Four Things I've Learned From My Grandchildren

I know this is hard to believe, but trust me when I tell you I have six of the most amazing grandchildren the world has ever known.  I’m also lucky to have them all living close enough to see on a weekly if not daily basis.  They are all three years old and younger.  Our family motto could well be “the family that breeds together, stays together”.  I don’t mean that in a creepy way.  Anyhoo, I spend a lot of time with these little people, and wouldn’t you know it, I have learned some of life’s truths from them.  So, here goes.

1. Live in the present.    I come from a long line of worriers.  I fret over the past, and also about the future.   I regret things I said; I plan what I will say.  Recently, my anxiety  had gotten to the point that it was interfering with my sleep.  I eventually went to the doctor and we did a sleep study.  The results came back:  yep, I don’t sleep well at all.  But it wasn’t sleep apnea, restless leg, or anything else organic.  I was given sleeping pills.  But I didn’t want to go there, so I took a course on mindfulness meditation.  The idea is to focus on the present.  I have been working on it, and I am doing markedly better in the sleep department.  But here’s the thing: I could have taken a lesson from my grandchildren.  They are masters at living in the moment and mindfulness.  Often I take walks with them and they point out things I completely missed.  They notice every dog that barks, every airplane that flies over, and every truck that goes by.  They truly live in the moment, and their experience is very rich because of it.  They don’t toss and turn at night, either.
2. Stop eating when you are full.  Tuesday is chicken nugget day at Nana’s house.  You can get 20 nuggets from McDonalds for $5.  It’s a bargain.  The kids all love them, but they only eat as many as they want.  This means that sometimes we throw away uneaten nuggets.  So what.  Is it any less wasteful to eat food you neither need nor want than it is to throw it away?  It isn’t going to help the children in Africa either way.  Kids eat when they are hungry and stop when they are not.  It’s a great lesson.
3. Life is messy.  No need to get worked up over it. Kids are very messy.  They spill everything.  They get food all over themselves.  They play in the dirt.  They love to draw with chalk on the pavement and then sit on their art work.  Chalk gets all over their pants.  They love to roll in the grass and they get leaves stuck in their hair.  They couldn’t care less.  And really, what does it matter?  One of my favorite lines from the movie Leap Year is “throw it in the wash, it’ll be grand.”  It really will. 
4. Be proud of your accomplishments, even if other people think it’s just poop.  Ok, I know this is a little gross, but three of my grandchildren are recently potty trained.  The other day two of them were over playing together.  One had to take a potty break.  I heard him say to his mother who was helping him in the bathroom, “Don’t flush it yet, I want Porter to see my poop”.  Later in the afternoon Porter returned the favor.  Noah came in to admire it and together they watched it all go down the toilet.  

Turning 50

I’m turning 50 next month.  All year long my high school friends and I are passing this milestone one by one.  It seems like a bigger deal than turning 30 or 40.  I’m not sure why.  I suppose part of it is that realistically I have to face the fact that my life is half over. Statistically that was also true at 40, but of course I’m confident that I’ll live longer than average.  We're all above average, right?  It’s hard to convince yourself you’ll live much beyond 100.

My classmates and I were born in 1964.  We missed the assassination of JFK, but we made it in time for the Beatles to come to America. Our earliest memories are of the lunar landings.  We got smallpox vaccines but we suffered through chicken pox.  We carried glass thermoses in our metal Partidge Family lunch boxes. 

So to honor the  occasion I am making a list of the signs I’m turning 50.  I’m starting now so I have time to add things to my list before the big day comes.   Fellow classmates of 1982, what would you add to the list?

Signs I’m 50:

1 - I can’t sit for extended periods of time with my legs curled up underneath me and then jump up and walk with out limping for several steps

2 - I’ve had medical procedures done for things resulting not from disease but from wear and tear.

3 - I’ve lived long enough to not be impressed by the latest diet fad - I remember when calories were all that counted, fats should be avoided like the plague, and salt was the root of all evil.  So pardon me if I don’t jump on the cave man diet.  I’ll sit this one out.

4 - When I’m out with my grandchildren no one mistakes them for my children.  They correctly assume they are my grandchildren.  This really hurt my feelings the first time it happened.

5 - People add “for your age” to compliments.  Example:  You are in great shape for your age.  Um.  Thanks.

6 - Oldies channels play songs that aren’t oldies to me.  Some of them came out way after I graduated from school.

7 - I’ve lived enough of life to value mercy more than justice.  I need mercy. 

8 - Let’s just say my skin has lost some of its elasticity.  This in spite of the fact that I hopped on the sunscreen bandwagon early in life.  

9 - My daughter told me her friend said I was “adorable”.  How quaint. 

10 - I’ve switched from wondering if I can afford to eat at a given restaurant to wondering if my digestive system can handle a given restaurant.

Nightmare at Davis (Part 2)

The mystery of the dirty underpants remained unsolved as day turned to night.   I didn’t get much sleep, but I didn’t expect to. My night nurse was kind.  With all the fluids I was getting through the IV plus what I was drinking to combat a dry mouth, she spent a lot of time helping me to the bathroom.

The next shift change brought my next nightmare: Lupe, my nurse. She was terrible.  I try to keep these blog posts to 500 words, so I can’t go into detail.  It would be kind to just say she was lazy.  She was incompetent.  Trust me when I say the example I’m citing is just the straw that broke the camel’s back.  

It was time for me to take a shower but I still had my IV in my hand, so it needed to be capped. Lupe disconnected the tubing, but rather than put a cap on it, she covered the end with the wrapper from an alcohol wipe and said I was good to go.  I told her I wasn’t comfortable with that - showers are dirty places and there was a straight line into my blood vein.  I told her I wanted a cap.  She got in my face and asked if I’d ever heard of alcohol and its sterilizing qualities.  I told her I wanted a cap.  She left to get one, but when she came back she told me to not be surprised if she “accidentally” pulled out my IV while putting the cap on.

At this point I had had enough.  I told her to leave my room and send in her supervisor.  I got a new and competent nurse who put a cap on my IV and also had a cheery disposition.  Yay for ShaNae! The supervisor came and she apologized for Lupe and said she needed some re-educating.  She had heard about the mystery underpants but had no answers.

I came home from the hospital that afternoon.  I’ve chatted with the patient advocate, Michael Paul, three times since then.  He called on Friday with the underpants mystery solved.  It seems that while I was on the operating table my hospital bed was in the hall waiting for me.  Meanwhile, a man was taken to the operating room next door.  When he went to surgery it was discovered that he hadn’t taken off his underpants.  Someone removed them, and rather than following hospital policy and placing them in a plastic bag labeled with the patient’s name, he or she threw them on the hospital bed in the hall - my bed. Michael Paul said they would be re-educating the staff on proper procedure.

He also said Lupe had received a written reprimand in her file for the IV fiasco.  He said she would be re-educated on the proper procedure.  It seems like the proper procedure is the best kept secret at Davis Hospital. 

Nightmare at Davis (Part 1)

I had back surgery last week.  Now there’s a sentence I could have lived my whole life without ever wanting to write.  After my hysterectomy two years ago I promised myself I would never have surgery again, but with the doctor telling me I was risking paralysis and loss of bladder and bowel control, I thought it would be prudent to reconsider.  I hope it was the right decision.  

The surgery seemed to go okay.  I didn’t get an infection and I can move all my extremities and control my bodily functions - so hey, who am I to complain.  My left leg isn’t working quite up to snuff, but I can walk without a limp and I’m hoping that soon I will be back to mostly normal.  I may never jump on the trampoline again, or ride a horse, which are two things I enjoy, but life goes on.  

I had my surgery at Davis Hospital, which is a smaller local hospital.  It wasn’t my first choice, but that is where my surgeon has rights.  I would have preferred McKay-Dee, and I even tried to get an appointment with a surgeon who does work there, but he had a waiting list of over a month for a consultation and it seemed like time was of the essence.  I had two grandsons born and Davis, and both deliveries went well, so I figured it would be fine.  

I had done all the pre-op stuff the day before, so check-in at the hospital went well.  In no time at all I was in the paper gown with my IV running.  There was some confusion over whose turn it was to go next, and my anesthesiologist told me he’d been called back on his way home to do my surgery, but he was pleasant about it.  Soon I was wheeling down the hall to the last surgery suite.  An OR nurse put a mask over my face and I remember wondering what the flow rate was because I couldn’t feel it at all.  Meanwhile the anesthesiologist put two things into my IV that stung on their way in. I resisted the urge to ask him what size ETT tube he was going to use and how many ml/kg he would ventilate me at.  I thought I showed amazing restraint.

Next thing I knew I was awake and wishing I weren’t.  I hurt pretty bad and my wonderful nurse, Nadine, was hurrying to offer chemical relief.  My mother was also there.  Dave had left to switch cars with my daughter.  As my mom and Nadine arranged the bed covers for me they both were startled, and no doubt horrified, to discover that I had a pair of DIRTY men’s underpants in the bed with me.  Not what a woman wants to find in her bed when she’s been unconscious for 2 hours.

Nadine vowed to get to the bottom of it (ha ha),and she and my mother changed my sheets.  I was quickly distracted by the need to avoid vomiting in the supine position.  I hate surgery.  

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?