The Babysitter and the Boys

I’m going to try my hand at story with a take-home message.  Actually, three take-home messages.  There are probably more.  Before I start let me say that the names have been changed to protect both the guilty and the innocent, and I harbor no ill will towards any of the parties involved.  Honest.

So, we have a 14 year old daughter.  I know I’m her mother, but the record still has to show that she is a very cute girl.  She has long dark hair, a tiny little figure, and the bluest eyes and longest lashes you will ever see.

Friday night she had a babysitting job for a family with three young boys who live just around the corner.  Off she went and her dad and I went out to dinner.  When we got home, there were four teenage boys just walking up to our house.  One asked if our daughter was home.  I said no, that she was babysitting at the Smith’s house.  Yes, this was a mistake on my part.

We decided to take an after-dinner walk and as we rounded the corner we saw those boys walking in the Smith’s front door.  Naturally we went to investigate.  One of the boys saw us and by the time we got there the place resembled a meth house when the SWAT team arrives.  We saw one boy jump over the back fence, another ran out the front door, one sauntered out whistling Dixie, and one (let’s call him John) held his ground.  

Now you have to know that John has always been my favorite, and I have to admire his fortitude, if not his chutzpa.  I entered the house to check on my daughter and her charges while my husband had a little chat with John.  My daughter insisted that they had just walked into the house without knocking, and the little boys confirmed it.  Having said that, I’m not convinced their visit was entirely unwelcome on her part.  However, her tears were real and after I got her mopped up, I joined my husband out front.

My husband was shaking his head.  He had told John it wasn’t acceptable for the boys to be there while our daughter was babysitting.  John replied that it was none of my husband’s business what the boys did.  

Well, call me old-fashioned, but I beg to differ.  So did my husband.  So did John’s father when my husband paid him a call.  A few minutes later we got a phone call from John apologizing for his actions and his words.  Thank goodness for good parents.  In fact, that is the real moral of my story.  Boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and we need parents to be parents.

But I also have three take-home messages for the kids, although they will probably never read this.  A - although it is true we live in the safest neighborhood in America and nothing remotely dangerous will ever happen here (obscure reference to “Home Alone”), it is still a good idea to lock the door when you are baby sitting. 2 - employers generally frown on their employees socializing during working hours.  D - although I’m not sure that John has any romantic interest in my daughter, some day he will have interest in someone’s daughter and the wooing will go better if he doesn’t tick off her dad.

Cannonball! Otherwise entitled: I Tend to Act First and Think Second

I don’t know how to dabble.  When I decide to do something I tend to jump in with both feet and get in way over my head before I even know what happened.  It’s kind of strange, because I don’t think I’m a particularly spontaneous person, but once I make up my mind to do something I go at it full speed ahead.  

Several years ago I decided to join a chorus of Sweet Adelines.  This is a group of women who sing barbershop quartet style music.  I found a group, showed up for rehearsal, and tried out.  Within weeks I was a section leader and had formed a quartet with three other women.  It took over my life.  I was singing several nights a week, had signed up for voice lessons, costumes, competitions and shows.  

When I decided to go back to school to finish my degree I went from mulling it over to applying for the respiratory therapy program in 5.3 seconds.  When I walked into the counselors office to discuss my options I’d never even heard of respiratory therapy. No lie. I had my own stethoscope and pulse oximeter before the program even started.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that once I went shooting with my dad I decided to get my own gun.  Sure, I shopped around and asked a few questions.  Then I bought myself a little .38 special revolver.  Next thing I know I’ve signed up to get a concealed firearms permit.  I took the class, had my fingerprints taken, and sent off the forms for my permit.  I bought myself a holster, and as soon as my permit comes in the mail I’ll be a pistol packin’ mama.  This weekend I’m going to my first meeting of the “Sassy shooters” women shooters club.

I don’t know why I go from idea to action so quickly.  It’s like when you want to jump off a high dive but you’re afraid you’ll lose your nerve so you just run to the end of the diving board and throw yourself off.  I seem to do it with big decisions rather than small ones.  For example, if you were to call me up on the phone right now and ask if I wanted to go to see a movie tonight I would probably bow out because I just have  a hard time being that spontaneous.  But today I went and looked at carpet, chose  the one I want, and arranged to have the room measured.  And the cat hasn’t died yet.  

The funny thing is that I very rarely regret these rash decisions.  It’s true that my attention span seems to be about three years, but that doesn’t bother me.  There are so many exciting things to learn about and try that something else will come along when the new wears off of my interest.  By throwing myself into something I tend to learn a great deal about it in a short time.  

So maybe I do know how to dabble.  I just dabble in a big way.

A One, a Two, a One Two Three And

Who came up with the idiotic idea of quantifying pain on a scale of 0 to 10?  Does this work for anyone?  I’m just asking, because it isn’t working for me.

Late last year I wrenched my shoulder.  I was trying to hang a heavy duffle bag on a hook over my head.  I kept missing (no surprise there) but kept trying.  I finally caught the handles on the hook, but my shoulder protested loudly.  I shook it off in “big girl” fashion, and figured it would get better.  Well, it has gotten worse.  Now every time I wash my hair, pull a shirt over my head, or roll over in bed my shoulder cries out in pain.  You’ll notice it cries out.  It doesn’t do a math problem.

Last month I finally gave in and went to the doctor.  He sent me to physical therapy.  My physical therapist, Jeremy, and I are developing a close relationship.  He’s a nice guy.  I know how he met his wife (high school), where he went on his mission (Ireland), where he went to PT school (Nebraska), and his children’s names (Olivia and Coi).  He has magic hands when he maneuvers my shoulder just right.  But at every session he wants me to tell him what number I would assign to my pain.  I explained to him that my pain isn’t mathematically inclined.  It’s has more of a bend for music.  

All my pains make sounds.  Headaches, stomach aches, bruises, cuts and abrasions all have different pitches and rhythms.  Does this make sense to anyone else?  If you want to know what my shoulder pain is like, listen to “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.  It kind of thumps along and then “wawawawa” a high pitched pain zings in.  I’m not making this up.  I discovered this one morning while taking a shower.  My iphone was on the back of the toilet, as my faithful reader will know, and as this song came on, I realized it was matching the pain involved in raising my arms to wash my hair!  

So I explained this to Jeremy and he even listened to the song with me.  He really is a very patient man.  But he still wanted  a number, so I told him 7.  He wrote it down. 

I’m not opposed to using the number system to quantify things.  I use it with my husband all the time.  Say we can’t decide on which movie to watch.  I will tell him I’m a 3 on (insert action flick) and a 8 on (insert chick flick), but if he is feeling like a 10 on (insert that action flick), I’ll watch it with him.  This works for us and we watch a lot of chick flicks together.  

But it doesn’t work with my pain.  Every day I faithfully do my exercises and while I’m doing them I try to determine what number Jeremy wants me to tell him.  I’m sure he wants to feel successful, so I imagine he wants me to tell him a lower number.  But the truth is, I’m still feeling “Are you happy, Are you satisfied  How long can you stand the heat Out of the doorway the bullets rip To the sound of the beat” of my pain.

My Dad

I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

When I was tiny I knew my dad could do anything.  He could add a room to our house.  He could draw anything I asked him to draw.  He could sing harmony.  He knew how to get a good deal when he bought a car.  He could sail a boat.  He could put up our tent, then we we were done with it, he could roll it up so small it would fit back into an impossibly small bag.  I don’t remember my dad ever spanking me, or even being mad at me.  I’m sure he must have gotten mad at me some time, but I don’t remember it.  

My dad didn’t travel with work too often, but once he had to go to Huntsville, Alabama for some training and he was gone for what seemed like a long time.  When he came home, he brought us gifts.  Mine was so priceless to me that I still have it.  He brought me arrowheads and even a tiny fossil he found on the ground.  I know this is now considered an illegal activity, but they are among my most prized possessions.  Most of the arrowheads were broken and he included a drawing he made of what they would have looked like before they broke.  They are drawn on a piece of hotel stationary.  I imagine my dad taking the time to hunt for these things and then sitting in his hotel room at night drawing that for me, and it takes my breath away.  How could I be so loved?

My dad loves my children.  He and my mom lived in New Hampshire for awhile and we would often visit with the kids.  One trip he drew an elaborate treasure map for my children, complete with a fancy compass rose, and drawings of trees and rivers.  He had drawn it on a piece of birch bark he had pealed from a tree.  We started out on our treasure hunt with map in hand.  The children followed each clue and when we finally got to the treasure site, the children dug under a rock and found silver dollars.  My dad had made the hike before we got there and buried treasure for them.  

Just this last week I went to visit my parents and my dad took me shooting.  I grew up with guns because my dad was in the FBI, but I had never shot one before.  To prepare he sat at the kitchen table with me and went over everything from what’s inside a bullet, to how the firing mechanism works, to how to aim.  He drew pictures.  When we got to the range he showed me how to load the gun, how to stand, and how to breathe to keep my hand steady.  He praised my efforts.

Now that I’m older I know my dad can do anything.  I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

Fashion Faux Pas

Friends don’t let friends wear ponchos.  More specifically, friends don’t let their guy friends wear ponchos.  Ever. Not even if they think they are Clint Eastwood.

I mention this rule because we all need fashion tips every now and then.  If you doubt me, spend the afternoon people-watching at Walmart and you’ll see what I mean.  

I was recently thumbing through a women’s magazine and saw that an actress had recommended jeggings as this year’s “fashion must have”.  She went so far as to say they would look good on everyone.  Is she out of her mind?  Clearly this woman doesn’t know anyone who weighs over 90 pounds.  

In our family we have a system to avoid fashion faux pas.  I watch out for my husband, my daughter watches out for me, and we both watch out for our daughter, although she doesn’t think she needs our help.  

My husband doesn’t wear shorts very often.  I bought him some and he put them on.  He then put on his black socks and dress shoes.  After allowing myself a giggle at his expense I gently suggested that he is way too young for that look.  

Just today we saw a man out working in his yard wearing red coveralls.  My husband  admired them.  I pointed out that the man looked like he was wearing a baggy union suit.  He still admired them.  I then pulled out the big guns and told him that coveralls are a deal breaker for me.  It’s me or the coveralls, and he should think long and hard because I’ll want the house, the car, the bank accounts and the grandchildren.  He can keep the cat.  He saw the light.

I routinely ask my daughter for fashion advice.   She helps me put outfits together.  She’s great with layering, accessories, and shoes.  On the other hand, I am basically a lazy dresser.  If left to my own devices I would wear jeans and a t-shirt every day.  She encourages necklaces, scarves, and shoes other than sneakers. She’s great when I can’t decide on gold or silver, flats or heels, cardigan or jacket.  

My daughter has great fashion sense, but she can’t judge distance.  She has actually insisted with a straight face that a skirt that barely covers her bum is only an inch above her knee.  I wish I were making this up.

Some fashion themes are best avoided altogether.  International apparel is almost always a mistake.  Berets, caftans, and lederhosen are hard to pull off.  The trick, I think, is to look up-to date, but never extreme.

I have a fear of creeping frump.  I’m afraid that one day I’ll wake up and want to wear a muumuu and orthopedic shoes. But equally as terrifying is the idea of being an old woman dressed up like a streetwalker.  I once saw a woman who had to be in her sixties wearing black leggings with a clingy surplice blouse tucked in, and a wide silver belt.  Please, someone, stop me.  I don’t mind the good, but I want to avoid the bad and the ugly.

Me and My Big Mouth

I always say too much.  Sometimes I also talk too much, but it’s an important distinction.   I try to reign it in, but I always seem to misplace the leash I should keep on my tongue.

Some situations bring it out.  When I’m heading into these situations, I actually say to myself, “Self, just keep your mouth shut.  You will only beat yourself up later if you say things you shouldn’t”.  Rarely do I take my own counsel.  

A few hypothetical examples.  Let’s say it’s several years ago and I’m taking a college class in pathology.  The teacher is discussing carbon monoxide poisoning.  He says you can always spot someone with carbon monoxide poisoning by their blue lips.  But wait.  I read about this in the chapter last night and CO victims aren’t blue, they are pink.  The professor is wrong.  But my classmates are taking notes.  Do I sit quietly and say nothing?  Do I wait until after class and then speak to him privately?  No.  I raise my hand (but don’t wait for him to actually acknowledge me) and say I’m a little confused because it clearly states on page 457 of the text that people who have died of carbon monoxide poisoning will look red, not blue.  I hate myself for doing it, but I just can’t stop myself.

My daughter’s orthodontist has this ridiculous finger scan device she has to use to clock in for her appointments.  If she is more than 5 minutes late she has to reschedule.  We get there on time, but alas, the staff is having their little staff meeting in the back and it runs over.  Do I sit quietly in the waiting room reading old magazines?  No, I drop them a line in their little suggestion box telling them that if they insist on my being on time I think they should do the same.  Of course, the orthodontist then calls me up on the phone to apologize and I feel like a bit of a schmuck.  Now they probably have a red flag on my daughter’s file.

This impulse is really strong in large groups where everyone is agreeing.  Say there is a group of women discussing the extensive solar system project their kids are required to do for elementary school.  They are getting a lot of enjoyment out of complaining about it.  They all feel each other’s pain.  The esprit de corps is strong.  I know it.  I know they don’t want to hear a dissenting voice.  But that little obnoxious imp inside me just can’t stand it.  I have to point out that they do not have to do the solar system project.  If it is causing that much angst they can sit this one out.  It won’t actually keep their kids out of college.  They look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Maybe I have.  Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut????

I need to learn that I don’t have to say everything I think.  But that’s the problem.  Sometimes I don’t know what I think until I hear what I say.

Home is Best

I love to travel.  I love to see new places, and I love to stay in nice hotels.  But no matter how much fun I’ve had, or how nice the hotel, I’m always glad to come home.  So I thought today I would list my Top Ten Reasons Home is Best.

10 - I know the channels on my TV.  I don’t watch a lot of television, but I usually watch the 10 o’clock news before I go to sleep.  For those of you who live on the coasts, that may seem strange, but yes, it comes on at 10 in the middle of the country.  Presumably we need our sleep to get up early and do the farming and ranching that keeps our coastal countrymen fed.  Anyway, I know what channel it comes on, so I don’t have to surf through 335 channels to find it.

9 - I live in a single family dwelling, so I don’t hear my neighbors through the walls.  Or their children jumping off the beds, bouncing balls at 7 a.m., or running through the hallways.

8 - I don’t have to worry about hiding valuables from the maid service.  It’s true that is because there is no maid service at home, but still.

7 - I don’t have to check my bed at home for bedbugs.  If you haven’t heard, bedbugs are making a big comeback in the USA.  The wise traveler will check for bedbugs before putting their suitcase in the room.  Otherwise you might bring home hitchhikers.  Nightmare.

6 - Tourist attractions seem to attract tourists.  Who knew?  There are always SO MANY PEOPLE at vacation destinations!  I like people.  But I like them in twos and threes more than by the bus load.  I try really hard to remember that each has wants and desires just like me.  But when I want to see those petroglyphs at the end of the trail and every 7th grader in America is along for the trip, I can get a little testy.

5- I trust my bathroom.  Although my bathroom isn’t sterile, I do know all the fannies that have been on my toilets, and I know all the feet that have been in my shower.  I know worrying about this makes me seem a little, shall we say, anal, but think what you will, there is the splash back risk, and you just can’t be too careful...

4 - Eating out three times a day can be trying.  I wasn’t blessed with the best digestive system.  I try not to complain;  we all have our cross to bear.  But if I eat out too often my system gets out of whack and number 5 above is going to be even more important.

3 - My shower at home is better than any hotel shower.  You see, my house was built in the 70s which means it has no environmental conscience.  It uses lots of water.  Ahhh, love that pressure.

2 - Everything is cheaper at home.  Vacation destinations operate on their own economy.  And I’m not talking about vacation spots outside of the country.  Everything from gasoline to potato chips is sold at a premium within a 20 mile radius of anything worth seeing in America.  

And the number one reason home is best:

That’s where my bed is.  I love my bed.  It is comfortable.  It has an ideal firmness.  I know for sure when the sheets were last washed.  I know what has and has not happened on my bedspread.  I know any hairs I find there belong to my closest family members.  My pillow has just the right amount of loft.  I love my sheets.  Few things are as soothing as sleeping in your own bed.  It’s good to be home.

Hair

This is an uncomfortable topic.  I know some men are sensitive about their baldness.  My heart goes out to women who lose their hair as they age.  On the other hand, hair isn’t in style this year.  Have you noticed that everyone is bald and men no longer have chest hair?  Well, we didn’t get that memo.  We have lots of hair at our house.  

Which is all well and good if it would stay on our heads, but it doesn’t.  

I just finished cleaning the bathrooms.  There is the normal soap scum, hard water marks, and even some dried tooth paste.  But mostly there is hair.  Long hair from my daughter’s elbow-length tresses, shorter hair from my middle-aged do, and a ton of little curly hairs from my husband’s entire body.

Let’s just say he can’t go outside without his shirt during hunting season.  He wasn’t this hirsute when I married him.  But I should have seen it coming. It runs in his family.  Now it runs in mine.

I have two sons, five years apart.  When the first one went through puberty, the fine, little boy hairs on his legs were replaced by the dark, coarser hairs of manhood.  His little brother was still a boy, and he came across this scripture and adopted it as his favorite: Genesis 27:11 My brother is a hairy man and I am a smooth man.  That just about says it all.  Except now they are both hairy men.

Fortunately (thank goodness for estrogen), the women in the family don’t have this problem.  But we all have full heads of hair.  No wimpy barrettes or hair elastics for us.  We need the heavy-duty variety.  But alas, our hair is constantly falling out and growing in.  My teenage daughter has beautiful wavy hair.  She spends an inordinate amount of time ironing it, curling it, braiding it, and so on.  And a ton of it ends up on the bathroom floor and in the sink and tub.  Have you ever tried to wipe out a sink when the sponge gets bogged down with foot long strands of hair?  Nightmare.

My grandsons were both born with full heads of hair.  To qualify for the armed forces or go on a Mormon mission they would have needed haircuts at birth.  So the legacy lives on.

Then there’s the cat.  Maybe I should just leave that one alone.  My faithful readers already know how I feel about the cat.

So what to do?  This morning as I crawled around the toilet trying to gather it up, laser hair removal for everyone seemed like a viable option.  Bald is beautiful.  Can you just imagine us Christmas morning each receiving gift certificates for hair removal? Gee, Mom, thanks.

I'm a Criminal

When I told my husband what I was going to write about, he said not to do it.  He said more than my slip would be showing.  But I guess I need the catharsis.  You see, I broke the law today.  

I’m normally a very law abiding citizen.  I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.  Once I came out of Walmart and realized I hadn’t paid for a pen that had slipped beside my purse in the cart.  I went back in to pay for it. 

But today a friend and I cheated death and somehow that made the laws of man seem beneath us.  We were invincible.  Let me explain.  

My friend called me on the phone and asked if I’d go with her to look at a cooler she’d found listed in the classifieds on-line.  She didn’t want to go to a stranger’s house alone.  We arrived at this huge house and wondered why someone who owned a million dollar house was selling a used cooler on-line rather than just donating it to charity.   We joked that maybe he was a serial killer.  Do you feel the hair prickling on the back of your neck?  That, my friend, is foreshadowing. We got out and went up to the door.  The owner opened the door and told us to go around to the garage. (Cue eerie music) There were four garages to choose from, so we stood on the driveway waiting.  He yelled at us to go into the back yard.  We thought that was strange and got a little apprehensive.  If you’re trying to sell something, couldn’t you put in the effort to bring it up front?  I mean, how heavy is a cooler for a 6 foot, 200 pound guy with facial hair and squinty eyes?  OK, I made up the squinty eye part.  We were glad there were two of us.  We went around to the back yard and he asked us to come into his 5th garage.  (Cue high pitched pulsing music) Very weird.  I, of course, had my phone in my pocket and was planning to quickly call 911 if necessary.  As we stepped into the garage I scanned the area for torture devices, potential weapons, and skeletons.  I half expected the garage door to close behind us.  Nothing happened.  She paid for the cooler and we carried it around front.  Phew.  We had escaped with our lives.  We were giddy with relief.

So on this wave of euphoria we decided to go look at a house she found on-line.  It is vacant, in foreclosure, and is going for a song.  It’s the only house on its street and backs up to the mountain.  Well, naturally the doors were locked, but we looked in the windows.  We went around back and discovered a doggie door big enough for a St. Bernard.  I am smaller than a St. Bernard.  You know what’s coming.  Yes, I slipped through that doggie door and let us in.  We took a self-guided tour.  I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that the house has several large bedrooms, an unusual curved staircase leading to a balcony, a full-sized hot tub in the master bathroom, and needs an incredible amount of work.  Motion sensors beeped as we entered each room.  My friend said she didn’t have a good feeling being in the house.  She postulated that maybe someone had been murdered there and that’s why the asking price is so low.  I don’t think it was murder.  I think that creepy feeling was our own guilt from breaking and entering (although lets be honest, I didn’t break anything), and worrying that those motion sensors had alerted the authorities, and the cops were about to surround the house and order us out with our hands up! 

So there you have it.  My close call with the serial killer was the gateway to a life of crime. I feel so reckless now I may jay walk, park in a no parking zone, or water after 10 a.m.

Goals

I know all about goal setting.  I don’t think there’s an idea more American than setting goals.  After all, America isn’t about what you are born with, but what you make of yourself. And if you are going to make anything of yourself, you have to set goals.  

So I know the drill.  Goals must be clearly defined, measurable, obtainable, and written down.  I think I knew this before I started kindergarten.

The problem is, whenever I hear of someone else’s goal, there is this part of me that thinks I need to set that goal, too.  Even when I don’t want to have that goal.  For example, I have a friend who set a goal to run a half marathon.  I don’t run.  I mean, if I were being chased by bad guys I would run, but short of that, I am happy to just walk.  But now that she has set this goal, I feel walking might be inadequate.  

My sister is trying to give up soda.  That’s fine.  But now this little voice in my head wonders if I should be giving up soda, too.  But I really don’t want to.  I like my Diet Coke.  I like it a lot.  Basically, you will take it from me when you pry it from my cold dead hands.  

So this leaves me with internal angst.  I think the answer might be to set my own goals and then maybe I won’t feel like such a slacker.  But now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty.  You see, I’m not feeling all that motivated to make big improvements in my life right now.  I’m kind of happy with the status quo.  

I can’t believe I’m confessing this.

I don’t want to be any fitter than I am.  I take a long walk every day and that does it for me.  I don’t want to eat any healthier than I do.  I like my chocolate and I’m a sucker for french fries.  I don’t want to go back to college for another degree.  I’ll rest on my laurels for a while.  I don’t want to go to a third world country and save the children.  The idea sounds really noble, but they eat such strange food in those places.

When I was working, they wanted me to set goals.  I hated that.  “Show up and do a good job” wasn’t an acceptable goal.  It wasn’t measurable.  I finally settled on “No more than 2 tardies a year” which was a joke because I’ve never been tardy a day in my life.  My private goal was “Keep everyone alive during my shift”, but that turned out to be unattainable, because, unfortunately, I am not a god.

It’s not that there isn’t room for improvement in my life.  I know it.  You don’t have to point it out to me.   And I’ll do it.  I will.  Okay, here we go.  By Christmas I will have set a goal to improve myself in each of the following categories:  Physical, Social, Intellectual, and Spiritual.  Phew.  Glad that’s over.  I’m proud to be an American.

What's for Dinner

My husband and I just had the conversation we have too often.  

:What do you want for dinner? 

:I don’t know, what do you want for dinner?  

:I suppose we could barbecue something.

:Nah, we just did that and I’m really not in the mood.  

:We could have fried rice.  

:Didn’t we have that earlier in the week?  Sarah wants lasagna, but that takes too long. 

:We could go to Wendy’s.  

:If I eat at Wendy’s again this week my hair may turn red and start looking like Pippi Longstocking. 

:Well, there’s always spaghetti.    

I didn’t use quotation marks because it really doesn’t matter which of us said what.  Our lines are interchangeable.  It’s a skit we’ve been performing for nearly 30 years and we know both parts.  It’s not a new problem, but it’s gotten worse in recent years.

I used to have a system.  Monday was Mexican night.  Wednesday was pizza night.  Friday was date night.  Sunday was a roast or chicken cooked in the crock pot.  That left only three nights a week to worry about.  But then the system collapsed due to a crumbling infrastructure.  There aren’t enough eaters in the house to support all that cooking, and those that are left have issues.  

About two years ago my body decided it didn’t like Mexican food anymore.  I haven’t been able to identify the specific ingredient, but peppers seem to be a likely candidate.  Makes me really sad, because I LIKE Mexican food.

We have the only teenager in America who doesn’t like pizza.  Go figure.  

And a roast seems like a lot of trouble for three people.

But the root of the problem is that I simply don’t like to cook. I think I’ve mentioned it before.  I don’t think about dinner until late afternoon and I want to eat no later than 5:30.  I want it to be quick, easy, fool proof, and to have no strange exotic ingredients.  Like celery.  I guess strictly speaking celery isn’t exotic.  It’s just that you buy celery, use one stalk, then the rest goes limp in your fridge and you have to buy it again.  So at 5 p.m. I don’t want to make something that requires celery.  Am I right or am I right?

I’ve looked at websites with thousands of dinner suggestions, but boil ‘em down to their chief ingredients and they all seem very much the same.  Can chicken with an apricot glaze really taste much different than chicken with an orange glaze?  If I make barbecued chicken with pasta today am I going to want barbecued chicken with rice tomorrow?  I don’t think so.

 And don’t suggest a new system.  Unless the new system includes the service of a cook and wait staff I’m not interested.  

So tonight it will be spaghetti.  Again.  I can go from decision to table in ten minutes.  Two minutes for the water to boil, eight minutes for the pasta to cook.  During that time the Prego jar is opened, the sauce warmed in the microwave, a bag of salad is removed from the fridge, and a loaf of bread is put on the table.  Voila.  

I have the most tolerant husband in the world.

The Lie

It was the summer of 1988.  We were living in the midwest and I’d just given birth to my third baby.  She joined her brother and sister, who were three and not quite two years old.  You might say I had my hands full.  The event I’m about to share is what led to the lie my children still talk about today.

For some insane reason, I decided I needed to go to the store on that fateful day.  I loaded the children into their car seats.  They were wedged so tightly on the backseat of the red Chevy Cavalier that when you closed the door they all bumped together.  We got to the store without incident and began to shop. I don’t remember what we were after, but at some point the melt down came and I knew I needed to get them out of the store.  But I had three children and God had only seen fit to give me two arms.

The baby was too small to hold her head up, so she got first priority in one arm.  My 23 month old son could walk, but he had forgotten how.  He was in the other arm.  The three year old chose this time to develop of case of spaghetti legs and eventually fall in a heap as we exited the store.  I did the only thing I could do.  I reached down with the hand that was holding her brother and grabbed her hand.  I then pushed/scooted/kicked her rebellious little body to the car.  So there I was with a baby in each arm, and a screaming three year old being drop-kicked across the parking lot.  I’m surprised I wasn’t made poster child for Planned Parenthood.

Something had to be done.  Somehow I had to impress these children.  That’s when the Lie was born.

The next time we headed out I found a really good grease spot in the parking lot.  I think someone had driven over some discarded fast food.  I took my children over and had them look at it.  This, I solemnly told them, was what happened to little children who didn’t walk properly and hold their mother’s hand in parking lots.  They were smashed flat and left nothing but a grease spot.  We looked around and found several more.  It was a fearsome and wondrous moment in their lives.

The story was repeated when the next two children came along.  All of them remember it to this day.  When they got older they would sometimes jump from smashed child to smashed child as we walked into a store.  Little ghouls. Now they recall it with nostalgic smiles.  As a grandmother I can’t wait to see if it is passed on to the next generation.

Nicknames

I had a classmate in first grade called Fat Tim.  I’m sure his parents didn’t name him that, but he answered to it just the same.  We didn’t call him that to be cruel, at least I didn’t.  It’s just the only name I ever heard him called.  Maybe it was something like Fat Albert.  I have no idea how he felt about it.  For all I know he’s had to spend years in therapy to get over it.  Perhaps there were two Tim’s in kindergarten, so he was differentiated as the fat one and the name stuck.

After all, what are you doing to do if there are several kids in the class or neighborhood with the same name?  When our kids were little, there were 4 Katie’s on the street.  Our Katie was, of course, Katie.  Then there was Little Katie, Big Katie, and (I’m not making this up) The Other Katie.  We really called her that.

That reminds me of a story my sister tells.  When her daughter was a toddler she was in daycare with a set of identical twins.  My niece called them “Audrey” and “the Other Audrey”.  I’m sure the Other Audrey had her own name.

Children are responsible for a lot of nicknames.  I have a great aunt who went through life being called “Lit”.  Her name was Mary Lou, but her older brothers and sisters called her “Little Bit”.  Then she became a big sister herself and the baby shortened Little Bit to “Lit” and that was that.  

My daughter has a million friends, and I sometimes nickname them to keep them straight.  Mostly I do it by where they live, so I can find my daughter when she calls for a ride home (see blog entry “Lost in My Hometown”).  So we have Apple Acres Maggie, Brick Wall Lauren, and Theater Allie, to name a few.

I might feel guilty about this, but I found out the other day that my her friends’ families do it, too.  I picked my daughter up from school and she asked if we could give her friend a ride home.  I said sure and they hopped in the car.  The friend then called her mom to tell her she had a ride home.  Her mom asked who with, and the girl answered “Blink Blink Sarah”.  When she finished her call I asked her about it.  She said they call my Sarah “Blink Blink” because her eye lashes are so long.

It seems we don’t always think a person’s given name is descriptive enough, and  we can do better.  Maybe the Indians had it right.  We should be called “Eagle Nose” or “Talks Too Much”.  We did call one of our sons “Sir Poops-a-lot” when he was a baby.  He’s glad THAT one faded away.

When someone calls me by a nickname, I instantly feel affection for them.  Strange.  My guess is that nicknames form connections.  They mean you have enough history with a person that they want to name you - somehow make you their own. 

It's a Bit Chilly

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who are warm, and me.

 As I write this entry I realize I won’t have anyone commenting that they feel the same way.  I know I’m alone.  If I weren’t alone so many things would be different.  Global warming would be considered a godsend.  No one would live north of Texas.  And surely someone would have invented something to keep us warm that is a little more hi-tech than thermal underwear.  

Since I am alone, allow me to tell you what my life is like.  

I love to take walks.  I have to wear ear muffs until its summer.  Yes, people look at me funny.  This is probably one reason my teenager won’t come with me.

Restaurants and movie theaters are torture chambers.  I have to take a coat with me year-round.  In upscale restaurants I have resorted to warming my hands by the candle on the table.  

Somewhere, in some committee, it was decided that 70 degrees is “room temperature”.  They made it a fact by creating heaters and air conditioners that keep buildings at this magical temperature year round.  If I had been on that committee, I would have fought for at least 75.  Maybe closer to 80.  

I always look for a sunny spot.  Like lizards and turtles, I love sitting in the sun.  My front porch faces west, so in the afternoon I love to sit on my porch swing and read.  The sun is on my face and the bricks behind me give off a radiant heat.  Love it.

When I park my car I don’t look for the closest spot to the building.  I look for the sunniest spot.  I love that baking feeling you get when you climb in a car that has been sitting in the sun.  The wonderful heat seeps into me and I lean my back against the warm upholstery and smile.  

I remember being hot.  Once.  No, of course I do get hot in the summer.  It’s just that I tolerate the sensation of being hot better than that of being cold.  The slightest breeze can cool me off on a hot day, but it is very hard for me to get warm once I’m cold.  Added to that is the fact that Utah has two seasons - winter and damn late in the fall.  No, it has summer, but since I don’t consider it warm until it’s 80 degrees, that means only July and August are consistently warm.

My husband recites the poem The Cremation of Sam McGee to me every so often.  He’s such a romantic.  But I think he’s on to something.  Sam and I, we just want to be warm.

More Than One Way to Skin a Cat

I recently had an epiphany.  There is more than one way to do almost anything.  I’m not sure why it took nearly 50 years for this to occur to me.  

My husband and I recently started a dancing class.  The first night of class we started working on the East Coast Swing.  I paid very close attention to get every detail exactly right.  When I saw one couple turning their hand a different direction I asked the teacher to clarify which direction was correct, so I could get it just right.  I got frustrated when I was afraid we weren’t doing it perfectly.  The next day I spent several hours on the computer watching YouTube videos of people doing the East Coast Swing.  I was amazed to find that every single couple was doing it differently.  Much differently.  That is when it hit me.  There is more than one way to do the East Coast Swing and IT DOESN’T MATTER!  This was big.  My universe shifted.

We didn’t sign up to take this dance class because we hope to compete in ballroom dancing contests.  We didn’t sign up to be on Dancing with the Stars.  We signed up to do something fun together.  Our biggest aspiration concerning dancing is that the next time we go to a wedding reception we can actually dance together.  That’s it.  So what does it matter which direction our hands twist as long as we do it together?  There is no dance police.

I have essentially been stifling my own creativity for years.   It should have occurred to me earlier.  I remember taking an art class in college and hearing the teacher say something like “I set out to draw a (thing one), but then it started to look more like a (thing two) and it pleased me, so I went with it”.  Wow!  Is that allowed? 

Believe it or not, I don’t think this is a matter of having OCD.  It’s more an issue of trusting that my way is just as valid as the next guy’s. There is more than one way to do things and who is to say that my way isn’t just as acceptable as any other way. I need to be brave enough to forge my own path without looking to someone else to validate my methods. 

So I’m going to do it.  I’m going to dance like nobody’s watching.  

Here, kitty kitty kitty.

Nomophobia

A friend recently told me about nomophobia and I think I may have it.  Nomophobia is a fear of being without your cell phone.  It is a recent phenomenon. For obvious reasons.

I was fairly late coming to the cell phone scene.  When they first became popular they seemed so unnecessary.  I’d lived my entire life without one and never thought much of it. Eventually we decided that since I was often out on the road with the children it would be good to have one for emergencies.  I couldn’t imagine needing more than a handful of minutes a month.  After all, I would only use it if I were stranded on the highway or locked out of my car.

The first time I saw a teenager with a cell phone I was a little disgusted.  I couldn’t figure out what a teenager would need with a cell phone if he wasn’t a drug dealer.  What could he possibly need to talk about that couldn’t wait until he got home?

We bought our second cell phone a year or two later.  This enabled us to call each other when we got separated in WalMart.  This is a vast improvement over our previous technique of asking the sales clerk to broadcast over the PA system a request for a lost husband to meet his wife at the checkout stand. It also made traveling in separate cars much easier.  

We moved about every three years during my husbands military career.  After the first move we had two cars, which meant I had to drive one while my husband drove the other.  We would divvy up the luggage and children and head out.  If someone needed a potty break or was ready to eat, we had to somehow let the other driver know.   Communication was most often done by flashing the lights and signaling to pull over.  Then we would confer on the side of the road. The advent of the cell phone was a godsend.

When my oldest daughter went away to college we got her a cell phone.  Everyone else followed pretty quickly and soon we were a 7 cell phone family, with the youngest child having one by the time she was ten.  She wasn’t a drug dealer - at least not to the best of my knowledge.

But up to this point I still didn’t have nomophobia.  The turning point came when I got an iPhone.  I became completely enamored with this amazing piece of technology.  Sure it’s a phone, but it is so much more.  One morning I realized I had already used my phone for 10 different activities.  I had woken up to it’s alarm, listened to music, checked the weather, read scripture, used the timer to cook breakfast, checked my e-mail, played a game of solitaire, sent a text, checked facebook, and taken a picture.  This was all before 9 a.m.!  No wonder I feel lost without it.

So, how bad is it?  The other day I got in the car to drive a few blocks to pick up my daughter from school and realized I had left my phone charging next to my recliner.  I had to turn around and go get it.  I keep it in my back pocket at all times when it isn’t charging.  Worst of all, I can’t go to the bathroom without it.  I don’t routinely make calls while in the bathroom, but I do “check my traps” during this period of unavoidable delay.  I use the time to check facebook, the weather, my e-mail, and anything else I have time for.  While I’m in the shower I put it on the back of the toilet just to keep it close by.  At night I charge it next to my bed.  At the hospital where I worked most people seemed to keep their phones in their bags.  I kept mine in my pocket.  It was on silence, but I just couldn’t bring myself to be separated from it.  And just in case you’re wondering, you don’t really have to turn off your phone while in an airplane.  They can’t tell.  I do put it in airplane mode.  Wouldn’t want to risk running out the battery!  

According to an article I read on-line, true nomophobes have panic attacks when they can’t find their phone.  I don’t know if this would happen to me because I haven’t been in that situation.  But I will say that I recently upgraded to the iPhone 4S, and when I experienced a few technical difficulties in the set up phase, I was not, shall we say, in a good place emotionally.  I got it worked out, but it was touch and go there for awhile.  I didn’t actually wet myself, or throw the phone, or exchange verbal insults with the genius at the genius bar, but I felt like doing all three at some time during the process.

At this point I don’t plan to do anything about my condition.  I suppose if it starts interfering in my life I’ll have to look into some kind of therapy.  I wonder if there’s an app for that?

Feeling Peevish

I suppose everyone has their pet peeves.  A friend of mine hates it when her neighbor lets his dog go on her grass and doesn’t pick it up.  But I’m not sure that really qualifies - I mean, who likes that?  To be a real pet peeve it should be something that is more annoying to the individual than it is to the general population.  One thing I’ve noticed is that some days I have more pet peeves than others.  Days when I’m feeling particularly  peevish.

My husband has a tendency to put ice in his glass and then clank it around as if the liquid needed help in coming to a uniform temperature.  He wouldn’t want any warm spots in his lemonade.  There are days when I don’t notice and other days when I have to leave the room to keep myself from tackling him and knocking the glass from his uniformly-chilled hand. 

Another peeve that gets to me sometimes is when people brag about the good deal they got on something.  Some days I am interested and congratulate them on their shopping prowess.  Other days it just irritates my soul and I’m tempted to make up a completely ridiculous story of my own just to top them.  How petty is that?

Some things irritate me when other people do them, but I must admit I’ve done them myself.  They don’t seem irritating when I do them.  Answering my cell phone in a public restroom falls in this category.  So does popping my gum.  This drives my husband mad.    It drives me mad too if it’s someone else.  But it can be so satisfying as long as I’m the one doing it.

One of my biggest peeves is when people honk at someone’s house to get them to come out rather than going up to the door and knocking.  I don’t know why this bothers me so much.  Sure, I don’t like hearing the noise repeatedly up and down the street as the carpools honk for the kids each morning.  But it’s more than that.  It bugs me when people honk for me, too.  It bugs me so much that it’s one thing I make sure I don’t do to other people.

Why am I annoyed by these ultimately inconsequential things?  Why are some things so emotionally irritating on some days and not on others?  I don’t know.  But I definitely have my pet peeves and my petty peeves; days when I just feel peevish.  

Ode to Sheets

I promise I won’t turn this into a product review blog.  But I wanted to write about my new sheets.

I guess I have a bit of a sheet fetish.  I like them really soft.  I don’t like pills or even texture.  I’m willing to pay for softness, but sometimes that isn’t enough.  There are some expensive sheets out there that are not at all soft!  Even though I’m willing to pay, money doesn’t grow on trees, and I don’t want to feel cheated.

So, about two weeks ago I decided it was time to buy a new set of sheets.  We bought a   Sleep Number bed about 8 years ago, which I love.  We bought a nice set of sheets from the store at the same time.  I think they gave us a deal.  I have loved these sheets.  They are very soft.  They also have elastic all the way around, corner elastic that goes under the mattress, and a tag in one corner to help you remember how they go on.  I always put the tag in the upper right hand corner of the bed.  No more guess work.  Anyhoo,  as I said, these have been great sheets, but they were pricey, and I thought I would look elsewhere for a second set of sheets.

I went to Bed Bath and Beyond.  I figured, every bride in America can’t be wrong.  I bought a quite expensive set of sheets with a very high thread count and brought them home.  I washed them before I put them on the bed.  That night I looked forward to slipping into my fresh bed.  Imagine my dismay when the experience was not all I had hoped for.  They just felt nubby on my legs.  They looked smooth, but they don’t call me Princess and the Pea for nothing!  I could feel roughness.

Now if I had not paid so handsomely for these sheets I might have just chalked it up to experience, but that was not the case.  So I took them back.  Who knew you can do that?  I felt kind of guilty.  Ok, I’ll admit it - I actually sent my husband in to return them while I sat in the car.  I would have done it myself but I was talking to my sister on the phone at the time, and he was willing.  But surprise!  He says they didn’t blink an eye, that sheets are a very personal matter, and it wasn’t a problem to bring them back even though they’d been washed and slept on.  Yay for Bed Bath and Beyond’s return policy, even if I can’t endorse their product!

But now I was still in need of a set of sheets.  So I did what I should have done in the first place.  I went back to the Sleep Number store.  They have only three or four different kinds of sheets.  Sometimes less is more.  I liked my old sheets but after chatting with the very helpful sales lady, I brought home a set of Lyocell sheets.

To use the Utah phrase, “OH MY HECK!”  These are the most amazing sheets!  I washed them and put them on the bed.  As I climbed in bed that night I was filled with trepidation.  Would I be disappointed again???  No!!  These sheets are fantastic.  They feel like melted butter on your skin.  I would like to say I slept like a baby that night, but the truth is the sheets actually kept me up.  Every time I turned over I moaned in ecstasy.  They feel that good!  It’s almost embarrassing.  

The next day I did a little research on line (can’t say I’m not thorough) and found out they are actually made from beech tree pulp.  It is a “miracle” fabric that has the softness of silk, the strength of polyester, and the breathability of cotton.  Money may not grow on trees, but wonderful sheets do!!  They are worth every penny.  

Did I just do a commercial???

Lost in My Hometown

I consider myself reasonably intelligent.  I can usually understand a concept when it is explained to me.  I enjoy puns, double entendres, and other wordplay.  I’ve always been good at crossword puzzles and brain teasers.  I love sudoko and cryptograms.   I can improvise when the need arises, and “think outside the box”.  I have always gotten good grades in school, and while it required study, I generally remember what I’ve learned.  However, I have a brain defect.  I can’t find my way out of a paper bag.  

I have no sense of direction.  One of my favorite things about living in Utah is that the mountains are big enough to be seen from anywhere and provide a frame of reference.  Virtually all of my driving is done along the Wasatch front, and the mountains are always to the East.  With that in mind I can usually head in the right direction.  Not that it helps me find a specific location, but at least I can find my way home.

In addition to having no sense of direction, I have no “direction memory”.  When I got my driver’s license at 16, I had to ask my mom for directions to get to the high school where I had been going for three years.  I’m not kidding.

My husband was in the military and we moved roughly every three years.  This is a real hardship for the directionally challenged.  Every time we moved I would buy a little spiral notebook and label it “How to get to...”.  On each page I would write directions from my house.  I’m talking directions to the dentist, the church, the grocery store, my children’s friends’ houses, the elementary school - no place was so frequently visited that it didn’t require an entry in my notebook.

When GPS devices came out I bought one.  The problem was they weren’t always accurate, especially once I got really close to my destination.  I can get lost in a parking lot.  Literally.  When I was in college I had to do clinical rotations at many different hospitals in the area.  Finding these hospitals was a major stress in my life.  I would look them up on mapquest, plan my route the night before, and head out in the early morning hours.  I would sing “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music to fortify myself.  I would turn on the GPS and put the car in drive.  Eventually the little voice on the GPS would say “approaching destination” or whatever.  This would be no help.  I would look to the left and look to the right and find myself in an office building mega-plex.   I can’t tell you how many times I had to use my cell phone and humiliate myself by calling for directions.  “I’m in the parking lot but I can’t tell where I’m supposed to be”.  

The same thing happens inside buildings.  Hospitals are the worst because hallways don’t have windows so I can’t use the mountains for help.  It’s so embarrassing when you get a call to come to “the North Hall” and you have no idea which way is north.  Repetition is of little help; at least not a reasonable amount of repetition.  After two weeks I could find my way to my office with confidence.  It took over a year to feel comfortable on the main patient floor.  After two years I could find my way to CT and MRI by myself if I had to.  To get to the NICU there were two elevators that faced each other.  I would take whichever one arrived first when I pushed the call button.  No lie, even after two and a half years I wasn’t sure until the doors opened on the fourth floor if the NICU was to the left or the right.  

Fortunately, I didn’t pass this disorder on to my children.  My oldest daughter has an uncanny sense of direction.  True story.  When she was a little girl,  we were living in the midwest and would visit my parents on the east coast two or three times a year.  On one particular trip, as we were driving along the highway, she started whining that she was hungry and wanted to go to McDonald’s.  I told her I understood, but that there were no McDonalds around.  I said, “Look out the window and tell me if you see a McDonald’s.”  She said, “We’re coming up on one.  I remember from last time we came.  You get off at the next exit and turn under the freeway”.  She was right!!  She was four!!  This is a completely amazing to me.  I have no idea how she does it.  

I don’t know how to fix my problem.  I don’t know if other people suffer from the same thing.  I’ve tried to hide my handicap my entire life.  When I need to go to a new place, I see if a friend wants to come, too, and if they want to do the driving.  When I get lost I call my daughter for directions because she is so sweet she doesn’t laugh at me.  At least not to my face.  I make sure I always have a snack in the car incase I need sustenance while I find my way home.  I keep it in a paper bag.  Just don’t expect me to find my way out of it.