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.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Blessed More Than We Know
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.
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.
Monday, August 03, 2009
I Really Did NOT See This Coming.
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.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Realist
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
A Moving Experience
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Doused and Drenched Dignity (Yes, I've posted this one before.)
With the brief appearance of Spring, Hubs and I have once again been discussing what to do with the yard. Or if we should even HAVE a yard, given his lack of time and my propensity for killing all living things under my care. (How Son has survived this long is a mystery to us all.) Whatever we do, we'll have fun, which reminded me of this particular event I wrote about a few years ago. (Hey, Summer's coming. Time for re-runs!)
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Someday He'll Need Therapy
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.
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?
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.
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.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Something You'd Think I'd Already Know
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Deeply Philosophical Conversation About the Pope
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.
"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.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Fooled
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.
“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.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The Most Wonderful Day of the Year
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!
However.
We totally got Son this morning. So the day's not a total loss!
Details to come!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Conspicuously Invisible
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.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Tagged. A Meme. (Does it rhyme with 'Amen'?)
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.
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
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.
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.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Dating Disasters Redux
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?”
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?”
Friday, October 05, 2007
Bad News
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
A Conversation With Son
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.
"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.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Computer Issues
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...)
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Hope
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.
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.
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