The following things bug me. Not a lot, but still.
1. When people type "WALA!" in an e-mail, when the word they actually mean to convey is "voilà." No wonder French people think we're stupid. (And cranky too, because we write "stuff that bugs me" lists for the world to see.)
2. Price increases of 100% or more in a sagging economy. I'm looking at you Netflix. And OPEC. And the healthcare industry. At least Krispy Kreme is just eliminating the free doughnut they used to give out to people in line, instead of raising menu prices to compensate. (That actually makes a lot of sense to me--I'm there to buy doughnuts, but after eating the one they give me in line and the one Mason got in line but doesn't want, I'm good. Once I get to the cashier, I think, "Now, what did I come in here for again?")
3. Getting a 3/4 full drink cup just because I asked for no ice. Really, Starbucks? The $4 you charge for a Trenta iced tea lemonade not profitable enough to get you to overlook the smidgen of extra tea I'm getting out of the deal?
4. The NBA lockout. It's time somebody caves so they can give me back my season. I've got a lot of yelling to do and no large scale arena to do it in. I guess I could pick another sport and yell at my TV, but it's not the same. Those pro-bowlers just don't inspire at-home cheering.
5. There is no #5 because I'm really very very happy and this list is just a silly waste of time :-)
Monday, October 31, 2011
I finally scrapped again!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Unexpected surprise
Monte and I have been married 20 years, and for the first nine we didn't have kids. Like a lot of dual income childless Americans, we spent a lot of those first years taking fun car trip vacations. Then, along came the babies, and long car rides stopped being fun and exciting, and started being a source of bottomless dread. Each time we scheduled a trip farther than the farm, my stomach would tighten in correlation with how close we were to departure.
In all fairness to my stomach, there was plenty of precedent to support such an over reaction. If we were lucky enough on these extended roller coaster rides to make it all the way to point B without anyone vomiting or pooping out of their pants, then there was the inevitable last third of the trip listening to the screaming and crying of people sick of their car seats and with nothing left to lose. Even recalling the memories makes me battle weary.
As you can imagine, when Monte suggested in June that we take a car trip vacation to Houston and San Antonio, I looked at him like he had lost his flipping mind. "We have children," I said, as if he had suggested we run to the local multiplex for an R-rated movie.
Those of you who know Monte, however, know that nine times out of ten given enough time to present a persuasive argument and gift me with several surprise iced tea lemonades from Starbucks, he will get his way. And so it was, that I found myself early this morning packing the car full of luggage and supplies for a dreaded car trip to Houston. Wet wipes? Check. Paper towels? Check. Snacks? Drinks? Antacids? Check. IPad, iPhones, PSPs? Check. Steel iron maternal will? Maybe we can get some on the way.
But we've been on the road now for five hours, and a strange and magical thing is happening. At the risk of jinxing myself, I can report no one in our van is fighting. No one is crying. No one is vomiting or pooping inappropriately. The only sounds are satellite radio Big 80s on 8 and quiet chatter about game scores. If it were December I'd call it a Christmas miracle, but since we're in the middle of a massive summer heat wave, I guess I will have to settle for calling it a regular miracle.
I know my children are getting older, and that car trips would eventually be pleasant again. It's just nice that someday decided to show up a little ahead of schedule.
In all fairness to my stomach, there was plenty of precedent to support such an over reaction. If we were lucky enough on these extended roller coaster rides to make it all the way to point B without anyone vomiting or pooping out of their pants, then there was the inevitable last third of the trip listening to the screaming and crying of people sick of their car seats and with nothing left to lose. Even recalling the memories makes me battle weary.
As you can imagine, when Monte suggested in June that we take a car trip vacation to Houston and San Antonio, I looked at him like he had lost his flipping mind. "We have children," I said, as if he had suggested we run to the local multiplex for an R-rated movie.
Those of you who know Monte, however, know that nine times out of ten given enough time to present a persuasive argument and gift me with several surprise iced tea lemonades from Starbucks, he will get his way. And so it was, that I found myself early this morning packing the car full of luggage and supplies for a dreaded car trip to Houston. Wet wipes? Check. Paper towels? Check. Snacks? Drinks? Antacids? Check. IPad, iPhones, PSPs? Check. Steel iron maternal will? Maybe we can get some on the way.
But we've been on the road now for five hours, and a strange and magical thing is happening. At the risk of jinxing myself, I can report no one in our van is fighting. No one is crying. No one is vomiting or pooping inappropriately. The only sounds are satellite radio Big 80s on 8 and quiet chatter about game scores. If it were December I'd call it a Christmas miracle, but since we're in the middle of a massive summer heat wave, I guess I will have to settle for calling it a regular miracle.
I know my children are getting older, and that car trips would eventually be pleasant again. It's just nice that someday decided to show up a little ahead of schedule.
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Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
A Memory of my Dad
The summer I turned 16 I worked at the McDonald's off 65 Highway in Marshall, MO. One morning early on, I was assigned to run the breakfast register. It was probably the second time I'd ever done so, and I was still getting used to where all the food picture buttons were located, which meant I was not the speediest or most accurate order taker in the world. And to make matters worse, these were the days before numbered meal options, which meant a 1986 McDonald's patron had to list each item he or she wanted to eat, making the odds of missing something on that list astronomical. It was the perfect storm to put me smack dab into full blown panic mode.
Thus was my state of mind when an older man walked up to the counter to get breakfast. "Gimme an egg mcmuffin," he said. I dutifully pressed the button for the sandwich, hit the total button and reported the price with tax. Money changed hands and I proceeded to fill the order.
When I handed him the sandwich, he barked, "Well? Where's my coffee and hashbrowns?!" At the time I was caught completely flat footed. How had I not heard two-thirds of this man's breakfast? (Looking back on it, I can't help but wonder why he wasn't suspicious that, if he'd ordered an egg mcmuffin, coffee and hashbrowns, how is it that his bill came to just over a dollar? No, this particular 'gentleman' didn't question the cost of his breakfast. Just the items included in it.)
"I wanted coffee and hashbrowns! You don't think I'm gonna just eat this sandwich without anything to drink?!"
"No, sir. But I didn't charge you for the coffee and hashbrowns."
"Well fine! Just give me the coffee and hashbrowns. This is ridiculous!"
"Yes sir. Here they are."
The old man mumbled "Terrible service!" and walked off with his food.
I didn't even look up at the next guy in line. I mumbled something like, "can I take your order" and stared down at the register keys hoping they would keep me from crying. And then I heard . . .
"You didn't charge him for coffee and a hashbrown, because he didn't order a coffee and a hashbrown."
I looked up and there, next in line, was my dad. Vindication is a very freeing thing, but it's even sweeter coming from a source you care about. All of a sudden I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, I felt like maybe I could do this job after all. Smiling, I looked up and said, "What do you want to eat, Dad?"
"Just coffee is fine. Are you doing okay?"
"Yeah. It's 59 cents." And I handed the best man in the world some hot McDonald's coffee.
"Thanks," he said, and off he went, back to his truck, to finish his drink and read his paper. Because that's what superman does. He saves the day and then he goes off somewhere to read the paper.
Thus was my state of mind when an older man walked up to the counter to get breakfast. "Gimme an egg mcmuffin," he said. I dutifully pressed the button for the sandwich, hit the total button and reported the price with tax. Money changed hands and I proceeded to fill the order.
When I handed him the sandwich, he barked, "Well? Where's my coffee and hashbrowns?!" At the time I was caught completely flat footed. How had I not heard two-thirds of this man's breakfast? (Looking back on it, I can't help but wonder why he wasn't suspicious that, if he'd ordered an egg mcmuffin, coffee and hashbrowns, how is it that his bill came to just over a dollar? No, this particular 'gentleman' didn't question the cost of his breakfast. Just the items included in it.)
"I wanted coffee and hashbrowns! You don't think I'm gonna just eat this sandwich without anything to drink?!"
"No, sir. But I didn't charge you for the coffee and hashbrowns."
"Well fine! Just give me the coffee and hashbrowns. This is ridiculous!"
"Yes sir. Here they are."
The old man mumbled "Terrible service!" and walked off with his food.
I didn't even look up at the next guy in line. I mumbled something like, "can I take your order" and stared down at the register keys hoping they would keep me from crying. And then I heard . . .
"You didn't charge him for coffee and a hashbrown, because he didn't order a coffee and a hashbrown."
I looked up and there, next in line, was my dad. Vindication is a very freeing thing, but it's even sweeter coming from a source you care about. All of a sudden I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, I felt like maybe I could do this job after all. Smiling, I looked up and said, "What do you want to eat, Dad?"
"Just coffee is fine. Are you doing okay?"
"Yeah. It's 59 cents." And I handed the best man in the world some hot McDonald's coffee.
"Thanks," he said, and off he went, back to his truck, to finish his drink and read his paper. Because that's what superman does. He saves the day and then he goes off somewhere to read the paper.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Forget 2012. The real year to fear is 2018.
Mason mentioned to me at his 5th grade graduation that he is in the class of 2018. I said, "No honey, you're in the class of 2011." He shook his head and said, "Mommm! I meant high school! Sheesh!" Okay, he didn't really say sheesh, but I can't accurately encode into written language the meaningful noises that come from my eleven year old. Essentially, sound he made was meant to convey the fact that I'm hopelessly backward and unaware of some very basic facts. In effect, sheesh.
The far off pronouncement of a 2018 high school graduation wouldn't ordinarily be cause for alarm. It sounds like there's plenty of time between today and then. But I am not ordinary, and the truth is I can't remember what happened to the last eleven years and how I ended up here with this beta test man person who is nearly as tall as I am and who wears the same shoe size. It really seems to me that we ought to have just gotten to the year 2004. I would be totally comfortable writing 2004 on my checks, and checking my DSL e-mail connection. Although I'm a fraud, because when it actually was 2004, I remember wondering what happened to 1998. I also distinctly remember in 1992, after getting a notice from Sallie Mae that if I continued my school loan repayment plan as scheduled that my loan should be forgiven in 2002, thinking, "Wow. 2002. Will I even be alive then? That's so far away. Good grief we'll probably be traveling in flying cars by 2002." Now I'm beginning to wonder if 2002, and indeed the whole first decade of the present century wasn't secretly abbreviated by some shadowy government agency while we were all out watching Harry Potter films. Because it sure seems like it. Area 51, I'm looking at you. Not sure why, but I am!
Twenty-eighteen. Only seven more shopping years until my baby goes to college.
I am almost certainly not going to handle it well when 2018 comes about in real time, or in six months as it will seem to me. At least my student loan is paid off. Mason's wont be forgiven until 2032!
The far off pronouncement of a 2018 high school graduation wouldn't ordinarily be cause for alarm. It sounds like there's plenty of time between today and then. But I am not ordinary, and the truth is I can't remember what happened to the last eleven years and how I ended up here with this beta test man person who is nearly as tall as I am and who wears the same shoe size. It really seems to me that we ought to have just gotten to the year 2004. I would be totally comfortable writing 2004 on my checks, and checking my DSL e-mail connection. Although I'm a fraud, because when it actually was 2004, I remember wondering what happened to 1998. I also distinctly remember in 1992, after getting a notice from Sallie Mae that if I continued my school loan repayment plan as scheduled that my loan should be forgiven in 2002, thinking, "Wow. 2002. Will I even be alive then? That's so far away. Good grief we'll probably be traveling in flying cars by 2002." Now I'm beginning to wonder if 2002, and indeed the whole first decade of the present century wasn't secretly abbreviated by some shadowy government agency while we were all out watching Harry Potter films. Because it sure seems like it. Area 51, I'm looking at you. Not sure why, but I am!
Twenty-eighteen. Only seven more shopping years until my baby goes to college.
I am almost certainly not going to handle it well when 2018 comes about in real time, or in six months as it will seem to me. At least my student loan is paid off. Mason's wont be forgiven until 2032!
Thursday, May 12, 2011
You know you're old when . . .
A few weeks ago, Monte decided after several months and one move to get the telescope out and aim it at the sky. We have a pretty nice telescope. I mean, it's not going to put Kitt Peak or Hubble out of business or anything, but it's something you assemble and can hook your computer up to for star location, so it's a little more involved than one of those pirate eye pieces you see on the television.
The kids were excited, because they were outside in the twilight in their pajamas trying to see well enough by the street light to make chalk drawings on the driveway or challenge each other to run the length of our sidewalk in their bare feet.
So when Monte called the boys over to take a detailed look at the moon's craters, there was a general reluctance from the under twelve set to quit what they were doing and go over and see. That's when I decided they needed to respect the effort it takes to put the silly telescope together, and be more appreciative and aware of the real reason they were outside past bedtime.
"Boys!" I said. "Get over here and look at this beautiful moon! You should be more thankful for the things daddy does for you. After all, when I was a little girl, we didn't have telescopes!"
Considering Galileo had one, that makes me really really old. Of course, then I had to backpedal and explain that I meant our family didn't own its own personal telescope, but by then the damage had been done and the the jokes were flying.
I think what I should have said was, when I was a little girl our school didn't have an astronomy department. Or computers.
The kids were excited, because they were outside in the twilight in their pajamas trying to see well enough by the street light to make chalk drawings on the driveway or challenge each other to run the length of our sidewalk in their bare feet.
So when Monte called the boys over to take a detailed look at the moon's craters, there was a general reluctance from the under twelve set to quit what they were doing and go over and see. That's when I decided they needed to respect the effort it takes to put the silly telescope together, and be more appreciative and aware of the real reason they were outside past bedtime.
"Boys!" I said. "Get over here and look at this beautiful moon! You should be more thankful for the things daddy does for you. After all, when I was a little girl, we didn't have telescopes!"
Considering Galileo had one, that makes me really really old. Of course, then I had to backpedal and explain that I meant our family didn't own its own personal telescope, but by then the damage had been done and the the jokes were flying.
I think what I should have said was, when I was a little girl our school didn't have an astronomy department. Or computers.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Where were you when . . .
Last night, as I was sitting alone in bed in a totally quiet house, I turned on the network news. At any other time these conditions would be so improbable they would approach the "never ever happens" category. Any other night Monte (who is presently Missouri for work) would be watching something Tivo-ed, or a live Thunder game, but he would not be watching the news. And when he's gone, which he sometimes is for work, the boys are usually running around resisting bedtime, which means I would not be watching the news. But the planets lined up, Monte was gone, the boys went to bed without much of a fight, and there I was, watching the news.
And at about the same time as the rest of the world, I found out Osama Bin Laden had been killed.
I was pretty shocked, because it was so unexpected. I mean after all, it has been 9 years, 7 months and 20 days since 9-11. I was so stunned I could hardly think of how to feel. Elated. Sad. Exhausted. All sorts of things rushed through me.
And then I remembered the first time a news story made me feel very small in a world so big and unpredictable.
It was March 21, 1981 in the afternoon, and I was riding a school bus home from the 6th grade. I got off the bus at my Grandma's house, which I didn't ordinarily do. If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have watched the news. But she was watching the news, and pretty intently too, because President Regan had just been shot. I remember sitting beside her in Grandpa's chair, watching the world go crazy, and hearing the news men repeat the same facts over and over. Regan was waving to the crowd, when someone shot him. Other people were shot too. Mr. Regan was raced to the hospital. That's all we know at this time.
And then . . .
January 28, 1986. I was a junior in high school, on my way to third period. I think it was Journalism class, which if true is a bit ironic. I passed through a common area where some TVs were set up (unusual) and a newscaster was saying that after being in the air a little over a minute, the Space Shuttle Challenger carrying a teacher and some astronauts, blew up, killing everyone inside. Teachers, students, staff members, and the vice principal stood there and watched the coverage. The tardy bell rang, and still nobody moved. None of the adults told us to move. We just stood and stared and tried to wrap our minds around the words and pictures, while the TV reporter repeated, "That's all we know at this time."
April 19, 1995. I was in my office at Moberly Regional Medical Center at 9:15 when the phone rang. It was Monte, and he was frantic. There had been a bombing in downtown Oklahoma City. His mother, father and sister all worked downtown, and he hadn't been able to get through to them. I don't think they had cell phones at the time. I turned on a radio, and heard a report about the bombing, in which the report explained that, although a truck had exploded outside the Murrah building in an act of terrorism, they didn't really know more than that at the present time.
February 1, 2003. Monte and I were headed to St. Louis with our friends Michael and Alicia Moore. We were putting the babies in the car when Michael called out and told us to look at the television. The space shuttle Columbia had exploded while it was trying to reenter the earth's atmosphere to land. I said, "I'll never forget we were here at your house when this happened" and Michael (a psychologist) replied, "that phenomena is called 'snapshot memory.'" Of course, the TV in the background was again saying it had no more information to report, even as we stared at the screen, willing it to tell us why this thing had happened.
I can't imagine what it must have been like on November 22, 1963 when Kennedy was shot, or April 30, 1945 when Hitler committed suicide, or April 15, 1912 when the Titanic sank. Overwhelming.
I think for the rest of the day I will turn off the TV and hug my children. Seems like the right thing to do.
And at about the same time as the rest of the world, I found out Osama Bin Laden had been killed.
I was pretty shocked, because it was so unexpected. I mean after all, it has been 9 years, 7 months and 20 days since 9-11. I was so stunned I could hardly think of how to feel. Elated. Sad. Exhausted. All sorts of things rushed through me.
And then I remembered the first time a news story made me feel very small in a world so big and unpredictable.
It was March 21, 1981 in the afternoon, and I was riding a school bus home from the 6th grade. I got off the bus at my Grandma's house, which I didn't ordinarily do. If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have watched the news. But she was watching the news, and pretty intently too, because President Regan had just been shot. I remember sitting beside her in Grandpa's chair, watching the world go crazy, and hearing the news men repeat the same facts over and over. Regan was waving to the crowd, when someone shot him. Other people were shot too. Mr. Regan was raced to the hospital. That's all we know at this time.
And then . . .
January 28, 1986. I was a junior in high school, on my way to third period. I think it was Journalism class, which if true is a bit ironic. I passed through a common area where some TVs were set up (unusual) and a newscaster was saying that after being in the air a little over a minute, the Space Shuttle Challenger carrying a teacher and some astronauts, blew up, killing everyone inside. Teachers, students, staff members, and the vice principal stood there and watched the coverage. The tardy bell rang, and still nobody moved. None of the adults told us to move. We just stood and stared and tried to wrap our minds around the words and pictures, while the TV reporter repeated, "That's all we know at this time."
April 19, 1995. I was in my office at Moberly Regional Medical Center at 9:15 when the phone rang. It was Monte, and he was frantic. There had been a bombing in downtown Oklahoma City. His mother, father and sister all worked downtown, and he hadn't been able to get through to them. I don't think they had cell phones at the time. I turned on a radio, and heard a report about the bombing, in which the report explained that, although a truck had exploded outside the Murrah building in an act of terrorism, they didn't really know more than that at the present time.
February 1, 2003. Monte and I were headed to St. Louis with our friends Michael and Alicia Moore. We were putting the babies in the car when Michael called out and told us to look at the television. The space shuttle Columbia had exploded while it was trying to reenter the earth's atmosphere to land. I said, "I'll never forget we were here at your house when this happened" and Michael (a psychologist) replied, "that phenomena is called 'snapshot memory.'" Of course, the TV in the background was again saying it had no more information to report, even as we stared at the screen, willing it to tell us why this thing had happened.
I can't imagine what it must have been like on November 22, 1963 when Kennedy was shot, or April 30, 1945 when Hitler committed suicide, or April 15, 1912 when the Titanic sank. Overwhelming.
I think for the rest of the day I will turn off the TV and hug my children. Seems like the right thing to do.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Absence makes the stomach grow fonder
Monte and I are in Las Vegas. You may not know it, but we are a pair of Midwestern Christians who like our sleep, would rather stay in, who rarely if ever drink, and are too tight fisted to gamble. Also, we don't do a lot of "laying by a pool" since we both get too antsy without a book or free Internet access. So what are we doing in Vegas, for a whole week?
EATing!
We've had surf and turf, pub food, burgers on the strip, buffets and so on. We ate like kings.
But the truth is, the longer I'm here, the more I miss home. Even the food at home. Even the food located AT my home. Because nothing here can ever hold a deliciousness candle to my favorites back home. They're my favorites for a reason.
You gotta leave to remember what you love about where you live. At least I do.
And I miss the kids. Really.
Be home soon. Keep the chips and salsa fresh for me.
EATing!
We've had surf and turf, pub food, burgers on the strip, buffets and so on. We ate like kings.
But the truth is, the longer I'm here, the more I miss home. Even the food at home. Even the food located AT my home. Because nothing here can ever hold a deliciousness candle to my favorites back home. They're my favorites for a reason.
You gotta leave to remember what you love about where you live. At least I do.
And I miss the kids. Really.
Be home soon. Keep the chips and salsa fresh for me.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Fun with fruit
There are three things this photo taught me.
1. pinterest.com is a cool place to find silly stuff!
2. There's a Watermelon Advisory Board. Seriously. Move over, Got Milk people.
3. You can make this. Click here to see how.
1. pinterest.com is a cool place to find silly stuff!
2. There's a Watermelon Advisory Board. Seriously. Move over, Got Milk people.
3. You can make this. Click here to see how.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Up in the Air
Monte's work is sending him to Las Vegas in April, and I'm going with him. It will be one full week without the kids, in warm sunny Las Vegas in a hotel off the strip (that's a plus for me) and because he is attending a seminar, my days will be my own. I can do anything or nothing, as I please, and then at night I can spend time with my husband seeing the town. Or not, as we please. The description of this vacation, if I can spill SAHM secrets, is every wife and mother's dream. Really. No kids, part time husband, and an on demand pool? Think of it. I can watch anything I want on TV. Throw in a little shopping or something done at the spa, and there isn't anything a human female with children and a husband would not do to go on a vacation like this.
There's just one problem.
I have, over the last decade or so, developed a very real fear of flying. Not just a fear, but a gripping dread where I imagine this giant steel horizontal skyscraper falling out of the sky on a daily basis leading up to the actual event. There are several reasons for my relatively new phobia. 1. A little over 11 years ago, I became a mother. Suddenly, dying was a bigger deal, because I had this little baby bird to protect and partially ruin as I clumsily attempted to raise it. 2. The plane, as I have mentioned, is bigger than some homes I've seen, and made of some really heavy stuff. Like metal. Then, it's filled with fat lazy Americans and their ridiculous luggage who won't even be fully on board before they demand snacks, so a bunch of those are packed on as well. I'm just saying, an object that weighs the same as the Statue of Liberty really shouldn't remain airborne. She doesn't. And don't get me started on the laws of aerodynamics, because I have the law of gravity on my side, and basically, my law beats the crap out of whatever you throw at it. Or drop on it.
I know worry doesn't change the outcome of an event, and only compromises the health and well being of the worrier, but it just seems like I'm the only one who has noticed planes are flying coffins of death. Monte says car crashes occur everyday, but it doesn't stop me from loading up in my van and heading off to spend a bunch of money at Sam's. And he's right. On both counts. And perhaps if I flew everyday, and I had to fly or not shop at Sam's, I would become desensitized to the obvious risk of being up in the sky with no ground under me. Logic dictates that I must be more afraid of planes than cars, even though the risks are similar, because I only get on them once every couple of years or so. And even though I feel this way, it hasn't stopped me from buying my ticket or visiting other "plane only" destinations over the years. Really, all it does is make the three weeks leading up to the trip, psychologically draining. But I'd like to say one thing in my defense. If I die driving my car, it's because I screwed up. Who is this guy in a white faux military shirt working on six hours of sleep and eight cups of coffee, anyway? And how do I know the mechanic working on my plane isn't going through a painful divorce and has lost his attention to detail or will to do a good job? And what about the parts manufacturer? I mean really!!
Crap, that reminds me, I have got to update my Will, which should probably reflect all the children and debt I currently have, and make sure I still like the people I leave them, and it, to.
Details details.
There's just one problem.
I have, over the last decade or so, developed a very real fear of flying. Not just a fear, but a gripping dread where I imagine this giant steel horizontal skyscraper falling out of the sky on a daily basis leading up to the actual event. There are several reasons for my relatively new phobia. 1. A little over 11 years ago, I became a mother. Suddenly, dying was a bigger deal, because I had this little baby bird to protect and partially ruin as I clumsily attempted to raise it. 2. The plane, as I have mentioned, is bigger than some homes I've seen, and made of some really heavy stuff. Like metal. Then, it's filled with fat lazy Americans and their ridiculous luggage who won't even be fully on board before they demand snacks, so a bunch of those are packed on as well. I'm just saying, an object that weighs the same as the Statue of Liberty really shouldn't remain airborne. She doesn't. And don't get me started on the laws of aerodynamics, because I have the law of gravity on my side, and basically, my law beats the crap out of whatever you throw at it. Or drop on it.
I know worry doesn't change the outcome of an event, and only compromises the health and well being of the worrier, but it just seems like I'm the only one who has noticed planes are flying coffins of death. Monte says car crashes occur everyday, but it doesn't stop me from loading up in my van and heading off to spend a bunch of money at Sam's. And he's right. On both counts. And perhaps if I flew everyday, and I had to fly or not shop at Sam's, I would become desensitized to the obvious risk of being up in the sky with no ground under me. Logic dictates that I must be more afraid of planes than cars, even though the risks are similar, because I only get on them once every couple of years or so. And even though I feel this way, it hasn't stopped me from buying my ticket or visiting other "plane only" destinations over the years. Really, all it does is make the three weeks leading up to the trip, psychologically draining. But I'd like to say one thing in my defense. If I die driving my car, it's because I screwed up. Who is this guy in a white faux military shirt working on six hours of sleep and eight cups of coffee, anyway? And how do I know the mechanic working on my plane isn't going through a painful divorce and has lost his attention to detail or will to do a good job? And what about the parts manufacturer? I mean really!!
Crap, that reminds me, I have got to update my Will, which should probably reflect all the children and debt I currently have, and make sure I still like the people I leave them, and it, to.
Details details.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Times, they ain't a-changin'
My awkward phase continues.
In a tone that can only be described as glee, my dentist (now my orthodontist) told me on Friday that my teeth and jaws are catastrophically misaligned, any any further living without immediate treatment will contribute to a whole host of horrible outcomes like cracked molars or TMJ, and pretty much guarantee an early ticket to denturehood. I have to have braces, and I have to have them yesterday. In addition, I have a tongue thrust situation which will have to be corrected with behavior modification "barbs" on the inside of my teeth making it painful to put my tongue where it automatically wants to go. Further, my palette is too high, so I'll need an expander, and the kicker is I have to wear this stuff for two years, and then a retainer for the rest of my life. But the fun doesn't end there. I walked shell shocked from the diagnosis into what's called the "financing options" office, where I learned that my dental insurance covers braces only for individuals up to age 25 (probably because who needs them after that, right?) So I will be paying $5,000 of my own money to be transformed into an orthodontic cautionary tale.
I couldn't be more excited.
When I was 15 I had a flat chest, a face covered in acne and a giant head of frizzy hair. When these facts would bother me, I would console myself with two things: 1. At least I didn't have braces and 2. eventually I would reach adulthood and all those awful things would go away and I would emerge a beautiful grown up swan with her own car and bank account.
Well friends, fast forward to 2011, where I do indeed have my own car and bank account. I'm a 41 year old swan with persistent acne, a flat chest made even worse by several months of breastfeeding, stretch marks from pregnancy, wrinkles, and now the coup de grace, braces to keep from further damaging my precious calorie intake source. In one month I will have to learn to eat and talk with a Buick Le Sabre in my mouth, without slurring or slobbering on myself.
Mason, who just got all this junk off, is finding great joy in my present predicament, spending a lot of time educating me on what hurts the most and where food gets stuck. Most of the adults in my life are trying to keep from openly smirking. This leaves me with my my last (and frankly most desperate) effort at self consolation: at least I don't need glasses yet (my vision has always been pretty good), and I don't have to walk the Marshall Missouri high school halls while wearing enough metal to send the TSA into pat down mode. Oh yeah, and I can stay out at late as I want! (I can't stay awake as late as I want, but where I fall asleep is completely up to me!)
In a tone that can only be described as glee, my dentist (now my orthodontist) told me on Friday that my teeth and jaws are catastrophically misaligned, any any further living without immediate treatment will contribute to a whole host of horrible outcomes like cracked molars or TMJ, and pretty much guarantee an early ticket to denturehood. I have to have braces, and I have to have them yesterday. In addition, I have a tongue thrust situation which will have to be corrected with behavior modification "barbs" on the inside of my teeth making it painful to put my tongue where it automatically wants to go. Further, my palette is too high, so I'll need an expander, and the kicker is I have to wear this stuff for two years, and then a retainer for the rest of my life. But the fun doesn't end there. I walked shell shocked from the diagnosis into what's called the "financing options" office, where I learned that my dental insurance covers braces only for individuals up to age 25 (probably because who needs them after that, right?) So I will be paying $5,000 of my own money to be transformed into an orthodontic cautionary tale.
I couldn't be more excited.
When I was 15 I had a flat chest, a face covered in acne and a giant head of frizzy hair. When these facts would bother me, I would console myself with two things: 1. At least I didn't have braces and 2. eventually I would reach adulthood and all those awful things would go away and I would emerge a beautiful grown up swan with her own car and bank account.
Well friends, fast forward to 2011, where I do indeed have my own car and bank account. I'm a 41 year old swan with persistent acne, a flat chest made even worse by several months of breastfeeding, stretch marks from pregnancy, wrinkles, and now the coup de grace, braces to keep from further damaging my precious calorie intake source. In one month I will have to learn to eat and talk with a Buick Le Sabre in my mouth, without slurring or slobbering on myself.
Mason, who just got all this junk off, is finding great joy in my present predicament, spending a lot of time educating me on what hurts the most and where food gets stuck. Most of the adults in my life are trying to keep from openly smirking. This leaves me with my my last (and frankly most desperate) effort at self consolation: at least I don't need glasses yet (my vision has always been pretty good), and I don't have to walk the Marshall Missouri high school halls while wearing enough metal to send the TSA into pat down mode. Oh yeah, and I can stay out at late as I want! (I can't stay awake as late as I want, but where I fall asleep is completely up to me!)
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Seriously?
Take tonight. At dinner, I was telling my boys about two things that couldn't be effectively compared. I said, "I mean, it's like apples and oranges." Mason replied, "Why? They're both round, they're both fruit, how are they that different?" And Monte, joining the conversation for the first time, said, "What? Do we need to go to the store?"
I could be hiding state secrets for all these people know!
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Thursday, January 13, 2011
Random Things
Stuff buzzing around in my head:
1. Sometimes the past year seems so unreal, that I actually believe I'm walking around in the world's most vivid dream, and at some point I'll wake up in the Oak Cliff house back in Missouri with some serious bed hair. Of course I will have overslept in the worst way and it will be spring.
2. Stephen asked me to play air hockey tonight. I didn't want to but I did, because I kept thinking "cat's in the cradle" you know? So thanks to Cat Stevens or Ugly Kid Joe or whomever, I'm playing air hockey to the best of my ability when suddenly the score is 3 to 1 in Stephen's favor. And in the flattest monotone you've ever heard, he says, "I'm ahead. You need to try harder."
3. I've been cooking lately, but the only meal I make that my family likes is frozen pizza. I wonder if I can get on that show Wife Swap, and be sent to some Amish family that looks forward to green beans from a can because it's almost like ordering take out.
4. It's hard to get back into the exercise groove here because lots of the subdivisions are self-contained bits of land just off streets that would elsewhere be considered county highways. No sidewalks and random cars doing sixty in a forty. "How did she die?" "Well, it appears she had some winter weight on her and thought she could still cross a street." "We lose a lot of 'em thattaway."
5. Thanks Netflix for giving me back Mystery Science Theater, even if they're mostly Joel episodes.
6. We start bedtimes here at 8:30, but still can't get our kids in bed until 10. There's nothing odd or funny about that. It just is.
1. Sometimes the past year seems so unreal, that I actually believe I'm walking around in the world's most vivid dream, and at some point I'll wake up in the Oak Cliff house back in Missouri with some serious bed hair. Of course I will have overslept in the worst way and it will be spring.
2. Stephen asked me to play air hockey tonight. I didn't want to but I did, because I kept thinking "cat's in the cradle" you know? So thanks to Cat Stevens or Ugly Kid Joe or whomever, I'm playing air hockey to the best of my ability when suddenly the score is 3 to 1 in Stephen's favor. And in the flattest monotone you've ever heard, he says, "I'm ahead. You need to try harder."
3. I've been cooking lately, but the only meal I make that my family likes is frozen pizza. I wonder if I can get on that show Wife Swap, and be sent to some Amish family that looks forward to green beans from a can because it's almost like ordering take out.
4. It's hard to get back into the exercise groove here because lots of the subdivisions are self-contained bits of land just off streets that would elsewhere be considered county highways. No sidewalks and random cars doing sixty in a forty. "How did she die?" "Well, it appears she had some winter weight on her and thought she could still cross a street." "We lose a lot of 'em thattaway."
5. Thanks Netflix for giving me back Mystery Science Theater, even if they're mostly Joel episodes.
6. We start bedtimes here at 8:30, but still can't get our kids in bed until 10. There's nothing odd or funny about that. It just is.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Are We There Yet?
I'm an avid blog reader, if not a blog writer, and one of the blogs I try to keep up with (semi-successfully) is Jeni Allen's Peace and Carrots. It's a great way to see how big her kids have gotten, get tips, have something to read while waiting for my kids to get out of school and get into my car . . . anyway, her most recent post (as of this writing) referred to ways in which we gals with seasonal affective disorder (that's right, S.A.D., or as laymen--and me when I'm being real--refer to it, the blahs that occur when nature takes back all her sunlight) can effectively cope.
Specifically, I refer you to numero seis in the list: Explore! Get out of the house and go somewhere! Go to a different library, a different mall, a museum, a park. Take a drive to a part of town you haven't seen before and spend some time exploring. If your kids are older, they can help you plan your excursion and even map out your adventure!
We Ellis' did this not too long ago. It started with cupcakes. Seriously. Apparently the new thing in urban America is bakeries that sell upscale cupcakes and not much else to yuppies and ladies who lunch. OKC has five or eight of 'em, and, tired as I was of looking at the same four walls day in and day out with breaks only for church and school transportation, I said one Saturday, "Hey, we should go get some of those deliciously overpriced cupcakes, at one of those places. You know?" Monte did know, and didn't want to go which made it even more fun, but he didn't want to argue and the babies were already in the car, so away we went seeking the elusive Oklahoman overpriced cupcake. We were driving at the time, and nobody brought an iPad, so we didn't have an exact location. But we pretty much knew about where it was, so no problem.
Except we didn't know exactly where it was. And it turned out that each of the adults in charge of the route were talking about a different cupcake place (how can this be, since you each speak the same language, you may well scoff, but these situations happen and happen regularly when one of the adults in question patently refuses to learn the proper name for anything. For example he often asks his wife if she's seen that one show, with that one guy in it. You know the guy I mean.) So our exploration ended up in one crazy trip in and out and up and down and all over Oklahoma City with three screaming boys in the back. We finally found Pinkitzel (the cupcake place I was talking about) where the cupcakes were indeed overpriced and delicious. We bought six, and by the time three of them were eaten by the brothers, my van looked like a bakery crime scene. So for my trouble, I got very very lost, paid $28 in US dollars for six cupcakes (really), got my cupcakes eaten out from under me while trying to find my way home, and the rewarding job of wiping up icing and vacuuming crumbs out of the van I had just cleaned the day before.
You might believe that I'm about to say "So DON'T explore! It doesn't pay!" but I'm not, because for all the ridiculousness of that day, I will remember it fondly while picturing Stephen's face absolutely COVERED in icing. What's more, I'll probably suggest it again in the near future (maybe overpriced buffalo wings this time) because exploration is really the best and only way to have an adventure--even one that you don't want to repeat anytime soon. I guess the lesson I learned in all this is, exploration and spontaneity certainly go hand in hand, but not if you have to be somewhere in an hour. They'll also lead you in and out of Mordor and through Kevin Durant's living room, in search of a cupcake. It's just their nature.
Specifically, I refer you to numero seis in the list: Explore! Get out of the house and go somewhere! Go to a different library, a different mall, a museum, a park. Take a drive to a part of town you haven't seen before and spend some time exploring. If your kids are older, they can help you plan your excursion and even map out your adventure!
We Ellis' did this not too long ago. It started with cupcakes. Seriously. Apparently the new thing in urban America is bakeries that sell upscale cupcakes and not much else to yuppies and ladies who lunch. OKC has five or eight of 'em, and, tired as I was of looking at the same four walls day in and day out with breaks only for church and school transportation, I said one Saturday, "Hey, we should go get some of those deliciously overpriced cupcakes, at one of those places. You know?" Monte did know, and didn't want to go which made it even more fun, but he didn't want to argue and the babies were already in the car, so away we went seeking the elusive Oklahoman overpriced cupcake. We were driving at the time, and nobody brought an iPad, so we didn't have an exact location. But we pretty much knew about where it was, so no problem.
Except we didn't know exactly where it was. And it turned out that each of the adults in charge of the route were talking about a different cupcake place (how can this be, since you each speak the same language, you may well scoff, but these situations happen and happen regularly when one of the adults in question patently refuses to learn the proper name for anything. For example he often asks his wife if she's seen that one show, with that one guy in it. You know the guy I mean.) So our exploration ended up in one crazy trip in and out and up and down and all over Oklahoma City with three screaming boys in the back. We finally found Pinkitzel (the cupcake place I was talking about) where the cupcakes were indeed overpriced and delicious. We bought six, and by the time three of them were eaten by the brothers, my van looked like a bakery crime scene. So for my trouble, I got very very lost, paid $28 in US dollars for six cupcakes (really), got my cupcakes eaten out from under me while trying to find my way home, and the rewarding job of wiping up icing and vacuuming crumbs out of the van I had just cleaned the day before.
You might believe that I'm about to say "So DON'T explore! It doesn't pay!" but I'm not, because for all the ridiculousness of that day, I will remember it fondly while picturing Stephen's face absolutely COVERED in icing. What's more, I'll probably suggest it again in the near future (maybe overpriced buffalo wings this time) because exploration is really the best and only way to have an adventure--even one that you don't want to repeat anytime soon. I guess the lesson I learned in all this is, exploration and spontaneity certainly go hand in hand, but not if you have to be somewhere in an hour. They'll also lead you in and out of Mordor and through Kevin Durant's living room, in search of a cupcake. It's just their nature.
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