Life's A Funny Thing

The Realist

2009-05-14T21:50:00.001-07:00

My mother is a practical woman. A realist, if you will. Dad and I, though, we're the dreamers. Mom has spent most of her adult life trying to haul one or both of us kicking and screaming back into reality. I like to think I'm not quite as bad as Dad, though. I mean, when we play the Lottery game, I don't actually go out and start test driving Jaguars. (Ok, a Mustang once, and I wasn't really serious. Ok, ok, I wasn't THAT serious.)

You all know the Lottery game, right? The "If You Won A Billion Dollars What Would You Do With It?" game. This is one of my favorite games ever. I love the "What if" games. All of them. Well, except for the "What If You Shut Up and Let Me Go to Sleep And When We Wake Up We'll Decide If We're Going to Stay Married?" game that Mike came up with one night. I'm not so fond of that one.

But still, I love these games. Because, sure, it's IMPROBABLE that I'll one day be stranded on an island with only a kazoo, a pomegranate and Brad Pitt but it's not IMPOSSIBLE and I'd like to be prepared so I don't commit some horrible faux pas like NOT KNOWING HOW TO EAT A POMEGRANATE CORRECTLY(Because think about it, do you know how? And if not, would you want that to come to light in the presence of Brad Pitt? I did not think so.)

Dad also loves the "What If" games. His real life may not be that eventful but let me assure you, his fantasy life is unrivaled. So anyway, one day Dad and I were playing the Lottery game. And Dad had gone on at great length and detail (he puts a LOT of thought into this) about the houses he'd buy for his children, the cars, and yes, I might even at last get that pony. You know, the usual. And then I detailed my list of dreams. (We had to up the amount from a million because we felt we should be somewhat philanthropic, but we still wanted to be able to finance the private island.) As we're doing this, Mom was wandering around the room straightening things, because that's what she does. She straightens things and rolls her eyes. But on this day, she actually was willing to play with us.

I sat poised on the edge of my chair, waiting to hear what Mom would do with a billion dollars; what crazy wild dreams she has somewhere under all the perfectly combed hair. And as I waited, she gazed off into space and got a kind of dreamy look on her face before announcing, "Well, I guess I'd move into one of those cute condos by the office."

"Why would you choose to live there?" I asked, thinking of all the exotic places she's mentioned wanting to see. And she did not disappoint. Still in that trance-like state of dreaminess she announced, "Well because then I could walk to work if my car didn't start."

I love my mom. Not only is she a great mom, I can be confident she's not going to just fritter away those billions I plan to inherit.

A Moving Experience

2009-04-21T19:50:00.000-07:00

Right now, we're in the middle of another move. Why? Good question. I'm beginning to think we're just the kind of people who see the opportunity to experience prolonged and profound chaos and say, "SIGN. US. UP."

Now, for those keeping count, this is the second move in two years. And if you're wondering if two years is really long enough to forget the horror, let me assure you, it is not. And yet, it became quite clear this evening, that Hubs is under the impression that this whole moving thing? Completely new to me.

Tonight, Hubs informed me that he's been storing boxes in the garage. Not just any boxes, but the good copier paper boxes of which I am so very fond for moving purposes.

"Ok," he tells me, leading me into the garage, "Here are the boxes. These are all empty, so use these."

"The empty ones?"

"Yeah."

"And this is something you feel you need to specify?"

"I just want you to know which boxes to use."

"That's very sweet. Ok..let me see if I have this straight. You'd like me to use the boxes that don't have anything in them as opposed to the ones I've already packed things in? Is that right?"

"Well, I just don't want you to haul a box all the way upstairs and then realize it's already full."

"I see. So, if I notice a box is really heavy, and I haul it upstairs anyway because I, for whatever reason, assume that in this case the heaviness means something OTHER THAN THE BOX ISN'T EMPTY, what should I do then? WHAT?!"

Wish us luck.

Doused and Drenched Dignity (Yes, I've posted this one before.)

2009-04-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

With the brief appearance of Spring, Hubs and I have once again been discussing what to do with the yard. Or if we should even HAVE a yard, given his lack of time and my propensity for killing all living things under my care. (How Son has survived this long is a mystery to us all.) Whatever we do, we'll have fun, which reminded me of this particular event I wrote about a few years ago. (Hey, Summer's coming. Time for re-runs!)

Doused and Drenched Dignity

I’m well aware that one shouldn’t marry a man believing that one can “change” him. So, when I say that I’ve had my husband under my personal care for intensive humor rehabilitation, I don’t really see it as trying to change him. Instead, I am merely trying to help him achieve his full potential. Don’t get me wrong, one of Hubs' most attractive qualities is his sense of humor. He’s a great connoisseur of the ironic and the absurd. However, he’s also a dignified and rather reserved man. Although he is capable of silliness in the privacy of his own home he does his best
to maintain his dignity in the presence of others. Considering who his wife is, this has actually been quite an accomplishment. Our neighbors have known Hubs all his life and until recently believed Hubs to be a cool, collected young man; serious and sober; a paragon of propriety. For most of his life, that’s exactly what he was. Then one day, he met me and life for Hubs has never been the quite the same.

I am pathologically incapable of maintaining the facade of decorum for longer than a few hours at a time. It’s not always deliberate, but I generally manage to trip, fall or somehow create an embarrassing or awkward situation. Sometimes I simply think of something humorous and begin laughing for reasons that are apparent to absolutely no one else. Hubs just shrugs indulgently, and continues whatever he is doing in his usual perfectly proper comportment.

The recent public unveiling of Hubs' silly side began, as is so often the case in these matters, with the highly hilarious job of mowing the lawn. Hubs, Son and I have developed a routine when it comes to lawn care. Hubs does the edging and trimming, I perform the arduous chore of driving around on the riding lawn mower (no sacrifice is too great when it comes to maintaining our yard, you know) while our son uses the leaf blower to remove the clippings from the sidewalks and driveway.

As I was doing my part, I noticed that despite the fact that we have asked Son countless times to put his “Super Soaker” water-gun in the garage when he’s not using it, the toy had been left on the lawn. Dire consequences have been threatened if this violation occurred again. So, I did what any responsible mother would do; I picked it up and took it behind the house to fill it. This particular water gun is approximately the size of Mickey Rooney, so it was a little difficult to conceal as I drove the lawn mower to the front of the house. Fortunately Hubs was dutifully focusing on making sure our lawn was perfectly edged. He never saw me coming. As soon as I was within range, I aimed and opened fire, dousing my husband from head to toe. He scarcely reacted, unless you count the look of censure and disapproval he directed at me. Realizing that Hubs was not amused with my attempt at levity, I did the only thing I could. I turned around, and retreated to the back of the house to reload.

As I returned to the front yard to continue my attack on Hubs' dignity, it occurred to me that he might get angry. But I am nothing if not dedicated to the task of getting him to lighten up. I realized when I turned the corner, that the edger was lying on the sidewalk. As I contemplated the implications of this development, I realized Hubs was in the garage, the big coward. As if that would deter me from my mission. I was caught completely off guard when from the dark interior of the garage came a forceful stream of water from the garden hose. I was shocked and stunned. He actually turned the hose on me. I beat a hasty retreat to regroup.

I realized I was at a distinct disadvantage since the lawn mower is only slightly less noisy than a Grateful Dead concert. After considering my options, I chose to hire the services of a mercenary. Fortunately, ten-year old mercenaries are easily bought. For the price of three cookies and an extra half-hour of Nintendo privileges, Son filled his spare water gun and went around one side of the house, while I acted as a decoy by driving around the other side. As I
predicted, Hubs was waiting for me. He turned the hose on me again, but this time, rather than retreating, I pressed bravely onward driving directly at him. It was like a bizarre game of “chicken”. He kept waiting for me to swerve; I kept waiting for him to duck into the garage. Frankly I felt fairly certain that I had an advantage being on a small vehicle complete with sharp, whirling blades. I have to give Hubs credit, though. He stood his ground. At least he did until he was attacked from behind.

After that, it became a free-for-all. Hubs managed to completely drench both Son and me. Then Son, who will not receive full payment for his services, turned traitor and joined Hubs in driving me from the lawn mower. Once I was unseated and vulnerable, Hubs and Son both put all their efforts into making sure I was drenched and defeated.

I realized I had no choice but to surrender. As I opened my mouth to utter the words that had never before crossed my lips – “You win”– Hubs turned on the leaf blower, moved to a huge pile of grass clippings and successfully covered me from head to toe in freshly cut grass.

It was at about that point that I noticed we were being watched. The commotion in our sedate little neighborhood had evidently prompted the neighbors to investigate. I also noticed that we weren’t receiving the customary covert glances our neighbors generally employ. Even the neighbors across the street had come to a standstill and were watching with dropped jaws and wide eyed stupefaction. For a brief moment, I wondered how Hubs would react to the realization that his decorous cover had been so thoroughly blown. He simply laughed, and proceeded to cover me with more grass.

I have never been more proud.

Someday He'll Need Therapy

2009-04-01T08:16:00.001-07:00

Years ago, Hubs and I came to the conclusion that we will never again be able to speak to each other with any degree of privacy unless we actually have evidence that Son is at least 20 miles away. Even then we're careful. Son has also become more careful over the years. He no longer sits and eavesdrops in locations where he's likely to fall asleep and tumble down the stairs. Now he stands in the shadows in the hall.

It's somewhat difficult for me to fathom why a child who acts like he's being put through physical and mental torture every time we speak to him still feels he has a right to be informed of our every thought and word, but I've found as long as we're not addressing HIM, we have his undivided attention.

And so this morning, on this most glorious of all holidays, we decided to make this work for us.

Hubs and I went downstairs and began a conversation about Son's school performance. This is not a topic Son particularly enjoys discussing. In fact, he tells us the very subject causes his ear drums to melt, which is a problem because his brain is then in danger of just rolling right out of his head.

It's a chance we're prepared to take.

Right on schedule we hear Son making his way to the kitchen.

"...and so his counselor says if we want to, we can put him in that program and maybe he can be caught up by the end of the year," I begin.

"Hmm. Well it sounds like a good idea. Kind of a pain having to get up that early on Saturdays though." The sound of Son's sharp intake of breath assures us our unseen audience is paying attention.

"Yeah, I know. 6 a.m. is even earlier than he normally gets up on school days. Still, if we do this we can avoid summer school."

"I guess we can alternate taking him. That way we can each sleep in every other Saturday." I grin and give Hubs a thumbs up. Sleeping in on Saturday is something very close to Son's heart.

I continue, "There may be a solution that will work for both of us. His counselor said if we're within the boundaries, he can take the bus."

"On Saturday?"

"Well...it's not the, uh, regular bus."

At this, Son can take no more. "WHAT?!? You're sending me to school on the short bus? On a Saturday??" I look at him reprovingly. "I'm sorry. But still, Mom! I'll get teased!"

"Oh, I don't think so. You're going to be going so early no one will be around."

"What do you mean 'early'? What are you talking about? They don't have school on Saturday!"

"Eavesdropping, were you?"

"I can't help it if I overhear you. You were talking about ME."

"Son, when we're talking TO you, you don't listen. Why do you care now?"

"I am NOT going to school on Saturday. I don't want to."

"Funny, I don't recall asking you if you want to."

"MOM!!"

"Son, you had a choice at the beginning of the year. You made the choice not to turn in your homework. And yes, you have a right to make that choice. Unfortunately, the consequence that is attached to that choice is your loss of freedom on Saturdays until school's out."

"But..."

"It's out of my hands, Son. Your choice, your consequence."

"But...for how long? How long do I have to do this?"

"Until school's out."

"That's three months away!"

"No, actually, it's just two."

"March, April..." The light began to dawn. "MOM!!! It's April. April first." Relief and irritation warred. Relief won.

Then came the anticipated threats of retaliation.

"When I get home I am SO going to get you for this," he promised.

We're not worried. We're safe inside the house. Particularly after I have the locks changed today.

Time to update?

2009-04-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

So where have I been this time? Good question. For the past year, most of my good stories have been work-related and thus off limits for public consumption. A pity, since my eyes have rolled so much in the last couple of years that I'm no longer certain they're actually attached to anything.

I've also been busy trying to retain my oh-so-fragile grip on sanity while trying to prevent Son from becoming an 8th grade drop-out. He tells me I'm "squashing (his) dreams" of becoming a software tycoon at the age of 13. Perhaps. On the other hand, he's squashing MY dream of not having him living in our basement when he's 40. So, you know, fair's fair.

A few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided Son needs me more than the company does, and thus I am free at last! Well, if staying home, doing laundry, cooking meals, cleaning house and spending hours arguing the finer points of homework completion constitutes freedom. And for me, it does.

So as promised, I have returned. Look out. I've got stories.

Something You'd Think I'd Already Know

2008-05-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

Last night, Hubs called and asked if I'd like to meet him for dinner. Let's see, get out of cooking dinner, get out of washing dishes (assuming Hubs remembers his credit card) and most importantly, get out of the HOUSE? My friends, this is not an offer I am ever likely to refuse.

Since I wasn't quite finished with some errands and Hubs had just left the office, we agreed that Hubs would go get a table and I'd meet him there.

Sounds simple enough, right?

As I was driving to meet him, Hubs sent me a message, "Seated. Give them your name, they'll show you where I am."

So I approached the hostess and told her, "Hi, I'm meeting my husband here; he's already been seated."

Very business-like she picked up her list and asked briskly, "Okay, do you know your husband's name?"

Blink.

Not sure I'd heard her correctly I inquired, "Excuse me?"

"Do you know your husband's name?" She tapped her pen on the list, impatience clearly setting in. And why not? I'd be irked, too, if confronted with someone who was unaware of her spouse's name. Well maybe not irked but I would certainly be inclined to snicker.

Still, I am nothing if not helpful and polite. Apologetically I admitted, "No. No, I don't know my husband's name. I've been meaning to ask but..."

At this point a nice server man stepped up and asked, "Miss, (and the judge awards 2 bonus points for going with "Miss" as opposed to "Ma'am"!) may I ask YOUR name, please?"

"Why, certainly! That I know!" I gave him my name and he kindly took me to meet Hubs.

On our way to the table, the server grinned and said, "Would you like me to introduce you to your husband?"

"Only if he's cute."

"I'm sure you'll think so. He looks like he's the kind who tips well, too."

And as it turned out Hubs was both. Plus he DID remember his credit card. While he had it out, I sneaked a peek at his name. You know, just in case this question comes up again. I want to be prepared.

A Deeply Philosophical Conversation About the Pope

2008-04-16T16:41:00.000-07:00

Hubs, Son and I were watching coverage of the Pope's visit to the White House. We watched as the Pope greeted President Bush and they walked along the red carpet. Suddenly Hubs announces, "He's wearing red shoes!"

"Really?"

"I think so, run it back. Wait...yes. Yes, he's wearing red shoes."

"Red. Interesting."

"Yeah, I wonder why he'd wear red shoes. Not that there's anything wrong with red, I just wonder if it's symbolic or something."

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"Well, if there are problems with the airlines, he can click his heels and chant 'There's no place like Rome, there's no place like Rome."

"Ah. It makes total sense!"

"Exactly."

It's at times like these that I worry about us.

Fooled

2008-04-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

With surgery scheduled for Tuesday morning, Hubs and I knew we had to execute our prank on Son early in the day. The night before, my partner in marriage and crime accompanied me to our secret headquarters (read: IHOP). Hubs busily poured syrup on his waffles while I called the meeting to order.

“So, what should we aim for? Trouble with a teacher? Extra homework?”

“Nah, that’s too…blah.”

I thought about events of the past week and it hit me. “Got it! When you were a young boy on the brink of the teen years, what was the most horrifying prospect you could possibly imagine?”

“Having my friends find out I have parents?”

“I thought that was currently your worst fear.”

“It is.”

“Right. Okay then. And what’s more embarrassing than parents’ existence?”

“Parents in the context of kissing, dancing, baby pictures, home movies, underwear or pajamas.”

“Exactly.”

April 1, 2008
Dawn

Hubs is in position, outside Son’s bedroom door. He calls the land line from his cell phone. There is no caller ID on the phone downstairs, so we don’t worry about covering our tracks. Hubs lets it ring three times before hanging up; enough rings for Son to register that it’s ringing, too few for Son to get to the phone in time to answer it. Moments later, we hear Son moving around in his room. This is my signal to ring the front doorbell. I press the bell, quietly close the door, and slip up the stairs. Then I run down the stairs making as much noise as I can, throw the door open and exclaim cheerily, “Good morning! I’m not sure if he’s awake yet, but come sit down and I’ll go get him!”

Hubs waits two or three beats then pounds on Son’s door. “Son? Mrs. Neighbor’s pipes burst during the night and the kids in the church youth group are going over to help.” I arrive at Son’s bedroom just as he opens the door and gets a look at my morning attire. I have taken pains with my appearance and am looking glamorous in mismatched socks, faded pajamas (from two different sets), and the remnants of the previous day’s mascara under my eyes. Not that Son looks much better; he’s getting ready to shower and is wearing a towel and a milk mustache left over from an apparent midnight kitchen raid.

“Hey what’s the hold-up? Your friends are waiting.”

“Oh right. April Fool’s!” Son shouts, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Huh? What are you talking about? Look, all I know is the youth leader called and a few minutes later your friends showed up. Didn’t you hear the phone ring or the door bell? You’ve got to get moving!”

“But…wait...it’s April Fool’s day. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Listen, Kid, I'm getting ready to take your mother to the hospital, for heaven’s sake. Do you really think I’m about to just hang around and play games with you this morning?"

"Yeah," I add. "Hello? I am having surgery in an hour. I don’t have time to goof around. So put some clothes on and get upstairs. NOW.”

“People? Upstairs?” Son’s bravado falters a little bit. He glances at me again, before moving on to do a head-to-toe survey of his father. Garbed in worn sweatpants and an undershirt, Hubs runs his fingers through a hairstyle that looks as if it could only have been achieved with the help of a tube of styling gel and a blender. Son looks back and forth at us while Hubs heightens the effect of Early Morning Chic by scratching and belching a couple of times. I wrap my arms around Hubs and kiss him noisily on the cheek. Horror begins to spread across Son’s features.

Sensing victory, Hubs pushes forward. Yawning and stretching again he points out, “Dude, seriously, if I were you I’d get it in gear and put some clothes on before those girls see you.”

“Girls?” It comes out as more of a squeak than an actual word. “Upstairs? And you answered the door like that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother answered the door.” Oddly, Son doesn’t seem comforted by this assurance.

“What? This is what I'm wearing to the hospital. They’re just going to make me put on a hospital gown anyway, and besides they said no cosmetics or hairspray.” Hubs and I head upstairs. “Honey, since I’m ready to go, I’ll go talk to Son’s friends while we wait.”

A few minutes later, the top of Son’s suspiciously well-groomed head appears around the door. He peers carefully around, inspecting the room closely before concluding that it is indeed teen-girl-free.

“I knew you were kidding,” he boasts. “I knew it was just an April Fool’s joke. I knew you wouldn’t let anyone see you dressed like that.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you went from wearing nothing but a towel to being fully dressed and groomed in less than five minutes.”

“Whatever. I’m going to get you guys for this.”

I’m not worried. The phrase “I will chaperone your next school dance” will give us the upper hand for years to come.

The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

2008-04-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

I'm off to have surgery in an hour. Seriously. This puts a huge crimp in my usual plans for celebrating the holiday.

However.

We totally got Son this morning. So the day's not a total loss!

Details to come!

Conspicuously Invisible

2008-03-27T13:31:00.001-07:00

It all started when Son wandered in and casually announced that he was going to go take a shower. Voluntarily. With soap and water and everything. Naturally, my response was to immediately go look for the phone book. As I was looking up the number of a good mental health professional, and wondering if my allergy meds were responsible for this obvious hallucination, it hit me; Son has been spending a LOT of time lately on his bike cruising the neighborhood. He has suddenly stopped feigning illness every school day, stopped claiming that the school bus is nothing more than Hell's taxi cab, and last week I caught him looking in a mirror. On purpose.

This could mean only one thing. I just wondered if he'd volunteer the information or if I'd have to probe for the girl's name. Fortunately, Son was feeling talkative.

"Mom, you have no idea how hard it is to notice someone without them noticing you're noticing."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Is there someone in particular you're trying to notice, unnoticed?"

Heavy sigh. "Yeah. I was trying to take her picture with my cell phone but I think she saw me."

The horror. Son went on to lament with disgust the difficulties of taking good pictures while pretending to nonchalantly make a phone call. Then he said, "You have no idea, Mom. You had it so much easier when you were a kid."

"I did?"

"Yeah, you could take pictures all you wanted and no one would ever know." I pondered that a moment, wondering how on earth he thought pulling out a camera, waiting for the flash to be ready, and snapping the picture was in any way inconspicuous. I gave up.

"What makes you think no one could tell we were taking pictures?"

"Oh, they could tell you were taking pictures, but with that hood over your head no one would be able to tell it was you."

That's what he thinks. Protecting my identity was next to impossible once I set my hair on fire with the flash.

Tagged. A Meme. (Does it rhyme with 'Amen'?)

2008-03-13T13:07:00.001-07:00

It seems I was tagged by Ronni to do this meme. (Question, where did that word come from, anyway? And how is it pronounced? Is it because it's about me, me? I have no idea.) Unlike most meme's this one appears to have no theme, no set questions, no rhyme and no reason. Just seven random facts about me, me.

1. When I was a child, I was absolutely terrified of the Pirates of the Carribean ride at Disney Land. This was not due to a fear of the Carribean, nor was it due to a fear of pirates; in fact I rather liked the idea of becoming a pirate when I grew up. I still may do just that. You never know. No, my fear has its roots in that time Dad told me to hold my breath when we went down the hills during the ride because we were, in fact, going under water. I nearly asphyxiated myself. When I asked Dad after the ride (and after I caught my breath) why we weren't wet, having spent all that time under water and all, he explained that in the Magic Kingdom they have magic water which dries immediately. I believed this wholeheartedly.

So, random fact number one: I am very gullible. Also, I'm afraid of boats and water. Coincidence? I think not. (Note: Mom only recently became aware of this little event in my life and was horrified to learn that my father had scared me like that. I knew I should have ridden next to her in that boat!)

2. I have a genetic abnormality that prevented me from having a full set of wisdom teeth. I had only one and was told if it hadn't come in by the time I turned 30 it never would. Naturally, six months before my 30th birthday, on New Year's Eve, I was in a dentist's office having an emergency extraction of my one little wisdom tooth.

3. No people in my life have ever brought me more joy, more exasperation, and more laughter than my husband and our son. Though my parents and brothers run a close second. I'm also quite fond of the Godiva Chocolate's people.

4. If you eat mayonnaise in my presence there is an excellent chance I will throw up on you. If you cut my sandwich with a knife that has been used to cut another sandwich that did have mayonaise, I will not be able to eat my own sandwich. I don't care what you say; you can't scrape it off, it IS that much (one mayonnaise molecule can infect an entire sandwich. It's true. It is too.) And though I concede that it may not actually kill me to taste it, I'm not taking any chances.

5. My mother believes I invented Velcro. Or at the very least, I identified the need for it. This is because as a child I refused to tie my shoes. Ever. (Also I could never quite manage to get the heels of my socks on my heels. They ended up on top of my feet every time. But that's a different issue.) One day in frustration, I apparently announced that when I grew up I was going to invent shoelaces that would just stick to themselves so I could just slap them together. So there you go. Velcro on kids' shoes. You're welcome.

6. I would sell off every possession I have before I would sell my books. I need books like I need to breathe.

7. I've never really understood the point of Barbie dolls. They don't do anything. Baby dolls could be strolled around the neighborhood, I could pretend to feed them and put them to bed. It made sense. All Barbie can do is change her clothes, ride around in her car and hang out with men without jobs. Not coincidentally, I've never understood the point of Britney Spears.

So now I guess I get to tag someone. I choose Abby, Lisa and Todd.

The Year in Review: Good News / Bad News

2008-03-13T13:07:00.000-07:00

So, here we are. March. It's been a long year. To sum up:

JANUARY
Week one: Finding myself in need of Hubs' assistance, I call his cell phone. He doesn't answer, but thoughtfully, he sends a text message:

In a meeting.

I text back:

In a car accident.

Good news: Son is safe at home at the time and no one else is seriously hurt.

Bad news: I do get a concussion. Which brings us to:

Week two: Concussion from car accident + emerging from a hot bath + tile floor = Broken nose. Never have I looked more lovely. (Note to the people at work, the store, and at church: The question, "Did your husband beat you up?" is neither original nor funny. Nor likely, since the last time I saw Hubs make a fist he had his thumb tucked inside. Do you see his hand in a cast? DO YOU? I didn't think so.)

Good news: I can still breathe through my mouth!

Bad news: When I speak, I sound like the secret love-child of Darth Vader and Fran Drescher.

Week three: Surgery to reduce the nasal fracture.

Good news: Two days off work!

Bad news: Ever had your nose packed? Or worse, unpacked? Ouch. Still, TWO DAYS OFF WORK! Totally worth it.

Week four: As I drive Son to an appointment, a tire blows out.

Good news: We have Roadside Assistance and I somehow remembered my cell phone!

Bad news: Due to adverse weather conditions, we're told the wait will be eight hours. Eight hours. In the adverse weather conditions. Because it's January, in Utah, where we aren't the best drivers even during GREAT weather conditions. "Ice on the roads? Awesome! We should drive three times as fast, in as many different lanes as possible and see if we can achieve flight!" Huh. As I think about it, eight hours may be a somewhat optimistic estimate.

FEBRUARY

Week One: I get a phone call from the school. Son is fine, but he's bleeding quite a lot and can I please come and get him before the secretary passes out?

Good news: Mom works for a pediatrician and we can get right in to get Son's finger stitched back together.

Bad news: Son interprets "Keep the stitches dry" as "You never have to shower again!"

Week Two: Hubs and I are stranded in a blizzard. In the car. All night. (Upcoming entry on this event because, oh my gosh, you can't even believe how bizarre this night is.)

Good news: The road is closed and I can't go to work! Yay! Hubs and I are exhausted after being out all night and we need the time to sleep.

Bad news: The road is closed and the neighborhood kids can't go to school. They CAN, however, play outside in the snow! While screaming. Loudly. With the loud screaming screams. All. Day. Long.

Week Three: I find out at my follow-up visit that the surgery for the nasal fracture was unsuccessful. They'll have another crack at it in April.

Good news: More time off work!

Bad news: More packing. More unpacking. Oy.

Week Four: Parent Teacher Conference.

Good news: My sitting next to Son every day after school doing every assignment with him should result in his being nearly caught up!

Bad news: If Son didn't actually turn the assignments in? He didn't get credit for the work. WHO KNEW? Son is, of course SHOCKED by this development. You'd think someone might have warned him about this. Oh wait. Someone did. His teachers and his parents.

MARCH

Week One:
After months of warning Son that the state of his toothpaste tube suggests that he either never brushes his teeth or has discovered the secret to self-replenishing dental hygeine products, we go to the dentist expecting dire results.

Good news: Somehow, Son has no cavities!

Bad news: Son now believes my other warnings about acne, dandruff and the downside of smelling like a mountain troll in a sauna are worthless.

Week Two: Hubs finally finds time to hang some pictures around the house.

Good news: I finally have some pictures hanging around the house!

Bad news: One of them is hanging over the hole he had to make in the wall to repair the pipe he drilled through.

So, yeah. 2008? So far so...well, let's not tempt fate.

Dating Disasters Redux

2008-02-16T18:13:00.001-08:00

Okay, it's been awhile AND it's a re-run, but in light of our recent Valentine's Day disaster, I thought I'd re-run this one:

In my life, I have managed to get through certain situations with what has been, for me anyway, a surprising degree of poise and aplomb. I would like to include in these events my dating history. I could tell you of wonderful dates, where I was dazzling, charming and the embodiment of grace. I might tell tales of captivated young men who were so entranced by my charms that I never spent a Saturday night alone. I could probably do a reasonably convincing job, too, if any of it were true.

The sad reality though, is that I didn’t really date much in high school. And by "not much" I mean "not at all." I remember Prom night, which I spent with my best friend at a movie where we ingested embarrassingly large amounts of chocolate in an attempt to console ourselves. My dad was sweet about it all. He was convinced that my dateless status was a direct result of my intimidating beauty and above average intelligence. I would really like to believe that the young men in Utah had to settle for dating less spectacular girls, like those on the cheerleading squad, while suffering from afar with unrequited love for me. However the real answer was somewhat different. For those boys who actually seemed aware of my existence, I was just a "buddy." Just why any guy would seek my advice when it came to dating was mystifying to me. It seemed rather like asking Ozzy Osbourne for religious counsel. Nevertheless, I did my best to point my friends in the direction of the "nice" girls. I was the one they came to when they wanted to know how to approach their dream girl. I offered high fives when they successfully landed a date, and I gave comfort and sympathy when they were shot down. Still, I wished that someday I'd find a guy who might look at me and see more than a pal or "one of the guys."

After high school, things changed. I met boys who hadn't known me since I was six. I attended a university where there was a whole male population who hadn't been informed that my role in life was to be a buddy. I was still shy, so it wasn't quite the social whirl I had hoped it would be, but I still received a gratifying amount of attention. That's when I learned first hand about the dating disasters I'd only heard about. Little things like forgetting a date's name, or worse, having him forget mine. I got the night wrong, once and greeted my date at the door in pajamas and a ponytail. There was one date in particular though, that will always stand out in my mind as the absolute most disastrous date of all time.

My date was a guy named Eric. He was nice enough, I suppose, but I hadn’t been terribly interested in dating him. He was a great pal, but I had concerns about turning a friend into a date. Too often I had seen good friendships destroyed by the attempt to make them more. But I’m not completely heartless, so after declining a few times, I finally agreed to go out with him. We went to a movie at the drive-in theater. Eric parked his truck and situated the speaker on the window. The movie started and he scooted toward me. I, assuming that he simply needed more room, obligingly scooted closer to my door. I am nothing if not considerate. A few minutes later, Eric scooted again and, again, wanting to be thoughtful, I scooted too. When he scooted the third time, I was too close to the door to move any further, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I opened the door and stepped out of the truck. Once I was standing outside, it dawned on me what had happened, and I felt quite foolish, so I just stood there for a moment trying to decide what to do. Hoping to salvage the situation, I just smiled, leaned through the window and said, “Hey! There’s much more room out here! Why don’t you come on out?”

After the movie, we went for a walk along the shore of Utah Lake. In retrospect, I think it was supposed to be romantic. The gnats, mosquitoes and sand fleas really didn’t add much to the ambience he was looking for, however. We walked out onto the dock, since, presumably the moon looked different there then it did on shore. At about that point he attempted to put his arm around me. As I’ve said, my dating experience was limited. But I grew up with three brothers, so when I saw his arm swing toward me, I instinctively anticipated a blow. I ducked and accidentally knocked him off balance. I have to admit, he was very nice about his unplanned baptism in the lake. I was mortified. I was also trying very hard not to laugh. I finally managed to gain enough composure to suggest that he take me home so he could get to his apartment before hypothermia set in. Out of a mixed sense of guilt, compassion and hilarity I even told Eric that he didn’t need to walk me to my door. He insisted though and sloshed and squished his way out of the truck. He escorted me to the door, which I immediately began to unlock. At that point, it didn’t even occur to me that he’d try to kiss me. That explains why I was so startled when I turned back a little too quickly to tell him goodnight. Eric was 6’3” to my 5'7" so suddenly finding his face that close was completely unexpected. I’m sure he found it equally unexpected when my forehead collided with his nose. As he stood there trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, I helpfully handed him a tissue while I tried to think of something to say. Somehow “Let’s do this again sometime!” didn’t seem quite right.

When I returned from serving an LDS mission, I was a little apprehensive about dating again. It’s probably best that Michael approached slowly and cautiously. He blames this on the fact that he had also returned recently from serving a mission and was even more out of practice than I was. I agree that his dating technique really did need work. His method of asking me out was generally along the lines of "I have to see this play for a class and I don't want to go alone. Want to come along?" He also very smoothly let me know he was available by telling me about a girl he seemed to spend an awful lot of time with. Once again, I thought I was playing the role of dating advisor. Once I did realize we were dating, though, I managed to create opportunities for potential disaster. We had attended one event together that was interrupted by a man who took a hostage and threatened to detonate a bomb in the building. Fortunately, it ended well and other than causing a lasting fear of crowded auditoriums, it did make a good story.

"One day we can tell our children about this." I said. Michael looked at me oddly, and I realized I could have phrased my thoughts better. I felt my ears turn red and my face begin to burn as I stammered "Well I don't mean OUR children--I'm not saying that we'll have children TOGETHER." I thought that sounded a little rude, and rather than just changing the subject, I continued my plunge into the abyss of social humiliation. "Not that I don't WANT to have children with you..." Even worse. "Not that I'm saying I DO want to have children with you, I just..." I trailed off as I saw his shoulders shake with laughter. It's probably fortunate that he proposed not long after that. Had he waited any longer, I might have scared him away completely. On the other hand, I sometimes think he married me for sheer entertainment value.

The great thing was, we had been friends in the beginning, and he proved that not only is it possible to turn a best friend into something more, it's the best way to go.
To my great joy and delight, I learned that my best friend has made the best husband I could wish for. Romance is nice but the day to day living is much more fun when I can do it with someone who understands me so well. And I understand him. Most of the time anyway. He doesn't even mind the occasional accidental bloody nose. Not that he gets them often. I’m pleased to say that I have learned what it means when he scoots closer while we watch a movie. It definitely doesn't mean he wants more room. I know that when Mike scoots closer to me, it means that he’ll lean in very close, brush my hair back from my face, look deeply into my eyes and ask, “Do we have any popcorn?”

Bad News

2007-10-05T09:37:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to say this out loud for awhile, hoping that maybe if I don't it won't be true. So far, this plan has not been working so well. So here goes.

We lost the baby.

I may be MIA for awhile while I try to get my life back together.

Thanks for all the kind emails, prayers and thoughts.

A Conversation With Son

2007-09-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

So a few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided we needed to have a chat with Son.

"Son, there's something Dad and I want to talk to you about."

"Oh man. Am I getting a baby brother?"

"What? Where did THAT come from?"

"Well, whenever parents want to sit down and have a talk about something with their kid that's what they always want to talk about."

"Hang on, when have we ever in your entire 12 years of existence EVER sat you down to tell you you're getting a brother?"

"Fine. Then what do you want to talk about?"

"Well, actually we have agreed to have someone come live with us."

Son's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Someone? Who?"

"Not sure. All we know is he or she does not speak English, will need a room of his or her own and probably won't be housebroken." Son's eyes became huge. His face lit up with joy.

"Really?" he squeaked, "You're not just teasing right?"

"No! Really!"

"Seriously? Yay! We're getting a DOG!"

"Wait! No! We're not getting a dog!"

"But you said..."

"I know, but it's not a dog. This is better."

"What's better than a dog?"

"You can't think of anything that would be better?"

"Hmm. Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. Wait, it's not an exchange student or something is it?"

Hubs looked at me for the go ahead. I nodded. Hubs turned to Son, smiled and said, "Actually, you were right the first time."

"I was?"

"Yeah."

"Really? Well it's about time!"

"So you're excited then?"

"Are you kidding? I'm gettin' a DOG!"

"Hold it! No. We're NOT getting a dog. You're getting... a new brother or sister!"

"Oh. Right. Well, that's okay, I guess."

"Good. We're glad you're pleased."

"Yeah. So....no dog then?"

Sigh.

His grandparents were a little more excited by the news. But then, they already have a dog.

Computer Issues

2007-09-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

My computer is having serious issues. I haven't been able to get on-line for wa-a-a-ay too long and it's driving me crazy! Well, crazier. Dad had mercy on me and let me use his computer to check in today. Hubs is FINALLY back in town for more than a day and he's working on getting us back on-line. (I promised that my knowledge of cooking just may return once I'm no longer distracted by the whole computer thing. He'll get hungry soon. Then I'll be back in business! I hope...)

Hope

2007-08-02T18:57:00.001-07:00

This may come as something of a shock, but my parents have a somewhat, oh let's call it "warped" sense of humor. I know. Clearly I was adopted and they haven't found time to break the news yet.

Anyway, during the last week things with Dad have been pretty scary. Seeing him in the hospital that first day was an experience I could never have imagined and will never repeat because Dad is doing better now and he will live forever and ever just like I'd always assumed he would since he is after all, the strongest man in the world. (What? Like you never regress to the sweet, reassuring denial of childhood?) Dad was in bed, staring at the ceiling, refusing to speak. Well, sort of refusing. He did deign to share a few words (none that are fit to print, of course) when anyone disturbed him. You know. Like whenever anyone annoyed him by making too much noise existing in the same building. Dad is pretty easy going, really. He is. Affable, friendly, pleasant. You know. Just as long as he isn't sick. Because when he is? Wow. Like Jeckyll and Hyde on the days that Hyde forgot to take his meds.

So when Dad reached the point that he wasn't even sniping at the nurses and glaring at the doctors while muttering about how he would be just fine if everyone would just "LEAVE ME ALONE ALREADY, ONLY BRING ME A COKE FIRST" I got worried.

At one point Dad's doctor came in the room, saw my brothers and I and asked, "What did you do to get all these people to come visit you?" While Dad was busy responding (and by "responding" I mean "glaring in silence") to the hassle of having one more person in his room using up all that extra oxygen and space that the hospital probably charges for, my brother Ryan volunteered, "It's his sparkling sense of humor that draws us in, Doctor."

All kidding aside, I admit the lack of humor was something that really worried me. Even when the surly attitude returned, there was still not the slightest indication that Dad might crack a joke. And that's scary. Even in the worst of times Dad has always had a sense of humor that withstands anything. Frequently irreverent, always dry and usually more than a little twisted, he gets me every time. And I am just not ready to part with that humor or its owner any time soon. I kept hoping for some sign of Dad's sense of humor, somehow believing that if I could catch a glimpse of it then my loving funny father must still be in there somewhere.

A couple of days ago, a nurse came into the room and asked Dad, " We need your full legal name for our records. What does the 'L' stand for?" And I froze, knowing that a nurse was about to be treated to some of Dad's less pleasant remarks. You see, Dad hates his first name so much that I was 12 years old before I even knew what it is. He never uses it and I have never heard him even speak it aloud. He was so secretive about it, in fact, that I was deeply disappointed to find out that it's not some horrible abnormal name. I was kind of hoping for something like 'Leakyzit.' It's not though. It's a completely normal, rather common name and yet I still fear that if I were to put it in print here? He'd find out and my life as I know it would be over.

So of course, when the nurse unwittingly broached this very dangerous subject with her extremely cranky patient, everyone in the room sort of braced themselves, you know, the way people do at the first signs of an earthquake.

And then it happened. Without missing a beat Dad replied solemnly, "The 'L' stands for Lucifer."

Ladies and Gentlemen: My father. He's going to be just fine.

Good News

2007-07-29T14:56:00.001-07:00

Okay. Dad's doing much better. I may be able to breathe again soon! Thanks for the good thoughts, prayers and e-mails. I'll be back very soon!

I'll Be Back

2007-07-27T10:27:00.001-07:00

I may be out of the internet world for the next few days. My father is critically ill.

Always Pre-Order. It's A Good Thing.

2007-07-25T16:28:00.000-07:00

Friday night, Son and I, along with what appeared to be a large percentage of the Utah population, made the pilgrimage to the bookstore for the release of the last Harry Potter book. I think I first realized that I had seriously underestimated the rabid nature, not to mention the sheer numbers of the fans in the county when we arrived and saw the line snaking from the front door, down the street and around the corner.

We arrived early, but not as early as those more dedicated than we. For example, I was not dedicated enough to show up with a sleeping bag, snacks and two gallons of drinking water. (Some might question the wisdom of bringing gallons of drinking water or bucket sized mugs of Diet Coke to a place where leaving to use the facilities could jeopardize one's place in line, but onward.)

Son took it in stride, I think. "Mom! We are NEVER EVER EVER GOING TO GET A BOOK! We will be here FOREVER!"

I thought he was exaggerating. Not by much, however. I was more than a bit concerned myself. You see, I don't really like lines. Mostly because lines very frequently involve people and people? Well, sometimes they bump into each other. This is a problem for me because, well, you know how most people require some degree of personal space? I kind of like having a bit more space than most people. In fact I'm most comfortable with, oh say, twelve feet in every direction. I know. I need help.

Anyhoo, I spent the next ten minutes reminding myself that having a panic attack would likely interfere with all the fun I was supposed to be having, especially if I passed out, hit my head on the sidewalk and not only embarrassed Son for life (which would have made it all worth it, really) but had to call Hubs to drive me home; Hubs who is still questioning my sanity in even going in the first place, because first, he has NO SENSE OF FUN and secondly, because, well, he knows how I feel about crowds. Still, I tried to be brave for Son's sake and pressed on.

Son and I kept each other entertained by asking each other Harry Potter trivia questions, which was kind of interesting because the questions he was asking were very detailed and difficult and I have a sneaking suspicion that some of them were based on other stories entirely. That is, unless I missed the chapter where Harry and Ron build a raft and sail it down the Mississippi River shortly before encountering Indian Joe in the Cupboard of the Temple of Doom.

Finally, the doors opened and the line started creeping forward. And then it happened--my own personal miracle. The nice lady (and yes, I know she was nice because she was dressed like Professor McGonagall) announced that everyone who had pre-ordered could just come into the store without waiting in line! And? I had PRE-ORDERED! So, feeling very much like Paris Hilton's parents on visiting day at the jail, Son and I breezed right past everyone who was in front of us and into the store where we were able to partake of the lovely refreshments provided. (Ho Ho's! Yummy AND the chocolate sticks to your teeth so you look like a mountain troll, which at most other times is somewhat embarrassing, but for this event? Awesome!)

And then? THEN! As Son and I were loitering casually near the registers we heard an announcement: "All pre-order customers please form a line by the middle register." And guess where we were? RIGHT NEXT TO THE MIDDLE REGISTER! There were two, TWO people in front of us. The clerk hovered over the box, box cutter in hand as everyone counted down the remaining seconds. And then it happened. The box was open and within seconds the first book was out of the box. Then the second book and then the third book, OUR BOOK was out of the box and in our hands.

I couldn't help noticing that Son was carrying the book in such a manner that ensured all could admire it as we made our way through the crowd. You know. So people could see that he was by far the coolest person in the whole store. Or at least the third coolest person.

Son started reading the book aloud by the light of my IPod on the drive home. (Yes, I'm still hearing about how foolish I was to dismiss his suggestion that we take a flashlight. Sigh.)

It took us a little over eight hours to finish the book. I was right about some things, wrong about others. I was happy with most of it and disappointed by very little. (And no, I'm not going to spoil anything here.) But mostly, when I put the book down I was overcome by that sensation I always had as a kid when I would scarf down my ice cream so fast I barely tasted it: (What? If you knew my brothers you, too, would learn to scarf it before they got to it.)

I was glad I finally got what I wanted, but I'm very sad that now it's all gone.

Just What We've Been Waiting For

2007-07-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

Moments ago, I arrived home from work. This morning I had (foolishly) entertained thoughts of taking a nap when I came home. I've been up for the last 44 hours (Hubs. Allergy Season. Snoring. You do the math) and since I promised weeks ago to take Son to the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows release party at the bookstore, I was kind of thinking a nap may be in order. But before I could even get out of the car, Son wrenched the door open and shouted, "THIRTEEN HOURS! THIRTEEN!! Do you know what this means? DO YOU?"

"Uh, does it mean that you're just a little excited?"

"A little? A little? Mom, I've been waiting for this day my whole entire life!"

"Really? Your whole entire life? Wow. That's interesting, because, you know, the world hadn't even heard of Harry Potter until 1997. To spare you the hassle of doing the math, in 1997 you were two years old. And frankly for the next couple of years after that you were far more excited about seeing how many Cheerios you could shove up Daddy's nose before he woke up (the record is 3) than you were with anything to do with Harry Potter."

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes the way he always does when he contemplates just how sad it is that his mother has such a penchant for remembering the more embarrassing aspects of his infancy. In case I hadn't noticed his disgust he huffed, "Mom? It's a figure of speech, okay? Now could we please get on with things? We've got a LOT to do before tonight."

Thoroughly chastened (okay, maybe not"thoroughly" chastened. It was more like "not at all chastened") I said, "Right. Sorry. Okay, what kind of 'stuff' do we need to do?"

He sighed again no doubt pondering the irony that as a child, he is forced to rely on people so much less intelligent than himself to get things done. Like driving. And paying for stuff. Yes, it's difficult indeed to be a child.

"We need to get some snacks. To keep up our strength."

"Good point. I'm thinking chocolate. You know. In case we get scared by the Dementors again."

"And can we get beef jerky?"

"Ah! A source of protein that requires no preparation and can be consumed without having to put the book down. Very good, Son. I'm impressed."

"Thanks. Also, can we get a flashlight? Or maybe one of those lights you can clip onto the book?"

"Why? I'm sure the store will have lights on. I mean, it's a special occasion and everything. I really think they plan on having at least some of the lights on."

"Mom? For in the car? While we're driving home from the store?" To his credit he refrained from adding, "Like, duh, you tragically clueless woman."

"I see. You do know that reading while driving, while very common in Utah, is still technically against the law, right?"

"Mom. Please. Work with me, here, okay? Okay. Now, we're going to want to make sure all the chores are done today so we can spend tomorrow reading. I've already got mine all finished but if there's anything else you want me to do this weekend can you tell me now so I can get it done?"

Good heavens.

My son has commited the pre-meditated and voluntary act of completing his chores without being asked.

I've been waiting for this day my whole entire life.

Shy? Really?

2007-07-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

So last week I was talking to my father about my upcoming high school reunion. He, as I knew he would, recounted stories from his high school reunion (Class of 1842) One of his favorite stories, and I know it's his favorite because the details are remarkably similar with every telling, involves the moment when, many years after high school, he came face to face with The Girl. You all remember The Girl. She has attended every high school, in every class, ever since girls were allowed out of the kitchen and into the school room, thus altering the course of formal education forever by reducing it to a convenient excuse to spend time in close proximity with prospective dates. (See also: The Boy.)

Dad has often told the story of how he admired, from a distance of course (Dad has always had a very healthy sense of self-preservation) The Girl. He tells how he used to wish he could have dated her. Or even been able to command the English language long enough to introduce himself. But being a member of a long and proud line of absurdly shy people, he knew that if he were to speak to her he would, of course, burst into flames.

Years later at his reunion, he threw caution, not to mention pyrophobia, to the wind and actually spoke to her. With words. Out loud. And the result was positively mind-boggling. Dad summoned the courage to confess that he'd wanted to ask her out way back when. Her response? "Oh, I wish you had. I never went to a single dance in high school because everyone assumed I already had a date, and I was too shy to let you know I was interested."

I know. I was shocked too. Who knew they had dancing back then?

Anyway, like I said, I've heard this story many times. Dad used to bring this story up every time my high school had a dance and I was spending the evening hanging out with my likewise dateless friends. So, yeah, I heard it pretty much every weekend. It was sweet, I suppose, for Dad to try to make me believe that the only reason I wasn't at the dance was because everyone assumed I was too cool to go with them. Delusional, sure, but sweet. Still I knew the truth. I knew that all The Girls from my class were going to every dance, every party and living every day as if it were the Prom. Well, maybe not every day. I'm sure they had bad days, too. You know. Days they lived as if it were just Homecoming.

So imagine my suprise, (suprise, shock, whatever) to learn recently that some of The Girls at my school did NOT, in fact, attend every dance. Some of these girls are now, after lo, these many years, even claiming to have been SHY. Really. They are.

I'm finding this somewhat difficult to believe in some cases. Consider, for example, the girl who was not only beautiful and popular but she was skilled athletically as well. That's right. She played sports. In public. Wearing a sports uniform. In front of everyone. Shy? Seriously?

Or? OR? The girl who was so beautiful and smart and, let's say it together: popular that I used to wonder what it would be like to just live one day in her world? Turns out? She thinks she was shy, too!

It doesn't end there. There are GUYS from my class who are now saying that THEY were shy! Guys who inspired many a daydream in many a female mind, guys who were cute, hilarious, smart, athletic...and...shy?

Clearly they have no idea what "shy" means, because if they really thought they were shy, well, they were doing it wrong.

Of course, I'm willing to concede that they may have, for whatever reason, believed they were shy. And perception is the stuff of which certain realities are made. But still. Were they really that shy? If so, what would High School life have been like if I had only known then what I know now? I mean, besides the fact that I wouldn't EVER use calculus again once finals were over? (Seriously, not once.) How would life have been if I had known that they might have burst into flames at the thoughts of speaking to other people? Besides smoky and hot, I mean.

I guess I'll never really know. I have decided one thing, though:

Perception is a powerful, powerful thing.

It is also highly unreliable.

Father vs Son

2007-07-16T13:01:00.001-07:00

"There's something wrong with your son."

My son. If Hubs' tone of frustration wasn't enough to tip me off, the fact that Son had just somehow become my son and mine alone, made it very clear I'd come home to another father/son dispute.

"Problem?"

"Well, I told him to shower and he was gone three minutes, then came back with perfectly dry hair and still smelled like he'd spent the afternoon playing field hockey with a herd of mountain goats."

"Hmm. You told him to shower with water and soap and shampoo, right? Because you have to be specific with him about that."

Hubs looked affronted. "Yes, of course. I'm not new around here, you know."

"I know, but you did you give him any further instructions?"

"Such as?"

"Well, you know that he thinks if he actually had water coming out of the shower head, and if the soap and shampoo were physically present with him in the shower, then technically he followed instructions, right?"

"Are you serious?"

"Sadly, I am. Also, you have to remind him to stand under the water, not just near it."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Other than being twelve?"

"Oh. Right. So now what?"

"Okay here's what you say: "Stand under the water coming from the shower head. Pick up the soap. Lather it up, apply it to your body until the dirt is gone, then rinse. Also, the shampoo? It goes in your hair. You lather it up, in your hair--not just in your hands-- and then rinse it out."

"So is it that he doesn't understand the concept?"

"Oh no. He's just looking for a loophole. A technicality, as it were."

"So I didn't handle it right?"

"I wouldn't say that. In fact, hosing him down in the driveway while you washed the car is, I'm sure, a lesson he'll remember for years to come."

"You think?"

"Definitely. And hanging that pine tree air freshner from his collar? Inspired."

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely."

Hubs will get the hang of this eventually. I'm not too worried, though. Son is bound to discover girls any time now. When he does, I have a feeling getting him in the shower will be the least of our concerns.

So Close and Yet So Far

2007-07-12T16:49:00.000-07:00

I am expecting something and I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. After years of waiting and hoping and longing for this day to come it is FINALLY happening! That's right! Today I pre-ordered my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows! (Had you going there for a second, huh Mom?) This is a purchase I have been eagerly, nay anxiously awaiting for quite some time now. This is even bigger than when I finally got my IPod (which I still maintain is a psychological aid and should really be covered by insurance).

When I went into the bookstore today, my friend (because when you spend excessive amounts of time in bookstores? You make friends with the employees) rang up my purchase, put my name down in the Official Harry Potter Pre-Order Spiral Notebook and then leaned across the desk and whispered, "Guess what came in yesterday?"

"What?" She looked around carefully then, once she was certain the coast was clear, beckoned me to the doorway of "The Back Room." You know. The Back Room. That mystical place where I suspect they always keep the best stuff, like, say the last pair of cute shoes in my size. They do this, of course, just for the sheer glee of watching customers search vainly for things that the Powers That Be have hidden away, to be sold to those who prove themselves worthy of the right to purchase them only after demonstrating persistence above and beyond what is reasonable or normal. And this proved true again today as she pointed to a large box that had been covered with more packing tape than I have ever seen on any item not packaged by my father, Lord of the Un-Openable Packages.

We stood together, gazing at the box with reverence.

"Is that what I think it is?" I breathed. She nodded.

"Yes. Isn't it something?"

"Wow. Could I...just...maybe...touch it?"

"Hmmm. I don't know. I'm kind of pushing it just letting you see it."

"Please? You don't know what this would mean to me. It would give me hope to sustain me through the week ahead." She paused, contemplating the tortuous days to come. Then she nodded.

"Well...okay, but be quick about it."

And I was. As quick as one could be when touching what, in some opinions (including mine) could be considered almost a holy relic. I reached out a hand and carefully brushed the top of the box, then the sides, imagining the stacks of perfect, new, smooth pages with the final words of Harry Potter's tale printed on them in wonderfully inky smelling print. Is Snape really good or evil? (My money's on "good") Can Draco be redeemed? Who will die? (Not Harry. Please not Harry. Please don't let it be Harry. Or Ron. Probably Hagrid though.) Is Dumbledore really dead? Where does Dumbledore's brother fit into all of this and is R.A.B. Regulus Black? (Well, yeah, obviously.) These and all my other theories are this close to being answered.

And I was RIGHT THERE. It would have been so easy, in theory at least, to just rip that box open, grab a book and start reading. I wondered how far I could get before store security reached me, and if I would be allowed to keep the book with me while we waited for the police. You know. For evidence.

I was so close. There was only one thing that stopped me: We have tickets to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this weekend, and I was uncertain if I would be out of jail by then. Especially since all my discretionary income for the week has been used on book orders and movie tickets. Not much left for bail. Hmmm.

And so, I tore myself away and my friend and I walked back into the main store.

But next Saturday at 12:01 a.m.? I'll be back and this time there will be no stopping me.

Nine days. This is worse than waiting for Christmas.

Just Because He Loves Me

2007-07-10T17:27:00.000-07:00

For some time now, I've feared that one day I will be on the news. Not in a good way either. I worry that I will be led from my home in handcuffs and escorted to a waiting police cruiser all the while screaming, "You don't understand! Do you have ANY idea how many times that man snoozes his alarm clock? HE HAD IT COMING!!"

I've mentioned before that Hubs and I have very different approaches to beginning the day. I am a very light sleeper. I routinely wake up instantly, sitting bolt upright in bed, every nerve standing at attention and breathing like I've just outrun a five-year old on a sugar high simply because I heard a jarring, sleep-shattering sound, like a hummingbird dropping a feather on a cobweb twenty miles away.

Hubs on the other hand? Well, remember that bed George Jetson had that would just disappear into the wall, propel him onto a conveyer belt that would eventually get George showered, dressed, groomed and out of the house? I have wept tears of envy over the life of bliss this device must have afforded Jane, his wife.

Hubs is pathologically incapable of waking up with the first alarm. Or the second. Or the sixth. He has an elaborate system that involves three different clocks, and his cell phone but the fact is, I realized years ago that he doesn't set the alarm so that HE will wake up. He sets the alarm so I will wake up and then somehow wake him.

This has caused many, let's call them "discussions" at our house. He contends that if I were to get up at the same time he does, he would have no problem. Being the accomodating soul I am, I tried this. The only thing that happened was I was up, dressed, ready to go and he was still hitting snooze.

I've kept water guns next to the bed, dousing him in the morning. He reacts by wiping his face on the comforter and going back to sleep. I've tried rolling him out of bed, but he just keeps sleeping.

Last month the situation changed. I now have to be at work early in the morning before Hubs even pretends he's going to wake up. I've wondered how he manages to get up without me there to inflict bodily harm, but I suspect it has a lot to do with Son pestering his father for breakfast now that Mom is off kitchen duty until lunch-time.

And so it came as no surprise when Hubs announced, "You know, I don't even hear you get up or get ready or anything."

"Really? I am SHOCKED."

"No, really. I sleep right through it."

"I know. And don't think I'm not terrified that the house will burn down with you and our son in it, simply because I'm not here to point out that you're on fire and may want to think about getting out."

"Yeah. You know, this would be a really good way for you to get rid of me. It would totally look like an accident."

"I suppose, but what about Son? I wouldn't want him to get hurt."

"Oh, just do it on a day you can take him to work with you."

"Right, that wouldn't look suspicious at all. But I do appreciate the thought. It's sweet of you to give me pointers for bumping you off."

"I do what I can."

Yes. Right. He'll do practically anything for me. That is, he will as long as it doesn't involve waking up.