I'm going to point out something that I think is pretty obvious.
If something has the adjective "black" attached to it, you should consider it an omen. That is to say, Black Friday madness is NOT worth the thirty dollars you save. You'll spend more in hand sanitizer alone, trying to recover from being bowled over by thousands of people who have slept on the sidewalk all night and spent zero seconds on personal hygiene before crowding you.
There is one exception to this rule. If you go to Tai Pan with your sisters and mom at 8 am Back Friday morning, you will have a fantastic time. I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure of this. (Unless you don't like your mom and sisters. Then you should borrow mine for the outing and I'll offer a one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee.)
And I'll even go so far as to say that it's really just better to stay in all of Black Friday.
What can you do instead? One thousand things. Like, take a nap, make turkey soup, eat said soup, go for a walk, write a thank you card, paint your toe nails, watch a movie, or. . .organize your toy closet.
My children are innocent to the whole Black Friday event, but it still proved to be an ominous morning when, after feeding them a large, scrumptious breakfast, I announced that we were organizing the toy closet before we were playing. You say, "Black Friday"; I say, "Win My Sanity Back Friday".
To their credit, my children did not complain. To my credit, I did stop to feed them a light snack before moving on to organizing the entertainment hutch.
At about 2 pm, I ran out of Tupperware containers. I considered using Amazon Prime to get some to my house by Monday, but that was no good. Once I start a project, I don't stop until I'm finished. Otherwise, it never gets done.
So I took a deep breath and went to face the crowds.
Sure, I live in a small town, population 3228. But in the end, it's all about comparison, right?
I walked into Ace Hardware, selected my containers in about 15.6 seconds, and walked up to the cash register.
Normally, the cashier greets me with a smile, asks about my family, logs into my Ace Rewards account without asking for the number, tells me about their last dental visit to my doctor husband, and finishes my order (with an enormous helping of customer service) all in about two minutes.
There's never anyone in line. I never wait. Round trip, it takes six minutes.
But not on Black Friday.
On Black Friday, I was the third person in line, both registers were opened, and I had to wait eight minutes before my turn. By the time I got home, my children wondered what had taken me so long.
Serves me right for ignoring a perfectly obvious omen.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Bird is the word.
I made a fatal mistake. I decided to forgo the ten hour trip to my mom's house this year and make my own Thanksgiving dinner for my husband and five children.
It turned out we couldn't have gone anyway, since we all had strep throat for the whole holiday, but that's really a side note to elicit sympathy from the reader.
I decided to be prepared for the inevitable Thanksgiving surprises by over-preparing for the feast.
Sunday, I gathered my necessary recipes and created a "Thanksgiving Recipes 2011" reference guide. I also made the menu and printed individual menus for the diners, complete with color and gratitude quotes.
Monday, I "cleaned house". I also had to make a surprise appearance to the city council of chambers. And somewhere in the midst of cleaning and scrambling to put together a defense for the city council, I went grocery shopping and procured the remaining ingredients I would need.
Tuesday, I was supposed to make the pies and the cranberry sauce. Instead, I made an impromptu visit to the doctor's with a sick son, picked up his medicine, and "cleaned house" again. I went to bed resolved to enjoy tomorrow, which would need to be a full day of cooking.
Wednesday, I knew I was in it for the long haul; I just didn't know how long that was. At 9:30 am, when I discovered the 20.5 pound turkey had been frozen instead of refrigerated, I had a small inkling.
After googling "how to defrost a turkey in a hot hurry", I put the bird in a five pound bucket with cold water. Then I took a deep breath as I committed to changing the bird bath every half hour until 10 pm.
Next, I cooked up a storm. But with all the interruptions to wash hands, change diapers, pour milk, answer the phone, resolve conflicts, wipe spills, make meals, nurse my baby, and give love, the "storm" was more like a mild spring zephyr.
By 9 pm, I had made an apple pie and a pumpkin pie (both with crusts from scratch), the dough for our dinner rolls, sweet potatoes, corn casserole, the sautéed vegetable for the stuffing, and the brine for the thawed bird.
I took a break to nurse the baby while my husband gave me an hour long foot rub. I actually cried while he did that because I had no idea how badly my feet hurt until he took off one of my socks.
At 10 pm, after placing the bird in the brine with gallons of ice water, I started cleaning the kitchen. And by 12 am, I headed to bed.
This morning our children came into our room shouting, "Happy Thanksgiving!" in their merriest, most contagious voices, and after gathering them around for prayer, we started our holiday.
With great execution and precision (and a hearty helping of husband assistance), I pulled off the roasting of the turkey, the cooking of the stuffing, and the baking of the side dishes. Remarkably, everything was ready to go at the same time.
But then I got a surprise from the bird. When I took his temperature, he read 181 degrees. But when we cut him open, he was still bloody. Deflated and starving, we put him back into the roaster for another ninety minutes. Meanwhile, I watched my sides go cold and tried to keep my children from eating treats and/or their fists.
In the end, I can say that this Thanksgiving was the best one I've ever had. But I've learned a valuable lesson.
Next year, we'll start with pie, end with mashed potatoes, and give the bird the bird.
Monday, November 21, 2011
The rebel in me.
I went to City Hall tonight. I had to meet with City Council because I was a citizen of interest. Butterflies were bouncing violently around my insides. My husband held my hand.
When we sat down, we were given an agenda. There was my name--and my crime. Though it was in the same font, size, and color as the rest of the agenda, I felt like it was in neon lights. It tattled, "Natalie Nelson planted six trees in the right of way."
"Oh, sure," my husband whispered. "When you put it that way. . ."
I'm with George McFly; I was never good at confrontation. I take zero risks. I always obey. I hate the feeling of being under scrutiny. I never want to inspire disappointment or criticism. Accordingly, I chose my husband to be our spokesperson for the night.
And me, personally? I just wanted to run and hide and forget all about my long love affair with trees.
But really, how could I not love a Prunus cerasifera, no matter what its variety? Those abundant pink blossoms in the spring, that perfect canopy, those lush purple leaves in the summer, the lack of messy fruit. . . (sigh!)I just love the whole tree, bark to branches! And when I had the chance to plant six of them and effectively cut out the view of the "house" just north of me, I had to take it.
When the local nursery came this morning to (finally!) plant my trees, I was ecstatic. When they stopped midway, I knew something was up. When I was told we needed to have the city's blessing before we planted those trees, my heart sank. When I saw the nursery team burying those trees anyway, I sent my husband out to tell them to hold off until we got the final word. And when they continued to plant those trees, I knew it would come back to bite me.
Our city's council chambers is an unassuming, outdated, forgettable room. The members of the city council are about the same--average looking people from varied walks of life whom you would probably just walk right on by without noticing if you passed them on Main Street. But staring down at me from their raised podium at the front of the room, my neighbors transformed into seven giant bulldozers with the ability to uproot my arboreal dreams with one bored, "Nay".
The ceremony of the whole meeting caught me completely off guard--someone reading minutes, another making motions, another seconding the motions, the whole council giving their, "Aye" in unison, and the mayor asking for any opposed. It was all acted out with the utmost decorum and formality. I haven't been in that formal a setting since. . .well, never.
I sized up the panel. Who would be my biggest opponent? Who had the loudest voice and the hardest questions? Who saw only a tired, blonde woman without any fight in her? Would the only woman on the council be my enemy or ally? My apprehension grew. I should have done my homework! I should have found out where these people live and delivered fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.
And then, horror of horrors, Mayor moved our tree issue to the top of the business list, suggested I be the spokesperson, and called me to come to the stand at the front of the room. I immediately panicked. I seriously considered running from the room, retrieving my trusty spade, and digging up those fifteen foot beauties as penance for my tree hugging ways.
Willing my feet to make the walk forward, I felt my face redden. I darted terror-stricken glances back to my husband. I jammed my hands deep into my winter coat pockets; my fingers nervously twisted a piece of lint. I wished for a meteor to crash to the earth and abruptly end the meeting.
When I got to the stand, I was a deer in headlights. The room was totally silent. The council's fourteen eyes glared down at me. I gulped.
And then, miracle of miracles, I found my voice and told the truth.
"Your Honor, this is the most rebellious thing I've ever done."
The man sitting in the middle of the council panel snorted. The mayor smiled wide. The woman on the end laughed out loud. The rest of the room chuckled. I forced myself to smile back and opened myself up to be shot down dead.
But it never happened.
Sure, there were some close calls. Like, when the woman pointed out that the trees were already planted while she gave me a , "Tsk, tsk, tsk!" look. Or, when a man sitting on the side of the room started to list his concerns about my insurrectionary trees. And best of all, when at the prompting of my husband, I sprung the issue of expanding our driveway on a now very flustered mayor. Those were really nothing more than near misses.
Because in the end, we get to keep our trees--if we attach some document to the house deed so the next owner knows the parameters of the trees in the right of way. No big thing.
But, there might be something to this rebellious life after all. My fire for the insurgent life has been ignited.
Tomorrow, I think I'll put on some bright red lipstick and put a letter in the mailbox without lifting up the little red flag. Then, I'll buy a bullet bike and some leather pants. And then. . .who knows what else I'll do?
I've never been this rebellious before.
When we sat down, we were given an agenda. There was my name--and my crime. Though it was in the same font, size, and color as the rest of the agenda, I felt like it was in neon lights. It tattled, "Natalie Nelson planted six trees in the right of way."
"Oh, sure," my husband whispered. "When you put it that way. . ."
I'm with George McFly; I was never good at confrontation. I take zero risks. I always obey. I hate the feeling of being under scrutiny. I never want to inspire disappointment or criticism. Accordingly, I chose my husband to be our spokesperson for the night.
And me, personally? I just wanted to run and hide and forget all about my long love affair with trees.
But really, how could I not love a Prunus cerasifera, no matter what its variety? Those abundant pink blossoms in the spring, that perfect canopy, those lush purple leaves in the summer, the lack of messy fruit. . . (sigh!)I just love the whole tree, bark to branches! And when I had the chance to plant six of them and effectively cut out the view of the "house" just north of me, I had to take it.
When the local nursery came this morning to (finally!) plant my trees, I was ecstatic. When they stopped midway, I knew something was up. When I was told we needed to have the city's blessing before we planted those trees, my heart sank. When I saw the nursery team burying those trees anyway, I sent my husband out to tell them to hold off until we got the final word. And when they continued to plant those trees, I knew it would come back to bite me.
Our city's council chambers is an unassuming, outdated, forgettable room. The members of the city council are about the same--average looking people from varied walks of life whom you would probably just walk right on by without noticing if you passed them on Main Street. But staring down at me from their raised podium at the front of the room, my neighbors transformed into seven giant bulldozers with the ability to uproot my arboreal dreams with one bored, "Nay".
The ceremony of the whole meeting caught me completely off guard--someone reading minutes, another making motions, another seconding the motions, the whole council giving their, "Aye" in unison, and the mayor asking for any opposed. It was all acted out with the utmost decorum and formality. I haven't been in that formal a setting since. . .well, never.
I sized up the panel. Who would be my biggest opponent? Who had the loudest voice and the hardest questions? Who saw only a tired, blonde woman without any fight in her? Would the only woman on the council be my enemy or ally? My apprehension grew. I should have done my homework! I should have found out where these people live and delivered fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.
And then, horror of horrors, Mayor moved our tree issue to the top of the business list, suggested I be the spokesperson, and called me to come to the stand at the front of the room. I immediately panicked. I seriously considered running from the room, retrieving my trusty spade, and digging up those fifteen foot beauties as penance for my tree hugging ways.
Willing my feet to make the walk forward, I felt my face redden. I darted terror-stricken glances back to my husband. I jammed my hands deep into my winter coat pockets; my fingers nervously twisted a piece of lint. I wished for a meteor to crash to the earth and abruptly end the meeting.
When I got to the stand, I was a deer in headlights. The room was totally silent. The council's fourteen eyes glared down at me. I gulped.
And then, miracle of miracles, I found my voice and told the truth.
"Your Honor, this is the most rebellious thing I've ever done."
The man sitting in the middle of the council panel snorted. The mayor smiled wide. The woman on the end laughed out loud. The rest of the room chuckled. I forced myself to smile back and opened myself up to be shot down dead.
But it never happened.
Sure, there were some close calls. Like, when the woman pointed out that the trees were already planted while she gave me a , "Tsk, tsk, tsk!" look. Or, when a man sitting on the side of the room started to list his concerns about my insurrectionary trees. And best of all, when at the prompting of my husband, I sprung the issue of expanding our driveway on a now very flustered mayor. Those were really nothing more than near misses.
Because in the end, we get to keep our trees--if we attach some document to the house deed so the next owner knows the parameters of the trees in the right of way. No big thing.
But, there might be something to this rebellious life after all. My fire for the insurgent life has been ignited.
Tomorrow, I think I'll put on some bright red lipstick and put a letter in the mailbox without lifting up the little red flag. Then, I'll buy a bullet bike and some leather pants. And then. . .who knows what else I'll do?
I've never been this rebellious before.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Gun Salute
Let me go on record by saying that I pity the potential intruder of our familial domicile.
We have some protocols in place that will preserve our safety and possessions in the event that a bad guy breaks into our home. Luckily, each person has a very different plan. Where one plan falls short, the other is strong.
Together, we have built the Nelson Fortress of Love. . .and Pain.
My plan is what you'd expect of any average American housewife. I've always relied heavily on dead bolts and window locks. I bought a dog with a loud voice--like, the kind of loud where the whole neighborhood knows when the Fed Ex man is approaching our door. I don't answer the phone if I don't recognize the number on caller ID. I look out the window before I answer the door. I close all our blinds and curtains at dusk. We have flood lights surrounding the perimeter of our home. My neighbor has our house key. We are friends with the local police officers.
But when we lived in Baltimore, I perfected my safety protocol.
Maybe it's because Baltimore isn't exactly the safest American city, or maybe it's because one of our good Baltimorean friends was a hunting guide for President Eisenhower. Either way, I have Baltimore life to thank for my total embrace of the Second Amendment.
For my birthday one year, my husband gave me a hand gun; for Mother's Day that same year, I got a laser sight for it. I started to receive other weapons for other various celebrations. I discovered that my shot gun is my weapon of choice, with the MP5 being a close second.
In accordance with these gifts, my husband also had me run drills. You know--basic usage drills, where I had to change the mag, load the gun, and aim in a matter of seconds. He also took me to the trap shooting range, where I received shooting tips from the old timers who lived there. I became comfortable with my guns. I felt a power in my ability to defend myself; I found out my weakness is cordite.
All of these developments were important, because in Maryland, you must warn an intruder that you are going to shoot them before you discharge your weapon.
Whaaaat?? You mean someone breaks into my home with the intent to hurt or steal, and I have to politely issue a warning? I don't believe in warnings; my children don't even get them. Counting to ten before I act? ((Snort!)) You know the rule; don't test me! The sound of my shot gun getting some buck shot in the chamber and my competitive, "Pull!" would be your warning.
Let's just say I feel prepared to face a bad guy.
My husband has also done his part to defend our Fortress of Love and Pain. Each passing year increases the number of weapons in our various gun safes, all of which are strategically located around the house. His arsenal would make a small country worried about a Nelson Invasion. He's stocked up on ammo. He's obtained a concealed carry permit. He practices his shot at the shooting range. We watch every episode of Top Shot. He's best friends with my Uncle Assassin. His right to bear arms will not be infringed upon. He will protect his posterity for as far as his muzzle will reach.
Oh, he's ready.
Put us together, and our genes dance around a bit until we get two smart, capable, ingenious boys. Their safety measures consist mostly of muscles and...school supplies.
My oldest is growing like a weed. He lifts weights. He flexes daily and measures the growth. He reads "How to do Judo Moves" and other self defense books. He tries out his strength on siblings; he scrimmages with his dad. He climbs door jambs for overhead attacks. He practices stealth mode for sneak attacks. He's a deliberate thinker with strategic maneuvers in place.
Today he told me that if a bad guy comes, he would punch them in the stomach. After the wind was knocked out of Bad Guy, he'd grab a pen and color on Bad Guy's cheeks. After knocking Bad Guy completely out, he'd grab a Sharpie and in big, bold letters write "I LOVE UNICORNS" on the intruder's forehead. And with a final, debilitating blow, he would scribble, "My Belly Button is Fatter than Yours" on Bad Guy's gut.
He laughed maniacally/hysterically about all this.
So did his younger brother.
Son Two has basically the same muscle-building regimen as Son One. This summer, when other children were playing on the homemade slip-n-slide, Son Two was building his body. He's only seven and his physique is already impressive. I expect he'll register his arms as deadly weapons in a matter of not many years.
In addition to his brute strength, his Nelson Fortress Protection Plan also includes supplies from his backpack--sharpened pencils, to be exact.
This boy's patience and diligence are unmatched. He can sharpen the same pencil for hours. Patiently, with all manner of persistence, he hones that pencil tip into an exquisite point that would make Chuck Norris flinch.
Today, after one of his sharpening sessions, he held up the pencil tip for me to see. It glinted in the glow from the kitchen can lights. He twirled it ever so slowly and said, "If a bad guy comes, I'll use this in his eyeball. . .or his bum!"
I was like, Ouch!
Our daughters have not yet planned out their actions in the event of a habitation intrusion, them being female and all. But I spend a lot of time with these chicks, and I'm pretty sure I know what they'd do.
In a Charlie's Angels-esque way, acting as a triple threat, Daughter One would start in on a long narration, full of questions and commitment snares, thus confusing the bad guy with her innate ability to cripple by chatter. This would happen while Daughter Three would cry at the top of her lungs, rupturing Bad Guy's unprotected ear drums and debilitating better than a taser. Then with curls bouncing and eyes dancing, Daughter Two would skip onto the scene and kill with her insane cuteness.
Individually, any one of these would be effective defense mechanisms. But put them all together, and Bad Guy would be dead before he even knew what was coming.
All I'm saying is, the preservation of your family is worth every preparation you can make. If you don't have that natural killer instinct, turn to your family. They will probably have some great, original ideas, and you'll find out for yourself that united, you stand strong!
And if you're a bad guy, all I'm saying is,
"PULL!"
We have some protocols in place that will preserve our safety and possessions in the event that a bad guy breaks into our home. Luckily, each person has a very different plan. Where one plan falls short, the other is strong.
Together, we have built the Nelson Fortress of Love. . .and Pain.
My plan is what you'd expect of any average American housewife. I've always relied heavily on dead bolts and window locks. I bought a dog with a loud voice--like, the kind of loud where the whole neighborhood knows when the Fed Ex man is approaching our door. I don't answer the phone if I don't recognize the number on caller ID. I look out the window before I answer the door. I close all our blinds and curtains at dusk. We have flood lights surrounding the perimeter of our home. My neighbor has our house key. We are friends with the local police officers.
But when we lived in Baltimore, I perfected my safety protocol.
Maybe it's because Baltimore isn't exactly the safest American city, or maybe it's because one of our good Baltimorean friends was a hunting guide for President Eisenhower. Either way, I have Baltimore life to thank for my total embrace of the Second Amendment.
For my birthday one year, my husband gave me a hand gun; for Mother's Day that same year, I got a laser sight for it. I started to receive other weapons for other various celebrations. I discovered that my shot gun is my weapon of choice, with the MP5 being a close second.
In accordance with these gifts, my husband also had me run drills. You know--basic usage drills, where I had to change the mag, load the gun, and aim in a matter of seconds. He also took me to the trap shooting range, where I received shooting tips from the old timers who lived there. I became comfortable with my guns. I felt a power in my ability to defend myself; I found out my weakness is cordite.
All of these developments were important, because in Maryland, you must warn an intruder that you are going to shoot them before you discharge your weapon.
Whaaaat?? You mean someone breaks into my home with the intent to hurt or steal, and I have to politely issue a warning? I don't believe in warnings; my children don't even get them. Counting to ten before I act? ((Snort!)) You know the rule; don't test me! The sound of my shot gun getting some buck shot in the chamber and my competitive, "Pull!" would be your warning.
Let's just say I feel prepared to face a bad guy.
My husband has also done his part to defend our Fortress of Love and Pain. Each passing year increases the number of weapons in our various gun safes, all of which are strategically located around the house. His arsenal would make a small country worried about a Nelson Invasion. He's stocked up on ammo. He's obtained a concealed carry permit. He practices his shot at the shooting range. We watch every episode of Top Shot. He's best friends with my Uncle Assassin. His right to bear arms will not be infringed upon. He will protect his posterity for as far as his muzzle will reach.
Oh, he's ready.
Put us together, and our genes dance around a bit until we get two smart, capable, ingenious boys. Their safety measures consist mostly of muscles and...school supplies.
My oldest is growing like a weed. He lifts weights. He flexes daily and measures the growth. He reads "How to do Judo Moves" and other self defense books. He tries out his strength on siblings; he scrimmages with his dad. He climbs door jambs for overhead attacks. He practices stealth mode for sneak attacks. He's a deliberate thinker with strategic maneuvers in place.
Today he told me that if a bad guy comes, he would punch them in the stomach. After the wind was knocked out of Bad Guy, he'd grab a pen and color on Bad Guy's cheeks. After knocking Bad Guy completely out, he'd grab a Sharpie and in big, bold letters write "I LOVE UNICORNS" on the intruder's forehead. And with a final, debilitating blow, he would scribble, "My Belly Button is Fatter than Yours" on Bad Guy's gut.
He laughed maniacally/hysterically about all this.
So did his younger brother.
Son Two has basically the same muscle-building regimen as Son One. This summer, when other children were playing on the homemade slip-n-slide, Son Two was building his body. He's only seven and his physique is already impressive. I expect he'll register his arms as deadly weapons in a matter of not many years.
In addition to his brute strength, his Nelson Fortress Protection Plan also includes supplies from his backpack--sharpened pencils, to be exact.
This boy's patience and diligence are unmatched. He can sharpen the same pencil for hours. Patiently, with all manner of persistence, he hones that pencil tip into an exquisite point that would make Chuck Norris flinch.
Today, after one of his sharpening sessions, he held up the pencil tip for me to see. It glinted in the glow from the kitchen can lights. He twirled it ever so slowly and said, "If a bad guy comes, I'll use this in his eyeball. . .or his bum!"
I was like, Ouch!
Our daughters have not yet planned out their actions in the event of a habitation intrusion, them being female and all. But I spend a lot of time with these chicks, and I'm pretty sure I know what they'd do.
In a Charlie's Angels-esque way, acting as a triple threat, Daughter One would start in on a long narration, full of questions and commitment snares, thus confusing the bad guy with her innate ability to cripple by chatter. This would happen while Daughter Three would cry at the top of her lungs, rupturing Bad Guy's unprotected ear drums and debilitating better than a taser. Then with curls bouncing and eyes dancing, Daughter Two would skip onto the scene and kill with her insane cuteness.
Individually, any one of these would be effective defense mechanisms. But put them all together, and Bad Guy would be dead before he even knew what was coming.
All I'm saying is, the preservation of your family is worth every preparation you can make. If you don't have that natural killer instinct, turn to your family. They will probably have some great, original ideas, and you'll find out for yourself that united, you stand strong!
And if you're a bad guy, all I'm saying is,
"PULL!"
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Hello, Operator?
My understanding of the power of communication was turned upside down when I saw that episode of "Saved By the Bell".
Maybe you saw that one, too, where Mr. Zack Morris was in some sort of self-inflicted trouble, and needing to get out of it in the next twenty minute episode, he pulled out a cell phone.
About the size and weight of a brick, Zack's phone allowed him to make a call in the middle of Bayside High's hallway. He didn't even have to obtain an office phone pass. He could talk to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted--all with his magical, communication brick.
"What is this wonder?" I thought. Just when I thought Zack Morris couldn't get any more popular or cool. . . .
My next experience with cell phone technology was when I started dating the boy next door. He had a cell phone. It was always with him, which meant I could always get ahold of him. We had a lot to talk about. And after three weeks of talking, he became my fiancee.
When we were married, he would call me from his car during his commute to school. I remember answering the phone in my cubicle (the one with the looooong cord) and hearing his voice over the loud roar of our car's powerful engine. He told me about his classes, his aced test, his old friend he ran into, and the ill-eduacted fellow drivers on the road with him. He told me he wished I was in the seat next to him. I loved that phone.
When we moved to graduate school, I got my first cell phone. He got a matching one. They doubled as a walkie talkies, and I could talk to him on his phone for as long as I wanted to, without any monetary penalties. I clipped my phone/walkie talkie on my belt, where it was always accessible. We had a monthly bill. I felt like a real adult.
Nine years and six cell phones later, my current phone is a whole new species. It has the date, the time, its battery life, its signal strength, and a picture of my offspring always visible. When you call my phone, your number and picture is displayed. I can kill zombies, solve word puzzles, check email, post my facebook status, buy things from amazon, text a grocery list, read a novel, photograph my children, edit images, watch my favorite movies, and listen to my favorite music--all with a phone that is small enough to fit in one hand.
The money for my yearly contract could be used to feed a small country.
But instead of viewing it as a communication wonder, I feel my cell phone is subpar--even if it does have a sparkly, bright pink case that snaps into place. Also, I think Zack Morris is a arrogant and irresponsible--even if he does have a nice smile and perfectly styled hair.
I want my phone to be drool proof and shock proof, have infinite battery life, reject phone calls I don't want to receive, be the size and weight of a credit card, never get lost, allow me to teleport my children to Grandma's, and make me look twenty pounds lighter.
My brother tells me that his cell phone puts mine to shame. He actually inherited my dad's old phone. Naturally, it is pre-programmed with my Dad's extensive, outdated contact list. My brother brags about how he can call neighbors who have been dead for several years. Their phone numbers are in his contact list, and all he has to do is push a button. "Do you have Mr. Smith's number?" He taunts. "Mrs. Smith would pay a small fortune for my phone."
Who's all Mrs. Fancy iPhone Pants now?
Maybe you saw that one, too, where Mr. Zack Morris was in some sort of self-inflicted trouble, and needing to get out of it in the next twenty minute episode, he pulled out a cell phone.
About the size and weight of a brick, Zack's phone allowed him to make a call in the middle of Bayside High's hallway. He didn't even have to obtain an office phone pass. He could talk to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted--all with his magical, communication brick.
"What is this wonder?" I thought. Just when I thought Zack Morris couldn't get any more popular or cool. . . .
My next experience with cell phone technology was when I started dating the boy next door. He had a cell phone. It was always with him, which meant I could always get ahold of him. We had a lot to talk about. And after three weeks of talking, he became my fiancee.
When we were married, he would call me from his car during his commute to school. I remember answering the phone in my cubicle (the one with the looooong cord) and hearing his voice over the loud roar of our car's powerful engine. He told me about his classes, his aced test, his old friend he ran into, and the ill-eduacted fellow drivers on the road with him. He told me he wished I was in the seat next to him. I loved that phone.
When we moved to graduate school, I got my first cell phone. He got a matching one. They doubled as a walkie talkies, and I could talk to him on his phone for as long as I wanted to, without any monetary penalties. I clipped my phone/walkie talkie on my belt, where it was always accessible. We had a monthly bill. I felt like a real adult.
Nine years and six cell phones later, my current phone is a whole new species. It has the date, the time, its battery life, its signal strength, and a picture of my offspring always visible. When you call my phone, your number and picture is displayed. I can kill zombies, solve word puzzles, check email, post my facebook status, buy things from amazon, text a grocery list, read a novel, photograph my children, edit images, watch my favorite movies, and listen to my favorite music--all with a phone that is small enough to fit in one hand.
The money for my yearly contract could be used to feed a small country.
But instead of viewing it as a communication wonder, I feel my cell phone is subpar--even if it does have a sparkly, bright pink case that snaps into place. Also, I think Zack Morris is a arrogant and irresponsible--even if he does have a nice smile and perfectly styled hair.
I want my phone to be drool proof and shock proof, have infinite battery life, reject phone calls I don't want to receive, be the size and weight of a credit card, never get lost, allow me to teleport my children to Grandma's, and make me look twenty pounds lighter.
My brother tells me that his cell phone puts mine to shame. He actually inherited my dad's old phone. Naturally, it is pre-programmed with my Dad's extensive, outdated contact list. My brother brags about how he can call neighbors who have been dead for several years. Their phone numbers are in his contact list, and all he has to do is push a button. "Do you have Mr. Smith's number?" He taunts. "Mrs. Smith would pay a small fortune for my phone."
Who's all Mrs. Fancy iPhone Pants now?
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Keeping it real.
I don't feel so glamorous today, even though deep down, I know I am. Somewhere in there, I'm still a happy, thankful, beautiful girl.
It's been a hard week; nothing huge in and of itself, but pile them all together, and I feel the reality of life in my veins and my wrinkles. I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything. Growing can be painful, but it's growth that I so desperately want and need.
My toddler had the chicken pox this week; if Baby doesn't get them, I'll know it is from the intervention of God. I know He can deliver me. I know that for myself.
My bone and gum graft is healing, but my smile isn't quite itself yet. No big deal, I guess. People who love me notice my dancing eyes when I smile, not my recovering gums.
My oldest daughter asked me why I had chicken pox on my face.
Not chicken pox, I told her. They are cancerous lesions in the process of being removed.
Well they just look like chicken pox, she told me. And lots of wrinkles.
My basement flooded five weeks ago, and having half a house--with no smaller fraction of people and chores--presents its challenges. I deal with it by ignoring the upheaval and laying on the small parts of the carpet that are showing. Best part of my day so far: when I laid on the floor on my belly and made a tower for my grunting, squealing, cooing infant.
My husband was away all weekend. I missed him. But the missing made me enjoy his presence today even more. Our bed was full of three little girls this morning, but they belong to him and me, and that was worth smiling about. So was his good morning kiss.
My soup needs some help. I can't just go impromptu like that all the time. Culinary liberties are for the super chefs. And in this case, my super chef was buried too deep to pull it out in the thirty minutes it took to make lunch. My toddler ate two helpings. This is unprecedented. I feel triumphant.
My mother was out of the country all week long. My whining couldn't reach her ears. In my imaginary conversations with her, she told me that I was expected to do hard things. I had to be grateful for the good, diligent in my duties, and certain of her approval. I wanted her to tell me I should go back to bed, but she never did. When I called her this morning, she answered her phone. She was anxious to talk to me; she had been praying for me. I had heard her encouragement, thousands of miles away, in my head and heart. My mother is an angel whose heart beats for me. I matter to her.
Tomorrow I'll start over on my chores. I did them last week, but they need my attention again. There will be new battles to fight, new growth to make. I'm pretty sure it will hurt. I'm too overwhelmed to think about that right now.
For today, I'll rest in the Sabbath Day. I am not forgotten. My prayers are heard. I am eternally loved.
Today, I live a glorious life.
It's been a hard week; nothing huge in and of itself, but pile them all together, and I feel the reality of life in my veins and my wrinkles. I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything. Growing can be painful, but it's growth that I so desperately want and need.
My toddler had the chicken pox this week; if Baby doesn't get them, I'll know it is from the intervention of God. I know He can deliver me. I know that for myself.
My bone and gum graft is healing, but my smile isn't quite itself yet. No big deal, I guess. People who love me notice my dancing eyes when I smile, not my recovering gums.
My oldest daughter asked me why I had chicken pox on my face.
Not chicken pox, I told her. They are cancerous lesions in the process of being removed.
Well they just look like chicken pox, she told me. And lots of wrinkles.
My basement flooded five weeks ago, and having half a house--with no smaller fraction of people and chores--presents its challenges. I deal with it by ignoring the upheaval and laying on the small parts of the carpet that are showing. Best part of my day so far: when I laid on the floor on my belly and made a tower for my grunting, squealing, cooing infant.
My husband was away all weekend. I missed him. But the missing made me enjoy his presence today even more. Our bed was full of three little girls this morning, but they belong to him and me, and that was worth smiling about. So was his good morning kiss.
My soup needs some help. I can't just go impromptu like that all the time. Culinary liberties are for the super chefs. And in this case, my super chef was buried too deep to pull it out in the thirty minutes it took to make lunch. My toddler ate two helpings. This is unprecedented. I feel triumphant.
My mother was out of the country all week long. My whining couldn't reach her ears. In my imaginary conversations with her, she told me that I was expected to do hard things. I had to be grateful for the good, diligent in my duties, and certain of her approval. I wanted her to tell me I should go back to bed, but she never did. When I called her this morning, she answered her phone. She was anxious to talk to me; she had been praying for me. I had heard her encouragement, thousands of miles away, in my head and heart. My mother is an angel whose heart beats for me. I matter to her.
Tomorrow I'll start over on my chores. I did them last week, but they need my attention again. There will be new battles to fight, new growth to make. I'm pretty sure it will hurt. I'm too overwhelmed to think about that right now.
For today, I'll rest in the Sabbath Day. I am not forgotten. My prayers are heard. I am eternally loved.
Today, I live a glorious life.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Thank you forever.
When I asked my mom why her daddy hadn't been to war, she explained how it wasn't from lack of trying. Though afflicted with severe diabetes most of his life, all 5'5" of him had gone to enlist--and had passed all the tests. His wife, angered by the whole charade, had to march down to the office and tell them they failed to catch one important thing about her husband's health. Grandpa died before my mom was 15. He left a young widow who had only her faith and work ethic. I couldn't understand why a man would sign up to give his life when his days were already numbered.
I remember the first time I noticed a large bump in Grandpa's calf. I asked him about it. He explained he was in WWII, and it was shrapnel. Then he proceeded to show me other places where the shrapnel had lodged itself in his limbs. He showed me how the bumps were somewhat mobile, but that they didn't hurt him. I was fascinated. I wondered what kind of man could survive bombs exploding all around him. This confirmed my suspicions that he was a man among men.
My mom is the youngest of three children, she being the only girl. One day when I came home from elementary school, she was sitting in the living room with her brother. The feeling in the room made me feel immediately reverent, and I watched closely to see if I could figure out why I felt that way.
Uncle Mike was in uniform. I had seen him in that uniform in many pictures, but it was different this time. Today his uniform was covered in awards. My mom was crying, listening intently to my uncle's hushed words.
It turns out, when Uncle Mike was testing scuba gear in Puerto Rico fifteen years earlier, he wasn't really testing scuba gear. He was a Navy Seal Assassin and had been in the very depths of war's dark abyss. But the giant "T" scar on his chest and abdomen wasn't from his secret missions. It was from the drunk driver who hit him shortly after he came home. I tried to comprehend that a man could survive secret missions and disemboweling crashes and live to speak of God's mighty power in preserving His life.
When my cousin left for war, he was a handsome, muscular young man. He returned from Iraq bent over, walking with a cane, and remains severely crippled for life. When I thanked him for his sacrifice, he quickly brushed the compliment aside and humbly replied about his job and his privilege. What kind of man can be so quick to sacrifice his life, and though crippled by war, not be poisoned by bitter resentment?
Today, my dear grandpa lives on a hill with his wife who is losing her mental capacities. He walks with her, brings her medications, fixes her meals, and can't imagine what he'd do without her. His surviving friends still talk with awe about his integrity. In all their years, they've never met anyone with such high moral standards.
He fights the battle of life with virtue.
My beloved uncle lives on a small farm, growing vegetables and making his famous tomato soup for his adoring nieces and nephews. When he isn't working the night shift at the postal office, he cares for his wife, who has been suffering from Multiple Sclerosis for many years. I've had the sacred privilege of seeing him carry her everywhere on his back, taking slow, measured steps so as not to cause her any discomfort. He pushes her in her wheelchair around the block and reserves the best places for her to sit when the family gathers. He faithfully does her hair and makeup, and she always looks breathtaking. When I saw him last month, he showed me the beautiful winter cloak he was sewing for her Christmas present. The tears in my eyes kept me from seeing the details very well, but his delight was in full focus. The frail frame of his wife will not be feeling even the slightest chill this year.
He fights the battle of life with love.
My cousin and his wife recently had their third child--a daughter. She was born prematurely and had a lengthly stay in the NICU. And though life has thrown him his share of surprises, he is a happy husband and father, working towards recovery while enjoying his family and friends. Life is good for him, and because of his faith, his future is full of promise.
He fights the battle of life with optimism.
And so, the veterans in my life have taught me the most important measure of a man:
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13).
To the amazing men in my family who have taught me by example, and to all the men and women who have served--or are serving--our country,
To the amazing men in my family who have taught me by example, and to all the men and women who have served--or are serving--our country,
Your sacrifices have altered your lives, and they have altered mine.
Your unfailing love for your country and fellowmen is tangible, and I feel your love for me and mine.
Your service deserves your country's eternal gratitude. May you know that you always have mine.
Happy Veterans' Day!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Scream
I'd like to think I'm not alone on this one. It's just so obvious that everyone should be deathly afraid. And yet, I see people sauntering around without a care in the world, whistling nonchalantly, whilst I'm holding back blood-curdling screams.
We can put a man on the moon, but really? We really can't find any solution to this pernicious problem? We have containment units for ghosts, sunlight and garlic for vampires, and buzz (or reciprocating) saws for zombies. And yet, we come up empty handed on this one? Surely clean energy solutions can be put on a back burner until we've got this figured out.
When we got home, I laid the bow on the granite counter and covered it with half a can of Lysol. Five minutes later, as per directions, I emptied the can on the now limp bow. When it was dried, I put it in the "hand wash" laundry hamper, where it now awaits my courage and laundry prowess to come rescue it. When it's done being laundered, I'll dump it in the trash bin, haul to the bow store, and buy a fresh one.
It's the only way to best the beast.
I'm a reasonable person with a fair grasp on reality. I'm not so far out in left field, am I?
I mean, am I afraid of ghosts? Nope. Werewolves or vampires? Nuh-uh. The basement? Kinda. The impending zombie apocalypse? ((yawn!)) Not even.
But they're everywhere, people. They carry filth and disease, crazy asylum escapees, and flagrant disregard of elementary privacy laws. They. Will. Kill. You!
I'll illustrate. When we were in the checkout line at Costco last Saturday, my four-year-old came to me and whispered, "I need to go potty." I could hear the "Twilight Zone" theme song increasing in volume as the weight of this request sunk into my soul.
I took a deep breath, quickly considered my other options, and resigned myself to my fate. After handing the baby off to my oldest, I held Daughter's hands and tried to bury my fear in a skip and a smile. And even though I had given in to the inevitable (a shower would be absolutely necessary tonight), I still began to review my basic Minimizing Germs from Public Restroom Exposure protocol.
Sure you can do your best to avoid the lethal pitfalls, but there's no real escaping the surprise attacks, the explosive dangers, and the gut-wrenching stench of a slow, disgusting death. And when you have to take a toddler potty in a public facility, it's game over on sanitation and health.
As we came to the brick aisle that wound its way back to the "Women's", I hurriedly rolled up our long sleeve shirts to cut back on contamination. Then in a crisp, harsh whisper, I warned, "Do not touch anything in here. Do you understand?" My bulged eyeballs, tight grip, and panicked wheezing all cued her in that I meant business, and she solemnly pledged her strict obedience with a measured nod and wide eyes. If I was transforming into a werewolf at that moment, she wouldn't have looked more alarmed. (And now that I think of it, there were probably some striking similarities.)
It's a good thing I'm naturally limber and do yoga occasionally, otherwise I would have met my death just stepping into the stall. Because all I can think about is the violent spray of the toilet and how many germs get aerosolized per flush, and how much they've multiplied in that confined spaced since it was last cleaned. And how now, they are feasting eagerly on my hair and face, creeping over my skin, and trying to get inside of me and kill me off.
In an act of death-defying grace and agility, I pick up Daughter, rest her on my left hip, push the stall door open with my right foot, scan the toilet for moisture and the floor for soggy paper, and racing the closing hinge on the door, I bend to the right to avoid banging her on the wall. I take a step in, switch her to the front of me, my arms out in front to suspend her over the toilet, do a backbend to avoid the toilet paper holder, the ceramic toilet, and the back of the closing stall door. Before the door bounces back open, and in one swift movement, I stand her in the middle of the small space, grab a dangling piece of toilet paper, and use it to catch the door handle and lock us into our grave.
Next, I grab a toilet seat "cover"; you know--those flimsy paperish things that aren't shaped like any toilet on earth? I have to completely remove the middle when taking a toddler potty or we get more of a puddle on top of the paper. (I learned that by sad experience.) I carefully situate it, taking care to cover as much as I can. Obviously, one doesn't cut it, so I grab another cover, punch out the middle, and stagger its coverage with the other cover to make the toilet "safe". (There's no such thing in a public restroom.) All the while, I'm throwing frenzied glances back to my toddler to make sure she hasn't leaned against the filthy doors or walls, covered in aerosolized toilet germs.
She was perfectly obedient, but my glance back at her proved to be my fatal error. The slight movement set off the toilet's automatic sensor, and now, with a deafening growl and a gurgling whoosh, the flushing water sucks my carefully arranged toilet covers down its monstrous throat and leaves a belch full of moisture in its wake.
Don't worry, though. At the start of the flush, I knew what was coming, because you never forget what it sounds like to be roared at by a demon beast. My adrenalin took over, and with lighting speed I took a deep breath, turned my head, and protected my offspring with as much of myself as was possible. If she dies, I'll never forgive myself, I thought.
So now I'm back at the start, but I know now I'll have to conquer the demon toilet with movements so slow and precise as to fool the automatic flush sensor. Good thing I'm part mother, part ninja.
I repeat the seat covering process, but this time all in grande plie, keeping my head in front of the sensor and as motionless and level as possible. Still looking towards the sensor, I twist my torso around, grab my daughter around the waist, bring her up, over, and in front of me, and set her, oh, so gingerly on the mouth of the gaping beast.
She looks scared. We'll never get out of here if she can't relax, I think. So I whisper encouraging words and try to look calm, ignoring my thighs that are ablaze with exhaustion from holding this squat for three whole minutes.
When the deed is done, my adrenalin kicks in again. As soon as I move her, I know the monster will try to drink her down and shower my beloved child with its vile mist. So ever so rapidly and nimbly, I hold my breath, pick her up, pull up her pants mid-air, twist back towards the door, set her down, and almost shout my defiance in answer to the voice of the rushing waters.
But I was not to leave that stall unscarred. Because when I flipped her up and around and down, her beautiful magenta bow fell on the floor.
I did the only thing you can do when you're wounded to this degree.
I cried.
There in the Costco bathroom stall, I cried.
Then my daughter started to cry, thinking it was her fault, which thankfully snapped me back to reality. I picked up the bow with fingers three and four (because they're probably the most clean), stuffed it in my pocket, and reassured Daughter that she did a wonderful job, and I couldn't have asked for a better performance, and I'm not mad at her, just at the janitors.
We washed with the automatic faucets, using plenty of soap and scrubbing till our hands were red. When it came time to dry our hands, I looked in vain for the paper towels. Instead, I found those automatic air tunnels, where you dip your hands inside and they get blasted dry. There is no way I can dry us both off without touching the sides of the tunnel, I thought.
As Daughter started over to them, I pulled her back and told her we were just gonna shake our hands dry, because it's way more fun.
In an act of death-defying grace and agility, I pick up Daughter, rest her on my left hip, push the stall door open with my right foot, scan the toilet for moisture and the floor for soggy paper, and racing the closing hinge on the door, I bend to the right to avoid banging her on the wall. I take a step in, switch her to the front of me, my arms out in front to suspend her over the toilet, do a backbend to avoid the toilet paper holder, the ceramic toilet, and the back of the closing stall door. Before the door bounces back open, and in one swift movement, I stand her in the middle of the small space, grab a dangling piece of toilet paper, and use it to catch the door handle and lock us into our grave.
Next, I grab a toilet seat "cover"; you know--those flimsy paperish things that aren't shaped like any toilet on earth? I have to completely remove the middle when taking a toddler potty or we get more of a puddle on top of the paper. (I learned that by sad experience.) I carefully situate it, taking care to cover as much as I can. Obviously, one doesn't cut it, so I grab another cover, punch out the middle, and stagger its coverage with the other cover to make the toilet "safe". (There's no such thing in a public restroom.) All the while, I'm throwing frenzied glances back to my toddler to make sure she hasn't leaned against the filthy doors or walls, covered in aerosolized toilet germs.
She was perfectly obedient, but my glance back at her proved to be my fatal error. The slight movement set off the toilet's automatic sensor, and now, with a deafening growl and a gurgling whoosh, the flushing water sucks my carefully arranged toilet covers down its monstrous throat and leaves a belch full of moisture in its wake.
Don't worry, though. At the start of the flush, I knew what was coming, because you never forget what it sounds like to be roared at by a demon beast. My adrenalin took over, and with lighting speed I took a deep breath, turned my head, and protected my offspring with as much of myself as was possible. If she dies, I'll never forgive myself, I thought.
So now I'm back at the start, but I know now I'll have to conquer the demon toilet with movements so slow and precise as to fool the automatic flush sensor. Good thing I'm part mother, part ninja.
I repeat the seat covering process, but this time all in grande plie, keeping my head in front of the sensor and as motionless and level as possible. Still looking towards the sensor, I twist my torso around, grab my daughter around the waist, bring her up, over, and in front of me, and set her, oh, so gingerly on the mouth of the gaping beast.
She looks scared. We'll never get out of here if she can't relax, I think. So I whisper encouraging words and try to look calm, ignoring my thighs that are ablaze with exhaustion from holding this squat for three whole minutes.
When the deed is done, my adrenalin kicks in again. As soon as I move her, I know the monster will try to drink her down and shower my beloved child with its vile mist. So ever so rapidly and nimbly, I hold my breath, pick her up, pull up her pants mid-air, twist back towards the door, set her down, and almost shout my defiance in answer to the voice of the rushing waters.
But I was not to leave that stall unscarred. Because when I flipped her up and around and down, her beautiful magenta bow fell on the floor.
I did the only thing you can do when you're wounded to this degree.
I cried.
There in the Costco bathroom stall, I cried.
Then my daughter started to cry, thinking it was her fault, which thankfully snapped me back to reality. I picked up the bow with fingers three and four (because they're probably the most clean), stuffed it in my pocket, and reassured Daughter that she did a wonderful job, and I couldn't have asked for a better performance, and I'm not mad at her, just at the janitors.
We washed with the automatic faucets, using plenty of soap and scrubbing till our hands were red. When it came time to dry our hands, I looked in vain for the paper towels. Instead, I found those automatic air tunnels, where you dip your hands inside and they get blasted dry. There is no way I can dry us both off without touching the sides of the tunnel, I thought.
As Daughter started over to them, I pulled her back and told her we were just gonna shake our hands dry, because it's way more fun.
We can put a man on the moon, but really? We really can't find any solution to this pernicious problem? We have containment units for ghosts, sunlight and garlic for vampires, and buzz (or reciprocating) saws for zombies. And yet, we come up empty handed on this one? Surely clean energy solutions can be put on a back burner until we've got this figured out.
When we got home, I laid the bow on the granite counter and covered it with half a can of Lysol. Five minutes later, as per directions, I emptied the can on the now limp bow. When it was dried, I put it in the "hand wash" laundry hamper, where it now awaits my courage and laundry prowess to come rescue it. When it's done being laundered, I'll dump it in the trash bin, haul to the bow store, and buy a fresh one.
It's the only way to best the beast.
Friday, November 4, 2011
A pocket full of posies
As this life is for learning, I am diligent in my studies. Some things I catch on to right away; they just make sense. Other things. . .well, not so much.
One of my personal, eternal conundrums is understanding those persons with XY chromosomes. I find myself always in a dither, asking, "Why? Why? Why?!?" Usually finding solutions to interrogative sentences leads to learning. In this case, I dig a deeper and deeper hole in my brain, with no sign of answers--ever.
Since I began doing his laundry, I have been trying to figure out why he puts such random stuff in his pockets. It's a totally foreign idea to me. I don't usually wear pants with pockets, and when I do, the pockets are too tiny, or so full of my own body, that I can't fit anything in there. A popped off button would be a tight squeeze.
He, however, seems to have the equivalent of Mary Poppins' carpet bag in his trousers. I'm telling you!
But to make matters worse, sometimes I jump the gun with my laundering; that is to say, I wash pants on the floor that were "only worn once", so they didn't need to be washed. Other times, he simply puts his pants in the hamper without emptying the pockets, because his mom always emptied pockets to collect tips. Either way, I'm pulling quite the assortment of odds and ends out of my washing machine.
When we were first married, I washed his entire wallet. When he came home from school, the contents of his wallet were carefully lined up on the back of our second-hand sofa, trying to catch the few drafts of warm air that our apartment produced. Flustered and blushing, I defended myself. Certainly he was part to blame.
I thought he had learned his lesson. He thought I had learned mine.
Fast forward eleven years, and we're still unsure as to why the other insists on repeating behavior that ensures a washer full of pocket junk.
The other day, I washed a load of his pants. When I went to move the load to the dryer, I noticed that it looked like I just dumped the kitchen junk drawer into the machine, the items were so random: Otter Pop wrappers, various coins, rare Lego pieces, bits of rope, small tools, soggy receipts, candy wrappers, a cuticle cutter, ear buds, a memory key. . .to list a few. If I went around the house and randomly selected items from drawers, I couldn't have collected a more motley crew.
Yesterday we were taking down the trampoline in preparation for the impending winter months. I was struggling to untie the elastic knots that were tying down the padding. After several minutes, I looked over at my husband, who was making quick work of the knotty buggers.
"How'd you do that?" I asked.
"I use this tool," he returned, holding up a screw.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked incredulously.
"From my pocket," he answered matter-of-factly. "Do you want it?"
"Yes, but what will you use?"
"This," he said, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small tool that I had never seen before.
"What's that?" I asked, incredulity mixed with awe.
"A spring tool--to take the trampoline springs off," he explained.
My jaw dropped, I shook my head, and I impatiently thought to myself, "Oh, when will I ever learn?"
One of my personal, eternal conundrums is understanding those persons with XY chromosomes. I find myself always in a dither, asking, "Why? Why? Why?!?" Usually finding solutions to interrogative sentences leads to learning. In this case, I dig a deeper and deeper hole in my brain, with no sign of answers--ever.
Since I began doing his laundry, I have been trying to figure out why he puts such random stuff in his pockets. It's a totally foreign idea to me. I don't usually wear pants with pockets, and when I do, the pockets are too tiny, or so full of my own body, that I can't fit anything in there. A popped off button would be a tight squeeze.
He, however, seems to have the equivalent of Mary Poppins' carpet bag in his trousers. I'm telling you!
But to make matters worse, sometimes I jump the gun with my laundering; that is to say, I wash pants on the floor that were "only worn once", so they didn't need to be washed. Other times, he simply puts his pants in the hamper without emptying the pockets, because his mom always emptied pockets to collect tips. Either way, I'm pulling quite the assortment of odds and ends out of my washing machine.
When we were first married, I washed his entire wallet. When he came home from school, the contents of his wallet were carefully lined up on the back of our second-hand sofa, trying to catch the few drafts of warm air that our apartment produced. Flustered and blushing, I defended myself. Certainly he was part to blame.
I thought he had learned his lesson. He thought I had learned mine.
Fast forward eleven years, and we're still unsure as to why the other insists on repeating behavior that ensures a washer full of pocket junk.
The other day, I washed a load of his pants. When I went to move the load to the dryer, I noticed that it looked like I just dumped the kitchen junk drawer into the machine, the items were so random: Otter Pop wrappers, various coins, rare Lego pieces, bits of rope, small tools, soggy receipts, candy wrappers, a cuticle cutter, ear buds, a memory key. . .to list a few. If I went around the house and randomly selected items from drawers, I couldn't have collected a more motley crew.
Yesterday we were taking down the trampoline in preparation for the impending winter months. I was struggling to untie the elastic knots that were tying down the padding. After several minutes, I looked over at my husband, who was making quick work of the knotty buggers.
"How'd you do that?" I asked.
"I use this tool," he returned, holding up a screw.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked incredulously.
"From my pocket," he answered matter-of-factly. "Do you want it?"
"Yes, but what will you use?"
"This," he said, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small tool that I had never seen before.
"What's that?" I asked, incredulity mixed with awe.
"A spring tool--to take the trampoline springs off," he explained.
My jaw dropped, I shook my head, and I impatiently thought to myself, "Oh, when will I ever learn?"
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Published in the Paper
I was a guest writer for our local paper, Idaho County Free Press. I was featured on the first page of the special section on winterizing, a very important topic in these parts. Since the paper's readership is small and local, I've included my column for your information. I hope you find something useful therein.
At our house, autumn is in full swing and winter might as well be here. The children have made their Christmas lists and a paper chain that counts down to the first snow of the year. I find myself reeling at the thought of snow-bound house days and Christmas shopping; I’m just now raking the fallen leaves on our lawn.
I’ve made a list (and I’ve checked it twice!) that should help me cut back on the winter breakdowns that sometimes accompany raising five small children in the bleak winter months.
First, prepare against cold and flu season. Anyone can schedule flu shots, make sure the children are up to date on immunizations, stock up on Vitamin C lozenges, clean the humidifiers, darn socks, and find missing mittens. But I go the extra mile by duct taping a box of facial tissues to each child’s chest to make wiping runny noses and moist faces that much easier.
Second, install a shoe tree. The incessant pile of wet shoes, galoshes, and snow boots that live at my back door during the winter months has already begun to haunt my dreams. In an effort to cut back on the mountainous accumulation and in a stroke of Martha Stewart-esque creativity, I purchased a small artificial pine tree (complete with lights), hung sturdy hooks all over it, and strategically placed it at the back door. Now when the children kick off their snowy boots and damp stockings, they can aim them for the jolly shoe tree to dry off and add to the holiday cheer.
Third, pack family emergency kits. You should have at least three--one for the car, the doctor’s office, and your master bedroom closet. Include things like hard candy, bottled water, hand warmers, books, and flares for the car kit. Pack tissues, clean underwear, baby wipes, stickers, and video games for the doctor’s office kit. And for the master bedroom emergency kit, include a sleep mask, ear plugs, a small flashlight, and some beef jerky, just in case you need to hibernate in your closet for a good cry or a quick nap.
With these preparations in place, I say, “Let the winter games begin!”
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