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."
Monday
Superman couldn't fly either, if he was pregnant.
Just over 15 years ago I was very pregnant with daughter #3, and due to the fact that I'm virtually hip-less, my babies never had any choice but to stick way out front. This caused an array of problems for me, some obvious one's (like wearing two completely different shoes without knowing it) and some not so obvious, like finding it more difficult to save peoples lives.
I say this because if you have ever had the opportunity to save someones life, you will understand the complexities of performing such a task. First of all, when the opportunity to "save" someone arises, most of the time you are totally unprepared for it. Secondly, once you have had the chance to gather you're faculties and have become fully aware of the situation, you find yourself already right in the middle of it and realize that you have been working on auto-pilot without really thinking. This is what happened when I had to save Doug's life one night.
As you recall, I was super pregnant, like due in five minutes or something like that. It was late and we were getting ready to go to bed when Doug asked; "What was that joke your dad was telling you yesterday?"
"Just the one about the guy with a wooden eye who goes to a dance and see's a girl with a club foot, so he asks her if she wants to dance and she says 'would I! would I!' and he gets offended and calls her 'hare-lip, hare-lip'. " I tell him.
"What does a hare-lip have to do with it if she has a club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know, maybe she was born with a cleft pallet." I say. "Huh. Why didn't he call her club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know. It's dumb. Goodnight..." and with that we fell asleep.
Now, if you have read my other posts you are aware that nothing ever happens at our house unless it's the middle of the night, so much later on in the middle of the night, after I was completely asleep and not aware that Doug had gotten up for some reason, I was awakened by a thunderous crash. Anyone who knows Doug also knows he is 6 ft. 6 and not a little sissy boy. When he fell, the house almost came down. It was so loud the shock of it jolted me awake instantly. In less than a second my brain tallied up the facts: Doug was on the floor possibly having a heart attack, it was pitch black outside and my bladder was so full I had to consider running to the bathroom first. Luckily my auto-pilot kicked in and I shot like a dart from my side of the bed with super-human speed. I didn't actually get out of the bed because it seemed much more reasonable to just scamper on all fours from one side of the bed to the other. Walking is one of those things that pregnant women just become accustomed to not doing. I had gradually, over the course of nine months, found myself doing everything to avoid actually standing up, and this time was no different. I scrambled up and across the bed so fast I found myself actually gliding on my pregnant belly (which was now playing the role of a bowling ball) and as if I had no control over my limbs whatsoever, my arms flew straight out in front of me making me all the more aerodynamic, like superman, if you can believe that. It's just incredible how easy flying can be when you really put your back into it. I couldn't stop no matter what I did, and there was hardly time to come up with a good plan for a crash landing while still keeping the little passenger intact. All I really know is that I was sleeping, and then I was scampering, and then I was sliding, and then I was flying and it wasn't until I was in mid-air that I realized I was going to land (hard) on something, and that something was Doug- who's life I was supposed to be saving. All of the sudden time slowed way down and I was floating in mid-air for a moment, long enough to figure out that if I turned halfway really quick and pulled my knees up, I could at the very least save the life of my unborn child. So that's what I did. Twisting and tucking in mid-air, I landed on Doug who had simply gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom, stood up too quickly and gotten dizzy. Not but three minutes had passed from the time we were both in bed. Now we lay together in a heap on the floor, Doug's face squashed against my belly, me stretched across him sideways holding the knee I had used to break my fall. We lay there in the stillness, Doug's breathing labored simply because I was suffocating him with my baby fat. Finally, a muffled voice came from out of the darkness:
"What the H--- are you doing?!" Doug asked as pointedly as he could through squished lips, "I'm saving your life! What the H--- are you doing?" I responded. With those questions out of the way we continued to lay there, stunned into dumb silence. At last I found the strength to get up off my husband, who by now looked almost dead. "Are you gonna get up?" I asked once I was on my feet, staring down at his lifeless form. "Should I? Maybe I should just sleep on the floor." He said without moving.
"Fine. I'll throw you a pillow." My knee was beginning to swell up and turn purple. I limped over to the edge of the bed and sat down. "Do you think the neighbors heard you fall? " I asked him, examining my knee, "It sounded like a bomb hit."
"I tried to lean against the wall, but it was further away than I realized." He explained, still stretched out on the floor.
"Aren't you glad I was here to resuscitate you?" I joked.
"You should have just let me die."
"Why would I do that?"
"You could've collected the insurance and saved your knee."
"Oh, I would never just let you die, would I? " I waited for a response. "Would I?" I asked again. Doug's voice trailed up from the floor, "Club foot, club foot."
I say this because if you have ever had the opportunity to save someones life, you will understand the complexities of performing such a task. First of all, when the opportunity to "save" someone arises, most of the time you are totally unprepared for it. Secondly, once you have had the chance to gather you're faculties and have become fully aware of the situation, you find yourself already right in the middle of it and realize that you have been working on auto-pilot without really thinking. This is what happened when I had to save Doug's life one night.
As you recall, I was super pregnant, like due in five minutes or something like that. It was late and we were getting ready to go to bed when Doug asked; "What was that joke your dad was telling you yesterday?"
"Just the one about the guy with a wooden eye who goes to a dance and see's a girl with a club foot, so he asks her if she wants to dance and she says 'would I! would I!' and he gets offended and calls her 'hare-lip, hare-lip'. " I tell him.
"What does a hare-lip have to do with it if she has a club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know, maybe she was born with a cleft pallet." I say. "Huh. Why didn't he call her club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know. It's dumb. Goodnight..." and with that we fell asleep.
Now, if you have read my other posts you are aware that nothing ever happens at our house unless it's the middle of the night, so much later on in the middle of the night, after I was completely asleep and not aware that Doug had gotten up for some reason, I was awakened by a thunderous crash. Anyone who knows Doug also knows he is 6 ft. 6 and not a little sissy boy. When he fell, the house almost came down. It was so loud the shock of it jolted me awake instantly. In less than a second my brain tallied up the facts: Doug was on the floor possibly having a heart attack, it was pitch black outside and my bladder was so full I had to consider running to the bathroom first. Luckily my auto-pilot kicked in and I shot like a dart from my side of the bed with super-human speed. I didn't actually get out of the bed because it seemed much more reasonable to just scamper on all fours from one side of the bed to the other. Walking is one of those things that pregnant women just become accustomed to not doing. I had gradually, over the course of nine months, found myself doing everything to avoid actually standing up, and this time was no different. I scrambled up and across the bed so fast I found myself actually gliding on my pregnant belly (which was now playing the role of a bowling ball) and as if I had no control over my limbs whatsoever, my arms flew straight out in front of me making me all the more aerodynamic, like superman, if you can believe that. It's just incredible how easy flying can be when you really put your back into it. I couldn't stop no matter what I did, and there was hardly time to come up with a good plan for a crash landing while still keeping the little passenger intact. All I really know is that I was sleeping, and then I was scampering, and then I was sliding, and then I was flying and it wasn't until I was in mid-air that I realized I was going to land (hard) on something, and that something was Doug- who's life I was supposed to be saving. All of the sudden time slowed way down and I was floating in mid-air for a moment, long enough to figure out that if I turned halfway really quick and pulled my knees up, I could at the very least save the life of my unborn child. So that's what I did. Twisting and tucking in mid-air, I landed on Doug who had simply gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom, stood up too quickly and gotten dizzy. Not but three minutes had passed from the time we were both in bed. Now we lay together in a heap on the floor, Doug's face squashed against my belly, me stretched across him sideways holding the knee I had used to break my fall. We lay there in the stillness, Doug's breathing labored simply because I was suffocating him with my baby fat. Finally, a muffled voice came from out of the darkness:
"What the H--- are you doing?!" Doug asked as pointedly as he could through squished lips, "I'm saving your life! What the H--- are you doing?" I responded. With those questions out of the way we continued to lay there, stunned into dumb silence. At last I found the strength to get up off my husband, who by now looked almost dead. "Are you gonna get up?" I asked once I was on my feet, staring down at his lifeless form. "Should I? Maybe I should just sleep on the floor." He said without moving.
"Fine. I'll throw you a pillow." My knee was beginning to swell up and turn purple. I limped over to the edge of the bed and sat down. "Do you think the neighbors heard you fall? " I asked him, examining my knee, "It sounded like a bomb hit."
"I tried to lean against the wall, but it was further away than I realized." He explained, still stretched out on the floor.
"Aren't you glad I was here to resuscitate you?" I joked.
"You should have just let me die."
"Why would I do that?"
"You could've collected the insurance and saved your knee."
"Oh, I would never just let you die, would I? " I waited for a response. "Would I?" I asked again. Doug's voice trailed up from the floor, "Club foot, club foot."
Thursday
Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses
Any woman who believes that beauty requires pain has never experienced the joy of just staying ugly. A few days ago, in an effort to keep up with the times in which we now live, I decided I should stop using regular razors and just go buy one of those new and improved techno-razors that everyone has been using forever. (Everyone except me, that is.) So, armed with the sharpest razor in the world, a can of tropical flavored shave gel and a guarantee that I would get the closest shave possible (according to the manufacturer) , I went into the bathroom and shaved my legs. Now, the promise that was made to me when I purchased this particular razor was that I would get the "closest" shave any razor has ever given to womankind, which is of course true, if your desire is to remove all the skin from your legs and yet still retain a fine layer of stubble. This razor did everything it promised; it shaved my legs and came very "close" to removing the hair also. But to make matters worse, I decided to be stupid and (thinking it would hide all the damage caused by the new razor) sprayed fake tan all over my legs which stung so bad it caused me to invent several new swear words that no one has ever heard before.
What is it with body hair that makes it attractive or unattractive? Leg hair is considered unattractive on women but not on men who, if they were to shave their legs, would be considered gay. Facial hair is like this also, women can't grow full beards and get away with it. Most people consider this ugly. Men who are capable of growing full beards are accepted among society as normal people and mostly not ugly unless they were ugly before they grew the beard, in which case facial hair doesn't really help.
My sister(who is married to the Secret Service as you will recall from a previous post) happens to think the Secret Service is more attractive (not that he wasn't before) with a beard. Apparently when the Secret Service grows a beard, he loses his boyish good looks and is instantly upgraded to "Hot". Put him in his classic black suit and tie, put a wire in his ear and throw on the government issued sunglasses and allegedly my sister melts like butter on a warm skillet.
Of course, all good things can become bad if they are overdone. ZZ-top's beards are not attractive unless you consider ZZ-top attractive, which I don't. Although, my Mother-in-law always maintained that there is a lid for every pot and this must be true as I have never known ZZ-top to have produced a music video that didn't feature women with long (neatly shaven) legs who seem to find those bearded dudes attractive. And, according to their song titled "Legs", ZZ-top ( ugly or not) suggest that they like women who have legs and know how to use them. This could only mean that people like me who shave with an ice pick still have a few things to learn about the proper care and function of legs.
The same idea that there is a lid for every pot holds especially true in cases like Abraham Boxwood (not his real name) , a man we were once acquainted with through business who had the biggest case of buck teeth I ever saw. One guy in the office mentioned that Abraham could've eaten corn through a fence with those teeth. They should have had their own zip code. His teeth would often arrive at business meetings five or ten minutes before Abraham and even begin taking notes for him. Abraham had a wife that we never had the opportunity to meet, but she must have found something about the poor guy attractive, though I'm not sure what it was. None the less, the saying "There's a lid for every pot" seems to hold true. A comforting thought to anyone out there who feels like a lid-less pot, or a pot-less lid for that matter. But there is another saying that I find to be the most comforting of all: Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses.
What is it with body hair that makes it attractive or unattractive? Leg hair is considered unattractive on women but not on men who, if they were to shave their legs, would be considered gay. Facial hair is like this also, women can't grow full beards and get away with it. Most people consider this ugly. Men who are capable of growing full beards are accepted among society as normal people and mostly not ugly unless they were ugly before they grew the beard, in which case facial hair doesn't really help.
My sister(who is married to the Secret Service as you will recall from a previous post) happens to think the Secret Service is more attractive (not that he wasn't before) with a beard. Apparently when the Secret Service grows a beard, he loses his boyish good looks and is instantly upgraded to "Hot". Put him in his classic black suit and tie, put a wire in his ear and throw on the government issued sunglasses and allegedly my sister melts like butter on a warm skillet.
Of course, all good things can become bad if they are overdone. ZZ-top's beards are not attractive unless you consider ZZ-top attractive, which I don't. Although, my Mother-in-law always maintained that there is a lid for every pot and this must be true as I have never known ZZ-top to have produced a music video that didn't feature women with long (neatly shaven) legs who seem to find those bearded dudes attractive. And, according to their song titled "Legs", ZZ-top ( ugly or not) suggest that they like women who have legs and know how to use them. This could only mean that people like me who shave with an ice pick still have a few things to learn about the proper care and function of legs.
The same idea that there is a lid for every pot holds especially true in cases like Abraham Boxwood (not his real name) , a man we were once acquainted with through business who had the biggest case of buck teeth I ever saw. One guy in the office mentioned that Abraham could've eaten corn through a fence with those teeth. They should have had their own zip code. His teeth would often arrive at business meetings five or ten minutes before Abraham and even begin taking notes for him. Abraham had a wife that we never had the opportunity to meet, but she must have found something about the poor guy attractive, though I'm not sure what it was. None the less, the saying "There's a lid for every pot" seems to hold true. A comforting thought to anyone out there who feels like a lid-less pot, or a pot-less lid for that matter. But there is another saying that I find to be the most comforting of all: Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses.
Tuesday
Attention all men named...
several weeks back, our daughter Briti got a call on her cell phone from a man with a very heavy accent. "A sphinctar?" he asked after she said hello,
"what?" she questioned back,
"A sphinctar?" he asked again, sounding cheery and upbeat.
"Excuse me?" came Briti's reply.
"As-sphinc-tar!" The man was clearly getting frustrated by then.
"A sphincter?" Briti asked, thinking this was surely a prank call.
"Es... Frrink... Der!!" The man finally enunciated much more slowly.
"Is Frank here?" Briti asked.
"Yah!" said the man with the accent, happy she finally understood. Unfortunately, he had the wrong number.
"what?" she questioned back,
"A sphinctar?" he asked again, sounding cheery and upbeat.
"Excuse me?" came Briti's reply.
"As-sphinc-tar!" The man was clearly getting frustrated by then.
"A sphincter?" Briti asked, thinking this was surely a prank call.
"Es... Frrink... Der!!" The man finally enunciated much more slowly.
"Is Frank here?" Briti asked.
"Yah!" said the man with the accent, happy she finally understood. Unfortunately, he had the wrong number.
Sunday
Oh Satan, you silly goose!
I would like to discuss with you a person of interest that most of us in society today find to be generally very unpleasant; Satan. Satan is considered a menace largely because he is one of the most annoying people anyone has ever encountered. Now, I make it a general rule of thumb to try not to gossip about other people in an effort to avoid hurting their feelings, but Satan doesn't count. We can gossip about Satan all day long if we want to, and never be brought to judgement for it. In fact, we are encouraged to warn people about Satan and even treat him very badly by making him leave the premises- and we're praised for doing so! Satan is the one person that we are supposed to be rude to, a concept rather hard to grasp by many, many people across the globe.
Satan is like the kid in the neighborhood that picks his nose and smells like tomato soup. Nobody really wants to be around him and you could say that right to his face but it never seems to sink in. He never gets the hint. He keeps showing up largely uninvited and wants to hang out. Parents really don't like their kids to hang out with Satan because they usually consider him to be a bad influence. Whenever kids are with him, they tend to get into trouble, and kids are the one's who usually have the hardest time being rude to Satan. Think about it this way: we drill it into our kids heads that they have to be kind to everyone and yet they are supposed to ignore Satan, order him leave, and never ever invite him to any party! We would ground our children if they ever treated another person the way we are telling them to treat Satan. No wonder they're confused! This must be the reason so many of our young people are on drugs, fornicating and staying out past curfew. They don't want to hurt Satan's feelings! Imagine the following scenario: A teenage girl comes home at 2 a.m. and explains to her furious mother that while at her best friends house, another group of friends came over and picked them up to go visit even more friends, and while with this group of friends who were visiting friends, other friends called and wanted them to come over. So the teenager gets into a car with her best friend and their other friends and their friends and while en route to visit the latest group of friends, the best friends dad calls and tells his daughter that she has to go home, so the friend that is driving has to turn the car around and go drop off the best friend. Then, as soon as they are back on the road and almost to their original destination, the friend who was driving suddenly noticed the time and since they were almost to the latest friends house, the friend with the car decided to drop all the other friends off and just leave them there in order to get herself home on time. (Just as a side note, this is exactly the type of explanation I get from one of my own teenage daughters when she is out past her curfew.) The teenager continues to explain how they had waited and waited for the parents of one of the friends to show up and give each of them a ride home but as it turned out, they never showed up because those parents had left town the day before and weren't due back until three days later. Finally, the teenage girl's mother speaks up and asks a series of important questions beginning with "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because nobody had a phone except Satan, and he wouldn't let me use his." The girl replies
"Satan!? You were with Satan??" exclaims the mother in horror and disbelief, "How many times have I told you that you are never to go anywhere with Satan!" The girl realizes her mistake and immediately tries to defend him, "What has Satan ever done to you? Geeze mom, your sooo judgemental!"
"Every time you are with him, you do something stupid!" The mother scolds,
"Like what?" demands the girl,
"Like getting into a car after midnight with a group of kids that I've never met and staying out until two in the morning without so much as a phone call!"
" I told you that nobody had a phone!"
"Satan had a phone, but he wouldn't let you use it!!"
"He didn't want anyone to use up all his minutes!"
"He is not the kind of guy I want you hanging around with!"
"Because of that?"
"Because he's fowl mouthed, bad tempered and violent! And besides, Terlene Harris told me that he talked Alice Henry into fornicating with that Freddy Gibson and Freddy got her pregnant!"
''Freddy almost got her pregnant." The teenager corrects,
"How do you almost get someone pregnant? There is no such thing as almost being pregnant, you either are or you aren't! They don't have a pregnancy test with a window for a 'yes', a ' no' or an 'almost' !"
"So what am I supposed to do, hurt Satan's feelings? You may be able to do that but I can't!"
"Oh for Pete's sake, it's Satan! He doesn't have feelings!"
The irony of this is that we mother's really aren't sure of whether or not Satan has feelings. In fact, for most of us who have a natural tendency toward nurturing, we may have actually worried about Satan's feelings, cared about them and had no desire to cause him more misery than he already has. Take Helen Marshall for example; Satan always shows up at Helen's house about the same time every month, like clock work. She could just be doing the dishes and minding her business when Satan comes over and begins pointing out all the work Helen does around the house with barely a word of thanks from her family. Helen begins to see some truth in this and is suddenly seized with an overpowering urge to go find her husband and kick him for what he will assume is no apparent reason. Instead of just getting a backbone and demanding Satan leave her and her family alone, she only blushes at Satan's suggestions and responds shyly with "Oh Satan, you silly goose, why would I want to hurt my sweet husband?" Later we discover that it's women like Helen who end up not only kicking but killing they're poor husbands when something as basic as a midol would have done the trick without a prison sentence attached.
I suppose this is one of the many reasons that no one really likes Satan. He has been involved in more scandals and life sentences than anyone could count, he defrauds and con's people, disrupts relationships and encourages my husband to pass gas in the car on the freeway in a snowstorm, thereby ensuring there will be no escape for those of us who have had the misfortune of being born with a nose. Does Satan get a bad rap? No, but it's the little things he does that bother us the most. When you lose your car key's, you can bet Satan had something to do with it. When you trip on the sidewalk in front of someone you want to impress, it's Satan. When you have finally saved up enough money to retire and then find out you need a triple bypass, Satan! The only good news about Satan is that when we are really backed into a corner, Satan serves as a perfectly acceptable scapegoat. And he doesn't smell like tomato soup.
Satan is like the kid in the neighborhood that picks his nose and smells like tomato soup. Nobody really wants to be around him and you could say that right to his face but it never seems to sink in. He never gets the hint. He keeps showing up largely uninvited and wants to hang out. Parents really don't like their kids to hang out with Satan because they usually consider him to be a bad influence. Whenever kids are with him, they tend to get into trouble, and kids are the one's who usually have the hardest time being rude to Satan. Think about it this way: we drill it into our kids heads that they have to be kind to everyone and yet they are supposed to ignore Satan, order him leave, and never ever invite him to any party! We would ground our children if they ever treated another person the way we are telling them to treat Satan. No wonder they're confused! This must be the reason so many of our young people are on drugs, fornicating and staying out past curfew. They don't want to hurt Satan's feelings! Imagine the following scenario: A teenage girl comes home at 2 a.m. and explains to her furious mother that while at her best friends house, another group of friends came over and picked them up to go visit even more friends, and while with this group of friends who were visiting friends, other friends called and wanted them to come over. So the teenager gets into a car with her best friend and their other friends and their friends and while en route to visit the latest group of friends, the best friends dad calls and tells his daughter that she has to go home, so the friend that is driving has to turn the car around and go drop off the best friend. Then, as soon as they are back on the road and almost to their original destination, the friend who was driving suddenly noticed the time and since they were almost to the latest friends house, the friend with the car decided to drop all the other friends off and just leave them there in order to get herself home on time. (Just as a side note, this is exactly the type of explanation I get from one of my own teenage daughters when she is out past her curfew.) The teenager continues to explain how they had waited and waited for the parents of one of the friends to show up and give each of them a ride home but as it turned out, they never showed up because those parents had left town the day before and weren't due back until three days later. Finally, the teenage girl's mother speaks up and asks a series of important questions beginning with "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because nobody had a phone except Satan, and he wouldn't let me use his." The girl replies
"Satan!? You were with Satan??" exclaims the mother in horror and disbelief, "How many times have I told you that you are never to go anywhere with Satan!" The girl realizes her mistake and immediately tries to defend him, "What has Satan ever done to you? Geeze mom, your sooo judgemental!"
"Every time you are with him, you do something stupid!" The mother scolds,
"Like what?" demands the girl,
"Like getting into a car after midnight with a group of kids that I've never met and staying out until two in the morning without so much as a phone call!"
" I told you that nobody had a phone!"
"Satan had a phone, but he wouldn't let you use it!!"
"He didn't want anyone to use up all his minutes!"
"He is not the kind of guy I want you hanging around with!"
"Because of that?"
"Because he's fowl mouthed, bad tempered and violent! And besides, Terlene Harris told me that he talked Alice Henry into fornicating with that Freddy Gibson and Freddy got her pregnant!"
''Freddy almost got her pregnant." The teenager corrects,
"How do you almost get someone pregnant? There is no such thing as almost being pregnant, you either are or you aren't! They don't have a pregnancy test with a window for a 'yes', a ' no' or an 'almost' !"
"So what am I supposed to do, hurt Satan's feelings? You may be able to do that but I can't!"
"Oh for Pete's sake, it's Satan! He doesn't have feelings!"
The irony of this is that we mother's really aren't sure of whether or not Satan has feelings. In fact, for most of us who have a natural tendency toward nurturing, we may have actually worried about Satan's feelings, cared about them and had no desire to cause him more misery than he already has. Take Helen Marshall for example; Satan always shows up at Helen's house about the same time every month, like clock work. She could just be doing the dishes and minding her business when Satan comes over and begins pointing out all the work Helen does around the house with barely a word of thanks from her family. Helen begins to see some truth in this and is suddenly seized with an overpowering urge to go find her husband and kick him for what he will assume is no apparent reason. Instead of just getting a backbone and demanding Satan leave her and her family alone, she only blushes at Satan's suggestions and responds shyly with "Oh Satan, you silly goose, why would I want to hurt my sweet husband?" Later we discover that it's women like Helen who end up not only kicking but killing they're poor husbands when something as basic as a midol would have done the trick without a prison sentence attached.
I suppose this is one of the many reasons that no one really likes Satan. He has been involved in more scandals and life sentences than anyone could count, he defrauds and con's people, disrupts relationships and encourages my husband to pass gas in the car on the freeway in a snowstorm, thereby ensuring there will be no escape for those of us who have had the misfortune of being born with a nose. Does Satan get a bad rap? No, but it's the little things he does that bother us the most. When you lose your car key's, you can bet Satan had something to do with it. When you trip on the sidewalk in front of someone you want to impress, it's Satan. When you have finally saved up enough money to retire and then find out you need a triple bypass, Satan! The only good news about Satan is that when we are really backed into a corner, Satan serves as a perfectly acceptable scapegoat. And he doesn't smell like tomato soup.
Thursday
The grass is always greener over the Toilet tank
The next lesson for today comes from my Uncle, a very dignified man. Polished, handsome and well educated, he recently retired from his position as an economics professor at a prominent University. Think of him in an Indiana Jones sort of way. His first love has always been geology. He loves rocks. But, like Professor Jones, he chose to pursue a career in teaching rather than travel the globe in pursuit of rocky adventures. But also like Indiana, adventure seemed to find him.
Now, I'm not sure my Uncle would want his reputation as a competent professional to be ruffled by using his real name. He does in fact have many associations with other highly regarded individuals. So, out of respect for my Uncle, I will call him "Nancy".
Nancy was traveling some years ago, along with his wife and my parents, to a family reunion. Seeing as they had been in the car for some time, they decided it was time to stop at a gas station. After gassing up and such, they thought it best to take advantage of the restrooms while the opportunity was there. After a few minutes, everyone returned to the car except for Nancy. They waited and waited for him, and after a while thought that maybe somebody should go in and find him to see if he was alright. Just as they were about to do that, Nancy returned to the car. He was red in the face and refused to give any explanation as to what took him so long. They traveled on and some hours later, arrived at a relatives home for the reunion. Later that night after some prodding, Nancy finally divulged his restroom secrets.
He told the others that he had gone into a stall and locked the door. When he was ready to leave, he tried the stall door, but it wouldn't open. Making sure it was unlocked, he tried again and again to open the door but to no avail. He finally looked over his options. He called for help but the room was empty. Then he thought to crawl under the door but for some reason decided against it. After all his failed attempts to free himself from his toilet prison, he finally decided that he had no choice but to climb over the stall. He stood up on the toilet, got his footing on the toilet paper holder and threw a leg over the stall door as one would if he were about to mount a saddle, only not quite making it. With one leg over the top of the door and both hands clasped tightly to it, the weight of his body caused the door to swing open, just as another guy walked into the bathroom. He'd been trying to open the door the wrong way but didn't realize that until he was ontop of the door, riding it like a horse while some guy stood there and watched.
Uh hu. True story.
Now, I'm not sure my Uncle would want his reputation as a competent professional to be ruffled by using his real name. He does in fact have many associations with other highly regarded individuals. So, out of respect for my Uncle, I will call him "Nancy".
Nancy was traveling some years ago, along with his wife and my parents, to a family reunion. Seeing as they had been in the car for some time, they decided it was time to stop at a gas station. After gassing up and such, they thought it best to take advantage of the restrooms while the opportunity was there. After a few minutes, everyone returned to the car except for Nancy. They waited and waited for him, and after a while thought that maybe somebody should go in and find him to see if he was alright. Just as they were about to do that, Nancy returned to the car. He was red in the face and refused to give any explanation as to what took him so long. They traveled on and some hours later, arrived at a relatives home for the reunion. Later that night after some prodding, Nancy finally divulged his restroom secrets.
He told the others that he had gone into a stall and locked the door. When he was ready to leave, he tried the stall door, but it wouldn't open. Making sure it was unlocked, he tried again and again to open the door but to no avail. He finally looked over his options. He called for help but the room was empty. Then he thought to crawl under the door but for some reason decided against it. After all his failed attempts to free himself from his toilet prison, he finally decided that he had no choice but to climb over the stall. He stood up on the toilet, got his footing on the toilet paper holder and threw a leg over the stall door as one would if he were about to mount a saddle, only not quite making it. With one leg over the top of the door and both hands clasped tightly to it, the weight of his body caused the door to swing open, just as another guy walked into the bathroom. He'd been trying to open the door the wrong way but didn't realize that until he was ontop of the door, riding it like a horse while some guy stood there and watched.
Uh hu. True story.
Never close your eyes while on a treadmill
There is a particularly important tip that I will give you today: Never close your eyes while still on a treadmill. It is by sad experience that I learned this embarrassing lesson. You see, one fine day while at the gym, I was running on the treadmill. Anyone who has actually done this knows that after running at a good clip for awhile, you begin to sweat and may become tired. This was the case for me that day. I had been running for about thirty minutes and I still had five or so minutes left on the clock. The timer was ticking away more and more slowly it seemed. I tried to distract myself by watching the guy next to me who had come into the gym and gotten on a treadmill wearing what looked like lederhosen (those short German overalls with the suspenders), a big straw hat, hiking boots and a walking stick. He must have been about forty years old, but he had a wiry gray ZZ top-ish beard that didn't end until it reached his navel. Quite honestly, he looked like the roaming Gnome.
Now, as grateful as I am in cases like this for such a distraction, the traveling Gnome didn't keep my attention for very long. Images of the Gnome's life had flashed through my head rather quickly (he had a wife and two children, they lived in a tree somewhere, or maybe in a van down by the river, they ate porridge that could be left in a pot for up to nine days, they scheduled exactly what time they would eat their cheese, their only toiletries consisted of a shovel and some really big leaves, etc.) but the images were gone as soon as my body decided it could just not go any longer. With only two minutes left on the timer, I was determined to go the length. I mean, what if this were not just a run on a treadmill but a run for my life? What if I were being chased by aliens or a man with a bloody machete? Would I not run the two minute distance to safety? Yes, we all would. So in a final exhausted effort to finish the race, I decided not to look at the clock and focus on the time, but rather, close my eyes. I don't know. I just don't know why I did that because as soon as I did it I regretted the decision. My head got instantly dizzy and the earth began to spin. I stumbled backwards and realized I was about to either go down or hit the wall behind me with incredible force, so I threw my arms out to catch myself- screaming "Mommy!" out loud- and in one totally ungraceful movement, attempted to jump up on the sideboards and grab the handles. I got one foot secured okay but the other one was dragged behind me a bit and it took all my strength to lift it up and slap it on the side board to safety as it twisted and flipped and nearly kicked me in the butt. finally secure, I found myself straddled in a somewhat squatted position over the belt of the treadmill that continued to whir along beneath me while I white-knuckled the handles. I looked like an idiot of course, but trying to maintain some form of dignity I smiled like a geek at the roaming Gnome who was looking at me as if I were the weirdo of the day. None the less I stayed there like that just smiling at him for a while, then eventually I turned off the treadmill, waited for it to completely stop, gathered my things and whistled my way out of the building.
There are many important lessons to be learned from this. First, it's important that we exercise caution whenever we close our eyes while in motion, and second; whenever you see someone you think is really weird, chances are they are thinking the same thing about you.
Now, as grateful as I am in cases like this for such a distraction, the traveling Gnome didn't keep my attention for very long. Images of the Gnome's life had flashed through my head rather quickly (he had a wife and two children, they lived in a tree somewhere, or maybe in a van down by the river, they ate porridge that could be left in a pot for up to nine days, they scheduled exactly what time they would eat their cheese, their only toiletries consisted of a shovel and some really big leaves, etc.) but the images were gone as soon as my body decided it could just not go any longer. With only two minutes left on the timer, I was determined to go the length. I mean, what if this were not just a run on a treadmill but a run for my life? What if I were being chased by aliens or a man with a bloody machete? Would I not run the two minute distance to safety? Yes, we all would. So in a final exhausted effort to finish the race, I decided not to look at the clock and focus on the time, but rather, close my eyes. I don't know. I just don't know why I did that because as soon as I did it I regretted the decision. My head got instantly dizzy and the earth began to spin. I stumbled backwards and realized I was about to either go down or hit the wall behind me with incredible force, so I threw my arms out to catch myself- screaming "Mommy!" out loud- and in one totally ungraceful movement, attempted to jump up on the sideboards and grab the handles. I got one foot secured okay but the other one was dragged behind me a bit and it took all my strength to lift it up and slap it on the side board to safety as it twisted and flipped and nearly kicked me in the butt. finally secure, I found myself straddled in a somewhat squatted position over the belt of the treadmill that continued to whir along beneath me while I white-knuckled the handles. I looked like an idiot of course, but trying to maintain some form of dignity I smiled like a geek at the roaming Gnome who was looking at me as if I were the weirdo of the day. None the less I stayed there like that just smiling at him for a while, then eventually I turned off the treadmill, waited for it to completely stop, gathered my things and whistled my way out of the building.
There are many important lessons to be learned from this. First, it's important that we exercise caution whenever we close our eyes while in motion, and second; whenever you see someone you think is really weird, chances are they are thinking the same thing about you.
Wednesday
The African with swan flu
Our oldest daughter Briti is very bright, most of the time. She works as an office manager and wants to start school in the fall and become a nurse. She will be a great nurse, once she learns a few basic terms. This is the daughter who wanted me to kill the giant spider, as you may recall from a previous post. To continue on that theme for a moment, after reading that post the other day, Briti informed me that all she really wanted me to do (rather than simply kill the giant spider) was "walk" her down the stairs. "What would walking you down the stairs have done?" I questioned her,
"I would have felt safer." She replied,
"Because I was there to hold your hand?" I asked,
"No, I didn't need you to hold my hand." She said,
"Then exactly how did you picture we would walk down the stairs together, link arms?" said I,
"No. I thought you would go first." She muttered under her breath,
"What? Go first! So I could kill the spider with my bare feet?" I asked in surprise,
"Mothers are supposed to sacrifice their lives for their children." She tells me,
" I only lay down my life for people who don't have arms and legs." I say,
"I didn't want the spider to bite me, I'd get a disease and die."
"Spiders don't spread diseases," I tell her, "They poison you."
"Well being bitten by a poisonous spider probably feels just like the swan flu." She informs me.
"The swan flu? What's the swan flu?"
"Isn't that what everybody is dying of now? Like the bird flu?"
"You mean the Swine flu?"
"What's swine? Is that pigs or a birds?" She asks
I stare at her.
"Hi." I begin, "You don't know what a swine is?"
"I thought it was the swan flu, like the rest of those birds with the flu." she explains.
"What?" by now I'm laughing,
"Aren't swans birds?" she asks,
"Yes daughter, they are of the bird family."
"Then what's a swine? Is it swan or swine when there's more than one? Do you say 'A family of swan' ? Like Moose, do you say meese or moose or moose's? Or mice?''
I can't answer her because I am laughing so hard.
"Mom! I'm serious! You don't want me to look dumb do you? You want me to know the right way to pronounce things don't you?"
"Oh, Briti." I sigh,
" And by the way, " she begins another question, " What's an apparition?"
"An apparition?"
"Yea, you said on your blog that I stand over you like an apparition." She says,
"Oh, it's a ghost, a spirit." I explain to her.
" Oh, okay. I thought it was some type of native, like an African."
"I would have felt safer." She replied,
"Because I was there to hold your hand?" I asked,
"No, I didn't need you to hold my hand." She said,
"Then exactly how did you picture we would walk down the stairs together, link arms?" said I,
"No. I thought you would go first." She muttered under her breath,
"What? Go first! So I could kill the spider with my bare feet?" I asked in surprise,
"Mothers are supposed to sacrifice their lives for their children." She tells me,
" I only lay down my life for people who don't have arms and legs." I say,
"I didn't want the spider to bite me, I'd get a disease and die."
"Spiders don't spread diseases," I tell her, "They poison you."
"Well being bitten by a poisonous spider probably feels just like the swan flu." She informs me.
"The swan flu? What's the swan flu?"
"Isn't that what everybody is dying of now? Like the bird flu?"
"You mean the Swine flu?"
"What's swine? Is that pigs or a birds?" She asks
I stare at her.
"Hi." I begin, "You don't know what a swine is?"
"I thought it was the swan flu, like the rest of those birds with the flu." she explains.
"What?" by now I'm laughing,
"Aren't swans birds?" she asks,
"Yes daughter, they are of the bird family."
"Then what's a swine? Is it swan or swine when there's more than one? Do you say 'A family of swan' ? Like Moose, do you say meese or moose or moose's? Or mice?''
I can't answer her because I am laughing so hard.
"Mom! I'm serious! You don't want me to look dumb do you? You want me to know the right way to pronounce things don't you?"
"Oh, Briti." I sigh,
" And by the way, " she begins another question, " What's an apparition?"
"An apparition?"
"Yea, you said on your blog that I stand over you like an apparition." She says,
"Oh, it's a ghost, a spirit." I explain to her.
" Oh, okay. I thought it was some type of native, like an African."
Tuesday
Kathy Lee Gifford, please stay off the space shuttle
My husband Doug is mostly deaf in one ear, the result of a damaged ear drum when he was a kid. Despite this hearing loss, he refuses to do anything about it and insists that he can hear everything perfectly with the exception of the high-pitched female voice when she is in "nag-mode" as he calls it. I have dealt with Doug's handicap as best I can, however, it does create somewhat of a communication barrier at times. For example; Several months ago my mother called to tell me she had purchased some new drawer pulls and had several left over she was willing to give me if I needed them. I told her I didn't need them and we hung up."Who was that?" Asks Doug, who was sitting next to me,
"My Mom" I say,
"What did she need?" asks Doug,
"She wanted to know if I wanted any drawer pulls" I tell him,
"Mayo?" Doug asks, confused, "was she planning to make you a sandwich?"
This is when I usually just stare at him for a long time and then say something like; "How did you get 'mayo' out of that? DRAWER PULLS. Sheesh. You are so deaf..."
"What?" he responds, and gives me a sly grin.
These episodes are not uncommon. In fact, one morning as the family was eating breakfast, I had flipped on the T.V. and turned to the 'today' show. Kathy Lee Gifford was just being introduced as a new hostess for the show when Doug came into the kitchen,
"Hey," he says, "It's Kathy Lee Gifford, what's she doing these days?"
Me: "She's now on the Today show."
Doug: "She fell!? How'd she fall?"
Me: (louder this time) "She's now on the Today show."
Doug: "She fell off the space shuttle? What's she doing on the space shuttle?"
Six year old Suzannah: "I have pooh in my undies."
Me:"pooh in your undies?"
Suzannah:"Not the kind that eats honey, the kind that is brown and comes out of your b-"
Me interrupting:"Okay-"
Ten year old Brooks: "HAhhhaaahaaahaa!"
Teenage Dallas: "What?"
Doug: "What?"
Me: staring at Doug
Doug: Turning up the T.V. to find out how Kathy Lee fell off the space shuttle.
"My Mom" I say,
"What did she need?" asks Doug,
"She wanted to know if I wanted any drawer pulls" I tell him,
"Mayo?" Doug asks, confused, "was she planning to make you a sandwich?"
This is when I usually just stare at him for a long time and then say something like; "How did you get 'mayo' out of that? DRAWER PULLS. Sheesh. You are so deaf..."
"What?" he responds, and gives me a sly grin.
These episodes are not uncommon. In fact, one morning as the family was eating breakfast, I had flipped on the T.V. and turned to the 'today' show. Kathy Lee Gifford was just being introduced as a new hostess for the show when Doug came into the kitchen,
"Hey," he says, "It's Kathy Lee Gifford, what's she doing these days?"
Me: "She's now on the Today show."
Doug: "She fell!? How'd she fall?"
Me: (louder this time) "She's now on the Today show."
Doug: "She fell off the space shuttle? What's she doing on the space shuttle?"
Six year old Suzannah: "I have pooh in my undies."
Me:"pooh in your undies?"
Suzannah:"Not the kind that eats honey, the kind that is brown and comes out of your b-"
Me interrupting:"Okay-"
Ten year old Brooks: "HAhhhaaahaaahaa!"
Teenage Dallas: "What?"
Doug: "What?"
Me: staring at Doug
Doug: Turning up the T.V. to find out how Kathy Lee fell off the space shuttle.
Monday
If not a creature is stirring, call 911
My teenage girls are mostly nocturnal creatures and therefore have the idea that if they are awake, I should be willing to be awake also, in order to cater to their every question or need, no matter how ridiculous. According to them, I don't need sleep or food. Throw my husband, our ten year old son and six year old daughter in the mix, and we have ourselves a family full of people who think I am a robot.
A typical summer night at our house goes something like this: sleep on the roof for all I care, but I'm going to bed. The end. After years of wrangling kids into bed at a certain time and place, I have mostly given up. The teenagers will have none of that and as a result, the six and ten year old don't ever want to go to bed either. I still insist on getting the youngest into pajamas and such, but what comes next depends entirely upon how tired I am. If I am really tired and the youngest puts up a fuss, she'll have to fall asleep on the couch and the mother has to wake up an hour or so later and carry her to bed.
The hidden joy of this interruption of my sleep is that it 's not the only interruption. I will attempt to demonstrate this:
I am so tired my eyes have fused together and I can no longer see, so I go to bed, leaving the six year old on the couch with a blanket and a movie, and the basement full of teenagers and their friends. (Mind you, it is the middle of the summer so I am much more lax about all this than I would be otherwise.) Around midnight I wake up to the noise of the t.v. and get up to turn it off and carry the little daughter to bed. The basement is quiet so I assume everyone went home. I get back in bed and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Around 1 a.m. , I am awakened by a harsh whisper; "mmmohhhmm?"
I open my eye. (Remember, my eyes have fused together so I only have one weird eye, and it's blurry.) "who are you?" I ask, startled.
"It's me" says daughter #3 (there are four of these daughters).
"take off the mask" I tell her
"what mask?" she asks
"That Lion mask" I say, grabbing and pulling at her face.
"mmmohhhmmm!" she tries to whisper, " I'm not wearing a mask!"
"Oh. What do you need?"
"I'm bored"
"What!? Your bored?"
"No, I mean, I'm not tired. I can't sleep."
"You woke me up to tell me that?"
"Wull, what should I do?"
"Well, I could knock you out cold, how's that idea?"
"Uh!... Just never mind then. Geez." and with that she leaves the room.
Thirty minutes later, a finger pokes at me. "Mom" Daughter #2 whispers
"Uugh." I reply
"I'm home"
"So what. I didn't know you were gone." I go back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later Doug wakes me up, "Honey...Steph..."
"phwhaat." half my face is buried in the pillow.
"It smells like dog poop. Has the dog been in here?"
"Maybe it's your breath blowing back in your face." I tell him, and turn over.
Some time later, around 4:30 a.m., daughter #1 is standing over me like an apparition. It scares the living snot out of me. "What the blast are you doing?!!" I scold.
"There's a huge spider on the stairs!"
"So kill it!"
"Mom! No, I'm scared!"
"Oh for pete's sake!" (My mom always used to say that, too.) I throw the covers off and storm out into the hall. D-1 follows me to the stairs, explaining the gigantic nature of the beast I'm supposed to kill on her behalf. It's eye's had fangs, it's legs had fangs, it's fangs had fangs. "If it's so big," I say, not seeing it, "then where is it?"
"It was just here!"
"well It must have decided to wait for you in your bed."
"That's not funny!"
"I thought it was funny."
"You want your daughter to be eaten by a spider named Sasquatch?
"Yes."
"What?! Mom!"
"Maybe then I'd get some sleep."
"Mom, kill the spider!"
"There is no stinking spider!"
"It was right here! It's just hiding"
"Then move out. The spider can't hurt you if you live far far away."
"You are being so rude to me!"
"You are twenty-one years old! What will you do when your forty, call me to come over and kill all your spiders at all hours of the night?"
"yes."
"I'm going to bed."
"Mom! No! Please don't leave me here alone with sasquatch!"
"Sleep on the roof." I tell her. I make it back to bed before sunrise and snuggle up under the soft down comforter. Ohhh, to be in my own bed. I love my bed. My aching muscles kiss the fluffy matress, my weary head sinks into the pillow. I'm home. I close my eyes, bliss. The only sound in the house is the soft hum of the air conditioner and the obnoxious "Ehh.Ehh.Ehh" of Doug's cell phone alarm...( For more information about cell phone alarms, please refer to my last post.)
A typical summer night at our house goes something like this: sleep on the roof for all I care, but I'm going to bed. The end. After years of wrangling kids into bed at a certain time and place, I have mostly given up. The teenagers will have none of that and as a result, the six and ten year old don't ever want to go to bed either. I still insist on getting the youngest into pajamas and such, but what comes next depends entirely upon how tired I am. If I am really tired and the youngest puts up a fuss, she'll have to fall asleep on the couch and the mother has to wake up an hour or so later and carry her to bed.
The hidden joy of this interruption of my sleep is that it 's not the only interruption. I will attempt to demonstrate this:
I am so tired my eyes have fused together and I can no longer see, so I go to bed, leaving the six year old on the couch with a blanket and a movie, and the basement full of teenagers and their friends. (Mind you, it is the middle of the summer so I am much more lax about all this than I would be otherwise.) Around midnight I wake up to the noise of the t.v. and get up to turn it off and carry the little daughter to bed. The basement is quiet so I assume everyone went home. I get back in bed and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Around 1 a.m. , I am awakened by a harsh whisper; "mmmohhhmm?"
I open my eye. (Remember, my eyes have fused together so I only have one weird eye, and it's blurry.) "who are you?" I ask, startled.
"It's me" says daughter #3 (there are four of these daughters).
"take off the mask" I tell her
"what mask?" she asks
"That Lion mask" I say, grabbing and pulling at her face.
"mmmohhhmmm!" she tries to whisper, " I'm not wearing a mask!"
"Oh. What do you need?"
"I'm bored"
"What!? Your bored?"
"No, I mean, I'm not tired. I can't sleep."
"You woke me up to tell me that?"
"Wull, what should I do?"
"Well, I could knock you out cold, how's that idea?"
"Uh!... Just never mind then. Geez." and with that she leaves the room.
Thirty minutes later, a finger pokes at me. "Mom" Daughter #2 whispers
"Uugh." I reply
"I'm home"
"So what. I didn't know you were gone." I go back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later Doug wakes me up, "Honey...Steph..."
"phwhaat." half my face is buried in the pillow.
"It smells like dog poop. Has the dog been in here?"
"Maybe it's your breath blowing back in your face." I tell him, and turn over.
Some time later, around 4:30 a.m., daughter #1 is standing over me like an apparition. It scares the living snot out of me. "What the blast are you doing?!!" I scold.
"There's a huge spider on the stairs!"
"So kill it!"
"Mom! No, I'm scared!"
"Oh for pete's sake!" (My mom always used to say that, too.) I throw the covers off and storm out into the hall. D-1 follows me to the stairs, explaining the gigantic nature of the beast I'm supposed to kill on her behalf. It's eye's had fangs, it's legs had fangs, it's fangs had fangs. "If it's so big," I say, not seeing it, "then where is it?"
"It was just here!"
"well It must have decided to wait for you in your bed."
"That's not funny!"
"I thought it was funny."
"You want your daughter to be eaten by a spider named Sasquatch?
"Yes."
"What?! Mom!"
"Maybe then I'd get some sleep."
"Mom, kill the spider!"
"There is no stinking spider!"
"It was right here! It's just hiding"
"Then move out. The spider can't hurt you if you live far far away."
"You are being so rude to me!"
"You are twenty-one years old! What will you do when your forty, call me to come over and kill all your spiders at all hours of the night?"
"yes."
"I'm going to bed."
"Mom! No! Please don't leave me here alone with sasquatch!"
"Sleep on the roof." I tell her. I make it back to bed before sunrise and snuggle up under the soft down comforter. Ohhh, to be in my own bed. I love my bed. My aching muscles kiss the fluffy matress, my weary head sinks into the pillow. I'm home. I close my eyes, bliss. The only sound in the house is the soft hum of the air conditioner and the obnoxious "Ehh.Ehh.Ehh" of Doug's cell phone alarm...( For more information about cell phone alarms, please refer to my last post.)
Sunday
Deaf men wear plaid pajamas
It's Sunday, and since we don't have an early church meeting this morning I was enjoying a peaceful slumber. The only sound in the house was the soft hum of the air conditioning and the obnoxious "Ehh!Ehh!Ehh!" of Doug's cell phone alarm. Now, this happens every morning at around 6 a.m., and though I try to just follow Doug's lead and ignore the stinking thing, (because we really don't have to get up at 6 during the summer) after about thirty minutes it becomes impossible to ignore and I want to pop Doug on the head. I finally roll over and look at Doug for a long time with a perplexed expression. He doesn't feel the weight of my glare and just snores on as though he had not a care in the world. "Can you not hear that?" I finally ask. He doesn't respond
"Douglas" I say, louder.
"Hu?"
"Can you not hear that!?"
"Hear what?"
"Your dumb alarm!"
"Where is it?" He asks.
Now, this is what I just don't understand. He sets the alarm on his phone to go off at a time when he absolutely knows he isn't getting up, then he can't remember where he put his phone although it must be somewhere close because I can hear it. It's usually in his pants pocket, which have been left on the floor or in the closet somewhere but sometimes it's on the table right next to his side of the bed. Either way, he can't ever hear it and I always can.
"It's probably in your pants pocket again, it sounds a little muffled." I tell him.
He lays there for an eternally long time with his arm draped over his head, the alarm is still going. I think he's never gonna move. "Doug." I say. No response. "Douglas!"
"Hu?"
"For pete's sake man! Turn off your blasted alarm before I kill you!"
"Woman!" He says in his teasing voice and then slowly, slowly, so slowly you'd think he was a hundred years old,he sits up, wipes his sleepy eyeballs, pulls the blankets aside, dangles one leg over the side of the bed, waits, waits, waits,dangles the other leg over the side of the bed, waits,waits,waits, touches a big toe to the carpet...the alarm is still going off "Ehh!Ehh!Ehh!Ehh!"
"AARRGGH!" I yell as I jump out of bed. In a flash I am over on his side. I grab his pants from off the floor and cram my hand in the pocket, fish out the phone, fling it open and hit the button. Silent, I thrust the phone toward Doug who has just finished applying a second toe to the floor. He blinks at me, smiles, and gets back into bed. I stand there wide awake. "Good morning..." I say in a gruff voice.
"Goodnight my love, I love you." he says, and falls asleep.
I guess I'll take a shower.
"Douglas" I say, louder.
"Hu?"
"Can you not hear that!?"
"Hear what?"
"Your dumb alarm!"
"Where is it?" He asks.
Now, this is what I just don't understand. He sets the alarm on his phone to go off at a time when he absolutely knows he isn't getting up, then he can't remember where he put his phone although it must be somewhere close because I can hear it. It's usually in his pants pocket, which have been left on the floor or in the closet somewhere but sometimes it's on the table right next to his side of the bed. Either way, he can't ever hear it and I always can.
"It's probably in your pants pocket again, it sounds a little muffled." I tell him.
He lays there for an eternally long time with his arm draped over his head, the alarm is still going. I think he's never gonna move. "Doug." I say. No response. "Douglas!"
"Hu?"
"For pete's sake man! Turn off your blasted alarm before I kill you!"
"Woman!" He says in his teasing voice and then slowly, slowly, so slowly you'd think he was a hundred years old,he sits up, wipes his sleepy eyeballs, pulls the blankets aside, dangles one leg over the side of the bed, waits, waits, waits,dangles the other leg over the side of the bed, waits,waits,waits, touches a big toe to the carpet...the alarm is still going off "Ehh!Ehh!Ehh!Ehh!"
"AARRGGH!" I yell as I jump out of bed. In a flash I am over on his side. I grab his pants from off the floor and cram my hand in the pocket, fish out the phone, fling it open and hit the button. Silent, I thrust the phone toward Doug who has just finished applying a second toe to the floor. He blinks at me, smiles, and gets back into bed. I stand there wide awake. "Good morning..." I say in a gruff voice.
"Goodnight my love, I love you." he says, and falls asleep.
I guess I'll take a shower.
Saturday
Never name your dog "Doofus"
Well, it's early here on a sunny Saturday morn and the house is quiet except for the cat who keeps poking around my legs wanting me to pick her up. I love summer mornings, especially when the house is quiet and all seems right with the world outside. It's on mornings like this that I can sit on the porch and reflect upon my life while Doug clips his toe nails.............(long pause while I am distracted by the clipping noise). As I sit here on the porch and look out, my memory wanders back through the years. Our porch faces the community park and as I sit here I see a few early birds out walking on the track across the street. They are mostly older people, the one's who have the good sense to start their day with a happy stroll. The park will get busier as the day goes on and there will be people out walking or running the track well past nightfall. This thought is what reminds me of Toole, our huge yellow lab that died not quite two years ago.
We had Toole for nine years and he was a great dog, the kind of dog that lived in the house with us and thought of himself as just one of the kids. The problem was that he kept getting picked up by the pound because he would wander over to the park whenever he got the chance, and sniff people's butts. You know, nobody really likes their butt sniffed. This is probably what caused some people to call animal control. Toole never really understood the idea that we people don't sniff each other's butt's and that if he really desired to be counted as human, he needed to stop doing that. This is what caused Doug to give Toole the nickname "Doofus".
Now, we were hyper-aware of Doofus' whereabouts after about the fifth or sixth time we bailed him out of jail. We put the Doof on house arrest and only let him out with supervision. This had been working out quite well for a while and he managed to stay out of trouble as long as I was around to remind the kids to watch him if they let him out, but I wasn't always there to remind them. In fact, one evening as I was driving home from somewhere, I spotted Doofus (or at least I thought It was Doofus) trailing behind a little old man as he shuffled slowly around the track. It was a warm night, but it was dark so I couldn't see all that well. When I saw this dog that looked just like Doof in every way, I got mad. I wasn't about to bail him out of the pound and spend another hundred bucks or more while being reprimanded by animal control again. I pulled the car over across from the track and rolled down my window. "Hey Doofus!" I yelled in the direction of the dog who was right behind the little old man (I thought he was sniffing the old guy's butt) "What are you doing?! Who let you OUT!? Your gonna get picked up by the cops and I don't CARE! I'll call them myself You stupid DOOFUS!!!!" The old man stopped walking and stared at me from across the street. "Hey Doofus!" I called. The old man looked around for a minute and then back at me. "I'm talking to the dog." I tried to explain to him. The man looked behind him at the dog, "My dog?" He asked timidly. I felt my face flush as I realized that I'd been yelling at the wrong dog. " Oh! I'm so sorry! I thought that was my dog!" I said to the poor old guy. He laughed a little and then said "Well I guess that's good, 'cause I thought you were talking to me."
The real Doofus (other than myself) was at home, asleep.
We had Toole for nine years and he was a great dog, the kind of dog that lived in the house with us and thought of himself as just one of the kids. The problem was that he kept getting picked up by the pound because he would wander over to the park whenever he got the chance, and sniff people's butts. You know, nobody really likes their butt sniffed. This is probably what caused some people to call animal control. Toole never really understood the idea that we people don't sniff each other's butt's and that if he really desired to be counted as human, he needed to stop doing that. This is what caused Doug to give Toole the nickname "Doofus".
Now, we were hyper-aware of Doofus' whereabouts after about the fifth or sixth time we bailed him out of jail. We put the Doof on house arrest and only let him out with supervision. This had been working out quite well for a while and he managed to stay out of trouble as long as I was around to remind the kids to watch him if they let him out, but I wasn't always there to remind them. In fact, one evening as I was driving home from somewhere, I spotted Doofus (or at least I thought It was Doofus) trailing behind a little old man as he shuffled slowly around the track. It was a warm night, but it was dark so I couldn't see all that well. When I saw this dog that looked just like Doof in every way, I got mad. I wasn't about to bail him out of the pound and spend another hundred bucks or more while being reprimanded by animal control again. I pulled the car over across from the track and rolled down my window. "Hey Doofus!" I yelled in the direction of the dog who was right behind the little old man (I thought he was sniffing the old guy's butt) "What are you doing?! Who let you OUT!? Your gonna get picked up by the cops and I don't CARE! I'll call them myself You stupid DOOFUS!!!!" The old man stopped walking and stared at me from across the street. "Hey Doofus!" I called. The old man looked around for a minute and then back at me. "I'm talking to the dog." I tried to explain to him. The man looked behind him at the dog, "My dog?" He asked timidly. I felt my face flush as I realized that I'd been yelling at the wrong dog. " Oh! I'm so sorry! I thought that was my dog!" I said to the poor old guy. He laughed a little and then said "Well I guess that's good, 'cause I thought you were talking to me."
The real Doofus (other than myself) was at home, asleep.
Friday
Notes on a scandal: the laundry chute has never been so dirty
One might ask what qualifies me to be giving out such information and advice as I have claim to dispense via this blog. Well hold your horses while I tell you. First of all, I was the only girl in my family for the first ten years of my life, Secondly, I had four brothers who knew I was a girl, and thirdly, we had a laundry chute in the upstairs bathroom of our humble adobe. Let me explain this last part so you can visualize. Imagine a long and narrow bathroom, on one side is the tub, followed by a short wall, followed by a toilet. On the other side is a very long counter top with a sink on one end, and right across from the toilet (under the long sink cabinet) are two small louvered doors. Inside the doors was a spot for a laundry hamper and next to that, a square hole had been cut into the floor which emptied onto the washer and dryer downstairs. This hole was just the perfect size to fit a head and maybe a pair of slim shoulders if one stood atop the washing machine, and the louvered doors provided a private view of the bathroom without being noticed by the bathroom's occupant. I know what your thinking. Four boy's, a girl and a laundry chute spells trouble. Yes, but before you imagine the worst, I'm not finished yet.
If a girl wants privacy, a girl usually goes into the bathroom and locks the door. This was certainly the case for me because it was impossible as a 12 year old girl to find anyplace in the house where I could pursue my talents without being teased. Behind the locked door of the bathroom I could dance in my nightgown, stare at myself in the mirror and imagine the congregation at our local church had gathered to hear me sing a special mothers day tribute to my mom. It was on this last occasion that I learned that my imaginary audience weren't the only one's watching me, but I also had a live audience under the bathroom sink, poking his big-eyed brain up through the laundry chute. I had just finished the last verse of the song "Depend upon my love, my dear mother" (author unknown) and with raw un-yielding emotion had gracefully held out the last note until I was out of breath. I was imagining that I had just moved my mother, several of her closest friends and Boyd Nethercott to tears, (something I was especially humbled by, seeing as Boyd Nethercott was not a particularly emotional man.) I had even moved myself to tears in real life just by having imagined such a tender performance (I can't believe I'm not embarrassed by this anymore) and I began to wipe my eyes with a tissue when the sound of muffled laughter came from the dark cabinet below. I'm sure you guessed already that the head in the hole belonged to one of my brothers who, having been employed as the family voyeur, had been assigned to watch and report back to the others everything I was doing without being discovered. I don't remember exactly what I did after trying to punt his head like a football, except alot of yelling and crying and telling my parents who were no help at all for the sake of not being able to keep a straight face. This was the moment I discovered I was truly alone in the world...until my only sister grew up enough to take my place at which time her songs "Gelephant elephant" and "Pickle walk" climbed the family "charts" to the number one spot, especially when she added the harmony part by "tooting" (my mom says I can't say the ' f--t' word in public.) -Einahpets (that's my name spelled backwards)
If a girl wants privacy, a girl usually goes into the bathroom and locks the door. This was certainly the case for me because it was impossible as a 12 year old girl to find anyplace in the house where I could pursue my talents without being teased. Behind the locked door of the bathroom I could dance in my nightgown, stare at myself in the mirror and imagine the congregation at our local church had gathered to hear me sing a special mothers day tribute to my mom. It was on this last occasion that I learned that my imaginary audience weren't the only one's watching me, but I also had a live audience under the bathroom sink, poking his big-eyed brain up through the laundry chute. I had just finished the last verse of the song "Depend upon my love, my dear mother" (author unknown) and with raw un-yielding emotion had gracefully held out the last note until I was out of breath. I was imagining that I had just moved my mother, several of her closest friends and Boyd Nethercott to tears, (something I was especially humbled by, seeing as Boyd Nethercott was not a particularly emotional man.) I had even moved myself to tears in real life just by having imagined such a tender performance (I can't believe I'm not embarrassed by this anymore) and I began to wipe my eyes with a tissue when the sound of muffled laughter came from the dark cabinet below. I'm sure you guessed already that the head in the hole belonged to one of my brothers who, having been employed as the family voyeur, had been assigned to watch and report back to the others everything I was doing without being discovered. I don't remember exactly what I did after trying to punt his head like a football, except alot of yelling and crying and telling my parents who were no help at all for the sake of not being able to keep a straight face. This was the moment I discovered I was truly alone in the world...until my only sister grew up enough to take my place at which time her songs "Gelephant elephant" and "Pickle walk" climbed the family "charts" to the number one spot, especially when she added the harmony part by "tooting" (my mom says I can't say the ' f--t' word in public.) -Einahpets (that's my name spelled backwards)
Tips from the secret service...
My Brother-in -law happens to be a real live agent in the secret service. Yes, he in fact has protected Mr. President, along with many other ex-Presidents like Bill and Hillary Clinton.(Wasn't Hillary once the President?) Anywho, I have tried just this morning to reach my sister in order to ask her to have the secret service call me for a personal interview, but she wasn't answering her phone just then so it will have to wait until later I guess. In the meantime, I will let you in on the skinny about my impending interview.I simply want to know what the secret service would tell me about certain curiosities I have been entertaining such as:
1. Do you really wear those little earpiece's with the squiggly wire that travels down the back of your neck and what does it lead to?
2. Do you really have a tiny microphone hidden in the cuff of your shirt sleeve (and why does it have to be hidden? Why not just carry a regular mic, like the one Celine Dion uses..?)
3. Do you wear your sunglasses a night?
4. What if you really have to use the bathroom? Did they teach you how to hold it for endless hours at a time while you were in training?
5. What would the Secret service suggest a guy do in an effort to keep his woman in line? (This is the question that my husband Doug wants answered the most.)
Now, imagine that I have been doing other things for several hours while waiting for the SS to call me back, because although this was truly the case, through the magic of television -or the Internet- we now have our much awaited answers, but before I divulge such, let me share with you a few interesting facts that you possibly did not know:
Did you know that there are only about 2,000 agents in the whole country? In order to be accepted into the SS, one must first have passed some pretty rigorous training and some heavy background checks, so Saddam Hussein probably couldn't get in. And guess what else! Did you know that a long long time ago, somewhere in the U.S. , a factory that produced molasses was holding the molasses in a huge metal tower (kinda like a grain mill) and carbon monoxide began to form and it built up so much pressure that the tower exploded and eeked hot molasses out by the ton which then picked up a speed of about 35 mph and hot molasses poured into the town and destroyed buildings (turning over a train in the process) and twenty people were killed by molasses that day. Ironically, it happened in January- which makes the old adage "slow as the molasses in January" entirely un-true.
This has nothing to do with my interview, but so what.
Okay, so my brother-in -law, whom we will refer to as "Orlando" and his partner to whom we will refer as "Incarnacion"( in order to employ continued secrecy ) have been so good as to answer my questions with great whit and candor:
1. Q. About the earpiece:
A.Why? Do you think that's hot? Because we have lot's of squigglie's coming from undisclosed locations.
2. Q. About the microphone...
A: That's not the only mic I have ( the other one has glitter on it.)
3.Q. About the sunglasses
A.yes, it makes me feel like a cat.
4. Q. Bathroom breaks
A. Agents don't pee. (That's actually what the squiggly wire is for, it attaches to their bladder and empties into a secret underground tank).
5.Q. Keeping one's woman in line
A. Just say "I'm the boss of you."
And a final bonus question: Why is the Secret service supposed to be a secret if everyone knows about them?
Answer: Can't tell you. It's a secret.
-Stephanie
1. Do you really wear those little earpiece's with the squiggly wire that travels down the back of your neck and what does it lead to?
2. Do you really have a tiny microphone hidden in the cuff of your shirt sleeve (and why does it have to be hidden? Why not just carry a regular mic, like the one Celine Dion uses..?)
3. Do you wear your sunglasses a night?
4. What if you really have to use the bathroom? Did they teach you how to hold it for endless hours at a time while you were in training?
5. What would the Secret service suggest a guy do in an effort to keep his woman in line? (This is the question that my husband Doug wants answered the most.)
Now, imagine that I have been doing other things for several hours while waiting for the SS to call me back, because although this was truly the case, through the magic of television -or the Internet- we now have our much awaited answers, but before I divulge such, let me share with you a few interesting facts that you possibly did not know:
Did you know that there are only about 2,000 agents in the whole country? In order to be accepted into the SS, one must first have passed some pretty rigorous training and some heavy background checks, so Saddam Hussein probably couldn't get in. And guess what else! Did you know that a long long time ago, somewhere in the U.S. , a factory that produced molasses was holding the molasses in a huge metal tower (kinda like a grain mill) and carbon monoxide began to form and it built up so much pressure that the tower exploded and eeked hot molasses out by the ton which then picked up a speed of about 35 mph and hot molasses poured into the town and destroyed buildings (turning over a train in the process) and twenty people were killed by molasses that day. Ironically, it happened in January- which makes the old adage "slow as the molasses in January" entirely un-true.
This has nothing to do with my interview, but so what.
Okay, so my brother-in -law, whom we will refer to as "Orlando" and his partner to whom we will refer as "Incarnacion"( in order to employ continued secrecy ) have been so good as to answer my questions with great whit and candor:
1. Q. About the earpiece:
A.Why? Do you think that's hot? Because we have lot's of squigglie's coming from undisclosed locations.
2. Q. About the microphone...
A: That's not the only mic I have ( the other one has glitter on it.)
3.Q. About the sunglasses
A.yes, it makes me feel like a cat.
4. Q. Bathroom breaks
A. Agents don't pee. (That's actually what the squiggly wire is for, it attaches to their bladder and empties into a secret underground tank).
5.Q. Keeping one's woman in line
A. Just say "I'm the boss of you."
And a final bonus question: Why is the Secret service supposed to be a secret if everyone knows about them?
Answer: Can't tell you. It's a secret.
-Stephanie
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