The March Of Time

I discovered something rather alarming the other day. The entire front of my hair, under the bangs I still cling to, has gone completely white. I'm not talking faded remnants of the original red here, I'm talking driven snow, virginal wedding dress, movie star teeth WHITE. When and how did this happen? This is not a couple random pluckable hairs, either. Plucking this mass would mean a freakishly large bald spot right there in the front for God and everyone to see.
I think I have been weathering the whole becoming a woman of a certain age with pretty good grace, I've even embraced some aspects of it. I like not feeling the need to put on a faceful of makeup every time I leave the house (although mascara remains necessary). I enjoy the experience of being comfortable enough to sit alone in a restaurant with a book and not feel weird or spotlighted. I prefer going to a bar to visit and catch up with my friends as oppposed to checking out the local produce and being checked out in return. I LOVE not trying to make everyone like me and realizing that I'm pretty damn great without working so hard. I've even accepted my newly etched laugh lines as visible signs of a life lived with plenty of joy in it. The hair thing is just going a touch too far.
I now have a choice to make, do I fight and finally let my hairdresser dye my hair? Do I attempt this task on my own? Should I let her bleach out the entire region and have a fascinating white streak? Or do I simply resign myself to the slow natural process of graying? I think I'm more at ease with the idea of going completely white as opposed to the slow death of the red. My aunt Carol went gray rather early and has the most glorious head of white now...THAT'S what I'd rather do than fade away. I suppose I'll end up as one of those eighty year old women with the bright red hair and the slash of magenta lipstick that everyone loves but hesitates to point out the obvious flaw in her plan.
I suppose we all have our THING. I have a friend that refuses to quit shopping in the juniors department. It's great that you still fit in those sizes, but your teenaged daughter is starting to get annoyed that you're buying the same clothes as she is. Another HATES the majority of music on the radio right now but insists on playing it loud in an attempt to connect with the younger set. A third friend (and this is the weird one) refuses to read or buy any of what she calls the 'matronly magazines' (Better Homes And Gardens, Woman's Day, you know the type) because that's a sure sign of lost youth. I just read them for the recipes, I SWEAR!

We're all getting there and I know there's really no use in fighting it too hard. After all, battle is a bit unseemly for a woman of a certain age.

Who ARE These People?

I alternately love and hate people. Not specific people, not even individuals, just people as a whole. I deal with people constantly at both of my jobs, one job with the hungry people and the other with the thirsty people. There are days when I like the thirsties better than the hungries. The hungries get much crankier and aren't nearly as happy afterwards as the thirsties.
I think the thirsties are in a better mood because they're coming to the liquor store at the end of their day and upon leaving me, have a nice cold one coming their way. The hungries usually see me in the midst of their workday and are a bit annoyed with the prospect of going back there.

The thirsties are easy because the vast majority of them know exactly what they want, where it is and how much it's going to cost them. The other night, I was rather inundated with weird thirsties. My first thirsty of the night was a more than bit smelly and gave me a gumball machine ring at the close of our transaction. I think this means we're going steady. A bit later, this one doesn't get to be a thirsty because he didn't actually buy anything, he preferred to hang about for roughly three hours, splitting his time between me and the guy working the kitchen in the adjoining bar. We both got the whole of his life story, right down to the fact that his ex-wife controls his money and he has to get permission from her to buy anything, even a pizza. The capper of the evening was a terribly loud and obnoxious woman who tottered in from the bar and proceeded to rearrange all the wine bottles on the shelves before leaving without a purchase. I'm talking ALL the bottles, not just one or two...I have no explanation for this. At least they were all in a good mood.

The hungries are another matter entirely. Most of the time, they're hungry but don't know what for. The hungries are ALWAYS looking for a deal and get mad at ME for not having a dollar menu and are usually shocked by their total. There are those who will hold one bad experience, six months ago, against you for life. Here's my question, if the burned bun scarred you so badly, why are you back again and again and again? The same goes for the complainants who call and tell me we ALWAYS get their order wrong...really? Always? Every single time? Again it begs my earlier question. As daunting as a busload of kids may be at times, I like serving them. The majority of them are teams on their way to or from a game so they're starving and probably got money from their parents so don't complain about the prices. Their coaches have usually put the fear of God into them regarding misbehavior so they're generally pretty tidy and polite. It's a bit like herding cats from time to time but I like the kids.

Thirsties or hungries? God help me if they ever combine into one.

Eating Our Words

There are some lovely words in the English language that are falling by the wayside. I find myself making a concerted effort to use some of these words so they don't disappear forever. These are not particularly highbrow or weird words, just those that seem to have been neglected.
Perplexed: a wonderful word. It sounds very much like what it is, we all know what it means, but you rarely hear someone say "I'm completely perplexed."
Vexed is another one. To say you're vexed sounds slightly more elegant than saying "I'm pissed off."
Murmur: I grant you this is not a word that we have a lot of opportunity to use on a regular basis, but it's a good one and we should try using it from time to time.
Irksome is a great word. To find something irksome seems slightly less than irritating and a bit more than annoying. I find cell phones is movie theaters irritating. I find misplacing a shoe irksome.
Dull: seems far more descriptive to me than merely boring. Boring can still be informative, dull is kind of a netherwolrd...there's simply nothing there.
Garrulous: this is a fantastic word! This is another one that pretty much is what it sounds like. Garrulous is kind of rowdy, goofy, loud...just like it looks!
Lavatory: I remember "going to the lav" in grade school. Now it's the bathroom, I contend it's not really a bathroom unless you can take a bath in it.
Twerp: this used to be a rather stinging insult, now I doubt the intended target of this particular barb would have any cluse what you're saying to them.
Mortified: I absolutely LOVE this word. It's so much better than plain old 'embarassed', I like saying it and I love the sound. This is possbily my favorite word that hardly ever gets used.
I am noticing that alot of these words are onomatopoeias, probably why I like them. I like words that sound like exactly what they are, it makes life so much simpler.
Ruckus: this is a word that elderly teachers always seemed to use, but few other people really ever did. I'm bringing this one back.
Lollygag: the last time I heard this one used was in the locker room scene in "Bull Durham"...check it out if you haven't seen it in a while.
Snicker: and I don't mean the candy bar, I'm talking that wonderful, nearly supressed and usually inappropriate laugh that comes at the completely wrong moment. (see my post about funerals)
We all have words that we love, words that we rarely get a chance to use and I think we should. Not pretentiously (there's a good one, pretentious), just often enough to ensure they don't go away from our little corners of the world, anyway.

The Worst

A friend and I got into a discussion the other day about what we'd be the worst at, jobwise. We have decided she'd be a terrible lawyer and I, the worst therapist ever. Not that I'm unsympathetic to people's problems or dismissive of therapy, I simply think I'd be really really bad at it. I have the wild idea that if someone's been in therapy for the whole of their memory, it's probably not working very well and you might want to try something like woodworking or maybe painting happy little trees. That guy always seemed pretty Zen to me. I'm not saying that therapy won't help people, I just think we're going a bit overboard giving everyone's every quirk or eccentricity a diagnosis and corresponding treatment. Think about the acronyms that are commonplace now that we all managed to grow up without. We have ADD, ADHD and OCD, we all pretty much know what these are, but a simple internet search for "psychological disorders" brings up a menu to rival that of the mother of all snooty restaurants. I have found "Conduct Disorder" (we used to call them bullies), Oppositional Defiant Disorder (rebels), Separation Anxiety Disorder (mama's boys), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (we used to call them grownups), Avoidant Personality Disorder (we called them shy), my personal favorite, Narcissistic Personality Disorder (supermodels, actors...Danny Bonaduce?) and a host of others to choose from. I read recently that internet addiction is now an actual disorder. Does this mean I get to send my internet bill to my insurance company? Sign me up for that one!
If we could channel the time and money spent on thinking up new disorders, I think we could cure damn near everything. I'm planning to apply for a goverment grant to think up new disorders to explain away all of our bad behaviors. How cool would that be? We'd never be held responsible for anything because there would be an officially recognized disorder we could trot out to get us out of our every misdeed.

Unfiltered

No, we're not talking about cigarettes here. I refer to my youngest child, if he was a king of days gone by, he'd have been called King Charles The Candid. At the age of nine, Charlie is still as fresh and unedited as he was at three. Maybe this isn't entirely a bad thing, wouldn't it be nice if you always knew exactly where everyone stood?
Over Easter, my brother in law's nephew, a three year old, entertained us all with his unique take on the world. This is an age I love because they tell you their thoughts the moment they have them. Mark, or Moose as he is called by his nearest and dearest, is skilled at unfiltered thinking to the delight of people like my family. He recently made the unprompted announcement "We do not urinate in the living room!" Good to know and thank you for making us aware of that frequently overlooked bit of etiquiette.
Charlie has had a rocky school year this year, some of his own making and quite a bit not. This is his first year with a male teacher as the primary, one who is also the football coach. Charlie is still working on the idea of "what's said here, stays here when you leave here". I got a phone call from his teacher the other day and the teacher tells me "Charlie tells me you think I'm irresponsible." Hmm, how to proceed? My response was complete candor in the face of being busted. Gee, I'm sorry he repeated that, but as a matter of fact, I do. Thank God the school year is almost over, I don't know how much more honesty I can take.
I try to imagine what the world would be like without little white lies. Not just from me, but from everyone. If total and complete honesty was the norm. "Does this make me look fat?" Yes, it does. "Isn't he the greatest guy ever?" Um, no, he smells weird and keeps looking at your friends' boobs. "It's a new recipe, how do you like it?" Well, it tastes like day old fish and makes me want to throw up. Your answers don't end a friendship and your honest opinion is well and truly appreciated.
Politicians would be totally accountable for everything they say because everything they say is true...what a concept. Nothing would be said for simple political gain. This idea was explored in the Jim Carrey movie "Liar Liar", never saw it but heard enough.
I like the idea of being unfiltered. I think things would be a lot more interesting if we didn't have to pick our way through a conversational minefield. This would only work if none of us had feelings, of course.
Maybe I'll stick with being nice and being quiet if I can't be nice. As far as Charlie's teacher goes, consider me mute.

Funerals, floods and furnaces

This is what has been occupying my time of late. Singly, I can handle anything, bunch them all together and I enter siege mode. Isn't there a quote: "April is the cruelest month."? If it's not April that's mentioned, I'm officially changing it, right here right now. We began the month with the passing of my mother in law, she'd been declining for a while but it's always hard, no matter how prepared you think you are.
I have decided that I am going to leave instructions with a friend to remove things like photo albums and good furniture from my residence upon news of my passing, then they will be instructed to burn my house down. I don't want anyone to know what kind of stuff I deemed worthy of saving in life. After a weekend of cleaning out the apartment, we learned a lot about my husband's mother, things I doubt even her children knew. We found over 300 jigsaw puzzles, nearly a dozen cans of Pledge, four George Foreman grills (four?), and upwards of ten jars of peanut butter. These along with a huge collection of glass beads and probably a hundred or so homemade potholders. What she possibly have been doing with these items in such amounts? I did a reassessment of the stuff I have squirreled away and realized my family would probably wonder the same thing about me. Even though I haven't picked up a crochet hook in about five years, I still have a large cache of yarn. I keep books that I've read and liked because I just KNOW I'm going to read them again...I haven't. I cannot bear to throw portraits (school pictures and such) away, even when they're the tiny little mini pictures that you don't give to anyone. Something about throwing my child's smiling face into the trash can is simply undoable. I have a lot of cookbooks, even though I rarely use them for anything other than occasional reading material. They do make me look like a real cook, though.
My family has a weird and sometimes inappropriate sense of humor that surface at odd moments. Usually somber occasions like funerals can become moments of stifled giggles and shaking shoulders. We have learned over the years that places like mortuaries tend to bring out the worst in our morbid humor. There's a running joke in my family about nubby plywood or knotty pine caskets. Here's the thing, you can actually get knotty pine. My beloved and his siblings decided on cremation, which opened a whole new world of receptacle shopping I never considered beforehand. You can actually buy a casket in which to cremate your loved one, these range from top of the line: satin lined and pillow provided to, and I swear I'm not making this up, a cardboard box. The latter, of course, set off a number of things in my sick little brain and it quickly became obvious that my beloved has become infected as well. We spent nearly an hour not once making eye contact.
Urns are another matter entirely. They also range from a plastic box ($200) to urns that can double as coffee table art ($950). My personal favorite was the sculpture of dolphins frolicking in surf...I'm not even sure how this one opened and it remains a bit of a mystery. What do you say when your bridge club comes over and admires your new art? Why thank you, Lois, that's mother in there, would you like a cookie? You can also buy "keepsake" urns, tiny little urns (maybe three inches tall) into which they put a bit of your loved one's ashes. Those perplexed me a bit and I was thankful my beloved opted out of that one.
The day after the funeral, the river that runs through town began to rise, and we spent the next few days filling and placing thirty pound sandbags in the near freezing temperatures. We moved everything in the basement up as high as we could, items like the Christmas tree ornaments were living in the dining room for a while. God bless Rubbermaid storage containers...no cardboard boxes for this girl! We dodged a bullet this year and other than some street flooding, came out pretty well.
The final test of my mettle came about three days after the flood scare in the form of a furnace that decided to give its final warm breath. Really? I mean...REALLY!? I left the world of coping nicely and entered Rambo mode "Is that all you got?!" Bring it on. WOLVERINES!!!! Yeah, whatever. I curled up in the fetal position for a bit there and sucked my thumb before digging out every space heater I could find (can't WAIT to see my electric bill this month). I'm really really really really ready for spring, how about you?

Crossing To The Dark Side

It's happened, I have given in, lost my way, crossed over to the dark side and joined the legions of those I once reviled. I bought a cell phone, my transition is complete. I simply could resist no longer, they're everywhere, they're insidious, they've permeated the very fiber of our humanity. They've become a NECESSITY. It's over, I know this now. My fifteen year old's schedule has dictated a need for contact at odd hours and strange places. I think I scared the cell phone guy a little bit when we went into the store to take the big leap. Before I signed, picked out or paid for anything, I laid out some very clear and intractable rules regarding the use and care of the devices we were about to purchase.

Rule #1: If mom or dad call, you will answer immediately. No other calls are more important.
Consequence for violation: I take the phone away.

Rule #2: Between 8:20am and 3:20pm Monday through Friday, the phone is turned off (only exceptions are days off of school)
Consequence for violation: I take the phone away.

Rule #3: You will stay within your plan minutes.
Consequence for violation: I take the phone away.

You may have picked up on a recurring theme for violations. Simple enough and clear as a bell. The cell phone guy noted aloud that I am a bit of a hard ass, I take that as a compliment at this point. It took my son three whole days before losing the phone the first time. Silly boy came home from school and when I said "Hey let me see your phone for a sec." handed it over. I then noted aloud that he'd sent messages at 10:14 am and again at 1:22 pm...I had two phones in my purse for a week. I think he knows I'm not kidding.

I will admit that having a cell phone is handy and annoying at the same time. There are times when I prefer no one can reach me and I rather like being completely alone with nothing but my thoughts in the car. But calling from the grocery store to find out the toilet paper status before purchasing more is also a bonus. The best thing I suppose, is that I can yell at my kid without anyone knowing I'm yelling at my kid. Texting is a bit like magic, I suppose.

My conversion is almost complete, I have yet to sacrifice grammar, spelling or punctuation to the gods of text messaging and will resist them to my very last breath. They may have won the battle, but I will never never surrender this particulat war. I refuse to substitute 'U' for 'you', 'CYA' for 'see you' and 'l8r' for later. They will have to pry my commas and periods from my cold dead fingers.

What Have I Done?

Like I don't have enough time wasters, I have recently become a devotee of Facebook (tm) and have completely screwed myself. You can pretty well bet that any and all projects that might still have been on my list are now indefinitely shelved. It all started so innocently, as many things do, I joined Facebook (tm) when my eldest son joined. This was not to be the cool mom, quite the opposite, actually. I joined so I could keep an eye on what kind of people he was talking to online and that sort of thing. Next thing I know, all three of my sisters, their husbands and assorted children as well as several cousins were there as well. Then my parents got Facebook (tm) accounts, to which my teenager responded with a declaration that his street cred was completely destroyed now that his GRANDPARENTS were on Facebook (tm). I contend that it makes his grandparents way cooler than most. We're now up to somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 relatives and an equal number of family friends. Facebook (tm) is also a dream come true for those of us with some ADD tendencies. We don't need to have a lengthy email exchange to keep up with each other, we just have to see what one another's status is at that moment. We can punch random names from our past into the search engine and find people we haven't thought of or spoken to in 20 years, but they're on our friend list now, baby! I had gotten a friend request from a woman whose picture looked vaguely familiar but whose name I didn't recognize. We have several friends in common so I figured I must know her. Three months later, she changed her name to include her maiden name and I FINALLY know who this woman is. I mean, honestly.

Every time I log on to Facebook (tm), I swear it's only going to be for a minute. An hour later, I'm running late for work and still haven't been in the shower. I'm doomed. There are FAR too many things to click and distractions to be enjoyed. I have become a complete "Pieces Of Flair" geek and will spend an alarming amount of time looking through the goofy virtual buttons to stick on my virtual bulletin board and virtually send to actual people (to get more points so I can get more, you see what's happening?). I have taken more quizzes to define myself (Which 80s Movie Are You?, What Rock Star Are You?...you get the drift, The Breakfast Club and Dave Grohl, by the way). I could certainly spend my time on more productive pursuits but really, what fun are they?

I Never...

Last night, I experienced another of those events that I think really only happens in smaller towns. They're becoming less surprising the longer I live here, but they still crop up from time to time. Last night was parents' night at my elder son's basketball game. We were all given a glittery paper star to pin to our shirt with our child's name and uniform number and wore them proudly. Between the JV and varsity games we were all introduced over the PA system and came foreward to receive our due for raising such wonderful children in the form of an embarassed hug from the aforementioned offspring. The senior boys gave a rose to their mothers and a manly handshake to the dads. It was corny as you can imagine but really quite sweet.

A few of the other events I've participated in since moving from a big city to small town:

Community wide pancake breakfasts/spaghetti dinners to help a local family with medical bills, usually attended by one and all.

Christmas (yes, we still call them Christmas concerts) concerts that are standing room only. At the end, the whole place sings a few old standard carols (Silent Night, et al...).

High School Graduations when I don't have a relative actually graduating.

Wedding dances that are open to the general public and you're not even required to know the bride, groom or their families.

A gathering of people to get a neighbor's crop out because he has fallen ill.

A cake walk and pie auction that raised over $6000 for an ill child. Single pies selling for over $200.

Tball and little league baseball games that are as well attended as state championship games.

Sporting events where the opposing teams fans are nearly all related in one way or another.

These are things I didn't know existed until I became a parent of kids in a small town. Maybe these aren't exclusive to small towns, maybe I just didn't see them until I had kids, but they are remarkable events. The high attendance may have something to do with the lack of other distractions around here, especially in the winter when we tend to hunker down and ride it out. I love that the local gas station will put a jar out for people to drop their spare change into for a sick kid and no one ever questions that the money will go where it says it's going. It may not seem like much, the breakfasts and dinners and bake sales, but I think it's a chance for everyone in town to feel like they did something to help out. There are only so many hot dishes a family can put in the freezer and a limited number of bouquets they can receive and asking for cold hard cash seems a bit mercenary in a time of crisis.

Shame On Me

I'll admit, I am a terrible person. I have horribly neglected my little corner of the internet here and am freshly dedicated to being a better human. Okay, self-flagellation over.

We're in full winter mode here, along with high basketball season. My advice to any and all, do whatever it takes to have your kids on the same schedule! We've spent the past few weekends driving hell bent for leather to make both kids' games on time. Last Saturday was some kind of record, the morning spent at the farthest eastern school in the conference and the afternoon in the farthest west end of the conference. All this to watch our offspring run back and forth...over and over and over again. Between games, practices and two divergent work schedules, I need photo ID before I let any of these people into the house. I vaguely remember a time when we were all home in the evenings, meals were eaten together at the table and not in the car or in the living room at 9:00. The really scary part in that my kids aren't overscheduled. I have always refused to have the boys in more than one or two activities per season. I've never understood the parents who insist on making sure their child's every waking moment is scheduled. Do you suppose it's more the parents than the children? Do we fear having any down time with our kids? Do we think they're going to be come criminals if they have a spare moment?

My biggest peeve about this trend is "play dates". Play dates, seriously? We have gotten to the point that we have to orchestrate time for our kids to hang out with their friends? What happened to "Can I go out and play?" Growing up, I lived in a neighborhood that was bursting with kids. Our family of four girls was about average size. We had a couple of families with about 50 kids each, but four or five was the norm. We ran as a pack and the neighborhood was our playground. We all knew when Mrs. Brandt rang the huge school bell in their backyard, it was time for everyone to get home. She'd ring it for suppertime and then, during the summer months, she'd ring it again just before dark and we all knew the signal. This definitely cut down on various names being shouted from front porches. Even when the Brandt family was gone, someone would go into the yard to ring the bell, that was the neighborhood shout out. I don't know how many games of "Ditch" we played while out parents whiled away the evening on one front porch or the other, how many times we'd lose someone completely because no one ever knew just who or how many of us were playing at any given moment. I can remember a bunch of us looking high and low for one particular kid before someone realized he was at camp and hadn't been around for several days. I don't know if that sort of thing even goes on anymore because we spend so much of our time away from our neighborhoods. We moved into a new neighborhood in July and I still don't know the names of either of the neighbors nest to us. This isn't snobbery or unfriendliness, it's simply a lack of opportunity to get to know each other between lessons, practices or "playdates" (insert sneering tone here).

I Don't See The Logic

Okay, I'm back after being a terrible blogger and am now carving out some time for ME do be on the computer for more than five minutes. Actually, I have been on the computer, but I have a facebook page and that's the worst thing in the world for someone with a slight prelidiction to ADD type behavoir. There is no such thing a "I'm just going to check my Facebook page real quick." Uh-uh, doesn't happen. I kept doing that right before planning to check my email and an hour and a half later, I'm over-computered and still haven't checked my mail...sigh.

Anyway, I'm better now. Really. I got one of those notes in the mail the other day about my nine year old. This from the local county nursing service (I'm paraphrasing here a bit): Your son's eyesight was checked by us recently at his school, he's blind as a bat, you're a bad mommy and get thy son to the eye doctor immediately. Like I said, maybe a little paraphrasing but the essence is there. I asked Charlie when he'd had his eyes checked at school, it was about a week ago. I asked if he had his glasses on for the test, he didn't because they told him to take them off. Hmmmm, this after last year's nasty gram about his eyes to which my written response was to send a copy of his school picture (glasses on) and the eyewear in question circled in red Sharpie with arrows poiting to them. Maybe visuals weren't the way to go, this time we're going to go with an auditory response. I called the lovely nurse-type person who signed this year's nasty gram to discuss. She admitted to telling Charlie to take his glasses off before the eye test, prompting my question "When you see the child with a prosthetic leg, do you take it away from him and then give him a shove to test his balance?" She didn't think that was funny and told me so. I don't think taking a kid who has 80/20 vision in one eye and removing his glasses while asking him to read is very funny either and told her so. I decided for her that next year, when my son's name pops up on an eye check list, that she cross him off straight away and go on to the next child. Sheesh.

Way Back In The Stone Age

Another school break has been weathered, I'm convinced the schools do this to make parents appreciate them more. Don't get me wrong, I adore my offspring and I love them even more when we're not nose to nose for five days in a row. Granted, I did have to work during the break so it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. I've tried to remember what I used to do during school breaks that kept "I'm bored" out of my vocabulary. In this day and age of Playstations, internet and eight zillion cable channels, I can't imagine being bored for long but my children manage it quite nicely.
I can remember the thrill we got when our Atari game system was unpacked one Christmas, with a total of one game, Pong, in the box. We eventually acquired Tank, Missile Command, Space Invaders and the pinnacle of 1980s video gaming technology, Pac-Man. My sister Melissa stayed up all night once to see what happened when the score on Space Invaders went past 99,999 (it rolled back to zero, much to her dismay) and her right thumb has never been quite the same. Anyone old enough can remember the extremely basic (but way cool at the time) graphics and that marching sound the aliens made as the advanced upon the line at the bottom of the screen you were dispatched to defend. Missile Command was my game of choice as I felt it was good preparation for the eventual defense of the entire planet I knew would eventually fall to me, a twelve year old girl from Minnesota. Call me a purist, but I could never get behind Ms. Pac-Man and stayed true to my little yellow fella until the end. I look at the games my kids have now and can't imagine they'd ever be fascinated with stopping slow moving lines decending from the top of the screen using a little + to avert armageddon. My sons dislike games because of camera angles and unrealistic falls off buildings, camera angles...seriously? Try Pong sometime, kid.
Growing up with all girls in my house, we had the requisite Barbie dolls but none of us ever truly embraced the lifestyle of a real Barbie fanatic. We never had the dream house, unsmelly tennis shoes made an acceptable car and getting Barbie to smooch Ken without her head popping off as we tried to get the angles right was always a challenge. We never actually had a Ken doll, he was usurped by a Luke Skywalker doll (way cuter but still just as anatomically 'correct' as Ken). One of my cousins had all the accoutrements Barbie needed (being the only girl amidst four brothers, she earned them). She had that big head with the makeup and the rollers and stuff (until one of the boys decided what the giant Barbie head needed was permanent marker tattoos). The hair on those things was always an annoyance, it would become hopelessly tangled and knotted within about a week of purchase. Oh, and never ever ever ever try to use a curling iron on one of those things, it simply doesn't end well and smells awful.
I loved going over to my cousins' house, with four boys, they had loads of mysterious toys that we never had at our place. Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars, those little green army guys were everywhere, Legos and GI Joe were ever present. And Sea Monkeys that you could order from the back of comic books, we never got them but I remember my cousins having them. The ad depicted the happy Sea Monkey family smiling from their sandcastle, the females with a little bow on top of their heads and the males looking manly (I seem to recall the Sea Monkey father smoking a pipe). What a disappointment when the freeze dried brine shimp arrived in the mail. Our first lesson in "read the fine print".
When we first got cable, it was quite a thing. MTV actually showed music videos and Nickelodeon was still something more than a tie in for the WalMart toy department. We got something like 30 channels and that was inconceivable! How are ever going to watch 30 channels? What could they possibly put on 30 channels? 30 channels? You're kidding, right? That's not even BASIC cable now. I think we have somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 channels and end up watching about 30 of them...hrmmm. 30, you say? I miss MTV as it was when it was first born. I LOVED music videos. Looking at them now on VH1's "classic" channel, I am amazed that any of us ever had crushes on Journey or Van Halen. Compared to the model gorgeous singers now, those guys were pretty darn ugly. How could Steve Perry compete with a Justin Timberlake? What could Eddie Van Halen have over Pete Wentz? At the time their pictures were in all our lockers and were scream and faint worthy. Videos were cool and fun and silly. Now they're four minute movies that have a big heavy message and a lot of symbolism. I'd love to see what some of these video directors would do with a song like "Jump". I saw the video for Journey's "Separate Ways" the other day...what a BAD, BAD video that was, even at the time.
Enough reminiscing, I'm bored....

Oh, One Other Thing

I don't usually get too political here, but I did a bit of math today. For your consideration:

700 Billion dollars =

$66,363 for every household in the U.S.
OR
$2338 for every man, woman and child in the U.S.
OR
$9333 for every K-12 student in the U.S.
OR
$38,888 for every college student in the U.S.
OR
$100,000 for every teacher in the U.S.
OR
$63,636 for every uninsured child in the U.S.
OR
$940,860 for every homeless person in the U.S.
OR
$700,000 for every child in foster care in the U.S.
OR
$187,667 for every family living below the poverty level in the U.S.
OR
$28,000 for every living Veteran in the U.S.
OR
$7,188,186 for every public school (K-12) in the U.S.

Holy crap, how's that for economic stimulus?

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

That's right folks! It almost here, it's just around the corner, it's looming ever closer so I hope you're ready! Christmas is coming!!! Woohoo. You read right, Christmas. I was in at the evil empire (You know which store I'm talking about...they've taken over the world) the other day and was completely dismayed to see Christmas items on display already. I'm not talking about a kit to mull your own home grown wine (what is mulling anyway?) after growing the grapes yourself, that would make sense as you'd need some time for that project. I'm talking about decor, clothing and the other accoutrements of the season. It's all readily accessible in the aisle behind the Halloween items. Of course, we all bought everything we'd need for Halloween in June, right? And we did our back to school shopping in March. Our Mother's day shopping was finished by New Year's and we all had Valentine's covered by September...sure we did. We're THAT organized.
What happened to the natural progression of the calendar year? Once upon a time, there was a rhythm, a pattern, a schedule even. We used to shop for school stuff in August, Halloween stuff in October and only the TRULY organized had their Christmas shopping done by the end of November (and none of us like those people anyway). Are we so busy that we have to start shopping for the holidays months in advance? Is this actually a plot by the evil empire to make us spend more money? I don't know about anyone else, but if I shop that far in advance, I tend to forget what I've bought and where the heck I hid it. THAT'S IT! I just figured out the plot...crafty, crafty retail industry. They convince us to buy so early, banking on us forgetting who we've bought for and where we've hidden the items so we are then sucked into doing our shopping twice. Oooooh, aren't they clever? Now that's I've figured it out, what do I do with this dangerous knowledge? How do I save the world before the minions of the evil empire come for me? I'll have to hide, change my name and appearance every few months so I can continue to spread the word.
We all know the holidays have become far too commmercial. I mean honestly, do you think Washington and Lincoln did all the things they did so car dealers could have a "President's Day Blowout" on all new and gently used vehicles? Are we to believe that St. Valentine REALLY wanted us to buy diamonds to commemorate his existence? And when did Memorial Day become the opportunity to get the best possible deal on a new RV? Kind of violates the spirit of THAT day, doesn't it?

I'm hiding in my room until the Easter items hit the shelves, sooooo...January is it?

Ms. Mean Mommy USA

There you have it, all the rest of you wanna be mean mommies, put away your evening gowns, talents and the like, the pageant is over and I win the crown and sash. You can sit over there in the corner and take notes from the official meanest mom. There is no first runner up and certainly no Miss Congeniality in this competition. I'm not entirely sure of the duration of my reign, could be decades, years, even simply weeks or mere days. I'll let you all know when the competition is open and you may have another shot at the title. Always be ready, never for a moment think you're not in contention for this coveted honor. Don't worry, you too can be a winner, there's always hope that one of your competitors will slip and make a fatal mistake. How, you ask, did she do it? I'll let you in on the secrets of my success: I don't care if my kids think of me as one of their friends. I use the word "No" with abandon. I don't consider it a successful day unless at least one of the kids are royally cheesed off at me a minimum of once during the course of the day. I have never felt the need to justify myself to my offspring. This, my dear friends, is how to take the title.

Andrew, the teenager (God help me) announced the other day (here's where YOU add the teenage outrage tone of voice) "I am now the ONLY person in my ENTIRE class without a cell phone, mom." He did not deem my response of "Good, then there will always be someone around that will let you use their phone to call me." as appropriate. This was followed by a rather spectacular eye roll and huffy exit from my presence. My point is this, he doesn't drive and doesn't have a job yet so I always know where he is because I've driven him there. I know his schedule and arrange my life to accomodate his busy social life...it's like he has a personal assistant that he doesn't pay or throw cell phones at (because he doesn't have one...bonus for me!). I love it when my kids are huggy and kissy and tell me I'm awesome but I don't live and die by it. I have friends aplenty and as much as I love hanging out with the boys, they (thank goodness) do not constitute the entirety of my social interaction. They don't have to like me, they do have to listen to me, period.

Charlie, not the teenager (yet), thinks sheer volume and repetition is the path to getting what you want. After nine years, he hasn't figured out that I am immune to this method of torture. He starts with the straightforward "Can we get that?" Then he moves on to "You could get that for Christmas/My Birthday." He then works his way to "My friend (insert name here)'s mom got that for him yesterday/last week and she thinks it's really cool." Rounding out his arsenal with "It would be good for me to have that, I could learn things." Nice try kiddo, I'm still not buying the semi-automatic Nerf(tm) dart gun with Nerf(tm) night vision attachments and 100 rounds of Nerf(tm)y-good ammunition. And in answer to your next question, no you can't have a cookie, it's almost supper time. I do give him credit for the attempt to slip that last bit past me. I like the word 'no' I find plenty of uses for it, it's short and to the point and can never be mistaken for its distant cousin 'yes' or even the shirttail relative 'maybe'. Sesame Street even had a whole song about it called "The Word Is No", I still remember how it goes and I sing it around the house from time time to remind my kids that some things never go out of style. My children, no appreciation for the classics.

My beloved HATES it when the kids are mad, they know this and use it to their advantage when I'm not around. He finds it easier to give in and avoid the argument. I tell him he's missing out on the eye rolling, dramatic sighs and outrage that they've been practicing in their rooms. We need to give them a chance to put all that hard work to use, we're giving them an outlet for their secret thespian dream. How are they going to win an Oscar if they can't hone their skills early in life? The high drama of a courtroom scene can be drawn directly from the sense of outrage and injustice that sprung from within them when I refused to buy a cell phone. I'm giving them fodder for the bestselling book they'll write about their sad, desolate childhoods and Oprah will make them a book club pick. This is good for them.

And I get to wear the tiara.

They're Winning

The attempted bee-mageddon did not have the desired effect. The expanding foam stuff did its job, but the bees seem comlpletely unfazed. I have seen for myself that the crack is entirely filled to the point of weird cloudlike formations of now hard-as-a-rock foam that squeezed its way out of the crack and is now a permanent addition to the outside decor of the house. The bees evidently had some sort of emergency exit/escape hatch in the original design of the nest. I know not where this hidden entrance is, but it exists. The bees are just as numerous as before and I believe we're going to need disguises if we plan to use the front door any time before winter. I suspect they have our pictures posted in the bee post office and are on the lookout for my beloved in particular. My local hardware store owner is completely out of both ideas and products as I am not alone in my ongoing battle, everyone I've mentioned my little bee problem to has had a horror story of their own. Sympathy is plentiful, solutions are not. One guy suggested we pour a can of Mountain Dew into an ice cream bucket, add dish soap to it and the bees will somehow end up trapped and dying in a sticky-sweet, lemon-scented bucket of death. I'm still not clear on HOW this is going to solve my problem, but the boys are keen to try it just for the potential gross out factor. I'm going to have to opt out of that particular science experiment until I'm truly desperate.
I wouldn't be so determined to rain death upon the colony but for the fact that more and more tiny invaders are making their way into the house. I'd be perfectly willing to leave them to their bee errands if I could use my front door without being bombarded. I've learned a bit about bees through this whole operation, they're not really very good at flying, kind of clumsy, actually. They have a tendency to fly straight until they crash into something bigger than them, bounce off, try and crash again, then eventually fly off, weaving a rather drunken looking path toward the next large object so they can start the whole process over again. This is my wily opponent? These are the creatures that have outwitted both my husband and myself? This is the species that can survive enough chemical intervention to fell a herd of wooly mammoth? Honestly!

Mutants Among Us

I have been horribly neglectful over the summer but I did have a really good excuse. Moving is a royal pain in the butt although there is an upside, I mostly know where all my stuff is...kind of. We have unpacked most of the boxes, gotten rid of the majority of the crap and learned a little physics long after it would have helped my GPA...the space you have is the space you fill. This is the lesson in moving, if you only have a tiny bit of a house, you don't buy so much useless junk because you have nowhere to put it. On the flip side, when you have five bedrooms and a full basement, you ALWAYS have somewhere to put that latest piece of plastic whatsis. Never again!

As we're settling into our new digs, everyone is adjusting well, animals included. The cats LOOOOOOVE the carpeted stairs and think they've found the scratching post mothership. The ill fated schefflera tree has not fared as well, it seems to be a bit depressed and has managed to drop what few leaves were left on it in some sort of post move hissy fit. I'm liking just about everything about the new place save one...a nest of mutant bees that are living in a crack in the foundation underneath the front steps. Mutant? you say...yes indeedy. We have unloaded the full Raid (tm) arsenal upon their litle bee heads to no avail. We turned to our friendly neighborhood hardware store and purchased a large can of God knows what and unleashed it all at once into the crack, nothing. My husband brought home something unpronounceable from work (we works for an agricultural chemical company...you'd think they'd know their stuff), sprayed the foundation and warned us all not to go outside or breathe near the windows for several hours, assuring us we'd die the same swift death the bees were suffering. Not so much. I have come to believe these are radioactive superbees that originated somewhere around area 51, I can hear them laughing at night. My beloved has now decided that he's going to wait until the bees are all in the nest when it's colder outside and seal the crack. Here's my worry, the mutant, radioactive, area 51 superbees are going to find another way out of the nest, perhaps using power tools and that new exit will be into the house itself, taking over the house, eating all my food and running up my cable bill after buying pay-per-view sports events. These are the things keeping me up at night.

Not On Vacation

Back after a longer than planned interruption. I was faced with that most devestating organizational nightmares...moving. This process, while a pain in the sitting area, certainly forced my hand in getting every last item in the house organized. At least, it started out that way. If you've ever moved, you know the drill. When the decision is new and shiny, you carefully pack, pad and meticulously label every single box. As time goes on and the packing becomes more intense, your labeling skills begin to fade. You go from color-coded by room/use/owner with an accompanying chart to keep things straight to stuff of similar size or weight being stuck into boxes together and finally you end up with several boxes of "odds and ends". This only becomes truly alarming when you realize that the "odds and ends" boxes outnumber the carefully labelled boxes by about four to one. Once in your new home, one room becomes box central. Woe to the hapless occupant of that room. In our case, it was Charlie's soon to be bedroom. Poor kid slept among the haphazardly stacked rubble of the rest of the family's belongings until we could make some sense of the whole system. It took almost two weeks to get his room sorted and put together but during the process of clearing his room and making it liveable, a whole lot of random stuff ended up in my room. Now that the boys are squared away and happliy ensconced in their respective rooms, I face the dread task of doing the same in my room...the Zen bedroom seems further away than ever...BLEARGH.

Food And Explosives

Ahhh, Independence Day, that sacred celebration of our forefathers' struggle to escape tyranny, the solemn reflection of the formation of this great and noble country of ours, the remembrance of those that went before, securing the very freedoms we enjoy to this very day. Okay now, seriously, it's about the food, the beer and the expolsives, isn't it? For as long as I can remember, my parents have hosted one of the finest examples of Fourth of July-ness you could possibly imagine. Coolers filled with ice, packed with perfectly chilled, gently sweating cans of every imaginable beverage, two grills smoking and emitting the sensuous aroma of burgers, brats and hot dogs, punctucated by the occasional hiss as juice hits white hot coals. The tables laden with watermelon, chips and largely ignored veggies brought by that one remaining optomistic mother who belives her children and others will eat carrots when other alternatives like Doritos beckon from the other end of the table. Trays of cookies, brownies and that most perfect of party desserts, Rice Crispy treats call to everyone and even the most hardy of dieting, work outing, carb counting, organic-ista among the gathered crowd is hard pressed to resist. Not long ago, one of my mom's friends arrived to this gathering with a very large tray of the aforementioned rice and marshmallow confection, attempted to pass through the gauntlet of partygoers in the front yard, was immediately relieved of her burden of treatage that ultimately never even made it into the house. The tray of Rice Crispy treat was set upon like the last leg of mutton at the Renaissance Festival...growling and snarling, these generally civilized adults ripped and tore chunks of marshmallow-y wonderfulness, the weakest being cast aside like a Paris Hilton pet of the moment. The strongest emerged from the fray with treasure beyond imagination, still slightly warm, gooey hunks of ricey crispiness. Those too polite to elbow their way through uncles, grandparents and cousins were left with the stray single crispy sticking to the side of the tray...those treats never knew what hit them.
The star of the day is, naturally, the explosives provided by my father (he heads to Wisconson for his haul), my parents' friend Scott (a Wisconson-goer as well), yours truly (North Dakota, man, for the REALLY illegal in Minnesota stuff) and a small gaggle of people that show up late in the evening that no one knows. We believe they live a couple of blocks over from my parents house, but no one is entirely sure...they get their stuff in South Dakota, I really MUST go there one day. We start small, simple, harmless even, with the little snappers you throw at the ground, working our way slowly up the explosives food chain through the course of the day. An appetizer of snappers is intermixed with the occasional wailing screech and bang of a bottle rocket, my father is compelled to throw an alarming number of firecrackers down the storm sewer in a lifelong quest to pop the top off of said sewer (still unrealized, alas) but an incredibly satisfying echoing set of ka-BAMS blasting from somewhere unseen makes up for the lack of flying discs of iron. My son and nephews disappeared for a while, emerging from the backyard with a pop can and a couple of dozen empty sparklers boxes and smiles that made every mother begin to twitch. Our fears were not unfounded, the boys had scraped all of the sparkler stuff into the pop can, the hope being to sparkler to end all sparklers. It was not quite the result they achieved...upon ignition, the sparkler stuff burned with the intensity of a thousand suns, blinding anyone who looked directly upon this brilliance, after only a moment, it seemed, burning itself out and leaving nothing behind but a melted, smoking brightly glowing wreck of what was once a Coke can. Impressive, to say the least.
I must mention at this point, the fact that my parents live across the street from a college campus, one that has not proven to be the friendliest of neighbors. Their security guards HATE us, and for good reason, I admit. An Independence Day at my parents' house is never quite complete without repeated glowering visits from campus security followed at some point by a visit from the real cops who usually just confiscate whatever we've foolishly left in plain sight, telling us to knock it off and going on their merry way. On year, my then four-year-old nephew asked the cop if he was going to arrest his father. Before the cop could answer, Casey offered the cop ten dollars (which he didn't even have), good thing he was really really cute at four because no one went to jail that day.
We usually end the evening with fountains and rocketry of increasing size and dangerousness, the artillery shells and major explosives saved for the grandest of finales, everyone patiently waiting their turn to shoot of the best of what they've brought this year and the promise of next year, there will be even cooloer stuff on the shelves of Wisconson, South Dakota and North Dakota. What till you see what we got THIS year!

We Are Not Alone

Since becoming a parent, I have noticed a disturbing trend, mommy is never allowed to be alone. I don't know if this is a rule no one told me about while pregnant for the first time or if it's simply part of the evolutionary cycle of parenthood. The other day I decided I would sort through some of the boxes and baskets of stuff that are scattered about my bedroom. Things I have tucked away with the intention of making sense of them later. Later was Sunday. It was time and the various life forms that occupy my house were otherwise engaged, perfect! About fifteen minutes into the process, I was surrounded by the long neglected shoeboxes of pictures, ticket stubs and other assorted bits of minutae that gather in dark corners of your life, happily sorting and planning my attack. I was poised and ready for action when my beloved entered the room "just wondering where I was"...seriously? This is when I realized just how frequently I hear him or one of the boys ask "Where's mom?", when I'm simply out of their field of vision. I don't get it. I have never left the property without telling someone that I'm going somewhere, I've never skipped town and I'm always where I say I'm going to be when I say I'm going to be there. Why the concern? Maybe I'm TOO good about letting them know where I am and they become alarmed when they don't have some kind of printed itinerary for me. Maybe I need the occasional disappearance to keep them from feeling they need some kind of tracking device embedded on my person.
Within a half an hour, each member of the household, including the animals, had checked in on my whereabouts, impeding my progress and kind of killing my sorting mojo. I think it's time to look into an invisibility cloak. I did manage to get the stuff sorted, but with the assorted 'help' from all corners of the house, the whole process took a heck of a lot longer than it should have. It was kind of fun, sharing bits and pieces of my pre-parent life with the kids. I unearthed the front page of the newspapers when the Minnesota Twins won the World Series in '87 and '91, my senior yearbook made an appearance (and my teenager laughed heartily at the 1986 hair), a series of rollercoaster postcards my father had sent during his lengthy visit to Six Flags, commentary and rating of the featured coaster included and lots of other weird remnants of my past life. I think, for the first time, my kids really got it, mom had a whole lot of life before they made their way into the world. I think they were slightly shocked. Seeing pictures of both me and their father with our arms wrapped around people other than each other seemed particularly distressing to Charlie. He did NOT approve of a few shots of me and Jon (my first love) at a dance. Nothing truly shocking, but a few huggy/kissy pictures that seemed to annoy him. What a surprise, to find out that your parents didn't spring fully grown into being your parents and that we actually had identities that had nothing to do with you or each other. That's gonna be you someday, kid.

My Macho Kitty

My female cat has develpoed an interesting habit, or perhaps I simply never noticed this until recently. She's fascinated by every random bug that makes its way into the house but is completely repulsed by them at the same time. She'll stalk them and pursue them all over the house but at the crucial moment of capture, she gags violently and runs away. I don't understand this at all, if the bugs gross you out so very much, ignore them and the other cat will happily eat them alive. But NOOOO, this is a constant process in the summertime, the chase, the stalking and eventual cornering, but as soon as she touches the bug, it's a giant gag and hasty retreat from the whole hunt. I have puzzled over this and am at a total loss to explain her uncontrollable reaction. I have seen similar behavior in my children. If you brother bugs you so much, IGNORE HIM. But again, NOOOOO, they have to stay within arm's reach of each other at all times, making various sound effect-y noises and generally pissing each other off. Simple suggestions like: don't both sit on the couch at the same time, don't try to watch TV at the same time, stop looking at each other and please stop breathing each other's air are met with withering looks and more than a bit of scorn. I am attempting to be reasonable here and they're acting like I'm an idiot.
I am taking a stand and staying the hell out of every relationship in the house except my individual relationships with each member of the household. How they relate to one another isn't my problem, is it? I'm not entirely sure how long I will last but I am more than willing to give up my striped shirt and whistle and simply be a spectator and not the referee around here.

Coming Back To Bite Me

I KNEW it! I knew, deep in my heart, that this whole organization thing was going to be the end of me. Remember the mystery keys that I threw away knowing I'd never find the locks they opened? Found another one, we have a trunk upstairs that apparently holds the answers to all of life's mysteries. Answers that must be kept under lock and key...or would if I hadn't thrown the damn key away. Yup, it's locked but good. I honestly have only a vague idea what's inside the trunk, I know there are a few board games in there and a couple of baby blankets I was given when the boys were born. Other than that, the contents are a complete mystery to me and looks like the mystery will remain for a while longer.
Here we are, six months into this whole process and I find my work of previous months slowly coming undone. I realize my purse is gradually filling up again with the same kind of rubble that gave birth to this whole project. I pulled 15 receipts, two empty mint boxes, three dead lighters, a padlock and four crayons out of the depths while looking for a pen in there yesterday. How does this happen? I have come to believe that my purse has its own gravity field that only attracts and holds random items. A mini black hole or the Bermuda Triangle of the accessory universe. I did try to carry a small purse for a while, but I think I have some sort of bag lady gene in my DNA as I simply couldn't leave the house with so few items with me at all times. I CAN'T function with only my keys, wallet and a pen...I tried, really, I did. I have to be able to survive for at least three days on only the contents of my car and my purse, therefore I must keep the essentials squirreled away for emergencies. It's a sickness.
I am finding things are making their way back into the filing cabinet as well, this worries me as I have been trying to remain faithful to my little friend and shred all the unnecessary paperwork that finds its way into my house. Where does this stuff come from? How did it get here? How does it know where to hide? I'm going to have to get rid of that thing and get a tiny little two drawer cabinet to put an end to the paper fornication I suspect is happening when I'm not looking.
This month's projects are languishing a bit, I did get one of the kitchen cupboards cleared out, washed out and reloaded and the least useful cookbooks have been sent away. Unfortunately, that's about all the progress we've made thus far. My beloved has made some headway on the garage...April's project. But that was mostly because he simply couldn't park in his designated area and needed to clear some space. Whatever his motives, at least it got done...sort of.

What Ever Was I Thinking?

Okay, I have beena bit remiss lately. The weather is finally acting like spring and I have grabbed every possible opportunity to be outside, cheerfully neglecting my usual indoor pursuits. Perhaps is was this weather-induced giddiness that led me to agree to allow Charlie to invite friends for a sleepover for his birthday. Usually I restrict "sleepovers" to no more than two friends and the one child I gave birth to as participants. Something got a hold of me and I said yes to Charlie's argument for FOUR friends. There is a reason I do not have more than two children. I thought it was loud around here with Andrew blasting music from his room and Charlie...just being Charlie but I was sorely mistaken. The usual noise level around here is NOTHING compared to the decibel level produced by a gaggle of nine year olds rampaging through your house. Thank goodness Charlie has a nice weather birthday or this event never would have come to pass. The ability to send the group outside for long periods of time became crucial to survival. The cats spent the duration of the event in a heightened state of something I can't quite define. I think the tipping point for the orange cat was when the boys found all three of the laser pointers that had gone missing weeks ago and decided to try and entertain the cat with all three at once. I'll give the little orange guy credit, he gave keeping up with all of them the old college try before collapsing under a chair in the living room with nothing visible but his nose peeking out from underneath. I think he spent most of the rest of the weekend in that exact spot.

Once again I find myself in a new month with an unfinished task on the list, still from March for heaven's sake. The basement is simply destined not to be a shrine to my organizational skills, I have to get that one finished before it throws my whole year long plan out of whack. So June's projects will be simpler, in an effort to finally get March off the books. This month we will be tackling the entire kitchen, all cupboards, drawers, shelving and I am finally going to paint the room a color that is not eye-scorching icy blue. Not a warm room right now. I'm thinking red would be fun in a kitchen but am not sure if I'm that brave. The smaller, but still related, project is going to be a purge of recipes, cookbooks and the like. I'm not an avid cook, nor am I particularly skilled, but I have moments of greatness in the kitchen from time to time (I make great banana bread and an AWESOME cookie pizza). I think I had great dreams of culinary brilliance at some point early in my marriage and went into some sort of cookbook buying frenzy. I have a dozen or so of the damn things and I think I use two of them with any regularity, the rest just look impressive on the shelf. I think someone gave me "The Joy Of Cooking" as a gift and I've barely even opened it as I simply don't have that kind of time. If you never have, browse through that cookbook the next time you're at a bookstore. It's like a time capsule in a lot of ways, harkening back to a time before pre-made, individually frozen, ready to eat everything. This book really gets into the nuts and bolts of the whole process, from selecting, to matching foods with other foods, wines, etc and just about step-by-step butcher your own cow in five easy steps. Honestly, I simply don't have that level of skill or patience for that matter. I also have a recipe box that makes no sense at all. There are pages ripped from magazines (usually missing the crucial page the recipe is 'continued on page 172', thus rendering the first page completely useless. I have half scribbled recipes, hastily written down on napkins at a party between glasses of wine and later stuffed into a pocket and sent through the washer. I tried to neatly copy my favorites down in 3 X 5 index cards and file them perfectly in the box behind the handy category cards like my oldest sister but that process made my brain hurt.
So here we go, June is going to be kitchen month and the basement will be finished! Really...I mean it.

Pettiness Becomes Her

Got together with some girlfriends recently and realized that women, in a group, can be truly diabolical. The topics discussed ranged all over the board (and aren't those the best kind of discussions?) from the state of the world (pretty dismal), various assorted children (adored, but annoying from time to time), the ideal mate (we need some MAJOR advances in genetic engineering!) to things that make us completely insane (surprise, mostly male induced!).
Once the topic turned to our respective mates, both current and former, we revealed to each other some of the horrid things we've done in fits of pique. One of us carefully sewed the legs of her (now ex) huband's underwear closed after he'd ranted and gotten a bit nasty about never having any clean (please note, he was not disabled or physically unable to do a load of laundry). The topic never came up again. Another of us, in the midst of a nasty breakup, left a golf ball wedged out of sight in the toilet of her (ex) boyfriend's bathroom. He still doesn't speak to her. The most evil of us all was also married to the biggest weiner of them all in that when he decided to leave her for a newer model, called and told her to pack his things and to be very careful of his suits. She was EXCEPTIONALLY careful when she very delicately snipped seams crucial to holding the crotch area of all his pants together. This woman was skilled enough that no damage showed but the structural integrity of the garment was compromised and would actually take a little time to separate completely. That and the cat doody sewn into the lining of his beloved leather jacket got the message across pretty clearly. She reigns as queen of all. I've never gotten quite that evil, but I've had my moments. I've only had to get truly nasty once or twice and my beloved got the message pretty clearly. My sister claims (and this is so gross) that one can fart into a pillow, carefully pull it back into shape and when the intended target's head hits the pillow, a cloud of toxic, vile-smelling gas will encompass the head of your victim. I have never tested this theory and hope I never reach that point. We woman really can be just as evil as we accuse men of being, we're simply more subtle less likely to incur and collateral damage. This is another reason supporting my contention that women should be running the world. I don't think we'd carpet bomb an entire city to take out one guy, we'd simply track him down and systematically destroy his car, CD collection and ensure, through the female network, that he'd never get laid again. No civilians would be harmed in the process, no soldiers put unnecessairly at risk and nothing for our government to clean up.
We also discussed "The List", we all have one in one form or another. This is The List of people that we are allowed to have our way with, guilt and consequence free, if the opportunity presents itself. My beloved and I have decided that the allowable conditions are when a person on The List shows up at our door naked during a snowstorm. The only other condition is that The List cannot include friends or family members and the people on The List must be completely out of our normal type universe. He has never revealed the candidates on his List but mine includes Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters lead singer, musicians, sigh), Orlando Bloom (for obvious reasons), John Cusack (loved him since highschool) and Jon Stewart (smart and funny gets me every time). The List is fluid and changes constantly with people falling in and out of favor or moving up and down on the desirability scale.

May-hem

Ahhhh spring, school lets out (WAY too early if you ask this mommy), baseball practice starts in earnest, the summer rec activites are laid out before us and the garden FINALLY gets a little love. Okay, maybe a little too much love. Actually, a LOT too much love from my eight year old. Charlie is definitely his father's son, nothing makes him as happy as digging in the dirt. In a loving attempt to help get the gardens ready for some planting, my junior horticulturist decided to get rid of 'some of those old weedy things' by going deep and digging them out completely. Those old weedy things were actually my perennials that we've spent a few years nurturing and worrying over and hoping someday they'd look like they're supposed to look. Well, maybe in a few more years then. Bless him for an earnest attempt and I will never let him know the extent of the unhelpfulness of his act. So, the May gardening goal just changed scope slightly but is still achievable before the end of the month. My secondary goal is well completed, although I must be completely honest and admit to a degree of cheating on the sock sorting. I actually just chucked the vast majority of the socks, fed some to the waiting sock gremlin and bought everyone in the house two new packs of socks. Is that so wrong? I'll have to get back to you on that one.
The leftover garage cleaning from April list is still not done, but I have decided to absolve myself of responsibility for anything outside of the immediate houseage. Justification? Yes indeedy and I am really rather comfortable with it.
In other news, my niece got married a couple of weeks ago and we traveled down for the big event. With the exception of a rather damp and chilly weather system, the wedding and ensuing party was great, right down to the bride showing off her prodigious juggling skills during the reception. Charlie, the host of the Upper Midwest Bathroom Tour, had a rave review for the portable johns provided for the event. I know what you're thinking, Charlie's lost his touch for giving a porta-potty a four star rating. I'm going to have to agree with his assesment. Not only were there electric lights, but a sink, mirror AND running water! He thought that was the darndest thing he'd seen in a long time and spent a fair amount of time in the aforementioned potty before coming to his four star rating.
Unfortunately, the weekend was not without one major casualty, the Zen fountain in my bedroom has burned out...the pump anyway. No, my house is NOT that dry and I'm beginning to suspect it never really was. It seems the CATS thought the fountain was provided for their personal water consumption and spent the weekend slurping gallons of water out of the damned thing. Guess what happens to your Zen fountain when the cats drink the water down past the level of the pump intake? Yup, you end up with a sad and nonfunctional pump. Grrr. Next time, I'm filling it with something like vinegar and see how the cats like drinking pickle water. Of course, I'm not entirely sure that a pickle-scented bedroom is really the atmosphere I was going for at the outset. Hrmm, I'm open to ideas on keeping the cats from repeating this tragedy once I replace the pump.

Going to give the June projects some thought this week. Six months in, I really thought I'd have gotten more done by this point. Maybe I need to get more ambitious...or not.

Not My Idea

Okay, we all have suspected for years that there are things out there designed and marketed exclusively for woman that no woman could POSSIBLY have come up with, simply because they're women. The latest item on the list is something quite disturbing in a certain feminine product that all us girls employ once a month. I don't know what brand you all use, but mine has ALWAYS served me well. Recently on a trip to the ladies, with the song "I Enjoy Being A Girl" running repeatedly through my head as it tends to at a certain time for me, I made to use one of these fine feminine products and imagine my surprise when I discovered a printed message inside. "Have A Happy Period"...swear to God. My mouth fell open, and had I NOT been cranky, bloated and all the rest, I think I would have laughed. I did not, all I could think was "Are you kidding me?!" No woman I have ever met or ever expect to meet would pass that particular sentiment on to another woman. We'd say something like "Don't kill anyone." "Would you like more chocolate/booze/cigarettes/ammunition?" or "I know, he's a complete jerk." Honestly, these are the only things we women want to hear when we're shedding parts of ourselves. Have a happy period, come on over here and I'll show you what to do with your perky little message.
Another in the disturbing trend, my little square pieces of girl-tranquilizer I employ once a month (read CHOCOLATE) has begun to enclose little life lessons inside the foil wrapper. "Follow Your Bliss"...this is my bliss, people, and I can't really chew and swallow myself. "Listen To Your Heart"...okay...nope, that was gas. "Hug Someone Today"...don't tell me what to do.

A few other things I suspect were designed exclusively for women but probably not BY women:

Push-up bras: because we ALL want our cleavage to interfere with swallowing.
Stiletto heels: because getting anywhere quickly is SUCH a bother.
Mini Skirts: we really never wanted to sit comfortably, or bend over...ever

This isn't just a feminist rant or a hormone induced rage, there are lots of things I doubt were designed or produced by people that will ever use their own products:

Cereal bags: as hard as we try, can you EVER get the damn thing open without a long tear down the side or causing a Rice Krispie shower to engulf you?

E-Z pour spouts: on rice boxes and instant mashed potatoes...they just cause everything to bottleneck on the box, requiring surgery with whatever knife is handy.

Tiny screws on battery compartments: does ANYONE own a screwdriver that small? The first time you use the tip of a knife or the metal file on a nail clipper, it's toast.

The latest Burger King ad campaign: a dude in a scary plastic mask standing next to your bed when you wake? Sign me up for THAT. Or two annoying punks in burger suits harassing hapless drive through order takers...I'm not sure which a dislike more.

CD Overwrap: how many times have you managed to crack or scratch the shiny new jewel case while wrestling with the strongest film of plastic known to man?

I think, before any new products goes to market, before any "new and improved" anything takes the place of the tried and true, the guy/gal that came up with the bright idea needs to spend about six months using their own idea. I bet we'd see a lot more real improvements and not just something so they can print in on the box.

Just a thought.

Have a happy...whatever.

Okay, May

Now that I've been home for more than a few days, it's time lay out my projects for May. Finishing the garage is going to have to hit the list, along with getting garden ready (because we might actually hit a couple of consecutive days above freezing and I'd like to be ready) and I believe a sock purge is due about now.

I'd really like to know what the heck happens to socks around here. I actually threw away every unmated, hole-ridden sock in the entire house a while back and bought everyone in the house two new packs of socks. Somehow, the reject socks not only made their way out of the trash and back into the various baskets, bags and drawers, but they have managed to reproduce. There was a commercial a few years ago with a woman confronting the sock gremlin (I think it was for a camera phone, actually) and she busted him in front of the dryer, giggling madly while stuffing one sock from each pair down his pants. We'll address the hidden message another time. But it only proved that I'm not the only one completely flummoxed by the behavior of the sockwear in my home.

In other news, I had been thinking it might be time for a long avoided trip to the doctor. I've been up three or four times a night making use of the facilities and the only other time that's been an issue is when I've been pregnant. I'll have a heck of a lot of explaining to do if that's the case as my beloved was "fixed" after the birth of our second son. My only other thought at the time was that maybe I had a UTI or overactive bladder syndrome (everything's a syndrome these days) and wasn't really looking forward to whatever the doctor would have to do to figure it out. I believe I have not only diagnosed my little issue but found the cure as well. Remember the lovely Zen-type fountain I was so thrilled about? Apparently, I am terribly susceptible to auditory input, even while sleeping. The sound of running water all night long has triggered the same response in this human as calling the dogs to go outside does to the canine population. Good to know, better be unplugging the fountain when it's time for bed. Now I need a remote or a clapper for the damn thing. I'm hoping now that the furnace (forced air) isn't running 24/7 means it will stop humidifying the upstairs and I won't need to add a gallon of water every other day. Sheesh!

Okay then, the projects are set for the month and THIS month I'll get the whole system back in place and running a bit more to goal than the past couple of months. Wish me luck!

Greetings From The Road

Yay! The Comfort Inn Duluth has offered us none of the weirdness we experienced the last trip into the wilds and they even have a computer for those of us suffering from internet addiction. It's now an official mental health issue...whoohoo! Now I can blame all the time I spend idly wandering around the information superhighway on something other than a desire to avoid housework. Do you suppose we can get workman's comp for this?

Anyway, this first day of May means that for two months in a row I have failed to meet my set goals for the month and I find myself more than a little displeased by this alarming turn of events. I could find lots of things to blame and perhaps I will, later. Hmmm...later. I think we've just hit upon the root of all evil right there. I haven't set my May projects yet and will have to give it some thought once I return from Duluth. A lovely city, by the way. I think perhaps a non-work trip with the boys this summer might be in order. Provided gas prices don't reach the same level as an ounce of gold.

I haven't seen much CNN this week and my news addiction has gone unfed since Monday but I did hear that our fearless leader was finally talking about the economy one day this week. About time, don't you think? I mean, just because he doesn't have to pay for anything...

I Mean, Honestly!

Here we are in the waning days of APRIL and yet another blizzard type storm has buried northern Minnesota. We did have a day that was around 62 degrees a couple of weeks ago and I think that was our summer. It goes so fast, doesn't it?

My projects for the month have stalled, mainly due to weather and my going out of town twice in two weeks (leaving again today for Duluth!). Okay FINE, they've also stalled due to baseball on TV and straight up procrastination. Personally, I think perhaps the garage should not have been included in my plans as it's not really MY domain but my beloved's. I did get the top layer of crap out of the car, only to replace it with a new layer of discarded sweatshirts, water bottles and various bits and pieces of a life lived on wheels. We're going to have to roll over some of this month into May...sigh. I'm getting there, right? RIGHT?! I admit to allowing myself to become completely distracted by everything when I start to think about doing this particular project. I simply don't want to and really need to get my get up and go back. Bleargh.

In other news, my friend Terri is mourning a loss in her family. Mona the Mynah bird is no more. As predicted, the dogs got well and truly sick of being summoned to the back door by an unseen voice, their hopes of going outside dashed and getting whapped on the nose with a newspaper for peeing in the house. I firmly believe the dogs got together and made an elaborate plan, likely involving an ACME catalog, dynamite and a couple of anvils. Terri, her hubby and kids went to Grand Forks for the day and returned to a scene of disaster in the kitchen. The only remaining signs of avian life in the kitchen were an overturned cage, spilled bird food on the floor and a few scattered feathers littering the area. None of the dogs have stepped forward to admit their part in the bird's demise, but we all know they worked in collusion. Obviously, dogs have no real sense of humor about this sort of thing.

Off to Duluth for the week, here's hoping the Comfort Inn has none of the "amenities" the Bates Plaza Motel offered last week! As a precaution, I'll be looking carefully out window before opening my car door and stepping out.

The Bates Plaza Motel

Did some traveling for work this week and have once again realized there's no place like home (or at least a well maintained hotel). I spent the past five nights in what my co-workers and I dubbed "The Bates Plaza Motel". I'm sure, once upon a time, this was a lovely stopping point in northern Minnesota, but sadly, those days seem to have passed.
Night #1:
My first impression of the hotel was pulling into town at about 11 pm on a Wednesday night, checking and being directed to park in the lot at the back of the hotel. No problem. Shawn, my counterpart and the driver of the Focus, pulled into a likely looking spot and we prepared to see our home for the next five nights up close. I opened the door of the car and began to step out only to have my foot land on something significantly softer than parking lot. Indeed, my first step landed me on a dead pigeon that burst into a feathery blizzard upon contact with my favorite pair of Chucks (and the only pair of non work shoes I had with me). I'll admit it right now, I screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis and dove back into the car. After Shawn and I both recovered from about 10 minutes of gasp inducing laughter we found a new place to park and proceeded with our original mission.
I didn't have a roommate the first night and thank goodness because the ear splitting screech that emanated from the bathroom door hinges with even the slightest of movement would not have made me any friends as I ended up making use of the facilities several times that night (no more 24 oz cappucinos for me...not five anyway). I dutifully left a nice note for housekeeping asking for someone to take care of the screech in the morning before leaving for work.
Night #2:
My new roommate in tow, we returned after 14 harrowing hours opening a new restaurant in a town that was crying out for something new. We entered the room to find an equally nice note from housekeeping that THEY had left a note for the handyman about the bathroom door. The handyman's participation was noticeably absent as the door screeched louder than ever, perhaps knowing it was going to have to make the most of its ability to make noise while it could.
We spent some time downstairs with a few more of our counterparts and some of us headed outside for one last smoke, my roomie had already gone up to bed at this point when the fire alarms began to ring throughout the hotel. Interesting, we made the decision to stay outside and have another smoke while this turn of events was sorted by the frantic looking staff. At this point, a rather unsteady and disheveled looking guy came tearing out of the hotel and when asked if HE had pulled the alarm by one of our group, he responded vehemently and in language that's I'm not putting here. Okay then, that seems to be the end of it, alarms are off and the night manager's face has resumed its normal color. Time for bed. Well, not quite. I got as far as entering my room when the now familiar fire alarm began to ring again. My roommate, desperate for some sleep, asked if there was an actual fire to which I was able to say no to the first alarm and explain about the angry drunk that ran off into the night. Apparently, he came back...twice. After the alarms rang through the Bates Plaza Motel the third time in an hour, my roommate sat bolt upright in bed and announced "That's it, I'm in hell." Yep, and I'm your roommate. The angry drunk was eventually apprehended and stuffed into the back of a cop car, never to interrupt our attempts at sleep again.
Night #3:
We arrived back at the Bates after another record setting day, hopeful that things would be quieter that night than the first. They were, and darker too as my roomie's lamp not only burned out but then fell apart in her hand when she went to turn it on...okay. A phone call to the desk and one of the chefs from the restaurant downstairs appeared at our door, lightbulb in hand. By now, we had also discovered that the phantom handyman had not de-screeched our bathroom door, much to our dismay. Taking matters into my own hands, I asked the chef if he had any Pam type cooking spray in his kitchen and if I might borrow a few squirts. He appeared puzzled and apprehensive, but returned minutes later, Pam in hand. Screech solved, but a butter scented puddle on the bathroom floor...I'll leave housekeeping a note.
Night #4:
Passed without incident but for an angry drunk guy telling us not to look at him as we gathered outside for a smoke at one point...and another dead pigeon on the sidewalk in front of the building. Short life span for pigeons in that town...

Here's hoping the hotel next week isn't quite as deeply weird as the now legendary "Bates Plaza Motel."