Why So Serious?

Grating...

2011-07-17T18:46:00.002-05:00

I have an aunt who lives in Dallas. In fact, she is my only aunt, the sister of my mother. My father did not have any siblings. And when one only has one aunt ... she tends to be very supportive.

The other day, one of my brothers helped me to send Aunt Jane an audio recording of a sermon I preached back in March. She gushed that it was very good and she wanted to receive a recording of every sermon I give. Today, I sent her another audio file of a sermon I preached in June. I listened to the audio today as well. Holy cow, my voice is annoying!

If you are good, you go to heaven when you die. And if you are bad, you will be forced to listen to recordings of yourself over and over and over again for the rest of eternity.

I have always suspected that I have this "latent" lisp. It sort of lurks in the back ground and rears its ugly head every so often. Today, as I listened to the audio, it was as if an electric shock was delivered to me every time I heard it. OMG, WHY was I never treated by a speech therapist? I think the schools provided them for FREE in the public school system. Why wasn't I sent to one these free classes?

Another annoying thing about my voice is that at the moment when I am trying to make a point and should therefore raise my voice, I tend to lower it instead. No one over the age of 50 can hear the major points of my message. And what is that off-the-charts nasal sound? I'm surprised no one shared their decongestant recommendations with me after church.

Have you ever listened very closely to Andie McDowell's voice? She has this sort of low, monotone-sounding, flat voice. That's what I sound like. In fact, I could probably win an Andie McDowell impersination contest (assuming the judges were blind).

I can imagine the church office being flooded with calls during the week. "Um, yes, who's preaching this week? The lisping, monotone, man-like, flat-voiced robot or the real preacher??"

The biggest problem, though, is that I used a full manuscript to preach from. I mean, my eyes never left the page for an instant (except to look up at my Mother, another of my fans). You can "hear" that in someone's voice, when they are reading versus talking. In fact, if this was American idol, or worse yet the Gong Show, I would be outta there in 10 seconds flat.

I remember the worship leader Mike warning me, "If you've never heard a recording of yourself before, don't freak out when you do...." Did he mean me specifically or anyone in general who has never heard a recording of their voice? Was he trying to tell me something?

I feel like I need to google a Professor Henry Higgins to help me out. Or start talking with marbles in my mouth. Or avoid all words containing the letter "s."

If you know anyone who does reasonably-priced speech therapy for middle-aged women, send me a link...

Worth a chuckle...

2011-07-10T20:24:00.003-05:00

My kids range in age from 13 to 20. They continue to say amusing, enlightening and outrageous things. Sometimes they are very funny; other times, exasperating.

Yesterday was more funny than exasperating. It started around the pool, when our youngest daughter told me about her "method" for making up nicknames for people. Not satisfied with such standards as "honey" or "sweetheart" or "darling," she set forth her process for creating a three-word term of endearment.

The first word should be an adjective (a nice adjective), like precious, adorable, peppy, handsome, etc.

The second word should be a food that you like, such as banana, pickle, ice cream, strawberry, popsicle, etc.

The third word should be an animal.

OK ... so go ahead. Try it out.

Let's see ... adjective. Hmmm .... how about "cuddly."

OK ... food that I like. Well, I really like "bananas."

And finally ... an animal. How about ... "kitten?"

So in a moment of sharing my true feelings for you, I might call you my "cuddly banana kitten."

Isn't that adorable?

The term is even more endearing if the first letters of each word are the same ... like "precious pancake puppy."

Give me a kiss, my precious pancake puppy!

Come sit by me, cuddly banana kitten!

Oh handsome ham horse, I think I love you!

The same child who invented this ingenious system made a hilarious, unintentional mix-up of words last night. Our family went out to dinner. I had set forth the rule that anyone who wanted to go along would have to enter into a covenant to be nice to each other, assuring me a peaceful, enjoyable dinner. After all, it's one thing to have your dinner at home ruined by childish bickering and insult trading, but quite another when you are paying $24.95 a pop for entres. The three of my four kids who said they wanted to go along all agreed to the covenant.

Well ... about halfway through dinner, some brew-ha-ha began to surface, don't even ask me what it was about. My younger daughter was trying to remind the rest of us of our solemn promise, but the word "covenant" was far from her mind. She just couldn't produce it to save her life. She finally piped up, "Don't forget our condolences!"

Everyone at the table turned and stared at her briefly before uproarious laughter erupted.

"Condolences??" my other kids mocked. "Do you even know what that word means?"

"What???" she asked in total confusion. "Isn't that the word?"

Everyone started offering different, equally absurd words to substitute for covenant, with "cannoli" being the best by far.

All the way home in the car, my younger daughter was reminded of our cannoli to get along...

This is one of those family stories you tell at weddings and funerals...

Unsacred

2011-07-09T09:37:00.005-05:00

Were I writing this post on my other blog, you would expect to read me ranting about some "less than holy" actions of another person or group. But ... here, I will confess that I have a sick sense of humor. One of my brothers is the same way. We make sick jokes about things you should not joke about ... to the extent that our family members will tell us we are not allowed to be in the same room together.

I texted my brother this morning to tell him about an article I read in the Houston Chronicle about Silence! The Musical, an unauthorized musical parody of The Silence of the Lambs written by two brothers who sound as if they have a divinely twisted sense of humor. We are going to be in New York next week, so just for fun, I went to the website. Even the description of the available seating is hilarious. The most expensive tickets at $48 are called the Well, described as ... "The best seats in the house for the most moisturized patrons. These premium tickets include a "Precious Basket" with chianti specials, lotion for its skin, surprises galore, and other items."

When I first saw the headline, I thought, musical version of The Silence of the Lambs? Huh? But the article gives a sampling of a couple of the song lyrics and I must admit, I laughed out loud -- I mean really loud. My goodness, what kind of twisted mind takes one of the most creepy and disturbing movies of the 90s and makes it into a musical? (Remember, it's a parody).

Here's one of the lyrics included in the article, taken from a song called It's Me, which recalls one of the creepiest scenes in the movie when Hannibal Lecter escapes prison by killing a prison guard, putting his body under the gurney that was supposed to be holding Lecter's body, then putting the guard's face on his face and walking right out: "This cop is already dead/ You'll see/I'm wearing his face on my head/It's me." (I just laughed out loud again as I typed it.)

I had another encounter with the less than sacred yesterday reading a book called Naked by Dave Sedaris. A co-worker recommended this author when I announced in staff meeting that I needed something light to read. This particular volume by Sedaris is his memoir. One of the earlilest chapters retells his "suffering" with what sounds like full-blown OCD as he recounts his urges to touch his nose to the windshield, lick the light switches, rock in bed, make high-pitched noises, etc. Each year of his early life, a different teacher comes calling to the house to have a conference with his mother, who Sedaris clearly gets his sense of humor from. An apparent chain-smoker and heavy drinker, the mother offers each teacher a drink upon entering the house and then in the dryest sarcasm imaginable says something like, "Let me guess ... you're here about the high-pitched noises?" Her wry acceptance of her son's ailment is nearly too much.

Equally unsacred are his stories about his Greek grandmother who won't even say his mother's name, but refers to her only as "the girl." The exchanges between mother- and daughter-in-law are boisterously hilarious.

What exactly is this fascination or appreciation of sick humor? I know that I can be terribly serious and intense at times (maybe too much of the time.) Perhaps its my brain's defense mechanism telling (as the subtitle of my blog says) "Come on people, lighten up!" I don't know ... but considering the health benefits of laughter, I think I'll keep nurturing it.

Oh ... the Chronicle also listed other "unsacred" works by the same brothers, including Schindler's List: The Musical. I know I'm not supposed to think this is funny. Every decent bone in my body is insisting that I stop laughing this instant. But I just can't...

Blistering...

2011-07-03T16:54:00.003-05:00

Darn blisters!

I worked pretty hard in the yard yesterday, raking and shoveling and bagging. What was my paycheck? A gigantic blister!

The people who built our house (that was four owners ago) thought it was good idea to plant a small grove of pine trees in the front yard. OK, I'm exaggerating a little, but there are five pine trees out there, making a mess like nobody's business. So naturally, you have to rake the needles up and pick up the cones and clean up the mess that the squirrels make as they munch on "premature" cones and then toss down the leftovers.

I wore gardening gloves as I always do when I work in the yard, but I guess the friction on the "gap" in my hand between the thumb and pointer and the rake I was holding was too much for my skin. I could feel the irritation as I raked so I kept changing my grip to lessen the damage. But alas, I have a huge blister at the outside base of my thumb.

To pop or not to pop? There are several schools of thought on this. I think people pop blisters more out of obsessive/compulsive behavior than anything else. Somehow, they get it into their heads that "relieving" the pressure of the fluid build-up will help the blister heal faster and the only way to do that is to pop the blister. Bad idea! (Or to tear the skin of entirely -- even worse idea!) That fluid? It's called serum and it's a defense mechanism that your body creates to provide a "cushion" between the outer layer of skin (epidermis) and the "raw" layer underneath (dermis). That cushion is needed while your body grows a new layer of epidermis. It's supposed to be there ... leave it be!

But what if the outer layer gets torn open on its own? Then what? That's what happened to the blister near by thumb. The skin didn't completely tear off, so I've been treating it like a comb-over, patiently placing the flap back down every time it gets moved out of position. The problem is, it hurts like hell! I put some ointment on the thing, but I think that was a mistake. I considered trying a bandaid, but it is such a awkward location, I don't' think the bandaid would stick. Sometimes when I've had these "flaps," doing the comb-over makes the outer layer of skin magically "reattach" to the inner layer. No such luck this time!

When I turn this same hand over, I can see another blister on my hand, right below the pointer finger on what one might term a "pad" were one a dog. It is neither torn nor filled with a big bubble of liquid. But I need to leave it alone, all the same. It will become a future callous I suppose.

If that were the end of my blister woes, I wouldn't even bother with all of this. But alas, at church today, we had an "event" after the worship service, with a big water slide, little water sprinklers and stuff, a snow cone truck and a fire truck from the nearby fire department. Consequently, I was walking back and forth before and during the worship service, collecting hoses, finding plugs, unlocking gates, setting up barricades, etc. Don't ask me what I was thinking when I put my shoes on this morning, but I thought the sandals I had chosen were comfortable. And they were, until the blisters formed.

The circulation on the right side of my body must be compromised because sure enough, right below my right big toe, a huge blister ripped open. I tried covering it with a band aid, but it felt as if I had placed a steel wool pad over it. I had a matching blister below the left big toe, and also on my "pinky" toes, but luckily they remained intact.

Dang it!

I couldn't do the comb-over on my big toe blister because the skin was completely missing (is this getting gross yet, lol??) Instead, after church, I begged my eldest son to PLEASE drive home and get me a pair of flip flops.

Theoretically, the blister areas will grow back a layer of skin that is stronger than ever before, sort of like a bionic blister. Of course, it will take three to four days for this to come to pass. In the mean time, I'll be stuck in flip flops and wincing everytime I have to shake someone's hand.

Priceless

2011-06-12T09:12:00.003-05:00

Today I ate a $13 bowl of fresh fruit. Had I purchased said bowl of fruit at the grocery store, it would have consisted of several whole apples, oranges and pears, a few bananas, a cluster of grapes and maybe even a pint of berries, if there were a sale on. But I didn't purchase it in the grocery store, I purchased it in the hotel where we are staying in Austin. Thus my bowl of fresh fruit consisted of 8 blueberries, 2 raspberries, 2 blackberries, 2 slices of orange, 4 "squares" of cantaloupe, 4 squares of melon, 2 spoonfuls of applesauce and 3 squirts (I mean it ... think enough toothpaste for your toothbrush) of yogurt.

I won't name the hotel we are staying in, but I'll give you a hint. Its name is just one letter of the alphabet. And it's not the letter V or the letter X ... it's another letter ... in between.

You know you are getting old when trendy translates to you as ridiculous. I call the decor concrete chic. The room is all grey and black and red (Hey, Bally Total Fitness used to use these color schemes!). There is one "funky" chair in the room besides the ordinary desk chair I'm sitting in as I type this. No table of any sort. The bed is just a little too soft and crowded with gigantic pillows that no one would actually want to sleep on. And there are no drawers for your clothes ... just a small closet (think dorm room) with two shoe-box sized shelves.

The waitresses in the bars (I say bars because there are lots of them) wear little black dresses during the day that allow every common lech quite a view. By night, they don chic little berets and knee-high boots with hemlines that absolutely demand that they stand all evening. Everyone looks young (there's a reason for that ... they are and I'm not). When we are turning down the covers at 10p.m., everyone else is hopping on the elevators to go out.

It's funny, we were talking last night with another couple about what age you are versus what age you "think" of yourself as. I used to believe that I was one age, but thought of myself as another. I now see that I think and am 48. And you know what? It's OK.

I'm sure this is not the last $13 bowl of fruit I'll eat, or the last concrete chic hotel I'll stay in. However, I'll probably grow increasingly confused about it all ... and say things like, "What's the matter with kids these days?"

How do they do it?

2011-06-04T17:23:00.002-05:00

How do they do it? How do my teenagers make me feel as if they are doing me a favor when ever I am doing them a favor?

Should a mother have to beg for kids to bring out their dirty laundry to be washed? I mean, seriously, should she? NO. So why do I do that? Why do I say repeatedly, "Bring out your dirty clothes" and even go into their rooms and get them myself if need be? Probably because I am a complete idiot.

Today, I'm walking through the house like a bartender at closing time, "Last call for dirty clothes... last call for dirty clothes." Or maybe I'm like that guy in the Monty Python movie who roams the streets in his rickety cart, "Bring out your dead, bring out your dead." Either way, you'd think I was somehow making a profit on washing their clothes.

I looked into a room that we call the play room. One daughter is playing a video game, the other is on the computer. "Last call for dirty clothes."

One jumps up and goes to get her clothes (probably because I already gave her a tongue lashing this morning when I asked her, "How do you suppose that the milk glass you just put on the counter magically gets washed and placed back in the cupboard?" She threw me a dirty look, rinsed it with water, and put it in the dishwasher). The other daughter just sat there. I called her by name and said again, "Bring me your dirty clothes ... I know you have some in your room." (Seriously, her room looks like a gigantic clothing volcano erupted, spewing clothes everywhere.) She stood, huffed a little, and mouthed something like, "OMG Mom, OK, I'll get my clothes!" I shot back, "Never mind! Geez, I shouldn't have to BEG you so that I can do your laundry!"

Someone, please hold me accountable. Next week ... next week ... I will wash the laundry in my hamper only. The rest of them can figure it out on their own.

Bumps

2011-05-29T13:35:00.002-05:00

I was dreaming about something itching. I was dreaming that I needed to scratch. I was dreaming that I couldn't sleep because something was itching and I needed to scratch.

No, wait, I'm not dreaming. Well, OK, I was dreaming, but the itching wasn't an invention of my dream, it was an intrusion to my dream.

Friday morning and again on Saturday morning, I worked on a three foot wide strip of land on the side of the house that had turned into a jungle. This area is like an alley that is "sandwiched" between the front and back yard, with a brick wall serving as a barrier in the front and a wooden gate that can be removed by lifting as a barrier in the back. The lawnmower won't fit back there, so it doesn't' get looked at very often. In fact, about twice a year, I clear out all the weeds and vines and baby oak trees that have literally taken root in the previous six months.

I decided recently that I was tired of this exercise. Maybe I should put forth a little extra effort and put down some of that weed block fabric? Then I wouldn't have to weed all the time.

I did the first half of the job 2 Saturdays ago. And the next day, just like now, I had little bumps appear on my arms -- a slight rash. They packed a big itch for such a small bump and lingered on my skin for well over a week.

This time, I wore a long-sleeve shirt. Ha! Let's see the plant oils get to my arms now!

Well, it seems there is just a little patch of skin that tends to be exposed between one's work gloves and one's sleeve. As luck would have it, that's where the rash showed up after an hour in the weeds on Friday morning.

On Saturday, without thinking clearly, I put the same shirt back on again (yep, the plant oils were likely on it) and finished putting down the weed block and covering it in mulch.

Today, I have a little rash on my right wrist, a little rash on my inner thigh just above my right knee and a little rash just below my right knee. There is evidence of it on my left leg as well and still, I'm puzzled over what plant is causing the rash.

If reading this post is making you itch, you're not alone. It's making me itch too. The difference is, when you close your browser the sensation will likely go away. As for me, I'll likely be dreaming of scratching again....

Not until you die...

2011-05-22T18:14:00.003-05:00

I used to say I have 4 kids. Now, following the example of a woman I knew years ago, I tell people I have 2 kids and 2 adutls.

Now that's progress!

All my adults and kids are living together again this summer. Can you say family reunion? I have lost it. They have lost it. I have yelled. They have yelled. I have cried and laughed and smiled and said stupid stuff and wise stuff and immature stuff and profound stuff. They have pretended to listen. So have I.

Is this mothering?

Seriously, when does this mothering job end anyway? Apparently, not until you die...

I used to think it was tough keeping 4 kids fed and amused during the long months of summer. Now, most of my challenges in mothering are more about what I don't say and do to my two adults then what I do say and do. One shares the "plan" for finishing an associate's degree. I say, "Yep, that sounds like a plan!" The other sneaks outside to smoke cigarettes. I say, "Hey, thanks for not throwing the butts in the yard!" One gets two different jobs and registers for summer school. The other does neither. One gets involved in church again. The other rents DVDs about the evils of organized religion. One spews poison about all the "stupid" people in the world. The other just smiles and laughs a lot. And all the while, I sit on my hands, clamp my mouth shut and ask myself, WHEN does the mothering end?

God knows I love these kids and adults. Sometimes I look at them and my heart absolutely aches. They didn't come with instruction books and at this point, I'm thinking at least half of them are out of warranty. So what is a mother to do? Just keep mothering I guess ... as long as I'm on dirt and dirt ain't on me. That's why they'll carve on my tombstone, "She was a mother to all."

10 Reasons...

2011-04-29T07:34:00.004-05:00

I am a day behind. I meant to post this yesterday.

10 Reasons I did not watch the Royal Wedding:

10) I didn't get them a gift.

9) I was not invited.

8) I despise celebrity gatherings.

7) There are too many starving people in the world to pay attention to this noise.

6) I don't want to hear the Diana/Kate comparisons.

5) Play-by-play commentary by whispering British voices is annoying.

4) I will be exposed to a deluge of instant replay videos -- unless I go into a cave for 3 weeks and don't watch any TV

3) Prince William's premature balding is too tragic to endure.

2) I am abstaining out of respect to the late Diana Spencer.

AND THE #1 REASON I DID NOT WATCH THE ROYAL WEDDING...

1) Sleep trumps everything.

Random noise

2011-04-29T07:24:00.004-05:00

Straight out of the book of strange tales ... I've had two "mistaken" communications this week. It began on Wednesday. I received the following text from a number I did not recognize: "I just sent the stripper money."

THAT got my attention. I replied back, "Who is this?"

"Very funny Mom."

Me: "No seriously, who is this?"

"Your daughter, Caitlyn."

Me: "Um, this is Tammy. I work at a church in Houston. Do you need to talk?"

"OMG. Wrong number! It's not really stripper money. That's just what I call my grant for school because it's a lot of money."

OK ...

Then last night, I was returning home from class. I picked up a voice mail that said the following (I have changed the names and address):

"Hello, this is Jill Smith. I received a letter from your church addressed to Bo and Jill Smith at 1234 ABC St. There is NO Bo Smith living here. I did NOT visit your church on Palm Sunday or on Easter. So if someone is signing in my name, I'd like to know what is going on..."

Holy Cow! This one required a bit more sleuthing. I called George at the homeless shelter, just to see if there was a Jill and Bo living there. Then I called our music director to see if the Smiths were a Kidz Theater family. She remembered hearing this name in staff meeting, and that the pastor had commented on meeting this couple. Next I called the pastor. Just as I suspected, we had a Jill Smith in the system already. So an assumption was made that Jill & Bo Smith were the same person. And apparently Jill Smith's address in the system was not the right Jill Smith. This happens sometimes when people register their name, but not their address. We have a data base we access to "find" them. Guess we found the wrong person...

I hope Caitlyn really isn't a stripper. I hope she finishes her law school degree, as a subsequent text informed me. I hope that Jill will consider attending our church ... or some church ... if that's what the universe is trying to tell her. And I hope we find out Bo & Jill's REAL address.

Never on Sunday

2011-03-13T13:41:00.003-05:00

Every so often, my husband and I reap revenge on our children for all of the stress and anguish they have caused us by talking about sex. Today's lunch conversation had my younger daughter screaming "Ewww, ewww, ewww" and running down the hallway with her hands over her ears. My older daughter had a similar reaction, quickly removing herself from the table and saying repeatedly, "Shut up, shut up, shut up." My younger son just sat there and smiled (he seems to get more enjoyment out of his sisters' reactions than we do).

Of course this baffles me. Sex is a perfectly normal part of life for two married people and obviously, as I often remind them, if it weren't for us having sex, they would not be here.

"This is why I sleep with my ipod in at night," younger daughter calls out from the end of the hallway. "Ewwww!"

It all started because of a sermon. Yes, really. I was driving the vans after church today, returning the rehab ladies and the homeless people back to their respective facilities. I had attended our Healing Service in the sanctuary today but many of the passengers had attended the Nontraditional service in the fellowship center. I could hear one of the guys saying, "You know, I think I like that minister who preached today better than the other one...." So I asked them, What did he preach on? He replied, "He was talking about Easter and Lent and how you don't have to give anything up but instead, you can do something new." Then another guy interrupted, "And he said no S-E-X on Sunday."

I checked the rear view mirror on that one.

WHAT? I replied.

"Yeah," he continued, "he said you're not supposed to have sex on Sunday."

That's crazy, I said. Where did he get that from? That's not even scriptural.

No matter what I said, the guy was adamant: "He said you're not supposed to have sex on Sunday."

I told the passengers I had never heard a minister preach that, ever. I said, There's nothing wrong with sex. Within the bounds of marriage, it's a gift; it's sacred. Then I said, Tell me the exact words he said.

Again, his answer was, "Don't have sex on Sunday."

Clearly flabbergasted, I finally gave up. I dropped my passengers off at each of the three locations where they live and headed back to the church. While I was driving, my husband called to suggest that I make sure a certain window at church had been closed. I told him, One of the Turning Point residents said Charles told them you're not supposed to have sex on Sunday...

My husband's reply was even funnier ... "Well it better not be a sin, because..."

I hung up with my husband and called the minister. He laughed when I asked about this particular point in his sermon, assuring me, "I didn't preach that -- I would never preach that." Then he said the guy heard what he wanted to hear, but I found that pretty hard to believe.

Once I got home, my family was still at the table eating lunch. The first words out of my mouth were, "Charles said he didn't preach that...." My eldest daughter laughed, because she knew what I was talking about. The other two kids exchanged puzzled looks. So finally, we told them what the fuss was all about. And THAT got us to the subject of their parents having sex.

Although the minister obviously had not preached "no sex on Sundays," my daughters obviously wished that he had -- at least where their parents are concerned.

Alterations

2011-02-19T15:03:00.004-06:00

There's a dry cleaners in my neighborhood that also does excellent on-site alterations. Today, I took them a pair of trousers and a blouse. The trousers are too short, so they will let them out as much as possible (an exercise that is far too familiar to us tall girls). The shirt has an A-line cut to it, which looks "sloppy" on my skinny frame. For $20 or less, both of these articles of clothing will soon be more to my liking.

Wouldn't it be great if we could just as easily alter ourselves?

We were watching Joan Rivers on TV last night. This woman has had far too many alterations (compare this image with this image). I told my husband her plastic surgeries were in a league with Phyllis Diller's (compare this image with this image), adding how women who have had too much botox seem to have a permanent puckering to their lips, as if they can't quite close their mouths any longer.

I think anyone who is seriously considering plastic surgery or botox should be forced to look at photo galleries of Joan and Phyllis (not to mention Michael Jackson) until the feeling subsides.

But I digress...

Don't ask me why we all want to make little changes to the way we look. This morning, my husband was complimenting me and I made a face I often make, that "liar, liar" face when a husband compliments his wife and she just can't believe him. (Don't ask me what THAT is about either). In fact, the other day I was having an ugly day. (Women know what this is; men are oblivious). An ugly day is when you just feel ugly; and nothing anyone does or says can convince you otherwise. I told my brother I was having an ugly day. He had no idea what I was talking about. When I explained it to him, he acted as if I were crazy. So when my daughter got home from school, I asked her, "Do you ever have ugly days?" OH MY GOD YES!!! came her reply. "And can anyone do anything to talk you out of it?" OH MY GOD NO!!! she said just as emphatically.

I suppose men struggle less with this than women? Our youngest son has a point on the tip of his right ear that he inherited from his father (one of his uncles has it also). I remember when he was a baby that I commented on it to the pediatrician and he deadpanned, "Well Mrs. H you're just going to have to check your next husband over a little more closely..."

I haven't been to the gym in nearly 7 weeks. Today I had to put a pair of jeans in the give-away closet because they are too tight. I insist it is because they were thrown into the dryer on one occasion too many, but all the same, for the first time in my life practically, I have a little fat roll hanging over my jeans. Horrors! It disappears when I stand up, but this is completely new territory for me.

Every week, my boss opens the staff meeting with an obscure sort of question. I think it is meant to help us all get to know one another better (or the boss is entirely too nosey). Anyway, one week the question was, "Is there one thing about your physical appearance that you would change, and if so, would you be willing to take five years off of your life in order to change it?" I answered that I would like to be about 2" shorter. Of course every woman at the table started calling dibs on those 2", LOL. I countered that I certainly would not take five years off of my life to change anything about myself...

Bottom line -- if the dry cleaners can handle your desired alterations, it's OK. All others -- please, I'm begging you to reconsider.

Cow beats sheep

2011-02-03T08:36:00.003-06:00

Rock-Paper-Scissors. We know rock beats scissors and paper beats rock and scissors beats paper, but what about cow beats sheep?

It's 28 degrees outside. And it's Houston. This is crazy! My family moved here from Ohio in the 70s so we wouldn't have to deal with this crap any more!

Before driving my daughter to the bus stop this morning, I went into the "coat" closet to retrieve the rarely-worn, long black wool coat. "Forget my leather biker jacket!" I thought. "I need my woolies today!!"

I slipped on the coat, reached into the pockets and remembered I had never sewn the one that was ripped on the inside and headed out the door.

The bus stop is only a few blocks away and we didn't wait more than 3 minutes, but DANG it was cold!

When I got home, I thought, is that REALLY a wool coat? I checked the label. Yep, 100% wool. Then I slipped my leather jacket back on for comparison. Holy cow, even as short as it is, it was still a lot warmer than the wool! No wonder stupid cows stand out in the field in the freezing weather and chew their cud like nothing is going on. They are totally warm inside!

You know, with all those "clever" billboards you see for Chick-fil-A with the cows trying to convince us to eat more chicken, it seems to me they should be working equally as hard to convince us to wear wool (or cotton or cashmere or whatever). In both cases, it's a lost cause.

Sorry cows ... your days are numbered.

The Universe

2011-02-03T07:59:00.005-06:00

I have been known to say things like, "What is the universe trying to tell me..." or "Let's put this out to the universe and see what happens."

A friend from college, a former professor in fact, introduced this "universe" phrase to me. At the time, I thought, what a wack job! The "universe" !!! What the heck is THAT supposed to mean??

Today, I will ask that question as I consider the random stuff around me.

What is the universe trying to tell you when your watch falls off in the bathroom, hits the lid hard enough to make the back pop open, then sinks to the bottom of the toilet? (Someone whom I told this story to earlier asked me, "Eww, was it 'before' or 'after?'") I let fly my favorite cuss word (and also laughed when I realized the irony of this particular word in this particular situation) and watched the various watch parts sink to the bottom. After contemplating the situation for about 15 seconds, I rolled up my sleeves and retrieved my watch. Of course it is hopelessly ruined, but I have it on a paper towel all the same, just in case when I reassemble it, it still works, by some odd miracle.

What is the universe trying to tell you when the one day that you decide to "fast" as a part of your spiritual formation assignment, someone in the office brings salad and homemade soup for everyone? I considered the options: 1) lie that I am not hungry or that I brought my lunch; 2) blow off the fasting assignment or convince myself I fasted "long enough" for one day; 3) put on my pious face and say, "Oh, I'm fasting today..." 4) Load my plate and sit down with everyone else and sort of pick at the food, move it around my plate, but never actually eat anything; 5) load my plate, announce that I am eating at my desk, and then throw it away or put it aside until I broke my fast; 6) avoid everyone for the 90 minute block of time that more or less frames "the lunch hour."

I opted for #6. When I heard the door knocking begin down the hallway, announcing to people that lunch was ready, I grabbed a bulletin board that I was in the process of recovering and headed to the other side of the building. For the next 30-45 minutes, I sat on the floor, stapling background paper and border and photos and captions. I have never worked more slowly in my life! When I was certain that the coast was clear, I crept back to my office and closed the door. I didn't dare venture into the main office, lest I be reminded again, "There's still some soup in the kitchen..."

What is the universe trying to tell you when the notes you wrote on a study less than two years ago make absolutely no sense to you? I convinced myself recently that I should "recycle" some of the lessons I teach for spirituality classes to women in recovery. I reasoned I could "save" up to three hours a week that usually goes into lesson preparation by doing this. Going through my 2009 file, I came across a study on the Sermon on the Mount from September-November, about 11 weeks worth of lessons. PERFECT! Yesterday, as I prepared week 3 of this "recycled" series, I stared and stared at the scribblings I'd made on the three different sources I used for this series. What does THAT mean? Or better yet, what does THAT say?? This particular week, I had not been as "meticulous" about jotting down in the notes which source was which. Today, I will have to decide whether to just puzzle through it or pull the original books back off their shelves (which pretty much defeats the purpose of recycling the studies in the name of saving time in the first place...).

What is the universe trying to tell you when you cannot find a pair of gloves in the house for your 13-year-old son to wear when the temperatures hit the teens? Typical of the treatment that the youngest child in a large family receives, the best I could come up with were two mismatched mittens that looked like the proper size for an 8-year-old. I went into my closet and pulled out my leather/suede black gloves. I looked at them and asked myself, do these look too girly?? I presented them to him without saying a word. He put them on, looked down and announced, "Hey, these fit perfectly!" I answered with a typical mother response -- "Make sure you bring them back home again...."

What is the universe trying to tell you when in the midst of a meeting with someone you are trying to convince to teach a Bible study for female veterans you casually say, "Well, let's throw this out to the universe and see what happens" and she looks at you like YOU are the wack job?? (Ah, karma...)

Well, it's time to head off to work. I'm sure the universe has many more revelations in store for me today...

Swabby Thingies

2011-01-23T13:19:00.004-06:00

Two weeks after surgery, it's probably OK to:

Clean up your teenage daughter's bedroom

or

Follow the termite guy all over the house

or

Eat lunch at the homeless shelter

or

Go to a meeting

or

Push a shopping cart around Target

or

Rearrange the area rugs in your kitchen and den

However, two weeks after surgery, I learned it's NOT OK to do all of those things in one day. And THAT landed me back at the doctor. Well, that and the fact that I had those other two incision sites that were still sutured up.

If you get squeemish when you read words like vagina and pap smear, you should probably click to the next blog. The rest of you, read on...

The nurse seemed so pleased when she removed the last of the sutures. I felt a sense of relief, but ... well, the incisions still looked pretty gnarly to me. She went fishing in the free samples drawer to find me some "bio oil," which apparently contains all these amazing ingredients like vitamin E and parafin and wart of dog and eye of newt ...

But I digress ...

The doctor saunters in and makes his usual small talk. Did he tell me he spent the weekend in Fredericksburg? (No...) They stayed in a log cabin. (OK...) It was about 400 square feet. (Whatever...) Electricity, but no TV. (Your choice...) He'd never gone without TV before (OK ... but at the rates you charge, shouldn't you have gone to Europe?)

So anyway, fast forward to me up in the stirrups. The doctor pronounces I have a "raw spot" on "that" incision. He tells the nurse, "Hand me one of those swabby-thingies." I laugh and tell him I've very impressed with his medical terminology. He says, "Know what they're really called? Anal swabs. Had I asked for an anal swab, you would have said, Doc, why are you putting an anal swab up there??" So of course I counter with the obvious question ... Why aren't there vaginal swabs? He doesn't know. I assur him it has something to do with it being a man's world... Then I look to the nurse and wink. She tries to suppress a grin.

He says, "I'm going to put a little silver nitrate on this ... it's going to sting." I say, don't you mean, "You may experience a little discomfort?" He says, "You know I don't use mambi-pambi phrases like that..."

I laugh briefly, then wish to God I had a leather strap to bite down on as he swabs the spot with the silver nitrate.

Once I regain my composure, the mini-lecture commences on the the list of activities that are absolutely off-limits to me. We close our time together with a discussion on walking ... how much, how far, how often, etc. It seems I'm NOT to just lie about all day long. I'm actually supposed to increase my activities a bit; but gradually -- that's the key.

I give my Doc a hard time. He'd probably be shocked to read these posts. But I have to admit, he's alright ... him and his swabby-thingies.

Mildew

2011-01-16T14:01:00.003-06:00

Every week, two sweet ladies from El Salvador clean my house. My master bathroom is in need of a remodel, but with two kids and me in college, that won't be happening any time soon. Instead, I try to keep it as clean as possible.

I confess I have a thing about bathrooms. If I come to your house and use the restroom and your toilet has not been brushed in months, our friendship could be in jeopardy. In fact, I often say that no child of mine will move out of the house until he/she learns how to properly clean a bathroom.

I've been noticing the mildew building up here and there in the master shower. I kept thinking, "Oneyda will take care of it this week...," but she's 4'10 and I'm 5'10, so our worlds are literally on different levels. I confess, I should have said something to her about it, but it's a little "embarrassing" to me that I have cleaning ladies in the first place. I don't want to be the high maintenance white lady who is always screaming about the mildew in her shower. So I just keep ignoring it ... and ignoring it ... and ignoring it.

Saturday, I couldn't stand it anymore.

When I was at the doctor on Friday to have a few sutures removed, I had been "warned" -- no running, no exercising, no vacuuming. But they didn't say anything about cleaning mildew out of the shower.

I spray down the tile, gasping from the fumes until I remember to turn on the ceiling fan. "I knew it..." as the discolored film and mildew begin to slide down the wall. "I knew this stuff could be cleaned better!"

I look around. Good, no one to hear me talking to the shower stall.

I get out the toilet brush and begin scrubbing the grout. Remembering I was supposed to be resting so I would have enough strength to attend my son's basketball game and then a gala that evening, I sheepishly look around again. My husband is no where in sight, so I continue the scrubbing.

After about 3 rounds of spraying and scrubbing, I conclude the old tile is looking about as good as it is ever going to look. By this time, my husband has wndered in and out of the bathroom. But he knows better than to stop me when I'm armed with Tilex and a toilet brush. (Besides, I might ask HIM to do it, ha!)

I ask my eldest daughter to rinse down the walls, deciding I won't push it by repeatedly bending over to fill a small bucket of water and pouring it on the tile. She is a little disgruntled with my request, but acquiesces anyway.

"There," I tell myself. "Much better."

Now about that closet in our master bedroom...

Sutures

2011-01-14T12:13:00.002-06:00

I'd like to ask that we all observe a minute of silence in remembrance of my cute mid drift.

Thank you.

Today I went to the doctor to have my sutures removed. I am doing much less "waddling" than earlier in the week. In fact, as long as I have the sense to lay down for about an hour every day, I feel pretty darn good.

In preparation for the suture removal, I slowly pulled the steri-strips off each of my incision spots. That's when I came face to face with ... the horror.

(Those with a weak stomach should go to the next blog now.)

Clotted blood, bruises, swelling and folds of skin awkwardly sewn together. I stared at my once-adorable belly button in disbelief. In my head, I began taking notes for my malpractice claim. After all, no one said anything about ending up with a man stomach!

I gently pat each of the incisions. Only the belly button one is still tender. But the skin "puckering" that greets me from two of the sites makes me shudder. I remember a procedure I had years ago on my knee when the same post-operative puckering occurred. It took nearly a year for it to smooth out, and even now, there is a wide white scar near my knee.

Returning to my belly button, I try to imagine why anyone would have theirs pierced. Why, why would you jam a foreign object through your navel??? (This reminds me of a joke ... What do you do if you have two belly buttons? ... Send one to the naval reserves. Ha!) Do you not understand how sacred this part of the body is? The navel -- or umbilicus as the average medical textbook calls it -- is the mark on the surface of the abdomen of mammals where the umbilical cord was attached during gestation. OMG, what a miracle! Why would you mess with that? It's like wearing white shoes before Easter or bringing two or three "uninvited" friends to accompany you to a dinner party without informing the hostess! You just shouldn't go there!

But I digress...

Back to my mid drift.

When I'm on my back in the exam room, the medical assistant gingerly begins removing the first suture. "Oh dear ... this one wasn't ready. It's gaping open." GREAT!! "We'll just put a little steri-strip over that ... there. Good as new." LIAR! She calls in a registered nurse to take a gander at the other three incisions. After a brief consultation that I'm certain my insurance company will be paying for, she announces she will remove the sutures from one of the incision sites, but leave the other two alone (including my belly button).

She also makes reference to some kind of "oil" that the doctor will give me when I come back next week that should help with scarring. (Should help ... a medical term that's right up there with "You may experience a little discomfort...")

My children will give a collective sigh of relief to learn that my bikini days are likely over. Though my youngest daughter always says I look cute, I know she is dying a thousand deaths inside when I emerge onto the beach in my tankini. Oh well ... another part of life that really can't be avoided. And as someone was kind enough to remind me the other day ... at least I'm not recovering from a gun shot wound.

Well-said. Thanks for the perspective.

Like swallowing razor blades

2011-01-11T15:47:00.002-06:00

My cell phone has been ringing. My house phone too. It is people calling to check on me after my surgery last week. I haven't answered many of the calls, though. Just don't feel like talking to anyone!

When I saw my doctor/surgeon yesterday, I told him, you know, you really should provide more handouts on how to deal with post-operative gas and digestive tract issues. He stares blankly at me, blinks a couple times and says, "It's so variable with everyone." That is doctor speak for, "I don't get a kick-back for pushing handouts." LOL.

I'd forgotten what it was like to be able to balance a coffee cup on the top of my belly. I haven't been able to do THAT since I was about 8 months pregnant with my 13 year old. (My how time flies.) However, I have experienced the same sentiments as when I was pregnant with each of my kids: HOW can anyone stand to be FAT??

I walk down the hall holding my belly up with my hands. It seems to lessen the pain. My kids stare at me like I'm a space alien. I keep telling them, "You don't understand, it feels as if I've swallowed razor blades." (And for all you kids out there, that is a joke; don't try this at home.)

I guess it's getting a little better, day by day. Yesterday I could not button my "fat" pants to go to the doctor. I could only zip them up halfway. Today, they are a pretty good fit. (Yes, when only one pair of pants fits you, and you're tired of wearing yoga sweat pants, this is what you do.)

I can feel my food traveling through my digestive tract. Suddenly, I double over with pain. OMG! It's worse than labor. I guess this has been going on all along but the beloved "pain pump" must have been keeping me from feeling it.

Today my daughter googled for me, "Food that is easy to digest." After reading the list out loud to my husband and I, my husband says sheepishly, "I guess I shouldn't have made spaghetti and meatballs last night."

Meanwhile, I have probably dropped five pounds, if that is possible, though with the beach-ball like bloating I am experiencing, you would never be able to tell it. Oh joy and rapture, that means all my BFFs will be asking my favorite question, "Have you lost more weight?"

Maybe I should invite them all over for coffee this afternoon. I'll point to my gut and say, "Look! Bet you never thought I'd look THIS big!" Then maybe they will cut me some slack once all the swelling goes away.

Time to go find my heating pad. That seems to bring a little relief as well. And maybe I'll take my daughter up on her offer to go buy me one of those pregnancy belts...

Don't freak out...

2011-01-08T12:49:00.006-06:00

"Don't freak out when you see how long the tubing is inside of you..."

That's the last thing my doctor told me before leaving my hospital room on Thursday morning. He was talking about the tubing attached to the On-Q Pain Buster, which, as the link provided says, "... gets patients back to normal faster by automatically and continuously delivering a local anesthetic, to relieve post-op pain, through an antimicrobial (SilvaGard®) catheter..." (Seriously, watch the video of how it works. It's pretty amazing...)

This On-Q thing is a way of delivering anesthesia to the site of your "boo-boo" instead of pumping you full of narcotics. For that reason alone, it's a great concept. Don't get me wrong. I am totally in favor of localized anesthesia instead of being stoned on narcotics. But you would never believe what this thing looks like. (Which is why I posted a picture of it at the top.)

See the part that says "catheter" ? Yeah, I had two of those babies jammed up inside of me, slightly above each one of my hip bones. They tape all the rest of that stuff -- the tubing, clamp, flow restrictor, etc. -- to your belly, strategically avoiding all the other incisions (more or less). Then they put that little ball-like thing (which is about the size of a tennis ball or slightly smaller) in a bag with a strap that you're supposed to wear around your neck, carrying it around with you where ever you go (use your imagination).

Pain relief made simple!

My doctor could NOT stop going on about how great it was going to be to have this pain-buster thing after my surgery. (I joked with my husband that he must get a kick-back.) And I'll bet you 50 bucks that the first thing he asks about when I have my sutures removed next week is, "What'd ya think about the On-Q??" Yet I have to tell you, when I pulled those two suckers out of my stomach this morning (my husband estimates that each catheter was about 8 inches long), all I could think was, "Thank GOD those things are OUT of me!"

I love modern technology and modern medicine. I'm all for pain management. I like to be comfortably numb before going under the knife. But please ... no more foreign objects crammed inside of me and then taped in place for 72 hours.

I'll take my chances with the pain next time ... and pop a couple Ibuprofen.

Poop

2010-12-31T19:14:00.004-06:00

It's the last day of 2010. I have one last chance to post about something this year. And here's the topic I have chosen: poop. (I hope everyone will appreciate the number of links in this post, even if you don't think the topic is funny...)

I was sitting in my doctor's office. He was going over a sheet of instructions entitled "Surgery Bowel Preparation." I couldn't help it -- I burst out laughing. He looked up, a little surprised. I'm sorry, I said. But did you ever read that Dave Barry post years ago about having his first colonoscopy? He talks about drinking this very same stuff here and ...

I stopped. My doctor, who is a pretty jovial guy, obviously had never read Dave Barry and for the life of him, could not find the humor in ... well ... poop. (So I had to concentrate hard to suppress my giggles.)

Remember that great scene from Forrest Gump where he is running, running, running across country and a string of people run up next to him and he gives them ideas for various products by accident? There's this one guy who makes bumper stickers and Forrest steps in dog poop as they are running along and the guy exclaims, "Man, you just ran through a big pile of dog sh**!" and Forrest deadpans, "Sh** happens."

When my kids were little, we had this book called "Everyone Poops." It was about potty training of course. I remember so clearly that once I could get my kids to poop in the toilet for the first time, they immediately realized how much more pleasant this was than pooping their pants. Potty training was always a cake walk from that point.

My eldest son was singing some crazy song tonight that apparently won an Emmy on Scrubs for best song or something? It's called "Everything Comes Down to Poo." Here's a little sample of the lyrics (because I can, that's why...)

J.D.: You see....Everything comes down to poo! From the top of your head, to the sole of your shoe. We can figure out what's wrong with you by lookin' at your poo! Turk?

Turk: Do you have a hemorrhoid or is it rectal cancer? When you flush your dookie down, you flush away the answer!

Yeah, OK, I think you get the idea.

Can you write about farting in a poo post? I mean, you have to admit, it is equally as funny (in the same tasteless way.)

Who doesn't remember such Jr. High ditties as, "Smelt it, dealt it," which was said when one person would ask, "Ugh, who farted??"

Or how about that stupid joke: Confucius say, he who fart in church sit in his own pew. (Admit it, that made you laugh!)

We watched this great Chinese foreign film last weekend called CJ7 about a poor Chinese boy whose father discovers a ball-like object in the city dump that turns into this cuddly little space alien puppy-like creature (think Gremlins) (and by the way, this is a great movie). The boy names it CJ7 and pretends it is a high-tech toy. Anyway, the boy dreams that CJ7 somehow gives him these magical glasses that help him to do well on his exams. When his next exam arrives, the boy takes CJ7 to the restroom and demands that his pet produce the "magic" that will help him on the test. CJ7, for no other reason than because it's funny, produces a little turd for the boy, which he holds all during the test, waiting for something to happen to it. Of course it doesn't. It's poop, for God's sake!

One time when my youngest daughter was a baby, she had not had a bowel movement in days and days and days. My Mom said, Put the rectal thermometer in her bottom and then let her push it out. That will stimulate her. Holy Cow, did it ever! Once the poop started, we thought it would never stop. Between laughing hysterically, I kept telling my Mom, "Give me another diaper, hurry!"

Oh, this same daughter swallowed a quarter when she was about 5. After several days, I took her to the doctor and he sent us to X-ray. The X-ray technician said, "Well, of course, I am not qualified to read this X-ray, but ... it looks like it's just about ready to come out." She showed me the film and sure enough, there was old George Washington ready to drop down the poop chute! My husband and I had to go out of town the next day, so lucky Grandma got to mash through the poop over the next few days until the quarter emerged. My daughter still has this quarter (gross) which turned black in her gastro-intestinal track (grosser). LOL!!

I think one of our dogs ate our kid's poop one time. That was Ralph, who ultimately got himself kicked out of the house for eating a tube of diaper cream and then puking it up all over the place. I hear dogs especially like cat poop. Go figure!

Yeah, really, poop has its moments. It can be very funny. I'll try to keep that in mind while I'm drinking my magnesium citrate cocktail next week...

They're here...

2010-12-18T15:22:00.003-06:00

When I come home from work, there are dirty dishes lined along the counter and in the sink. There are soft drink cans and empty water bottles in the trash cans instead of the recycle bin. There is loud talking, arguing, teasing happening all around me. And someone is constantly trying to triangle me in to their drama. That can only mean one thing -- all four of my kids are home for Christmas break.

My husband and I put another notch in our "future empty nester" belts when we sent child #2 off to college last fall. I settled in rather easily to having 2 kids in the house. On the weekends, I could do four loads of laundry and be finished. There were plenty of leftovers to take to work for lunch. And each child had their own "space," their own room, to retreat to when things got hormonally or otherwise tense.

Yesterday, my passive-aggressive eldeset son had a one-way argument with me via texting. He obviously was not having a good day with his siblings, whom he characterized as sitting on their butts while he worked in the yard. (One has mono, another was not even home at the time and the third was given her own extra chore to do today.) I was informed that I should be paying him to rake the leaves (this from a kid who goes to a private school out-of-state and racks up more in tuition costs than the average American earns in a year). I assured him that he was being paid.

We live in a five-bedroom house. One bedroom is for my husband and I. One is our home office. And the other 3 rooms must be shared amongst the four kids. When child #2 left home for college, I transformed "her" bedroom into a guest room. Now, the two college kids argue incessantly about whose turn it is to sleep in a "real" bed (this room has a queen-size bed) and who should have to bunk with their siblings. Because the spare room was first the bedroom of my son before he left for college two years ago and then the room of my daughter when she was a senior, they both believe they have a claim to it. And because each of them have had to stay in different rooms of the house, each of them has clothing and belongings spread across all three of the other bedrooms.

As mentioned earlier, one of our kids has mono. Our younger daughter, the 15 year old, was diagnosed on Wednesday. This sickness has added a new dimension to her vicious mood swings. I felt so sorry for her on Wednesday and Thursday, when her fever was so high and her throat so sore and swollen that she literally panted like a dog. By Friday, when the other kids were tired of her camping out in the family room and everyone was texting me to lodge their complaints against the sickling, all my tender motherly feelings flew right out the window. The nature of this illness is such that one minute she is puny and lethargic and the next, scrappy and energetic, picking fights out of boredom and then playing the sick card when her siblings try to retaliate.

I told my elder son yesterday that I was trying to make his visits home as unpleasant as possible so he wouldn't become nostalgic and decide to move back in with us. Hopefully, my elder daughter will come away from her Christmas break with the same impression.

Who was it that said you can never go home again? He was right ... probably because your parents have changed the locks.

Ugly pants

2010-12-02T18:56:00.003-06:00

Every woman has at least one pair of ugly pants. She doesn't like to wear them, but sometimes she does anyway. They're usually practical, ill-fitting pants in a drab color.

Today I wore my ugly pants. They are black 100% cotton dockers. I bought them online because of my height. (Usually you can only get tall sizes online.) I had another pair of these same pants in khaki, but imagine my surprise when this pair arrived and they didn't fit the same.

They're sort of baggy in the waist and seat. I guess that makes them comfortable, but "comfortable clothing" for a woman is code for, "I'm not leaving the house in this."

I was having trouble finding the right belt for my ugly pants. I have 3 different black belts. One is clearly for jeans; another is for nicer trousers; and the third is reversible and otherwise stuck in the middle, style wise. So I went with the third one. But the buckle is too big, and I was wearing a sweater, so on top of baggy, black, loose-fitting, ugly pants, my belt buckle protruded all day, adding an additional unattractive element to my overall look.

Why do I keep these pants? I guess the statute of limitations hasn't run out on them yet. I think I have only owned them for a little more than a year. If I hadn't bought them from the "tall" shop, I'm sure they'd be too short by now. (Sometimes I don't buy tall-cut pants and just wear them a little lower on the hip to buy myself more length.)

I told my husband at dinner I was having an ugly day. I was. I just felt ... ugly. I'm sure the ugly pants didn't help. In fact, I think I'll go change out of them right now into something more comfortable (something even uglier that I wouldn't dare leave the house in).

At the library

2010-11-27T16:02:00.003-06:00

Not counting the trips I make on a regular basis to pick up books for my husband at the public library, my last "real" library encounter occurred when my youngest of 4 children, who is now 13, attended story time. Today, I spent about 3 hours in the library at the University of St. Thomas, verifying citations for a paper I am writing.

In writing this particular paper, I found a multitude of sources online through the Christian Classics Ethereal Library (CCEL). When I asked my professor for guidance on how to cite these sources, he suggested I go to "my local Catholic library" and actually put my hands on the books.

The texts I was searching for belonged to a 10-volume series that I was certain would be housed in the reference section of the library. When I asked the reference librarian about the books, she seemed puzzled. I told her I'd found them on CCEL, which puzzled her even more. How is it possible that a reference librarian at a Catholic university was not familiar with CCEL?

She asked, did I have a call number? No, I said, but here's the name of the 10-volume set. That brought me to my next amazing discovery: the reference librarian at a Catholic university did not know how to spell "Ante-Nicene," (as in Ante-Nicene Fathers).

I reasoned that since it was a holiday weekend, the regular reference librarian was on vacation and this woman was a mere wanna-be.

She was able to produce a call number for the books I was looking for, and confirmed that they were on the shelf, so I have to give her credit for that. Pointing me in the general direction of the stacks containing these books, she sent me on my way.

The last time I was at a university library was somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 years ago. It was the University of Texas at Austin, at the UGL (undergraduate library), which doesn't even exist anymore, as I learned 3 weeks ago on a trip to visit my daughter at UT. Back in "those days" the catalog was a card catalog. You thumbed through the card catalog, found the book you were looking for, scribbled down the details that were typed onto an index card, and headed to the appropriate shelf. Now, it's all online, with a search engine of unlimited possibilities.

I stared at the small signs at the end of each row of shelves, reading the call numbers that corresponded to the books on those shelves. Geez, I thought, it's as dark as a cave in here! How are you supposed to see the books? Then, as I wandered down the appropriate aisle, the motion-detector lights were instantly activated. There! That's better!!

Next, I discovered that my granny glasses were still in my purse, which I reasoned was safe a stone's throw away from me in the library of a Catholic university on a holiday weekend. (Surely these Catholic students would not steal my purse or laptop.) Retrieving the glasses from my purse, then heading to the motion-detector-lighted book shelves that I hoped contained the volumes I needed, I began squinting at the book spines, alternately looking over and through my glasses to determine the most in-focus view.

I found all six volumes I needed, which contained letters and treatises I'd used in my paper from the likes of Tertullian, Cyprian, Jerome, Basil, Ambrose and Augustine. Each of these books was a collection of other books, making citation a real challenge. Let's see ... first the editors, then the translators, then the year, then the treatise name, then the original book, then the book it's now contained in, then the volume, then the publisher, city and state. Man, that's a lot of work just to have the academic right to type, "Second marriage is a remedy against fornication, not a means of lasciviousness.”

Next came the real fun -- locating the quoted text on the printed page as contained in the online version of the particular volume. Typically, the volume contained hundreds of writings from the church father in question. Even using the table of contents, it was tedious to first locate the right treatise or letter, then skimming it to find the exact text I had quoted or paraphrased.

The entire time, my professor's words to me are reverberating through my brain: "I should be able to walk to that library, find the book and open it to the exact page you are quoting." OK, OK, I hear ya!

By the time I finished the bibliography and in-text citations, my hands were numb and my fingernails were blue. The temp in the library could not have been more than 62 degrees. I don't know if such arctic temperatures are necessary to protect the books or to discourage napping, but I felt thoroughly frozen.

Walking back to my car, I thought about the experience. Next time, I thought, I'll start in the library (what a novel concept -- no pun intended). I'll find the text online through CCEL then immediately walk to the shelf and put my hands on the book.

Truly, that's the best of both worlds!

Back in the Driver's Seat

2010-10-31T13:02:00.003-05:00

Another teenager that I brought into this world is behind the wheel of a car. I gave her life; and now it is in her power to take mine away from me.

Last weekend we drove around the neighborhood. She did pretty good. I gave her my nuggets of wisdom about negotiating turns and letting other drivers know what your intentions are, etc. I think we each scored an A+.

Today I had to assume an even more challenging position as she drove us home from church. I had to sit in the back seat. I was given a clear mandate by the designated adult that I was not to be a backseat driver. Did this stop me? Of course not.

Raising children with another adult can be an eye-opening experience. Teaching those kids together to drive can push the relationship envelope even further. It's akin to cooking. He chops this way, I chop that way; I clean as I go, he cleans at the end; I broil 4 minutes, he broils 5 minutes. Of course, there are some things you can't just agree to disagree on. Staying with the cooking analogy, baking and broiling are clearly two different operations. But if one person slows down through the turn and the other accelerates, what's a kid to do when she's trying to learn how in the heck to turn? If one persons says "don't do it like that" and the other person says "do it like this," the same message ultimately is being communicated, but the person on the receiving end can sure get confused in the process.

I guess my daughter gets the high marks today for keeping her reactions to a minimum. Clearly, she had every right to say, "Would you guys reach some kind of consensus and then share the results with me???"

Next time I ride in the back seat, I will clamp my hand over my mouth...

41 butts

2010-10-17T13:40:00.002-05:00

Today I put on my "Big Bad Tammy" personna and announced to the ladies who were smoking on the side of the church, "Time for church...." They crushed their butts and headed inside.

I don't usually fixate on this kind of thing, but I started to look around. There were cigarette butt everywhere. I started to pick them up.

4 ... 9 ... 14

We put two park benches on the side of the church building so the rehab girls could smoke before and after church.

19 ... 23 ... 28

There is an ash can on either side of the benches.

31 ... 35 ... 37

And a trash can as well.

38 ... 39 ... 40 ... 41.

How much easier could we possibly make it to throw your butts away?

I know I'm a neat freak sometimes.

I know I like to be in control.

I know I get anxious and then I start finding stuff to pick at.

But 41 butts? 41 cigarette butts on the sidewalk at church?

Really?

Come on ladies ... give me a break!

Private

2010-10-08T08:39:00.002-05:00

Private. That's what the caller ID on my cell phone said when it rang at 7:30 a.m. Of course, mother taught me you don't call before 9 a.m. or after 9 p.m., unless it's an emergency. So I answered. It was a life insurance salesman. Really? You think you have a better shot at my business by calling at 7:30 a.m. and not even having the common courtesy to identify yourself??

I get Private calls from time to time. They tend to be business people who fall into two categories -- those who don't want to announce their ID (for obvious reasons -- because you would reject the call) and those who are soooooo important that they cannot risk anyone being able to contact them in return.

There also have been times when my kids have switched their phones to "private" or "unknown." I tell them immediately to switch it back; I need to know who is calling.

Ah ... do you see what I just wrote? I need to know who is calling. I was all ready to launch into this diatribe about the PRESUMPTION of people who use the private status on their cell phones. Back in "ye olden days," we never knew who was calling. The phone would ring and we would get excited with possibility. Now, it's just, "Oh, it's him/her ... REJECT." Ha ha.

I WILL tell you that you have a much greater chance of getting me to answer if I know it's you. And the next time I see "PRIVATE" at 7:30 a.m., that suckah's going straight to voice mail.

Night at the Museum

2010-09-11T08:10:00.003-05:00

We went to the Museum of Fine Arts last night to see the opening of a German Impressionist exhibit; three artists who specialize in landscapes. At one point, we sat down in the middle of the gallery and just looked around at all the odd couplings. Copying a scene from Date Night, we started making up imaginary conversations between the people around us. Yes, I know, terribly naughty of us, but a bit hilarious on one level.

The art was interesting, sometimes breathtaking. The German impressionist (and my husband corrects me that they were really pre-impressionists) used big globs of paint and a very loose brush style. Some of the colors were gloomy, but for the most part, it was really nice.

I had read recently that in the museum's permanent exhibit, they had a favorite painting of mine: Susan Comforting the Baby by Mary Cassat. I have a framed postcard size version of this work on one of my end tables. I love the subject matter and I am also strangely touched by the artist, whose works I had seen in a private gallery in Houston years and years ago with a girlfriend. She was an American artist -- the only American "permitted" into the tight circle of French Impressionists and one of two women in the group (girl power). At any rate, when I saw the original last night, it really touched my heart.

As we were walking out, we stopped to look at an exhibit of 69 photographs by Richard Misrach called After Katrina. The photos were tragic and eerie yet sometimes quite funny as you read the signs or the messages that the desperate residents of New Orleans spray painted on their homes and houses. (My favorite was, "Don't even think about it. I have a big dog, an ugly woman and 2 shotguns.")

Overall, a very enjoyable night at the museum.

Laundry detail

2010-09-05T15:44:00.001-05:00

For the second weekend in a row, I have done a mere four loads of laundry. Four. Normally, it’s more like six or seven. How is this possible?

Well of course, it has a great deal to do with the fact that two of my four children are away at college, doing their own laundry. (And it’s about time.)

My eldest daughter, the second of my baby birds to leave the nest, called me last week with laundry questions. What temperature do you wash this in? What would happen if I put “A” and “B” in the same load? What goes in the dryer?

Her concluding statement nearly had me bursting out in song: “Boy, doing your laundry is expensive and time consuming.” You don’t say!

That’s probably as close to a thank you as I’ll ever get. But I’ll take it, along with those four loads!

Mothers

2010-09-04T20:10:00.005-05:00

Today we threw an 80th birthday party for my Mom at the church. There were easily 60 people present, which I hope pleased her, considering she emphatically told me, "If you have a party for me, no one will come..."

My brothers and I each got up to say some things about our Mom, what she has meant to us, what she's taught us, special stories that stuck out in our mind. I heard 2 stories I had never heard before from one of my brothers. (That's the curse of being the youngest ... there's a lot of family history you have no knowledge or memory of!)

I went first. I recalled my favorite days of the week growing up were my Mom's days off. She worked as a registered nurse for as long as I can remember, but her day off schedule went Monday, Saturday, Sunday, Thursday. I loved coming home from school on those days. And not necessarily because we did anything spectacular together, although sometimes we did; but mostly because she was "there."

I also remembered that my mother taught me about flowers and instilled a love of gardening in me. She taught me that women have to work hard. Her exact words were, "You have to be a horse to live in this world." She taught me women could have a career if they wanted or needed to; and likewise they could stay home. My mom was practically the third parent in the house when my children were small, she helped me so much. In fact, I quipped, "You know that saying, 'It takes a village to raise a child? Yeah ... or my Mom.'" Most of all, she taught me that I was very special.

And since we're talking about mothers, it seems appropriate to mention one other mother: my Father's mother. One of my brothers went to my Father's house to go through some old music of his (he passed away about 7 weeks ago). My brother gave me an envelope from my Father's wife. I couldn't imagine what was in it.

There were two items. One was a very small New Testament, about the size of a bar of soap. I flipped it open and saw the name "Grace Herron" on the inside cover. This was my Father's mother, who died when he was quite small. The grandmother I never knew; and strangely enough, my heart ached as I held that Bible in my hands.

The second item was a short essay my Father had written in 1997 for an essay contest about the woman who had the greatest impact on your life. He won the contest, which was part of a special promotion for the opening of a movie. Here's what he wrote:

Portrait of an Angel

"Grace was married in 1928. Two years later she gave birth to a son. She was the accompanist for her church's "Men's Glee Club." Returning from a performance with her cousin driving through a heavy fog, they saw a truck parked ahead without lights. At the last minute her cousin swerved but couldn't miss the truck. Somehow she pushed her 18 month old son down between her legs to save his life. She was crushed from the waist up.

My Mother gave her life to save mine.

So the Mother I never knew had the greatest impact on my life."

I know for a fact that my Father never stopped mourning the loss of his mother. I wonder how his life may have been different, had she lived. Of all the tragedies of life, surely the loss of a mother is one of the greatest.

That's all the more reason to celebrate the life of one like mine.

The new black

2010-08-27T09:18:00.002-05:00

I've decided that funny is the new black. You can't have enough of it in your life, but it can make you look 10 lbs heavier.

This is supposed to be the funny blog. I know, no pressure. Think funny thoughts...

Maybe facebook is the new black. Don't read your kids' fb posts. That's my advice for today. There is nothing funny there, just lots of angst and juvenile attempts at being shocking. Although I will say it's quite an exercise in self-control to read their posts and not hit "like" or make a comment. See if I don't make my presence known on their fb pages, then we can just keep up with the charade that I know I'm reading it and they know I'm reading it, but nobody needs to be reminded of that.

Maybe sleep should be the new black. You can't have enough of it in your life, but it can make you look 10 lbs heavier (hey, that sounds familiar). You can tell you are getting too much sleep when you have creases on your face and dried spittle around your mouth. Lol, I can't believe I just typed that. TMI.

Perhaps TMI is the new black. You can't have enough of it in your life (now wait just a minute.....)

No, seriously, petting your dog is the new black. I was petting my little crazy house dog yesterday. She was so happy. She curled up next to me and buried her nose in the crevice between my side and the couch. I was wearing a black blouse, so I walked away from the encounter with little doggie hairs all over my right side. I suppose that comes with the territory.

Texting is not the new black. I have got to stop texting while I'm driving.

Email is not the new black either. Certainly, emailing 20 people at once is not the new black. Am I the only person who thinks it's ridiculous to believe that you are communicating effectively because you include 20 people in on the conversation? And what about those people who will never join the conversation? That is nearly as intolerable, although I was reminded recently that when you cc someone on an email, you are giving them a head's up, not inviting them to join the conversation. Horrors! Have I EVER broken email etiquette on THAT one!

I think it's about time someone wrote a book on email etiquette. Don't you? (They probably already have and I just haven't read it.) Likewise, the process for sending an email should be like registering a handgun. You should have to wait in line, pay a fee and be approved. Wouldn't that significantly cut down on the ridiculous and outrageous stuff that lands in all of our inboxes and spam boxes every day?

Eh, it's pretty hard to beat black. Black will forever be ... the new black.

Unsettling

2010-08-21T19:58:00.002-05:00

My eldest daughter moved out today to start her freshmen year in college. Her older brother left on Wednesday for his sophomore year.

I am glad to have less laundry to do.

Happy to have less food to buy and prepare.

Thrilled to have less fighting in the house.

Ecstatic to have fewer hormone surges.

However ... it's feeling a little surreal.

I have been wandering around the house tonight, putting away the few "things" that each of them left behind, trying to get it all organized, feeling like I have to instantly change up the space they used to occupy. It's almost as if I am driven to fill the holes and bridge the gaps in a nearly impossible attempt to soothe the disquiet in my soul.

It's an adventurous time in life for my children. I am excited for them both. And proud. But still ...

It's a little unsettling.

I still can't see, Part 2

2010-08-15T13:32:00.003-05:00

I wrote recently that my near-vision has disintegrated to the point of needing reading glasses. I was supposed to get bifocal contacts, but due to an error at the optometrist, I received mono-vision lenses instead.

If you have never heard of or experienced mono-vision lenses, I'll explain. Basically, one eye wears the "distance" lens and the other wears the "close up" lens. I was assured that my brain would quickly adjust and learn to look through one eye for driving and the other for reading. It sounds great, right? Well ... it seems there is something lacking in my brain, for it was unable to make this adjustment. Instead, I felt as if I could not see either way. In fact, the affect was so intense in terms of disorientation, I finally gave up and went back to my old lenses.

When I called the eye doctor, the contact lens technician assured me that I would not be happy with bifocal lenses, as they too "compromised" your vision, delivering a less-than-clear picture on both the near and far vision front. We concluded that I should go back to distance lenses and using reading glasses in a supplementary fashion.

Today, I popped in my "new" left eye contact lens and wore my "old" right eye lens. (In the mono-vision lenses, the left was my vision lens, so I used it instead of the "old" left lens while my "new" right lens is on order). I was anxious to have at least my left eye up to par (being a leftie, it is my dominant eye and also the one that had changed the most since my last eye exam).

When I got to church this morning, I glanced down at the worship guide only to discover that I couldn't read anything. It seems that the stronger your distance vision correction becomes, the more you need reading glasses. I played with holding the guide at different lengths until I finally could make out most of the words. With church in full swing, I texted my older daughter and asked her to bring my reading glasses to church, as I was sure I would need them in Sunday school, since I was teaching.

I know that the more I wear the reading glasses, the more I will need the reading glasses. But what can I do? I have to be able to see! For the life of me, I can't understand how your vision can just go bonkers it what seems like a mere matter of months. The contact lens technician tells me that once I get sick of the reading glasses, my eyes will more easily adapt to the mono-vision lenses and we can try them again. (That's contact lens tech-speak for, when you're desperate enough, you'll take any vision you can get!)

I suppose my hearing will go next. I understand there are many fashionable choices in hearing aids these days!

Reflections

2010-08-13T17:15:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting in Midway Airport in Chicago, waiting to board our flight back to Houston. We have had a really great trip – rest, adventure, food and gentle leisure. Here’s a sampling of thoughts over the past few days:

Taxis. Really, why can’t they drive without starting and stopping so violently? You shouldn’t get whiplash from a car ride that doesn’t involve a collision. For a minute, I could have sworn my 14 year old was driving the car!

Shoes. Our hotel was in a part of downtown called the Miracle Mile, so named because of all the high-price retailers in the area. I have seen a lot of shoes this week, both on the feet of fellow travelers and in the windows of stores. The designs seem particularly over the top. It’s like someone took a low-cut boot with a six-inch stiletto heal and then took after it with a pair of scissors. Everything has a very “Roman” look to it. Gladiator-style sandals and pumps. No, better yet, they look like something you’d find in one of those adult novelty stores (my husband now asks, how many adult novelty stores have you been in??).

Waiters. Having eaten no fewer than 8 meals out from Tuesday-Friday, we have had the gamut of waiters, from the non-existent to the overly-helpful. At one restaurant, the hostess apparently sat us in a section where the waiter on duty had not arrived for work yet. At another, I was so distracted by the waiter’s three-inch long soul-patch-like facial hair that I couldn’t keep from staring each time he showed up and asked, “How is everything?” I think I annoyed one waitress by asking could we sit at a different table. The restaurant easily had 15 empty tables and she wanted to seat us at a two-seater. I politely asked to switch to the four-seater. The same restaurant where no waiter was on duty later subbed in with a super-chatty one who told us she was really an accountant but was out of work, wished she was living in Colorado but missed her family too much, and then gushed in fake disbelief when we told her we were celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. (“No way, you two do not look anywhere near old enough!!”) I told her, keep working for that tip, Colleen.

Couches in elevators. We stayed at the Drake Hotel. Several of the elevators had couches in them. For the life of me, I had never seen this before. It seemed silly to sit on the couch while the elevator climbed to the 8th floor where our room was, but I confess at the end of one day in particular of heavy walking, I was glad to have the couch elevator.
Non-descript accents. There are no accents here. That surprised me. I thought there would be a northeastern kind of accent (except we are not in the northeast). Everyone sounded alike.

Man bag. I am now ready to suggest that my husband get a man bag. We did a lot of walking during the last few days. Every day, I carried a purse with my wallet, my phone, his phone, our camera, sunglasses, a bottle of water and miscellaneous tourist brochures. (Mind you, I had even emptied my wallet as much as possible to lighten the load.) I had to keep switching shoulders throughout each day’s trip and found myself thinking, OMG my back is killing me! Yeah, maybe those man bags are not so dorky after all.

Outdoor cafes and greenery. Maybe it’s just the part of downtown we are in, but there are a lot of outdoor cafes around here. They are very charming and the weather permits their existence (as compared to Houston’s, that is). I also could not believe all the planters that lined the streets. This is a very green town; nearly tropical or lush. What a shock.

Tans. You would have thought we were in Malibu. The locals are quite tan. They seem to spend a good deal of time at the “beach’ near Lake Michigan, though we saw very few people in the water. I wondered if the water was just too cold, but my husband suggested it was because of a drastic drop-off.

Church etiquette. We visited a really beautiful old church this morning – 4th Presbyterian Church. The woodwork and tapestries in particular were breathtaking. I had wanted very badly to visit the church all week. I wanted to sit and have a little time of peace, feel God’s presence and know that all was right with the world. There were sprinkles of homeless people in the pews and I thought, how refreshing that they are allowed to stay here while the church’s doors are opened during the day. I know my church would never allow such a thing! But just when I sat down in the pews to breathe it all in, some workers in a nearby hallway started talking about I don’t know what. People, please, we’re in a sanctuary. Lower your voices! Eventually, they went away, but I was shocked none the less by their lack of respect.

I really liked Chicago. It’s a great city. I hope we will be able to come back again in a few years.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

2010-08-10T14:44:00.001-05:00

As I type this, my husband and I are in route to Chicago for a few days to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. When we arrived at the gate and received our boarding passes – Group C – I knew we would be among the last passengers seated. I also knew what that meant: we would not be seated together.

Every time we book a flight on Southwest, it’s like this. “Open” seating means we are all treated equally and allowed to sit anywhere we like. Well, OK, that’s not exactly true. If you are the first 3 passengers on board, you get to sit anywhere you like. Everyone else has to make the best of it.

I confess I like to watch and think about human behavior. (Perhaps I missed my calling as a sociologist; I don’t know.) I have wondered why it is that as people board a plane that allows for open seating, they instinctively sit in the first and third seats and leave the middle seat open. Eventually, someone will come and fill that middle seat; usually a person like me who would have preferred to sit with her traveling companion, but didn’t get to the airport in time. So if you will end up sitting next to someone anyway, why not go ahead and plop down next to them right now? In the process, it seems that more “two seat” gaps would remain open for those who desired them.

I remember reading an article years ago about people’s “personal space” and the importance of not invading it. It suggested an experiment to help the reader gain a better understanding of how personal space works. It began by describing the elevator phenomenon. You know, as an elevator stops at each floor and more people get on, the passengers automatically, even unconsciously, readjust where they are standing so that there is an equal space between all passengers. Now if you want to freak people out, the article suggested, when you get on an elevator in which only one or two persons are riding, stand unnaturally close to one of them instead of equi-distant. They will instinctively step away from you and continue to do so until you back them into a corner. Of course, there are risks involved in this experiment, such as getting maced or being verbally abused (What the hell is your problem buddy??) But if you are traveling no further than two or three floors, give it a try (but stifle your laughter).

While boarding the plane, we considered playing the “It’s our anniversary” card to see if any kind soul would surrender their seat so that we could be together. Alas, it’s only a 2 ½ hour flight. We have plenty of time to be together after that. But the next time I ride in an airplane alone, I may just conduct a personal space experiment of my own by choosing the 2nd seat over the 3rd or 1st one and plopping down next to someone. I’ll even turn and give them a big, toothy grin. Then I’ll watch them squirm … and stifle my laughter.

Ugly Americans

2010-08-07T17:21:00.002-05:00

Our senior pastor arranged a pulpit exchange with a minister from the UK for the month of August, which means he and his wife are "there" and the UK minister, his wife and two teen sons are "here."

We have had the pastor and his sons to our house twice now for dinner and swimming. It seems that they don't do much swimming in London; it's just too cold most of the time. So, swimming was a priority.

Our guests have been so gracious, they need a new word for it. On both occasions, I had to push to get them to register a preference for what they wanted to do. On the first night when we had dinner and swimming, the swimming was first. After about an hour or so, I said, would you like to swim longer or eat dinner now? I even added, "Don't be polite; just tell me what you want." Finally, the pastor replied, "Perhaps we could swim for a bit longer and then have dinner."

If I brought out drinks and snacks, they would not even go near them until one of my kids touched them first. The same was true at the dinner table. We served "family style," and they stared at the plates until practically begged to serve themselves.

On the second visit to swim, they brought us cookies that they had baked themselves (the mum has not arrived yet). I thought that was especially sweet.

So, in contrast to the beautiful manners of our British guests, I am left to conclude that we are, indeed, Ugly Americans. Let's hope our charm shines through, regardless.

Me Vs. the Cable

2010-08-01T21:10:00.004-05:00

At the moment, the score stands Me, 0; Cable, 1.

Several months ago, at least one of our channels disappeared from our cable line-up, owing to the cable company going totally digital and us not having a digital TV. Of course, at the time, it didn't bother me that one channel in particular -- AMC -- had disappeared. In fact, it didn't bother me in the least until the premiere episode of Season 4 of Madmen was broadcast last week and I missed it -- due to the disappearing channel.

Next, I made several calls to the cable company. One Comcast customer service person told me I had two options: get a DTA (digital TV adapter) from the cable store, which I could receive 2 of for free for my household; or get a cable converter box, which I could get from the cable store for $7 a month. Of course I chose the former. And of course, the customer service person had absolutely no idea how to locate one of these cable stores, but assured me that if I dialed a certain number, they would.

So I did.

And they didn't.

This time, customer service person tells me she has never in her life heard of a DTA. But yes, I can get a digital converter box and -- good news -- my cable plan allows for one free box per household. Hooray! I send my husband to the cable store on Friday and then begin the odious task on Friday night of trying to hook it up.

At one time, I wrote for a living. I once edited a very, very tedious "how to" manual for a construction company I was working for, not to mention probably 20 or so employee manuals for a long-term health company whose employ I was under. I admit I do not like to read directions, but I can when pressed.

That being said, I want it known that the directions for hooking up the cable box were ... incorrect. So, I called a truce and decided to work on it again Saturday morning.

On Saturday, I finally came up with a configuration that scored me reception ... of about 6 channels. I reinitiated the process several times -- only to get the same frustrating result.

So ... I called the cable company. After pressing "2" about 6 times on the voice mail system, I finally heard, "If you would like to refresh your digital signal, press 1." YES! I thought. I pressed 1. The LED light began blinking. Hooray! I turned off the TV and let the convertor box do its job, as instructed, for the next 15 minutes. I even gave it 10 or so bonus minutes to finish.

With great excitement, I turned on the TV. (I couldn't wait to announce to my husband, "I figured it out!!") The message on the screen was more than disheartening: "Unauthorized use of digital cable convertor. Call 800-XXX-XXXX for more information."

Really, Comcast? Really? Is this the best you can do?

I call the cable company AGAIN. The latest customer service rep says oh yes, she can "authorize" my convertor box, adding it will take 2-4 minutes for it to take effect and I should remain on the line in the mean time. I suppose the silence was too much for her because she initiated small talk with me.

"So, how's your day going so far?"

Wow, that was not a smart question. I replied, "Well, not great, because I had no intention of spending all this time hooking up the cable..."

"Oh, sorry for that..." she says. For the remainder of the wait, she doesn't offer a syllable.

OK, we progress to the next stage, she refreshes the signal, and I get ... 6 stations.

The customer service rep is shocked. She can't believe her solution didn't work. So then she concludes, "Maybe there is something wrong with the convertor box...."

Really, Comcast?? Really?

Now my choices are go back to the store and get another box or put in an order for a technician to come to my house. "Is the technician free?" I ask. "Well ... probably," she says, adding that just to make sure, I can add "maintenance" to my current services for a mere $2.95 a month. (Ha! I fell for the bait and switch on my recent cell phone purchase with AT&T, but not you, Comcast!) I politely decline.

So ... once again I missed Madmen, but hopefully by tomorrow afternoon, sometime between 2-5 p.m. Comcast assures me, the problem will be solved.

Blind as a ... 47 year old

2010-08-01T20:51:00.003-05:00

I am thrilled to report that the "blindness" of my near vision is progressing nicely. I have amped up my reading in the last 3-4 weeks. This has made me more aware of the strain to my eyes when I'm trying to read, which has caused me to use more those drug store reading glasses I bought about 6 months ago, which has made my near vision even worse.

And so it goes.

About a month ago, I had my eyes examined and the doctor and I decided it was time to get the bifocal contact lenses. They have not come in yet, due to an oversight (ha ha, no pun intended) by the doctor's staff.

Meanwhile, I grow blinder by the minute.

The switching between different sets of glasses that correct near vs far vision has gone beyond comical to something that doesn't have an adequate term. Why is it that when I am not wearing my contacts (for my far vision), my near vision is so much better. Every morning, I wander out to the kitchen for breakfast, sporting my distance glasses less I step on the dog or take out a piece of furniture. I sit down to drink my coffee and read the paper, realizing I have to remove my glasses to make out the type on the page. Time passes. I glance up to look at the clock, but lo, I cannot make out its face, let alone its numbers. I put my glasses back on again, then, forgetting I can't read with them, look back at the paper, mutter "curses!" to myself, and remove them again.

The frequency with which I am holding items at arm's length is equally ridiculous. I was at a "party" today -- you know, one of those parties where a friend is hocking her wares -- and I could not read the catalogue to save my life. You should have seen the acrobatics I had to perform to put the catalogue at the right distance to read the item number on a particular item I wanted to purchase, then adjust the distance between me and the ordering sheet to record the item on my order. Curses, curses, curses!

Happy news -- my eye doctor assures me this unexplainable disparity between my near vision when I am wearing contacts vs. not wearing contacts has everything to do with getting older. He told me this fact with a mischievous glint in his eye, owing to the fact that he is probably 10 years older than I am.

I hope my bifocal contacts come in this week! Of course, how you keep them positioned in your eye so that, as with bifocal glasses, the "top" of the lens stays at the top of the eye and the "bottom" stays at the bottom is beyond me! (big wink)

Ode to the Scary Downtown Man

2010-07-28T15:12:00.001-05:00

O Scary Downtown Man, how strange …
That you breached the intersection
Yet perceived me as “blowing past you” in my car,
Even though I had the right of way.

O Scary Downtown Man, how ironic …
That you pulled up next to me,
Blocked me in,
Approached my car,
And demanded to know,
“Are you familiar with the term, common courtesy?”

O Scary Downtown Man, how tragic …
That you identified yourself as a minister,
A man of God,
And then assaulted my character and condemned my actions.

O Scary Downtown man, how determined you are …
To declare your rights,
To spew your venom,
To bully the likes of me.

O Scary Downtown Man, how sad …
That life has somehow driven you to this.

Endless website loop

2010-07-17T18:34:00.002-05:00

I'm in charge of a Kids Triathlon Series in the Greater Houston Area. As such, I have set up a website that allows interested people to, among other things, register their kids to compete in one of our 8 kids tri's. The "glitch" is that in order to participate, you have to pay $5 to join the national organization that "sanctions" the race. I won't name the organization here, but ... it has the words "USA" and "Triathlon" in its title.

I pretty much used websites for dummies to create my website. I like to think that anything someone wants to know -- from the race schedule to training tips to race site maps to results to registering online -- are just one click away. In fact, I KNOW they are. The exception is joining this darn national sanctioning organization!

I have provided a link on my website that takes them to the sanctioning group's website. When you get there, instead of a tab that says, "Join today!" it has link after link after link taking you to the wrong place for joining.

I had a phone call from a parent tonight who spent an extended period of time on the sanctioning group's loop. You know what I mean -- click, nope; click, nope; click, nope; click, nope; damn it! I told her, "I'll take a look at it and see if I can come up with a better, more direct link. Check back on my website tomorrow."

Well, guess what? There is no better, more direct link. I have just as good a chance of getting to the page I need by closing my eyes, moving my mouse around randomly and hitting the click button as going through any of the links provided.

This is very infuriating and frustrating to me. In fact, I have half a mind to put a disclaimer on my website that says, "This website will take you at least 1 hour to navigate, sorry!"

Given all the technology at our fingertips, it just shouldn't be THAT hard to pay an organization $5 so your kid can compete in a triathlon!

Death stinks

2010-07-13T21:18:00.005-05:00

When I got married, my Mom bought Emily Post's Book of Etiquette. She wanted to read up on all the proper things one is supposed to do in the course of organizing a wedding. Now, I'm wondering if Ms. Post ever wrote a book on funerals.

I confess I have had three days of on the job training while helping to plan and organize my Father's funeral. He died unexpectedly on Sunday and I have been trying to keep up with it all ever since.

Whenever a significant person of someone I know has died, I have done what everyone is now doing to me. I have said, "Let me know if there is anything I can do," or "You are in my thoughts and prayers." Seriously, I have a facebook page full of people writing essentially the same thing -- "You are in our thoughts and prayers."

I was chatting with a friend on facebook about this situation. I said, "Do me a favor ... write on my wall, 'Hey Tammy, I heard your Dad died. That sucks!' There's no telling what her initial reaction was when she read my request! But you know what? She replied, "Lol, I love your spirit. OK, just for you, I will..." And she did.

Man, what a relief to read those words! Honesty. I love it. Hell yeah it sucks that my Dad died! It stinks that he died before I got there. It stinks that he died before I even made it out of the driveway. It stinks that no one thought they needed to tell me his health was suddenly taking a turn for the worse.

It stinks that I had to be in a tiny room at the funeral home for 3 hours with family members while we all tried to pretend that the walls weren't dripping with anxiety, waiting for someone to screw in enough courage to ask: "How much is this going to cost?"

It stinks that people at the office are tip-toeing around me, believing they must act somber and sad in my presence.

It stinks that I'm exhausted but can't sleep; that my head is buzzing; that my stomach is churning; that I can't think straight enough to realize that when you're writing an obituary, the first line needs to say that somebody died.

Then today, I had the stinkiest thought of all. After Friday, when my Father's casket is placed in the ground, everyone will go home and get on with their day, their weekend, their life. And I'll be standing there saying to myself, "Well, it's finally over ... but he's still dead."

There is no doubt in my mind that passing from this side of eternity to the next is a natural part of life. Clearly, though, there are aspects of it that stink.

Ode to Rude Parents at the Kids Triathlon

2010-07-10T20:15:00.003-05:00

Oh rude parents at the kids triathlon,
Is the world really all about you?
Were you placed on this earth to be served?
Are your interests second to none?

Oh rude parents at the kids triathlon,
What's it like to go to bed angry?
And wake up angry?
And live and breathe every moment of the day angry?

Oh rude parents at the kids triathlon,
How did you get so smart?
And how did everyone else get so dumb?
Is it a burden being you?
Is it tiresome always knowing more than anyone else in the room?

Oh rude parents at the kids triathlon,
Did you ever wonder how your attitude affects me?
Did you know that just being around you
is like having all the oxygen sucked out of the room?
Did you know you make me thankful to have this day over with?

Oh rude parents at the kids triathlon,
Maybe you'll grow up soon ...
Maybe you'll get to adulthood before your kids.
Then maybe you'll see ... it didn't have to be like this.

The day after

2010-07-05T09:22:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was the 4th of July and while most people were BBQ-ing or visiting relatives or just relaxing in the easy chair, I was working in the yard.

No one held a gun to my head. I actually like yard work. And for some crazy reason I can only attribute to my own stupid determination, I decided that 1 p.m. was the perfect time to work out in the sauna known as "the yard."

I had a mission. Trim the hedges. Our house is on a double lot, so I had quite a gauntlet to work through. I enlisted my younger daughter to help me with step one of the mission: trim the ligustrum "tree." Each end of our flowerbed across the front of the house is anchored by a ligustrum bush that has been "trained" into a tree. I convinced my daughter that she should climb on the roof and trim the top of the bush. I had done this myself the previous year, but I thought she would enjoy being "adventurous."

Her experience on the roof mirrored my own. "Man, mom, when I was in 4th grade, I used to climb all over the roof without a thought. Now it's really scary! Why is that?"

Growing up, I replied.

She trimmed as much as she could then shimmied back down the ladder again. I picked up the trimmers (which are electric, mind you) and got to work.

Although she had trimmed the top on the back side, I had to try to figure out a way to trim the top on the front. I had used an A-ladder to get the sides of the bush. Next, I took the extension ladder and laid it across the bush/tree itself. I reasoned I could climb up the ladder and trim the front top this way. I pushed the ladder hard against the bush. It seemed stable. I climbed up a few steps to test the waters. Yep, definitely stable. Then I called my younger son over to hold the ladder for me.

"If I yell move, jump out of the way," I told him as I descended up the ladder, trimmers in hand. Holding the trimmers well above my head, I stretched and stretched and stretched, eventually getting all the wayward limbs that had alluded the reach of my daughter. My husband, who was mowing the lawn, looked over to see what I was up to. I called out to him jokingly, "the preacher said today you have to take risks..."

After finishing the first ligustrum, I suddenly had the sensation that I was going to be sick. I went inside and laid down on the tile floor and drank some water. "Mom, you OK?" my older daughter asked. "Yeah," I panted, "just a little heat-stroked."

I thought about the youth work trip I would be taking in two weeks; thought about how I'd be working outside for five days straight. And I wondered, can I still do this stuff?

Eventually, I ventured back out into the heat to finish what I had started. Two hours later, all the shrubs were trimmed, clippings raked up and bagged, and I was completely spent.

I think I'm still spent. I've been downing sudafed and ibuprofen consistently since yesterday afternoon to fight the effects of breathing in too much "outdoors" and muscle tension from holding a hedge trimmer for an extended period of time (especially that "over the head" part).

I'm looking forward to tomorrow, believing the day after the day after will be much more pleasant.

Pool shark

2010-06-26T15:36:00.002-05:00

My daughter and I were playing pool last night. It provides a nice context for conversation or just for being present with one another. Any way, I grew up with a pool table in my house, but I never really learned how to play. I remember trying to shoot pool a lot, but never really succeeding.

I haven't changed much since then.

Most of my problem seems to be related to focus. I don't mean I can't see the pool balls, I mean, I either intentionally or unintentionally "goof off" when I should be focusing on the shot at hand. The proof of this is my daughter's exasperation with me as I scratch three turns in a row, only to sink five straight shots on my next turn. Mind you, some of the shots are quite miraculous, which seems to try her patience even more, but they go in all the same.

(It reminds me of test-taking. I did not test well on standardized tests because after a while, I found myself thinking while examining the choice of answers, "Yeah, that sounds good..." Yet I graduated with honors from a state university. Go figure.)

One of my earliest memories of my husband, who really is a pool shark, is a story of him playing pool with a girlfriend of mine, proclaiming, "loser buys dinner," then losing on purpose.

I'm not even certain I could lose on purpose. Determined to lose, I most certainly would run the table, all the while asking myself, how is it possible that these shots keep going in?

My daughter knows that playing pool with me never guarantees a win or a loss. And maybe that is a good feeling in the end, I don't know. I just know that I better not quit my day job...

Random experiences

2010-06-20T19:25:00.004-05:00

It's kind of funny that most people write posts about stuff that no one would ever listen to them talk about in a normal conversation. It's as if we somehow convince ourselves that everything that happens to us is interesting to the rest of the world. Well, if nothing else, it certainly makes us feel important.

So here's a few random experiences to share that otherwise I would never talk about...

Dilation
I went to the eye doctor last Thursday. I have the luxury of being "related" to my eye doctor. He is married to my mother-in-law (guess that makes him my step father-in-law). Any way, aside from the fact that he rarely charges me at all or he extends me a deep discount, Henry also rarely dilates my eyes. He knows what a bother I think it is, having to wait for the dilation to take effect, etc., and he says my pupils are large enough that he can get a good look at my optic nerve and other stuff without all that fuss. But this round, I couldn't avoid the dilation. It seems the office was really busy last Thursday and woefully behind schedule. (I said to myself, good, he'll be rushed and I'll get away with not having to dilate my eyes again). Unfortunately, Henry had to make a dash out of the office between patients, which left me "unattended" with the contact lens lady. After examining my eyes and reconfiguring my prescription (note to self -- write a future post on bifocal contact lenses), she said, "Dr. will be back in a few minutes, so I'll just go ahead and dilate your eyes for him." CURSES!! I smiled sheepishly. Um, OK, gee, thanks ... that's so thoughtful of you.

If you have never had your eyes dilated, you eventually get to the point where you absolutely cannot read anything up close. Apparently, they no longer have those "reversal" drops either, so once the exam was over, I was left slightly sight-impaired for my drive home. Of course, driving requires distance vision, but texting my husband that I was on my way requires close-up. I don't have a full keyboard on my phone. But the phone is "smart" enough to guess the words you are punching and then you just correct where it guessed wrong. Anyway, I was trying to text, "On my way." When I got home, my husband teased, "Oh look, a text from you. It says "On 5971 st" (or some other such nonsense).

Our after-dinner plans were to go to Target. Next fatal mistake on my part! Do you know what it's like trying to find your "stuff" on each aisle when you can't see close-up? And the lights were so bright. I felt like Stevie Wonder, needing shades for inside. Luckily, my daughter was also helping me, until I began looking for personal items that were "embarrassing" to her. Then I was on my own, picking items from the shelf, holding them at different distances, trying to make sure I was getting the right stuff.

And get this ... the next morning, one of my eyes was still dilated, leaving me looking like some kind of freak or something.

Suffice to say, if Henry leaves the office next year while I'm having my eyes examined, I'm leaving with him...

Computer chaos
Something strange happened to my computer. I was trying to access a file in Word. So, after clicking into Word, I did as I always do ... clicked "file" then clicked the menu bar to navigate to the drive and folder and file I needed. Except when I clicked on the menu bar, nothing happened. Then the computer locked up. Then I had to go to "end task" to escape. It happened over and over. Hmmmm, very strange!

Now I had to start sleuthing. First things first ... turn everything off. I clicked on "restart" and waited. Then when the computer was booted back up, went to Word and tried again. Same result. Total lock up.

Hmmmmmmm.

I decide to shut down my computer completely this time. I keep it off for about 10 minutes then reboot. I go to Word again. Still lock up!

Just for grins, I went into another microsoft program (excel) and experienced the same "lock up." Then I went to Pagemaker, which is an Adobe program. Nope, no problem here. OK, how about microsoft powerpoint? Yep, same lock up issue.

Hmmmmmm ... only microsoft programs.

I check my virus scan log to confirm the computer was scanned the previous night, on schedule. Yep. I look for a record of anything unusual being found. Nope. I tell the program to rescan the folders containing all my microsoft programs. MUCH later ... nope, still no virus problems.

I decide to forget about it. Today, I start over ... it's still locking up. Of course, I know I can get around it by pulling up files through "my computer," but I know this is a very inefficient way to work. My husband needs to use my laptop, so I get on the kids' computer and start googling different key words, looking for solutions. I get lots of various links, one that appears to be a microsoft supported site, only to find that when I type in a description of the problem, an "avatar" of some supposed computer tech comes up asking, "How much will you pay to fix this problem? Make me an offer..." with 3 choices to choose from. $18, $38, and $58. It claims you only pay if the problem is fixed. I click $18. It then asks for my credit card information. I pause. Hmmmm, something tells me, don't do it. So I don't.

I return to my laptop. I remember that I am using Windows Vista but my microsoft programs are actually for Window XP. I wonder if this is somehow the culprit. I go to my updates log and search for automatic updates. I see one from Windows for earlier in the week. I have no reason to believe this is the problem, but go ahead and "reset" my computer to several days before this (the last day I am certain I accessed files by the menu bar within a microsoft program).

Resetting takes a long time, but I multi-task and do some other little errands around my home office while this is going on.

Finally, the computer reboots and is ready to try again. Anxiously, I go to Word. I go to the menu bar. I double-click it. The drop down menu pops up. Bingo! I did it (well, I guess I did).

Of course, on Monday, I'll have to call the ITT guy at the church office where I work and tell him he'll have to "remap" some drives for me which we had mapped earlier so I could access programs and files on the server from my laptop.

Oh well ... maybe he'll agree to do the work for $18!

A new fangled shell game
You know that game where the con guy places a peanut in plain view under one of three shells and begins shuffling them before your eyes? And you bet on which shell the peanut is under, except you lose track of the peanut, even though you're certain you haven't? And you part with a wad of money in the process and the con guy is all smiles? OK, so my husband has happened onto a shell game of sorts, except it's not a con. It's all on the up and up.

When it comes to coupons and rebates, he's a bonafide expert. I used to laugh when we were first married at how he clipped coupons and rebate offers, until I saw the money that either remained or landed in our pockets, thanks to his efforts. I still remember going to the grocery store together and seeing him score what he called a grand slam: buying an item that was on sale that you also had a coupon and rebate offer for. Yeah, that was sweet, especially back in the day when we were so poor!

So anyway, we go to Walgreens tonight to pick up a few things. Here's what's in our cart: 4 cans of crab meat, 3 cans of tomato sauce, 1 bottle of hair "stuff," 2 bottles of contact lens solution. The total for this purchase should have been about $32, but when the deal was done, we had layed out a mere $12 and left with a coupon worth $7.50 on our next visit to Walgreens.

Yeah, really.

Here's how it works.

You find items that Walgreens offers an "instant" rebate on that can be used the next time you shop. This time, it was the contact lens solution. (Oh, and I should mention that he had two $6 rebates in hand from a previous trip to Walgreens).

So he buys one of the contact lens solutions, the tomato sauce and the crab meat. He redeems the first $6 rebate from the previous trip and is given a new rebate for $7.50 off his next purchase (for the contact lens solution). Then he hands me the other stuff, instructing me to ring them as 2 transactions. So I buy the second contact lens solution and use the second $6 rebate to help pay for it. This makes the register spit out another $7.50 rebate coupon. I use the first $7.50 rebate to buy the $10 hair stuff. We pocket the second $7.50 rebate for next time.

Are you following all of this? Yeah, now you see why I call it the shell game. We're standing at the register laughing the whole time, joking with the cashier that the odds are better than Vegas.

Just remember ... what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Phone fun

2010-06-19T13:53:00.003-05:00

My younger daughter said to me the other day, "Hey, Mom, I only owe you $4 more until my phone is paid off. Remember the last time I got my phone paid off and then it got ruined?"

Why did she have to say that? Why?

Our church hosted Vacation Bible School this past week. My daughter was assisting with recreation. Apparently, she was calling me when some cute little youngster poured a bucket of water on her head. Yep, the phone got wet and short-circuited.

So then of course the thing most prevalent on my daughter's mind was, "When can I get a new phone? When? When? When? When????????" Geez! Do they have a 12-step program for this?

We found a phone that previously belonged to my eldest. Ironically, he had dubbed it, "the substitute phone in case my sister breaks another phone." How prophetic.

So finally we went to ATT to get a new phone.

OK, I should back up. I have 5 lines on my account: Me, three kids and my Mom. ATT allows 5 lines on its family plan and no more. My youngest is at cell phone age. So I had asked my brother, could we move my Mom to his service so my son could get a phone? I called customer service yesterday morning and talked through the transfer process with them. I thought I was very clear that my Mom would transfer her service to my brother's account, who uses Sprint. She would want to retain her phone number. "Sure, no problem, we'll just need some information from your brother..." blah blah blah.

Back to the other story. We get to the ATT store and I tell my youngest he can get a phone now, too. This was intentionally strategic on my part. Technically, he is getting a cell phone about 4-5 months ahead of when the older kids did. However, since youngest daughter was getting a new phone, I knew she would not complain about this (for a change). So she picks out her phone and he picks out his. They activate his line and he's playing with it, entering numbers, looking at the features, etc., while I begin working out the details of transferring my Mom's line.

Shazam ... the ATT clerk says rather nonchalantly, "Of course, you'll have to pay an early cancellation fee for taking your Mom's phone off the account."

WHAT?????

"Yeah, an early cancellation fee. $175. The contract on your Mom's phone doesn't expire until May 2011."

No, no, no, no, no ... I talked to you guys this morning and no one mentioned anything about a cancellation fee.

So she asks me, "When did you call?" After I tell her, she gets on her "Big Brother" computer system and pulls up records of my phone conversation with the ATT customer service rep. "Let's see ... uh-huh, oh, ok .. yeah, according to her notes, she thought you meant that your brother also had his phone service with ATT."

Now I had a dilemma. Pay $175 cancellation fee or take the phone back that I had just awarded to my son. I glanced at him, smiling like he'd just won the lottery, clearly ecstatic with this rite of passage, then back at her.

What are my options? I ask. "Well, if you don't want to pay the $175, you could deactivate his line. You wouldn't be assessed a cancellation fee as long as you do it today..."

OK, I said, you wanna tell him that? And we both looked over at him again.

Long, nerve-crashing silence. While we both say nothing, I'm thinking, they're gonna cave. They're gonna waive the $175 fee or tell me they'll add a sixth phone to my family plan.

WRONG.

The sales clerk suddenly announces we can put my Mom on a senior's plan. 200 minutes. $30 a month. (I pay $10 a month now, but I figure, hey, this is the woman who gave birth to me, so I guess I can spring for $20 more).

So I say OK and badda-boom, badda-bing, ATT turns a potential loss of business into a new sale.

Well played, ATT.

The marriage test

2010-06-06T17:47:00.002-05:00

You hear of people going through premarital counseling with their clergy or other wise person. I would like to suggest a test in addition to the counseling -- clean out the garage together.

I do not mean to presume that you already have a garage together before you get married, so find a friend's garage that you can clean out. Or ask a married couple you are close to to allow you to observe them as they clean out their garage.

Here are the important things you can learn about each other and your relationship through the simple task of cleaning out a garage:

1) What is valuable to your potential spouse?

If your future life mate thinks you should save every item under the sun in case you may use it again, this might be a cause for worry. On the other hand, someone who values "saving" will also likely be a good provider and show endurance in the relationship.

If your future life mate thinks you should throw stuff away that he/she is now bored with or is impatient in providing extra space for, beware! On the other hand, this same person may frown at allowing their family members to live with you for extended periods of time and will always have room in their closet for something of yours (awwwww).

2) What exactly constitutes dirty?

Let's say all those cobwebs, bits and pieces of dead bugs, leaves, unidentifiable animal droppings, spilled dog food, oil stains and dirty rags are endearing to your beloved. You may wonder if this will also translate to underwear on the floor, stinky socks in the gym bag, dishes piled in the sink, unfolded laundry in the dryer and ring around the bathtub. Maybe ... but isn't that better than being married to Felix Unger? Who wants the white glove test being applied all the time? If you can't handle messiness, I hear they have 12-step programs for that. Further more, it will give you plenty of "grace" should he/she forget on occasion to register checks in the check book, flush the toilet, throw out the rotting fruit, take the meat out of the freezer or ask for "medium" instead of "heavy" starch in the shirts.

3) What is your future spouse's overall physical condition?

If you can't work in a hot garage for 3-4 hours at a time, bending over repeatedly, lifting, moving, sweeping, cleaning, sweating profusely -- that's a "wake up" call to get your sorry butt in shape so your spouse doesn't spend the last 15 years of his/her life alone! When you vow, "till death do us part," keep in mind that the goal is to try to die at about the same time! Likewise, if this type of workout makes your beloved really tired, seize the opportunity to suggest going to bed earlier ... giving him/her a massage ... or taking a long shower. Surely most of you can recognize the side benefits of any of these activities...

4) How important is a car?

Here is a little known fact -- garages were designed to house cars. Think of it as a "closet" for your vehicle. It's NOT just a place to stockpile so many earthly possessions that your autos have to "camp out" every night. Now if your fiance/ee thinks the garage should be maintained in an absolute austere fashion lest their beloved automobile be scratched, dirtied or otherwise aged ... hmmm, that's worrisome and I'm not sure what advise to offer you. But you should be equally worried if he/she comments, "Wow, we have a lot of stuff -- we need to build us a covered drive real soon so your car won't get wet every night!"

So there you have it ... a great test of compatibility. Cleaning out the garage. And once you're married, you can do this on a regular basis to help yourselves remember why you took that walk down the aisle in the first place....

I know that you're busy...

2010-05-29T16:45:00.002-05:00

People have a tendency to qualify the things they say to me with this phrase ... "I know that you're busy..." I've been thinking about the real meaning behind their words. Why do they feel this need to remind me of what I already know? It must be because they are really saying something else.

Here's a few possible translations...

1) Tammy, I'm afraid of you. Is it possible that I instill some kind of fear into people? Do they feel they must placate me with this back-handed compliment of busyness for fear I will attack them for any request they make of me? Is this a suggestion that I am high maintenance? If you're going to play the "I'm afraid of you" card, why not begin with a real compliment like, "Gee, your hair looks really shiny today!" or "How old are you again? 38?" or "Wow, your muscle tone is amazing..." That's much more satisfying than, "I'm afraid of you."

2) Tammy, I'm about to make an unreasonable request. Perhaps before asking me to do something that they should be doing themselves, the perpetrators in this case should realize that I can see right through them. I am reminded of a plaque in the office of a former coworker that read, "Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part." I loved that plaque! In fact, I often considered swiping that plaque. So perhaps when these individuals vomit out, "I know that you're busy," I should quickly reply, "... and I know that you're disorganized..."

3) Tammy, I only talk to you when I need something. This translation applies to people who think I'm just the right person when it comes to helping them, but not so great for, oh, I don't know, going to lunch, seeing a movie, going shopping, grabbing a cup of coffee, etc. I'd like to suggest to those of you who use this line on me that you at least throw in a restaurant certificate or starbucks card. If you don't' want to have lunch or coffee with me, the least you can do is buy me a sandwich or a cup of joe...

4) Tammy, you are a self-absorbed ego-maniac. Someone recently used the "I know you're busy" line on me and I said, why is everyone always saying that? This person replied, because on facebook you are always posting I'm so tired, I need sleep, I'm exhausted, etc. OK, point taken. (And person who told me this, I want you to know I have tried to stop writing these kinds of comments on facebook.) I promise you I don't really believe that I'm the only person who works hard. I don't mean to come off as self-absorbed. I don't really believe it's all about Tammy. (See #3 above ... take me to lunch and I'll stop posting this stuff!)

5) Tammy, I'm not worthy. I heard someone say the other day that she would like to put her red cape away for good. I concur. I don't won't to be on your pedestal. I don't want to be thought of as amazing. I don't want you to compare yourself to me and then conclude, well, nobody can do what you do, so you have to do it. I am very average. Nothing special. The only thing that really sets me apart from you is that I have allowed this line to work on me for far too long. So to you, I reply: Give amazing a try. You'll be amazed at what you can pull off!

I've been reading a book called Margin (Richard A. Swenson, M.D.) about creating and maintaining "margin" in your life. I am trying to do a better job of this. One of the chapters talked about saturation -- the idea that you can keep adding more and more activities to your schedule to a point; and then, it's game over. You cannot do anymore. The author explains the concept with an example. He says, you can add tablespoons of salt to a pitcher of water and the salt will continue to dissolve until the point of saturation. Let's say you add 49 spoonfuls, one spoon at a time, and everything is great. Then on that 50th spoonful, the salt will no longer dissolve. This is what life is like when you have no margin -- one more demand and you're through.

This subject of margin probably merits a separate post, but I write about it here in order to suggest that I know I am busy, I know I "put it out there" that I am busy, and I am working to change both of these things. All I ask is that the rest of you stop using this line on me ... especially if you really mean something else.

Ode to my daughter being grounded from her cell phone...

2010-05-28T19:14:00.004-05:00

Dear cell phone that belongs to my daughter
Did you enjoy your vacation?
Did you like living in my sock drawer the last two weeks?
Did you revel in the peace and tranquility?
Did your bruises heal from having your keys frantically punched thousands of times a day?

Dear cell phone that belongs to my daughter
Did you think you'd been discarded for an upgrade?
Did you say to yourself, how I miss the incessant buzz of each new text's arrival!
Were you lonesome for the constant pressure of her hand?
Did you miss all the fun of going to school and being used in class even tho it's against the rules?
Did you miss seeing all those postings on facebook that she texts from her phone?

Dear cell phone that belongs to my daughter
Would it make you angry if I threw you in my drawer again?
Would it upset you if I made up a reason to ground her again?
You see, dear cell phone, I rather enjoyed the peace and quiet ...
The absence of dings and buzzes and rings while I'm driving or working or sleeping

So I'm wondering, dear cell phone that belongs to my daughter ...
how DO you stand it after all??

Take my trombone, please!

2010-05-28T18:56:00.002-05:00

Today, I spent more than 30 minutes begging a company to take their rental trombone back!

Last week, my son took his trombone to school to turn it back in. I was under the impression that the company we rented it from, that came out to Lanier on band parent meeting night, would show up and pick it up again. Not so! So today, being the first day of summer and all for my kids, we headed to the music store.

This place is at 59S and 90 (the Stafford exit). It was about 20 or so minutes away. When I got there, they were all, "Where's the sticker on the case?" Huh? Apparently the case once had some sort of phantom sticker that had really important information such as where the instrument came from, etc.

After about 15 minutes, I knew I was in trouble when the guy who originally was helping us said, "This is Matt. He's going to try to find a record of your rental..."

Are you kidding me?

Now I don't mean to discriminate based on age, but Matt looked like he was about 17. This was the "specialist" that was going to get to the bottom of this problem? After 5 or 10 more minutes, Matt comes back to the counter. Sorry, NO record at all of the trombone in question. He did an inventory search on the trombone's serial number and, according to his files, it doesn't exist.

Okeeeeeeee

Next, I called the school. I knew that theoretically the teachers were supposed to be working today and low and behold, the band teacher was in his classroom. "Mr. Jackson, this is Philip's mom. I'm at XYZ music store and they have no record of his rental instrument. That is the company that came out, right?" Oh yes, absolutely, that's the one.

I hang up and tell Matt the "good" news. He starts asking my son questions like, "Did you loan your instrument to anyone? Is it possible it got mixed up with someone else's trombone?" Look, I know he's a 12 year old boy, but even this would be beyond him.

So finally, my younger daughter tapping her toe vigorously in the background because she is next to be dropped at a friend's house, I say, "Look, why don't you guys keep it for now. I'll go home and find the original paperwork and give you a call."

How amazing is that? If I weren't honest, I could have kept that trombone. I could have listed it on ebay TODAY. I could be smiling at a $500-600 sale instead of recounting this insanity on my blog.

I ran about 7,047 errands today. When I landed back home again, guess who had left a voice mail? Matt! Good news! It seems he spoke with the sales rep who came to the school that night and yes, he remembers renting the instrument to us. Surprise, it IS their instrument after all!

Are you buy this? Cause I'm not! I'd be willing to bet that Matt wised up to the opportunity before him and likely hauled himself and our trombone to the nearest pawn shop! Oh well, more power to him.

Next year, my son is returning to playing the saxophone. We already own a saxophone, so we won't be repeating this adventure again.

Dog rodeo

2010-05-20T10:17:00.002-05:00

My big yard dog, Ruby, puts up with a lot of crap from the maniac pure bred, Ginger. There is probably a 50 lbs difference in their weights and Ruby is also considerably taller than my little miniature pinscher. Clearly, Ruby is Beta 1, but she is gentle in her authority of Ginger; except, of course, when it's dog rodeo time.

I can always tell when Ruby is happy because she initiates what I have come to term as dog rodeo. This activity consists of chasing Ginger around the yard, cornering her, putting a paw on top of her (or just slapping her about) and "playfully" opening her jaws and surrounding Ginger's head with them. She usually barks enthusiastically too, as if to dare Ginger to fight back a little. Instead, Ginger assumes the submissive position, cowering on her back or just squatting down as if trying to render herself invisible or crawl into an imaginary hole.

During dog rodeo, Ginger appears sincerely terrified. Sometimes she will even yelp in despair as she tries to scamper away from Ruby. That's when Ruby seems to have an air of, "Oh shush, you silly twit. It's all in fun."

They say Houston hosts one of the biggest rodeos in the country. As for me, I'll take dog rodeo in the privacy of my own back yard any day.

Explorer interior in pink

2010-05-10T15:25:00.002-05:00

My husband and I are going to an art auction tonight being hosted by Newspring, an organization dedicated to revitalizing Spring Branch (among other things). The auction features the works of student artists. Last night, we visited the Newspring website to preview the works. I am always fascinated with the titles that artists give to their works. I like to pause and think, now where did that come from? Some titles are obvious; others are more puzzling. Frankly, sometimes I enjoy looking at the titles more than the art!

I have a great idea for a still life for one of these artists. I would entitle it, "Explorer interior in pink." I got the idea today while driving in my car. I was drinking a strawberry flavored ensure because I knew when I left the house this morning that it likely would be after 2 p.m. before I got a bite of lunch. I was parked in a parking lot when my older daughter called. I put the ensure down on the storage compartment that separates the two front seats. After I finished talking to her, I put my phone down too quickly and hit the bottle of ensure.

It was like a slow-motion explosion of sticky pink liquid. It was all over the passenger seat, in the cup holders beneath the dash, dripping on the carpet, on my CDs near the cup holders, my cell phone, my purse, the dashboard, etc., etc. I picked up the bottle quickly (which previously had been about half full) and set it down at my feet. Staring at the pink carnage, I reached into the storage compartment and pulled out a portable bag of wet wipes that I keep there. There was quite a pool of ensure in the passenger seat and I was afraid it would start dripping into the back seat if I didn't mop it up quickly. Unfortunately, the wet wipes are not very absorbent. Ahhhh ... that's when I remembered my stash of hygiene products in the storage compartment.

Anyone happening by at this point would have been curious to see me wiping down the interior of my car with a kotex pad, but I'll be darned if that sucker didn't pick up nearly every bit of the spilt liquid! Now that I think of it, I should have used a tampon to clean the liquid from the cup holders. (Why didn't I think of that!)

I was astounded that my white skirt had not taken a major hit from the pink explosion. Then I saw it ... one spot about the size of a quarter near the lower left front of the skirt. Curses! I hoped it would not stain permanently and reminded myself again why I hate wearing white.

When I returned to my car later, I confess it smelled a "eau de warm ensure." How appealing! Before the day ends, I'll have to clean it all up "properly" with soap and water.

I do hope to score at least one of the paintings we saw online last night, though none are as original as "Explorer Interior in Pink."

Motherhood

2010-05-09T20:32:00.002-05:00

Mother always said, the first 100 years of parenting are the worst. That's one of my favorite expressions from my Mom (I think her grandma used to say that). Another is, kids don't come with instruction books. Those two sayings alone can probably get you through some of the most trying years of parenting.

When we give birth, we experience the extremes of pain and joy. That pretty much sums up motherhood as well.

When did that chubby, adorable baby who used to cuddle on the couch with me get such a mouth on her? When did "Mommy" become "Mother!" When did smiles and giggles turn into sighs and eye rolling? How did I go from being the center of the universe to the thorn in her side?

I used the female gender in my questions above, but these statements really apply to all my children -- sons and daughters.

Our eldest son has already "turned," realizing that maybe I'm not quite the idiot he thought I was. (I am seeing glimpses of it in my eldest daughter as well.) And for all my faults and shortcomings, I still get phone calls and texts at all hours on all kinds of topics. I am the one who is interrupted and expected to listen to ideas and ambitions and dreams and sorrows and disappointments and hopes and act endlessly empathetic, interested and concerned with it all.

Yes, I am still looked upon as the one possessing the power to make it all better.

Mothering is not the easiest job. But it is an important one, equally fascinating and exasperating; challenging and exhausting; enjoyable and frustrating. The emotional roller coaster alone separates the tough mamas from the faint at heart.

And so with that in mind, I'll coin my own phrase: Parenting is not for sissies. (But I can't imagine living any other way.)

Request for tax refund

2010-04-15T19:35:00.002-05:00

Being April 15th and all, you are probably not surprised to see a request for a tax refund. However, the taxes that I demand be refunded to me are my property taxes -- specifically the portion that supports the Houston Independent School District.

Here is a snapshot of a conversation I had with my 8th grade daughter tonight, who has always been in HISD's gifted/talented programs ...

Her: What part of speech is covey?
Me: Well, what IS a covey?
Husband: It's a flock of birds, like doves
Her: OK, so it's an adjective?
Me: Are you serious??? How can you be in 8th grade and not know the parts of speech??

Her: What does dispensation mean?
Me: It's like, he received special dispensation and didn't have to take the test.
Her: So ... it's a verb?
Me: Are you serious?

Her: Liable ... that means responsible, right?
Me: Yeah
Her: So it's an adjective?
Me: What do adjectives do?
Her: Huh?
Me: What do they refer to? What do they describe?
Her: Huh?
Me: He was liable for his actions. What is liable describing?
Her: His actions?
Me: No ...
Her: The dude?
Me: Yeah. So if it's describing a noun ... a person, place or thing, it's what?
Her: An adjective?
Me: Right
Her: So a noun is always a person, place or thing?
Me: Are you serious?

Her: What about jumpy, like he was jumpy?
Me: What about it?
Her: Jumpy is doing something, so it's a verb?
Me: Are you serious?
Husband: HE ... WAS ... JUMPY. What's the verb?
Her: Huh?
Husband: Was! And what's the noun? He! So therefore, jumpy must be ...
Her: Adjective?
Me: Deep sigh.

Yeah, this really happened.

Death breath

2010-04-10T09:12:00.004-05:00

Crazy little house dog redeemed herself yesterday. Just for the record, the score stands at squirrels 0, Ginger 2. (Or as we like to call her, Death Breath.)

I was in the back yard Friday afternoon when I noticed that Ginger, our psycho mini pinscher, was playing with an unfamiliar toy.

No wait, it wasn't a toy. It was a squirrel.

No wait, it wasn't a squirrel. It was half a squirrel.

I did the math and gagged. Ugh! I'm not sure what was harder to believe -- that she had caught a squirrel or that she had eaten its head, front paws and torso. (At least she had enough sense not to ingest the tail).

For those animal lovers out there, let's just be clear on one point: squirrels qualify as rats with fluffy tails in my book. In fact, I went so far as to tell my bb-toting youngest son that he could kill as many of them as he wished.

Fearing that she WOULD try to ingest the remainder of the squirrel, I called out to my eldest daughter (who was nearby) to go and fetch the leash and a rawhide chewy. Yes, this dog will do anything for a walk or a chewy -- even surrender her prized squirrel trophy.

After about five minutes of the two of us chasing Ginger around the yard, my daughter, leash in one hand chewy in the other, finally coaxed her close enough to grab her. The saddest part, really, was the fact that our excited little squirrel killer had been duped again and would NOT be taking the much-desired walk.

I was planting some flowers in my experimental garden by the pool when all of the excitement started. After finishing this chore, I made a cup of coffee and asked my daughter to join me on the swing. We needed to talk about college decisions and other serious topics.

About ten minutes into our chat, I noticed that Ginger was on the hunt again. She kept running to the base of the trees in the back yard, attempting to "tree" the squirrels who were having sport with her; only she got the last laugh.

No sooner had I shook my head over the "stupidity" of the dog for sitting below the trees for minutes on end when one squirrel apparently lost its grip and fell to the ground. Yeah, really. I've never seen a squirrel take a tumble out of a tree in my life!

Does the phrase "white on rice" register with any of you? That's the only way to describe her descent on the ill-fated animal. To my amazement, she chased it down, grabbed it by the throat, and shook it fiercely three or four times until it was lifeless.

The entire time this was transpiring, I exclaimed to my daughter repeatedly, OMG, OMG, OMG!!!

You can probably guess what happened next -- another round of "trade the squirrel for a walk." Yes, more deception, but ultimately, the pelt was in my possession.

Suffice to say, Death Breath had a really good day yesterday. Too bad she lost her redemption by waking me at 7 a.m. this morning. (I'm certain all that barking was directed toward more squirrels.)

6:15 a.m.

2010-04-07T08:03:00.003-05:00

No one should have to wander around in their backyard at 6:15 a.m. and try to figure out where the dog is escaping. Seriously, it's dark outside and I'm shoving plastic yard edging into every nook and cranny along our fence line to keep idiot dog from running away.

Let me say that out loud as I type it again so I can make sure I believe it ... I am trying to keep idiot dog from running away.

Last night, she dug under the fence in hot pursuit of a squirrel. My youngest daughter, who is 14, hopped the fence and then chased her around to the front yard. When the dog gets out, how would you guess we entice her to come back home again?

Food, right? WRONG!

If you go get her leash, she thinks you are taking her on a walk and runs immediately to you.

Dog, you're free and you run to me with a leash in my hand so I can chain you up? Are you serious? (Anyone out there still doubting the stupidity of this dog?)

The only thing worse than filling fence holes at 6:15 a.m. is planting flowers ... which I confess I also did in the dark this morning in anticipation of rain.

Tomorrow, I think I'll just stay in bed...

Simple life

2010-04-04T17:44:00.003-05:00

I'm sitting on my glider swing writing this post. It was a birthday present from my husband. The breeze is blowing gently and I can hear it rustling the trees, first on one side of the yard, then the other. The birds are singing, my wind chimes are putting on a concert. It's so peaceful, you need a new word for it. Even psycho dog couldn't spoil the mood.

I hear the front door slam. What's that about? Another drama brewing, no doubt. Or perhaps my husband is hosing the pollen off the cars as he mentioned earlier. It's Sunday, Easter Sunday. I have a few things I should be doing; but I don't want to.

I have to drive the spare keys over to one of our rent houses so the tenants can leave them for the repair men who will start on some work tomorrow.

I need to finish preparing the lesson that I will teach on Monday and Tuesday to about 80 women in four classes.

There's a load of laundry in the dryer to be folded and another in the washer to be dried.

I need to fold and staple the hand-made CD jackets for the music CDs I'll give out in class tomorrow.

And more likely than not, there are other chores that I have put out of my mind entirely.

My mother told me earlier today when we were all at my brother's house that she needed to go to the grocery store. I teased her that she couldn't go on Sunday; it was a sin. My eldest daughter rolled her eyes, one of her spiritual gifts, and assured my mother that this was a lie.

I was thinking the other day that I never take an entire day off to do "nothing." We're supposed to, you know. Everyone is supposed to do something at least once a week that amounts emotionally, physically and spiritually to sitting on your swing, listening to the birds sing and the chimes sound and the wind blow.

It makes for a simple life. Or perhaps it just makes up for a busy one. At any rate, it's a pleasure that should be had more regularly than not.

Ode to silencing my cell phone

2010-04-03T10:19:00.002-05:00

O cell phone, I love you
you bring me texts and calls from those I love best
and those I ... don't

But some days,
dear cell phone,
I love your silence button more

O cell phone, silent cell phone
I like to look at you from time to time,
seeing the surprises you have for me,
silent cell phone,
the calls I've missed,
the text dings I didn't hear

Silent cell phone,
though I've turned away from you,
you continue to serve me faithfully,
you continue to do your job,
with little or no thanks from me

But cell phone,
sweet, silent cell phone
know that I love you best
and I realize
that it is you
who owns
me

Stupid is...

2010-04-03T08:50:00.002-05:00

Forrest Gump's Mama was so right on when she said, stupid is as stupid does.

4:45 a.m. this morning. I wake to the sounds of the little nut dog in my room. Huh?? What's she doing in here? Oh yeah, youngest daughter, her usual bunk mate, is spending the night with a friend.

I realize she wants to go outside, so I roll out of bed, grab my robe and head to the door. She is so anxious, she is sitting 1/2 inch from the door, tapping her front paws back and forth like she's playing the bongos. "OK, OK, I'm coming..."

This dog is lightening-bolt fast. She tears out of my room once the door is opened, down the hall, and jets like a flash of light to the back door.

Now she's added whining to the "sit and drum your paws" posture. I open another door, and flash, she's gone.

I take the opportunity to use the restroom. As I come out of the bathroom, I can hear her jumping up and down against the large picture window by the door. I sigh because I know it's time for her infuriating routine that goes something like this:

Open the door
Try to coax her in ... "Come on Ginger, come on sweety, come here..."
Watch her sit there and drum her paws excitedly just outside the threshold
Lean over to reach for her
Have her run away
Close the door
Hear her scratch at the door
Open the door
Start over...

Yeah, this goes on for extended periods of time. If I leave her outside, she starts making more noise than a stuck pig.

I know the only thing this idiotic dog really cares about is food, so next I go to the laundry room where her food container is kept. I've left the back door open, in case she decides to wander in on her own. I make as much noise as possible shaking the container of kibbles, hoping this will entice her. I grab four or five and head to the door.

Now she is even more excited. She wants the food, but she simply can't bring herself to cross the threshold.

For those of you asking yourselves, what the heck did this woman do to this dog to make her so anxious, let me assure you, it's not me. When she was a puppy, I was still working out of my home office as a writing consultant. She was so tiny and sweet and I would put her on my lap and wrap her in a blanket while I worked, I kid you not. She would sleep for hours this way. I was her "mommy." There's absolutely no reason for her to fear me!

OK, back to our story...

Meanwhile, Ruby, the good outdoor dog, has wandered over to the door, her tail thumping loudly against the door jamb. I lean down to pet her and talk sweet to her, telling her what a good girl she is, especially compared to psycho dog, and Ginger goes ballistic. She's leaping in the air and growling. How dare I pay attention to anyone but her, especially with kibbles in my hand!

Oh, did I mention it's 5 a.m.? Yeah, I think I did...

So I offer her a kibble. She cautiously approaches, takes it from me and runs. I sigh again.

I offer another kibble. Once she gets a good whiff of it, I throw it across the room. Finally, she dashes through the door in search of the nugget of food. I close the door quickly (oh yes, I've been burned before by not closing it quickly enough!). I tell her, go to bed! She skitters to the laundry room, where her hutch is. (Of course, she rarely sleeps in this hutch, but that's where it is) I tell her what a good girl she is and pat her little dunderhead. She starts to inch her way out, but I push her back and fasten the latch, sighing one last time.

I shuffle back to bed and lie awake for another 30 minutes or so.

When I think about how much I paid for this dog.... But like I said, stupid is as stupid does.

Ode to Laziness

2010-03-31T07:30:00.004-05:00

Oh laziness,
you naughty girl,
whispering your empty promises in my ear,
knowing just what to say,
forget that pile of work, come and relax!

Oh laziness,
you alluring lover,
calling me back to bed,
curling around me until I am completely immobilized,
making me your prisoner for hours.

Oh laziness,
you sluggard,
wanting me to be as obtuse and random as you,
pulling me into your lair of procrastination,
propping up your own self worth by decimating mine.

Oh laziness,
you nemesis,
every day we set our wills against one another,
you always wanting more than I can to give,
me always clamoring to flee from your presence.

Oh laziness,
my companion,
I see now I am meant to spend my life with you,
we belong together, you and I,
we are cut from the same cloth.

Human of the Year...

2010-03-30T17:00:00.004-05:00

I was listening to a CD today that my eldest daughter made for me a few months ago. One of the songs is a quirky little piece by an interesting artist named Regina Spektor called "Human of the Year."

The first few lines of the lyrics go something like this... (and I really encourage you to click on the link above to hear the song.)

Hello Hello
Calling a Carl Prejektorinski to the front of the cathedral.
You have won, dear sir
may i congratulate you first?
Oh what an honour.

Human, human of the year, you are.
Human, human of the year, you are.

Why are you so scared?
You stand there shaking in the pew.
The icons are whispering to you,
they're just old men,
like on the benches in the park,
except their balding spots are glistening with gold.

Human, human of the year, you are.
Human, human of the year, you are.

Ahh ah ah.
You have won.

I can't get it out of my head, so I think I'll write a post about my nominees today for Human of the Year.

FIRST up is my youngest daughter, who objected so strongly to me commenting that she needed to clean up her language on facebook that she next posted, "Thanks for ruining my morning..." Why, you're welcome!

SECOND is Joann, a really sweet lady at church who baked me a birthday cake. It was spice cake with cream cheese frosting. I had two pieces during our staff meeting.

THIRD is a sweet-faced girl at Bonita House today who really "got it" while I was teaching on the resurrection. Every teacher deserves at least one student such as this one. God bless you!

FOURTH is the dough-faced young man at Office Max who was waiting on me. I was buying a high ticket item ... a dry erase board on an easel ... and had the audacity to ask, would they open the box so I could see how big the board really was? "Well, I'll have to ask my manager...." Let's see ... there are ZERO customers in this store. Business is NOT booming. But you want to see whether you can cut open a box that can just as easily be sealed again on a $170 purchase?? Sure ... be my guest.

FIFTH is the store manager, who glanced at his young hack with a look of, "Get a load of this woman!" I repeat, only customer in the store, $170 purchase ... you decide if it's worth it to you. Excuse me! I am soooo sorry I a woman and therefore cannot be admitted to the LPC. (That stands for lucky ____ club -- you fill in the blank.)

SIXTH is Charles, a completely helpless retired pastor who insists that only I can send faxes for him. Sorry Charlie, I had to boogie today before I could take care of you!

SEVENTH is Liza. She's an older woman I talk to at the gym. In fact, I've been chatting with her for a couple of years and finally two weeks ago we exchanged names. Only today I couldn't remember her name. I was certain it was Trixie. But what 66 year old woman is named Trixie? When I asked her again and then told her what I thought her name was, she laughed good-naturedly.

EIGHTH is my brother, who made a pit stop at my house last night to change his clothes before going to a dinner with his wife. They arrived in separate cars from opposite direction. He greeted her with such sweet affection, it truly made my heart melt.

NINTH goes to the man at the instrument repair shop. He did a quickie repair job on my son's trombone -- an instrument we rent from another vendor -- and then didn't charge me. Ahem, Office Max Dudes, THAT is customer service!

TENTH goes to my husband, who stopped off at the middle school on the way home to see the sets that youngest daughter helped to build for tonight's play. Seems he even rated a tour backstage! (maybe now she won't be so mad at me about the facebook stuff...)

Human ... human of the year. You ALL are... (seriously, listen to the song)

Givng up the ghost

2010-03-29T20:32:00.002-05:00

They are beyond mulching.

They are beyond fertilizer.

They are beyond prayer.

I'm speaking of the shrubs in my yard. I can't deny it any longer. They are dead and gone, victims of a Houston winter (yeah, I know, hard to believe).

I have often said, if a plant or tree or shrub needs attention to live, you ain't gonna make it long in my yard. Well, they showed me!

Hemalias, dead.

Hibiscus, dead.

Bleeding heart vine (this one really hurts), dead.

Esperanza, dead.

Plumerias ... well, the juries is still out, but likely dead (these at least I put in the pool house when they went dormant.)

Now comes the process of removal and replacement.

I took out the hemalias on Sunday. First, I tried my beloved sharp shooter, but they were planted in a flower bed around a pine tree and were completely surrounded by pine roots. Then I got out the ax. After four or five passes, I had barely made a dent, I reasoned my back and shoulders would be much happier if I used the bow saw.

A few minutes later, they were a mere heap on the side of the yard, quickly replaced by dianthus. Yeah, those suckers usually die in the winter, so I won't have false hopes next year.

As for the hibiscus ... I shall have to replace them. I love them too dearly to give them up completely. And the bleeding heart vine is a favorite in my garden, but so difficult to find! I'll try that place on 11th street... The esperanza? My mother is hinting she may give me one for my birthday. So we shall see.

I hope the plumerias are merely dormant still. It usually takes 2 years to establish them so they are not so easily replaced.

It's a sad time in my yard. But what's a gardener to do when all her favorites give up the ghost?

For sale: highly trained, seed planting pup

2010-03-20T11:09:00.002-05:00

So I'm walking up and down the imaginary "rows" in my backyard this morning, shovel in hand, picking up poop, when I take note of the thousands of weeds everywhere. In fact, the only thing growing in my yard right now are the weeds and my split leaf philodendron, which I'm convinced would survive a nuclear attack.

Is it any coincidence that the weeds are heaviest in the high-volume poop areas? Of course not! I know it is because crazy pup likes to eat these little weeds. Thoughtful girl, she then propagates them throughout the yard.

That's when the idea hit me ... what if I fed her wild flowers? Would my yard then be filled with wild flowers? They're probably not toxic, right? I mean, the birds eat them. Humans eat all kinds of seeds. It would likely be safe.

Then another brainstorm lands on the top of my noggin, thwack! What if you had highly trained, seed spreading canine? Yes, you could feed them a particular flower seed, let's say geraniums, then train them to ONLY poop in the spot in the garden where you want geraniums. Maybe you could use some sort of special whistle. Standing by the predetermined spot, you could blow the whistle and the dog would dump on command.

Obviously you can teach a dog to "hold it," seeing as this is the premise behind house training, right? If the dog was trained to only poop at a certain hour, in no time at all, maybe in a week to 10 days tops, you could have your entire garden planted.

No need to dig tiny holes, mix up root stimulator or otherwise lift a finger other than whistle, point and wait. (I guess if you were obsessive, you could dig a shallow hole and train the dog to do her doody there.)

Is there a market for this? Of course, I am suddenly realizing that even if I redeem my psycho pup by training her to perform such a service, I could not breed her and produce more seed-planting pups because she has been spayed. Darn it! That means I would have to risk another pure bred to test my theory.

I dunno ... even if I made millions from the scheme, I'm not sure I can tolerate more than one pure bred on the premises...

Holy pollen

2010-03-18T09:35:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. Scandal upon scandal, I forgot to wear green (although a clergy person told me that Catholics wear green on St. Patty's day and protestants are to wear orange).

My mom came over to my house yesterday, as is her Wednesday routine. I was walking her around in my front yard to show her the bushes we had added to the landscape over the weekend. When I came back into the house, I looked down and saw that my shoes were completely covered in green dust.

So there's my green ... the pollen.

My goodness, I am astounded by the pollen right now! Our driveway is green, our cars are green, our outdoor furniture is green. I honestly don't remember it being this heavy in recent years.

Shall we attribute this to global warming? Or pollution? Or God just being more magnificent than usual in his show of creation? I don't know. I just know that the pollen is ... well, it's prolific.

My neighbor across the street has one of those yard "vacuums." Honestly, it's like a giant vacuum that he uses to pick up the piles of leaves along the curb (and isn't that a novel idea ... picking up the leaves instead of blowing them to someone else's property, pretending as if they no longer exist when you do!) I wonder if his vacuum would pick up this fine pollen dust? If I vacuumed my entire yard and driveways, would I find some relief for my upper respiratory system, which seems to be in revolt over all of nature's foreign particles in the air?

We had a good rain yesterday. That didn't seem to wash it away. So forget the idea of running my entire yard through the world's biggest car wash. Or perhaps dousing the grass with carpet cleaner and then rinsing it thoroughly.

I know it's Spring break, but technically, we have not hit the first day of Spring, have we? Not even spring yet but the pollen is as thick as thieves.

When will we have a reprieve? When will the green fade away? When will everyone is my house be able to breathe again?

Alas ... who knows.

Tales from the Tails

2010-03-13T17:17:00.002-06:00

Here's more tales from the tails ... the adventures of my two dogs, Ruby (the saint) and Ginger (the sinner).

Dogs like to dig. If you can't accept this truth, don't' have dogs. I think my dogs dig out of boredom this time of year. Later, when it's really hot, I know they are looking for some cool dirt for relief.

They have three "ditches" in the back yard right now of various shapes, widths and depths. So now we are playing our little game called "move the holes." That's where I employ different means to make them stop digging in a particular spot, only to have them start somewhere else.

There were some pots full of dirt on the patio. They had pepper plants in them about six months ago, but they didn't survive the winter. So I dumped the dirt into the holes and packed it down with a nearby shovel. I swear, psycho dog Ginger, the pure bred (and please, for the 100th time, let me caution all of you against owning a purebred) was licking her lips (except dogs don't have lips, do they?). It was if I could read her mind: "Oh, Mommy, thank you for putting fresh dirt in our holes!"

Ha ... not so fast, brainless! I had already taken note that the holes were on one side of the yard and all the land mines (dog poop) were on the other. So after filling the holes with fresh dirt, I piled the dog poop on. I knew they wouldn't dig in these spots until the poop became more petrified. So at this point, the challenge is to keep fresh poop on the piles.

As I am pacing up and down my yard with my shovel in hand, searching out piles of poop, it occurs to me that these canines have me right where they want me. It is likely that after I transfer the poop from one side to the other, they will begin digging on the former poop side and pooping on the former hole side.

Well, my smarter, sweeter dog, Ruby, might think of this. But she is so good natured and obedient that I can't believe she would actually do it. No, it's that knuckle head dog who will accidentally poop on the wrong side of the yard and then say to herself, "Hey, wait a minute, I think I just got an idea..."

So the gauntlet has been thrown down. It's me and my shovel versus two dogs who love to do two things ... dig and poop. Who will prove to be the most determined in the end? More likely than not, it won't be me...

Silliness

2010-03-11T20:57:00.003-06:00

My younger daughter was home sick from school this week. She had a bad chest cold and is still hacking and coughing quite a bit.

On Tuesday, she sat on the kitchen floor while I cooked dinner. Being home alone all day made her especially lonesome. She was drawing a picture and acting like a five year old for some reason (she is 14).

As I browned some ground beef, she called out repeatedly, "Mommy ... mommy ... mommy ... mommy..."

Finally, I looked up and answered, "What???!"

"Don't talk to me!" she said.

Then it began again.

"Mommy ... mommy ... mommy ... mommy...."

"What honey??"

"Don't talk to me!!"

(OK, whatever!)

"Mommy ... mommy ... mommy ... mommy ..."

I knew what was coming, so this time, I just looked up without speaking.

"Don't look at me!"

I laughed. I admit, she is strangely annoying and funny at the same time.

"Mommy ... mommy ... mommy ... mommy!!!"

I resisted the urge to look her way for as long as possible, fighting back a grin.

"Mommy! Why are you ignoring me?"

This went on for about 20 minutes until she bored of her little game.

What can I say? The kid cracks me up...

Just the fax

2010-03-06T08:38:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away in Houston, Texas, there was a teenage girl who worked in her father's office after school. Her father liked the latest gadgets and had rented a "QUIP" machine. This machine allowed you to send documents from one place to another. You attached your document to a cylinder. You called the other quip machine and then hit "start." As the cylinder rotated, an electronic arm moved along the document, "reading" what was on the page. On the other end, the cylinder would also rotate, magically printing the document someone was sending you onto special (expensive) thermal paper.

This machine was high tech! It was the precursor to the fax machine. (It is so ancient that when I googled it, I could not find a trace of its existence!)

Yes boys and girls, before there was twittering, before there was blogging, before there was texting, before there was email, before there was cell phones -- there was fax machines.

I "quit" work after my second child was born. I continued to work some from home. Ultimately, we purchased a Brother fax machine. That was a good 15-16 years ago and I STILL have that same machine. It is ginormous, but it works like a champ; well, on those rare occasions when some other prehistoric person asks for a fax!

My eldest daughter is applying to Columbia University. We were trying to fax the financial aid paperwork to the University -- 20 pages plus a cover sheet!! Previously, my husband had scanned the docs and I had emailed them to the financial aid office. Alas, they requested that we fax them instead. Seriously??

Thursday afternoon, my daughter was chained to the fax machine for an hour or two, trying repeatedly to "get through." She would dial the number, hear our machine make its rhythmic beeping, all the while listening for the "reply" tone on the other end.

Guess what she got? Ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh. Yeah, busy signal. Hours and hours and hours of ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.

By the time I got home to save the day, it was past 5pm East Coast time and the staff in the financial aid office were long gone, sipping martinis I imagine. Beginner's luck, I tried calling the number and got a ringing sound instead of the busy signal. We exchanged excited looks as we waited. Then, suddenly, mysteriously, the phone went silent. Nothing. I called back and got ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.

My husband tried a few more times that night, while the rest of us were at play rehearsal. He got the same results ... ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.

Friday morning, 6am or so, we tried again. Ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh. (You'd think by now we would have picked up on the obvious!) I called the financial aid office after 8 a.m. and talked to a "hurried" woman who spoke entire phrases like they were one word. (My daughter later told me in exasperation, "Duh mom, they're from New York!) I explained our dilemma and she offered another phone number to try.

Oh I am so clever! Oh, the cleverness of me! I will save the day yet!

I called that other number ... and heard ... ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh. I tried this off and on for another hour before telephone the five-words-for-one woman back again. This time, I inquired, was there an address we could overnight the materials to?? She rattled off the address in lightening speed NY fashion. I tried repeating it back to her as I scribbled it down, receiving constant corrections. As I was thinking, "these East Coast people!" she was liking thinking, "These southern hicks!"

I am happy to report the papers were sent overnight without a hitch. (Fed Ex never gives you a busy signal.)

When the next kid goes off to college in four more years, our fax machine will likely be RIP by then. In fact, the entire technology will probably be gone without a trace. And that's probably a good thing ...

Busy

2010-03-04T16:52:00.002-06:00

I have been unbearably busy

Pull the covers over my head busy.

Stacks all over the office busy.

Don't answer the phone busy.

Yell at the kids busy.

Feel like you're going to puke busy.

Really, really busy.

And I hate it...

Gaps

2010-03-04T14:14:00.002-06:00

I feel as if I have been wakened from a dream, only to discover that instead of it being January 4, it is March 4. Where did February go? Seriously, how is it possible that we are already in month 3 of 2010?

I wish I could defrag my brain. Or sift through all those files and do a little clean up. Delete, delete, delete, delete. Then empty the recycle bin. If I could scan my brain every night the way my AVG program scans my hard drive, might I find some "viruses" and "trojans" that need to be put in quarantine?

The other day while I was working out, I was thinking about someone I used to see at the gym all the time. She had an antique shop nearby but worked as an engineer and made frequent trips to Africa. She was very serious in her workout and I even suggested we work out together a few times. I thought, well, she could probably keep up with me (ha ha).

For the life of me, I could NOT remember her name. I knew her name was somehow related to a movie or a city or something; that there was something unusual.

The name Adrian came to me. Hmmmm ... could that be it? Adrian?? As in Rocky's Adrian?? "Yo, Adrian, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind marrying me too much?"

No, that just didn't resonate with me at all. But maybe it STARTED with an A.

Later, after showering, I was drying my hair, still deep in thought, trying to retrieve that name. I had the sensation that it was right on the tip of my tongue; you know, that feeling of "almost got it..." and then it's gone again?

Blake.

That's the next name that came to me. No, that's not quite it, but ... yes, I'm certain it's a B name. Barbara. Bonny. Betty. Becky. Bess.

One syllable. It's definitely one syllable. And androgynous. It's definitely androgynous. But what is it??

Next I googled "girls names beginning with B" and started reading down a list.

BLAIR. Yes, thank you. Blair. As in Blair Witch Project, the movie!!

The name danced in my head and I said it over and over again to commit it firmly to my memory.

Of course, none of this answers my original question ... what happened to February?

Maybe I can google that as well...

Brain ricochet

2010-02-14T14:47:00.004-06:00

Here are five questions that are ricocheting about my brain:

1) Is anxiety pathological?

2) Do I have to "like" or "appreciate" everything?

3) Can I be nice without "taking care of" someone's feelings?

4) Is attention to detail overfunctioning?

5) And finally ... where the heck is the off-switch to my brain?

Pathological anxiety. For nearly 2 years, I have been studying (and I use the term loosely) Bowen Family Systems, which is mostly related to our emotional reactivity and the roles that our families of origin play in our ability to deal with anxiety, etc. I went to a half-day seminar on Friday called, "Anxious Reactions to Change." If you are someone who breaks into a sweat easily, feels frequent knots in the stomach, has stress-induced head aches, tosses and turns at night or struggles to think clearly (or all of the above, poor dear), it is possible you are a victim of the very real effects of stress and anxiety.

As one looks at patterns of anxiety in one's family of origin as well as spouse and children, it is natural to wonder, is anxiety pathological?

Here are 2 definitions offered by dictionary.com for the word, pathological: 1) Caused by or involving disease; morbid. 2) Caused by or evidencing a mentally disturbed condition: a pathological liar.

I was again reminded on Friday that anxiety is normal. You cannot eliminate it completely from your life (nor would you want to, as it is quite useful at times in getting you to move from point A to point B). The goal is to be the least anxious person in the room. And that's a challenge, considering the cantagious quality of anxiety -- it has a tendency to "move through the herd."

So, when I look at the definition of pathological and consider the "normal" aspects of anxiety, I have to conclude that anxiety is not pathological. It's my reaction to anxiety that can show every evidence of mental disturbance.

For example, a phone solicitor calls me during dinner. Having my dinner interrupted makes me anxious. Refusing to answer the phone and even cursing under my breath when I hear the voice mail is a reasonably normal reaction to this anxiety. Feeling so disturbed by these dinner time intrustions that I change my phone number and eat in a sound-proof booth in order to eliminate these dinner time disturbances, which afterall are likely part of a governmental conspiracy to starve me to death ... that's pathological.

And yet ... if a person experiences buckets full of anxiety over simple things, in a nearly paranoid or obsessive fashion, I suppose that could fit the definition of pathological.

Hmmm ... jury is still out on that one.

Appreciation. I have argued before that an appreciation of the arts is as significant as the ability to display artistic talents. (In other words, being able to appreciate a fine voice is as valuable and as much a gift as having that fine voice.) But let's face it, not everything strikes me as clever, beautiful, profound or life-enlarging. Friday night we went to an exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. There were a lot of people there. Some stood for extended periods of time before a particular painting, others drifted rythmically as if moving on a conveyor belt, still others "started" and "stopped," depending on their reaction to the particular piece. I heard a woman explaining all the "meaning" and "technique" to her companion about a particular painting. Guess what? That's interesting to me, but not necessary to enjoying the art. For me, when I look at certain pieces of art, there is this joyful little explosion inside of me. Knowing the particular brush stroke or technique used (for example, I learned about a technique called "monotype" used by this particular artist) may expand my appreciation of a piece of art, but I can still experience that little joyful explosion without it. And like the "start" and "stop" people (which is probably the category I fall into), some paintings move me more than others; and I'd be remiss to explain in in any intelligible fashion.

All the same, for all the people who were at the exhibit Friday night, there were hundreds of thousands who were not. Does that mean they are hopeless, idiotic dolts? "Should" we appreciate art or music or theater or literature or knowledge equally? Of course not. Can I "love" historical fiction but "hate" mysteries without feeling like there's something wrong with me for my inability to appreciate mysteries? Of course. These reactions are all a part of the unique "fingerprint" of who I am.

Taking Care of the World. The problem with studying certain schools of thought is that one can become obsessive about it (especially if that one is me). I have come to realize that I have lived much of my life as a "caretaker." And first cousin to the caretaker is the person who feels anxious when someone else is unhappy and thus resolves they must act to rectify the situation (that's taking care of someone's feelings.) I had this need to be superwoman and solve everyone's problems. I use the past tense because I have made strides of progress in these 2 areas of my life, but I still fall victim to either of them from time to time. Even worse, though, is my obsession regarding NOT being a caretaker or taking care of someone's feelings. You can be helpful without being a caretaker. You can be empathetic without taking care of someone's feelings.

Today during Sunday school, someone came up behind me and flashed a document in my face that I had been helping them with a few days ago. This person was feeling anxious about this document and wanted the final changes made to it. But I was in Sunday school. Previously, I would have been unable to resist their anxiety and felt I had to respond to it by fixing the document right then and there. Or if I refused, previously I would have chastised myself for not taking care of their needs. But today, I said as matter of factly as I could, "I'm in Sunday school -- I can't take care of that right now."

Perhaps it's all a matter of doing what is in my power to do in any given situation, but recognizing that such a response does not always require immediacy. (Did any of that make sense?)

Attention to Detail. There is this concept called overfunctioning/underfunctioning reciprocity. Basically, that means that if you have two people, let's say they work in the same department in an office, and one person always feels it is necessary to do more than their share, then the other person in the department will likely kick back and let them. The more I do to "take care of everything," perhaps with an underlying attitude of, if I don't, the department will fall apart, the less the other guy is going to do. Why should he knock himself out? After all, I seem to have it under control. But if I am someone who attends to detail, at what point does that become overfunctioning?

Consider two scenarios.

Scenario 1: Sarah and I are teaching a class together. It's Sarah's turn to teach this week. I wonder the night before, did Sarah remember to make extra copies of the lesson for people who didn't get a book yet? I reason the class will fall apart if I don't take this matter under hand and I arrive 30 minutes early to make copies, only to discover that Sarah has also made copies. That's not attention to detail, that's overfunctioning.

Scenario 2: Sarah and I are teaching a class together. My responsibility is to order the books for the class. The books do not come in in time. So I make copies of the lesson for those who wanted a book. Is that overfunctioning? No, that's attention to detail.

When my attention to detail tends toward questioning or doubting the abilities of others to do their job, I am overfunctioning. When I am crossing all the T's and dotting all the I's when a particular responsibility is mine, that's attention to detail.

Off-switch. Finally, where the heck is the off-switch to my brain? Alas, I continue to struggle to find the answer to that one...

Captain Bed Head

2010-02-06T10:17:00.003-06:00

I woke up with the worst case ever of bed head this morning!

When my kids were little, there was this show on TV called The Big Comfy Couch. It was "live action," featuring a little girl who played with her dolly on the big comfy couch all day and had all sorts of adventures with the dust bunnies, etc.

One of the characters was Captain Bed Head. I think I watched the show about 10 times before I got the joke. OHHHH ... his hair is all CRAZY like that because he's Captain Bedhead, ha ha ha, I get it now!!

Have you ever wondered what in the world you were doing in your sleep for your hair to look the way it does the next day? I part my hair in the middle most of the time and wear it really straight, but this morning, it had a wicked part on the right side of my head and stuck up in the front like the world's most ridiculous comb over.

Hey, I'll bet it was my husband's fault! I usually sleep on my left side, so he must have been messing with my hair after I fell asleep and that's how I got that wicked side part and vertical flow in the front. I mean, I could use hair gel and curling irons for hours and NEVER achieve this look.

Maybe it's the universe telling me I need to be more adventurous with my hairstyle?

Maybe this accounts for my sore back ... that I truly was thrashing back and forth in bed, subjecting my hair to fair more centrifugal force than it is accustomed. I mean, I've been known to "fling" my hair as a manner of punctuating my sentences; you know, ala Charlie's Angels? (Farrah would pull out her gun, fling her hair, strike a pose and yell, "Freeze!")

Alas, I'm heading to the showers now. My bedhead will soon be a thing of the past... Time for more serious endeavors.

Taking inventory

2010-02-02T19:27:00.003-06:00

So I'm taking inventory on various aspects of life. Here's what I come up with:

Appearance Inventory
Today a woman I was meeting with was shocked (or she is at least a very talented actor) that I have a senior in high school. I trumped her with, "Yeah, and a freshman in college, too." Later, my senior in high school asked me, "Why are you wearing your shirt like that?" I actually had the audacity to tuck in my shirt and sweater. I explained I was wearing a jacket earlier and didn't want to have so many layers on the outside. She went on ... "It's just that you usually dress like a normal person and don't look like an old lady." I think there was a backhanded compliment in there somewhere...

Control Freak Inventory
I had a little control freak therapy today. After meeting with someone downtown, she was nice enough to walk me to the elevator. She pushed the elevator button. I was pretty sure she did not push it hard enough to activate it. So we waited and waited, all the while I'm thinking in my head, "Push the button ... no, don't push the button ... go ahead, push it ... no, don't ... yes, push it ... no, leave it, she'll realize it soon enough." After what seemed like an eternity, she pushed the button again and it lit up. Ahhhhhh, I can breathe again; thank you!

Desk Inventory
I have been moving paper tonight. I should be working on more stacks, but needed a break. Here's an abbreviated list of what I found on my desk today: credit card statement from 2 months ago (it had a credit on it); "new" credit cards that had not been activated from 2 different accounts; bank statements from 3 different accounts; 3 sticky notes with cell phone numbers and addresses; 10+ CDs that I had burned and their "home made" cd covers; an email with a woman's phone number that I need to contact; flight itineraries from two different trips; a post card about ordering graduation supplies; ticket to La Boheme that need to be exchanged; a note to print envelopes for a bill I pay every month; an invoice for my car insurance; an invoice from Tulane University; contact information for two house painters; a printout of a workshop I'm attending next week; girl's track schedule for this week; an email about upcoming youth activities; a folder on publicity "work" I need to do for our church's production of Peter Pan (starring my daughter); a business card from someone I met 2 weeks ago; thermal coffee cup with "old" coffee; ceramic coffee cup with "old" coffee; a stack of 30+ prayer requests from this week's rehab classes; a to-do list; and a small note pad for writing more to-do's on. WHEW! (And that's why I have felt so totally disorganized today!)

Purse Inventory
I am processing a remark by a sweet little old lady last week that my purse is huge. It measures 14" x 8" x 4". I assured her that is normal by today's standards; that many of my girlfriends carry what she would consider suitcases around with them. She concluded, "Well, I'm glad my purse is small." Whatever lady! How about live and let live!

Bank Inventory
I have 3 checks and a roll of quarters to deposit in one account and 1 check to deposit in another. I transferred money from one account to another twice today.

Voice Mail Inventory
The answering machine is blinking with 3 messages. I have no idea what ANY of those calls might be about. Meanwhile, there are 120 calls recorded in my cell phone since the last time I cleared the record; 113 texts n the inbox and 70 in the outbox.

Life Inventory
I'm on dirt and dirt ain't on me. I WIN!!

Comfort

2010-01-31T19:19:00.005-06:00

My friend Michael called me on Friday. He's a man I met about 8 months ago at the homeless shelter. He is slowly but surely making his way in the world (he's no longer at the shelter) and he likes to call and "check in," as he puts it.

He told me he was making chicken and dumplings. I said, what a coincidence! I made chicken and dumplings this week, too! Then he asked me for advice on how long to cook the dumplings.

The weather has been really cold and what in the world is better comfort food than chicken and dumplings? I have to admit, too, that for a yankee, I make a mean pot of dumplings...

When my family sat down to dinner, after making several comments about how delicious the meal was (thank you, thank you), my older daughter commented I had not made chicken and dumplings in a long time.

Hmmmm, yeah, you're right, I said ... it's probably been a year or so.

Then my younger daughter calculated that it had been five years. (She claims she has this very strong memory of last eating chicken and dumplings when she was in 3rd grade and she is in 8th grade now.)

That seemed impossible!

So I thought back ... what was life like 5 years ago? Let's see ... that would have been 2005. And just about this time five years ago, we were in the process of moving my Father, who has Alzheimer's, into assisted living. That was not a fun time in my life.

So I told my kids, my goodness, speak up. If you want chicken and dumplings, just ask for it! In fact, shame on me for not realizing that I myself was in great need of this comfort food!

I've been eating sweets like crazy this last week. I asked someone in the church office what she thought that was all about (as I normally turn up my nose to sweets). She had two theories, one of which was, "sugar is comforting..." (or something like that).

She's right ... and there it is again. Comfort food.

We had mashed potatoes on Thursday night (and ginger pork). I said repeatedly, out loud, as I chewed, "OMG these are so good." More comfort food.

I ate this amazing cheezy chicken and pasta casserole for lunch on Saturday that my husband made. It was "leftovers" from a 1/2 day meeting he attended at church. I said, "This is really good, who made it?" He said, "Me." Like an idiot, I said, "No, you didn't!" But he assured me he had.

More comfort food.

I just downed a glass of milk. I may go pour myself another. I sometimes forget to drink milk, but more importantly, I forget what a comfort it is to me. (I drank a lot of milk growing up; there was no other beverage offered at meals in my house.)

So close your eyes and imagine your "last meal." What would you have? Fried chicken? Chocolate cake? A big steak? Stuffed baked potato? Tres leches? Then go make it! Or tell the cook in your house to go make it. Or go to a restaurant that makes it.

Don't hold back comfort from yourselves. I know I won't ...

Like a cow...

2010-01-22T18:19:00.003-06:00

Mother always said you have to be a horse to live in this world. (This was her explanation to me growing up as to why girls had to do so much and boys seemed to lounge about and watch TV.)

So I grew up accepting the fact that I would need to be horse-like. But apparently I am more like a cow...

"Why do you chew like that?"

That's the question my youngest son posed to me at dinner tonight.

Like what? I replied, oblivious to the direction this conversation was going.

"Like this," he said, mimicking my chewing motion with an exaggerated circular movement of his jaw.

Realizing immediately that this resembled a cow chewing its cud, I denied it vehemently.

I do not!!

My husband concurred. "Yes, you do ... but I think it's cute."

I began chewing again, this time trying not to chew in a circular motion, and my son erupted in laughter.

"You're still doing it," he said, laughing louder still.

No I'm not! I insisted.

But apparently I was. So I asked for a demonstration of how one is supposed to chew and was shown, up and down, up and down, up and down...

I tried chewing this way and it felt terribly awkward, not to mention inefficient. My circular chewing motion allows me to control the direction of my food as I chew (I hear what you're thinking -- "Yeah, like the way a cow chews its cud ...)

I started chewing very slowly and very deliberately, up and down, up and down, feeling completely self-conscious.

The questions continued.

"Why do you only chew on the left side of your mouth?"

Um ... because I'm left-handed? The muscles are stronger on that side.

"How can the muscles be stronger on one side of your mouth? That's crazy," he concluded.

Like I said, because I'm left handed, the same reason you are chewing at this very moment on YOUR left side, because you're SUPPOSED to be left-handed, but the RIGHTIES changed you.

(Trust me, it was a deliberate plot by my husband and eldest daughter, both righties, conspiring to prevent the "tragedy" of another left-handed child in the house, since both my eldest son and younger daughter were lefties, like me.)

This led to a somewhat heated discussion about whether my son should be left- or right-handed, which eventually led to a discussion about positions in baseball, don't ask me why, which ultimately led to this question by my husband:

"And what's the ONE position you can NEVER play in baseball if you're left-handed?"

Third base? I guessed.

"Nope."

Catcher?

"Nope -- Short stop. A leftie can NEVER play short stop in baseball."

So there you have it, a second shocking truth for the evening. I am forbidden from ever, EVER playing short stop in baseball, no matter how casual or friendly the game might be, and that's too bad, because I'm a pretty good baseball player -- I mean, for a middle-aged woman who chews like a cow.

Their loss. Totally their loss.

Map this

2010-01-16T16:20:00.003-06:00

I have an idea for a new reality show. I got the idea last night while my husband and I were driving more than an hour's distance from our home to attend the wedding of a friend. The show would be husbands and wives who compete against other husbands and wives under challenging conditions to drive to a particular destination without killing each other first.

The show would be called, "Map This!"

As we were making our way to last night's destination, we faced several challenges. It was dark outside and raining. We did not have driving directions, just a map. Yet the street names on the map were set in very small type (in my estimation).

My husband and I each have vision challenges -- his at a distance, mine close-up. So here we were, driving down this particular, unfamiliar road in the dark with a steady drizzle hitting the windshield, which also kept fogging up. He is asking repeatedly, what's the next street we're looking for? I'm supposed to read the map to find it. Mind you, map reading is not something I'd list on my resume and the type was just too darn small for my aging eyes to make out. No matter how I squinted or adjusted the distance of the paper from my eyes, I could not read the street names. In frustration, I would fling the map toward him. "Here, you read it..." He would glance quickly at the map, call out a particular street name and then strain at each intersection to see whether that was, indeed, the right street.

I resisted saying the obvious for as long as possible ... but the words finally escaped my lips. "Why didn't you print the driving directions?" Why indeed! With a map in hand, who needs those? Yes, of course, what was I thinking?

I think it would be quite hilarious to feature two or three couples trying to find the same destination. The banter alone would be priceless. You could assess penalty points for actions such as, raising your voice to the other person, stopping to ask for directions, pulling over to the side of the road, turning around, breaking traffic laws, etc. The winning couple would be the one that reached the destination in the shortest period of time with the fewest penalty points.

I think it would be a scream ... I know it was last night.

Crazy

2010-01-09T19:13:00.003-06:00

My eldest son is going back to school tomorrow. He drives me crazy at times, but I love him like crazy. Just moments ago, I was entirely exasperated with the kid, but at the same time, I feel like weeping.

It's the strangest thing ... I can feel in my soul that he does not "belong" here now, and I know it's a good thing that he is at this point in his life.

And yet ... oh, my heart hurts.

When he was born, to the very end, he pushed his way out of my body by pushing off of my ribs. At times, I still feel like I'm taking a kick in the ribs from this one. Yet I love him something awful.

That, it seems, is the predicament of motherhood.

Subliminal messages

2010-01-06T09:19:00.003-06:00

Man, you can't even eat a banana in peace. I just peeled a banana and low and behold, there's a sticker on it that says, "Lose Weight" and then "see dolebananadiet.com"

Banana diet? I love bananas ... but an entire diet consisting of bananas? Is it like that dude Bubba in Forrest Gump who spends hours reciting all the ways you can prepare shrimp, only with bananas? "There's banana cream pie, banana pudding, banana bread, bananas foster, banana daiquiri..."

(This reminds me of a knock knock joke our eldest daughter made up when she was about 3 or 4: Knock knock. Who's there? Man. Man who? Man with a banana boat baby... And I still have no idea what it means)

My curiosity is getting the best of me ... let's see what the banana diet is all about. OK, I'm back and it's too many details to relay here. Suffice to say they have banana recipes and claims about how bananas have "resistant starch" that, when it ferments in your tum, helps to block the conversion of some carbs to fuel. (So I guess that means bananas somehow help you to starve yourself as all those "some carbs" just slide through the system?)

Guess what? It also suggests that you exercise regularly and eat healthy.

Hey, I think I'll make up my own diet. Yeah, let's call it the ... hmm, what's the most ridiculous food item I can think of?? The ... baby corn diet. Yeah, you eat a can in the morning, plus eat nutritious, low-calorie, low-fat foods the rest of the day and exercise every day and miraculously, you lose weight like crazy.

The corn industry would be forever indebted to me.

Who knows, perhaps even the Europeans would embrace corn. They usually turn their noses up to us savage Americans, whom they view as consuming cattle feed every time we put a spoon of corn in our mouths.

In today's marketing-intensive society, I suppose even Dole bananas has to use a hard-sell tactics so I'll put their product in my grocery cart.

So everyone eat a banana today ... and chase it with a bowl of ice cream.

Motherhood and meringue-a-tans

2009-12-27T17:18:00.003-06:00

What kind of a sicko experiences a certain sense of joy and fulfillment from cleaning dog poop off of a pair of sneakers or folding t-shirts? Yeah, it can only be a mother.

My eldest son is home from college, which finds me exercising all those enabling kinds of behaviors like cleaning up his trash, washing his laundry, cooking his meals, doing his dishes, making excuses for him ... you know. Why do I have a need as a Mother to do this kind of stuff; and furthermore, why does it put such a smile on my face?

Is it some kind of Sally Field mentality? "You like me, you really, really like me..." (only substitute the word "need" for "like.") Or is it more akin to cows, who, like many mammals, lick their babies clean after giving birth to them and thus feel obligated to clean up after them for the rest of eternity?

My kids were driving me absolutely batty in the kitchen the other day. I was making a chocolate cream pie for Christmas. They were telling stories about all the ridiculous things they had done in previous attempts at cooking, including one story about meringue that emerged as they watched me make meringue for the pie. My son began screeching in a strange, yoda-like falsetto, "Mmmm, meringue ... we love meringue ... we're meringue-a-tans." We all burst out in peals of laughter, even as I tried my darnedest to maintain my stern, motherly, "I'm trying to do something here!" composure.

At lunch today, my daughter was threatening to dot my nose with icing from a birthday cake. Then she dotted her own instead, reminiscent of the meringue from 3 days ago as those two knuckle head kids jumped around the kitchen screeching like monkeys (um, I mean orangutans).

I know my younger son has been reveling in the company of his older brother, celebrating the increase of testosterone in the house. With a Mom and two sisters at home, he definitely finds himself swimming in the estrogen ocean these days. (That's a lot of pressure for one 12 year old boy.)

The antics of my eldest son and youngest daughter reminds me of my brother Jeff and I. There was a time when we got so carried away in silliness, my husband would ask, "Do I have to separate you two?" I miss that nonsense. As he and my other brother and their families gather next weekend at my house, perhaps I will dig deep and try to uncover this more carefree, silly Tammy.

Maybe that is why I am celebrating the cleaning of dog poo and the washing of laundry; the noisy, late-night arrivals home and sleeping way past a respectable hour. Maybe I recognize that with these "annoyances" comes an exuberance, an abandon that I sorely miss at times yet am increasingly determined to replicate.

What is wrong with people?

2009-12-26T15:45:00.007-06:00

Here I am stuck in the paralyzing moment of "which blog does this post belong on?" I'm about to begin a third blog that will allow me to just rant (not really). My original blog, Just Enough Grace for Today, was my way of expressing my spirituality. My self-imposed pressure to include something "godly" in every post moved me to invent this blog, Why So Serious? But truth be told, I write as many posts here about stuff that annoys me or confuses me or disturbs me as stuff that makes me laugh (the purported original purpose for the blog).

Alas, I digress.

My parents are from the north (Ohio, to be exact). My father in particular was very racist. He called black people "colored" people. When I was in college, I'd often ask, "What color?" He didn't seem to get that I was criticizing him and he would go right on with his racist diatribes or say in disgust, "You know what I mean."

Am I free of all prejudice and racism? Hardly, but it is something I try to be aware of (and I am blessed with plenty of teenagers to set me straight when I fall short).

At any rate, I've been reading, A Mighty Long Way, the memoir of Carlotta Walls, one of the nine students who integrated Central High School in Little Rock, AR in September 1957.

It isn't until 100 or so pages into the book that she is finally setting foot inside of Central High School. Upon seeing the mobs that have formed outside, she is incredulous; all this hate was being directed at her simply because she wanted to go to school? Looking back 50 years later, I find myself saying, yeah, really, what is wrong with people?

I brace myself as I read, knowing I will encounter horrible descriptions of this 14 year old girl being cursed at, spat upon, threatened and assaulted. As it registers with me that she is the same age as my younger daughter, I marvel at the courage and fortitude not only of this amazing young woman, but her parents as well. They must have been absolutely terrified by the risk their daughter was undertaking every day.

I recall my own experiences with bullying in middle school; especially of being spat upon, but not because I was black; simply because people (prepubescent boys in particular) can be horrible. I recall the shame and embarrassment and mortification I felt every morning as I stepped onto the bus, hearing the taunts and name-calling of this particular group of boys who thought that making my life a living hell was extremely hilarious.

Here's the thing, though. It was just one group of boys; one gang of mean-spirited adolescents who obviously had never been taught any better. It was not an entire school of enraged, hate-mongering students and parents.

Now is the part where I stand back and ask myself, have things changed all that much in the 50+ years since the integration of Central High School occurred? I know as an upper middle class white woman, I cannot adequately answer this question. But perhaps I can tend to my garden; perhaps I can try to ensure that my thinking toward others strives to be fair and just and loving (even the ones who are still caught by the throes of their own ignorance).

That's a pretty lofty and obscure goal. Anyone want to join me?

Throw mama off the cliff

2009-12-25T11:20:00.002-06:00

My husband and kids (mostly eldest son) have been making jokes about how I throw Christmas off the cliff every year. According to them, I reach this breaking point where I say, "That's it, Christmas is over, put it all away!!"

OK, maybe it's a little true, but I posted the other day that THIS year is going to be different.

When I announced at the dinner table that I was not packing stuff up until after Jr. went back to school in January, there were bursts of laughter. This morning at breakfast, there were random comments about, "Well, Mom hasn't pushed Christmas off the cliff yet..."

Ha ... I'll show them! (Although I confess I'm already getting that edgy, anxious feeling. But I will not give in this year!!)

Going for a record...

2009-12-24T10:47:00.002-06:00

Wow it's Christmas Eve and I've pretty much maneuvered my way through the season without nose diving into depression.

The Holidays were such a hassle after my parents got divorced. And a few days ago, I was reminded of a deeply-stuffed memory of my parents separating the first time just before Christmas and a conversation between them that I overheard. (THAT Christmas really stunk.) I think I only "descended" twice this year and both times told myself, "knock it off." It also has helped that since my Father's illness, we are no longer required to show up every single Christmas Eve at his house. (To the outsider, this must sound terribly crass; but trust me, it was stressful.)

What was the difference? Aside from knowing I don't have to do the Christmas Eve juggle, the greatest difference is a study I led this year at my church and with the Rehab Ladies called "Advent Conspiracy."

The crux of the study is this: Rethink Christmas. It's all about backing away from the commercialization of Christmas and getting back to the real meaning of it all -- faith, family, friends. I confess that teaching the class confirmed what I had grown to find disgusting about Christmas, but I still found myself fighting those materialistic urges of, "Buy gifts to express love." The message was so obvious to me ... nothing under a Christmas tree can give meaning to your life or elevate you from your present circumstances. I mean, I already knew that, but being able to say it out loud in 3 different classes every week really solidified it in my mind and somehow brought me relief.

(My husband told me about an editorial he read this morning in which the writer talked about the thing HE hates about the commercialization of Christmas is how everyone else obsesses over how much they hate the commercialization of Christmas. Ha ha. That's a good one!)

I think another thing that contributed to me taking it easier emotionally this Christmas was a decision early on to simplify more. This year, when we got all the boxes out of the attic with decorations, at least 3 went back unpacked. I just said, eh, I'm not putting that stuff up this year. (And thus I won't have to take it down either.) I decorated with the things that have the most meaning: a live tree (that we actually cut down ourselves), a nativity scene, this antique ceramic lighted tree that belonged to my Grandmother, our Christmas stockings, and outdoor lights with a door wreath (but I even simplified the lights). All the other noise-making junk and figurines and scenes and other bric-a-brac stayed in a box. What a relief.

I sent out cards, but my daughter addressed them all. And I didn't feel obligated to write long messages, just a simple "we love you" and a photo of the kids to our out of town friends.

Since we bought fewer presents this year, they did not take as long to wrap. I think we finished it in two installments. That felt good, too.

Yesterday I made cookies. It was a little hurried and I confess I lost my patience with my younger daughter who was helping me, but ... oh well, all I can do is try to keep doing better.

And finally, I think I'll wait to take it all down. Usually, I am so anxious for "it" to be over. I think I'll ride the season out this year and pack it all up after my eldest son goes back to college.

Old habits are hard to break. Suppressed emotions are hard to escape. But Christmas really can be a good thing. Who knows, maybe next year, I'll even proclaim the day before Thanksgiving, "Ahhh, the holidays. I LOVE the holidays!"

Like a champ

2009-12-19T12:42:00.004-06:00

I was parallel parking today in the Heights and I thought to myself, damn, I can parallel park like a champ! How many people can say that? Reverse, cut it, straighten it, pull forward, BAM, I'm in. And I'm not talking about parking a VW or Camry. I'm talking about a Ford Explorer.

When I was taking driver's ed, you actually had to take the test with the DPS guys -- none of this driving school stuff like the kids do now. If you couldn't parallel park, you were NOT going to pass your test. I remember people in my car in driver's ed who just couldn't get parallel parking. Every time they'd hit the cone, the instructor would say, "You just had a collision. That's failing your driving test!"

My eldest brother could not parallel park to save his life. In fact, I believe this forced him to take his driving test at least twice.

It must be something about going in reverse. When I was in high school and college, I would goof around in parking lots by driving backwards. I was fascinated with going in reverse. Don't ask me what that was all about, I just thought it was fun.

Of course, this fascination was later put to the test when my husband and I were working with the church youth group in our 20s. Our church had a 14-passenger van that was kept on the rec center. So at the end of youth, I had to back that sucker back through the gate, into the rec center. I remember breaking out into a sweat on more than one occasion doing that, but as long as I had my rear view mirrors and someone directing me, I could eventually pull it off.

Now, our church has 2 14-passenger vans and a 14-passenger bus. The bus is slightly longer and wider than the vans. It's a little freaky to drive because there is no rear view mirror -- only side mirrors, but they still don't show you what's going on behind you, which is unnerving to me. No, I have never parallel parked the bus, but at UM Army last summer, the teens in my van were pretty impressed with how well I maneuvered the vans (especially when it came to turning around, which we did a lot of, as my sense of direction comes nowhere close to my parallel parking skills.)

A few months ago, my winning streak with backing up finally came to a screeching halt. I was driving our church vans and bus back and forth to the gas station to fill each one up with gas. It was tight quarters pulling out of the gas lane and making the 90 degree turn required to get back out onto the street. It was challenging enough in the vans, but with the bus, I thought, "Shoot, I've finally met my match." I was going to have to throw the bus in reverse and perform a 3-point turn in order to get out of the parking lot. Not a problem when you have a rear view mirror to peer into, but ...

I got out of the bus and looked back, guestimating the distance I had to work with. Then I threw it in reverse and started backing up, little by little by little. I'd go a little more ... pause ... go a little more ... pause ... go a little more. Just when I thought, "OK, I got it," I heard and felt "SMACK." I had backed into the poll that was strategically placed to "guard" the gas pumps. Of course, I did what any chicken would do -- I threw the bus into drive and got the heck out of there!

When I got back to the church, I jumped out of the front seat to assess the damage. Thank you Lord Jesus for this steel bumper, I thought. There wasn't a scratch on it. I didn't know if the same was true for the pole at the gas station, but I decided not to sweat the small stuff.

At some point, I suppose I should try my hand at parallel parking that bus. If I could pull THAT off, bump and smack free, I could truly claim the title of parallel parking champ...

Hopeless

2009-12-18T18:54:00.005-06:00

My brother Jeff and I are both hopeless romantics; both dreamers. We like corny movies. We like to memorize the lines to corny movies. Just tonight, we were texting the lines back and forth to one of our mutually favorite movies, You've Got Mail.

MY favorite line from the movie is when Meg Ryan is about an hour away from meeting her chat room mystery man, whom she doesn't know is Tom Hanks. Hanks plays her business nemesis, the evil Joe Fox, owner of chain store Fox Books. Meg Ryan plays small bookstore owner Kathleen Kelly. His chain has put her quaint Little Shop Around the Corner out of business; and for that, she holds a mighty grudge against him.

Hanks is trying to charm his way into her life while continuing to play chat room mystery man; playing it from both ends if you will.

So their last meeting before she finds out who he really is, Hanks says, "How can you forgive this guy for standing you up and not forgive me for this tiny little thing of ... of putting you out of business?" You can tell she is thinking about it, feeling herself more drawn to him. And then he adds sweetly, "Oh, how I wish you would..."

That's my favorite line, that "Oh, how I wish you would," because by now everyone but Meg Ryan is in on the big plot secret. We are cheering for Hanks. And there's just enough twinkle in Meg's eye to tell us, maybe she really can forgive him; maybe she can see him in a new light.

My brother, on the other hand, just loves the ending. He loves it when the band strikes up with "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Meg Ryan is waiting at the agreed upon meeting spot and Hanks is approaching. His dog runs ahead; Meg knows mystery man has a dog named Brinkley. Hanks yells, "Brinkley" as he is coming aroung the bend. Meg is all perked up looking, craning her neck. And then that magical moment when she sees him and she is overwhelmed; so much so that I think it even surprises her.

She begins to weep and he pulls out a hanky, dabs tenderly at her eyes and says my second-favorite line: "Don't cry, shop girl, don't cry." (This is her online moniker.) And she whispers softly, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly..."

And then slowly, just like the closing frames in A&E's Pride and Prejudice, there faces approach and turn at awkward, unfamiliar angles for that very first kiss.

I could watch the last 10 minutes of that movie over and over and over again. It's just that good. I imagine my brother probably could too.

Yes, we are hopeless.

Lies, all lies...

2009-12-14T17:40:00.002-06:00

So today I read a short article on the Internet about the 5 behaviors of manipulative people. I took great offense!! I mean, really, such harsh words for those of us who are clear on what we want and what YOU need to do in order to stand and deliver.

Here are the 5 behaviors and my insight into each. Clearly, you will all see the light after reading this and realize that so-called manipulative people are being slandered unfairly ...

1) Buttering you up. To make you feel good, so-called "manipulators" will make you feel good so they can ask you to do something they want.

Oh, so now complements are against the law? I mean, just because I tell a friend that her black sweater is extremely slimming and add equally sincerely that her bad perm has nearly calmed down completely, it doesn't mean I am trying to butter her up. She probably wouldn't have the ability to drag herself out of bed in the morning if I didn't constantly prop up her self-esteem in this manner. I am constantly looking for little ways to make people feel good about themselves. Constantly. It's not buttering up. It's ... well, it's just part of my whole, big charming package, you know? Can I help it if those two sentences are followed by, "BTW, I could sure use your truck this weekend ... could you meet me across town at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning to pick up some furniture??" That was PURE coincidence.

2) Guilt. The so-called "victims" who succumb to this tactic will do something for you not because they want to but because they feel they have to.

Is it guilt if you happen to remind someone of all the nice things you have done for them? I mean, if you loaned a friend money back in college 20 years ago so she could make rent, what's the harm of keeping them humble?? I never stop giving selflessly to everyone I know; and usually, heck rarely, heck never do I ask for ANYTHING in return. Never. Except, of course, every so often, but really ... after all I have done for the countless thousands of people who have crossed my path in my lifetime, do you REALLY have to make a federal case out of it if I were to wonder out loud if anyone could EVER do something even the tiniest bit NICE for ME??? Sorry, didn't mean to imply that anyone should be bothered on any level just because I have needs too. What was I thinking? I am SO insensitive!!!

3) Broken record. This so-called tactic has the so-called manipulator asking for the same thing repeatedly, using slightly different words, until the so-called victim gives in to the so-called manipulative request.

Are you serious? Just because I ask more than once I'm manipulating? Maybe they forgot. Maybe they were multi-tasking and didn't really hear what I said the first 10 times. Maybe they were in a bad mood and taking it out on me. Maybe they had a fight with their boyfriend and projected their anger onto me by refusing to even consider my more than reasonable request that any supposed friend would do for someone else if they REALLY cared about them. I am EXTREMELY patient with people and it doesn't bother me in the least to ask again and again and again until I am absolutely certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that they have not only heard my request but have given it the careful consideration it deserves; and have acquiesced, of course, because I wouldn't ask in the FIRST place if it wasn't really, really important. What kind of an insensitive lunkhead do you take me for???????

4) Selective memory. This supposed tactic involves the so-called victim thinking that everyone has agreed to a certain plan and then the so-called manipulator sharing the way they remember it all.

Oh sure, claim one person in the group has "selective memory" just because the other 10 got it wrong. I am CONSTANTLY having to serve as the gatekeeper for the groups I am involved in, taking meticulous notes and keeping everyone in line. My notes are so meticulous and detailed, I don't actually KEEP them. But I certainly commit them to memory -- my memory, which is always infallible, accurate and unbiased. Has it ever occurred to the rest of the world that some people have better attention to detail than others?? Can I help it if everyone else in the room is pushing their own agenda and muddies the waters with what THEY want instead of what was CLEARLY the decision of the group?? Isn't it SOMEBODY'S job to keep everyone else honest? Sure, punish the messenger AGAIN just because I have the courage to set the record straight!!!!

5) Bullying. When so-called manipulators use this approach, they supposedly make you out to look like the bad guy just because they don't get their way.

What kind of a spoiled, immature person would have the nerve to suggest that I am bullying them just because they are being a complete idiot (not to mention unreasonable dolt) when it comes to giving just a tiny bit of consideration to my humble desires. I am so sick of all the selfish, self-centered people I know who are SOOOO out of touch with their own human frailty that they have to PUSH their SICK and TWISTED assessments of ME onto the rest of the idiots around them when they can't handle the pressure of doing the RIGHT thing for fear that their PATHETIC, EGOMANIAC friends may see them in a less than favorable light. By all means, throw ME under the bus instead, the INNOCENT person in all of this, since you obviously get some SICK THRILL from behaving in this BRUTAL manner!!!!

So really, people, I hope you will help me in setting the record straight on just how ridiculous these claims really are!!! Stop punishing the so-called manipulators in your life and just give them what they want already! I for one would be MUCH happier (wink).

What a racket!

2009-12-13T16:21:00.002-06:00

My $17 year-old daughter has just handed me my MasterCard and receipts totaling $280. Oh, I know what you're thinking -- shoes, face wash, make-up, purses, hair gel, nail polish, jeans and countless other teenager amenities, right?

Wrong.

That's the tally for applying to 4 colleges.

Yes, really.

My daughter is a senior. She has been working quite diligently on her college applications and accompanying essays. If I were to add up all the receipts for sending transcripts, taking entrance exams and filing applications, the bill would be upwards of $1,000.

Yes, really.

Not even accepted to a school yet and already we have plunked down $1,000 for college.

How much effort could go into reviewing a college application? The kids submit it all electronically. Could it take more than an hour? Maybe two hours? Let's say 2 1/2 hours. At $70 a whack, that's $28 an hour just to potentially reject my kid. Doesn't that seem a little outrageous?

Think about the students who apply and don't even come close to meeting the college's minimum standards. For those kids, the admissions office is really making a killing. One glance at the manuscript and five minutes later, it's, "Dear ____, we regret to inform you that..."

How could I turn this into some kind of viable business, that's the real question. Could I work as an applications consultant for a local university, helping them weed through the undesirables to the cream of the crop applications? I'd be more than happy to allow someone with more discernment to make the final decision on the upper echelon of applicants. But I wouldn't mind earning $50 or so an hour just to glance and reject, glance and reject, glance and reject.

If a university has the nerve to charge $50,000 a year for a student to walk through the doors of their esteemed institution, shouldn't' they offer some sort of application refund at least if they accept you? Or maybe volume discounts where you and a friend send in your applications together and the second one is half off or something?

Sure seems like a racket, that's all I have to say.

More Damn Dog Diaries

2009-12-13T16:02:00.003-06:00

A few days ago, I returned from an outing and glanced out onto the patio to see my two dogs playing tug of war. That would have been a heart-warming sight if the object they were tugging over had not been a plastic zipper bag.

Perhaps I should explain.

It snowed in Houston last Friday. As the temperatures dropped during the day, I thought about my poor dog, Ruby, who lives outside. I was at Walgreen's and saw a dog cushion for $10. That seemed like a reasonable price to pay to keep my pupster warm, so I bought it.

Of course, Ruby wouldn't lay on the cushion, so I propped it up near her, to create a barrier of sorts from the wind.

The next day, the damn dog (aka Ginger, our little house dog) was outside using the rest room. She instantly tore a hole in the cover of the cushion, ripped through the liner and began pulling out the stuffing and dragging it all over the yard. When I discovered what she was doing, I retrieved the cushion and brought it inside.

The next day, I remembered that the cushion had come in a zip-up plastic bag. I dug through the kitchen garbage to find it, wiped off the coffee grounds and banana peel remnants and stuffed the liner of the cushion inside the protective plastic. I zipped it up and then placed it inside the cover for the cushion. I reasoned that the damn dog would not be able to get to the liner/filling now. The plastic was reasonably thick and the "crinkle" sound it made when pushed on seemed to terrify her. (I confess I pushed on it several times in her presence, just to watch her scamper away in terror.) Good, I thought.

Yes, so I thought.

After a few days of keeping the cushion on a chair in the house, I took it back outside when the temperatures started cooling off again. I rubbed my hands all over the outside of the cushion reasoning that if Ruby smelled my scent, she would be more likely to use it.

Oh, she used it all right. They both did.

And so now I return to the original image -- that of my dogs playing tug-o-war.

There was pillow filler all over the patio and yard. The cover was pulled to shreds. And the dogs were playing tug-o-war with the plastic zipper bag.

I was totally flabbergasted. How did that damn dog (for i was certain dear, sweet Ruby was innocent in all of this) get the inner pillow out of the plastic??

In utter disgust, I turned away from the scene.

In the end, the venture cost me $15. $10 for the cushion, $5 for my son to clean up the mess and throw it all away.

Next time, I'll remember the words of my husband when the weather turns cold: that's why dogs have fur.

Barbie is now selling raisins...

2009-12-04T08:32:00.006-06:00

When I got online this morning, the "top news story" was about the changed image of the Sunmaid Raisin Girl. You know, the girl with long black hair, peasant shirt and bonnet that dons the red box?? Well ... here's what she looks like now, at left.

Yep, Barbie's selling raisins.

Exactly what is up with this? It looks more like a shampoo commercial than a label for raisins. "Now that I eat Sunmade raisins, my hair is just gorgeous ... see? Oh, let me hold a cluster of grapes up for you so you can admire my breasts..."

I think it's interesting that we are using sex appeal to sell a food item consumed mostly by toddlers. Is this some kind of aggressive marketing move? "Honey, I'm going to the pharmacy to pick up my Viagra prescription; think I'll get some raisins, too, while I'm there..."

I suppose these are the things food manufacturers must do in today's economy...

Sorting

2009-11-29T16:59:00.003-06:00

We got a huge Christmas tree this year. (Fat is probably a better description.) It's about 7 feet tall and possibly 5 feet wide at its "fattest" It's quite impressive.

Today, I was hanging ornaments on that impressive, fat tree. I guess I'm not feeling terribly sentimental this year, because I began "sorting" through the ornaments. I had two stacks -- "not ever again" and "not this year." If the ornament didn't make it on the tree, it was tossed onto one of these two stacks.

Not this year -- these were mostly "ornaments" of my kids at various ages. In other words, pieces of construction paper with glitter, gold pipe cleaners and a bad photo of my kid in some sort of demoralizing attire.

There was one with my youngest child wearing this felt "stoll" decorated with red and gold glitter. I looked at that photo and thought, could they have made my kid look any wimpier? He practically had "pick on me" tattoed on his forehead.

There was another with my eldest daughter in a UT Longhorns sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her whole and some sort of dorky crown on her head. She was my premature baby, so she was quite small until about the age of 6 or 7. In fact, in this photo, she looked more like a child I might have adopted from Compassion International than my own flesh and blood.

Nope, not getting on the tree this year either.

The "never again" stack consisted of the ornaments that we have way too many multiples of. One of the in-laws used to make us ornaments every year. Yeah, sweet, but after year 5 or 6, would you please stop? I reasoned that the one large gold star with one of the kids' names written on it and "Love, So-and-so and So-and-so" was more than enough. I did not need its cookie-cutter twins that had been crafted for each of my children.

Hardened? Perhaps...

Another on the "never again" stack was a pathetic angel somehow fashioned out of shells. The shells were coming loose and the "fastener" on it was so badly bent, the angel looked like it had the latter stages of scoliosis.

A few made it on the tree that really should have been tossed, like the tin cow painted gold with a purple bow. I actually made this one myself and I remember very clearly making it with my stepmom and stepsister one Christmas, when my stepmom had the stomach flu and was sick in bed. I suppose she gets a gold star for making ornaments with us in the first place, but it looks so silly at this point.

There are others that actually mean a great deal to me, yet I wonder if they will end up in my kids' never again stack, like the ornament made by my grandmother out of an egg shell. The egg shell is cut in half and decorated with gold brocade, beads and velvet. On the inside of the shell, there is an angel figure surrounded by fluffly stuff ... guess that was supposed to be clouds at some point.

When the ornaments were all up, my younger daughter saw the "never again" stack. "Why didn't you hang these?" she asked. I tried to evade her question, then replied, "Just how many large, purple wire stars do we need on our tree?" She wandered from the room and I bee-lined to the trash can.

The storage box was whisked away to the attic and I was "safe." More than likely, no one will even notice that I sorted the ornaments.

Seriously, no hug?

2009-11-29T16:41:00.003-06:00

Our eldest son headed back to the Big Easy today for a few more weeks of school before Christmas break. His flight took off from Hobby Airport and as my husband had picked him up on Tuesday night, I felt I should take him back.

It's interesting the change that comes over your kids when they go away for the first time. I recognized myself from years ago in his caged-animal behavior at home. He seemed happy to be here and yet ready to leave again. I'll bet he said at least 10 times in the course of various conversations, "...I don't live here anymore."

When he headed out the door, suitcase in hand, I was already sitting in the driver's seat. I could see him hug and kiss his younger sister and then also my husband.

We made awkward small talk on the way to the airport. I had that horrifying realization that he is no longer 3; that he is not impressed with me anymore. In fact, I wonder if he barely tolerates me, just as I barely tolerated my own mother at his age.

I managed to miss the "departing flights" ramp at Hobby Airport. We both agreed it was confusing and I don't think he was patronizing me. I drove a half mile down the road and did a u-turn. Working my way back, I made sure to get in the correct lane this time.

I could see him getting more and more anxious as the car idled in line. The right lane was not moving, so I turned sharply into the far left lane leading up to the terminal drop off. As I was nearly "even" with the entrance doors to the right, he said, "Well ... are you going to let me out?" I assured him as soon as I got to the 4-way stop, I would.

He bolted from the seat ... I swear he did. "What, no hug?" I called out. But he was already miles away, unable to hear me. He took his suitcase from the back of the car and I half-wondered if he would have the presence of mind to tap on the driver's side window and at least offer his cheek.

He didn't.

And so off he went, my happy go lucky child. My free bird. I brushed back a few silly tears, chastised myself for taking the "no hug" thing so personally and made my way to I-45.

In January, I'll likely repeat the entire process.

Recipe for Disaster

2009-11-26T08:34:00.002-06:00

At our staff meeting on Tuesday, Michelle the 20-something youth director passed around these amazing cranberry shortbread bars. I mean, I could have eaten 10 without even blinking an eye. Instantly, there were clamors of "Give us the recipe, give us the recipe!"

Later that day, the recipe arrived in my inbox. Only instead of a four to six lines of "here's what's in it" and "here's how you assemble it," there was a link. I clicked the link and got a recipe that was 11 pages long, thanks to the photos demonstrating what a cup of flour looks like, or foil in a baking pan.

Hmmm, ok, I'm just a little suspicious.

First thing off the bat ... "Melt 21 Tbs of butter...." WHOA. 21 Tbs of butter? Can that be right? I flip through the illustrated pages to the last page, where there is an actual list of ingredients set in 6 pt type. Yep, 21 Tbs of butter. OK.

I peruse the photos to decipher the remaining ingredients for the shortbread crust -- 2 eggs, 3 cups plus 3 tbs of flour, 1 cup sugar.

So I do what I always do -- I start grabbing measuring cups and spoons and bowls and ingredients. I open the sugar canister. Empty. (Well, OK, probably there's 1/2 tsp there if I scrape really carefully.) I look in the cupboard. Ah yes, under the 1/2 bag of flour, there's a bag of sugar; only it's not sugar, it's more flour.

Great. 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning and I am out of sugar. I know in my Better Homes cookbook there's a page listing emergency substitutes. And I'm pretty certain you can use brown sugar or confectioner's sugar in place of granulated sugar, but since this is dough, there is a texture issue to consider. So ... returning to the cupboard, I see there is a box of sugar packets left over from our last party. I eyeball the contents and conclude that surely, there's a cup's worth of sugar in there.

56 packets of sugar later (and now you know -- 56 packets of sugar equals a cup), I am ready to continue with the recipe.

Once the dough is mixed, I spread it out on the foil-lined baking sheet "like so," which is exactly what it says in the caption underneath the photo of spreading dough on a foil-lined baking sheet. Then I put it in the refrigerator to chill.

I'm looking over the recipe again to start the filling. You're supposed to boil the fresh cranberries with ANOTHER cup of sugar for 5-8 minutes. (This time I sub brown sugar; I need those remaining sugar packets for a squash casserole I am baking...) But there is not indication of how much water. I look at the photo that shows a cup of sugar and some other measurement of water. I reason, well, if that's a cup of sugar, that must be about ... 1/4 cup of water?

Close enough!

I also realize at this time that the shortbread dough called for two egg yolks, not eggs. I turn back to the photo ... two yellow yolks in a little cup. It never occurred to me that they were sans egg whites. (I'm sure shortbread connoisseurs reading this are gasping in horror at the thought of egg whites in the dough.) Oh well, guess I'll see what happens when you don't separate the whites out...

The timer has just sounded that the dough is chilled and ready to put in the oven. That's when I realize I have not turned on the oven. I turn to the last page of my recipe "booklet," but don't see anything regarding the oven temperature. Great, bake 20 minutes, but at what temperature?? Oh wait ... there it is, clear as day in on one of the photos -- an oven depictingthe numerals "325" on the digital display. What was I thinking?

The dough is in the oven now (and my goodness, that was one heavy pan). Within the hour, this baking adventure will be over. I make a "note to self" to retype the recipe so an "old" person can comprehend it. I suppose I'll have to post a follow-up as to whether they were edible...

Tasteless Food Aisle

2009-11-21T14:26:00.004-06:00

I opened a can of soup today for lunch, poured the contents into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave. After setting the timer, I picked up the spoon I was using and licked it ... and that's when I made the horrid discovery: healthy food!

I had picked up the "healthy request" version of my favorite soup. Yuk. Who took my salt and fat? I want it back, dammit, do you hear me?

As soon as the soup was warmed up, I grabbed my salt shaker and "fixed" it. Of course, I didn't have any lard on hand, so I couldn't add the fat back in, but at least my beloved salt was there.

That's when it occurred to me ... they shouldn't put this tasteless food in with the normal food. They should have a separate aisle. They could even label it, "Tasteless Food Aisle." You could put the organic foods there, too. I want all my toxins and poisons, thank you. My liver will feel deprived if it doesn't get to filter out all that crap!

Or better yet, how about a "Full Monty" aisle ... you know, one with cans and containers that advertised, "All the darn fat you want!" Surely I'm not the only one looking for full-potency food. I've been blessed with magic metabolism and good cholesterol and low blood pressure, so darn it, I should be assured that I'm getting the "good" stuff.

Just once, I'd like to pick up a bottle of salad dressing or a jar of mayonnaise and see printed prominently across the label -- "100% Fat, fat, fat ... just the way God intended it" OR a truthful label over the "healthy" food that says, "Tastes like nothing; buy at your own risk."

I've often joked my tombstone should read, "She was a mother to all," but now I'm reconsidering a new epitaph: "She liked her sodium and fat, thank you very much!"

Damn Dog Diaries

2009-11-14T13:54:00.002-06:00

Our friend John came over last night. He is in town after the recent death of his father. Commiserating to him about our dogs reminded me that when he was in high school, he had a dog named "Dammit." How funny is that? "Dammit, come here!"

Between last night and today, I think I've collected enough material for the maiden installment of a new feature I will call "Damn Dog Diaries."

We have two dogs. One is an outdoor, short-hair collie and something mix. Her name is Ruby. She was rescued from the SPCA. She is smart, sweet, well-behaved, etc.

And then there's the other dog ... the pure bred; the idiot dog; the nut dog; the psycho dog. The damn dog!!!

My son also had a friend over last night, so I knew with 2 visitors in the house, she would bark and snap w/o stopping for a good 30 minutes if I allowed her inside. Yet she scratched and scratched and scratched outside the door.

So we let her in and put her in her hutch. Then she scratched and scratched and scratched in there.

Late night or early in the morning, if you hear a dog in the neighborhood barking as if she were just stuck in the back side with a large fork, that would be my damn dog. 10:30 p.m. last night, she is yapping away while I am sending telepathic messages to my youngest daughter who is on the other side of the house, "Let in the dog, let in the dog, let in the dog..." She sleeps with this daughter, burrowing under the covers like a hedge hog.

My daughter had to get up early this morning for one act play competition. It's 4:45 a.m. and of course the nut dog is barking like crazy because my daughter got up out of bed.

Later this morning at a more reasonable hour, I decided to take the good dog to the vet to catch her up on shots. When psycho pup saw the leash, she went berzerk. You know how fleas can jump like 1000X their height? I swear this dog can do the same. She's like a Mexican jumping bean! I finally told me son, you're going to have to take the nut for a walk.

I came home from the vet's and she went crazy again at the site of the leash. Only this time, I had both the dogs' leashes. I leashed them both to the fence around the pool for a bath. She did circles around both my good dog and I wrapping us up and tripping us in turn. Let's just say she did not enjoy her bath much either.

Even after the baths were over and I was putting the leashes on the picnic table to dry, she was STILL convinced we were going for a walk.

What a psycho.

Likewise, the hour I spent at the vet's with my good dog made the contrast between the two seem even sharper. She sits and waits to be pet, committing no sin worse than moving in closer and closer for attention. What a good girl! I probably told her that 100 times today.

I have sworn off pure breds for good. Everybody hear that? No more nut dogs! I like having a lap dog, but the next one's going to HAVE to be a mix. Otherwise, the gene pool is entirely too polluted and I don't have the patience for any more canine retards.

If you knew sushi...

2009-11-06T20:46:00.003-06:00

Remember that movie Big with Tom Hanks? That's one of my favorite movies. And one of my favorite scenes from that movie is when Hanks' character (a 12 year old boy "trapped" in a man's body) is at a company dinner and eats caviar (presumably for the first time). He not only spits it out, he uses a napkin to wipe off his tongue repeatedly.

Hysterical!

Well, I witnessed something very close to that this evening. I had a girl's night out with my two daughters. The "boys" are out of town, so we went out for sushi. Never mind that we had to text my son in New Orleans to inquire about the closest/best sushi bar; or that his directions were somewhat lacking and we drove up and down Westheimer; or that both of my daughters rate as "remedial" when it comes to using chop stix; or that the youngest (age 14) thought wasabi was guacomole; or that the eldest (17) nearly killed us at least twice with her driving; hands down, it was the best time I've had in months.

I would have to describe myself as slightly more knowledgable than a novice in the sushi department, having eaten it fewer than 6 times I'm sure (unless you count ceviche, but I don't think you can). I at least understand the difference between sashimi and sushi; and that the pretty, pink sliced up vegetable they stack on your plate is raw ginger and is best eaten in tiny allotments.

Anyway, when the first round of food comes out, we break out the chopsticks. I'm left-handed, but for some reason, I use my right hand for chopsticks. I was trying to show both my daughters how to hold them properly, even though my eldest insisted she has eaten sushi countless numbers of times. I suppressed a giggle initially as I watched them in moments of desperation resort to using the chopsticks more as a spear than as the "pinchers" that they are.

I hope the restaurant was clean because several chunks of food tryingto make it into our mouths landed on the glass table-top. We invoked the 3-second rule repeatedly, even pretending we weren't picking the dropped food up with our fingers and throwing it back on our plates.

Younger daughter liked the wasabi (once she knew what it was) but kept putting way too much on her bites. The range of faces, grunts and howls as she was driven to tears was hilarious.

My older daughter "texted" her facebook account to change her profile, showing me the screen, which read, "My sister and sushi; like Jon and Kate." We howled more.

Another classic moment was when the youngest picked the fish off the top of her sashimi like it was parsley and ate the rice underneath it. I explained gently to her that the fish was the "main" food item; and that fish and rice were to be eaten together; popped, if you will.

By far, the best part was the octopus. First, the argument. With each piece of fish we ate, we would say, "Hmmm, I think that was the salmon," or "that was the tuna," or "yellow tail, yuk, that was the yellow tail." When my younger daughter got to the octopus, she announced with no small amount of trepidation, "I think this is octopus." Her sister insisted it certainly was not, but I concurred with the youngest. "Look," I said, "clearly, that's a section of tentacle; you can see the sunctiony-thingies."

The youngest picked up the octopus sashimi with her chopsticks and placed most of it in her mouth, with part of the tentacle hanging out. She very delicately (that's a lie) pulled the octopus back out again and threw it on the plate. "You have to eat that part ... that's the best part," I said. She used her chopsticks to attempt to saw the piece in half then offered, "Mommy, you want to split it with me?"

"Dear God," I exclaimed, "It's been in your mouth!"

My older daughter must have missed out on that part of the conversation because she interjected that she would like to split it. I turned to her (I was sitting between them) and repeated, "It's been in her mouth! She pulled it out of her mouth!"

We were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down our faces (or was it the wasabi?) I think I blew close to $50 on the excursion, but it was worth every penny.

Favorite TV moments

2009-10-26T20:02:00.002-05:00

There are three TV shows on my radar screen these days. Two of them are silly, even embarrassing -- Desperate Housewives and Secret Girlfriend. The third is sort of artsy and hip and edgy ... which clearly redeems me for watching the other two -- Madmen.

Here are some favorite moments from the most recent episodes of these shows, each of which is probably rated PG-13 or worse...

Desperate Housewives. (Sundays, 8 p.m., ABC) I know, totally contrived plots about over-the-top women who spend their days lying to their husbands and bosses and/or plotting against one another. Nearly every story line is built around deception. Every male character is a caricature of sorts. Let's see ... there's the emasculated one, the macho one, the super-nice one and the kinda dorky one. Each of them is married to a caricature as well: the domineering one, the conniving one, the ding-a-ling one and the super control freak one. So ... the favorite moment from last night. Domineering wife Lynette agreed to hire the senior citizen next door to do some handy work. Every job she gives him, he checks with her emasculated husband Tom first to make sure it's OK. This infuriates her. Ultimately, she fires him. So then Tom goes to see the neighbor, who says in essence, "I know times have changed, but a man is still a man!" Tom sets him straight by letting him in on a little secret: Lynette grew up with no father and an alcoholic mother. She had to be responsible for everything at a very young age. So she has this need to feel in control. Tom says, "She can't control everything, so I let her control me. That makes her feel safe and that's my job, to make my wife feel safe."

That was about the sweetest, most endearing thing I have EVER heard. While I was "awwwwing" all over the place, my husband replied, "He's a better man than me." Not true, not true.

Secret Girlfriend. (Wednesday, 9:30 p.m., Comedy Central) This is a really quirky show about a young adult (maybe college age) who has two women in his life. One is the all-American sweet girl whom he clearly has feelings for but who just wants to be his friend. The other is this psycho, neurotic sex fiend ex-girlfriend. There are also two totally slacker roommates who can best be described as John Belushi wanna-be's. The clever thing is, you never see or even hear the main character. The other characters talk to him and the camera shows his perspective, but the closest you come to knowing anything about him is through the text messages he receives and responds to from these two women. So last episode, all-American girl shows up and asks, who wants to go out? None of the three guys seem terribly interested, until she informs them she is going to a lesbian bar. Suddenly, the two loser roomies can't get out the door fast enough. One of them is determined to make at least one lesbian go "straight" by showing them what they are missing out on and convincing them to look at his unmentionables. The other dude is totally oblivious that one of the lesbians has mistaken him for a really-butch woman. They are making out behind the dance floor when suddenly, she starts yelling and punching. She is incensed to learn that he is in fact a man, confirmed by a package check. She says to him, "Didn't you realize when I told you that you had nice breasts that I thought you were a woman?" He plays the dumb card to the hilt; in fact, he IS the dumb card. They are all thrown out of the club when nearly every lesbian in the place starts beating up on all of them, with the girlfriend of one of the women the other roomie exposed himself to furious to learn, "You showed my girlfriend your junk!!" I know, so sophomoric, but strangely entertaining. The best part is when they are all riding home together and one lesbian says, "My girlfriend said seeing your stuff made her 10% more gay." Gotta love the "in your face" approach!

Madmen. (9 p.m. Sundays, AMC) "Critically acclaimed" and "award winning" are the phrases that usually accompany TV and web ads for this show. If you have never watched it, OMG, what planet are you from? It's about the NYC advertising industry; only it's set in the 60s. Everyone drinks and smokes all day long -- yes, at the office especially. Whether it's the office politics, the personal lives of the principles or the ad campaigns they are trying to develop for various clients, the show is hands-down engaging, entertaining, funny, poignant and outrageous. Most favorite episode THIS season featured an office party celebrating the "restructuring" of the ad agency (Sterling Cooper). SC was bought out by a British firm the previous season and the ugly Americans are trying their best to adjust to the penny-pinching, uptight British overlords. So in this episode, one of the ad execs has John Deere for a client. He manages to borrow a John Deere riding lawn mower for a shoot or something. During the party, a very-drunk secretary follows this ad exec's earlier lead and begins driving the mower through the office like she's Debra Winger riding the bull at Gilley's. Everyone is standing around drinking and smoking and making their usual lewd comments about all the secretaries when here comes idiot drunk secretary on the John Deere. The Johnny-come-lately Brit who has just been christened heir-apparent is standing around with the fellas when the secretary actually runs OVER his foot. Foot guts and blood go shooting across the room, painting the walls and fronts of everyone's shirts. Then she drives it straight through a plate glass wall.

Outrageous with a capital O!

But the best part is when the other British execs are later evaluating their injured comrades future, shaking their heads and agreeing that his career in advertising is over. After all, they conclude, he'll never play golf again! GOTTA love it.

Ok, Ok, truth be known, there is a fourth show we watch, but I refuse to claim that I like it. It's that new Courtney Cox sitcom called Cougar Town. The premise and title are so offensive, I do my best to act "put off" the entire time it's on. (Wednesdays, 9 p.m., ABC?) If you enjoy insepid, pathetic humor at the expense of 40-something women, tune in this one next week.

The competition

2009-10-26T19:53:00.002-05:00

I admit that I am very competitive. I can keep my competitive side under wraps most of the time, but if someone starts trying to compete with me, I confess it rears its ugly head.

Sunday morning, my husband was taking his blood pressure with our digital blood pressure monitor. He smiled satisfied with the result: 127/81.

Not bad.

I said, let me check mine, which turned out to be 113/79. "Hmm ... that's sort of high for me," I said, "Oh well, it's better than yours."

And THAT is where I made my mistake. He took the monitor from me, took a deep, "cleansing" breath and tried again. 117/74.

"Oh no you didn't," I thought. Mimicking his relaxation technique, I strapped the monitor back on my wrist for a second time, switching to the left wrist, which was the side he had been measuring on. 93/61.

Yeah baby, now THAT'S what I'm talking about.

He insisted it was a false reading.

Oh yeah? Oh YEAH? OK, suckah -- I'll do it again!

Apparently, we had worn the little monitor out by this time. It started to squeeze my wrist, then suddenly petered out and gave the "error" message.

Hmmm ... better try again.

Same result ... ERROR.

OK, whatever, even if you don't count my "supposed" false reading, I still won. That's all that really matters...

Not raffle

2009-10-23T11:06:00.002-05:00

Today our church is hosting its Fall Fling, our annual fall celebration. Something new this year is a raffle. No wait, I mean it is not a raffle. I am not in charge of it. No wait, I mean I am in charge of it.

It's not a raffle, but I am in charge of it.

I am in charge of the not-raffle.

We have 3 different door prizes we are offering, but it's a not-raffle.

You can donate money to receive a door prize ticket, but it's a not-raffle.

We will pull door prize tickets to award the prizes, but it's a not-raffle.

Even more hilarious, two of the three prizes weren't even donated, even though the not-raffle tickets state that they were.

Not-donated prizes for a not-raffle.

I believe it states somewhere in the Methodist discipline that the Methodist church does not condone raffles. I wonder if the Methodist church would condone a not-raffle?

Because of this inconvenient little "rule," we started referring to the raffle as a not-raffle and the not-raffle tickets as door prize tickets. You see, there are pharisees among us who would froth at the mouth to know we would dare to hold a raffle.

Yes, it's definitely a not-raffle.

Jesus was more about the "heart" of the rule than the rule itself. Perhaps the Methodist church does not condone raffles because any game of chance has the potential of victimizing the poor.

Not this not-raffle. It's a one-time chance (I mean not-chance) and I assure you 99% of those who "donated" money for the not-raffle tickets are reasonably affluent. No one's children will go begging bread because of the not-raffle.

I'm still betting that someone will give me an earful of their pious opinions before it is all said and done. Next year, I will be the not-chair of the not-raffle. That will keep it all simpler.

Pretty

2009-10-10T16:30:00.004-05:00

"I am a beautician, not a magician."

That's a sign that hangs in the shop of the woman who cuts my hair. It's similar to a statement another stylist made to me once: people with Volkswagen hair think I can give them Mercedes hair.

Ouch!

Regardless, I plopped down in my beautician's chair on Friday and stared hopelessly into the mirror five feet in front of me. As she always does, she started running her fingers through my hair and playing with it. "OK, what are we doing today?"

Obviously, she's been in this business long enough to know that she'll make more money if she follows directions than if she actually does what looks good. People (esp woman) can be so freaky about their hair!

So when she asked, what are we doing today? I responded rather timidly, "Make me pretty."

She cocked her head to one side and dared to grin.

I said it again. "I just need to look pretty."

She asked what I had in mind. That's when I got a little frustrated. I mean, isn't she the expert? Maybe the reason I find myself so dissatisfied with my hair is because I keep behaving like the stylist when I should just sit there and keep my mouth shut.

And that's about what I told her ... "Look, you know what looks good and what doesn't. When I dictate how you should style my hair, I keep ending up with THIS," running my hands through my hair for added emphasis.

I gave her a few parameters: Shorter, layers, less droopy.

I wonder when the last time was she actually was given permission to exercise her creativity and artistry instead of trying to make the best of bad instructions?

At one point, she snipped a certain area and it was as if my entire head was transformed. And I told her so ... "OMG. That last cut just changed everything!"

So today I feel a little less frumpy. I feel a little bit younger. I feel a little more sassy.

I feel ... pretty.

Saturday rant

2009-10-03T09:13:00.003-05:00

It's Saturday morning. I slept 10 hours last night, just finished breakfast, downed a handful of vitamins and am working on my second cup of coffee. So why am I so tired?

I tried to be "noble" this week and donate platelets for a friend of a friend who has leukemia. I flunked the iron test. I wasn't even close. To donate, your score has to be 12.5; mine was 10.3. I don't really know what those numbers mean except that the technician said to me, "Wow, that's really low."

So now I have convinced myself that there must be something medically wrong with me; except I am fighting this conclusion, fighting becoming my Father, a life-long hypochondriac who only quit going to the doctor because he got a real disease -- Alzheimer's -- and forgot that he thought he was sick all the time.

My husband is outside fixing the fence. I can hear him pounding away right outside my office window. The implication is that I should be doing something productive as well (though it should be noted that the finger-pointing is being done by me and not him). I made the bed, but now am regretting that. Frankly, I'd like to climb back between the sheets.

My husband has just called me outside to inspect the fence. It seems he needs to brace it up with a 2x4, which will require me to relocate one of my vines. Seeing my flat response to this announcement, he formulates a plan b. So I wander back inside to my coffee and laptop.

I am 10 pages shy of finishing a novel that, up to 30 pages ago, I was enjoying. The plot has turned depressing. It is inevitable that the ending will be sad, destructive. What's the point of reading that? The author writes in a style pretty close to what I am writing in now, narrating matter-of-factly the lives of her tragic characters (except she is a much better writer).

I know I am also tired from all the triangles I found myself trapped in yesterday. My younger daughter is running cross country and playing a role in the UIL one act play at her school. The problem is that the play practice and meets are overlapping. I tried to get the two advisers talking to each other, but ended up as the go-between in this argument of which activity is the most important and has received my daughter's irreversible, undying vow of total commitment. Suffice to say that emailing the drama teacher is enough to exhaust anyone. (Clearly, she is in her called field.) Exasperated, I tell my daughter that I am jumping out of the triangle; she will have to resolve this situation herself. She states rather poignantly, "So don't get involved in the first place." Ouch.

My second (least) favorite, recurring triangle involves my two daughters. The moment I stepped foot out of the house yesterday to go to the dry cleaners, I begin receiving texts from the elder of the two, insisting that I make her little sister do this and do that. My refusal brings accusations that I am failing in my motherly duties. Oh well. After questioning the younger daughter about the accusations being laid at her door, I tell her, fix it. I almost stayed out of that triangle...

I don't have a clever, snappy ending for today. (Perhaps that's how the author of the novel I'm reading also felt...)

Other Chris

2009-09-30T20:06:00.005-05:00

While I was attending a conference in LA last Thursday-Monday, I met many new people. Most of these people were "collected" by my room mate and fellow church staff member, Michelle.

We would agree to meet up for dinner or sight seeing or going to the youth specialties store, or whatever, and without fail, some new person would tag along with her. "This is Garrett ... this is Jason ... this is Chris" ... and so on.

On Sunday, we decided to ride the underground metro to Hollywood before the late afternoon sessions started. "Nice" Chris, Miguel and the "other" Chris went along with us.

"Other" Chris looked to be about my age. I asked him and found out that sure enough, he was ... 40; six years my junior. This other Chris talked a great deal; almost as if he liked the sound of his voice (well, OK, not almost ... definitely liked it). I had attended several sessions that "other" Chris also attended, where I noticed his penchant for interrupting the speakers or questioning them without even raising his hand. Hmm, pretty sure of himself!

In one open forum, we were discussing hell. It seems "other" Chris is a Presbyterian. After you shared your opinions on the topic at hand, the facilitator would ask, "And what is your denominational background?" When I replied "Methodist," other Chris added, "Oh, a reformist in the group."

Whatever.

On the way to the metro, other Chris never stopped expressing his opinion. Every so often, I would challenge him, sort of making fun of him without him even realizing it. He was telling a story about a "successful attorney" in his congregation that didn't act anything like the usual high-powered lawyer. I asked him, "Exactly what does a high-powered lawyer act like?" I smirked while I said this, withholding from him the fact that my husband is an attorney.

He had a real habit of categorizing people; constantly. After one Methodist comment too many, I finally said, "Can we all just be ourselves instead of this or that?" He agreed -- or so I thought.

We stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch before continuing on our sedate adventure to Hollywood. I was the last to get my food and when I arrived at the table, "other" Chris was just saying, "Where is Mother? Getting napkins?"

I was flabbergasted.

WHAT did you just say? I asked. Did you say, "Where is mother" ????

What was that comment supposed to mean? I know I had mentioned at some point that I needed to get a couple souvenirs for two of my kids, but other than that, I was certain I had not acted particularly motherly.

I confess he hit a nerve with me. I mean, I was quite aware that I was significantly older than most of the individuals attending this youth conference; in fact, I probably could have been many of their mothers. But I wasn't; and that was my point.

I remarked snidely, "I'm going to ignore that comment, because I know you're into labeling people; I get that about you..." He apologized for offending me. I sniffed my acceptance.

That night, a friend from high school picked me up for the evening. Michelle told me later that when I failed to show up for dinner (yes, her gaggle of new found friends were clinging fast), "other" Chris asked for me repeatedly, saying he wished I was there so he could ask me my opinion of this or that.

I found that interesting.

I suppose everyone just wants their mother...

LA Woman

2009-09-25T22:17:00.000-05:00

This is my second day in LA . OK, I can't speak about all of LA because I am based in downtown LA. I have experienced about 4 square blocks of downtown LA.

It is very clean. I feel very safe walking around at 10pm at night. It is very bright. They have large, lighted, building-sized billboards and video billboards and light billboards. It is somewhat like Time Square on a tamer level.

I know they say New York is the city that never sleeps, but I think LA is trying to give them a run for their money. Tonight, I counted six (SIX!!!) sports cars with buxom young ladies and "Red Bull" signs plastered on the sides handing out free Red Bulls to people. Yeah, that should get everyone good and jacked up. They'll all be up for hours ... not this girl, though.

Fashion is interesting. Who wears short-shorts? These girls wear short-shorts. And short skirts. I have seen my fill of skin-tight skirts that are so short, if the wearer missteps, you would be able to confirm their gender. Wow. I could never have pulled that off at 20. Just the idea of standing up for an entire evening makes it seem impossible right there.

Our hotel is an old, vintage place. It has character. I like it. There is no room service, but the ala carte breakfast buffet is pretty awesome. I got scrambled eggs, 3 links of sausage and a cup of coffee for $4.39 (including tax). I guarantee you that was the cheapest meal I will have while I'm here. For dinner, my friend and I had cheeseburger and french fries. I think the total for both of us was about $17. Not bad, not bad.

One of the "trendier" spots at lunch is the ESPN restaurant. It's a sport's lovers dream. I have never seen so many screens of so many different sports. Wow. The food wasn't bad either. I had a steak salad (yum, the best of both worlds -- steak and salad). And "reasonably" priced at $13.

More conference tomorrow, including the promise of a concert by the David Crowder Band. (You either know who he is or you don't) Then on Sunday we will play a little -- attending the first workshop (aptly titled "What about hell") and then head to Hollywood and all the tourist traps. it seemed beautifully ironic to me that we would go to a seminar about our conceptions of hell and then go to Hollywood. I dunno -- am I the only one who thinks that is funny?

I have an old friend from high school who is picking me up in the afternoon on Sunday for hang out time and dinner. She lives in Hermosa Beach and I am hoping we will actually get to see some beach. That would be great.

There is something about this place that is making me terribly dehydrated. I got up twice last night for glasses of water! It must be related to being here in the desert.

I'm sure by the time I leave on Monday morning, I will have reached the conclusion most travelers reach at the end of their journey: It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Room 525?

2009-09-24T19:53:00.002-05:00

So I checked into my hotel in LA. I'm rooming with someone else from our church staff, youth director Michelle. She got here yesterday. I give my name at the front desk and he says, "You're staying with someone else, right?" I said yes and gave her name. He repeated back a different last name ... and I said, oh, yeah, right, that is her maiden name.

So I get my key to room 525 (yeah, for real, a metal key that you slip into a lock!!). I take the elevator up. I find room 525. I tap on the door. I put in the key and unlock the door and go inside.

Hey! Why is there just one queen size bed??? I think to myself, "unbelievable..." So right as I whip out my cell phone and start texting Michelle to ask, "Where's the other bed?" there is a frantic tap tap tap at the door. It's the front desk guy, visibly winded.

"I'm sorry, I sent you to the wrong room!"

I'm thinking he must have ran up 5 flights of stairs, he is so panicked and out of breath. I laugh when he tells me this, mostly out of relief.

All the way to the elevator, he is apologizing profusely. I say, hey, no problem, really, it's OK, stop already...

He parks me on the 4th floor and goes back to the lobby, returning moments later with the room key.

So, here we go again. Tap on the door, key in the lock, turn the knob ... Yay, two beds! One has a note on it from Michelle addressed to Tammy. Double yay! Definitely made it to the right room this time.

Welcome home!