A Big, Fat Brit Wedding!

I wasn’t going to watch the Royal Wedding myself, but my mom, or “mum” if you will, was here on that historical morning, to babysit my historical children, so I recorded it for her. She’s not a royal watcher so much as someone who enjoys any good spectacle. If people of a higher social stratum than her are dressing up in their finest for anything, she’s interested. Throw in a red carpet, and she’s hooked.

So, I had this recording, and even though I’m not British, I was curious. Along with two billion other people worldwide, apparently. I had something like eighty-seven guests at my wedding, so right off, I’m jealous. I was only four when Charles and Diana got married, so I don’t remember that extravaganza. And, I guess there’s that part of every girl that wants to see what the fairytale really looks like. Here in America, we can thank Mr. Walt Disney for that fascination. He brainwashed me with Cinderella, Snow White, etc., so that when I didn’t have a tiara and loyal subjects on my wedding day, it made the whole event feel a little flat.

I sat down and pulled up the menu on my DVR to find that “The Royal Wedding” was six hours long. Almost as long as some royal marriages. It was ten-forty-five when I decided to watch it. My husband, who would probably rather cut our grass one blade at a time than watch a televised wedding of British monarchy, questioned the sensibility of starting the show that late at night. I told him I just wanted to check it out for a few minutes, and that I’d probably fast-forward through the whole thing. He nodded and pulled out his laptop, possibly knowing there’d be nothing sensible about The Royal Wedding, at all.

First there was some sort of pre-game ugly hat contest that lasted over an hour. And I while I don’t know what the prize for winning that thing was, I would hope that it was a front row seat to the wedding, because if you were in any other row, you probably couldn’t see because of all the hats. One thing I had forgotten about Westminster Abbey is that it’s divided into different sections, many of them out of range for viewing the nuptials. So, some people got all dressed up, attached bird carcasses and sculptures of Transformers to their heads, and just got to hear the wedding.

Yes, I said that I’d “forgotten” that about Westminster Abbey. I’ve been there. I spent a summer in England when I was sixteen. Prince William would’ve been twelve, so had we met then, maybe he would have “fancied me” since I was older and from the country that is probably synonymous with rebellion for them. Maybe we would’ve had this epic romance spanning the next seventeen years and I could’ve been the girl living the fairytale, and then I’d have a very different tale to tell in this blog. Come to think of it, maybe I wouldn’t even be writing this blog. So, I guess the world is better off with me having married a commoner.

And, I just loved how the announcers of the wedding kept calling the Middletons commoners. I mean, they’re millionaires, not brick layers or shoe shiners. It’s as if the wedding helped me clarify the true meaning of “snob” in my head.

I fast-forwarded until I reached the point when the important people started showing up. Like the Queen, who looked remarkably well for her age. That was a bit of a disappointment, actually. Because I think it would be awesome to see a coronation. She’s been on the throne for like sixty years, so we probably don’t have any good footage of the last one. Certainly nothing in high-def. And, don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish she’d die. Though, when she does, it’s going to be difficult for newspapers to come up with a more eye-catching headline than that “ROT IN HELL!” one they used for Osama Bin Laden’s death. Anyway, maybe she could just step-aside, or down, or whatever direction her royal highness wishes, so we could get crackin’ on the next round, Prince Charles and his wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, formerly known as the Mistress of the Philanderer.

The titles really confuse me. Like why isn’t Queen Elizabeth’s husband King Philip? What’s with this Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh stuff? Is he a Prince or a Duke, and, really, why the heck isn’t he a King? Even stranger to me is the lack of surnames (last names, to us commoners) over there. During the nuptials, the Prince said, “I, William Arthur Philip Louis. . .” and I was like, “Wait, do you have a last name or just a bunch of old school first ones?” I had to Google that, and it turns out he does sort of have one that he doesn’t really use; it’s Mountbatten-Windsor. WikiAnswers stressed that the royal family doesn’t ever use it. It sounded like they probably wouldn’t even know what it is if you asked them. But what did little William put on the top of his homework papers in school? Was it William Arthur Philip Louis, or Prince William, or William A.P.L. Mountbatten-Windsor? (He probably had to use middle initials so his stuff didn’t get mixed up with all the other William Mountbatten-Windsors in his class.)

I stopped fast-forwarding when Kate showed up for the main event. She looked like a princess, which is what people always say about brides, but this time it was for real. I was a little weirded out that her sister, Pippa, wore a white gown, too. Something that an average girl would wear on her wedding day, but given that people came with geraniums on their heads and swords in their belts and ropes and sashes and all that, I guess the fashion police probably won’t call her out on it.

The wedding was romantic and entertaining and before I knew it, it was almost one in the morning and I was hanging around waiting for them to kiss. I felt like I was eight years old and watching Cinderella all over again. And even though Kate probably didn’t play with mice as a little girl, or have to scrub the floors on her hands and knees with a do-rag on, it still felt like a victory for commoners everywhere to have her catch that royal fish.

I Can't Recall. . .

I have never understood the saying “a memory like an elephant”. Maybe that just highlights my overall lack of knowledge regarding pachyderms. But I gather from the way it’s used that elephants have great memories. And I’m sure there’s probably an opposite axiom, concerning forgetful mammals, something like “a memory like a seahorse”, or a hamster, perhaps, but I can’t remember what that saying is, so I’ll just say that my own memory is very unelephantlike.

Today, I forgot where I put my sunglasses. Which is weird, because I don’t usually forget little things like that. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve misplaced car keys in my life, and, for the record, they’re never gone for good. I would need a lot more hands to count how many times I’ve forgotten to return a phone call, show up for an appointment, or take a medication. A ten day course of antibiotics usually takes me the better part of a month to get through. And I’m constantly amazed at the amount of friends I have when I’m notoriously forgetting to call them back, or respond to an email. When I get those reminder calls from doctors’ or dentists’ offices, I’m always surprised by them. Like, “I’m supposed to be there at ten tomorrow? Really? Who decided that?” Oh. I did. When I scheduled it six weeks ago. Then I scramble for a babysitter and cancel whatever else I’ve double-booked in that time slot.

I have a calendar that I write these things down on, but I forget to look at it! I think I’m going to find some success setting calendar reminders on my phone, now that my husband pointed out I could be doing that. But, so far, it’s been confusing. The ring is totally different than my cell phone ring, so I ignore it, thinking it’s someone else’s phone. The other day, this guy from work and I were walking around trying to see where that unfamiliar sound was coming from and just when we’d get close, it would stop. Back to work. Then, there it is again. He finally said, “I think it’s coming from your pocket. That’s why it always seems so close.” I pulled out my phone and it said I had a lunch meeting with the American Red Cross, which I was in the process of getting set for. As I walked to the car, I realized I heard that same sound when I was in the grocery store the other night. My phone and I still don’t know all there is to know about each other, but I did manage to locate a chamber where I had stored that other thing that I missed, which was a reminder to send something in to school with my son. Something I forgot.

I make lists for the grocery store, so that I won’t forget what we need, but then I almost always forget the list. This endless cycle has led to me being a “regular” at Super Target. The cashiers all know me, and I’ll probably be invited to all of their children’s weddings one day. I’m careful not to wear red shirts and khaki pants because then people will start thinking I work there. Which might be a better solution anyway.

But, the sunglasses mattered to me. They only cost ten dollars, and I bought them three or four years ago (I can’t remember, exactly) at Super Target. Because I’m there . . . ALL. THE. TIME. And they fit perfectly. Even for running, which I do a lot of. It’s hard to find a pair of sunglasses that you can run with. Ones that don’t move, but aren’t too tight, which would be equally annoying. I’d rather not run without sunglasses this time of year, because the squinting is only going to etch more lines on my face. Then I’ll be wrinkled and forgetful, and I might as well sit around and knit or play Bingo and just forget about going running. Which, given my memory-handicaps, shouldn’t be too hard.

The worst part of this is that I can remember cleaning them yesterday, wearing them to the frozen yogurt shop, sliding them up on my head and using them as a headband. I remember wearing them upstairs as I went to take a shower. And then that’s it. My memory after that, concerning my sunglasses, was wiped clean by that blue flashy thingy that Will Smith toted around in Men In Black. I wish I could at least remember meeting Will Smith, but I don’t. I think they’re really gone. My sunglasses and Will Smith. I’ve searched everywhere I can think of and it’s like my sunglasses never existed. There’s no trace of them.

I guess I have no choice but to go to Super Target for the eight trillionth time this month. It seems like there’s something else I needed to get while I’m there, but I can’t remember what it is. . .

Cowboys and Indians

One of my dear friends is expecting her first child this summer. We roomed together our freshman year of college in Texas. She hailed from the exotic foreign land of New Delhi, India and I came from the slightly less exotic, but no less foreign Floyd County, Virginia. We were both considered second-class citizens in Texas though because we weren’t born and bred there.

That’s okay, because second-class in Texas feels a lot like first-class everywhere else. Doors were still held open for us, there were gallons of pleases and thank-yous offered, and we had as much right to eat the superior Mexican food and drink the Dr. Pepper as anyone else. I almost got a Texas green card by marrying a native, but it didn’t work out. I couldn’t name all three of Sam Houston’s wives or recite the years that Roger Staubach was quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys, so I was extradited out of the state.

My Indian (not to be confused with Native American) friend and I both moved away after graduation. And, as fate would have it, we spent a few years in the neighboring states of Ohio and Virginia. (We pretended West Virginia wasn’t there and you can, too.) We visited each other a couple of times and set ourselves up for a lifelong friendship. But then I started having travel prohibitive babies and she and I both moved to other states. Me to North Carolina, and she illegally immigrated back into the Lonestar State. And even with email, Facebook, and that antiquated invention, the telephone, I still miss her.

I miss a lot of people. I think it’s the age I’m at (33.8) that makes me feel so much nostalgia for the good old days. I’d love to take a month and just travel around visiting all of my old friends, from high school and college, and even the friend I’ve had since I was in diapers (32 years ago for the record). That’s not very realistic with my busy life and tight budget, but at some point you have to see those things for what they are: excuses.

The years start piling up and people drift apart despite the best of intentions, and I don’t want that to happen. So, I just took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and bought an airline ticket to go to her baby shower. (It was a figurative eye closing, because I didn’t want to end up with an airline ticket to North Dakota, where I know absolutely no one. Not that I couldn’t make friends in North Dakota. I could. But then I’d have more people that I never get to see because they live far away!)

So, I’m leaving in one week and going to Houston, Texas, where I will see not one, but two college friends and a really good friend from high school. And possibly some people I don’t even know yet. The pregnant Indian texted me today and told me to save some calories and spare pounds for when I’m down there, because the Mexican food is better than ever and BBQ runs freely in the streets now. I may need to stop eating tomorrow so that I can break even at the end of my trip. Ironically, my trainer was congratulating me today on how well I’m doing; I’m leaner, stronger, and faster than ever. I couldn’t look him in the eyes because I knew. I knew that come April 14th, I’d be doing unspeakable things that he’d never approve of. However, I fully intend to pack my running shoes and find a way to make that happen. Even if it’s just running to the closest “to-die-for” ice cream shop.

The Dog Days Of Spring

I’m not a pet person. I was when I was younger though. I owned lots of different cats growing up, and one puppy. I never owned a dog though, so you can do the math on that puppy thing. And I didn’t just have pets, I loved them. Growing up in the country, there was no need to keep them inside; we had plenty of land for them to roam around, and we had outdoor buildings they could get into for staying warm. Well, I should correct that last statement. In light of what happened to the puppy, I guess there was a need to keep him inside. Or at least buy him some reflective wear for when he crossed the road at dusk.

Anyway, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I stopped loving animals, but I just know that when I left for college, I was a pet person, and by the time I graduated, I wasn’t. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here though. Especially given that I’m a well-known Michael Vick fan. It’s not that I hate animals or wish them any ill will, nor would I bet on any if they were being forced to fight illegally. Or legally. This disclaimer could go on all day, so I’ll just sum up with I think they’re cute, but I have no desire to own any.

That desire is contrary to the desires of my children though. They don’t care that several members of our family are allergic to cats or that we don’t have a fence in the backyard for a dog. Or that hamsters are in the rodent family. They want a pet. So far, I’ve gotten away with a “maybe when you’re older” answer and they’ve accepted that. And, honestly, it makes them appreciate other people’s pets that much more. My parents had a cat that they adored. If you’ll note the use of past tense verbs in that sentence, you’ll know how that turned out. She was an old cat and had a good run. The kids were sad when she passed away, but the twins have this childlike hope that makes them continue to pray for that dead feline every night. They also still tell me every day they attend preschool that their friend Sami wasn’t there. She moved away, to another state, in December. I guess the whole “not coming back” speech I gave them is taking a while to sink in.

The pets we encounter most often are my best friend’s three dogs. Casey is pretty normal, but then there’s Zoey, who I’m pretty sure snorts crack in the morning rather than eating Kibbles, and Jake, who is late to his own funeral. I don’t know what it is, but for some reason those dogs always come to me, the one person who doesn’t want them to. They remind me of myself in high school (yes, I left that open to dog jokes) because I always wanted to date the guys that showed the least interest in me. My friend’s dogs don’t understand that I’m not playing hard to get, that I really just don’t want dog hair all over me, nor do I have the need to rub anyone’s belly.

But, I’m evolving a little bit. Since my friend told me that Jake is dying (about nine months ago), I’ve let him lay near me on the couch, occasionally shared a bite or two of popcorn with him, and even rubbed his head with my toes the other night. Even more telling is that I think I might actually be starting to like the crack head.

See, Zoey barks and rushes the door every time I come in, which is at least twice a week for the past six years, so you’d think she wouldn’t consider me a stranger anymore, right? But on Friday night, when I was there watching TV, my friend’s youngest child woke up with a fever, so we had to postpone the rest of our show and I was going to go home. Normally, my friend would walk me to the door and restrain Zoey, so that she didn’t leave. I’ve never understood why they don’t want her to, but whatever. My friend was upstairs and I was on my own, so when I got to the door and Zoey was right on my heels, I turned to her and said, “No, Zoey, stay here.” Miraculously, she listened to me and walked calmly back into the living room. Six years after I started telling her what to do, she finally obeyed me for the first time! It gives me hope for Reckless, who is only four and a half. Maybe she’ll start listening soon, too. If she does, maybe I’ll get her a pet.

On The Road...The Squeakquel

While my family could easily be described as a circus, I don't think we're cut out to be the traveling kind. Today we came to visit my grandmother for her birthday, and a trip that should have taken three and a half hours took a little over four and felt like eighteen. Partly because I had to put up with Alvin and those other wannabe squirrels running around and singing pop hits in shirts and no pants, and partly because the "Are we almost there?" interrogation started 20 minutes outside of Raleigh. My husband and I got so irritated with that question that we seriously considered driving all the way to Canada just to spite them. The only thing that stopped us was the prohibitive fuel costs.

There were other minor frustrations, like accidents, construction, and speed limits. And then despite my rationing out water like we were miners trapped underground with no hope of rescue, Reckless still needed to use the restroom. "When are we going to stop?" she asked me as we passed by one exit after another. Clearly, "We'll stop when I see a place that doesn't pose a DEFCON Four level threat of infectious diseases!"

Later, we realized we just weren't trying hard enough to distract them. As we were traveled through what we on the East Coast refer to as mountains, my son looked out his window and hopefully asked, "Is this where the Presidents' faces are painted on the mountain?" Carved, I corrected him. And, "No, Mt. Rushmore's in South Dakota." In the spirit of honesty, I'll admit that before I answered, I conferred quietly with my husband on whether it was North or South Dakota. But, then we realized that we should have them look for things. Things they wouldn't easily find. Things that weren't even there. "I mean, there could be Presidents' faces painted on the side of a mountain out here somewhere," I said. And, don't judge me; there really could be, you know. "Do you see any buffalo?" my husband asked the kids. Their eyes widened and suddenly it was like we were traveling through Jurassic Park, everyone was on high alert.

We had a lovely time visiting with my family at my grandmother's 87th birthday party, which was off the hook, and now the kids are nestled all snug in their hotel beds with visions of breakfast buffets dancing in their heads and I was just sitting here trying to determine what it says about my packing and organizational skills that we made it here with more pillow pets than toothbrushes. And thinking about packing brought to mind one of my favorite posts ever. The one about the "go bag", and I thought I'd paste part of it on here:

"So, I pack. And, in order to pack economically, I try to ask myself what's essential. Kind of like packing a "go bag". The kind it was highly recommended we keep on hand post 9/11. (Those people at FEMA are all about being prepared, ya know.) And anyway, once that train of thought left the station for me, I started wondering what I would pack in a real "go bag". The obvious approach is to say, "What could I not live without?"

1. My glasses. I'm not sure if this unknown and hypothetical emergency is an "on the run" scenario or a "fleeing disaster" one, but, either way, I'm supposed to take my contacts out at night and would love to be able to see where I'm going.

2. My cell phone. How our world made it so many eons without cell phones is a complete mystery to me. And I even lived in those very dark ages. If the emergency is so serious that I need a go bag, I don't know that calling 911 would be a viable option, but I'd still need to text my friends. Like. . .No tennis 2nite. Running from Attila & Huns. Or, to my Texas friends, East Coast destroyed. Can we come 2 ur house 4 dinner?

3. My iPod. I can't run from anything without music. And, don't worry, I already have a "go playlist".

4. A ponytail holder. The only thing more annoying than being forced from my home and running for my life is not having anything to put my hair up with.

5. Chapstick. I seriously question my will to live with chapped lips.

6. Running shoes. Should be self-explanatory.

7. Water. I'm not the kind of girl that could sniff out and identify a safe fresh water source during an emergency. I could sniff out a Sonic and they have many drink choices, but I'm not sure I should count on that.

8. Cash. I'll still use the Visa if I can because it has cash back rewards, but if the Huns are holding my husband hostage and I have to buy his release, I might need the cold hard stuff.

And, if there's room for just one more item (and isn't there always), it would be white-chocolate covered pretzels. Because if my time on Earth is limited, which a go bag would imply it may be, I'm done counting calories.

FEMA suggests a compass (I don't know how to use those things at all), and your passport (mine's expired, but I have considered investing in some fake ones, a la Jason Bourne), and duct tape. What's with the full-court press on duct tape, anyway? Is duct tape the official sponsor of the end times and all natural disasters until then? I'm almost 33 and have never needed duct tape, so I'm not wasting valuable go bag space on it. I'm pretty sure it would just get stuck in my hair." (quoting myself in "Can I Get That To Go?" from June, 2010)

All The Right Friends In All The Right Places. . .

This blog is going to be about my night with an old friend who's a rock star now. I don't want it to seem like I'm bragging, even when I clearly am, so you'll just have to forgive me for my good fortune.

I met him in college, which is remarkable given that I went to college with some world class nerds. Forty percent of the student body was studying engineering. If any of you have seen The Big Bang Theory, it was those guys. Not that every one was that smart or fashion challenged though. Most of my girl friends were almost completely normal. There was this one girl on my floor that had a freaky Winnie the Pooh fascination, but other than that, they were great. And there were a decent amount of cool guys. Coincidentally, most of them were aviation majors. (*My R.A.'s boyfriend was an engineering major and he was as chill as Dr. Dre himself. And, on a completely unrelated note, he reads my blog. My R.A.'s former boyfriend, now husband. Not Dr. Dre. Or, if Dre is reading it, he hasn't signed on as a follower.)

But one of the more entertaining guys I hung out with in college was Zach. He worked with me in the admissions office and we were good friends. Actually, I ended up marrying one of his roommates, who is also one of the coolest engineers I know. (*On a completely unrelated note, my husband pays our mortgage.)

Zach and I, along with a crew of collegiates we traveled with, went rollerblading, hung out at the IHOP, and tried to find any activities we could to postpone studying. Oftentimes, he and one of my husband's other roommates would sit around the apartment and play music. I thought he was talented, and it turns out, he is. He's the lead guitarist for One Republic. And if, for some unexcusable reason, you don't know who they are, let me assure you that you've heard their song Apologize. (BTW: Zach is a celebrity, thereby forfeiting all rights to privacy, so I can use his name in my blog.)On Tuesday, my husband and I traveled an hour away to see them perform. We showed up early and went out to dinner with Zach. He was happy to sit down at a restaurant and eat a square meal because they do a lot of fast food and pizza when they're touring so rapidly. (I've found those things helpful even when I'm not on tour.) Anyway, I thought it might be strange to be reunited with him now that he's a big rock star, but it wasn't. He was the same guy I remembered from college, but with a few added "laugh lines". The placement of them led me to believe we find the same things funny.
We found this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in a strip mall. It seated maybe thirty people, which is ideal if you're a rock star playing in a small town and trying not to get mobbed. But the place looked a little sketchy from the outside, possibly because it was a couple of doors down from a pawn shop, and we weren't sure if we should go in, but our only other option was McDonald's and that just seemed wrong under the circumstances. So, we went for it, and the food and service ended up being fantastic. At the end of the meal, my husband leaned across the table and told me, "This was the best strip joint I've ever eaten at." I'm pretty sure that's not the way he meant that sentence to go, but it was good for some more laugh lines.

Our seats were awesome. The concert was awesome. Zach talked to me from the stage and dozens of surrounding girls gave me the evil eye, which was beyond awesome. I'm not sure if that or Brent's cello playing was the highlight. No, wait, it was probably when Ryan Tedder came and stood on my chair to sing. Seriously, that happened! After he went back to the stage, I looked around to see if hundred dollar bills had fallen off of him in my vicinity, but, alas, they had not.

After the concert, Zach told us to meet him at the bus and we'd hang out. So we went there, only to be told by security that we couldn't loiter around there. I really hated to pull out the cliche "We're with the band," but we were, so we said so. Of course the security guy didn't believe us and he sent us away. About a minute later, my husband's cell phone rang and Zach told us to come on. The security guy felt a bit sheepish watching us climb aboard the bus WITH THE BAND!

We chilled while Zach and other band/crew members munched on the homemade chocolate chip cookies I baked for them, and I met this one crew guy who was hilarious. Like I would sponsor his Comedy Central stand-up special. If I had found any of those loose hundred dollar bills that is. So, ironically, I asked my husband to take a picture of me with him. The crew guy. Not the other rock stars. Just an average joe sound guy or something. That's who I was starstruck by. Top ten hits are impressive, don't get me wrong, but anyone that can make me laugh until I'm crying is the real rock star!

Scarred For Life

Most of my weekends are trauma free, so to be on my second one this weekend already is a bit disconcerting. Normally, I’d be working on Friday and Saturday nights, smiling and encouraging people that have no business eating fried food to try what was a harmless onion that our cooks have turned into a potential heart attack. But this weekend, I took time off to have some fun with my friends, which hasn’t exactly worked out yet, but I have to say I’m okay with that because I’m getting in lots of quality family time.

The quality time started when I heard my husband and three screaming children come busting in the front door last night at 6:30. I had just stepped out of the shower and was trying to find something fabulous to wear out with my best friend. I didn’t panic, initially, because it’s, unfortunately, not uncommon to hear all three kids screaming. But after my husband bounded up the stairs with Reckless, both of them covered in blood, I realized I probably didn’t need to waste any more time finding the perfect shirt, that I should probably just grab a disposable one.

My husband, ever the calm one, said, “She had a bike wreck; I was just going to see how bad it is and if we should take her to the Emergency Room.” I was like, “IF?!!!?!?? She’s got maybe a pint of blood left in her and isn’t that her chin bone!?” He looked and was like, “Oh. Yeah; let’s go.” Meantime, the other two were screaming, crying and grieving for her. I heard my son tell her twin, Stretch, that she was dead. I quickly interrupted their loud memorial service to assure them that she was alive, and while not necessarily well, she would be soon. I know you’re wondering, “How bad could a four-year-old’s bike wreck be?” Well, she stopped using training wheels when she was three and a half and now she’s training for motorcross. General Mills is thinking about a sponsorship since she’s pretty heavy into Kix cereal, too.

She was so brave at the hospital, as they examined each and every bone and joint and looked over the less serious abrasions and bumps. This is a girl that doesn’t cry when she gets shots, doesn’t cry when she falls down, and doesn’t even have a healthy dose of fear. So when they told us they often have to put children her age to sleep to stitch up their faces, we were confident in letting them try it on her awake. Funny how ten seasons of ER, several years of playing that game Operation, and even watching as I got my own stitches a few years ago did nothing, NOTHING, to prepare me for the horror of what they had to do to her chin. Seeing layers of flesh and tissue in a textbook is so much less threatening than seeing it on your child. I had to look away. But when I did, I saw my husband, who watched the entire procedure, which was a lot more than sewing. I thought it was very brave of him. Until. . . (WARNING: Mom stop reading now! Seriously, don’t read any further!)

I saw him slaughter an anaconda in the backyard this afternoon! I was passing by the big bay window in the breakfast nook, where Reckless and Stretch were painting, in lieu of working on meeting their health care deductibles, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband raise a shovel over his head. That didn’t correlate with the seeding the lawn work he was supposedly doing outside, so I looked. He was clearly trying to kill something, and from the amount of blows he was giving it, it wasn’t a tiny creature. I told the girls to stay put and then stepped onto the deck. Which I wouldn’t have done had I realized that it meant never sleeping peacefully through the night again. I guess, technically, it was a black snake, but its resemblance to the reptiles I saw in that J.Lo movie, Anaconda, was uncanny. Like they were separated at birth or something. Now I’ll have to ask all but the bravest of readers to stop reading; it’s about to get freaky. . .

He had chopped this huge snake into several smaller, less threatening snakes. BUT, (excuse me while a shiver runs down my spine) they were all moving!! And not just a little bit. And not just for a few seconds. Did I mention that I left that back door open and my kids, along with a neighbor kid had come to see what the commotion was about? So, I won’t be the only one having nightmares tonight.

I’ve put a For Sale sign in the front yard, and in my best friend’s front yard, because obviously I can’t move to Hawaii, where there are no native snakes, without her. I like it here, but after cleaning up all that blood last night like a crime scene investigator and now with my new inability to go into the breakfast nook, let alone go outside, it’s probably time to move on.

*Correction: My husband dismembered the snake with a switchblade, not a shovel. And he’d also like you to know that he can bench press 450!

Favorite Things

Yesterday, on the way home from church, my son, 7, asked my husband, 33, if we could take his second favorite road home. “Your second favorite road?” I wondered. “Yeah, Duck Creek,” he answered enthusiastically. I meant, second? As in you have a first? He assured me that yeah, of course he did. He went on to give me his top five list. And then everyone joined in the street rankings. The girls were totally making up street names, saying things like “Julia Street is my fourth favorite.” But, still, it made me think, which is remarkable, because usually the kids just make me frustrated, not thoughtful. What’s my favorite street? I guess the one that I run on almost every day. It’s flat and even, without a lot of traffic. I guess that’s what I look for in a street. Though, if I could design my own, it would probably have flowers all along the side, and probably down the middle. I’d also want a wide array of wildlife to be visible, but not in the way. Like some elephants would be great to run/drive by, but I wouldn’t want to share the road with them. Obviously, there’d be a chocolate tree or two near my favorite street. (Dora the Explorer has led me to believe these exist.)

My husband pressed me to come up with my top five favorites, and I couldn’t. But, this exercise made me think that maybe I should do a My Favorite Things Blog. The way Oprah has her favorite things special. My fame and stardom is clearly akin to hers. And, there is a possibility, the remotest of one, that you’ll be given some of these things as part of the special. (Maybe you shouldn’t hold your breath on that one.)

Favorite day of the week: Thursday. It’s a well-known night of superior television programming, and always has been. It’s close to the weekend, without the added weekend pressure of getting things done around the house. You guys will all be getting Thursdays, that’s a promise.

Favorite style of donut: Cream filled with chocolate frosting. Blueberry cake and plain old glazed just can’t compete with biting into a messy blob of sugar, butter, and . . . I don’t know, pudding? Whatever it is, it’s fantastic.

Favorite Super Bowl ever: XLII (I can’t convert Roman numerals, but my best guess, assuming L=25, and why wouldn’t we assume that, is that it was Super Bowl thirty-seven. But, alas, I’ve googled it and I was wrong. Whatever. Didn’t Rome fall? Why are we still using their counting method for football, a game they never even played?!) I’m speaking of when my beloved New York Giants upset the favored and undefeated New England Patriots, better known as Tom Brady’s team. I’m disgusted by how genetically gifted Mr. Brady is, so I always root against him. Maybe if I had that kind of bone structure, bronze skin, athletic-skill, and money, we’d get along better.

Favorite M&M color: Blue! I’ll see what I can do for you guys on that one.

Favorite celebrity couple(s): Beyonce and Jay-Z; they’re so talented, yet seem so grounded, spending just a fraction of their time on private islands and yachts. They make time for basketball games, like real people, and I like that she’s a lot better looking than him. It’s how I know she must really love him, because, honestly, she could do better. My other favorite celebrity couple is Jake Gyllenhaal and whoever he’s with at the time. I always think he makes a great couple with pretty much everyone; Kirsten Dunst, Reese Witherspoon, Taylor Swift, all good choices.

Favorite jungle cat: Tiger. Those stripes are beautiful, and the tiger is very underrated because there aren’t as many publicized attacks by them as there are by lions, which don’t actually live in the jungle, do they? Well, I’d like to include all large cats in this category, regardless of their location. Anyway, the tiger is very fierce and certainly could attack anyone, anytime, anyplace. Okay, not anyplace, like not at the mall or Antarctica.

Favorite Restaurant: Posado’s. It’s a Mexican restaurant in Longview, Texas, and if you’ve been, congratulations, and if you haven’t, it’s worth the trip. And, if you live in Longview, like my Irish friend, J, then you really shouldn’t complain about anything ever, because you can go to Posado’s whenever you want. Your daughter barfed on your shoes? Oh well, wipe ‘em off and go to Posado’s. Your boss is making you work late? At least you can go to Posado’s whenever you do finally get off. Some of us haven’t been in twelve long years (XII – for the Romans out there), and miss it horribly!

That’s probably enough for today.

Ready For Some Football . . .And A Nap

I make my bed almost every day. But, I left it disheveled today as a reminder that I needed to find my way back in there for a couple of hours. That’s because I’m coming off several nights of interrupted slumber. First it was my son, who was battling the flu and needed to reload with Motrin or Tylenol every few hours. Then I worked late the next couple of nights, and then the next kid got sick. There was actually one night between my weekend waitressing shifts and round two of the flu, but a completely healthy kid wet the bed that night. A lot of completely healthy kids probably wet the bed Sunday night, but this one was in my house, so I was drafted into changing sheets and finding clean pajamas.

In order to stay healthy myself, I need to listen to my body. It’s telling me a lot of things today. Things like “You need to nap for a few hours,” and “You won’t make it without an adequate dose of dark chocolate,” and “I need something salty. No sweet. No salty. . .” and finally, it’s saying, “Try to get a nerve blocker as soon as possible.” That’s because I had my session with the trainer yesterday and out of the 640 muscles I have, 600 are killing me today.

But while napping is a priority, it’s not the only one. There were cereal bowls to fill this morning and lunchboxes to pack. Prescriptions to pick up and phone calls to return. I had to run the vacuum over the upstairs carpet so I could check “clean the house” off my list. Clean the house usually means clean the house, but when I’m operating on a sleep deficit, I allow myself to do one thing that falls under that category and call it good. And my laziness was also interrupted by trying to get organized for the Super Bowl.

I’m not playing in it this year, or even the foreseeable future, but in honor of the men who are, it’s my job, as an American, to consume 5,000 extra calories that day. For whatever reason, this one sporting event calls for Doritos, Oreos, and a plethora of dips. There are zoning ordinances in place that call for hamburger and hotdog preparation, or, in some counties, pizza is an option. And I fear if I don’t make brownies, my citizenship could be revoked. But why is it just for this one game? I don’t remember ever breaking all FDA guidelines during the NBA Finals or The World Series. (Some maybe, but not all) And I certainly wasn’t chowing down on nachos when the American women’s gymnastics team took the gold for the all-around competition in the Beijing Olympics.

One year I actually decided we would eat healthy fare on Super Bowl Sunday. We made turkey burgers and served them on whole wheat buns with fresh tomato slices and reduced fat cheese. Instead of chips, we had carrot sticks and ranch. And I topped that off with a fruit salad. It was the worst Super Bowl EVER. I was ashamed of myself and what I had become. I don’t remember who we had over that year, but I’m pretty sure we never heard from them again.

So I spent some time today making a grocery list that would make the Pillsbury dough boy blush, and scouring the Sunday coupons for anything that would fit in that tiny triangle at the top of the suggested food pyramid. Because we’re going to enjoy the Super Bowl this year, regardless of the outcome of the game itself, and we’re doing it the old-fashioned way, through voracious eating. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a nap to take.

Fro-Yo Anonymous

There’s this new frozen yogurt shop in town, Sweet Spoons. It’s about 4.2 miles from my house, give or take. I go a lot. But I go for a lot of different reasons, like if it’s unseasonably warm outside and frozen yogurt sounds perfect, or if I’m driving by on my way to work and need something sweet, or if I have an hour to kill with the girls before my son gets out of school and they need a snack, or if I’m awake. All of those things make me feel like I should go there.

On Sunday, the weather was beautiful, sixty-five degrees and sunny, so I ran three miles to the gym, worked out for thirty minutes, and then ran home. I wish increased physical fitness was its own reward, but it’s not, so my husband and I loaded up the kids and went to the yogurt shop. On Monday, which was supposed to be one of my two days off of work, I had to go in for a couple of hours to make some flyers and I figured a monotonous job like that would go faster if I had some frozen yogurt keeping me company.

Tuesday, I managed not to go to Sweet Spoons, but I have to say, I wasn’t as happy yesterday and I think there’s a correlation. Today, Wednesday, my mom was in town and wanted to try the new frozen yogurt shop I’ve been raving about. Enough said; you had me at “today”. Tomorrow night is my monthly girls’ night out with my church friends, and it was decided, by someone other than me, actually, that we should meet at Sweet Spoons. I mentioned some, but not all, of this to my best friend on the phone today and she was like, “Did you fill up your card already?” (They have a frequent customer card where you buy nine and the tenth one is free.) “Are you kidding me,” I said, “I turned in my third card today. Forget free yogurt, I’ve almost earned enough points for a trip to Cancun.”

I’m not sure why I can’t quit going, but I blame it on Hollywood. I blame a lot of things on Hollywood. For instance, on Monday, I really really wanted to rob an armored truck or knock off a bank because my husband and I rented The Town and they really glamorized the life of armed robbery. Here I am, a thirty-three year old housewife, folding laundry in the bonus room of my house in the suburbs, and at the end of the movie, I turned to my husband and said, “Do you think any of my friends would wanna do that with me?” He laughed and said, “Your friends scrapbook and do recipe exchanges; I don’t think they’d know what to do with an assault rifle.” I laid the pair of Minnie Mouse size four underpants I was folding down on the appropriate pile and said, “Maybe I need new friends.”

By the next morning, the adrenaline rush of the movie had worn off and I was pretty content with my law-abiding life. But, I got way off track there. Sorry. I blame Hollywood for my yogurt addiction because of that movie Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a movie I always mistakenly call Willy Wonka.

When you’re dieting, and I always am and always will be to some extent, you feel like your underprivileged, like Charlie. And you feel like your life is dull and gray sometimes. So when I walked into that shop the first time and was visually seduced by all of the bright colors and fun decorations, it felt a little like I won the golden ticket. And haven’t we all been waiting to win one of those ever since we saw that movie?

And the cool part is you get to make your own treat! There are eight flavors of fat free frozen yogurt, occasionally one of them will just be “low fat”, but I avoid those whenever humanly possible. (There was a German Chocolate Cake one that, I promise you, no man could’ve turned down.) You can sample any and all of them in these little paper cups like they have at the dentist, but now someone has finally put them to good use. Redeemed them, if you will. And once you choose your flavor (s) (sss), you can go through and put any number of toppings on. We’re talking basics like strawberries, sprinkles or Oreo cookie pieces, to more unorthodox Lucky Charms, cantaloupe, kiwi, cheesecake pieces, or even yogurt chips. How decadent is that, to put yogurt chips on your frozen yogurt?! Finally, you weigh your concoction and pay. I had two flavors and six toppings today and it was $3.15!

I haven’t gained any weight since I started going there, but if you had any idea how much I exercise, you’d know that it’s probably the one thing standing in the way of me losing anymore. Not so much that I go there, but just that I go there every day. I might need to check myself into some kind of rehab. If I can find a facility that treats yogurt addicts, that is.

New Year, Same Life

There’s something familiar about 2011; it reminds me of 2010, with faint traces of 06-09. The New Year’s Fairy didn’t make it to my house to give me an actual clean slate to work with. My desk was still is great disarray when I woke up on Saturday morning and I’m still not a size four, despite putting pictures of movie stars who are under my pillow on December 31^st. I’d like to say I’m a much improved person this year, and maybe the possibility remains in certain areas, but, sadly, I’ve already committed a crime, driving eighty miles per hour when I knew the interstate speed limit was seventy, and I’ve already slipped a tiny bit on my diet, unless someone can come up with a solid nutritional value for the Rice Krispie treat I had yesterday. I haven’t raised my voice at my kids yet, and I really hope to keep that resolution as long as possible, but, in all fairness, I was gone Saturday and Sunday and they went back to school this week, and I’ve always been better at not losing my patience with them when they’re not around.

I’ve overheard the resolutions of others in the last few days. From your basic “get in shape” to “going to bed by midnight every night”. The bedtime one was from a college friend who has a strong distaste for mornings, and she had been pretty successful in passing that aversion on to her kids until she had this last baby and now she’s out of bed before McDonald’s even starts serving lunch. I thought it was ironic that she made her New Year’s Declaration public at 12:06am on January 1^st. Talk about blowing it right away.

My heart goes out to the weight loss and get in shape crowd because I’ve been there. I was fortunate enough to find something I love to do – running, and it’s been easy to stick with. And I think that’s key in anyone’s overall success; you have to find something you love and that doesn’t feel like a chore. And you can’t choose eating. Believe me, I’ve tried. My husband and some of his cronies love playing basketball, so they get up in predawn hours and meet at the gym a couple of days a week. It’s a “come as you are”, no teeth brushing or hair combing necessary type of organization. Not that my husband needs that to stay trim; he won the genetic lottery with a fast metabolism. He could eat half a gallon of ice cream at eleven at night and it wouldn’t show up on the scale in the morning. Actually, I think it might show up on the scale in the morning, just not when he’s the one standing on it. And I know he secretly indulges in the dark arts of fast food eating and dessert consumption, whereas I can’t even drive by a Taco Bell without gaining a little weight. And while I’m comfortable with the size I am now, I want to lose another 17-18 pounds so that I can be a serious competitor in running. So, I just pretend cookies and donuts are poison and that full fat dressing doesn’t exist. And it helps to brainwash yourself into believing your highly allergic to anything fried.

So, good luck to all of you who are climbing on the whole grain, low-fat wagon, and remember that while your eating options may be limited, your options for an active lifestyle are virtually limitless. This twenty-one year old guy I work with came to work the other night with an eye-catching scab on one of his elbows and when I asked him how he got it he said, “Ping pong.” Seriously? What kind of ping-pong is he playing? Tackle ping-pong? Whatever style it is, it seems pretty hard-core. And to each his own.

Home Alone

My dad has been on a business trip for over a week now, and my mom has managed to stay out trouble in his absence by not leaving the house. She is however starting to get her days and nights mixed up, like a newborn, because she gets sucked into late night TV programming and can’t quiet the voice that tells her there’s actually no reason she has to get up in the morning; she could sleep until noon if she wants. She hasn’t made it until noon yet, but she’s getting close. And she acts like someone should award her bonus points for showering and blow drying her hair every day, even though she doesn’t have any contact with other human beings. I reminded her a few days ago that most people bathe daily for pure hygiene purposes, and not necessarily to impress their families, and she countered it was the hair styling that was the extraordinary measure. Yes, Mom, it shows real determination to fix your hair every day.

But, I digress; it was the staying out of trouble thing that started this train out of the station. Yesterday, there someone knocking on the front door, and since it’s Christmastime, she assumed it was a neighbor dropping by baked goods and couldn’t open said door fast enough. But, instead of being handed cookies, a stranger handed her a bottle of Tide. Her first thought was that someone had alerted the authorities to the way she’s been letting the laundry pile up while my dad is away, but it turns out that isn’t actually against the law. Neither is eating cereal for dinner three nights in a row because you don’t feel like cooking for just yourself. And we know this because we’ve studied case law concerning the lives of domestic women while their spouse is away on business. (There’s a sweatpants clause that has served me well in the past.)

So, here’s where the story takes a turn and becomes an Oprah Winfrey special on what women should not do when home alone. #1: Answer the door for a stranger. Oops, too late. #2: Say that you’re home alone. The detergent giver claimed to be there to sell vacuum cleaners and needed to come in to demonstrate the product. It is of note here that this man didn’t have a vacuum cleaner with him. My mom spotted this like a trained field agent and said, “No, you can’t come in. I’m here alone.” Great. Next, he tells her he’ll need the Tide back if he can’t come in. Mom considers this. Tide’s the good stuff. She was holding in her hands something close to a ten dollar value. And her life was worth? Yeah, more. So, she opened the glass storm door a second time and gave it back. The man says that he could come back later, when her husband was home. And this brings us to rule #3: Don’t tell the potential homicidal thief how long he has to come and commit crimes against you. My mom said, “Oh, he won’t be home for a couple of days.” And then immediately realizing her mistake changed it to, “I mean he’ll be home tonight. Soon, really.” Sure he will, lady. How’s about you just leave the front door unlocked so I don’t have to break a window?

He went on to deliver more of his vacuum cleaner sales pitch, and I’m not even sure how it got this far in the exchange without my mom mentioning that she doesn’t have carpet. Their entire house is restored hardwood flooring. But it did. And somewhere near this juncture, the man’s “boss”, or, more accurately, accomplice, drove up to the curb and parked. Mom and the bad guy wrapped things up and scheduled a time for them to come back and pillage the house before she finally closed and locked the door. And then, having learned some valuable lessons during her primetime television watching, she moved chairs and other manageable pieces of furniture in front of the door. I understand the concept of a barricade, but since I also know my mom can barely lift a full jug of milk, I doubt it was an effective one.

Dad’s on his way home right now, thank God. Because I’d hate to see what she’d do if someone showed up and offered something even more valuable, like a gift card to Macy’s or something.

What Recession?

Cra-zy (kra’ze) adj. From the Latin meaning, I went to the mall on the Saturday before Christmas. Not that this is news to you. Based on the population of Triangle Town Center Mall, I’d wager all of you were there. And, yes, even my out of state readers. I parked between two mammoth SUVs, with license plates from Colorado and Iowa. I didn’t park at the mall exactly, just an outskirt that may or may not have been in Raleigh, but was definitely in North Carolina (I saw NASCAR stickers). But, anyway, I was thinking that perhaps our mall is the front line of the war against the recession.

Remember when I was ridiculing the people that had their Christmas shopping done by the end of October, yeah, well, that gulp you just heard was me swallowing those words. Because those are the people curled up on the sofa today watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and sipping hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows of satisfaction. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t at the mall to Christmas shop, as there is no one on my list that’s been nice enough to warrant me entering a battle of that magnitude. I was there because my daughter had a lunch date at California Pizza Kitchen, which is at our mall, and she’s not old enough to drive, yet. Or pay. Or wipe her mouth effectively. So I tagged along.

The girls loved that the mall was so crowded and that multiple people were wearing red Santa hats. For them, there was excitement in the air. To me, there was just the heavy stench of too much cologne and perfume broken up by the wafting smells of b.o. and waffle fries. And Santa hats really only work on the big guy himself and possibly the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Other than that, it just looks creepy and sad on adults. Sadder in say February, but still not great in December.

I only went in one store and that was to purchase a gift for my mother, who, for whatever excuse, is still not a follower of my blog, but does read it, so I’ll not name the store I went to. I’ll just say that there was a line and I had to wait in it with two girls who were so happy about their playdate, they were twirling. Twirling and knocking things down. Twirling into people. Twirling and making me dizzy. You get the picture. And that wasn’t the only line we were in. There was also a line to walk through the mall. I didn’t notice at first, but then when the family in front of us stopped short right in front of The Gap, I realized we couldn’t walk around them. It was too crowded. We got into a thirty person pile up because Susie Glitter Shoes and her mom were discussing if they should go in and look for something for her cousin Adrianna. (I’m not sure of the spelling of Adrianna, but the fact that I know her cousin’s name should be enough. Too much even.) “Maybe a vest or a scarf?” Mom asks, as Dad eyeballs The Great American Cookie Company. He’s been there before, I can tell. I really wanted to suggest they step into the store to decide. Because going in isn’t a contractual obligation to purchase, you know. I was even considering taking the dad to the cookie place with us, if they’d just get out of the way because that’s where we were headed anyway. But luckily I thought twice before saying, “I’ll take your husband, if you’ll let us by.”

We purchased our cookies and began the long odyssey back to the van. I was worried both of the girls would have a birthday or two before we made it, but we got there in thirty minutes flat. I auctioned off our parking spot for twenty bucks, and vowed to never return to the mall again.

Limited Choices

I hope all of you voted yesterday; I did. Sadly we didn’t get to try again with the President thing; I feel like four years is pretty optimistic in light of current national problems, but no one asked me. I did get to vote for Senator, House Representative, Sheriff, judges, and even the super-important office of Soil and Water District Conservation Supervisor. The only thing stranger than that being an elected position is that there was more than one person who wanted to do it. Who aspires to something like that? Is it people who spent their childhoods playing in the mud and just can’t get enough of it, or is Soil and Water District Conservation Supervisor a stepping stone to The White House?

And how is that two people were running for that office and only one person wanted to be District Attorney? I can’t speak to the glamour involved in the Soil and Water office, but based on the four hundred seasons of Law&Order I’ve seen, I think D.A. is a fairly prestigious and exciting job and it seems like more people would want to do it. I, for one, was kicking myself for not running against that guy. Granted I don’t have a law degree or any actual experience, but I’ve read the complete works of John Grisham and if that doesn’t qualify me for District Attorney, I’d be shocked.

There was also a proposed state constitutional amendment wherein no ex-felons could become sheriff, and we were either for or against that. Seems like a pretty obvious choice to me; I don’t want felons out there arresting people. I thought that would be a unanimous decision, but then woke up today to find the election results showed over 300,000 voters would like the option of a felon sheriff. Really? I went to Google for answers.

Apparently, some people were against this because they don’t like adding things on to the constitution willy-nilly, and felt there was no need for this amendment. Maybe, maybe not. If you look at the types of people Americans are electing these days, putting Sheriff Reformed Felon in office doesn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility. I mean, have you heard Joe Biden speak? He had to pick up some of that language in the joint and you know it. (Other people were just against the amendment because they think a felonious sheriff will be more forgiving of the crimes they’re planning to commit, and I suppose if I were a criminal, I would’ve voted that way, too.)

And since I fulfilled my voting responsibility yesterday, I didn’t feel the need to fulfill any others. Like, I don’t have to make dinner, I voted today. I’m not one to burden myself with too many tasks in one day. Vacuuming can seem like overkill when I’ve already showered, brushed my teeth, and driven the kids to school. Speaking of adding on random amendments, can we put something on there about skinny jeans and who can and cannot wear them?

The Silence Of The Preseason Shoppers

I have had not one, but TWO friends tell me they’re done with their Christmas shopping! I know what you’re thinking; I need to get some new friends. I’m working on it. But, in the meantime, the ones I have are making me feel really behind. The first time someone claimed this completion, I ignored it. One overachiever doesn’t need to upset the balance of my laid back lifestyle, but the second time gave me pause and I conducted an impromptu interview of the friend in question, trying to isolate and study the mutated gene of foresight and planning that I do not possess. It was kind of like when Clarice Starling interviewed Hannibal Lecter so she could get into the mind of a psychopath and see what makes him tick. But with less discussion of what wines go best with the human liver.

She said that she starts buying gifts the day after one Christmas in preparation for the next, and then she just picks up things “here and there” throughout the course of the next calendar year and is usually finished by the end of summer or early fall. She just happened to notice that Christmas comes around again every year and rolled with it. Well, I’ve noticed that everyone eventually dies but I’m not out shopping for burial plots right now. But maybe these are the kind of people you want evaluating your retirement portfolio or something. Come to think of it, if my husband didn’t put money into that 401K thingy, I might have a little cash to participate in all of this preemptive Christmas shopping that’s all the rage.

I decided I could at least write out a list of who we need to buy presents for this year. And I thought I’d use that list to jot down some preliminary gift ideas, but actually all I’ve done is cross people’s names off because they’ve irritated me in some way or another. The way things are going the only person who’s going to be left on the list in two months is my grandma and, at age 86, all she’s into is warm socks and Pond’s cold cream. That seems pretty doable at the last minute. Overall, I think the less time my family has where they could potentially be moved to a naughty list, the better.

But while I’m not much of a gift planner, I’m very into the decorating. I think Christmas lights make the whole world a brighter place. I only wait until Thanksgiving Day to get ours out because I have this innate fear that the social-norm police will show up and give me a citation for off-season light displaying. And if the social-norm police ever show up here, I’ll have lots of explaining to do. Maybe not as much as Hannibal Lecter when his freezer was raided, but still.

So, I didn’t buy any Christmas gifts when I was Target today. I bought a couple of pumpkin scented candles instead because it seems like we’re going to go ahead and have fall and Thanksgiving first again this year.

A Shot In The Dark

I knew there would be tears yesterday; that’s expected when you take three little kids to get their flu shots. However, I wasn’t expecting both my mom and I to end up laughing so hard at the kids that we were crying, too. Even looking back, I don’t know how a trip to the pediatrician turned into a Comedy Central special, but it did.

First let me say that I don’t know what the protocol is for telling your kids they’re going to get a shot. Do you warn them a week in advance? A day? How about 15 minutes prior to departure when they ask why they need to get their shoes on? I went with option C because my son, six years old, is a pathological dreader, and the more time he has to worry about something, the worse that thing becomes in his mind. Like if he gets in trouble and I say “I’m gonna tell your dad about this when he gets home,” if that’s twenty minutes from then, he’s a little anxious, but still functioning normally. But, if it’s going to be another five hours before my husband gets home, then my son has his bags packed for the orphanage and a copy of his last will and testament in his hands. Thus the short notice on the flu shot.

Well, I was shocked at the level of frenzy he managed to work himself into in a mere quarter of an hour. The wailing began before I even put the punctuation on the sentence telling him where we were going. By the time I wrangled him into the van, a la goat herder, he was acting crazy enough to qualify for government assistance. And this is the juncture where I should point out that his four year old twin sisters were fine. One of them was smiling and fairly pleased with the opportunity to get out of the house, the embodiment of “no fear”, and the other one was only concerned enough to have a slight chin quiver, but no actual resistance.

Fast forward fifteen ear-piercing minutes and we’re in the waiting room, garnering looks of pity from other patients who are just glad they don’t have whatever my son has, which unbeknownst to them is only a lethal case of trepidation. The nurse came and escorted us to the room in the back where the shots were going to be administered and that whole scene was like something straight out of Dead Man Walking or The Green Mile. Really, if for whatever horrible reason my son is ever sentenced to execution, I’m quite certain his walk to the death chamber won’t be any more terrifying than the 50 foot march he was subjected to yesterday.

Mom and I finally lost it when all three kids were lined up on the table awaiting the executioner. I was signing that release that asks if they’ve been sick in the last two weeks – No. If they’re allergic to chicken or eggs – No, though I’d love to see that validated by my son actually eating eggs. And the last question “Is anyone in the household pregnant?” – No, but, wait, what kind of shot poses a threat if just someone in the house is pregnant? Does the recipient of the shot emit some kind of harmful radiation post-injection? Is that why my son was frightened beyond words? I looked up and saw that my son had his fingers hooked on his bottom jaw, like he was auditioning for a Scooby-Doo movie and screaming like he was engulfed in flames. He wasn’t. He was however about to cause permanent hearing damage for everyone within a ten mile radius. Beside of him sat two little girls, all dressed in pink, swinging their feet back and forth and smiling while protecting their own ears by covering them with their little hands. I never have the video camera when I really need it.

The twins went first. One of them barely whimpered when they injected her because she’s made of tough stuff, possibly oxidized steel and duct tape. But, when they were done and it was Scooby’s turn, he started begging for his life, literally throwing himself on the mercy of the court. In the span of thirty seconds, he said the following: “Can I just come back tomorrow? I won’t do it! Get away from me!” and here’s where it took a dramatic turn “It’ll kill me! I’ll die!” Mom and I, not having access to horse tranquilizers or a straight jacket, had to restrain him with all of our strength while he got the shot. Which, for the record, is not the same as being shot, though he didn’t seem to grasp that.

When we got him off the table, he started limping out of the room. Full-on dead leg hobble, refusing to even set that foot on the ground. His sisters were giggling and racing out to the van. It was hilarious, even the nurse was laughing at that point.

I’m pretty sure I’ll just risk him getting the flu next year, unless a nurse can be dispatched to my home in the middle of night to administer the shot as he’s sleeping. And let me just say, he’s got nothing left in the reaction arsenal for when encounters an actual crisis. Broken bones, masked intruders, plagues of locusts; I won’t know. Because his screams and emotions couldn’t possibly be more potent than when he was six and got a flu shot. And I will be saving this story for when his younger sisters need to pull it out and level future playing fields.

Holidays I Skip

My mom left a message on our answering machine yesterday to remind us that it was Grandparent’s Day. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we can wait and celebrate when I come down there on Wednesday.” Sure, and while we’re at it, let’s start celebrating Arbor Day, and Washington’s birthday, and Columbus Day. I mean, at least Christopher Columbus discovered America (well, not really, but that’s another blog for another day). All grandparents did was have children that got pulled into the same vicious cycle of parenting as them. And those marketing tyrants over at Hallmark decided to capitalize on this common coincidence. But, how dare them try to shove another greeting card obligation down our throats! I saw on the Today show last week that the mark-up on cards is like 200%. So, their money-lust really should be satisfied by all the birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day cards we buy. I remember one year when my kids got Easter cards in the mail and my initial reaction was “What sucker bought them Easter cards?” Their grandparents, of course.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not completely against the idea of cards. I got some that I really loved for my birthday this year. But they’ve gone on to that big American Greeting Graveyard in the sky. Cards at my house have about a four day shelf life, which is still a much higher survival rating than they get with my brother. He opens and reads cards above his garbage can to expedite their disposal. Even if they warm his heart or make him laugh, they’re read and gone. Because he’s a practical guy and he has never seen any point in holding onto things like that. I don’t know what the opposite of a pack rat is, a smart cookie maybe, but that’s him. And every time I see one of those Oprah specials about hoarders, I’m reminded of the superiority of this way of thinking. I know his grandchildren will appreciate it when they don’t have to dig their inheritance out of 40 tons of mildewed sentimental refuse. They’ll also appreciate not feeling obligated to send him said sentiments.

On a related note, I’m not a big fan of the written thank-you cards either. To me it’s just Emily Post legalism, plain and simple. If I say thank-you when I get a gift from you, or you do something nice for me, why the big charade over mailing a note? It’s like saying, “I’m so thankful I’m wasting postage.” Can’t we just get by on the verbal gratitude? I got a thank-you text the other day and I loved it. I was like “And thank you, friend, for saving me a trip to the trash can.”

I'm not sure what Mom wants or expects for Grandparent’s Day. Clearly, I can’t afford gifts because I had three kids! I suppose I could make a cake, mostly because I’m always looking for an excuse to eat cake. I could probably loan her the grandchildren in question for a day, or a week, or even a half a month. That seems like an appropriate gift for the occasion, does it not? All I know is that if she’s hoping for some greeting cards, she better not be holding her breath.