MOTHER'S DAZE

BARE NECESSITIES

2012-03-08T09:49:00.001-08:00

Iran has nukes! Wall Street occupiers are on the rampage, and EMP’s, which may be in our future, could take us back to the early 1800’s. The television was blazing with the import of world events one morning as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror preparing my face for the day.

What if we had to evacuate? No problem. Rick and I had essentials crammed into two back packs with a list of things to grab at the last second—sleeping bags, food, headlamps, plus batteries, a small stove with fuel, and a bucket for a potty. However, no where on that list had I even considered my personal needs. That is where my mind went now.

A mass evacuation would mean being surrounded by other people. This was a problem. I wanted to look like I didn’t care what I looked like. I wanted to be one of those people who look good without makeup, but in order to achieve that look, I needed some makeup. What could I take to achieve the look, and where would I find room?
My moisturizer was definitely a necessity. Just because I hit the road running, didn’t mean my face had to look like a road map. No one would hold a little moisturizer against me. I could squeeze that into my back pack.
I picked up my bottle of foundation. It was a little jar. People who looked good naturally didn’t look as white as a jar of paste. It would fit easily into a pocket of my jeans.

My blush is also tiny, and would slip into my pocket. It would give me that natural healthy glow. Even though my eye shadow ocntainers are small, I could not bring them or my mascara. They were too obvious. But, just to make sure my eyes didn’t disappear, I played around with a couple of eyeliner pencils. I found a light brown one that looked totally natural. Not only did it fit in my pocket, but it would darken my eyebrows, subtly line my eyes and, on the practical side, would double as a pencil in an emergency.

That took care of makeup, but what about my hair? I needed a couple of rollers but where would I hide them. Of course! My bra—plenty of room there. Who knows what other goodies I could store there?

Back to my hair. I have to admit, I have a genius for this emergency preparedness stuff. I could slide bobby pins all around the hem of my shirt. They wouldn’t take any room and I could curl my hair with them. I could also wear elastic bands on my arms and put a comb in my back pocket. This was almost too easy.

Now, about my bangs? I look terrible without bangs and when they get long they make me crazy. I picked up a pair of toe nail clippers—no! I found a tiny pair of scissors. After all, it’s not like I want to slice my bangs off with a knife, and the only other alternative I could just picture was to lay face down, with my hair on a rock, while someone took another rock and slammed my bangs until the hair fell off.

What else would I need? Toothbrushes. I needed at least one. I would take two and carry the extra in my bra too so I people didn’t know I had an extra. Is it my problem if they didn’t think ahead and their teeth fell out?

Let the end of the world come. I was going out in style.

IT COULD ONLY BE A MAN

2012-02-18T15:11:00.000-08:00

This year I forayed into a different creative arena—community theater. My husband often thinks I am in the full throws of Alzheimer’s. He constantly accuses me of forgetting things that I know he never told me. I decided that memorizing lines would prove to him that I was not the mentally deficient one in the family. In truth, I learned once again, that there are many men out there who have lost their minds.

I found my evidence in the bathroom. There is no delicate way to say this, so brace yourself. When I went to the bathroom, tucked away behind the stage, I sat down and almost screamed. I was staring into a double sized full length mirror. It was definitely not my best side. Now who would do something so stupid? It had to be a man.

After the first jarring moments however, I could see possibilities for such a decision. You could take the time sitting there to fix your makeup, hair, or maybe even pluck your eyebrows and still make curtain call. Genius or stupidity—hmmm.

The bathroom has always been a tacky subject. When I was growing up and dating, I would rather endure horrific pain than to have to excuse myself for a potty break. Only the very real threat of wetting myself and everything else in the near vicinity made me give in to my shyness. Apparently, my timidity lingers on.

In our huge church building, some genius—it could only be a man, designed the building to have only one men’s and one women’s bathroom. Not only that, but they are tucked away in the same corner, right beside a drinking fountain.

It wasn’t a problem when my children were little. I could take one of them by the hand and pretend they were the ones who had to go. Now I have to brave it by myself. After all, it’s not like I can randomly grab the hand of some child wandering down the hallway.

Here is the typical visit. First, you greet the group of women standing against the wall chatting. That’s not so bad. It’s greeting the man who inevitably walks up beside you then peels off to the right into the men’s room while you peel left into the women’s, like a great bathroom choreography.

I once overheard a man say that nothing was worse than shaking someone’s wet hand because you knew they had just come out of the bath room. That man has led a sheltered life. I can think of a whole lot of things worse than that. However, our church is famous for it’s handshaking.

Since hearing that comment, I make sure to completely dry every speck of water off my hands before I leave so I can shake hands with the man or men who will inevitably be outside the door. Not that it is any great mystery as to where I was when they see me walk out the door that has WOMEN boldly emblazoned on the outside. After all these years, I still haven’t come up with the perfect ice breaker for moments like that.

SOCK LINT

2012-02-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

You can tell you're getting old when you have to sit down to put on your pantyhose. That's what my friend Kris told me several years ago when she complained that now she had to sit down to put her pantyhose on.

Kris is about the same age as me. Until then, I never gave any thought to how I put on my hose. I hate them, and wear them only as needed. However, I am proud to say I can still put them on standing up.

My husband however, is a different story. And no, he is not in the habit of wearing pantyhose. He only wore them a couple of times for scuba diving. Let me just say that seeing a 6 foot 225 pound man try to squeeze into a pair of queen size panty hose still makes me laugh. But, that is a story for another time.

Men show they are getting older when they can no longer reach down to take off their socks. Rick has the annoying habit of standing on the toe of his sock and pulling his foot out. He wears black socks and we have a light carpet. Hence, sock lint.

Studies have shown that when you are first married things like, where you squeeze the toothpaste tube, can be marriage breakers. I am pleased to say we breezed through that phase, so I am sure we will make it through this one too.

Not only does Rick leave lint all over the floor, but when he yanks his socks off he leaves them wherever they happen to land. Our laundry basket is only a couple of feet away in the next room. Sometimes I challenge him. “Honey, why can’t you pick up your socks?”

He looks at me like I’m daft and laughs. “Janie, I am going to wear them again.”

“Really? I know you’re going to wear them again. When they are clean. It’s highly unlikely you are going to continue wearing them until they are so dirty they stand up and walk to the laundry basket on their own.”

I pick up his socks and step around the corner to the dirty clothes basket. Before I can throw his socks in, I have to take his shirt off the top of the lid. Let me mention here that the lid is a light weight wicker that simply sits on top of the basket. No prying, tugging or heavy lifting involved. Apparently the biceps are the next thing to go. I bite my tongue and think back to the good of days of toothpaste.

THE GREAT GRETZKY

2012-01-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

Every once in awhile I remember an incident from my younger, more foolish or frivolous days, and I have to ask myself, “what were you thinking!”

I hate hockey. Because I'm from Canada, that borders on being unpatriotic. It’s similar to hating the Rose Bowl in the US, (which I do). When I was growing up hockey was always on TV, hour after boring hour. Back in the day, we had only one or two channels, so it was catastrophic. When I was desperate I actually enjoyed watching watch bowling, but never hockey.

One day I learned that Wayne Gretzky asked my husbands cousin out for a date. At the last minute something came up and he had to break the date but that didn’t matter to me. Suddenly hockey dripped like blood from my veins. At least, if Wayne Gretzky was playing. After all, he almost might have been family.

From that point on, I watched every single one of his hockey games. I even cheered. Not only that, I paid big bucks to go and see him. Rick came too so it was double the shell out. My butt was sucked to the chair like vacuum packed rump roast.

We were living in California at the time and went to the game with friends. They kept nudging me to look at the different movie stars who were there, but I only had eyes for Wayne. I am so shallow. Eventually, the phase passed and I am back to my normal hockey hating self, and wondering—whatever possessed me.

OK, I don't know if this has ever been done when writing, but I have to share my bloopers about this article.
I am SO NOT into sports that it took me several times reading back through my article before I remembered that it was Rose Bowel not Rose Ball. Then I realized that it wasn't Rose Bowel(although that somewhat indicates my feelings about the whole thing), but Rose Bowl. SHEESH!
I am probably unpatriotic in two countries now. :)

IT TAKES PAINS TO BE BEAUTIFUL

2012-01-19T12:08:00.000-08:00

It takes pains to be beautiful. That’s what my grandmother always told me when she was combing my hair. I passed those sage words on to my daughters. It wasn’t long before they ran screaming from the room when they saw me with a brush in my hand.

Not only does it take pains to be beautiful, but sometimes you have to get downright ugly first. I’m not sure whether you are more beautiful after you get your hair done or if you just look so much better once you get all the appliances off your head.

I am convinced that is the strategy at the beauty parlor. They sit you down in front of a huge mirror. Admit it, you watch with a little feeling of horror while they put in perm rods, tinfoil, or my favorite torture, a cap that makes you look like a bald old man. Then they pull tiny amounts of hair through holes all over the cap while you try not to scream too loudly.

Not only is it painful but you look like you stepped right onto the set of a horror movie. I think someone should inform the CIA. Can you imagine all the military secrets they could get from prisoners if they tried this technique? It’s amazing that we actually pay money, and a tip for this abuse.

I get tired of the same old hairdo and always look for a new way to fix my hair. A few months ago, I decided to try something I have never seen—pin curls with a twist. I pulled a chunk of hair, twisted it tightly, then wound it around my fingers into a curl and secured it with a bobby pin. I slept on it. That was a real act of courage. I had to be somewhere early the next morning and if it didn’t turn out I was in trouble.

When I took my hair out the next morning it looked like—

you can come up with your own adjectives. I panicked. This had definitely raised the bar on ugly. I immediately went to work pulling each corkscrew apart. It was magic.

I just want to say, I should also get points for bravery—or stupidity, for posting these pictures, especially with no makeup and the well known fact that I take lousy pictures. I will accepts any reward involving chocolate.

IT COULD ONLY HAPPEN TO ME

2012-01-06T11:16:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving day my daughter Briana, the AT&T salesman, told her dad he should buy the new iPhone4S. It would transform his life. Better yet, she would get all the kids to chip in and give it to him for Christmas, along with the Bluetooth, and they would also spring for some special apps. She looked at me enthusiastically and said. “Then mom, you could have Dad’s old iPhone.” Lucky, lucky me!

Apparently, I am not worthy of cutting edge technology. Every time Rick gets a new phone he passes his old one to me. I think it makes him feel he is being frugal. Who knows how he justifies it, but justify he does.

Not once did my children ask, or tell me, what I should get for Christmas. I knew Rick couldn’t help them. He would have forgotten every hint I slapped him over the head with all year. Even when I told him to, “write it down.” He simply smiled that, it’s locked up in my computer brain, smile, and promptly forgot it.

My first hint the children had something roiling around in their brains was when Garret came home for the holiday laden with an odd shaped gift. “Mom, why don’t you open this now? I can’t wait for you to see it.” He started to laugh and rub his hands together. “I haven’t been this excited since I was nine years old.”

My first instinct was to be suspicious. However, if Rick was getting the new iPhone they must have something special planned for me. I allowed myself to get a little excited. Then Garret smiled and said, with emphasis. “You’ll know exactly when you will need to use it.” A tremor chased up and down my spine.

If you have been reading my blogs, you know that Rick and I gave my sons early birthday gifts. They would have been more excited about me picking out their future wives than they were about their MRE’s. Why is it that I always get credit for being the paranoid, lunatic parent? They refused to believe their Dad had anything to do with it.

On Christmas Eve Adam and Jason would not let Garret give me the gift early. I would have to wait. Waiting was good because it gave me time to think about how I was going to accept this gift. Obviously it was something I would never expect--probably a gag. Was I going to laugh, or be annoyed that Rick got the Cadillac of phones while I, the hippy parent, got something I would probably have to bury in the backyard?

I decided that even though they wouldn’t appreciate their MRE’s until some huge catastrophe hit, like the apocalypse, at least they had fun coming together and planning. I couldn’t wait to see what it was—maybe.

I feel pretty confident in saying that no one else on planet earth has every received a gift quite like mine—a Zombie Apocalypse Kit; complete with book, toy gun, real shotgun ammo, and a cleaver with saw blades on one end. It came complete with a duffel bag to stuff dead Zombie parts in. HAH! I was right. It did have to do with burying something in the backyard.

I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY

2011-12-27T12:38:00.000-08:00

Our family has a tradition of playing Christmas bells together every Christmas Eve. Every year it is a disaster. Apparently my children never heard a carol in their lives and they can’t count or follow a pointer. When we play it sounds like a thousand alley cats puking up rotten fish.
This year, however, our Choir director asked for volunteers to play the bells for our Sunday Christmas Service. Several women showed up to the first practice and I was excited to have my children hear how beautiful they could sound.
During subsequent practices however, several women did not come but promised to be there for the performance. After all, how hard could it be for someone invested in doing a good job, to hit a bell when it was pointed to?

Evidently it was more difficult than we thought because it took a lot of practice to get the second,mor e difficult song played well. When we finally figured it out, our Choir director said that no one would be allowed to play who had not been to our practices.
Attending church was the high point of Christmas Day for my children. Not for any thought of spiritual enlightenment, but for the pure comedy of watching us play those bells. Just before I went up to play, I warned friends sitting in the general vicinity that I could not be responsible for my children’s behavior.

As I grabbed the two bells I was supposed to play, I noticed a horde of women, who had not been to practice, walk to the front and pick up a bell. One lady picked up four or five or them. Unfortunately, it was too late to grab my children and run screaming for the alley.
The first song was short and beautiful. My hopes began to rise. Even my children seemed impressed. The directors must have sensed that there might be a little trouble with the next song so, before we played it, they sang the round, to let people know what it was supposed to sound like. That was not a good idea. Now, if we played it wrong, instead of the audience thinking it was simply a tune they didn’t recognize, they would know the full extent of our blundering.

Sure enough, as soon as we started to play the cacophony began. I bit my lips to keep from laughing right out loud as I watched my boys writhe on the bench, doubled over in either laughter or pain. The song was horrible. We had a false start, and after we fumbled our way through once, our director indicated that we should try the whole thing again. Apparently she felt that the audience had not suffered enough.

When we were finished, the only thing I could take comfort in was the fact that Garret was laughing too hard to take Jason’s $50 offer to shout out, “We want to hear more of them cow bells.”I will never listen to ‘I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day,' with a straight face again.

THE PERFECT GIFT

2011-12-15T13:22:00.000-08:00

Every year I struggle over what to get my boys for Christmas and their birthdays. Even though he himself is male, Rick is never any help. When I do come up with an idea he wrinkles his nose and scrunches up his face in a way that leaves absolutely no doubt how badly he thinks my idea stinks. So I was excited this year,when I finally came up with what we both thought would be the perfect birthday gifts.

My boys all live on their own, and given the condition of world affairs, I am concerned that they have no food in their homes. My idea was to have a week’s worth of MRE’s and water sent to them . It was going to be an early birthday present. Adams birthday is a few days before Christmas, and Jason’s in early January so the timing was pretty good. Delivery day came and the expected phone calls came in. Jason was first.

“Mom, what the heck did you send me this for? Do you have any concept of what I meant when I said I have no room at my apartment? This box is huge! I mean thanks and everything, but you just as well have sent me a rock.”
“A rock,” I laughed. “Jason you can’t eat a rock.”

“Well I can’t eat this either ‘cause it’s so big I’ll have to have someone else store it for me.”
“Store it under your bed.”

“Mom, I have no under my bed. The box spring and frame wouldn’t fit. I have one tiny room with one small cupboard that I keep a toaster oven on the rare occasion I might need to cook something.”
The next call was from Adam. He called laughing. “Thanks mom. That was a huge package. I didn’t think I was going to be able to fit it into the car. At least you won’t have to worry about me now.”

“That right! If things get really bad you could stretch it out for 21 days by eating one meal a day.”

“Mom, you’re crazy. You overreact.”

“Adam, I am not crazy. For your information, your Dad thought this was a good idea too. He’s sitting right beside me if you want to talk to him.”

Finally Garret’s call came in. “Uh, mom, thanks. I got my package…my birthday isn’t until July you know.”

“I know but if I waited until then, I would miss the sale. Besides, what if you needed it before then?”

“Yeah mom, Armageddon is right around the corner.”
“Garret, have you ever heard of earthquakes and hurricanes? Don’t you dare eat it now? You put it away ‘til you need it. It’s good for 25 years and the water is good for four years.”

“Mom, you do realize there are more economical ways to send water than in little tiny packages don’t you—like gallon jugs.”
This is why Garret is rich and we aren’t.

And so it went. They all accepted their gifts with the same grace they did when I gave them a back pack filled with a 72-hour kit several years ago. They are still sitting in my basement—which is why I sent this to their addresses.

I just found out that MRE’s can cause constipation if you are not used to eating them. I wonder what they are going to say to the week supply of X-lax I am going to put in their stockings.

JINXED

2011-12-08T16:51:00.001-08:00

I hate being late. When my kids lived at home, no matter how hard I tried to gather all their things together on Saturday, someone always lost their shoes, socks or coat. Rick was no help either. His idea of helping me get the kids ready on time was to sit in the car and honk the horn.

A few weeks ago, I was late for church. Rick and I are the only ones living at home now and we were taking two cars to the same place because he had to leave early. He was on time. I was late. To the casual observer, it would obviously appear that it had to be my fault.

NOT SO! It all started when I asked Rick if my hair looked alright. He quirked his mouth to one side and answered slowly. “Yeah.”

Translated that meant, “I won’t be too humiliated to sit beside you in church looking like that.”

I pulled the pins out and started again, for the fortieth time that morning. Why is it that when I throw my hair up to wash my face at night it looks fabulous, but when I have to go somewhere that matters, it looks like three rats had a brawl in it.

I heard Rick leave. Great! Now I was going to be late and everyone would take one look at my hair and know the reason why. I threw it up one more time and made it work. I was just walking out the door when Rick called and asked me to find something for him.

I rushed back up the stairs, in my five inch heels, and threw my keys on the counter. His envelopes were not where he said. Because I am an amazing wife that he better appreciate, I ran around looking for them. By the time I found them and ran back downstairs into the car I couldn’t find my keys. ARRGG! They were upstairs. I rushed back upstairs and just as I grabbed them my pantyhose fell down to my knees.

“Really!” I stripped down and pulled on a new pair, grabbed the keys and took off.I was a block away when a lock of hair slipped out of my ‘do’. I pulled to the side of the road. My life is a circus. I did not have time to go tear my hair out and start all over.

What would MacGyver do? I found a chewed toothpick, wound it around the errant hair, stuck it in place, and hurried to church. I walked in late, all by myself, no apparent excuses!

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

2011-11-19T10:56:00.001-08:00

They say dog is man’s best friend but I’m here to say that’s not true, at least not in our household. In our home, mom is dog’s best friend.

My mother-in-law will sneak leftovers from dinner into the garbage rather than let my dog Chika eat them. She would also cheerfully kick her in the chops when she barks her lungs out at everyone who comes to visit.

My grandchildren think their dad’s dog is cuter. Ariana thinks Chika is ugly and stupid. Garret, who had a dog but refused to take care of him, is annoyed that we gave his Scruffy away and kept a clearly inferior brand. Even Rick, if he could give anything we own away, would get rid of her. That says a lot, considering some of the ratty, nerdy, sweat pants he has in his closet.

Luckily, as a mom, I am used to looking for the good in my family even when their outsides are screaming. “Ugly.” Chika is as beautiful as a little Wiener/ Chihuahua/Rat Terrier mix can be. Is it her fault she is enthusiastic, loves life and can’t control her licker?

Every chance I get, I like to sneak her into bed. I try to keep her curled up in front of me but she insists on snuggling behind the crook in my knees which happens to be on Rick’s side. Rick will sometimes yank the covers off the bed and frisk me to make sure Chika isn’t hiding in the folds of my pajamas. I tried hiding her in the pillowcase once, but the barking gave her away.

“Why do you let that flea bitten dog into bed with us? Every time she stands up and shakes herself, it wakes me up.”

Rick is such a picky sleeper. “I’ll tell you what’s noisy, and it isn’t Chika. She doesn’t sound like a 500 HP chainsaw every night, and since when did a big boy like you get afraid of a little flea or two. What’s a flea among friends?

No one loves me like Chika does. She follows me everywhere I go and anticipates my every need. She is the best dishwasher in the family. In fact, I never have to ask her to wash the dishes. I simply put them on the floor. She rushes over and does such a good job I never have to rewash them. Even Garret, the resident germ freak, never complains. Of course, I’ve never told him the dog does the dishes every morning.

Chika is also considerate. She never tips the garbage over on the days that I come home first and has never once gone potty on the floor on my side of the bed. The piece d’ resistance however was when I decided I didn’t like the comforter set on my bed any longer. I couldn’t figure out how to tell Rick that we needed to replace the perfectly good set.

Chika, sensitive as she is, must have sensed my dissatisfaction because one night she soaked the bed.
“Throw the bedspread away.” Rick growled at me.

He didn’t have to ask twice. I threw it into the back of the truck with the garbage to go to the dump and tossed a bunch of gooey stuff on top of it. “Why did you throw the bedspread away?” asked Rick when he came back from dump delivery.

“Honey, you told me to.”

“Since when do you listen to me? I told you not to have that ugly old dog sleep with you.”

I just smiled. He will think differently once I get a nice new bed ensemble.

TOILETS, ROMANCE OR BOTH

2011-11-11T02:00:00.000-08:00

Before marriage I guarantee that at any given moment you can think of five thousand fun activities to do with your boyfriend. Just being together is entertaining enough. Never, not for the infiticimal part of a second, did it occur to me to choose to spend time on a date cleaning my house. I am just that sharp when it comes to some things.

Before Rick and I got married, conversations about dusting and scrubbing toilets never came up. There was simply no smooth way to slip it into the conversation. It’s not like when you are holding hands you can say, “Could you give me a moment. I have an overpowering urge to clean the toilet.” Frankly, if you are thinking dust bunnies and bowel cleaner on a date perhaps you need to look for a new guy.
Rick and I rarely have a Saturday, or any day when we are both home together. A few weeks ago we had a beautiful day, to do anything we wanted. I suggested we clean the garage. Proof positive that the romance is gone from our marriage—or is it?
Have you ever considered how unromantic it would be to use toilets that are never cleaned, walk on floors that have several months worth of leftovers on them, or to fight your way through dirty dishes to find one without some kind of fungus growing on it so you could get a drink? Let me just say, if you want to see real romance in action, just come to my house. In fact, now that our garage is clean, romance is over the top. :)

CLENCH AND RELEASE

2011-11-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

I graduated college as a secretary. Back in the day, that was the touted career, according to my spinster, high school typing teacher. Her advice to become a secretary, however, was probably the worst I ever received. My greatest gift to mankind is NOT being a secretary.

The deeper I got into my studies, the more I dreaded a lifetime of bookkeeping, typing, and filing. It never once crossed my mind that there was something greater to fear. The one thing never addressed in my course of studies was—the dreaded spread.

When I got my first and only secretarial job, I sat at my desk eight hours a day. I could physically feel my backside flatten, grow and spread, like a rising chunk of bread dough. Then I started to notice the other secretaries in the office and other people I knew, who spent their days attached to a chair. It wasn’t pretty. Flat, broad bottoms were definitely a hazard of the trade, and from what I could see, there was no remedy.
My nightmares were full of bread dough spreading over everything. It was time for action.

Long before they were popular, I invented chair isometrics—clench and release, clench. Glance around the room—is anyone watching—release. Clench and release.

I bring this up because I am now a writer, which requires a lot of time on my deerriere, answering mail, visiting blogs, doing research and then of course writing. Now that I am older, gravity working against me and I am even more concerned about the dreaded spread. The only thing that has changed is that I write in private and can clench and release all I want without fear of discovery.

Some writers I know are absolutely dedicated to exercise, but I HATE it. I like to sneak up on it. I put my foot on the cupboard while I do dishes to stretch. I force myself to run through the house for twelve minutes a day. Up and down the stairs ,with the TV in each room tuned to the news so I’m not wasting time. Sometimes, even twelve minutes a day is too much of a sacrifice.

Do you sneak your workouts in or do you take time to do a full blown workout everyday. If you're a closet clencher be brave,confess. It will feel good I promise. Ahh, more clench and I'm done. Dang, those gluts are
almost lookin' good.

IN YOUR DREAMS

2011-10-20T16:08:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one to have totally bizarre thoughts just before I wake up? You know in that place when you are not asleep but not awake either. When you are aware that your brain has taken control and you wonder, what the heck is it thinking!
The other day I woke up editing. I could see a red line under the words my brain had misspelled, just like it does on the computer. I made the appropriate change but then it popped up wrong again. It took two more times before the change was made.

I learned a few things from this:
1. My brain tries to take charge of my actions when it thinks I'm not looking.
2. I dream in color,
3. Even in my dreams not only do I make mistakes but it takes me more than once to get it right.
4. If this is any indication, I dream extremely boring things. No wonder I don’t bother remembering them.

What does this say about me? I am saving all my creativity for my waking hours? I am a perfectionist? Why did I have to correct the word the second time? Couldn’t I have just opened my eyes and said “Jane you are an idiot. Who corrects their spelling in their sleep?” Am I a control freak and have to control my dreams? Maybe I am just plain boring.

Not to insult my readers, but if you are still reading this maybe your life is a little boring too. LOL

FLORENCE NIGHTINGFAIL

2011-10-13T13:49:00.000-07:00

In reference to compassion, my daughter, Kristjana, once called me Florence Nightingfail, but I have never heard her make reference to any lack on her dads part.

Last weekend I got a cold/flu. My throat was raw and burning. I happened to mention this to my husband Rick several times and asked him if he could get me some throat lozenges. Usually his answer to any ravaging disease is to drink more water. This time however, he told me to take some immune boosters from the cupboard. That was the extent of his concern. The pills didn’t help. My throat still burned and Rick never bought any lozenges.
I am so rarely sick that I have no idea how to act when I am. I spent the morning bustling about before I had to finally lay down for a couple of hours. I called my daughter Ariana to warn her I was sick and that she might not want to bring the kids over this weekend. However, she seemed fine with the fact that her kids could catch some life threatening disease from me so I got up to cook and clean for them.
The next day I slept in a little but I made myself get up and go to one garage sale. After all, I wasn’t dying. I came home, took a nap, then got up to paint and refinish the bench I bought..
Saturday and Sunday I wanted to sleep in but I got up and cooked, enjoyed my grandkids and finished upholstering my bench. After dinner on Sunday I got tired of playing the martyr and told everyone they had to do the dishes. I finally gave in to being sick.
Monday, ready or not, I got up to take on the new week, which was a good thing because Rick had a scratchy throat. After work, he bought himself a bushel barrel of throat lozenges. Apparently immune pills weren’t enough for him. Tuesday he cancelled all his patients, climbed into bed and told me that not only had I made him sick but he was much worse than I ever thought of being.
He didn’t need to tell me that. He is always much sicker than me. This meant of course, that he would not be utilizing this time away from work to catch up on mowing the lawn, putting up the electric fence or doing any other minor little projects.
He lay prostrate on the bed and acted like he was being stalked by the Grim Reaper. He ordered me to shut the door, be quiet and turn the TV down. He wanted to hear the Reaper’s bone’s creak if he snuck in to the room.
If I needed something important from the bedroom, like clothes, I had to tip toe around in the dark. When I banged my shin so hard it almost required stitches, I wasn’t allowed to yelp in pain, and when I came back in to the room to scrub my blood off the carpet he yelled at me for breathing too loud. I hate when Rick is sick.

Then I began to feel guilty. I didn’t even think to ask him if he wanted water, or food. I got mad when he complained he had a headache and wouldn’t take a pill. When he continued to complain, I grabbed a handful of pills and threatened to force them down his throat if he didn’t take one.
I may have the bedside manner of Florence Nightingfail, but I did cure my man.

ALZHEIMERS ?

2011-10-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

A few days after my aunt died we were laying in bed when Rick asked me if I was okay with it. She had a lot of health issues so I was happy for her so I said, “I don’t have problems with anyone who dies unless it’s something tragic. Like, I wouldn’t want you to die.”

“Well I wouldn’t want you to get Alzheimer’s. That would be hard to deal with.”

“Rick, what is your fixation with my brain lately? You act like I’m going crazy of or something.”

“Honey, you have no idea where you put your keys half the time and you’re always forgetting where you put your phone.”

I was stunned. This man had to be the maestro of bad timing. Just this very day I had driven 30 miles to Cathlamet to pick up his phone and ear piece that he left there on Saturday. When I got there, it wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I called his office to tell him and the girls told me it was on his desk. He hadn’t even see it!

“You are kidding me, right?” I said. “Who doesn’t know where his phone is?”

“I knew exactly where I put it. I just forgot I moved it. You on the other hand, are always losing track of things.” He said.

I gotta say, death always brings about the weirdest conversations between us. “Rick I am not losing my mind. My brain is wired differently. It moves light years ahead of yours. I only lose things because I’m not paying attention.”

I don’t know what I said but Rick went from solemn to hysterical in one easy second. He was laughing so hard he was squeaking.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s my brain we ought to be worried about right now.” I said.
He tried to speak but all I caught when he gasped for air was the word 'attention.' “That’s right.” I continued my explanation. “If I am paying attention to what I am doing I know exactly where I put things, but if my mind is racing through the litany of tasks at hand I don’t think about where I lay something. Hence, I am not losing my mind, I am just not paying attention.”

Could a person really die laughing? I didn’t want to risk it so I shut my mouth until Rick finally managed to gain control and blurt out.“That’s like saying, ‘I’m not retarded, I’m just not paying attention, I’m not stupid, I’m just not paying attention.’” That was all he could say before inhaling air again.
“Honey, you are never going to get it! I don’t have the luxury of having only one thing on my mind at a time. If I tell myself that I am putting my keys in the closet I remember exactly where they are.”

I could tell I wasn’t getting anywhere so I tried a different approach. “So, Rick, let me ask. Were you paying attention when you forgot you picked your phone up and took it to your office or was your mind on something else?”
This of course was a concession to the fact that maybe he had more than one thing on his mind at a time but I can only conclude that it happens so rarely he has no idea it is happening. I let him snort himself into a stupor while I rolled over to go to sleep.

Another day I would bring up the fact that if I needed three things done I had go over the list a thousand times before he left the house, but when he gets to work he always calls and asks. “What was it you needed again? I repeat the list and he says. “Wait I have to write it down.”

Humph, and I’m the one getting Alzheimer’s!

NEVER COUNT ON A STRIPPER

2011-09-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

I have been looking for a buffet for my dining room for about three years now. I finally found my bargain, a $30 antique that needed refinishing. I could do that! I would throw a coat of paint on it and call it good. That is until my husband had to open his big mouth.

“Nice piece Hon.” He said. All you have to do is sand it and paint it.

“Who asked you?” Is what I wanted to say but that is not the language recommended in the, ‘Happily Ever After’ marriage manual written by Prince Charming and Cinderella, so I simply smiled and said. “I just thought I’d paint it.”

He walked away without saying a word and left me packing my bags for the guilt trip he had just sent me on. I knew he was right and he knew I knew it. If I didn’t strip the thing I would end up painting it, hating it and sanding it in the end anyway.

I sighed and chased him up the stairs. “That’s too hard.” I complained. “You sand it. I’ll paint it.”

“No problem. We have some of that stripper stuff. I’ll do it Thursday.”

Thursday came, and of course Rick had other things come up. I was mad. It was the worst kind of mad too. The kind you can’t complain about. It’s the stuff that you never dream will happen, like when the polar ice caps, that have been frozen for two thousand years, suddenly drop a piece of glacier into your river and your house is suddenly under 20 feet of water.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly that bad, but why is it that his chiropractic table, after twenty five years of working perfectly, suddenly had to break down the day I want Rick to strip for me? Zeus himself couldn’t tell when Rick would have another free day so it was up to me.

I actually stood in the garage and wasted at least twenty minutes while I grabbed the can of paint, put it back to grab the stripper, then grab the paint again. I felt like the pendulum on a cuckoo clock. In the end I grabbed the stiffer and slapped the gooey stuff on.

I knew that I better do the hardest part first or I might change my mind so I attacked the ornate legs. Fifteen minutes is a long time when you’re watching paint dry.

Can I just say, NEVER USE A STRIPPER! It is gooey and will not come out of the little cracks with a toothbrush, paper towels or shish kabob skewers. Cussing doesn’t help either.

It will come off flat surfaces with a metal spatula, which they tell you not to use, and tons of elbow grease! I was hatin’ on my husband for several goopy sticky hours before I got the brilliant idea to borrow the neighbor’s sander.

New problem! Apparently I am the only person on earth who cannot use a sander. The paper would not stay in place. I stuck it on with duct tape and still couldn’t make it stick. I put the paper on the sander and placed it where I wanted it then pressed. It worked for about four seconds before falling off. Hundreds of four seconds later, I had the front and legs done. The rest was a breeze.

Rick came home moments after I finished. “Wow, Hon. Great job. I told you it was easy.”

His comment had the same effect as lighting a short fuse on a huge stick of dynamite.

CURSE OF THE BANDAIDE

2011-09-25T09:47:00.000-07:00

I knew the corruption of my children still had lingering affects when Kristjana called me the other day. “Mom I hurt myself. I have a huge blister. It popped and now it’s bleeding. I have no Band-Aids and it’s your fault.”
“Kristjana you are a big girl now you can buy Band-Aids.”
That’s not the point mom. I know I am adult but the fact that I have no Band-Aids is your fault.”
Of course it was my fault. I was a regular fault line. I wonder if this is how George Bush was beginning to feel.
Kristjana was still blathering. “I called my friend to tell him I had no Band-Aides and he wanted to know why. I said it was because when we were little if we needed a Band-Aide we had to go through the General.”

I started to laugh. Kristjana spewed on. “Who is the General?” he asked. “My mom.” I replied. “You had to write an essay about the wound, explaining why you needed a Band-Aide and then give it to her for inspection. Before I showed her my wounds, if I thought she would say no to a Band-Aide I would pick at my sore and make it a little worse.”
I was laughing hard now but her little rant was still going on.

“Guess what he said, Mom. ‘Were Band-Aides a luxury item in your house?’”

Now I had to sit down.

“The reason I don’t have any Band Aides, Mother, is because you made me learn to live without them. Well, I want you to know I finally broke down and bought some. News Flash, they don’t cost that much.”
I stopped laughing long enough to respond. “That is because you are not papering the walls with them Kristjana.”

Once I had grandchildren, I actually tried to reform my heartless ways. I bought several thousand of the sticky little things. I gave them out like they were cotton candy and then counted slowly to ten as I walked around the house and yard constantly picking up the wrappers.

The day I went outside and found Sponge Bob, Looney Toons, and every Disney Character ever invented paving my driveway was the day I marched into the house, grabbed my Generals hat, a stack of paper and pencils and re-opened triage. I am damned to a life of guilt.

NOT YOUR CRAFTING DIVA

2011-09-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

I woke up one morning and said to myself, “What can I do today to prove what a complete ditz I am.”

Well not exactly, but if I did start doing that then when I did do something ridiculous it would appear to be planned—a success instead of a humiliation. However, if you are going to do something stupid, it’s much more rewarding when you involve others, so I called my friend Connie.

Connie is a talented well grounded homemaker and crafting diva. She also has a vinyl lettering business and I decided I wanted to put up some awe inspiring quotes on my walls.

Most people spend hours, days, or even weeks considering the words of wisdom that will adorn their wall for generations. Not me. Twenty minutes on Google and I’m good.

A few days later, Connie gave me a quick lesson in the art of vinyl letter application. I went home and gathered together a level, a measuring tape and pencil then set about mounting my first quote, Bon Appetit. Short and to the point.

I was on the job for exactly thirty five and a half seconds before I had to take a flying leap off the cupboard to make my first phone call to Connie. I had taken the letters off the backing material when I realized I needed to re-measure. I stuck the letters back to the paper except I stuck them to the sticky side instead of the waxed side and now I couldn’t get them off. "Can you please redo the letter?" I asked. "No worries, I know exactly what I'm doing now. I won't need to call again." I reassured her.

Connie was SO nice each of the fifty nine hundred times I called her in the span of one hour. I can’t remember all the problems I had, but when a letter stuck to my kitchen chair instead of the wall I decided that there was a reason no one sat with me at my table when we did crafts at church.

The last time I called Connie it took a long time for her to answer. I am assuming she was afraid to pick up the phone. I think the only reason she did is that she thought there was no possible way I could have done anything dumber than what I had already done. She was so wrong.

She sounded relieved but a little scared when I asked her to come and help me. Turns out it’s really easy to put up vinyl lettering and before the day was out I was a pro.

I could make the blog longer and go into more detail, but do you really think I want to advertise what a clutz I am?

For Connies side of the story and pictures of quotes visit her blog :) here

WHEN YOU CAN'T GO WHEN YOU GOTTA GO

2011-09-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

The blog this week is in response to the Campaign Challenge I entered in. Enjoy this short humorous post :)

The door swung open. A hand reached around the corner of the bathroom at the front of the airplane and slapped up and down the wall. All the passengers watched. Was someone having a breakdown? The hand jerked back in and pulled the door shut. The bathroom door rattled as the pounding began inside.

The door swung open again. A blonde headed woman poked around the corner looking up and down the wall then pulled back in again. A moment later the hand thrust through the door once more and thumped the other side of the wall, this time going higher. The hand paused, and then dropped to strike the wall again, now she was beating the wall all the way to the floor.

The arm disappeared inside—more smacking the wall inside before the door swung open again and the arm and head poked around the corner and the whacking began again.

A stewardess hurried to the front of the plane and whispered something to the lady. The blonde’s face was scarlet. She murmured something to the stewardess.

The stewardess smiled. She showed the blonde how to latch the door to turn on the light. The door swung shut.

SOWING MY WILD OATS

2011-08-31T23:59:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone. Before you read my humor post, I am participating in a Blog Hop. Fun for you because I am giving away DOUBLE DECEIT by Stephanie Humphries. All you need to do to enter is to be a follower and mention my blog on twitter or facebook. The bonus is that you can follow the links under my post and enter as many giveaways as you want. I will post the winner September 7th. GOOD LUCK HERES MY POST!

I am definitely a country girl. I love the smell of straw, barns and fresh manure. It’s not likely that Rick will build me a barn anytime in the near future or haul in a horse so I can have that horsy smell I love. Which is why I asked him to get me four bales a few weeks before Ariana’s wedding.

“Jane, I may not be a wedding planner but I do know I have never been to a wedding where straw played predominantly in the decorations.” Rick said.

Maybe not yet, I thought. This could be the beginning of a whole new trend.

“Fresh straw is the perfect addition to my raised gardens, Hon. It will hold in the moisture, and keep down the weeds—give the place ambiance. Besides it’s not like I’m hauling in manure like Sypher’s did the day before their garage sale.”

Rick hauled in four large bales. I grabbed my pitchfork and danced the happy farmer dance. You know the one—invented by a farmer who lived in the dell.

Rick was probably right. It’s not exactly what most people would go if for they were hosting a wedding reception at their house. I have never seen the look in Better Homes and Gardens or Brides magazine but the fresh clean smell and the feeling that a horse lingered just below the hill was too irresistible.

Four days after I laid it down, when I went out for my daily breath of country air, I was horrified to see little green grass like shoots poking out of golden straw. It was growing in every garden box and on the ground between. What had happened?

A few days later I discovered that my straw had oat seeds! I was sowing wild oats, and just in time for a wedding. Clean, golden straw was one thing, but decorating with wild oats was a catastrophe.
Of course Rick thought it was great—a bumper crop! “Not everyone has oats growing in their back yard.” He proclaimed. “We can invite them all back in at harvest time. They can help us beat out the grain.”

Yeah. There’s a party I can’t wait to host. He only thought it was great because he didn’t want to weed it. Well, there was only one thing to do. I added it to my list of things to groom. It went on the top of my list, right above plucking my eyebrows. I wonder if anyone has ever waxed oats before—apparently not.

Well a farmer-wannabe’s gotta do what a farmer-wannabe’s gotta do. And that is just what I did. I got down on my hands and knees and plucked out every blade. I would just like to say that it was much quicker to have my eyebrows waxed.

The wedding reception went off without a hitch and no one noticed the few errant stalks of oats popping through straw waiting for the final plucking. In fact someone said it was the most elegant reception they had ever been to. I think it was the straw. Rick thinks it was the string ensemble.
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THE PERFECT GIFT

2011-08-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

When children get to be a certain age they need to get married. At least boys do because it is extremely difficult to buy gifts for them. When they are married you can at least buy something for their home.

I can’t ever think what to get my boys. It doesn’t get any easier at Christmas. However, I inadvertently got the perfect gift for Garret this year.

At our house, we have a system for birthdays. Someone in the family remembers the date, gets on the phone and calls parents and siblings to remind them to call the birthdayee. It has always been fail proof. However…the other day, I got a call from Garret.

“So, Mom, what did you do yesterday.”

“Well I have been working from eight to faint to get ready for a wedding, plus I had to work. Then I came home and did yard work, helped Ariana move and a litany of other thing. Why?”

“Well I can think of one thing you didn’t do.”

Suddenly I knew exactly what I didn’t do. “I forgot your birthday.”
“Yup NO ONE in the family remembered.”

I felt terrible. First because we all forgot, secondly for how bad we looked to Jenica, his girlfriend.

I felt better when he told me she forgot once too, but felt so badly about it that she started to cry. I tried to summon up some fake tears. It didn’t work. If I was a good mother, the tears would undoubtedly have come in waves like an ocean. The best I could do was an apology.

“Garret I am so sorry we forgot your birthday, but don’t you be forgetting mine!”

He laughed. “Actually it’s the best gift you ever gave me. Now I can give you guff about it for eternity.”

Eternity is a long time, especially when Garret is giving out the guff. I called all the kids and told them to call their brother. Then I reminded them that I was becoming a doddering old woman and they had a responsibility to take better care of my brain--once again my fabulous mothering instincts took over.

Why should I feel guilty for neglecting things mothers are supposed to have etched into their souls. I would rather pass the guilt on to them. After all, when you don't have wealth you have to leave them something.

WEDDING PLANNER

2011-08-10T07:20:00.000-07:00

It is exactly five days before our daughters wedding. I have been working, planning and preparing for weeks. I distinctly remember telling Rick, on several occasions I might add, that we need to talk about where we are going to put the furniture since the reception is going to be at our house.

Ariana wanted to have a dance and we had decided to empty the living room and dining room and have the dance there and set tables outside to eat. I have gone over the plan with Rick several times and everything was settled—at least in my mind. Last night, again, I broached the subject of moving the furniture.
“You know Hon,” Rick said. “I don’t think I want to have people dancing on the hard wood floor. And you know, I don’t think we can move that couch anywhere. Remember, it was so big we had to put it into the house before they put the front doors in?”
“Are you kidding me?” I sat straight up in bed. “I have been telling you for weeks what the plan was and you were in total agreement. Now you are changing your mind? You couldn’t have mentioned this before?”

Rick started to laugh. Apparently my frantic voice amused him.. “Jane, we have the whole week. What are you worried about. Just change your plans. I think we should have the dance outside.”

“Rick, stop it. You are going to make me cry. I have everything set. You liked the idea of moving the furniture and having a dance in the living room.”
“Well,” he said. I did like the idea then. I just don’t like it now. Why can’t you be a little flexible? Why does it have to be your way?”
OK, now I was ready to explode, especially because he was laughing. He has no sensitivity. “Rick, I could have been flexible any time this past two months when I sat you down and told you we needed to think things out. Your eyes glazed over and you told me it all sounded good. You pick NOW to become Mr. Wedding Planner? I am not changing my plans at this late date. We need to discuss moving the couches and the foosball game.”
“We are not going to move the foosball table. It’s too hard to take off the handles. I’m not doing it.
“Honey, we talked about it. I don’t want people playing foosball at the reception. Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way before now?”

“I just didn’t get inspiration until now. I think we should have the dance outside. And no one will play foosball if we put the balls up.”

And so it went. All my plans, and preparations, altered. Rick thought it was funny and over reacting.
I actually wanted to have the dance outside but I can’t let him be right. I have invested hours of planning and worrying and he has done nothing. It can’t be that easy.

Besides, I cannot live the rest of my life with him ignoring me then thinking he can jump in and change my plans at the last minute. Wait a minute—that is exactly how we have been spending our lives.

CANADA OR BUST

2011-08-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

I had to go to Canada for a funeral and even though we have been going there at least once a year for over thirty years, I still need directions. It’s not the freeways and the marked hi-ways I have a problem with, I can read road signs, it’s the roads within sixty miles of my home town that are my problem.

Seriously, I don’t know anyone who can get lost so close to the place they lived for over twenty-five years. There is more than one place to cross the border to get to my house but I get lost both ways. I suppose it’s just talent.

One of my problems is that you have to travel on Indian reservations in middle of the prairie, where everything looks the same and one wrong turn on a gravel road and you can be lost for days before someone notices the buzzards circling drives by.

Secondly, I am not good with directions that say, look for the train trestle going over the dam and turn at the rusty gate. I made Rick sit down and give me precise directions to navigate the shortcut from Browning Montana through Duck Lake. This is what he wrote.

'Gas up off the #2 Hwy on RT down the street, turn left onto ‘Duck Lake Road’ by the three huge Ice Cream Tepees. At the end of Duck Lake Road turn Right to Border Crossing. You can’t miss it.'

First of all there are a lot of gas stations on the right. Secondly there were not three Ice Cream Tepees. There was one Tepee, that said nothing about ice cream, but it did have a road that went to the left just before and just after it.

I took the first left and drove down the road looking for a sign that said Duck Lake. There was none, so I found a place to turn around and headed back to the gas station to confirm my directions— something my husband would never do.

There were two gentlemen standing in front of the gas station. I jumped out and started to talk to them. When I got close I could see that they were stone cold, stone, drunk. Leave it to me to sniff out the only drunks in the vicinity to ask for directions.

They pointed up the street to the white Teepee and said, “Turn that way.” Then they threw their arms out in each direction. They were about as helpful as Rick. When they followed me to my car asking me what I had for them I knew I had to get out of there. I crossed my fingers and turned left again at the Teepee.

Thirty minutes seems like eternity when you are the only one driving on a lonely road in the middle of the reservation with no idea if you are going the right way. Finally, I came to the end. Again, there was no sign. I memorized where I was in case I had to come back and do it all again and made a right hand turn to what I hoped would take me to the border.

I did make it to Canada, and back. My sister is coming to visit in a few weeks so I wrote clear directions for her. I included a landmark that I noticed on my way down. When I saw it on my way back home I breathed a huge sigh when knew I was going the right way.

'Look for the giant gopher stuffed onto a fence post.' Now that’s a visual no one can mistake!

SNEEZING YOUR BRAINS OUT

2011-07-19T21:03:00.000-07:00

You would think after more than 30 years of marriage that Rick could do nothing that would surprise me anymore. Think again.

I suppose, considering there are so many bodily functions that could be humiliating when paraded out in public, I should be grateful that the one Rick chose to exhibit the other day was one of the least embarrassing—that would be the sneeze.

To say that Rick is a loud sneezer would be a gross understatement. His sneezes have a power behind them that anything not battened down actually reverberates. In fact the normal human body cannot withstand the battering.

My son Garret is the perfect example. Rick passed his technique on to him. However, the strain on Garrets strong and healthy body is so great that when he sneezes his body actually folds over double. He looks like he is initiating a low bow to royalty. Rick likes to think he is bowing to his father’s sneezing superiority.

The unleashing of this power proved to be dangerous to Garret. One day as the dreaded sneeze tore through his body he happened to be walking towards our granite island and he was in the throws of his bow when his head smacked onto the counter.
That is what I call sneezing your brains out. I cannot afford to sneeze my brains out, so I have developed a normal polite, socially acceptable sneeze.

The other day we were driving down the road in our beater truck. It has no air conditioning so the windows were open. Normally my husband is very proper in public so I am not usually afraid to be seen with him.

However unprepared I am for these eruptions that rip through his body, send chills up my spine and paralyze my heart, the average person, strolling innocently down the street is totally ill-equipped.
We had just pulled into Greg’s Gardens when Rick let loose the sneeze of the century. Even I haven’t experienced on of this magnitude. I am sure it measured on the Richter scale.

To make matters worse he had a mouth full of cherry pits. This sneeze was so loud it actually came in two parts. The first eruption came just as I had stepped from the truck and had my hand on the door to shut it. People froze. It’s hard to do anything else when your heart stops. Just when we all thought it was safe to breathe again the second explosion came in a rain of cherry pits. Everyone looked up to the roof to see if the shingles had been shaken loose and were falling on them.

No one but me knew where it came from. Rick was laughing, people were fleeing and I had to restart my heart by beating on my chest and walk into the store as though nothing happened. I am a rock.

PHONE FIASCO

2011-07-13T08:26:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe I had another incident with my cell phone. Most people have an incident or maybe two with their phones and get the hang of it. Not me, I have to do the same things other people do and then create my own unique disasters. This is why I am able to write humor.

Fiasco number one, the complete story is in my first book ‘Mother’s Daze’, happened when I took my cell phone out the first time and didn’t know the ring tone. I was looking through a bin of diet drinks in the grocery store and almost destroyed the display to find out where the music was coming from.
Then, when I got a new phone I didn’t know how to turn it off when I took it on the airplane. When I asked the man on the seat next to me gave me a look that made me feel like I was the H1N1 disease.
I am on my third phone now and had no problems with it until the day I dropped it into the toilet and there were no rubber gloves in the house. Complete story in ‘The Crazy Daze of Motherhood’. But just like one of those old Timex watches, ‘it takes a licken and keeps on ticken.’

I knew for sure my phone was indestructible when I put it on the roof on my car a few days ago and drove off. My neighbor found it on the side of the road. It now it bears the scars of dog teeth but it still worked.

Then yesterday it wouldn’t work. This is a catastrophe. I finally mastered those critical skills of knowing how to turn it on and off plus voice mail, taking photos, and keeping it out of the toilet. It was my plan to be buried with it.

I can’t handle the learning curve of getting a new phone so I turn to the electronic expert is our house. Actually Rick knows little about the subject but he has never dropped a phone into the toilet.
“Honey, my cell phone doesn’t work. Maybe it needs a new battery. I just charged it and it didn’t hold. Can you pick one up for me today?”

“You don’t think it might have anything to do with the fact it was mauled by the bear our neighbor likes to call a dog?”
“It was working fine after that. Besides, now my phone is an original and nobody will want to steal it.
“Janie, no-one wanted to steal it before. You couldn’t give that thing away it’s so ancient.”
“Ha, ha.”

I was going out so I took Ricks phone with me. About an hour later I got a call. “Hello.”

“Jane, I fixed your phone."

“Already? Was it the battery?”

“Nope. I just turned it on."

“Are you kidding me? I never turned it off.”

Then came the words I hate to hear. Every time something isn’t working I hear them. “Jane, all you have to do is plug it in and turn it on.”

One time out of ten thousand and eleven times he is right and I am wrong. I will never hear the end of it! Is there a name for people like me?

YOU WANT ME TO WHAT!

2011-07-05T19:49:00.000-07:00

Rick phoned several evenings ago while I was sitting on my bed, knee deep in editing my book and with my hair in foam rollers. Now you know two things about me. I curl my hair the old fashioned way and there is nothing romantic about where I write.

I’d rather you think I write in more glamorous surrounding so could you just pretend that I am sitting in a sunny breakfast nook overlooking a country garden like the ones that appear on the cover of your favorite magazine?

Rick had called to inform me that someone was coming to our house to pick up a package.“Are you kidding me? My hair is in curlers.”

“So! What’s the problem? He’s not coming to look at you.” Rick said. “He’s coming to pick up an important package.”

“Well unless he’s blind he’s going notice my pink, black, and lime green rollers. If the package is so important why didn’t you remember to take it with you? Who’s coming anyway?”
Well it just didn’t get any better than this; it was the husband of my hairdresser. I’m sure he has seen women in worse repair but not me.

“Rick, have him come when you get home.”

“Honey I can’t. Just give him the package on the counter. He’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Love you, thanks.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful!” I said into the dead phone.

RIAGMRRRGRRR… Rick was always doing things like this to me. We could be lying in bed when the doorbell rings and will he get the door? No! And why you ask? Because I am the only one wearing pajamas. It’s that or freeze my kaboobies off. He likes to keep the room as cold as an outdoor hockey rink. Of course the door is always for him. I ought to be nominated for sainthood.
Someone pulled into the driveway. Crap, what was I going to do now? If I hurried maybe I could get to the door before he got up the front steps. I ran into the bathroom and picked up the only towel I could see.

I wrapped the fifteen hundred yards of thick terrycloth around my head, grabbed the package and staggered to the door under the weight of the towel. I happened to glance at myself in the mirror in the entry way. It looked like I was wearing a feather mattress on my head.
I opened the door just as he stepped on the first stair. I knew those fourteen steps to the front door were going to come in handy some day. “Here’s the package.” I said as I set it on the top step.The weight of my towel almost threw me onto my face as I knelt to put the package down.

“Love to chat but I have something on the stove.”

I slammed the door shut. I had just lied. Did I care? No! I don’t care if I am seen without makeup, mascara, or in my pajama’s but no one sees me in rollers. That is just too 60’s. I actually remember going downtown in rollers with a scarf on my head way back then.

UGH…. Now you know I am old enough to be a throw back from the 60’s, that I curl my hair with the same rollers I used on my daughter’s. Oops I never told you that… I really need to just shut up before I give up the location of the crown jewels I stole when I went to visit the Queen.

Help! I can’t stop…I am so outta here.

DEBIT FOR DUMMIES

2011-06-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

I hate math. I detest balancing a checkbook so I haven't used one for decades. I carry hard cold cash. I see absolutely no redeeming qualities in a debit card. I know exactly how much I have and when it’s gone it’s gone. Balancing pages and pages of the bank statements is fine for other elements of society who have nothing better to do but not for me.

One day, however I was forced to use the cursed thing. Kristjana sprained her foot and needed an ace bandage. She couldn’t walk into the store and since I had no money on me, she insisted I use her debit card.

“Kristjana I have never used a debit card.”

“Mom, you use a credit card, it’s the same thing. You swipe it and use my pin number. Even you can do this.”

“Uragamagagagrrr.” I cursed her and grumbled all the way into the store. It didn’t matter how simple the task, when it came to me versus machines, machines always made a fool out of me.

The bandage rang up to a whopping $6.87, $7.28 with tax—amazing that a large segment of society used a card for such a simple expenditure. What if they had a flat tire or needed a tow or were at the beach and the ice cream truck came by and they were attacked by an ice cream craving?

I swiped the card and punched in her password. That was easy. Suddenly a screen jumped out at me. How much money did I want back, $20, $40, $50 or $100?

Sirens stared screaming in my brain and my internal voices scrambled to make a decision. “Kristjana doesn’t like to carry cash. Why do I have to get cash back? What if this made her overdrawn? She never told me this would happen.”

The mob of people in line stared at me like I was an idiot who had never used a debit card before. I picked the lesser of all the evils and punched the $20 key. The till rang up $27.28. The alarm bells in my head screamed again. It was only supposed to be $7.28. Then I remembered I was getting $20 back.

Technology is hard on my nervous system. I wanted to go back ten years to the dark ages when people carried cash, gold nuggets or grain. I grabbed the $20 and the bandage then slunk out of the store.

“Now you have cash.” I said to Kristjana as I flopped into the passenger seat and handed her the package and the money.

“Mom, why did you get $20?”

“The machine said I had to.”

“Did you not see the ‘no cash’ button?”

“Kristjana, people were staring at me. I did not have time to read the thing like a novel. What’s wrong with carrying a few dollars anyway?”

“I can’t believe you can't use a debit card.” She passed me the $20. “You take this. Buy something for my dog.”

I might not know how to use a debit card but I am smart enough to know that I am $20 richer. I smell a business opportunity.

Please respond and tell me I'm not alone, even if you have to lie :)

Naked and Lost

2011-06-21T03:00:00.000-07:00

NAKED AND LOST

There are worse things than being naked in the tanning bed during an earthquake. Yesterday I took I took advantage of an upgrade in my tanning package and used the standup. I can’t handle this bed for more than 8-10 minutes because it gets so hot.

Sure enough, after two minutes I was roasting. I turned around. Of course it didn’t make a difference, there was no change of scenery and it burned the same in all directions. It just made me feel like I was in charge. I turned around a couple of more times until I began to feel like a chicken roasting on a spit. Just when I thought I was going to be fried crispy, it shut off.

Everything was dark. I reached out to push the door open. Nothing happened. I felt a screw and moved my hands up and down to find the crack and push the door open. “Don’t panic.” I thought to myself in a panic. I moved my hands to another panel and pushed. There was no sign of an opening. WHO GETS LOST IN A TANNING BED!

Obviously I had locked the door to the room so it might be an hour before they remembered I was in here. This bed wasn’t one of the regulars after all. Even if I yelled for help they would have to find the key to unlock the door or take it off the hinges if they couldn’t find the key. By then I might pass out from the heat. And what if they couldn’t get the door to the bed open either? They would have to call 911. There would be reporters.

I reached my hands to the side walls again to see if I could find the door. Nope. Now might be a great time for a full on panic attack. I started to slap my hands around in the cubicle and pushing on everything. Then I saw the door. It was behind me. All that turning around had me disoriented.
I wanted to shout out songs of joy but at the same time I ralized the ugly truth. I really couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag.

Was having brown legs really worth all this trouble? Oh the pains of vanity.

IN HOMAGE TO THE SUN

2011-06-14T21:52:00.000-07:00

Life is hard when you are from another planet. I know because according to my family I am from another world.

They haven’t exactly said it in so many words but it's implied. My husband generally treats me with no apparent prejudices and my children are mostly polite but sometimes…

Take this morning for example. I jump out of bed at 5:00 to greet the sun and do a little reading and exercise. I jump back into bed an hour later for a little nap and get up around 7:00, still before anyone else. I throw open the blinds, open the windows so I can water my window boxes and hanging plants then let the dog out.

About 8:00 the rest of the family start their grunts and groans and begin their little morning procedures. They walk around the house closing all the blinds and my husband repeats his little mantra, only not to any recognizable tune. “You know Jane if you left the blinds shut the house would stay cool all day.”

Ariana, who happens to be staying with us for a few days, adds her plug nickels worth. “Yeah mom, I close the blinds at my house and it stays cool all day long.”

Well whoop deedo! I just want to hit a button and press play because we have this conversation so many times. “It is summer. It is supposed to be hot. I like it hot. I like to see the sun. It only shines for forty five days of the year and I want to see and feel and bask in every nanosecond of it.”

The instant the sun comes out Rick buys his annual keg of sunscreen, turns every fan in the house on and ramps up the air conditioner. Our house is a little like living in Alaska, mid freeze. He wants to strip the bed down to nothing but I insist we don’t. I sleep with all my winter covers plus the extra layer he throws off of his side onto mine, then I let the dog cuddle up at my feet for extra warmth.

He keeps his office the same way. The days I work there I wear my winter coat, wool socks and fur lined gloves. Even then I have to slip outside every once in awhile to warm up.

So, we settle our differences. I reign at home on the planet next to the sun, where I spend most of my time and Rick rules the office where he spends most of his. I don’t know what we will do when he retires one day. Maybe by then they will have invented some sort of clothing insulated with ice. All I know is that my blinds will be open and homage will be paid to the sun.

SAFTEY FIRST

2011-06-07T07:58:00.000-07:00

I'm joining in the fun of a blog hop in celebration of Elana Johnson's book Possession. Enjoy the fun here http://elanajohnson.blogspot.com/

It’s time for my annual, 'do I go against my husbands back or not', debate. He HATES it when I go to the tanning bed and I HATE it when I don’t.

He rules on the side of what science says for good health and aging. I rule on the side of safety.

I don’t want to be the reason for a ten car pileup caused by the glare radiating off my celestial white legs.

I don’t worry about cancer. I worry about earthquakes. What if I am lying naked in the tanning beds and we are hit with a 9 pointer on the Richter scale? I’m sure that I would feel a lot better in an emergency if I had my clothes on.

Sure if they pulled me out at least I’d be wearing a tan but that is not much comfort. This is not something I can talk to my husband about. I don’t want to give him more ammo to debate me with.

Every earthquake finds me in front of the television surfing the channels. I am happy to report that there have been no reports about naked people being pulled out of tanning beds. Proof positive that tanning is safe.

However, each year I still have that internal debate because I know that if anyone was going to be caught naked in the tanning bed it would be me but for the good of society, I bravely belly up to the bed anyway.

I have developed an emergency plan so I don’t have to worry about things like what would happen if the glass shattered, should I tan with my shoes on so I can make a quick escape and if it does happen which part would I cover with the tiny wash cloth they give me?

I lay my shoes upside down next to the bed within grabbing distance and systematically layer my clothes so I could get dressed quickly. My best tip is to lay the most important clothing at the bottom for the best chance of being glass free.

After all, there are only two things worse than being found naked in the tanning bed; being found naked before you've had your tan and being naked with a body full of glass that has to be pulled out by tweezers.

So remember, safety first. Follow my rules and you too can have a safe worry free tan.

SHRIMP ARE PEOPLE TOO

2011-05-31T19:57:00.000-07:00

NEWSFLASH! In a new and I am sure vital government program, they actually built tiny treadmills so we could learn that when shrimp get sick they don’t like to work out.

Who knew! Shrimp are people too. I don’t like running on a treadmill when I am sick either. Actually, I don’t even like running on one when I am well.

Those shrimp need representation. Not only did the government make the poor little dears run on tiny tread mills but they had to wear designer back packs for additional weight. Where is the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals when you need them?

If anyone had asked me what I thought the results of this study would be I could have given them an educated guess for much less than the $500,000. I would have done it for another life time suppy of panty hose.

I must say I was actually excited when I first heard about these treadmilling shrimp. My first thought was that it was a proto type for bigger and better things. Michelle Obama's answer to Americas weight problem; make animals work off fat for you.

I could see cows and pigs across the nation, in designer workout duds, happily clomping on tread mills in their Nikes to get rid of body fat so I wouldn’t need to.

Guilt free but natural milk, butter, sausage and bacon. Goodbye fat pants and high cholesterol.

Of course it was too good to be true. I suppose the next best weight loss program now will be to mush our way to the Antarctic and compete in the new, government sponsored, jello wrestling matches.

DECORATING TIP

2011-05-24T17:52:00.000-07:00

I am a ‘HOW TO’ sucker. Tempt me further with a cheap decorating tip and I’m on it like spit bugs on my rosemary plant. So, when I read the blurb on Yahoo on how to ‘Tone Down a Bright Wall Color’ I was there in one key stroke.

The article started out…‘Painting over the existing color is an expensive and time-consuming proposition, and it can take multiple coats of a new color to completely tone down a bright color. If you use the right decorations around the room, you can tone down paint color without repainting.

I’m all about inexpensive quick fixes and saving time. I read on.

The suggestions included: hang neutral curtains, change your slip cover and bedding, get a dimmer for your lamp or get a new lamp, get new art, screw in a blue light bulb, put up and paint moldings and get new furniture.

Excuse me! This is not rocket science people. A gallon of paint,two or three hours of work and $40 or a mountain of shopping, moving, fixing, trimming, cutting, sawing plus many hundreds of dollars and your room is still orange!

My inexpensive tip, REPAINT THE DARN ROOM!!

PANTYHOSE HELL

2011-05-16T07:53:00.000-07:00

My grandmother was born the year after the tea bag was invented,1905. She lived into the next century and saw the invention of the TV remote, Prozac and waffle soled running shoes.

When I asked her what her favorite invention was, with no hesitation she answered—pantyhose.

PANTYHOSE! Grandma obviously never heard of the GPS and she definitely knew nothing of pantyhose hell.

When I shop the pantyhose aisle my breathing constricts, my mouth goes dry and my deodorant runs. I have to pull the emergency paper sack from my purse and breathe into it.

It is impossible to find the right size, color, toe and support all rolled up into one pair.

If you decide on taupe which is not be confused with beige, tan, or just the other side of mud, you must decide what kind of toe; open, reinforced, or the half way up your foot toe. Or did you prefer tights?

Do you need a pair that sucks your tummy into your backbone or the ones that lift your bottom to your shoulder blades? If you decide breathing is optional you can choose a pair that does both.

Choose incorrectly between ribbed, ultra, shapely or the five hundred other names they have to describe their level of support, you may end up with a pair of pantyhose around your ankles in the middle of the dance floor. Yes, it happens.

Once you decide the size, toe and support level you must find a pair that offers all those options in the color you want.

It would take less time to write an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica and sell them door to door than it would be to delineate all the colors, styles, textures, sizes and brands of today’s pantyhose.

Finally, I found a mail order catalogue to order from. The only problem is they come six in a box for each style and ask you to order every month. However, you can order in the privacy of your own home.

I have my personnal fashion sense to cater to. I need different styles for different looks and moods. I require a good gut busting design for those days when I can’t fit my clothes but polite society still requires them to be zipped.

I need a variety of colors in each style: taupe, tan, beige, nude, black, off black, sheer black, powder black, cream, and gray mist.

When the UPS truck backed the Semi to the garage and buried Rick’s car in pantyhose I was forced to explain my expenditure.

#1. This was a life saving tool. I would not have to shoot myself in the pantyhose aisle.
#2. I had panty hose for the next 700 years at today’s easy prices.
#3. We had a lifetime supply of boxes.

One look at Rick and I knew he was in his own little pantyhose hell and the idea of my death in the panty hose aisle seemed to appeal to him.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY?

2011-05-10T15:16:00.000-07:00

I was in Utah last week and stopped to visit my son Garret. I decided that since he was exceptionally successful in his business this year he should lavish me with an expensive gift. Maybe Mother’s Day would be pleasant this year.

The problem was I wanted it to be his idea. The odds of that happening were nil so I made a call to Rick. No sense beating around the bush.

“Honey, since Garret’s making lots of money I want him to buy me a picture for Mother’s Day. I want you to suggest to him that he take me down to pick one out. But be subtle.”

Moments later Garret came into the room.

“Mom, Dad called. He says you want me to get you a picture.”

Rick—subtle as a stubbed toe!

“Uh…I …Why would he say that? Oh—thats right, it’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. He probably thought it would be nice for you to get me a gift. How about we go right now?”

I found the perfect picture…$580. Of course I didn’t expect him to pay that much but it was obvious he inherited his dad’s sensitivity.

“Mom, I don’t love you $580 worth.”

I wasn’t about to write Mother’s Day off. I have five other children after all. Here’s the run down. Jason forgot. No big surprise there.

I was traveling home on Sunday so I called Briana for some information. She remebered what day it was and slathered me in love and affection.

“Happy Mother’s Day Mom, you’re an awesome mother. Kristjana wants to talk to you.”

“Mom, Briana bought a dog so she doesn’t want me to keep Chika here. Can you keep her at your house? You could pick her up on your way home.”

“I suppose I could.”

“Thanks. Love you, goodbye.”

“Is there a happy Mother’s day in there somewhere? Can I expect gifts when I come by?”

“Mom, I’m giving you Chika.”

Wow, I felt like such a queen.

A few minutes later, Ariana called. “Mom where is your electric frying pan? I’m making a big Mother’s Day dinner.”

Finally someone was going to show me a little appreciation. “That sounds wonderful hon. I should be home about three o’clock. What time is dinner?”

“Oh I wasn’t expecting you home until late tonight. I invited all the Sypher’s for dinner.”

Later that afternoon Adam called. “Happy Mother’s Day mama.”

“Adam, thanks for calling. How are you? Listen I’m sorry but I have to go. We have a houseful of people here and we are about to sit down for dinner.”

Thank goodness Mother’s Day is over and I have a whole year of therapy before the next one comes along.

Baggies

2011-05-04T23:15:00.000-07:00

I thought all my grocery shopping woes were over. No longer did I have to slink down the Kotex aisle and try to blend a month supply of feminine hygiene product in with the milk. Nor did I spend hours in a comatose stupor to select the perfect pair of pantyhose.
Then came the day I needed to freeze 120 pounds of chicken breasts. I needed baggies—lots of baggies.
Rick’s part of this little project was to simply pick up the chicken. He always gets the easy job.
All he had to do was drive 45 miles during rush hour traffic, in the pouring rain, then wait in line for 2 hours then load the chicken into the car and drive back home.
I on the other hand had to drive to the store and purchase the perfect plastic bags.
It was one of those jobs that disguises itself as something simple but before you know it, you are sucked into the bowels of the pit where plastic burns forever but is never completely consumed.
Ordinarily purchasing a box of baggies was a simple matter but today it was a combination of math and science, my two hatingest subjects in school.
How many bags does it take to house 120 pounds of chicken? And if I was going to buy some, I should buy twice as many because I would probably need them next year too. My grandmother instilled in me all my life that a depression was impending. If I didn’t buy extra maybe they would cost too much next year or worse yet be rationed.
As I stood in front of the baggy shelf my jaw went slack. There were so many choices. Which should I buy Ziploc or Glad? How thick did the plastic need to be? What was the best buy? The ones with the regular zip seal, or the extra wide zip that guaranteed to seal? I pulled out my calculator.
Did I need 40 quart or 100 quart packages? How many chickens would each one hold? Maybe I should get gallon or two gallon size.
After spending more time there than I had at my last four hair appointments I decided to buy two packages of 40 quarts, one each of wide and narrow seal; one 100 count box and two boxes of gallon size to put the quarts into after we had filled them. I wasn’t taking any chances on the seal guarantee or not.
I am pleased to announce that we now have enough baggies to get us through any major gas hike, two depressions 14 years of severe rationing.

DEBT DIET

2011-04-27T11:06:00.000-07:00

Rick has been listening to too much radio. Some of these shows should be taken off the air. It’s not that I’m against freedom of speech but lately it is seriously encroaching on my freedom of expression. First it was shoes and now it is earrings.
My husband has been listening to the Dave Ramsey show with all those people calling in to scream ‘we’re debt free.’ It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea to get out of debt but not until I buy everything I might possibly need before we do.

When Rick informed me that we needed to become debt free I thought it was a great idea. I still do but I have to say it is about as exciting as eating sardines on Melba toast.

I wanted to buy a pair of earrings. I don’t need earrings in the ‘need’ sense but I need them in the sense that now that I can’t have them I have to have them. They don’t cost much but I am plagued with an annoying little thing called guilt. I am on the honor system.
It just doesn’t seem fair to me—this going on a debt diet. It’s a lot easier for Rick. He doesn’t even need earrings or high heel shoes nor does he carry a purse. It’s not hard for him to go on an accessory diet. He’s not addicted to chocolate either.
What does he have to sacrifice; beef jerky, pepperoni sticks, or those jaw breaking corn nuts he likes to eat?

I came up with a plan. The earrings were on sale, buy two get one free. So which one is free? If he does notice that I have a new pair and that in itself, would be a monumental moment, I could honestly say that I got that pair for free. He doesn’t have to know how much I paid to get it for free.

I feel better already. I am sacrificing by only getting three pairs. At this price I should stock up. We have a supply of food after all. Shouldn’t we be stocking up on everything? But no, I agreed to go on a debt diet so that’s what I’m going to do.

FANCY FOOTWEAR

2011-04-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

I love shoes. I love high heels, the higher the better. OK, maybe I’d max out at 5 inches. After all it’s not like I’m the Statue of Liberty.

Rick thinks I have enough shoes. I tried to tell him I owe it to my public to wear cute shoes. OK, so maybe I don’t exactly have a public but I have a person and I only see her in public. She is a cute lady from church who actually gets up off of her chair and walks to where I am standing just to look at my shoes. Besides, she is older than me by about 20 years so it’s harder for her to get around. Don’t I owe her a pair of shoes that make her trip worth her while?

When I go to the bathroom people can tell it’s me just by looking under the stalls at my shoes.
Footwear is an important part of accessorizing. I am here to tell you if you don’t already know it, one pair of black shoes does not go with everything. I have @*&$&#** pairs of black shoes and I still have some outfits that require a different shoe.

There is a difference as to what clothes go with a chunky heel, a high heel, open toe, a strappy shoe, one with buckles on it or ruffles on the heel, the pair of black shoes that has some white on it, or flats. There is also a difference if the shoe is shiny, matte or suede. I could go on and on. I think I just did.

The long and short is; a woman must have more than one or two pairs of black shoes. And that is just the black shoes. How about the brown, ecru, white, red, blue, striped, polk-a-dot, green, the sandals and then there is a whole ‘nother array for casual shoes.

I wear all my shoes. It’s hard to explain to a man. Rick has four pairs. Well, if all I wore was pants and flat heels I might not have an eye for creativity either.

Men don’t wear high heels and my man would not be caught dead in a pair of red or bright green shoes. Nope brown is it, boring to the bone brown or black for him.

I figure wiith all the money we save not buying him shoes we can afford to buy more for me. After all, when in the course of history of human events has a man’s shoes ever decided his destiny?

The story of Cinderella tells it all. A girl went from rags to riches all on account of a unique pair of shoes. I think I’ll approach him with the fact that a new pair of shoes is an investment in our future.

MOVIE TIME

2011-04-13T15:37:00.000-07:00

Before we got married Rick and I enjoyed going to the movies. We went to the late show and held hands while I asked him questions about the movie. He would smile and tell me what I missed when I blinked. We snuggled together and ate buckets of hot buttered popcorn. Movie night was fun. He liked chick flicks back then.

Fast forward thirty years. Our idea of getting ready for a late movie is to hurry through supper, throw our pajamas on and stick in a Red Box movie that Rick picked up on his way home from work.

That’s when I found out that when we were dating he liked the chick but not the flick. I am an incredibly awesome wife so I simply sigh when he brings his, beat ‘em in the head, mystery action thriller home. We climb into bed, a popcorn free zone I might add, and turn on the movie.

“What’s happening? I ask thirty seconds into the movie.

“I don’t know hon. Just watch. I’ve never seen this movie either.”

I watch, afraid to blink and miss something. Why did they have to make the plot so complicated and talk so low you can’t hear them?
“Turn up the volume. Is he a bad guy?”

“Jane. I don’t know.” I concentrated harder.
“Oh honey, I forgot to tell you that Garret called today. You’re supposed to call him back.”

“Couldn’t you have told me after the movie?”

“No. I might have forgotten.” Rick snorts.

“What did that man just say?”

Rick takes a deep breath. “He said, ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but…’ I missed the rest.”

“I heard that part. How come you never hear what they say? When you ask me what they say I can tell you what they said.”

“I’ll rewind it.”

“No. Every time you try to go back it wrecks the movie. Just leave it.”
“I got it all figured out.” He tries to skip it back. He goes too far. “Crap.”

Rick tries to find the spot again and I go paint my toe nails. He finally gives up and starts the movie again. I get to figure out what happened and he gets to hear what he missed.
“Now what’s happening?” I can’t help myself from asking.

“I don’t know.” I glue myself back to the TV screen.

“What did they say?” Rick missed another line.

“They said……..” I repeat back to him exactly what they said. “How come when you miss something I hear it but you can never hear what I miss. Do you know how annoying that is?”

We manage to get through the movie. I never quite know what is going on and Rick can’t hear half of it and there’s no snuggling or popcorn but we are entertained. I wonder why none of our kids want to watch a movie with us?

EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM

2011-04-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

My book is on review this month. I would like to welcome everyone who is visiting. If you would like to read the reviews and enter the contest that will be drawn for at the end of the month see the 'My Book Reviews Tab under the header then hit alink and enjoy some cool blogs and reviews. Meanwhile here is a blurb from

THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD When my husband and I applied for our marriage license, we simply walked up to the clerk and paid our money. He handed us a little piece of paper and said, “Next.”
That was it. There was no interrogation, no screening of any kind. No one asked me if I was an ambulance driver, a paramedic, a dog whisperer, a pest exterminator, a plumber or an emergency responder of any other ilk; nor if I was ever likely to become one.
In college I trained in the quintessential art of shorthand. Not once, in my entire life has there ever been a need, let alone an urgency, to use that skill. Never have I been faced with an emergency where I said, “Boy is my shorthand coming in handy now."
It wasn’t that I went into marriage completely inept. I had skills. I knew the importance of shaving my legs and under my arms, of applying makeup everyday and generally trying to look and smell nice. This skill had not only attracted a husband but it came in useful when I needed someone to change a flat tire.
College was not a complete waste of time however; I did learn a little something about plumbing.
One day I walked into the bathroom and noticed a mountain of toilet paper in the toilet. Naturally, I flushed. As the water rose higher and higher I began to worry. If I didn’t do something fast it was going to flood.
Why is the plunger never around when you need it? It’s not like it has a multitude of uses. I have never yet seen it mistaken for a potato masher and I would have noticed someone using it as an umbrella.
Without a plunger—or plumber—handy, there was only one logical thing to do...

AMERICAN IDOL

2011-03-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

AND THE WINNER IS GREEN EYED GIRL
Thanks to all those who visit my blog and entered my contest. I hope you come back every week. Now enjoy *****************
AMERICAN IDOL
Very few rules are spelled out in the marriage contract. Every couple must grope their way through the gray areas to define their own. In our household we have two absolutes.

Rule #1 If it’s my chocolate it’s MY chocolate. If it’s your chocolate it’s MY chocolate. Don’t think of coming close enough to even smell my chocolate and if your too dumb not to hide yours well enough, or eat it fast enough, I will.

Rule #2 Rick is king of the remote. I am the babysitter of the remote. If it gets lost it’s my fault, end of story. End of life if:
a) It’s not recovered quickly
b) The batteries wear out and there are none in the house
c) The dog chews, pees or otherwise initiates its demise.

The other evening Rick and I were lying in bed ensconced in our favorite activities. I was eating chocolate and he was fondling the remote. We were about to watch our latest DVR of American Idol. Life was good until...

“Stop. Go back. No further back.”

“Jane, the judges are just walking to their seats.”

“Honey, I want to see what they are wearing.”

Rick shook his head, and pushed rewind. “There, you saw them” he said and fast forwarded again.

“Stop. All I could see was that Jennifer was wearing something brown. Turn it back.”

He turned it back. “There she is.” He hit forward again.

“Wait, I want to see them walk to their chairs.”

“Are you kidding me!”

“Just do it, hon. I have to see what Steven Tyler is wearing.”

Rick has never once in our entire married life rolled his eyes at me even though I have given him plenty of eye rolling moments. He is a head shaker. But tonight he rolled his head and his eyes and his mouth dropped open so far I swear I saw his tongue roll.

“Honey, hurry up and rewind. I want to see his face. ”

“I thought you wanted to see his clothes.”

“I want to see his face too. I love the way he moves his mouth.”

“I can’t believe I’m married to a Steven Tyler groupie.”

I am an eye roller. I rolled my eyes up and into my head. But just for a second I didn't want to miss Steven Tylers parade.

When the judges were in their chairs Rick pumped the gas on the forward button again to see the contestants.

"What's the rush? I want to see what they say about the backgrounds of the singers.”

“Jane, you are ridiculous. We don’t need to see their family home, bedroom décor, or know what tune their toilet plays when they flush it. The point of the DVR is to drive forward through all the junk. We are not saving time.”

Rick was getting frustrated now. I could tell because he talked in paragraphs not his usual two words and a grunt.

“Honey, I want to be up on current events. I want to know the nuances.”

“Jane before this show you didn’t know any of these people. You didn’t even know who Stephen Tyler was. I don’t think he qualifies as a current event anymore.”

“Well, for the record, I think since he is on American Idol and now I know who he is that makes him current event enough for me.”

Rick gave me another record breaking roll of his head and eyes.

I mourned the loss of Simon Cowell all winter and it took time to warm up to Steven. Rick wasn’t going to ruin this for me. And I’m not saying I’m hot for Steven, just warm. But he sure makes one heck of a carnival act.

Chocolate, American Idol and Stephen Tyler, all rolled into one and covered with a little nuts. UM...MMMM.

DRIVING ME CRAZY

2011-03-16T08:46:00.000-07:00

HI Friends, I am participating in a fun Blog fest this week and will be getting some critiques on my story. This is a hint of things to come in my next book 'Driving Me Crazy'. Enjoy and please feel free to also comment Now...the story.

SOMETIMES I wonder if my husband realizes that if something happened to me he would be stuck eating macaroni mixed with hamburger and tomatoes for the rest of his life.

Obviously, these thoughts have never parted his gray matter or I would not be sitting in the passenger seat with my son, who only yesterday was toddling around in diapers and sucking on a bottle while milk dripped from his chin.

Driving a car might be a glorious milestone for Jason but it felt like a millstone was grinding inside my stomach and turning it to jell-o. I wondered if it would damage his self-esteem if I unlatched my seat belt, prostrated myself on the floor mat and screamed out a prayer of deliverance.

I sat back into the seat and took a deep breath. “Watch out for that tree.”

Jason whipped his head both directions. “What tree? You planted a tree in the driveway today?”

“I’m talking about the tree at the end of the driveway.”

Jason looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Mom, I haven’t even put the key into the ignition yet.”

“I know. I was just reminding you that before you put the key in the ignition you need to take stock of your surroundings.”

“Mom, we’ve lived in this house for six years now. I know there is a tree at the end of the driveway.”

“Jason, I know that you think you know there is a tree at the end of the driveway but you only know from the perspective of a pedestrian or a bicyclist, not as the driver of nice, unscratched, dent free car.”

He guffawed and put the keys in the ignition.

“Wait. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Mo-om. What is your problem?”

“I am trying to prevent problems. What are you supposed to do before you start the engine?”

Jason sighed and checked his mirrors. “You’re making me nervous. You said you would take me out to practice if Dad took me first and he thinks I’m ready. Give me a chance to get out of the driveway would ya.”

I bit my tongue but it’s a good thing he couldn’t read my mind. Rick thinks he’s a good driver too but that’s because he has never had to sit beside himself in the driver’s seat. The realization that he will have passed on his eccentric habits was what was making my insides quiver.

Jason was able to clear the tree with only a slight gasp from me that I tried to hide with a fit of coughing. He started to speed up.

“Slow down.’

“I was only trying to get you to the emergency room before you died.” He
said as he let up on the gas.

“Son, the car is a lethal weapon not a merry-go-round on the playground.”

“Gee Mom, thanks. They never covered that in Drivers Ed. What does Dad call what he does in the church parking lot when it snows? Not a merry-go-round—oh yeah, a donut.”

My husband the safety mogul.
“Jason, the signal lights work in this car you know.”

“Mom, you don’t signal 3000 miles before you get to the intersection. You actually wait until you get close enough to the corner to see that it’s there. It confuses the people behind you. No wonder grandpa didn’t teach you to drive.”

“It also confuses people when you don’t PICK A LANE.”
I caught my breath while he swerved hard to the right. “Let’s be clear. He didn’t not let me drive. I chose not to let him teach me.”

“Boy, I can’t imagine how that must have felt.”

“Jason, you’re going too fast into the turn and I told you, you don’t wait until you’re at the corner to signal. Watch out. Stay in your lane.”

“Mom is it ok if I breathe or do you want to do that for me too?” Jason’s fists clenched the wheel.

“I’m sorry son, your doing a great job. I’m just a little nervous. This is my first time you know. STOP, someone’s on the crosswalk.”

Jason slammed on the brakes. “They’re supposed to wait for the light. I have the right of way. If I hit them it’s their fault.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. The point would be not to have an accident, not to hurt people and not to make your mother soil the seat of the car. Think how bad you’d feel if you hurt someone. When I, who happen to be in the death seat, am stretched out flat in the morgue, its cold comfort to know we had the right of way”

“It wouldn’t be my fault.”

“Jason! If someone crashed into you and left you paralyzed for life do you think it would make it any easier knowing it wasn't your fault?’

“I’m just sayin’…”

“OK, that’s it. Pull over Buster. I’m driving. End of discussion.”

“Mom…”

“NOPE, you’re done. I just got you out of diapers and if you think I’m going to let you get yourself paralyzed and chain me to the diaper pail you can think again.”

And that is how I saved my husband from culinary purgatory.

Computer of the Month Club

2011-03-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

Mom, you need to subscribe to the ‘Get a New Computer Every Three Months Club.’

This was Garret’s parting remark when I called and told him to order me a computer.

It’s not my fault that my computer contracts a virus every few months. I take it out once in awhile and we all know how contagious a virus can be.

When my computer contracted a bug a few months ago, Garret made me sit down and try to figure out how to fix it.

“Mom you got a virus before Christmas and you will get another one. You need to be able to figure out how to fix it. I won’t always be here to do it for you.”

I wanted to body slam him. How dare he use my words against me? I can’t remember how many times I uttered that phrase when I tried to teach him to cook, fold towels and staple a hem in his pants.

However, I needed my computer fixed more than I needed revenge so I chewed on the inside of my cheek and gave myself cankers.

Garret pulled up two screens that looked identical to me. “Look and see if you can figure out why you got a virus.”

I don’t know if you have ever tried to make your brain do something that your brain was never wired for but I felt like an eggbeater was having a war with a vacuum cleaner. My brains were being scrambled and the vacuum cleaner was sucking them out.

“Garret both screens look exactly the same.”

“How can you not see how these screens are different?” Garret was incredulous.

My eyes started rolling around in my head and a foreign language, something a two year old might understand was coming out of my mouth. I managed to salvage some sanity in a tiny corner of my brain. It was scrambling for a plan to annoy Garret and make him so crazy he would beg me to go away and let him fix it.

This was a complete role reversal for us. My sister once overheard Garret telling her girls that if they rolled around the floor and whined long enough when their mom asked them to do something she would give up and do the job herself.

OK, so I'm that terrible mother they write about in all those parenting books. I could only hope his scheme worked in reverse. Not a prayer, Garret was infuriatingly patient. I had another violent urge but just chewed on my canker sore some more.

I spent hours over the next three days trying to wrench a grain of logic from my brain before Garret finally caved. It only took him a few minutes to fix the stupid thing. Just like him to make me do all the hard work and then take the glory.

So you understand that it was with great fear and trepidation that I told him a few weeks ago that my computer was on the fritz again.

Minutes later, he was downstairs hauling all his clothes out of his closet and packing them into his car. He was moving.

“Garret you cannot run away from home and leave me. My computer needs you. Remember the time you forgot to set the brake on your car. You took out every parked vehicle on the street including the boats. Did I run away when the neighbors wanted to lynch you?”

“Mom, I’m smarter than you.”

This week my computer finally crashed completely. I called Garret. That is when he ordered me a new computer and signed me up for the ‘Computer of the Month Club.’

LIFE IS FULL OF TOUGH CHOICES

2011-03-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

This week I discovered that it is impossible to maintain my self and my bathrooms in the same seven days. I have finally reached the age of diminishing returns.

When I was younger, I could throw on ragged jeans and a t-shirt, run my fingers through my hair, swipe mascara onto the ends of my lashes and run out the door. I looked good no matter what, and I had the whole day in front of me.

Now however, my love for humanity will not allow me to inflict that practice on the public.

Am I the only woman on earth who hates the amount of time it takes to look beautiful? I never hear other women complain. My friends actually like taking time to pamper.

It is impossible for me to cram all my maintenance into one day and if I don’t spread it out over the month, it makes my crazy.

I hate the time it takes to slather lotion on my body after a shower but I just know if I don't do it, my skin will end up looking like an alligator. The lady in a television commercial says so and I can see it happening.

My feet were the first to deteriorate. I used to hate wearing shoes but when my husband started dropping hints like, “honey I’m out of sandpaper, do you mind running your feet over this board for me?” I knew it was time to start shoving my feet into shoes and introducing my feet to exfoliation.

Next, to go was my hair. I was of those lucky women who started going gray at eighteen. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dye, streak, wash, curl and tease your mane? It might be worth shaving my head but then it would just go onto my list of things to shave.

I refuse to polish my fingernails because it lasts a day and a half, if I’m lucky. One look at my hands is all it takes to see that I am no friend to manicuring.

Why did God give us cuticles anyway? They are good for nothing. What a time waster. You would have so much more time if you didn’t have to push back your cuticles. I wonder if there are laws about letting them grow over your fingernails. You know, for health reasons or something.

I will take time to paint my toenails. Its one thing that does give you some return for your time investment—the polish lasts more than one week, but it still takes critical moments out of your schedule.

This month I was forced to squeeze all my maintenance into one week, hair: dye, cut, curl and style. Add Microderm abrasion, eyebrows, manicure, pedicure, shave, massage, shower and anything else I may have missed out. … (OK, I do shower more than once every seven days but when added to everything else it’s one more time eater.)

That is why, when all these tasks stacked up this week I faced a choice no woman should have to make, bathrooms or body.

ANNOUNCING....

2011-02-23T10:53:00.000-08:00

GOOD NEWS!!! My second book 'CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD' is coming out next month. I will be posting some blurbs from a few of the chapters. I hope you enjoy.

I would also like to announce that I will be doing my first book review Feb 28th. Look for it on my REVIEW tag. :)

NOW H-E-E-E-RE's the BLURB

How is it possible that we live in an age of electronic and mechanical
wonders like satellites in space, Google, and the iPhone, yet we still have
people who have no workable lock on their bathroom door?
Perhaps these people do not understand that even though the doorknob
came with the house, when it breaks, it can be replaced. It’s not like it’s made
out of gold and you can only afford one in a lifetime and have to pass it down
through all generations of time.
I know people who are meticulous about locking their front doors but
seem to be blasé about a working lock for the bathroom. I am here to proclaim,
I do not have a problem if someone walks into my house without an
invitation, but I have a huge problem, call it a phobia, when someone walks
in on me in the bathroom unannounced.
One of life’s little luxuries should be to walk confidently into the water
closet, lock the door, ensconce yourself on the throne as you pick up a good
magazine, and enjoy a few stress-free moments.
Homeowners with no locks on the door should, at the very least, be
considerate enough to have a dresser sitting in the room that you can move
in front of the door to offer some sort of security.
Maybe they have no problem giving a shout-out as someone walks by,
but personally, I don’t like to advertise everything I am doing....

IS NOTHING SACRED?

2011-02-16T09:27:00.000-08:00

People who know me well are acquainted with the fact that I don’t care much what people think of me. This has made my family wary of being seen with me in public on occasion.

My husband is ultra conservative. He often gives me lectures on what he considers my flamboyant dress. He once tried to tell me I could not be seen at church in a silk skirt that had four-inch fringe on the hem.

Another time when I wore black ankle hugging pants plastered with huge white flowers he tried to sit at a table in the back of the gym where I couldn’t see him. Like our friends for twenty years wouldn’t know we were a couple!

I suppose that is why he is the Bishop and I am not. I am now however aware that in one area at least, I am immensely conscious of people’s opinion.

I came to this realization when Rick, Garret and I were driving home from a funeral. Garret, who’s mind is always computing ways to take two nickels and squeeze them into a 50 cent gold piece said. “I wonder how much that funeral cost.”

“I think they paid for the package several years ago. It would have cost a lot more today.” I said. Notice my rational response?

In normal families, the conversation would have turned to the benefit of pre-planning your funeral. But nope, not in ours.

My husband who rarely has two words to say when we are in the car picks this moment to wax eloquent and with rare passion.

“I don’t want you to spend anything on a coffin for me Jane. It is such a waste of money. Just slap a couple of pieces of old plywood together.”

We have had this conversation before and I opened my mouth to object, as I always do, when I recognized the maniacal look his eyes get when some genius idea juices up his brain.

“In fact,” he burst out, “if there is an old refrigerator box lying around that’s even better. Yup that what I want, a refrigerator box. Heck of a lot cheaper than plywood.”

I don’t know if he has thought out the ramifications of people showing up for his funeral and finding him stuffed in a refrigerator box but I know it will not make me look good—even if I am wearing four inches of fringe on the bottom of my skirt.

“I will not stuff you in a refrigerator box Rick. I still have to live with these people you know. And don’t you even think of stuffing me in a box. I want a coffin. It doesn’t have to be Cadillac but at least make it presentable.”

“Dad’s right mom. Funerals are a ridiculous price.”

Garret never knows when to mind his own business. “I don’t even need a cardboard box. Just throw me in the dumpster.” he said.

At that moment, I couldn’t help looking around to see if there was an empty dumpster nearby.

“In fact, “Garret continued, “I’m good swimming with the fishes. It wouldn't bother me at all to be shark bait. I’ll be dead after all.”

“Stop it.” I said as Rick opened his mouth to espouse the virtues of the refrigerator boxes again.

“I will not stand beside some old refrigerator box as people come to console me. They might be tempted to dump me in there with you. And Garret, you will not go dumpster diving. LET ME BE CLEAR. When I am gone I will be at your mercy but you will not put me in any box you just slapped together, cardboard or otherwise. You better show me some dignity.”

“You’ll be gone mom. You won’t know.”

“Well, that settles it. I am going shopping. I will find my own coffin. Not only that, I will put it at the foot of our bed and if people ask, I’ll tell them it’s a hope chest, and it will be. It will be a symbol of my hope that you will see fit to place me in it when the time comes. Do I need to dry some flowers too?”

POSTERITY FOR RENT

2011-02-09T23:03:00.000-08:00

When I pass to what I hope will be a heaven where chocolate flows in all the rivers and calories don’t exist, I want my family to laugh together as they remember my quirky ways and cry as they recognize that I am irreplaceable. Of course, it will take something drastic, like me dying before they realize how fabulous and indispensable I really am.

As we visited together at the family homestead after a recent funeral, I looked around at my brother’s, my sister and my cousins families and their posterity and realized that I had six children and only one of them had made any attempt, to multiply and replenish the earth.

It was time for an immediate family council to render some gentle encouragement. My immortal words went something like this.

“Hello my children. Take a good look around this room. Do you see all the people here? Do you notice that you’re Aunt and Uncles each have several children who each have several children? Do you notice something lacking in our family?"

At this point, my children begin to murmur and laugh about how they have no intention of ever getting married, let alone having children. I hold up my hand to quell the revolt.

“Perhaps you don’t understand me. I am not making a request here. I am telling you, when I am gone, I expect you to cram the first five benches of the church with posterity. That means you will get married and you will have children—lots of children. Don’t even think of filing in behind my dead body and only filling up half a row.”

“Mom,” they say, "you have posterity. Ariana has five children. She is our representative.”

“No. Not good enough”

This is where I applied fear and guilt. “I am telling you right now. You are responsible for providing me with posterity. When I die, you will know that you didn’t give me the one thing I wanted and you will feel excruciating pain.”

I pause for effect as I poke my finger at each of them.

“And if you don’t, I will know it because I will be dead and I will be able to see into your souls. If you are not feeling miserable enough, I will put my finger on you and send an electric shock that will run through your vital organs and you will know that I am going to hurt you, bad.”

I felt satisfied that I had made my point until Adam said. “What makes you think they will let you out? They must have rules about letting crazy people run free even there.”

“Don’t you worry. I will find a way to inflict the proper amount of retribution. And I will align all the family that has passed on before to join my in my revenge. Think of all the generations before me that you are letting down.”

“Don’t worry mom” said Garret. “I’ll bet we can find a place that has posterity you can rent for funerals. In fact, that might be a great business venture.”

My children, they never take me seriously.

“I’m just saying, you give me posterity and plenty of it or I will give you nightmares and cold sweats. I’ll have years to perfect my haunting techniques. You just remember this, a mother’s work is never done.”

WHERE THE BEAR AND THE CARIBOU ROAM

2011-02-03T11:04:00.000-08:00

I take my job as wife and mother seriously so, when our family had to make an emergency trip to Canada last week I reminded them that we were going to a funeral and would be outside for at least half an hour.

“Bring a warm coat. It will be cold. Besides, you never know when you might have to get out and push the car or something.”

We only had 24 hours to pack and I knew my family wouldn’t hear me unless I repeated myself at least half a hundred times. Finally, when my throat was raw, I considered my job done.

I was right. Canada was cold, about 30 below zero and the streets in Cardston were snow packed.

I was wrong about my family though. Apparently half a hundred times and sacrificing my throat were not enough to get them to pay attention to me.

Rick brought a light waterproof jacket and Garret, who I have long suspected was brain dead, wore long sleeves and a smile.

Adam, who had flown in and didn’t have the benefit of my wisdom or lungs, at least had a warm sweater but it wasn’t enough.

My family hates it when I am right and I hesitate to brag, but I always am. Our car would not make it up the hill to the church so Adam and Garret had to get out and push then race beside it to jump in while it was going.

We had the single honor of holding up the entire funeral procession as Adam and Garret, one more time, slid on the ice to push our car up a hill then race to catch hold of the doors and jump in the back seat without breaking their necks.

Rick was so cold at the gravesite that he stood behind me and hugged me to him for warmth. He shook me so hard my teeth were rattling around in my head like popcorn just starting to pop.

My brother Jeff was up from South America and he was feeling the cold more than we were even though he was wearing a heavy coat that wrapped around him twice.

When we were back at the church, he overheard some family members from Canada complaining about the cold and decided to unleash his humor on them.

“You guys act like you have no choice living in Canada. No one is holding a gun to your head saying you have to stay here. The borders are open folks. When you die, the Lord will say, ‘You guys are so stupid. I made Canada for the bears, moose and caribou to roam, not for humans. But no, you started building houses there so I made it 45 degrees below zero and you still built houses.’ Pull your heads out people. You don’t have to stay here. Go south. Even the birds have sense to go south and I only made them with a brain the size of a peanut.”

Everyone laughed. I on the other hand looked at my family and shook my head. Case in point—moving south does not make you smarter.

LASHING AT LASHES

2011-01-25T21:39:00.000-08:00

The other day I was sitting at work, minding my own business when my friend Kim complimented me. At least I think it was a compliment. She said, “Jane your eyelashes look great for your age. You still even have your lower lashes.”

I thanked her. I think I was supposed to be flattered but it made me wonder if I was so old that my eyelashes should have worn out or fallen off by now.

Personally, I’m surprised they haven’t. They have managed to withstand more than four and a half decades of being curled, crimped and even cut.

Yes,I actually cut my eyelashes once to see if they would grow back even longer. I don’t know if they did or not but I can’t help but wonder about the fact that I neglected to see a major flaw in that little experiment. Like, what if they didn’t grow back at all and I was stuck with stubs!

Recently I read that when you were over the age of 50 you should never wear mascara on your lower lashes.

Can I just say that looks plain stupid, I know, I tried it. The article also said that you should apply one extra coat of mascara for every five years after 40. (You may wonder if I read every little age defying hint that crosses my line of vision. YES)

By the time I’m eighty, my lashes will be so heavy not only will I not be able to hold my eyes open but my head will hang down so low I’ll have a hump back.

I don’t know if there is a statue of limitations on the life of lashes but I do know that, at this point in my life, there is nothing I hate more than taking off my mascara. It’s never been the pinnacle of excitement in my day, but after over 40 years of scraping it off my face every night—I’m done!

I tried substituting eyeliner and just using eye shadow but my eyes still disappear without the magic mascara. Do I still need to care? I tell myself yes because to say no would be admitting something I don’t want to admit—but every day.

At one time in my life, I would lie in bed every morning and review the activities of the day to decide on my wardrobe. Now, I evaluate my day and decide whether it is mascara worthy or not.

So now—you know. If you see me with mascara on it’s there to impress you. You are mascara worthy. The plumber, however, is not.

YES NO MAYBE SO

2011-01-18T12:17:00.000-08:00

The other day the power went out at our house. It was a Sunday Morning just before my daughter left for church. Lucky for her she had just finished straightening her hair.

Our generator kicked in a few minute later and we were laughing.
I decided that this would be a good opportunity for me to remind myself exactly what functions we had and make sure the generator was functioning properly.

I ran through the house checking every bathroom and bedroom and the plugs in each room. The main light worked in all the critical rooms and every bedroom had a light plus a plug in.

My inventory included Garrets room where he was still sleeping. I flicked on the light.

“Hmphrigermagrrrr……….” His pillow was alive.

“Just checking to see which lights are on.” I said. “The power is out.”

Obviously Garret is lacking excitement in his life because a few minutes later he came bounding into the kitchen.

“Hehehe, this is cool. We have lights. Does the stove work?”

That’s Garret, always thinking of his stomach.

I had turned on the propane earlier but it hadn’t come on. I think it will if you light it.

Garret got a match and bent close to the burner. Whoof, it burst into flame that almost took care of the problem I am having with his new Sampson look. Worst luck. I guess their was a little residual propane in the air from when I tried it earlier. I kept that little nugget to myself. Might come in handy in the near future.

Garret started calling his friends. “Guess who’s not going to be in the dark when the lights go out.” He boasted. “Guess who won’t be eating cold spam and beans?”

He ran back downstairs while I continued checking a few more things. Everything was working well. We might not be washing clothes and I had to find a plug in for my freezer if the power went off in an emergency but we would have everything else to function normally.

I looked at Garret. He was gloating to himself in the corner. “The power’s out and I can still get on my computer. HEHEHE. Life is good.”

I shook my head and walked back upstairs. Who says life is good. Suddenly I was nostalgic. I missed fumbling around in the dark to find the flashlight and then trying to find the candles and the lantern.

It was so much more exciting when we could step back into another century, stop all the everyday rush, and have nothing more to do than visit by candlelight and play games. Dinner was always more exciting and tasted better heated over the fireplace, I felt gypped.

I am one sick mama. If my generator wasn’t working, I’d be mad. It was working perfectly and I’m still feeling mad. Women! If we can't figure ourselves out who can?

Sampson and Delilah

2011-01-12T14:39:00.000-08:00

New Years Eve is over. Resolutions are made. Many are already broken while others still shine like a beacon, beckoning us onward and upward on our path to success, fulfillment and the achievement of our dreams.

My first experience at setting goals was in grade seven. It was Canada’s Centennial Year and my friend Myrna and I set one humdinger of a goal. It was uplifting, totally inspirational and satisfied our thirst for accomplishment.

Our worthy goal was to run through every sprinkler we came to on our way to and from school.

O.K it was probably the dumbest goal ever set on the planet. That is until I learned Garrets goal for 2011.

We were sitting in Church when I happened to look at Garret, and noticed that not only did his hair look like he just got out of bed but it was getting long.

Now I realize the ‘just got out of bed’ look is supposed to be cool but I also know that most people actually work on getting their hair to look like that and at least they comb it up into some sort of perceived work of art.

Garret however, just gets out of bed and calls it a masterpiece. He doesn’t seem to care if everyone can tell exactly which spot he rubbed is head on all night. So what if a feather or two happens to stick, it’s a decoration. I still haven’t figured which genetic branch of the tree he fell from.

My shredded pride compelled me to say something. Since I lost the combing battle years ago I tried my hand at gently dealing with the length. I leaned over and quietly asked, “Garret don’t you think you need a hair cut?”

He looked at me, his face glowing with laughter. “Steve and I have a New Years resolution. We are going to Sampsonize ourselves and grow our hair out.”

Well, that was enough to throw my stomach into my throat and make me gasp for breath. It's not that long hair is such a shocking thing but Garret’s hair doesn't get long. It gets wide, thick and poofs on his head, like Marg Simpson with an afro.

My sharp intake of air caused my oldest son Jason to lean over to console me.

“It could be worse mom. He could Sampsonize himself by killing people with the jawbone of an ass.”

He had a point. Hmm, I wonder where I might pick up a jawbone of my own. Suddenly I remembered the rest of the story. I felt a Delilah rush coming on.

I had my New Year’s resolution. I’ll be sharpening my scissors.

THE MANY FACES OF CORRUPTION

2011-01-05T16:32:00.000-08:00

It’s official, after a year, my daughter and her five children have moved to their own home. Ariana has been building it for a year now.

The carpet cleaners are coming to clean my seriously dirty carpets that were once a fresh clean cream color. Or were they? Hmm, it’s been so long I can’t remember.

My carpets have been fingernail polished, cleaned with bleach, peed on, bled on, had food dumped on them and finally at Christmas, Tristan shot them with a toy paint gun that I hope had toy paint.

I have been organizing and cleaning the house and repainting many of the walls. Tristan turned two while they lived here and became very artistic with a pen. His canvas of choice, when he was disenchanted with the walls, were the windowsills and doors. What was I thinking when I chose to have them painted with an oil base paint.

That boy gets around. When bored, he liked to hammer things into my hardwood floors.Was it any wonder then that I finally caved and did what any sane, seriously busy grandma would do, I let them watch television.

I realized the other day that maybe TV watching had gone a little overboard when Kaden, my 9 year old grandson came rushing into my bedroom.

“Grandma, can you call mom and ask her to bring home some Sudafed for kids?”

“Why, are you sick?”

He gave his lopsided sheepish grin. “No.”

“Why do you want some then?”

“It helps a kid feel more like a kid.”

OK, these kids were definitely getting too much on screen entertainment. I should have paid more attention when we were watching a movie together and they didn’t want to fast forward through the commercials.

They never had television at home except for movies once or twice a week and now, just so evil grandma had time to do nonessential things—like breathe—their minds were twisted by commercial television. And I mean really twisted. I caught them fast-forwarding the cartoons to re-watch the commercials.

Lucky thing Ariana was getting them away from my corrupting influence. I hope she can clean their minds as easily as I can clean the walls and carpets.

SOMETIMERS, AIRHEAD or HOLIDAY STRESS?

2010-12-28T17:04:00.000-08:00

I have been doing Christmas for thirty-three years now and I can do it in my sleep. I have the routine down. However, this year there was a marked difference. My brain picked this year to take a vacation. I wish I knew where it was so I could have gone too.

I became aware of it when I wrote the traditional Christmas letter. I always read the letter to the family before I send it in case they have any strenuous objections on my take of their activities for the year; like it would really matter.

“Mom,” Garret said after I read the first line. “Don’t you think you have a minor detail wrong?”

I read the first line again. “Dear friends and family, in case you haven’t noticed, 2012 is right around the corner. What’s wrong with that?”

Rick shook his head. “Honey did you go this whole year thinking it was 2011 or are you trying to rewrite history? I'm getting worried about you.”

OK, so I accidentally left out a year. It’s only a number after all. Are people going to take my word on what year it is and cause an international incident? My family worries about the most trivial things.

The next day I took some packages around to a couple of friends. At the first house, I forgot my umbrella. The next house I left my coat. Then I went to the grocery store and the cashier chased me out to the parking lot rattling my keys.

Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m a little forgetful but I am busy doing Christmas in my sleep. Besides, people enjoy babysitting my brain. It makes them feel better about themselves.

Later that night I went to do the final grocery shopping with Ariana. She was going to fill up with gas then pick me up out front of the store.

Inside Safeway, I saw my friend Melanee. We chatted for a second then I picked up all the groceries, without forgetting a thing I might add. Proving I can still remember important things. Like my friends names and anything having to do with food.

I checked out my grocerie and headed outside into the rain. I was excited to see Ariana’s van pulled right up to the curb. I grabbed the bags out of the grocery cart and headed her way.

Suddenly I heard a horn honk and honk a bunch of little beeps, like a melody. I paused. It was coming from a white van in to the side of me.

Who was honking at me? Maybe it was Melanee just honking a goodbye and Merry Christmas ditty. No Melanee doesn’t drive a van. Hmm, I wondered who it was.

I ignored the horn and headed to Ariana’s van. I pulled the door open, threw the bags onto the floor and pulled myself into the seat before I turned to see an old man in the driver’s seat. He was staring at me with a strange look on his face.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.” I stammered. “I’m in the wrong van.”

I grabbed my bags and headed to the van that was honking again. Ariana was sitting in it with her mouth stretched like a hyena laughing it’s head off.

"Mom, that van looks nothing like mine." She said when she was finally able to speak.

"It's white, thats all I know."

All I can say is the holidays are crowding a lot of important details out of my brain. Thank goodness, they are almost over and I can get back to normal. I will get back to normal, right.

SUGAR COOKIES

2010-12-22T08:04:00.000-08:00

You cannot be a good grandma if you can’t make sugar cookies.

I made up that law this morning. I needed the motivation. In my mind the perfect Christmas, you know the one we all strive for but never happens, entails happy children cutting out and decorating sugar cookies. Never in 35 years of trying have I been able to pull off the perfect sugar cookie.

It’s not like I only make slight blunders and the cookies are still edible either. I totally massacre the things. People notice. I still remember my first attempt, back in the days of the 8-track’s and disco, when I tried to roll out a heart for the boyfriend of the moment.

I wanted it to be a huge one but I think I forgot to double some of the ingredients and it ended up a misshapen, burned blob that spread all over the pan. It had taken me hours to create that nothing. However, as I remember, he didn’t get me anything either. I was so mad he was darn lucky I didn’t spit in his eye for a valentine gift.

I don’t know what my problem is but through the years every attempt has failed. The last time I tried was about five or six years ago. It was at the church and I almost burned down the kitchen. The bishop told me my cookies tasted like catfish bait and smelled worse. The girls I made them for were spewing them out all over the room.

I happened to be on the phone with my aunt this morning and I told her about my sugar cookie plight. She gave me a wonderful idea. It helps to have other people with mental disorders in the family.

She has a bad memory so she puts all her ingredients into separate bowls. If she forgets how much she has measured, she can do it again.

I felt a little bit like Martha Stewart with my counter scattered with bowls full of flour, sugar and salt. All that was missing were the cameras.

I decided not to risk doubling the recipe so I made the entire thing twice. Making a double batch was probably a mistake. If they turned out bad, I would have mountains of the catfish bait and no catfish in any river in this state.

Despite my bowel technique and the fact that I followed the recipe to the T, each batch was different and both were very soft. They would harden up in the fridge though, right?

Not so much. I ended up having to drop a pound of flour on the counter for each batch and they were so soft I didn’t dare let the kids roll them out. It was all I could do to scrape them up into some sort of shape.

They ended up being little blobs but I called them ornaments and the kids decorated them.

They barely passed the taste test but since I make a fabulous icing they slathered it on real thick then covered them in sprinkles and M & M’s. The kids had fun and they made up plates of them to give away. I consider the fact that they were remotely edible to be a huge success and I can still call myself a good grandma.

One thing that bears a little scrutiny however is this. Perhaps the real secret to Martha’s success is having bowls full of ingredients line the counter. It’s something I am going to have to look into. I wonder...the more the bowls the more the money? Hmmm.

THE TIE THAT BINDS

2010-12-15T15:03:00.000-08:00

My friend Sue gave me a sign to hang in my kitchen that says, ‘Nobody Knows What I Do Until I Don’t Do It.’

She must have been a fly on my wall the day Garret walked into the house, gazed around the room then looked me in the eye and said, Mom what exactly is it that you do all day?”

After I restrained myself from cuffing him along side the head, I said. “Nothing Garret, absolutely nothing. I get up, I stand in this spot and look around scratching my head until someone comes home. Then I mess up my hair, throw some flour on my nose and try to look busy.”

He snorted as he nodded his head and walked away. “I thought so.”

Is it abusive to kick your grown son where he sits if you’re careful not to hit the pocket where he keeps his brains?

My children have no concept of the work I do to keep our home organized and clean. When they lived at home, Kristjana told me I was Danny Tanner on crack. In case you don’t remember him, he is the star of the ‘90s sitcom ‘Full House’ and was Mr. Clean incarnate.

At least she recognized that I cleaned the house. She just didn’t appreciate it. Some things never change.

I am in the middle of my holiday cleaning spree. I want the house perfect when my children come home to celebrate the season. To me nothing says Christmas quite like the scent of pine, Pine sol that is.

I clean all the places nobody looks, the slats on the blinds, between the slats of the vents on all the appliances, and if the dog comes too close, I run the rag inside her ears too.

I pull out the Christmas Quilt’s I have made over the years and lovingly deck out each bed. All the pillowcases are pressed. I’m not insane I don’t press the sheets. However, I do press the lace trim on the edges so they will look perfect when I fold them back over the quilts for that, ‘I can’t wait to jump into bed,’ look. These things bring me pleasure.

I like to imagine my children getting little shivers of joy as they set their bags beside the little glowing tree that twinkles a welcome. They will sigh with pleasure as they slip their tired bodies between the silken sheets.

Of course, my children have no sense of refinement, one more thing to beat myself up over. I could have saved myself a small fortune on sheets and simply spread the beds with cheap muslin.

The first thing they will do when the go into the room is to rip the bed apart and tear off the top sheet. It spends the holiday mixed in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The quilts are all pooled around on top of the bed like some sort of cocoon big enough to bury an elephant.

Despite the fact that there is an empty closet full of shelves and hangers, clothes carpet the floor and dirty socks hang in clumps from the Christmas tree.

I shake my head and wonder why I go through all the trouble then smile as I remember: the tie that binds generations together, torment.

Where would the fun of life be without a little torment? What would be the pleasure of coming into a room already dirty with sheets on the floor and blankets in a pile on the bed?

What would I complain about if everything were perfect? Not to mention the fact, that it would upset nature’s delicate balance if there were nothing for me to clean after they left.

There is a moment every year however, when I am tempted to step up the torment meter. I promise myself that I am going to take out the beds and throw a pile of loose straw onto the floor. I could create my own version of the manger scene. Since this is the season for swaddling, I would give them a pile of ticking to swaddle up in.

I would do it to, but the thought of all that straw in my house makes me hyperventilate.

O CHRISTMAS TREE

2010-12-08T13:48:00.000-08:00

O CHRISTMAS TREE
When it comes to Christmas, I reek of tradition so you can imagine my shock when Rick and I had the following conversation.

We were at our friends Christmas party, admiring their tree when Rick turned and with nostalgia dripping from his tongue, said. “See how nice it is to have a real Christmas tree. It smells so good.”

I was wearing flats so I had to poke him in the ribs to get him to look down at me so I could glare at him. “Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who wanted a fake tree.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea.” he smiled and walked towards the food.

It must be nice to be him and be able to eat after telling such a whopper. Was it possible he had caught some virus that had wiped from his memory our trauma drama Christmas tree traditions?

First was the nagging; days turned into weeks as I tried to get him to set a date that was convenient with him and when the whole family could come together to get the tree; preferably, some time before the season ended. Rick runs on his own calendar; one with endless days of about forty-five hours each.

After we got the tree we waited another eternity for him to get the stand built. A store bought one was somehow never big enough.

Thanks to his mother, he entertained us with a tradition from his childhood. Once the tree was up, we were privileged to wait until the wee hours of the morning for him to drill holes and wire branches into perceived blank spots for the perfectly shaped tree.

Every year I envisioned a happy little family like the kind they have on TV, all smiling over cups of hot chocolate and cider while we strung popcorn and cranberries.

By the time I finished untangling the lights and the kids were swimming in hot chocolate, and running through the popcorn blizzard that had blown through the house, Rick was tired and ready to hang himself with the lights. Forget about hanging them on the tree.

It was a darn safe bet that I wasn’t going to climb up and down on a chair three thousand times trying to hang them when he was tall enough to reach the top of the tree with little effort. Who asked him to be Michael Angelo and sculpt the dang thing anyway?

When the tree was finally decorated Rick took up the roll of nagging. Everyday I was grilled about the dangers of fire. Did I water the tree? Was I sure? Did I know how thirsty a tree was? How do I know the dog didn’t drink the water? No, I was smaller and closer to the ground than he was so it was obviously my job to check the water level.

The nagging never stopped. Did I have to have the lights on all day long? Had I checked to see if the needles were breaking in half yet? Then, to prove that he was the more annoying of the two of us he would jab me in the ribs just as I was dozing off to be sure I had turned the outside lights off too.

Of course I had turned off the lights, which, by the way,I had strung at great pesonal peril, all by myself. However, I had to haul myself out of bed so his highness could get enough sleep to build up enough energy to contine the strenous act of working his jaws the next day.

On a good year we enjoyed these festivities for two to three weeks before the ‘when do we take the tree down’ party began.

I wanted it gone the day after New Years. Rick was all for two days after Christmas. Apparently that was the day the needles all fell off and the tree was practically a stick.

We usually ended up pulling the decorations off the naked branches the morning of New Years Eve.

Our tree traditions always ended with Rick wading through the pine needles and badgering me on how we should get a fake tree while I nagged him for the next several months about just when he was going to take the tree off the front lawn and to the dump.

Maybe he is right. We should get a real tree. I miss those traditions.

HOW LOW CAN YOU GO

2010-12-01T09:54:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning I sunk to a new low. I blame my fall into corruption on my daughter. It all began Thanksgiving Day and once you lower that bar...

Technically speaking it was Thanksgiving Night at exactly 11:03 pm when Ariana drug me into the pits of hell, our local Wal-Mart.

It has been my tradition to hit the stores at 4:00 am on black Friday for those spectacular sales that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. May I take this opportunity to say that never in all my black Friday forays have I once been lured into Wal-Mart.

If you are not certifiable when you go in you are when you come out. I have seen the survivors first hand wandering around different department store chains, chunks of hair missing, eyes rolling around in their head. It isn’t pretty.

This year Ariana actually left hearth and home Thanksgiving morning to scope out our local Wal-Mart for the exact location of the items she wanted to purchase later that night and to brush up on the rules of the game. IE what time did items go on sale etc?

For years, I invited my girls to shop black Friday with me and they always vehemently declined while shoving long lists into my hands. Now that Ariana was a mom she had come down with her own case of bargainitis.

This was the first year I had absolutely nothing to shop for so why did I find myself boxed into an aisle in Wal-Mart, laboring for breath, my hands protecting my head and feeling completely sac religious for shopping on Thanksgiving Day.

I am going to take a moment to answer that question. “I am a completely unselfish, over the top loving and now, thanks to my Wal-Mart experience a little more insane, mother.” That is my only excuse for what happened Sunday morning.

While I hadn’t actually had chunks of hair plucked from my head in Wal-Mart, I was still having a bad hair day. I had gotten up early, dressed, applied my required three pounds of makeup and was fiddling with my hair.

I was determined to wear it up for a change. It went better with my chosen ensemble. At 8:40, ten minutes after we usually leave, Ariana and my grandchildren left without me.

Ariana couldn’t resist reminding me how anal I was about being on time. It wasn’t uncommon for me to remind my grandchildren they would be going to church in their underwear if they weren’t ready to walk out the door at 8:30. This was no idle threat. Ask Garret.

Not only was I a hypocrite but I was forced to ride with Garret who was always late. At least I was dressed so the underwear threat didn’t scare me. By nine o’clock, I had taken my hair out at least six more times.

It is not easy to make your hair look messy. It’s an art. You have to make it look like you threw it up without making it look like you threw it up. At 8:55, I decided to wear it down.

I ran to the closet and pulled my black boots on before I noticed my pantyhose were blue. My boots didn’t come up high enough to hide the blue so I pulled them off and changed my panty hose, careful to pull out a black pair.

I decided to give my hair one more try. After three more attempts it was the right combination of artistry. We walked out the door at 9:15.

Half way to church, I looked down. I was wearing navy pantyhose. I could have sworn they were black. I didn’t even know I owned blue hose until that morning. Apparently, I was inundated with them.

To make matters worse, in my effort to save time I had decided to forgo pulling my boots on and had opted for my black heels.

I was going to church wearing navy blue pantyhose that clashed with my brown leopard print skirt and my black heels. And who was I kidding, my hair looked bad. I was reliving my worst vanity and late nightmares all rolled into one.

This is what happens for trying to be a supportive mother and lowering the bar to shop on Thanksgiving Day. It was all Ariana’s fault.

I AM THANKFUL FOR FACIAL HAIR

2010-11-23T20:40:00.000-08:00

As a general rule, anything done in the bathroom is not meant to be a family affair. However, in our family some things done in the little room that boasts its own throne can actually bring the family together. Waxing your eyebrows happens to be one of them.
One wants to look their best for Thanksgiving after all.

It’s embarrassing to admit but my son Garret was the first one to introduce waxing at home to our family. He is either too cheap to have it done professionally or wants to keep his screams of agony purely for our family’s entertainment.

Thus it happens, that on waxing his chest and eyebrows day, it’s not uncommon for Kristjana, Briana and Ariana to stand in line and let him do their eyebrows.

Apparently it’s a talent he has developed and saves them money. I won’t let him near mine. I don’t think he knows what to do with floppy lids.

The other day, I walked into my bathroom and Ariana was attempting to wax her own eyebrows. Her nine-year old son was in there bonding with her.

It’s now officially a multi-generational affair. With any luck it could hit the airwaves and become a reality TV show.

I felt slighted to be left out of the bonding experience, especially since the fuzz was a little thick around my eyebrows too.

Ariana had her own lime green micro waved wax and not only is it messy but it creates a ‘little green man from mars’ look.

I dipped the wooden stick into the wax and smeared it underneath my eyebrows.

“Mom, you have to put this cream on first or you can’t get the wax off.”

“You couldn’t tell me before I used it?” I grabbed at the wax under my eyebrow with my fingers and stuck a hunk of it onto my eyebrow.

I don’t know about your eyebrows but mine are pretty sparse and I can’t afford to sacrifice a single one. I growled and grabbed my tweezers to try and flick it off. It wouldn’t flick. I’d have to worry about it later.

Kaden was watching and trying to be helpful. “Grandma you have to wipe the wax off the stick or it will get wrecked.” Since when did he become such a pro?

I grabbed the stick to remove the wax. It smeared all over my hands and wouldn’t come off. Great!

Ariana saw me trying to rub the wax off. “Good luck with that mom,” she laughed. The next moment she cursed. “Crap, I got wax on my eyelash. What do I do now?”

“Good luck with that dear.” I dipped the stick into the wax and was careful to get only a tiny bit. I pulled it under my eyebrow and went in for another dip. This one went above my brow, one more time for the other eye.

“Grandma, you got wax on your forehead.”

Ariana stopped trying to tweeze the wax from her eyelashes to look at me and burst out laughing.

“Mom you’re supposed to wax your eyebrows not your forehead and you have the wax half way down your eyelids. Your eyebrows don’t grow there.”

“I have fuzz OK. I was afraid to get to close. My eyebrows are an endangered species. They might not grow back. At least I didn’t get them in my eyelashes.”

By the time we were done I lost a hunk of eyebrow and Ariana yanked her eyelashes out and has a bald spot. Both of us are thankful we still have some facial hair remaining.

Some things are worth paying the $10 for.

WHO’S THE BOSS

2010-11-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my two-year-old grandson appeared before me with a cuddly blanket wrapped around his sweet little body.
“Are you naked?” I asked.
He shook his head and gave me the beautiful smile he reserves for when he knows he is being adorable.
I pulled the blanket open and peeked. Technically speaking he wasn’t naked, he was wearing his blanket after all. I found his diaper and clothes and dressed him for the third time that morning.
“You keep your clothes on baby boy.” He smiled and I went back to doing all those non-essential things a woman does that no one notices until she doesn’t do them: laundry, cooking, sandblasting the dried scrambled eggs out of the frying pan.
“Grandma, Mr. T took his diaper off again and pooped on the floor. Gross!”
Rick wouldn’t let me have another dog because he didn’t want to deal with the exactly this and now his adorable grandson was doing the same thing.
I rushed downstairs. Mr. T was happy as sunshine prancing around while he dangled in the breeze. How could I be mad at that?
I cleaned up the mess, dressed him again and we had a little conversation. I talked; he smiled and tried to cuddle.
“No more taking your clothes off.” I growled at him in my best ‘I am the boss’ voice. He raised both arms, pointed his fingers at me and growled back then ran off laughing.
A little bit later, I heard a scream then, “Grandma, Mr. T is peeing on the floor and he sprayed me. Gross.”
A naked little boy was proudly standing by his artwork. “I ‘eed.” Did I mention I’m not a fan of water colors?
“MR. T! Who do you think you are?”
He smiled and it hit me. He didn’t have to think about who he was, he knew. He was the boss.
I am not the type to relinquish my authority without a fight. I came up with a new plan. It involved duct tape and two paper cups.
All right, so I couldn’t exactly go through with it. I may not be the boss but at least I maintained my dignity.

THE DAY FROM THE INFERNAL PIT

2010-11-10T11:28:00.000-08:00

Some things you just can’t say delicately. It is only possible to ignore little red bites on your grandchildren, the dog nipping at her bottom and something jumping on your bedspread for so long before you are forced to face reality. Our home was infested with fleas.

For several weeks, I had demanded that Kristjana come for her weekly conjugal visits with the dog and give her a flea treatment.

“Mom, It’s not Chika, it’s the kids. They play in the grass and are bringing fleas into the house. I clean Chika every week. Did it ever occur to you she’s catching fleas from them?”

When she had the nerve to blame my grandchildren for her dog’s infestation I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. I called her and left messages on her cell phone.

“Kristjana, you have to bring some borax home and shake it on all the furniture and the carpets. I want you to strip every bed in the house, bath Chika and get rid of these fleas.”

After three days and no reply, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands.

“Kristjana, call me back. I bought the borax. I stripped every bed, gathered up every blanket in the house and started the laundry. Please come home and vacuum the carpet and sprinkle out the borax.”

I had to de-flea the house because we were having company for dinner that night. I was cooking a white bean chili. It was not turning out well. The beans would not soften despite the fact I had put them on at 4:30 that morning. I added more water, left another rant on Kristjana’s phone and started to vacuum.

“Kristjana! Come and help me. The laundry is stacked to the ceiling with pillows and blankets. The kids think it’s a jumping house. I can’t find Tristan. He’s buried somewhere in this flea bitten mess. Where are you?”

I pulled some sheets out of the dryer, made a couple of beds and tried to keep Chika from jumping on my clean bed.

I called and left another message. “Kristjana, I sprinkled the borax on the floor and I am trying to keep Chika off the beds. You need to bath her so we can get rid of these fleas. Call me back.”

I checked the beans. A little softer, I was worried but didn’t have time to make anything else.

I tried Kristjana again. Just as I was about to leave the 456th message it dawned on me—this was her old number. No wonder she hadn’t called me. I dialed her new number and got a groggy, ‘hello.”

“Kristjana, I have been leaving you messages for a week now. I am running a bloody laundry matt here. I have borax all over the carpets and I need you to come and bath Chika and get rid of these fleas!”

“Mom I have to work in half an hour and I’m not finished until tonight.”

“That’s just great! I suppose it’s my own fault, I forgot your number. I am running a crazy house here and I needed your help to get rid of your dog’s fleas. I‘ve done everything but you have to get Chika tonight and bath her.”

Kristjana assured me she would take Chika to her house right after work so I hung up and noticed I had a message so I dialed my voicemail.

“Ma’am, I have been getting your frantic messages all week about your borax problems. I don’t know what to tell you about that or your fleas. My wife doesn’t have any answers neither do the neighbors. You have the wrong number. Try Google or an exterminator but please don’t involve me with your fleas anymore.”

I wanted to crawl into a hole and drag my fleas in with me. My face was flame red when I stumbled into the laundry room to hide myself in the bottom of the infested quilts. But no, I couldn’t even have that little luxury.

There was a pool of water on the floor and the laundry was soaked. This was the day from the infernal pit.

I slammed the door and left the washing machine for Rick to deal with while I checked the beans. Fabulous this day just kept getting better. They were yummy but still the crunchy side of soft. Too bad, the kids had already let the missionary’s in.

Like it or not, dinner was served. Conversation went something like this.

“Have you ever wondered what happens moments before you walk into someone’s house?”

Our guests looked at each other, not sure they should answer that.

“Well, let me tell you. It all started because our dog has fleas.”

One of the young men turned red and choked on his chili. “Do you mean the dog I’ve been petting?” he said while he started scratching.

Would this day never end?

MY PRIDE AND JOY

2010-11-01T19:15:00.000-07:00

I am not the kind of Mother who needs to bask in the limelight of my children's accomplishments. I don't daydream of ever hearing my children say, "Mom, I am grateful you spent so many years teaching me to scrub toilets. It is because of you that I am receiving the Nobel Prize for developing an environmental toilet that scrubs itself.

I would settle for a simple, "Thank you mom for teaching me to be a hard worker. You’re the best."

However, I am more accustomed to moments where I am forced to wonder if any given child was highjacked from a family whose gene pool is from a species of intelligent baboons participating in genetic experimentation gone awry.

Halloween is the holiday where ugly scary things pop out in the night so I should not have been so surprised by what violated my sensibilities.

Ariana and I were putting the finishing touches to my grandchildren’s cute and adorable costumes Saturday night and were about to walk out the door to Trunk or Treat at the church. Suddenly Ariana and her kids burst out laughing.

Garret pranced into the kitchen decked out in a pink and white unicorn costume. He had been bragging about his costume for several weeks. I assumed it was some foolish looking thing that had two hind legs he had to drag behind him all night while he sweat it out inside a stuffed head with a big horn waving in the wind. I wish!

He stood in front us with his arms out like a Super Unicorn. His costume would probably be the perfect fit for an eight year old girl; did I mention Garret is 26?

The head perched on him like a hat and the shirt reached down just past his chest. The pants pulled up below his belly button and hit him mid calf. Not only did he plan on going out in public, he was going to make his unicorn debut in front of people we’ve known for years.

“Garret, you are not going out of this house looking like that.”

“I’ve already been out. I went to the dance last night. He raised his eyebrows up and down. “He-he- he.”

“They let you in with your belly hanging out like that? That must have made all the girls run off in terror.”

“Oh mom, I wear a pink shirt underneath. I just wanted you to get the full effect.”

I felt the full effect all right especially later that evening. Turns out he had bigger plans for the evening than simply showing up and setting a new standard for the ridiculous.

I was engrossed in passing out chocolate bars to the cute little ghosts, goblins and princesses, when Garret pranced up with his own bag full of candy he had collected. “Trunk or Treat, he-he-he.”

My pride and joy, I can die now, my humiliation is complete.
(Check back soon for the picture)

THE PHONE

2010-10-27T13:12:00.000-07:00

One day I may be forced to either write a book about my phone frustrations or get therapy.

It doesn’t help that my mother-in-law is always yapping, but in the nicest possible way, about the fact that we can’t find the phones.

“I have never seen a household that has more problems with the phones than yours.”

I am well aware that by ‘yours’, she means mine. Somehow, her little Ricky is absolved from ALL implications of blame and I am the blathering fool who runs around the house. “Where’s the phone, where’s the phone. Who had the stupid phone last?”

It’s not as if we have only one phone either. We have five of the little bleeper’s and my mother-in-law, although I am far too charitable to mention it to her, was the reason our last four phones died.

She is lost in the time warp of a generation ago where you physically hung the phone up. She cannot grasp the fact that if you hang the phone on the charger every time you use it, it will ruin the charge. Before long, the battery runs out when you say hello.

I know she did it because every other phone abusing body in our house insist they never hang the phones up; a fact I can attest to because when I run through the house on my daily marathons looking for the stupid things, they are always burned out.

So, if they don’t hang them up and I know there’s so such thing as evil phone fairies that lurk in dark corners, it must be my mother-in-law.

She is annoyed by the fact that when she finds the phone lying around and hangs it up that I make such a criminal offense about it. One I would love to make punishable by loss of a limb.

“We never had this kind of commotion in my home.” She NEVER fails to mutter, in the nicest possible way of course.

In my defense, not once was I asked to sit in on any design or engineering committee before the phone went into production. It’s a good thing to or I may have had my own ideas of where they could put the things.

Once we mastered the problem of mom not hanging the phones up, we had a new problem. When you do have to put the phone on to charge, how do you know when you can take it off the charger?

“Who hung this phone up? What time is it finished charging?’

“I hung one up this morning.” A voice rings out from somewhere.

“Which charger did you put it on?” Someone very brilliantly put two charges next to each other. “I don’t remember.”

From the corner, in the nicest possible way, “I’ve never seen a household with so many problems finding the phone.”

Garret finally devised a plan. He ripped a piece of paper, wrote down the time the phone would be charged then secured it to the phone with an elastic band. The boy is brilliant, takes after his mother.

Our phones looked like happy little penguins wearing white waistcoats while they recharged. Peace reigned again for about two weeks.

“Who didn’t write the time on this phone? How long is it supposed to be hung up?”

“I hung up the one with the paper on it,” said Ariana.

“It wasn’t me,” said Rick and Garret in unison.

In the nicest possible way, from the corner of the living room, I hear. “I’ve never seen a household have so many problems with the phone.”

Perhaps you heard me scream and rant, while I chased my eyeballs around in my head. I demand psychotherapy.

I should never be allowed to use the phone. Check back next week for part two.

PREGNANT OR NOT

2010-10-19T15:31:00.000-07:00

I am pregnant, again! My husband had an apoplectic fit when I told him but fortunately, he didn’t drop dead.

It took three days to convince him that one: I wasn’t pregnant in the conventional sense and two: I had not participated in any kind of In vivo experimentation.

The truth is I decided that since I looked pregnant I might as well say I am. After all, being with child gives you immediate celebrity status. You glow with all the attention and everyone honors the growth of your stomach.

When you are #*%&*# years old no one looks at your expanding girth with admiration. Not only that, nobody is going to mistake you for being pregnant. Ten years ago, people might have looked at me and wondered, ‘are you pregnant or are you just fat?’ I am now at the age where it is no longer a multiple-choice question.

Every year, as sure as trees shed their leaves, I join all bears out there and eat my way into a hibernation stupor. I wouldn’t care about it if I could actually hide and sleep the winter away. I wouldn’t even mind waking up in the spring hungry and cranky. At least I’d be svelte. That might actually make me wake up with a smile on my face.

But no, I spend every waking hour stuffing myself. I gorge my way through Thanksgiving, in my case that’s Canadian Thanksgiving in early October, and I don’t stop until sometime early spring.

One would think that in this world of innovation, when you gain seasonal weight, instead of feeling guilty, you could market it to your advantage. How about putting profit from the extra acreage into your own pocket and not the coffers of the gazillion diet company’s out there.

Think what that would do for holiday spending and the economy if people could take their fat to market. After all, we work hard for it and all those fast food and fancy desserts are not cheap. I want reimbursed.

The t-shirt industry is on the right track. They advertise slogans and name brands across the length and breadth of the continent but we pay them for the privilege of wearing their name brand.

This is a call to revolutionize Corporate America. If they want to capitalize on our bulk, we must demand a slice of their advertising budget.
We will charge by the inch to advertise their wares. Lets do our part to help the economy grow.

By the inch or the pound
Spread their money all around, or

To heck with health
Let’s spread the wealth.

I feel better about looking pregnant already, pass the chocolate.

Leave your slogan. I will send the author of the best one a copy of Mother’s Daze.

MOTHER'S DAZE GIVEAWAY

2010-10-11T12:59:00.000-07:00

This weekend my writer’s group, Melanee, Charlotte, MaryAlice and I, went to a writers retreat at Roasio Beach. At the last second my friend’s husband hijacked the Ford Exposition, we were supposed to take.

That left us with the opportunity to apply the engineering degree none of us has, into fitting our gear into the trunk of Charlotte’s small, four-door sedan. Of course, when we opened it we had the delightful surprise of discovering that before we crammed our intrinsic valuables into the postage size trunk, we had to unload the five thousand pounds of bark dust and other garden paraphernalia that had been living in there for the past five months and had missed this years planting.

Fortunately, we had all packed light. After all, we were only going to be gone two nights. Unfortunately I packed so light I forgot my underwear. Not a happy camper!

In addition to our suitcases, we had four computers, four sleeping bags, extra coats, pillows, and towels, plus two boxes of books we had written and wanted to sell. Then we crammed in snacks and the very large framed caricature of my family that I was using as a prop for the class I was teaching.

Miracles do happen. We finally managed to fit everything in. If we were careful not too do any deep breathing we might make it. We were just about to get a shoehorn and squeeze ourselves into the car when by some fluke of fate, I prefer to think it was my keen sense of observation, I happened to look behind me. I saw something that looked like a sleeping bag packed in it’s duffel bag, lying on the neighbors lawn.

“Hey MaryAlice are your neighbors going camping too? It looks like they have a sleeping bag in their yard.”

She saw the bag. “I don’t think so.”

Melanee stared at it hard. “I think it’s mine.”

MaryAlice has a driveway steep enough that if she added a loop on the other end she would have her own rollercoaster. Melanee ran down the driveway across the street and into the neighbor’s yard.

MaryAlice shouted. “It looks like an unattended backpack or something. Maybe we should call the police. It could be a bomb.”

Charlotte and I looked at each other. I rolled my eyes and started to laugh.

“I think her brain is working overtime on a new book.” Charlotte was laughing too.

Melanee picked up her sleeping bag and jogged back up the hill. "I guess we could take turns holding it out the window," she laughed.

We decided breathing was overrated and managed to cram it into the car.
By the time we got to Rosario Beach, we were a little light headed but ready to meet new friends and authors.

One of the friends I met was Janette Rallison. Her clean, fun and humorous young adult romances happen to be a huge hit on the national market. Janette is giving away a copy of my book, Mother’s Daze, on her blog site.

Be sure to visit her blog and make a comment. If you mention that you are a follower of my blog you get triple points. Find her blog by scrolling down under my picture on the right hand side. Click on her link.

Good luck. If you are looking for good books for your young adults, I highly recommend Janette’s.

STYLIN'

2010-10-03T21:37:00.000-07:00

The other day Garret strolled into the house from work. He was wearing jeans and a tee shirt that would have looked elegant on a pirate who had been wearing them at sea for two years.

He had a weeks worth of scruff on his face and his hair looked like it had gone through the wringer of the washing machine my grandmother used years ago to do our laundry.

My mother-in-law’s eyes boinged out as she gasped. “Did you go to work like that?”

He gave her the kind of dazzling smile that involved twinkling eyes, and was only achieved from dedicated tooth brushing and two years of orthodontics.

“He sounds like he’s wearing a three piece suit on the phone, mom.” I explained.

Garret ran downstairs with a 'hehehe'.

I gave up worrying about how Garret dressed long ago. I was just grateful he had grown out of two other stages. The first one was when he wore one pant leg tucked into his socks. He gave that up for wearing his pants shredded up to his knees and tied in bows.

Garret had just graduated with a degree in chemistry and was working towards his dream job, pharmaceutical sales.

All I can say is that if I hadn’t gotten the hint that he was unique before, the fact that his lifetime dream was to be a salesman clinched it. Who thinks like that?

Although he has never come right out and said it, I believe he considers himself to be the best salesman to walk the planet. The tip off was when I overheard him on his phone interview.

“If I work for your company I will be the best sales man that has ever walked on your floor?”

I always suspected that when God made Garret, he broke the mold. He is one of a kind and to underscore it he has been going by his middle name for two or three years now. Tell me, how many Isfeld Still’s do you know running around in the world.

Garret, or should I say Isfeld, took the job and from the moment he stepped onto the floor he was the number one sales man. After the first month, they asked him to stay home for a couple of weeks so they could catch up with all his sales. Now he’s a manager.

Yesterday he came home from work and made an announcement.

“Well, they have a new dress code at work.”

Mom and I looked at each other and I almost got excited. He was about to get his comeuppance. Maybe my dream of him ironing his clothes for church would come true after all.

Yup,” he said. “Some guy came into work today wearing scruffy jeans and tee shirt. The boss asked him what he was doing. ”

“Hah! You got everyone slumming it now. I clapped my fists together in glee.

Garret started to laugh. He is always laughing. It’s so annoying!

“The boss just looked at him and said. ‘Sell like Isfeld, dress like Isfeld.’”

Mom and I had to laugh too. Now there's something to aspire to.

BEAR GRYLLS

2010-09-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

I am a push button instamatic kind of girl and I like it that way. I live in a world of microwaves, flush toilets and fast food.
My kind of wilderness camping trip is somewhere I can set up an RV, bring my laptop and stroll down a rugged path where the pavement is sometimes bumpy and torn up but always leads to the beach.
Not once in my life have I ever yearned to throw myself from a plane into some unmapped piece of glacial wilderness, or alligator infested swamp with only the clothes on my back.
Perhaps the difference in our personalities is because my mother chose to name my Audrey Jane and not Bear Grylls. THANK YOU MOM!
Apparently, however, everyone in my family, including my grandchildren, think differently than me. They live a life of high adventure vicariously through their hero, Bear.
With Bear Grylls gracing our television set so many hours of the day, it has been impossible for me not to catch the odd episode. I must admit it can be addicting. After all, how many shows can you watch today and learn so many ways to survive with plain old everyday urine. Who knew you carried a built in canteen.
If I had known that peeing onto your shirt and wrapping it around your head was going to be so popular, I wouldn’t have worried about potty training my children I would have just tied their pants onto their heads.
I remember once my nephew went to the refrigerator to get a drink of juice and drank Grandpa’s urine sample. Instead of being appropriately grossed out, we should have applauded his survival instincts.
Rick is on a diet that requires a lot of protein. I don’t know why I worry about packing a lunch for him. I happen to know, there are plenty of spiders, fly’s and worms lurking somewhere behind his office.
I suppose I should be grateful, however. Maybe one day a tornado will actually hit the Pacific Northwest and Rick and I will be sucked into it’s eye, hurled through space and land in some forsaken piece of real estate.
Rick will know the right plants to eat, how to wear a snake around his neck and keep it fresh until we get hungry.
Not likely, but maybe I should go eat a worm and be prepared.

WHEN CHRISTIANS AREN'T

2010-09-14T16:44:00.000-07:00

I am the bravest person in our family. Twice a year our church has an event where so many people come that we cannot all fit into the chapel and two thirds of the congregation must sit in chairs in the gym. I happen to like to sit in the chapel for two reasons.

#1. The benches have cushions on them.
#2. My grandchildren are accustomed to sitting in the chapel. When we sit in the
gym they are not corralled. I, as well as the people sitting around us, get
nothing out of the meeting. Leaving them home is not an option.

Therefore, every six months I drag myself out of the house sixteen hours, (OK, two hours) early to save a bench in the chapel.

This year a small bench on the side is not big enough for my five grandchildren, my husband, my eighty-year-old mother-in-law and two kids. I have entered the big time and must save two-thirds of a big bench in the middle.

My husband would be here with me, but he has been up at the crack-of dawn taking care of the sick, afflicted, and otherwise inflicted members of our congregation.

I litter the bench with books, coats, my purse, a crumpled Kleenex, a few dozen pens and a blob of empty gum wrappers. The theory is that if it looks like a garbage dump, no one will want to sit there.

My ploy doesn’t work. I smile and grimace while people who had the luxury of tending to their beauty sleep sniff and glower as they walk by my pew.

A couple sits down on the bench behind me. “Your’re saving places.” the woman stated.

A crime punishable by human sacrifice in some churches I think to myself as I pull my nag-a-phone out of my purse and call my daughter. “The natives are almost on the war path. Where are you?”

“I’m trying to hurry.” She said sounding out of breath.

“Bring the kids naked, we can dress them here.”

“Mom, I’m coming.”

“Well don’t be surprised if I’ve been bush whacked and stuffed in a corner somewhere to rot.”

“Mom, I’ll get there faster if you quit talking to me.”

“Hurry up; I have to go to the bathroom.”
I didn’t dare go to the bathroom and leave my bench unguarded. Once I tried to save two spots, one for me and one for Rick. I left everything but a sleeping bag and the kitchen sink to mark my territory. I should have marked it the same way my male dog marks his territory but when he does it, it doesn’t show on his clothes.

When I came back, some cannibals had taken up residence and all my stuff was in a pile along the wall. I knew they were cannibals because when I stared at them in shock they bit my head off.

Apparently, Christianity depends which side of the pew you are on.

IPT WHAT?

2010-09-07T15:23:00.000-07:00

If television were a pent house, I would be living in the basement. According to my children, Andy of Mayberry, Bonanza and Petticoat Junction are not, cutting edge, anymore.
I hate to break it to them but I also like American Idol and Dancing with the Stars. Through no choice of my own, thanks to Garret and Rick, I am also becoming a fan of Bear Grylls. (What are some people thinking when they name their kids?)
Last week, however, I discovered I have sunk to a new low, the sub basement in the television penthouse.
It’s all Garrets fault. Everything is always Garrets fault. He decided that since we don’t watch much TV we should ditch the Satelite and get IPTV. Meaning, we watch television over the internet for a savings of $50 a month.
“Here’s the best part Mom, you never have to watch another commercial in your life!”
“What, no commercials?” I started to hyperventilate. “Garret, if it wasn’t for commercials I wouldn’t know about things like...like the Sham Wow.”
“You don’t own a Sham Wow mom. You said it's a gimmick.”
“That’s beside the point. I have the choice to buy it or not and when people talk about it, and they do, at least I know what they are referring to.
Garret stared then shook his head. “Who ever heard of someone wanting to watch the commercials?”
“I don’t want to watch them. I want to...to go to the bathroom during them, or grab a snack. When will I ever dust? Do you know some of those commercials are two minutes long?”
“Mom, you’re sick.”
The room started to spin. I sat down. “It will mean more shopping. I’ll have to make a special trip every month to the ‘What They Sell on TV’ store to get educated. How will I know what’s hot for Christmas? I might slide back into the twentieth century.”
“Mom, I hate to break it to you but you haven’t crawled out of that century yet. This is the perfect example. The 21st century is about no commercials.”
I grabbed Garret by the arm. “Maybe I’m a commercial addict.”
“Mom, you are seriously messed up.”
That is how we came to switch to commercial free television. Now if I could just figure out how to make it work.
Please everyone, I am at your mercy. If there are new gadgets and thingamajigs out there will you please let me know? If you could put it to music even better.

HYPOCRITE

2010-08-31T21:36:00.000-07:00

When my husband comes home from work or church, I don't think he would ever speak unless I asked him pointed questions about his day. He is so lucky to be married to me. If I didn’t talk to him, his voice box would become squeaky from lack of use. When he does speak however, it is often like an epistle.
Last Saturday when I went to work at his office, the keys he hides so I can open the doors I need to open, were not where they were supposed to be. Apparently, Garret had taken them and they had not been replaced, so the following Saturday, when I could not find the keys, naturally I supposed they were still missing.
It was just after eight and I called Rick at home. He was still in bed and not happy that I had not found the keys that he had just put back in the hiding place.
Saturday evening just as we were about to go to sleep Rick decided to deliver this communiqué.
“Jane why is it that you always wake me up every Saturday that I actually have a chance to sleep in. Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to get a chair and climb up to check to see if the keys are where they are supposed to be instead of calling me?”
He had to be kidding.
“I drug a stool clear down the hall last week and almost fell on my head looking for keys that were not there, so of course when I couldn't feel them, I thought they were still missing. Why do you have to shove them so far back that I can’t reach them without some death defying acrobatics’?”
Rick grunted and continued to exercise his vocals.
I’m just saying it would have been easier for you to look a little harder so you didn’t have to wake me up. Did you see where they are so this doesn’t happen again?”
“Yeah, whatever, hon. I got it memorized.” I laughed and turned over and went to sleep.
The next morning the alarm blared for my husband who had to go to a 5:30 meeting.
When I have to get up early, I have the decency to wake up before the alarm and turn it off so that Rick doesn’t even know I am getting up. Do I ever gripe and complain? NO. I am a saint!
He gets up and I go back to sleep or at least that is my intent but no he is working his gums again, giving me directions for the day.
He couldn’t have included this in his little missive last night about me waking him up on a day he could sleep in.
“Honey, did it occur to you that you are waking me up on a day that I could be sleeping in? Are you trying to get even with me?”
He actually laughed. Suddenly it was hilarious when it was happening to me.
“Janie, you are going to be teaching Seminary now, you have to practice getting up at 5:30.”
The man is a hypocrite. That is all I have to say

EAT PRAY LOVE

2010-08-25T11:27:00.001-07:00

EAT PRAY LOVE
My husband is the epitome of the strong silent type and after 33 years of marriage, he still suffers in silence.
We decided to brave the world of the big screen for our anniversary and after eliminating every other movie out there; we decided to see EAT PRAY LOVE, starring Julia Roberts.
It is interesting how two people can go to the movies and sit next to each other yet have two entirely different experiences.
I enjoyed the movie. The dialogue was natural and some of the philosophical statements were inspiring. It was the sort of adventure I would love, except for the mindless divorce of course.
Rick sat beside me and watched. There was no murmuring or sighs but I knew he was not enjoying himself. We left the theater and he never said a word. When we got to the parking lot I said. "You hated the movie didn't you?"
Let me give you his review.
"It was so lame. Why did she get a divorce? I thought she would go back to her husband. What a lame movie."
Why didn't you like it?" I asked.
"Why did you like it? It was so lame." He continued to rant. "About an hour into it I thought, oh my gosh she just ate. There's still pray and love to go."
I burst out laughing.
"When prayer came along, I was praying for the end. I didn't think I could make it through love. It wasn't even funny. Oh my gosh, it was so awful. Is that what it's like to be in labor for 30 hours? Knowing that anytime now it's going to be over but you have no choice but to hang on until the baby comes?"
I laughed all the way home while he kept up his tirade. Good thing we didn't live far from the theater.
"I’ll never be able to watch Julia Roberts again,” he declared when we walked into the house.
I recently had a bad movie experience and I knew exactly how he felt. I realized this might be my chance for revenge.
"Honey, don't say anything to Garret about how awful the movie was. Tell him it was the best show you ever saw. Let's make him go. He deserves to see this movie.”
When Garret came home from school, he hyped up the movie Space Odyssey 2001. He invited several friends over and even had his grandma stay up until 11:00 pm to see this 'best movie of all time.'
Rick was tired and went to bed but the rest of us were too excited. We popped popcorn dug out the chips and salsa and settled in for this stellar presentation.
It was like getting your teeth pulled without Novocain, one deeply embedded root at a time. Grandma and I wanted to leave several times but Garret kept assuring us. "Don’t leave the best is yet to come."
"Anything that comes next will be better than what has happened so far." I griped.
However, I felt compelled to stay. There must be a point to the whole thing and if I left, I would have wasted the time I already invested.
I was wrong. There was no point. Grandma said it best. "It was the worst movie I have ever seen in my entire life."
Did I mention that she is eighty years old? Maybe we should send her to see EAT PRAY LOVE with Garret.

WHEN WORLD'S COLLIDE

2010-08-17T11:46:00.000-07:00

Many people say my son Garret marches to his own drummer but I say there is no marching or drums involved in Mozart’s slow Sonata for Two Piano’s in D Major. I on the other hand charge through life to the beat of John Phillip Sousa’s Semper Fi.
At church I have four different callings and in my community I am involved with three different organizations. Professionally I just finished writing my second book and I work part time at two different jobs. At home we have four generations living under our roof,which includes five grandchildren. We also have a dog a garden and a huge house.
Garret, on the other hand eats—many times a day--sleeps for hours on end, works according to his schedule, goes to the gym, and does stuff on his computer. Amazingly enough he still manages to squeeze some time from his frantic pace to play with his friends. Oh yes, he also has to squeeze in time to brush his teeth, two times a day for exactly two minutes no matter what, even if he makes all of us late for a personal audience with the Queen of England.
When a rocket and a wall of molasses live in the same house a collision is inevitable and there is bound to be a reaction upon impact.
It happened three days before I was to host a reception at our home for a friend who just got married.
I needed Garret to help out and do some weed eating, move his ginormus 52-inch computer screen and computer out of the living room into the basement and to clean his room
"It'll be done mom, no sweat, don't worry. You shouldn’t do so many things. It always makes you stress.”
“I never stress. I am totally capable of managing everything I do. I only stress when I have to wait on you.”
“No worries mom. You should be like me. I know how to get things done. I never stress.”
Of course he doesn’t. He is the stressee. I am the stressor.
To make a potentially long blog short, Rick did the weed eating when Garret asked if it could be done at night, after the sun went down and the neighbors went to bed. He says he can't work in the sun for six months because of his eye operation. GRRR.
Garret did clean his room. Turns out the only thing messing it up, were his dirty clothes. Without a word of exaggeration they were knee deep on his floor.
His response? “I have enough clothes that I only need to do the laundry six times a year.” Is that supposed to be a virtue? No wonder there is a lingering odor in the walls.
Garret cleaned his room and now in order for me to move in my laundry room, which is a fraction of the size of his bedroom, I had to dive in headfirst, do the breast stroke and hope I resurfaced before I drowned in a sea of stale clothes; all this two days before my party.
“GARRET!”
“No worries Mom. I'm telling you, you stress too much. It will be done. ”
He threw in a batch then went to do some computer stuff. I reminded him; ok, I straight up nagged on him, several times that his batch was done.
When I woke up the next morning, Garret was nowhere to be found but there were plenty of droppings from him and the herd he travels with. I cleaned the kitchen and did the dishes. To take my stress level down a notch, I threw in a batch of laundry then ironed some clean shirts he had thrown in a basket. Plus I did the gazillion other things I had to do which included making dessert and salad for 120 people.
No sign of Garret. I did some more laundry. He strolled in the door about two in the afternoon to change a batch. He didn’t have time to move his computer from the middle of the basement floor where he had left it, smack in the way of the party, but he made his friends wait while he did his two minutes with the toothbrush.
He smiled as he left. “You’re stressing Mom.”
I wanted to stress him right between the eyeballs. I changed his laundry batch several more times that day. What choice did I have? I couldn’t throw them on the lawn or leave them dirty. I wanted my house to smell fresh after all and a bonfire would have brought the fire department breathing down my neck.
The long and short of it all was that he did the last couple of batches and hung up his clothes just before party time. He was right. Why should I stress. Everything got done in time just like he said.

WEATHER OR NOT

2010-08-08T18:58:00.000-07:00

I don't care who you are but whenever you meet someone and are stuck for something to say, the conversation always turns to the weather.
As much as it would surprise anyone who knows me, I have absolutely nothing to say so I am going to take this time to gripe about the weather.
I am usually a very positive person but summer is rushing to an end and I don't know where you live but here in the Pacific Northwest the weather stinks.
Since I have a positive attitude, every morning I wake up and expect to see the sun but instead it reminds me of downtown LA where the smog has to burn off before the sun can shine.
That's ok for LA where the sun shines all year round but here in Washington we only get about two months of sunshine to sustain body and soul for the year.
To add to my misery I work two 11 hour days a week so my days in the sun are even rarer.
While I complain about the lack of sunshine my husband and Mother-in law complain when it's too hot.
When the sun does come out they rush inside. Rick wants to close all the blinds and keep the house dark and cool. He is insane.
Our day starts like this: I get up about six am and throw open the shades while he grunts and shoves his face into the mattress until eight.
Then he gets up and closes the blinds to keep the heat out and then gets dressed for work. I walk right behind him and throw the blinds open again. If there is going to be any heat I want to enjoy every speck of it.
When I am at work and the sun finally does start to shine through the clouds I rush outside every opportunity I have. I stand in the parking lot with my head back and my arms out to let the sun seep into my bones.
My mother-in-law is related to her son. She can't stand the heat either. To her a 90 degree day is a little reminder of what hell will be like so she retires to the library to polish up on her religion.
I yell at her. "Come back outside, this is perfect walking around naked weather."
And it is. No breeze to raise even a hint of a goose bump.
I spend the day wondering if nudity would hinder the flow of traffic in front of the house while my husband and Mother-in-law cower inside cranking up the air conditioner.
At bedtime I put on flannel pajama's to endure the coming ice age. Rick can't breathe unless the air conditioner and the fan are going full throttle.
He throws his half of the heavy comforter that I insist we keep on our bed, plus the feather tick over me.
I obviously would do very well in hell because I am perfectly comfortable in my little sweat box.
The long and the short of this something about nothing is that no one is happy no matter what the weather is like and I am particularly disgruntled with the lack of sun.
As a personal favor if anyone out there is talking to Al Gore in the next few weeks will you please ask him to send some of his global warming down my way!

MY TOWN

2010-07-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

I love Norman Rockwell paintings and Friday night I walked straight into a portrait of his America.
My husband and I took a stroll down Commerce Avenue that echoed a stroll I took with my daughter Briana down New Orleans, Bourbon Street.
Bands played as couples meandered by arm in arm. People ate al fresco while children skipped beside parents, and laughter trilled through the air.
Our first stop was Teague’s Interiors where the soft clear tone of a flute drifted over the balcony. In the middle of the art and fine furniture, I saw my friend Shirley sampling hors’doeurves and wearing her bike helmet. I would have looked ridiculous but she managed to look elegant while adding to the local color. She pushed her bike down the street for the free tire inspection.
We wandered past Pet Works where folks moved in time to Calypso Music played by a Pan band then drifted aimlessly across the street.
We mingled with local shop owners and managers and couldn’t resist the invitation to sample decadent chocolate at the Treasure House. I bought a quarter pound of double chocolate Skor fudge and indulged myself on the spot.
As we strolled back down the street the clock chimed and I basked in the aura of small town America and allowed my senses to be swept away by the spirits of by gone days that once mingled together in camaraderie on these same streets. It was a little slice of American Pie.
It was easy to convince Rick to pause on high stools outside under a straw canopy to share a sandwich and an Italian Strawberry Soda while we tapped our toes to the soft rock band playing down the street.
We topped off the evening with friends from the Columbia River Reader, good conversation and another live band.
If you are lucky enough to live in the area come enjoy a walk down memory lane and create a new tradition with your family; meet new friends. Make downtown Friday night the place to be. Bask in the spirit or Norman Rockwell’s downtown.
If you don’t live here, close your eyes and bask in the dream.

HALF AND HOUR IN THE DAY OF MY LIFE

2010-07-12T20:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes if I wasn’t so busy living my life I would love to sit back and watch it on a television screen.
I was in the middle of the simple task of making Rice Krispie squares for my grandson. He was being baptized the next day and told me that’s what he wanted for refreshments.
It was beneath my dignity to serve such simple fare so I decided on a version that required cooking and no marshmallows.
I bought the required Rice Krispies and made my first mistake. I left them on the counter. Of course my son Garret, who never eats Rice Krispies, decide to have them for breakfast and ate just enough to make me half a cup short. I was not going to go buy another box so I decided to substitute frosted flakes.
I was supposed to mix the syrup and sugar until they melted before I added the peanut butter and margarine but I neglected to read that part of the recipe until it was too late and they were all melting together on the stove.
I was in the middle of pouring the mixture over the Rice Krispies, (and frosted flakes) when Garret and his friend Mark came in from sun tanning.
“So Mom, Mark and I are going to the gym now.”
“First, would you please go down the street to the garage sale and pick up a couch and chair I bought for your sister today. You’ll have to bring it here until she gets off work. They had some decorator cushions on the couch make sure you bring those too.”
I went back to my Rice Krispie concoction. I was supposed to flatten them onto wax paper, spread them with chocolate frosting, roll them up and slice. So far, I was up to my elbows in a sticky gooey mess that didn’t want to come off my fingers and hands let alone roll.
A few minutes later, Jason walked into the kitchen, just as Garret and Mark returned from getting the furniture.
“So mom, they said the cushions didn’t come with the couch.”
“Mom, you bought a couch with no cushions?”
I ignored Jason. “Did you tell them I wanted the cushions?”
“Yes we did, didn’t we Mark.” Mark nodded. “They said the cushions didn’t come with it.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Jason. “You bought a couch with no cushions?”
Garret shook his head. “They were ugly. Kristjana probably wouldn’t want them anyway?”
Jason waved his arms over his head. “Why the heck would Kristjana want a couch with no cushions?”
Garret couldn’t help himself. My blood runs in his veins and he had to keep up the stupid conversation. “Tell her it comes like that.”
“What a bunch of idiots. Who sells a couch without cushions? What is she supposed to do with it?”
I wanted to laugh and explain about the missing cushions but I was too busy picking out soggy pieces of wax paper embedded in Rice Krispies that were oozing chocolate frosting and wouldn’t roll.
I slapped them into a cake pan and smashed them down. They looked an awful lot like gourmet dog food but my brain was too tired to make more.
Maybe I would just go lay down on a couch that actually had cushions an take a nap.

LEWIS AND CLARK I AM NOT

2010-07-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

This weekend I made a momentous decision. I will never drive anywhere alone with my Mother-in-law. We have a history that always involves us getting lost and I am sure it’s her fault.
It was a beautiful day. We drove my daughter Briana to Vancouver so we could help her hang pictures in her new home.
About four o’clock Briana was thrilled with the results of our hard work and we said goodbye.
“Now mom, you can find your way out of here right? Just turn left on the next two streets. When you hit Padden Parkway turn left again and drive until you see the signs for 205 north.”
“That was easy.” I said to mom as I turned onto Padden Parkway. We should be home in about 40 minutes. A few blocks later, I pointed to the sign, NORTH.
“This must be it.” I turned.
In about ten minutes, I began to wonder if I was on the right road. I called Bri.
“Briana, shouldn’t I be at the freeway now?”
“Mom, where are you?”
“I just passed some strawberry fields, and a WinCo. Oh cool, there’s a ‘pick your own blueberries’ sign.”
“Mother, I don’t have any idea where you are but that is not the right road? Where did you turn?’
“I saw a sign that said north, I was supposed to go north so I turned.”
“I knew you were bad, mom but I didn’t know you were this bad. I should have driven you out. You need to turn around and get the 205 north. You’re probably headed into Battleground.”
I assured her we could probably catch the freeway in Battleground so I kept going. Sure enough, I finally saw a sign that indicated the I-5 somewhere up ahead. After about 10 minutes, my mother-in-law was losing confidence so I got directions from a gas station.
“Be sure to stay in the left lane, it will loop you in a wide circle and put you on the freeway going north.”
“What a friendly town,” I said as I got back into the car. I had heard that people gave you the wrong directions sometimes as a joke; I never suspected a thing.
A few minutes later, I drove past a freeway entrance.
“Did that say north?”
Of course, Mom hadn’t seen the sign at all; a moment later, I saw an arrow that indicated the circle that would loop us onto the freeway. It didn’t say south so it must lead home.
Several miles down the road, I noticed my mother-in law was very quiet. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking we are going the wrong way.”
I laughed and assured her we would be home soon.
My mind must have been on autopilot because a few minutes later I started across a bridge that looked like the one that goes into Portland. That was impossible. Portland was 10 minutes south of Vancouver and we were supposed to be 40 minutes north of there. I blinked a couple of times and took in my surrounding.
“How the heck did we get into Portland?”
Mom finally came to life and spoke. ‘I wondered why you were driving past all those Vancouver signs but you were driving so I thought I better not say anything. Didn’t you see them?”
Well, wasn’t that wonderful. Of course, I hadn’t seen them or I would have turned around a long time ago.
Here we were, Friday night at 5:30 on the 4th of July weekend and she chooses now of all times to remain silent. Any other time, when I was actually going the right direction, she could offer all kinds of advice but no, not today. We would be stuck in rush hour holiday traffic for hours.
I finally found a ramp so we could turn around. At 6:30, we were almost back in Vancouver when my cell phone rang. It was Rick.
“Jane, where are you? We are supposed to be in Portland. I thought you would be home to get dressed by now.”
Could this day get any better? Like Mother, like son. What; was I a mind reader?
We got home about 7:30 and I was NOT going back to Portland.

Genius

2010-06-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

My son Garret thinks he is SO smart. Truth be told, he is. (I’m sure that didn’t just come from my pen.) However, I am here to tell you that smart people can be SO dumb.
Saturday I was getting groceries for the perfect Father's Day dinner; I wanted to be sure it was not a repeat of our Mother’s Day disaster, when I got a call from Ariana.
"Mom, you're not going to believe this! Remember on Mother's Day, how we spent the whole day getting Garrets car back up from the ravine? Well, tomorrow is Father's Day and guess what happened."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!" People in my direct vicinity and those two aisles over stared and there was a mad dash as carts rushed past to clear the area.
"THERE IS NO WAY HE WOULD DO THAT AGAIN." I calmed down. "You are kidding right?"
She was trying to catch her breath. "Nope, Alyssa came running in shouting, Uncle Garret, your car is rolling down the hill. We tore outside just in time to see his car clear the logs on the other side of the street. It didn’t go into the ravine though.”
I couldn’t believe it. Talk about the wind whistling through two ears stuck on a hollow chunk of wood masquerading for a head. Thank goodness my grandchildren weren’t behind the car.
By the time I got home, he had the car pulled back up the hill but the guy who pulled him out left a souvenir; a nice big tire mark burned all the way up the driveway.
The biggest advantage for me is the blog fodder.
I read the story to my family to make see if it passed muster. It did. Kristjana says that any story that starts with how dumb Garret is, is a winner her book.
Garret still thinks he’s smart and now it’s on paper for the world to see so he’s happy. Family—ya gotta love em. (Your not allowed hating them—are you?)

BLONDE-BLONDE-BLONDE

2010-06-10T22:05:00.000-07:00

My life is always one adventure after another. I can’t go anywhere without creating havoc.
Several years ago, when network marketing was a huge phase of my life, I took my daughter Ariana with me to meet a business associate and exchange product.
We met Chris at a carwash and traded merchandise. As we were leaving, he reached over, patted Ariana’s head and smiled.
“I’ll bet it’s always an adventure with your mom isn’t it? She is so funny.”
Ariana smiled. When we got back into the car, she looked at me.
“Mom, why do people think you are so funny?”
“I have no idea. I think he was just being friendly.”
I put the car in gear pulled ahead and got high centered over the median. My wheels were spinning and I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t believe I did that right after what Chris had said. It was his fault. He jinxed me.
“Ariana, run flag Chris down before he takes off.”
“Mom, I am not going to chase down some guy I don’t know. Besides I don’t even know what his car looks like.”
“ARRG.”
I leaped out of the car, ran through the car wash and managed to grab Chris and get him to help. When he saw the car he looked at Ariana.
“Another adventure, right?”
They both laughed the entire time he jacked up my car and maneuvered it off the median.
Today Rick and I went down to pick out my new glasses. It sounds so innocent.
Rick slouched in the only other chair in the room, with no pretense of interest what-so-ever on his face.
I picked a few glasses off the rack and paraded them on over my eyes. Rick didn’t change his expression as he shook his head. A tip to the left meant okay and a nod meant yes.
Rick is very careful about conserving the amount of words he speaks each day. I don’t know what he’s saving them for but one day I know he is going to say something brilliant.
Finally, I found a pair I could live with and reached for my old glasses. Where were they; I know for a fact I set them on the table with the ones I had just tried on. I looked at Rick for help. He inclined his head towards the glasses on the wall.
I couldn’t be that dumb, could I? Rick was conserving energy for the walk to the car so he remained seated while I searched the walls for a pair of glasses with no price tag on them.
They were not on the wall. I got on my hands and knees and looked under the table.
“Look, there they are.” The sales girl pointed to the wall. I followed her finger to a pair of glasses perched crookedly on a peg.
Finally, Rick smiled, shook his head and spoke those profound words I knew would one day come from his mouth. “I can’t believe you left your glasses on the wall.”

2010-06-09T19:28:00.001-07:00

Join the Mother's Daze Craze. Check out blog post today.

IN HOMAGE TO MY NOSE

2010-06-02T11:06:00.000-07:00

I am usually thankful for everything in my life but in my last blog, I stated that I was not thankful for my nose. This seems to have started an assault on my head.
Things began with my mouth when it indiscriminately inhaled all food within my line of vision. In the midst of one of my gorge fests, I lost a filling. The long and short of that was a temporary crown.
Lucky me, when they put on the temporary crown they left a string of gauze in my tooth that became infected and I am sure gave me a migraine.
I have gone years taking my head for granted. It simply fills the cavity that would be left there without it. It’s something I paint and primp once a day before I face the world.
Other people are always more curious about my head than I am. I often hear remarks like, “I’d love to know what goes on inside that brain of yours.”
It’s not that I don’t spend time thinking. I just don’t think about the mechanics of what happening inside my head. I can tell you however, this week it has been like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Sometimes people are not thankful for other people’s heads; like when they are sitting behind someone with a big head at the theater and can’t see around them or when someone is so ugly it hurts to look at them.
When they were growing up my son, Garret had no gratitude for his younger sister Briana’s head.
“Mom, Briana is so dumb. She doesn’t think. In fact, she owes time to thinking.”
However, though it caused Garret pain, Briana has never once been ungrateful for her head. She is particularly proud of her memory and once even bragged about it.
“I have the memory of an elephant; or is it a giraffe? Which one is it that never forgets?”

The moral of this story is, be thankful for your nose or your head will start to hurt.

I AM NOT THANKFUL FOR MY NOSE

2010-05-24T15:26:00.001-07:00

Ordinarily, I don’t give much thought to the blob of bone and cartilage that sits on my face and keeps my glasses from falling into my mouth.
Today, however I am thinking solely about my nose and it’s not because I have a cold and it’s stuffy. Nor is it running like a faucet in allergy season when I have to stuff each nostril with little rolled up wads of toilet paper. Neither am I being exposed to a repugnant diaper. It is not sunburned and peeling and no I do not have a red, shiny, bulgy pimple hanging onto the tip of it.
I am sitting in church beside my beautiful, sweet six-year-old granddaughter and she reeks. To make things worse I have a scratchy throat and every breath I take is like scraping sandpaper over a sunburn.
“Sweetie don’t you want to go and sit beside your mommy?”
She snuggles closer to me. “Nope, I want to sit by you Grandma.”
The child hates me. “My don’t you smell nice.” I lied
She beamed her adoring eyes into mine and smiled. “It’s my perfume.”
“Did you take a bath in it?”
“No.” she giggled. “My mommy just put some on me.”
I wanted to put some poison in Mommy’s lunch.
Now I know where road kill goes when it dies.
“Do you want some perfume Grandma?” She started to open her little purse.
Oh no darling. I have some but Great Grandma doesn’t. Go sit by her. I know she’d love some.”
Great Grandma couldn’t smell a dead skunk if it was tied around her neck. Growing older had some perks after all. Besides, most of her friends were old and would probably still sit beside her no matter how she smelled.
They better because after this meeting I'm finding a chair on the other side of the room and opening the window.

MY COUNTRY TIS OF THEE

2010-05-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

Several years ago I stood in the immigration office in Seattle Washington with my family and other people from all over the world to be sworn in as a citizen of the United Stated of America.
There was one painful moment when they asked me to renounce my Canadian citizenship and swear my strict allegiance to the United States of America. The thought took my breath away. Can you imagine renouncing your country? I had expected to have dual citizenship.
However, all my life I had a special yearning in my heart for America so I made that covenant.
In a video address, President George W. Bush welcomed us as the newest U.S. Citizens. We stood together and swore allegiance to our new flag and country. I gazed around the room at my fellow Americans, my eyes moist.
What had they sacrificed to be here? How would their world change now? I was not prepared for the powerful feelings I shared with so many strangers.
One by one we were called up to receive our Naturalization Certificates, most came from countries I recognized; but some I’d never heard of. Many dressed in native costumes and wept as they broke those cultural ties and embraced new ones. When we stepped out of that building, we had all the rights and privileges of every U.S. Citizen. Pride for our new country surged through every breast.
Almost daily, hundreds of people from around the world are sworn in as legal citizens. They come for freedom and to exercise the right to vote. Some will vote for the first time in their lives.
Today another moment was etched in my heart. Today I watched the Mexican President, who upholds Mexico’s stringent immigration policies, stand beside President Obama and decry Arizona’s immigration policy. I heard our President state that America was not defined by her borders but by our bond. I saw our Congress and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi give these remarks a standing ovation. I did not see one person walk out of that room. America is dying. I wept.

BLATHER

2010-05-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

I was insane! How had I gotten myself into this predicament? I was about to appear on KATU channel 2 and I had absolutely nothing to say. I was tempted to run and leave the hosts sitting there on live TV with only my book to fill the 6-7 minute segment. The thought actually made me laugh.
What would they do? Freak out; like I was doing? They could make things up about me and my book. They would probably do a better job without me.
What made this so sad is that I had actually sent them the questions or talking points, to ask me. Naturally, they would expect me to be able to answer my own questions, and with humor. I didn’t feel very funny at the moment.
It’s not that I was afraid to make an appearance. I love to speak but not when my mind was wiped clean of all intelligent thought.
I needed short quips, funny answers. I needed a miracle. I had nothing except longwinded stories and...I was on.
I began my blathering. I felt like a tape recorder with the play button on fast forward.
Were my host’s eyes glazing over? Was that a mercy laugh?
“Can someone please show her out now?”
I had blown it! They couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. I felt surprisingly light. How bad could it be, really?
I took comfort in the thought that I had lived true to my philosophy. Say yes, try your best and if you fail, laugh at yourself and try again. After all, isn't that what Mother's Daze is all about?
OK, it's not always easy to see the humor right away but it’s not like the bottom fell out of the stock market or something tragic like that.
It was only a little show that the entire Pacific Northwest and all the world could bring up on the internet in a matter of seconds, after all.
When I got rich and famous, as I surely will be by next week, is someone going to flaunt the segment on world news tonight like a compromising photo?
Got you curious? Judge for yourself. Click here

THE MISSING CAR MYSTERY

2010-05-10T18:11:00.000-07:00

While Mother's Day is still a faint memory I would like to comment on mine. This year had all the earmarks of being a banner day for me. I was appearing on a television show the day after Mother's Day so my family didn’t want me to have any ammunition to use against them.
Saturday afternoon I had shopped for a simple meal that my husband and son could prepare on Sunday: pork roast, rolls, potatoes, and vegetables, all topped off with strawberry shortcake.
Rick took me out to dinner Saturday night. Things were looking good.
Sunday started perfectly. Rick got out of bed to put the roast in while we were at church. Surprise! My son Garret was a speaker and even included some glowing remarks about his mama. Mother's Day had never gone this way before. I was feeling a little unbalanced. Then it happened.
When Garret finished speaking he leaned over to ask, "Mom where is my car?"
"Is this a riddle?" I whispered. "Where did you put it?"
That was the last I saw Garret until I got home.
"I found my car, Mom."
"That's nice. Where is it?"
"Let me show you."
He took me by the arm and led me down the steep hill that is our driveway. We walked across the gravel road, stepped over the big logs on the other side of the road, ran across the vacant lot to the edge of a ravine. There, thirty feet straight down was Garret's car lodged in the mud.
Why wasn’t I surprised? It was Mother's day after all.
Rick helped Garret dig out the car while I cooked dinner and cleaned up the dishes.
For entertainment, I took pictures of the tow truck hauling the car out of the ravine. Then I took more pictures. You know you're in trouble when the tow truck needs a tow truck. Life was back to normal.
It's a good thing I learned a long time ago that Mother's Day wasn't all about me. It was about my family feeling good for the little things they did to let me know they care. My family had passed with flying colors.

The People You Meet When You're Not Looking

2010-04-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

One of the potentially scary things about being a writer is the people you meet. I met Terri Ferran, author of Life's Alphabet Soup, for the first time in Ohio at the Erma Bombeck conference; next in Utah at our publisher’s dinner then at the LDSTORYMAKERS Conference. It wasn't until I saw her at my book signing for Women's Conference that I realized she was stalking me.
This made me a little nervous because I had just read her book. I laughed out loud when she fed her children powdered milk and told them it was cats milk and when she convinced them that their real parents were Swamp Creatures with stringy greasy hair who would love to have them back.
Those things weren't quite so funny once I suspected her of stalking me. What if she did have swamp connections. I got a little nervous and decided it was time to come home.
I must admit however, that I realized we were kindred spirits when I read her chapter about bathtubs. Both of us love a beautiful elegant tub. Mine is surrounded by candles and has a beautiful view.
We each gaze lovingly at our tub and imagine what it would be like to have the time for a luxurious bath. Then reality hits and we remember that if we did bathe we would have to clean the thing.
I have decided that of the two of us I am definitely the cleaner and more ambitious one. Terri simply dusts her tub. I take the vacuum to mine. It's more work to get the vacuum out and it cleans better.

Terri’s book is a fun read full of stories that will make you laugh and feel good about your mothering skills. She has two other novels to her credit: Finding Faith and Having Hope. She is working on Choosing Charity to complete the trilogy.

Check out Terri's blog and the interview she did of my book. She is very creative and managed to do it without any input from me. She would love you to follow her and make comments :)
Terri's Blog
You can buy Terri's book at Amazon or at Cedar Fort

DRAMA ON THE TARMAC

2010-04-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

The plane was starting down the tarmac. I was on my way home from my second writers conference this month. Suddenly the plane slowed. The pilot came on the intercom.
"Ladies and Gentlemen we've lost a generator, but don't worry we have plenty of generators here at the airport and should be on our way shortly."
OK, how do you lose a generator? Does if fall out of the plane and bounce up and down the runway? Was someone running beside the plane with two fingers in their mouth whistling for the plane to stop?
It would have been alot less dramatic if they had simply told us that the generator wore out or stopped working.
I felt a blog entry coming on so I picked up my pen and paper and started to jot some thoughts down. The man next too me broke my concentration.
"Ma'am I don't think this is so bad you have to write your last will and testament. But if you are will you tell my wife I love her."
I started to laugh. All the people on the plane and I was sitting next to a Seinfeld wannabe.
When I started out to my first conference a week ago in Ohio the plane stopped on the runway because it was missing a simple little signal light. As a result, I missed my plane in Chicago and a dinner appointment.
How important is a tiny little signal light anyway? If the signal light in my car goes out my life doesn't grind to a halt. I keep driving until either the cops pull me over or my husband gets around to fixing it. Until then I just open the window and stick out my arm.
I suppose, however,that if a pilot stuck an arm out the window he might get sucked out of the plane. Not a happy thought.
I have to go back to Utah on Tuesday for more booksignings. I think I'll drive.

BAGGAGE

2010-04-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

I don't know why flying is always such a commotion for me. It's amazing that I have flown as much as I have and yet the airport still paralyzes my brain.
I managed to get to Dayton, Ohio just fine. I was able to check in on line. I have no problems when I check my baggage outside. All I have to do is walk to the gate.
I tried to use the hotel computer to check in for my return flight the night before we returned home but unfortunately I had forgotten my name. I didn't actually forget it, I just forgot how it appeared on my visa.
I go by Jane but my first initial is A. I forgot whether I was my first initial or my first name or my first initial with my second name or just my second name. All I knew was my access was denied. I would have to check in at the airport.
I had two friends with me but since I am a grown woman naturally they assumed I could manage.
I paid the kind, patient, friendly man the insane price of $20 they require. They wouldn't let me take my bag on the plane because I couldn't bring myself to throw out my brand new bottle of mousse and hairspray. After all, they had cost me a whole $5. He passed me my baggage tags and said, "Ma'am, just take this over there where the green light is and they will take care of you."
I looked at my claim tags and back at him, confused.
"Right over there ma'am. See where I'm pointing?"
I couldn't think of a single time when someone took care of my claim checks before, but I had to assume he knew what he was doing. I looked at him one last time then headed for the green light with my tags.
"Ma'am, Ma'am."
I turned around. He was laughing and chasing me with my suitcase.
"I meant for you to take your bag over there."
I burst out laughing at how ridiculous the situation was. Than I saw my friend Terri.
Her face was a billboard for, 'did you just fall off the turnip truck?'
It took me ten minutes just to catch my breath from laughing at her. I am sure she thought I was supposed to be embarrassed. Poor girl, she's an accountant. Her life isn't much fun.

BOOK TRAILER YOUTUBE

2010-04-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

Enjoy and invite your friends. :)

AND YOU ARE?

2010-04-05T19:35:00.000-07:00

I was shopping with my sister the other day when suddenly I heard, "Hi Aunt Jane."

I turned and gushed. "Hi, how are you? I don't think you've ever met my sister. Celia this is . . ."

"Kira, Aunt Jane, Kira."

I kicked myself. Why didn't I think to pretend to forget my sister's name, then I wouldn't have looked so stupid.

I have never met anyone worse at remembering names than me. It is humiliating. It's not that I don't want to remember names; they just vaporize into some unexplored hole in my brain. I forget everyone's name. I even forgot my own once when I introduced my date and myself. I said "Hi, I'm Mike and this is Jane."

I taught a Sunday school class of twelve year olds and I forgot different names each week. One Sunday, after teaching for a year, my mind zeroed out. I couldn't remember anyone, including my son Garret. It wasn't the best mother, son bonding moment.

I went to Alberta, Canada for a book signing last week and I knew I would be seeing family and friends. Naturally, since I know I have this problem, I worked out a system. When someone asked me for an autograph I would simply ask him or her who I should make it out to, and how do you spell that.

It was the perfect solution until my husband’s cousin, who I know really well, brought a book to be autographed. "Who shall I make this out to Randy?"

He smiled. "My wife." I know her really well too but. . .

"I want to make sure I get it right. Can you spell it for me?"

"S...A...M." He spelled it slow and looked me in the eye.

I had just perfected a new way to humiliate myself.

WHO AM I

2010-03-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

Most women, at some time or another, turn into turn into their mothers. Not me. I have turned into my dad. That might not seem so bad except my dad is Archie Bunker. OK, he is not officially Archie Bunker but I am certain that DNA tests would prove that they were brothers separated at birth.
Like Archie, my dad is very opinionated and waxes eloquent when it comes to politics. However, my dad is very educated in history and current events and within moments of meeting someone he will form an opinion about their parentage and slam them to the wall with a verbal diatribe if they have liberal or progressive leanings.

I am also a conservative but my son Adam happens to be liberal; a fact that I am not thrilled about. I don't know which branch of the family tree he fell out of.
Unlike my father, I like to maintain a modicum of respect for other peoples views, or at least in some way keep the peace in the family.

Adam is a good son and calls me to touch base. Inevitably, the conversation turns to politics. Let me rephrase that. Inevitably, I turn the conversation to politics. It is still my obligation to educate him a little. I am his mother after all.
Here is where it gets interesting. I bring a subject up, Adam listens a moment, and then he adroitly changes the subject. "How is your book coming Mom?"
I immediately discuss my book for a few minutes and turn the conversation back to current events. Adam should be a politician; he doesn't answer any of my questions but changes the subject. "So Mom, how is Garret doing?"
We play this little game for few minutes; back and forth then say good-bye.
As I hang up the phone, I laugh. Adam is convinced he has maintained control of the conversation. Ask me a question and off I go in like a rush of wind.

Just for the record Adam, I am not really my Dad. You just think I am.

SCAMMED

2010-03-11T07:24:00.000-08:00

My friends, someone hacked into on my e-mail account and is e-mailing my contacts telling them that I am in London, was mugged, and need money. Please disregard that e-mail. I am safe at home and a little ticked off. If you get this please let any friends I may have on your e-mail lists know my predicament.
While it's nice to know that my friends are concerned and called me, no one sent money. Hmmm should I be cheered or not?
NOTE: I would never ask for money. I might say, "I am being held ransom until one million of my books have been sold so please spread the word and flood Barnes & Nobles, Amazon, and Borders with orders so I can be released back into the bosom of my family."
That has so much more class than just asking for money don't you think? After all, only a fool would think I would be tacky enough to ask for money and try to extort my intellegent friends.
However, if you ever get an e-mil that I am in Austria and need money it's probably true.
Have a wonderful day and go make your passwords more foolproof.
Happy Daze

MY FIRST PEEK

2010-03-05T14:47:00.000-08:00

My husband Rick strode through the door with a big box. "Hey hon, your books are here!"
We all hurried into the kitchen. I got out the butcher knife while my grandchildren rushed over to the island and perched on the edge of their stools. Rick and my daughter Ariana stood by, excited for the viewing.
I carefully cut though the tape. I knew that seeing my name on the cover of my first book would be a momentous occasion and then, to actually hold it...I couldn't wait. Friends, who had experienced this for themselves, had told me it would be a memorable experience. I opened the box, removed the wads of paper protecting the precious cargo and gazed at my book.
I was instantly taken back to the moment I saw my first born. I'd had a c-section and the first thing I said when I woke up and they told me I had a boy was, "is he ugly?"
Rick had said,"no he's beautiful." He rolled me to the nursery window so I could take a peek. That was the moment I knew that Rick was either blind or a terrible liar.
The first look at my book was just as jarring.
I picked it up. OK, it was cute, but it was so little. It hardly weighed anything. I had been excited to tell people about it and now I was a little embarrassed. So much for magical moments.
As quickly as my surprise over Jason's lack of beauty had turned into joy I realized that my book was the perfect size. It could stand alone or be tucked into a gift box or bag. Not only that, just like Jason, it was packed with personality and humor.
The best thing about 'Mother's Daze' is that it is the perfect companion to a box of decadent chocolates. Curl up and enjoy your Mother's Daze.

IT'S NOT IN MY HEAD

2010-03-02T15:15:00.000-08:00

As promised, here is a little snippet from Mother's Daze chapter 2 enjoy

"....I stood with my back to the full-length mirror and gazed through a smaller looking glass held in front so I could assess the volume of material stretched across the ten acres that were masquerading as my bottom. “Honey do you think my hips are fat?” Rick choked and bolted from the room.
I don't know how a six foot, 180 pound man can effectively hide himself in an 800 square foot apartment but I didn't see him for several hours.
“I’m fat,” I wailed when I found him in the last place I'd ever think to look: under a car in the garage. “I can’t tie my own shoes or even see my feet and I’m not sure, but I think I waddle when I walk.”
He crawled out from under the car, stood up..."
Happy Mother' Daze :)

MY BABY ARRIVED

2010-02-28T17:50:00.000-08:00

WAHOO!!! Pass out the licorice cigars. The months of waiting are over. My baby is now out for purchase at Barnes and Nobles Internet book store. The best part of this birth is that I feel so good. No afterbirth pains. No engorged chest, IV or stitches. No worries about what to call her. No dirty diapers and no getting up several times in the night to feed or burp her.
Hmmm, let me rethink that one. Last night I was awake from 1:30 until 4:30 with nothing to think about except how to let everyone know my baby is for sale. The good news is selling my baby is legal.
I have a confession to make. There were plenty of days in my life when I actually wondered if I could unload certain of my children. Had I thought anyone might actually have offered me money for them I would have let them go real cheap. Thank goodness there are laws against such things because they turned out to be civilized human beings after all.
So it is with a clear conscience that I invite you go to the Barnes and Nobles site to check my baby out, (she's really cute and funny). I hope you love her as much as I do.
Oh, and if you do like her, please go back and leave a comment on the Barnes and Nobles site under the comment section for my book. She is a little naked right now and I don't want her to catch cold or, worse yet, get a complex.
Happy Mother's Daze

THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE

2010-02-21T20:27:00.000-08:00

If you have been following my posts you know that on New Years Eve I started the HCG diet. http://www.pounds-and-inches.com/
When I first heard of the diet I thought it was insane. People actually paid money for the privilege of injecting themselves in the stomach with urine from a pregnant woman. They inflicted this upon themselves everyday for a number of weeks.
Why am I always the last one to find out about these money making schemes? I had six children. I would gladly have sacrificed my urine for the beauty of mankind. I wonder what other items of great value I have flushed down the toilet?
I will never know what possessed me, but on New Years Eve I gleefully poked myself as I spoke encouraging and endearing words to the urine invading my body. "Please don't be poison."
This turned out to be the most perfect diet I have ever tried. I had no hunger or cravings. I lost four inches in my waist, four more in my belly, two in my hips and a gazillion in the chest but hey, did I mention the four inches in my waist?
I followed a strict regime and ate 500 calories a day, (the urine made up the rest). My food consisted of 3 ounces of fish, hamburger or chicken ,twice a day, and a small handful of two different vegetables with each meal. I had an orange and an apple everyday as a treat. I finished that part of my diet February 22.
For the next three weeks I am free to eat whatever I want except sugar, pasta, rice, wheat and potatoes. I was giddy with anticipation but I what should I eat? If I couldn't have sugar what else was there?
It took a few days for my brain to figure out that I could eat cheese, a vast selection of fruits and vegetables and even bacon and eggs. I am experimenting with beans, or do they fall into the sugar or starch group?
I find it interesting that when my choices were taken away, even for a relatively short period of time, and then given back, it took me awhile to adjust. There must be some deep philosophical lesson in there somewhere.
I will keep you posted on what happens in the next three weeks. Happy Mother's Daze

ANOTHER ONE FOR THE HISTORY BOOKS

2010-02-14T19:33:00.000-08:00

Rick and I spread our Valentines Day out this year. Friday we did the movie thing. What made it romantic was, at Ricks suggestion, we saw Julie and Julia the last movie on the planet he ever wanted to see. We spent last night with some friends and this morning I woke up to a beautiful card on my pillow. Rick said he would have given me chocolate but he didn't want to tempt me from my diet. The man has never heard of food storage?
It was a lame excuse but at least we didn't spend the holiday this year trying to get last minute reservations for dinner and only to end up with take out from Taco Bell.
I even got my grandchildren some chocolate (that I never even tasted, I might add). They also loved the musical card I got them. I know they loved it because they played it, You Are My Sunshine, over and over and over and ........
I was feeling pretty good about the day until my son Garret called from BYU Idaho with a report about his girlfriend. "Mom, Jenica's, mom sent her somethng for Valentines Day. Her mom loves her."
I only wanted to know one thing. "How come she didn't love you enough to send you a package."
I hope you all had a wonderful day and all your Mother's Daze are happy.

BLOGITIS

2010-02-03T15:19:00.000-08:00

Thank goodness I am not addicted to chocolate. That statement alone calls into question my sanity. It’s not that I don’t love chocolate but I can take it or leave it. However, once in awhile, for some unknown reason, I do get a chocolate craving; and it craves me back. I know because it attaches itself to me.
My belly grows and grows. My pants expand until the seams threaten to split asunder and expose my underwear to a stiff breeze, and I begin to look like I might give birth to a chocolate factory.
I have been known to eat an extra large pan of double chocolate brownies in one sitting, but then, poof, the craving disappears. My pants shrink back down to size and my underwear is safe.
What I am addicted to, however, is my blog. When I turn on my computer, I rush to check it out. Every hour I quit writing to go and see what’s new. Before I turn my computer off, I look at it again. IT NEVER CHANGES! I am insane.
The stories; precisely the way I left them; the comment section at the end of each story; always the same; practically non-existent.
The pinnacle of my insanity is when I rush to my Google analytics page to see what my blog traffic is. It is always a flat line. I DON’T KNOW HOW IT WORKS!
For a year I put off creating a blog. I was worried. What would I say? Now, one month out, I’ve hit that wall and it’s @#*%#@#. My fingers don’t care. They are twitching over the key board and fighting with my brain. My fingers are winning. They are pounding the keyboard. I can’t be responsible for what they say next.
It’s the dreaded blogitis. There is no vaccine. My little bloggy has become a living, vital entity with a voracious appetite. My fingers are being pounded into stubs, my brain is numb.
People, have compassion. The page must change. Leave a comment; become a follower. Pleeeaaasse…..

PICTURE THIS

2010-01-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

“Hold the press, that picture is not going on the back cover of my first Mother’s daze book.” I shouted through the phone to my editor.
This was an emergency. Months ago I sent my publisher a photo that my daughter had taken with her cell phone. I thought it was getting slapped up on some wall with all the other authors, and it would feel right at home; like a mug shot on the wall at the police station.
Why were some people so photogenic while others look like their pictures were drawn by the man who sketches mug shots of America’s most wanted?
My book was being published in two days and I needed a miracle. I called my friend Jessika. If I was going to go through the ordeal of trying to get a good picture I would get someone who took her business where people felt most comfortable. For me that was at home where no on was around to watch.
My daughters, Kristjana and Briana, had tried to give me pointers in the art of being photogenic. They taught me all they remembered about a blurb they saw once when they logged onto Yahoo mail.
The article said to pop your eyes wide open like you were surprised and then take it down a notch. Next, you suck your tongue up to the roof of your mouth. It’s supposed to level out your double chin. Who knew it was that easy? Finally, you looked over the photographer’s right shoulder.
Jessika directed me to a chair and just as she was about to click I popped, sucked and turned.
“Jane, I paid a lot for this camera. What are you doing?”
OK, so it was an error in judgment to warn her that I had a reputation for breaking cameras. Just what kind of photographer was she anyway if she didn’t recognize Jackie O’s tricks for the perfect picture?
“I’m trying to pose for my picture, why?”
“You look ridiculous. It makes the sinew in your neck stick out like an anorexic turkey trying to avoid being the main course at Thanksgiving dinner.
One thing about Jessika; she knew exactly how to make me laugh.
“Jane, relax, it’s just me. Now look at the camera.”
“Won’t that give me red eye? Are you sure I’m not supposed to look over your right shoulder? ”
She rolled her eyes and snapped more pictures.
Why is sitting in a chair to relax the most natural thing in the world until someone points a camera in your face?
I had faith that since Jessika had helped launch a couple of modeling careers with her awesome pictures, she could eventually work her magic on me. Finally, after four rolls of film, we secured a couple of photo’s that were as bookworthy as my face would ever be. I hope we made the presses.

THE SHINER

2010-01-23T20:46:00.000-08:00

I am now the proud owner of one whopping shiner. It takes all the attention away from the bags under my eyes and from my crow’s feet. It has turned into the most flattering shade of deep plum and rests over my left eye like a Portobello mushroom, only purple.
I’m sure, that somehow, this is my husband's fault and I won’t rest until I figure out how he did this to me.
I was innocently stumbling in the dark toward the bathroom to take a shower before work. Usually I have my arms working like Dutch windmills whirring around so I don’t slam into anything but, for some reason, today I smacked into the door frame. Rick said later that it was like a truck slamming into the house. He loves to flatter me.
I stood there stunned. This was not my normal wake up routine. What does one do in this situation?
My mouth opened, a yell split the air then I grabbed my head.
“Honey are you alright?”
“Just hunkey dori! Of course I’m not alright. I just tried to remodel the bedroom with my head.”
“Don’t you put your arms out in front to feel your way?” Rick asked nestling back into the covers?
“Oh, I never thought of that? Why don’t you show me?”
I staggered into the bathroom. My face was covered with blood and I couldn’t tell if I needed stitches or not. I was about to pick up a cloth to wash my face up when I realized I could milk this a little and make him feel guilty; since somehow this had to be his fault.
“Honey I think I need stitches.”
He grunted and slowly pulled himself out of bed. I love when he dotes on me.
"Janie. You’re bleeding.”
All that money we spent for his doctor’s degree was finally paying off. He couldn’t find a cloth so I dug one up myself. Apparently I didn’t need stitches, but suddenly I felt nauseas and went back to bed with a clean cloth plastered to my brow.
“How did you get blood clear over here?” Rick asked pointing to the foot of the bed on his side.
There was something fishy going on here. I don’t remember ever laying my head down there and I still don’t know how I ended up smashing into the wall.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Hah! I knew it. He wanted to get rid of any incriminating evidence. He was washing out the bloody cloth too, and the floor. Something was definitely up, but my head is too sore to figure it out.
Happy Mother's daze.

THE NAP

2010-01-17T18:19:00.000-08:00

Today I did something I rarely do. Rick came into the bedroom and announced, “I want you to take your computer into another room while I sleep. Your typing is too noisy."
I had no idea the dear man’s ears were so delicate! I can sit beside him at the dinner table and tell him about the up and downs of my day and he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Now the gentle tap, tap, tap, of the computer keys will keep him awake!
My grandchildren were playing in the living room, their mom was downstairs asleep, and Rick wanted to sleep. I’m not stupid. I know how much I’d get done out there in the kid zone. I set my computer down and decided to take a nap too.
I cuddled Chika, the dog, into the curve behind my knees, pulled the blanket up and closed my eyes. In that moment, when sleep is just about to descend, the garage door opened. It must be Chika’s mommy, Kristjana, coming home. Chika shook the blanket off both of us and ran barking to the door. Of course, without the computer hammering in his ears Rick had gone straight to sleep so I had to get up, unlock the door and let Chika out.
I just got comfortable again when Chika began scratching on the door. Why hadn’t Kristjana come upstairs to claim her dog? I knew that I either let the dog back in or repaint the door tomorrow.
I cozied back down with Chika and tried to go to sleep but now I had to go to the bathroom. I untangled myself from the dog, made the hike, and then rearranged Chika back in her favorite spot behind my knees.
Kristjana picked that moment to come upstairs and Chika began the happy growling noises that only a mother can love. My daughter tried to open the door that was locked against an invasion of grandkids. I was not about to get up again so I settled Chika down and we both dozed off.
About an hour later I woke up. I had to go to the bathroom again. Drinking eight glasses of water a day is over rated.
When I came back into the room it was dark and I wanted to get back onto the computer.
I stood and looked down at Rick. His eyes were shut but was he awake?
This man could sleep in broad daylight, with a brigade of grandchildren playing in the next room but pleaded sleep deprivation if I wanted so much as a pinpoint of light on or had the TV turned to a whisper.
I, on the other hand could be expected to sleep through all the fight ‘um beat ‘um up man shows he likes to watch; with the light on bright, I might add.
I put my nose close to his; nothing. I put my hand close to his face and ran it over his head. I was making a second pass when he opened his eyes and stared into mine.
“What are you doing?”
I started to laugh. “I was checking to see if you were still asleep.”
"Wouldn’t it be easier just to call my name?"
I smiled.
“Honey when you wake up and find someone waving their arm over you like a magic wand it’s a creepy feeling. Like your being put under a hex or something."
I just raised my eyebrows and smiled. Maybe I was and maybe I wasn’t.
Happy Mother's daze.

The Un-talent

2010-01-13T22:34:00.000-08:00

My grandson came home from his wolf pack meeting tonight. “We're having a talent show next week Grandma.”

“What will you do; draw a picture?” He is actually pretty good; or maybe it’s just that I’m so bad.”

“Nope, I want to sing the doughnut song with you.”

I’m strictly an 'in the shower singer' and I definitely don’t do duets with a shy eight year old.

“I have a meeting that night sweetheart. Darn.”
It was true. I have my writers group and in eight years I have never once missed.

Without missing a beat he listed other things he could do: ride his bike, twist his left foot far to the side or dance with his baby brother. How wonderful to be eight years old and have confidence in so many noteworthy talents.

Then he realized that everyone can ride a bike and unless he could ride up the walls or do flips it was nothing special. His foot didn’t twist quite as far around as the guy on TV and his baby brother will be in bed.

It looks like I will be doing my singing debut in front of the wolf pack and their parents. We will be singing:

As I stepped round the block one day
I stepped into a bakers shop.
I picked three donuts outta the grease,
And handed to the lady a five cent piece.

The lady looked at the nickel and she looked at me
She said this nickels no good to me.
It’s got a hole in the middle and it goes right through.
Says I there’s a hole in your donut too.

It will be fun, won’t it?

WHAT IS EATING WHO?

2010-01-08T17:50:00.000-08:00

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to die. My inside organs are chewing their way out."
This is my daughter, Kristjana's response to her 6th day on the HCG diet. I am into my second week of the 'GREAT GORGE' diet and my husband and I feel great; empty but great. Neither one of us wants to take the butcher knife and cut out our stomach. Kristjana will never handle childbirth.
We are now in the second phase of our diet. We eat 500 carefully selected calories a day. We have 17 days to go.
One interesting facet of this diet is that you inject yourself with urine. Not just any urine but urine from pregnant women; imported from Europe. Kind of like expensive perfume I like to think.
My first reaction was the same as my children and probably many of you reading about this diet for the first time. "You're going to do what?"
But even the greatest grossed out skeptics in the world have been known to cave. It wasn't my idea. This is a reverse of the Adam and Eve scenario. Rick led the way. His staff had experienced great results so he and Kristjana decided to give it a whirl. I think it was just a good excuse to gorge on New Years Eve.
Well, they weren't leaving me out. I haven't gorged for years and it has always been a secret fantasy of mine to stick myself with sharp needles. Besides, the allure of injecting myself with European urine gives me the sense of being a diet connoisseur.
Since you are supposed to feel good on this diet and Kristjana is obviously in great distress, (I want to be there, with a tape recorder, when she gives birth), I suggested she get a pregnancy test to test the urine and see if its effective.
She just called to tell me she isn't pregnant. "You tested the urine?" I asked.
"Yes mom, I just went to the bathroom and I am telling you I am not pregnant. This diet isn't working."
Hello! I know I had that discussion with her years ago.
"Kristjana you are supposed to test the pregnant urine not your own."
I can still hear her shout ringing in my ears. "I wasted good money on a pregnancy test? Do you know how embarrassing it was to buy that thing?"
I guess I should be grateful. I will think about that once I quit laughing.

Happy Mother's Daze