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.

BARE NECESSITIES

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 ro makeup look, and where would I find room for the extra baggage?

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 containers are small, I could not bring them or my mascara. They were too obvious. But, 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. Who knows what other goodies I could store  there?

Back to my hair. I have to admit that 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 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 another one. 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

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 happen to 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 my husband is only one of many men out there who have lost their minds.

I found my evidence in the bathroom on the set. 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 bathroom for men and one for women. 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 church bathroom experience. 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.  It'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 one.

THE GREAT GRETZKY

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 husband's 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, there was a once in a ten million chance that he 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 a 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

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.

                                    

THE PERFECT GIFT

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.

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!

NOT YOUR CRAFTING DIVA

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 my day that way, 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

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

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 but Ariana's wedding was the perfect excuse to ask Rick to bring home four bales of hay.

“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.

THE PERFECT GIFT

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 the 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

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 had 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 that I was 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 spent our entire marriage. 

SNEEZING YOUR BRAINS OUT

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

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!

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

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 :)

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.

SAFTEY FIRST

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

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.

DECORATING TIP

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!!