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.