I found a new best friend.
As is the case with so many friends who have shaped my life, she's in the pages of a book I'm reading. Actually, she passed away several years ago. But she's alive in my book. And that's what matters to me.
It's always disappointing when you think you have a real connection with the heart of another only to find that they are false, jealous, conniving, little, or smutty. There are too many of these people and stories in the world. Which is why I was especially glad to find this gem of a girl.
Here's what I find irresistible about her life story:
She is real--a living, vibrant woman, with faults, strengths, discouragements, joys, hopes, dreams. Her story doesn't only tell the good; it tells the bad, hard, frustrating, and sad, too. I get to read about how she overcomes and plods on, despite set backs and hard falls. I so relate to that. I think, "Here is a woman just like me! There's hope for me yet!"
I love that hope is just oozing out of the pages of this book. I feel like I could grab some of the glittering, oozing hope-gel and spread it all over my world. I'm amazed at how much hope helps to change my perspective, my abilities, and my desires.
Her friendship and voice is always available to me. Instead of staying awake at night, drowning in thoughts of my full schedule or my struggling child or my hopeless flaws, I listen to her story. It feels so good to calm my mind and just listen--without any interruptions. Everyone needs a friend who doesn't always talk nonsense. I love her for that.
She is grounded in what matters most. She lets the insignificant be just that. She cherishes the deep and lasting. She lives to see her dreams become realities.
I am so grateful to include her in my circle of true friends.
I'm hereby committed to filling my life with those who uplift, inspire, and encourage me.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
A rock star can wear what she wants.
There was a time when I missed the bus because I was perfecting the accessories to my outfit. The rest of the morning didn't go so well, but it didn't matter because I looked like a rock star.
Twenty years later, I'm living a completely different life. (It's a good thing, too, because eighth grade was fun, but it's not where I want to be forever.)
Yesterday I didn't give any thought at all to what I should wear. Zero accessories graced me. In fact, it wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that I realized what I had been wearing all day.
I still had on my my husband's t-shirt that had I slept in the night before.
Luckily for my neighbors, I had thrown on some comfy pants so my legs weren't chilly. A loose pony tail, frantically applied mascara, and chipped finger nail polish finished my ensemble. All in all, it was a good day--for me.
My husband's Hard Rock Cafe Canada shirt took a beating, though.
I couldn't stop myself from counting twelve stain patches and noticing that each patch was a variant shade of green, brown, or red. If shirts could talk, this one would have tattled on me, for sure.
I did a little experiment and discovered sour milk has a stronger smell than garlic. I know this because though the guacamole patch was fresher than the milk patch, I couldn't smell any trace of garlic.
I paused to wonder about my toddler's lip. I forgot to check what the wound looked like once the bleeding stopped. But I do know it stopped, and that's the important thing.
Do you know how many things are brown? I don't know the exact number, but I know it's a lot, because I still can't figure out where those stains came from. Also, there are a lot of names and smells that describe the kind of brown you could be investigating--caramel, beige, umber, burnt sienna, coffee, mahogany, buff, cocoa. See?
I had a happy realization that I am most definitely not my husband's size, and the exercise I've been diligent about means I kinda feel like wearing pajamas that actually fit my shape. I won't, though, because the thirty-something me stuffs the eighth grade me in her locker before she can even wonder if she'll have to buy new slippers to match the pretty pajamas.
Let's be serious, here. I love the idea of looking cute while I sleep. Really, I do. But does cuteness really trump efficiency? If I'm doing the math right, a night, and a day, and a night, is like killing three birds with one sleep shirt.
I'm nothing if I'm not efficient, these days.
Pajamas it is.
Stains, smells, and discolorations will accumulate, no matter what I wear. It's a hard rock life.
Twenty years later, I'm living a completely different life. (It's a good thing, too, because eighth grade was fun, but it's not where I want to be forever.)
Yesterday I didn't give any thought at all to what I should wear. Zero accessories graced me. In fact, it wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that I realized what I had been wearing all day.
I still had on my my husband's t-shirt that had I slept in the night before.
Luckily for my neighbors, I had thrown on some comfy pants so my legs weren't chilly. A loose pony tail, frantically applied mascara, and chipped finger nail polish finished my ensemble. All in all, it was a good day--for me.
My husband's Hard Rock Cafe Canada shirt took a beating, though.
I couldn't stop myself from counting twelve stain patches and noticing that each patch was a variant shade of green, brown, or red. If shirts could talk, this one would have tattled on me, for sure.
I did a little experiment and discovered sour milk has a stronger smell than garlic. I know this because though the guacamole patch was fresher than the milk patch, I couldn't smell any trace of garlic.
I paused to wonder about my toddler's lip. I forgot to check what the wound looked like once the bleeding stopped. But I do know it stopped, and that's the important thing.
Do you know how many things are brown? I don't know the exact number, but I know it's a lot, because I still can't figure out where those stains came from. Also, there are a lot of names and smells that describe the kind of brown you could be investigating--caramel, beige, umber, burnt sienna, coffee, mahogany, buff, cocoa. See?
I had a happy realization that I am most definitely not my husband's size, and the exercise I've been diligent about means I kinda feel like wearing pajamas that actually fit my shape. I won't, though, because the thirty-something me stuffs the eighth grade me in her locker before she can even wonder if she'll have to buy new slippers to match the pretty pajamas.
Let's be serious, here. I love the idea of looking cute while I sleep. Really, I do. But does cuteness really trump efficiency? If I'm doing the math right, a night, and a day, and a night, is like killing three birds with one sleep shirt.
I'm nothing if I'm not efficient, these days.
Pajamas it is.
Stains, smells, and discolorations will accumulate, no matter what I wear. It's a hard rock life.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Practice Makes Perfect
It's the end of a hectic Tuesday, and I find myself alone, late at night, basking in the privilege of a quiet mind and deep pondering. Here's what I've come up with: Motherhood is a job for experts, but one that is given to rookies.
There's a reason there isn't a handbook on how to be a mother. Too much of that specific information might prove to be the end of the human race as we know it. Still, any time I meet a seasoned mother, I can't help but glean some tips from her. Sure, my oldest is pushing eleven. I still feel like a rookie.
When I went to the hospital to have Baby Five, the nurse said, "Five children! So you're an expert now." To which I replied, "Five Children! Now I know for certain I have no idea what I'm doing."
I have, however, complied a list of a few rules that a mother-in-training can follow in order to be just a little more prepared for the rigors of motherhood. They are as follows:
Only engage in conversations about burps, poop, nap time, fruit snacks, Disney princesses, and trains.
Throw your pillow away. Also your napkin. Buy a shirt that says, "Please use my sleeves for whatever part of you is moist."
Volunteer at the local zoo and diaper a monkey with diarrhea twelve times per day. You may only put on the new diaper when the monkey is swinging in the trees or running away from you.
Sleep in an s curve, clinging to the side of your bed.
Learn to "get ready" for the day in 3.5 minutes.
Spend a whole afternoon in the car, listening to someone else's favorite songs and movies. You are awarded extra points if you do not scream at any time.
Line up five pairs of shoes by your front door. Anytime you want to go somewhere, tie each pair.
If you are sitting down, a twenty-five pound bag of wiggly flour with gas should occupy your lap. If you are standing, it should occupy your arms.
When you have a hurt toe, it should be purposefully bumped at least seven times each day for the duration of its healing process.
Stand in a public restroom and clap and cheer wildly anytime anyone goes potty in the potty.
Answer any question you hear with a lucid, appropriate response--no matter the time of day.
Only eat hot dinners cold. Luke warm is cheating.
Arrive at any event thirty minutes early and sit in the seat nearest the back door.
Become well versed in children's literature. Learn to end any sentence with a rhyme.
Laugh heartily and sincerely at any joke--even if the punch line is missing.
Become proficient at making a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 15 seconds.
Exchange all expensive dinner ware for Ikea plastic ware. Only eat in the company of people with preferences for plate colors that are not clean or that don't exist.
Wash the laundry for the entire neighborhood and the boys' basketball team, and have it ready to go by 8 am.
Become comfortable with fellow diners not wearing all their clothes at dinner.
Offer to brush the teeth of five different people--keeping their toothbrushes straight--and fall asleep before you can brush and floss your own.
Make five different science fair projects. Each must be eligible to win first place.
Pour sour milk down the front of you and let it air dry. Don't start lowing.
Mind you, I'm not saying you'll be a pro if you master these scenarios. I'm just saying that when you sit down to your hot dinner, with your fork almost to your mouth, and someone yells, "I'm all done! Come wipe me!", nobody can smirk and call you a rookie.
If they do, you can bet they don't have any children.
There's a reason there isn't a handbook on how to be a mother. Too much of that specific information might prove to be the end of the human race as we know it. Still, any time I meet a seasoned mother, I can't help but glean some tips from her. Sure, my oldest is pushing eleven. I still feel like a rookie.
When I went to the hospital to have Baby Five, the nurse said, "Five children! So you're an expert now." To which I replied, "Five Children! Now I know for certain I have no idea what I'm doing."
I have, however, complied a list of a few rules that a mother-in-training can follow in order to be just a little more prepared for the rigors of motherhood. They are as follows:
Only engage in conversations about burps, poop, nap time, fruit snacks, Disney princesses, and trains.
Throw your pillow away. Also your napkin. Buy a shirt that says, "Please use my sleeves for whatever part of you is moist."
Volunteer at the local zoo and diaper a monkey with diarrhea twelve times per day. You may only put on the new diaper when the monkey is swinging in the trees or running away from you.
Sleep in an s curve, clinging to the side of your bed.
Learn to "get ready" for the day in 3.5 minutes.
Spend a whole afternoon in the car, listening to someone else's favorite songs and movies. You are awarded extra points if you do not scream at any time.
Line up five pairs of shoes by your front door. Anytime you want to go somewhere, tie each pair.
If you are sitting down, a twenty-five pound bag of wiggly flour with gas should occupy your lap. If you are standing, it should occupy your arms.
Be the first to volunteer when anyone needs to be wiped.
Relearn your times tables. You think you have them mastered. You don't.
When you have a hurt toe, it should be purposefully bumped at least seven times each day for the duration of its healing process.
Stand in a public restroom and clap and cheer wildly anytime anyone goes potty in the potty.
Answer any question you hear with a lucid, appropriate response--no matter the time of day.
Only eat hot dinners cold. Luke warm is cheating.
Arrive at any event thirty minutes early and sit in the seat nearest the back door.
Become well versed in children's literature. Learn to end any sentence with a rhyme.
Laugh heartily and sincerely at any joke--even if the punch line is missing.
Become proficient at making a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 15 seconds.
Exchange all expensive dinner ware for Ikea plastic ware. Only eat in the company of people with preferences for plate colors that are not clean or that don't exist.
Wash the laundry for the entire neighborhood and the boys' basketball team, and have it ready to go by 8 am.
Become comfortable with fellow diners not wearing all their clothes at dinner.
Offer to brush the teeth of five different people--keeping their toothbrushes straight--and fall asleep before you can brush and floss your own.
Make five different science fair projects. Each must be eligible to win first place.
Pour sour milk down the front of you and let it air dry. Don't start lowing.
Mind you, I'm not saying you'll be a pro if you master these scenarios. I'm just saying that when you sit down to your hot dinner, with your fork almost to your mouth, and someone yells, "I'm all done! Come wipe me!", nobody can smirk and call you a rookie.
If they do, you can bet they don't have any children.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Pop's Wisdom
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Them apples don't fall far from the trees.
There's a reason I'm brilliant, witty, fun, confident, and downright crazy. I blame all of it on my parents.
Allow me to share an example, will you? Did you read my recent post? Well my dad did. And he commented, too. If you read his comment, you'll have to excuse the redundancy of my example.
But if you didn't, all is about to be revealed in what I call, "My Latest Love Note from Pop":
"Hi, Scat.
This is Dad, and have I got a great idea for you!
Buy a small wireless camera (choose from many models at: http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=12909791)that you discretely mount above the outside of your front door. Further, purchase a programmable electronic LED sign (also available on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Programmable-Message-Sign-Ultra-RED/dp/B004J7LRCU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328234110&sr=8-2).
Make sure you have the sign connected to a wireless switch. Set up the camera receiver on a TY conveniently placed in your kitchen or family room, etc.
When a person comes knocking, look on your TV screen to determine who it is. If unwanted, turn on your sign which is pre-programmed to read: "Don't disturb."
If the person keeps knocking, proceed with more aggressive messages such as: "Go away stupid" or "OK, I'm calling the cops."
If you want to have a lot of fun, hook up a blaring speaker system to coordinate your sign's written message with audio.
If you choose to hook up this system to the internet, you can view your front door and activate your sign/audio system from anywhere, using your smart phone, such while you are standing in line at Costco many miles away.
Hope this helps.
Love, Dad"
Here are the important parts:
1. Dad calls me, "Scat". I'm about to turn thirty-three, and even now, when he uses this nickname, I hear, "Beloved Daughter Whom I Absolutely Adore". But just now while I'm typing this, I realize that the name he calls me is actually a verb, and not a very nice one, either. At least he doesn't call me nouns like, "Booger" or, "Sludge Mop". (I still call him, "Pop", and will for all the days of his life.)
2. He is the champion of motherhood. His confident voice of encouragement echoes in my heart almost every day of my life. He tries not to burden me with extra duties. Please note that he included the link to Amazon so I wouldn't have to waste any precious time. What I see is, "http://<3 <3 <3 <3". (Aside to Mom: <3 is how you type a heart. I'll show you how to do it sometime.)
3. In an act of supreme Dad-ness, he has walked me through various contingency plans. No one does contingencies like my dad. No one. Some girls have recipe books. I have a Contingency Plans book with many formulas, including resolutions for: Date Disasters, Babysitting Mishaps, Everyday Pickles, Disciplining Children, and Respecting Your Parents. His advice gets me out of scrapes even now.
4. He knows I shop at Costco. He knows I have to wait in line there. That makes the pain of it all so much less.
5. His goal is to help me, and his help is on-going. I found a follow-up message in my email, with the subject, "A suggestion for your front door electric sign". I won't reveal the message here, but it made me laugh out loud, and I was thankful to have his permission to use questionable imperatives to scare off creepers who ring my doorbell.
I think next time he comes to town, my electric front door sign will say, "Scat! Scat! Scat!" That should scare off impostors and welcome him, all at the same time.
It's brilliant! Just like him.
There's a reason I'm brilliant, witty, fun, confident, and downright crazy. I blame all of it on my parents.
Allow me to share an example, will you? Did you read my recent post? Well my dad did. And he commented, too. If you read his comment, you'll have to excuse the redundancy of my example.
But if you didn't, all is about to be revealed in what I call, "My Latest Love Note from Pop":
"Hi, Scat.
This is Dad, and have I got a great idea for you!
Buy a small wireless camera (choose from many models at: http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=12909791)that you discretely mount above the outside of your front door. Further, purchase a programmable electronic LED sign (also available on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Programmable-Message-Sign-Ultra-RED/dp/B004J7LRCU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328234110&sr=8-2).
Make sure you have the sign connected to a wireless switch. Set up the camera receiver on a TY conveniently placed in your kitchen or family room, etc.
When a person comes knocking, look on your TV screen to determine who it is. If unwanted, turn on your sign which is pre-programmed to read: "Don't disturb."
If the person keeps knocking, proceed with more aggressive messages such as: "Go away stupid" or "OK, I'm calling the cops."
If you want to have a lot of fun, hook up a blaring speaker system to coordinate your sign's written message with audio.
If you choose to hook up this system to the internet, you can view your front door and activate your sign/audio system from anywhere, using your smart phone, such while you are standing in line at Costco many miles away.
Hope this helps.
Love, Dad"
Here are the important parts:
1. Dad calls me, "Scat". I'm about to turn thirty-three, and even now, when he uses this nickname, I hear, "Beloved Daughter Whom I Absolutely Adore". But just now while I'm typing this, I realize that the name he calls me is actually a verb, and not a very nice one, either. At least he doesn't call me nouns like, "Booger" or, "Sludge Mop". (I still call him, "Pop", and will for all the days of his life.)
2. He is the champion of motherhood. His confident voice of encouragement echoes in my heart almost every day of my life. He tries not to burden me with extra duties. Please note that he included the link to Amazon so I wouldn't have to waste any precious time. What I see is, "http://<3 <3 <3 <3". (Aside to Mom: <3 is how you type a heart. I'll show you how to do it sometime.)
3. In an act of supreme Dad-ness, he has walked me through various contingency plans. No one does contingencies like my dad. No one. Some girls have recipe books. I have a Contingency Plans book with many formulas, including resolutions for: Date Disasters, Babysitting Mishaps, Everyday Pickles, Disciplining Children, and Respecting Your Parents. His advice gets me out of scrapes even now.
4. He knows I shop at Costco. He knows I have to wait in line there. That makes the pain of it all so much less.
5. His goal is to help me, and his help is on-going. I found a follow-up message in my email, with the subject, "A suggestion for your front door electric sign". I won't reveal the message here, but it made me laugh out loud, and I was thankful to have his permission to use questionable imperatives to scare off creepers who ring my doorbell.
I think next time he comes to town, my electric front door sign will say, "Scat! Scat! Scat!" That should scare off impostors and welcome him, all at the same time.
It's brilliant! Just like him.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Never pass on the chance to dance.
I felt the Earth stop spinning today.
It was this afternoon--my craziest time of day, to be exact. Yesterday's dinner dishes were still in the sink. The floor was in need of a sweeping and mopping. There were coats, book bags, and shoes strewn across two rooms. I needed to start dinner, fold laundry, pay bills, file papers, vacuum the carpets, wash the dog, scour my bathroom, fill the car with gas, and do my hair.
I turned on some music to help me escape the demands--at least mentally. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started to work.
But wouldn't you know it? As soon as I was getting into a productive rhythm, I was interrupted. This time by an angel.
My two-year-old came running into the kitchen. She wanted me to dance with her.
I scooped up that laughing, shining girl, and held her like a baby. We twirled, we dipped, we pranced. She smiled. She giggled. I held her tighter.
My baby still, but grown up some: wearing panties, talking in sentences, coloring in the lines, trying to read, complimenting my eyelashes, and now, wanting me to dance.
I couldn't hold her close enough. I smelled her hair, kissed her cheeks, admired her flawless skin, delighted in her twinkling eyes and shimmering soul.
Oh, I love you! How did I get you?
The song ended. She got down and skipped away, off to the next art project. I went back to my dishes after wiping away my tears, grateful for that moment of unsullied joy.
After she went to bed tonight, I sat on the couch and looked around at my still messy house. I didn't get everything done. Actually, I hardly got anything done. But I did do one thing right.
Today, I danced with an angel.
It was this afternoon--my craziest time of day, to be exact. Yesterday's dinner dishes were still in the sink. The floor was in need of a sweeping and mopping. There were coats, book bags, and shoes strewn across two rooms. I needed to start dinner, fold laundry, pay bills, file papers, vacuum the carpets, wash the dog, scour my bathroom, fill the car with gas, and do my hair.
I turned on some music to help me escape the demands--at least mentally. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started to work.
But wouldn't you know it? As soon as I was getting into a productive rhythm, I was interrupted. This time by an angel.
My two-year-old came running into the kitchen. She wanted me to dance with her.
I scooped up that laughing, shining girl, and held her like a baby. We twirled, we dipped, we pranced. She smiled. She giggled. I held her tighter.
My baby still, but grown up some: wearing panties, talking in sentences, coloring in the lines, trying to read, complimenting my eyelashes, and now, wanting me to dance.
I couldn't hold her close enough. I smelled her hair, kissed her cheeks, admired her flawless skin, delighted in her twinkling eyes and shimmering soul.
Oh, I love you! How did I get you?
The song ended. She got down and skipped away, off to the next art project. I went back to my dishes after wiping away my tears, grateful for that moment of unsullied joy.
After she went to bed tonight, I sat on the couch and looked around at my still messy house. I didn't get everything done. Actually, I hardly got anything done. But I did do one thing right.
Today, I danced with an angel.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Knock, knock.
After using my cell phone, my husband asked me, "You know what I think is funny?"
"Wha?" I grunted.
"How you have thirteen voice mails, and you don't intend to listen to any of them."
I don't know why the humor hasn't worn off of this topic for him. I've proven time and again, for over a decade, that I don't do voicemail.
Do you know how many requests I fulfill everyday? Neither do I. It's a lot. Why on Earth would I want a machine that adds its demands to my daily duties?
I bet you've had messages like this left for you, too:
"Hi, Natalie, it's me. I can't be there on Saturday. Will you please take over the children's activity? The current head count is forty-two. Let me know if I can do anything to help...."
Well, you could bring over a knife so I could slit my wrists.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor tomorrow. Please call me back so I can give you an assignment that is impossible to accomplish in a timely manner."
Sure thing! It's a good thing I don't have five children, or this request really would be impossible.
"Somebody told me you were great at this, and I was wondering if you would do this for my mother by Thursday night."
Your compliments won't work on me. I don't care if you think I have talent, or not. I haven't even talked to my mother. Can you please take care of yours?
Just now my husband informed me that I have an answering machine on my kitchen phone, but it was only turned on for a few minutes the first day we got it. Then he added that the one message I received has never been listened to.
So that explains the blinking blue light coming from the kitchen that keeps me awake at nights.
Frankly, I'm scared of a machine full of messages. The machine says, "You have sixteen ready messages," and I hear, "You have sixteen pressing engagements which require your attention NOW." I balk at relationships that demand that kind of commitment. I know myself too well; I'm doomed to disappoint before I even acquiesce.
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love to help out a friend. I love it. It feels so good to give to someone in need--especially someone I love. But I just can't handle a one-way relationship. If you're a taker, you also need to be a giver--at least some of the time--or my mom said I can't be your friend.
I'm not averse to all technology. Take caller ID, for example. There's a smart idea! I can avoid a parasitic relationship without ever talking to the leech. I love that!
But I'm going to suggest we take that invention one step further. How about caller ID for the front door?
Who's with me?
I know I'm not the first to think of this. I'm just bringing it back to the table for some serious discussion. I, myself, have tried many forms of doorbell ID.
There's the one where I crawl along the floor to steal a furtive peak out the side window. But hiding in my own house just feels plain wrong. And then there's always the risk that the person will see my one mad eye peeping out of the tiny break in the curtains. I'm not a risk taker.
Looking through the peephole doesn't work, either. Since I have to run to the door, I'm sure the person on the other side can hear my heavy breathing, and besides being awkward, it's just plain rude. I don't want the knocker to know I'm home and ignoring them on purpose.
I looked into hiring a butler so someone else would do my dirty work, but there was no one named "Belvedere" applying for the job, so I had to concede that it wasn't a necessity.
Once I saw a welcome sign for the front door with a backside that said, "Go Away". I almost bought it, but I wasn't sure how that would pan out. Something like: the doorbell rings, I look out and see who it is, decide I want to ignore them, and then carefully open the door a crack, turn the sign slowly around (in the hopes they won't notice so subtle a movement), and then stealthily bring my arm back inside and gently close the door. No matter how I play that one in my mind, it always ends up badly. It's simply not my style to be so impertinent.
There's got to be a solution out there. And I'm thinking hard about it. If you think of it first, call me. I'd love to hear your idea.
But don't leave a message.
"Wha?" I grunted.
"How you have thirteen voice mails, and you don't intend to listen to any of them."
I don't know why the humor hasn't worn off of this topic for him. I've proven time and again, for over a decade, that I don't do voicemail.
Do you know how many requests I fulfill everyday? Neither do I. It's a lot. Why on Earth would I want a machine that adds its demands to my daily duties?
I bet you've had messages like this left for you, too:
"Hi, Natalie, it's me. I can't be there on Saturday. Will you please take over the children's activity? The current head count is forty-two. Let me know if I can do anything to help...."
Well, you could bring over a knife so I could slit my wrists.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor tomorrow. Please call me back so I can give you an assignment that is impossible to accomplish in a timely manner."
Sure thing! It's a good thing I don't have five children, or this request really would be impossible.
"Somebody told me you were great at this, and I was wondering if you would do this for my mother by Thursday night."
Your compliments won't work on me. I don't care if you think I have talent, or not. I haven't even talked to my mother. Can you please take care of yours?
Just now my husband informed me that I have an answering machine on my kitchen phone, but it was only turned on for a few minutes the first day we got it. Then he added that the one message I received has never been listened to.
So that explains the blinking blue light coming from the kitchen that keeps me awake at nights.
Frankly, I'm scared of a machine full of messages. The machine says, "You have sixteen ready messages," and I hear, "You have sixteen pressing engagements which require your attention NOW." I balk at relationships that demand that kind of commitment. I know myself too well; I'm doomed to disappoint before I even acquiesce.
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love to help out a friend. I love it. It feels so good to give to someone in need--especially someone I love. But I just can't handle a one-way relationship. If you're a taker, you also need to be a giver--at least some of the time--or my mom said I can't be your friend.
I'm not averse to all technology. Take caller ID, for example. There's a smart idea! I can avoid a parasitic relationship without ever talking to the leech. I love that!
But I'm going to suggest we take that invention one step further. How about caller ID for the front door?
Who's with me?
I know I'm not the first to think of this. I'm just bringing it back to the table for some serious discussion. I, myself, have tried many forms of doorbell ID.
There's the one where I crawl along the floor to steal a furtive peak out the side window. But hiding in my own house just feels plain wrong. And then there's always the risk that the person will see my one mad eye peeping out of the tiny break in the curtains. I'm not a risk taker.
Looking through the peephole doesn't work, either. Since I have to run to the door, I'm sure the person on the other side can hear my heavy breathing, and besides being awkward, it's just plain rude. I don't want the knocker to know I'm home and ignoring them on purpose.
I looked into hiring a butler so someone else would do my dirty work, but there was no one named "Belvedere" applying for the job, so I had to concede that it wasn't a necessity.
Once I saw a welcome sign for the front door with a backside that said, "Go Away". I almost bought it, but I wasn't sure how that would pan out. Something like: the doorbell rings, I look out and see who it is, decide I want to ignore them, and then carefully open the door a crack, turn the sign slowly around (in the hopes they won't notice so subtle a movement), and then stealthily bring my arm back inside and gently close the door. No matter how I play that one in my mind, it always ends up badly. It's simply not my style to be so impertinent.
There's got to be a solution out there. And I'm thinking hard about it. If you think of it first, call me. I'd love to hear your idea.
But don't leave a message.
Monday, January 23, 2012
If you don't know, I'm not gonna tell you.
Having a man in my life extends my experiences and understanding.
For example, before I was married, I had no idea what a "Vulcan Mind Meld" was. My husband pointed out that this was a grave oversight. He was happy to reform me.
When "Star Trek" came up in our movie night rotation, I was wishing that Anne Shirley had come up instead. But opening my mind to the remote possibility of being entertained, I happily sat beside my husband for the show.
After boldly going where no woman has (sanely) gone before, there are still a lot of things I don't understand: blue people, a girl without a first name, Spock's ears, space jargon, time warps, banishment on cold planets, arrogant recklessness...to name a few.
But, thanks to my husband's careful tutelage, I now understand the Mind Meld.
Sort of.
The best I can explain it is thus: when Vulcans want to achieve a better understanding of, or a higher communication with, a person, they place their fingers in a particular way on the victim's face and share consciousness.
How'd I do?
I'm fascinated with the fact that some things are reality for adult men, e.g., light sabers, super speed, the force, space worlds. Sometimes my husband reaches for a piece of fruit, stops half way, slightly closes his fingers, and furrows his brow in concentration. When I inquire after the strange behavior, he explains, "I'm using the force."
Well, duh. What was I even thinking?
I know he's not the only man who does stuff like this. When I asked one of my man friends what he wanted for Christmas, he responded (in all sobriety), "A light saber."
If you need further proof, look up "Vulcan" in wikipedia. Included topics (among many) are: physical characteristics, diet, mating, fighting and self defense, and home worlds.
Then look up "Anne Shirley", and notice how she is discussed only as a fictional, literary character.
While I don't want to understand why men create these alternate realities, I've come up with a theory about why the Vulcan Mind Meld was brought into existence.
The scenario is such: Man fails to empty full garbage can. Woman silently fumes. Although he didn't notice the full can, he can't help but notice her cold shoulder. He frantically reviews his behavior to see what he did to elicit such rude treatment. After a quick scan, he discovers there are too many possible catalysts, and decides a blanket apology is easiest. When she won't accept an apology because he doesn't know what he did, he resigns himself to his fate and goes to watch Sports Center. While watching, he daydreams about possible super powers he could gain. The top of his list: reading his wife's mind...by touching her.
I'm dead on with this, am I not?
But I would do my gender a disservice if I didn't point out something obvious to all us women.
Mind Melding is not necessary.
If you want to make us happy, try chocolates, flowers, a fancy dinner, or jewelry.
If you want to make us ecstatic, try a foot rub, making (and cleaning up!) dinner, folding a load of laundry, or giving us a nap. One of those always works.
In fact, try one of those, and we'll probably even forgive you, even though you don't know what you did.
For example, before I was married, I had no idea what a "Vulcan Mind Meld" was. My husband pointed out that this was a grave oversight. He was happy to reform me.
When "Star Trek" came up in our movie night rotation, I was wishing that Anne Shirley had come up instead. But opening my mind to the remote possibility of being entertained, I happily sat beside my husband for the show.
After boldly going where no woman has (sanely) gone before, there are still a lot of things I don't understand: blue people, a girl without a first name, Spock's ears, space jargon, time warps, banishment on cold planets, arrogant recklessness...to name a few.
But, thanks to my husband's careful tutelage, I now understand the Mind Meld.
Sort of.
The best I can explain it is thus: when Vulcans want to achieve a better understanding of, or a higher communication with, a person, they place their fingers in a particular way on the victim's face and share consciousness.
How'd I do?
I'm fascinated with the fact that some things are reality for adult men, e.g., light sabers, super speed, the force, space worlds. Sometimes my husband reaches for a piece of fruit, stops half way, slightly closes his fingers, and furrows his brow in concentration. When I inquire after the strange behavior, he explains, "I'm using the force."
Well, duh. What was I even thinking?
I know he's not the only man who does stuff like this. When I asked one of my man friends what he wanted for Christmas, he responded (in all sobriety), "A light saber."
If you need further proof, look up "Vulcan" in wikipedia. Included topics (among many) are: physical characteristics, diet, mating, fighting and self defense, and home worlds.
Then look up "Anne Shirley", and notice how she is discussed only as a fictional, literary character.
While I don't want to understand why men create these alternate realities, I've come up with a theory about why the Vulcan Mind Meld was brought into existence.
The scenario is such: Man fails to empty full garbage can. Woman silently fumes. Although he didn't notice the full can, he can't help but notice her cold shoulder. He frantically reviews his behavior to see what he did to elicit such rude treatment. After a quick scan, he discovers there are too many possible catalysts, and decides a blanket apology is easiest. When she won't accept an apology because he doesn't know what he did, he resigns himself to his fate and goes to watch Sports Center. While watching, he daydreams about possible super powers he could gain. The top of his list: reading his wife's mind...by touching her.
I'm dead on with this, am I not?
But I would do my gender a disservice if I didn't point out something obvious to all us women.
Mind Melding is not necessary.
If you want to make us happy, try chocolates, flowers, a fancy dinner, or jewelry.
If you want to make us ecstatic, try a foot rub, making (and cleaning up!) dinner, folding a load of laundry, or giving us a nap. One of those always works.
In fact, try one of those, and we'll probably even forgive you, even though you don't know what you did.
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