Good news: I finally have some pictures hanging around the house!

Bad news: One of them is hanging over the hole he had to make in the wall to repair the pipe he drilled through.

So, yeah. 2008? So far so...well, let's not tempt fate.

Dating Disasters Redux

2008-02-16T18:13:00.001-08:00

Okay, it's been awhile AND it's a re-run, but in light of our recent Valentine's Day disaster, I thought I'd re-run this one:

In my life, I have managed to get through certain situations with what has been, for me anyway, a surprising degree of poise and aplomb. I would like to include in these events my dating history. I could tell you of wonderful dates, where I was dazzling, charming and the embodiment of grace. I might tell tales of captivated young men who were so entranced by my charms that I never spent a Saturday night alone. I could probably do a reasonably convincing job, too, if any of it were true.

The sad reality though, is that I didn’t really date much in high school. And by "not much" I mean "not at all." I remember Prom night, which I spent with my best friend at a movie where we ingested embarrassingly large amounts of chocolate in an attempt to console ourselves. My dad was sweet about it all. He was convinced that my dateless status was a direct result of my intimidating beauty and above average intelligence. I would really like to believe that the young men in Utah had to settle for dating less spectacular girls, like those on the cheerleading squad, while suffering from afar with unrequited love for me. However the real answer was somewhat different. For those boys who actually seemed aware of my existence, I was just a "buddy." Just why any guy would seek my advice when it came to dating was mystifying to me. It seemed rather like asking Ozzy Osbourne for religious counsel. Nevertheless, I did my best to point my friends in the direction of the "nice" girls. I was the one they came to when they wanted to know how to approach their dream girl. I offered high fives when they successfully landed a date, and I gave comfort and sympathy when they were shot down. Still, I wished that someday I'd find a guy who might look at me and see more than a pal or "one of the guys."

After high school, things changed. I met boys who hadn't known me since I was six. I attended a university where there was a whole male population who hadn't been informed that my role in life was to be a buddy. I was still shy, so it wasn't quite the social whirl I had hoped it would be, but I still received a gratifying amount of attention. That's when I learned first hand about the dating disasters I'd only heard about. Little things like forgetting a date's name, or worse, having him forget mine. I got the night wrong, once and greeted my date at the door in pajamas and a ponytail. There was one date in particular though, that will always stand out in my mind as the absolute most disastrous date of all time.

My date was a guy named Eric. He was nice enough, I suppose, but I hadn’t been terribly interested in dating him. He was a great pal, but I had concerns about turning a friend into a date. Too often I had seen good friendships destroyed by the attempt to make them more. But I’m not completely heartless, so after declining a few times, I finally agreed to go out with him. We went to a movie at the drive-in theater. Eric parked his truck and situated the speaker on the window. The movie started and he scooted toward me. I, assuming that he simply needed more room, obligingly scooted closer to my door. I am nothing if not considerate. A few minutes later, Eric scooted again and, again, wanting to be thoughtful, I scooted too. When he scooted the third time, I was too close to the door to move any further, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I opened the door and stepped out of the truck. Once I was standing outside, it dawned on me what had happened, and I felt quite foolish, so I just stood there for a moment trying to decide what to do. Hoping to salvage the situation, I just smiled, leaned through the window and said, “Hey! There’s much more room out here! Why don’t you come on out?”

After the movie, we went for a walk along the shore of Utah Lake. In retrospect, I think it was supposed to be romantic. The gnats, mosquitoes and sand fleas really didn’t add much to the ambience he was looking for, however. We walked out onto the dock, since, presumably the moon looked different there then it did on shore. At about that point he attempted to put his arm around me. As I’ve said, my dating experience was limited. But I grew up with three brothers, so when I saw his arm swing toward me, I instinctively anticipated a blow. I ducked and accidentally knocked him off balance. I have to admit, he was very nice about his unplanned baptism in the lake. I was mortified. I was also trying very hard not to laugh. I finally managed to gain enough composure to suggest that he take me home so he could get to his apartment before hypothermia set in. Out of a mixed sense of guilt, compassion and hilarity I even told Eric that he didn’t need to walk me to my door. He insisted though and sloshed and squished his way out of the truck. He escorted me to the door, which I immediately began to unlock. At that point, it didn’t even occur to me that he’d try to kiss me. That explains why I was so startled when I turned back a little too quickly to tell him goodnight. Eric was 6’3” to my 5'7" so suddenly finding his face that close was completely unexpected. I’m sure he found it equally unexpected when my forehead collided with his nose. As he stood there trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, I helpfully handed him a tissue while I tried to think of something to say. Somehow “Let’s do this again sometime!” didn’t seem quite right.

When I returned from serving an LDS mission, I was a little apprehensive about dating again. It’s probably best that Michael approached slowly and cautiously. He blames this on the fact that he had also returned recently from serving a mission and was even more out of practice than I was. I agree that his dating technique really did need work. His method of asking me out was generally along the lines of "I have to see this play for a class and I don't want to go alone. Want to come along?" He also very smoothly let me know he was available by telling me about a girl he seemed to spend an awful lot of time with. Once again, I thought I was playing the role of dating advisor. Once I did realize we were dating, though, I managed to create opportunities for potential disaster. We had attended one event together that was interrupted by a man who took a hostage and threatened to detonate a bomb in the building. Fortunately, it ended well and other than causing a lasting fear of crowded auditoriums, it did make a good story.

"One day we can tell our children about this." I said. Michael looked at me oddly, and I realized I could have phrased my thoughts better. I felt my ears turn red and my face begin to burn as I stammered "Well I don't mean OUR children--I'm not saying that we'll have children TOGETHER." I thought that sounded a little rude, and rather than just changing the subject, I continued my plunge into the abyss of social humiliation. "Not that I don't WANT to have children with you..." Even worse. "Not that I'm saying I DO want to have children with you, I just..." I trailed off as I saw his shoulders shake with laughter. It's probably fortunate that he proposed not long after that. Had he waited any longer, I might have scared him away completely. On the other hand, I sometimes think he married me for sheer entertainment value.

The great thing was, we had been friends in the beginning, and he proved that not only is it possible to turn a best friend into something more, it's the best way to go.
To my great joy and delight, I learned that my best friend has made the best husband I could wish for. Romance is nice but the day to day living is much more fun when I can do it with someone who understands me so well. And I understand him. Most of the time anyway. He doesn't even mind the occasional accidental bloody nose. Not that he gets them often. I’m pleased to say that I have learned what it means when he scoots closer while we watch a movie. It definitely doesn't mean he wants more room. I know that when Mike scoots closer to me, it means that he’ll lean in very close, brush my hair back from my face, look deeply into my eyes and ask, “Do we have any popcorn?”

Bad News

2007-10-05T09:37:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to say this out loud for awhile, hoping that maybe if I don't it won't be true. So far, this plan has not been working so well. So here goes.

We lost the baby.

I may be MIA for awhile while I try to get my life back together.

Thanks for all the kind emails, prayers and thoughts.

A Conversation With Son

2007-09-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

So a few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided we needed to have a chat with Son.

"Son, there's something Dad and I want to talk to you about."

"Oh man. Am I getting a baby brother?"

"What? Where did THAT come from?"

"Well, whenever parents want to sit down and have a talk about something with their kid that's what they always want to talk about."

"Hang on, when have we ever in your entire 12 years of existence EVER sat you down to tell you you're getting a brother?"

"Fine. Then what do you want to talk about?"

"Well, actually we have agreed to have someone come live with us."

Son's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Someone? Who?"

"Not sure. All we know is he or she does not speak English, will need a room of his or her own and probably won't be housebroken." Son's eyes became huge. His face lit up with joy.

"Really?" he squeaked, "You're not just teasing right?"

"No! Really!"

"Seriously? Yay! We're getting a DOG!"

"Wait! No! We're not getting a dog!"

"But you said..."

"I know, but it's not a dog. This is better."

"What's better than a dog?"

"You can't think of anything that would be better?"

"Hmm. Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. Wait, it's not an exchange student or something is it?"

Hubs looked at me for the go ahead. I nodded. Hubs turned to Son, smiled and said, "Actually, you were right the first time."

"I was?"

"Yeah."

"Really? Well it's about time!"

"So you're excited then?"

"Are you kidding? I'm gettin' a DOG!"

"Hold it! No. We're NOT getting a dog. You're getting... a new brother or sister!"

"Oh. Right. Well, that's okay, I guess."

"Good. We're glad you're pleased."

"Yeah. So....no dog then?"

Sigh.

His grandparents were a little more excited by the news. But then, they already have a dog.

Computer Issues

2007-09-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

My computer is having serious issues. I haven't been able to get on-line for wa-a-a-ay too long and it's driving me crazy! Well, crazier. Dad had mercy on me and let me use his computer to check in today. Hubs is FINALLY back in town for more than a day and he's working on getting us back on-line. (I promised that my knowledge of cooking just may return once I'm no longer distracted by the whole computer thing. He'll get hungry soon. Then I'll be back in business! I hope...)

Hope

2007-08-02T18:57:00.001-07:00

This may come as something of a shock, but my parents have a somewhat, oh let's call it "warped" sense of humor. I know. Clearly I was adopted and they haven't found time to break the news yet.

Anyway, during the last week things with Dad have been pretty scary. Seeing him in the hospital that first day was an experience I could never have imagined and will never repeat because Dad is doing better now and he will live forever and ever just like I'd always assumed he would since he is after all, the strongest man in the world. (What? Like you never regress to the sweet, reassuring denial of childhood?) Dad was in bed, staring at the ceiling, refusing to speak. Well, sort of refusing. He did deign to share a few words (none that are fit to print, of course) when anyone disturbed him. You know. Like whenever anyone annoyed him by making too much noise existing in the same building. Dad is pretty easy going, really. He is. Affable, friendly, pleasant. You know. Just as long as he isn't sick. Because when he is? Wow. Like Jeckyll and Hyde on the days that Hyde forgot to take his meds.

So when Dad reached the point that he wasn't even sniping at the nurses and glaring at the doctors while muttering about how he would be just fine if everyone would just "LEAVE ME ALONE ALREADY, ONLY BRING ME A COKE FIRST" I got worried.

At one point Dad's doctor came in the room, saw my brothers and I and asked, "What did you do to get all these people to come visit you?" While Dad was busy responding (and by "responding" I mean "glaring in silence") to the hassle of having one more person in his room using up all that extra oxygen and space that the hospital probably charges for, my brother Ryan volunteered, "It's his sparkling sense of humor that draws us in, Doctor."

All kidding aside, I admit the lack of humor was something that really worried me. Even when the surly attitude returned, there was still not the slightest indication that Dad might crack a joke. And that's scary. Even in the worst of times Dad has always had a sense of humor that withstands anything. Frequently irreverent, always dry and usually more than a little twisted, he gets me every time. And I am just not ready to part with that humor or its owner any time soon. I kept hoping for some sign of Dad's sense of humor, somehow believing that if I could catch a glimpse of it then my loving funny father must still be in there somewhere.

A couple of days ago, a nurse came into the room and asked Dad, " We need your full legal name for our records. What does the 'L' stand for?" And I froze, knowing that a nurse was about to be treated to some of Dad's less pleasant remarks. You see, Dad hates his first name so much that I was 12 years old before I even knew what it is. He never uses it and I have never heard him even speak it aloud. He was so secretive about it, in fact, that I was deeply disappointed to find out that it's not some horrible abnormal name. I was kind of hoping for something like 'Leakyzit.' It's not though. It's a completely normal, rather common name and yet I still fear that if I were to put it in print here? He'd find out and my life as I know it would be over.

So of course, when the nurse unwittingly broached this very dangerous subject with her extremely cranky patient, everyone in the room sort of braced themselves, you know, the way people do at the first signs of an earthquake.

And then it happened. Without missing a beat Dad replied solemnly, "The 'L' stands for Lucifer."

Ladies and Gentlemen: My father. He's going to be just fine.

Good News

2007-07-29T14:56:00.001-07:00

Okay. Dad's doing much better. I may be able to breathe again soon! Thanks for the good thoughts, prayers and e-mails. I'll be back very soon!

I'll Be Back

2007-07-27T10:27:00.001-07:00

I may be out of the internet world for the next few days. My father is critically ill.

Always Pre-Order. It's A Good Thing.

2007-07-25T16:28:00.000-07:00

Friday night, Son and I, along with what appeared to be a large percentage of the Utah population, made the pilgrimage to the bookstore for the release of the last Harry Potter book. I think I first realized that I had seriously underestimated the rabid nature, not to mention the sheer numbers of the fans in the county when we arrived and saw the line snaking from the front door, down the street and around the corner.

We arrived early, but not as early as those more dedicated than we. For example, I was not dedicated enough to show up with a sleeping bag, snacks and two gallons of drinking water. (Some might question the wisdom of bringing gallons of drinking water or bucket sized mugs of Diet Coke to a place where leaving to use the facilities could jeopardize one's place in line, but onward.)

Son took it in stride, I think. "Mom! We are NEVER EVER EVER GOING TO GET A BOOK! We will be here FOREVER!"

I thought he was exaggerating. Not by much, however. I was more than a bit concerned myself. You see, I don't really like lines. Mostly because lines very frequently involve people and people? Well, sometimes they bump into each other. This is a problem for me because, well, you know how most people require some degree of personal space? I kind of like having a bit more space than most people. In fact I'm most comfortable with, oh say, twelve feet in every direction. I know. I need help.

Anyhoo, I spent the next ten minutes reminding myself that having a panic attack would likely interfere with all the fun I was supposed to be having, especially if I passed out, hit my head on the sidewalk and not only embarrassed Son for life (which would have made it all worth it, really) but had to call Hubs to drive me home; Hubs who is still questioning my sanity in even going in the first place, because first, he has NO SENSE OF FUN and secondly, because, well, he knows how I feel about crowds. Still, I tried to be brave for Son's sake and pressed on.

Son and I kept each other entertained by asking each other Harry Potter trivia questions, which was kind of interesting because the questions he was asking were very detailed and difficult and I have a sneaking suspicion that some of them were based on other stories entirely. That is, unless I missed the chapter where Harry and Ron build a raft and sail it down the Mississippi River shortly before encountering Indian Joe in the Cupboard of the Temple of Doom.

Finally, the doors opened and the line started creeping forward. And then it happened--my own personal miracle. The nice lady (and yes, I know she was nice because she was dressed like Professor McGonagall) announced that everyone who had pre-ordered could just come into the store without waiting in line! And? I had PRE-ORDERED! So, feeling very much like Paris Hilton's parents on visiting day at the jail, Son and I breezed right past everyone who was in front of us and into the store where we were able to partake of the lovely refreshments provided. (Ho Ho's! Yummy AND the chocolate sticks to your teeth so you look like a mountain troll, which at most other times is somewhat embarrassing, but for this event? Awesome!)

And then? THEN! As Son and I were loitering casually near the registers we heard an announcement: "All pre-order customers please form a line by the middle register." And guess where we were? RIGHT NEXT TO THE MIDDLE REGISTER! There were two, TWO people in front of us. The clerk hovered over the box, box cutter in hand as everyone counted down the remaining seconds. And then it happened. The box was open and within seconds the first book was out of the box. Then the second book and then the third book, OUR BOOK was out of the box and in our hands.

I couldn't help noticing that Son was carrying the book in such a manner that ensured all could admire it as we made our way through the crowd. You know. So people could see that he was by far the coolest person in the whole store. Or at least the third coolest person.

Son started reading the book aloud by the light of my IPod on the drive home. (Yes, I'm still hearing about how foolish I was to dismiss his suggestion that we take a flashlight. Sigh.)

It took us a little over eight hours to finish the book. I was right about some things, wrong about others. I was happy with most of it and disappointed by very little. (And no, I'm not going to spoil anything here.) But mostly, when I put the book down I was overcome by that sensation I always had as a kid when I would scarf down my ice cream so fast I barely tasted it: (What? If you knew my brothers you, too, would learn to scarf it before they got to it.)

I was glad I finally got what I wanted, but I'm very sad that now it's all gone.

Just What We've Been Waiting For

2007-07-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

Moments ago, I arrived home from work. This morning I had (foolishly) entertained thoughts of taking a nap when I came home. I've been up for the last 44 hours (Hubs. Allergy Season. Snoring. You do the math) and since I promised weeks ago to take Son to the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows release party at the bookstore, I was kind of thinking a nap may be in order. But before I could even get out of the car, Son wrenched the door open and shouted, "THIRTEEN HOURS! THIRTEEN!! Do you know what this means? DO YOU?"

"Uh, does it mean that you're just a little excited?"

"A little? A little? Mom, I've been waiting for this day my whole entire life!"

"Really? Your whole entire life? Wow. That's interesting, because, you know, the world hadn't even heard of Harry Potter until 1997. To spare you the hassle of doing the math, in 1997 you were two years old. And frankly for the next couple of years after that you were far more excited about seeing how many Cheerios you could shove up Daddy's nose before he woke up (the record is 3) than you were with anything to do with Harry Potter."

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes the way he always does when he contemplates just how sad it is that his mother has such a penchant for remembering the more embarrassing aspects of his infancy. In case I hadn't noticed his disgust he huffed, "Mom? It's a figure of speech, okay? Now could we please get on with things? We've got a LOT to do before tonight."

Thoroughly chastened (okay, maybe not"thoroughly" chastened. It was more like "not at all chastened") I said, "Right. Sorry. Okay, what kind of 'stuff' do we need to do?"

He sighed again no doubt pondering the irony that as a child, he is forced to rely on people so much less intelligent than himself to get things done. Like driving. And paying for stuff. Yes, it's difficult indeed to be a child.

"We need to get some snacks. To keep up our strength."

"Good point. I'm thinking chocolate. You know. In case we get scared by the Dementors again."

"And can we get beef jerky?"

"Ah! A source of protein that requires no preparation and can be consumed without having to put the book down. Very good, Son. I'm impressed."

"Thanks. Also, can we get a flashlight? Or maybe one of those lights you can clip onto the book?"

"Why? I'm sure the store will have lights on. I mean, it's a special occasion and everything. I really think they plan on having at least some of the lights on."

"Mom? For in the car? While we're driving home from the store?" To his credit he refrained from adding, "Like, duh, you tragically clueless woman."

"I see. You do know that reading while driving, while very common in Utah, is still technically against the law, right?"

"Mom. Please. Work with me, here, okay? Okay. Now, we're going to want to make sure all the chores are done today so we can spend tomorrow reading. I've already got mine all finished but if there's anything else you want me to do this weekend can you tell me now so I can get it done?"

Good heavens.

My son has commited the pre-meditated and voluntary act of completing his chores without being asked.

I've been waiting for this day my whole entire life.

Shy? Really?

2007-07-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

So last week I was talking to my father about my upcoming high school reunion. He, as I knew he would, recounted stories from his high school reunion (Class of 1842) One of his favorite stories, and I know it's his favorite because the details are remarkably similar with every telling, involves the moment when, many years after high school, he came face to face with The Girl. You all remember The Girl. She has attended every high school, in every class, ever since girls were allowed out of the kitchen and into the school room, thus altering the course of formal education forever by reducing it to a convenient excuse to spend time in close proximity with prospective dates. (See also: The Boy.)

Dad has often told the story of how he admired, from a distance of course (Dad has always had a very healthy sense of self-preservation) The Girl. He tells how he used to wish he could have dated her. Or even been able to command the English language long enough to introduce himself. But being a member of a long and proud line of absurdly shy people, he knew that if he were to speak to her he would, of course, burst into flames.

Years later at his reunion, he threw caution, not to mention pyrophobia, to the wind and actually spoke to her. With words. Out loud. And the result was positively mind-boggling. Dad summoned the courage to confess that he'd wanted to ask her out way back when. Her response? "Oh, I wish you had. I never went to a single dance in high school because everyone assumed I already had a date, and I was too shy to let you know I was interested."

I know. I was shocked too. Who knew they had dancing back then?

Anyway, like I said, I've heard this story many times. Dad used to bring this story up every time my high school had a dance and I was spending the evening hanging out with my likewise dateless friends. So, yeah, I heard it pretty much every weekend. It was sweet, I suppose, for Dad to try to make me believe that the only reason I wasn't at the dance was because everyone assumed I was too cool to go with them. Delusional, sure, but sweet. Still I knew the truth. I knew that all The Girls from my class were going to every dance, every party and living every day as if it were the Prom. Well, maybe not every day. I'm sure they had bad days, too. You know. Days they lived as if it were just Homecoming.

So imagine my suprise, (suprise, shock, whatever) to learn recently that some of The Girls at my school did NOT, in fact, attend every dance. Some of these girls are now, after lo, these many years, even claiming to have been SHY. Really. They are.

I'm finding this somewhat difficult to believe in some cases. Consider, for example, the girl who was not only beautiful and popular but she was skilled athletically as well. That's right. She played sports. In public. Wearing a sports uniform. In front of everyone. Shy? Seriously?

Or? OR? The girl who was so beautiful and smart and, let's say it together: popular that I used to wonder what it would be like to just live one day in her world? Turns out? She thinks she was shy, too!

It doesn't end there. There are GUYS from my class who are now saying that THEY were shy! Guys who inspired many a daydream in many a female mind, guys who were cute, hilarious, smart, athletic...and...shy?

Clearly they have no idea what "shy" means, because if they really thought they were shy, well, they were doing it wrong.

Of course, I'm willing to concede that they may have, for whatever reason, believed they were shy. And perception is the stuff of which certain realities are made. But still. Were they really that shy? If so, what would High School life have been like if I had only known then what I know now? I mean, besides the fact that I wouldn't EVER use calculus again once finals were over? (Seriously, not once.) How would life have been if I had known that they might have burst into flames at the thoughts of speaking to other people? Besides smoky and hot, I mean.

I guess I'll never really know. I have decided one thing, though:

Perception is a powerful, powerful thing.

It is also highly unreliable.

Father vs Son

2007-07-16T13:01:00.001-07:00

"There's something wrong with your son."

My son. If Hubs' tone of frustration wasn't enough to tip me off, the fact that Son had just somehow become my son and mine alone, made it very clear I'd come home to another father/son dispute.

"Problem?"

"Well, I told him to shower and he was gone three minutes, then came back with perfectly dry hair and still smelled like he'd spent the afternoon playing field hockey with a herd of mountain goats."

"Hmm. You told him to shower with water and soap and shampoo, right? Because you have to be specific with him about that."

Hubs looked affronted. "Yes, of course. I'm not new around here, you know."

"I know, but you did you give him any further instructions?"

"Such as?"

"Well, you know that he thinks if he actually had water coming out of the shower head, and if the soap and shampoo were physically present with him in the shower, then technically he followed instructions, right?"

"Are you serious?"

"Sadly, I am. Also, you have to remind him to stand under the water, not just near it."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Other than being twelve?"

"Oh. Right. So now what?"

"Okay here's what you say: "Stand under the water coming from the shower head. Pick up the soap. Lather it up, apply it to your body until the dirt is gone, then rinse. Also, the shampoo? It goes in your hair. You lather it up, in your hair--not just in your hands-- and then rinse it out."

"So is it that he doesn't understand the concept?"

"Oh no. He's just looking for a loophole. A technicality, as it were."

"So I didn't handle it right?"

"I wouldn't say that. In fact, hosing him down in the driveway while you washed the car is, I'm sure, a lesson he'll remember for years to come."

"You think?"

"Definitely. And hanging that pine tree air freshner from his collar? Inspired."

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely."

Hubs will get the hang of this eventually. I'm not too worried, though. Son is bound to discover girls any time now. When he does, I have a feeling getting him in the shower will be the least of our concerns.

So Close and Yet So Far

2007-07-12T16:49:00.000-07:00

I am expecting something and I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. After years of waiting and hoping and longing for this day to come it is FINALLY happening! That's right! Today I pre-ordered my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows! (Had you going there for a second, huh Mom?) This is a purchase I have been eagerly, nay anxiously awaiting for quite some time now. This is even bigger than when I finally got my IPod (which I still maintain is a psychological aid and should really be covered by insurance).

When I went into the bookstore today, my friend (because when you spend excessive amounts of time in bookstores? You make friends with the employees) rang up my purchase, put my name down in the Official Harry Potter Pre-Order Spiral Notebook and then leaned across the desk and whispered, "Guess what came in yesterday?"

"What?" She looked around carefully then, once she was certain the coast was clear, beckoned me to the doorway of "The Back Room." You know. The Back Room. That mystical place where I suspect they always keep the best stuff, like, say the last pair of cute shoes in my size. They do this, of course, just for the sheer glee of watching customers search vainly for things that the Powers That Be have hidden away, to be sold to those who prove themselves worthy of the right to purchase them only after demonstrating persistence above and beyond what is reasonable or normal. And this proved true again today as she pointed to a large box that had been covered with more packing tape than I have ever seen on any item not packaged by my father, Lord of the Un-Openable Packages.

We stood together, gazing at the box with reverence.

"Is that what I think it is?" I breathed. She nodded.

"Yes. Isn't it something?"

"Wow. Could I...just...maybe...touch it?"

"Hmmm. I don't know. I'm kind of pushing it just letting you see it."

"Please? You don't know what this would mean to me. It would give me hope to sustain me through the week ahead." She paused, contemplating the tortuous days to come. Then she nodded.

"Well...okay, but be quick about it."

And I was. As quick as one could be when touching what, in some opinions (including mine) could be considered almost a holy relic. I reached out a hand and carefully brushed the top of the box, then the sides, imagining the stacks of perfect, new, smooth pages with the final words of Harry Potter's tale printed on them in wonderfully inky smelling print. Is Snape really good or evil? (My money's on "good") Can Draco be redeemed? Who will die? (Not Harry. Please not Harry. Please don't let it be Harry. Or Ron. Probably Hagrid though.) Is Dumbledore really dead? Where does Dumbledore's brother fit into all of this and is R.A.B. Regulus Black? (Well, yeah, obviously.) These and all my other theories are this close to being answered.

And I was RIGHT THERE. It would have been so easy, in theory at least, to just rip that box open, grab a book and start reading. I wondered how far I could get before store security reached me, and if I would be allowed to keep the book with me while we waited for the police. You know. For evidence.

I was so close. There was only one thing that stopped me: We have tickets to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this weekend, and I was uncertain if I would be out of jail by then. Especially since all my discretionary income for the week has been used on book orders and movie tickets. Not much left for bail. Hmmm.

And so, I tore myself away and my friend and I walked back into the main store.

But next Saturday at 12:01 a.m.? I'll be back and this time there will be no stopping me.

Nine days. This is worse than waiting for Christmas.

Just Because He Loves Me

2007-07-10T17:27:00.000-07:00

For some time now, I've feared that one day I will be on the news. Not in a good way either. I worry that I will be led from my home in handcuffs and escorted to a waiting police cruiser all the while screaming, "You don't understand! Do you have ANY idea how many times that man snoozes his alarm clock? HE HAD IT COMING!!"

I've mentioned before that Hubs and I have very different approaches to beginning the day. I am a very light sleeper. I routinely wake up instantly, sitting bolt upright in bed, every nerve standing at attention and breathing like I've just outrun a five-year old on a sugar high simply because I heard a jarring, sleep-shattering sound, like a hummingbird dropping a feather on a cobweb twenty miles away.

Hubs on the other hand? Well, remember that bed George Jetson had that would just disappear into the wall, propel him onto a conveyer belt that would eventually get George showered, dressed, groomed and out of the house? I have wept tears of envy over the life of bliss this device must have afforded Jane, his wife.

Hubs is pathologically incapable of waking up with the first alarm. Or the second. Or the sixth. He has an elaborate system that involves three different clocks, and his cell phone but the fact is, I realized years ago that he doesn't set the alarm so that HE will wake up. He sets the alarm so I will wake up and then somehow wake him.

This has caused many, let's call them "discussions" at our house. He contends that if I were to get up at the same time he does, he would have no problem. Being the accomodating soul I am, I tried this. The only thing that happened was I was up, dressed, ready to go and he was still hitting snooze.

I've kept water guns next to the bed, dousing him in the morning. He reacts by wiping his face on the comforter and going back to sleep. I've tried rolling him out of bed, but he just keeps sleeping.

Last month the situation changed. I now have to be at work early in the morning before Hubs even pretends he's going to wake up. I've wondered how he manages to get up without me there to inflict bodily harm, but I suspect it has a lot to do with Son pestering his father for breakfast now that Mom is off kitchen duty until lunch-time.

And so it came as no surprise when Hubs announced, "You know, I don't even hear you get up or get ready or anything."

"Really? I am SHOCKED."

"No, really. I sleep right through it."

"I know. And don't think I'm not terrified that the house will burn down with you and our son in it, simply because I'm not here to point out that you're on fire and may want to think about getting out."

"Yeah. You know, this would be a really good way for you to get rid of me. It would totally look like an accident."

"I suppose, but what about Son? I wouldn't want him to get hurt."

"Oh, just do it on a day you can take him to work with you."

"Right, that wouldn't look suspicious at all. But I do appreciate the thought. It's sweet of you to give me pointers for bumping you off."

"I do what I can."

Yes. Right. He'll do practically anything for me. That is, he will as long as it doesn't involve waking up.

An Important Reason To Avoid Sedation

2007-07-09T16:22:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I apparently agreed to play the organ for our church services. I'm not sure exactly how this happened, really. The only reason I can think of for consenting to such a thing probably has a lot to do with the fact that at the time I was asked I was recovering from surgery and rather heavily sedated. These people are sneaky.

Most perplexing is the fact that I don't, technically speaking, even know how to play the organ. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that playing the organ involves using the feet and frankly, just being able to walk without tripping over my own feet? Nothing short of a miracle, my friends.

I've never really understood why people assume that the ability to play the piano equals the ability to play the organ. To me it's sort of like saying, "Oh, you play soccer? Excellent! I'll bet you'll be SUPER at water ballet!"

Once I sobered up and realized what I'd agreed to do, I naturally tried to get out of it. To my great dismay, however, I'm finding it difficult to get anyone to take "Um, actually no" for an answer. It is in many ways similar to finding myself somehow affilitated with the Mafia. Except, presumably in the Mafia I could hope to lose a finger or two, thus having a legitimate excuse to bail.

And so, today I decided to give it a go. I met a very nice lady at the church who proceeded to explain the basics of the organ. It was an excellent presentation and one I feel certain would have been helpful to anyone who had the ability to learn, which sadly, does not include me.

"These are the swells, and down here? The great."

"I see. And what about the "nifties"? Would they be somewhere over here next to "groovy?"

The very nice lady stared at me blankly. "No."

"Right. Okay, moving on then. "

I tried to smile enthusiastically while she pointed out the foot pedals but all I could think of was the time years ago when a particular organist who suffered from extreme lack of height, reached for one of the far pedals, slipped right off the bench and landed in a heap on the pedals causing a spectaular scene as she startled the bishop so badly he actually woke up.

Also? I may get a lot of flack for this, but I really hate organ music. Really hate it. Hate it so much that I've asked Hubs to promise that at my funeral he'll have bagpipers play since that seems so much more cheerful to me.

Yesterday Hubs, completely misunderstanding that I didn't want him to solve the problem, I just wanted him to listen while I groused about the injustice of life, offered several ways to get me excused from this assignment. I just kept shooting down his suggestions until he finally hit on one that I think will do the trick.

I'm supposed to be on the bench ready to play in two weeks. And I plan to be ready. Now, if you'll excuse me, I just have to go practice the footwork for "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

High School Revisited

2007-07-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

Ever have the feeling that time is passing by much faster than is strictly necessary? Yeah, me too. Despite all my efforts to ignore it, hoping that doing so would make it go away, I am faced with the horrifying reality that during the last month or so twenty years have passed.

Sure, I've had a vague awareness that the years have been sliding by. Usually this awareness occurs when Son expresses his horror that I grew up in the Dark Ages before DVDs and, gasp, IPods or when he asks, in all seriousness, if I came across the plains via covered wagon. But rarely does anyone shove that reality in front of me and insist that I accept it. Rarely. But it does happen.

Like recently when it came to my attention that my graduating high school class is holding a reunion next month. I brought up the subject with Hubs, simply to demonstrate that due to circumstances beyond my control, I'm now officially very, very old. Missing the point entirely (as he does) he asked, "So are we going?"

"Um, no."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'd love too, really I would. But I have pressing, not to mention less painful plans that evening and I'm afraid I simply can't change them."

"Like what?"

"I thought I'd start the evening by pouring hot tar down my ear canals then finish up by pulling out my toenails with pliers."

"Not my good pliers, though, right?"

"Yes, your good pliers. So you see, it's just not going to be possible to make the reunion."

"Oh come on. Why not go?"

"Look, do you remember high school? At all?"

"It couldn't have been that bad."

"No. No it wasn't. It was much worse."

"Really? Were you, like, openly mocked? Shunned? Shoved in a locker?"

"Well, no. I was invisible. I was ignored. It's hard to shove an invisible person in a locker, especially while you're ignoring them."

So, no. When I first heard about it, I wasn't terribly excited by the prospect of the high school reunion. High School may have been fun for some but for me? Not so much. Until recently, I remember my high school experience as something akin to being required to attend a party every day, but being forced to stay in the corner, bound and gagged by insecurity and pathological shyness, limited to nothing more than lonely observation.

But then I started to remember other things. There were people who were kind. There were people I enjoyed talking to and being with. There are people I still think about and I wonder what ever happened to them. There were good times. Maybe it would be fun to see some of those people again. And maybe the last twenty years have taught me something. (Not a lot, obviously, but maybe something.) Those cool "visible" people who never realized I was there? Maybe they weren't nearly as secure or cool as I once believed. Maybe they were mere mortals, after all. Well, not Jed, naturally, but everyone else.

Maybe it would be fun to go to the reunion after all.

Does perspective come with age?

Maybe.

Pushing Buttons

2007-06-27T19:11:00.000-07:00

So we did it. We moved. People keep asking if we're all settled in and I'm not entirely sure how to answer that. Okay, technically speaking, yes, all of our possessions are under one roof. Of course we can't put the cars in the garage, since it's full of boxes and I saw Son eating cereal out of a gravy boat the other day. I'm still not sure where the dishes all ended up. I have an idea, of course, but I'm more than a little afraid that finding them will involve sorting through the box warehouse formerly known as the garage and I'm just not ready to face that yet.

On the first day we were actually moving things into the house, I was taking a break (by break I mean "collapsing in a heap of overworked and only recently-discovered muscle groups while whimpering quietly") when Son called to me from the entry.

"Mom! Have you seen this? It's so AWESOME!"

"Have I seen what?"

"The alarm system, you should see this!"

Realizing that checking out the alarm system would mean moving my weary and very sore muscles more than I was willing to do unless someone set me on fire, I tried to stall by asking,

"Describe it to me?"

"Oh it's so cool, it's got buttons you can push to call people to help!"

"Oh? Is there a Moving Man button on there?"

"Funny. No. BUT there's a button for the police, one for the paramedics, one for the fire department and we've even got a button for the army!" He now had my full attention.

"The what?"

"The army!"

"We can call the army?"

"Yeah, this must be the deluxe model or something!"

Curiosity finally won out and I limped into the entry to investigate. "Okay, Kiddo, show me this system."

With his best Vanna White impression he pointed to the buttons on the alarm key pad. "See? Fire, medical, police and the army, only it has a police car icon instead of "police" and a red cross icon for medical, and a little flame for the fire department. But there's no icon for the army button. It just says ARM for short. Cool, huh?"

Very cool. Moving all those boxes should be a breeze with the army at my fingertips!

Pining Over the Derby

2007-06-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

Originally posted on Observations of a Misfit:

Call me paranoid, but I sometimes suspect that the Boy Scouts of America was formed as a means to relieve parents of their grip on sanity. Don’t get me wrong, I think there are many positive attributes to the scouting program, and just as soon as I come up with some, I’ll be sure to list them.

In the meantime, I feel compelled to discuss what I believe is a subversive attack on harmonious family relationships. This attack is sly, and innocuous in appearance, yet remarkably effective. One event in particular often turns normally peaceful and sane parents into competitive raving maniacs. I speak of course, of the Pinewood Derby.

For the uninitiated, the Pinewood Derby is an event that features races with small wooden cars. The scouts and their parents are given a block of wood, a set of wheels and a hearty “Good luck!” before the scout leader beats a hasty retreat, not to be seen again until the evening of the race. His disappearance helps facilitate the plot against parents by depriving them of anyone who can answer questions. Some people have asked why we must put our sons and ourselves through this experience. The answer is simple: the Pinewood Derby aids in the development of our young men, so that one day when they go out into the world and decide, for whatever reason, to make cars out of blocks of wood, they'll be prepared.

Once the scout has received his kit, these rudimentary wood and plastic elements are supposed to be transformed, somehow, into a sleek, swift race car. While some debate the best method for creating these cars, I have found that what works well, for me anyway, is to hide and let Mike deal with it. Last year, when we had our first experience with the Pinewood Derby, I was innocent and naïve. I wasn’t aware that the best way to handle the situation is fleeing the country.I still remember the look on Mike’s face when I handed him the kit our son’s den leader had dropped off earlier. He narrowed his eyes and looked at it suspiciously.“What is this?”

“It’s for the Pinewood Derby! You did this when you were a kid, didn’t you?” Mike looked at me blankly.“You know, you build a little car, then you race it against other little cars?” He still looked bewildered.“Okay, we can look it up on the Internet, and you can call my dad. He can help you."

I have fond memories of the Pinewood Derby. I have three brothers who were all Boy Scouts. My father was something of an expert on cars in addition to being very artistically inclined. Each year, he produced beautifully crafted Derby cars. I was never permitted to actually handle these little works of art and neither were my brothers. In retrospect, I realize that preventing my brothers from helping with these projects probably defeated the purpose.

Making a car for the Pinewood Derby has the potential for being a great opportunity for parents and their children to spend time working together on a project. This was not the case at our house, however. The car was Dad’s project. The only responsibility my brothers were allowed to assume was harassing Dad and sneaking into his shop to play with the cars when Dad wasn't looking.

After spending a great deal of time doing research by looking on the Internet and speaking to every scouting father he knew, Michael then interviewed my father, gleaning advice to help make this rite of passage as successful as possible. He returned home from work the next day informed and ready to begin.

“I’ve got it all planned. I know how to build the fastest and best looking car ever!” While Michael explained the importance of weight placement and the best way to carve the car, I indulged in fantasies of the happy bonding time my husband and our son would enjoy. I imagined them working in the garage, smiling at each other and having deep, meaningful conversations. I know I certainly enjoyed the peace. At least, it was peaceful until they came in the house and shattered my Norman Rockwell-like visions of father and son working together to craft a handmade toy.

After my little son stomped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door, Michael emitted a sound that registered somewhere between a frustrated sigh and an infuriated howl. Approaching carefully, I put my arms around him and asked, “That bad, huh?”Mike sighed again and sat down wearily. He folded his arms across his chest, tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

“I think we should withdraw our son from Boy Scouts." I moved behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“Can’t it? You wouldn’t believe what he wants to do to that car! He wants to carve it himself, and he doesn’t care when I tell him where we need to place the weights so it will go faster. Don’t even get me started on his thoughts about aerodynamics.”

“He knows what aerodynamics are?”

"Of course not, but I do, and he won’t listen.” I thought for a moment about how to impart my thoughts tactfully.

“Honey? You do realize this is our son’s project, right? I mean you need to supervise and advise but ultimately, this is about him.”

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t want to show up with a stupid looking car.”

I reminded Michael that young boys were also creating the other cars, so I was certain that the cars would all be equally stupid looking. I realize now that this was the foolishness of inexperience talking. In addition to Michael’s competitive nature, there was another problem. Mike is a perfectionist. Anything he produces or oversees must not only be better than anything else, it must be flawless. Our son, on the other hand, isn’t terribly concerned about perfection. Like many boys his age, he didn’t really care what the car looked like, he just wanted the wheels attached so he could play with it.

The next evening, the second battle of the Pinewood Derby car took place. Hoping to prevent another scene, I gave Mike a pep talk before he headed out to the garage. “Remember, this is about having quality time with your son. You can either create memories of working together that he’ll think of fondly, or let him make memories of being told to sit still while his dad built this car without him. Just remember, it’s his car, not yours." Mike saluted me comically.

“Yes ma’am! I’ll do my best!”

It wasn’t long before my son came storming into the house in tears, complaining about bossy, overbearing parents. I went in search of my husband and found him in the garage muttering to himself. I could see he was agitated about something, but I interrupted anyway. “Problem?”

“Orange.”

“What?”

“He wants to paint it orange!”

“I see. So do we send him to military school now or should we try counseling first?”He eyed me in disgust.

“Orange isn’t a cool color. It’s going to look ridiculous.”

“Michael, it’s HIS car. If he wants to paint it orange with pink polka dots, that’s his choice.” Mike looked at me in horror.

“Pink? How can you even suggest such a thing? We’d be the laughing stock of the neighborhood!” Despite the drama, on the appointed evening, we arrived with a completed car. Michael and our son had compromised by painting the car red, with orange flames on the sides. I was genuinely surprised by the professional appearance of the other cars. Some even had little drivers with determined-looking faces painted on them. One had a license plate that read, “Eat Dust”.

All of the contestants spent a great deal of time before the race applying graphite to the wheels of the cars to ensure higher speeds, and doing practice runs on the track while Michael and the other fathers griped about how the cars shouldn’t be played with before the race. I listened absently to Mike's complaining while I contemplated whether or not to tell him that rubbing his eyes and nose with his graphite covered fingers had left him with a really cool racoon-like quality. (I decided against it when I thought about the photo-op that would occur after the race. I'm thoughtful like that.)

The races began, and I watched as my son cheered for his car. Michael was deeply engaged in conversation with the other fathers, speculating about the importance of weight placement. This only made things worse for Michael. He returned to my side uptight and concerned. “Now what?” I asked, even though I really didn't want to know.

“Well, now I’m wondering if we should have placed the weights further back. Or maybe further forward. I don’t know anymore.”

“Michael, either relax and enjoy the evening or I'm sending you home, got it?"

“Sure, that’s easy for you to say, you don’t have a car in the race.”

“No. No I don’t. But I’d like to remind you that you don’t either. Our son has a car in the race, and it might be nice if we focused on him, don't you think?" Michael had the decency to look a bit chagrined.

"Sorry."

Our son’s car performed reasonably well. It didn’t win, but it wasn’t last either. The important thing, in my opinion, was that our little boy, despite his disappointment, was able to congratulate the winners. He had a wonderful time, and in my ignorance, I thought that was the point. Michael and I congratulated our son on his car's performance and more importantly on his good sportsmanship, then we watched as he returned to the racetrack where the other boys continued racing just for fun.Michael waited until his son was out of earshot. “Is it really wrong that I wanted my car to win?” he asked. I refrained from rolling my eyes. Okay, I waited until he couldn’t see me, and then I rolled my eyes. As I gave him a hug and tried to offer comfort, I glanced over his shoulder to see several wives also comforting their husbands. One wife was tugging her husband out into the hall to quiet his ranting and sputtering about an unfair start.

It was oddly comforting to realize that my husband wasn’t the only man struggling with the loss. I couldn’t help overhearing one father comment angrily, “The only reason that boy won is because his father did all the work for him.”

“You mean the way you did all the work on your son’s car?” his wife replied. I decided to make my escape before I burst out laughing.

Over the past year, which I considered an ample mourning period, I thought Michael had recovered from his disappointment. I had hoped that he might actually feel a little silly about how emotionally involved he had become in the Pinewood Derby. Alas, my hopes were dashed at the last Boy Scout meeting, when the scout leader passed out seemingly harmless little boxes containing kits for making small wind-driven boats. “Don’t forget” she chirped, “This month is the Rain Gutter Regatta!”

I looked about the room and saw determined looks on the faces of the fathers in the room. I also noted the equally resigned looks on the faces of the mothers. A year ago, I was new and naïve. This year I am an experienced mother of a Boy Scout. More important, I'm the wife of a Boy Scout's father. I know exactly what to expect and how to handle it.

That is why I’m headed to an undisclosed location just as soon as I’m packed. It’s not that I don’t plan to help, though. Before I leave, I’m going to christen the boat. In tiny letters, I shall paint the name "Titanic” on the little hull. I’m hoping it will help Michael set his expectations at a realistic level. If nothing else, it might make the other moms laugh. If there are any mothers present, that is. I've extended an open invitation to all the moms to join me in my getaway.

The Fairly Odd Couple

2007-06-26T18:37:00.000-07:00

Originally posted on Observations of a Misfit

My husband is not a perfect man; however, I’ll concede that he is closer to perfection than I. That, in and of itself, is a flaw, as far as I’m concerned, since it can be more than a little irritating. I like to think that we somehow balance each other with our differences. Despite our contrasts, we love each other enough to overlook them. On the other hand, sometimes these differences result in experiences that makes us laugh so hard that we are certain we have ruined each other for polite society. Thus, despite and because of our different approaches to life, we are very happily stuck with each other.

Mike is a highly organized, efficient man. I’m more of an absent-minded, running-at-the-last-minute, can’t-find-anything sort of person. He’s cautious where I’m impulsive. He’s careful, while I can be a bit reckless. As a result, he has suffered far fewer embarrassing moments than I. But, every now and then the gods smile on me and something flaps the unflappable Michael. When it does it’s a beautiful thing.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not as though I enjoy seeing him squirm. Well, maybe I enjoy it a little. Okay, I enjoy it a lot but my point is, since I have provided him with innumerable anecdotes from the train wreck of embarrassment that is my life, I don’t need to feel especially guilty for getting a little chuckle out of his rare and fleeting moments of foolishness.

For example, he still teases me about the last time we were in Vegas. I was so giddy with the novelty of being out late without a child or the need to get home to relieve a babysitter that I neglected to watch where I was going. I managed to trip and nearly fall while walking through the casino on our way to the hotel restaurant. Fortunately, I saved myself from the humiliation of falling flat on my face by grabbing the closet object I could find. The arm I grabbed to steady myself belonged to a very nice man who even helped me pick up his bucket of quarters I had caused him to spill all over the floor. Once we arrived at the restaurant, I became transfixed by the keno game going on, not to mention the view of the glittering neon of the Las Vegas strip outside. While we were eating, I was so busy gawking at all the sights and sounds, I didn’t notice that there was a straw in my glass, until I inadvertently inserted it right up my nose. Did Mike politely look away, and pretend that this was not embarrassing for me? No. He may as well have pointed and laughed. Has he refrained from mentioning the incident to others? One of those experiences that isn’t funny in retrospect to me for at least another year? Of course not. Michael shares this story with anyone who will listen, including total strangers we met in the elevator after I tried to duck out unseen in humiliation.

True to form, I followed the impaling straw performance by standing up, turning quickly, and running smack into an adjacent table, thereby knocking some unfortunate lady’s drink into her lap. I managed to escape somehow, with Michael trailing behind laughing every step of the way.

When it comes to organizational styles, we couldn’t be more opposite. This is probably most evident in our closet. (Although he would say that the checkbook is better proof of our different methods, in my defense I would like to stress that the bank did claim partial responsibility and all charges were dropped.) We have a fairly large walk-in closet, with built-in shelves and racks. One morning, Mike was selecting a tie from his color-coordinated, battery-operated tie rack, while I rummaged through several drawers hoping to find two socks in roughly the same color family. Glancing over at his side of the closet, where every item is neatly hung and arranged by form and function, I couldn’t help but feel a little sheepish. “This looks like a closet shared by Felix Unger and Oscar Madison,” I observed. Without missing a beat he came back with, “Yes, it does. And Oscar needs to quit hanging his dresses on Felix’s side.”

I never know where my keys are, I’m not always entirely sure where my credit card is, and I once went seven months without knowing where my driver’s license was. (Naturally, it turned up right after I replaced it.) Once, I even managed to leave my son at the store. I console myself with the rationale that because my mind is so brilliantly gifted, it’s much too busy to be bothered with such trivial details as the location of our car in the mall parking garage. Most men would be exasperated by this inattention to detail, and to be honest, Mike is exasperated by it. Which is why it’s so impressive, really, that he just smiles and pats me on the head before sifting through a stack of magazines in search of the mail.

Mike is seldom in embarrassing circumstances of his own making. Fortunately, I’m able to facilitate awkward situations for him that he would have trouble getting into on his own. It’s just one of those things I’m willing to do simply because I love him.

One evening during the Christmas season, we were together at a bookstore shopping for gifts. I wasn’t feeling well and the lines seemed endless. Mike, being the considerate husband he is, offered to finish shopping, then wait in line and make the purchases while I waited for him in the car. I gratefully handed over my basket, accepted the car keys from him, and headed out the door. When Mike finally got to the cashier, he became involved in the transaction and failed to notice that I had, as usual, absent-mindedly left my purse in the basket. He was gathering his purchases and preparing to leave when he saw the clerk pick up my purse and put it under the counter. “Oh wait!” Mike called, “That’s my purse!” The cashier eyed him in disbelief while Mike stuttered and tried to explain himself. “Well, it’s not my purse. No, it’s my wife’s purse.” The clerk and the other customers glanced around obviously noting the fact that Mike was alone and had in fact been in the line alone for quite some time.

“It’s your wife’s purse?” the cashier asked skeptically.

“Yes! Yes it is,” Mike assured her. Unconvinced, the clerk asked,

“And your wife is...where?”

“Oh, she’s not here. She was here but now she’s not here, as you can see, so I’m just finishing some shopping and, uh, I ended up with her purse,” he continued to explain, trying not to notice the crowd behind him as they listened in rapt fascination. In one, final, desperate attempt to explain, Mike announced, “Well, it’s obviously not my purse. See? It doesn’t even match my shoes!”

I really have to give him credit for seeing through the ordeal to the end. Many a man would have walked out and made me go back and claim the purse myself. Not my Michael. He finally convinced the clerk, whom he suspected of actually snorting at him, to return his purse. He then turned and fought his way bravely through the smirking crowd, with his shopping bag and a purse tucked under his arm that didn’t even match his shoes.

Now, that’s love.

I Totally Stole This Whole Idea From Loretta Who Borrowed it From Ronni, Who Apparently Got it From Lisa Who Lifted it From Her Friend Tammy. I Think.

2006-12-07T11:22:00.000-08:00

1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Brace yourselves. I love egg nog. Spiked with Sprite! Please keep the EEEWWWWs to a dull roar.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? It depends on how tired Santa is when he arrives.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? White. I think the more important question is: should the lights blink? And the answer is: NO!

4. Do you hang mistletoe? Only at Christmas.

5. When do you put your decorations up? I watch Hubs put them up shortly after Thanksgiving. (I got tired of putting them up and having him move them all when I wasn't looking.)

6. What is your favorite holiday dish? If I didn't have to make it myself, it's a favorite. This applies year round.

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child: First, spending Christmas Eve whispering all night with my brothers over the intercom. Second, getting busted for whispering all night rather than sleeping. I guess we whispered a bit loudly.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? WHAT???

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Yes, and every year I am STUNNED to find it is pajamas.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? I don't. Hubs does. See "Christmas Decorating for OCD Couples" in the December 2005 archives.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Depends where it lands. Lawn? Good. Freeway? Bad.

12. Can you ice skate? Not enough medical insurance in the world.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? I always wanted an Easy Bake Oven. (Okay, Mom, I KNOW you gave me that Holly Hobby Stove and I loved it even after I got cake batter all over the light bulb/cooking element the first time I used it causing the house to smell like burned sugar for days afterward.

BUT.

It wasn't the Easy Bake Oven just like Peyton had.

But I still really really loved the Holly Hobby Stove. Really. I especially loved the little tubes of icing that I ate directly from the tube, thus bypassing the whole stove experience) Where was I? Oh yes. The year Hubs gave me an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas. It's a tie with the year Son gave me a day-glo orange plastic necklace and bracelet with a frog on it. He was three and picked it out himself. It looked smashing with my dark purple silk dress on Sunday.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? Ice box cake. Grandma's recipe.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? Seeing the lights at Temple Square in Salt Lake City and going to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Concert.

17. What tops your tree? An angel I made the first Christmas we were married.

18. Which do you prefer giving or Receiving? Giving.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song? O Holy Night.

20. Candy Canes? Only when no other source of sugar is available and I have no choice.

Spelling it Out

2006-11-30T21:32:00.000-08:00

One of the ways I've found to occupy my time is working as a substitute teacher. With cold and flu season upon us, I find I'm nearly working full time and in addition to adding a bit of change to the checking account I'm learning all kinds of new and exciting things most of which pertain to the unlimited ability children have to inspire, challenge and amuse me.

The other day I was working in a first- grade classroom. The teacher had left instructions for me, which is always nice. There's nothing quite as exciting as standing in front of a class with the lesson plan reading simply "11:00-12:30 teach math and assign homework." Um, what kind of math? Calculus? Geometry? 1+2=3?

Anyway, this particular day the teacher had thoughtfully left very clear directions. The students were to make a poster. They were to draw their favorite animal, write a sentence about it, color the whole thing and hang it in the hallway for all to admire.

One earnest little boy, Jared, kept raising his hand and waving it frantically, signally some dire emergency such as a need for a color consultation. "What color is a lion's ruffly fur around his neck?" and "Is it okay if I use purple for the eyes?" After discussing the relative merits of his small assortment of Crayolas we turned our attention to his sentence. He asked how to spell each word. "Teacher? How do you spell 'really'?" Followed by, "Teacher? How do you spell 'love'?" He then asked for the spelling of one more word--lions.

I turned my attention to the other students, hoping I really did know how to spell 'orangutan' correctly and offering tech support when one little girl tried to sharpen her crayon in the electric pencil sharpener.

Finally I collected the posters. Jared was wiggling with excitement as he brought his poster to me. "Look, Teacher! I got it all finished! My parents are gonna LOVE it!"

I'm sure they will. I only wish I could be there to see their faces when they view their son's poster featuring a large lion centered over even larger block letters in black crayon proclaiming:

I REALLY LOVE LOINS!!!

If my kid made a poster like that it would TOTALLY go in the Things- I'm- Collecting -To- Use -Against- Him- Later- in- Life- box.

Just Like It Sounds

2006-11-27T08:20:00.000-08:00

We spent most of last week house hunting. Part of house hunting, it turns out, is street hunting.

Hubs: Okay, this house is on Boulder and Sea-ox.

Me: Sea-ox?

Hubs: Hey, don't look at me. I didn't name these places.

Me: Yeah, but Sea-ox? I don't see it on the map.

Hubs: Well, this is a new development so they probably haven't had time to put it on there yet.

Me: I'm looking at street signs and I don't see it there either. Sea-ox?

Hubs: Yes.

Me: Sea-ox. Like a seahorse only more...bovine?

Hubs: Yeah, I know. Weird, huh?

Me: Okay, how do you spell it?

Hubs: Just like it sounds.

Me: Well, I see Apache Lane, Commanche...um, Honey? Any chance you mean Sioux?

Hubs: Oh. Right. I knew that.

Me: Right.

So anyway...

2006-11-26T21:24:00.000-08:00

So I've been out of touch with my own blog for the last few months. There's an excellent explanation for this but I'll sum it up with: Life just stopped being funny for awhile.

Events of the last months have tipped my life upside down, left me on most days either crying on my mother's shoulder or waiting anxiously for her to get off work so I could cry on her shoulder some more. I have had moments when tall buildings, sharp objects and train tracks began to look very appealing for all the wrong reasons. Much Kleenex has been used since summer. Mom has very soggy shoulders.

So, anyway.

Life, as it so often does, goes on. Things are looking up. Mom's shoulders are drying out. (I'm keeping the Kleenex stock, though. You know. Just in case.) I'm starting to see that much good has come from the hell that I'll always remember as the summer of 2006. I'll not be sharing the details here, of course. I do have SOME limits as to what I'll share with the world in general.

I'm contemplating the notion that I may actually be okay again, someday. And you'll be thrilled, as I certainly am, to know that life is STILL a funny thing.

So I guess what I'm saying is: I'M BACK! And guess what? I'm MOVING! As in selling the house, packing up and moving. Funny, funny stuff, especially when moving with Hubs and Son. Okay, funny and frustrating. I'm going with the funny stuff though. And I'm going to put it all right here.

Thanks for waiting for me.

The Birthday Suit

2006-06-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

Like most young boys, Son has an extreme aversion to formal wear. Given the choice between a necktie and a noose, I'm pretty sure he'd choose the noose. Getting him into a tux for his aunt's wedding required cunning and guile known only to members of the Mafia. Well, cunning, guile and a major bribe.

The excuses we hear about why he can't possibly wear anything but jeans and t-shirts are usually pretty entertaining; it's too big, too little, too red, the stripes clash with his hair (Don't ask. We still haven't figured that one out yet.) But he came up with one excuse that is my all time favorite.

The occasion was Son’s birthday a couple of years ago. To his very great dismay, his birthday fell on a Sunday, meaning that rather than spending an entire day indulging in whatever revelry and debauchery he had planned he was going to have to spend some of the day in church.

Never one to let an opportunity to tease Son pass him by, (Hubs figures it’s fair play since we are rapidly approaching the teen years when Son will make our lives worrisome and difficult so we might as well avenge ourselves while we have the chance.) Hubs announced, “Hey! Guess what? Since it’s your birthday and it’s Sunday, you can wear your birthday suit to church!”

As expected, Son was horrified. “No! There is NO WAY I’m wearing my BIRTHDAY SUIT to church!” Not only did I find Hubs suggestion humorous, but I also found Son’s reaction rather amusing, probably because the boy doesn’t even own a suit. Well I mean, he DOES have a birthday suit, of course, but it’s not really something he wears outside the house. (Though oddly he will wander about the house in it from time to time.)

Son's Sunday attire is comprised of Dockers, a dress shirt and a tie, and each item of clothing is so despised that it is removed from his person and thrown on the floor before the front door slams behind him upon his return from church.

Son's sensibilities were so outraged by the very idea of voluntarily wearing a suit of any kind, birthday or otherwise, that he apparently forgot the fact that he doesn't actually own a suit. He simply went straight to argument mode. Hubs was therefore able to keep the charade going for quite some time. With a perfectly straight face Hubs asked,

“Why not? It’s a suit. It’s a Sunday. It’s your birthday. What could be more appropriate?”

You know, it’s interesting how much pressure can build in my head without having it (head, not pressure) actually explode when one is trying to stifle laughter. And in our house, given our affinity for sadistic humor, being faced with the struggle of trying to maintain a straight face (not to mention an intact skull) is a fairly common occurrence. I have a lot of practice, but I still can’t quite keep a straight face the way Hubs can. Still, keeping in mind that tormenting our child is a noble endeavor, I kept things under control.

At least I did right up until Hubs asked, “But that suit is so cute. I think it’s the cutest little birthday suit I’ve ever seen.” Son was so incensed that he didn't even notice as I started to sputter. With a glare worthy of his grandmother Son announced,

“I’m NOT wearing my birthday suit. Not EVER. It’s old and it’s wrinkled and it itches.”

Well, I’m afraid I can’t argue with him there. Although from what I can tell, his birthday suit is probably in pristine condition (if you overlook the scabbed knees and various bruises, that is.)

I do sympathize, though. My birthday is approaching in a couple of days and I have to say my birthday suit is getting old, wrinkled and itchy too. I guess it happens to the best of us.

The Next Best Thing

2006-06-14T18:16:00.000-07:00

There is nothing in this world that I would rather be than Hubby's wife and Son's mother. Well, unless I could be the wife and mother who never has to do laundry and gets long vacations in the Bahamas. Or even just a nap, now and then.

We'd love to have more children, but so far we've not had much luck. I still count myself lucky, though. I do have a beautiful healthy son, and on most days I wouldn't trade him for anything. (On MOST days. There are moments when I'd trade him for a sprig of parsley. Or less.)

Still, there's something about having a great thing that makes one want even more of a great thing, so I'm sometimes saddened by Son's only-child status.

And so I'm very lucky to have the next best thing. At the moment I have twelve little nieces and nephews. And I adore each of them. Being "Aunt Stacey" is great because I can spoil these kids, get them all hopped up on sugar, and the minute one starts getting cranky, I can turn him or her back over to the parents! Personal satisfaction and the joy of inflicting chaos on my brothers all in one!

One of my favorite things to do is hold tea parties with my nieces. Not that I'm exlcuding my nephews, mind you, but so far they have been entirely too busy to be bothered with tea parties. Plus, getting them into tiaras for said tea parties is completely out of the question. One of my three-year old nephews did consent to attending a tea party once, but only with the strict understanding that he could bring his power drill to the table and use his screwdriver as an eating utensil.

When my brother and his wife had their third daughter, I was only too happy to take his two older daughters to my house for a couple of days. My brother thought I was being very kind and helpful, (though in truth, he was so stressed and exhausted that he would have been just as willing to leave his kids at the Atilla the Hun Day Care Center) but the reality is, taking care of the girls was a selfish thing for me. I loved every minute of it. I was so excited, in fact, that on the way home I couldn't help grinning. Hubs was driving so I was able to turn around in my seat and beam at the little girls strapped into their car seats. Niece One noticed and asked, "Aunt Stacey, how come you keep smiling so big at me?"

"Well, Sweetie, I'm just really happy."

"But how come you're so happy?"

"I'm happy because I have two pretty little nieces in my car and I get to take them home and play with them!" Niece One pondered this for a moment. Meanwhile, three-year-old Niece Two tugged the hem of her skirt up a couple of inches. She studied her legs and then with great excitement and no small amount of pride announced,

"Aunt Stacey, guess what? I've got two pretty little kneeses too!"

It doesn't get better than that.

Negotiating With Son

2006-06-09T19:26:00.000-07:00

Mom: Son, would you please gather up the trash, take it outside and then take it to the curb?

Son: Um, that’s not my job.

Mom: Excuse me?

Son: Gathering it all up and stuff. It’s not my job. I’m more in the transportation department.

Mom: Meaning?

Son: I just take the big can out to the curb. I don’t gather it up or anything. It's not my department.

Mom: I see. Well congratulations! You’ve just been promoted! You are now working in the Rubbish Collection, Packaging and Relocation Department!

Son: (With much rolling of the eyes) Well do I get a pay raise with this promotion?

Mom: Maybe. How much are you making now?

Son: Nothing.

Mom: Right. Okay, tell you what. I’ll give you a five percent raise.

Son: Excellent!

Son is a tough negotiator. If he were better at math, he’d probably break us before he’s twelve.

No Wonder I’m Lost

2006-06-06T18:16:00.000-07:00

This week Hubs is attending a business conference in the Big City. It’s the same city where we spent our honeymoon so we were thrilled to find out that I could join him later in the week. Hubs left for the City today. The plan, as I understand it, is that I will leave Son in the capable and indulgent care of his grandparents and drive to the City in the afternoon. Hubs will have meetings to attend, but I assured him that somehow I would manage to keep myself entertained until he’s finished. I’m noble that way, you know. There is no sacrifice I won't make for the man I love. Hmmm, what to do, what to do? Well, I’m sure something will come to me as I wander through all those little shops and art galleries with my credit card.

Hubs has been a trifle concerned about me making the trip by myself. While it’s true that I have visited the Big City many times, I have never actually driven there by myself. It's also true that I can get lost in my own closet. So his concern is not unwarranted.

Usually when Hubs is away on business I miss him terribly. But today he has already spent more time talking to me on the phone than he would if he were still in town. And what is the purpose of these calls you ask? Why to make sure I know how to get there of course!

It’s actually kind of sweet that he is so concerned. Annoying, and a bit insulting, but sweet. Well it was sweet the first two or three times he called. After that I started to feel like a five-year-old on the first day of school. “Now are you SURE you can make it, Honey? Because if you need help, I can send someone for you. Maybe that would be best. Should I arrange for someone to drive you? I can send a car. Would you like me to send a car?”

How did I become this helpless? Should I pin a note on my blouse with an "If found please return to..." message on it? His last call came a few minutes ago, giving me detailed instructions on how to get there. And when I say detailed, I mean DETAILED.

“All right, first you go through the canyon and you stay on that road until you get to the crossroads. If you turn right, you’ll see that restaurant your Dad took us to. You remember they had the really dry chicken and the vegetables were undercooked?”

“Yes, I remember that place. So I turn right?”

“No, that’s just what you’ll see if you do.”

“Okay, so I turn left?”

“Yes, turn left and you’ll see the highway that goes past the reservoir and you stay on that road until you reach an intersection. If you go left you’ll see a housing development. You remember, the one where all the houses are so close together that you said you could never live there because you wouldn’t be able to play the piano after nine p.m. without disturbing the whole neighborhood?”

“Sure, I remember that. Okay so I turn there?”

“No, you’ll want to go right. You’ll see the old cemetery. You know, the one on the way to the shopping district.”

“Shopping district?”

“Yeah, the one where you bought all those books?”

“Of course. So…I want to go past the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll see the shopping district?”

“No, if you see the shopping district you’ve gone too far.”

“All right. Then what?”

“Well then you should see a huge hotel up on the mountain. There’s another hotel next to it with a waterfall.”

“Is that where you are?”

“No, it’s just really huge, you should check it out. The waterfall is kind of cool.” I was trying not to get frustrated as I kept writing down instructions and crossing them out.

“Honey? Here’s an idea. Why don’t you just tell me where I’m actually going rather than where I’m NOT going?”

“Well, I’m just trying to give you accurate instructions,” he huffed.

After going over the instructions one more time, I thanked him graciously and told him I look forward to seeing him. In the time since I began this post he has called two more times. If this doesn’t stop I’m not going to get to miss him at ALL during this trip.

But at least I’m sure I’ll be able to find him. And lest I sound ungrateful for his assistance, be assured that I'm very grateful for his desire to help. He took a lot of time to make notes about it all. And I'm grateful for the directions. I even wrote some of them down. I may even use them. You know, if, for whatever reason, I decide I need to know where I’m NOT going and what I'm NOT seeing. Also? My notes will be easily accessible. After all, I wrote them down on the back of the printout I made of the easy to follow map I downloaded from Map Quest.

Growing Up is Hard to Do and Even Harder to Watch

2006-06-05T15:37:00.000-07:00

So last night, we were watching a movie and one of the characters made a slightly off-color comment. It was one of those little jokes writers slip into kiddie movies, presumably to keep the parents entertained. You know-- a double entendre that would be amusing only to those with knowledge of certain facts of life. We've seen this movie before but last night something new happened. Son laughed. Yep, he understood the double entendre.

I know I can't keep him young and innocent forever, but I hate these reminders that he's growing up, growing more aware, and entering into a whole new (and for me, unnerving) part of life. I wish I could make those innocent years last. I wish I could keep him my baby just a bit longer.

I knew this was coming, of course. After all, we had THE TALK with him quite some time ago. At the time, he found the whole concept of where babies come from a little, well, silly. Still, I was pleased that he was able to ask his questions frankly and without embarrassment because we really want to establish a relationship with Son in which he feels he can confide in us or come to us with questions. This is mostly because I lived in terror for several weeks when I was in kindergarten after Bradley Carter kissed me at recess. I loved babies, but felt that at the tender age of five I was much too young to be starting a family and according to my sources (namely my friend Misty) families are formed by kissing.

Not long after THE TALK, Son and I were shopping together. After writing a check I produced my driver's license. While I was hoping, as I always do, that the cashier would see my picture and accuse me of using stolen ID (never has such a horrid picture graced a license of any kind, including those given to graduates of the Bela Lugosi School of Horror Film Cosmetology) I noticed something; Son was studying my ID as well, with a very concerned look on his face.

By the time we reached the parking lot, I realized Son hadn't spoken since we left the store. This is extremely out of character for him. He never stops talking. Ever. He doesn’t even stop while he's asleep. I asked if he was okay and he nodded, but I could tell he was deep in thought. I knew exactly what to do. Rejoice and enjoy the few moments of silence!

But alas, the silence did not last long. As soon as we were in the car the questions began.

"Mom, what information is on your driver's license?"

"Oh, it has my name, my address, my birthday, stuff like that."

"Yeah, I know but what else?"

"Well, it lists how tall I am and what color my eyes are and what color my hair is."

"Yeah, Mom, I know that, but what else is on there?" At that point I figured he'd seen the picture and wondered why they'd put a photo of someone who clearly does not resemble me AT ALL on my ID. While I tried to think of an explanation for that, I stalled by asking,

"Son, is there something specific you'd like to ask me?"

"Oh, nothing. Never mind." That was new. It is unheard of for Son to voluntarily end a line of questioning. The officials at the Nuremberg trials would have been as likely to stop asking questions with, "So, what did you think of the Bratwurst?" Something was definitely up.

"Son, if you have a question, you are free to ask." I watched in the rearview mirror as he fidgeted a bit.

"No, it's probably none of my business."

Blink.

Son considers everything to be his business. He is one of the greatest eavesdropping, spying, nosiest snoops of all time. He'll even yell from his surveillance spot at the top of the stairs for clarification when Hubs and I are having what we foolishly believe to be a "private" conversation" and don't speak clearly enough.

I tried to think what possible question he could have about my driver's license that could cause this unprecedented display of concern for privacy, but I couldn't come up with anything.

"Son, I appreciate your respect for my privacy. If you have a question though, you are free to ask. If it really isn't any of your business I'll tell you so."

He thought another minute and then, blushing more than a little he asked, "Well, I was just wondering. How come you got an "F" in sex?"

Without hesitation I replied, “That’s none of your business.”

Before I could explain that I was kidding though, he asked me in all seriousness, “Is that why I’m an only child?”

Like I said, I’m going to miss the years of Son's innocence. Not only did I feel he was still very much my baby, but he was incredibly entertaining.

One Thing At A Time

2006-05-09T17:49:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I was able to multi-task. I could cook dinner, study for an exam, and carry on a conversation at the same time. I took that ability for granted. I assumed it was something I'd always be able to do. Of course there's a major difference between then and now. I was younger then.

I always knew that as I got older things would change. I guess the surprise is the fact that I got older so fast. Just last week I could read a book as I held it in my hands. Now I find myself holding the book out at arm's length. By next week I'll no longer be able to read at all without an assistant to stand down the street and hold the book up in my line of vision.

I've discovered that a lot of people mumble. I have to ask them to repeat themselves. Most bothersome is the fact that I've caught myself leaning toward them, trying to get my "good ear" close enough to pick up their words. It was bad enough when I realized coloring my hair was going to be something I had to do to maintain my natural color, rather than a fun change. But I've come to terms with these things. Almost.

What I'm having a hard time with is the loss of my ability to effortlessly perform mindless tasks with my hands, while letting my mind occupy itself with more interesting things. That's right. I have lost my ability to multi-task. I'm telling you, this loss is harder to deal with than the reality that gravity is really not my friend. I've suspected for some time now that my multi-tasking days may be drawing to a close. After my trip to the bank today I have decided that the end is closer than I thought.

It seemed like a simple plan--an errand I've done many times before. I needed to go to the bank, then to the grocery store. The doctor had written some prescriptions that I needed to have filled at the pharmacy. And then, assuming I could still remember where I live, I would go home.

I made it to the bank without incident. Well, if you consider making it to the bank without getting lost, getting a traffic ticket, or being involved in any kind of pedestrian related accident "arriving without incident" and frankly, I do. Okay, sure I knocked my water bottle over, soaking my grocery list and my jacket, but still, I thought I was doing fairly well.

I pulled into the drive-thru at the bank and with one hand I quickly stuffed my deposit into the canister, pushed the little button and sent it on its way while I used my other hand to attempt to salvage my grocery list. Like I said, so far so good. Or so I thought.

"Um....Stacey?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure we can help you with this transaction."

"Why? Is there a problem?" How could there be a problem? It was just a deposit? I'd filled out the deposit slip, endorsed the checks...what else was there? I was at the right bank, right? At that point, I realized the teller was holding something to the window, pointing at it and smirking. I squinted as I tried to see what she was holding up for my inspection.

Oh. Right.

I smiled sheepishly and then laughed. "Um...Yeah. I'm probably going to need those later at the pharmacy," I admitted as I watched her stuff the prescriptions back into the canister.

"It might be best. I can give you a lollipop, though, if that helps."

"Oh, yes. That would be great, thanks!" We laughed a bit more and as I prepared to drive away I saw her talking to another teller and pointing in my direction. Nice.

On the bright side, I'll probably forget all about this little embarrassment as soon as I stumble across yet another way to embarrass by self, which given my record, should be any minute now.

At least she didn't ask if one of my prescriptions was for Aricept. Or perhaps she did. I forget.

Where Have I Been?

2006-05-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

Long time no write. First, thanks to those who have kindly emailed or called to ask if I have died or something. And for those kind folks who took the time to actually make a phone call, I have a question: If you thought I had died, why did you call me? Seriously, I want to know because my phone has nowhere near that kind of range and reception and I'd love to know where you got yours. Anyway, no, I haven't died yet. At least I don't think so. Although, if I have in fact died, you will be pleased to know that there is chocolate in the afterlife! On the other hand, the treadmill is still here so perhaps (and this is the more likely scenario) I've been condemned to the Satanic realm. But hey, at least we have chocolate!

Life has been busy. For starters, I've fallen off the wagon. It's very sad and Hubs is thinking of staging an intervention. I refer of course to computer Solitaire. I realized a couple of years ago that I was wasting entirely too much time playing this game and in the end deleted the game from the computer. But that was the old computer. This is a new computer and sadly I have heard and answered the irresistible siren call of the cyberworld: Solitaire.

It may be okay for some people to play this game once in awhile, but I'm not one of those people. For me it's best to stay away from it all together. (I'm thinking it's probably a good idea I've never tried drugs or alcohol. I'd probably be ready to enter rehab within a week.) I now understand the desperation in my child's voice when he begs for "just one more game". What is this compelling need to see if this time I can go just a little faster, score more points, and see if my will to play is stronger than my desire to avoid carpal tunnel surgery? There is an answer of course. I believe it's called OCD. That's okay, though. There's medication for that. But lest you think I've just been sitting here for a month playing Solitaire, I would like to point out that I've been doing other things. And they have been exciting things too. For example, I've been playing Tetris on Nintendo with Son.

For those who haven't played Tetris before, it's a game in which differently shaped blocks fall from the top of the screen and the object of the game is to fit them into place forming a solid bar at the bottom of the screen. Once a bar is complete it vanishes. If the bars have gaps, they stay there and eventually build up to the top of the screen at which point Son yells HAHAHAHA! (Translation: Mom lost.) Not that this has been a total waste of time. First of all, I take advantage of every chance I have to spend with Son. He's already reached the age when having parents in public is absolutely mortifying. I figure it's only a matter of time before he realizes we are every bit as embarrassing at home. But wait! There's more! Not only do I get to spend time with Son, I can also pack a suitcase more efficiently, load a trunk full of groceries, and make the most of my cupboard and closet space! Thank you, Tetris!

I've also been spending a lot of time outside. Spring has finally decided to make an appearance here. We have a big yard and there are endless landscaping possibilities. The previous owners left wonderful flower beds and a HUGE lawn. There's nothing actually IN the flower beds, but they are there and I've spent much of my time outside working on them. Oh okay, I've spent a lot of time sitting on the deck thinking about working on them. Considering my lack of a green thumb (or any other green digits) I may be better off planting silk flowers in the yard like one of our neighbors does. (I'm serious here. Silk flowers. Year round.) So anyone with ideas for something simple (read low maintenance) and hard to kill, please let me know. I'll get Hubs to plant it right away.

I've realized, however, that this life of laziness and obsessive compulsive computer game playing can't last forever. And don't think I'm not really sad about that. But I've accumulated stories to tell over the last month, including the tale of the latest April Fool's joke on my brother. So I'll be back! (Just let me play one more game of Solitaire first.)

A Reminder in Case You Don't Know Why He Totally Deserves It.

2006-04-03T13:05:00.000-07:00

The two entries April's Fool and The Model Prank are re-runs, but if you missed them when they were posted on Observations of a Misfit here they are. I'll put up the new entry about the events this year soon, but thought a review might help--just in case you wonder why I take such pains to fool my little brother on April Fool's day.

April's Fool

Throughout my life, I had one goal. No, not winning an Olympic medal, achieving fame and fortune or writing the great American novel. My goal was much more lofty, much less attainable, and I persevered. Finally, after years of failure and frustration, this year I was successful! I refer, of course, to the grand aspiration of duping my brother on April Fool’s Day.

April Fool’s Day is a tradition my brother Ryan observes with the devotion and reverence generally reserved for religious holidays or Star Trek conventions. In our family, he’s the undisputed Prince of Pranks. Though Ryan has managed to trick every family member at least once, no one has ever been able to fool him. This presented an irresistible challenge to me.

Several weeks ago, Ryan, a generous and helpful, albeit occasionally sadistic soul, graciously gave me a computer he no longer needed. He mentioned that his young children had used it, and the hard drive would require reformatting. I accepted it gratefully, since Mike doesn't like me using his computer (I break stuff.) and the computer I had been using resembled the Flintstone’s bowling scorekeeper, only slower. Since I experienced several glitches before everything was running properly, I was in frequent contact with Ryan asking for advice, so setting up my prank was much easier.

It couldn’t be anything elaborate, because that would make him suspicious. Simplicity, timing and false complacency were vital to my success. I set him up by sending an e-mail late the night before April first. In my message, I mentioned that while looking at the information stored on the hard drive, I had discovered some rather alarming files, and wondered if he could call me the following morning in order to help me remove them. Since I’m about as technically inclined as an Amish hausfrau, I knew he’d find nothing odd about my request.

The next morning, as predicted, Ryan contacted me via instant messenger. The following is an excerpt of our conversation, beginning with his question:

R: So what’s up with the computer?
S: Oh, right. Well, Michael was working on it yesterday and he said that he found some pretty bad stuff on the hard drive.

R: Really. Hmm. Well I think that hard drive is actually the one I swapped out of Muriel's computer when I was trying to get hers to work.

(I had to laugh. Muriel is our step-grandmother. She is a dear, sweet, spiritual woman. Undeterred, I pressed on.)

S: Then it would seem that Muriel has some explaining to do.

R: She once complained of some emails she got, and I’ve been over there a few times when her grand kids have messed up her computer.

S: That could explain it. I was a little concerned, wondering why you were surfing satanic cults, buying drugs online and looking up some other strange things. At any rate, can it be cleaned up somehow? I don’t want to risk having my son stumble across this stuff.

R: Probably. You want to cook dinner for us tonight?

(It’s at times like these I suspect that R just might be a masochist. But dare I pass up an opportunity to cause him to wonder if I’d poisoned him?)

S: Sure! We’d love to have you.

R: You cook, and I’ll be there.

S: Great. Some of this stuff is really disturbing. Someone’s been looking up instructions for meth labs, pipe bombs, where to buy Sudafed in bulk. I really wouldn’t have thought M was into that kind of thing. Not that I thought you were, of course.

R: You’re not serious. Meth labs? Are you kidding me?

S: Why would I make this up?

R: Because I’ve always suspected that you’re slightly deranged.

S: Fair enough. Let’s see, there are instructions here on the proper method of kitten sacrifice...hmm, goat sacrifice too. I'm not even going to start on the "questionable” viewing matter.

R: Hey, that’s some pretty whacked stuff. I wonder if I need to be concerned. Do you know how big that hard drive is?

S: Me? I don’t even know what a hard drive does.

R: Sorry, I lost my head for a second. Can you ask Mike?

S: He’s not here. I think it’s 4 gigs, though.

R: Are you sure?

(I thought I’d better play dumb before he got suspicious.)

S: I think so. Mike said our old one was two jigs and this one is twice as big.

R: “Jigs?”

S: Jigs, gigs, whatever. You know what I mean.

R: Well, now you’ve got me wracking my brain trying to sort out the history of that machine. When I built M’s computer, I bought several used parts and interchanged them until I got it working, then I took all the leftover parts to build the machine I gave you, that’s why knowing the size of the hard drive would help.

S: You’re quite the Dr. Frankenstein aren’t you? You know, you’re just lucky your little girls never saw this stuff.

R: That’s why I’m concerned.

S: On the bright side, you may not have to explain where the new baby came from after all. You may want to tell the neighbors to keep an eye on their cats, though.

R: Wonderful. Hey, I just got off the phone with my wife and I asked her who else could have used that computer. The only one she could think of was her cousin Greg so she’s calling him right now.

S: Very interesting.

R: I’ll come down tonight and figure it out.

By now, I was beginning to worry just a little. While fooling Ryan is delicious, well-deserved retribution, I adore his wife and wouldn’t want to upset her. I realized it was time to come clean.

S: By the way, isn’t your birthday coming up?

R: Yes, in a couple of weeks.

S: Two weeks from tomorrow, isn’t it?

R: Yeah, it is, come to think of it.

S: So that would mean today is...(I waited a few beats.)

R: You suck.

S: You know Mom doesn’t like that word. I’d hate to have to tell her.

R: Yes, I’ll bet you would. You still owe me dinner.

S: Fine. And to show you my heart’s in the right place, I won’t even cook.

Later that day, Ryan called me.

“Guess what? The apartment we’re planning to rent until our house is built isn’t available for a few weeks. We were going to stay with Greg, but he was so offended by the false accusations Kimberly made when she called to ask about the computer, that he no longer wishes to accommodate us. So, either you figure out a way to appease Greg, or we’re coming to stay with you!”

He's bluffing. Neither of our masochistic streaks could survive that.

The "Model" Prank

Call me smug, but I’m still relishing my unprecedented success in tricking my brother Ryan on April Fool’s Day. I know it’s still bothering him. I"ve had to point out that if it isn’t April, it’s just lying. Historically, he’s never seemed to have a problem with that. Among his lame attempts at retribution thus far, I’ve been forced to listen to "strange men" make lewd propositions over the phone. (Ryan practiced on Mike who fell for it completely, poor guy. He was pretty rattled. If he had grown up with Ryan he would know that Ryan plays that joke on everyone at least once. Any one familiar with his work knows that Ryan's instrument of choice for pranks is the telephone.

Ryan's past misdeeds include charming the receptionist at school into calling Mom and telling her that Ryan had been suspended pending the lab results of the white powder found in his locker. One year, he coaxed a friend’s mother to call, posing as an ER nurse telling Mom she really needed to get to the hospital right away to sign release forms for Ryan's emergency surgery. Personally, I thought that the hospital was a wise location for Ryan to choose to reveal that it was a joke. When Mom’s that angry, being near an ICU is probably a good thing for all concerned.

My personal favorite was the April Fool’s Day that fell less than two weeks before Ryan was scheduled to return from Chile where he had been serving an LDS mission. He had been gone for two years, and since missionaries are only permitted two telephone calls home a year, we’d only spoken to him three times. He elected to use his last call to fool Mom.

He found another English-speaking missionary, walked miles to the nearest phone, and had the missionary call our mother. Mom was informed that due to suspected illegal anti-government activity, Ryan’s passport had been confiscated and he wouldn’t be returning home as soon as expected. Mom did her best to remain calm and did a pretty good job until she heard, “They have him in custody, but don’t worry. For a South American prison, it’s not that bad.”

Mom was a tad alarmed. “Prison? Prison! What on earth has happened? I’d better come down there and get this worked out.” Just then, as is often the case, the connection was lost. Mom went into a complete frenzy, trying to decide whether to call the airlines first or Church Headquarters. And wait, what if they were trying to call back? She needed to keep the line open, right? Should she go to the neighbor's and use their phone?

As I watched her fret, something dawned on me.

“Mom, it’s April first. Is there the smallest chance that this is just a joke?”

“He wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t he? Remember when he had the IRS call to tell you that you were being audited?”

She thought a moment and then reminded me, "He’s a missionary. Missionaries don’t do that sort of thing."

I rolled my eyes. I had just returned from a mission of my own. In the mission field, practical jokes are a time-honored and cherished tradition. If this was in fact a joke, it was comparatively mild. By then, however, Mom was beyond hearing me. As she was babbling something about the need to bring back carrier pigeons for emergency use, the phone rang again.

I picked it up, since Mom was having trouble speaking coherently at that point.

“Hello?”

“Hola! Hey, Stacey? It’s Ryan!”

“Well, hello, Ryan. How good of you to call.” I looked at Mom who stood trembling nearby. “So, how are things in prison? I do hope they treating you well.” It took nearly a full minute for Mom to process that I had Ryan on the line. From my sarcastic tone, she also realized something was up. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion as the conversation continued. I could almost feel the glee dripping through the phone connection.

“So did Mom fall for it? Did she?”

“Did she fall for it? You might say that.”

“Good one huh? Except we lost the phone connection before we could tell her it was a joke, but that probably just made it even more convincing.”

I looked at my mother who was now fully aware that she’d been duped. “Oh, it was convincing all right. You may want to hide out in South America until it blows over, however.”

At that point, Mom took the phone from me and after listening to her side of the conversation I didn’t think my advice to Ryan about becoming a fugitive was overstating the seriousness of her wrath.

This year, I pulled a simple prank on Ryan. It wasn’t a technically brilliant or elaborate joke, but the fact that I tricked him at all was deeply upsetting for Ryan, which was all the more rewarding for me.

Ryan blames his lapse in attention to the stress caused by moving. He and his wife are building a house in Salt Lake City. The house where they’ve lived for several years has sold, so they plan to rent an apartment until the new house is finished. The only problem is, the apartment is not available for another month, so they made arrangements to stay with a relative in the interim.

The night after I led him to believe he had given me a hard drive corrupted with alarming downloads, Ryan came to our house for dinner. When he arrived, he
looked glum and stressed. He repeated the statement he had made earlier in the day:

“Guess what? Because of the accusations and questions Kimberly made about the computer, Greg is insulted and no longer wishes to accommodate us. So guess where we staying instead?”

Ever the thoughtful sister, I drafted a letter to the contractor building Ryan’s home in an attempt to resolve his housing situation in the upcoming months:

Dear Sir,

I'm writing this letter to tell you how much I enjoyed touring your model homes. They are probably the nicest model homes I’ve ever visited, and that’s saying something. You also have the best doorbells. Having model homes available for prospective buyers is a brilliant marketing strategy. One of my hobbies is to visit different model homes in order to experience their environments. This helps me decide which home would be the best one for me.

It’s apparent that Fieldstone is dedicated to building homes that are best suited for their buyers. However, I have noticed one thing that would make your model homes even more attractive. While you have the sofa, the beds, the tables and chairs, it still doesn't feel like a "home". Why? Because everyone is a guest! Think about it: do you have people who just wander through your own personal residence, never cooking or cleaning or lifting a finger? Except for teenagers, no one actually walks around your house to see if they want to live there. It feels very impersonal.

To solve this dilemma, I have an exciting proposition for you. I would like to move into one of your model homes for the next 3-10 months. I will live there doing normal activities like eating, sleeping and playing bongos. (I will not give concerts). I will have friends in to visit, view classic films (The Simpson’s seasons 1-5) and listen to music. (There will be no dancing.) I can also watch TV and play video games if you can provide those accessories. (I prefer Nintendo, but can adapt to Playstation if necessary.) This will be a great benefit for you since people will be able to tour my model home and see just what it would be like to live there. "Look!" people will say, "If we bought a Fieldstone home we, too, would be blissfully content playing video games and eating Doritos while lounging around in our pajamas! Let's buy now!"

In your current marketing strategy, no one who visits a model home ever gets to see people actually living there. I'm willing to provide this service at no cost to you, though I do require a security deposit. (Sometimes people who wander through model homes take things as souvenirs. I mean, so I hear.)

For your information, I've been living in model homes for many years now, so I can assure you that I'm very qualified, and other than a small fire incident, I have a great record! (Note: you may want to consider mentioning to buyers that the fireplaces are not well suited for grilling shish kebab.)

For a slightly increased fee, I'm available for extra services such as vacuuming with a smile (show potential buyers what a joy it is to clean a fine Fieldstone Home!), hedge clipping (topiaries in the shape of Hanna-Barbera cartoon characters is extra), and conspicuously reading Marcel Proust. (Potential buyers will exclaim, “Surely these homes are designed for the intelligent and elite– we must buy one!)

For a limited time, I'm available to move in with a wife and three (possibly four) children. This way people can see that having a screaming child in one room, with a raucous game of water balloon badminton in the living room is quite manageable. At least more manageable than it was when we lived at the bus station. We would like to be your model family, living with our model children, teaching them to be model students and model citizens while living in your model home. I feel this will be very advantageous in targeting your desired family demographic.

Best of all, other than the aforementioned optional expenses, my services are completely free! Act now, and I guarantee your sales, not to mention your reputation, will transcend your current projections.

Sincerely yours,

Ryan

Not THAT Violent

2006-04-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm back. Real life does have a way of interupting doesn't it? I won't share the details, just let me say two words. Stomach Flu. But before you begin to even contemplate feeling pity, let me also share that Hubs has an ingrown toenail, and no other human has ever endured such pain. Oh the agony, the pain and misery. And that was just hearing about it all week, so you can just imagine how much pain he is in.

Son was out of school Friday. It was raining and cold so he was stuck indoors. We decided to rent a movie and a video game. Son found the game he wanted right away. It was a spy game and had a teen rating but he assured me his friend has it at home.

"Please, Mom?" Son begged. "It's not that violent or anything." I looked at the cover and read the description. It seemed okay, so I agreed to the rental but made sure I sat down to watch to see what "not that violent" means in Son's world.

The first part of the game was tame enough: learning to drive the spy car as it morphs into different cars. And then I saw him go to the next level. As he drove over several little people on the screen I became concerned.

"Son, are you aware that you've just run over a few people?"

"Yeah, cool huh?"

"You mean you did it on purpose?"

"Sure. Now watch this!" Before I had a chance to say anything else, he started shooting. The car was equipped with "cool" guns that he could fire from the grill. (Wow, is he going to be disappointed when he finds out Dad's Honda doesn't do that.)

From there he started blowing up buildings. I'd had enough. "I thought you said this isn't violent."

"It's not. There's this one game that's SO awesome; you should see it! When you shoot people their guts splatter EVERYWHERE!"

"Whoa, where did YOU see this game?"

"At my friend's house." Of course.

We had a lengthy discussion about the games he plays and the fact that splattering someone's internal organs everywhere is not a good use of his time. (Unless he's a surgeon, of course, which frankly I'm kind of hoping for because he's going to need the income to cover the psychotherapy he will no doubt need one day after being raised by Mike and me.)

In the end we came to an agreement. He agreed not to play--or at least not whine a lot when I refuse to let him play-- games that depict murder and destruction as "cool" and in return I agreed to let him think I'm tragically unhip. I can live with that. I'm also never getting into a car with him if he's driving. I'm not that crazy.

He Must Get This From His Father's Side

2006-03-20T07:38:00.000-08:00

I was changing the sheets on Son's bed one day when I discovered something he had hidden under his mattress. Now, I know that there are all kinds of horrible things I could have found there. I may be naive but I do realize that there are all kinds of fun things that I could have found there.

No, what I found wasn't horrible, it was just...odd. You see, hidden away with the Hot Wheels cars (How this child sleeps comfortably I will never know) I found a half-eaten box of raw linguine. I'm not sure why he'd have a box of uncooked pasta under his matress. Of course I can't really imagine why he'd have cooked pasta there either. At any rate, my big question is: WHY? Do we not feed him enough? Surely that can't be it. I'm convinced Son is part goldfish and will just keep eating as long as food is available or until he finally can't eat anymore, an event that would most likely be indicated by paramedics carrying him out on a stretcher while we stand trying to explain to Social Services, "Well, he said he was still hungry..." And before anyone (Mom) gets all excited about this, we do limit his portions. One side of beef per meal is sufficient, and we almost never let him eat a whole box of Twinkies by himself, so just relax. (Actually, the kid is a little weird in that he doesn't really like candy, or cake and for that matter he hates chocolate. I swear I'm taking him in for DNA tests for this can surely not be my biological child. Not that it matters if he's not, but I do find this intriguing, since in all other ways he is my mini-me and discovering that he's his own person with his own quirks and his own personality has taken some getting used to. But I digress. ) Does he just like the taste of raw pasta? I suppose that's possible. But why is he hiding it? Sure, I think it's strange but I've lived with this boy for nearly eleven years now and believe me when I say that I let a LOT of strange things slide by without comment. I have come to the realization that little boys are odd little creatures; loveable, but odd. And sometimes it's best to just get the popcorn, sit back and watch the show, for he is nothing if not entertaining. Sometimes on purpose, even.

But this time I just had to ask. "Son, I was changing your sheets today and I've got a question."
Son looked at me blankly and said,

"Yeah? What?"

"Well, I found a box of raw pasta. Any explanation for that?" He looked at me like it was no big deal, as if it's common to store pasta, grains and heaven only knows what else under a mattress. Then he simply shrugged and said,

"Um, well, you know. It's just that, well, you never know."

"You never know what? You never know when you may need to host a dinner party in your room and don't want to be caught unprepared?" My question was answered with much rolling of the eyes followed by,

"Mom, I know you don't understand this, but I just like the way it tastes."

After agreeing that if in the future he feels the need to munch raw pasta, he will ask permission and do said munching in the kitchen, everything seemed fine.

I do have one remaining concern, however. How could a child of mine possibly have pasta hidden under his bed without at least a pint of Alfredo sauce hidden in the bookcase? He must get it from his father's side.

I'll Just Apologize Right Now For the Many Instances of All Caps in This Post

2006-03-14T17:33:00.001-08:00

So we’ve had an interesting week. We had houseguests for a couple of days last week. It was unusual in a few respects, mostly in that I not only enjoyed the visit, (with an obvious exception that I’ll get to in just a minute) but I was even sad to see them leave. I’m not able to state with certainty that THEY weren’t happy to leave, however. What I CAN state with absolute certainty is that this visit made a lasting impression; a very lasting impression.

But first, allow me to familiarize you with the principal cast members of our little drama.

First we have Alan. We’ve known each other since we were both 21 years old and that was, well, let’s just say he’s known me for a long time. He’s the brother I never realized I had, complete with the ability to irritate me to the point where I actually start wondering how many times I can back over him with my car and still make it look like an accident. Ours is a friendship based primarily on practical jokes and annoying each other; like siblings, but better because if we ever really tick each other off our parents aren’t put in the awkward position of taking sides.

Alan is married to Veronica. She is one of those people that are so sweet and kind that it ought to be obnoxious somehow and you’re not entirely sure why you don’t absolutely hate her, or why you don’t at the very least get nauseated by her unrelenting sweetness and yet you just can’t because that would be wrong and wrong things don’t happen around Veronica. Well, they do sometimes but they shouldn't.

Our next character is Veronica’s sister Charlotte. Charlotte is in many ways like her sister with the added bonus of being totally willing to do pretty much anything on a dare including spending an entire evening at the mall while wearing a tiara just to see if anyone notices. (Conclusion: Yes. Many people noticed. At least as far as I could see from my vantage point far, far away.)

So the other day, Son and I went with Alan, Veronica, their young son and Charlotte at the mall. Alan took the boys off to do “man stuff.” (Don’t ask. I didn’t want to know and you probably don’t either.) Veronica, Charlotte and I happily headed off to one of our favorite stores, Bath and Body Works.

And I was happy. I really was. This is a GREAT store, one from which I usually emerge with at least 14 different fragrances sprayed somewhere on my person so that I can really no longer distinguish the difference between, say, Japanese Cherry Blossom and Nachos and Orange Julius From the Food Court. It is a happy, happy place. And so, there we were, Veronica, Charlotte and I, being happy, sampling different lotions and scrubs and other wondrous things. Veronica was there on a mission to find a new fragrance and by George, as her friend I was going to help. And so it was that we were standing together with open bottles and tubes of lotion trying to find a fragrance she liked. I very innocently held out a bottle, indicating that I would graciously hold it for her while she sniffed because I’m helpful that way. But no, Veronica had to get all jumpy and suspicious as if I, of all people, might try something ridiculous and juvenile. And I’d be really hurt by her suspicions if it weren’t for the fact that, well, she knows me.

Honestly, though, I SWEAR I really was planning on just holding it. But when she looked at me with mild concern, you know, sort of like a security guard might look at you as you try to cart a rifle and a wood chipper through an airport terminal, I was overcome by an irresistible temptation. I didn’t mean to do anything really bad. Really. I was just going to squeeze ever so gently and leave a teeny, tiny dab of lotion on the tip of her nose. So you see it was all very innocent, really. How was I supposed to know that huge great globs of gloop would come squirting out? I have at LEAST a dozen of these very same lotion bottles at home right now. I use this stuff DAILY. MANY TIMES DAILY. AND THIS NEVER HAPPENS. But this time it did.

And so, I very quickly set the bottle down and in an attempt to avoid being seen by store security, or anyone else for that matter, I tried to just rub the lotion in really quickly. People were doing this all over the store so I thought I could do it without looking too out of place if my friends would just STOP LAUGHING ALREADY. Okay, the other people weren’t frantically rubbing great globs of gloop up and down their arms from shoulder to wrist, but still. It was about then that we realized that the stuff was NOT being absorbed well into my skin, though I’d like to point out that I did manage to rub it in completely. Charlotte, or possibly Veronica pointed out that the reason for this difficulty might be because rather than lotion, this was creamy body wash. They were both laughing, but were kind enough to point me in the direction of a sink where I could presumably wash the stuff off my arms.

Problem: there was some guy at the sink and he wasn’t leaving. I have no idea why he was there, but he was and he looked like he planned to stay for quite some time. I figured I’d just leave the store, walk very briskly to a restroom and remedy the situation there. But my dear friends were laughing too hard at me to listen to the plan. And then I did, I admit it, I did raise both my hands to the surgeon-after-the-washing-of-the-hands position and I did move toward Veronica as if to hug her and transfer some of this stuff to her so that she could share in my predicament. I swear on all I hold dear I wasn't going to touch her. I just wouldn't go that far. Well, Veronica, it turns out, can duck and cover REALLY fast. Not really smoothly, but still, really FAST. She evaded me entirely. She also made a really sickening sort of thudding noise as she smacked her face into the corner of the shelf behind her. She sort of stumbled back in a dazed sort of way. She turned around, looking a bit stunned, with her hands over her forehead. I felt terrible of course but she was laughing. How bad could it be?

So, yes, I was concerned, but not nearly as concerned as I was when she lowered her hands and we saw the blood dripping from her forehead. BLOOD, people. ON HER FOREHEAD. And this was no ordinary little scratch that could be hidden somehow. Oh no. It was sort of a ‘Y’ shaped replica of the corner she’d hit and it was dead center on her forehead. Had she actually paused to take aim, she could not have centered it more accurately.

I got a band-aid from my purse, while Veronica dabbed at the blood with a tissue she got from somewhere. No good. It was bleeding through the band-aid. This was bad. This was very, very bad. She kept assuring us that she was certain she was fine (It's just a flesh wound!) and in fact she thought perhaps her vision was even a tiny bit improved. I was certain she was at the very least concussed, but her sister held a finger up to Veronica’s glasses and stuck it through the space where a lens was supposed to be. Charlotte was somehow able to locate the lens before someone stepped on it and I was later informed that the lens tends to slip out of place from time to time so this wasn’t entirely my fault, but still.

I felt horrible for Veronica, but I confess I was nervous for other reasons. Mostly because Alan? Well, he's a cop. And he has a gun. Also, he has bullets. Probably. So I wasn't real excited by the prospect of finding him and somehow explaining that his wife and I were goofing off and we had somehow managed to break her face and that even though she was protesting that she probably just needed to sit down for a minute, I thought she should probably be seen by someone who could prevent at least some of her blood from leaving her body via the nifty new hole I’d just startled her into poking through her own forehead.

Now, I was very concerned about V. I truly was. I want to make it very clear that my first concern was making certain that she was okay and getting her the medical attention I suspected she would probably need. And all my actions from that point on were to that end. (Fine time to start behaving responsibly, no?)

But.

The guilt. Having any part in hurting Veronica is akin to torturing bunnies and kittens. AT THE SAME TIME! Also? Feeling a little guilty because an ostensibly adult type person really has no business goofing off that way in public. (Probably not in private either, but I can only grow up so much. Sadly my guilt has in no way been assuaged by the fact that I returned and purchased the lotion/creamy body wash bottle I’d inadvertently emptied earlier)

You know that feeling you got as a kid when you had done something really, really bad and you knew there was no way on earth you could possibly hide it because hiding it would only make matters worse and besides medical attention was probably needed so there was really no choice but to confess immediately, and you just knew that when your mom or dad or teacher or Miss Hannigan found out they were going to kill you, or maybe make you mop the floors with all the other orphans and then they’d get mad at you too, but you could avoid a fight if you could just think of a nice song and dance number? Well, I’m sorry to say that though my friend was sitting there BLEEDING, I reverted (from the 8-year old lotion/body wash squirting child) into full-on, five-year-old, I’m-going-to-get-KILLED-for-this mode. And I’m sorrier to say that I had nary one show tune come to mind.

It actually occurred to me that perhaps I could somehow comb her bangs over it all, quickly bid them all a good night and head for the hills before Alan noticed anything amiss. (Hey, Veronica didn’t want to go to the hospital anymore than I did; it could have worked.) But alas, Veronica does not have bangs and she was bleeding rather a lot. Besides, her husband is quite attentive and was almost as likely to realize that his wife was sporting a new Cousin It look as he was to notice the fact that it appeared someone had attempted to carve a swastika with only partial success on his wife’s forehead.

By this point, it was clear that the band-aid wasn't going to work. So we went to find A. We looked every inch the group of responsible adult women as we walked through the mall with Veronica bleeding and protesting that she was just fine, Charlotte in her tiara and me, doing my very best deer-in-the-headlights impression. We found Alan, who remarkably enough has NOT killed me (yet) and after trying to explain, I did what any terrified person would do: I called my mother.

Now before you completely condemn me for this, my mother works for a doctor. She sees wounded people all the time so I was hoping she’d be able to help us. I handed the phone over to Alan and he and Mom decided during a conversation that I’m sure was much shorter than the three days it seemed to take, with much discussion of the location and appearance of the wound, that if Veronica didn’t want a scar she should probably go to the ER.

Meanwhile I was helpfully thinking thoughts like: IT’S DEAD CENTER, MOM. DEEP. BLOOD. LOTS OF BLOOD. LET’S JUST GO RIGHT NOW because I am certainly not one to panic or anything. Then Alan and Veronica debated whether she should go to the ER because Veronica really did NOT want to go. But she is nothing if not a good sport so off we all went anyway, to the emergency room, where Veronica had her head glued back together. And how great was the relief that she didn’t require actual stitches because as reasonable and kind as V is, she really DIDN’T want stitches and there is probably a limit to just how much she’s willing to put up with while staying as my guest. In fact, I think the tetanus shot may have been pushing it.

And that’s how Veronica spent the first night of her visit and why she will now be scarred for life with a sort of half-Charles Manson, half Harry-Potter-lightning bolt look. The good news is that once she was finished at the ER she still wanted to go out for dinner and then she spent the next two nights at my house. AT MY HOUSE! WHERE I LIVE! WHERE THERE ARE EVEN MORE CORNERS AND PROBABLY EVEN MORE BATH AND BODY PRODUCTS THAN IN THE STORE!

Maybe she hit her head harder than we thought.

Mostly Bizarre With A Chance of Showers

2006-02-25T15:30:00.000-08:00

This weekend I've been thinking about Japan quite a bit. I'm working on something new about my adventures in Japan, but first I wanted to post this again. It's funny how much I miss that place.

Originally posted on Observatons of a Misfit
March 11, 2005
Mostly Bizarre, With a Chance of Showers

When I volunteered to serve a mission for my church, it never occurred to me that I would end up in Japan. When I got the letter telling me where I’d be serving, I was stunned. I’d never really been out of Utah, other than a few weeks in California. I had no idea what to expect. Nevertheless, I was determined to succeed. Therefore, I prepared, as most people would, with
the time-honored study method of watching "The Karate Kid II." This was very helpful, as I learned two very important facts: first, many people in Japan have a tendency to converse in Japanese. And, secondly, that America and Japan are very different cultures in almost every conceivable way, especially where manners are concerned.

If I were to describe the 18 months I spent in Japan with a single word, I’d have to say it was “wet.” At the risk of over generalizing, I would estimate that it rains at least 360 days a year in Japan. But one word is not enough to describe a country with Japan’s culture, ancient history, art, and its staggering beauty and traditions. Therefore, I would also like to choose the word, and I say this with the deepest possible respect, “bizarre”.

From the moment I stepped off the plane, I was suddenly illiterate. I heard conversations that I didn’t understand. I saw billboards and neon signs (the Japanese are very fond of neon) that I couldn’t read. I felt like I had suddenly lost several IQ points. Fortunately, as I looked out the car window (trying not to notice the steering wheel was on the wrong side and the sensation that no one was driving the car) I finally saw, shining through the torrential downpour of the early April evening a shining beacon of familiarity: the Golden Arches. It wasn’t much, but it was beautiful to me.

Missionaries are not permitted to be alone, ever. We are assigned a “companion” missionary, and a new missionary is usually assigned to someone with more experience. So I wasn’t overly concerned by the fact that despite spending eight weeks studying Japanese for 10 hours a day at
a training center, the only words I could pronounce with confidence were hibachi and Sony. These words didn’t come up in conversation as much as you might think. My first companion was American, so I figured I’d be okay until I learned a few words. And during the brief time I was with her before she transferred, I’m happy to say that I learned to say a couple of complete sentences. True, I said them with a Tennessee accent, just like hers, but I learned them. I realized I didn’t know enough to carry on a conversation, but I wasn’t terribly worried. In fact, I was fine, right up until the moment I was introduced to my new companion. Her name was Hiromi Nakamatsu, a lovely girl, born and raised on Okinawa. With only rudimentary language skills between us (she could name the members of New Kids on the Block), we somehow managed to communicate.

Typical of the Japanese obsession with manners, my companion very politely refrained from pointing out that I was carrying a bag every day with the label from the airport still attached. I don’t know why I didn’t remove it. I was probably afraid I’d offend someone or break a law if I did take it off. One afternoon, we were waiting for a train and she offered to help me practice my reading. At her suggestion, I tried to read the sticker on my bag. Carefully sounding out each syllable I said, “oo ee su ki. Ooowiskee...whiskey?”
“Yes!” she said, apparently greatly relieved. She had been waiting for me to realize on my own that I was traipsing around Japan as a Mormon missionary with a label on my bag advertising the leading brand of whiskey.

I took advantage of a rare candid moment. “Have I been saying or doing other things wrong too?”
“You speak very well!” she answered.
This was Japanese for, “Yes, you idiot, you’ve been making a fool of yourself on a daily basis.”

Correcting people is considered very rude in Japan. The down side to this was that my companion was too embarrassed on my behalf to correct my errors, of which I’m certain there were many.

“No, really,” I insisted. “I want to know when I make a mistake. I can’t learn if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
After a lengthy discussion during which she assured me repeatedly that I spoke Japanese like a native (of America, presumably), my companion finally, and very reluctantly, admitted that, among other things, I had been referring to people as carrots, and that the word I was using daily for "spiritual" was just the tiniest bit incorrect.
“What is the right word?” I asked
“Reiteki.” she whispered, after apologizing profusely for correcting me.
“What have I been saying?”
“Seiteki” she told me, nearly in tears with shame.
I fumbled through my dictionary and discovered, to my horror, that although I had been trying to tell people that going to church was an enjoyable "spiritual experience," I was actually saying something slightly different. I had, in fact, been promising everyone I met "going to church can be an enjoyable sexual experience." In retrospect, it seems odd that, with promises like that, we didn’t have people beating down our door.

Naturally, the language mistakes are not one-sided. In America, it’s common to see Chinese or Japanese characters on t-shirts, jewelry designs, or even tattoos. We see them on signs and the little cartons from the Chinese take-out places. Most of us probably never even question just what these characters might mean. For all we know, someone is having a huge laugh at our expense with nonsensical phrases or obscene words on various items. I came up with this theory when I noticed a certain phenomenon in Japan. English is everywhere; it just never makes sense. Its purpose is purely decorative. The rice steamer in our apartment was inscribed with the thought-provoking phrase, “It is always so sweetly nice to drinking the happy tea with our family, naked.” On one street there was a bakery sign which proclaimed “Baked Flesh Dairy” and it was with more than a little concern that I read the words “White People Tissue” on a box of Japan’s version of Kleenex in the store one day. What did this mean? White tissue for people? Tissue for white people? Tissue of white people? What was in this box? One of my most cherished souvenirs is a bag from a store called “Sissy Boy” which sold, as you may have already guessed, stationery.

The Japanese adhere strictly to a precise behavioral code. The implicit rules of conduct are so complex and detailed, I could write an entire book about it and still barely scratch the surface. Suffice it to say, if an act seems familiar and socially acceptable to you as an American, it’s probably better that you resist the impulse to actually do it in Japan. Conversely, if any behavior seems crude or impolite in anyway, then it is very likely acceptable. For example, making certain digestive noises, which I am much too refined to describe, is perfectly acceptable in Japan.

I was carefully and repeatedly instructed about common American behavior that the Japanese find offensive. It would be easier to sum up what is not considered offensive about our culture: Disneyland. Other than that, we’re pretty much rude, uncouth boors who are unfit to socialize with other cultures. (It’s okay to buy their cars, however.) If the world were a formal dinner party, America would be the guest who shows up late, wearing a “Grateful Dead” t-shirt, and engages in loud, inappropriate conversation and unforgivable behavior such as leaving chopsticks standing upright in a bowl of rice.

By committing various seemingly harmless acts in Japan, I was able to bring shame on myself, my family, and my entire country. My first day there, I did something they consider truly outrageous. I didn’t even think about it. Prepare to be horrified. As I was walking, I put a piece of chewing gum in my mouth. Now, I know what you’re thinking: that walking and chewing gum at the same time is a display of great physical coordination of which we, as Americans, are particularly proud! This is precisely this kind of thinking that has made us the social sloths we are today. Only an extremely ill mannered cretin (or an American) would do something like walking and eating at the same time. Chewing gum in public, or anywhere else for that matter, is frowned upon. Walking while chewing gum is just asking to be deported. I know what you’re thinking now, and the answer to your question is: No, belching after eating while walking doesn’t compensate for the offense.

The inside of the mouth must never be seen, hence the images we’ve seen of demure Japanese women covering their mouths when they laugh. (Laughing loudly is taboo, as well; for women, anyway. Sedate giggling is the preferred, traditional method for expressing mirth.) There are also issues with the soles of the feet. You shouldn’t cross your legs, lest you subject some poor soul
to the shameless exhibition of the underside of your feet. If your hands are full, don’t even think about nudging a door open with your foot. Of course there’s an entire “manners code” devoted to shoes. It is important to remove your shoes when entering a home or an apartment. Once you remove your shoes, naturally, you put on a pair of slippers. However, if you enter a room with
straw mats on the floor, the slippers come off again. If you visit the “honorable hand-washing place” (the bathroom), you change into yet another pair of slippers. My husband, who also served a mission in Japan (although we didn’t meet each other there), told me he once forgot to make the slipper switch upon leaving the restroom while visiting someone’s home. When it was time to leave he noticed he was still wearing the bathroom slippers. The slippers sometimes have little stick figure drawings of people on them to remind you why you are in the bathroom in the first place, just in case you forget once you’re there. The Japanese are nothing if not helpful. Obviously, Mike and all of his descendants will carry the burden of the slipper fiasco for all time.

So, now that we understand that we don’t ever reveal the crude sight of the soles of our feet or the inside of our mouths, I would like to address the traditional ensemble of the Sumo wrestler. Seriously, these little outfits are grossly inadequate as far as coverage is concerned. In fact, I’m reasonably certain that parading about that way in America would lead to an arrest and
possibly a visit to a padded cell. Well, maybe not everywhere in America. My point is, how on earth is it acceptable for grown men to cavort about, attired in something which would not even pass as a bathing suit, yet the inadvertent display of the soles of one’s feet can be so excruciatingly offensive? There is, of course, an answer to this question. Probably. I just have no idea what it is.

I also couldn’t help noticing that many people in Japan seemed to be, what I call, for lack of a better term, clothing impaired. This was only in certain places like bathhouses and, evidently, apartment balconies. Still, I admit I was more than a little startled by how many people in Japan thought nothing of wandering about like Lady Godiva. (Without the horse, obviously. They ride bicycles, instead.) These are people who routinely bathe together. Not at home, of course, that would be scandalous. They go out in public for group bathing.

You will be very relieved to learn, however, that modesty still has a place in Japan. While traveling about we saw many of the ancient, traditional carved stone statues of Buddha and other deities that are common throughout Japan. There were often little offerings of potato chips and juice boxes left in front of them. The thing that really completed the scene, for me anyway, was the fact that the statues were frequently dressed, as you might expect, in Snoopy t-shirts.

Knowing what to keep covered, and how, is among the mysteries of the Orient. Sunglasses, for example, are not a good idea, unless you really want to be mistaken for a member of the Mafia. One day, during a brief moment when the rain had stopped, I pulled out a pair of sunglasses.
“What are you doing?” my companion gasped. (It was surprising how quickly she adapted to correcting me.) I looked around, making sure my feet were covered and my mouth was closed.
“What?” I finally asked. I lived in a state of paralyzed paranoia for at least the first month I was in Japan.
“The sunglasses. We don’t wear sunglasses.”
“We don’t?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“Never?”
“No.” She was adamant. “You mustn’t ever wear sunglasses here.”
“Is there a reason for this?” I asked.
“People will think you’re with the Mafia,” she warned.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am. Only the Mafia wears sunglasses.”
“So you’re saying people are going to look at me and say, ‘Look, there’s a member of the Mafia
posing as an American missionary’?”
“Just put the glasses away.”
The Japanese Mafia can also be identified by the fact that they are the only ones driving American cars (Cadillacs, mostly), and are noticeably lacking a pinkie finger.
All in all, living in Japan was not exactly what I thought it would be when I watched "The Karate Kid." I saw, said, did and ate things I never thought possible. I'm pleased to say that I did learn to speak passable Japanese, though nowadays I only use it when I need to speak privately to Mike and our son is eavesdropping. I would never have believed how much I would come to love a country, a culture, and a people that seemed so, well, foreign. I hope to return one day, and when I do, I will don my sunglasses with impunity and swim at the beach in my modest, Catalina one-piece.

Seeing Through Closed Eyes

2006-02-24T08:03:00.000-08:00

I was teaching a lesson the other day when I had one of those great moments that make teaching really fun. I teach a nine-year old boy named Sam. Sam cracks me up. He's the biggest Star Wars fan I have ever met in my life and he makes absolutely NO secret of the fact that he just hates piano lessons. Sam's been taking lessons for a year now, and he's actually doing really well. It amuses me no end to see him sitting at the piano in his baseball uniform, looking totally dejected about being inside the house, heaving a heavy sigh with every note he plays.

This week, Sam was having trouble with his rhythm plus he's also developing a bad habit of looking at his hands when he plays. I mean, it's not bad to look at your hands sometimes but if you're not careful it becomes something of a crutch. It's much like typing--looking at your hands just slows you down. I had a teacher who would often make me play blindfolded in order to learn to trust my hands. Plus, I'm pretty sure it gave him a chance to take a nap during the lesson.

The problem during Sam's lesson was that the boy would stop between every note, sigh heavily, look at his hands, find the note, then look back up at the music by which point he had completely lost his place. It's a fairly common problem. Most people instinctively trust only what their eyes can see, not realizing that the other senses can be trusted as well. So I decided to do a little extra work to teach Sam to trust his hands.

In order to help with the rhythm problems, I got out the metronome again. For those who have been spared this experience, a metronome is a torture device used to help ensure even rhythm by making a loud ticking sound at regular intervals. Sam is NOT a fan of the metronome. He tries to watch the pendulum swing back and forth while he sort of lunges toward the keyboard in a desperate attempt to anticipate the ticking. Now, I feel his pain here. I do. I have absolutely no sense of rhythm myself. It's something I have to work really hard for since it does not come naturally to me. In fact my teacher once observed, "You know, you don't even WALK rhythmically." This was a very creepy observation, I thought. I have lots of hatred of and a grudging appreciation for the metronome. Like Sam, I always wanted to watch it, trying to anticipate the clicks. It's really a frustrating thing to learn, if you're not naturally inclined. I once threw a metronome across the room and broke it into many tiny pieces. It was about that time that I learned that some metronomes are extremely expensive. Oops.

I could see that Sam was getting frustrated and upset, so I backed off for a few minutes. After all, the feelings of a young boy are fragile and so is my metronome. A few minutes later I came back to it. I said, "Okay Sam, here's what I want you to do. I want you to just relax. This is no big deal. It's not a competition, it's not a performance. If you make a mistake no one's going to hear it and no one's going to care. This is just an experiment. Okay? Now, I want you to close your eyes and just put your hands on the keys. Keep your eyes closed and then just touch the keys. Feel the sets of two black keys and the sets of three. Take your time. Just get used to how the keys feel under your fingers. Feel how far apart they are. Notice how far you have to move your fingers to reach from one key to the next. Can you feel the difference between the way the black keys and the white keys feel? Very good. Now, keeping your eyes closed I want you to find all the D's on the keyboard." (That's really easy because D is the note between every set of two black keys.) "Good, now find all the G's. Excellent work, Sam. You're doing great. Now find the A's." (Again, easy because those are the notes inside the sets of three black keys.) "Great job Sam, now I want you to keep your eyes closed and go back to C. Good. Now I want you to play the C major scale." He did it perfectly. "Sam, I'm so proud of you, you're doing so well. Now I'm going to set the metronome. Don't play anything, just listen to it. Can you hear it? Can you tap your foot along with it? Great. Okay, when your ready, play the scale again, one note with each click, but keep your eyes closed. You know where the notes are. You can feel them. You don't need to see them. Trust your fingers to find them. And you can hear the clicks of the metronome. You don't need to watch it move back and forth. Just listen. Take your time, just listen to the clicks. When you're ready, play."

He did it PERFECTLY.

I said, "Sam! You did it! I knew you could! Do you understand now?"

And then he smiled this little crooked half-smile and said, "Well, yeah. You mean you just want me to use the Force when I play, right?"

You realize what this means. Someday when he gets nominated for a Grammy, he's totally going to thank George Lucas.

Breaking the Rules

2006-02-20T10:06:00.000-08:00

Son recently became the first child in our family in generations to serve detention at school. We're very proud. He was understandably anxious about telling us, but he finally broke down and announced, "All the teachers are out to get me." For those who don't have children, permit me to translate. This means, "I got totally busted at school and I'm hoping to play on your sympathies." In my very best patient-and-concerned-mom voice I asked,

"Okay, tell me what happened."

"Well, you know how at school we're not allowed to throw snowballs?"

"Yes."

"Well, um, a bunch of fourth-graders have totally taken over the good slide on the playground and they had piled up all these snowballs where the teachers couldn't see them." Oh what an affront to Son's fifth-grade dignity: being attacked by fourth-graders.

"Go on."

"Well so they were throwing them and I was just trying to ignore them when I accidentally caught one."

"Wait, you caught a snowball?"

"Yes."

"I see. Go on." Yes, I know very well what the odds are of actually catching a snowball, but I was interested to see where he was going with this. He did not disappoint when he said, and I'd like to stress that this is an actual quote,

"Well, you see, I was leaning over to set it oh, so gently on the ground when the teacher came outside and totally got the wrong idea." I'm afraid Son didn't get quite the reaction for which he'd hoped.

"I see. Well that's terribly frustrating, but the fact is, you had a snowball in your possession, is that correct?"

"Well, yeah."

"And having a snowball in your possession is against the rules?"

"NO! Just throwing them."

"Okay, but the problem here is that just having it in your possession is enough to get you in trouble, do you understand that?" He hung his head.

"Yeah."

"Especially, if you were setting it down oh, so gently with your arm in pitching position, as I suspect you may have been. Am I close here?"

"Um, well...yeah. Maybe, " he admitted sheepishly.

"So, the facts are that, for whatever reason, you were seen with something in your possession that you weren’t supposed to have, and the consequence for that is that you've got detention, is that right?"

"Well, yeah."

"So?"

"So I shouldn't catch snowballs anymore."

"Good idea."

Someday someone may approach Son with drugs or something else that, if found in his possession, could land in him in a lot more trouble than detention during recess. Better that he learn now, while the stakes are small. When the time comes, I hope he doesn't let me down. Because I don't think he could do it oh, so gently.

My Valentine

2006-02-13T14:44:00.000-08:00

With the approach of Valentine’s Day it seems that magazines, newspapers and Internet sites are rushing to publish all kinds of quizzes and articles about things like how to tell “DOES HE REALLY LOVE YOU?” or “IS HE THE ONE?” or “TEN WAYS TO TELL IF HE’S INTERESTED” or "THE ROMANCE SCALE--HOW DO YOU WEIGH IN?"

When my husband and I started dating he would have would have ACED these tests. The first Valentine’s Day we spent together, which incidentally was when we started dating, Michael showed up with my favorite flowers. This was no easy task, apparently, because he had to go to five different florists just to find the ones I love most. I would have been pleased with anything, really, but I admit I was impressed by the effort. That first Valentine’s Day he also gave me a teddy bear and jewelry, but the thing that touched me most was the poem he wrote himself.

I’ve never received a card from Michael in the entire time I’ve known him; at least, not a card he purchased. It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he doesn’t think it’s fair to buy someone else’s words and pass them off as his own. Fortunately, he has no problem writing down his own sentiments. Stashed away in my jewelry box among the other tokens of his affection are all the love notes that he’s given me over the years. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. The notes are things I just stumble across at some point during the day. Sometimes I find them in the car, sometimes in my pocket. They are small and simple things, sometimes written on Post-it notes, but they are more valuable to me than the gemstones with which they are kept.

In the day-to-day world of being married and having a child, is the romance gone? No, of course not. Dinner out is much more likely to be an event that includes kids' menus and sippy cups, flowers don’t show up with the same frequency, and when we go dancing it usually involves pushing the kitchen table to the side of the room first. But he does still dance with me. No, I have never lacked for romance.

My husband is a very romantic man. He’s got all the gestures down--flowers, surprises, notes etc. And I may have mentioned once or twice that I personally believe him to be the most flawless combination of genetics ever assembled in human form. I mean the boy cleans up nicely. Very nicely. After 12 years of marriage I still find myself a little weak in the knees sometimes just looking at him. Oh yes, there is romance there.

However.

Never in my life have I loved him more than when I've seen him sitting slumped in the rocking chair with his hair rumpled, his face covered in stubble and looking completely wiped out after spending the night with a sick child. That’s right. When our son is sick and I’m exhausted, Michael will send me to bed and sit up with Son himself.

When I am sick he takes care of me, too. He’ll bring me soup and keep Son occupied, then he’ll come in and listen to me whine and complain and when I’m finished he makes me laugh.

Flowers and moonlight are great. Make no mistake; I love that stuff. I so appreciate the fact that he continues to make romantic gestures. But when he borrows my car it comes home freshly washed with a full tank of gas. He’s not above throwing in a load of laundry and for a long time I couldn’t have told you what color our vacuum cleaner is. (Though that’s partly because I ceded the job to him once I learned about his bizarre obsession with the scientific patterns of vacuum lines in the carpet.)

When our automatic garage doors broke at the same time he fixed mine first. He still holds doors open for me. He actually finds my flaws endearing. When I trip and fall or do something remarkably stupid, I know before I look at him that he’ll be sitting there with that smile he gets when he’s trying really hard not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with the suppressed laughter. Then he helps me up and says, "Thanks for marrying me. I've never been so well entertained in my life." Sometimes (and I know there may be some who will accuse me of making this up but I swear it’s true) he lets me hold the remote. Perhaps the most telling sign of his love for me is the fact that as much as loves them, he wouldn’t dream of eating the last Oreo without seeing if I want half.

Not only does he love me, he extends the feeling to my entire family. He and my dad frequently go to lunch together, just the two of them. When I’ve been unable to attend a family function, Michael will go anyway. At family gatherings Michael will sit and happily chat with Dad. When they’re out Michael will slow his pace and walk next to Dad since my father isn’t as quick or steady as he once was.

Michael adores my mother and the feeling is mutual. I have suspected on more than one occasion that my parents might love him more than they do me. They’ve actually told me that in the event that Hubs and I ever divorce they’ll keep HIM. There is only one drawback to their relationship: I haven’t won an argument in YEARS.

And when I thank him for being so good to my parents my husband is genuinely baffled.
“What do you mean?” he asks. “I love your parents. They’re great.” I love that they have a relationship that exists independently. Plus, when I want something from my parents, having Michael ask is a sure-fire way to make it happen!

Unlike my parents, I do realize Michael isn’t perfect. There’s his unfortunate taste for disco music and his need to snooze the alarm clock for an hour before he can actually wake up. But this weekend I didn’t feel well. And when I finally emerged from the bedroom and made it downstairs I found a clean kitchen, a child who was fed and content, and a husband whose only concern was wanting me to feel better.

He is thoughtful, sweet, and makes taking care of our family his top priority. And did I mention he dances with me in the kitchen?

I have romance, yes. But I’ve got something else that is much more valuable. My husband loves me. I don’t need to take a quiz to know that. He shows me every day in ways I couldn’t possibly mistake.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Michael. I love you.

Children's Market

2006-02-08T06:58:00.000-08:00

Every week children come to my house for the purpose of learning to play the piano. At least that's the agreement I have with the parents. Some parents, though, seem to be under the impression that I'm actually running a glorified day care center.

A couple of weeks ago I was teaching the last students of the day. You may remember these kids. It's a brother-sister team referred to affectionately as "The Piano Lickers." I still haven't quite figured out why they do this but I HAVE determined that the taste of Lysol on the keys doesn't seem to be particularly unpleasant to them.

So it probably comes as no surprise that after an hour of trying to keep one occupied and out of trouble while teaching the other I was more than ready to return them to the wild from whence they came. I was escorting them to the door when one turned back and headed toward the living room. When I reminded him that it was time to leave he demolished my dream of closing the door behind them and screaming, "WHY? WHY do they DO that?" before disinfecting the piano again. It all came crashing down with the airy announcement, "Oh, Mom said she'd be an hour or so late because she needed to go grocery shopping and stuff."

Blink.

"An hour? She said she'd be AN HOUR?"
"Yeah, she said if it's a problem we can just wait outside."

Wait outside? In January? In Utah? After dark? Seriously? She hadn't even sent them with coats. There was no way I was going to send them outside for an hour, and I'm sure she knew she could count on that. (Being a doormat is not always as fun as you may think.) Odd habits aside, it's not their fault their mother does what she does and I wasn't going to make them freeze just because their mother is less than considerate. Fortunately Son came home about then. He's the same age as my students and he's happy to play with them. Just as long as they don't actually lick him, that is.

I asked the children to please remind their mother of my policy that all children left longer than ten minutes will be sold as slaves. Then I went to the kitchen to get dinner started. I remained within earshot of course; I'm not THAT crazy.

The boy was the first to pipe up. "Dude, does your mom really sell kids? She can't do that can she?"

Without missing a beat Son assured him, "Sure. You didn't really think I was an only child did you? She sold the others."

Of course I will reassure the children that I was kidding. Everyone knows how hard it is to get a good price for kids who lick pianos.

Television, How I've Missed You.

2006-02-04T15:03:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, we eliminated TV from our lives. There is still quite a bit of debate over whose idea this was. I can’t imagine I would ever suggest something like this. I’d be much more likely to suggest that we go outside and set ourselves on fire or something. I love TV. Not ALL television shows interest me, of course. But frankly, a world without “Frasier” is sad and bleak my friends. Oh yes, "Friends." I like “Friends” too. (And yes, I’m aware that these shows are no longer actually in production, but we still have syndication, right? RIGHT??) In fact, I distinctly remember Hubs telling Son that we were disconnecting the TV because we were tired of his attitude and constant aping of every kid on TV with the ubiquitously stupid parents. Have you noticed this, by the way? Parents on TV are portrayed as being too stupid to be walking upright or breathing. TV kids can leave the state, have adventures involving law enforcement, the mafia and llamas and parents won’t ever be any the wiser. Our son seemed to have determined that we would be just this stupid.

Still, I clearly remember looking at Hubs in shock thinking, “Hold on right there, Pal. We can take TV away from our child. In fact, I’ll go so far as to admit that it’s a great idea. But let’s not get crazy here. Why should I be punished, too?” In an effort to maintain the critical united front, I didn’t voice my objection at the moment, thinking I’d simply discuss it with Hubs later. But I never really got around to it and it’s probably just as well. I’m not saying that I had no choice in the matter. I’m fully capable of having TV reinstated and Hubs wouldn’t dream of telling me I couldn’t do it. I’m not sure why I haven’t yet. Maybe I recognized on some level that a break might just be good for me too.

Nah.

But I’m thinking the fact that I didn’t ever argue my side has contributed to his current belief that it was actually my idea. Who knows?

What I DO know is it hasn’t been all that bad. Son’s attitude has shown remarkable improvement. His belief that everything he says should be followed by high-fives due to his spectacular putting of the incredibly blind, naïve and unspeakably stupid parents in their respective places seems to have been curbed somewhat.

Additionally, we’ve been spending a lot more time together doing things that are much more important. You know, things like watching videos and DVDs.

Still, I can’t find words to express my profound joy in being reunited with television. Even if it did occur while I was in the hospital, it was totally worth it.

Oh beautiful Technicolor mind drain! How I’ve missed you! Monica, Phoebe, Rachel! I’ve missed you so! And Chandler and Joey! There you are in all your syndicated glory! Heck, I’m even glad to see Ross.

We were kept waiting for quite awhile. And I found I didn’t mind the wait that much.
“Honey look! It’s ER! I can actually watch a show about the hospital, while IN THE HOSPITAL! I’m in a hospital gown, with an IV going and everything, what are the odds of that happening? This isn’t a chance you get every day you know.”

A while later, “Ellen” came on and my excitement knew no bounds. It was like I’d been out of the country and cut off from civilization for years. “Oh look! She still has Tony! I love Tony. And she still dances! Imagine that. She looks good doesn’t she? How old do you think she is now?”

The only bad thing was that during every segment of the show the nurse, in what I can only believe was a well-timed, deliberate plot to make sure I didn’t forget I was supposed to be suffering, came in to talk to me, give me papers to sign etc. leaving only during the commercial breaks. This can mean only one thing. She was watching something on another station with TV breaks timed opposite the ones on the show I was watching.

That’s proof enough for me. TV is an important health aid. I would be neglecting my health if I didn’t have the cable reconnected. That would be wrong. We all have a role of responsibility in our own health care. I suppose if Hubs objects I can just continue watching at the hospital. I just need to determine what he can have removed so I can spend the entire time waiting in his room.

Hospital: Paper Work

2006-02-02T05:37:00.000-08:00

I've been out of touch here the past few days but for what it's worth, I do have a note from my doctor (and by note, I mean bill) explaining my absence.

Yesterday I had surgery. The good news is, I have a lot of new stories to tell. Oh, and I’m also going to be feeling a lot better. The bad news is, I’m pretty groggy so it could be a couple days before I’m up to writing them. So in the meantime, I’ll just share the following conversation I had with Hubs while filling out forms prior to surgery.

In addition to all the other seemingly endless papers I had to fill out prior to surgery there was a questionnaire about my sleep habits. I was able to answer the first question by myself, since the question was, “Do you snore?” Well, if I wake myself up now and then doing it, I’d say there’s a good chance that the answer to that one is "yes". But for the others I had to ask Hubs.

“Honey, how often do I snore, would you say?”

“How often do you sleep?”

“Right.”

“Okay, when I snore is it a) louder than breathing b) louder than speaking or c) louder than shouting?”

“Keep going.”

“Right.”

“Okay, one more, when I sleep do I ever seem to stop breathing?”

“Only when I hold the pillow over your face. It’s usually not for long.”

“Right.”

Same Time, Same Closet redux

2006-01-25T15:23:00.001-08:00

This entry was first posted at Observations Of A Misfit. I wanted to put something new up, however, the Elementary-school-flu of death (Son is fine, of course) is making the rounds of the family. My turn. So a rerun it is!

February 18, 2005
Same Time, Same Closet

Like most people I have, on occasion, dreamed of running away from home. It seems only last week, I contemplated the joy, the freedom, the bliss of the open road. To be perfectly honest, it was more like yesterday. My husband returned from work to find me sitting silently in the unlit closet of our bedroom.

“Honey? What are you doing?” he asked carefully.
“Sshhhh! He’ll hear you!” I whispered. "Come in, shut the door, and for heaven's sake be quiet!” Without further question, he looked over his shoulder, made sure that he had not been seen, and quietly slipped into the closet with me. “Were you followed?” I asked urgently.
“No, I don’t think so. I think we’re okay for now,” he whispered back. “Who are we hiding from?” I pulled a box of crackers from a drawer, and handed him a bottle of water.

“Who do you think?”

“Oh." He patted my knee sympathetically. "Long day, huh?”

“You have no idea.” He made himself more comfortable, and began opening his crackers.

“Not so loud!” I hissed.

“What?”

“The wrapper! You’re making too much noise with the wrapper!”

“He can’t hear that from his room; he’s on the other side of the house!”

“Oh no,” I informed him. “He just wants us to THINK he can’t hear, but he hears. He could hear a candy wrapper rustle from three blocks away.”

“Is that so? Then how come I have to bend down and shout directly into his ear to get him to come when I call him?” he asked, seeming puzzled. I patted his knee and looked at him through the dim glow of the flashlight.

“Ahh. Allow me to explain," I told him, as I rearranged the shoes on which I was sitting.
“The hearing of a nine-year-old boy is directly related to the implications of
the incoming sound.”

“Excuse me?”

I sighed. “Okay, if you want him to come downstairs to take the garbage out, there is no way in the world he’s going to hear you. The same with bedtime, school, homework and chores.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “I’m with you so far.”

“Good. Now, I don’t know if he is even aware that he ignores what he’s hearing. It’s possible that he is somehow able to automatically tune out anything he doesn’t want to hear.”

“Do we have any cheese?”

“Here,” I said, handing him the Cracker Barrel pre-cut cheddar. He frowned.

”How old it this cheese?"

“I don’t know. It was aged 90 days before I bought it, what’s a few more days going to hurt? Now, please focus. We’re discussing our son and his selective listening skills.”

“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, I have no idea why he’s like that.”
“It is quite a mystery,” I replied, as Mike positioned a slab of cheese on his cracker, lining it up square with the edges.

“You were saying?” he asked before popping the cracker into his mouth.

“I was saying that the same child who cannot hear an atomic blast occurring three feet away is nonetheless able to pick up the barest whisper of a bag of potato chips being opened in a neighboring town.”

“Right,” Mike agreed, nodding. “Do you have chips somewhere around here?”

“Look, I really need you to concentrate. If you can’t, you’re out of here, got it?” He swallowed one more cracker and set them aside.

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“It started with his haircut.”

“You took him to get his haircut?” Mike asked.

“Not exactly. Do you remember walking into the bathroom this morning and seeing hair all over the counter?”

“Yes, I thought you were trimming your bangs.”

“I don’t have bangs, dear.”

“Oh.” He seemed perplexed. I gave him a moment for the idea to settle in. “Oh!” he said, as realization dawned. “I see. How bad is it?”

“Well, remember when he was a baby and had just one little tuft of hair? Remember how cute he was?”

“Yes.” He smiled fondly.

“Well this is not nearly that cute.”

“So, then what?”

“Well, so then I walked him into the bathroom, pointed out the hair all over the counter and the floor and asked, ‘Did you cut your hair?’”

“And?”

“And he denied it. He looked me right in the eye and said he had no idea what happened.”
“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. He wouldn’t even admit it when I pointed out that his hairstyle had been radically altered.”

“What did he do?”

“He looked shocked. He looked in the mirror as if he was realizing only then that he was sporting a Mohawk.” I explained. “So I asked your dear mother’s grandson, ‘How do you think your hair got cut if you didn’t do it?’ and do you know what he said? He said, ‘It must have just fallen off’!”

Mike rubbed my back. "It sounds like you’ve had a rough day,” he sympathized.

“Oh, that’s just the beginning,” I informed him. “It gets worse.”

“Okay,” Mike said, settling more comfortably against the door with a pillow. “What next?”

“I got a call from his teacher. She found something in his pencil box after school today.”

“Is it too much to hope that it was pencils?”

“Yes it is.”

“But it wasn’t...”

"No, nothing like that.”

“Well then, what?”

“It seems your son has been stashing his homework beneath a false bottom he created for his pencil box. He folds each paper up as small as possible, slips it in the box, covers it, puts pencils on top of the false bottom and then puts the box behind his books in his desk.”

“Really? That’s, er...creative. Why is he doing this?”

“When I asked him he told me it was because he didn’t have time for school work.”

“Why is that?” Mike asked.

“Because he has a business to run.”

“What kind of business?”

“Apparently, he draws pictures of cartoon animals and sells them to the other kids. He calls them Desk Pets. I asked where he gets his materials. He said, and I’d like to stress that this is an actual quote, ‘I just use the classroom stuff, so there is very little overhead for my business. It’s mostly profit.’”

“Wow. That’s impressive.”

“Be that as it may, he hasn’t turned in an assignment in weeks. He’s has been telling me that he doesn’t have homework, and he’s been telling his teacher he left it at home.”

“Well that’s not impressive. That’s not even original. You’d think he would have come up with something better than that.”

“Yes, the lack of creativity in his lies is the truly upsetting thing.” I snapped.

“Sorry," he said, with eyes downcast.

“Moving on; after the meeting with his teacher, we came home and he started his ‘I’m hungry’ mantra. I gave him a snack and sent him to get started on his homework. When I came in to check on him, he had polished off two apples, a package of beef jerky, and a bowl of cereal.”

“How long were you gone?”

“About five minutes.”

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

“Then I put his school clothes in the wash.”

“How was that a problem?”

“Cargo pants.”

“Again?” Mike asked gently. I nodded. “What was it this time?”

“Crayons. I swear I checked every pocket, but these cargo pants have 87 pockets, and it’s very easy to miss one. And of course, he has to put something in each and every pocket, and you don’t even want to know what he puts in some of them,” I began ranting.

“Okay,” he soothed. “Hair, school, laundry, anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“You tell me; his physical therapist called and said that our dear little boy was trying to sell his leg brace to another boy at school.”

“How much was he asking?” I glared at him. Sorry,” he said. “Anything else?”

"Just the usual. Laundry, cooking, cleaning, first aid, tutoring, school, cub scouts, church, shopping and then I start all over again.”

He nodded. “So what do you want to do now?”

“That’s just it. I think we should run away from home. We’ll go live on a little island somewhere, you won’t have to work, we’ll get away from responsibility and pressure and the day after day after day drudgery. I can make pineapple smoothies and you can organize all the sand by size and color of grain.”

“What about our son? What about the house?”

“He can have the house. I don’t care anymore. We’ll just give him the house; leave a credit card and a good supply of corn dogs. Your parents are close by. They’ll take care of him. He’ll be very happy.”

“That does sound appealing,” he mused. Sensing victory, I pressed on.

“Yes! Think of it! We can sleep in, no homework we have to pretend we understand! It’ll be heavenly!”

“How do you suggest we finance the whole thing?”

“We can live off your trust fund.”

“I don’t have a trust fund.”

“Pity your parents didn’t set one up. We should get away before you become resentful about it.”

“It does sound tempting,” he said wistfully.

“Yes! It sounds...Shh! What was that?” We sat silently for a moment, listening intently.

“Is it the refrigerator opening?” Mike asked. I eyed him in disdain.

“The refrigerator. Honestly, you two are so much alike.”

“No, seriously, I think he’s in the kitchen.” We waited. Then, as we knew it would, the call came.

“Mom? I’m hungry! What’s for dinner?”

Mike and I looked at each other and sighed. “Well,” I said, “it was fun while it lasted.”

“Yes, it was fun,” he answered. “Same time tomorrow then?”

“Yes, of course. Same time, same closet. Don’t forget it’s your turn to bring the snacks.”

I Wonder As I Wander. Then I Just Get Really Confused.

2006-01-16T11:55:00.000-08:00

Something is happening to my mind. I'm losing control of the memory function and not in a good way.

I have mentioned my fabulous memory. I believe I have indicated that I have almost no ability to recall important stuff. But until recently I was able to at least remember why I was in a certain place.

Here's the thing. Lately I've been finding myself standing, say, in front of the linen closet with absolutely NO clue as to why I might be there. There really are very few reasons why I would be standing in front of the linen closet. I could be there looking for clean sheets. Maybe a table cloth. (Though that's pretty unlikely since we are backwoods Utah people and we usually just eat things right from the boxes in which they were delivered.) I suppose it's even possible that I might be there looking for that bag of Hershey's Kisses I stashed there weeks ago. (Thank heavens I still remember the chocolate-related information.) But whatever the reason for my presence there might be, I. Do. Not. Remember. It.

I admit that at first this was amusing. A little game in retracing my steps. Finding myself in the laundry room holding a tennis racket and a box of cereal and trying to find the connection was good for a few minutes of entertainment. But now it's starting to worry me.

What happened to my mind? Did aliens come and steal my memory chip during the night? Is Mike poisoning me a little at a time and memory loss is but the first symptom? Am I suffering from early dementia?

Truthfully, I've been kind of worried about this. But the other day Michael yelled from downstairs, "Honey?"

"Yes?"
"I am standing on the stairs to the basement."
"So?"
"Well, I'm just wondering if you have any thoughts about WHY I'm here because I've tried but I just can't remember what I'm doing here."

So at least I'm not alone. But I hope there's a good explanation for this. I have visions of us driving aimlessly around town desperately searching for a clue to explain why we're out.

Does anyone else suffer from this? Just be aware that if you tell me that it's because I'm getting older I will smack you. As long as I remember the purpose of my visit once I'm actually standing in front of you, that is.

Ah, memories!

2006-01-14T09:55:00.000-08:00

I don’t mean to sound immodest, but I have an incredible memory. There is no detail so small, so insignificant or meaningless that it escapes my mind. This is something that baffles, fascinates and frustrates my husband.

One night we were watching “The Black Stallion”. This is a movie I had not seen since it was in theaters when I was a child. Half-way through the film, apropos of nothing I announced, “Cassolet.”

“What?” Mike asked.

“Cassolet. That’s the name of the horse.”

“I thought it was 'The Black.'"

“No, I mean the name of the horse playing the Black Stallion. It’s Cassolet.” Michael took a few minutes to ponder this revelation. Then he asked,

“Is this something that was a big deal when the movie came out? Was this a famous horse or something?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. I give up. How do you know this?”

“I saw it in the credits.” I had his full attention now.

“You saw it in the credits?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said the last time you saw this you were a kid.”

“I was.”

“So 25 years ago, you saw a name flicker on a movie screen and you remember it to this day.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, now explain to me how you know this but you haven’t quite nailed down your social security number.”

You see, there is one drawback to my fabulous memory. I only remember insignificant, useless information. If a particular nugget of information is something that will be of no use to me whatsoever, my mind puts it in some high priority memory file, never to be forgotten. I can’t ever remember exactly when my mother-in-law’s birthday is, but I DO remember that the boy my cousin had a crush on when she was in the ninth grade was born on December 14th. (His name was Nick.)

I can’t name more than three members of congress, BUT I do know that on Gilligan’s Island the Skipper’s first name was Jonas. His last name was Grumby. By the way, the Professor was named Roy Hinkly and Lovey Howell’s name was Eunice. Lovey was a nickname. This is but the tip of the TV trivia iceberg I have contained in my mind. But I’ve promised Michael I won't reveal everything I know since he feels that there is a circus out there somwhere just waiting to sign someone who can tell people exactly how the Skipper and Gilligan met.

I don’t have any idea why my mind clings to this information. I wish I could remember things that matter. I often wonder if there is some way to wipe out my mental hard drive to make room for data that will be useful for something more than winning radio contests. (Knowing the name of General Grant's horse is good for movie tickets, you know.)

So, no. I don’t know my driver’s license number. I’m not entirely sure who the governor is and I have no idea what my social security number is though I think there may be a nine in it. Or a six. An eight? Hmmm.

I'm not going to be able to help you much with the important questions in life, but if you ever need someone for your Trivial Pursuit team, give me a call. I’ll just be brushing up on the important stuff. “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…”

Things You Never Think You'd Have to Say While Teaching Piano Lessons

2006-01-09T18:21:00.000-08:00

Please stop licking the piano.

Please get your face off the keyboard.

Seriously, stop licking the piano.

Feet on the floor please, this is a piano not a jungle gym.

Did you just SPIT on the keyboard?

Okay, WHY do you keep licking the piano?

Driving in Utah

2006-01-05T14:20:00.000-08:00

I’m not what you’d call a daredevil. I’ve never been one to engage in dangerous behavior or chase after that adrenalin “rush.” Not on purpose anyway. I confess, however, that there is one dangerous activity in which I voluntarily participate on a daily basis. Scary enough to entice any extreme-thrill seeker this pastime is something that plunges even experienced risk-takers into heart-stopping, breath-stealing insanity. That’s right! I drive in the great state of Utah.

I haven’t really driven anywhere besides my home state so I don’t know if it’s this exciting in other places. Still, I like to think that we Utah drivers bring something special to the driving experience.

First of all it is important to remember that we are a friendly and loving people. This is perhaps why we are reluctant to allow any space at all to come between our car and those of our fellow drivers. Anyone who is stand-offish enough to leave enough distance between themselves and the car in front of them will soon realize that even the smallest space will quickly be filled by more friendly drivers. If you drive in Utah, you can expect people to be friendly enough to stay very close. The driver ahead of you will be able, simply by glancing in the rear-view mirror, to lip read the lyrics to the song you’re singing. Perhaps they will even sing along. They will be able to share the aroma of the doughnut you are attempting to eat as you drive to work, and despite what appears to be a common belief that we are, ourselves, invisible behind the clear untinted windows of our vehicles, be aware that YOU are in clear view and we will not pretend we don't see you squirt jelly from said doughnut all over your shirt. But don't worry. We're so busy trying to manage our gallon-sized mugs of Sprite that we won't laugh. Well, not really hard, anyway. The point is, get used to being close to other cars, especially if there are traffic lights in the vicinity as this brings us to:

The “I’m with them” driving technique. I suppose that technically, when a traffic light turns red, only the car in the middle of the intersection should proceed. But after all when you’ve been bumper to bumper with a person for several blocks, it’s hard to say goodbye. Therefore, it’s acceptable, or at least common to see several cars pass under the red light, as if they all belong to a procession of sorts; one that cannot and should not be interrupted by something as capricious as a traffic light. “It’s okay,” they seem to tell us as they proceed beneath a crimson light, “I’m with them!”

Traffic lights, in fact, are generally regarded as a loose suggestion. A green light means “Go. Or not. Whatever suits you, it’s your call." Just because there may be traffic approaching behind you, it’s no reason to leave before you’re ready. By all means, stay as long as you’d like! Of course some people feel that a green light means you should actually go. They see green as a sort of starting pistol or something. But wait, you say. What if I haven’t finished checking my makeup, or reading my newspaper? The answer is simple. Feel free to linger if you need to, but keep in mind that the accomplished driver is able to perform several tasks while still in motion. Try it. It’s not uncommon to see people talking on the phone, shaving, programming a palm pilot, spending some quality time lecturing the children or even performing little mini-concerts complete with air guitar and drums while simply driving to work. A yellow light is sort of a friendly reminder that perhaps you could be traveling just a bit faster. Of course, if you are less than three feet from the intersection when the light changes by all means stop and enjoy the kaleidoscope of color about to appear before your very eyes. A yellow light is so fleeting, so very brief and the next thing you know it changes to red. Take the time to stop and enjoy it. Of course there are those drivers who prefer to slow down to appreciate the last seconds of the amber hue before accelerating and racing through the red light. It’s a nice surprise for those silly drivers traveling the opposite direction who are attempting to turn left. We must do our part, after all, to keep everyone on their toes! A red light is an indication that if you’d like to stop, for whatever reason, you may do so. However, you should be considerate of other drivers and be certain that you aren’t holding up a procession of “I’m with them” drivers. In fact, just to be on the safe side if you are any closer than three blocks away from a red light, you should probably just plan on continuing through anyway, just in case.

But traffic lights aren’t the only way to have fun while driving. Far from it! We have the added excitement of interpreting turn signals. While some people believe that a turn signal is a means of informing fellow drivers of an intent to turn, I have found that this is not always the case. There are a number of reasons for using a turn signal. For example, if a car in the next lane is lagging behind leaving enough space for you to actually enter their lane, a turn signal is the quickest way to get them to pick up the pace and fill that space! Turn signals of course can be used to indicate a desire to, say, turn or even change lanes. You take the chance, however, that this will be misunderstood so it’s better to simply turn without the signal.

On the other hand, the thoughtful driver who really does wish to alert other drivers of an intent to turn can do so by simply switching on the signal indicator several miles before the anticipated turn. This gives everyone ample time to close any gaps, plus it allows for an exciting game of “Is he really going to turn or is he just teasing?” Also be sure to note the light-hearted game of "Made You Think I Wasn't Turning!" played by many. This game is always good for a laugh when you are attempting to turn onto a busy street but having difficulty finding an opening. Remember, no spaces between cars! You too will laugh heartily as a person careens toward you at full speed and then, without any indication whatsoever of intent, the driver suddenly turns! This brings you the realization that if they had signaled a turn you would have been able to pull onto the street, but they got you! Now you have to wait longer! HA HA HA!

I recently learned that turn signal etiquette is not limited to the state of Utah. A friend of mine is a police officer in Idaho. A thoughtful citizen has informed him that turn signals should be employed anytime a car turns, even if the turn is merely a result of a curve in the road. Furthermore, this driver feels strongly that law enforcement officers need to enforce this practice, to protect everyone from the potential hazards of a person traveling down a road with no intersections or lane changes. Why should anyone assume that because the road curves, the driver will also? Signaling in this case is really the only thoughtful thing to do. My friend, being the staunch defender of justice and protector of safety that he is, was nevertheless relieved to be able to evade this responsibility by pointing out that the road in question is not in his jurisdiction.

With that insight from Idaho, I have to conclude that maybe Utah isn't alone in the peculiarity of certain drivers. Perhaps driving in other states is taking one's life in one's hands as well. On the other hand, I've seen the bewildered and sometimes furious expressions on the faces of those driving cars with out-of-state license plates. These drivers will, for example, signal a lane change and then actually attempt to change lanes. While this may be acceptable in other places, in Utah it's just plain crazy. Driving in Utah is not something I recommend to the faint of heart. For them it would perhaps be better to try something more sedate and predictable. Like driving in New York.

About the Comments

2006-01-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going to be dealing with the kidney stone issue for the next couple of days, so I won't be putting up a new entry until that's resolved. I appreciate the kind comments so far. Just so you all know, I've set the comments to members only until I get back. Thanks and I'll see you later!

Parental Paranoia

2006-01-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

So we had an interesting morning. Mike has a sinus infection and while I feel sorry for him and all, his snoring has become loud enough to alter the rotation of the earth. This is slightly problematic when it comes to falling asleep myself. And so, in order to preserve our marriage, I've spent the last couple of nights camping in the family room. But last night, despite having an ENTIRE house between us, I could STILL hear him. That, coupled with a kidney stone that is currently making my life very interesting, kept me awake until, oh, around six o'clock this morning. This is important to understand, because it explains why I did not wake up until I heard the garage door, located directly below the family room, open.

It was still dark, and I assumed that Hubs was leaving for work, since he mentioned last night that he needed to go in early today. So, imagine my surprise when I looked at the clock and realized it was eight o'clock and my young son was no longer in the house.

Now, rationally, I understood that it was possible that Son had dressed, eaten breakfast and left for school all by himself. Stranger things have happened. And though I shudder to think about the possible clothing ensembles and hairstyles he tends to sport when unsupervised (think blind rodeo clown on crack) my greater concern was his tendency to head for an "alternate destination" while on his way to school. I was also concerned because it appeared to be raining heavily and for some reason the brain function that tells a person to for heaven's sake put on a coat because IT IS WINTER AND HYPOTHERMIA IS NOT AS GLAMOROUS AS ONE MIGHT THINK does not seem to have yet developed in my son.

In the few seconds to took for me to process this, I was able to ascertain via super sleuthing skills consisting of yelling his name as loudly as possible while walking through the house that Son had definitely left the building. I noticed that the garage door was left open, which is Son's usual M.O. This drives Mike insane, since he is convinced that there are people lurking in the bushes just waiting for someone to leave the garage door open so they can finally explore the forbidden environs of our garage.

Mike's paranoia about the garage is exceeded only by my paranoia that there are people lurking in the bushes just waiting to grab a mouthy, stubborn, ten-year old boy dressed like a homeless person, with his hair sticking out in directions that defy all known laws of physics and sporting milk mustache. He may be a scruffy, obnoxious urchin, but he's MY scruffy, obnoxious urchin and I'd really like to hold on to him for awhile longer. Besides, Son's pride and joy, his new bike, was still parked in the garage. That was definitely weird because he's been talking all week about getting to ride it to school. There is no way I would have let him ride to school in the rain, but I didn't think he would leave it home if I wasn't up to tell him "no".

And so, despite the fact that I was attired at the moment in my Christmas jammies and barefoot, with my hair looking very much like my son's (at least I'd not yet had time to acquire a milk mustache of my own) I grabbed my keys and went to look for my child. And before you go getting all judgmental, let me remind you I WAS TIRED!

I drove along his usual route to school, praying that I wouldn't run out of gas or get into an accident thus causing me to be seen by anyone who had the power of sight.(Because as everyone knows, you're invisible behind the windows of an automobile.) I arrived at the school and spotted him. He was standing out in the rain, of course, acting cool and pretending he didn't see me. Now, I know that I should have just driven away at that point. I realized I had overreacted but now I knew where he was, I knew he was safe. But no. I waved him over. His friends nudged him and Son very reluctantly looked over at me. Instead of actually coming over though, he just shouted from about 50 feet away, "WHAT?!" Disrespectful kid. I waved him over again and he trudged over to the car.

"Hey, you left without saying goodbye, and I was worried. How did you get here? You didn't take your bike."
"Dad brought me."
"Dad? Dad went to work early this morning."
"No he didn't. He's staying home because he's sick. Oh my gosh, MOM! Are you wearing JAMMIES?!"
"Hang on, if Dad stayed home, where's his car?"
"How should I know? He just brought me to school and said not to wake you up."

I sat there for a second wondering if Son was telling the truth or just trying to avoid getting into trouble.
"Uh, Mom? Could you go now? You don't need to get out of the car do you? Please don't get out of the car."
"Huh?"
"I swear, I'll do anything you say, just DON'T get out of the car." This, coming from a child who routinely wears his shirts inside out AND backward and who thinks a towel qualifies as an article of clothing. As tempting as the thought of displaying my sleepwear for all the children was, I simply waved goodbye and drove home.

Upon my arrival, I noticed the garage doors were both closed. Apparently Mike was indeed home, and I must have passed him somehow. I walked into the house where I found Mike frantically dialing my cell phone, which I could hear ringing upstairs.
"Where have you been?"
"Why are you home? You're supposed to be at work!"
"I called in sick." He looked at me. "Are you wearing JAMMIES? Did you go out of the house in your JAMMIES?!"
"Why is everyone so fixated on that? And how was I supposed to know you were staying home? Your car was gone, I thought you went to work. Good grief, what if I was having an affair and arranged to have him meet me here this morning? How awkward would THAT have been? You can be SO inconsiderate sometimes."
"Seriously, you went out in your jammies?"
"HEY! I was worried that YOUR child had been misplaced or taken or something and I went looking for him."
"In your jammies? That poor kid is going to need therapy."
"I look like Julia Roberts on Oscar night compared to SOME parents when they take their kids to school."

At that point we both started laughing. Even though I'd been out of school for years when I met Mike, he had seen Dad's take-the-kids-to-school outfit. My brother likened it to being chauffered by Papa Smurf in a parka and a bright orange hunting cap. Though, arguably the best part of Dad's routine was when he'd roll down the window and spit right in front of the school. I have no idea why he did this, but I have to say it made quite an impression on my friends.

Okay, so I'm a little paranoid. And I'm a LOT over-protective. But comparatively speaking, my visit to the school this morning was down-right glamorous.

Older Than Dirt

2006-01-02T20:31:00.000-08:00

Today I had one of those wonderful moments when my son allowed me realize that time is not just slipping by like sands through the hour-glass (Dang, I miss TV. But I digress) it is careening past at speeds too high to be accuarately clocked.

It all started harmlessly enough. We were watching the movie "Freaky Friday". Not the Lindsay Lohan re-make (which we've viewed countless times due to Son's heart-wrenching crush on Lindsay) but the original with Jodie Foster. There we sat, my son and I enjoying a movie I remember fondly from childhood. We were watching the scene when the mother, in Anabel's body, is trying to type on an electric typewriter. And then it happened. Out of nowhere my son asked, "What are those?"
"What are what?"
"Those keyboard things."
"Typewriters?"
"Yeah. What are they?"
"Well, they are used for typing letters and things."
"Like on a computer."
"Yes, like that."
"Well where's the monitor?"
"There is no monitor."
"Then how can you see what you're typing?"
"It's right there on the paper. You just look at it as you type."
"So you, like, type WHILE it's printing?"
"Sort of."
"Weird."
"Yeah."

As I was coming to terms with the fact that my child did not understand what a typewriter is, he hit me again.

"How old is Jodie Foster?"
"I'm not sure. A few years older than I am, I think."
"Whoa! Are you kidding me? She's really older than you?"
"Well, yes. A little."
"Man! Is she even still alive? I can't believe this movie is even in color!"

The sad part is, he wasn't even trying to be sarcastic.

Christmas vacation ends tomorrow. Not a moment too soon.

The No Resolution Resolution

2006-01-01T07:55:00.000-08:00

Ah well. Here we are again. Once more we have reached that time of year where we evaluate the old (meaning how quickly did we abandon our resolutions last year?) And what can we resolve to do THIS year that we might actually stick with, or at least until all the people we told about it forget?

While I understand the concept of a clean slate and all that, I've still always been a bit puzzled by the concept of New Year's resolutions. Why wait? Why plan to change your life on a specific date that way? If it's something you want to do, why wait to do it? If it's something you want to give up then isn’t prolonging said habit really just a way giving yourself permission to indulge a bit longer? And if that's how you feel about it, how successful can you really be?

And so, here's my philosophy for resolutions this year. I resolve to make resolutions throughout the year, not just today. I'll do them as they come to me. I will learn new things, no matter what the calendar says. (And unless Astro gives me a heads-up first.) I'm going to have fun where ever and whenever I can. I'll try my best to help other people when there is a need and do what I can to make other people smile just a bit. I'm going to laugh. I'm going to read wonderful books. I'm going to discover new things I can do. A year ago, I didn't think I could write. Now, some of you may agree that I can't write. Some have even kindly suggested that I should “For the love of all that is good and decent step away from the keyboard.” In fact, some dear souls even took the time out of their busy schedules of bashing people they probably don’t even know in real life in order to send me their assessment of my writing skills or lack thereof. ME! Can you believe it? I’ve got people bashing me! I’ve come a long way, baby! Which reminds me, I made a resolution back in October: I don't read anonymous emails sent with the clear intent to hurt me. Constructive criticism is one thing, but when you write to tell me I’m a bad writer and you use the word “dicshunary” in your diatribe, that’s something else entirely. So BYE!

Meanwhile, for better for worse, I’m writing, and I love it. I can’t wait to find out what I can do with this. My journals are a lot more interesting for starters. My descendants will read them and praise Loretta’s name for getting me started. And I thank Loretta, for the laughs that have cracked my ribs, (thanks very much), her encouragement and mentoring. Never have I met anyone with such joi de vivre, with the courage to say what needs to be said, be it popular or not. So if I had a serious resolution, it would be to learn more from Loretta. (Actually, that’s more of an ongoing thing, not a goal. She’s a bottomless pit of humor and wisdom and I’m incredibly grateful to know her. Plus we are going to have a BLAST on Atonement Island!

Life is full of exciting things waiting to be discovered. For example, until this year, I had never sung anywhere but the shower and the car. (Never at the same time though.) I didn't make a resolution in January to discover if singing is something I might be able to do. That was more of a late June resolution rather than a New Year's resolution. In January it would never have occurred to me. But through the acquaintance of wonderful people I've met via Observations of a Misfit my ego is at an unprecedented level of obnoxiousness. It's really getting out of control, because this year I attempted to make fudge and we all know that is REALLY not within the realms of my earthly abilities. But I met Vero, with her theater group, Lisa, Pat, Justin etc. who all have blogs. These women are creative and hilarious. Their blogs are linked on the main page. Check them out. Between them and Loretta, that’s how I got here. They are my inspiration. They are the wind beneath my wings, they are…well any other Bette Middler schmaltz we can find.

So my resolutions are going to look a little different this year. My theory is this: If you're going to resolve to do something, why wait? Why not start now? I admit that I've been inhaling chocolate since October. Okay, since Easter. Oh all right, all right, I’ve been going strong since 1991 when I moved to Japan and the chocolate there is, well, that’s another entry. But I’ve never really stopped eating chocolate. I mean, sometimes I stop to chew, but I find that only slows me down. But I don’t sigh and say, "You know after the first of the year, I'll never eat chocolate again and then everything will be paradise. Boy, I wish it were New Year's NOW just so I could just STOP, already. But alas, it's not, so I'll just have to keep eating all this chocolate."

So point one. If you want to resolve to do something, do it now.

Point two: Be realistic. Are you really, truly going to go an entire year without chocolate? Because if you do try going for a year without the sweet elixir of chocolate, food of the gods, then you are either a diabetic or completely out of your mind. Try making your resolutions reasonable. For example:

Last year's resolution: “I will stop eating chocolate.” Uh huh. Right. This year how about: “ I will at least take the wrapper off first.”

Last year I made my resolutions in January, abandoned them by March and still managed to have a pretty good year. It’s not that I’m opposed to setting goals, you understand. I'm all for it. I’m a strong advocate for setting goals, improving myself and learning new things. I just think it's a lot of pressure to wake up on January first and say, "All righty! From this moment on I am going to be PERFECTION PERSONIFIED! I will be completely organized, kind to everyone, more effective at my job, my house will be spotless and I will lose 8 pounds just walking down to breakfast which will consist of cottage cheese and air.” Of course, I then trip over “someone’s” new remote control car, and my perfect vocabulary and boundless patience will both take a hit.

I'm not saying it's not amusing though to watch those at the breakfast buffet on New Year's morning eating as though they are on the Titanic and the buffet is the last source of comfort available to them. (I just have to tell you, though, that if I had been on the Titanic that night, I would have ripped off that corset and eaten every dessert in the galley. If you've got to die, at least die with chocolate on your lips, I always say.)

So this year, I resolve to live. I resolve to laugh. I resolve to love and to be happy. And if I could cut back on the chocolate, that would be great.

The Perfect Groom

2005-12-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I received an extremely generous offer from the owner of a blog that I enjoy. Loretta allowed me to write a guest entry for her blog "Observations of a Misfit" once a week. She edited my stories, made me look much better than I really am, and taught me a great deal. In fact, anyone who is displeased with the fact that I write now, you may blame Loretta. After all, she started it. I probably wouldn't have started writing anything more than a grocery list without her encouragement. Now that I've got my own place to ramble, the entries that I first wrote for "Observations of a Misfit" will be posted here at "Life's a Funny Thing." So here is the first entry I ever wrote, "The Perfect Groom." And Loretta, thanks for everything. You're the best.

January 21, 2005
The Perfect Groom

For those among us cursed with the burden of having a perfect sibling, I have some advice. Wait. That’s it. Just wait. Because when he (or she) finally goofs up, it’s totally worth it. Nonetheless, while you wait, placing an ad in the local paper listing his car for sale is always enjoyable.

When we were growing up, my brother, Ryan was what I liked to call the golden boy of the family, the super overachiever. I enjoyed calling him these things for two very good, not envy motivated at all, reasons. (The envy motivated name was, “Mama's Boy.”) First, I did it because it was true. Second, and I think you’ll agree that this was the more important reason: it really annoyed him.

Not only was he the sole child in our family spared the nightmare of orthodontia; he was the perfect student and the model child. He was the only child in our family to possess a modicum of athletic skill or physical coordination. More than once my other brothers (known as favorite
children numbers 2 and 3) and I (known to spend vast amounts of time in my room as unfair penance for various infractions) heard from one of our parents the confidence boosting remark, “Ryan is the only one of my children who walks properly.” Okay, I admit that the rest of us tended to walk quickly, leaning forward slightly as if facing a strong wind. But seriously, isn’t that carrying comparison a bit far?

Ryan? Well...he strutted. There’s really no other way to describe it. Of course, we inadequate walkers had deep concerns that our infirmity would somehow prevent us from achieving any success in life. Okay, not “deep” concerns, but more than a little irritation.

His most notable skill was his gift for manipulating our mother. This is where Ryan and I are vastly different - that and all the other stuff. Ryan was like a believable Eddie Haskell. I couldn’t lie to Mom. In my defense, it was not for lack of trying. I just always got caught. Ryan, on the other hand, could tell her he’d met three leprechauns for lunch that gave him permission to skip school in exchange for the dryer lint he had in his pockets. Mom would just smile. If I tried skipping school with a very believable, albeit completely fictitious illness, I’d be subject to a little mother/daughter time that would rival the Spanish Inquisition. Apparently Mom gave certain children extra points for originality.

While I was a socially phobic, library-lurking geek, he was outgoing, friendly and cool. In high school, he was the coveted date for every dance. In a nauseating, though hardly unexpected, pattern, Ryan was beloved by his teachers at school, his leaders at church, and pretty much anyone who met him. So it’s understandable, really that I resented him enormously.

In college Ryan was able to get a highly enviable campus job that consisted mostly of meeting dignitaries at the airport, and guiding campus tours in a golf cart. (Okay, the golf cart wasn’t bad, because I did get a ride to class now and then.) So it came as no surprise, really, when he introduced us to the girl he intended to marry: Kimberly is beautiful, intelligent and talented.

The day of the wedding arrived; the bride was gorgeous, the groom was handsome. Some people say there is no such thing as a perfect wedding, that something will go awry somewhere. I’d like to point out that these people are completely wrong. Ryan’s wedding day went perfectly.

The ceremony took place in a town about an hour away. At the time, our dad owned a car that seemed more appropriate for the occasion than Ryan’s mountain bike, so Ryan traveled to the wedding with our parents in Dad’s car, and after the wedding, Mom and Dad rode to the reception in Provo with hubby and me. Everything remained perfect. Being the good sister I am, I assisted others in the effort to completely cover Dad’s car, since the happy couple were taking it to the airport following the reception. It was quite a work of art, really: Oreo’s on the windshield, balloons everywhere, messages beautifully written in shaving cream script. When we were finished, I don’t think there was a visible square inch of the car beneath the decorations. We were so proud.

I could tell by the way Ryan punched me in the shoulder just a little too hard that he was duly impressed. He has since claimed that when he said he was going to track us down and throttle us, he was only kidding.

The newlyweds got into the car and disappeared through the country club gates into the night, as all of us waved and cheered. The guests and family stood in the parking lot chatting about how lovely the day had been, and a few minutes later Ryan came back through the gates, alone, on foot, and furious.

“There’s something wrong with your car!” he announced. In extreme irritation, he waited while enough men were rounded up to push the car back. Fortunately it hadn’t gone far. Dad stalked over to the car to investigate, while Mom bustled around, attempting to settle Ryan down. I stood watching, spellbound. Finally Dad announced, “It’s out of gas, Ryan. Didn’t you put gas in it?”

“You said there was enough gas in it this morning!” Ryan came back. At this point, I expressed my deep concern and compassion for Ryan's plight in the form of a snicker. I caught my husband's eye and saw that he, too, was cracking up.

Dad’s fuel habits are legendary. I don’t know exactly what he thinks will happen if he puts more than two or three gallons of gas in the car at a time, but whatever he's worried about, it must be awful. I have never known him to spend more than five dollars at a stop for fuel. I do know that the first time I filled the tank in one of his previous cars, the gas needle went into shock and the gauge never worked again.

Dad tapped the computer screen on the dashboard where flashed a three inch high picture of an empty fuel can. Low Fuel! It warned in ominous red letters.

“No,” Dad reminded him, “I said there was enough gas to get to the temple this morning. I didn’t say you could just drive around all day and never run out.”

In a brilliant strategic attempt at diverting blame, Ryan said, “Well, I don’t trust your car. There something wrong with it.” Mom interrupted her breakdown to jump in assuring him that we would send someone for gas, and then they could be on their way. Ryan continued to blame the car. Kimberly backed him up with her corroborative observation: “I think there’s something wrong with the car because on the way back today, this light on the dashboard kept flashing.”

To this day, I don't know if she was serious. I prefer to believe she was just trying to be supportive. “You mean the light that is a picture of an empty gas can and the words Low Fuel? That light?” asked Dad.

Mom came to Ryan’s rescue by offering to allow him to take her car. Ryan and his bride accepted the offer immediately, moved their luggage into Mom's car, and once again drove away.

While my husband was sent for gas, my car was loaded with the wedding gifts we had just removed from Mom’s car. Mom and I then departed in my car, while my husband and my dad stayed behind to take care of Dad’s car. What no one stopped to think about was that Dad and my husband were left, in their formal wear, to take a heavily decorated car to a gas station, and then share a twenty minute drive home together. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, it didn’t occur to them to remove any of the decorations, either.

My husband told me that all the way home people honked and shouted congratulations, only to get closer and see two tuxedoed men inside. My husband was driving, which was a shame since he really would have preferred to duck and cower on the floor. But he's nothing if not a good sport. Dad, oblivious to the reason for all the extra attention, simply smiled and waved to everyone. “It was kind of like being in a parade!” he recalled.

In the end, Ryan and Kim got to the airport in time to make their flight. They have gone on to have a very happy, though imperfect marriage.

My brothers and I had the very great satisfaction (petty, but great) of seeing Ryan in a flawed moment. Although we never did learn to walk satisfactorily, I’m pleased to say we have still managed to live reasonably successful lives.

Mom recovered well from the whole drama. The favoritism changed, though. Now we all equally embarrass her. As for Dad and my husband, they were delighted to receive complimentary nachos from the gas station attendant.

Amish Girl In Training

2005-12-30T07:34:00.000-08:00

It should come as absolutely no surprise that I am what polite people call "technologically challenged." I am what my brothers call "She Who Must Never Touch Anything With A Power Cord Or More Than One Button." My brothers are right, sad to say. The button thing even applies to clothing as I have on more than one occasion returned to the house only to discover my shirt has been buttoned incorrectly all day.

My brothers are technology wizards. My older brother spends his days doing heaven and Bill Gates only know what for Microsoft. (Everytime the computer shows the error message and inquires politely whether or not to send a message to Microsoft to inform them of my distress I ALWAYS say yes. Just my way of letting Tyler know I'm still out here.) My other brothers are also well-versed in computer knowledge. They frequently sit and discuss computers in some foreign language I gave up trying to understand years ago. I'm not quite sure how I ended up in this family, the only foreigner in their computer-filled world. One day I will learn that I was adopted and suddenly my entire world will make sense. Until then, however, I just remind myself that we are all unique and we each have our own talents. For example, I know every word to the "Beverly Hillbillies" theme song. (I also know the words to "The Brady Bunch" and "Gilligan's Island" but my brothers may read this and I don't want them to feel intimidated by my greatness, so I won't mention my expertise in its entirety.)

In the blog world, however, I'm finding that having a few clues to finding my way around would be helpful. For example, I finally got links to my favorite blogs listed. See? Over there in the sidebar? Under the great big word "LINKS"? (I'm also working on changing that to something different, but let's take one thing at a time, okay?) Yep. I got them listed all right. The links won't actually take you anywhere of course. But I'm working on it. Thank you for your patience. In the meantime feel free to join me in a little song! Everybody sing! "Come listen to the story of a man named 'Jed'..."

Twas the Day After Christmas

2005-12-29T13:34:00.000-08:00

'Twas the day after Christmas. The carnage was over. The presents that I spent hours lovingly wrapping were unwrapped, the feasts I'd laboriously prepared were consumed and I was contemplating what a wonderful thing hibernation is. I was happily imagining the bliss of stuffing myself so full of food that it would sustain me through the long months of winter and then, oh sweet, merciful, blessed thought, I could just go to sleep! For MONTHS! Judging from the recently snug fit of my jeans, I'm more than halfway there already. I slumped in the chair thinking maybe I'd just stay in that spot for a week or so. I could just summon Son when I needed food, drink or batteries for the remote. It would be perfect. But then right in the middle of my lovely reverie, a horrific reality presented iteself in the form of my husband with an announcement:

"I want to go shopping. I can exchange that BEAUTIFUL, WONDROUS, NOTHING-MORE-LOVELY-HAS-EVER-BEEN-CREATED-BY-HUMAN-HANDS-SWEATER that I'd keep if only, oh if only it fit." (Mike's mom gave him the sweater. She may read here. Everyone wave to Mike's mom!)

I summoned all the energy I had to open one eye and stare at him.
"Are you mad? Do you know what the stores will be like today? Only crazy people are out today."

"Yes, yes they are. And we have a duty to support our fellow crazies by mingling with them in the mall."

"You mingle. I'm sleeping. Besides, I don't like people anymore."

"Aw, c'mon. It won't be that bad. What happened to "Good Will Toward Men"?

"I think I lost it somewhere between getting run over by an enormous remote control Batmobile and getting broadsided by two women having a tug of war over the last 'Boobah.' That's kind of funny, though. When those women find out that 'Boobahs' make noises that melt the auditory nerves and grate on every other nerve in the system of anyone unfortunate to listen longer than 2 minutes, they'll realize there are NO winners in Boobah world."

"Right. Well guess what?" he wheedled, "You know that sweater you've been wanting? I'll bet it's still there. On sale even."

"I don't care. It'll be spring soon and too warm for sweaters anyway. Nice try, though."

"Books. Books will be on sale." Silence. "Honey? Did you hear me? Bookstore?"

"Let me get my shoes." Rotten man. He never did play fair.

We made the 45 minute trek to that den of insanity known as the mall. As we drew closer I said, "Shhhhhh! Quiet! If you listen carefully, you can hear credit cards screaming in pain from overuse! We must turn back!"

"Funny."

"You'll never get a parking spot. Never. You'll have to stalk some poor souls as they come out of the mall. You'll follow them to their car and wait nearby with your signal flashing, only to find out they're just there to leave their stuff in the car before returning to the chaos."

"Nope. There's a guy. Look at the cold, dead look in his eyes. He's not going back anytime soon." Mike was right of course. He followed the guy and when Mike scored a parking spot mere steps from the door I hung my head in defeat.

Nothing but my unconditional, undying and deep, deep love for my husband could have made me follow him into Eddie Bauer. Well, nothing but that and the promise of a trip to the bookstore.(I hate it that I'm so easy.) I mostly read for three hours while having discussions like:
"Do these socks match?"
"Yes."
"Really? They match this sweater?"
"No, they don't match the sweater."
"You just said they matched."
"They do. They match each other."

It actually wasn't so bad. With the strategically timed visit to the bookstore, and the help of a zealous young salesman who had far more interest in and excitement about clothing than anyone not working on commission has any right to be I only thought about banging my head against the wall, oh three, maybe four times. It must be stressed, however, that I might have escaped even that if the salesman had not insisted on returning with items I had already vetoed. (Sorry, Mike's young and he's gorgeous, but even he cannot pull off mukluks.)

The plus side is, he looks INCREDIBLE. He looks ten years younger, and my oh my oh my! Let's just say I'm grateful that he can no longer get his wedding ring off. I told him that if I weren't his wife I'd be seriously lusting after him. I meant, of course, that even if I weren't married to him or even in love with him, I'd find him extremely attractive. I think that came out wrong though. He laughed himself into a fit of hiccups and ever since he has been making commments like, "If you weren't my wife I'd tell you how beautiful you are this morning."

Still, after twelve years of marriage it's pretty cool to find my heart beating the drum riff to "Wipe Out" just because he walks into a room.

There is down side to having a recently "made-over" hubby, however. I now look like his chaperone. I'm sure we'll go out together and people will whisper, "How did a guy that HOT end up at the party with his mother?" You know what this means. That's right. More shopping. But I'm no fool. I'm not going back into that mob of crazed post-holiday-sale scavengers. I don't care what's on sale. I'll go back when things quiet down a bit. Besides, who knows what size I'll be once I'm through hibernating?

Christmas Decorating For OCD Couples

2005-12-19T17:37:00.000-08:00

My husband 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 Mike 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 contemplate ripping my own fingernails from their beds just to distract myself from the agony of the 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 manger scene. He 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 stood watching for a few minutes. Then he just couldn't help it. He had to ask.

"Um, Stacey? How come the Wise Men are on the other side of the room?"

"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."

"But still, it's the nativity. I think they're supposed to all be together."

"It's not historically accurate to have the Wise Men at the stable."

"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."

"Oh yeah? How do you know? WERE YOU THERE? I didn't think so."

Okay, so maybe I'm a bit particular too. But our house is GORGEOUS!

The Post In Which I Reveal Hubby's Lack of Fashion Sense.

2005-12-18T08:39:00.000-08:00

I have an embarrassingly large number of reasons for loving my husband the way I do. He's good and decent, sweet and thoughtful, smart and retina-searingly gorgeous. Plus, he brushes his teeth first thing in the morning and I think we can all agree that this gesture goes a long way toward ensuring marital harmony. But I've got to say that conversations like the ones we have about his wardrobe are a big part of his appeal. Take the discussion we had one morning when he announced, "Honey, I need new socks."
"I just bought you new socks."
"I know but I need socks I can wear with sandals." Silence. "Honey? Did you hear me? I need socks I can wear with my sandals. Where would I find some like that?"
"Well, Sweetheart, I think they are on the same aisle as the black dress socks that are to be worn with Bermuda shorts."
"Oh. No socks with sandals?"
"Nope."
"Got it."

How can I not love a man who amuses me like this on a daily basis?

My own blog. What to do? What to do?

2005-12-18T08:32:00.000-08:00

So I have my own blog now. I would like to state that the purpose for this blog is to enlighten others, to share my wisdom and humor, to discuss events of life and come to profound conclusions that will edify all who read here. The real reason, though, is that I recently learned that my brother has his own blog. Historically, anything he's had I've wanted and that includes chicken pox and a tonsilectomy. (Hey, he got a LOT of ice cream. Not to mention the attention.)I admit, I don't have many profound things to say, or great wisdom to impart. But I do find life pretty darned amusing most of the time and I also like to talk. A lot. I like to write, though I make mistakes. Way too many commas and apostrophes in inexplicable places. But I figure anyone willing to read what I have to say is going to have to be pretty tolerant and will overlook these things as I learn. So I'm going to give this a shot. If nothing else, I'm keeping up with my brother and after all, isn't that the most important thing? Exactly.