GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY

I love to sing. The problem is I can’t sing. That point was brought home clearly by my son Adam recently.

He called for my birthday. When he asked me what I was doing for fun. I told him I was in a musical. 

"Good thing I don't live there anymore." he laughed.

“You’ll be happy to know that you can still show your face in town. I don’t have a singing part. But don’t get too comfortable. I may just try out for a singing part someday soon. It could happen. They are letting me sing in the church choir.”

He snorted in laughter again and said. “The church choir doesn’t say no to anyone.”
“Who died and made you a comedian? Not only that, but when you call someone on their birthday it’s just not polite to throw around insults! Especially when the birthdayee is a hair away from senility and could write you out of her will. Besides, it’s not true. My friend Terry told me the choir asked him not to come back.”

Adam was really laughing now. Apparently, he thought I would better serve my talents in stand up comedy.

My singing disability is not because I don’t practice. The problem is I think that if you practice wrong for so many years you just get better at being really bad. I love singing show tunes in the shower. One  day, when I walked out of the bathroom after one especially rousing vocal concerto, I almost tripped over my kids and their friends, who were rolling on the floor of my bedroom, wiping away tears of laughter.

One of my all time favorite songs is, ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ My dream has always been to walk down the street like they do in my favorite musicals and sing at the top of my lungs. I am happy to say that dream came true for me several years ago.

We were in the New York subway. When the train thundered down the track and I felt secure that no one could hear me, I threw my head back and belted out my full throated tribute to Broadway. It was amazing. Part of my jubilant feeling came from the shock on the faces of my children as they tired to get as far as they could from me and still catch the same car on the subway.
No one threw money my direction, but on the upside, they didn’t throw rocks either.

IT TAKES PAINS TO BE BEAUTIFUL

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 torture technique? It’s amazing that we actually pay money, plus 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. This 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.

                                    

ALZHEIMERS ?

A few days after my aunt died we were laying in bed when Rick asked me if I was okay with her death. She had a lot of health issues so I was happy for her. 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 his ear piece that he left there Saturday. When I got to Cathlamet, his phone and earpiece wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I called his office to tell him it wasn't there. The girls asked me what I was talking about. The phone and earpiece were  on his desk. He hadn’t even see it!

“You are kidding me, right?” I said. “He 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.” 

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 was so funny about what I 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 him to do three simple tasks I had go over the list a thousand times before he left the house. Then, when he gets to work he inevitable calls to ask. “What was it you needed again? I patiently repeat the list again only to be told.  “Wait I have to write it down.”

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

IN HOMAGE TO THE SUN

Life is hard when you are from another planet. I know because according to my family I come from somewhere out of this 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 dee do! 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.

SHRIMP ARE PEOPLE TOO

NEWSFLASH! In 2011 they ran a new and I am sure vital government program. Scientists 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. they spent.  I would have done it for something practical like a life time supply of pantyhose.

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

DEBT DIET

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 since I am on the honor system, I am plagued with an annoying little thing called guilt.
It just doesn’t seem fair to me--going on a debt diet. It’s a lot easier for Rick. He doesn’t 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.

MOVIE TIME

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

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...

Computer of the Month Club

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

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

Is it my fault that my computer contracts a virus every few months. I do take it out on excursions every once in awhile to a public place 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 it 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.’

IS NOTHING SACRED?

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?”

WHERE THE BEAR AND THE CARIBOU ROAM

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.