Yes, Virginia, Trish Really HAS Become That Pampered By Technology

My cell, which is basically my cordless umbilicus to the world, spontaneously terminated my phone call to the pharmacist yesterday. I sat there in shock, jiggling the device in my hand as though that might help restore it to health. At the same moment, my husband shouted from the kitchen: “Hey! I’ve lost the signal on my phone. I was cut off mid-sentence with my dad. Do you have bars on your phone?” A quick glance at my screen proved our worst fear: no service.

As it turns out, when I am separated from my creature comforts, I panic. My imagination—always barely in check-- quickly took hold and I spun off into irrationality. My first assumption was that there had been some sort of grand-scale tragedy. I mean, what else could account for my cell having no bars, right? (Can you picture me out in the wild? I can’t. Unless, of course, I was in a fully stocked cabin in Michigan trying to keep my lushy sister-in-law from burning the place down…*cough,* Michelle, *cough.*) Terrorism, war, even UFO attack seemed plausible in my initial moments of alarm. I turned on CNN to see if there were any news reports about AT&T satellites being invaded by aliens or shot down by terrorists bent on unraveling our entire social structure by blocking our abilities to text one another. Meanwhile, my husband took a more rational approach: He plugged our old land-line phone into the wall and called AT&T. (I’m sure I would have thought of that…eventually. As it was, I mockingly plucked at the cord and queried in Cinderella's wide-eyed style, “Why, whatever is this? A phone necklace? Why, I’ve never seen a phone with a cord before!”)

The verdict: AT&T was experiencing a nationwide outage with no estimate on when service would be restored.

Faced with this shocking news, we clutched at our cells with the stunning realization that a defunct cell phone has relatively little value. Suddenly, our cell phones became worthless bundles of circuits and plastic. It seemed kind of silly that we’d spent so much for these items, so we determined to find some uses for the things until full service was restored. Here’s what we found service-less cell phones can be used for:

1. Paperweights
(Though this usage occurred to us immediately, we have very little wind in our winter-sealed home.)
2. cameras (Though I have to admit cells are subpar cameras without truly good flash bulbs.)
3. Portable photo albums
4. iPods (provided the music has been downloaded pre-service interruption)
5. digital Post-it notes
6. weapons
(We never used them in that way, of course, but the thought occurred to us that cell phones have enough heft to cause some damage when chucked at vigilantes. Of course, the screen would likely shatter. Hmmm…does the warrantee cover that?)
7. nut crackers (cells work particularly well on walnuts)
8. meat tenderizers (Bonus: You can even take a photo of the meat as you beat it.)
9. a flashlight for locating the matchbox car that slid under the fridge


Fortunately, service was restored before we had to become too creative. Scott was just starting to brainstorm ways to modify the cell phone for use as a taser when my inbox jingled with texts. However, please add your own ideas in case we ever find ourselves in this predicament again.

At Least I THINK It Was Mud...

Note: After re-reading my last post, I find once again that I am happy my mother cannot locate the power button on the computer in her den. My bitterness at having no time alone with my husband may have seeped out a little. Despite the fact that my mom will likely never know of my immaturity, I offer my apologies. After all, I could always hire a babysitter, right? Sorry mom. Please do not cut me out of the will.

Noah is now mobile to the point of no longer falling down (often), which allows me a scant bit of freedom. I have spent the majority of the past four months following his toddling little butt around attempting to save him from harrowing near-injuries and accidents. Responsibility such as this is a lot like being put in charge of one's alcoholic sister-in-law on New Year's Eve-- only instead of one night of constant vigilance, it's four entire months of scrambling around wild-eyed and hissing, "What is in your mouth?? Spit it out! I said spit-it-out!!"

Not that my sister-in-law is an alcoholic. (*cough* *cough*)

(Yet Another) Bitter Digression Alert: Speaking of said (allegedly) drunken sister-in-law, she is leveraging my in-laws's friendship with a gazillionaire to borrow his cabin in Michigan this summer...and she has yet to invite me along, despite my many hints. ("Invite me." "No." "Come on. Invite me." "No." "You know what would be cool? Inviting me!" "No.") Two words for you, Mr. Gazillionaire: Fire Insurance. Between my sister-in-law's love of wine and my brother-in-law's love of roasting meat over an open fire, I see the potential for things going *boom*. However, if you insist that my family accompany said (allegedly) alcoholic and (allegedly) pyromaniacal in-laws, I can assure you that I will personally see to it that Michelle does not get shit-faced and burn your place down. So, if you want to make my attendance a mandatory condition of the cabin borrowing, by all means do so.

Which brings me back to running around after Noah. I offer for your reading pleasure a list of things Noah has gotten his tiny little hands upon this week that has caused me near-heart attacks:

• a $120 pitcher from Williams Sonoma painted with the likeness of a rooster (Um, Williams Sonoma? No one is going to pay that much for a rooster pitcher. EVER. This is likely why you place these pitchers six inches from the floor-- in hopes that a toddler will knock one over resulting in a penitant parent paying full price for the rooster monstrosity. But you didn't count on me being able to move that fast, did you?? Who's laughing now Rooster Pitcher Purveyor? Who's laughing now??)
• a mini-Lego from his brother's Indiana Jones Lego set
• a feminine product from my purse (while I shopped through the grocery store blissfully unaware for many, many minutes assuming that people were simply staring at my son because he is so adorable)
• daddy's electric razor
• my glasses
• an errant staple
• a glass ornament
• an ornament hook
• a dead bug
• a clump of mud right inside the doors at Target (I think it was mud....)

I am constantly sprinting to remove items from Noah's tiny grip moments before disaster occurs. Clearly, toddlers are nature's way of getting moms to lose the last of their post-pregnancy weight. Still, even with having to guard against what Noah gets his hands on, I am finding a little bit of time for me because he is more stable on his feet. This gives me more time to write...and harass my sister-in-law. Heh, heh, heh....

The Gift That Keeps Giving

I did a deliciously thoughtful thing for my mother, and yet she somehow doesn't appreciate my good will. So. Typical.

What I have done is give her the gift of sanity. Yes, sure, I had to lead her through the jungles of lunacy in order to get to the isle of enlightenment, but I was prepared to go the extra mile for her because I am a wonderful person. Does she appreciate it? No. Here's the low-down:

I dropped the kids off at my mom's to "grab a quick Christmas gift," but then I stole two whole hours to go shopping last week. All. By. My. Self. I didn't even really "Christmas shop." I shopped for me. It was the first time I had been truly alone doing something just for me in about four months--and this is including the time I spend using bathroom facilities and showering. (I know, I know, this is becoming a pattern with me. First Scott, now my mom. The difference is that with Scott, I really planned to run right out of Target in just a few minutes and I was Christmas shopping for others, so it didn't really count. In contrast, what I did to my mother? Premeditated.)

A word about my mother: She is a dear woman, and I love her very much, but she has a slight tendency to drift toward the dramatic--and by "slight" I mean that she loses it completely and frequently takes to her bed weakly calling for valium. Tragically, this trait has worked its way into my own DNA. However, no one listens to me. They just let me lie there...quivering. Yet, this disregard has taught me a valuable lesson about dramatics: If no one pays the slightest bit of attention, one tends to give up the angst. Like Pavlov's dogs, drama is a learned behavior. A simple habit. My mother didn't know it yet, but I was about to release her from her worst fear: babysitting. See, while my mom enjoys telling others that she "adores her grandchildren" and is happy to "watch the little darlings at any time," the truth is that she always calls me with some horrible emergency necessitating my speedy return within an hour of dropping off the boys at her house. So, for the holidays, I got my mother something special: Immersion Therapy. Nothing says Christmas like curing a loved one of her neurosis, am I right?

Before you judge me, please allow me to plead my case:

Proof #1: Scott and I tried to go on a date in July. We'd just received the appetizer when my cell phone rang. "Josh has a stuffy nose. He feels warm, too. It could be that SARS disease. You better come get him." (Mom, kids are warm when you wrap them in four blankets during the height of summer. And the stuffy nose? Allergies.)

Proof #2: Scott and I tried to go to a grown-up movie together in August. We were in line to purchase tickets when his cell jittered: "Noah is crying! There might be something wrong. His cry sounds funny. You'd better come right away." (He was sleeping peacefully when we got there fifteen minutes later. Mom, babies sometimes cry before they fall asleep. It's what babies do when they aren't eating, pooping, or sleeping.)

Proof #3: Scott and I tried to go to a party at a friend's house in September. Scott's phone rang just as we got to the party. "We're at the emergency room! Come quickly! Josh fell!" (He'd fallen when getting off the bottom of the slide at the park and had a bloody nose. We rushed to the hospital just in time to see the emergency room nurses hand my mom a kleenex and a lollipop while Josh calmly applied pressure to his own nose.)

Thus, you can see that she needed the immersion therapy. For her own good. (Plus, there was a sale at DSW. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't give her mother the gift of freedom from fear while at the same time purchasing Frye boots at half off??)

So, off I went to shop shoes with my cell phone turned off.

The time was well spent. For example, I found that Frye boots run about a size large. (In case you are stuck with a pair of Frye's in a 7 1/2 due to purchasing your true size, just send them my way.) At the end of 90 minutes, I turned on my phone. And...

...Mom had called me at least forty times-- complaining of headaches, loss of sight, and - finally- diarrhea. Her own, not the boys'. Each message sounded more terrifying. One was simply a recording of her moaning into the receiver. I checked my watch: I still had time for Starbucks.

I sipped at my latte' and thumbed through a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the next novel I will be teaching. "It was the best of times (for Trish); It was the worst of times (for Trish's mom)." I nibbled on a scone. I people watched. Then, at the end of two hours, I headed to mom's.

The boys were playing happily on the floor while my mother slumped in a chair, breathing shallowly. Her eye lids fluttered and her lips quivered as she gave me a detailed account of "food poisoning" resulting from a "tainted salad." With nary a blink, I asked if the boys had been good. She coughed and clutched at her stomach dramatically, then nodded weakly before mopping her brow and asking whether heart attacks could result from loss of fluids. I slipped the boys into their jackets and shoes while considering her question. "Well, you might want to drink a little water, just in case," I smiled sweetly.

The next day she called with more details of her poisoning. I listened mutely, then changed the subject. Every time she mentioned abdominal spasms, I brought up something new to talk about.

Guess who watched my children for THREE HOURS yesterday while Scott and I went to dinner and returned some gifts? My mom. And she didn't call even once.

Okay, so it's not that she doesn't appreciate what I have done for her; it's that she isn't 100% aware of my involvement in her gradual return to the land of the level-headed. Oh well. Think of me as the Secret Santa for the Sanity Challenged.

Next week, I'm trying for FOUR HOURS!

"I Lost Them In the Divorce."

This is what I defensively retorted to the entire store packed with holiday shoppers after a sales clerk at Ann Taylor Loft loudly announced that I might need to go down a size and try an extra small camisole or an extra-extra small camisole.

I get it. I’m no Real Housewives of Orange County, clearly.

At least my feet are big.

Ooooooh, I think I just figured out why I love shoes.

(Dang, and I was wearing padding that day, too.)

Here I Go Again On My Own (Minus Tawny Kittain)

I don’t know how my husband puts up with it. I am doing a reconnaissance mission in Target to capture a toy my four year old has longed for “my whole entire life.” (The entire four years minus the many months when he just lay there, drooling, unaffected by marketing campaigns and consumerism.) It will take me two minutes to scout the toy department, locate my objective, and complete the operation while my husband circles the parking lot with the kids. The next thing I know—my cell phone is jingling in my pocket.

My husband.

“You’ve been in Target for 55 minutes.
The kids are gnawing through their car seat straps.
Where.
Are.
You?”

Oh, Target! I have fallen victim to your siren song yet again. I should be tied to my wallet like Odysseus to his ship’s mast. Alas, I have been allowed to roam toward your red bull’s-eye unencumbered by children or spouse. Like ancient sailors, I am enraptured by the sweet strains of (holiday) music (piped through your big box). And by lots and lots of crap I don’t need.

Adult-sized cloud-patterned footy pajamas!
Scarves made of sparkly material!
A wooden Christmas train!
Candles scented like pomegranates! (I didn’t even know pomegranates had a smell!)
A plaid jacket! (In a different color than the plaid jacket I already own!!)
Throw pillows that match my comforter!
A fuzzy throw for cold nights!
A lamp for that dark corner!

And, just like that, I am sucked in. My AmEx starts to twitch in my purse. Things that I would normally scoff at (pine cones hot glued to Styrofoam pyramids and spray painted red), suddenly take on an artistic flair. How have I lived this long without that Lifestyles cd?? Wouldn’t that copper star with the mini lights look great on our tree?? You know what I really need on my coffee table? A bunch of balls covered in straw!

And I rush to the check-out line, carrying the detritus of my mania.

Never have I gotten out of Target spending less than $100. Never. I urge you to try to do it. I half-suspect there would be an “under $100” surcharge added to your bill.

And the copper star? It didn’t even work! Now I have to take it back. And you know what that means….

We're In Trouble Now (AKA: Going Mo-bile)

Noah has learned to walk. It’s amazing how only last week he was Earth-bound, and now he’s experiencing such freedom. It happened suddenly, too. He’d been cruising around holding on to furniture for quite some time. Then, yesterday, he let go and walked right across the room! He didn’t even test out his balance. There was no taking a few tentative steps along the soft couch in case he needed to grab on to something for support. He just let go and headed right for the hard wood floor. Everything about his diminutive stance said, “If I’m going to do this, I’m going all the way!”

Lesson learned: If you want something, quit being a pussy and just do it.

Sigh...I need to apply my 12 month old's knowledge to my new healthy eating regime. Man, nothing bites deeper than when your INFANT shows you that taking baby steps is not the answer.

Scott Hates Sarah J.

Last night was one of those rare moments when Scott and I were able to get both kids down for the night without feeling as though we, too, had to stumble in the direction of our own pillows. We both felt as though we had enough energy to sprawl on the couch and stare blankly in the direction of the television, which is how we ended up watching Failure to Launch, a romantic comedy featuring Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker. (By the way, I take back what I previously posted about Matthew. He may have a very nice looking chest, but he’s got some sort of weird eye thing going on that nixes our fantasy love affair. Besides, my heart belongs to Scott.) [<--Can’t be too careful with my birthday approaching, can I??] It was then that I found out that my husband has a deep-seated dislike for Sarah J.

“She has weird lips.”
“Her face is too long.”
“Her voice sounds like the whine of a power saw.”
“She has ‘man hands.’”
“She’s kind of wrinkled. Too much sun exposure in her youth.”
“Are those moles on her chin or two big zits?”

Scott went on and on.

Okay, I am not one of those who jumped on the Sex and the City bandwagon, so I consider myself fairly unbiased where Sarah J. is concerned. In fact, I associate her with Square Pegs--which dates me, I know. While I can see Scott’s point about the man hands (seriously, check them out—very masculine—she could palm a regulation basketball), I don’t think Sarah J. quite deserves the diatribe Scott threw her way. Sarah Jessica Parker strikes me as a woman who has done a lot with what she was born. For example, that nose doesn’t look altered. (*cough* Don’t look too closely at mine…. *cough*) Those lips don’t scream “injected with my own butt fat.” And you have to respect someone comfortable enough in her own skin that she doesn’t remove those moles. And you hardly notice the man hands because she plays up her good features: hair and eyes.

So, here’s to the people who make the most of what they’ve got! To the men with beer bellies and great hair, or baldness and kind souls. To women with small breasts and great senses of humor, or large thighs and big hearts.

Shine on, Sarah J. Shine on….

Healthy Eating: Day 2

I may be going through withdrawal.

I have a headache and am perpetually annoyed by everyone around me. One of my coworkers said good morning, and it was all I could do to keep from grabbing him by the throat and screaming, “Good morning?? I ate organic oatmeal for breakfast, which means someone else is eating my Starbucks scone! MY scone! Mine!” (Apparently part of fast food withdrawal involves regressing to the mentality of a two year old.)

In short, day two is going as well as can be expected. I just hope the “Oooooh-I-feel-so-healthy-and-full-of-energy” phase one of my hale and hearty coworkers keeps talking about kicks in soon or someone may be in danger. Probably said coworker. The poor healthy dear.

Healthy eating has proved to be more of a challenge than I anticipated. The increase in water consumption keeps me running to the bathroom once an hour. This leaves me one ill-timed sneeze away from utter disaster. Further, I have sacrificed my quick and easy morning scone for exploding oatmeal and my daily cheeseburgers/fries for low-fat casseroles/naval oranges.

Speaking of naval oranges….

Um, hello? Orange growers? Want to increase sales, like, a thousand percent? Cross breed an orange with a zipper. Or an orange with a ziplock. You may even want to try Velcro. I broke a nail trying to gain access to the fleshy portion of my naval orange. Healthy eaters should not have to suffer so. My nails and my healthy coworker’s life are in your hands, orange growers. Let’s put a wiggle in citrus genetic mutations, shall we?

Good Morning?

I woke up to the sound of the thunder and rain that would later turn my perfectly coiffed blow dry into a swamp of auburn weeds reminiscent of something one of the witches would sport in Macbeth. After arriving at work, I enthusiastically stepped forward into my first day of healthier eating by making some organic oatmeal in the office microwave rather than purchasing my usual blueberry scone at Starbucks. However, when I opened the door of said appliance, I immediately noticed that the inside of the microwave had splatters of a brown crusty substance and smelled very much like a horse. (Clearly, my coworkers are into exotic food choices.) While my oatmeal began to nuke, I pondered when the last time this barnyard smelling domestic device was last cleaned and by whom. That was when I noticed my cup of oatmeal runneth over, so to speak.

Guess who became the next cleaner of the horsy-smelling microwave?

I dragged the oversized glass microwave turntable down to the nearest bathroom and attempted to clean the sticky oatmeal and burnt horse off of it using tepid water and paper towels, the only supplies available. Unfortunately, the sink was much too small to accommodate the turntable, so I removed most of the gunk with my fingernails. Bye bye, manicure. After replacing the now de-horsed and de-oatmealed plate to the microwave, I returned to the bathroom to attempt to take care of the horse-meal mess clogging up the drain in the bathroom sink. ONLY THE SINKS IN MY BUILDING TURN ON AUTOMATICALLY, reducing my cleaning attempts to feeble swipes with paper towels before the automatic faucet sprayed me yet again. This left me with only one option: outsmart the automatic sink.

It turns out that in a battle with automated plumbing I am fairly well matched.

JUMP OUT
SWIPE
JUMP BACK
WATER SPRAY

JUMP OUT
SWIPE
JUMP BACK
WATER SPRAY

I think I now understand why healthy eating is so good for the body. Not only was I left with approximately HALF of my oatmeal portion, but I got a good workout.

How was YOUR morning?

For Bash

Sebastian is our first child, our furry golden god of the passenger seat. He has protected us and our home, cheered us up when we have succumbed to self-pity, kept watch over us while we were sick, and been a good sport about toddlers flopping all over him. He’s enjoyed rousing games of Frisbee, hide and seek, and find the binky (where it was usually found under his tongue). In his youth, there were many, many good walks that we never would have taken had he not plopped the leash in our laps and gently suggested we all needed some exercise. In fact, he often wandered over and placed his big head on our knees to remind us that we were staying up too late or had forgotten to eat, in an effort to keep us as healthy as possible. Perhaps most generously, in deference to my obsession, he has never once chewed up any shoes—even the fine leather ones, though he has masticated his fair share of toy cars and done some unmentionable things to a number of throw pillows.

At thirteen, his big, furry body just couldn’t contain all the goodness he’d built up, and it was time for him to move on to the next phase in his plan. Thank you for all the good times, Bash. Don’t worry about us; you taught us as much as we were ready to learn. We’ll miss you, buddy. Remember, you’ll always be “Our Sunshine.” We know you are happy—wherever you are.

Sebastian "Golden Boy" 1995-2008

Fashion Roulette

This is what I call the third trimester of pregnancy-- when the daily lumber from the bathroom to the closet is filled with trepidation. Will the item I wore last week still fit? Is it possible that I have outgrown my granny panties? Will my recently purchased industrial strength bra accommodate my chest, or should I simply carry my breasts around like misbehaving puppies?

Currently, my place of employment is burgeoning with glowing soon-to-be-moms. They are all surprisingly well dressed, which sort of makes me look bad since I was the queen of “Yeah-These-Are-My-Husband’s-Pajamas-Don’t-Bug-Me-About-It-Or-I-Will-Give-You-A-Tonsilectomy-With-My-Fist.” As these moms approach their third trimester, I look forward to some creative fashion forward ideas, like shoe wear brought to you by Glad Garbage Bags to house swollen feet and shawls by Wamsutta.

Ah…pregnant women everywhere, may the fashion gods be with you. And may the lycra in your granny panties stretch.





.

Flirting Rituals of the Adolescent

This exchange was overheard at the beginning of class today. In order to capture the adolescent in its natural habitat, I posed as a "teacher," which is something the adolescent views as a cross between a human and a house plant. The conversation is transcribed virtually word for word.

Young woman: Hi.

Young man: Hi.

YW: How was your weekend?

YM: Mmmm…okay.

…

YW: Mine was pretty good.

YM: Oh. Good.

YW: Hey! Did you get a haircut?

YM: No.

YW: Oh. I thought you did.

YM: No.

YW: Because your head looks…rounder today.

YM: Rounder?

YW: It looks good round.

YM: My head looks rounder??

YW: In a good way!

YM: Oh…thanks.

YW: You’re welcome.



Geez. Why don’t they just get a room??

But seriously, don't you just adore young love? (However, I think a course in flirting may be in order or human life on this planet may come to an end.)

My Dirty Little Secret

I dread going to the dentist. Dread. It. Not because of the cleanings. Not because of the occasional cavity. Not even because of the Novocain shots. I dread the confession time. I cringe when the dentist looks at me over those enormous goggles and asks, “How often do you floss?” because I have a dirty little secret: I don’t. Ever.

I know, I know—you are recoiling in horror. So did one of my coworkers. For some, flossing is as important a part of their daily hygiene as bathing. The thought of going a day without flossing causes these people to gag and claw at their throats. However, I was somehow born without the flossing gene. One of my parents must be missing that rung of the DNA ladder.

So, I skip it.

Which is why I have two little cavities between my teeth.

Now that I know my dentist and I are going to be spending some quality time together in a couple of weeks, I have been thinking about other cool procedures he could perform on my soon-to-be-anesthetized mouth, and I have hit upon a potential prospect: Zoom Whitening. I have been fascinated with this bleaching technique ever since Jon and Kate of Jon and Kate Plus Eight had their teeth whitened. I mean, I drink a lot of coffee, but even my coffee intake cannot compare to what the parents of eight children consume. Their teeth looked fabulous after the bleaching. Like rows of tiny dominoes. (By the way, the dentist who volunteered to do that? Genius marketing move on her part. I bet her Zoom Whitening client base tripled after that episode.) Besides, I hear that whitening one’s teeth makes one look younger. I want to see if this is true…not for myself, of course. I am doing this as an experiment for my blog readers. Because I am a giver.

Cross your fingers for me!

F- Jute!

If jute is so often touted as being a "natural, fast-growing, sustainable material," then it bloody well ought to be cheaper when it is made into rugs because dog vomit and sippy cup drips don't come out of the damn things!

Note to all: Despite the appealing photos in Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware catalogs, DO NOT BUY JUTE RUGS if you have a pet, child, or husband. Actually, if you have FEET, you may want to reconsider this purchase.

I Guess Men CAN Have Babies?

I need to stop watching television. Last night I saw a show about two women who both miraculously survived ectopic pregnancies which burst their fallopian tubes. The placentas of their fetuses attached to other internal organs within their abdominal cavities and the fetuses began to grow outside the womb.

And now I? Am never having sex again.

I think I threw up in my mouth a little bit. No more medical shows for me.

What Platelets and Semen Will Get You

As long as this exterior remodel of our house has led me to reevaluate my financial goals, I figure I may as well start a therapy fund for the boys. Let’s face it, there’s no way they are going to reach adulthood without some major blow to their psyches--probably because of something I did. I may as well start stock piling for the inevitable analyst fees now. I mean, one of them is sure to have a foot fetish because they always accompany me while I shoe-hunt. Josh, at age four, already has definite opinions about shoe wear. Lately, he has favored his snow boots. Yes, I know it is August, but he is insistent that nothing completes his mini-soccer ensemble like a pair of puffy, black snow boots. Laugh if you will, but I am convinced that this is how Uggs started. (That? Right there? Is a foot fashion I have never understood. I’m fairly certain that Ugg is short for “ugly.” If you own a pair, I’d love to know what drew you to them because they fall into the realm of “fashion mystery” to me.)

Speaking of mysteries, I recently stumbled across a show on Discovery called Medical Mysteries. It is a documentary series about people who have strange symptoms that their doctors either misdiagnose or can’t seem to diagnose. The premise of each episode typically involves an afflicted patient going from doctor to doctor-- often for months-- getting progressively worse with new, unexplained symptoms until one is absolutely sure the patient is going to die. Finally, the nearly dead patient ends up being seen by some doctor who puts all of the pieces of the puzzle together at the last possible moment and figures the whole thing out, saving the near-comatose person. The problem, of course, is that I end up thinking I have all of the bizarre illnesses identified on the show. To date, I am suffering from an out of control thyroid, an infection of my arterial walls, and a leak of my spinal fluid. I’m even half convinced my prostate is enlarged. Clearly, I cannot watch any more medical shows or I may grow testicles and they will become critically inflamed.

However, one good thing did come out of watching Mystery Diagnosis. One of the patients was wearing a pair of great looking Frye boots. I think they are Frye Villager lace ups. They aren’t this season, but they do have a certain classic appeal. Take a look and see what you think. If I were suffering from a rare, unexplained illness, I do hope I would be carried into the ER wearing something along these lines paired with an almost knee-length A-line skirt and chunky silver jewelry.

When Scott gets back from donating his blood and semen (Cheryl!), I may have to send him out to contribute more hemoglobin so’s I can gets me a pair of these!

Will Work For Michael Kors

Though the wittle and daub suggestion for sealing the rotting window sill and surrounding casing was an interesting one (Kristy!), I am all out of animal dung and, as we all know, wittle and daub just doesn’t adhere well without a good dose of dung. Looks like I’ll need to replace that window after all.

The architect dropped off the plans for the exterior remodel, and they look fan-tas-tic. They involve building a new gable, building a new stone column at the entry way, adding stonework to the exterior, replacing the siding with cedar and shingles, installing new gutters, replacing the bay windows, replacing the front windows, installing two sets of French doors, removing a beam above the front door and relocating it to the attic, replacing the garage door, replacing the front door, installing new shutters, and installing new windows in the kitchen where there is currently wall. This will be a phase-in plan that will take us about seven years to complete. Each year, we will tackle and pay for a new portion of the project, which will be a little easier on the pocketbook…and my credit.

You know what this means, right? Fewer shoes. Dear Lord, just typing that phrase made the breath catch in my throat a little. I am trying to control the rising hysteria. I mean, autumn is approaching, and I need new leather boots. And I can’t just get basic black, either. I’ll need brown, too. Chocolate is the new black, I hear. My old boots are getting ratty and have the pointy toes, and pointy toes were so last year. Heck, pointy toes were TWO YEARS ago.

I foresee a situation where I am plastered against the shoe stores on Michigan Avenue, drooling on the glass. (sigh….)

Well, there’s only one thing to do: sell my body. And by “body,” I mean organs. Hmmmm…what is the function of a gallbladder? Do I need it, or is it one of those organs that are thrown in there for aesthetics, like the appendix? And which organ is it that spontaneously regrows? Is that the liver? Looks like that organ could be a cash cow!

These Ants Have Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh Hopes

The bay window I originally thought was infested with termites is really infested with flying ants. The brittle wood around the window and in the wall is rot due to a leak. I suppose this information should make me happy. I mean, rather than feasting upon the wood, termite-fashion, these ants are just using my decomposing window and wall to breed.

Replacing the window has involved no less than THREE different contractors and an architect who have all informed me that I will, indeed, be in debt for the rest of my life.

Um, hello? What else is new??

Kid Speak

How we knew our four-year-old was spending too much time with his great-grandmother:

• He blamed his fatigue after running around the park on his “blood pressure.”
• He became FASCINATED with the weather report (ABC7 Chicago's Jerry Taft, specifically).
• After inspecting a bruise on his knee, he questioned whether his “coumadin level” was too high. (Note: He didn’t say “blood thinner”; he said “coumadin.” Apparently, he prefers certain brands of medication.)
• He asked if he could watch “Wheel of Fortune.”

Bathroom Humor:
“Dad, I have to go poo poo, and my arms are too tired….” –after Scott installed a light in the bathroom that detects movement…but turns off every 30 seconds if someone is sitting still. (Scott told him to keep flapping his arms until the steaks were off the grill.)


(How Josh got Scott back for the sensor light in the bathroom.)
Josh: I put the toilet paper in the toilet.
Scott: Good boy!
Josh: I just can’t get the little roll to go down the drain….
Scott: WHAT??

How We Knew It Was Time For The Stranger Danger Talk:

(Shouted through shower curtain)

Josh: Mommy, there’s a man at the door!

Me: That’s okay, honey. Don’t open the door. If it’s important, he’ll come back later, after I’m out of the shower.

Josh: I already opened the door.

Me: WHAT??

Josh: He wants to know if we need our trees trimmed.

Me: WHAT??

Josh: I told him to wait and ask you when you get out of the shower.

Me: WHAT??

Josh: He said he didn’t want to come in and is just standing by the door. Can I ask him to watch cartoons with me?

Me: NO!!

On Gender:

• Age 2, while attempting to pull down my swimsuit bottoms in the locker room at the pool: “MaMa, I see a furry kitty in there!”
  
• Age 3, announced upon entering a crowded train car: “Hi, everybody! I have a penis, and my mommy has a vagina! Don’t you, Mommy? She does! She has a vagina!” (Some people actually responded to his enthusiasm for genitals by clapping.)

On Style and Fashion:
(Age 3, upon sitting across from a woman on the train with a penchant for brightly colored eye shadow)
Josh: You have pretty make-up!

Woman: Why, thank you!

Josh: It’s so many beautiful colors….but why did you smear all of them all over your face?? Mommy, you better wash her face--

Me: --Shhhhhh!

Josh: But, Mommy, look at her FACE! There’s too many colors!

Me: Shhhhhh!

(While inspecting Mommy’s new geometric print dress)
Me: What do you think? Do I look pretty?

Josh: Hmmmmmm…turn around.

Me: (revolving in front of 4 year old) Well?

Josh: Just what I thought. Too many dots. You better change. You make me dizzy.

Me: Geesh!

Josh: Hurry and change. I feel sick.

Upon being told he couldn’t have an M&M last Sunday morning:
“Mommy, I brush my teeth, I go pee and poo poo in the toilet, I sort the silverware (from the dishwasher) and put it away in the drawer, I put my clothes on all by myself, I put on my sandals all by myself, I put Noah’s poopy diapers in the garbage when you change him, and I take baths even when I don’t want to! WHY CAN’T I HAVE ONE LITTLE M&M??” (He got the M&M.)

Be Late.

I am always late. ALWAYS. This used to bother me-- and occasionally it still does--however, I think I am resigning myself to the fact that I will never, ever be anywhere on time.

I vaguely remember showing up to places on time in my youth. The marching band I was in during high school required that I be present early, not on time. “Early is on time; on time is late” was the phrase I think the director intoned. He hardly ever screamed in my direction over lateness (though he did for lots of other things), so it stands to reason that I got there within the window of acceptability.

Since that time, however, I have lost my drive for perfection in the “on time” realm. I think the change happened with the birth of my children. No matter how hard I tried, I could never be anywhere close to on time with my kids. Let’s say we had a 10 am pediatrician appointment. I would start our morning ritual at 6 am, giving us lots of flex time, only to have some vomiting/poop/pee pee/Mommy-I-can’t-find-my…./some sort of discomfort emergency halt my forward progress at the worst possible moment, which would inevitably result in our showing up sweating and panting for breath twenty minutes late.

I’ve learned that showing up late has lots of advantages. I rarely end up waiting in line anymore. Sometimes I even get discounts for purchasing things at the last moment, like airline tickets and hotel rooms. Last week, a theatre manager even gave me a pro-bono movie viewing because the movie had already started. Better yet, I virtually miss all of the pre-game T-ball drama for my son’s team! Showing up late to social events has been a dream; I don’t have to deal with awkward small-talk nearly as often, and don’t get asked to help set things up or volunteer for the next event anymore. Moreover, I get to make an entrance and show off my fabulous shoe wear, which otherwise might have gone unnoticed had I arrived as part of the gaggle of on-timers.

You may like to try lateness for yourself. If you are new to lateness, you may find yourself anxious at first. This is normal, especially if you come from an anal-retentive family or rub elbows with type-A personalities. You just have to muscle your way past the anxiety. It may help if you get yourself ready on time and then lounge in a chair. Maybe read for twenty minutes. Listen to some music. If you can avoid watching the clock, do. If not, resolve yourself to watching the clock while doing something pleasant, like talking on the phone to a good friend or surfing the net for shoe wear. (http://www.zappos.com/. You won’t regret it.) Maybe make yourself something to eat, rather than rushing through the drive-thru at a fast food restaurant. Perhaps meditate. The important thing is to ease oneself into lateness. If you go too quickly, you’ll end up driving erratically and showing up frazzled and panting for breath at your destination (as I used to at pediatrician appointments). Best to go slow and pace yourself. Don’t even try to get to your destination on time. Drive slow. Look at the scenery. Surf the radio for good music.

Soon enough, people will adjust to your new schedule and make allowances for you. They will start telling you that events start a half hour before they actually begin in an effort to get you there on time and rope you into helping set up or pressure you into hosting the next event. (This is why people are asked to show up earlier and earlier for airline flights. I am constantly amazed that people actually DO show up two hours before the flight is scheduled to depart. First, flights rarely, if ever, depart on time. Second, people who show up early must have nothing good to do. I’d rather float around the hotel pool for an extra half hour than spend it waiting for my delayed flight in a hard plastic chair next to the departure gate.) When this occurs, you will have to step up your lateness regime. Move your lateness schedule forward another twenty minutes. You can’t let those on-timers manipulate you like that. Why, there have even been times when I’ve been forced to move up my lateness schedule a whole hour. I get a good nap on those days.

You may feel compelled to explain your lateness when arriving at your destination. Don’t. Just wave it off. That’s just guilt trying to rope you back into being on-time. If you listen to that guilt, you’ll just end up waiting in lines all over again. If you must say something, a simple, “I got caught up in something and was running late,” will suffice. You don’t have to explain that you got caught up shoe shopping or floating around the pool. If you do that, everyone will want to show up late and then you’ll have to push back your lateness schedule even further to avoid the on-time drudgery.

Try lateness for your next appointment. You won’t be disappointed.








(for Lauren)

Strollers. Suck.

Here’s why: Some freak decided strollers should mirror the pre-gas crisis SUV’s (the really, really big ones), and loaded up strollers with all sorts of extras. Extras no rational human should ever need. For example, no stroller should need four cup holders, a GPS system, off road wheels, airbags, and a compass. If you find yourself seriously contemplating these stroller options, let me remind you that you have an INFANT. Infants should not be hauled via stroller into the tundra. Remember Meryl Streep’s plaintive cry, “The dingo ate my baby!” She probably had a tripped out stroller, and look what happened to her.

The problem with these stroller extras is that they add weight and bulk. For someone who is…muscularly challenged, shall we say (I’m a wimp. I can admit it. Don’t judge me.)…these pimped out strollers are beyond one’s ability to maneuver into and out of a vehicle. Okay, one CAN get these beasts in and out of a car, but moving them usually results in pain to some area of the body. Bruises, broken nails, smashed shins are the norm.

Why do we keep using these monstrosities? Simple. We don’t know any better when we are with child and register for strollers similar to what our friends have. Our “friends” don’t mention that their Peg Perego, Evenflow, or Graco weighs a thousand pounds because they don’t want to be the only parent suffering from bruises, broken nails, and smashed shins. (Misery loves company.) Once we are the owners of these heavy, hulking masses of reinforced steel, off road tires, and all-weather nylon, we are too embarrassed to tell the giver of the expensive stroller that their generous gift is impractical for hauling around an infant weighing approximately six pounds. Further, as parents we associate bigger and accessory-laden with safer. We want our children to be safe, so we try to buy the stroller equivalent of the Pope’s bubble car without considering the fact that we rarely, if ever, stroll with our infants through dangerous areas—and if we did, heavy strollers would just slow us down and make us easy targets.

Fact: sleep deprived new mothers rarely do anything more than go to the grocery store. You can find these baggy-eyed wraiths haunting the diaper aisle, barely conscious, virtually asleep on their feet. Even if luck and genetics is on the mother’s side and she ends up bouncing back from her delivery with barely a hiccup to find that her infant sleeps through the night starting the very first week (which is probably what happens to Angelina Jolie because she gets everything else…not that I’m bitter), it will be rare that she takes her tiny bundle of DNA on more than a slow saunter around the zoo. Tripped out strollers, even at the zoo, are not necessary. First, most zoos even rent special strollers on site. Second, in the event of an escaped tiger, a bulky stroller would simulate a wounded gazelle, and then where will you be? Right back to “the dingo ate my baby,” that’s where. Clearly, big strollers are liabilities on all fronts.

I struggled with my gargantuan Range Rover of strollers through two children. Then, last week, I lost it. Not the stroller, my patience. I’d received one bruise too many and had an apoplectic fit in the parking lot of Target. That’s when I stalked into Target and bought a cheap-o umbrella stroller. No frills. Just a seat. Weighs about 3 pounds. I could bench press this thing using just my pinkies. Hands down, this is the best sixteen dollar purchase ever.

If you ever hear of a dingo escaped from a zoo located in a dangerous area, that woman with the small stroller running in front of all the bulky stroller moms? That’s me.

What Do YOU Want?

Hey, as long as we're looking for Universal assistance in the Race for the Congo, why don't you contribute what you'd like the Universe to help YOU achieve.

Laugh if you will, but my friend Kristy SWEARS by this! I was skeptical at first, but when Kristy told me she was going to ask the Universe to bring her an offer to act in a film and she got a film offer within four days, I must say I was a bit swayed. She hadn't even auditioned for the film.

All you have to do is throw out your request. We'll see how long it takes. Consider this an experiment. You've got nothing to lose, right? You can post anonymously if you'd like. Just get the thought out there.

Universe, I'd really like... _____(fill in the blank)_______.

Deep, Deep Within the Barbaric Congo...

...is someone with an internet connection who, I hope, is looking at my blog....

For some reason, I keep making all of these references to Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which describes a man's journey along the Congo River. However, I don't have any red dots in Africa on my clustermap. Africa is a big continent. It stands to reason that SOMEONE must know SOMEONE who knows SOMEONE in Africa. Would you mind forwarding on pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com until I get a dot on Africa? I'd be much obliged.

I know Africa seems like a tall order, but we got Italy in less than twenty-four hours. Clearly, the Universe is totally on our side!

This begins DAY ONE of RACE FOR THE CONGO!

Apocalypse 2008

“A slice of hell.”

These are the words my sister-in-law and brother-in-law used to describe their camping experience. I feel too bad for them to mention that we all predicted this catastrophe long before the camper’s wheels touched highway concrete, so I won’t. I mean, hey, even I tried camping once. Just once.

Among the items lost on the trip:

One CD and CD player. (These belonged to my youngest nephew. He proudly made these purchases less than twenty-four hours prior to their loss with his own funds. The CD and CD player were dropped on the way back to the car after a fireworks display. The darkness and thousands of spectators prevented him from locating the lost items. Many tears were shed, which I can totally appreciate. For my youngest nephew, this is comparable to when my PARKED car was hit less than twenty-four hours after I drove it off the lot. I feel your pain, little man.)

24 hours. (This is how long the skies POURED on the camper, necessitating a family of four huddling inside something roughly the size of a broom closet.)

Michelle’s sanity. (The entire family, Michelle included, testifies to her break from reality the morning after being trapped in the camper for an entire day during a near-cyclone. )

Three hours. (This is the time it took them to prepare to go to the beach, leave their campsite, drive to the beach, search for a parking spot on the busiest 4th of July beach-going day in the history of 4th of July’s, circle around and around the beach parking lots, eventually give up, and return to the camper hot and parched.)

Hemoglobin. (Mutant Michigan Mosquitoes descended upon Michelle, et al. The entire family now looks strangely pale, like a gaggle of vampires nearly sucked them dry, which is essentially what happens when one is accosted by mutant Michigan mosquitoes.)

Pride. (When one is forced to use the night woods as a lavatory and pee by the light of one’s headlights, I think it is safe to say that one’s pride goes MIA.)

I think Michelle may need a little cheering up. Frothy, fruity drinks with miniature umbrellas may be in order until her shock over the entire camping catastrophe wears off. After all, what are sisters-in-law for if not to liberate you through libation after a particularly nasty brush with the great outdoors?

In the meantime, we may as well start praying for my dear friend Lauren. Lauren decided at the last minute to pack up her 5 year old, 2 year old, and mother and DRIVE to New Orleans to visit a friend.
Drive.
With her mother, with whom she argues on even the good days.
And two children under six.
For TWO SOLID DAYS.
During what is arguably one of the hottest months of the year.

Is it just me, or does this sound like the premise of a Tennessee Williams play??

Again, I better keep the cell on the nightstand. No good can come from this. Somehow I just know she’ll be calling….

More Languishing

Window replacement estimate #2 was $5500-7500! At this rate, I won't be able to buy shoes for the rest of this decade and a good bit of the next. Not to mention that I was planning to start a Botox/chemical peel fund in case of emergency! Now it will all have to go to window replacement.

Oh, the languishing.... I may have to take to my bed.

Is it too much to ask the Universe to buy me a cool new bay window? I don't think so. What do you think, Universe? You in? Marvin or Jeld-Wen would be nice, please. While I'm at it, a cosmetic dermatologist on retainer would be a nice addition, too.

Got Bugs??

There’s nothing like an insect infestation to remind you of your LAST insect infestation.

Before I reveal to you my current source of alarm, let me take you back…back…back --to one year ago when I was very, very pregnant and in the midst of a similar crisis.

At the same time that my waist line and hormonal levels were careening out of control, my life was also spinning out of its normal orbit. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #1: At the exact moment when your body and mind are at their most limited, the universe throws you a curve ball just to shake you up and make sure you’re paying attention.) It was a rainy morning in my eighth month when I blearily stumbled into the living room and defied many laws of physics in order to ease my bloated body down onto the couch. My husband was on his laptop, checking his agenda for the day. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #2: Your husband, just by existing on the planet, will drive you nuts. This is probably due to hormonal fluctuations. Knowing this, however, will not help you deal with your annoyance. The way he breathes, eats soup, and clips his toe nails will leave you wondering what you were thinking when you said, “I do.”) I watched him furrow his brow as he read through an email, bitterly envying his ability to drink caffeinated beverages and eat yummy processed foods with lots of preservatives, when I noticed a strange sound.

“Hey. What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” He didn’t even look up, so absorbed was he in whatever computer-y thing that he does for a living.

“That crunchy noise.” I heaved my bulk off the couch and followed the sound toward the corner. “It’s coming from over here.” I pointed to the wall. “Come listen.”

Scott sighed and obligingly did as I asked.

“Weird. Sounds like paper crunching. Or maybe water? Maybe it’s water sliding down the siding outside?” Scott shrugged.

“I’ve never heard that noise before when it’s rained….” I thumped the wall with my fist. Was it my imagination or did the noise intensify a little? “Maybe you should go outside and take a look,” I suggested. I was guzzling an entire container of orange juice, trying to pretend it was coffee, when the side door slammed open and Scott rushed into the house.

“What’s the matter?” The look on Scott’s face made me put down the carton.

“There are bees flying into a crack between the siding and a window. They are in the wall. That’s the crunchy noise. Bees.”

“SHUT UP!”

“I wish I were lying.”

“What are we going to do? Burn the house down? Move? Wait--is bee infestation something we need to declare we know about if we list the house for sale?”

“Probably. Look, we need to call a pest control service. I’m running late for work. Can you call them?”

“You mean you are going to leave your eight month pregnant wife and your unborn child alone in a house infested with bees??”

“I thought I would, yes.” So much for chivalry. Scott has lived for years under the deluded notion that I am capable and competent, despite my protests that I am the fragile flower type of southern belle in constant need of rescue. He continually leaves me languishing in distress, airily calling over his shoulder, “I know you can handle this. Have a great day!” Trust me when I say that there is nothing more annoying than being told to have a great day while one is languishing. And if one is pregnant and languishing, the annoyance is easily three-fold. I am fairly certain I said something nasty under my breath as he left for work, possibly questioning whether his parents had actually been married at the time of his birth.

For the past few years there has been a marketing campaign by a national pest control service involving commercials featuring a good-natured, calm, extremely knowledgeable pest control technician answering trivia questions posed to him by frantically concerned customers. I would mention the name of said company, but I don’t want to be sued. That was the company I called.
Suffice it to say that Well Known Pest Control Company (WKPCC) did not exactly fill me with confidence in their pest removal abilities. Candy, the one who answered the phone, repeatedly said things like, “Ewwwww!” and “Gross!” when I described my bee problem. Then, she sent a knight in shining yellow overalls who claimed to have once been a marine, but he screamed like a girl and swatted the air whenever a bee came in his general direction. The bees were eventually removed, but I think it was more a matter of divine intervention than aptitude on the part of WKPCC.

That’s why when I found what appeared to be termites in our bay window last week, I fell straight to languishing. I mean, if WKPCC’s ex-marine went into hysterics over bees, he’d probably have a full blown panic attack when encountering termites, and I just didn’t feel up to dealing with his post-traumatic stress while taking care of my infant.

Sadly, Scott’s complete disregard for my suffering has a tendency to cut into my languishing time, which forces me to move straight to getting down to business. (I have a hunch this isn’t completely coincidental on his part.) That is why I bypassed WKPCC and called my book club buddy’s family’s pest control service. Best. Move. Ever.

International Exterminators of Elk Grove Village, Illinois (847.439.4488) not only didn’t squeal in disgust when I called, they actually dispelled my fears immediately by informing me that the insects I described were not termites at all, but flying ants! Further, they requested that I give my pediatrician a call and get his okay on the type of pesticide to use around my children. How professional is that?? No screaming ex-marines. Just calm, quiet pest removal. Brilliant. If you are in the Chicago area, I highly, highly recommend International Exterminators.

Of course, the deteriorating bay window due to wood rot, not termites, still needs to be replaced and my first estimate was $5000-6500. I will be languishing over that while Scott ignores my drama for the next few days. Anyone know a good window company?

Oh, No, She Di' int!

My dear, dear, dear friend Kuj (the one who vociferously called me out as a Catholic when I accidentally threw the offering basket in the middle of a Lutheran service—see the mid-June post “Offering. Basket.”) got a red dot on Hawaii. This means someone in the Hawaiian Islands has looked at her blog and a red dot has appeared on her Cluster Map. She is taunting me with this. Giving me a blog-razzberry, if you will. If we were drunken frat brothers standing before a metaphorical urinal, Kuj would point, laugh, and say hers is bigger than mine. Then, she’d probably very loudly tell the other frat brothers that I’m Catholic.

In short, Kuj has thrown a Cluster Map gauntlet, and she wants me to pick it up.

Now, I could get all medieval about this. I could stew over my “teeny weeny” Cluster Map; perhaps let the competitive bug bite me and rev myself up into a tizzy of international blog advertising. I could defensively point out my own cool Cluster Map dots. I could get on the horn, randomly call Hawaiian Hotels (I mean, they have 800-numbers. Might as well save on those long distance rates, eh?), and falsely tell the reservationist that my travel schedule is located on my blog, hoping to get a few hits. Oooh—better! I could run naked through a sports event carrying a banner reading: pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com! After all, remember how much press that Janet Jackson nipple baring at the Super Bowl wrought? My lily white apple-heiny has to be worth at least a quarter of that air time. (Besides, I have an odd looking mole on the left cheek, which is sure to garner me some TiVo playback.)

But, my mole is safe. (Not to mention the peaceful sleep of tens upon tens of 4-5 year old T-Ballers because that’s the only sports event I regularly attend.) I will leave the gauntlet tickling my tootsies. There are three reasons for this:

1. The March 29th post entitled “The Six Degrees of Un-Separation” detailed my conviction that the universe will bring me red dots in every state and country because I didn’t get to go on a spring break vacation and won’t be able to go on a summer vacation. I believe in you, Universe. I won’t let a little gauntlet throwing shake my belief that I can virtually see the world from my laptop.
   
2. I have recently begun reading a book about how the ego/rivalry is the root of most conflicts. It’s ruined me for competitive sports and gauntlet throwing.
   
3. Kuj left a BIG pile of books here the last time she visited, and no matter how much she mocks me, I will STILL have ALL of her books. And she wants them. Badly. Heh, heh, heh. (She laughed maniacally, dangling a Ray Bradbury over a pot of boiling water while her left eye twitches uncontrollably.)

Thus, I will turn the other cheek (The one without the oddly shaped mole.), and I will leave the gauntlet thrown. So, mock me if you will, Kuj. I can take it. The same way I took your Way of the Samurai, The 100 People Who Have Screwed Up America, and The Sex Lives of Cannibals. Mu-wah-ha-ha!!

Give Me the Boot, Will 'Ya??

I just checked my blog map (right hand side and down a tiny bit with little red dots all over it). I don't have any dots in Italy. This is outrageous. I am part Italian. I LOVE eggplant parmesan. Know anyone in Italy you can make look at my blog one time?

The Long, Long Vacation

My sister-in-law’s suffering through a week-long camping trip in a pop-up camper (mosquitoes are probably harvesting her hemoglobin in their diabolical scheme to take over the world as I type), reminds me of the Lucy/Dezi film The Long, Long Trailer where newlyweds forgo a honeymoon in a hotel for what they believe will be a less expensive option: purchasing an oversized trailer and traveling across the country. It’s a funny movie.

My sister-in-law has red hair, like Lucille Ball. I can only hope that she is laughing as she recalls the film while her red hair is whipping wildly around her head as she dodges bears, bats, and blood-sucking insects (deer ticks, spiders, etc.) on her way to the overflowing port-a-potty at 3:00 am. (Again, why can’t I stop giggling when I think of her out there in the wilderness??)

Family skeletons have a tendency to come out of the closet during times of extreme stress because psychological filters fall away when humans are placed under duress. As my sister-in-law and her family travel into their own savage Heart of Darkness, I wonder what bones my nephews will uncover during this vacation. What family secrets will be revealed, perhaps, when the pop-up camper refuses to pop-up during torrential rains, or when Michelle realizes that Marty forgot to pack the matches and they have 20 pounds of raw hamburger approaching dangerous levels of Salmonella bacteria in a rapidly warming cooler?

I remember traveling to Alabama for my husband’s cousin’s wedding. My in-laws decided to drive from Chicago to Huntsville with their keeshond barking in the backseat the whole way. (Imagine this in your rearview mirror for 48 hours: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By6rI5Ps_60. By the way, “Little Blue” isn’t “smiling” as the title of the video suggests, lady….) They met us for lunch in Huntsville and when the server asked if Pepsi was okay instead of Coke, my mother-in-law suddenly turned to my father-in-law and blurted, “This never would have happened if you hadn’t smoked pot in high school.” See? Family secrets have a way of slipping out when things get dicey.

I am keeping my cell phone at my bedside and the car fully gassed in case I get a call from Michelle asking me to help her bury Marty.

It's Called Laughing WITH You, Michelle....

Subtitle: We need to pray for my sister-in-law.

My sister-in-law hates it when I remind her of her age. In deference to her, I will refer to Michelle as “The Sister-In-Law the 30’s Left Behind.” Michelle, like me, is a mother of two boys. When hubby is included, that’s a lot of testosterone with which she must deal. Also like me, Michelle has to put up with many, many male inspired interests. Since Michelle is, um, more advanced in years than I (insert hysterical laughter here), I am learning from her mistakes. I’ve watched as baseball, hockey, computer gadgets, cars, fireworks, videogames, etc. have all made their way through her household. From her experiences, I’ve learned what I should encourage and when I should voice some opposition.

However, I don’t need to wait for Michelle to report back her experiences on this one in order to make some educated guesses as to the outcome. Michelle is (drumroll) going camping. Michelle, who can identify wines by smell and/or taste, who works in the technology industry, who enjoys pedicures and scented lotions is going camping.
For a week.
In a pop-up trailer.
With her husband.
And two teenage males who will in all likelihood turn surly when their Ipod and cell phone batteries run out.

Try to control your giggling.

She started drinking last night in order to prepare. I told her to forget drinking; she should pack some barbiturates. (I’ve never smoked marijuana, but I’ve heard it is medicinal in certain situations. I bet this is one of them. ) And a shovel. A shovel can come in handy when fending off snakes or burying one’s husband, who thought up this whole pop-up trailer camping vacation, by moonlight. (By the way, check out the photo of the camper in my slide show, below.)

Anyone care to make some predictions?

(Dang! I just can't stop giggling! She is sooooooooooo screwed.... She seriously needs our good thoughts. --giggle! giggle! Why can't I stop laughing??)

Flipping Out Redux

If you think your boss is a little...high maintenance, watch this clip. Chris, one of Jeff's assistants, calls Jeff at the most recent house flipping site to tell him that Jeff's cat, Monkey, is missing. After searching the house and grounds twice, Chris leaves in order to make an appointment.

This clip should be used as a public service announcment. For what, I'm not sure. But for something.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4cvzwpRB5s&NR=1

Outsourcing: It's Not Just For Call Centers Anymore...*

Okay, okay! Apparently I AM the only one who has ever had an embarrassing teenage moment. Nice. And I, alone in my humiliation, just shared the story with the world, ripping off the scab that had formed over the years and exposing my shame afresh. That’s not awkward…much. (Though I KNOW there is at least ONE person out there who has suffered a crippling purple nurple at the hands of her high school boyfriend, but I won’t reveal her name…KUJ.)

It’s also for husbands!**

Me: Honey, did you mow the lawn like you said you would?

Scott: I was going to, but I couldn’t get the kids to go down for their naps while you were at class.

Me: A-huh. I see. (sigh.) Unfortunately, it is my responsibility to inform you that you are being outsourced.

Scott: What?

Me: I’m sorry, but we are going to have to replace you. Look at it this way: You are overqualified for the job. We can’t afford your hourly wage. In short, I’m afraid we are going to have to go with someone else.

Scott: I don’t understand….

Me: Thank you for your interest in our lawn, but we are going to have to go a different way on this. I have a bottom line to look at here and, frankly, you just aren’t meeting your performance goals. Perhaps you’ll find some luck in the hedge trimming field? In any case, you are being outsourced for the duration of the season.

Scott: Huh. Hmmm. You are either being really, really good to me or incredibly mean. Which is it?

Me: (kiss) Happy anniversary, darling!

Scott: (nuzzle) Mmmmm-mmmmm.... I pick really, really nice…. (snuggle, snuggle)

Me: (giggle) Oooo-oooooh.... Thank you....

Scott: I know what we can do with the time I save NOT mowing the lawn.... (nuzzle, nuzzle)

Me: So do I! Those gutters aren’t going to clean themselves, and the garage needs to be cleaned. Chop chop!

Scott: (grumbling and walking away) I knew there was a catch….

Me: Love you, honey!


I have found more and more often that, though my significant other is well intentioned, he is too preoccupied to get most of his “I’m-going-to-get-to-that-this-weekend” list done. It’s not that he MEANS to make empty promises; he’s just busy with other things. Enter: Outsourcing.

Thank you, Tomasillo’s Lawn Care. The last guy just wasn’t working out.


*My mother works at a call center. If you are facing call center pressures, my heart goes out to you.

**And, honey, if you are thinking of outsourcing any of MY duties, go right ahead! Anything OUTSIDE THE BEDROOM is up for grabs. I am particularly adverse to laundry, so if there is a service that does that, GO FOR IT!!

Flipping Out

If you get a chance to watch this show on Bravo, do it. Something about this delightfully candid, homosexual, narcissistic, OCD home flipper fascinates me. I love his STYLE, but I shudder to think what it is like to live in his head. I mean, MY head can be a scary place, and I've only got the narcissism with which to contend. Dear Lord, if I were narcissistic AND OCD, I might start plucking my eyebrows...and never stop. How does the man keep his eyebrows?? Forget about that-- how does he obsessively MANSCAPE without going (gulp) overboard with a razor in the nether region?? AND he lives in LA, which is the MECCA of perpetual youth. The poor man must be Botoxed out of his gourd....

It's worth a look.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=hQJ7fi8c8CU&feature=related

Offering. Basket.

The problem with friends from your adolescent years (And, KUJ, I’m talking to you.) is that they remind you of your moments of teenage folly. Being a high school teacher, I am frequently reminded of my own foibles because I see my students making the same ones I did. History does, indeed, repeat itself. Because I was such a dork/dufuss/nerd/geek/insert slur of your choice here, I am particularly empathetic to my students’ plights. Perhaps a student vomits in front of the whole class? Been there. Vomits ON THE TEACHER? Been there, too. On a LAB PARTNER? A-huh. (I had a very, very bad case of the flu my sophomore year and took out a lot of people on my way to the nurse.) Love sick to the point of complete lack of concentration? Yup. Been totally flummoxed by something the whole rest of the class understands? Right here. Been a bad friend? Got it. Been treated poorly by a friend? Yep. Loved and lost. Many times. Failed at something I really wanted? Over and over again. In short, I messed up and learned from those mess ups, as we all do.

Kuj’s comment to my last post was meant to remind me of a particularly embarrassing teenage faux pas. And it has. Here’s the story:

My family is Roman Catholic. (I suppose I am, too, but I’m not a very good one by any stretch, so don’t look here for advice on that topic.) Having been raised in the Catholic church, which is grounded in tradition, I kind of floated through religious ceremonies on autopilot. Ever got in your car at work, faded out, and came to as you pulled into your driveway? That was me at mass. I knew the routine and didn’t have to think about it. Until…

My friends were almost all Lutheran. Apparently, the Lutherans had cornered the market on Lake Park High School, and I was in the minority. Now, as far as I can tell, the Lutheran church is sort of, say, Catholic-lite. Diet Catholic, if you will. It’s really, really close to Catholicism. But it has just enough differences to TOTALLY THROW ME OFF MY GAME.

Kuj and I had a mutual friend named, say, AMElia. AMElia’s family invited me and KUJ to their church one Sunday. Now, AMElia’s family was nice. Needless to say, I didn’t want to embarrass them at their place of worship.

My Sicilian grandmother did not like the idea of me participating in any way in another religious sect. Perhaps she thought they would corrupt me? I don’t know, but I got flak from the grandparents about going to a Lutheran Church. You’d think I would be participating in animal sacrifices the way she carried on. She made me wear my cross, my Mary medal, and carry a rosary with me.

Swaddled in my Catholic armaments though I was, I didn’t want to stand out any more than necessary and embarrass AMElia’s family, so when they chose to sit in the SECOND PEW FROM THE FRONT (Who does this??) I determined that I would be honoring my own upbringing and AMElia’s family by making a good impression and being the perfect visitor. I decided blending in was the best course of action, so I asked Kuj, who is also Lutheran, to keep my religious affiliation on the DL (DL= “down low,” as in “don’t tell everyone I am Catholic and make people stare at AMElia’s family, or AMElia’s mother will likely set me on fire after the service.”).

Everything was going GREAT. Sure, the Lutherans kind of rocked it out with an electric guitar and amp while my Catholic church solemnly intoned our songs to an organ, but there were many similarities. I could ALMOST go autopilot. Until it came time to tithe.

AMElia’s church sent around an offering basket from the back of the church to the front; in contrast, my church had an offering basket on a long pole, keeping parishioners hands free, and started from front to back. AMElia’s church also took attendance, sending a clip board around; my church used the honor system, I guess. By the time the offering basket got to the second row, it was tres’ full-- and there was a sign-in sheet with a clipboard to go along with it. I was not used to handling either of these things, but I gamely took the sign-in sheet and pen. I was signing my name just as the offering basket was passed to me and…

…my grandmother’s rosary around my wrist caught the edge of the clipboard as I reached for the basket pulling my reach just a hair short of actually coming in contact with the overly full container. Thus, the tip of my finger clipped the edge of the offering basket, launching it skyward. For the briefest of moments, quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies glistened in the shaft of sunlight entering through the windows on either side of the enormous crucifix mounted behind the pulpit. Emerald dollars, brightly colored checks, and assorted white envelopes hung suspended in the air above my head. AMElia’s eyes widened in horror. Kuj, always one to recognize an opportunity for humor, snorked.

Time returned all at once and assorted coinage crashed loudly on the stone floor as paper money rained down, ticker-tape fashion, on the worshippers in the surrounding pews. The electrical guitar hit a sour chord, all eyes turned my way, and a collective gasp echoed throughout the cavernous room. It was at this precise moment that Kuj stood, pointed at me, and announced—Salem witch-hunt fashion—“She’s CATHOLIC!” To which I, in my embarrassment, shouted, “Jesus Christ, Kuj, what the hell?? I told you to keep that quiet!”

You could have heard a pin drop in that church.

Thus, I embarrassed myself, my heritage, and my church by blasphemously using Christ’s name in vain in a place of worship. AMElia’s mother obviously didn’t burn me at the stake—not because she didn’t WANT to—but because she couldn’t catch me. I, I believe the expression is, “hauled ass” out of the church.

And that, my friend, is the meaning behind Kuj’s comment of “Offering. Basket.”

Feel free to share your embarrassing teen moments here. I mean, I can't be the ONLY one to vomit on classmates and faculty, and get excommunicated from a church to which I don't even belong. Can I?

Why Karma Should Dictate That My Old Dentist Develop A Latex Allergy

In answer to Cheryl’s post, I am taking TWO courses this summer: Instructional Media and Technology; and Introduction to Educational Research. I have just begun a master’s in Instructional Technology that will in all likelihood take about four years to complete. The result of my superhuman efforts to manage my children, husband, home, self, work, and class work is that I will be certified to work as a Technology, Research, Assessment, and Media Specialist in secondary education. (This is a fancy way of saying I will be qualified to be a librarian. I know, I know…you are sooooooooooo impressed.)

This admission means that I may as well just fess up and admit to my profession. (Though I suspect a fair number of you have already guessed.) I have sort of dodged this issue on numerous occasions because my job is one that invokes strong feelings from others. When people find out what I do for a living they have one of two reactions, and I don’t like either of them.

Okay, here goes: I am a high school teacher. That’s right, I teach the youth of America. I don’t know a thing about what to do with my own children, but I’m paid to educate hundreds of others on a yearly basis. For some strange reason teachers are not well thought of in America. Most other countries LOVE their teachers, but Americans put teachers in much the same category as the French. (By the way, I apologize to all of you French out there. My husband is a quarter French, so I know of your plight.) That is to say, Americans barely tolerate them. Sure, Americans love some of the things teachers/the French do, but after simple phonetics and rudimentary math are covered or the français frites are enjoyed, they question our worth. It’s sad, really, because I never walk around questioning the value of, say, financial advisors or office managers. I believe all professions are important in their own right. Perhaps most people assume that because they have BEEN TAUGHT and BEEN A STUDENT that teaching is a no-brainer involving very little skill? The jury is still out on that, but I can tell you that when people bug me to the point that I finally must reveal my chosen career, they often force me to:

1. Listen to long personal narratives about how twenty years ago XYZ teacher made a bad call and ruined his/her life forever (i.e.: The teacher didn’t believe the dog ate said person’s homework when everyone in town knew the dog was a ruthless paper-vore, dropped the speaker one letter grade in class for not putting his/her name on a paper, graded all of his/her work harder than everyone else’s work because the teacher “didn’t like me,”etc.). This narrative comes in many forms. Sometimes a teacher embarrassed said person at a pivotal time in his/her life and he/she has never been the same. Lots of people kvetch that Mr. or Mrs. X “didn’t give me an ‘A’ when I had an 89.96% in the class! I was only 5 points away!” (Dude, you didn’t earn it. Period. Other kids did. That’s life. Er, rather that is how numbers crunch. Let it go already.) There’s always the “that teacher picked on me” story in which the speaker was a hapless, completely innocent victim of some teacher’s rage on a daily basis. (Oh yeah? What were you doing to get the attention of said teacher? Constantly talking to a friend and distracting the rest of the class perhaps?) Don’t get me wrong, in any profession there are a few bad apples. But there are also two sides to every story. Yes, there are some teachers who don’t deserve the title of educator, but they are comparatively few. Ultimately, these drama queens who whine about their past teachers need to get over it already and start rebuilding their sad, mopey lives. They had a problem with one teacher out of many, many, many teachers. Ever had a bad boss? I have. It happens. Move on. Want an apology? Okay. On behalf of all teachers everywhere, my sincere condolences. My advice to these people: Stop wasting your energy on an isolated experience long, long ago and go make your life something fabulous.

2. Answer pop quiz questions or point out every little mistake I make related to my field of study. For some reason there are a surprising number of people who hear the title of “teacher” and it sets their competitive little mouse running around the competitive little wheel in their competitive little heads. They long to catch me up (or some other teacher) to prove they are smarter. I don’t know why this is. I often wonder whether astrophysicists are cornered at dinner parties and quizzed about the theory of general relativity’s impact on space-time or mocked because they distractedly messed up in balancing their check books. In any case, these competitive freaks are often the same people who find it perfectly acceptable to tell me that teachers make too much money and/or get too much time off…often shortly after they brag to me about the amazing financial haul they pulled in with their new stock options and fabulous yearly bonus. The really strange thing is that these people who think teachers are a.) dumb, b.) overpaid, and c.) have fabulous schedules are the same ones who shudder and protest when I suggest that they become teachers themselves, so they can revel in their perceived teacher glory.

True story. I once had a root canal done by a dentist who asked me what I did for a living and then spent the entire TWO HOURS of root reaming hell telling me about teachers he hated as a young person and how teachers are overpaid. What kind of sick bag of pathetic hubris produces behavior like that? I have news for you, buddy: those teachers who “wronged you” were doing the world a favor. Clearly, this guy is—and has always been—an uncouth boor. May you (and you know who you are!) develop a sudden allergy to your latex gloves and they burn you like fire. Like fire!

By now it may have crossed your mind that it is odd for a teacher to struggle with childrearing. After minutes upon minutes of soul searching, I have come up with an answer: I teach teens, not babies and children. Clearly, there is a huge difference. If an adolescent comes up to me with an issue involving curriculum, bullying, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, friendship dilemmas, parental pressure, college/career concerns, family troubles, or predicaments with a significant other, I know exactly what to do. I am in my element. But when it comes to potty training, I have no relevant experience. Worse, none of the research I apply to my parenting problems seems to work. What the books say to do and what actually ends up happening are often miles apart.

Oooooooo-ooooooooh.... I see I have rambled. Forgive me. Um...how do I get off this soap box?

In short, Cheryl, I am studying to be a librarian. (A librarian with excellent shoe wear!)

Teaching the Prime of Life Dog

4:15 PM

Things I should have thought through prior to taking grad classes at Northern Illinois University:

• State universities are large. Three inch heels and cross campus treks do not mix.
• Universities do not use air conditioning. Ann Taylor pants, though stylish, do not work well in un-air conditioned locales.
• If a class starts at 4:30 and I get there at 4:10 in order to make a good impression on the prof, I will be sorely disappointed because I will be sitting ON THE HALLWAY FLOOR in my stylish Ann Taylor pants with no air conditioning.

Note to self: Buy some flip flops and shorts from Old Navy (my stylishness is wasted in this environment) and pack more facial powder to mop up my dewey T-zone.

4:45 PM

Dear Lord, my professor is ME. Same personality. Same crankiness when hungry. Same sense of humor. Same pair of glasses. Had I been raised in New Zealand and given birth to a fourteen year old, we could be twins. Well, I'd need, like, 15 more years of technological knowledge-- but other than that we are SOUL MATES.

4:46 PM

Wait. She hates me. She just gave me the fish-eye for not being able to log in the university server....

4:47 PM

Signed in! She LOVES ME again! Soul mates, I'm telling you. I'm almost tempted to buy a pair of flat sandals to be just like her...except I think my calves are permanently shortened due to my penchant for heels.

More later. Education happening. She may teach me to put VIDEO on my blog. I am all a-tingle!

(Pedi-) Cured?

So, I am sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to have the doctor tell me why I have suddenly developed these cyst-like bumps on the back of my skull/neck when an older gentleman (maybe mid-80’s??) sits down next to me. He smiles at me over my Better Homes and Gardens. I smile back and return to reading about how some color-ologists somewhere have determined that blue is the new “in” color for summer. (Who are these color-ologists? For that matter, WHAT is a color-ologist? The journalist in me wants source information. I mean, I’m not redecorating on the whim of some never-been. For all I know, I may be a color-ologist, and I’m sort of into green at the moment. I need DATA and HARD FACTS, Better Homes and Gardens!)

I progress to reading about how leeks are a fantastic addition to the common mashed potato when the older gentleman does a throat clearing. You know, one of those “I’m trying to get your attention in a polite way/sorry to bother you, but this is important/your zipper is down and your Jockey for Her’s are giving me the wink” sort of throat clearing. I look up. He leans forward and very sweetly says:

“Honey, you really need a pedicure.” Then, he proceeds to give me the number of a nail salon nearby!

WHO DOES THIS??? Okay, sure, my Sicilian GRANDMOTHER might do this; she completely gave up all vestiges of polite society in her late 70's. But a MAN in his mid-80’s? I know what you are thinking. Gay. Flaming. But I didn’t get that vibe. My brain quickly ran through all of the possibilities for this strange encounter and the only possible answer was…

…I really DID need a pedicure.

Luckily, I was on my way to ASHA, my new favorite salon and spa, for a massage. (Thank you, Cheryl, for the suggestion!) I rush into the lobby and confront the receptionist/reservationist.

Me: Hi. I’m here for a massage, but I need a pedicure, too. Please tell me you have an opening.

Receptionist: Mmm-mmm. Sorry. We’re full.

Me: You don’t understand. I NEED a pedicure.

Receptionist: Sorry. Can’t help you. Would you like an appointment for Monday?

Me: No. I need the appointment now. It’s imperative that I see a nail technician. Worlds are hanging in the balance here. You don’t know how important this is.

Receptionist: Again, I’m sorry, but we cannot accommodate you. I have a spot open Monday mid-afternoon…

Me: Okay, what is your name?

Receptionist: Chloe.

Me: Okay, Chloe, I have to level with you. I was just sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office and an 85 year old man—an 85 year old MAN, Chloe—told me I needed a pedicure.

Chloe: Was he gay?

Me: I thought of that, too, but I didn’t get the vibe. He didn’t suggest a color. He would’ve suggested a color if he were gay, right?

Chloe: One would think so.

Me: You see my dilemma?

Chloe: (slowly nodding) Mmmm-hmmm…. A man?

Me: An EIGHTY-FIVE YEAR OLD man! This is an emergency.

Chloe: (pause) Well, I’d have to pull Vilma off the floor. She’s the best….

Me: Thank you, Chloe! Thank you!


And this? Is why my heels feel like BUTTER!
Asha Salon and Spa. Schaumburg, Illinois. Vilma. I heart you all….

The New Stay-at-Home Motherhood Morning

I am wearing a Jones New York fall blouse paired with an Ann Taylor spring pant smeared with sun screen and guacamole. I haven't showered, either. 'Nuff said.


Oh--but I have a KILLER pedicure! Tomato red. And my heels feel like butter. I'll explain the reason behind the pedicure after I drag the four year old off of the bathroom counter....

More later!

Semi-Sweet Ain't Just for Chocolate

It's also for those who are new to stay-at-home mommyhood. I know I'll only be home with the boys for a few weeks, but now I am finding that staying home is just as hard as working...maybe even a little harder....

Bitter points to ponder: (Makes you wonder what I ponder when I’m hormonal, doesn’t it?)

#1.) I’ve been a stay-at-home mother of two boys (4 years and 9 months) for four days now and I’ve learned three things:

• a.) The wardrobe for the working mom is MUCH cooler.
• b.) I got to eat lunch at a leisurely pace while I was at work. I don’t get that at home.
• c.) The guilt I had because I was working has now transferred to guilt over letting the kids cry themselves hoarse because I have found that I need to use the bathroom BY MYSELF or I can’t perform the deed. Something about being watched makes using the facilities difficult for me. Ah, clearly a case of performance anxiety. I blame my perfectionist tendencies.
  

Clearly, the life of a mother is stressful regardless of whether one is mothering part-time or full-time. Brilliant. (She typed in the sarcastic way that meant the situation was anything but brilliant.)

#2.) The speedometer on my 2004 Honda Civic goes up to 145 MPH. Um…WHY?? Hello, Honda makers: I think people who buy Honda Civics are pretty much comfortable with the fact that their transportation is not a high-powered performance vehicle. Just stop the charade, Honda.

#3.) When the park district posts a sign asking for parents to “volunteer” to be T-Ball coaches, it means that EVERY PARENT who drops off his/her T-Ball participant at the first practice will be greeted by a 16 year old who has “never done this before,” handed a t-shirt and baseball cap, and told to guide the kids in a jog around the bases and show them how to field ground balls or the program will die. Oh, and you’ll be paying for the experience, too. Did I mention that you will be required to sign up to bring snacks and drinks for the whole team on one of the practice days, too? You will. (eye roll)

Okay, parents of children older than mine, what else am I in for? Hang on, let me get a glass of wine. I have a feeling I’m going to need it…. Okay, go ahead. I’m only vaguely sober.

I Found Jesus...in Wal-Mart

Okay, Okay! It’s June 12th! After weeks away, I just checked my recent posts and, clearly, I should have been more specific than just saying I'd return "in June." No, I didn't mean June 2009. My bad. But, hey, when I’ve made a blogging faux pas, I admit it. So, here I am admitting my faux pas to the world: I wasn’t specific, World, and that was an error on my part! I apologize from the depths of my being. Please accept my act of contrition. (But it sure is nice to know I’m loved! I should go on hiatus more often!)

My schedule is ALMOST free. I am coming off of a very, very busy two months, and I have the stress acne and the eczema to prove it. The play (Up the Down Staircase, for you theatre-goers) went very well. All the people I worked with were good people, which makes the process so much more enjoyable. Further, I finished teaching my courses on Friday, and that wraps up the bulk of my work-related responsibilities for a couple of weeks. I have not started taking my own grad school courses, yet, but I am looking forward to them…in as much as a mother of two young children can look forward to taking two courses at a university over an hour away from her home. In the mean time, I am happy to have found a moment where I can blog completely unencumbered, or rather minimally encumbered since the nine-month-old is sitting on my lap and chewing on the power cord. (Yes, I stopped him. No need to call DCFS, thank you.) Thank goodness for this semi-respite, because I simply had to make a quick post about my recent trip to Wal-Mart.

When picking up large items at Wal-Mart, one must go to the back of the store to obtain said item. (In my case, the item was a flat screen television. I lived for years under the delusion that I did not need HDTV. Then, I saw Matthew McConaughey on my friend’s large screen HDTV and realized the error of my ways. Oh, Matthew, you are so rugged. If only you showered more often and deigned to use deodorant, I just know we could be special friends—in the platonic way that married women are friends with hunky movie stars, which is to say that this friendship would be much easier on me if you were gay.) While waiting for my Vizio to be brought out (nice television, by the way, in case you are looking), I couldn’t help but notice a return sitting on the counter: a twelve inch tall Jesus Christ action figure.

This struck me as odd for several reasons. First, the box read “JESUS” in big letters, with the subtitle “Son of God” in small font beneath. (Perhaps this subtitle was necessary in case a consumer mistook this action figure for some OTHER Jesus?) Further, I couldn’t help but notice that Jesus had special kung fu action grip. (Jesus is a big martial arts fan? Who knew?) Jesus also spoke. If you pressed a button on his back, he recited 26 biblical verses. There was also a prayer book included, so Jesus doll owners (Can one own Jesus??) can read along as Jesus speaks. Strangely, Jesus also had ENORMOUS pectoral muscles. E-N-O-R-M-O-U-S. Not large, not well proportioned, not “Wow, Jesus! Have you been lifting weights lately?” I’m talking hugely disproportionate to the rest of the body. In short, Jesus looked as though he were on steroids. (Perhaps the makers of the toy had been hanging out with Barry Bonds lately?) Disconcertingly, the eyes of the action figure looked a little…intense, and the face looked a little…unfriendly. Picture the large G.I. Joe action figures with longer hair, a beard, and a rough toga, and you are picturing the kung fu action grip/fully pose-able Jesus doll. Actually, based on his physique, Jesus would have easily been able to take G.I. Joe. No contest.

Perhaps what surprised me the most was that Jesus was a return. I mean, despite the imposing figure of the doll, I still picture returning Jesus to be a difficult task, regardless of one’s religious beliefs. This made me ponder how exactly does one return Jesus? Does one feel compelled to explain to the cashier why Jesus had to go back to the store? If so, what does one say? For those of us in the uncomfortable spot of returning Jesus to Wal-Mart, I offer the following explanations to ease you through what may be an awkward moment:

“Hi. I’ve already found Jesus. Here’s my receipt.”

“I have a return here. My name is Silverman. I obviously received Jesus in error.”

“Let me get this straight, Jesus rose from the dead after three days and someone shrink wrapped him?? Talk about a bad week! Heh, heh, heh. I’ll take a store credit, please.”

“I thought this was Jesus (pronounced “hey-soos”) the WWF wrestling action figure. I mean, look at those pectorals! It’s an easy mistake to make. And the words “Son of God” are in such a small font on the front of the box. Something should really be done about that. I’ll take cash back, thank you.”

“Someone already gave me Jesus. Do you have a Moses? Maybe a Luke? Are there any John’s in the back? Perhaps we could make an exchange?”


I had to wait awhile for the television to be brought up to the front, so I spent quite a long time hanging with J.C. I got to know his guiding principles fairly well because, interestingly enough, every person who walked into the pick-up/returns/exchanges center felt compelled to play with Jesus. We’re talking about twenty-plus people. Everyone walked in, witnessed Jesus on the counter, looked around to see if anyone was looking (I busied myself with something on the baby’s stroller in order to look inconspicuous.), and then played with Jesus. Over and over again he told us all to love others as we love ourselves. After a while, it started to sink in….

This is why I am treating myself to a spa day on Saturday. The way I see it, Jesus means that all of humanity will benefit if we are super nice to ourselves. I don’t want to love others the way I’ve been loving myself lately because I’ve been way over committed to too many projects and, let’s face it, my skin looks terrible and my feet need a pedicure in the worst way. Humanity deserves better than what I’ve been doing to myself, or we may ALL end up with eczema and bunions! I mean, I can’t walk out in public in sandals for fear that people will recoil in horror at my calloused heels. If I loved others the way I loved myself, all of humanity would have to deal with cracked and dry foot pads and ulcers! No, I can’t do that to the world. Humanity deserves a pumpkin-wrapped pedicure. In fact, humanity may deserve one of those hot stone massages I keep hearing so much about. And what, pray tell, are seaweed herbal wraps and alpha-hydroxy facials ? I want to know. Heck, Jesus wants me to know! You can’t argue with Jesus.

In all seriousness, what I’ve learned in the last two months is that I would never treat humanity the way I’ve been treating myself. I’ve strung myself out. Too many strung out people means a stressed out, unhappy world. I propose that humanity take a vacation. Everyone should do something nice for himself/herself. Think of the long term consequences: Everyone would be in a better mood and more patient with one another. So, go ahead and take a little time for YOU in the next few days. I say it’s okay…and so does Jesus!