In my last post, I left you hanging- wondering about our oldest daughters silly idea that if the world were ever going to meet it's demise we will have to run to Montana to live among the tree's. Well folks, slip into your jogging shoes, 'cause we're going on a journey.
According to Briti ( who's seen far more T.V. than is good for her) someday, when the earth's occupants become so evil that nobody will be safe even opening their front doors to fetch the morning paper, some relatively big city like New York is going to spontaneously combust and fall into the ocean, sending panic and confusion rippling across the surviving parts of the Nation. This will result in such chaos, local banks will be forced to close for fear of getting the "runs" and there will be rioting in every K-mart where they no longer offer any blue light specials. There will be a shortage of duct tape and you won't be able to find a single bottle of Midol anywhere. The only available Doctor will be Dr. pepper, who will be in such high demand that the lines at the gas station will stretch clear across main street and around the corner. There will be such a shortage of food, the only things left on the grocery store shelves will be liquid drain-o and canned habanero chili peppers-of which there will be an abundance. Those people fortuitous enough to have become prepared for such a catastrophe well in advance will be nestled safely behind dead-bolted doors where there will be hot chocolate and dried fruit, cracked wheat cereal and reconstituted hot dogs roasted over the open flame of an emergency candle.
If you happen to still be here upon the earth when it comes to an end, I sincerely hope you do not find yourself standing in my kitchen, because you would be sorely disappointed at the sad lack of freeze dried and reconstituted foods you would find. It's true that we have invested in several large buckets of oats, rice and- of course- wheat, so if the idea of having plenty of food soothes one's anxiety about starving to death, I'd say your in good hands here. But the real panic is bound to set in when it is discovered that I have absolutely no idea how to use hard wheat in an emergency. I know I could boil you up some plain rice or some bland oatmeal over a few hot logs in the fireplace. I even think a bottle of soy sauce could be found in one of the cupboards and maybe even some brown sugar or honey to make the oatmeal less boring. That would be quite easy. But, I say, it's the wheat that's got me stumped. In all my live long days-even despite the fact that I was raised by a mother who's homemade whole wheat bread and orange rolls have become a family legacy (that will die with my mother if I do not master the technique)- I have never actually made a loaf of bread from scratch all by myself. What, I beg of you, would ever possess me to want to do that? Some women consider the baking of bread fun and actually go to lengths to learn how to do it. Ugh. That to me, just sounds like the most frustrating thing I could ever attempt to do, like trying to learn Chinese when I'll probably never go to China. What's the point? I have imagined baking bread, but the way I have envisioned it is absolutely guaranteed not the way I know it would turn out in real life. In real life I would get out the recipe and put it on the counter in front of me and I would read the whole thing twice. Then I would stand there staring at the recipe and my mind would go completely blank and I would forget what to do first. The recipe would say "In a large mixing bowl..." and I would suddenly have no idea what a mixing bowl was. I would stand there puzzled until one of my girls would look at me and ask why I have that dumb blank stare on my face at which time I would mumble "mixing bowl?" and they would kindly but quietly come into the kitchen and retrieve for me a mixing bowl, put it in front of me on the counter and gently pat me on the hand on their way out. Then I would shift the weight of my mindless gaze to the empty bowl and think about all the other things I would much rather be doing, like using power tools. I don't have this kind of resistance to all forms of cooking-just the kind that requires skinning dead animals, plucking chickens or grinding wheat.
Doug once risked his very life to give me an electric wheat grinder on mothers day (a very grave mistake if you are married to me) because he wanted so much to inspire me to become Betty Crocker. I must say that the closest I've come to ever using that wheat grinder was on that same mothers day when I had the idea of putting Doug's brain in there. What good is an electric grinder anyway if there is no electricity? If we ever have such an emergency as the one I described earlier, I assume there would be no power, so how would you use that wheat? For me, I imagine it going something like this: The world is coming to an end so the first thing that happens is the power goes out. In our family we always feel like the world really is coming to an end if we ever have to live through a power outage- because we get so bored we want to poke each others eye's out- so I can just imagine that the world coming to an actual end wouldn't seem too serious until the power is out. So, lets say there is this big sonic boom sound and then a loud splashing sound as New York falls into the ocean. Then the power turns off. Cell phones stop working so the teenagers are the first to catch on that life on this planet is over. There is wide spread panic in our house as the children become increasingly bored. And then there is a huge earthquake which turns out to just be Doug trying to entertain the kids with his version of flash dance. Then Doug is knocked unconscious when the wheat grinder falls off a shelf and hits him in the head. In an effort to revive him with a splash of cool water, I run to the sink but the water is off. In a panic I race to the pantry and see all the soda bottles we have filled with water over the years for just such an emergency. My hands are shaking and as I reach in to take one of the bottles from the shelf, the other bottles come loose and crash to the floor, soaking all the buckets of oats and rice that have broken open during the big "quake". Water ruins everything but one bucket of wheat tucked into a corner of the pantry. In desperation I reach into the bucket and clasp a handful of wheat. I raise it over my head and say " As God is my witness, I will never go hungry again!" ( meaning that if we plan to survive this, Doug better get up and learn how to make bread.) Then, with determined faith, I stand over Doug's lifeless form and with the last of my strength, I throw those little wheat pellets into Doug's face. Miraculously, he wakes up from his coma and we hold hands, grateful to be alive.
And then we live happily ever after- for about five minutes.
Then out of nowhere a bomb hits.And then we die.
The end.
Sunday
Tuesday
Oh sewer tree, how smelly are thy branches...
Well, is it any wonder why I have not been able to post anything on my blog since August when, in order to type a single paragraph without being interrupted, I have to lock myself inside my office and barricade the door with chairs. Even at this very instant I have a set of eyeballs on me, staring at me through the glass door of which I have tried to cover with a few of the family coats and backpacks. There are some gaps in my effort and daughter # 1 has forgotten that she is far too old to be doing this-annoying me on purpose by peering through the glass because she doesn't want me to write about her...which is exactly what I am about to do. And now daughter # 3 has joined her. Bending awkwardly way down in order to reach a bare spot where my "curtains" haven't reached, she is pressing a coupon from a local mailer and her nose against the glass; "Mmmom..." her words are muffled behind the door, "This is a coupon for thirty-five percent off boots and snowboard bindings...''
"Oh for Pete's sake. Let your mother have ten uninterrupted minutes! I have waited until eleven p.m. to write this just so no one would bug me and that is when you all decide to wander the house like zombies looking for fresh meat. Briti, GO AWAY before I tell the whole world on you. Dallas, why on earth have you picked this very moment to show me a coupon? Thirty five percent off is not worth talking about at this hour of the night. Come back next Tuesday at five if you can find a coupon for a hundred percent off. Until then, goodbye. Don't come near this door again until you have kids of your own." Oh brother.
I thought I would begin by talking about all the things that have gone on in the past few months, things like surviving the swine flu, the stomach flu and a close call with pneumonia (of which I have suffered before some years back), and other things like my new front load washer and dryer that I swear could fly a regular gal like me to the moon- they're so high-tech. I should elaborate here because I would have ya'll know that I have never ever in my whole life had a brand new washer and dryer due to the fact that Doug felt there were just many other priorities in life, like man-tools. But since I am no longer washing our clothes in an iron pot down by the river, I think we'll visit that story another day.
There are other subjects that might be of particular interest to one or two of you, like the sewer tree. And since strange happenings like that don't occur in everyday life, I suppose you may want to hear about that.
Way back in the year 1972, a man who's name I don't feel free to mention built his family a house on a quiet street in a neighborhood that at one time had been acres of orchard. I might want to add that this good man was no craftsman to say the least, yet he prided himself on being just that. We have spent ten years fixing his mistakes, but the evidence that this man had no idea what he was doing still shows up now and again in various ways, such as with the sewer tree. Now, until just ten days ago the sewer tree had occupied a post on the south east corner of the property where we now reside. I must admit that I'm not really sure if our nameless builder actually planted this tree or if it was already there when he built the house, a tiny seedling just getting started in the world, whereas our builder friend didn't have the heart to pluck it up nor was he equipped with the ability to foresee the tree's potential for getting just huge someday. None the less, he let the tree stay where it was, and it grew. It grew and grew, and grew closer and closer to the house, it's lofty branches stretching out over the rooftop like a protective mother's arms. Soon the tree was so close to the house that by the time we moved in, one could reach an arm out the kitchen window and gently caress it's trunk with a tender hand.
Don't get me wrong, I love tree's and it's a sad day indeed when a decision needs to be made whether or not to cut one down. This particular tree-although considered a "junk tree"- was near and dear to my heart (albeit too near) simply due to the fact that it attracted little birdies and stuff and it had leaves on it, something that shaded the house and created a romantic sort of ambiance from the corner windows where I would stand and look outside while washing dishes or otherwise engaged in the various chores that make up the routines of daily life. However, little to our knowledge the tree was also attracting something else. You see, as the tree was growing- long before we arrived on the scene- it's little roots began to spread out and do what all tree's by nature generally do, search for water. Deep beneath the earth's layers of grass and weeds and bugs, and worms and rocks and crust, our tree was performing it's natural and yet miraculous function of sucking enormous amounts of water up through it's roots and into it's trunk. As a side note here, just for the sake of interest, let's investigate the miracle we have all come to know simply as a tree. On a particularly steamy summer day, perhaps one might look around for the shade of a large tree in an effort to cool down, and yet so often one does so without the slightest idea of what is going on under that layer of bark. However, just beneath a tree's surface lies silent but profound evidence of the existence of God. Without so much as a shudder, a tree will lift hundreds of gallons of water a day from it's finger-like roots and up through three thin layers of tissue where it then dispenses it into it's leafy green's and from there, into the vaporous atmosphere. It is truly incredible. I myself have been known to complain if I have to carry more than one gallon of milk from the car, but let's get back to the story. As I was saying, our tree was performing all it's natural function's but with one exception. Because the tree was so close to the house, it's search for water was rather short- and successful when it's roots reached the nearby sewer lines. Somehow the tree managed to dig it's powerful tentacles into the water lines under and around the house where it found a happy and steady source of nourishment. This kind of thing isn't all that uncommon- and quite to the contrary, rather common for large and well established trees. What we found uncommon and even shocking was that our tree was not only sucking up water into it's trunk, but sewage as well-and I know how gross that must be to imagine but I was actually here to witness it and believe me it's far more gross in real life. Not to put too dull a point on it- the tree was "pooping" through it's trunk.
When first discovered by our younger children, my disbelief was profound. But after giving it a real good look, I realized to my horror that all those times I had cracked the window and smelled a really bad smell...I was smelling the tree.Convincing Doug that this was actually the truth was a bit difficult and I finally had to break down and do some investigative internet searching to prove it. But after presenting all the evidence that the tree was actually seeping sewage, it took him no time at all to run out and buy a chainsaw (because Doug never pays anyone to do something he believes he can do all by himself. )
I wish I had the time to get into the details of how Doug went about cutting down that enormous tree all by himself, but I will say that somehow he managed to do it without killing anybody and the only damage done was some deep tire tracks his truck left in the middle of the park by our house- and about a billion little twigs still scattered across the yard. The good news is that the tree is gone. The bad news is that there is no shade on that side of the house anymore and Doug now owns a chainsaw, a threat to every tree in America as I have already had to scold him for trying to cut down everything from here to Montana. Montana...upon saying that out loud daughter # 1 has resurfaced, telling me she is really glad her dad has decided to become a lumberjack because we won't have a single thing to worry about when the world comes to an end and we are all forced to run to Montana and live in the woods. I stare at her for a really long time trying to figure out what on earth she is talking about. Remember, it's pretty late now and I am getting really tired. "Why on earth would we be running to Montana to live in the woods if the world comes to an end?" I ask her,
"Because people will be coming here from other states and trying to eat all our food." She tells me. "What?" is all I can think to say in response. She keeps talking but I don't understand any of it. It gets more and more ridiculous until I find myself nearly doubled over with laughter.
But I'll save that story for tomorrow.
"Oh for Pete's sake. Let your mother have ten uninterrupted minutes! I have waited until eleven p.m. to write this just so no one would bug me and that is when you all decide to wander the house like zombies looking for fresh meat. Briti, GO AWAY before I tell the whole world on you. Dallas, why on earth have you picked this very moment to show me a coupon? Thirty five percent off is not worth talking about at this hour of the night. Come back next Tuesday at five if you can find a coupon for a hundred percent off. Until then, goodbye. Don't come near this door again until you have kids of your own." Oh brother.
I thought I would begin by talking about all the things that have gone on in the past few months, things like surviving the swine flu, the stomach flu and a close call with pneumonia (of which I have suffered before some years back), and other things like my new front load washer and dryer that I swear could fly a regular gal like me to the moon- they're so high-tech. I should elaborate here because I would have ya'll know that I have never ever in my whole life had a brand new washer and dryer due to the fact that Doug felt there were just many other priorities in life, like man-tools. But since I am no longer washing our clothes in an iron pot down by the river, I think we'll visit that story another day.
There are other subjects that might be of particular interest to one or two of you, like the sewer tree. And since strange happenings like that don't occur in everyday life, I suppose you may want to hear about that.
Way back in the year 1972, a man who's name I don't feel free to mention built his family a house on a quiet street in a neighborhood that at one time had been acres of orchard. I might want to add that this good man was no craftsman to say the least, yet he prided himself on being just that. We have spent ten years fixing his mistakes, but the evidence that this man had no idea what he was doing still shows up now and again in various ways, such as with the sewer tree. Now, until just ten days ago the sewer tree had occupied a post on the south east corner of the property where we now reside. I must admit that I'm not really sure if our nameless builder actually planted this tree or if it was already there when he built the house, a tiny seedling just getting started in the world, whereas our builder friend didn't have the heart to pluck it up nor was he equipped with the ability to foresee the tree's potential for getting just huge someday. None the less, he let the tree stay where it was, and it grew. It grew and grew, and grew closer and closer to the house, it's lofty branches stretching out over the rooftop like a protective mother's arms. Soon the tree was so close to the house that by the time we moved in, one could reach an arm out the kitchen window and gently caress it's trunk with a tender hand.
Don't get me wrong, I love tree's and it's a sad day indeed when a decision needs to be made whether or not to cut one down. This particular tree-although considered a "junk tree"- was near and dear to my heart (albeit too near) simply due to the fact that it attracted little birdies and stuff and it had leaves on it, something that shaded the house and created a romantic sort of ambiance from the corner windows where I would stand and look outside while washing dishes or otherwise engaged in the various chores that make up the routines of daily life. However, little to our knowledge the tree was also attracting something else. You see, as the tree was growing- long before we arrived on the scene- it's little roots began to spread out and do what all tree's by nature generally do, search for water. Deep beneath the earth's layers of grass and weeds and bugs, and worms and rocks and crust, our tree was performing it's natural and yet miraculous function of sucking enormous amounts of water up through it's roots and into it's trunk. As a side note here, just for the sake of interest, let's investigate the miracle we have all come to know simply as a tree. On a particularly steamy summer day, perhaps one might look around for the shade of a large tree in an effort to cool down, and yet so often one does so without the slightest idea of what is going on under that layer of bark. However, just beneath a tree's surface lies silent but profound evidence of the existence of God. Without so much as a shudder, a tree will lift hundreds of gallons of water a day from it's finger-like roots and up through three thin layers of tissue where it then dispenses it into it's leafy green's and from there, into the vaporous atmosphere. It is truly incredible. I myself have been known to complain if I have to carry more than one gallon of milk from the car, but let's get back to the story. As I was saying, our tree was performing all it's natural function's but with one exception. Because the tree was so close to the house, it's search for water was rather short- and successful when it's roots reached the nearby sewer lines. Somehow the tree managed to dig it's powerful tentacles into the water lines under and around the house where it found a happy and steady source of nourishment. This kind of thing isn't all that uncommon- and quite to the contrary, rather common for large and well established trees. What we found uncommon and even shocking was that our tree was not only sucking up water into it's trunk, but sewage as well-and I know how gross that must be to imagine but I was actually here to witness it and believe me it's far more gross in real life. Not to put too dull a point on it- the tree was "pooping" through it's trunk.
When first discovered by our younger children, my disbelief was profound. But after giving it a real good look, I realized to my horror that all those times I had cracked the window and smelled a really bad smell...I was smelling the tree.Convincing Doug that this was actually the truth was a bit difficult and I finally had to break down and do some investigative internet searching to prove it. But after presenting all the evidence that the tree was actually seeping sewage, it took him no time at all to run out and buy a chainsaw (because Doug never pays anyone to do something he believes he can do all by himself. )
I wish I had the time to get into the details of how Doug went about cutting down that enormous tree all by himself, but I will say that somehow he managed to do it without killing anybody and the only damage done was some deep tire tracks his truck left in the middle of the park by our house- and about a billion little twigs still scattered across the yard. The good news is that the tree is gone. The bad news is that there is no shade on that side of the house anymore and Doug now owns a chainsaw, a threat to every tree in America as I have already had to scold him for trying to cut down everything from here to Montana. Montana...upon saying that out loud daughter # 1 has resurfaced, telling me she is really glad her dad has decided to become a lumberjack because we won't have a single thing to worry about when the world comes to an end and we are all forced to run to Montana and live in the woods. I stare at her for a really long time trying to figure out what on earth she is talking about. Remember, it's pretty late now and I am getting really tired. "Why on earth would we be running to Montana to live in the woods if the world comes to an end?" I ask her,
"Because people will be coming here from other states and trying to eat all our food." She tells me. "What?" is all I can think to say in response. She keeps talking but I don't understand any of it. It gets more and more ridiculous until I find myself nearly doubled over with laughter.
But I'll save that story for tomorrow.
She ain't heavy, she's your mother.
Seeing as I have been somebodies mother for the past twenty odd years and have finally reached what I lovingly call "the jumpin' off place" (when your youngest child is at last entering the first grade and for the first time in more years that you care to remember you won't have anyone home with you for 6 whole hours) , I have found myself feeling more and more impatient for school to begin. As reluctant as I may have been last month for summer to bid a fond adios to us amigos who love the warmth and sun, as the new school year approaches with all it's promise of kids gone bye-bye, I'm noticing that I've all but given up motherhood for the time being. I'm sure this is quite disturbing to my children who are used to a mother who actually cares for their needs. They don't understand what's become of the old mom and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I know either. I have begun to wonder if my behavior is normal for women who have reached this stage in their lives and if the medical community has come up with a name for it like they did with PMS and mad cow disease. All in all, I am discovering that I have absolutely no desire to help my children- or anyone's children for that matter- with anything. And what's more, I don't try to dance around a task to get out of it or make up excuses as to why I can't do something for them at that moment like I would normally do. Normally, if my 15 year old daughter asked me for a ride somewhere and it wasn't a good time for me, I would tell her that I couldn't do it right then but maybe in an hour or two. I would say this in an effort to let her know that as her mother, I would care for her needs and wishes as much as possible. But as of recently, if asked to do a task such as give her a ride somewhere, I find myself feeling totally burdened by the idea and I don't have the strength to make up excuses as to why I feel this way. Example: Daughter- "Mom, will you give me a ride to so and so's house?"
Me- "no."
Daughter- "Why not?"
Me- "Because I don't want to." This answer leaves my daughter looking perplexed, but it seems to get the message across pretty clearly. After discovering that there's not alot about that kind of honest answer that anyone can really argue with, I have begun to use it to my advantage and have realized that I've been far too agreeable when it comes to a child's demands. The other day one of our children and their friends kept coming inside the house asking me to help them with their little projects. They wanted to set up a water slide on the hill in the park next to our yard and they wanted to do this or they wanted to do that and so on. After about the tenth time they came in and asked me to get them something, I started feeling a little annoyed with them. They were interupting me every five minutes as if I were just the scullery maid or some other such thing put here on earth merely for their own convinience. When I realized I was being taken advantage of by people who were, though somewhat shorter and younger than myself, still capable of accomplishing small victories such as turning on the hose without help, a light came on inside my head that caused me to realize I had every right to my own time and space and the setting up of a water slide for perfectly able-bodied ten year old's wasn't a requirement by law, so the next time they came in asking for my help I simply stated, "Stop bugging me. You guy's are old enough to figure out how to set up a water slide." The boy's just stood there staring at me for a few desperate moments before devising a reason as to why I had to go out and assist their cause. " But we can't find the stakes that hold the water slide down." they told me. "Then use rocks" I replied, silently praising my own ingenious for having come up with such an idea. The boy's just stared some more and blinked alot. After a while one of them cautiously asked, "but...won't rocks hurt if we bang into them?"
"Yes," I declared, "especially if you bang them with your heads." Simple enough, but they still stood there looking confused. When I offered nothing more in the way of a solution, they just stood there looking at me as if I were crazy. Finally I said something mothers everywhere all feel like saying but seldom do; "Look," I began,"I was not put on this earth simply to provide children with their every whim and desire. I have a right to a life of my own to some degree. Now go outside and leave me alone for the rest of the day and do not come back in here and bother me again unless one of you breaks a bone or someone starts bleeding profusely or something is on fire." After that speech, the boys managed to set up the water slide without my help and even staked it into place using something other than rocks.
I know this behavior might be shocking to some mothers, but on the other hand it may give some a sense of relief. Maybe there are other women out there who have at last realized that there only objective in life is not to serve their children's every wish and tickle every fancy. But this is not all. I have also noticed that along with getting a backbone, I am now demanding that my children actually serve and help me for a change. I am doing this by any means possible. I am beginning to insist that the teenagers be out of bed before noon and get their chores done before the end of the world. This morning when one of my teenagers refused to get up by the appointed time, I woke her up by sucking her nose into the vacuum hose. She was mad at me at first and tried to express her fury with words, but the suction of the vacuum prevented her from making any sense. I highly recommend this method to anyone with similar issues.
Now before you judge me too harshly, you need to remember that none of this means that I don't love children, especially my own. I have simply discovered that I have a right to a life now and then. You know, you give any kid an inch and they'll take a mile. I'm probably guilty of allowing my kids to take more than a mile where I am concerned so I'm just trying to balance the scales a bit. Besides, no one ever takes me too seriously around here and it's mostly all fun and games-until someone loses an eye. Or maybe a nose.
Me- "no."
Daughter- "Why not?"
Me- "Because I don't want to." This answer leaves my daughter looking perplexed, but it seems to get the message across pretty clearly. After discovering that there's not alot about that kind of honest answer that anyone can really argue with, I have begun to use it to my advantage and have realized that I've been far too agreeable when it comes to a child's demands. The other day one of our children and their friends kept coming inside the house asking me to help them with their little projects. They wanted to set up a water slide on the hill in the park next to our yard and they wanted to do this or they wanted to do that and so on. After about the tenth time they came in and asked me to get them something, I started feeling a little annoyed with them. They were interupting me every five minutes as if I were just the scullery maid or some other such thing put here on earth merely for their own convinience. When I realized I was being taken advantage of by people who were, though somewhat shorter and younger than myself, still capable of accomplishing small victories such as turning on the hose without help, a light came on inside my head that caused me to realize I had every right to my own time and space and the setting up of a water slide for perfectly able-bodied ten year old's wasn't a requirement by law, so the next time they came in asking for my help I simply stated, "Stop bugging me. You guy's are old enough to figure out how to set up a water slide." The boy's just stood there staring at me for a few desperate moments before devising a reason as to why I had to go out and assist their cause. " But we can't find the stakes that hold the water slide down." they told me. "Then use rocks" I replied, silently praising my own ingenious for having come up with such an idea. The boy's just stared some more and blinked alot. After a while one of them cautiously asked, "but...won't rocks hurt if we bang into them?"
"Yes," I declared, "especially if you bang them with your heads." Simple enough, but they still stood there looking confused. When I offered nothing more in the way of a solution, they just stood there looking at me as if I were crazy. Finally I said something mothers everywhere all feel like saying but seldom do; "Look," I began,"I was not put on this earth simply to provide children with their every whim and desire. I have a right to a life of my own to some degree. Now go outside and leave me alone for the rest of the day and do not come back in here and bother me again unless one of you breaks a bone or someone starts bleeding profusely or something is on fire." After that speech, the boys managed to set up the water slide without my help and even staked it into place using something other than rocks.
I know this behavior might be shocking to some mothers, but on the other hand it may give some a sense of relief. Maybe there are other women out there who have at last realized that there only objective in life is not to serve their children's every wish and tickle every fancy. But this is not all. I have also noticed that along with getting a backbone, I am now demanding that my children actually serve and help me for a change. I am doing this by any means possible. I am beginning to insist that the teenagers be out of bed before noon and get their chores done before the end of the world. This morning when one of my teenagers refused to get up by the appointed time, I woke her up by sucking her nose into the vacuum hose. She was mad at me at first and tried to express her fury with words, but the suction of the vacuum prevented her from making any sense. I highly recommend this method to anyone with similar issues.
Now before you judge me too harshly, you need to remember that none of this means that I don't love children, especially my own. I have simply discovered that I have a right to a life now and then. You know, you give any kid an inch and they'll take a mile. I'm probably guilty of allowing my kids to take more than a mile where I am concerned so I'm just trying to balance the scales a bit. Besides, no one ever takes me too seriously around here and it's mostly all fun and games-until someone loses an eye. Or maybe a nose.
Sunday
Like-ish is not a real language.
Our teenage girls have their own language which I believe can only be understood by other teenagers. This language, known as "Like-ish", is sweeping the Nation, and if we Americans do not put our collective feet down, Like-ish will soon become the number one language spoken in our Country and we will all be forced to speak it. Soon we will be calling our children to dinner by saying; "Like, dinner's ready-ish!" and when trying to enforce a curfew we will have to say something such as "I want you like, home by like, ten-ish" which sounds as if you are giving your child permission to be home anytime between nine and eleven.
I think these teenagers are much smarter than they would have us believe. They invented this kind of language on purpose, thinking that if they could get the adults around them to start speaking it, they would have far more freedom. For example, your teenage daughter comes to you with her report card and you see that she is failing several classes to which you respond; "Like, you are grounded-ish until you like, get these grades up and stuff!" This just doesn't sound like you mean it, so the child can throw it all back at you when they tell you that you didn't make your demands clear to them; " I like, thought grounded-ish meant that I could like go to Sally's since she just lives like three block's away." Sally actually lives twelve miles from your home, and your child knows this, but by intelligently inserting the word 'like' in her geographical description, your child has given herself an out. "Sally lives twelve miles away, not three blocks!" you inform her. "Mom, I said she lives like three blocks away, meaning it feels like three blocks when you drive fast. Besides, your the one who said I was "like" grounded-"ish". How am I supposed to know what that means?"
If these teenagers are our future leaders and they continue speaking this language, this "like-ish" stuff could end up getting the whole Country into alot of trouble. Just imagine the impact this language will have on our justice system if a Judge were to give the death sentence to a serial killer by saying, "Serial killer-ish dude, you have been found like guilty-ish and are hereby like, sentenced to death by like, the electric chair where alot of volt thingies will go through your body and stuff and like, kill you until you are like, dead-ish. " What would happen if our traffic signs were changed to say "STOP-ISH" and the speed limit signs were changed to say "Like 25-ish" ? A crisis is brewing here people. We need to do something, and fast. Just the other day I witnessed our daughters Dallas and Maddie having the following conversation: "Did mom buy anymore of those toaster thingies?"
"What toaster thingies?"
"You know those like, pastry-ish things."
"Those things in the blue box?"
"Umm. No, they're in a kind of like yellow-ish tan-ish pink-ish box."
"Oh, they're in the freezer. Oh guess what Dalley! Guess who I talked to for like seven hundred years last night?"
"Bob?"
"No..."
"Ted?"
"Nooo. Mack!" (I've changed some names here)
"Oh my gosh! Like, you did? What did he say? Do you like, like him and stuff?"
"I think we're like, just really good friends and stuff."
"So like, what did you guy's talk about?"
" We talked about eeeverything! We like talked about like really cool and deep stuff ya know? He's just like, like this really sensitive nice guy and he's like sooo open about his feelings and stuff and he's just really really cool. He wants to get a bullet bike and, oh my gosh Dalley! Look outside! Nellie Furtado is stuck in the tree again!" (Nellie is our neighbors cat but our girls call her Nellie Furtado, after the singer. She's always getting stuck in our tree.) Dallas flings a window open and calls outside to Nellie in a monster voice, "AAhh! Nellie Furtado! You are like so crazy-ish and fat-ish!"
"Why is she fat-ish?" Maddie asks
"Because she's not as fat as Bella." Dallas tells her. Bella is our 7 year old Siamese cat who we named long before the Twilight saga began, in case you were wondering.
"Nellie has such long leg-ish thingies!" Dallas says, then goes back into her gravely monster voice, "Aahh! Nellie Furtado!"
"Aaahh! Nellie Furtado!" Now both girls sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger leaning out the window yelling like monsters,
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Fur-taco! Aahh!"
"Aahh!"
"Gedt oudt of dat tree!"
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Furtado get down! Aahh!"
"Aahh, get down Nellie furry taco-ish thing!"
"Raaah! Don't panic Nellie!"
"Don't panic!"
And so it goes. I'm not sure we can trust our futures to people like this.
I personally have tried to make a difference in our Country's future by using a trick practiced by many heads of government: Bribery. I offered to pay my teenage daughter Twenty bucks if she could go a whole day without saying the word "like". She failed miserably as soon as her friend Kim called; "Kimmy! Like, I just tried to call you! You must be like psycho or something! And guess what Joe said last night! He like said this and this and like then he said blah blah blah and then he came over and I was all like 'hi' and stuff and he was all like 'hi' and stuff and then we like went outside and like sat on like the like porch and like like like..." Geeze. Before you know it, we are going to have a female President who speaks Austrian monster like-ish. "Aahh! We like, hab da Powah to like change dis Country for da beddah and stuff! We can like, doo et yoo guy's! Aahh-ish! Kitty, gedt down! Ther's a kidten stuck ind dat tree! Don't panic!"
Oh my.
I think these teenagers are much smarter than they would have us believe. They invented this kind of language on purpose, thinking that if they could get the adults around them to start speaking it, they would have far more freedom. For example, your teenage daughter comes to you with her report card and you see that she is failing several classes to which you respond; "Like, you are grounded-ish until you like, get these grades up and stuff!" This just doesn't sound like you mean it, so the child can throw it all back at you when they tell you that you didn't make your demands clear to them; " I like, thought grounded-ish meant that I could like go to Sally's since she just lives like three block's away." Sally actually lives twelve miles from your home, and your child knows this, but by intelligently inserting the word 'like' in her geographical description, your child has given herself an out. "Sally lives twelve miles away, not three blocks!" you inform her. "Mom, I said she lives like three blocks away, meaning it feels like three blocks when you drive fast. Besides, your the one who said I was "like" grounded-"ish". How am I supposed to know what that means?"
If these teenagers are our future leaders and they continue speaking this language, this "like-ish" stuff could end up getting the whole Country into alot of trouble. Just imagine the impact this language will have on our justice system if a Judge were to give the death sentence to a serial killer by saying, "Serial killer-ish dude, you have been found like guilty-ish and are hereby like, sentenced to death by like, the electric chair where alot of volt thingies will go through your body and stuff and like, kill you until you are like, dead-ish. " What would happen if our traffic signs were changed to say "STOP-ISH" and the speed limit signs were changed to say "Like 25-ish" ? A crisis is brewing here people. We need to do something, and fast. Just the other day I witnessed our daughters Dallas and Maddie having the following conversation: "Did mom buy anymore of those toaster thingies?"
"What toaster thingies?"
"You know those like, pastry-ish things."
"Those things in the blue box?"
"Umm. No, they're in a kind of like yellow-ish tan-ish pink-ish box."
"Oh, they're in the freezer. Oh guess what Dalley! Guess who I talked to for like seven hundred years last night?"
"Bob?"
"No..."
"Ted?"
"Nooo. Mack!" (I've changed some names here)
"Oh my gosh! Like, you did? What did he say? Do you like, like him and stuff?"
"I think we're like, just really good friends and stuff."
"So like, what did you guy's talk about?"
" We talked about eeeverything! We like talked about like really cool and deep stuff ya know? He's just like, like this really sensitive nice guy and he's like sooo open about his feelings and stuff and he's just really really cool. He wants to get a bullet bike and, oh my gosh Dalley! Look outside! Nellie Furtado is stuck in the tree again!" (Nellie is our neighbors cat but our girls call her Nellie Furtado, after the singer. She's always getting stuck in our tree.) Dallas flings a window open and calls outside to Nellie in a monster voice, "AAhh! Nellie Furtado! You are like so crazy-ish and fat-ish!"
"Why is she fat-ish?" Maddie asks
"Because she's not as fat as Bella." Dallas tells her. Bella is our 7 year old Siamese cat who we named long before the Twilight saga began, in case you were wondering.
"Nellie has such long leg-ish thingies!" Dallas says, then goes back into her gravely monster voice, "Aahh! Nellie Furtado!"
"Aaahh! Nellie Furtado!" Now both girls sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger leaning out the window yelling like monsters,
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Fur-taco! Aahh!"
"Aahh!"
"Gedt oudt of dat tree!"
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Furtado get down! Aahh!"
"Aahh, get down Nellie furry taco-ish thing!"
"Raaah! Don't panic Nellie!"
"Don't panic!"
And so it goes. I'm not sure we can trust our futures to people like this.
I personally have tried to make a difference in our Country's future by using a trick practiced by many heads of government: Bribery. I offered to pay my teenage daughter Twenty bucks if she could go a whole day without saying the word "like". She failed miserably as soon as her friend Kim called; "Kimmy! Like, I just tried to call you! You must be like psycho or something! And guess what Joe said last night! He like said this and this and like then he said blah blah blah and then he came over and I was all like 'hi' and stuff and he was all like 'hi' and stuff and then we like went outside and like sat on like the like porch and like like like..." Geeze. Before you know it, we are going to have a female President who speaks Austrian monster like-ish. "Aahh! We like, hab da Powah to like change dis Country for da beddah and stuff! We can like, doo et yoo guy's! Aahh-ish! Kitty, gedt down! Ther's a kidten stuck ind dat tree! Don't panic!"
Oh my.
Thursday
Ode to a Mexican Vampire
Here we go again. Just when I thought it was safe to go to sleep and stay asleep, I was once again very rudely awakened. Last night around midnight, one of the many daughters in this house decided that she needed to wake me up in order to ask me a very important question: "Are the tortillas in the fridge still good?"
Me: "Are you kidding me?"
Daughter: "Well, I looked at the expiration date on the package, but it was blurry."
Me: " What?"
Daughter: "I couldn't tell what it said, I don't have my contacts in."
Me: "That means it's way too late to be eating tortillas."
Daughter:"Can I go to the store to buy more?"
Me: " You mean go to the store for tortillas right now?"
Daughter: " I need tortillas."
Me: "Were you planning to make pajamas out of them?"
Daughter: "Mom..."
Me: "Daughter..."
Daughter: "Mmahomm."
Me: "Dauhhhghter."
Daughter: "Mom, yes or no?"
Me: "Yes or no what?"
Daughter: "What?"
Me: "Yes or no what?!"
Daughter: "Yes or no can I go to the store?"
Doug: "NO! No, you cannot go to the store, you cannot go anywhere and you cannot wake your mother and me up to ask about tortillas!"
Daughter: "Dad, this has nothing to do with you, I was asking mom."
Me: "Yeah Doug, this has nothing to do with you. This ridiculous conversation is just for mothers and daughters. You know nothing about the condition of a tortilla."
Doug: "Thank goodness."
Daughter: "Whatever, I'll just eat something else."
Me: "Why aren't you out hunting humans with the rest of the Vampires? They're the only ones who eat this late."
Daughter: "I wanted Mexican food." She says, and leaves the room.
Me: "Holy cow! I will never sleep in this house!"
Doug: " It smells like dog poop."
Me: "Oh for Pete's sake. Why do you think everything smells like dog poop? Did you brush your teeth?"
Doug: "What!? The dog pee'd on the sheets?!"
Me: "That is not what I said."
Doug: "Who's dead?"
Me: "Douglas!Go to sleep! You are so deaf! Geeze!"
Doug: "It doesn't smell like cheese, it smells like dog poop."
Me (laughing) : "You are sooo deaf."
Doug: "What?"
The end.
Me: "Are you kidding me?"
Daughter: "Well, I looked at the expiration date on the package, but it was blurry."
Me: " What?"
Daughter: "I couldn't tell what it said, I don't have my contacts in."
Me: "That means it's way too late to be eating tortillas."
Daughter:"Can I go to the store to buy more?"
Me: " You mean go to the store for tortillas right now?"
Daughter: " I need tortillas."
Me: "Were you planning to make pajamas out of them?"
Daughter: "Mom..."
Me: "Daughter..."
Daughter: "Mmahomm."
Me: "Dauhhhghter."
Daughter: "Mom, yes or no?"
Me: "Yes or no what?"
Daughter: "What?"
Me: "Yes or no what?!"
Daughter: "Yes or no can I go to the store?"
Doug: "NO! No, you cannot go to the store, you cannot go anywhere and you cannot wake your mother and me up to ask about tortillas!"
Daughter: "Dad, this has nothing to do with you, I was asking mom."
Me: "Yeah Doug, this has nothing to do with you. This ridiculous conversation is just for mothers and daughters. You know nothing about the condition of a tortilla."
Doug: "Thank goodness."
Daughter: "Whatever, I'll just eat something else."
Me: "Why aren't you out hunting humans with the rest of the Vampires? They're the only ones who eat this late."
Daughter: "I wanted Mexican food." She says, and leaves the room.
Me: "Holy cow! I will never sleep in this house!"
Doug: " It smells like dog poop."
Me: "Oh for Pete's sake. Why do you think everything smells like dog poop? Did you brush your teeth?"
Doug: "What!? The dog pee'd on the sheets?!"
Me: "That is not what I said."
Doug: "Who's dead?"
Me: "Douglas!Go to sleep! You are so deaf! Geeze!"
Doug: "It doesn't smell like cheese, it smells like dog poop."
Me (laughing) : "You are sooo deaf."
Doug: "What?"
The end.
Sunday
IDGIT-ITIS is not contagious
I imagine you must be wondering if I had run out of brilliant true stories to tell you, but alas, I have more than enough stories to fill a lifetime and so, here is yet another one.
This time I am going to take you back to many moons ago, way back to 1981 when I was just 13 years old. I guess it could have been '82 now that I think about it, but the older I make myself in this story the more idiotic I look to the outside world. Hmm. Wait...I suddenly realized that during the course of the writing of this blog all I have managed to do is make myself look incredibly idiotic so I suppose it matters not one bit whether I was 13 or 14 at the time this incident took place, as there would be many more times in my future life that I would have the opportunity to be ridiculous.
I must first preface by telling you that I was prompted to write about this incident when Doug brought home two (almost) new scooters last week that he had acquired through one of our tenants who no longer had a need for them. Doug, seeing that we have several teenagers, found it highly probable that someone at our house might want to ride them around town so he bought them. After expressions of glee by all the children still living at home, Doug took the younger ones across the street to the high school parking lot for a tutorial on proper riding. I wondered over later with the intention of just watching them but found myself on the back of one of the scooters-about to relive my experience from the early eighties which was the first and last time I have ever attempted to ride a motorcycle.
As a girl growing up with a bunch of brothers, I was forced to put up with all kinds of garbage, like being forced to learn how to ride dirt bikes. Well okay, 'forced' probably isn't quite the right word. Actually, I begged my older brother to teach me how to ride because I wanted to go out and experience for myself what seemed to drive the men in my family to near drunken excitement when it came to anything loud and possessing it's own motor.
With as little enthusiasm as he could muster, my older brother reluctantly took me out to the back yard to teach me the logistics of riding such a machine. There was alot to think about. The clutch had to be let out slowly while the gas had to be given gradually at the same time. I learned about shifting gears, where the brakes were etc. Finally I climbed on and kicked that puppy to life, extremely proud of myself for doing so on the first or second try. Then came the hard part. I kept killing the motor by letting the clutch out too fast and not giving it enough gas. Over and over I had to restart the bike while my increasingly impatient brother kept reminding me that the key was to slowly let off the clutch. I was fantastic at listening, because after that I just kept giving the bike lots of gas, revving up the engine and then letting the clutch out way too fast and killing the machine.
After about the seventy-fourth try, I was sure I had the concept down. I started up the bike and held on tight to the clutch, gave it a little gas, a little more, and then let out the clutch gradually, slowly. I gassed it a bit more, one hand on the gas, one hand on the clutch, letting it out slow, feet in position, ready to shift...all at once I got brave and let the clutch out way too fast while giving it way too much gas. The bike sputtered but shot forward and took off like a rocket. I had finally done it, the bike was moving fast, the only problem this time was that I was no longer on the bike. My hands were still holding tight to the handlebars, inadvertently pulling on the gas, but the rest of my body was running wildly behind it trying to keep up, screaming frantically while my brother stood by yelling "Let go of the gas you idgit!"
Around and around the backyard I ran, holding onto the bike for all I was worth, screaming "Ah! Ah! Ah!Ah!" in short little bursts of terror, and all that time my brother just kept yelling at me to let go of the gas. A simple thing really, to let go of the gas. The bike would just stop moving then. But I just could not do this no matter how I tried. You see, after careful analyzation of this procedure, it has dawned on me that when a person is truly terrified, the tendency seems to be that they tense up, therefore causing ones hands to ball into fists. I believe this to be the phenomena that I experienced that day, so I really couldn't help it. In fact, the more frightened I became, the more my hands would tighten up and the faster the bike would go until I was screaming at a fevered pitch, unable to keep my wildly running legs up to speed. I finally let go of the bike out of sheer exhaustion. It crashed into the back of the house and fell over like a dead dog. Needless to say, my desire to ride a motorcycle never resurfaced and my brother called me an idgit (whatever that meant) for the next two months. So, the other day when I found myself on the back of one of the new scooters, I was reminded of this experience when I suddenly realized that I was headed straight for a fence. I was able to stop myself just in time but I realized with horror that I was again experiencing the same strange problem I had in my youth which I have now named "idgit-itis". Apparently I am the only person in the U.S who suffers from this dreaded disease. Lucky me.
P.S. - My brother has just informed me that I failed to spell the word 'idgit' correctly so I have gone back and edited that word, but I would also like to tell my brother that I did a spell check on that word and it was not a word that is recognized by the spell checking system, which simply tells me that people who know how to spell bad words are dumb. The end.
This time I am going to take you back to many moons ago, way back to 1981 when I was just 13 years old. I guess it could have been '82 now that I think about it, but the older I make myself in this story the more idiotic I look to the outside world. Hmm. Wait...I suddenly realized that during the course of the writing of this blog all I have managed to do is make myself look incredibly idiotic so I suppose it matters not one bit whether I was 13 or 14 at the time this incident took place, as there would be many more times in my future life that I would have the opportunity to be ridiculous.
I must first preface by telling you that I was prompted to write about this incident when Doug brought home two (almost) new scooters last week that he had acquired through one of our tenants who no longer had a need for them. Doug, seeing that we have several teenagers, found it highly probable that someone at our house might want to ride them around town so he bought them. After expressions of glee by all the children still living at home, Doug took the younger ones across the street to the high school parking lot for a tutorial on proper riding. I wondered over later with the intention of just watching them but found myself on the back of one of the scooters-about to relive my experience from the early eighties which was the first and last time I have ever attempted to ride a motorcycle.
As a girl growing up with a bunch of brothers, I was forced to put up with all kinds of garbage, like being forced to learn how to ride dirt bikes. Well okay, 'forced' probably isn't quite the right word. Actually, I begged my older brother to teach me how to ride because I wanted to go out and experience for myself what seemed to drive the men in my family to near drunken excitement when it came to anything loud and possessing it's own motor.
With as little enthusiasm as he could muster, my older brother reluctantly took me out to the back yard to teach me the logistics of riding such a machine. There was alot to think about. The clutch had to be let out slowly while the gas had to be given gradually at the same time. I learned about shifting gears, where the brakes were etc. Finally I climbed on and kicked that puppy to life, extremely proud of myself for doing so on the first or second try. Then came the hard part. I kept killing the motor by letting the clutch out too fast and not giving it enough gas. Over and over I had to restart the bike while my increasingly impatient brother kept reminding me that the key was to slowly let off the clutch. I was fantastic at listening, because after that I just kept giving the bike lots of gas, revving up the engine and then letting the clutch out way too fast and killing the machine.
After about the seventy-fourth try, I was sure I had the concept down. I started up the bike and held on tight to the clutch, gave it a little gas, a little more, and then let out the clutch gradually, slowly. I gassed it a bit more, one hand on the gas, one hand on the clutch, letting it out slow, feet in position, ready to shift...all at once I got brave and let the clutch out way too fast while giving it way too much gas. The bike sputtered but shot forward and took off like a rocket. I had finally done it, the bike was moving fast, the only problem this time was that I was no longer on the bike. My hands were still holding tight to the handlebars, inadvertently pulling on the gas, but the rest of my body was running wildly behind it trying to keep up, screaming frantically while my brother stood by yelling "Let go of the gas you idgit!"
Around and around the backyard I ran, holding onto the bike for all I was worth, screaming "Ah! Ah! Ah!Ah!" in short little bursts of terror, and all that time my brother just kept yelling at me to let go of the gas. A simple thing really, to let go of the gas. The bike would just stop moving then. But I just could not do this no matter how I tried. You see, after careful analyzation of this procedure, it has dawned on me that when a person is truly terrified, the tendency seems to be that they tense up, therefore causing ones hands to ball into fists. I believe this to be the phenomena that I experienced that day, so I really couldn't help it. In fact, the more frightened I became, the more my hands would tighten up and the faster the bike would go until I was screaming at a fevered pitch, unable to keep my wildly running legs up to speed. I finally let go of the bike out of sheer exhaustion. It crashed into the back of the house and fell over like a dead dog. Needless to say, my desire to ride a motorcycle never resurfaced and my brother called me an idgit (whatever that meant) for the next two months. So, the other day when I found myself on the back of one of the new scooters, I was reminded of this experience when I suddenly realized that I was headed straight for a fence. I was able to stop myself just in time but I realized with horror that I was again experiencing the same strange problem I had in my youth which I have now named "idgit-itis". Apparently I am the only person in the U.S who suffers from this dreaded disease. Lucky me.
P.S. - My brother has just informed me that I failed to spell the word 'idgit' correctly so I have gone back and edited that word, but I would also like to tell my brother that I did a spell check on that word and it was not a word that is recognized by the spell checking system, which simply tells me that people who know how to spell bad words are dumb. The end.
Friday
The trouble with saving people's lives is that they might return the favor.
If we are to really get acquainted, there are a few things you need to know about my husband. First, he is twelve years my senior (which does not give him the right to boss me, but that's a story for another time.) I was just 21 years old when we got married. But I saw this tall, handsome guy at the gym one day and that was it, I was done.
The next thing you should know about Doug is that he'd already had a brief encounter with marriage before we'd ever met, bless his heart. His first marriage lasted less than five years, but produced a son that made the whole thing worth while. The most unfortunate part of his first marriage, for me anyway, is that it took quite awhile for the word to get out among his peers that he was no longer married to his former wife. Despite the fact that there were six years between his divorce and the time that we met, there were still those few people who knew Doug when he was married to his first wife that had never received the news that they'd divorced. You need to understand that Doug knows almost everybody on planet Earth. This I'm quite sure, is because he is more personable and friendly than anyone I've ever known. I'm not kidding when I say that we can't enter a store, go to a movie, a restaurant or on vacation to Florida without Doug running into someone he knows well enough to keep all of us waiting while they chit-chat. It's become the family joke, even my mother teases him about it.
Sometimes Doug runs into an old friend and gets so involved in catching up that he neglects to introduce me. I hate this because it usually forces me to introduce myself, which I will do rather than stand there like some stranger who's just invited herself to listen in on someones conversation. It wasn't this way when we were first married. It took certain experiences before I realized that if Doug wasn't going to tell people who I was, then I had to do it myself.
If you have been keeping up, you'll remember that I saved Doug's life one night. Well as luck would have it, while I was pregnant with a subsequent child, Doug got to return the favor.
You see, I was probably about seven months pregnant when one day we thought it would be nice to take the kids out for pizza. Now prepare yourselves, because we are going to enter a restaurant which means Doug will be running into someone he knows and this incident will lead to something very dreadful.
We walked into the restaurant and almost immediately Doug sees a long lost friend. They get talking and Doug forgets that I'm even there. I felt extra dumb because being seven months pregnant, you automatically feel ugly and fragile. This is a time when an otherwise assertive woman finds herself very uncomfortable being assertive, so rather than introduce myself I just walked away to attend to the children. I ordered the pizza, got the kids settled and kept looking over at Doug who had slowly found his way to the table while still yapping on with his buddy- who's family was seated across from us. These two were deeply engrossed in their conversation, but every time I looked up, Doug's friend would look at me with a most perplexed expression and it finally dawned on me what this guy must be wondering. This guy had known Doug when he was married to Allison and he hadn't seen him since before their divorce years earlier. He had no idea who I was. Imagine what this must have looked like to him, Doug there with this young pregnant woman and three little girls, clearly not Allison and their son. He didn't know what to think. When there was a slight break in the conversation and Doug finally turned around, I gave him the devil about it. "Why didn't you introduce me so this guy knows that I'm your wife? He keeps looking at me funny!" I whispered. Doug looked over and Saw his friend (We'll call him Dean) involved with his own family. "Well, he's busy with his family now." Doug says, not wanting to interrupt them. The pizza comes but Dean starts talking to Doug from across the table again, so Doug turns his attention away from us and starts into another lengthy discussion, again not taking the time to introduce me or his family. I'm starting to get upset and a little embarrassed as I see that Dean is obviously looking at me with eager anticipation, waiting for Doug to at last put his curiosity at rest. This is when things really get ugly. In a huff I nudge at Doug's leg under the table, a reminder that I am there and he needs to acknowledge it out loud. He only turns long enough to glance at me, and then responds to Dean's remark with a hearty laugh. The reminiscence goes on without my involvement and by now I am fuming. I pick up a slice of pizza and take a huge bite out of it, chopping down on it in anger. It's way too big, and there is far too much cheese to swallow and it goes down my throat in a lump and stays lodged there. I try to swallow hard, but it won't go down. It only takes a minute for me to realize that I am no longer able to breathe and I begin to panic. I stretch out my neck and try to spit it out, but it's stuck good. I try to cough, nothing. No sound even comes out of my mouth. I am choking, and all the while my husband is going on and on laughing and talking to his friend, paying no attention at all to what's happening right under his nose. I grab my throat in the "universal" choking sign and slide my chair back, finally catching the attention of my children. They start calling out "Dad!" while I begin slapping my hand down on the table to get him to notice me. I get the attention of Dean, who then points out to Doug that I am turning blue. Finally catching his attention, Doug jumps up and moves quickly around the table toward me. By now tears are streaming down my face. Doug gets behind me and locks his arms around my rib cage, under my chest and just above my pregnant belly. He gives me a squeeze, but nothing comes up. Another, nothing. The third time, he really puts some effort into it and pulls his fists hard up under my chest. The air forces the soggy pizza up from my throat and hurls it onto the table in front of us with a thud. Humiliated, I gasp for air and collapse back into the chair. I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth and when I look up, I see the stares of nearly everyone in the room which just embarrasses me even more. I just want to get my children and go home. The mushy soggy mass that had been lodged in my throat was now in the middle of the table. Doug leans over my chair, "You okay?" he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. I'm so full of emotions and hormones I can barley speak but I manage to spit out a few raspy words under my breath; "You make me sit here like a dummy while you yammer on with your long lost boyfriend who has no idea that you are remarried and you don't even bother to introduce me. Now everyone in here is looking at me and that gross wad of pizza. I'm a complete spectacle with snot and tears running down my face but your friend still has no idea who I am!" Doug looks up and realizes that Dean is watching us and It finally occurs to him that I'm right. "By the way Dean," he says, pointing at me, "this is my wife, Stephanie."
The next thing you should know about Doug is that he'd already had a brief encounter with marriage before we'd ever met, bless his heart. His first marriage lasted less than five years, but produced a son that made the whole thing worth while. The most unfortunate part of his first marriage, for me anyway, is that it took quite awhile for the word to get out among his peers that he was no longer married to his former wife. Despite the fact that there were six years between his divorce and the time that we met, there were still those few people who knew Doug when he was married to his first wife that had never received the news that they'd divorced. You need to understand that Doug knows almost everybody on planet Earth. This I'm quite sure, is because he is more personable and friendly than anyone I've ever known. I'm not kidding when I say that we can't enter a store, go to a movie, a restaurant or on vacation to Florida without Doug running into someone he knows well enough to keep all of us waiting while they chit-chat. It's become the family joke, even my mother teases him about it.
Sometimes Doug runs into an old friend and gets so involved in catching up that he neglects to introduce me. I hate this because it usually forces me to introduce myself, which I will do rather than stand there like some stranger who's just invited herself to listen in on someones conversation. It wasn't this way when we were first married. It took certain experiences before I realized that if Doug wasn't going to tell people who I was, then I had to do it myself.
If you have been keeping up, you'll remember that I saved Doug's life one night. Well as luck would have it, while I was pregnant with a subsequent child, Doug got to return the favor.
You see, I was probably about seven months pregnant when one day we thought it would be nice to take the kids out for pizza. Now prepare yourselves, because we are going to enter a restaurant which means Doug will be running into someone he knows and this incident will lead to something very dreadful.
We walked into the restaurant and almost immediately Doug sees a long lost friend. They get talking and Doug forgets that I'm even there. I felt extra dumb because being seven months pregnant, you automatically feel ugly and fragile. This is a time when an otherwise assertive woman finds herself very uncomfortable being assertive, so rather than introduce myself I just walked away to attend to the children. I ordered the pizza, got the kids settled and kept looking over at Doug who had slowly found his way to the table while still yapping on with his buddy- who's family was seated across from us. These two were deeply engrossed in their conversation, but every time I looked up, Doug's friend would look at me with a most perplexed expression and it finally dawned on me what this guy must be wondering. This guy had known Doug when he was married to Allison and he hadn't seen him since before their divorce years earlier. He had no idea who I was. Imagine what this must have looked like to him, Doug there with this young pregnant woman and three little girls, clearly not Allison and their son. He didn't know what to think. When there was a slight break in the conversation and Doug finally turned around, I gave him the devil about it. "Why didn't you introduce me so this guy knows that I'm your wife? He keeps looking at me funny!" I whispered. Doug looked over and Saw his friend (We'll call him Dean) involved with his own family. "Well, he's busy with his family now." Doug says, not wanting to interrupt them. The pizza comes but Dean starts talking to Doug from across the table again, so Doug turns his attention away from us and starts into another lengthy discussion, again not taking the time to introduce me or his family. I'm starting to get upset and a little embarrassed as I see that Dean is obviously looking at me with eager anticipation, waiting for Doug to at last put his curiosity at rest. This is when things really get ugly. In a huff I nudge at Doug's leg under the table, a reminder that I am there and he needs to acknowledge it out loud. He only turns long enough to glance at me, and then responds to Dean's remark with a hearty laugh. The reminiscence goes on without my involvement and by now I am fuming. I pick up a slice of pizza and take a huge bite out of it, chopping down on it in anger. It's way too big, and there is far too much cheese to swallow and it goes down my throat in a lump and stays lodged there. I try to swallow hard, but it won't go down. It only takes a minute for me to realize that I am no longer able to breathe and I begin to panic. I stretch out my neck and try to spit it out, but it's stuck good. I try to cough, nothing. No sound even comes out of my mouth. I am choking, and all the while my husband is going on and on laughing and talking to his friend, paying no attention at all to what's happening right under his nose. I grab my throat in the "universal" choking sign and slide my chair back, finally catching the attention of my children. They start calling out "Dad!" while I begin slapping my hand down on the table to get him to notice me. I get the attention of Dean, who then points out to Doug that I am turning blue. Finally catching his attention, Doug jumps up and moves quickly around the table toward me. By now tears are streaming down my face. Doug gets behind me and locks his arms around my rib cage, under my chest and just above my pregnant belly. He gives me a squeeze, but nothing comes up. Another, nothing. The third time, he really puts some effort into it and pulls his fists hard up under my chest. The air forces the soggy pizza up from my throat and hurls it onto the table in front of us with a thud. Humiliated, I gasp for air and collapse back into the chair. I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth and when I look up, I see the stares of nearly everyone in the room which just embarrasses me even more. I just want to get my children and go home. The mushy soggy mass that had been lodged in my throat was now in the middle of the table. Doug leans over my chair, "You okay?" he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. I'm so full of emotions and hormones I can barley speak but I manage to spit out a few raspy words under my breath; "You make me sit here like a dummy while you yammer on with your long lost boyfriend who has no idea that you are remarried and you don't even bother to introduce me. Now everyone in here is looking at me and that gross wad of pizza. I'm a complete spectacle with snot and tears running down my face but your friend still has no idea who I am!" Doug looks up and realizes that Dean is watching us and It finally occurs to him that I'm right. "By the way Dean," he says, pointing at me, "this is my wife, Stephanie."
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