Uncommon Notions

Cooking Up a Brainstorm

2011-02-03T14:36:00.005-07:00

Mothering involves a tremendous knowledge of a variety subjects. Today it was cooking. Probably because D3 was feeling hungry.

"What do you make when you mix fruit snacks, ice cream and cucumbers?" she asked.

"Funny Salad," I answered, hoping that didn't sound tasty enough for her to want to actually make it.

"Hmmmmm. What do you make when you mix bananas, Krabby Patties and popcorn?" D3 ventured.

"Sweet Krabby Pattie Pop" I quickly replied, feeling pretty proud of that response.

"Oh," D3 said, dejected. "I'm trying to make soup, but I guess I'm just not a good cooker."

Fraidy in Waiting

2011-01-27T13:09:00.005-07:00

Waiting is not my forté. Whether it is waiting for a baby to be born, a missionary to come home, or a football game to end, my obstitrician, a certain young man that served in South America, or my husband, can all provide collaborating testimony that in this regard, I lack even a glimpse of talent.

I believe it is because I dislike (am afraid of?) the unknown. Since the bulk of the future is unknown, the sooner it gets here, the way I see it, the better.

Today D3 and I found ourselves in one of those dreaded lingering situations. As she and I sat, I tried to console ourselves, "Waiting is no fun, huh?"

"What? No, Mom. I love it. I just like to sit here...in the quiet and the peace. It's fun."

Proof that she was switched at birth continues to grow.

Search and Eager

2011-01-26T11:13:00.008-07:00

This morning, D3 was unable to find the Band-Aids®. Which is a shock because we have a gallon-sized Ziploc of 1,879 of the life-saving stickers.

I admit that the quantity of Band-Aids® in our home is enough to supply a small country for the remainder of 2011. But I can't help but buy more when they are on sale and I have a coupon that will be doubled at the cash register. These continued purchasing decisions of the minuscule patches are based on adrenaline and are irrespective of our overflowing home inventory. (Acknowledgment is the first step.)

My only real mistake was to organize them and place all 1,879 of them in a single bag. Because as of 8:43 this morning, the said bag is AWOL.

Undeterred, D3 came up with a search plan.

"We'll split up!" she ordered with the pointer on her right hand denoting east and the pointer on her left, directing west.

I couldn't help but crack a smile. D3 noticed.

"Mom, it works all the time on Scooby Doo," she assured.

Do You Adore Me? Because That Would be Super!

2011-01-21T09:08:00.008-07:00

Most of my children are teenagers or are in the process of evolving into that species. In part this means they will no longer admit, despite my awesomeness, that I am the most amazing person they know. I don't necessarily need the verbal accolades, but some respect for the assistance I can provide them would be nice. For example, allowing me more than ten seconds to help them with their math homework before cutting me off mid-sentence and refusing to listen any further - that would be something new and fun to try.

So while giving birth to a tail-ender like D3 at the ripe old age of 37 was torture on my hip joints, it has since proved to be very good for the ego. Because D3 is still miles away from the dreaded teen-age years.

Yesterday, I was "helping" D3 clean her room. This means she picks up one toy for every 27 that I put away. I sent her to put a cup in the kitchen while I continued to work on the myriad of miniature Polly Pocket accessories, Barbie sandals, and Happy Meal toys. When she finally returned, her room had seemingly been transformed right before her eyes.

"Mom!" she shouted in amazement, "Are you some kind of superhero or something?"

Why yes! I am! Thank you for noticing.

It should be no wonder to her older siblings why I act like she's my favorite.

What Kind of Life?

2011-01-19T12:50:00.009-07:00

Recently I had the pleasure of driving from Irvine, California to Orem, Utah.

D2 sat in the front seat and kept me company the entire way home. For the first 4 hours from Irvine to Las Vegas this meant non-stop chatter. At one point, she asked,

"Mom, do you ski with sticks or without?"

"Neither," I replied.

"What?" she asked. My little snow bunny was certain she had heard me incorrectly. Growing up in the state with unarguably the best snow on earth, she has been in countless snowboarding lessons and enjoyed many hours at a local ski resort.

I, however, was raised in Iowa. Although the Hawkeye state is known for many great things, powdery ski slopes is not one of them.

"Neither," I repeated. "I've never been skiing."

"Snowboarding?" she asked.

"No," I confirmed.

"No skiing either?" she double checked.

"No. No skiing. No snowboarding."

Shaking her head in disappointment, she sympathized,

"What kind of life have you lived?"

Christmas Card Sneak Peek

2010-11-29T22:47:00.001-07:00

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It's OK. I'll Sleep Later. When I'm Dead.

2010-03-14T09:06:00.008-06:00

It's 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning, but for some reason feels like 8 AM. I'm fairly certain I have no one to blame except Benjamin Franklin and his not-so-forward thinking invention of Daylight Savings Time. If only he had stopped at the lightening rod and bifocals. He obviously never had to plan a conference call while sitting at a desk in Utah. For a caller in Boston. That will be calling people in India and Singapore. Sending the appointment on a Friday. For a meeting that will be held on a Tuesday. After Daylight Savings Time happens on that Sunday. But they pay me the Big Bucks to help people figure out stuff like that. Unfortunately, no one pays me Big Bucks to get out of bed on a Sunday morning, especially when church isn't until 1 PM.

However, if I sound overly cranky it has less to do with my confused body clock and more to do with the noises in my home. Right now, someone is vacuuming the family room. You heard me correctly. Someone is VACUUMING. You see, NO ONE vacuums unasked in this house. It only happens after they receive a threat of no friends, no television, no video games, or no FOOD. Usually the threat includes all the above before any manual vacuuming labor is actually performed.

Early (extra-early) on this particular Sunday morning, I have made no such threats - I'm not even out of bed yet.

And that begs the question: "Do I get out of bed and go see what kind of late Saturday night after-mom-and-dad-fell-asleep-from-exhaustion disaster someone is trying to cover up?"

Or is it simply best not to know?

Know When to Show Them (Show, as in the Big Screen, Partner)

2010-01-30T13:29:00.007-07:00

My dear blog friend from Down Under, David McMahon, has suggested that if he were to cast a blog movie, I (as in yours truly) would play the part of the Wild West Gambler. Me: A movie star! Believe it - cause it's true. You can read all about it here.

As a former thespian I understand the importance of studying and preparing for a role. However, this character is one to which I can already completely relate. First, the obvious similarity. The name. Gamble/Gambler. We are already one in the same. And for the rest? I'm there. Almost entirely. Mostly. Pretty much. Somewhat. A little.

I do think it would be a kick to dress up in a plaid shirt with skinny jeans and a pair of supple Frye boots. Do movie stars get to keep the clothes? No matter. I'll make sure its in the contract.

Any other gaps between the Wild Gambler and I, can be easily bridged with a little tutoring from DH. While gambling is strictly prohibited in our religion. We personally believe playing a little cards with Jolly Ranchers is 'ok'. And to those that know him, it is no surprise that DH is the master of the questionable games.

Even without DH, I get most of it. I know that a full house is better than 4-of-a-kind. Or maybe 4-of-a-kind is better. Either way, I know they are both really good. And I know the red cards are diamonds and aces. And the black ones are shovels and those clover things. I can sing the chorus of the Kenny Roger's song by heart. So what else is there to learn? I got this.

Hollywood, here I come!

We Will Never Go to Jimmy Johns Again

2009-10-22T12:51:00.005-06:00

Out of the blue D2 announced that she hoped she could marry a man like her dad some day. I wanted more detail so I probed, “What is it about Dad that makes you want to marry someone like him?”

“Well,” she began, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Admittedly I was distracted at the onset of the conversation, but I glanced her direction during her pause and saw her holding her arms up in a traditional muscle man pose. I hid my smile.

“Bu-uff,” she announced, flexing her own gymnastics-enhanced guns.

And the she quickly added, “And remember that time at Jimmy Johns when that worker yelled at you and he was mean and that was not nice and Dad went back in there and yelled at him and now we will never go to Jimmy Johns again?”

I Wan Fwen Fwies

2009-04-13T15:39:00.000-06:00

When D3 was born I insisted that I was going to raise her as a vegetarian. For the first few months no one gave me much trouble, except in theory. I suppose it is possible that the lack of conflict was due to the fact that her life was sustained by milk alone for those first few months.

However, as she grew, we naturally starting adding solids to her diet. And the pressure from my family to let her decide whether or not to be a vegetarian for herself increased. I argued that I could raise her to smoke cigarettes too and when she is older, let her decide for herself if she wanted to be a smoker or not. That logic, to me seemed perfectly sane, and yet the reasoning escaped DH and my childrens' thought processes entirely.

When D3 was 1 year-old, DH "accidentally" fed her a chicken nugget. When I found out I was furious. However, with increased pressure, I soon relented and let them feed her animal flesh. Her diet has increasingly deteriorated from there.

However, I had not realized to what degree the deterioration had occurred until I went to fill a prescription at Rite Aid via the drive through. Or at least I attempted to fill the prescription.

D3 was settled comfrotably in the back seat of the car, when we pull up in the covered drive-thru lane. I believe it was the shade for the overhead cover that first alerted her to something a little abnormal in our errand running afternoon. Then she heard me roll down the window as the outside traffic noise became more apparant.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she yelled.

"Hello?" the paharmiscist asked.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she repeated.

"Hi," I began, "I'd like-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!"

"Sorry. I'm needing to-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!!"

"I came from the doctor's office and I have a -"

"Fwen fwies!!!!" "I wan fwen fwies!!!!"

"Um..." I briefly contemplated my limited options.

"I WAN FWEN FWIES!"

"You know what? I'll come back, in a few minutes-"

"FWEN FWIES! I WAN FWEN FWIES!!!!" She continued. All the way to McDonald's.

Take this Job and Love It

2009-03-20T22:10:00.008-06:00

D1 wants a job. Like most people, money is her motivation. The other day I took her and her friend down to the local car wash. She heard they hire 14 year-olds, so we decided to start early in the search for summer employment.

With D1 in the front seat and her friend in the back, I drove them down the street while coaching them on what to say, what not to say, and how to stand, and how to smile, and who to ask for, and all other things pertinent to this life changing occasion.

When we arrived, I sat out in the car while she and her friend ventured inside to the office. A few short minutes later they emerged with white paper forms in their hands, explaining the manager was not in so they were to fill out the paperwork and return another time.

As we drove home, D1 reviewed the two-page generic employment application. After a minute she turned around to face the back seat.

"I hope they don't put me inside and make me do the books," she told her friend, "I hate paperwork."

Her friend nodded silently, barely looking up as she reviewed her own paperwork.

"Hmmm..." D1 continued a bit concerned after scanning the application further.

"I really hope they don't ask me to manage sales. That would be so boring," she concluded.

A Picture's Worth Three Words

2009-03-20T21:35:00.007-06:00

One of my necklaces has a photo holder charm, inside of which I have a small picture of DH. The photo was taken on vacation, and with his relaxed face framed with an uncommon-for-him and slightly sexy goatee, the picture has become one of my favorites.

Tonight when I leaned over to zip D3's pajamas, she spotted the necklace and shouted in surprise,

"Is that Dad?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "Isn't he cute?"

"No!" she exclaimed while looking at me like I had just suggested she drive the car.

"I'm cute," she emphatically corrected.

Folks, it Doesn't Get Much Worse Than This

2009-03-02T20:43:00.007-07:00

This afternoon my cell phone rang.

"Hello, Tonia!" I answered my neighbor's call energetically, after noticing the caller id.

"Mom, it's me, "D2 clarified.

"Why are you calling?" I asked.

"D3's ears are hurting her. I think it is because you never clean them and now they are all dirty inside."

"Ok, I'll come right home," I promised, as I began to wonder what my neighbor thinks about babies with dirty ears.

"And why are you calling me from Tonia's house anyway," I mistakenly inquired before she had a chance to hang up.

"You never paid our phone bill, so all our cell phones were shut off today," she shouted, although no one ever has any trouble hearing her at her normal volume.

"All right then. Thanks, Sweetie," I mumbled as I pushed the receiver closer to my ear hoping no one around me could hear her.

"So you're coming home? And you are going to look at D3's dirty ears?"

"Yes. Love."

"And you'll pay the phone bill and get our phones turned back on?" she repeated.

"Of course, Sweetie," I replied.

Then I listened to D2 hang up. I imagined my neighbor kindly smiling as D2 handed the borrowed phone (one with a paid-up bill) back to her and then I expect she gently walked D2 and her little sister with the dirty ears to the her front door, all the while full of pity for the neglected little ones.

Taken Out of ConTEXT?

2009-02-19T23:44:00.007-07:00

Technology allows me to stay connected with my adorable children. Even when I don't really care to. I was about to clear my text messages on my cell and thought I'd share the following REAL, untouched examples of the tender messages my children have recently texted to me. Motherhood is so rewarding.

Hey ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

Mom i don't think i should be grounded just cause i didn't wash my hair...don't you agree...were you ever grounded cause you didn't wash your hair?

Mom my belly button hurts jessica said there could be an infection in there

I forgot to do my homework

(sent to me by D2, when she clearly meant to send it to her best friend)
do you wanna talk bout boys
Mom that was a joke
Ha lol
Mom it was a joke say something

(sent to me while I was two rooms away at bed time)
Mom (D1) has her light on and wont turn it off

(sent when a package arrived in the mail at Christmas time)
Mom my Ugg boots came Can I open them?

(sent after I failed to immediately respond to a text message)
See you dont care about my life do you well good nite person hoo does not care :(

Mom will you for once answer your phone

(sent to me after someone didn't like what I served for dinner)
Can i have 5 dollars and go get myself a chicken bowl

Of Mice and Men

2009-02-19T23:29:00.005-07:00

We often remind our oldest, that our parenting skills are getting better and better with each child, thanks to all the mistakes we've made parenting him.

Family Councils, as we call them, are how we coordinate our family calendar. A few nights ago, we were discussing schedules for the children. When it became known that S1 was about to receive a privilege to drive himself to a special event, S2 started to grumble about the unfairness of the situation. He quickly stopped himself however, and in a sarcastic tone, unusual for him, he confessed,

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You are the Golden Child."

S1, who is clear on a regular basis about his many hardships as the oldest child, corrected his little brother,

"You mean I'm the Lab Rat. Right?"

“We are so vain that we even care for the opinion of those we don't care for.” Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach

2008-12-31T13:16:00.004-07:00

DH and I (well, mostly DH) have dealt with our fair share of business disappointments and the ensuing legal woes these past couple years. Finding joy in my family and friends has helped me stay positive (at least for the most part) through all of this. In fact it is the reason I started this blog.

I never expected to find humor in the legal woes themselves. But if anyone can surprise me, it is DH.

One evening DH was on his cell phone when he walked in the front door from work. With a slightly louder and more high pitched tone than is normal, I immediately knew the nature of the call was not social.

"My opinion!?" he harshly asked the person on the other end of the phone.

"My opinion," he continued, in a slightly softer more satisfactory tone, "is whatever my attorney says it is."

Boogers Bug-her

2008-12-30T14:55:00.006-07:00

While driving in the car, D3, buckled in her lounge recliner/car seat, suddenly shouted, "Mom!"

It is a little odd to me that someone so young calls me by that name. Even D2 and D1 still call my "Momma" and "Mommy". I am fairly certain that "Mom" is something your children call you when they become arrogant teenagers. Not when they turn two and start to talk.

Since I was driving and focused intently on the snowy winter roads, I ignored the salutation.

"Mom!" she shouted again - very distinctly. I continued to drive.

"Mom! she burst with even more gusto.

"What, Sweetie?" I finally replied.

"Here! Hold this for me," she demanded.

Musing to myself at her unusually mature speech, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to see what she needed to me hold. However, I declined taking the little "gem" she had pulled from inside her nose that was perched at the tip of her finger.

She Takes the Cake

2008-12-06T11:20:00.004-07:00

This morning at breakfast, D2, our nine-year old, announced,

"I haven't had a birthday in years. But on my next birthday, I'm gonna be a double digit woman."

Choosing the Wrong Stinks

2008-11-15T14:26:00.003-07:00

While I heard myself say, "Yep. I'm still planning on it - sounds fun," I immediately knew it was wrong. But instead of heading home after school, I left with my friend in the opposite direction. As I exited the school yard, I passed my mom's friend in her burnt orange station wagon. She was parked as usual, waiting to pick up her two daughters from school. I saw her look at me inquisitively as I turned right instead of left outside the chain link fence. But I pretended not to notice.

By the time we got uptown, I could see the brick exterior of our destination on the far end of town square. It was next to the only hardware store in the area. I had been to the hardware store with its bell donning, single door entrance many times. Often, I had gone with my grandpa to gather supplies for a home improvement project. He always completed something special each summer he visited. Thanks to him we had a great swing that hung from the tallest pine tree in our back yard and monkey bars by the garden.

One time I even went to the hardware store by myself. I remembered that day clearly, even though it was several years prior. Probably because it was the first errand I had ever run for my mom all alone. I felt so grown up getting on my bike with the money carefully tucked deep in my pocket so that it would not accidentally fall out. A direct result of mom's phone call, the small package of miscellaneous supplies was gathered in a brown bag with dull red stripes sitting by the register when I arrived. To my amazement the store clerk immediately recognized me, even though I was certain I had never seen him before. Or maybe Mom had explained, probably in more detail than the clerk cared to hear, that an eight-year old girl in a red and white polyester top with red shorts and two long, brunette pig tails would be arriving soon on her bike. There couldn't have been many that fit that description. So maybe it shouldn't have been so amazing after all.

However, this trip was not an errand for my mother. And I was not headed to the hardware store. For the first time in several minutes, guilt suddenly crept back into my thoughts as I recalled what I was about to do. I started to feel strangely nervous. But that was ridiculous. Everyone did this. Everyone but me anyway. Until now.

Each step I took toward the building made it more difficult to turn and walk the other way. Like walking through thickly wet cement, with each stride my decision was more distinct and more impossible to change.

My friend seemed oblivious to my pounding chest and clammy hands. Of course she had been here before. Many times, in fact. She walked along like it was no big deal. And that is what I kept telling myself it was: no big deal. But it was a big deal. And I knew it. At least for me. But for some reason I kept walking toward the wrong, instead of turning back.

It would be so simple too -to do the right thing. I could even make up a white lie. Except lying was wrong too. But some things were more right or wrong than others. I imagined that all I would have to do is stop short and gasp,

"Oh no! I forgot. My mom needs me to babysit after school. Sorry, I gotta go, maybe another time."

And then I could quickly turn around, and run down the wide, mostly empty, small town sidewalk. When I got to the corner lot with only a shell of a building, covered in white peeling paint and framed with a couple lone gas pumps covered in rust and missing their hoses, I could head west. From there I would be home in only a few minutes. I could walk inside the familiar craftsman that probably smelled faintly of dinner already in some stage of preparation. And since I would only be less than five minutes later than usual, Mom would probably not even notice.

But I couldn't bring my mouth to utter the words.

Suddenly, we were at the front door of the circa 1950's brick building. It was too late. However, uncertain I was about the decision before, it was made now. I saw a couple bikes on the outside of the entrance, dropped there no doubt by a couple kids from my school. This meant my friend and I would not be the only ones. It should have made me feel better, but it didn't.

As I followed my friend's soft blond curls inside the smoky room, it took a minute for my pupils to adjust from the bright afternoon sunlight to the dingy darkness of the establishment. The neon signs on the wall cast a soft glow in the haze. I suddenly thought about Mrs. Greedy's 3rd-grade class. She asked us each to promise not to smoke. And we all raised our hands together to make the commitment. I wondered how much breathing that air felt like smoking. If it were similar, it made no sense to me why anyone would ever smoke anything.

A couple rough looking guys with bellies as round as pumpkins sat on barstools in front of us. They slowly turned to look at the newcomers. And then, just as dully, wheeled back around on their swivel seats.

I was genuinely surprised not one of them tried to tell us to leave. I knew we didn't belong here and I was only twelve. Didn't grown-ups know what's right and wrong? And wasn't it their job to keep kids from doing wrong things? But since there was no one to stop us, we proceeded through the room over to the far corner.

And there it stood. It was flashy and beautiful. I felt my stomach do a little leap for joy. My goal. The one thing that had caused me to break so many of my parent's rules.

In only a few minutes I had used numerous quarters, saved from small jobs like babysitting the karate teacher's kids. After awhile, I reached deep into the pocket of my Lee jeans, and only felt string and fuzz. I bent down and then handed my friend a damp, rolled up dollar from inside my sock. I had brought it for an emergency like this. She was plenty brave enough to ask the bartender for change. I was not.

The arcade game that started out so new and unfamiliar soon became more rhythmic and easy to maneuver. However, it wasn't long before I was completely out of money. I was hugely disappointed. The time had gone by far too quickly. I impatiently watched my friend finish her last game on a neighboring machine. Then we grabbed our school books, and walked out the door and headed home.

The sun was low in the late afternoon sky. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it was late enough that I needed to work on a very good excuse for Mom and, by this time, probably Dad too. I considered all the trouble I'd be in and wondered if a few minutes on the brand new Ms Pac Man game would be worth the punishment I'd be given when I got home.

In the fresh, early autumn air, I thought I caught the smell of something terribly rank. Cautiously, I sniffed at my shoulder. Hmmmm...this excuse was going to have to be really good.

Victim of Proposition 8

2008-11-13T18:17:00.007-07:00

We've heard a lot about the "victims" of the passing of Proposition 8. This story is a little different than the others.

Regardless of where you stand on marriage for gay couples, I hope you will read the following segments of a statement from Scott Eckern who, after receiving public criticism and threats for donating $1000 in support of Proposition 8, recently announced his resignation as Artistic Director for California Musical Theatre.

Portions of the released statement are as follows:

I understand that my choice of supporting Proposition 8 has been the cause of many hurt feelings, maybe even betrayal. It was not my intent. I honestly had no idea that this would be the reaction.

I chose to act upon my belief that the traditional definition of marriage should be preserved. I support each individual to have rights and access and I understood that in California domestic partnerships come with the same rights that come with marriage.

My sister is a lesbian and in a committed domestic partnership relationship. I am loving and supportive of her and her family, and she is loving and supportive of me and my family. I definitely do not support any message or treatment of others that is hateful or instills fear.

... I have now had many conversations with friends and colleagues,and I am deeply saddened that my personal beliefs and convictions have offended others.

...I chose to express my views through the democratic process, and I am deeply sorry for any harm or injury I have caused in doing so... I hope that through future conversations bridges may be built and healing can occur that will allow us to arrive at a better place of understanding for all involved.

I am leaving California Musical Theatre after prayerful consideration to protect the organization and to help the healing in the local theatre-going and creative community...It has been an honor to serve alongside those I love and respect in this noble profession. I am disappointed that my personal convictions have cost me the opportunity to do what I love the most which is to continue enriching the Sacramento arts and theatre community.

Sincerely,

Scott Eckern

SOURCE: Randle Communications Randle Communications Clay Merrill, 916-448-5802
Copyright Business Wire 2008

The Truth About Boys

2008-10-11T09:57:00.003-06:00

Inside the cover of D2's journal she has defined the essence of the boy/girl relationship that causes mankind endless joy and woe:

Girls are clean and pritty
Smell Butiful
GOOD LOOKING

Boys are stinke

Spoiled Dinner

2008-10-07T07:09:00.007-06:00

With an uncanny ability to speak with skills that would not normally be expected of a 28-month old, D3 often elicits chuckles as we hear ourselves in someone who is only 30 inches tall.

The other night D3 and I sat at the kitchen bar eating dinner. As she crawled up, down and around the eating area, I cautioned her that she needed to remain seated and hold still. But she continued to fidget, oblivious to my advice.

Eventually her fork fell off her plate and tumbled to the floor. With an animated look of surprise, she crawled off the edge of the counter and back onto her bar stool. There she perched on all fours and peered down to the floor from the rattan seat.

I sat in silence watching her think. Soon she looked up at me, shook her head, and distinctly confessed,

"That's not good."

Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome

2008-10-03T18:27:00.000-06:00

Our family does not have an impressive track record with pets. In fact, we have inadvertantly caused premature death to a quiet helpless lizard, an adorable fluffy Guniea Pig, and countless fish.

Personally, I am tired of the burden of so much death and carnage. Unfortunately, our lack of ability to keep the few creatures we have cared for, or at least attempted to care for, alive, has not slowed my childrens' intent to continue to beg for more pets.

Recently D1 has picked up the oral arguments with me on this subject. Apparently she wanted creatures that belong in lakes and rivers to live in her bedroom more desperately than I originally thought. In exasperation she finally stomped out of my bedroom. A little while later, she slipped this under my bedroom door:

Why I Should Have a Fish

by (D1)

It is a great responsibility lesson for me...and my future.
My friend has given me great advise about what fish are easy to take care of and how to take care of them, and she will supply supplies.
I would love the fish like my brothers and sisters and care for them always.
I know where I can get cheap but good fish and I'm willing to keep up with the fish.
I will do my best to find fish that are low maintenance but fun.

If I do not get fish side affects may include, thoughts of suicide, chronic depression, nausea, insomnia, post dramatic stress syndrome, and series of violent mood swings. A serious but rare side affect may include schizophrenia resulting in multiple personalities and frequent conversations with imaginary objects, people, fish and places.

If any of these side affects occur, do not operate machinery or perform manual labor of any kind. If side affects do not lessen with in a few days consult your local Petco store for further advice.

It's Official: I'm a Dealer

2008-09-25T08:38:00.005-06:00

Politically speaking I am more of a Republican than anything. However, I'm not as Republican as some since I actually do care about the environment. And I'm not a huge NRA activist. In fact, while I understand the right to bear arms was a fundamental liberty once-upon-a-time, I am not so fond of guns or their accouterments. I don't care to see, touch or hear them.

So you might be able to imagine my surprise when my father-in-law brought an old circa 1965 US military ammunition box to my home for Sunday dinner. But, as is typical for George, the surprises did not stop there.

"Hey, Deb," he called out as he was leaving for the evening, "Can you give that ammo box to Steve at work on Monday."

I like my brother-in-law (aka my co-worker) Steve and am happy to facilitate family errands, so naturally I replied, "Of course."

"Your employer shouldn't mind too much, right," he stated more than asked.

"I don't think Security is going to stop me over an ammo box," I said, suddenly doubting it myself, "It's not like there is really ammunition in there."

George looked at me in silence.

"There isn't ammunition in that box. Is there?" I asked.

"Well sure, some," he admitted, and then turned around and walked out my front door.

I am not experienced in dealing arms. So the next day I called my brother-in-law at work from a phone in an empty conference room. I asked him to meet me at my car, because I had a very important package for him.

Is that how you deal in contraband? Hope so.

She's Too Hot for Marriage

2008-09-22T21:47:00.008-06:00

I have made a conscious effort from their infancy to brainwash D1 and D2 into believing that they should allow me, the one person in the world that has nothing but their best interest at heart, to plan their weddings. I make no secret about the fact that this would be an attempt to re-create my wedding day, but with better choices. And when I say, "plan their wedding", I mean everything. As in everything. From choosing the wedding dress to the paper mint cups, of course it will all be tasteful and perfect. Their young age does not temper the seriousness of my intent in this scheme.

For the most part D1 has accepted this enormous generosity as fact and has not questioned my motives. When she has begun to inquire, I have quickly reminded her that on her wedding day she is the Princess Bride. Once she makes the most important decision of all, on who will be her future husband, she should not have her mind cluttered with more choices. At this point in the conversation, D1 usually smiles faintly and lets the matter drop.

As D2 has gotten older however, her independent mind is becoming more apparent. And as such, she has become more of a problem in my planning-the-girls'-weddings conspiracy.

One evening D2 had gone to the Home Depot with me and, as usual, ran to the paint section to grab - er steal - as many paint chips as she felt she could - without me forcing her to carefully file them all back. On the way home, she picked two colored squares and placed them side by side. Shoving them in my face, she showed me what she called her "wedding colors." I gasped at the juicy orange and electric teal samples.

"Oh, Sweetheart," I lightly chuckled, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

"You know that Mommy is going to pick your wedding colors."

D2 shook her head furiously and an argument ensued. D2 asserted her rights to plan her "own wedding" as I attempted to convince her this was something best left to her loving mother. I could tell I was losing the debate, but that failed to dissuade me from continuing the heated discussion.

Finally, D2 threw up her hands in frustration.

"It doesn't matter," she confessed, "since I'm never getting married anyway."

"What!" I shrieked.

"Of course you will!" I tried to assure her. And myself. I was not ready to let my visions of her gloriously planned wedding slip away so soon.

D2 was silent.

"Love, what would keep you from getting married?" I questioned hesitantly.

With fingers up by her head forming quotes in the air, she replied,

"Duh!"

And then with finger quotes curling, she continued slowly and distinctly,

"Global. Warming."

Final's Week Flirtation

2008-04-06T17:29:00.011-06:00

In an effort to further my education, obtain a college degree and thereby prepare myself for a successful career of some sort, I attended Brigham Young University full-time on an academic scholarship. I worked 20-30 hours a week at a furniture store to supplement the scholarship. However, I barely managed to buy food and books and still have some money leftover for computer fees.

In an attempt to meet and marry some good-looking, smart chick, DH was enrolled part-time in a few evening classes at the same university. (However, do not falsely assume that enrollment is equivalent to attendance.) When he and his buddies were not challenging the BYU varsity basketball team to pickup games at the Richards Building, DH also worked part-time. His waiting tables gig at a Provo Pizza Hut afforded him all the essentials: 1) A paycheck with which to purchase ski passes and gas for his '79 Honda Accord hatchback, 2) All the pizza he could eat, 3) Cute girls to not-so-slyly leave their phone number on table napkins, and 4) Coins (from cheap tips) for occasionally doing laundry. It was a college guy's dream job.

One evening during December final's, known as the infamous Final's Week, my roommate managed to pull me from my studying to traverse down the hallway of our apartment complex. Her boyfriend lived a few doors down and had proudly called to invite her over to see their apartment which was festively decorated for the upcoming Christmas holiday, although he most certainly was planning to not-so-coyly catch her under the mistletoe hung above the front door. Reluctantly, I put down my books to follow her.

Meanwhile, DH was helping my roommate's boyfriend hang the last cardboard Rudolph Reindeer, and he was realizing some unpleasant news. A quick trip during Final's Week to a friend's cabin for snowmobiling was turning out to be more of a couple's trip. Soon realizing that everyone of his buddies had invited a "date" for the adventure, DH was suddenly worried that the long awaited day was going to leave him an uncomfortable 5th wheel.

"What am I going to do?" DH quizzed his roommate. "I have no idea who to invite."

At that very moment my roommate and I knocked on the door. We walked in, pretending to admire the amateur decorating job in their tiny apartment. As I walked into the living room, acccented with sparkly tinsel hung with scotch tape, DH stood up. We knew each other casually since our roommates were dating, but rarely had spoken.

"Debbie!" he exclaimed, "How'd you like to go snowmobiling up to a cabin with me tomorrow?"

Despite the fact it was Final's Week, and I had a political science and a Hebrew exam for which I was completely unprepared, I readily agreed. Walking out of the apartment I was baffled by my uncharacteristic spontaneity.

Maybe it was the ambiance of a remote cabin in the Wasatch Mountains. It could easily have been the blazing fire and DH picking out Christmas carols that evening on a guitar. Whatever it was, by the time we got back to Provo the mistletoe hung in DH's apartment doorway certainly came in handy.

Boyfriends Can Be Handy to Have Around

2008-04-05T21:05:00.000-06:00

I was only eleven years old and in the sixth grade when my two next younger sisters caught wind of my flirty ways at recess and excitedly announced the news to Mom that day after school.
“Debbie has a boyfriend!” they tattled, “She’s going with Steve!”

Mom was shocked at the news and questioned the nature of my relationship with the supposed suitor Steve.

I assured her it was no big deal, while my sisters stood behind me shaking their heads in disagreement. I explained that I did not ask him to go with me, but that one of my friends suggested it to one of his friends. Then they got him to agree to go with me and then confronted me with the proposal. Naturally, I agreed. It was cool to go with someone.

Mom was still more than cautious about the announcement.

“Does this mean you’re going to kiss him?” Jackie asked loudly.

Mom gasped.

“Gross!” I shouted in reply, trying to assure them all, especially Mom, that was not part of the plan.

After a few weeks of nothing between Steve and me, as in no phone calls, no notes, no hanging out together at recess, he broke up with me. While my friends were ready to launch a hate campaign against him, before assisting me in finding my next beau, I was not too upset. And so the going together with some random classmate continued off and on throughout my sixth grade year.

The summer before seventh grade, I was going with Doug. And the relationship was upped a notch. Mostly we played around at the community pool where he and his friends would throw my friends and me into the pool. He was a little taller and definitely stronger than the other boys in our grade, and I had noticed. When an injury kept me homebound for a time, he brought me a gold necklace with a heart pendant and we spent hours sitting on my front porch as my sisters and baby brother ran around us. Mom’s concern undoubtedly increased with this advancement in the "going together" definition.

As usual, summer loves rarely last past September, and Doug and I were no different. But he was quickly replaced when Jeff wrote a note to Becky ,to give to me, to ask me to go with him. And so once again, I was no longer single.

By this point my Mom and Dad were still trying to chart a course in the new territory of boyfriends they had been thrown into several years earlier than they had ever anticipated. Always leery and worrying about me, they asked incessant questions.

However, as far as I could tell, going together meant Jeff and I would say, “Hi” to each other when we passed in the hallways at school. He never called my home, but before his family left for Christmas Break and their ensuing trip to Colorado, we did exchange Christmas gifts. He gave me another necklace - my collection was growing - and I gave him a plastic skiing Smurf.

One spring day I was walking around town with my Dad when I saw Jeff approaching from the opposite direction on the sidewalk with his Dad. My heart started to pound. We always acknowledged each other in the school hallway, but in public in front of our fathers? I did not know what to do, so I let him take the lead. As we got closer he started to look at the store fronts so, I looked out at the street. And so we passed without even looking at each other, let alone speaking.

“Hey, wasn’t that that Jeff kid,” my dad wondered after they passed by.

“Shhhhh, Dad. He’ll hear you,” I cautioned.

After that Dad in jest told Mom I could go with any boy I wanted to because it clearly meant we spoke to each other less than we would a typical classmate. Jeff and I continued to go together for the entire school year and into the summer. However, unlike Doug the summer before, Jeff never visited my house and I rarely saw him at the pool.

That July, as a 4-H member I entered the Cherry Pie Baking Contest, one of the traditional festivities for the Fremont County Fair. On my appointed time I walked into the assigned fair building with tables lined in white paper, manure smells wafting the air. With my flour, shortening, rolling pin and other equipment lined up on the table, I prepared by masterpiece. I did well. While I did not win Grand Champion or 1st place, I did place a respectable second.

The next day, after the judging was complete, we went to the grandstands and stood in the dirt where sheep had been parading only hours earlier and holding our pies, we waited for them to be auctioned off. All proceeds were destined to our 4-H group.

Most pies were bid on by family members - in-laws fighting it out to be the top bidder. Many pies went for well over $100, especially if the participants had placed in the contest. As a transplant to Iowa, we did not have any family nearby, and I knew my parents would be unable to afford a competitive bid on my pie. And Dad reasoned if he wanted one of my pies he could ask me to bake one anytime - in a clean kitchen - with no sheep or pigs nearby.

Needless to say, I was more than concerned that my pie might not even sell at all. My fears were initially confirmed when I stepped forward, and the auctioneer announced the bidding. Since mine was a second place pie, he started at fifty dollars. With no takers, he dropped to forty-five, forty, thirty-five, and then thirty. Finally at $25 a local women’s group offered a bid on my pie. Going once, going twice, and then suddenly a man in the shadows of the back raised his hand and placed a bid for $115! Going once, twice and then thrice, my pie sold for a very respectable price.
Although I did not understand the lack of incremental bidding at the time, I didn’t care either. My father, however, was more then curious and after doing a bit of research found an answer to the mystery bidder.

“Linda,” he warned my mom, “This going together might be more of a concern than we originally thought. Jeff’s dad is the one the bought Debbie’s pie.”

Hmmmm…that was news. I guessed that next time I saw them in town I had at least better say, “Hello.”

A Very Rich Man

2008-04-03T09:06:00.008-06:00

When I was about 10 years old, it seemed everyone we knew was getting a dishwasher. Often it was avocado green and on wheels. The butcher-block top allowed it to double as a kitchen island. When it was full of dirty dishes, you could wheel it over to the sink, secure the hose to the faucet, dump in some soap, turn on the hot water, and wah-lah, 2 1/2 hours later your dishes were clean.

Such luxuries, however, were not for us. Regularly, my younger sisters and I were sent to the kitchen to wash dishes after dinner. With orange vinyl kitchen chairs pushed up to the sink, inevitably, we would get the counters, the floor and our clothes as wet as the dishes.

Occasionally, we hosted guests for Sunday dinner. After the meal, they would begin to rise and offer to help with the dishes.

"Sit down," my dad would insist, "The girls will clear the plates." And even though we really wanted help with our chore, obediently four little girls ages 5-10 would get up and begin clearing the table.

"Well I can help wash the dishes," the guest would often offer, "You don't have a dishwasher do you?"

"A dishwasher?" my dad would brag, "Are you kidding? We've got four!" And with that his four dishwashers would take the dirty plates, glasses, bowls, and silverware and disappear into the kitchen for a water fest.

Dad and His Five "Deere's"

2008-04-02T08:54:00.001-06:00

Me (in front of S2 and D2 this morning): When I was little we woke up on Saturdays at 5 AM to watch Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. We didn't really like that cartoon, but we knew Dad would have us up at 6 AM to do chores, so that was our only chance for Saturday morning cartoons. And when I say we got up to do chores, I'm not talkin' clean-the-house chores. Oh, we did those, and then we went out to work in the garden.

S2: But it's not like you lived on a big farm.

Me: No. We lived in town and gardened a small plot of land in our backyard and another at the neighbor's. I big farm would have been easier! There you have tractors to help you. My dad did not have any tractors or plows. He had five daughters instead.

Helicopter Regrets

2008-04-01T21:22:00.001-06:00

S1 was telling a story (and let's hope that's all it was) about some people during a war trying to get two men to talk. Neither captive was offering up much information so they put them both in a helicopter and took off. Once high in the air they pushed one guy out.

"I bet the second guy was thinking I had better start talking," I interrupted, rudely finishing the story.

"And I bet the first guy was thinking I wish I were the second guy," S2 added.

Sometimes the Child Must Protect the Parent

2008-03-31T20:38:00.006-06:00

Gardening was a family chore from which no one was ever excused. It began with bringing home milk cartons from school in January and February so we could cut off their tops and use them as small individual planters for indoor seedling starts. We were more than embarrassed to collect the empty cartons after milk break each morning and afternoon. Each Monday during the first two months of the year we took a black garbage bag to school. Mom arranged with the teachers for us to collect empty milk cartons all week. The pile of cartons would grow until we hauled it home on Friday, the oversized yet lightweight bag knocking our ankles the entire way home.

When spring arrived we spent hours in the still cold air hoeing rows marked by two sticks with twine strung in between, creating a fertile bed for our small plants. Once nestled in the black soil, we tended the garden rows daily all summer long, weeding meticulously so no nutrients would be stolen from our quickly growing plants.

When it came time to harvest, our personal preference played much too large a role for mom and dad’s liking. We purposefully left as many green beans hanging on the plants as we felt we could get away with. But we made certain to grab every strawberry and ear of corn, often too eagerly plucking them before they were fully ripe. Another crop we never left behind in the dirt was our pumpkins.

Over time, we gradually became better at growing the large orange holiday staple. We found the best variety that grew into perfect big round beautifully shaped Halloween decorations. One year, our planting time corresponded perfectly with the rain and the sunshine in the crisp fall air ripened our large orange fruit on the vines.

With an extra bounteous crop, we excitedly picked out the six largest gourds for each of my sisters, my brother and me. Proudly displayed on the front porch, we put the rest of the produce in the back of the station wagon and hauled it to an abandoned gas station on the corner of town square. After several trips we had the inventory ready to sell. With Mom's handpainted banner across the station wagon, our advertising was complete as well.

Once open for business, we assisted our friends and neighbors in the small town as they selected their purchase and after carefully weighing each pumpkin, we’d announce the bill. Our big eyes glistened with each sale, which added more and more money to our metal cash box. When a poor family came by, Mom’s soft heart would encourage us to give away a couple pumpkins for free, and we didn’t mind too much, because we knew we were still making plenty of cash.

After two consecutive long Saturdays of sales, we came home, happy that we had sold virtually every pumpkin and eager to split up the profits. Since Mom’s station wagon was used for free, as were the pumpkin seeds, land space, water, garden tools, and fertilizer, our overhead was next to zero, making for an assuredly profitable activity.

The following Sunday morning, as we made our way out to the car in the early, still dark morning hours, Dad was the first to spot the night-time destruction. Our individually selected, cream of the crop, huge, orange, prized pumpkins had been smashed all along the street in front of our house. Our house was not the only one hit along the street by the produce pounding thugs. But it was the only one where five girls had spent the previous eight months growing the potential jack-o-lanterns. In our Sunday dresses, our little bums got cold and then numb as we sat on the concrete porch and cried, Dad’s face reddening with every tear drop.

“You older girls go to school Monday and find out who did this,” he instructed.

The orders momentarily silenced our sobs.

“Ask around,” Dad continued, “And you can find out what boys were involved. Then I’ll pay a visit to their father about this whole incident.”

Jackie and I looked at each other frightened. Our looks told each other what we already knew. We knew who did this. But we would never reveal that to Dad.

Most certainly the culprits were some fellows that lived down the street. They were hard and rough. Their dad and all the boys were boxers that spent every weekend in small-time fighting rings. We would never want our father walking up the vacant hill to their poorly maintained house to knock on the door. Dad would be greeted with a punch square in the jaw if he even hinted at those boys’ involvement in the prank.

But we nodded our heads in approval at Dad's suggested detective work.

When Dad came home from work Monday he quickly found us watching Brady Bunch on the black and white television in the family room and asked what we found out at school.

Jackie looked at me signaling she’d take the lead.

“We asked everyone and no one has any ideas.”

“I don’t think anyone we know did it, Dad,” I added shrugging my shoulders.

“It was probably someone from out of town,” Jackie suggested.

I nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with the brilliant decoy, “Yeah, probably someone we won’t ever know. So there is no way you can go talk to them.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Jackie offered.

“Yeah, sorry,” I added.

Then we started to sniffle in the remembrance of our pumpkin loss and the future of no jack-o-lanterns for Halloween. That ended the conversation before our unskilled lying gave us away.

Dad encouraged us to not give up and to keep “asking around”. We promised him we would.

After a few more days of no names and no news, Dad suggested, “Maybe I should do some talking to the neighbors.”

“Oh no, Dad! Don’t do that!” we begged. We told him we could do a much better undercover job ourselves at school.

“You don’t think it was that family of boys on the hill down the street do you?” Dad suggested referring to the boxers, the most likely offenders.

“Them? Heck no!” Jackie shouted. “They look mean, but they would never smash our pumpkins.”

“Maybe I should just go talk to their dad anyway,” Dad reasoned.

“No, no, no!” we begged. “It wasn’t them, we’re sure of it!”

And so our dialogue continued off and on for weeks as Dad was adamant to find the boys that broke his daughters’ pumpkins and hearts. And we were just as adamant to keep him out of boxing fist harm, by preventing him from ever learning the true identity of the offenders.

Sometimes Boys Look and Notice

2008-03-30T12:06:00.007-06:00

One of the better money making opportunities for young kids in rural Iowa was walking beans. Beaning, as it was called, was actually weeding (of the beans). For a few weeks in the summer the opportunity to make much more than minimum wage was one which my younger sisters and I embraced, even though the work was dirty and difficult.

One year, by a stroke of luck, we managed to get hired on with a very tough, but well paying crew near Randolph, Iowa. We labored with a couple dozen or more young people, but at 12, 13 and 15, we were the babies of the group. Most days we divided up into two groups with the farmer’s wife taking one group and his son, who was about 19, taking another. My sisters and I were assigned to the younger group with the farmer’s wife. And the son would take the stronger, older kids. But we’d usually meet up with them around mid morning for our break and again at the end of the day. In beaning country, the end of the day, thankfully, was always 12 noon.

After meeting at the farm house promptly at 5:45 AM, we would climb in the back of an assigned pick-up truck. Then we were taken on what my dad would consider a scenic drive through farm fields and dirt roads before we eventually ended up at that day’s designated bean field.

During the drive, my sisters and I missed all the scenery as we would curl up together bracing ourselves against the wind. Even with our heads buried under our arms, our arms buried in our t-shirts, and our bodies pressed up against our legs, our teeth chattered the entire way. Our once combed hair in a neat ponytail would soon be a mangled mess as well. Hitting ruts in the dirt roads was inevitable so the ride did nothing for our tailbone comfort either.

Some mornings I marveled at how the dreaded windy ride felt so icy and miserable in the morning and yet was a cool welcome relief a few short hours later. I fruitlessly wished I could store up the cold air and dispense it throughout the morning as the sun would start to bake the farmland.

Once at the field, we grabbed our bean hooks and in a very organized fashion briskly walked the endless bean rows. We kept a keen eye for sunflowers, ragweeds, milkweeds, or the hard-to-spot button weed. When we came upon an unwelcome brier, we would quickly and expertly use the 5 foot long bean hook to slice the weed at the base, without slowing our forward moving pace. And so the weeds quickly fell leaving only beautiful round bean plants with small white blossoms standing in perfect rows.

The summer job had more hazards than the uncomfortable truck ride. At our parents' insistence, we wore long jeans to do the work, and the early morning dew from the maturing bean plants would soak into our jeans. Our pants would hang and stretch long, cold and heavy on our legs, making walking difficult. Inevitably mud would cake not only on our shoes, but the bottoms of our jeans as well. And since we were speed walking, the brisk pace in the wet, mud-caked jeans was even more of chore.

Our cold, wet, heavy legs were only temporary. As the morning heated up we quickly dried out and warmed up. We always warmed up much more than anyone would hope for.

Usually we wore gloves to mitigate the heavy calluses that developed on our otherwise tender palms. But the gloves became unbearably hot after a few hours, so sometimes (against Dad’s strict orders before we left home) we’d take them off and stick them in our back pockets. But as we sped through the thigh-high beans, the plant leaves would slice up our bean hook toting hands if we did not hold them high enough above our waist.

Once in a while we would come across a larger than normal weed and after a few tugs with the bean hook, we’d finally take it down. However the additional exertion sometimes caused us to continue slicing through the weed, through our jeans and into our leg. A little blood was part of the gig, so we kept walking; trying to make sure we were never the last one in our group to reach the end of a row.

While the work was anything but easy, by far our biggest obstacle was the sun and the heat. Most crews we had worked with in years past stopped for a water and graham cracker break once an hour. This crew stopped once every three hours.

The only thing that made it all worth while was getting a big paycheck. It was always handwritten by the farmer’s wife, while we waited in the shade of an old tree in the front yard of the farm house. After our Saturday shift waiting for our checks we'd often get our fill of lemonade and oatmeal cookies too.

But the job had other perks. Speed walking six hours a day, six days a week, made my thighs as lean as pretzel sticks. Since I spent many of my afternoons at the community pool, in the early eighties when dark coconut oil trumped sunscreen, I was quite tanned as well.

I maximized the look by wearing short shorts every summer afternoon. One day toward the end of beaning season I came home from another day of drudgery, and as usual showered and curled my hair. I put on a bit of lip gloss for a finishing touch. With all signs of dirty farm work erased, I dressed in tan cotton short shorts and a teal green knit polo top.

At my mom’s request, I then rode my bike up town to run an errand. After setting the used Schwinn against the white washed store front, I walked in. The old wooden door had a Christmas bell, holly included, hanging on it which jingled with each opening and closing. In the nearly empty, dimly lit mom and pop store I grabbed what I needed and got in line to pay for my purchase. Somewhere from the back room appeared the farmer’s son in a John Deere yellow and green baseball cap.

He took one look at me and then took a longer drink.

“Debbie,” he asked, as if he was not sure he recognized me, “Is that you?”

I was immediately offended. “How could he see me virtually everyday for a month and still not recognize me?” I wondered. But I was also terrified to have been spoken to directly by a nineteen year-old boy.

So I nodded in the affirmative.

“Boy, you look a shade different than you do in the bean field,” he commented still eyeing me from glossed lips to tanned ankle.

I was so embarrassed and confused I did not know what to say. All I could think of was that I hoped I looked different than I did as a the mangled hair, muddy mess that I was in the bean field. After a few moments of my dumb-stricken silence, he shrugged his muscular shoulders slightly, smiled, met up with his girlfriend, and walked out of the store.

The next Monday morning in the bean field I was suddenly bumped up to the older crew. This promotion meant I received a 50 cents an hour raise for the rest of the season. My younger sisters, on the other hand, remained with the farmer’s wife for the next couple weeks.

While my dad was proud, assuming his daughter’s hard work had caught the farmer’s eye, I realized it probably had a lot more to do with the eye of farmer’s son and my short shorts.

You are Rarely as Cool as You Think You Are (PART 2)

2008-03-29T12:03:00.000-06:00

This is part two of a two part series. Read Part One here.

It seemed my knowledge of popular of music remained forever hindered after that. However, I did not realize the extent of my popular music handicap until years later in Mrs. A’s 9th grade Algebra class.

Humming a pop ballad before the bell rang to signal the start of class, I sat at my desk behind Bobby. As I opened my text book and began locating my homework from the night before, Bobby turned around in the one piece desk and chair, and asked in a highly agitated voice, "Why are you humming that stupid ol' song?"

"It's not stupid. And it's not old," I retorted. "It is a pop song. As in a song that is popular. Duh."

"You really think that song is popular," he asked. "What radio station do you listen to anyway?"

"I listen to FM 100,” I retorted grasping the name of one of only a few radio stations whose weak, static-filled signal made it to our small town. “What do you listen to?" I asked.

"Ha! That is an old lady station." Bobby said, "I knew it! You are a nerd. Rock 95 is what the cool kids listen to. Don't you know anything?"

At that moment I wondered if I should have said Sweet 98, but realized it probably would not have mattered much, so I continued to defend my original answer.

"I am not a geek! FM 100 is a fine radio station. They play all kinds of popular songs like Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow!"

"Oh my gosh!" Bobby snorted, "You are worse than I thought! Have you ever even heard of Ratt?"

Confused by what farm varmints had to do with the discussion, I paused, unsure of how to respond.

"How about Metallica?" he continued, "Motley Crue? Def Leppard? You'll never be cool like me."

Finally, the bell rang interrupting our debate.

Bobby turned around, stuck a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek, returned the can to the back pocket of his tight jeans that had a round, weathered imprint of the circular container in the middle of the stitched "W". He straightened up the collar of his plaid western cut shirt, kicked his cowboy boots out under the desk in front of him and slumped in his chair, now fully prepared to sleep through the upcoming lecture.

Wow. Isn't that cool?

You are Rarely as Cool as You Think You Are (PART 1)

2008-01-20T20:11:00.000-07:00

As young girls, my sisters and I idolized our babysitters. We always hoped our favorite, 17 year-old Carmalita, would be available to baby-sit when Mom called Carmilta's home from the beige phone in Dad's den. We watched intently as she dialed each number and the rotary dial slowly turned backward between the numbers. With our fingers crossed we’d sit believing hope could make it so, and that she would come to our home to tend us. With long golden brown curly hair, we believed she looked like an angel. And she acted like one too, especially when she let us stay up fifteen minutes passed our bedtime for being good.

Carmalita was splendid, but the drive to her house was a downright thrill. We traveled up and down some very steep gravel roads to get her at her farm house in the country. My sisters and I would chant, "Woooooaaaahhh," all the way up the steep incline and shrill, "Weeeeeeeeeeee!" with our arms raised like we were on a roller coaster ride as we made the sharp descent. Truly picking up the babysitter was as much fun as having a babysitter that let us shirk our bedtime.

Soon after Carmalita turned 18, she got married and she never babysat for us again. This was a difficult transition for all of us. Finding a babysitter willing to tend us that we were willing to accept, was no easy task for Mom.

However, soon we found Lynn. She lived down the street and walked to our house for each babysitting job. With no ride to the babysitters to look forward to, it was a huge disappointment for us. While Lynn was no Cramalita, and always made sure we were in bed right on time, we grew to like her. A little. We definitely had had much worse.

Most babysitting nights followed a usual pattern. After my parents would go over all food instructions and bedtime routines, they'd finally leave, mom's heels clicking on their way out. Dad's Stetson after shave would linger in his den long after our parents had left the house for the evening.

But there was no time for melancholy, because Lynn would immediately call us all into the living room. After walking through the wooden craftsman entryway to the formal room, she would stop in front of the console that held a black and white television surprisingly much smaller than the furniture's overall size. There on the gold carpeted floor she'd lie flat on her stomach and tell us to scratch her back.

With her tall athletic body face down in front of us, my sisters and I would obediently line up along her lengthy back and start scratching. After about 2 minutes we'd be bored. But she promised if we kept scratching she'd take us to her house sometime and let us jump on her trampoline. In this manner she'd coerce us into scratching a few minutes longer.

Several weeks later on another babysitting occasion, our little fingers started to peter out and we were miffed that there had not yet been the promised trampoline time at her house. So she upped the ante by promising a trampoline sleepover. This excited us and got us aggressively scratching for several more minutes.

One afternoon, during Lynn's senior year, we were tired of back scratching. It was late fall so the promise of a spring trampoline jump was not very enticing. All my sisters had chickened out on the trampoline sleepover weeks earlier in the summer. I was only one that actually spent the night on the trampoline. However, since I awoke with wet pants after a cold night on the stretched tarp toy, neither I nor Lynn were anxious for another such slumber party anytime soon.

So Lynn paused, and then as if the best idea since hair mousse had just hit her, she promised she would give us some of her old 45's in exchange for a back scratch.

While we only had a simple brown record player that locked up like a suitcase covered in peeling tweed fabric, our record collection was lacking even more. We had a pile of children's records mom had purchased at a garage sale that included Yellow Submarine, Puff the Magic Dragon and How Much is That Doggy in the Window. But we were tired of the juvenile tunes and did not listen to them much anymore.

My younger sisters squealed with delight at the deal. I was still a little leery - after all, 45's of popular music seemed too good to be true.

"Promise?" I asked?

"Yes, I promise" Lynn confirmed.

"Cross your heart hope to die? Poke a needle in your eye?"

"Yes, yes all those things, just scratch." Lynn replied.

So my sisters and I, with great fury, scratched her back for a long time that afternoon.

After that evening, Lynn got busier with her school schedule and never was able to baby-sit when my parents needed. But every time we saw her walking past our house on Maple Street, we'd ask about the promised records we had earned. And Lynn always said she'd bring them over in a couple days. She had followed through on the trampoline promise so we did not worry too much. But weeks continued to go by and it seemed as if she may never get around to delivering the highly anticipated, promised goods.

One day, when we had almost forgotten about the bargain entirely, we came home from school and found a small stack of old 45's on the dining room table. Mom explained that Lynn's mother had brought them by earlier that morning.

We shrieked with delight, dropped our school papers and ran in unison down the stairs to our record player in the basement. There in a large utility room with a deep-freezer, washer, and dryer, my sisters and I danced around our record player. Over and over we played the round records listening to the small variety of late 60's and early 70's pop songs including Sugar Sugar, American Woman and I Think We're Alone Now. All the while we were clueless that such hits by The Archies and The Shondelle’s had fallen out of popularity years prior.

It seemed my knowledge of popular of music remained forever hindered after that. I never realized how badly until years later in Mrs. A’s 9th grade Algebra class.

To be continued...

I Am a Great Parent (BYKT)

2008-01-07T19:39:00.001-07:00

Tonight I am the proud owner, or at least custodian, of two additional cell phones. While I already have a cell phone of my own, in this world of technological advances, three must surely be better than one. What I plan to do with them comes later. First, I must divulge how they came into my possession.

This afternoon D1 and S1 were specifically assigned to watch, tend, and otherwise care for precious, helpless, baby D3 during two one-hour shifts. When I arrived after their two hour split shift, I found the front hall table's contents strewn across the floor, adjacent to which were broken glass shards from a dropped jar candle. Piano books from the piano bench were placed along the stairs. I followed their path passed the kitchen where the pencil tray had been dumped out of the drawer onto the floor. Then I heard my D3's jibber jabber, so down the hallway I traversed into my bedroom. There she sat in a pile of pillows from my custom made (read expensive non-washable fabrics and trims) master bedding, smelling less-than-fresh.

After changing a diaper and enlisting S1 and D1's assistance in picking up the house and sweeping up broken glass, I sat contemplating a strategic response.

"I will take your cell phone now," I offered with an outstretched hand to S1 while he played on the PS3.

"Why?" asked S1 completely clueless as to how painful this was going to be.

"Because you failed in your responsibility to tend the baby, your cell phone privileges has been temporarily suspended," I explained.

A similar conversation was then held with D1 upstairs.

Now while this all happened only a couple hours ago, S1 and D1 have already asked if I was serious and when they get their phones back.

Naturally I am as serious. Completely serious. But that doesn't mean I don't plan to have a little fun. I understand that they are very concerned about their friends having no knowledge as to their unfortunate predicament. I assured them, that I will personally answer and respond to all calls and text messages. Somehow this has not had much of a calming affect.

I expect it to go something like this:

Friend Text: Where r u?
My reply on behalf of my dear child: DIKU
Friend Text: AYSOS
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Sorry OT. Have u heard of POS? PIR? PAW? PAL? or P911?
Friend Text: Yeah. WYP
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Oh, NP. BTW this is more of a PICOCP
Friend Text: PICOCP???
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Exactly! LOL. CYL.

IMHO, I am so on track for Mother-of-the-Year award, B4N!

Text Speak Dictionary
(for those of us not born after 1990):

BYKT = But you knew that
DIKU = Do I know you?
AYSOS = Are you stupid or something?
OT = Off topic
POS = Parents over shoulder
PIR = Parents in room
PAW = Parents are watching
PAL = Parents are listening
P911 = Parent alert
WYP = What's your problem?
NP = No problem
BTW = By the way
PICOCP = Parent in Control of Cell Phone (I made this one up, pure genius doncha think?)
LOL = Laughing Out Loud
CYL = See you later
INHO = In my humble opinion
B4N = Bye for now

Give it To Me Straight: Snow Holds Barred

2007-12-28T15:38:00.000-07:00

We've been enjoying a series of snowstorms the past few weeks. Before the onslaught began, my snow-loving D2 overheard DH talking in the kitchen.

"We are getting a snow storm tonight, another two days after that, and one more on the weekend." He explained.

D2 instantly ran out of her bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen, and slid her socks along the wood floor to come to a screeching halt right in front of her dad.

"Talk to me, weatherman!" she invited with a big grin.

Christmas Miracle

2007-12-26T12:34:00.001-07:00

As this is the season to reflect on the amazing miracle of the Savior's birth so many years ago, I feel blessed to have the blessing of being involved, albeit distantly, to a modern day miracle as well.

A neighbor and friend of our family has been ill for a few years. He has been an active, healthy man, and is blessed with a lovely wife, and young-adult children, including a married daughter. A disease has plagued his lungs, the origin of which is most likely an inadvertant exposure to asbestos when he was young. While his condition has significantly worsened over the last year or two, in recent months his health has become gravely compromised. His breathing has been intensely labored as his sick lungs have been unable to function anywhere close to a level at which they should.

I have watched, for the most part helplessly, as his frame has aged prematurely while his body uses every available resource to obtain oxygen. Several months ago, testing was complete, which secured his spot on the top of a lung transplant list. The initial announcement was met with joy and anticipation. Days then dragged into long weeks since that important designation. In that time he became a grandfather for the first time, continued to work, and regularly attended Sunday services. And in all this time, no viable options presented themself.

A couple days before Christmas, the long-awaited news arrived. A compatible organ donor's healthy lungs were available. After a flurry of Saturday night testing, surgery began Sunday morning.

As I sat in a beautiful Sabbath Day service celebrating the birth of our Savior, I was moved with emotion. Hymns and carols were sung commerating the life of Jesus Christ, who was born of humble circumstance, lived a pure life, and selflessly gave his life for this world. His life touches mine profoundly each day, for which I am eternally grateful.

However, this Christmas there is a blessing that has emcompassed my thoughts as well. I am grateful to a family, somewhere suffering the penetrating pain of the loss of a loved one. However, through their unspeakable pain has come the miracle of a renewed life. While I do not know of their exact story, as I pray for the recovery of a dear friend, my prayers are also directed toward the family of an unknown person, whose gift, in a very small way is like that of the Savior's, and can never be measured in words.

Mystery Solved

2007-12-19T21:54:00.000-07:00

"I've got it!" D2 exclaimed the other day.

"I know how it works!" she continued.

"You know how most days I can't wake up until 7:29?"

"Well," she continued not waiting for my reponse, "I think Santa uses his magic."

"And that is how I wake up so early on Christmas morning."

One or the Other

2007-12-13T20:39:00.000-07:00

D2 had a homework assignment this week in Language Arts. Part of the requirement was to write a sentence using the word, "president".

D2 wrote:

Either one of my relatives was the president or a cashier.

I think she is right. But you know how these things are...they are so similar they can easily be confused in your mind. Hmmm....I'm pretty sure it was one or the other though.

Jock Talk

2007-12-13T20:06:00.000-07:00

This evening, D2 sat at the kitchen table calling her friends to issue an invitation to a Friday night birthday celebration.

Part of one conversation I heard went as follows

D1: Hey, Smith. This is Gamble. I'm having a party Friday at 8PM.
(Pause for response on other end of the phone.)
D1: Yeah, Can you come?

I'm so old-fashioned.

As far as I knew the only people that referred to each other solely by their last names were high school athletes trying to be cool. The ones that thought they were so tough, wearing little white towels in the locker room, after showering from a game or practice.

Since when do young Jr. High girls act this way? As in girly girls that straighten their hair, wear mascara, glitter eye shadow, and shiny lip gloss?

"The Best Day of My Life"

2007-11-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

Last night DH and the kids were playing around with the camera on DH's Apple Powerbook. This morning D2 said, "Last night - when we were playing with Daddy's computer - was the best day of my life."

In case you are wondering what the best day of an entire lifetime looks like, here are some photos:

Trash Talkin'

2007-10-26T07:30:00.000-06:00

Marjory the Trash Heap

Wednesday afternoon D2 came home from her walk to Allens (think store-where-you-take -all-your-money-from-your-allowance-to buy-candy-and-dollar-toys). On my freshly washed kitchen counter she started to unload her treasures from the shopping spree. First she pulled out a couple foot long Tootsie Rolls, next came a Butterfinger bar, followed by a plastic package of fake money.

I was surprised to notice the plastic grocery sack was still not even close to empty. But not nearly surprised as I was to see what came out next: a flatten soda can, a piece of paper with tire marks, a balled up wad of wrapper, and a myriad of smaller pieces of litter. I stood in amazement at her collection, spread across my once clean kitchen counter. Before I could compliment her on picking up so much trash along her way home, she looked up at me and explained,

"My teacher says littering is the baddest thing you can do."

"The baddest?" I doubted, ignoring her grammar.

"Yep!"

"What about stealing? What does your teacher say about the Enron executives?" I asked.

"My teacher says littering makes our world ugly," she replied, completely ignoring my inquiry.

"And murder? How wrong does you teacher believe it is to take another life?"

"No one should ever litter. It's really bad."

"Perhaps the real questions is what is your teacher's opinion on the death penalty. Have you ever discussed capital punishment?" I questioned.

"Littering is the baddest thing you can do," she repeated, "We should never do it."

While D2's teacher seems to be a fine person, I'll be terrified if this woman ever becomes a Supreme Court Judge or heaven forbid a member of the legislature.

'Cause if I'm sent to the gallows for a receipt blowing out my car window...I'm gonna be ticked!

Don’t Run Away With the Cows, Unless, Of Course, You Don’t Want Anyone to Find You

2007-10-11T11:00:00.000-06:00

In response to David's question of the week. :

P.S. This is a potential chapter in the potential book, which may have very little potential after all. (Can you tell all the rejections from agents are already getting me down?) So I figured when I saw David's post I'd not let it go to waste. I posted it here so at least a couple people could derive some form of entertainment from my writing. Pity party over. Thank you for joining me.

Dinner was served very early at my home. We usually ate well before 5 PM. We always ate dinner as a family, around the dinner table, using the proper utensils and good manners. My parents, both transplants to the Midwest insisted,

“Even though you girls are growing up in Iowa, you won’t learn to eat like you were raised in a barn.” I still do not know how people in barns eat, but I am very clear on how people outside barns are expected to eat.

For one, they always use the proper utensil for each food type. They use a salad fork for salad and not the entrée, hence the name. I’m certain it has something to do with lettuce maintaining its nutritional content when pierced with smaller tines compared to larger ones.

They never use their spoon to eat peas, even though it is much easier than a fork. Despite the round uncontrollable nature of peas, the left hand should remain in your lap at all times, and should never be used to help scoop up your food like you’re a monkey. Monkeys eat bugs out of other monkey’s hair, so no one wants to be confused with a monkey.

I can say with absolute assurance, people who eat outside a barn, should never stab their vegetables with a fork. After all vegetables are dead plants, without legs, and will not walk off the plate. So stabbing is completely unnecesary.

Eating your vegetables is so important; it must be done before you are allowed to serve yourself any potatoes, bread, or meat. Vegetables are best served slightly over cooked with no oil, butter or cheese sauce. You may add a prudent amount of salt.

There is a simple formula to follow in order to determine the number of vegetables you should eat. For larger vegetables like green beans or carrot chunks, you should eat one for every year old you are. Unless you are an adult, in which case you can max out at approximately twenty. (The sooner you learn that there are always different rules for adults, the fewer spankings you’ll get.) For smaller vegetables like peas and lima beans, you must eat two for every year old you are.

When your vegetables are eaten, or slyly stored under the lip of your plate, under the table, under your bum, or out the kitchen dining nook window, you may continue with the remainder of your meal. While there are alternate methods to disposing of your vegetables, eating them is by far the best choice. Being caught hiding vegetables, will result in a double serving of the disdained food.

At no time during dinner are elbows allowed on the table. In fact, resting one’s forearms against the edge of the table, even for the briefest of moments, is absolutely not tolerated either. In a barn that may be okay, it’s hard to say since most barns I’ve seen are not equipped to hold meals, let alone raise children, but it is certainly not okay at the dinner table.

No one over the age of two should ever grasp a fork like they are holding a dead chicken by its neck. Rather the technique is more akin to holding a pencil.

As far as cutting the food, that can be very tricky. Put your fork in your left, and knife in your right hand. Make certain you are not holding the fork like a dead chicken. Skillfully hold the food with the tip of the upside down fork tines and then saw slowly and gently with the knife. When you hit 1970’s mustard floral patterned Corelle, stop sawing immediately.

Don’t think you can cut the entire pork chop all at once and then chow down. You are allowed to cut only one piece at a time, switch hands with your utensils, put the knife down, eat the morsel of meat, and then pick up the utensils, switch hands again, and start all over. It is so complicated and time consuming, you understandably may decide eating the pork chop is not worth the effort.

Ah, but you better make that decision before you take the pork chop off the serving platter and put it on your plate. Once you have chosen the pork chop, it is yours to love and cherish forever. And you personally will be responsible for eating it.

But don’t worry, if you are unable to finish it at dinner, then it will remain on your plate, covered in Saran Wrap and will sit in the refrigerator until morning, when you will once again be presented with the meal for consumption. This time, however, it will be much cooler in temperature.

Having been thoroughly taught these dinner-time rules since before I could talk, I should have been wiser one summer evening as we sat down to eat in the dining nook of the kitchen.

After I uncharacteristically completed eating my vegetables without any prodding, I helped myself to some mashed potatoes and a slice of meatloaf. Jackie, assuming there was no possible way I could have devoured 14 green beans already, tattled,

“Debbie didn’t eat all her vegetables and now she has potatoes and meatloaf!”

I responded by grabbing my fork like a dead chicken’s neck, stuffing my mouth full of mashed potatoes, and in a dumb, muffled, potatoes oozing voice said,

“Debba dint et all ur begtables.”

This outburst was shocking and unprecedented in our family. Mom quickly excused me. She told me to take my plate and spoon and go eat in the living room. This made no sense to me, because none of the foods on my plate allowed for eating with a spoon, and we were never allowed to eat in the living room. She must have sensed my hesitation so she explained,

“If you can’t eat your food correctly with a fork at the kitchen table, you’ll eat with a spoon in the living room.” And then in response to Jackie’s snide snickering, she added,

“And, Jackie, you can join her.”

I was angry and humiliated. We both went to the living room. I stomped. Jackie skipped. We had never been allowed to eat anything in the family room except New Year’s Eve crackers and cheese, so Jackie gleefully starting finishing her dinner at the coffee table. I sat on the carpet with my plate and spoon on a side chair, too angry and insulted to take another bite. I wondered if my mother would ever stop treating me like a child.

Then, without thinking much about it, I walked out the front door.

I started running. I ran to the field behind our house, and continued passed the water tower and across the deserted road. Then I stopped to catch my breath. I was surprised to notice tears on my cheeks. This made me even madder so I continued to run passed the Legion Club, and fair grounds, and across a field of cows.

Looking back, the water tower was still well within view. So I kept running. Up and over another fence I ran to the top of a hill in another cow pasture. I finally stopped and sat on a bump in the ground. With the water tower in distant view I knew I could find my way home when I was ready.

It was a typical warm early summer evening as I sat in the quiet field. I cried over the seemingly unfairness of my life for a while. Then I grabbed a stick and poked at dried up cow pies. Next, I lied on my back and watched the clouds in the summer sky. Soon I noticed the sun was starting to go down, so I walked very slowly back home.

Just before dark, I entered the back door of the house and immediately saw my mother with bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks on the phone. She quickly told the police their help was no longer needed and replaced the receiver.

Her look was intense and painful.

“Where on earth have you been?” she asked and without waiting for a response continued, “Don’t you ever do that again. Go to your room!” I wisely obeyed.

I found out later that according to the police many teenage runaways go to the mall. Since the nearest mall was 40 miles away and I had not thought to bring my bike, that was out of the question. The next logical place to look, since I had not had dinner, was the restaurant in town and the two gas stations that also doubled as convenience stores. But since I had not thought to bring any money, those places were a fruitless search.

The next step was to call my friends’ houses. For my mom that meant all my friends and remote acquaintances. Mom called every single classmate she could think of. Some girls weren’t even really that good of friends. And then she called a couple boys’ homes too. Nothing could be more humiliating for a fourteen-year old. I can only imagine the dramatic tearful conversation.

“Debbie was eating like she was raised in a barn, so naturally we excused her from the table to eat in the living room with a spoon. Now she has runaway.” Pause for sniffle sounds, “Did she go to your home by chance?” Pause for nagatory response.

“No? Oh dear, I wonder where she could have gone.” Pause for loud nose blowing.“Oh yes, I am sure she is hungry, but don’t worry, we have her Corelle dinner plate covered in Saran Wrap in the refrigerator. She can eat it for breakfast in the morning. If we ever see her again.” Fade to muffled crying sounds before hanging up the receiver.

Rise to the Occasion, Or Make Good Trades to Get There

2007-10-10T08:35:00.000-06:00

With a high value placed on whole grains, and a small budget to feed a large family, when I was young, we made at fifteen loaves of homemade bread each week at our house. The dough was mixed as we stood on orange vinyl kitchen chairs to reach the counter that was still a few years away from being an appropriate workplace height for young girls. It was then kneaded for ten minutes, and left to rise with a cloth draped across the top of the bowl. After approximately one hour, the dough was revisited for shaping and placing in metal loaf pans. Again the bread was left for another hour of rising. The dough was then baked in the oven until the outside crust was thin, golden and crisp and the inside was soft and airy.

One loaf was often immediately devoured as soon as it emerged from the oven. As much as we might tire of it during the week, after smelling it baking, we always wanted a slice warm with melting butter swathed all over. But the other loaves were placed to cool with the top crust softened with butter. Then we placed a couple in the kitchen and the remaining loaves were wrapped and taken to the basement freezer. There they sat until one or two were pulled out each morning for that day’s consumption.

We ate bread for at least two meals a day. Breakfast might consist of toast, creamed eggs on toast, or even French toast. Lunch during the summer was always a sandwich, often a staple like peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and honey, or tuna salad. Bologna was considered a real treat. Of course, peeling the red strip off the diameter was almost as fun as eating the salty meat slice. During the school year we ate hot lunch at the elementary, but often the dinner entrée was served with a side of bread and butter.

With the prolific nature of the thick, dense baked item, we were usually not very excited about eating it. Some of the ladies in town would rave to Mom about how spoiled we were to get homemade bread every week. But we did not understand how it was such a treat. We had tasted white store-bought bread at friends’ homes and on vacation so we knew it tasted much better than homemade bread. We also believed those ladies would not call us spoiled if they knew we were the ones making the bread, not Mom. Though at our young age, that thought probably never even crossed their minds.

We certainly felt anything but spoiled when it came time to prepare the dreaded Field Trip Sack Lunch. We begged Mom to buy store bought bread for the lunch we had to prepare, take on a bus, and eat in front of our classmates. But she never would. We were so worried about being embarrassed to bring homemade bread, so we did everything to disguise our sandwiches’ origins. The night before Field Trip Day, we’d get out the best bread knife and slice as slowly as we could to get two perfect thin, straight slices of homemade bread, hoping they might pass for the store bought variety. It did not matter if it took an entire loaf to get two perfect slices, because neither time nor loaves of bread were a scarcity. But no matter what we tried, inevitably we’d get to some park in between museums, pull out our sack lunches, and as we peeled the Saran Wrap off the sandwich, someone would notice our odd meal.

“Hey,” they’d ask incredulously, “Is your sandwich made with homemade bread?”

All the kids would be involved in a trading frenzy, swapping Oreos for Little Debbie Snacks, and Tootsie Rolls for Pixie Sticks.

We’d sit with our thick peanut butter and honey sandwich, white milk, homemade oatmeal cookie and apple, wondering in vane what we had that could be traded for our classmate’s Chick-o-Stick.

One Saturday after the morning’s baking was complete, Mom told us to take a fresh loaf of bread to Mrs. Cleek, our elderly next door neighbor. Mrs. Cleek had been in the hospitable and Mom felt it would be a nice gesture. We didn’t know what someone who had been in the hospitable would want with a loaf of homemade bread, but we obeyed and took her one of the nicest shaped loaves.

We were surprised when Mrs. Cleek seemed genuinely touched by the gesture. Before we turned to leave, she asked us to wait by the door. She shuffled painfully slowly away and we waited impatiently. To ease our boredom, we tried to peer into the foreign abode that was so nearby, yet so strange to us. In the poorly lit home we craned our necks to get a peek at her many figurines of little children on doilies and piles of papers. Our heads whipped back upright as we heard her coming back down the hallway to the front entry.

In her hand was a bag of Brach’s caramels. When she tried to give it to us, we resisted, knowing our mother would not want us to take such an expensive gift. But she positively insisted, so as to not upset her, we finally relented and opened our hands to receive the generous offering. We ran home and when we finally convinced Mom how happy it made Mrs. Cleek for us to have this candy, she eventually decided we could keep the bag.

We ate the chewy candies until they no longer tasted very good. Then we unwrapped, chewed, and swallowed a few more. Finally when our stomachs could take no more, we stopped.

Each Saturday after that, we would ask Mom if we could take Mrs. Cleek a loaf of bread. Mom knew of our intentions, so she explained that she would deliver a loaf on Monday after we went to school. But sometimes, with so many loaves of bread and so many children helping in the kitchen, there was no way for Mom to keep track of everything, so we’d sneak a loaf over to Mrs. Cleek. And if she didn’t offer to bring us something right away we’d make a little small talk, until she asked us to wait by the door, while she shuffled to her pantry to get us something much better than a loaf of bread.

As It Turns Out...

2007-10-05T13:08:00.001-06:00

S1 is a few weeks away from getting his driver's license. This has caused the typical parental concerns for DH and I as we attempt to teach him to drive. Suffice it to say driving does not come naturally to some.

We have been riding with him as he practices for several months. By now I am fairly prepared when I enter the front passenger seat of the car. The first thing after buckling my seat belt is to assume The Position.

When I was learning to drive, my mother assumed The Position which involved sticking both arms straight out against the dash and shutting her eyes as tightly as humanly possible. Then whenever she felt a subtle turn or stop, she'd let out a scream. Short but loud.

For S1, I have modified The Position somewhat. Basically I scoot to the far edge of my seat away from the side door and window. And there I am posed with one leg slightly raised and crossed over. I wince periodically as we graze trees, mailboxes, bikers, children, and cars lining the side of the road.

I often find myself panting and frantically waving my hand in a sideways flipping manner to indicate the direction S1 needs to move the car. Scrunching my forehead and squinting my eyes doesn't do anything to correct the car placement either. And jumping into the driver's seat for fear of my right arm being sliced off whatever obstacle is presently along the roadside has not been helpful.

So I've gone to silent chantings in order to hopefully help S1 with this struggle, "Feel the road, be one with the road, drive on the road. The gutter is not our friend." And it is gradually working.

The driving skill S1 and I are concentrating on this week is turns. Inevitably S1 will be halfway out in the intersection, still looking left for oncoming traffic before he finally determines that in fact it may be safe to proceed with a right hand turn. And since he is sitting in the middle of the road with no oncoming cars hitting him, it is an accurate assessment of the situation. Even though the conclusion is a long time in coming.

But since at this point S1 has not even begun to turn the wheel he ends up swinging out into oncoming traffic with the turn. Of course, all the while he is risking someone coming up alongside his right-hand side and making the same turn while in the very lane S1 should be himself.

I have remedied this with one simple phrase: "Turning is a process not an event." Gone is the screaming, lunging of my head in the direction I wish the car was going, and, of course, the ill-fated, grabbing of the steering wheel. It has all been supplanted with the simple message, "Turning is a process, son, not an event."

So while S1 enjoys turning 16 and turning the girls' heads, I silently remind myself it will not be over very soon. After all turning is a process, not an event.

Sick in the Head

2007-10-04T09:23:00.000-06:00

I alluded to the head cold I was suffering from this weekend. While I was upset about disappointing dinner partners and my Sunday class, my illness provided an even deeper concern.

Early Saturday morning I went to pick up my vacuum at the repair shop. However, after numerous phone calls regarding the appliance's unfit condition and the cause of the condition, followed by a phone call indicating the appliance's completed repair status, when I arrived to bring home my much needed vacuum, I was surprised to learn that it was not fit for release after all. In fact, parts were still in transit that would ensure complete recovery.

Devastated I explained that with five children, the old vacuum I had ~~stolen~~ borrowed was not cutting it. For my inconvenience, pain, worry, and frustration, which I tried to manage with a smile, I was awarded a loaner vacuum: their top-end, take-no-prisoners, hoo-rah vacuum.

However as the Saturday errands progressed and I felt worse and worse, I barely limped inside upon arriving home and went straight to bed.

While in bed I worried about the aforementioned Saturday dinner and Sunday class commitments. But mostly...I worried that I would not recover in time to try out the fancy-dancy razzle-dazzle vacuum, before my old one was well enough to come home!

And that thought process illustrates perfectly how being a ~~mother~~ housekeeper of five changes a person.

A Crystal Ball Just When You Need One

2007-10-01T10:45:00.000-06:00

The other evening, D2 approached me alone in the kitchen and said, "Mom, there's something you should know: I'm from the future."

While I admit I'm not certain how these things work, I do recall giving birth to that child. Actually more so than any of the others, since the epidural was non functional. But maybe that is how kids from the future come to this world. How should I know? I know very little about time travel.

In fact, as I contemplated this shocking news I realized that I know very little about several things. Naturally, I want to ask D2 many questions, like how and when I'll die, if DH will ever make a couple million dollars, which stock purchase will net me a 235% return in one year, and how soon Marie Osmond will be voted off Dancing With the Stars.

But if she only gives me one question, I've already decided what it will be, "Who wins: Blu-ray or HD DVD?"

The rest of my life will come and go regardless, but I'm putting off too many DVD purchases to let this battle continue undecided.

Book Review: Vegemite Vindaloo by David McMahon

2007-09-30T16:28:00.000-06:00

It is not often I take the time to read a book. It is not because I don't enjoy reading; actually the opposite is true. However due to my ~~admiration~~ ~~adoration~~ addiction to all things fictional, suspenseful, sad, and/or beautiful, I do not make for a very civilized person when I am engrossed in a book. It is unfortunate that dishes, laundry, showering, sleep, even babies get neglected while I am reading a novel. So I have a self-imposed moratorium of fictional book reading until my family is grown or until I can afford to hire a full-time nanny, cook, and housekeeper.

But every now and then I become unfit for civilization anyway, and so locked in my room by DH, coughing, sneezing and wheezing, I pull out a good yarn. And that was the blessing I experienced this weekend. It actually began a few days back with a good start when I injured my arm and the non-stop throbbing pain, that was not even alleviated during sleep (despite borrowed prescription strength Motrin and a Lortab) gave me some time to start 'Vegemite Vindaloo' by David McMahon. It ended this weekend, when a head cold brought me to a grinding halt and I was able to flip back open the book and finish. The following is my review:

Interested in reading a book that explores cultural biases across numerous walks of life? Want to read something that will cause you to rethink everything you thought you knew about a parent's love for a child? Looking for a lesson on the culture of India? or Australia? What if I told you I had just the book for each exploration. Now what if I told you it was all the same book?

Vegemite Vindaloo by author, blogger and acclaimed writer David McMahon is more than a fictional novel. As the story unfolds, each layer reveals a deeper and deeper connection to the characters. But along the way, the reader comes face-to-face with decisions about human decisions. Is stealing to save someone's life okay? What actions are indicative of a mother's true love for her child? Do people ever fully overcome cultural stereotypes? Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys: Petty street thieves? Crass pub owners?

While avoiding making any decided opinions on these and other of life's queries, David builds a story house. The author outlines the floor plan and furniture placement, the reader is left to ascertain the paint colors and throw pillow patterns.

Feeling richer for the experience, readers will come away with a deeper understanding of other cultures, as well as a new sense about some of life's toughest questions.

Chivalric Burping

2007-09-29T15:44:00.000-06:00

D2 was talking at the kitchen bar this afternoon and recited the following encounter:

"I was walking up the stairs while Hutch was walking down.

Just as he walked past me he burped.

I said, 'Eeeeew!'

And then Hutch said, 'Excuse me.'

Now there's a man that knows how to respect a woman!"

If Life Hands You Donuts, Eat Them

2007-09-27T19:08:00.000-06:00

In case any of my faithful blog readers are also literary agents in disguise, I thought I'd give you a sneak peek on the book I'm writing:

If Life Hands You Donuts, Eat Them (And Other Lessons Learned Growing Up in Rural America) is a narrative nonfiction containing around 24 chapters (14 are complete, the remaining are in various stages of completion). Each chapter hosts an originally titled "Life Lesson" such as "If You Can Find Your Best Foot, Put it Forward", "Boys Always Look, Sometimes They Notice", "If Someone Gives You a Load of Crap, Carpe Diem", and more. The title summarizes the short story (typically around 1000 words) that follows. All the stories are true stories from my childhood growing up in rural Iowa and Pennsylvania in the late 70's and early 80's.

As the oldest daughter of six children, raised in a conservative, modest home, many of my life experiences, while seemingly ordinary at the time have taken on a new look and deeper meaning over time.

Invariably each story lifts and builds while providing subtle humor, practical application and an enduring theme. As people read my work, I expect they will feel more connected to their own roots and quickly identify with the "Life Lessons" whether they grew up in a big city, on the coast, or in rural America.

I am excited about another chapter for my book that I completed around 6AM this morning. D3 woke up early and after I wrestled her back to sleep, I found myself wide awake with a clear writing mind.

This morning's work, is titled: "Farm Pets" is Just a Fancy Title for Food

And a few quotes from the text include:

"...We sat each afternoon on the couch back in front of the living room picture window, waiting for Daddy to come home, hoping that day would be the day he’d bring us a sick, dying, abandoned baby farm animal, that we could call our very own..."

"...As a farm girl, I knew enough about these sorts of things to realize you don’t get hamburger from pigs..."

No Time to Sudoku

2007-09-25T19:29:00.000-06:00

I was sitting at my desk and realized this very instant that I have not done a Sudoku puzzle for at least four days. Not one!

I knew I was busy, but Holy Cajoly!

Hot & Bothered

2007-09-24T21:18:00.000-06:00

Because I cannot sit quietly when people are nonsensical, I often become more than uptight listening to Bob Lonsberry.

You've heard how I love my talk radio. And I do. After 9 AM. Because before 9 AM, at least during the hours that I am conscious, my favorite talk radio station features one of my least favorite radio show hosts.

In case you have never had the narrow experience of listening to Mr. Lonsberry, imagine someone who sees the world from his singular point of view, that is about as broad as a grain of mustard seed. And if you fall any direction outside that parameter, and how could you not, then you are in error. In a nutshell, or shall I say mustard seed, that is Bob.

But for some reason, this morning, I tuned in anyway. I dropped in on a discussion about the Mormons Exposed upcoming 2008 missionary calendar and I realized something Bob should already know. It is difficult to hold a debate on something when no one disagrees with you. And for once I even agreed, in principle anyway, with Bob.

But let me back up and fill you in, because chances are you have not heard of the soft-porn, ruckus-causing publication. Basically Mormons Exposed is a calendar featuring topless male Mormon returned missionaries. Sounds harmless to many of you, but in Mormon country, it's definitely causing a stir.

I agree this calendar is an odd enterprise within the Mormon culture. If you know Mormons, and understand their commitments to modesty, then you may appreciate the conflict. If not, then you'll have to trust me. It's a bit of a screwy concept. And I'm not just saying that because I have not yet been contacted by CMH Entertainment LLC to model for the sequel calendar Hot Mormon Moms.

But that was not my point when I dialed Bob's number on my cell phone this morning. I called him up to voice my opinion on the idea behind the calendar which applies to any product in this type of genre. Basically, men have to get over themselves and how they look because as women, we don't really care.

Now before you start arguing about how I'm screwed up or how you, your girlfriend, you sister, or your mom loves this type of junk, let me say one thing: PlayBoy outsells PlayGirl one thousand to one. The end.

It is a fact that women do not think like men. And if you are a man you probably first realized this when you were six and caught an elusive, slippery frog in the nearby pond and when you excitedly went to show it to the neighbor girl, she screamed and cried and then wouldn't even look your direction for a month.

If you are like Bob and have not had the fortune of learning that little bit of information, do so now. It will go a long way in your future relationships.

Don't forget it: Women Do Not Think Like Men. Ever.

All a man needs to do is think of how he would react to something, flip it upside down, do a 180, turn a few somersaults, jump up and down and then you'll be there or somewhere nearby. As in the vicinity of where a woman is in her thought process. But don't think that as a man you can actaully go "there" on your own. Consider yourself gymnastically challenged in this regard.

So I gave ol' Bob a jingle and he kindly put me on the air. I told him women are more complex than men. We are not as easily sexually stimulated visually like a man. We are wired differently. I proposed that if there is any market for these types of calendars among women it is largely because such thinking has been imposed on women by a male dominant society. Men like to think that women want to stare at their bodies, but we don't find it as stimulating like a man does looking at a woman.

Bob said apparently I've never seen him in his Levi 501's.

Point made perfectly. Thank you, Bob.

Oh, and a big ol' Charlie Brown, "Urrgghhh!" to you too!

If you have nothing better to do with your time the radio broadcast can be heard here. Go to Monday, September 24th and fast forward to 95% of the way to the end. (I was the second to the last caller for the day. I called in under the secret code name of "Debbie.")

If you want to read one of many credible scientific studies that backs up my statements about women and visual sexual stimulation compared to men go here.

Thou Shalt Have No Other Dogs Before Me

2007-09-23T10:26:00.000-06:00

WARNING: EXPLICIT IMAGE

D1 is typically an early riser and more than once has presented us with stunning morning news.

When she was seven she gleefully announced at 5:30 AM on a Saturday that Chewy - the Guinea pig we had been duped into getting for "free" only a week earlier - "Had her babies!"

A few years ago, she was the first to alert us to what would be a weeks long restoration nightmare when she told us the kitchen hardwood floor had turned into a swimming pool overnight thanks to a clog in the kitchen drain.

This morning I realized D1 was up when I heard tearful, soulful moaning about her, "poor dog." Thinking that something awful must have happened to Cookie, I was terrified to hear the news. Choking in between sobs, she presented me with her latest toy that DH purchased for her at a gas station yesterday afternoon.

It used to be small dog in a dog bed. I thought its long hair made it look like a creepy mouse, but to each his own.

Apparently I was not the only one that found the gas station toy repulsive. Sometime in the night our real dog Cookie escaped from the mudroom and tracked down the creepy, mouse-dog, beloved treasure. Using her superior canine sense of smell - that is if you can count obstinate, prissy Shih Tzu's as part of the canine phylum - she embarked on a skillful game of search and destroy.

Cookie was victorious. The creepy mouse-dog never had a chance.

Inventions Take Time

2007-09-20T20:01:00.000-06:00

The other day D2 had an earring hanging from a safety pin attached to her top.

"What is that?" I asked.

I must have had a very quizzical look on my face, because without directly answering the question, she looked down at the jewelry and simply explained, "I'm still working on some of my inventions."

I'm working on some "inventions" of my own which is crowding out my blogging time. But I'll try to continue to post and read your blogs as much as I can.

Skirting the Issue

2007-09-11T11:37:00.000-06:00

Armed with a gift certificate from my friend Mindy, I hit the Ann Taylor Summer Sale. I brought this darling stretch twill skirt, but since I am not 5' 10" and 102 pounds it looks slightly different on me.

Nonetheless, I like it. So I wore it to church Sunday.

That evening we went to dinner at my parents' house. Shortly after arriving, my fashion oblivious father donned in a checkered western- cut shirt from Shephlers which was unbutton at the neck one too many buttons, commented, "Did you get a new skirt?"

"Er, yeah. I can't believe you noticed."

"Well of course I'd notice! You haven't worn anything that stylish in years."

Was that a compliment? Either way it is certain his head injury from 2004 is much more serious than we originally thought.

Meanest Mom Ever

2007-09-08T00:10:00.000-06:00

Proof that I am the meanest mom in the whole wide world:

Friday 9:33 PM
The home phone rings. DH pauses the DVD for the one hundred fifty-seventh time. I answer the phone noting that the caller id indicates it is the neighbor's house where D2 is having a "late night."
Me: Hello?
D2: Can I stay here until 11?
(Remember she is only 8 years-old!?)
Me: No. We said ten. Remember?
D2: But I want to stay until 11.
Me: Sorry, no. Be home by 10.

D2: 10:30?

Me: How about 9:30?
D2: You ruin everything.
Me: Yes. That's what moms do.

Friday 10:05 PM
I call D1 on the "kids' cell." (Our children have to share a cell phone - they don't each get their own - that is how cruel we are.) We are quickly approaching the birthday party house where she has been for the past three hours.
Me: Hi, sweetie, gather your stuff we are almost there.
D1: But mom I was going to call you when I was ready.
Me: The party ended at ten, so we are coming to get you.
D1: But everyone is still here.
Me: And you won't be - in just a few minutes. Now get ready we're around the corner.

Friday 10:18 PM
D1 is playing a horrible recording of SOS by the Jonas Brothers on the "kids' cell" as we make our way back home from the party. I ask DH to turn on some real music. We listen to ~~John Cougar Mellancamp~~, ~~John Cougar~~, ~~Mr. Mellancamp~~, ~~Mr. Cougar~~, ~~John Mellencamp~~, The King of Small Town Rock-n-Roll's Pink Houses at a volume level sufficient to drown out the Jonas Brothers, loud sirens, and my own thoughts until we reach our driveway.

And somehow I am optimistic enough to think my kids will grow up, leave home, and still call me every Mother's Day until at least the year 2049.

Love Is...Climbing a Ladder 20 Feet and 3 Inches High

2007-09-07T13:46:00.000-06:00

Do you know how much DH loves me?

He loves me this much:

Why I Can't Buy Oreos

2007-09-06T19:35:00.000-06:00

I bought a package of Oreos yesterday. Such a vacuum of nutrition is a rare treat for our family. They were supposed to be for S1's and D1's sack lunches. (S2 and D2 eat school lunch which is delivered from various local restaurants and the menu sounds so good I wish I could dine in their cafeteria.)

Yesterday after everyone left for school (except D3, of course) at approximately 8:43 AM I purchased the package containing 36 chocolate sandwich cookies. It was not opened until sometime yesterday afternoon when the ~~wolves~~ children came home from school. Today at 4:18 it was completely empty. That is only part of the problem.

The real problem is the ~~fighting~~ discussion that ensued:

S1: Who ate all the Oreos?

D1, S2, and D2 (in perfect unison): Not me!

D1: I only had four. (And then belatedly...) Not counting the three in my lunch today.

S1 (shouting overly defensively): I had none until this afternoon. I didn't even know we had them until today! How come no one told me?

D2: But how many did you eat S2?

S2: How many did you eat? You probably ate them all.

D2: Nuh uh.

S2: You and your friends - I bet you ate a ton.

D2: We did not. We did not eat hardly any. Probably only sixteen.

S1, D1 and S2 (simultaneously): Sixteen!!!

D2: Um, not really. I mean like six or three. Hardly any.

More of A Rule Breaker Than a Rule Maker

2007-09-05T16:15:00.000-06:00

Free Willy was not necessarily a grand achievement in movie making. But it was probably watched by S1 as a toddler more than any other blockbuster. A classic line from that motion picture goes, "I am more of a rule breaker than a rule maker."

Those eleven words may easily be etched on DH's headstone.

It is very uncomfortable to sit by him on an airplane, for example. Inevitably he does not have his seat belt buckled before take off and will be found conducting business on his cell phone long after the instruction to turn off any portable electronic devices has been given. The repeated personal visits from the irritated flight attendants used to be embarrassing. I try to smile sweetly at their looks of, "Can't you control him any better than this?" It is all in an effort to try to convince them that I have never met this man before in my life.

More than once DH has gotten up to use the bathroom just minutes after the plane has "hit a little turbulence" and the Fasten Your Seat Belt light has been newly illuminated. I firmly believe it is not pressure on his bladder, but rather a reaction to being told what not to do that jumps him out of his seat. Of course, he is quickly escorted back to his seat by a frowning flight attendant, who wants to give me that look. Again. But I roll slowly over toward her to reveal quickly shut eyelids hoping she'll believe I fell asleep while reading a book and had no idea of his gallivanting about the airplane and rule breaking ways.

Naturally I am an avid rule follower as well as a rule maker. So I make the rules and DH breaks them. It is the perfect example of a match made in heaven.

I Don't Mean to Brag, But You Should Know That I Got a 14,000 On The SOS

2007-09-04T08:58:00.000-06:00

Since school has begun I am once again playing the role of dumb mother. I am not really dense, but I am constantly shocked at how impaired my kids think I am. I don't think I have ever done anything to make them question my intelligence. There was one time back in 2002 that I washed a wool sweater and it shrunk to the size to fit a cabbage patch doll. And of course the incident where I put the mostly empty shampoo bottle in the dishwasher in an effort to clean it for recycling. It was difficult to hide bubbles bursting from the appliance as they uncontrollably spewed across the oak kitchen floor.

But those occurrences are very rare and are not exactly a sign of lack of wisdom. They are simple mistakes that people from all walks of life make every single day.

Nevertheless when D2 asks me to sit down and help her with 3rd grade math, inevitably she seriously questions my knowledge of the subject. And I suppose it was getting a little old. So I was completely in the right to react the way I did.

A few days ago she had to specify the season for the date of March 7, 1998. When she wrote "spring", I shook my head, "Are you sure about that?" "Yes, mom! That is what my teacher said." Which loosely translates into, no matter what you and your years of education and your bachelors degree at a terrific private school where you tested out of all basic math classes and enrolled directly into Engineering Calculus 112 think, I know and my teacher knows more than you.

But it is not like I was questioning the solution to a quadratic equation. So since two can play this power trip game I reminded D2 that back in 1986 I got 29 on the ACT and 1140 on the SAT. That I took those tests only once, one of which was taken the Saturday morning of my junior prom after staying up all night on Friday to decorate the school gymnasium. That I almost got a perfect score on the math section. And that it was entirely likely that her teacher did not do half so well on these exams, so even if D2's memory was absolute, I would still be right and her teacher would be wrong. So there. Then I stuck out my tongue for effect.

With this new information, D2 scratched her head, sunk her chin into her hand and finally scribbled "winter" after erasing "spring."

Having satisfactorily made my point, D2 did not give me any more guff as we completed the homework page. Meanwhile I sat sorrowing for betraying and insulting her teacher so early in the school year. In case you have never done so, boasting about your intelligence to an eight year-old while slamming the only adult she adores more than anyone outside the family makes you feel about as tall as bowling ball. And you really hope your eight-year old experiences some short term memory loss. And soon.

Mine, I found out, did not.

Last night we were playing Balderdash as a family. DH voted for one of my made up definitions. When it was revealed that "zinzulation" was not really a trickle shock felt when coming in contact with low voltage electricity, but actually Japanese insulation, DH exclaimed, "No way! How could anyone have come up with that!"

When I acknowledge that the fictional electrical definition was mine, D2 helped explain the mystery to DH. "You know she got a fourteen thousand on the SOS. Mommy's smart!"

Dinner Discord

2007-08-30T10:37:00.000-06:00

After reading b.'s post Hey!! What's Fer Dinner?? I was reminded of how well my goal to have family dinner is not going.

Since school started on August 20th it has been my aim to sit as a family for dinner on all school nights. This is a huge step for us.

Sadly, in the past I have been less than consistent with serving a family meal even once a week. I have struggled to prepare something that I, as a vegetarian, will like, and that my meat-loving family will also devour, without cooking two separate entrees. However, with those excuses behind me, I embarked on a new resolution.

The third night of this new tradition, DH, upon hearing me call everyone in for dinner, told D1, "We need to go in to support your mother's efforts." DH denies any tone of ridicule in the word "efforts", despite D1's claim otherwise.

However, apparently DH is becoming accustomed to my "efforts" and has increased his expectations.

On Tuesday night of this week, DH did not arrive home until well after 6 PM so we had dinner without him. Later that evening I mentioned to DH that if he was hungry, there was vegetable lasagna that I had made in the refrigerator. A couple hours later he opened the refrigerator door, spotted the lasagna packaging and promptly called me at the mall on my cell phone.

DH: You made vegetable lasagna?

Me (initially oblivious to his sarcastic tone): For dinner tonight. Yes. It's in the refrig---

DH: This lasagna is from Costco. If you microwave a frozen dinner, that is not making dinner.

Me (full of indignation): I did not microwave the lasagna. I cooked it. For an hour. In the oven.

DH (mocking in a loving way - if that is possible): I can't believe you think that is making dinner.

(Remember this is a man that ten days ago was getting virtually nothing for dinner, except perhaps a bowl of cold cereal he poured himself.)

Me (exasperated and wanting to get back to shopping): Next time I'll be more precise. I'll say, "I prepared vegetable lasagna."

DH (in a non believing tone): Uh, huh.

Me: Warm some up and try it - it's really good.

DH having confirmed the complete lack of meat in the dish, ended up having steak for dinner instead. Steaks were charitably delivered by a dear neighbor concerned about DH's minimal iron and red meat consumption.

Gamble With a 'G' As in Las Vegas and Poker

2007-08-29T12:43:00.000-06:00

Compulsive had me in jaw dropping awe as she described a less-than-typical phone conversation with a customer at her place of employment. I was quickly reminded of my own rather awkward phone conversation when I was employed at a large corporation.

Me (completing my request for an order from an outside vendor with whom I had not previously done business): Thank you, I'll be looking for the package to arrive tomorrow.

Older Lady Sales Rep for Vendor in Illinois: Yes, it will be there. Now what did you say your name was again?

Me: My name? My name is Debbie Gamble, but I need the packaged delivered to the attention of the VP of Operations.....

Vendor (interrupting): Gamble you say? With a 'G'?

Me: Yes, that's right.

Vendor: And you say you are in Orem, Utah.

Me: Yes, in Orem.

Vendor: You didn't go to BYU by chance did you?

Me: Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Are you a Cougar fan?

Vendor (ignoring my question entirely): So you are a Mormon?

Me (worried now that perhaps she does not do business with Mormons): Yes, I am a Mormon.

Vendor: Gamble. Hmmph. Well that is just a terrible name for a nice Mormon girl like you to have.

Perfect Plate Picture

2007-08-28T12:26:00.000-06:00

David is not the only one out there photographing license plates. This picture was taken on a trip to Bear Lake with friends this past month. Their daughter's nickname is Breezy, so when we spotted this plate in the parking lot of tourist hot spot Merlin's Drive In, with the car owner patiently waiting, I had to get a picture of Breezy and the BREE Z Idaho plate.

Please don't knock the composition too much. I took this with a baby in one hand while a drunk boater honked the horn on his ginormous diesel truck and cursed at me. Evidently, me taking up an extra four feet of the 38 feet available in the parking lot driveway was too much of an imposition. He is clearly not a scrapbooker. Either that or the sentimental importance of taking this once-in-a-lifetime picture before the last fleeting daylight was gone was beyond his scope of comprehension.

No worries, though! We got the picture.

What's In Your Pocket?

2007-08-27T11:00:00.000-06:00

In a lovely show of affection, I drove north on I-15 this morning amid Monday morning rush hour traffic to deliver my mother curbside at the Salt Lake International Airport. Armed with my AM talk radio helicopter-in-the-sky every-ten-minute traffic report I believed we would make it to our destination without incident. Which we did. But that is in no way a credit to the gridlock guru.

Repeatedly throughout the two hours I was on the road, I was told by the way-too-cheerful-for-a-Monday-morning chopper voice that traffic on 1-15 was flowing with "pockets of slowing from Orem to Ogden." If you are not familiar with Utah geography, that is about a 75 mile range of freeway that covers three different counties. My guess is that traffic description could be used to describe a 75 mile stretch of virtually any metropolitan freeway system on a sunny Monday morning.

I am so indignant about the vague traffic summary that I am seriously wondering if the "eye in the sky" is not actually some peach on a beach. In fact, I'm certain she is there. She's got the wide rimmed sunglasses and a big floppy hat. Most assuredly she is mid way though Eclipse (Twilight Book 3) as she pauses to cue the helicopter blade swooping sounds and present via cell phone her regular report i.e. "pockets of slowing from Orem to Ogden" repeatedly throughout the morning.

And somehow, even though she is certainly hundreds of miles away on a Caribbean holiday, she knew when I had turned around this morning, because as I was driving home, now heading south on I-15, her traffic report changed only slightly as she announced "pockets of slowing as you make your way from Ogden to Orem."

While there may indeed be pockets of slowing on the freeway this morning, I am predicting my traffic tell-all lady has only got pockets of sunscreen with a hint of sand.

Love Is...Bearing All Things

2007-08-24T08:31:00.000-06:00

If there is one thing I can't bear, it is typos. As a writer I try to produced well-edited manuscripts. However, David, Suldog, and Janna have kindly notified me of some of my glaring mistakes in the past. Which I appreciate immensely.

However, occasionally a misspelling can make your point even better than you thought you were making it originally. Don't believe me? Here is one example:

Once upon a time I taught a Sunday School Class on marriage and family relationships. I was given this assignment because my marriage and family are perfect and ideal in every way. Either that or my Bishop (clergyman) knew I needed extra study regarding this subject matter on a weekly basis. The reason I was teaching the class does not matter.

What does matter is that in this role I found myself writing on a chalkboard frequently. If you are a so-so speller on paper or a computer screen, so-so turns to terrible on a chalkboard. The moment I picked up the soft white stick, all spelling sense was immediately soaked into the dry writing utensil.

One week I had listed several Biblical commandments on the board and we discussed how these could relate to marriage. One such charge found in I Corinthians 13:7 is to, "Bear all things."

However I wrote it on the blackboard with the brain cell sucking chalk as "Bare all things." Either out of kindness or spite, no one in the room said a thing. Until the end of class when I assigned a specific precept to each couple to work on for the week.

When I got to the Golly's I asked him if he and his wife would accept the challenge to "Bear all things," as I pointed on the blackboard to "Bare all things."

Naturally he had a big grin on his face and promised they, "definitely would" try to do so. When the snickers turned to outright laughter, I eventually realized my error.

But in hindsight, if bearing all things in your marriage is becoming a taxing chore, try baring all things. I'm not marriage counselor, but once upon a time I was a Sunday School teacher, and I'm certain both biddings possess positive benefits for a marriage.

The Seventies Were Hot

2007-08-23T11:28:00.000-06:00

I don't mean to dwell on the unfortunate, but if I don't stop complaining about the lack of A/C in my Yukon, I might be forced to recall my real problems.

Pope Terry pointed out the irony in that what is supposed to be the coldest place on earth, The Yukon, is actually the hottest, my Yukon. That made me laugh. For about a millisecond.

My neighbor, RKCD, unlike OzLady's neighbor, rarely assists with any of my plant care or gardening chores. And he is really pathetic when it comes to car repair. However, he tries to be helpful, which is probably why he suggested the following, "If you are going to drive around all day without air conditioning, like in the seventies, perhaps some seventies tunes will help you along."

It is rather basic logic, not rocket science, but as I considered it further, I realized, "This is profound advice!"

So I immediately snagged DH's custom burned CD, hand titled with a black Sharpie: "70's Funk." I suppose I have yet to mention that DH is The Master of Music Mixes. You wish you had this CD, I know. Or at least if you had ever heard it, you'd wish you had it.

It is hard to be cranky when you are grooving to Boogie Shoes and Brick House. Sorry, Chewy and Dance With the Sun, no Sugar, Sugar by The Archies. But only because it is DH's mix, not mine.

So in response to my adorable neighbor's terrific advice, I'm playing it at full volume. Mainly because with all the wind rushing around the car cabin that is the only level at which the music can be heard.

Air conditioning will come and go. But KC and The Sunshine Band, The Commodores, and even The Archies will live on forever.

Til Death We Still Cannot Part

2007-08-22T10:11:00.000-06:00

The air conditioner in my beloved Yukon has expired. Completely. As in barely blowing hot air.

DH, the eternal optimist, said, "Well good thing it is the end of summer." I am not certain what the temperature is where he is standing, but I'm right next to him and today will be a high well into the nineties. In a black leather-seated Yukon that equals sticky, sweaty and gross.

The funeral for my beloved coolant system will be, well, I'm not sure. While I recognize the importance of laying to rest the deceased in a timely manner, there has been a complication.

Namely, a $1900 repair bill.

Yes, to properly replace my broken compressor, condenser, and other parts I do not recall the names for at this time, in addition to flushing the lines, which I assume is akin to the embalming process for mortals, it'll cost me nineteen Benjamins.

Since my checking account is about 18 and half Benjamins short, it'll have to wait.

I will continue to drive the Yukon with the deceased cooler under the hood. While the prolonged burial may cause friction in my marriage, let's hope the rotting parts in my car do not cause too much friction with local authorities.

I plan to send a death notice to the paper and when the memorial service is finally planned, you will all be invited. In lieu of flowers, please send condolences in the form of Benjamins.

Typecasting the Golf Widow

2007-08-20T19:37:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time I wrote a regular column for a golf publication. It was called The Golf Widow. The following is one of my articles:

Golf Widows…they are all the same. Though you may think so, it is most assuredly a false notion. Golf widows are a complex and ever-changing breed. Below, a few of the most widespread golf widow types are defined. See if you can pick yourself or someone you love from the list.

Don’t Leave Me's – This golf widow is the newbie. She is dating or engaged to a hunk of a guy and she is so darn attached that she can’t stand the idea of them being apart. She brings her sun chair with attached umbrella, her latest People magazine and sunscreen to the driving range. There she sets up camp where she will sit and watch him hit balls for untold hours. She is not embarrassed by her devotion and even claims to enjoy the time spent just inches above the dirt in the hot sun with sweaty golfers all around. It is pathetic, understandably. But she is out there, and deserves our pity.

You’re Going Where’s? – She’s young with a houseful of kids, and is completely overwhelmed. Somehow during the day she manages a home with four kids going seven directions. She drives them to their activities and helps them with their homework and science fair projects. She even sands and paints Cub Scout pinewood cars. But, she can only take so much! She can’t wait for her husband to come home in the evening and lend a hand. However, at 5:30 PM, he calls to say he won’t be home for two more hours; he’s going to golf the back nine before it gets dark. Too much backlash directed at the golfer and he’ll get wiser. Without knowing it, she’ll soon become one of the “No Ideas.”

No Idea’s – The problem with this golf widow is she really has no clue she even is one. Whether it be financial concerns, time constraints, or plain guilt, the husband of this golf widow does not want her to know how much time he actually spends on that “Green Hill Far Away.” She is ignorant about the fresh dirt on her husband’s golf cleats as they are securely stored in the trunk of his car. She does not become wiser, until one day when she notices a nasty sunburn across his neck. She wonders out loud how he obtained such a scorcher at the office all day. Without a pause, he mutters to himself, “Dang, I’ve got to remember my sunscreen.” Finally, catching on, she understands it is not the risk of skin cancer as much as being caught golfing that upsets him the most.

If a Golfing You Will Go…Then A Shopping I Will Go’s – This is the golf widow that is most at peace with her situation. She enjoys the perfect freedom of no young children and a newly raised limit on her Nordstrom credit card. The only problem here is, unless there is an endless trust fund and the children are grown, such a combination of childless shopping with a perpetual zero-balance Nordstrom card, can only be temporary for this type of golf widow.

I’m Comin’ Too’s – This is the golf widow that has mastered the phrase, “If you can’t beat ‘em: join ‘em.” This lady is as addicted to golf as her husband. She has spent hours on the course perfecting her game. She plays in country club tournaments, is wanted in everyone’s foursome, and owns an awesome set of clubs. Even her golf wardrobe outshines them all. And if he is golfing, well then, so is she. Several days a week she may even beat him to the course. Best-of-all…her handicap is lower than his!

Get Outta Here’s – This dear, woman is often a retired empty nester. She is more than pleased to see her husband leave for a few hours, and can often be found pushing him out the door into his golf cart in the garage. She desperately needs a break from his aimless wandering around the house and not-so-helpful hints with her cooking. Besides, if he tries to fiddle with that garbage disposal one more time, it will break for sure.

Golf widows are a complicated species and tend to evolve from one version to another as their lives transform. One thing is for certain, they all share the common trait of a special guy that is missing in action for several hours every week. Luckily he is not drinking, smoking, gambling, or, heaven forbid, carousing with other women.

His harmless mistress is the rolling green, the little white ball, and a shiny set of clubs. And for this reason, we let him get away with it.

Dead Headed

2007-08-18T14:09:00.000-06:00

A Mother's Day gift is a precious and priceless show of love, adoration and affection.

Whether or not a mother is able to keep such treasure alive is no indication of her true feelings for D2 her child.

Interview

2007-08-16T13:35:00.000-06:00

Recently, I had the opportunity to interview ozlady. The discussion was enlightening as she confessed to performing mime in Paris, and explains why you should never take a pack of Bubblicious with you to Singapore.

This whole interview thing started with the beautiful and talented Carol, so it is probably only right that we've come full circle. Carol and I started this particular interview, oh, about two months ago. Due to circumstances beyond our control, it is only now ready for publication.

Hello Deborah, it's lovely to see you here in the tortu, er interview seat. What? Oh, don't worry about that, it's only a little lie-detector box, it'll just take a minute to hook you up. There now, see? Okay, I believe we're ready to roll. So, lets open with a gentle one to begin.

We are all aware of what a talented writer you are, and you never seem to lose inspiration when it comes to posting fresh, funny and interesting anecdotes. What first tuned you in to blogging, have you always written, and with such a busy home life, where do you find the time and energy for it? Is your family supportive, do they ever read your posts, and have you any future ambitions to publish outside of the blogasphere?

Your compliments are too kind. I had considered blogging for couple years, and one day, without even giving it much thought, I opened a blogspot account, put up my first post, and voila! A blog was born.

Writing is something that has been mine to do by default. When I was working, I was always the one assigned to write the letters, the scopes of work, and other business documents. I have been the resume doctor for friends, family, neighbors and vague acquaintances for years. I'm not sure what they like more, my work or my fees (or lack thereof). I created and wrote a magazine Golf Widow column for a time as well.

I derive my energy from eating a healthy meat-free diet. Alright, just kidding. In truth I have no energy and often blog while nearly falling asleep.

My family is supportive of my blogging as long as it does not interfere with making meals, driving them places, washing their clothing, cleaning the house, or visiting with them (him) when they (he) come(s) home from work.

My family used to read my blog.

- S1 quit reading after the cell phone post which he still maintains is entirely fiction.

- My brother refuses to read my blog again until I post a "full retraction and apology" for the Spanish Fork post.

- My mom is too busy going to the gym for water aerobics to read my blog anymore.

- My dad only reads my blog if I sit at his computer and read it to him.

- DH's birth mother reads my blog. But as for DH himself, he reads only when he becomes an outsider to conversations at dinner with our friends, because every comment is an inside joke, funny only to my blog readers.

Happily all my sisters, their neighbors, friends, boyfriends and Sunday School classes are die hard readers of my blog. Sisters are the best!

My future ambitions outside blogasphere are to become a famous syndicated columnist, of course! Or one of the judges on American Idol. I'd happily take either job offer.

Moving on to my second question, I note you are a vegetarian, have you always been one, if not, what moved you to become one? Is your family also vegetarian? Do you also eat fish and dairy (my siblings are vegan, I know how much dedication that takes).

Actually, by my calculation, this is your seventh question, ah, but who's counting? I have not always been a vegetarian. I became a vegetarian about eight years ago. I never really liked meat, and after doing some research I became convinced of the health benefits so I abandoned meat and poultry all at once. My family is a chicken nugget and steak chomping crew. But I have high hopes for D3 to be a vegetarian with me. I do occasionally eat fish. Eight years ago I was a strict vegan for about a year, but I found that lifestyle to very difficult to maintain. So I slowly added some animal products back into my diet.

Stepping aside from the home front for a minute, can you expand on both your political and spiritual beliefs, have they always been the same, if not, what happened to make you change them?

Politically, I am a conservative, registered Republican, but I don't always vote straight for one party. I am more anti-gun (or at least favor stricter gun control) and pro-environment than the typical Republican is thought to be.

Spiritually, I believe in God and Jesus Christ. And I am trying to live my life such that I may worthy of living in their presence some day. These beliefs have not changed much throughout my life.

If you had unlimited wealth, and assuming you have already generously given to every good cause and charity you support, what would you choose to do with the rest of your life?

If I possessed unlimited wealth, I would probably divide my time between working in orphanages in Romania and shopping. This plan epitomizes the dichotomy in my life. Much like the conservative, non gun-owning, vegetarian Republican that I am. But I am a Gemini so maybe such opposites are my fate.

Finally, if you could go back in time and change one decision you made in your life, what would it be, and why?

If I had it to do over, I would have changed my college major. Well actually, I did change my college major, a few times. But I think I would have been better off majoring in something other than International Relations. Something like English, Computer Science, or even Organizational Behavior would have been far more applicable and useful later in my life.

Carol, thank you for taking time out of your busy blog and novel writing life to produce this interview. You are the best!

Holy Guacamole!

2007-08-15T09:20:00.000-06:00

10:15 A.M. - I begin loading the dishwasher as D3, who is freshly changed and dressed for the day, is in her high chair finishing breakfast.

10:21 A.M. - "Mom," D2 interjects, "Where did D3 get guacomole?"

I glance over at D3 who has wiggled out of her belt fastener and is standing in her high chair with a greenish, creamy, slighly clumpy, glob on her hand.

Let me just say that while the resemblance was uncanny, it was not guacamole. And I have no plans for eating Mexican for lunch.

10:22 A.M. - I begin a major diaper overhaul on D3.

10:45 A.M. - The "guacamole" outfit is rinsed and placed in the washing machine.

11:05 A.M. - The "guacamole" baby is given a bath and redressed for the day.

11:45 A.M. - We were right back where we started.

Only now it was time to consider what was for lunch. And the dishwasher was still not loaded. And this is why I get nothing noticeably accomplished in a day.

Kate Comes to Us From The Date

2007-08-14T12:36:00.000-06:00

Kate AKA Jessica Biel

Many of you have been asking for an update on my sister Kim and The Date. I am sorry to report that as far as these things go, this one appears to be moving about as fast as a hundred year old tortoise. Hence, there is not much of anything to say.

Of course, it is important to recognize that Grettir and Kim had only one brief blind date just hours before she flew 1893 miles away, so what can we expect? She barely had time to recover from the shock that Grettir was an intelligent, personable, hunky human. And then she vanished. Like the money in my checking account.

But thankfully, the entire experience was not in vain. As a result of this little afternoon tryst, I have a new BFF: Kate. Kate may not be aware that she and I are BFFs, but after reading this, she'll be officially clued in. I "met" Kate as she is the loquacious friend of Grettir. And if you read the Comments of this blog, then you to know a little bit about Kate. Probably more than you want to know. And that is what makes Kate so endearing.

As far as I can tell she and I are two peas in a pod. She loves pink and purple and fuchsia. I am a red, black, white, dark brown and sometimes grey or green fan. So see, we both have favorite colors. She has a family of kitten children and I have a brood of human children. And the similarities do not stop there! Of course, I am not aware of any more similarities at this time, but I'm sure as we become even better BFFs we'll figure them out.

So while Grettir is rethinking Chili's versus a pancake establishment for his one and only date with Kim, I can rest in peace knowing at least someone got something out of the whole experience.

A Cold Shoulder Welcome

2007-08-06T16:57:00.000-06:00

I am pleased to introduce you to Trevor, my six-year old nephew from Phoenix, Arizona. This was our exchange yesterday as he climbed into my car at the Salt Lake International Airport.

Trevor: Boy is it good to be here!

Me: Really? Why's that?

Trevor: Because at my house it is cookin'.

I glanced at the car thermometer to confirm that it was a brisk 101 degrees Fahrenheit.

What Does Google Ad Sense See In My Legs?

2007-08-06T16:51:00.000-06:00

Should I be offended or frightened that on the day I post some pictures of myself this is the Google Ad Sense ad?

Utah Vein Doctor
Utah Vein Center Can Eliminate Varicose Veins Quickly and Safely
http://www.utahveincenter.com/

What makes Google Ad Sense think such an ad is "relevant to (my) audience" or my "site content"?

Travel to NYC in A.R.?

2007-08-05T20:27:00.001-06:00

August, 1 B.R. - Taking the Jet Blue red eye to NYC.

I woke DH up so I could take this picture of us. Isn't he a sport?

May, 3 B.R. - DH and me in Central Park.

May, 3 B.R. - The Lady and me.

August, 2 B.R. - DH can't take his eyes off of me long enough for a picture of us at our favorite Italian restaurant in New York City.

I have told our friends that as DH and I look back on our life together it is timed much like the world is timed. The world's time is based on the pivotal event of Jesus Christ. Hence, B.C. = Before Christ and A.D. = Anno Domini, or since Christ was born.

In the world of Debbie and DH the pivotal time in our lives was not the birth of a child or graduation from college. Our pivotal time is entering the restaurant business. Hence our time is denoted as B.R. and A.R. Which is to say B.R. = Before Restaurants and A.R. = After Restaurants.

For example, we were married 15 B.R., or 15 years before entering the restaurant business. We traveled to NYC for the first time together in 4 B.R. We returned in 3 B.R., twice in 2 B.R. and finally again in 1 B.R. It is now 2 A.R. and we haven't been back to The Greatest City in the World. For those of you not historians or math majors that equals three years.

For the most part, I try not to think about my sad travel budget that currently prohibits such excursions. But just when I'm over it, someone has to brag about their upcoming trip to The Greatest City in the World.

Then I am once again reminded that I will not cross the Brooklyn Bridge to enjoy a romantic dinner with DH where I would dine on Tuna with Tomatoes, Scallions and Capers here. Nor will I indulge in a Chocolate Croissant here. I won't be able to try to make up for the fattening breakfast by eating my favorite salad here. While the tourists fight the crowd at Carmine's, I won't spend an evening happily dining at the best Italian restaurant in Manhattan instead.

And it is just not all about the food.

DH won't be able to make me go here. Again. And we won't literally, and I truly mean literally, as in all text messaging overused lingo aside, be rolling on the floor laughing at Lucille Ball. Where she would be boxing in her kitchen during a hilarious old television show that we will not be personally choosing for our viewing...pleasure is so understated...at this little known secret place.

There will be no window shopping for me here or for DH at any jeweler savvy enough to carry these. I'll miss a ride on this, which we always take. Not because we necessarily want to see her again, although its nice. Nor is it because we really want to go here. Mostly we do it because it is free.

Since I won't be buying an airline ticket, I guess I'll go do some more laundry and try to sound sincere when I wish her a safe trip as she travels to The Greatest City in the World in August, 2 A.R.

My Wife Kind of Panicked?

2007-08-04T22:17:00.000-06:00

Jason Platt of Lehi, Utah went hiking last Thursday. When it was 10 PM and he was not home yet, his concerned wife called search and rescue. Despite helicopters flying overhead and searchers screaming his name, he was not found. Until he walked out of the canyon himself the next morning.

"I got caught in a storm and took a sleeping pill, spent the night up there and then came back this morning." Platt explained. The sleeping pill, he happened to have in his day pack, made the whole helicopter-overhead-and-screaming-his-name search an obviously fruitless activity.

"My wife kind of panicked," he added, "And called search and rescue."

It was 10 PM. Her husband was untold hours late from an afternoon hike. He was not answering his cell phone. It was pitch dark and had been very stormy. What sort of loving, caring wife calls search and rescue for that? She is clearly a real jump-the-gun kind of worry wart.

Like when a pipe in the basement bursts and the water is knee-high. I bet his wife kind of panics and calls a plumber.

Or when the dog is hit by a car and is limping and bleeding all over. Most certainly she kind of panics and calls the veterinarian.

When she has a searing tooth ache for a week, do you think she kind of panics and calls the dentist? I bet she does.

Of course, she could have presumed him face down and dead on some mountain side, planned his funeral, and went out and bought a new car with his life insurance pay out.

I Am an Overeager Wishful Thinking Goofball

2007-08-03T12:56:00.001-06:00

Setting: Friday, August 3, 2007 12:15 PM in my laundry room in Orem, UT. I am still unshowered for the day. With a baby in one arm, I am trying to fold the tenth load of laundry for the week when my cell phone rings sharply.

Me (answering the ringing phone): Hello.

Kim: Hi, its me.

Me (smiling thoughtfully): Hey, How are you?

Kim (hurriedly with words running together): Great can you do me a favor? The Internet is down at my work which is a real pain, because I have personal things that need to be done.

Me (walking down the hall to my desk): Okay...

Kim: I need you to buy a plane ticket for me.

Me (thinking there is nothing more in this world that I want than for Kim to move her three children and all her personal belongings to the land of Utah and marry a nice man): Ooooh? Where are you going?

Kim (sarcastically): I'm coming to Utah to see that guy.

Me (giddy with delight and confusion): No way! Really? Are you kidding me? You are kidding me. Oh my gosh are you serious? You aren't serious.

Kim (interrupting with a shot of realism): Of course I'm not serious. I need to buy a plane ticket for _____ -.

In this blank one should place the first real name of Grettir, which I am unable to do because that name is a secret. So lets pretend it is Don.

So now that you are up to speed let's rewind....

Kim (interrupting with a shot of realism): Of course I'm not serious. I need to buy a plane ticket for Don---

S2 (simultaneously speaking in my other ear - the one not super glued to the cell phone): Mom, what's for lunch?

Me (ignoring my hungry child altogether and interrupting a little too soon): Don!? What the heck? Are you kidding me? What is going on? On my gosh! You're not serious.

Kim (slowly and clearly): Debbie. I don't need a ticket for Don. I need one for Don-na. Donna my niece. She's coming to watch my kids next week.

Me (weakly): Oh... (moment of awkward silence) You know S2 was talking and so you cut out. So all I heard was...

Kim (not really caring to hear the story): Uh huh.

Me: That is kinda funny - their names and all, huh?

Kim (annoyed): Sure.

(More silence.)

Me (getting down to business, placing the baby on the floor and double clicking Internet Explorer icon on the computer): Will Donna - emphasis on the feminine. The uh. Will she be flying Delta, or some other airline?

They Laughed, They Cried, They Spilled Their Guts

2007-07-31T10:44:00.000-06:00

Recently, I've had the opportunity to interview three fellow bloggers. The interviews were penetrating and personal. All I can say is, Barbara Walters look out.

If you did not follow the links in the Comments you may have missed them. So be certain to read:

1. Why Bart can set up the sound system at your next wedding, as well as perform the ceremony?

2. How Dan saved a friend's life, and why he seems to be saving face in his mysterious picture.

3. And finally, Pope Terry, whom we thought was the most obscure blogger on the Internet, tells all from his exact birthdate to his real profession. Heavens! Is that enough information to steal his identity?

If you too would like to be interviewed, it is not too late. Drop me a note here!

This is Me Being Humble

2007-07-30T10:12:00.000-06:00

I am always right. Not sometimes right or even usually right. Always right. The sooner DH comes to accept this, the happier we'll both be.

I am so painful accurate in fact, that my personal slogan is, "You can agree with me or you can be wrong." I am never wrong.

Until a few days ago...

I mistakenly divulged that my sister Kim had kissed a blind date, on the first date, in the parking lot of a restaurant, after lunch. When she disagreed, I solicited back up from my sisters, most of whom agreed with me. But we recognized Kim had a reputation to uphold so she was probably denying the occurrence, though she knew for certain that it had happened.

And I feel for her. After all, the most recent blind date might be shocked and appalled at her promiscuity. Or jealous, wondering where he went wrong that he did not receive a likewise tender show of affection.

Then I spoke with another sister and slowly came to grips with the fact that I could have been mistaken.

The fellow was initially a blind date. And it was a kiss initiated by her. In a restaurant parking lot. But it might not have been a first date at a Mexican restaurant, but perhaps a second date at a pancake establishment? Or something similar.

I hate it when I wrong. I really do. But since I was somewhat incorrect in the details, I am sorry.
Kim, are we still friends?

A Blessed Birth

2007-07-29T22:05:00.000-06:00

Less than two weeks ago, my sister Christine visited her obstetrician's office early in the morning for a 39-week prenatal check up. After the examination, the doctor, concerned with signs of imminent labor, combined with a history of quick labors, suggested an induction for Christine later that day. This would help assure a birth in the hospital instead of home, or somewhere along the way to the hospital.

With the invitation accepted, Christine went home with hopeful preparations to not spend another uncomfortable night pregnant. Apparently her body was thinking much the same as the doctor, but a little ahead of schedule. Within a couple hours Christine's contractions were so regular and strong she and her husband Stephen went to the hospital.

After some monitoring the contractions had seemed to slow down and Christine was about to be sent home. However, when the nurses noticed that she was due back into the hospital for an induction in only an hour and half, they gave her the option to stay, which she accepted.

By early evening her labor was intense again. After the third hard contraction, the baby's heartbeat stopped. With alarms loudly buzzing, nurses scrambled to move Christine in another position in hopes of recovering the weak to nonexistent heartbeat.

When those efforts failed, suddenly a flurry of medical personnel entered the room. Frantically unplugging cords, the doctor ordered them to the operating room for an emergency C-section. With no time for a hand squeeze or a kiss on the forehead, Christine looked up at Stephen. Then with tears forming in her green eyes, she was whisked away.

"Faster! Faster!" the doctor shouted as they raced her bed down the hall. Once in the operating room, Christine calmly obeyed the anesthesiologist's directions. "One," he counted, "Deep breath." Her stomach was scrubbed with a large swab soaked in iodine. "Two. Deep breath." She could feel cutting, but strangely no pain. "Three...Deep...."

A couple hours later Christine awoke in her room to learn that within one minute of entering the operating room, 7 pound 5 ounce Lincoln was born. After careful observation he was brought to her and Stephen. Healthy and perfect in every way.

From a discussion with the doctor they realized that Lincoln's umbilical cord had been wrapped around his body and then again around his arm. The contractions had restricted his blood flow and oxygen. In addition, the umbilical cord was unusually short. According to the physician, Lincoln surely would have never survived a normal vaginal birth. A labor that began at home rather than in the hospital would have been a frightening unknown.

We don't drive expensive cars or enjoy vacation homes in the mountains. But we are rich in blessings. Death's early grasp has not always stayed its hand from our precious family members. But this month, we were fortunate. And for that we are forever grateful.

Like the Warbling of Birds on the Heather

2007-07-28T14:30:00.000-06:00

Ours is a home of love and kindness. Where we oft speak kind words to each other.

Which is why I was so surprised to see the following message glued to D2's bedroom door.

Upon asking her what it says, she replied, as if it were obvious, "Don't come in."

I did not think she was eager for Dot, whoever that may be, to enter her private sancuary. However, I am eager to get her some additional spelling lessons.

For Clarification or More Confusion

2007-07-27T14:55:00.000-06:00

If you have not had the opportunity, please visit Grettir's blog for Part One of his side of The Date story.

But for clarity's sake, since some of you may already be a bit confused, I am Debbie, Kim's sister. Not to be confused with Debbie (aka DW), Kim's sister-in-law that coerces (tricks?) Grettir into going on a blind date.

Although I do know of Grettir. And although I did date that Debbie's (Kim's sister-in-law's) husband Pat (Kim's brother-in-law) once. Before he married that Debbie, and before I married DH, of course.

So in another world, that Debbie might have been me Debbie. But it’s not.

That's me with DH in the picture above. ~~No pics of the other Debbie right off. But you'll know who she is because she is the one not pictured here.~~

Just when one is trying to fall asleep for the night, while wondering how to get a picture for the blog, suddenly a light comes on and she remembers she has the perfect picture in her computer already. How did I not remember I had this picture of my sister's sister-in-law Debbie and her husband Pat?

Are you getting all this? There will be a test later.

Lentil Lover?

2007-07-26T19:47:00.000-06:00

Yesterday DH worked late so I made a vegetarian dish of lentils with carrots, tomatoes, and onions for dinner. To my surprise, later that evening, defiant meat eating DH came in the bedroom and commented on the leftover lentils he had found in the refrigerator. "They were great!" he remarked.

"Sweetie, please lie down. Here, take this cool cloth and place it on your forehead. Do you need an Ibuprofen? Dear, are you sure you are feeling all right?"

The Date

2007-07-26T08:49:00.001-06:00

USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. COPIED BLATANTLY AND MOST LIKELY ILLEGALLY FROM WWW.TINYPINEAPPLE.COM

Many of you have long since given up on seeing another post on this blog any time soon. You call me up and complain about how tired you are of visiting http colon backslash backslash uncommonnotions dot blogspot dot com. Day after day. And to your dismay there has been nothing to reveal but the same boring post that has been there for some unbearable length of time. One without a picture even. To you, should you have the heart to try one more time and then read this, may I suggest a Bloglines account.

To those of you who were alerted to this new post via the amazing invention of web-based news aggregators for browsing weblogs and other news feeds, or by dumb luck, welcome. Plop down in your comfy chair adjacent to the fireplace, grab a cup of cocoa and your favorite cat. Spread that afghan over your legs, and curl up to a romance novel. Not one about a nurse per se, but a romance novel nonetheless. Hold that thought, no need to throw an extra log on the fire just yet. This romantic tale is very short. For now, anyway. Let me start at the beginning.

Once upon a time in a land called Orem, I worked at a company called...(I can use first person here, because I am not in the love story. This is only the Forward. Sorry, did I lead you astray? Let me clarify, the romantic lead in this little number is my baby sister. Ah, yes, DH exhales slowly in a sigh a relief.)

Anyway, no matter to the name of the company, what is mildly important to the story is that at this company there was a fellow employee named Grettir. Of course, that was not the name by which I had come to know him, but it is his Internet veil of secrecy name. So for his future career and his innocent family's sake I will comply. Now Grettir seemed to be a fine employee. One that did his work well and never stole office supplies.

What...Uh, huh...Oh, sorry. According to my sister this is supposed to be her side of the story, yet it is sounding a great deal like my side of the story. Silly me. It being my blog and all, apparently I was a little presumptuous.

Now why this tale cannot take place on eHarmony, or LDSSingles I have no idea at all. But for whatever reason it is being played out here. In blogland.

So now we'll begin at my sister's beginning. We'll call her Kim, as that is her name and she is not well enough versed in 14th century Icelandic literature to have a better nickname. Kim from New York state was visiting her favorite sister in the whole wide world. She was having a lovely time in Utah, shopping at IKEA, hiking above Sundance, and eating for free at Bajio Mexican Grill as much as possible.

Then Kim's sister-in-law (Yes, Kim has been married, but her husband died 2 1/2 years ago. Since this is a love story and not a tragedy we'll tell that drama another time.) So anyway, Kim has a sister-in-law DW (we call her that for somewhat obvious reasons, none of which have anything to do with the PBS children's show Arthur). DW thought Kim should be set up on a blind date. Kim's favorite sister in the whole wide world agreed with Kim that this was probably an inefficient way to spend her few short days in Utah. After all, there were still Nertz games to play.

Nevertheless DW can be very persuasive. With a specific person in mind for Kim's vacation blind date, she petitioned that there was this poor soul of a divorced man who had not been on a date since before iPods were invented. Kim, having a tender heart replied, "Then why would I want to go on a date with him?"

Raving about the potential blind date's sense of humor, DW tried to convince Kim that such a set up would not be too painful. Wisely still hesitant, Kim inquired as to the potential blind date's appearance. Because Kim is young and beautiful, she has a right to have certain standards as to outward beauty in addition to standards for a sense of humor.

DW gave what was definitely a wrong answer. She explained that she is the "worst person to ask" regarding whether or not someone is, shall we say, cute. DW said she gets to know a person and they are so wonderful, yada yada yada, she doesn't even know if they (that is the potential blind date specifically) is good-looking or not.

With this bright, glaring red flag, Kim was understandably more than hesitant to commit to a date. Then DW played the pity card. Poor broken-hearted potential blind date man. Simply needs a little outing. One short date to get him back in the saddle again.

"Make it an afternoon lunch," was Kim's final and only offer.

Kim's favorite sister in the whole wide world remarked that Kim had better things to do with her time than spend her precious few remaining hours in Utah with what was probably an old, white haired, half bald and obviously most uncomely man. Those were her words exactly. But Kim is always one to help the poor, sick and ugly. So she kept the commitment.

In hindsight the sob story portrayed by DW was very convincing and has most likely worked for this poor man in obtaining numerous "first-in-a-long-time" dates. It's sheer genius really.

Sporting a darling black shirt and white Bermuda shorts, Kim drove to the specified restaurant at the specified time. When what to her wondering eyes appeared "tall, dark and handsome" Grettir.

This is where I, the favorite sister in the whole wide world, get a little vague. Mostly because the details have yet to be divulged. But I am sure Kim will fill us in on all of them in the Comments section where she is very good at taking over my blog posts.

What is known is that Kim ordered Southwestern Egg Rolls and something else. That she gabbed for nearly two hours about things in hindsight she realizes should never be divulged on first dates. If at all. To Kim's credit, she did not kiss the man good-bye in the parking lot, like she has been known to do on other blind lunchtime first dates.

Finally, after paying the bill, Grettir had to drag himself away, back to his place of employment, where he was most likely questioned as to why at the late hour of 3:30 PM he was returning from lunch. Though certainly he made up some excuse like having to stop by the office of the Executive Vice President of International Global Operational Marketing Accounting and securing an insecure website router Internet connection breakage, or something.

When Kim finally returned to her favorite sister in the whole wide world at 3:30 PM, there was no time to play Nertz. Only time to discuss the surprising fact that her favorite sister in the whole wide world used to know Grettir, and that Grettir was not white-haired, balding and ugly.
Then it was to the computer where Kim made a quick stop to Grettir's LDSSingles profile. On this website, it is important to note that Kim is slyly masquerading as a bald, overweight pizza delivery person.

There was also a little time to visit Grettir's blog. The link to which should be included here, but the author of this tale, fears loss of readership. For when you see a blog more well-written than my own, you may never return. Okay here is is. Okay, okay, here.

Kim visited and commented on the well-written blog. Which comment elicited other comments. Very soon there was more chatter than appears typical for the well written blog. Are Kate, Pam, Chris, or even Chronicler potential or previous dates of Grettir? Maybe some of them are not even single or female. Kim does not know and doesn't seem to care, unlike her favorite sister in the whole wide world, who is concerned that Kim provide Grettir with some privacy.

Not at all bothered by what others may think, Kim has challenged Grettir to post a summary of the date on his blog. Which she is certain at some point in the near future Grettir will do. In the meantime, Grettir is milking the situation, enjoying the increased traffic to his blog as Kim and soon all of you will be repeatedly checking in. Searching for some sort of reply.

Kim, committed (threatened?) to post her own version of the date. Not on her blog mind you. For why would she need a blog when she has the blog of her favorite sister in the whole wide world. So that is why you are reading this here.

The End.

The Interview

2007-07-18T19:14:00.000-06:00

Hello, all! I'm back. Or at least trying to be. In an effort to get me back in the swing of things, Chewy was kind enough to interview me. Our conversation went as follows:

Lunch hour ran a little long as I wrote this. Your blog is often about your loving family. Your writing is witty and uplifting. Here are five questions I propose to you. - Chewy

1. Why did you start blogging? What were your expectations? Are your expectations being fulfilled?

My life seems difficult right now. I started blogging to help me realize the joy I experience in life and to take my mind off my perceived troubles. Blogging has helped me do both, but has taken on a entire life of its own that I never expected.

2. I guess one doesn't need to cook to own a restaurant. (ha-ha) How did you get into the fast-casual Mexican restaurant business? What dish is most favored by your speedy-easygoing customers?

Neither DH nor I are a chef extraordinaire, nor did we ever expect to end up in the restaurant business. We have a good friend that started the first Bajio Mexican Grill in Provo, Utah. Dave encouraged and helped us to open franchises in neighboring Salt Lake County.

Our customers are easygoing. How did you know? Quite simply, they are the best!

We are famous for our Chicken Green Chile Salad as well as our Shrimp Tacos. Both of which used to be DH's favorites until he started smelling and cooking them, all day, everyday, for more than two years. I recommend that if you really like a restaurant, don't ever open up a franchise of that brand. Unless you are willing to lose your favorite dine out spot.

3. Seems kids always get embarrassed by their parents. How have you embarrassed your children lately? (You can ask the kids)

I embarrassed S1 yesterday, when I told DH that S1 shared a car with a cute girl during Driver's Ed. S1 immediately asked what made me think she was cute (since I had not personally seen her and he thought he had not indicated such). I said, "A mother know these things." The real answer is that he gave her coupons from his wallet to Bajio after she heard a radio advertisement in the car and made a positive comment about the restaurant. S1 doesn't come out of his shell for just anyone.

I embarrassed D1 at Girls Camp with 42 of her closest church friends. After a great deal of coercing I stood up during evening campfire and sang "No Bananas", complete with goofy actions.

4. My nephew, 12, is at the age when he is starting to spread his wings of independence. Have any of your brood gone a little too far in their test flights?

When D2 was only 18 months old, she learned how to open the front door. With older children going in and out, locking the door was not always practical and child safety door knobs only succeeded in keeping everyone but D2 from being able to open the door.

Early one Saturday morning my doorbell rang. After struggling a bit with the baby proof door knob, I tentatively answered the door, still in my pajamas.

To my surprise there stood my elderly neighbor from the end of the street. He was holding D2 who was in in her pajamas. Apparently she had crawled out of her crib, gone downstairs, opened the door and taken a stroll. My neighbor and his wife were enjoying breakfast on their deck and fortunately saw her toddle by.

I was immensely embarrassed at my apparent poor mothering. But not half as embarrassed as I was two hours later when during D2's supposed nap, my door bell rang and the entire scene was replayed.

5. If money were no object, what would you (and your family) do with the rest of your life?

This is an easy one. We would buy a terrific houseboat, and spend our life cruising on Lake Powell. Well, at least our springs, summers, and falls.

I REALLY want to interview you. Do YOU want to be interviewed?

Interview rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

V.A.C.A.T.I.O.N.

2007-07-04T07:36:00.000-06:00

I am going to be away on vacation for the next little while. But it won't be the relaxing lounging type pictured above. My vacation this weekend will involve DH and I driving with five children in the car for at least 20 hours. My vacation changes next week (for better or worse is yet to be seen) when I (sans DH) take 40 girls ages 12-17 camping with a bunch of dirt and without electricity, refrigeration, or showers. For five days. Now you all wish you were me, don't you?

While I'm gone you can read:

One of my favorite posts

The three posts with the most comments
One
Two
Three

My first post

DH's favorite post

My brother's favorite post

My brother's least favorite post (Please remember, b., I wrote this before I met you)

I'll catch up on all your blogs after the 15th!

I Don't Cook

2007-07-02T11:22:00.000-06:00

I'd like to think I am a nurturing mother, but I do not do typical nurturing mother things, like make meals. In fact I'm very bad at that. I do try to make one or two meals a week. I know, that's pathetic.

But I don't want my children to starve either. This is why they are taught critical survival skills at a very young age. See, I do love them.

By age two my children know how to make at least three meals for themselves:

1. Breakfast: Cold cereal with milk (very popular)
2. Lunch: Toast with butter
3. Dinner: Peanut butter and jelly sandwich (not very popular)

D2 was an exceptional child and went beyond the basics. She learned how to make her own microwave popcorn as well. I did not consider this a possibility for S1, D1 and S2 when they were only two years-old, because the potential for burning the popcorn was too high. With that type of liability, the risk far out weighed the benefit.

But when D2 was a baby, we got a new over-the-stove microwave/hood combo. It had all the bells and whistles (at least by our standards) like a single touch, perfectly popped, "POPCORN" button.

So when D2 expressed an interest in making, or at least an interest in eating the buttery salty puffs, I took the initiative to show her how to make it herself. It does not seem easy, but at the tender age of two, she quickly mastered all the steps. Hunger can do amazing things.

In case any of you are as negligent about feeding your children as I am, here was my training outline. Please feel free to copy this for incidental home use.

1. Push bar stool to pantry and stand on bar stool seat.
2. Take one package of popcorn out of Costco-sized bulk microwave popcorn box that for some odd reason is kept conveniently on the top shelf.
3. Remove plastic wrapper (this step is important).
4. Move bar stool to microwave oven.
5. Make sure stove top is not hot (this is a crucial step).
6. Climb on bar stool and then onto stove to reach microwave completely.
7. Open microwave door.
8. Insert bag of microwave popcorn. (It has a side which the bag specifies needs to be "up" - This is not so important as long as you don't mind butter dripping out of the bag and all over interior of microwave, which Mom doesn't mind at all. Mom is okay with cleaning, but not with cooking, remember?)
9. Close microwave door.
10. Push "POPCORN" button.
11. Let microwave pop the corn while standing away from front of microwave door (because Mom thinks that causes cancer).
12. When microwave dings and lights goes off, open microwave door.
13. Carefully open bag (another important safety step).
14. Eat your meal without bothering Mom.

For She's a Jolly Good Salesman

2007-06-30T13:13:00.001-06:00

"You can't do that!" I pouted, "It's not right." Jackie did not seem to care what I said or how I felt as she remained unshaken with her nose in the air and her small hand outstretched awaiting the money. I squished my lips tighter and then dug my last two coins from the front pocket of my shorts. As I moved to place it in her greedy little hand, I recoiled for a second and then finally let her have another ten cents - my last ten cents - with an extra hard slap in the hand.

She ignored my childish anger and professionally responded, "And for ten cents you may have your choice of a Jolly Rancher in cherry or green apple." "I want watermelon," I countered. "Watermelon, blue raspberry and grape are very popular flavors, so I raised the price. They cost a nickle more." "But you know I don't have any more money," I whined. "So cherry or green apple?" she replied matter-of-factly. "Cherry." I grumbled. "No, green apple, green apple."

I unwrapped the hard candy, dropped it in my mouth, and walked to sulk on my bed. Trying to make it last a long time, I promised myself that this time I would not bite the small sugary block, but suck on it until it was a razor thin, sharp-edged candy. And then I'd suck a little longer until it melted away into nothing but a lingering flavor on my tongue.

"She thinks she is being so smart," I thought to myself, but I knew I was really wishing I had the foresight to save my money like my eight-year old sister did.

As soon as we had as much as twenty-five cents, my four younger sisters and I were usually begging Mom to let us walk uptown to the gas station to buy some candy. Deciding whether to buy five nickle candies like two Sweet Tart suckers and three small packs of Sixlets, or one big candy bar was a weighty decision. So important it often required twenty minutes or more of deliberation.

A few weeks ago, my younger sister Jackie had ceased coming on these outings. She oddly remained happily at home while we went on our frivolous spending sprees. Then one day she unexpectedly asked Mom if she could tag along with her to the grocery store a mile or two away. Mom agreed and Jackie came home an hour later with the biggest bag of Jolly Ranchers we had ever seen. It had been purchased with at least four weeks of money saved from doing odd jobs. Immediately, we surrounded her and begged for one of the candies.

Our pleadings were met with flat refusal. But, she agreed to sell them to us for ten-cents each. We brought her all our coins and each purchased as many as we could afford. Next we started searching the couches and the washing machine and the cigarette tray in the car for more spare change. As soon as we had enough to make ten cents, we were back in Jackie's room to complete another transaction. Neighbor kids heard about the hard to find candies, now available by the piece, and started coming to the house to make a purchase as well

We were mostly okay with the arrangement until one evening Jackie boasted that she had purchased the bag of Jolly Ranchers for $1.99 and in two days had made over five dollars. That was when I concluded she was being greedy and mean. The thought of all the money she had made off of me alone, was upsetting. As I awoke from my angry day dream, I found myself biting and chewing my precious candy.

"Oh no!" I kicked myself. "So much for enjoying it slowly."

The only thing left to do was figure out where to find ten more cents. Maybe behind the dryer. I was betting none of my sisters had thought to look there.

More D2 Funnies: Another Fast One

2007-06-29T10:42:00.001-06:00

Background #1: In the LDS (Mormon) religion we set aside one Sunday a month known as Fast Sunday. Members typically come to church fasting for about 24 hours total. DH and I don't require the little children to fast, but when they get older we encourage them to fast for one meal which is often Sunday morning breakfast.

Background #2: Our typical Sunday meeting schedule is a 3 hour block. That puts us at church at least an hour or two longer than D2 would like.

One Sunday morning S2 and D2 sat at the kitchen bar. They had an array of newly-purchased cereals lined up in front of them from which they were freely partaking. I walked in and immediately S2 stopped mid mouthful and asked guiltily, with milk dripping from the corners of his mouth, "Today's not Fast Sunday is it?"

"No," I smiled, "Not until next week."

D2 groaned in reply, "Does that mean its gonna be a slow Sunday then?"

Mom's Going Where? Not So Fast.

2007-06-28T10:57:00.000-06:00

A few months ago I was preparing to leave for a long weekend girl's trip. We sat the children down to make them aware that I would be gone. We explained things might seem a little different, but we assured them Dad would be there to take care of everything.

They looked a little sullen at the news and so to cheer them up, DH shouted, "Four days of fast food! Yeah!"

Immediately D2 was even more visibly distraught. "Don't worry, sweetheart," I consoled, "Mommy isn't going to be gone too long. And you'll have fun with Dad while I'm gone."

"But," she worried with tears forming in her green eyes, "I don't think I can fast without food for four days."

One is Silver and the Other's Gold

2007-06-27T10:41:00.000-06:00

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

When I was a Brownie (think miniature Girl Scout) we sang a little song in a round. It went as follows:

Make new firends but keep the old, one is silver and the other's gold.

David McMahon is one of many new friends I have met via my blog. A few days ago, I was asked by an old friend how I met David McMahon. Actually, I think the question was more precisely worded, "How did you find that blog guy from Australia that wrote a novel and always comments on your blog."

I immediately recalled, our first meeting on David's blog. Above is the riveting picture he posted and below is the text:

Morning Has Broken
Cloudy Day Starts In A Riot Of Colour

It's a slightly cooler day today, about 25 Celsius, with some rain forecast. And though it's grey and overcast and humid, here's proof that the day started as if someone had mixed the most vibrant colours and daubed them over the sky. The spire is the Arts Centre, which served as a terrific silhouette to offset the shades in the sky.

I commented:

Looks like Autumn in Melbourne is getting off to a beautiful start! Spring in Utah is struggling to find its way.

David, in true David fashion replied:

Hi Deborah,

Thanks for dropping by and leaving a link to a very interesting blogpost.

I've left a comment on your blog. Do keep me updated on your progress and even though I'm busy wrapping up another novel, I've always got time for fellow writers and bloggers.

Take care

David

Reprinted with permission from David McMahon's blog

Addicted to Blog?

2007-06-25T11:39:00.000-06:00

Eve commented on my blog a couple days ago and I am having a difficult time shaking the thought that was immediately evoked in my mind. The thought that I could be a blogging addict.

While the thought seems a bit extreme, I decided to document my time spent one morning in an effort to spot anything unusual that may be a sign of a blog junkie. The following is a typical summer morning for me as the sole author of the infamous blog Uncommon Notions:

6:00 AM - Barely conscious, rolling over in bed with fuzzy dreams quickly draining from my mind, and reality coming into sharper focus, first cognitive thought for the day is, "What can I blog about this morning?" Fall back asleep loosely creating photos with funny captions, clever anecdotes, and long-winded tell-all tales in my mind.

7:00 AM - Wake up for the second time and stumble into the shower. This part of my life has been blogged. What else?

8:00 AM - Check email and then saunter to the kitchen to pour cold cereal for anyone that will get up. Usually only D1, D2 and D3. Maybe I could I blog on cold cereal? Nope, been there done that too.

9:00 AM - Finish checking email, read some blogs.

9:45 AM - Start to panic. Freak! What will I write about?

9:55 AM - Suddenly, get a blogtastic idea for a Very Funny Blog!

10:00 AM - Begin writing Very Funny Blog.

10:10 AM - Quickly switch computer screen from Very Funny Blog to QuickBooks when DH comes back home unexpectedly. Assure him I'll have his accounting numbers ready by the end of the day.

10:12 AM - Switch back to Very Funny Blog as soon as front door is heard closing.

10:15 AM - Type very lightly while listening to my sister on phone about something or whatever. Vow to self to move quieter keyboard into office from bedroom computer so this will not be an issue in the future.

10:18 AM - Pinch baby so she will cry. Terminate phone conversation with sister early on behalf of crying baby.

10:19 AM - Call D1 into the office to take care of crying baby.

10:20 AM - Rewrite Very Funny Blog. Delete half my verbose wording, and edit misspellings and misuse of words.

10:25 AM - Begin to wish I had paid more attention to Ms. Wiltsie during 11th grade English teaching us when to use who versus whom. Briefly consider blogging about my English teacher happily stuck in the 60's.

10:27 AM - Wonder whether or not to underline a title, italicize the title or put said title in quotes. Double think other critical yet basic grammar lessons.

10:29 AM - Repeatedly read Very Funny Blog making small changes with each pass through.

10:38 AM - Reread Very Funny Blog just to make sure there are no "just"s in there. Just for Bart's sake and no one else's.

10:40 AM - Lightly pound desk in laughter. Smile at how incredibly witty I am. Reread Very Funny Blog for the 27th time and make more minor edits.

10:43 AM - Find a much funnier word for an overused word in Very Funny Blog at Thesaurus.com. Congratulate myself for being so resourceful to do in-depth research for Very Funny Blog.

10:45 AM - Begin process of finding the Perfect Picture for Very Funny Blog. Peruse personal photos folder. Consider taking original photo (David would be so proud). Do not consider drawing or painting Perfect Picture like McGlinch or Chewy. Decide to search via Google Images and steal Perfect Picture instead.

11:15 AM - Publish Very Funny Blog with Perfect Picture.

11:16 AM - Click [View Blog]

11:17 AM - Admire Perfect Picture and reread Very Funny Blog again. Chuckle at Very Funny Blog's clever humor. Wonder how many people will appreciate hidden pun in Very Funny Blog.

11:19 AM - Find typo in Very Funny Blog!

11:20 AM - Edit Very Funny Blog. Reread two more times and republish.

11:25 AM - Click [View Blog]

11:26 AM - Pause and once again admire Perfect Picture and start to reread Very Funny Blog for the 31st time. Laugh out loud at Very Funny Blog's well contrived humor.

11:29 AM - Smile at the completed work of Very Funny Blog.

11:30 AM - Refresh blog page and notice there are no comments yet.

11:32 AM - Trying to hide disappointment, check email to see if the comments magically appear in my Inbox before appearing on the blog. Notice no comments, only one email from Aeropostale inviting me to their Sizzling Summer Sale.

11:34 AM - Refresh blog page again. Still no comments on Very Funny Blog.

11:37 AM - Switch over load of laundry and change baby's diaper.

11:55 AM - Check email for Very Funny Blog comments. Click [Send/Receive]. Watch computer think. Will it find Very Funny Blog comments? Send/Receive is complete. No new messages.

11:58 AM - Wonder what on earth people have to do that could possibly be better than reading and commenting on Very Funny Blog.

12:00 NOON - Skulk into kitchen to make a meal that will serve simultaneously as lunch for D1, D2 and D3 as well as breakfast for S1 and S2.

Sounds healthy and normal to me. Don't you think?

It's a Bird...It's a Plane...

2007-06-25T11:16:00.000-06:00

"Mom, if this world had super powers, I know what yours would be: cleaning!" - D2

Don't be too impressed, I am not Super Cleaning Mom. Her standard for cleanliness is simply not as high as most people's.

Video-Game Addiction Prescription

2007-06-23T08:11:00.000-06:00

The AMA is considering officially recognizing video-game addiction as a mental illness. Of course, a complete effort will take years of study and debate. Personally, I thought the American Medical Association had much bigger problems on their hands like Bird Flu, Cancer and Heart Disease. Nevertheless, apparently they feel video-game addiction is enough of a threat to our society that it warrants the time and effort required to officially list it among the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The initial debate begins Sunday and a preliminary vote will take place next week.

I do not even want to consider what this will do to the United States health care system. If it can be officially diagnosed, how many employees will be submitting for paid time off of work based on mental illness leave? And when left alone all day at home with no job to go to, what else will they have to do in between psychiatrist appointments? Besides play video games on the couch?

Speaking from first hand experience, there is nothing about video-game addiction that makes a person mentally ill. Video-game addiction is simply an addiction. And like other addictions, it can be beat. Oh, it is not easy. But with a little blindsided intervention from those who love you the most, it can be done.

Once upon a time (back in 2001), I too fell prey to the video-gaming industry's subtle addicting ways. My brother kindly loaded some simulator on my PC so I could play all the oldie but goodie video games from the 80's. I had Frogger, Tertris and what soon became my master: Dr. Mario.

It all began so innocently. While the children were napping, I'd venture down to the office and play some games for a little fun and relaxation. It was not long before Dr. Mario was the game that truly caught my fancy. Systematically ignoring all other games at my disposal, I became a die hard Dr. Mario fan.

As I got better, I could play for quite a stretch without "dying". This became a problem as the children would awake and while their cries could be heard from the office, I found it difficult, that is impossible, to leave my computer and go to them. Diapers went unchanged, meals went unprepared, baths went ungiven.

I knew it was time for a change. So I made some rules for myself. Only two lives (meaning after I died twice, I had to go back to being a mom), and I increased my speed from low to medium. I was still "living" until level 30 which means the pill bottle is all but full to start, so I increased the speed to high.

Still, I could play the game with relatively no trouble. It became so easy, I started on the highest level the game allows. Yep. Level 20. Speed set at high. That is where I always began.

I rationalized that with my new rules, my games were shorter so I could play more often than simply during nap time. So I decreased my life to one, and added more playing time to my schedule. I told myself I could play after finishing one chore. One load of laundry done equals time with Dr. Mario: Begin Level 20, Speed High, One Life. Unless I die immediately, then its a do-over.

A typical day went as follows: Feed the children breakfast = Dr. Mario. Change a diaper = Dr. Mario. Vacuum a couch = Dr. Mario. Make my bed = Dr. Mario. Brush my hair = Dr. Mario. Go to the bathroom = Dr. Mario. The fact that my minimal personal hygiene began to count as a chore did not alarm me in the least bit.

However, an alarm soon came. My brother and his friend Scott came over one day excited about an upcoming Dr. Mario Tournament at the Provo Towne Center. I encouraged them to enter, and offered if they needed any pointers, I would be happy to coach them. They looked at each other briefly, smiled, and then explained that it was me not them that they felt should enter the tournament.

Suddenly I saw a flash forward in my mind. I enter the tournament with a bunch of long haired, unshaven, fat thirty-somethings that don't shower. Then I kick their couch potato butts. I am called to the podium. With the National Anthem playing, I am awarded the Dr. Mario Regional Champion trophy. As I hold the heavy trophy high above my head, cameras flash. My name and picture with a brief article on how I rose to stardom, are on the front page of the local paper.

Hold the phone! I was not doing that. Despite their pleadings I refused to participate in the tournament because of only one fear. The fear that I knew I would win. At this time I realized that I had mastered Dr. Mario and my addiction had taken me to a place I did not want to be. That is when I realized I needed to change.

But I couldn't stop myself. So I continued.

One morning, after brushing my teeth (a chore complete: check) I went down to be with my love, Dr. Mario.

Houston, we have a problem. My video-gaming simulator for the PC was erroring out.

In a panic I called my brother. College term paper, finals to study for, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. "Whatever, get over here now!" I loudly insisted and hung up the phone. Knowing it would take him all of five minutes to solve my computer problem, I was more than irritated that he did not show. As I laid my head on the desk, willing my computer to work as it should, soon minutes turned into hours. Hours turned into days. And days turned into weeks. With no Dr. Mario, my life seemed empty and boring.

Eventually, I stopped placing unreturned phone calls to my brother. I started to clothe, feed and bathe my children. Occasionally we even went to the library or a park. And I found my life could go on without Dr. Mario.

But like all addictions for me it must be all or nothing. So I have never picked up a controller to empty a Dr. Mario medicine bottle full of pills since. Nor do I have any intention of doing so. But if I do, don't even try to play doubles with me. 'Cause I will kick your Dr. Mario butt!

Some More and Laughter

2007-06-21T10:00:00.000-06:00

I've always been a sucker for before and after shots. Whether it is a weight loss story or a home rennovation, they can be inspiring. However, with one-year olds it seems to work in reverse:

BEFORE

and
AFTER

Living the High Life

2007-06-20T13:13:00.000-06:00

Hiking to Stewart Falls in Provo Canyon (5800 ft elevation) today was full of

Highlights:

and

One Lowlight:

“A laugh is a smile that bursts.” Mary H. Waldrip

2007-06-19T00:26:00.000-06:00

Is there an Internet slang more over used than LOL (laughing out loud)? But did you know you could also be ROTFL (rolling on the floor laughing) or even BWL (bursting with laughter)?

My blogger friends often have me LOL, or at least exhaling abruptly with a little snort, a barely audible 'ha', and a smile.

Below is a handful of my favorites from the last few days:

Dalene:
"...'telecommunications provider' and 'customer service' are fundamentally incompatible..."

Bart:
“My philosophy is to go geeky when possible.”

Carol:
"...if you want to leave home, at least have the decency to run farther away..."

Abi
"...if only I could get an Australian to wash my dishes while I drink a beer..."

Heart Attacks are For Hunks

2007-06-18T09:22:00.000-06:00

I drove past this billboard the other day and was mildly amused. As a vegetarian, (aside from an occasional fish fillet), I initially took offense to the advertisement. I may not eat very many dead animals, but that does not make me a cowardly baby.

A second look confirmed the extremely poor condition of the sign. It is obvious whatever brave flesh eater put it up, has not been back to check on its condition, or re-glue and staple the edges.

I am left to suppose the heroic red meat indulging marketer has most likely suffered some set back that has wielded him or her unable to maintain their business' marketing efforts. I don't know if it was coronary artery disease, hypertension, obesity or some form of cancer, that got to them.

However, I do know that anyone reading this all but abandoned billboard should think twice about actually eating a juicy sirloin from Ruby River Steakhouse. And I'll think twice about how delicious my salad with pears, feta, grapes and pine nuts tossed with raspberry vinaigrette is at lunch today.

A Cleaner Burning Fuel

2007-06-17T00:05:00.000-06:00

David recently observed that while the average Australian walks 900 miles a year, and drinks 22 gallons of beer a year, that must mean the average Australian gets about 41 miles per gallon.

Now, I don't know 'bout you all, but my rig doesn't get anywhere near that kind of mileage. Not even close. And since there seems to be no end to the raping and pillaging oil companies are willing to do for obscene profits, (are you impressed with my calm neutrality on this subject?) I'm game for something different.

I could drive a Toyota Prius. With "comfortable" seating for five, DH and I fit (sort of) in front, and the three girls could mash together in the back. But where does that leave S1 and S2? DH says my idea for lawn chairs (with seat belts, of course) strapped to the roof top would be too dangerous. I know the boys would be game, and I think DH is overreacting. But, I'm guessing the roof top seating would disturb the car's aerodynamics and depreciate my gas mileage.

So Plan B is to drive an Australian. It is winter Down Under right now, so it might be pretty easy to coerce one of them into coming to Utah. And there must be at least one Aussie that would prefer a sledding party Christmas to a beach party Christmas.

Okay, that may be going too far. But who says I couldn't give the Australian the Christmas week off to visit Queensland, or wherever they may call home? I mean the "holiday" week off. Or is it Hanukkah? Kwanzaa? Boxing Day? Whatever.

While being without my Australian for the winter break might be a downer (ha! get it - Down Under - downer), there is an upside to driving one. Mainly, all the beer I'd be storing in the garage. They run on that, remember?

I'm not a beer drinker, but I figure cases and six packs of the lager sitting around, will really give my neighbors something to talk about.

And the possibilities don't end there. If I run out of Bath and Body Works Nutrient Rich Foaming Bath in Lavender, I could grab a bottle of Tooheys from the garage, dump it in my tub, and voila! Pure bath time bliss. Speaking from experience, if you have never bathed with beer, your skin is the one that is suffering.

Ya know, I may be trading in the old berry-stained-carpet Yukon after all.

Who Dumped Who?

2007-06-16T22:02:00.000-06:00

In reading Suz50's blog this evening, her not so enjoyable job interview post reminded me of my worst job interview experience.

Several years ago a headhunter called me looking to fill a position at a company in neighboring Idaho. While I was not necessarily looking to change jobs, nor move to Idaho (but then who is?), after the inital discussion, I was mildly intrigued. I agreed to send her my resume, which she explained she would forward to the hiring company.

The hiring company soon called me and as we discussed the position over the phone, I learned that the position would be a significant decrease in what I already considered a scant paycheck. So I declined to continue with the phone interview and explained I was not interested.

A week later, I received a letter from the hiring company's Human Resource Department:

"Thank you for your interest in ABC Company. We are writing to inform you that we have received your application for XYZ Position. Unfortunately, your qualifications do not match our requirements for this position. Your application will remain on file for one year. In addition, please feel free to apply for another position in which you may be interested. We wish you the best of luck in your continued job search."