Aselin

If You Had Doubts, We Are White Trash

2012-02-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

We have three teenagers living under our roof right now. Four, if you are not calculating by actual age, but three who by standard definitions are classified as teenagers. If the messy rooms, sleeping during the day and giant consumption of pudding didn't clue you in to that fact, the target on the front of our house would soon tip our hand: we were recently toilet papered.

Kudos to the attackers, this was not a meager job. Someone's parents shop at Costco. Early Saturday morning when I beheld the handiwork I actually gaped, yes gaped at the volume of triple ply that decorated our yard.

Now I am not against toilet papering per se, I understand it's a rite of passage to both perpetrate and be victimized by the practice but I do have an opinion that I do think the general population should share. (I know you know I think ALL of my opinions should be shared by the general population, but this one is really good and surprisingly sane.)

Toilet paper should only be administered as high as the perpetrator can reach. NO throwing the roll up over a homeowner's 95 foot high trees despite how strong your throwing arm is.

Our front yard is full of extra large citrus trees. Citrus that used to be a commercial grove so they are really big. And this particular morning they were covered stem to stern with toilet paper.

Lucky for me I have kids.

Stop laughing.

Again, lucky for me I have kids - so I rouse the little beauties from their teenage slumber-comas and send them to the yard to collect. My kids are fairly good workers, BUT this was embarrassing, front yard work. People would SEE them. Their friends would SEE them. How humiliating it would be for their friends to see them with armfuls of toilet paper. We collected over three large trash bags of toilet paper.

I regret I didn't take photos.

Here's the net of why you should be glad you don't live by us:

A) Unnamed child #1 remarked multiple times to me and the other kids that they were impressed with the quality of toilet paper used in the attack. Not the volume, mind you, but the actual quality, even rubbing some against their cheek at one point.

B) We couldn't (read: didn't) clean it all up. Some of it was WAY too high and would have required a commercial ladder to pick it down. So of course, we left it.

It wasn't much, but against the citrusy green, the strips of white did stand out. For a couple of weeks.

Some neighbors already dislike us because we were the first ones to not seed for a winter lawn a few years ago. Now, only one guy on our street still does it. We are like a cancer of sub-standard landscaping spreading throughout the land. Liberating, but not pretty. Now those same neighbors plus more dislike us for further adding to the blight and leaving copious amounts of toilet paper waving in the Arizona wind.

Of course, I think no one sees it, or like the dust in my living room, I think no one notices. But everyone does.

Everyone.

How everyone? Well, yesterday hubby tells me that one of our friends, mother of young children who drives by often, was lamenting that their house was out of toilet paper when her toddler says, "Mommy, we can go get it from that house that grows it on their trees."

Snow White IS Friendlier than Babies

2012-01-05T06:45:00.000-08:00

Kids.

I know there is a good reason people have them, but at this exact moment I'm blanking.

We are invited to an annual New Year's Day party with some long time friends. It's a wonderful afternoon of food, friendship and hardcore games particularly Apples to Apples. You know how intense Apples to Apples can get. And yes, Andrew, I still think Snow White is friendlier than babies. I was robbed and the grudge will be nurtured all year until I can reclaim my rightful green card from your biased spiteful hands that have not yet had a baby to see how unfriendly they are. Particularly in the plural - babies are much less friendly than baby and the card said babieS. Snow White breaks in, cleans your house, makes dinner and sings songs. No baby I have ever heard of does that. If they did, I would have had more.

See how competitive Apples to Apples is?

Babies, why did I have them again? Everyone who has a baby knows they are not friendly. They might have some cute factor but mostly they poop and pee and puke. Then, supposedly they grow out of that and just want the car keys, food and money. So, underscoring my point, babies are not friendly and the teenagers they grow into are also not friendly. Snow White... she is friendly.

And imaginary.

The Ring in the New Year with Apples to Apples party, also included Tee pee Mexican food and an unlimited supply of Dilly bars and soda. Let me introduce you to my children: in most settings they behave with respectable decorum and restraint. Most. But throw in some Dilly Bars and a soda and all bets are off.

At the end of the festivities, Unnamed child #3 was lying in the corner under a pile of wooden Popsicle sticks and aluminum cans. If I hadn't seen it before I would not have recognized her, but we were able to upright her burpness and shepherd her into the minivan under strict instructions that nothing was to projectile out of any orifice of her body. Nothing.

We made it home, Hubby talking about his new plans to hike Macchu Piccu, Unnamed #1 trying a new angle to get an iPhone, Unnamed #2 ensconced in a Kindle completely ignoring us and #3's green face pressed up against the minivan window panting and moaning.

We all know I am nothing if I am not efficient. My little family has all sorts of needy demands and over the holiday break repeated requests were made for me to make them chiropractic appointments. If you saw how they wrestled with each other and the puppy you would agree they all need straightening out, but getting to a chiropractor over the holidays can be tricky. Being the efficient genius mom I am, I made Monday morning appointments for our entire clan. Everyone all at once. Only one trip.

Sporty Spice, aka Hubby, gets up rain or shine to train for his next marathon, Grand Canyon in a day climb, or whatever. This morning, being a spanking new year he enlists #3 to jog with him. Off they go with his Garmin strapped on, shoes tied and hope for the future brimming. We can all agree not to like them very much.

Back they return only to be quickly arranged in our little Prius and whisked off to the chiropractic appointments. Efficiently whisked.

Not three minutes down the road, but far from our home, #3 starts reliving their culinary abandon of the previous day combined with a Garmin-measured run. In order to fully appreciate what you know is going to happen you have to know how we were arranged in the Prius for our whisking.

Unnamed #1 was driving, without a license. Sporty Spice was shotgun. Unnamed #2 backseat right, Unnamed #3 backseat left, Me perched on the humpy thing in the middle of the back seat that has a seatbelt but cannot possibly meet the legal requirements of being a seat. Especially when a woman of average size can use the ceiling to steady herself with the crown of her head on the ceiling and gripping the metal bars of the headrests on the front seats, legs straddling the hump in the floor eerily reminiscent of a gyno visit, as her teenager swerves wildly down the road to the chiropractor. All of you with Prius' - Californians and Seattle residents, look in the back of your Prius and feel my pain.

So Unnamed #3 starts moaning, and gyrating. I ask the requisite questions: "Are you going to barf? Do you need us to pull over?" Framed with the compassionate, "You better not Dilly Barf all over me!"

Unnamed #3 can't commit to the evasive action we should take and says to keep going only to have the next action be a dry heave. I tell Unnamed #1 to get off at the next exit as Unnamed #3 starts to erupt. To their credit, it wasn't Vesuvius, it was more Kilauea. Not a projectile eruption but more a lava flow. Of barf. In a small car filled to the legal capacity.

I'm calling to the front for SOMETHING to contain the barf. My minivan has bags and napkins and all sorts of provisions for children's various eruptions. The commuter car has an empty CD case, some golf tees and a bunch of loose change. And yes, I thought of stuffing the loose change in their mouth to see if I could plug the hole.

So in the barf induced panic, Sporty Spice removes his baseball cap and hands it back to #3. Immediately it is catching the lava flow of barf which seems to be less restrained now that we have a containment item. The unfortunate thing is the containment item ball cap was full of ventilation holes so essentially she was using the cap to strain her barf onto her lap.

Nummy.

The sad thing is, Unnamed #3 didn't even need the lecture. After the eruption ended she popped right in to "I know, I know, I shouldn't eat that much junk and soda."

They almost raise themselves!

I wish I was in a car with Snow White...

Manscaping

2012-01-01T20:39:00.000-08:00

Recently I had a bit of unsupervised time to myself. Yeah, not good.

Puttering around convalescing from a brief illness and the obligatory quarantine I was going a bit stir crazy. I don't like to be trapped, and trapped in a house with only laundry to keep me company makes a girl a little antsy. Yes, there was plenty to do, but I wasn't physically up to it, so all I could do was stare at my disordered desk, dusty picture frames and furry carpet with disdain.

Illness messes with my mind. I suppose it does everyones, but I have a really hard time accepting the fact that I can't go on with my normal life while the nature of things takes its course. Fine you say, no one likes to be sick. Yes, I know, but I don't just dislike it, I drag out the drama and start talking to inanimate objects like Tom Hanks in Castaway. It's really not healthy, even for a sick person.

So there I am, wasting away brain cell by sane brain cell when I decide I can't take it anymore. I lurch out of my bed and ensconce myself in my hot pink robe and head to the bathroom where I behold myself in all my Barbie glory. After a moment I have to lean in to make sure it's as bad as my reflection is telling me. My whole face is ashen, swollen and my eyes are bloodshot. At first I look behind me to make sure Lindsay Lohan has not stumbled into my bathroom, but no, it's all me. I stick out my tongue - since that's what they have you do in all the movies when you're sick, and even my tongue is ugly.

I run some cold water and bury my face in the puddle I've collected in my chubby man-hands hoping some of my swelling will erode. Slowly looking up into the mirror, now I'm just a drippy, swollen bloodshot mess, only now I can see - I've got Bride of Frankenstein gray streaks through my temples too. Beauty.

I've always had a bunch of wiry gray hairs scattered through my hair, but they've yet to have a convention and of course this is a particularly good day to do so. I contemplate my generally accepted strategy of pulling them out and realize that the giant bald spots they would leave would not be an improvement so I just give up and start heading back to bed accepting that I will likely die soon so I shouldn't worry anymore.

Halfway back to bed a thought hits me... I've been unsuccessfully making hubby "tint" his hair for years. It wasn't because I didn't like his hair, it was because we both hated it when people asked if I was his daughter and a little tint seemed to mitigate the rate at which that question was popped. The problem was, he hated doing it and so he would tint, and then grow his hair out 5 inches, get it cut and tint it again. Tinting every seven months is not a good strategy if you are maintaining an image and so I finally gave up. Suddenly, the thought that hit me was he still has a bunch of boxes of "Just For Men" hair dye in his vanity.

My own vanity grabs me by the neck and I rummage through his man-stuff fishing out a couple boxes. Sprawled across the bathroom sink I've got my options and their instructions. There is some medium brown, dark brown and one that is particularly interesting to me: "sideburns, mustache and beard" dye. All of the packaging says it targets the gray, takes only 5 minutes and makes the user look appealing to others.

Since my appearance right now would make a badger vomit, that idea sounded good to me. Now my problem is which one to use, and the bigger question: is man hair the same as lady hair? I think it is, but how would I tell? Usually the Internet is the source of all wisdom, but I'm too weak to look it up and apparently delirious enough to throw caution to the wind. That and my plan B was to color each strand with a brown Sharpie, which will take a lot longer than the 5 minutes this says it will take.

Stroking the side of my head I decide that my gray temple hair, were it cut short enough, would be a sideburn so I should probably use the sideburn, mustache and beard box. It has a lot of instructions, and mixing up but I figure if it just targets the gray then I'm gonna be fine.

Right?

Right.

Using the poorly constructed plastic glove they include - side note, why does it have to be a plastic glove made from sandwich bag material. Are springy gloves THAT expensive and hard to find? I know it's a $5 box of men's mustache dye, but really? - I smear the concoction on my "sideburns" combing it in to the ends and effectively making myself look like I have a mullet held in place with an inappropriate amount of hair gel. We know from previous trips to the waxing salon that I didn't have a mustache anymore, so I didn't use the entire tube and was excited I would have enough for a second application 6 weeks from now.

Because this process is an intricately timed endeavor I need to go check a clock. I waddle back to my bedroom where Unnamed Child #1 has wandered in. Our eyes meet and immediately she knows something is up.

"Mooooom?" she says in a very accusatory tone.
"Yep" I nonchalantly reply.
"Whaaaat arrrre yooooou doing?"
"Dying my hair."
"With what?"

Now, for some reason, and I really can only blame the fact that I was near death with sickness, I had the box in my hand. So, like Vanna White, I lift the box and with my other hand highlight my reading skills: "Just For Men Sideburns, Mustache and Beard 5 minute dye."

if you have never seen a teenager flip out, and you want to, I suggest you use Just for Men Sideburns, Mustache and Beard dye in front of them.

The screaming made me get a gut laugh, and she started saying there was no way she could be more embarrassed by me, and what was wrong with me, and how could I, and she would make this her Facebook status if she wasn't so embarrassed by me.

"I'm siiiick" I say, hoping she will feel sorry for me, or finally realize my brilliance that she's been ignoring.

It didn't work.

"HOW COULD YOU? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU CRAZY?"

My 5 minutes was up, so I couldn't answer her and headed dutifully to the shower.

While I admit I was swollen, and bloodshot and a bit delirious from the medications, I think I look awesome. I am totally doing this until my husband's stash of unused hair dye runs out.

When I shared my awesome brilliance with her, my hairdresser simply said, "Yeah, I could tell. Don't do that again."

Yeah right. I have half a tube left and lady hair is just like man hair. If you don't look too closely.

Growing Up

2011-12-30T07:52:00.000-08:00

As our little family travelled home after our Christmas celebration I was marveling at how far we had come. I watched harried, stressed parents lug strollers, car seats, diaper bags, and a herd of infants and small children through the airport I was so grateful we had passed that stage. Each of our three children had packed and were pulling their OWN suitcase through the airport. It was an amazing feat, especially for the type of "vacation" we celebrated.

Because I was not in charge of picking, we travelled to glorious Yellowstone National Park, which was a not-so-glorious 12 degrees.

Unlike other vacations, because our children have grown into relatively independent people who manage their own poop, change their own clothes and occasionally brush their own teeth we transitioned from me managing five people, to me counseling five people and then letting them suffer the consequences of their inattention to that counsel. We did have a few exchanges that made me want to whap certain of them on the back of the head such as: "I didn't pack the thermal underwear you set out for me because I didn't think I needed it." and I don't want to wear that parka, it's not "cute."

Fortunately, 12 degrees had a way of getting my point across better than I did.

We survived the whole ordeal, I mean vacation, with all our limbs intact and no one suffering hypothermia - most importantly me.

And now, we were on our way back to sunny, warmer Arizona. As we readied for our flight I counseled the kids on how and what to pack and where to pack it. I admit, the whole travel "security" thing is absolutely ridiculous. Confiscating hair gel and tweezers, removing our shoes, patting down grandma... I have never felt so safe.

The kids has purchased some souvenirs of the trip: keychains, magnets, and a laser-engraved pocket knife with their name spelled correctly. In our family it's a rarity to find any pre-made item with our names on it. Despite the impossibility of Disneyland having a magnetic license plate with Aselin on it, I still spent my childhood searching every kiosk I passed. I had to settle for a vandalized Vaseline container with the V and the E colored in blue. Lest you slip into a state of unseemly jealousy because your only personalized childhood collectable did not contain an ancient, well-used container of V - aselin - E, I did also have a book my grandparents ordered with a giraffe named Nilesa (hold it up to a mirror) who got into mildly entertaining antics. Now I know you want to be me.

You can't.

Sad for you.

So back to the airport. I was watching these families try and navigate the very poorly designed security checkpoint laden like pediatric pack mules and I empathized as well as swelled with pride that we were passed that stage in life and my kids were all self sufficient and packed their own stuff. Unnamed child #2 was particularly conscientious and asked if they had to remove their ipod, camera and rechargers for them to inspect. Being the expert I am, I assured them those items could remain in their Buzz Lightyear carry-on backpack.

Going through the security station all five of us took off our jackets, de-shoed, removed computers, and somehow made it through the naked scanner (A side note, I don't believe a single thing they tell you about the naked scanner. The amount of radiation you're exposed to, the "fact" that they can't see who you are, store or send the images - dealing with the caliber of TSA worker I do believe they can't figure out how to do those things but I do not believe the capability does not exist) and were coming out the other side when the conveyor belt stopped. Uh oh.

A rather androgynous person's presence was requested by the scanner manner, and they poured over the screen pointing rather animatedly. With a unanimous nod, the conveyor was restarted and the "person" reached in and grabbed the Buzz Lightyear carry-on backpack asking aloud, "Whose is this?"

Poor Unnamed child #2 raises their hand and follows the "person" over to a searching station. I feel a little bad since maybe I'm not the expert I thought I was and they should have removed their ipod...oh who am I kidding. I didn't think that. I thought - this will be a good experience for them and I hope their grandparent's visit Salt Lake City federal prisons since it's a little out of my way.

The Buzz Lightyear carry-on backpack has the capacity of an average cantaloupe. It's a small bag, yet the search goes on, and on, and on. That kid had the thing PACKED. There was all kinds of gum, granola bars, trash, Yellowstone maps, Rubik's cubes

They stood there with the security guard saving all of us from terrorist Buzz Lightyear lovers. Finally, after all of us had completely re-robed, the violating item was discovered. A KNIFE!!!

I looked at the kid with the mother stinky eye and said, "WHAT??? We talked about packing knives through security - and really? A KNIFE???"

Unnamed Child #2 looked completely perplexed and embarrassed at the same time. They assured me they had completely forgotten about the knife their cousin had given them. In Unnamed Child #2's defense, the knife was smaller than my thumb and would have had trouble opening an envelope let alone taking over an airplane - but never fear, the friendly skies were safer that day as another kindle-reading absentminded teenager was prevented from traveling with a knife they didn't remember they had. Whew.

Don't tell anyone, but I did NOT turn off my cell phone for departure so I was ready to dial 911 in case any other hazardous dangers made it through the checkpoint.

"Stronger"

2011-12-23T06:49:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention that some of my recent posts might be a little "stronger" than readers are used to. That was not the exact word that was used but I want to be gentle. We all know I cannot afford to offend even one of my four readers, and I certainly don't want to frighten anyone by letting them peek into my tiny brain so now, having felt like I purged my entire writer's block by venting a bit more "strongly" than usual, we will return to our normal programming.

Oh, and sorry I used the word crap.

OK, not really.

What I Learned Along the Way

2011-12-16T06:52:00.000-08:00

I know it has been hard for everyone to miss, with all the fanfare and pageantry, but today I graduate from college.

This journey has been a long, convoluted road that started out with a plan, turned into a principle and ended up with me banging my head against a table.

Education in America has completely changed since I started my formal university education waaaay back in 1987. Heck, education in its current format would be completely unrecognizable to most of our founding fathers. Periodically I receive e-mail exams from the 1800's or early 1900's that no average American could pass today. Things that were considered basic skills not too long ago.

I think where we went wrong is offering "free" education to everyone. Education doesn't matter to most students anymore. Sit in any high school classroom and you will find a good half of them bored, unmotivated and uninterested. Lots of students can't meet basic standards and demonstrate basic skills. A high school diploma doesn't mean much in the real world anymore.

Because of that we all started going off to college. In my household it was assumed the kids (my sister and me) would go to college. So we did. I LOVED it, the whole college experience was created just for me. I had amazing instructors I can still remember even all these years later, and exhilarating moments of learning that can only be described as spiritual experiences. It was then I developed a cursory understanding and passion for quantum physics; I finally understood calculus; I learned basic writing skills I should have learned in high school and I got a bad grade in Public Speaking.

Then my plan was derailed and I had to drop out.

Fast forward a bunch of years and I return as an adult to the newfangled Online Education.

A vehicle where outdated material and inaccessible instructors ask students to regurgitate facts and ideas for a high price. No skills were honed, I was chastised more than once for trying to sound smart, and some of my political ideas - while requested by the assignment - did not mesh with the instructors and earned low marks. I suffered math classes with incorrect formulas, history classes with incorrect texts in the syllabus, instructors grading assignments against the wrong answer keys and a myriad of unacceptable and dare I say, unethical happenings.

I have pondered a couple of things in preparation for today.

Was it all worth it? Quite frankly, I don't know. What I received was not an enriching education. As of today I do have a piece of paper that may make it easier to get a job. So that is good and likely worth it.

What did I learn? I learned that we love to create bureaucracy. It doesn't matter where, but humans seem to make bureaucracy wherever they congregate. It defies logic, common sense and all of our preferences, but that doesn't seem to stop us. Over and over I heard, "you are right, but I can't do anything about it."

It doesn't seem to matter what we do, we set up organizations and then have people interface with the customer who have NO authority to do anything. The very last class I took was an economics class. For my final exam the school had a policy that all the assignments had to be graded before you could take the final. This was the course where they had been grading my assignments against the wrong answer key, so once I got that corrected, I was done with their arbitrary timeline.

Standing in the testing center requesting my final exam to a young student employee, we went the bureaucratic rounds. She finally, and I don't feel one bit bad about this, burst into tears and said she could get fired for requesting my final before the assignments were graded. I climbed up partway on the desk and with steam coming from my ears bullied my way through the stupid bureaucracy, took the exam, marched into the parking lot and burst into my own tears.

Sadly, even though this was the end of my University education, this will not be the end of my interface with stupidity. Every form of government, customer service, kid's schools - doesn't matter, someone has implemented rules the person talking to you can't get around. Rules to "protect you" that somehow have turned us all into people who completely understand the woman in front of us in line beating the clerk with her purse.

Hopefully I will get a few blog posts out of those beatings.

There Ought to be a Law

2011-12-14T23:16:00.000-08:00

Recently my sister moved to Arizona. Not having lived by family before, I wasn't sure how this was going to work out. Much to her credit, she is not as weird as I remember from our childhood and has not wandered the streets topless or peed her pants once since arriving. (Both true stories from childhood that I may or may not have caused.)

So I have lived here 12 years and know about 15 people. Six of them acknowledge me when we accidentally run into each other in public. She has lived here a month and has a social calendar that would rival Halle Berry. She has had parties at her house and gone to parties every weekend and even some weeknights since she moved here. I can't say I'm jealous, because a) she's my little sister and that violates The Sibling Code and b) I don't really like parties much BUT one does like to be invited. Don't we?

Tuesday night, 'lil sis goes out to a cookie exchange. Who doesn't like a good cookie exchange. It's an excellent format for a party. Bring some of your yummy stuff and go home with a bunch of other people's good stuff. And it's EDIBLE! I'm all about free food.

Props to Sis because she generously figured out how to bring a guest, leave with extra platters of cookies and right after the party she delivered a giant platter of Christmas goodness to me! Gotta say, I would totally invite her to a party if I had one.

I'm looking over this gift from Heaven as it sits on my kitchen counter and I'm planning how I'm going to divvy up these delicacies among my family. You can probably guess that it is not going to be an equitable distribution. It's much more socialistic with me as the head dictator and the one with the greatest need.

I dictated to my minion that they were welcome to all the chocolate varieties - the chocolate chips, chocolate mallows, chocolate drizzles. Lest you get the wrong idea, and think I'm being magnanimous, I don't really like chocolate much. I was planning on having ALL the other cookies. The snicker doodles, gingerbread, pumpkin, and a divine looking fluffy sugar cookie with red sprinkles on top.

While this plan works with most of the fam, there are a few of them who would like to venture outside the chocolate parameters I have set and try a few other selections. This is highly frowned upon, especially before I have had a chance to peruse the non-chocolate stash I have amassed. I'm sitting in bed Wednesday night thinking about the platter of cookies, and think that if my children are anything like I was as a kid, they will try and get up in the middle of the night and eat all of my cookies. They would then blame it on each other and finally settle on the dog as the one who unwrapped the platter and ate only the non-chocolate cookies.

Of course, I can't fall victim to this plan; it would probably ruin Christmas. So without hearing so much as a clatter, I spring from my bed to consume sugar-matter.

Sorry, had to riff a little on 'Twas the Night.

Pattering down the hall toward the kitchen I get my heart set on the fluffy-looking sugar cookies. Turning on the oven light so I don't awaken anyone who might want to share, I peel back the plastic wrap and deeply inhale the cornucopia of freshly baked goodness.

I lift one of the fluffy-looking sugar cookies and it is so moist it crumbles a little to my touch. My heart skips a beat as I realize it's a delicate baked good, and I love it even more.

I break off a bite-sized piece and gently place it in my mouth, waiting for it's buttery goodness to melt into bliss...

...and then I gag, and choke a little and run to the sink to spit it out clawing at my tongue as it burns.

Not only is this cookie deceptive in its self-promotion, whoever made it should not be allowed to cook. Ever again. Ever.

Far from a fluffy, delicate sugar cookie, the baker - no, The Evil Poisoner - had put peppermint extract in the recipe. A whole cup. It was bitter with peppermint. So minty it was like 45 million Altoids were crushed up and put in one cookie. It was so unbelievably bad I was shocked at how bad it was. I'm typing with my pupils dilated and my mouth wide open I'm still so shocked.

Crushed, I bit the head off a gingerbread man and went to rebrush my teeth.

Fast forward to the next morning. I'm with my sister and say to her "Hey, did you try the cookie with the red sprinkles yet?"

She and her party-attending companion both made gagging motions and said they had thrown them out they were so bad. I mention that I had suffered neurological burns from the trauma of the poison peppermint cookie. We then started to talk about all the reactions people were having in the privacy of their own homes because of these horrible, awful, deceitful cookies. How if you fed one to a child they might have a seizure it was so spicy and bitter. I told my sister if I was ever in the presence of poison peppermint cookie baker that I wanted her pointed out. People need to be warned. She needs to be banned from potlucks, church socials and definitely cookie exchanges. Banned. She can bring napkins and watch the other people exchange cookies.

Really people. If you want to be invited to lots of parties here's a tip: TASTE YOUR CRAP BEFORE YOU INFLICT IT ON OTHER PEOPLE. WE KNOW YOU BROUGHT THOSE COOKIES AND WE WILL BE MAD FOR A LONG, LONG TIME BECAUSE OF THEM.

This is the stuff grudges are made of.

I Left the House...

2011-12-14T22:03:00.000-08:00

Normally this time of year, I do my very, very, very (sorry Mr. Heller former English teacher who disallowed the use of the word very in his class) best to avoid places where people go. Common, fun places most people love, like the mall. I do everything in my power to avoid the mall, especially now when all the rest of humanity is headed toward the mall.

I'm not so good with people, especially large, aimless, wandering crowds of people. They make me hyperventilate and get cranky because there is nothing efficient about mall people. (Sorry if you are a mall person, but I would still avoid you this time of year because if you are a mall person you are inefficient. )

So today, I need something at Target. Target is not the mall. It's a nicely laid out store where you can get in, get what you want and get out very quickly. Efficient people like Target. List people like Target.

Armed with my list I enter my local Target and sweep through the store in a efficiency fairy-like manner. People around me were impressed with my shopping efficiency; I think some of them wanted to be me.

I choose a lane to check out with a 20ish man-checker. Man-checkers totally get efficient shopping. They don't want to chat, they look at the people who have lined up in their lane and see each of us like items on a to-do list they want to check off as quickly as possible. Target man-checker may be my best choice this whole holiday shopping season.

As Target man-checker is working on the order in front of me I start to load my items on the conveyer belt. The problem with "the unload" is once you start, if they open up another lane you're out of luck. You have committed to your lane, and they take the person behind you. I don't worry. I'm in man-checker lane.

You think you know where this is going, don't you?

So as I'm unloading, a perky manager comes over and asks if she can take my hangers. My basket has a lot of clothes on hangers so of course I say yes. In my efficiency-calculating head this is going to work nicely, she will de-hang and I will unload and man-checker will fly through my order like a reindeer.

Perky manager loves my purchases. I cleaned out the clearance rack of boys clothes, and she feels the need to comment on every stinking one as she de-hangs it. She has positioned herself between me and the conveyer belt, and is de-hanging, oohing and ahhing, then neatly FOLDING each of my items. "Ooooh, a solid blue boy's t-shirt and it's only $2! This is fantastic!" Yep, I nod, but inside, I want to rip the hanger from her hand and beat her with it.

I'm trapped. I cannot get to the conveyer belt to unload the rest of my stuff. I cannot get the clothing away from her to de-hang on my own and for some unknown reason man-checker is standing there watching her. Not checking. Watching.

I look at the person behind me in line, who shakes her head at me knowingly. She knows, all my efficiency has been thwarted. Thwarted.

I give up unloading and move ahead of her hoping man-checker will GET TO WORK. It's then that I notice man-checker's wrist-to-elbow bandage wrapped arm. He looks at me and says, "I'm in a terrible amount of pain, sorry, I just needed to rest a moment."

What do you say to that? Man-up man-checker? No, I pretend I'm sympathetic, "What happened?"

"I really don't like to talk about it, but I severed three tendons."

Ahhh, of course. I pick the line with the "helpful" manager and the man-checker with the humiliating tendon severing accident.

Of course, then all I can think about is what sort of tendon accident is too embarrassing to talk about. My mind is aflurry. I'm guessing it involved a trampoline, other people man-checker's age and likely some alcohol. Maybe a skateboard, a trampoline, other man-checker friends and a lot of alcohol. Maybe fireworks, a skateboard, some homemade napalm, a trampoline, a switchblade, man-checker friends, a squirrel and a lot of alcohol and fire. I want to ask SOOO BADLY!!

But it's Christmas.

So I stand quietly in line, as severely injured man-checker tries awkwardly to check out each of my items and get them in a bag. It's so awkward, and he is mostly incapable, that I'm reaching over the counter and bagging my own stuff.

Meanwhile, manager is STILL commenting on my stuff, but to the lady behind me in line. When I notice this, and see that the lady is TOTALLY ignoring her by Facebooking on her phone, yet manager still goes on excitedly about the amazing clearance tshirt I found. I get the giggles.

Of course, both man-checker and manager think I'm laughing at them, which I am, but of course I am not going to admit because I may not be very smart but I'm not completely stupid. I think.

About 75 hours later I'm back safely in my minivan, slowly crossing "Target" off my list.

You Don't See That Everyday

2011-12-13T15:41:00.000-08:00

So the four of you that still check my blog with amazing dedication and regularity are to be commended. If there were a reward, you should totally get it, but I have no idea what kind of reward you should get because in all actuality you have a little streak of crazy in you.

Anyway, as you can tell, I have had a terrible case of writer's block. The writing process for me has traditionally been a conversation in my head I'm having with my imaginary reader. For years it has been a rather seamless endeavor, until this spring. Then, I had a deafening silence. Nothing to say. Certainly nothing interesting to say beyond a two-sentence Facebook post. This brevity has infused my life so deeply that this year I am not even writing the infamous Maloney Christmas letter. As Christmas letters go, I have to confess I have looked forward to it each year as I recap our average little family's foibles, mishaps and adventures. It is so irreverent, I have had people who don't even know us request to be on the list.

This year, I've got nothing. The absurd and interesting seemed to evade me all year.

Until today.

I looked out the window, through the pouring rain at my 9 month old puppy and she had shimmied like a monkey about 4 feet up a palm tree. It took me a second to wrap my brain around what I was seeing. Hugging the trunk of the tree with all fours, she clutched on, then slipped a little and fell backward into the surrounding bushes. She bounced back up onto her feet with such spring I could almost hear her say "I meant to do that!" as if she were looking around to see if anyone was watching.

My dog. Up a palm tree. In the rain. Of course.

Something inside me clicked and it was as if the Universe switched tracks, and all the uninteresting brushed aside and I had to tell you about the dog. Up a palm tree. In the rain.

I have no idea how to get her to do it again, but I think that is the fundamental component of the absurd. It doesn't repeat itself.

I do have confidence that the literal and metaphorical clouds have cleared and whether it's the dog, or the new teenage driver, or the myriad of eclectic that fills my life something interesting will happen tomorrow and I will need to tell you about it.

Reversing My Karma

2011-07-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

I know. I've been bad.

I got lazy, then nothing funny was happening to me. Then, the universe decided to punish me by making REALLY unfunny things happen to me.

When I woke up this morning I was assessing the things I needed to do to stop the trajectory of life-crap accumulation and realized that I needed to get back to writing. Since only four people still check this blog with any consistency, I expect this post will be a shock to you.

To catch all of you up to date, you know those '80s movies that were popular for a while with people like Tom Hanks or Michael Keaton where something goes wrong, and then gets worse, and then when you think it can't possibly get worse - it does. And then after that it gets worse again. And then the most annoying distant relative moves in with them? Well, Everything except the distant relative moving in has happened to me. So I need to somehow put the brakes on the trajectory of my life and start moving in a different direction.

So, naturally I'm moving to Utah and joining a cult. OK, not a real head-shaving Koolaid-drinking cult, but after years of defending my Mormon faith from people who have called it a cult I've been worn down. Worn down by my own people. Those people who work at BYU. I have been trying, and trying, and trying to finish a long-overdue degree. I'm on my last class and clearly, after all these years of education I'm not smart enough to finish a 110 level economics course on my own so I must return to the mothership and see if I can complete my degree.

In order to get permission to do this I had to contact the professor currently administering the Econ 110 lecture. Now, tell me if this doesn't raise an eyebrow or two...he graciously gave me permission to attend his lectures at BYU. All our communication was through his e-mail address which ends in BERKELEY.edu WHAT? My final professor will be a professor visiting BYU from Berkeley? UCLA, CAL Poly, UCSD - I would get all of these, but BERKELEY? Clearly this is going to be GREAT!!!!! If anything just to be listening to this guy field questions from people who will ask things like, "How do I factor in my 10% tithing to the elasticity of demand ratio?" I'm gonna be in the front row.

To here's to my new trajectory. Here's to my #$%^& degree. And here's to some great entertainment sure to give me lots to write about!!

Some Birds are for the Birds

2011-02-22T21:01:00.000-08:00

Today was a pretty big day. I suppose one's perspective can be a little skewed when they're hopped up on cranberry juice and Cipro, but still, it was big for me.

I went to Costco. Anyone who lives in Arizona in the winter knows that locals avoid Costco in the winter like the plague. But I had a list, and I HAD to go. So I venture to that scary part of town just off the freeway where they build Costcos and fight my way through the mass of humanity congregated in the parking lot stowing their three gallons of maple syrup and 17 pounds of kielbasa in various trunks. I can't believe how many people feel they need to shop at Costco - but in the winter...

The snowbirds flock worse than anything Hitchcock could have imagined. Thousands of wandering, aimless seniors with out-of-state license plates and matching t-shirts spend the afternoon at Costco swarming each sample booth like fire ants. If you want to get in, buy some bread and a chicken, you're out of luck. You will have to slalom past countless couples pushing giant cars with one item in them. It's not for the faint of heart.

But, since I am trying again for the Mother of the Year trophy, I attempt to get the list of items the children posted a month ago.

Pushing past people clamoring for a bite sized taste of microwave cheese pizza, I think I've got a shot at getting out in one piece. My fifteen minute list took me over an hour. it was like L.A. rush hour traffic, except in L.A. traffic people know how to drive.

Getting out to my car was like a game of chicken/frogger. People waving me ahead of them and then flooring the gas pedal as I sprinted, stopped, swerved, ducked. Despite the fact that I wore hot pink, I still don't think many of them ever saw me. Collapsing in the driver's seat of safety I gave a heavy sigh of relief and slowly backed out of my space.

Like some sort of velociraptor radar, the movement of my car summoned four different drivers for the spot. Since they were all sure they were first, no one was going to budge. The only problem with this turf war was I was totally boxed in. Of course, the logical solution was for all the other drivers to start honking. I threw up my hands and pulled back into the space. They all had some sort of non-verbal death match until two of them gave up and I was able to back out.

Joy.

Waiting at the light to turn left onto the main road I was thrilled to be out of the parking lot. The light turns green and the car to my right pulls out into traffic. After a rather insightful two days at traffic school (eons ago, of course), I developed the habit of counting two seconds before pulling out into traffic after a red light. I'm sitting there counting and then start to pull out as I suddenly notice - at full, break-neck speed AND slow motion all at the same time - a female specimen of the snowbird variety barreling past the two lanes of stopped traffic THROUGH THE RED LIGHT right at my door.

Shielding my head and bracing for the impact, I leaned to the right and thought, "I'm gonna die!"

There was horrible screeching and then silence. I admit, for a split second I was pretty sure I was dead since I didn't hurt anywhere, and I didn't hear anything. I slowly sat up and there was the snowbird, staring through her windshield right at me - the hood of her car not more than one inch from my door.

Some guy runs out into the street and starts yelling "How did she not hit you? I thought you were dead!"

That makes two of us.

The guy gets the snowbird to back up, and then motions me on. I suppose it's not leaving the scene of an accident if the car doesn't actually make contact with anything. I slowly drive away with more adrenaline pumping through my body than my blood stream knows what to do with. I'm shaking all over and think I peed my pants a little.

All I can say is man, she must have been living right.

Outside The Lines

2011-02-07T07:41:00.000-08:00

Recently an new phenomenon has come into my life: Groupon. At first I was intrigued because the descriptive writing describing the daily product was so absurd I found it wonderfully entertaining. Like today's deal for Floyd's Kitchen:

Adding gourmet ingredients to a meal makes a commonplace activity feel special, much like brushing your teeth with a sparkler or withdrawing money from an ATM while holding it at gunpoint.

Or this one for an artisan craft store:

Bare walls have plenty of advantages: ample surface area for finger painting, an absence of disapproving Churchill posters, and no mirrors reminding you that your hair is on fire.

After reading these daily posts it made me want to work there! Instead, I've just comforted my already overburdened self by purchasing random coupons for things I never knew I needed. But hey, I also never realized the Karmic impact of the absence of Churchill posters in my home. So see? New, Groupon horizons!!

Most of what I have purchased would not surprise any of you - it's been food. OK, I've purchased, and now consumed a lot of food. But, it was at a great price!

Admittedly some of the purchases have been outside my normal fenced area. Off leash sorts of stuff. One recent purchase was for a workout studio. I do work out on my own, but formal, group working out always scare me. So when a friend said "lets go together" of course, I realized there would be safety in numbers.

Ha.

We purchased these Groupons because they held female-only dance workout classes. Weird, eclectic, dance workout classes. Bollywood dancing. Pole dancing. Hula Hooping.

You can see this is not going to end well.

So I register and show up for my first class. The hula hoop class. Walking down a well-lit hallway I'm guided to one of the studio rooms. I crack open the door hoping to spot my friend and am totally confused - it is pitch BLACK. OK, I'm not decrepit old, but hula hooping in the dark is not going to be a good idea.

I can't see a thing and literally grope the wall until I stepped on someone. We both apologized because neither of us could tell whose fault it was that we had collided - and this was during the non-hooping warm up phase.

So I finally crawl to the open spot my friend has saved for me. I join her on the floor and keep whispering my fascinating commentary to her during the stretching warm-up. A hard fact of aging is that responsible old people should stretch before they hula hoop.

Blessedly, the instructor decides to re-think her "hoop in the dark" strategy. She explains that she has designed a space-themed workout for us tonight with our hula hoops and wanted it to be as realistic as possible. Huh? Let me just say, unless I get knocked unconscious by another space-hooper, at no time am I going to think I'm in space and crushing that delusion will just be good for all of us.

She turns the lights on, and I turn to my friend to continue my scintillating running commentary, only to realize, it's not my friend. My friend isn't even in the room. This poor woman next to me actually walked to the other side of the room once the lights came on.

Well, great. More room for me.

I'm blocking off my space with my hula hoops and the instructor gets the class started to a cover version of "Space Oddity". So there I am, trying desperately to get the hoop to orbit my non-existent hips to the space-strains of a Bowie knock-off. I'm bumpin' and grindin' and gyrating myself into some sort of spasmodic sweat. It was awful.

In case you wondered, hula hoops make a HUGE bang when they hit the ground, and mine hit the ground with frustrating regularity. The hooper in front of me starts to giggle as she literally turns around to watch me. The class was moving into more complicated moves...I mean "Planetary orbits" and I can barely keep the hoop going around my waist for three rotations.

I would make a crappy planet.

The hooper in front of me keeps giving me advice. Pretty good advice, but getting my body to do what I pictured in my head was proving impossible. My hooper buddy, is laughing, I'm laughing and then she winks at me. A nice, encouraging wink.

Wait.

She then turns around again and smiles, nods and winks.

Uuuuuuh.

The class is now gyrating rather impressively to "Major Tom" and I've just realized my gravitational pull is stronger than I knew. Strong enough to pull in lesbian hula hoopers. I'm trying not to to be awkward, but Hooper Buddy is staring at me. With her back to the instructor. Staring.

Oh boy.

After what seemed like 4,000 light years, the class ended, and I hung up my hoop. As I was putting on my shoes, Hooper Buddy sat right next to me. Right next.

I scooted a few inches away, and she just scooted after me. She was asking my name, and if I've been there before because she's never seen me there before and wondered if I was taking any other classes (take a breath) and I was a really good hula hooper for a first timer and she's been doing hula hoop since she was a kid and that's why she could help me so much and would I be there for the next hula hoop class (take a breath)...

I couldn't get a word in edgewise, which is probably good because it was a rare moment when I didn't know what to say.

Smiling, I thanked her for her help and said I'd "see ya later" and then sprinted to the car.

Upon reflection, I should not have been so flustered. I got exactly what the Groupon described.

At Least It Wasn't In My Car

2011-02-02T15:16:00.000-08:00

I'm a simple person who is easily entertained...and if you are a faithful reader you know I don't get out much. I have, however, developed a fun little routine that Dog and I play every few weeks when he is out of food.

Dog knows a lot of words: bye bye - he heads for the car. Walk - he grabs his leash. Dinner - he points his paw at his bowl. Puppy - he runs to the window and starts crying (I do too, but that's another post). But by far, my favorite is when I say "Petsmart?" - every hair on his body perks up, he tilts his head and wags half of his body furiously. He knows Petsmart. Rather than sitting in a locked car while his family goes off on an adventure without him - he gets to go INSIDE! He LOVES Petsmart.

Petsmart is where we combine his entire vocabulary into one glorious trip. We go Bye Bye, then we Walk on our leash to the store where we might see a Puppy and buy some Dinner. His joy is full.

So off we go tooling down the street, toward our local Petsmart to purchase some Dinner. He is very polite as we enter the store and promptly starts crying as he sees a cute little gray miniature poodle who won't give him the time of day. I tell him to man up, it won't be the last time he gets dissed by a chick. We parade around the store, saying hello to the fish, adoptable cats and chew toys. He sniffs, and pants and wiggles with canine delight.

Pushing my cart filled with a large bag of Dinner, he stays on the lookout for any opportunity to socialize that he can. Whenever we are in public, people notice him. He is a large, black dog, but he has soft curly hair and looks a bit like a teddy bear. I'm chatting with some women who are interested in his CV when one of the women starts pointing at him. I look down just in time to realize he is dry heaving and was about to change modes to wet heave. He hurls a bright yellow puddle of bile all over the floor in front of the nice ladies. They scatter like 10 cent feed crickets.

Great.

Now, for those of you who are not pet owners, Petsmart has little stations set up throughout the store for "accidents". Normal dogs just pee, but of course mine has to barf. I drag Sir Barfsalot over to the "Accident Station" and gather an armful of weak recycled paper towels, antiseptic spray and plastic bags. Unfortunately they do not provide latex gloves for such occasions, but I suppose that's the punishment I get for owning a dog that leaks.

Approaching the giant puddle of barf, Dog suddenly needs to hurl again. I try and throw towels in his path, but only end up making things worse as some of the barf is repelled by the little pile of crummy towels and splatters all over. Now I turn back to the "Accident Station" to replenish my supplies. As I'm about to tackle the job, a man rounds the corner headed directly for our first puddle of barf. I yell out to warn him, but either he is related to me or very rude since he totally ignores me and rolls all four of his cart wheels through the barf puddle and then slops his loafers through the parts that he missed. Not only is this totally gross, but now he has expanded the contamination zone as his tracks continue a good twenty feet past the original barf pool.

Now I am faced with a defining moment: of course, the original barf puddles are my responsibility, but is the secondary contamination and spreading of said barf also my responsibility? Down on my hands and knees, wrapped to the elbows in plastic bags I'm sopping up barf for what seems like miles. How did I get to be this glamourous???

Of course, Dog is no help, he just sits quietly next to my purse pretending he doesn't know me. Just like my kids.

There Should Always Be A Goat - repost

2011-01-27T07:38:00.000-08:00

I have had terrible writer's block so at the request of my three remaining loyal readers, here is a repost of an earlier piece. Since I barely remember writing it, I figure you will barely remember reading it!
_______________________

“Miss Spellman, please report to the office, your sheep are grazing on the infield.” There was no other “Miss Spellman” at Matilija Junior High, and no one else in middle school raised sheep. Like the socially retarded specimen I was (am) I took this one head on, and didn't live it down. Ever. Someone asked me about it at my recent high school reunion. It was all the goat’s fault. The goat could lift the fence with its horns, coax the entire flock through the gap and lead them on local escapades.

I spent most of my adolescence wondering what was wrong with my family. Normal people adopt rescue animals like dogs and cats. My parents adopted a pygmy goat from a family threatening to kill it, literally. This should have been a clue. “Annie” arrived in her pert little package of a body and shortly took over the barnyard like the seed of Chucky. Goats have a special kind of intelligence that borders on stupid. They will eat anything, climb anything and have little natural self preservation. Their mental operations parallel the intelligence of pubescent boys. And somehow, as a junior high girl I liked both of them.

But both were also completely indifferent to my feelings. The principal watched in annoyance as I phoned home telling my mom I needed permission to leave campus to walk the flock back home. Listening to this humiliating exchange were two boys waiting to be dealt with. I don’t remember their names, I just remember the hot sting of humiliation of being noticed in a way I didn’t want to be noticed. They snickered like Bevis and Butthead, and I remember it to this day.

Why is adolescence universally spent trying to mold ourselves into a mold that doesn’t actually exist? I wanted so badly to be accepted, to be normal, even popular. The reality was, popular girls had regal equine livestock that didn’t escape and drop poo pellets on the soccer field. This undoubtedly is why they were ‘popular’.

Now, in my middle age I realize it’s always better to have some form of goat around. The confident leadership with which Annie commanded our little flock of sheep took them on adventures they never would have had left to their own devices. They tasted a variety of foliage unavailable to them in the confines of their field. They broke into the house, completely decimated the neighbor’s garden, ate a sack of unidentified garden chemicals from the garage, these are the things goat dreams are made of. I suppose that’s a gift: be brave enough to try anything and, when necessary, use your horns.

Magnet of Awkward

2010-12-22T19:55:00.000-08:00

I love the holiday season. I love the sense of unified generosity, the decorations, the Christmas cards - I love it all.

I feel a sense of happy obligation to reach out and help during this season, helping provide Christmas celebrations for the less fortunate, food for the needy and help wherever I can. I am always grateful to those who make this easier for me. Food drives at the grocery store, gift trees at the mall and the ubiquitous Salvation Army Bell Ringer. I am grateful for people who bring the opportunities to me.

That was until yesterday.

When I entered the store, the bell ringer was absent. I was a little sad, as I had a fistful of donation prepared as I approached the entrance. As I was checking out, I noticed he had arrived. Gleefully exciting the store, I approached the smiling attendant. Happily, I fished in my purse and strode up to the suspended red bucket with my donation.

This was the last moment my world was still right.

As I dropped my money in the bucket, the smiling man ringing the bell said, "Oh, yeah. I love watching you stuff money in my bucket."

I'm not kidding. WHAT THE HECK??? I choked on my own spit and reeled there in front of the store. I was so dumbfounded I stood there for enough time that he kept talking.

"Are you headed to the gym?"

My brain took extra seconds to engage as I wittily retorted, "Um..... no."

"Well honey, you are workin' it in those pants."

At this moment I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Of all the Bell Ringers in the Phoenix Metro area, I found the creepy lecherous one. Yay me.

In one horribly awkward swoop this guy had killed all the warm feelings I might have ever received from donating to the Salvation Army and turned the whole exercise into the creepiest exchange imaginable. As I power walked away from him I could feel his icky eyeballs leering after me. I walked faster and faster until I leapt into the safety of my minivan and hunched down out of sight.

Now, lest you think I'm ultra sensitive, I appreciate a nice, unsolicited compliment. Who doesn't like to be told they look nice today? But pairing the exchange of money with leering pants comments sullied the whole Christmas giving thing.

So now, in addition to poisonous spiders crawling down my face, edges at tall heights and refrigerator mold I have a new fear that has reached phobic status: Salvation Army Bell Ringers. Beware. You could be their next victim.

Would You Like Fries With That?

2010-11-16T14:29:00.000-08:00

I ventured out into the world, and of course, was accosted by humanity.

Followers of my escapades know I'm a relatively low-maintenance person. Jeans, sneakers, an occasional brow wax with psychological stress thrown in for good measure. I've been reflecting on how many organization gurus have a schedule of household maintenance things we should follow. Things like: every six months you should get that long brushy-like thing and clean the lint out of your dryer hose so your house doesn't catch on fire from the build up. Yeah, I've never done that. We're supposed to clean out our freezers every year, discarding the items we have frozen if they are past the expiration date we put on them when we put them in there in the first place. I solved that one - I don't write anything on them so not only can I not tell when things expire in my freezer, I cannot tell what those things are. I have been known to defrost what I thought was peaches only to discover it was hamburger. For the record - that is when I toss it.

One schedule I do follow religiously is the oil change. OK, this is mainly because a little light illuminates on my dashboard that says "maintenance required" and I feel guilted into action. Today was my oil change day, which also means - ta-da, it was car wash day!!! I get a free car wash with my oil change and this makes me happy!

Driving onto the lot, I am motioned vigorously by an attendant who is desperate for me to pull into his lane. Guiding my landing like a ground air-traffic controller I pull up and roll down my window.

My new best friend is super excited to see me on this lovely day and starts with a feisty "Good Morning!"

It's one in the afternoon and I'm gnawing on a piece of pizza so he quickly corrects himself and says, "Well, you're enjoying lunch so it must be afternoon. Good afternoon maam!"

Uh-huh.

I swallow my bite and start to say I would like an oil change and a car wash please when he interrupts me with a dire emergency that needs my immediate attention.

"Maam, maam, can I show you something? Maam, winter is an important time to address the changing needs of your vehicle. Paint finishes need extra attention as we go into the winter months..."

He has opened my door and is trying to get me out of my car to see the horrible corrosion that has taken place and needs addressing by his amazing detail service. I grab the open windowsill and hold fast to my door saying "No, no thanks."

OK, let's get real here. I drive a minivan. Not just any minivan, an old, utilitarian, functional minivan that we keep in working order for hauling kids around town. It was purchased over a decade ago. It has never been "detailed", waxed, buffed or any of the high-end things people who celebrate their cars do to them. This is a minivan. The idea that suddenly we need to care for the paint finish this year is quite frankly, absurd.

Also, I drive this minivan because I have kids. Kids whose hygiene is questionable at best. AND, I drive other people's kids. All kids are gross. Have you seen kids before? They spill, shed, poop, barf, pee, leech, scrap, slough, chuck, fling and ooze all manner of fluids and solids. At any moment some sort of projectile is either on deck or being expelled by every single one of them. It is with this spirit that I drive the minivan. I maintain general levels of automotive cleanliness, which they promptly dishevel until the next oil change.

So this guy trying to convince me that the season change in Arizona requires an upgrade to my auto cleaning regimen is a non sequitur.

Now the guy is pulling on my door. PULLING ON MY DOOR! Yeah, this is gonna end well.

For the record, I totally understand the up-sell. It is an important component of successful capitalism and I wholeheartedly support it. It is fine with me if you ask me if I want fries and a drink with my veggie burger. If I say "yes" you make more money. If enough people get fries and a drink that means you stay in business so that I can keep coming back to buy my veggie burger. Ask away.

BUT...once I answer... LET GO OF MY FREAKING DOOR!!!!

I pull the door back, slamming it shut and say firmly, "no THANK ... YOU. Just an oil change and the free car wash."

To no avail. He keeps on keepin' on about how my paint finish will suffer irreparable damage. How the value of my vehicle will diminish and how he can save me from a fate worse than death.

I start to roll up my window and... yep, you guessed it... HE STICKS HIS ARM IN MY CAR!!!!

At this point I'm totally freaking out. I look around with a panic, and notice the manager is watching him reach in my car as I'm rolling up the window and he yells at the guy who starts to yank his arm back, but has wedged it, past the elbow, in the small remaining space and can't get it out easily. A nicer patron would have rolled down her window a little to help the guy out, but I was MAD, MAD, MAD so I just watched him try and extricate himself as I gave him the stink-eye.

Gathering up my stuff I rush into the building and wait for the oil change to finish. I'm a little flustered, but mostly just annoyed at the aggressiveness, until I go up to pay.

"That will be $60" the cashier says.

"WHAT? All I got was an oil change with the free car wash!"

"Well, Maam, you have this detailing charge for the detailing package you ordered."

Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

Just to be clear: I did not pay $60. The manager knows my name. The aggressive salesman knows my name. The establishment has sticky note posted behind the counter with my name. AND, I got two extra stamps on my loyalty card in the hope and prayer that I might possibly come in to their establishment again. Ever.

I Need a New Day Job

2010-11-08T19:35:00.000-08:00

I love cooking. I watch Food Network in my spare time. I teach sold-out cooking classes across the country. I dream of going to a minimal time commitment, low-cost culinary school. The side-effect of this lay person's novice interest in food has been that I'm sort of a food snob. I don't like a lot of processed food. Buffets scare me, and I'm regularly depressed when eating out to find the food not as good as I can make at home.

The challenge of my interest in food has been coming up with things to cook. Regularly my family is in charge of choosing what they would like, because the planning is what often stumps me. So imagine my delight when driving with my kids yesterday and they have a request for Monday dinner! I'm all a twitter with what delicacy they are going to request. Mushroom ravioli with shaved parmesan and truffle oil? Chicken picatta with WOW risotto? Quinoa bolognese? Some of my creations are on their top ten list and I'm anticipating what they're going to request.

"Ok mom, my friend had these for dinner this week and they were awesome!"

Now I'm really curious. I love awesome food!

"So mom, we want SPAGHETTI TACOS!!"

Gasp! (Gag & vomit a little in my mouth) "WHAT???"

"Yeah mom, they talk about them on iCarly (TV show for pubescents) and they sound really good!"

Again, another glaring example of how I have failed as a mother. I thought I had trained them to have discretionary palates. Clearly they will eat out of the trash like the rest of America.

After a sleepless night of tossing and turning over my failure, I decide they should indeed have their wish. Because I am such a smart and wise parent I realize this will work like reverse psychology and I will look like the supportive, giving parent that I dream of being one day.

So there I am - tongs dangling with cooked spaghetti in one hand taco shell in the other. Grappling at what my kids have reduced me to. I decide they can stuff their own tacos and put the whole culinary menagerie on the table. Their delight is palpable, my despair is as well. They readily dig in, stuffing pasta into the shells like they've waited their entire lives for this gourmet marriage. For the record, before you get any ideas, this is not like the chocolate-meets-peanut butter marriage. I mean it is pasta and a taco shell.

Of course, Karma being what it is, Unnamed Child #1 has a dinner guest - so other people will know about this travesty. The guest even reports that they told their mother about our menu when asking if they could stay for dinner. There goes my lecture career.

The kids are oohing and ahhing and mmmmmmmming at their dinner...I'm trying to figure out how to take a bite without committing to a whole taco. I break off a piece of shell and tentatively taste the whole mess. In all honesty it was not bad, but it was not good either. As I'm crunching away our guest says,

"It tastes just like Chef Boyardee ravioli."

Niice. People are going to line up for my cooking classes to learn this crap.

Filters

2010-10-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

Today I had occasion to wonder at what age people develop their "filter." You know, the thing in your brain that prevents you from saying the things you are thinking?

Kids don't have filters, which makes them funny if you are a bystander, shocking if you are their target and nerve wracking if you are their parent. It's always fun to be in the grocery story with your kids and have them point out some obvious, but unflattering characteristic of the person in front of you in the checkout line. All you parents have had this happen to you: "Hey mom, look at the giant nose on the lady the ugly stretchy pants!" Sadly, there are not convenient holes us parents can crawl into at those moments.

A few years ago, our little family was visiting a dinosaur museum with our two five-year olds. We were having a great time when all of a sudden my son came running up to me shouting at the top of his lungs MOOOOOOM! MIDGETS!!! I quickly tackled him and tried to stuff baby wipes in his mouth to shut him up. I had just subdued him when another of my kids came running up screaming MOOOOOOOOOM!!! MIDGETS ARE EVERYWHERE!!!! As I'm trying to figure out what was going on I looked up and saw, midgets. Although I had developed a filter that knew that they preferred to be called "little people" there were indeed little people everywhere. Hundreds of them. Lucky us, we had chosen the same day to visit the museum as the National Convention of Little People and now I had to spend the rest of the visit with my five year olds bound and gagged, their little arms flailing like a T-rex trying to itch his nose.

This morning I walked into the classroom where I teach second and third graders. I happened to be wearing high heels, which is out of the norm for me, but many staff members wear them so it wasn't like these kids had never seen them. As I enter the class the kids run to me and hug my legs. It's sort of cute and creepy at the same time. I pat their little heads when one looks up and says, "You're gigantic!" I peel her off my leg and say, "Yes I am," Another immediately chimes in, "You're skinny too. Really freaky skinny." Ok everyone, let's change the subject.

No luck. A boy looks up at me and says, "You are giant, skinny and sort of weird looking."

Well now, don't I feel a bit like a midget at a dinosaur museum?

"Ok kids, I am taller than you, and yes, I am skinny buy let's start working on our rhyming words now."

"Mrs. Teacher, Mrs. Teacher I have a rhyming word! Tall -ball"

"Nice job, anyone else?"

"Meee, meee big - pig, skinny - ninny, weird - beard."

I have mixed emotions about the theme we're following. The kids are getting the concept, but I am the object lesson. I suggest a few other unrelated words, and they have totally lost focus. "Mrs. Teacher, do you ever eat?" "Mrs. Teacher, how can you get that tall if you don't ever eat?" "Mrs. Teacher, my cousin was as skinny as you and she died."

Yep, nothing like a little community service to make one feel good about themselves.

Tough Mudder

2010-10-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

Recently my husband has taken to running marathons. In a former life I was a distance runner. Then I got better. Somehow he has caught this disease as some sort of mid-life crisis that says, "I've hiked the Grand Canyon rim to rim a couple of times. I've completed P90X so now, of course I must run marathons." The actual marathon itself is fine. It is actually pretty fun to sit in a lawn chair gnawing on a Slim Jim and watch the parade of crazy pass me by. Generally I'm not a sideline sort of person, but I'm completely peaceful watching other people heave their guts out at mile 17, pee down their own legs and get carted off by the paramedics. I don't have an ounce of envy over that sort of insanity.

I do, however have a slight problem. Well, actually we all know I have more than one, but for the sake of brevity we'll just deal with one for now.

I have a really hard time turning down a dare. I have a teeny tiny competitive streak that runs over the sane part of my brain when certain decisions are being made. A recent case-in-point was a dare put out there by my little sister. An endurance challenge created by the British army called Tough Mudder. At first I was only mildly interested, until she said she had signed up and was "all in." So, of course I had to as well. I mean, she is my LITTLE sister.

So the first weekend in October I find myself meeting a few of my besties in the Reno airport to drive a 45 mile Lombard Street mountain pass to Bear Valley, CA. No one told me that the biggest part of the challenge would be getting there without puking in the hair of the person in front of you.
The days leading up to the challenge the organizers sent texts to registered participants warning them of snow on the ground, extreme cold, and other harsh conditions. All I could think of is how I had gotten my skinny, uninsulated bones into this madness.

We had a team of six, and arriving at the hotel everything was going well until one of the girls pulled out what was to be our team uniform. Hot pink underarmor, black pants and of course hot pink argyle socks. Nothing says "tough" like argyle socks. In general I'm pretty fashion challenged, but I kept worrying that we were just going to look stupid with these knee-high argyle socks. Let's just say, my fears were unfounded.

Arriving at the registration site there was a guy in a loin cloth. Only a loin cloth. There was a guy in a green unitard. There were kilts and tights and thongs. And there were people dressed like this:

And this:

See, you don't even see our socks do you?

There were even guys dressed up as Mormon Missionaries:

I don't know if they were actual Mormons or not, but it was a great team uniform.

So off we go on our seven mile, nineteen obstacle challenge.

It was an amazing experience and running through the last fire obstacle was almost disappointing since we were having so much fun. While we're not hitting the entire nationwide Mudder circuit, we've pre-registered for Phoenix in 2011!

Maternal Evolution

2010-10-26T22:38:00.000-07:00

I have reached that stage in parenthood when I'm not as cool as I used to be. This realization came as quite a shock since I have been super cool for most of my life, but recently an unnamed teenager has let me know that I'm completely socially unacceptable AND mentally retarded. Despite the fact that I watched countless other mothers go through this rite of passage, I've been caught off guard with how sudden my fall off the pedestal has been.

To my credit, I have remained a safe, un-connectable distance when I'm in public and keep a paper bag with eye holes cut out just in case someone they know walks by.

The challenge with our arrangement is that this teenager still needs me. A lot. So, I hang around.

Because I don't know "anything" it's really a waste of energy to pay attention to what I'm saying. Many of our conversations go like this:

"Hello darling teenager, you should wear a jacket."

cricket chirp, cricket chirp

"Oh, teenager, It's sub arctic temperatures tonight, you might want a jacket."

cricket chirp, cricket chirp, eye roll

I'm getting better at just cutting my losses and waiting by the phone for the dramatic, urgent phone call requesting a jacket delivery, but I'm not perfect yet.

The reality is there are a few times when I have something really important and relevant to say. Things that enrich even a teenager's full life.

This week while sitting in a waiting room I fought a valiant, but losing battle against Entertainment Weekly Magazine, for the teenager's attention. As I made small talk, I mostly got vacuous silence back so of course I started upping the ante.

First I commented on the photos in the magazine. Nothing.

Then I commented on the text of an article in the magazine. Nothing.

Then, I started saying more absurd things to see if they might actually be listening and just pretending to ignore me. "Hey, I have an orangutan on my back." Nothing.
"My molars are wearing kilts." Silence.
"I myself am radioactive and my children came from Mars." Even this news of their origin didn't get a response.

So I sat, trying to entertain myself through other means when of course... Elvis walked in. I'm so not kidding. Some guy, who clearly had a night job as an Elvis impersonator - or a higher than average affection for The King, walked through the waiting room. He was in normal clothes, no jumpsuit, BUT he had the jet black dyed hair, mutton chop side burns and the quintessential fat Elvis sunglasses.

I leaned over into the teenager's space and hissed through the clenched teeth of discretion, "Elvissssssss!!!!"

Nothing.

"Psssst!!!! Hey, Elllllvvvviiiiisssssss!!!!!!"

Nothing.

In desperation I threw an unsportsmanlike jab with my elbow while trying a third time, "el-VIS!!!"

The physical contact was the ticket. They looked up, said "What?" and then "Hey, Mom...look! Elvis!"

My work is done.

You Asked

2010-10-24T21:36:00.001-07:00

Many of you have been asking me what my problem is. Me, being the picture of decorum I am, have refrained from burdening you with my terrible life-challenges. But, since all sixteen of my remaining followers seem deeply concerned about my welfare, I feel compelled to share.

WARNING: The above statement should tip off those of you who have no interest in the personal workings of my life to log off NOW. I will be discussing things that include knives, pain, blood and screaming. Or at least some of those things. If you do not care about my welfare or have a weak stomach LEAVE NOW.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

OK, so many of you have been asking why I have been so remiss in blogging. The biggest reason is I'm finishing up school. I'm so close to finishing I can taste it and I literally spend hours each day reading inane stuff like Faulker and Economics 101. This is neither interesting or funny to the outside world. My ongoing battle with educational bureaucracy has worn even me down to the point that the inanity no longer gets a rise out of me. I think I've turned into one of those third world country people who just stand in a line because its there and it's something to do. Sad but true. So this endeavor has sucked the creative life out of me. (By all means, send your kids to college.)

But also, I have a pain in the butt. Literally. Last week I went to the dermatologist to get little spots and dots checked out. Nothing I had any real concern over, but I was a beach bunny in a previous life, back before sunscreen was invented and we used baby oil and aluminum foil for our sun protection. This being the case I try to be prudent, so I go get checked out. (Stop laughing at the mention of me and prudent in the same sentence.)

So the dermatologist asks me if I have any concerns and I point out a few things, which are deemed normal but marked for freezing. If you've never had anything frozen off, it's pretty cool. So the derm gets out the freezing spray can thingy, which looks like a fancy spray paint can a vandal would use, and primes it...except it won't turn off.

"Oh, dear!" she says, "I'm glad I didn't do that on your FACE!"

Um, yeah, me too. The can keeps spraying and spraying off into the corner of the room while the nurse wrestles with it and can't get it to shut off. You've all been in a doctors office, and the rooms are pretty small. I become a little worried that freezing gas being expelled into the tiny space is going to overpower us and we'll all be found unconscious by the night custodial crew.

My fears were unfounded, and the nurse returned a few minutes later (gas still being expelled by the broken can the Dr. wanted to use on my face) and she froze off a thing on my leg, arm and my temple. Perkily holding the can up like I hold up the whipped cream can for the kids, she says, "Anything else?"

Now, back before I had kids I used to have this little tiny cute flat freckle mole on my backside. If you've had kids, know someone who's had kids or have met a kid you know that kids wreck a lot of stuff. Well, somehow having kids turned this tiny flat freckle of cuteness that sort of made my hiney look like Cindy Crawford - and grew it into a freakish glob of ickness. Because it's on my backside it's out of sight, and no one ever sees my backside, willingly, so it hasn't caused psychological damage outside of my own home. But, here I am in the office being asked if I have "anything else?"

I show her the mole and she gasps in horror. Just kidding, but she did say, "Well, there's nothing wrong with it, but it's easy to remove so why don't we take it off." I ask a few questions about recovery time and she says, no big deal, a few days and I won't feel a thing.

Let me just state for the record: Doctors are liars.

I have this thing cut off my butt - in the glamorous position, face down on the table, pants around my ankles, apologizing to the nurse that it is on my butt in the first place. She laughs and says, "Honey, this is nothing." The doctor comes in, cuts it off and I'm good to go. No big deal. UNTIL THE LIDOCAINE WEARS OFF!

I have injured body parts before, broken a rib - and the pain made me amazed at how often I breathe. Broken my wrist - and was amazed at how much I use my hand. For the record: I had no idea how much I sat down. Here I am, over a week later and I still have this enormous pain in my butt. I'm fine if I'm standing, but man, I am one lazy person: I sit a LOT!

So there you have it. More information than you ever wanted to know about why my blogging has been so dull. I'm being "educated" and my butt hurts.

Please send well wishes, food and flowers to my residence.

Portent of Things to Come

2010-10-21T15:38:00.000-07:00

I know. I KNOW!!! Thank you faithful people who keep hoping I will have something interesting pop into my head. Sadly, my life has been devoid of the inane happenings that usually make up my daily existence. Clearly I need to get out more.

BUT! Today I have a message from the Schawn's guy.......and.......they've brought back EGGPLANT AND ZUCCHINI PIE!!! My world is right again.

I realize this happened because some neighbor who dislikes Mr. Schwan doorbell ditched him with a boatload of end-of-summer zucchini but I DON'T CARE!!!! I can now re-enter the processed food world like other normal people. I'm dusting off the microwave, breaking out the paper plates and singing an eggplant loves zucchini song.

Later, after I'm full, I will work on the choreography.

Ouch!

2010-09-26T22:28:00.000-07:00

I'm a rather low maintenance girl. I'm most comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt and you can often find me in the same outfit multiple days of the week. So, while I don't get my nails done (I bite them myself) and I don't go to the tanning salon (a fine layer of dust seems to have the same effect) and I don't dye my hair...yet. I do draw the line at one beauty necessity: the eyebrow wax.

While I have a fairly high pain threshold, I can't pluck my own brows. (TMI? Well, you do come here of your own volition).

So I regularly let a highly-skilled glamorous Asian woman get me presentable every few weeks. This weekend I went in for a touch up and settled in to the relaxing, comfy waxing table in the privacy of the waxing room. OK, 'room' is a generous description, it's actually a cubicle with a curtain separating it from the nail salon, but at my price point this is as glamorous as it's going to get.

Lounging back, I close my eyes and ready myself for the spa experience. My technician enters, and gives me the once-over asking in a rather nasal tone, "What you want done?"

"Eyebrows" I reply and fold my arms ready for the warm dollup of wax I find so pleasant.

Instead of starting the treatment I'm startled by, "You no want your lip done?"

Ok, now I'm taken aback. I have never noticed that I had a 'stache. Oh my goodness, I've turned into one of those women who has lots of facial hair and doesn't notice. Those women you love having conversations with, but try desperately to find an inconspicuous place to look as they have mole hair, or chin hair or, as in my case, a handlebar mustache.

At this point I don't know what to do, and am in a full panic. I was not prepared for the lip waxing. I'm so flummoxed I ask the stupid question, "Do I need a lip wax?"

Again, the nasal reply: "Oh, yeah but you can do what you want. "

Girls. We have got to stick together. I don't know what I want. I do know that I do not want a mustache, but I need some sisterly advice. Suddenly the sanctity of the salon has shifted, and I feel like at the auto repair shop where I always feel like the mechanic is trying to take advantage of me because I know nothing about cars. Do I get the extended warranty on the flux capacitor? Do I have my windshield wipers rotated? Do I get my lip waxed? I DON'T KNOW!!! I just want someone I trust to tell me what to do and not have my husband ask me later what the heck I was thinking.

I figure I can always come back and have more hair removed from unseemly locations so I decline the lip wax. The responding huffy sigh shows I clearly have made the wrong decision, and I spend the entire time of the brow wax obsessing over how bushy my mustache looks.

Shielding my wolf-like face from the pedicure patrons I pay and run out to the car. I pull out of sight of the salon and check my mirror. Leaning closer and closer to the rear view mirror, I can't see a mustache. There are all sorts of other hideous things I need to speak to an esthetician about, but for the life of me I can not see lip hair that warranted that huffy sigh.

Still this is not a decision one makes lightly. I scurry home and barge in the house accosting my children with, "Do I have a mustache? Look really closely, now stand back, now squint a little, turn sideways while I walk by pretending I'm on the phone. Does the reflection of the phone make me look like I have a mustache?"

Of course, I put money in each of their therapy jars.

The Price We Pay

2010-09-22T05:45:00.000-07:00

Back in my childhood someone decided that I should play the piano. Many adolescents were subjected to the same parental dream with the same marginal success. What this means is we have an army of semi-grown ups out there who quit just after they became able to play Fur Elise and The Entertainer with bad inflection and timing.

I took a few years of lessons, most of which are a blur because of my dominant lazy gene which precludes me from working toward mastery of most things I attempt. One teacher still stands out in my brain: Mrs. Miles.

"Mrs. Miles" sounds benign enough, but Mr. Miles was long gone so all she did was sit in her home with her doberman, shellacking her perfect beehive hairdo and thinking of ways to torture me. Lisbeth, as my mother got to call her, was sweet and grandmotherly whenever a parent was around. Once that door shut behind a student's maternal protecter all gloves were off. Mrs. Miles, as the rest of us had to call her, was a Russian immigrant who had survived the German Nazi invasion. Needless to say she didn't take kindly to wimpy sixth graders who don't practice.

Out of sheer terror I became able to play a perfect Fur Elise, Entertainer and a few other pieces before I was released from her captivity. To this day I can't hear Chopin's Minute Waltz without having severe bladder control issues.

Now I'm the parent with musical dreams.

Interestingly enough, all three of my kids have done well on the piano. They have all gotten to the point where it is fun to hear them play, which is the real pay off for a parent. All we really want is for our kids to perform for the grandparents and show up the neighbor kids in something.

One of the elements of my children's school curriculum is strings study. #1 has become amazing on the viola and has played in a number of orchestras that didn't have the audience wincing in their seats as they endured the pain of Junior High strings version of My Sherona.

#2 and #3 study Suzuki violin at school...with about a hundred other fifth and sixth graders. It's one thing if the kid shows some interest in an instrument, it's a whole-nother thing when every kid at school has to learn Twinkle Variations on a temperamental instrument that even accomplished musicians work to keep in tune.

Last night as one of my unnamed children "practiced" a piece that eluded them I could feel my flesh peeling off of my face. Beginner violin is one of the worst sounds in the universe. No, I take that back, beginner violin IS the worst sound in the universe. A kid that has an impressive piano repitoire, sat screeching out the vestiges of some tune that I believe is a pterydactyl mating call.

Of course, we then had the awkward moment where the kid looks up with soulful eyes and says "Wasn't that great mom?"

This is a pivotal moment in parenting. Do I tell the truth and crush the spirit of my budding musician? or Do I pad my words encouraging their efforts toward mastery?

Surprisingly, I did what any wise parent would have done: After an awkward moment of silence where their pleading eyes searched for my approbation, and blood dripped out of my ear drums, I tilted my head, nodded with a warm smile and yelled for viola-playing Unnamed Child #1 to come help as I sought refuge under a blanket.

Getting Things Straight

2010-09-08T21:58:00.000-07:00

Lest anyone get the wrong idea, I must make something very clear: there are HUGE holes in my parenting.

I know it's easy to create cyber fantasies about the bloggers you read and I don't want to give the wrong impression. I am only doing a marginally acceptable job at preparing my children for the real world. I try and disseminate relevant skills to them, but the reality is if at some point in their adult lives they don't live in my garage, it will be a miracle.

Case in point: despite the fact that we live in suburban Arizona where the temperatures often top 110 degrees in September, we do all our own yard work, and make our children join us. You might be nodding with impressed approbation thinking we are raising the kind of kids who will go around the neighborhood starting their own landscaping businesses or better yet, mowing the lawns of all the widows in the 'hood. Well just stop right there.

This Saturday hubby sends Unnamed Child #2 out to the garage by himself telling him to get started on his portion of the lawn. At a few points during this Rockwell-type moment I look outside from my air conditioned window to see my progeny quickly being dessicated by the sun. Sad, but watching them was making me miss my show on Food Network so I lost interest in their plight.

About fifteen minutes later, sweaty kid comes inside and proceeds to make themselves a snack. Getting ready to fire up the gas stove, Unnamed Child #1 yells at #2, "What is that smell? Why do you smell?" I barely look up because I often ask the same question of all of my children.

With all the savvy wisdom of one who has been appropriately instructed in the use of power tools, #2 says, "It's gasoline, I spilled it all over my pants when I was filling up the mower."

Unnamed Child #1 then shrieks with all the hysterical lung capacity of a teenage girl, "DON'T LIGHT THE STOVE!!!!!!"

At this point I probably should have gotten involved, but #2 beat me to the punch when they asked, calmly and with a straight face if their pants needed to go in the laundry because they had gasoline all over them."

Yep, some parents teach their children about the incendiary properties of gasoline before they let them play with it. Other parents teach appropriate hygiene and fashion boundaries that give guidelines for wearing flammable liquids. But those parents don't get to watch complete episodes of the Iron Chef do they?

Habits Make Life Harder

2010-09-01T11:21:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that you think I'm amazingly glamorous, I am really a creature of habit. Maybe glamorous habit, but habit nonetheless. I like my stuff a certain way. I like getting the back-to-school routine all set up. And, while I deal with it, I don't like change that much.

A few months ago the Schwann's truck was driving through our neighborhood. I've always wondered what was on that truck. As a family we don't eat much pre-prepared food. Most of what my family has to endure is food I made from scratch. This should answer any of your questions about why we are so skinny.

So, the truck is tooling through the 'hood and dog and I run chasing it like a kid after an ice cream truck. The driver stops at a neighbor's house and of course, I invite myself to join their little food-delivery tete-a-tete. I realize as I'm flipping through the catalogue of options that I am weirder than I admit; most of the offerings are things we just don't eat. Now, because I've created such a scene - running after him and barging in to someone else's home with my panting dog, I figure I really should order something.

One item looks pretty good - a zucchini and eggplant pie. Please don't gag. I know normal people don't eat this sort of thing, but around my house this is rather common fare. Just not in a pre-packaged, microwave-safe container. That part is new.

Gathering my frozen "pie" dog and I walk the long road back home. (It's not actually that long unless you are holding a bundle of frozen food against your chest.)

Later, when I serve up my "pie", my family LOVES it. Really. The kids ask if we can have it more often, and I do admit, it was really tasty. I make a mental note the next time I see the Schwann truck, I need to run after it again. And yes, I do know that a grown woman running down the street after frozen zucchini is not a good resume bullet point.

Imagine my dismay when the next time the Schwann man and I meet, he informs me that Schwann's has discontinued my beloved frozen zucchini and eggplant pie. WHAT??? A place that sells deep fried cheese balls and ice cream is not making lots of profit on their zucchini and eggplant pie? I knew it was too good to last.

Such is life. Really. Everything eventually does change.

This week our church congregational boundaries were redrawn. Changing everything.

Last week my son told me he might be too big to sit on my lap. Changing everything.

And, sadly, no matter how far I chase the Schwann's truck, I cannot comfort myself with a hefty serving of pre-packaged, microwave-safe zucchini and eggplant pie.

Cultured We Are

2010-08-25T09:28:00.001-07:00

We are a very cosmopolitan family. My children have travelled quite extensively for their age. They study Spanish AND Mandarin Chinese starting in fifth grade. They will eat almost anything - spinach, octopus, escargot - they eat it all. I remember standing in Pompeii while a tour guide explained some of the history, and my seventh grader leaned over and added even more depth and context from what she had learned at school. Since it's important to me that we experience people, experiences and cultures different than our own, I often pat their little heads with approbation.

This week we were having a wonderful family discussion. As my kids have matured these have gotten more and more interesting. They have insights and opinions I admire.

During the discussion Unnamed Child #2 asked, "Don't the Haunnikins do that?" Referencing a discussion about animal sacrifice.

What? Suddenly I'm unsure of myself. With all the changes in political boundaries, particularly in the Balkan states I was aghast I didn't know about the Haunnikins.

We all were unfamiliar with the exotic animal-slaying Haunnikin culture. Emphatically #2 continued: "You know, The Haunnikins - the wandered around living in tents while that guy... what's his name... was their leader?"

I'm stumped. I can think of no current nomadic tribe called the Haunnikins. "Are they African?" I query.

"No!" He says, "You know, The Haunnikins, the escaped from Egypt and that guy... what's his name... oh, Moses! was their leader and they sacrificed animals."

I can't contain my laughter as hubby calmly corrects him... "Dude, those aren't the Haunnikins they are the Jews."

"Oh, yeah, I thought it was something like that."

Upon reflection I figure it makes a little sense - Christmas/Christians - Hannakauh/Haunnikins... which leads to Ramadan/Ramadans... Halloween/Halloweenies.

Three cheers for the Haunnikins!

Feminine Wiles

2010-08-13T07:46:00.000-07:00

I've never been accused of being a "girlie girl" although I do think the characterization is like a point on a continuum. Standing next to Rosanne Barr, I seem like Swan Lake Barbie. Standing next to Glinda the Good Witch, I look like I do my hair with an immersion blender and brush my teeth with a pitchfork. It's all relative.

My name throws people off too. Telemarketers never know how to pronounce my name and usually ask for Mr. A-see-line, to which I reply, "That dirtbag moved out months ago" and hang up.

But usually, people who know me have me safely placed on the continuum of "feminine enough". This means I shower at least twice a week and own a pair of high heels over 2 inches.

Sooo, imagine my delight when my hubby reports he received a call this morning. Then he starts silent laughing so hard he can't tell me the story. Of course, I'm excited to hear a story that makes him gasp for breath... I should know better.

Apparently we got a call from a neighbor that went like this:

Riiiing Riiiing

Neighbor: "Good morning! Did I wake you up?"

Hubby "Nope"

Neighbor: "You are breathing hard"

Hubby who just ran 16 miles: "I just finished working out"

Neighbor: "Well, I was wondering if you would teach my class this Sunday?"

Hubby: Pause..."Do you mean ME or Aselin?"

Neigbor: "Uh, this isn't Aselin?" Awkward moment... "Well her voice is kinda deep."

Fast forward an hour or so when I come in after petting bunnies and unicorns and singing to a rainbow, I see my chortling companion doubled over, trying to catch his breath from laughing.

Hubby is cracking up relaying the information to me that apparently I sound like Bruce Vilanch. Or at least I sound like a guy who just ran 16 miles in compression shorts. Neither option is very appealing to me.

Crud. Now I have to curl or wax or bleach something today just to prove my femininity....or my metrosexuality... ugh! I'm wearing a tiara and pumps to the grocery store.

Skill Sets

2010-08-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

I have great kids. They, for the most part are obedient, kind and helpful. That being said, they struggle with a few things - one of them going to bed.

I suppose it's a great thing to enjoy life so much you don't want to check out of it for a while. I, on the other hand, fantasize about becoming a bear and hibernating for six or more months. (Ok, not really, but you can't tell me you haven't had days where that sounds appealing)

Today is the first day of school, so of course, last night everyone was very excited. So excited that they couldn't stay in bed. So excited that they couldn't quit singing Coldplay's Viva la Vida at the top of their lungs and then breaking out in a Broadway medley that would have made Andrew Lloyd Webber proud.

I've learned that I can't beat them, but I do enjoy giving the stink-eye whenever I get the chance.

So last night, an hour after bedtime I'm skulking along the hallway, moving like a lynx after her prey when I get to their room.

Unnamed Child #2 is, of course, not in bed. Leaning up against Unnamed Child #3's bed they are deep in discussion. I started to make a move to get noticed, so I could intimidate them with the dagger glare of motherhood when I started to catch the conversation. I won't get it verbatim, but it went something like this: "If we can harvest the eggs I think we could make a lot of money." "Yeah, but caviar is pretty expensive, I don't think we'd make more than caviar." "Yeah, but we could have a whole snail farm and it would be easier than harvesting fish eggs."

OK readers, let's regroup here. My kids are avoiding their proscribed bed time so they can make plans to open a snail farm and harvest the eggs for sale, competing with the existing caviar market.

Anyone else a little disturbed by this?

Creeped out?

Shudder?

Good grief, what have I spawned???

Suddenly, Unnamed Child #2 notices that I've been standing there and jumps into bed, trying to play innocent.

I'm just sayin', if you're making plans to enter the snail caviar market, you're innocence is LONG gone.

Decorum

2010-08-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

My in-laws have recently published an amazing 491 page life history. It's very inspirational to read their adventures, challenges and wisdom all bound neatly in a lovely leather volume. It has made me reflect on our church's request that we each assemble our life histories, keep journals - things that our posterity will want to know.

In theory, for me, this is a lovely idea. My reality is quite different. I don't think I would or should tell the complete version of my life history. I've stumbled, rather ungracefully, through the last 40 years and the next 40 doesn't promise to be much different. I am not one of those people who has lived an inspirational life you would want your children modeling themselves after. I have more of the "horrible warning" sort of life. Much of my life history would have to be redacted, like a J. Edgar Hoover file, without the cross dressing.

For the record, I have not committed a felony, been incarcerated in a Mexican prison or kidnapped a small child and made them live in a shed in my backyard - I don't have that sort of embarrassing life. Rather, I just wish I did most everything better the first time. I can look back and reframe the moments of my life with a Kodak sort of wisdom, but I rarely display it in the moment.

I have a knack for doing the exact opposite of what I should have done, or said, or more importantly: not said. While vignettes of such social carnage might be good fodder for people who don't know me, I am trying VERY hard to keep the therapy bill as low as possible for my own children.

For instance, I had an experience this past week I have tried and tried to frame in such a way I can share it with you. I am sure a kinder, gentler soul could do it justice, keep it light and even heartwarming. Instead, I just fantasize about ninja kicking the principle player. Patience is not one of my stronger... OK, I have NONE.

So, sadly, much of my life has to be edited. For the record, I have not ninja kicked anyone...recently, and I do hold my tongue...most of the time. Which makes for infrequent blogging, but does give my children a better, albeit scant, legacy.

Seek and Ye Shall Find!

2010-07-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

I left home today in hopes of exposing myself to the general population to generate blog material. Wait, that didn't sound right did it?

At any rate, I dragged Unnamed Child #1 to IKEA. IKEA is really an unreal place, and a nice way to kill a few hours. Wandering through the aisles of furniture that was clearly conceived to decorate a Hobbit Hole stylishly and functionally, we planned on an exciting afternoon. Ascending the escalator to the second floor we found ourselves in a Swedish stupor after a few twists and turns.

Despite the double digits in her age, Unnamed Child #1 still likes to be seen with me. As we were looking at some of the pre-fabbed kitchens I decided that we needed to spice things up. Usually when we are in public, someone comes up with a game or a dare which puts us at odds with the rest of humanity. I told her that we no longer could speak in English, and must passionately discuss whatever item was closest whenever someone came within earshot. The first one to laugh, lost the round, and the loser of the game would pay dearly with an undecided punishment of the winner's choice.

What ensued was a game of verbal chicken that had my little teenager gesticulating and waving a spatula around while speaking complete, albeit passionate, gibberish. As the game progressed, neither one of us could win a round since our interchanges became more absurd, animated and pointed. Others tried to watch the crazy foreigners without being caught looking. (A skill that is rare and valuable) We were laughing, there was snorting - which #1 kept insisting was part of her chosen dialect. Once I went to the clicks and whistles of Swahili, we were all completely undone.

Gaining our composure, we were ready to descend to the bottom floor with our cart, so we approached the elevator. Pushing the button, the doors promptly opened; which always makes me smile - when the elevator is waiting for me rather than the other way around.

Inside were three women sporting summer costumes that are popular around town. Popular, but not wise, as hot pants and tube tops only work on a very small segment of the population. This percentage is even smaller once you add piercings and tattoos that make it impossible not to stare without being caught. (A skill I have not yet mastered). Fixated on a neck tattoo which went all the way up to a multiple-pierced ear, I stepped back as the women started to exit the elevator. Suddenly the leader of the coven realized it was the wrong floor. Now, in case you haven't been to IKEA, there are only two floors. Immediately I was confused, since if they were already in the elevator I assumed they got in at the bottom floor. Then, they all started laughing as deco-neck chick said "I thought the ride was taking a long time." The second droopy-tube passenger said, "Didn't anyone push the button?"

We all started laughing as they confessed they had been standing in the elevator for over five minutes. Smiling I said, "So we rescued you then!" This brought cackles that made all sorts of things bounce and jiggle, and Unnamed Child #1 kept raising her eyebrows at me as she shielded her eyes from the sort of impressive cleavage no one ever gets to see at our house.

As the doors opened on the bottom floor, the ladies, in unison all grabbed their tops at their armpits and gave a hearty hike toward the sky. "Thank you for rescuing us from ourselves!" their leader said as they ventured off into the labyrinth of IKEA. I winked at #1 and whispered, "I think they need more help than we can give."

She nodded emphatically, in English.

I'm Not in the Witness Protection Program

2010-07-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

My mojo is hiding somewhere far, far away. Likely the dog ate it.

Recently we celebrated my sister's graduation from college. I cried through most of it. Partly because I was so proud of her; a young mother who got a psychology degree while raising her little ankle biter, working a day care and training for a 5K. Personally I think that 's an amazing accomplishment and I am bursting with pride for her.

The other reason I cried through the ceremony is the speeches lasted, and lasted, and lasted WAY past the point where anyone wants to hear any more "wisdom." I distinctly remember leaning over to my neighbor and saying, about the speaker opining about Dr. Seuss: "Don't do it, don't do it,...noooooooo!" as the speaker busted out an entire Suess book of wisdom and read it to us.

Don't get me wrong, Seuss is a genius, but there is a general rule in public speaking: leave 'em wanting more. No one at the graduation ceremony did that. Hence, my tears.

But this is not the reason I have taken a writing sabbatical. Instead, my life has had a bit of stress in it lately, and when serious things happen I find it hard to blather on about the blister I received from mopping or how my mailman doesn't seem to be able to match the numbers on the boxes with the numbers on the letters.

That being said, my own personal reading is going well. My research is fascinating. And my schoolwork putters along. So please believe me when I say I am not sitting in a dark room watching Jerry Springer all day. (That's just like a family reunion for me). My goal is to be back on track next week - so be on notice all you people in the grocery stores, mail men, bug spray guy, dry cleaner... oh sheesh, I'm depressing myself with how mundane my actual existence really is!!!

OK, I'm going to think really, really hard for something interesting to write about. So be on notice, because it could be you!!

Bad Ideas Make Good Stories

2010-07-03T23:50:00.000-07:00

Every year my in-laws have a Fourth of July party in Utah. Despite the fact that Utah is pretty dry, it does not outlaw over-the-counter fireworks like Arizona does. This fact has seemed a great injustice to my children over the years, but seeing as how we are invited to the party, it works itself out.

Since we don't know the first thing about fireworks, we usually just mooch off those around us. Trying not to be such a leech, I tell the kids we can bring our own this year. Imagine the squeals of delight as my children select a large pre-packaged assortment of incendiary entertainment from the grocery store. I'm all impressed with myself because I even had a coupon, and the assortment took two pre-pubescent minion to carry out to the car.

They oohed and ahhed over the opportunities that lay inside the cellophane wrapped package. Unnamed Child #2, getting a rush of testosterone, even pulls out a pocket knife because everyone knows packages of fireworks are impressed by a kid wielding a pocket knife. Stabbing at the shrink wrap because "Mom, I'm just making it easier to open later" seems completely helpful and logical. I figure, as long as a human is not being stabbed, everything is OK.

Pulling up to the soiree, I'm completely confident all the other attendees will be impressed at the arsenal of gunpowder we've just hauled inside. Let's just say I would have gotten more reaction had I brought a package of paper plates to the party.

Out on the lawn, waiting for our arrival, are my nephews. Teen-aged nephews. One of them , legally teen-aged. They don't have a pre-packaged assortment of exciting fireworks. No sir-ree. They had two large suitcases, large enough to stash a dead body inside, full of fireworks from the Indian reservation. Fireworks that are not only illegal in Arizona, but also illegal in the other 49 states, including Utah.

Dejected, and weirdly mesmerized, my children ooh and ahh over the black market set-up being organized in the third bay of the garage. They had lain out their options, in order of how tonight's performance would go. My fireworks contribution to the show was not even an entre act. My stuff was the equivalent of the guy outside a concert venue in a light up top hat riding a unicycle and selling water.

As dusk unfolded the show began. As the family gathered in their lawn chairs, the show had a build-up. A fountain, synchronized bottle rockets, then one or two shooting stars up high in the sky that burst into patriotic wonder and dusted us with ash we accepted as a badge of honor for being witness to the illicit display.

As time wore on, those holding the lighting wands grew more creative: syncing multiple shots into the sky, in a rather professional production. All we needed was a little music and we could have charged tickets.

If you've been a long time reader, you know this isn't going to end well. Although, I'll admit, it ended better than it could have.

In what would be the prematurely final firings for the evening, six launches were arranged and their release promised to be spectacular. It certainly was.

The first couple of shots went off inspiring wonderment as the lawn chair audience gazed into the sky. Somewhere around the third shot, we had a misfire. No one quite knows how it happened, but of course, rather than shooting into the street, or a fence, this rocket tipped over and shot straight into the third bay of the garage. It all happened so fast, I'm still hopped up on the adrenaline.

Grazing my nimble sister-in-law's leg, the starburst exploded raining colorful sparks all over the waiting congregation of contraband explosives. The flash was blinding and the realization of what was likely about to happen made all of us leap one direction or another. The braver in the gene pool ran to the garage to save sis from the likely explosion of gas fumes from the lawnmower, weed whacker and actual gas cans stored inside the garage. Not to mention the four-hundred remaining fireworks yet to be lit. The lesser of us took cover. I was hiding somewhere under a bush when the all clear was given. The fact that there was not a secondary explosion is nothing short of a miracle. The fact that sis was not horribly injured was also miraculous.

Once we all were assured everything was OK, that's when the real firework show began, and let's just say, it was spectacular. Let's just also say, it doesn't matter if you're of "legal" age when your parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles and neighbors yell at you...the law cannot protect you here.

Really?

2010-07-01T08:29:00.000-07:00

You know those hysterical, screaming people running around during emergencies? I'm not one of them. When something terrible happens, my left brain takes over and I go into ultra-focus-boss-people-around mode. While this mode is extremely unpleasant for others in my normal day-to-day life, during an emergency I'm the best person to have around.

Once, in a head-on car accident with two pregnant friends (I was also expectant), I took command and saved the day. The only thing missing was a bullhorn. It was not until later, in the hospital, when I spoke to hubby over the phone did I break down in a completely incoherent blather of sobbing.

While traveling I have the opportunity to do lots of driving. Yesterday I went to Idaho to retrieve Kid #1. Driving along the picturesque base of a mountain range I was enjoying the quiet. i was thinking about how spectacular the scenery was, how different the terrain of the places I've been in the last few weeks is, and how I was really, really hungry (OK, that thought rarely goes away).

Suddenly, someone driving southbound launched something out their driver's side window. I am a furious opponent of littering, especially wondering how cigarette smokers don't think flicking their expended butts out the window isn't littering. Before I have time to work myself into a frenzied rage - the site burst into flames. It was sort of an explosion, likely because the brush was so dry. The flames were taller than my car, and there were two sites burning. I quickly passed the location and figured I should report this atrocity.

Dialing 911, Sheila answered with the standard "911 what's your emergency?" I've only called 911 twice in my life before, (pregnant car accident and person trying to break in to the house I was inside of) and both times they responded with calm assurance, and were very helpful.

"I'm driving northbound on I-15 and a brush fire just broke out..." I was about to try and describe what exit I was near when Sheila said: "Can you hold?"

WHAT THE HECK!!! I understand the standard customer interface platform of putting us Plebeians on hold, sort of the Disneyland crowd control strategy of having most of their guests stand in line, but this is a FIRE!!!

I drove for what seemed miles before Sheila returned and asked my location.

There are a few things I wonder about this. The highway I was on runs the entire state and I was on a cell phone. Possibly they were able to note my general location, and maybe wanted to get the firemen started putting on their gear, but still....HOLD???

I don't know, when I returned to the site an hour later I expected to see all sorts of hullabaloo, and miles of charred dry brush. Clearly the authorities in Northern Utah have it together. There was about a mile of crispy burned median, but no damage other than the removal of the brush, which is likely a good thing.

Still, HOLD???

Adventures in Scouting

2010-06-06T09:18:00.000-07:00

I am working on my Eagle Scout award. At least, I think I should be awarded one. Darn all those gender-specific Boy Scout requirements. Anyone who is familiar with the Scouting program knows the mother is just as responsible - if not more responsible - for the attainment of Eagle rank than the boy.

In this process, one of the merit badges we're working on has been Dog Care. This was an obvious selection from the long list of potential badges since we have a dog, and theoretically we care for him. Besides researching various diseases that can afflict the canine species, Unnamed Child #2 (and I) have kept a log of everything we've done for our dear dog over the last two months. This log has been rather intensive since it asks the applicant to log all the exercise, hygiene, food and veterinary care that goes into responsible pet ownership.

What I really think is this whole thing is a ruse to prevent people from ever getting dogs. To see it all spelled out on an Excel spreadsheet is rather sobering, and dog is clearly not pulling his weight around here.

Finally, the two months of recording was over and the last part of the badge is a visit to a veterinarian for a tour. I should have set this up earlier, but I was too busy getting the scout to record each feeding, walk and bowel movement.

Shockingly, our Petsmart located vet, who we really don't know at all, invited us to 'come on over right then'. As it happens, I was ready to go 'right then'; I LOVE it when the universe works on MY schedule. Unnamed Child #2 was playing at a friend's house and completely unprepared to be ripped from his social engagement to do something as mundane as go to Petsmart. I did what any resourceful mother would have done - I took both kids.

Clad in their scout shirts and shorts the vet received them warmly and took them behind the closed doors to the inner vet sanctum.

I waited, and waited, and waited becoming more and more impressed at the length of the impromptu tour. At the conclusion we thanked the doctor and said our goodbyes. I was fixated on signing this dang merit badge off so I could go back to oblivious dog care, where he's fed on an as-needed basis rather than an actual schedule.

Getting into the car, I asked how the tour went. I got the run-down of what they saw, exam rooms, anaesthesia, vaccinations - the sort of stuff one would imagine is in the operational side of a veterinary facility. Then came the good stuff:

"MOM!!! Then, (pant pant) we saw a fetus! A FEEEEE-TUS Mom! A real-life FEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TUS!!!!"

Unnamed Child #2's eyes were as large as saucers and his companion scout kept nodding emphatically like a good side-kick should.

"MOM!! Do you even know what a FEEEEEE-TUS is????"

Now, despite what Unnamed Child #2 thinks, I am not so old as to have forgotten High School Biology, and my own reproductive education. "Yes," I reply, "I do know what a fetus is. What kind of fetus did you see?"

"The vet didn't know. She thought it was a dog, or a cat or a turtle or something, but Mom it was a FEEEEEE-TUSSS!!!!"

Clearly the vet had impressed the scouts who were now vowing to go into a field of veterinary medicine just so they could see another fetus.

I, on the other hand was very concerned that my vet didn't know what sort of fetus she had on hand. Personally, I label my fetus jars to avoid these pesky sort of mental lapses. Fortunately, this won't impact our veterinary care since our dog is a male... but that's a fetus discussion for another day.

Leaving a Trail Wherever I Go

2010-06-04T01:58:00.001-07:00

It is a given that I will need to contribute to the future therapy of my children. I accepted this idea before they were born and have established requisite funds anticipating their upcoming needs. I mean, sheesh, they have ME as a mother. I confess that when selecting a dog, I did not believe -until this last week - that he would also need a fund.

Preparing for the oppressive Arizona summer has traditionally meant a tip-to-tail shave for our happy-go-lucky canine. Deciding that I was going to save the outrageous $70 it usually costs I set out to perform the duty myself. How hard can this be?

Laying out the industrial strength clippers, comb, scissors and clipper oil I proceeded to wrangle the beast. He's smarter than he should be and getting him restrained proved challenging. Trying to coax him over to the station I had prepared on the patio was like trying to get a toddler to take medicine. For about ten minutes he stayed just outside my reach. By the time I had him captured and restrained, I had already broken a sweat.

Firing up the shears I stood before him, trying to decide where to start. Not being a graduate of The Grooming Academy, I was a little perplexed on the starting point of this exercise, so of course I just shaved down the middle of his head.

Now I've watched this process through a window at Petsmart before. How hard can it be?

Twenty minutes into my masterpiece I stepped back to admire my work: Clearly this will require the establishment of a canine therapy jar.

But, undaunted, I pressed forward.

Like a suburban Edward Scissorhands, I snipped and sheared as the dog did his best to avoid contact. In his mind this was clearly punishment for the time he ate the entire black fondant-covered cake on our white carpet.

As the minutes turned to hours, I kept chopping more and more hair from his unwilling body. The more I tried to smooth him out, the more it looked like I was styling him with an immersion blender. At one point it looked like he had exploded:

During this lengthy endeavor my mind drifted back to a simpler, earlier time. I remembered how excited hubby was when we first got married. He had some inane idea that putting a ring on my finger meant he never had to step inside a Super Cuts again. I'm pretty sure this expectation is why he actually proposed. He begged me for years, trying to get me to agree to cut his hair.

Hubby is a smart man, usually. But his fixation on saving the bi-monthly $9-plus-tip expenditure blinded him to the fact that when the target of your affection instructs you to "buy an instructional video" before attempting to cut your hair, things are not going to go well.

After a few years of pleading - and I do mean years - I begrudgingly gave in to his charms. He came home with the "Advanced Hair Styling System" from Sears and sat ram-rod straight on a kitchen chair, draped in a towel, while I finished watching the video. He was like a little kid anticipating recess. Of course, he scheduled this first coiffing the night before a job interview at Compaq Computer in Houston.

Following the video instructions to a T, I put on the appropriate clipper guard, trimmed carefully around his ears, made perfectly shaped side-burns. I snipped, smoothed and scissored his longer locks into an impressive blend. Six and a half hours later, I declared he was done. He stood up and walked to the powder room mirror. After a few seconds, he closed the door. Pacing outside I kept trying to coax him out.

Remember, I said he was a smart man, and I am pretty sure he was locked inside the half-bath trying to quell his tears. Once he emerged he gently said: "You've done an amazing job. Buuuut, is this side supposed to be this much longer than the other side?" OK, in fairness he did look like a member of the Flock of Seagulls. Exasperated, I huffed and pointed to the chair.

$9 plus tip was seeming less and less wallet gouging.

Grumbling (note to reader: this is never a good quality in someone cutting your hair) I evened out my work and proclaimed him finished. It wasn't horrible, it was just really, really, really short. Military short. I sent him off to the job interview, clutching the "Advanced Hair Styling System from Sears" in my hand and muttering under my breath about how I never agreed to this in my wedding vows.

As he drove the long hours to Houston, he stewed in the consequences of his wish-come-true. Dreading how he was going to be perceived, as walking in with a terrible haircut makes a pretty bad impression. True to my husband's unfolding life, he walked in to the room as his interviewer, a former military commander, stood and saluted him.

He was offered the job.

I never cut his hair again.

Dog was not so lucky.

I Sure Know How to Party!

2010-05-30T21:49:00.001-07:00

Saturday I threw what was likely my last "little kid" birthday party. I love throwing parties and have enjoyed the playfulness that kids birthday parties require. The problem is, I've developed a reputation. A reputation that has brought out "expectations."

Unnamed Child #2 had a party a few months ago. I must say, I outdid myself. The Indiana Jones meets Jack Sparrow themed party was a huge hit. I mean, how can an hour of throwing sticky eyeballs, hurling knives at a heart-shaped cake, fishing snakes out of the swimming pool and other assorted feats of plunder not be fun? When the whole thing was over, one of the usually stoic guests, hopped up on sugar and gummy worms, gushed: "This was the best party EVER!!" Me, trying to be the Martha Stewart of piracy glowed with approbation.

Then, at an evening school wax museum, one of the "wax" statues broke character when they saw me saying: "Hey! Are you Unnamed Child #2's Mom???" "Why yes I beamed." "Can I come to your next party?"

Wow. This was big time. In high school I was the kid who was smart enough never to attempt throwing a party. The mix of parental restrictions combined with my general nerdyness guaranteed failure. I'm confident any such social gaffes would have involved me, sitting on a couch with the guy from biology who ate ants and my dog. (Only some of that scenario has changed)

So there we were, Saturday, 10 a.m., ready for the equestrian themed party to begin. I was nervous. I had a lot riding on this soiree. (Notice the clever pun?) Pacing by the door, I was excited when guests began to arrive, don their handmade horse costumes and prance around the living room.

Moms were gathered in the driveway, obviously impressed by the gummy apple rings I had strung up in our orange tree, buckets with inflatable balls on the lawn and plates of sugar cubes lining the porch railing. I ventured out to say hello. Because I'm such a recluse, I don't know many of the moms, and felt I should introduce myself. As we were chatting, another woman strolled onto our lawn. I didn't see her daughter in tow, and figured she must have run ahead inside while I was busy explaining my dazzling mini polo field.

Waving at the newcomer I strolled over, as she yelled over my shoulder to the other moms - "Garage Sale?"

Um, what?

"Garage Sale?"

The other moms were doubled over in laughter.

"No," I tried to explain, "birthday party."

"Inside?" She pointed.

"Yes." I replied, watching aghast as she started for my front door.

"Noooo!" I called, trying to be nice, but not wanting her to enter my home. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, it's amazing how much can flash through my brain in a few seconds. I was trying to decide if I was going to be able to reason with her or if I was going to have to tackle her, there, in my front yard, in front of all the moms I was trying to impress.

"No Garage Sale!!!" I hollered again. At this point she was half-way up on my lawn, making a bee-line for the house. "No, no, no, no, no!!! Fiesta!!! No Garage Sale!! FIESTAAAA!"

I finally got through to her, and clutching her purse she huffed, turned on her heel and got back in her minivan.

Really. How can you not tell that the stuff strewn all over my lawn on a Saturday morning is crap with purpose, not crap for sale?

The End is In Sight!

2010-05-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

Our house is consumed with "finals." Final exams, final harvests, final days of middle school, finally running the marathon... we sit on the precipice of a lot of ends.

Watching my children cram for their finals has frustrated me to no end. I don't have the cramming spirit in me, I never have. Cramming involves trying to stuff tiny bits of data into a stressed and overloaded brain. It's one of the things that drives me CRAZY about our western format of education. It's all multiple-choice and formulas. Sadly, doing well in this paradigm does not mean you are well educated.

I worry that we have "educated" ourselves right out of the ability to reason. To think. To figure out.

The things that matter in life, require such effort. Plugging numbers into a formula may help you figure out the radius of a circle, but let's face it, until you're sewing a giant tree skirt you'd be hard-pressed to find a real-life application for that formula.

When all is said and done, I'm not sure I care if my children can select the right bubble on an answer sheet. I do care if they can tell me why three of the bubbles are the wrong answers. I care if they can give me another example of a right answer. I care if they can design their own botanical fashion lines.

I want my children to reason. To understand WHY they hold opinions. WHY they think the things they do. WHY they know the things they know. None of that stuff is testable on a bubble-sheet, it requires articulation, nuance and facets. It requires holding convictions that were forged, not borrowed.

They'll get through finals just fine. In fact, a monkey could get through bubble sheet finals pretty well. My hope is that these concepts are not actually Final, after all.

I Am Assom!!

2010-05-20T20:09:00.000-07:00

I've been called lots of names. This week, during an immigration "discussion" I was called a sanctimonious suburbanite. While I admire the alliteration, I didn't appreciate the characterization.

But, this does beg the question... where do I stand, as an Arizona resident, on all this immigration hullabaloo?

After spending literally hours trying to defend my position from people calling me a racist, I figure I'd like to say something in a forum where people can't yell in my face. Post whatever you want...just no bad-breath yelling in my face anymore.

Here's my position:

Someone has to secure the border and enforce the law. I don't care who, but the Feds weren't doing it, so I'm happy, yes HAPPY, Arizona has stepped it up.

We cannot economically sustain the level of services we extend to people regardless of immigration status.

End of position.

Now, while all of you living in Los Angeles, Boston and Seattle are freaking out at my unreasonable position, and you're winding up to call me a bigot, I want to share with you what I do in my spare time.

I volunteer to teach English. To the children of ILLEGAL immigrants. Children we enroll in school, then fail to effectively educate because, let's face it - if you were plunked down in China tomorrow and asked to learn spelling words, it would be near impossible without some help. So, since I speak some Spanish, and we're enrolling these kids anyway I believe strongly that I can make a difference in their lives.

They are wonderful, happy, hard working, eager and at times, desperate to learn. I love being with them, and so four days each week I spend a couple hours teaching these children how to compete in America. Hopefully giving them big dreams AND a pathway out of the shadows.

Believing we should secure the border does not make me a racist. It makes me want to protect the America that allows for the realization of those dreams. I invite any legal immigrant to come. I will help them assimilate. I will invite them to my table, and place my hand over my heart to the flag that makes us all brothers.

My List is Complete

2010-05-20T19:02:00.000-07:00

Due to some "incidents" in my youth, I have been asked NOT to to return to a few places. OK, one of them is college. That was over a small mis-understanding about me inciting a riot. That made national news. Depending on who you are, that was either not one of my finest moments OR the coolest thing I've ever done. I'll leave it up to you.

None of my escapades were permanently damaging... they say only one person got a broken nose at my riot... BUT they all have been outside the parameters of someone's arbitrarily-decided boundary of decorum. Sort of like arriving without your invitation to a State Dinner - it can be frowned upon. Apparently riots are frowned upon in certain places.

Sad thing is, I am badge-wearin' proud of all of my "incidents" . While I live a relatively sedate and legal life, I do have the need to entertain myself constantly. This is why, when there's a lull in the activity, I immediately start looking around for action. One person's lull is my opportunity to be escorted from the room.

So imagine my delight when I discover that I've been banned from yet another location!!! Just this week!!! AND that location happens to be my husband's office! It's all too exciting!

Apparently people have been spending WAY too much time reading my blog, (or other more interesting blogs,) that I got banned! Electronically blacklisted. Censored. Shut out. China-Googled. Somehow, some Office of Decorum decided that my blog was not "productivity enhancing" OK, so the good thing is my husband's office is more efficient than the US Government. Bad thing, is my tax dollars are still going toward government employees looking at porn while hubby's co-workers can no longer get caught up on my escapades during work hours.

Yeah, like people are going to read this in their spare time?

Unforgettable

2010-05-11T11:32:00.000-07:00

My husband made a terrible error in choosing to marry me. His challenge increases with the arrival of each holiday. The time between the holidays is sheer bliss, but his grave error came in not taking into consideration that I'm a lousy person to try and buy a gift for. Couple that with the fact that he doesn't like to shop and, well, you can imagine his pain.

With each impending anniversary, birthday or Christmas his stress level rises. Smart men marry girls who wear jewelry. Wise men marry girls who venture into a store more than twice a year so they can tell their beloveds what they would like to receive. Intelligent men don't marry women who ask for a rolling mop bucket for Valentine's Day. (True story) Even if that's what the girl really wants. Isn't that an assault on one's manhood? Well, he can pull it off, but he's no mere mortal.

So what does this unfortunate gent do when (cue music: dum, dum duuuum) Mother's Day rolls around?

I'm no help; I don't want anything. At least until I see it at Costco.

This year, he did a wonderful job celebrating the excruciating eighteen months of gestation time, near death and years of poopy diaper changing followed by more excruciating years of homework. Good thing the Federal Government and Hallmark colluded to set aside one day a year to make all the bystanders forced into honoring motherhood; it makes it all worth it.

He did a great job. His gifts involved reconnaissance. I am mightily impressed and feel wonderfully celebrated. Then, I heard the story behind the gifts, and well, my bubble sort of burst.

One of my gifts this year was an extravagant gift certificate to a salon I enjoy. He has no idea what I do during the day (which is probably a good thing), so the fact that he found this salon blows me away. Then he told me the story behind the escapade:

In my own mind, I am a legend. Everywhere I go people know me. What this really means is that I don't go very many places and to fully obliterate the bubble, the places I do go involve commerce - me giving money to people: the grocery store, dry cleaner, gas station. It stands to reason that these people might remember me. Hence, my notoriety.

Hubby went to see if the Salon, miles from our home, was indeed my preferred hangout. He walked in and inquired of the proprietor if an "Aselin" was one of their customers. The reply of course was: "We have lots of Aselins who come here."

Really? I guess something got lost in the translation, lots of Aselins? Since hubby speaks fluent Thai, I always thought he could navigate the Anglo-Asian divide. Who knows what they meant by lots of Aselins, but for the entire world's sake we should be glad that there aren't 'lots of Aselins' running around getting things buffed and waxed in the same salon. I'm just sayin'.

Hubby thought he was in the right place, so he ventured another guess. One of my dearest friends introduced me to this salon. She, unlike me, knows how to shop. She gets great gifts because she knows what she wants. Every time we are together I am impressed by the details about her and her style. So of course, I just try and copy her. Kellie brought me to the salon over a year ago and I've frequented it ever since.

Hubby proffers: "Does Kellie come here?"

An entire chorus of: Ohhhh, Kellie! We LOVE Kellie! Kellie is WONDERFUL!!!! Came flooding out. Then they burst into song

Yeah right. Lots of Aselin's but only one Kellie? If you met her you would agree, there is only one Kellie.

Aselin's on the other hand, are a dime-a-dozen.

Stopping the Carnage

2010-05-10T07:54:00.001-07:00

I'm not much of a girlie girl. Growing up driving a tractor and mucking our sheep pens quashed any vestiges of demurity that might have existed under my dirty fingernails. But, enough is enough. Even a dyed-in-the-wool tomboy has her limits.

We have this lovely picture window that looks out over the backyard. Every day for the last week I have removed a dead bird carcass from the patio. Apparently birds cannot distinguish between glass and open space. Subsequently we've had a daily magestical soar only to be cut short by a resounding thud followed by a flap, flop...expire.

It makes me sad and disgusted at the same time. I have been home to hear more than one of these 'thuds', and I always follow the distainful sound with fervent praying for the welfare of the bird. Although I have had a few miraculous successes, my odds are not great.

Yesterday was the last straw. Sitting in my office it felt like the whole house shook with what has now become one of the spring sounds we hear. I hurried outside, begging for the welfare of the gray dove I saw lying on its back. As I arrived on the scene the bird was gasping for air, and then expired in front of me. Not a pleasant event. This bird had hit so hard there was actually blood.

I had had enough.

I told hubby we had to find something tasteful to put on the window to stop the birds from flying into it. He nodded and went back to what he was doing. Which is what he usually does when I have a decorating idea. Since he had not been cleaning up the bird carnage he was not aware of the severity of the situation.

Wracking my brain I tried to come up with something that would work. Walking past Unnamed Child #3's room a huge lightbulb went off over my head. (It's still there I think) Last year for a school project, the class traced an outline of each of the children and then each kid colored a life-sized self portrait. I pulled the figure down from her wall and stuck it on the window. Standing back to admire my work I realized that I was not only a tomboy, but I also had decorating sense that fell somewhere on the continum below Redneck and above Cave Dweller.

For two days now, we have had no dead birds but every time I walk past the window I startle. Apparently I have the peripheral vision of a wombat since multiple times each day I think someone is standing in my living room. Lousy peripheral vision and the short-term memory of Dory the fish from Finding Nemo since I'm the one who put the dang thing up there in the first place.

Now the big test of who my true friends are comes when everyone shows up in the morning for yoga, and sees this:

Not very zen is it?

All My Work Has Been For Naught

2010-05-10T07:31:00.000-07:00

Recovering from the hangover of our Mother's Day celebration, it's hard not to take stock of my influence as a mother. The day is filled with gushing speeches, tear-jerking NPR memorials and awkward moments as handmade gifts wrapped in paper bags as shoved at you.

While the Mother's Day celebration my family put on was fantastic - tasty breakfast, lovely gifts, poetry and I wasn't punked at church this year. All in all I considered it a fantastic success. Yeah.

That was until unnamed child #1 excitedly came in to my room jumping up and down about the $1 pleather Miley Cyrus pants they had purchased at WalMart. Pleather???? Miley Cyrus??? $1???

All the approbation I felt at the amazing bargain shopping accomplishment - and buying pants for a dollar is pretty dang good - was quashed by the selection of the garment. I mean really, PLEATHER??? I thought we had gone over this: pleather should not be purchased under ANY circumstances... even for a dollar. Just as I started hyperventilating, the kid felt like driving the nail into my coffin. "I am going to wear them in P.E." they excitedly declared.

What kind of P.E. class are you taking? Pole dancing? Sheesh.

As I'm speed-dialing the principal the kid assures me, "We all got them, we're going to wear them together." Oh, that makes everything better. Now they have an entire middle school pleather army learning pole dancing. That makes me feel muuuuch better.

Really, how can this happen. I am a responsible parent who thought I had effectively imparted important wisdom to my progeny. Clearly, with the intrusion of this newest pleather garment, I have failed.

Sad Confusion

2010-05-06T09:01:00.000-07:00

My kids are not normal. I suppose being raised by me they never really had a chance, which is sad for them, but hey, there is always therapy.

One of the areas they find themselves at odds with the general population is in their eating habits; they will eat most anything. Their wide palate has been exciting and a blessing. I am confident that when most families are trying to decide what they want to eat when going out, the youngest member of the family doesn't yell out - "Vietnamese!" They're good little eaters, and won't be cheap dates ordering off the kids menu.

One of their favorite restaurants is Tottie's Asian Fusion in Scottsdale. Our family goes quite often, and the kids share sushi, curry, shrimp and pork spring rolls and all sorts of stuff that doesn't resemble mac-n-cheese or chicken nuggets.

Last week, I ordered some take-out from Tottie's which was quickly devoured when I got home. It's nice to be popular with the natives. Tottie's famous spring rolls are a wonderful Vietnamese roll made from rice paper, vermicelli noodles, shrimp, pork and some veggies. They are fantastic, and we never order enough of them. This delicacy is served with a delicious peanut sauce my kids lick from their plates after the rolls have been inhaled. The peanut sauce is delicious, and sometimes, rarely, there is a little left which I store in the fridge.

Last week, I was working in my office when I heard screams from the kitchen. Since I hadn't been cooking that day, this time it wasn't my fault. The commotion escalated, there was yelling, banging, and all manner of hubbub. Weighing whether or not I should go investigate, I ran in to hubby, doubled over in laughter. The skirmish was still in full swing, but he had to let me know what I had missed.

Unnamed child #1 was still hollering in the kitchen. They had been eating some lunch, and found the peanut sauce left over from last week. Being a Neanderthal they stuck their finger in the tub, and scooped out a hefty sample. It didn't take long to realize that the tasty peanut sauce in fact was spicy oriental mustard. Not the mamby pamby yellow mustard most Americans consume, no sirree. This was the nuclear condiment variety. Poor Unnamed child #1 was snorting, coughing, gagging and in sizable discomfort. The audience to their pain was laughing, cheering and yelling "Do it again! Do it again!"

In our home, empathy is always trumped by entertainment.

Vinegar Does Not Make a Good Signature Scent

2010-04-28T06:34:00.000-07:00

I promised to share the details of my gems of wisdom so here's the first in this week's series.

Spring in Arizona is a spectacular time. Vibrant blossoms spring from prickly cacti, the song of birds drifts through the air, windows are open, neighbors greet one another - it's just like the beginning of the Christmas carol "Silver Bells" without the snow.

Living in a former commercial orange grove offers me some exciting springtime opportunities. One of those opportunities is the annual springtime fruit harvest. We have Valencia orange trees. Lots and lots of Valencia orange trees. One kid counted 47, another kid counted 52, I am too lazy to count so I usually tell people we have "about 50 trees" and hope my kids aren't so profoundly math challenged (the number of trees is greater than their fingers and toes) that we actually have only 23. The point is we have a lot of trees. Having a lot of trees means we have a lot of oranges. Having a lot of oranges means we can have a lot of juice. See, there is a logical progression to this story.

As I have been in the process of reaping all the springtime gifts that Arizona offers me my joy has been thwarted by a tiny vermin with awesome reproductive capabilities. Greater then the prolific rabbit, the Arizona Fruit Fly produces flocks that seemingly come from out of nowhere. Unchecked, these flocks can get so dense that more than one of my kids has run into the kitchen to excitedly tell me how much they love and appreciate me, only to be cut off by the inhalation and gagging on a cluster of chaotic airborne tidbits. It's tragic really.

Having fought this battle before, I immediately knew what to do - first, have the kid wash the bugs stuck in their molars down with a glass of juice. The combo of fruit fly and orange juice packs quite a protein-fiber punch. Second, it was time to put out "the traps." There are a lot of things in life which have important purposes, but unfortunate processes. Things like vaccinations, taxes and fruit fly traps.

The Internet has a whole bunch of ideas on how to eliminate the little buggers. Only one of them actually works: the oil and vinegar trap. Sadly, our flock of flies would require multiple traps - or me in a gas mask spraying malathion throughout the kitchen. So, for the last few weeks, we've had small bowls with vegetable oil and cider vinegar placed in strategic locations throughout the room. The good thing: they work. The bad thing: they ain't no scented candle. Each time I walk into the kitchen I cringe to think of what visitors to my home think.

The reality is that it there is a viable, wrestle able social decision between wanting people to contend with a flock of fruit flies, or be subjected to a gas cloud of cider vinegar. Seeing as how no one has come to visit for the last few weeks, I'm thinking I made the wrong choice.

Wisdom in My Old Age

2010-04-26T14:25:00.001-07:00

I learned some new things this past week. I know, this amazes you but it is true! Each of these things has a story behind it, which I will share later, but I don't want to deprive you of the wisdom I continue to amass.

1. Vinegar does not make a good signature scent.

2. Peanut sauce and spicy mustard can be confused.

3. Kale and spinach actually make an edible smoothie.

4. I don't generally believe in "victimhood" unless it occurs during an "up-sell".

5. Boys can smell worse than you would think.

6. One can amass an entire army of strippers if one is very resourceful.

See, now how did you function without knowing these gems?

Panache

2010-04-20T23:08:00.001-07:00

Those of you who are die hard fans of mine...(meaning my husband and my dog) know that I work very hard to maintain my style and image. This week, as I was making a rare public appearance I was so pleased at the snappy ensemble I had put together. Even my shoes matched, which is a big deal for me - often I don't even have shoes.

Wandering through our neighborhood Sprouts store, I was fondling the organic fruit, and scooping voluminous amounts of pumpkin seeds out of the bulk bins as people passed by admiring my flare. More than one person made pointed eye contact with me and gave me an approbatory nod. Ohh yeah, I was workin' it.

Hauling my stylish purchases to the check out line I chose the line with one person ahead of me. This person was a Sprouts employee who was purchasing two oranges and a bottled water. I figured they would go quickly. I figured wrong. There, beside the line for checkout moral support were two co-workers of Ms. Orange eater. As I stood behind them in the cue, I listened to the employee conundrum of the day: A customer, (said with derision) purchased a 50 lb. cut of meat earlier in the day. Said customer, (said with derision) returned the meat to the store, having removed parts of it. The customer, (said with derision) asked that the meat be re-weighed and then re-purchased the cut of meat at the lower price.

I admit, I didn't think this was an ethical thing to do. What got my goat, (yes, I have a goat) was the way these three employees spoke of customers, (said with derision) in general. There was a genuine disdain for those pesky customers, (said with derision).

Now I get, that customer service in general is a tricky thing, but these people went on and on and on, completely oblivious of me, a customer, behind them in line. Their language was tacky, and crude. Not classy like mine. Ms. Orange eater's uniform had a smear of some unidentified food product across the sleeve and her khaki pants were stained. Not at all like my stylish outfit that was getting style nods as I went through the aisles.

I kept listening to this tacky talk, getting more and more frustrated that these people didn't A) realize that it was us customers that ultimately provided their jobs and B) that there was no sense of decorum in all of this. I don't think I'm a primadonna, but I would like to be treated with a reasonable amount of respect - like if your going to talk derisively about my kind please go to the break room.

As the trio finally moved out of the way, the checker made eye contact with me - because I'm so classy, and then gave me a little nod. I smiled back and the checker again, got direct eye contact and then gave an over exaggerated nod downward while keeping eye contact with me. Suddenly I realized why I was getting so much attention.

By the way, once everyone in the store has noticed, it's pretty hard to zip up your zipper discreetly. So much for my public image.

Maybe us customers get what we deserve...

I'm Not Quitting my Day Job

2010-04-19T20:37:00.000-07:00

I stripped for six hours today. Seriously.

The mulberry harvest is on, and due to my genius idea to create an inverse skirt designed to catch the harvest as it falls, we have more mulberries collected on day two of the harvest than we did all season last year.

Persian mulberries are an interesting fruit. To eat them, or use them, one needs to remove them from the woody stem running down the middle. Since one of these mulberries is about the length of one of my fingers, stripping them from their stem is quite a process. Also, while they are quite tasty, they are not as aesthetically pleasing...

But catching the wily buggers is also a project.

Geometry was my best subject of all the math options, so I was in my element drawing the diagrams, sketches, calculating circumference, diameter and all sorts of mulberry skirt geekness. Usually I keep this sort of behavior confined to home, but imagine the looks I got as I, straight-faced, walked up to the cutting counter of my local fabric store and said " I would like 72 yards of this green tulle netting." Of course the clerk asks: "What for, my dear?" To which I answer, matter-of-factly: "To make a skirt for a tree." The cutter looked around hoping she could pawn me off on someone else, to no avail. There I stood, counting off yard after yard as I kept referring to my diagram - which I had displayed prominently at my side.

Carrying my bonanza to the check out counter, I paused only long enough to throw a mechanical plastic cow that pooped brown jelly beans, in the cart for my kids. I'm a giver if nothing else.

Starting the sewing part of my project, I soon found myself swallowed in enough green tulle that I felt like I was going to a giant leprechaun prom. Sewing 72 yards of tulle is totally disorienting. Multiple times I thought I was sewing the side, only to discover I was sewing the top, or the other side. Fortunately, botanical fashion is more forgiving than humanoid fashion. Even after strapping the thing on the tree, it never once asked me if it made it look fat. I will say, it takes a certain kind of confidence to carry off 72 yards of green tulle and this mulberry tree worked it!

So after hauling the giant bucket of mulberries to my kitchen, I settled in for the afternoon and began to strip. And strip. And strip. After an eon, I got through half of the bucket and have over 12 quarts of pulp. Stay tuned for the next few weeks of stripping. Then we'll move on to jamming.

Testing 1-2-3 Testing

2010-04-18T22:52:00.000-07:00

I have a doctor's appointment in the morning. It's an annual physical and I'm terrified. I have a thing with doctors. Our routine goes EXACTLY like this:

1. I make routine check up appointment.
2. I show up for appointment early, bathed, having followed all abstinence, hygiene and fashion instructions.
3. Doctor gives me the once over, poking, prodding, pinching, peering.
4. I am told to get dressed and then informed of 'additional tests' we will need to run.
5. These tests are always for something really bad. They involve more gouging, pinching, smooshing or imaging.
6. The painful, embarrassing, high-anxiety inducing tests come back - weeks later - and are pronounced totally fine.
7. The doctor then informs me that responsible people will "follow" the initial dubious findings. Which means on some arbitrary but regular basis we will repeat steps two through six again. Just for fun.

I don't know what is wrong with me, but I never fall within the AMA determined averages for normal people. (Most of you could have told me that without additional testing.) I have silly things like high billirubin - which apparently means I eat too many pinto beans. I have freakishly low blood pressure which inevitably means the nurse will check to see if I'm actually alive during the initial blood pressure check. I have cholesterol so low a doctor has actually told me to eat nothing but cheeseburgers with whipped cream. My body weight is not right. My eye color isn't on any chart. My fingernails are too short, my toes are too long - I'm a Shel Silverstein poem waiting to be written.

I've spent a good deal of time wondering if I'm on the bad side of the "Medical Advances" spectrum. It's great we have all these diagnostic abilities, but the reality is I am perfectly healthy until I enter a doctors office - then somehow I develop an odd syndrome, condition or malady - only to be told, "just kidding, you're just fine. But we'll check you again in six months, just to be safe."

I once had an X-ray that came out with a dark shadow on my lung. Panic stricken I was sent for additional testing, only to have the doctor's office realize that the X-ray was taken with faulty film. Yeah, that was a lot of fun.

The last time I saw my "down there doctor" she told me my thyroid wasn't right. I didn't know what to say - I had no adverse thyroid symptoms, and she had run no blood test - it just looked funny. Following up, my thyroid apparently just looks funny. It functions perfectly normal, but now has to see a therapist because it has a complex.

So tomorrow, off we go for round 976 of the above game. I have a dream that one day a doctor will say to me, "Hey weirdo, you're totally normal!"

Here's hoping that day is tomorrow.

Dressing the Cat

2010-04-14T05:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am scheduled to teach a cooking class. I have taught classes for years, all over the United States. I love teaching and really enjoy the interchange between people who bring different tidbits of information. I always learn something cool at my classes. For some reason people have lined up to hear what I have to present.

In gathering the materials for tonight, I've developed a titch of anxiety over the presentation. I've got my materials, I know what I'd like to present, I've taken some deep breaths - all to no avail. The problem is I teach healthy cooking classes. Tonight's student sample: teenagers.

Reeeet-reeeeeet-reeeeeet - reeeeet (Yes that was my literary attempt at the Hitchcockian horror movie sound.)

Teaching teenagers about healthy cooking is like trying to put a leotard on a cat. In theory it might sound like a good idea, in reality it proves to be rather futile, and neither you nor the cat come out of the experience unscathed.

Usually my material centers around less meat, more fresh produce and adding unique whole grains. Mom's love that kind of stuff. Teenagers consider it akin to water boarding. As I'm contemplating my well being I'm thinking of holding up a Ding Dong that was near a banana and calling it good.

This is the second class in a series, and the first went surprisingly well - although that class involved pizza. Teenagers speak pizza. Tonight's fare will include lettuce wraps, chicken pot pie and a marinara sauced pasta. I was all excited about my selections when I was informed by an unidentified teenager that most kids today won't eat lettuce.

Ding Dong that was near a banana anyone?

Why I Don't Get Invited to Parties

2010-04-05T22:23:00.001-07:00

This Easter weekend our church threw a lovely Easter breakfast slash Egg Hunt party. It was held in the retention basin in my neighborhood.

People who throw these sorts of parties are really good at making something out of nothing. There were lovely decorations, spectacular food, even chocolate dipped strawberries. Imagine, all of this in a retention basin.

I spend a good deal of time in the retention basin. (I know this shocks you). On my runs in and out of the neighborhood it has the perfect tree to stretch my hamstrings on. Because it is lower than street level, I can wrangle myself into all sorts of awkward stretchy poses without anyone calling the cops on me.

On some of my runs, dog accompanies me. While I am stretching, I usually let him off the leash. He runs across the park chasing birds, sniffing things, and eventually ends up laying at my feet licking himself. Like I said, it is better when my family is kept below street level.

So there we are, mingling in a spectacularly decorated breakfast buffet with all sorts of Easter regalia. Hubby, kids, dog and me. As the egg hunt portion of the event started I watched my kids run to the far side of the field. As they got farther and farther away, I realized that this was the last year they would be allowed to hunt, and I started to get quite emotional. Not wanting to explain myself to the other guests, and not wanting to miss their final hunt, I jogged after them with dog in tow.

The squeals of egg-hunting kids qualify for the "pure delight" category. I was smiling as I watched the kids race from egg to egg, bush to tree. Kids were calling for me to let dog off the leash - so I obliged. With joyful abandon he joined the frolic and I beamed watching the melee.

Then, true to form, we ruined the Rockwell moment. The squeals and giggles turned to shrieks and howls as dog lifted his leg on a bush and peed all over some hidden eggs. Trying to salvage my dignity, I rushed over to the dripping foliage as the planner of the event said, straight-faced, "All the candy inside is wrapped." Um, yeah, I'm gonna feed it to my kids then.

Hmmm, dilemma. I wasn't planning on touching any of the urine soaked orbs. Candy or not, I was perfectly fine leaving them there. Yet, clearly I was expected to extricate the treats inside and do something with the plastic ick. As I tried to decide which story I wanted to be remembered by - the cad who left the potty eggs there or the lady who touched dog pee at the Easter breakfast - I was stunned that about seven of the hunting kids stood watching to see what I would do. Apparently urine is more exciting than egg hunting. Who knew.

Reluctantly pulling a napkin out of my pocket, I picked up the eggs, wiped them off and gingerly carried them to a trash can where I deposited the toxic waste. The kids watched the entire time. Dog watched the entire time. I just prayed hubby didn't see this, as he would undoubtedly renew my social restrictions he only recently lifted. He didn't see me, but I was sure later on we would have this conversation:

"Hey Az, did you hear about the lady that was carrying urine soaked Easter eggs around the party? I wonder who it was..." And the whole time I would be cringing muttering to myself...'wait for it, wait for it, wait for it...' until it finally dawned on him that Urine Chick had to be me, and he would not be allowed to leave me unsupervised ever again.

Nor would we be invited back.

Good Morning to You!

2010-04-05T07:13:00.001-07:00

I have never been a morning person. Despite the fact that my father would awaken me at 4 in the morning during most of my teenage years so we could get in an early morning run before my early morning religion class and school that began at 7 a.m.

My whole life has been a series of such injustices.

Motherhood has trained me a little differently, and I do wake up on my own fairly early. Notice I said "wake up" not "get up". This morning I awoke around 3 a.m. This is not a normal time. Normal people sleep in past three. I toss and turn for a few hours and then, drag my sorry bones out of bed to awaken the kids and get breakfast going.

I made them a lovely breakfast. French toast, fresh sliced strawberries, bananas, warm maple syrup and whipped cream. Yes, you can call me Martha Stewart. After getting them going I waddled back to my room and collapsed back in bed. I understand this is the Cardinal Sin of mornings, but it takes everything I've got to perkily stand there while they munch.

A few minutes later Unnamed Child #2 wanders in. I lift my zombie-head and say "Need anything buddy?"

My children are now of the age where, for the most part, they recognize that I am not their personal slave. At this point none of my children would be unwise enough to say, "Yeah, would you get me a drink?" If they are making me move, then it better be for a fire, or a severed limb.

Unnamed Child #2 furrows their brow and says "Um, what?"

I repeat "Do you need anything?"

"Um, no, I thought you said you wanted me to taser you."

Really?

Well, now that I think of it, yes that is exactly what I need this morning. Please get the taser out of the junk drawer in the kitchen.

What am I Worried About?

2010-04-01T22:13:00.000-07:00

I have been asked over the years why I don't run for political office. Granted, this question is always posed by people who don't know me very well, but I admit I have toyed with the idea a time or two. Yes, I am a political junkie. A glutton for punishment who pays attention to happenings that make me yell at the television, shake my fist at the radio and crumple up the newspaper. While I have many liberal and conservative friends, I have not met a person who supports the legislative trajectory we've been on for a number of years.

Being a "doer" I play with the idea that I somehow could make a difference. The problem with this idea is my shady past. I am convinced I could never pass the vetting process to be a Girl Scout leader let alone a member of a legislative body. My oratory skills which seem so handy at church and PTA meetings may or may not have been used to talk my way out of a foreign prison or two.

Also, I've been on posters - which may or may not have led to a meeting with John Walsh. And, this may or may not have been a friendly meeting. My passport has racked up a few stamps, all of which are legal, but I may or may not have purchased a Hard Rock Cafe - Moscow, t-shirt off the Soviet black market last time I was there. If there were such an item in my possession, it would be that I loved the irony that while there was no Hard Rock Cafe in Moscow in 1989, there was a thriving capitalist pop-culture underworld.

I'm so convinced that any political opponent would put me through such an excruciating wringer, that I quickly squelch any notions of throwing my hat in the ring. That and the fact that I don't have any real qualifications, unless listening to NPR and watching The O'Reilly Factor a few times a week counts.

My under-qualification is the main reason I think running for office would be another of my exercises in futility.

That is the world inside my brain.

Here is reality: One of our illustrious congressional leaders in action.

Are you kidding me? Good thing Rep. Johnson, D-GA has been voting on our national health insurance reform, stimulus package and other simple legislative concepts. Besides coming away with an even deeper seated fear about our elected representatives, I did increase in respect and admiration for the military. Anyone who could sit straight-faced through that verbal stupor deserves our praise and respect. I couldn't read his name, but I'm voting for Admiral Composure-of-a-Statue. I bet he's not even ticklish. That was the most impressive political display I've seen since... well, maybe ever. Props to the man.

Also, it's a good thing we have our population equally distributed between the coasts, which is why our nation is so stable. So you costal crazies... please just stay there. Rep. Johnson will be heading back to Georgia soon, and if their electorate has any sense, in the name of stability, they'll keep him home.

(Above clip courtesy of @David Carrington)

More Rep. Johnson, D-GA Watch the boogie at the beginning. It never gets better.
This means one thing, among others.

Our New Pet

2010-04-01T00:02:00.001-07:00

If you're a loyal reader you've followed our family's forays in the animal kingdom. You're familiar with our Goldendoodle who is part monkey. Opening doors, walking himself with his leash in his mouth and playing pranks on the neighborhood dogs by putting one paw atop an operating sprinkler only to jump off as unsuspecting lesser canines approach - spraying them in the snout. I swear, he can gut laugh.

You've followed my run in with the swarm of potentially Africanized honeybees. My battle with my nemesis fruit fly. Jimmy the bearded dragon, and yes, they are very tricky to shave. And coupled with Jimmy's arrival there were the cricket escapades. Needless to say, our interaction with the animal kingdom has not always gone smoothly.

Frequent readers know I do everything I can in my power to make things equal for my children. For the last few months, we've been having trouble in the ranks because of our unequal animal to human distribution. I have the dog. Unnamed child #1 and #3 have the bearded dragon, but Unnamed child #2 has nothing.

Being a middle child, this child often gets overlooked. So when they repeatedly request, cajole, beg and incessantly plead for their own pet, in the name of equity, justice and fairness, of course I eventually give in. (OK, they wore me down).

Finding the right pet has, thankfully taken a few months. We've searched high an low for the perfect new addition to the family. They wanted a cat, but due to extreme allergies in the family, that was never going to happen. I have to hand it to #2, they have found the perfect pet. Non-shedding, hygeinic, obedient and will eventually live in a container. Right now, it's living in the bathtub of the guest room, and we're working on a name. So far we're leaning toward "Linus". Here are some photos:

For more on where he came from: click here

Ahhh Sooo Grasshopper

2010-03-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

I've been practicing yoga for about twelve years. It's been a huge part of my life and well being. As I've chronicled here before, I've had a number of teachers ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime. I've had a very comfortable role as a student in the back of the class.

Then somehow, one day, my teacher couldn't make class. My ability to be discreet, to camouflage myself was put to the test and I failed miserably.

This morning I found myself, as a substitute teacher, leading our little yoga flock. Talk about nerves! All that relaxation, deep breathing crap they espouse to the students bears NO influence on an unqualified teacher. During the sun salutation rounds I found myself light-headed as I told everyone else when to inhale and exhale. I just needed a paper bag for my frenetic hyperventilation. While I did not pass out, I did come dangerously close to starring in someone else's blog post.

Knowing my tiny brain was going to have a hard time keeping up with the rest of me, I pulled a Palin: writing some of the routine on my hand. I must admit, whether trying to remember the definition of basic foreign policy or whether pigeon pose comes after reverse warrior, it is an excellent strategy.

I am smarter than I look, and knew not to attempt any of the "wind" inducing postures that often cause me to clench my cheeks to maintain public discretion. I learn from the mistakes of others, and let's face it, I was only a sub.

Finally, it was time for the final relaxation. Getting the entire class on their backs looking at the ceiling promised to be my favorite part of the experience. As I led the guinea pigs, I mean students, through their relaxation I suddenly had a panicked thought: while no one could see me in this position, I couldn't see the clock. Needing to end on time, I kept lifting my head and one-eye peeking to see if five minutes had passed. Thirty seconds, forty-five seconds, one and a half minutes... I was like a kid waiting for school to let out. The sad part is I ruined my entire relaxation time.

When the final Namaste's were exchanged I finally could relax and exhale.

A Big Fan

2010-03-29T22:58:00.000-07:00

Spending, eh hem, wasting - time on Facebook has opened up all sorts of new horizons for me. There are some fun aspects - like connecting with people who have had significant places in my life, but for reasons of distance or age we have lost contact. There are also some extremely witty people who enrich my life, and brighten my day with their little quips. One friend has a deep friendship with Jose Cuervo. Apparently Jose brings out the funny in him, because their antics are quite entertaining. Since my Aunt is the self proclaimed Tequila Fairy, I figure I should pay attention to what Jose is doing so I can keep an eye on her.

Another aspect of Facebook is the "Become a Fan" button. I'm not much of a joiner, and have eschewed this activity. But not so for many of my friends. Here is some of the 'fan roll' for today:

... joined the group Tom, Its Been 30 Years ... Your Not Going To Eat Jerry.
... became a fan of I get slightly worried when people say "Can I ask you something?"
... became a fan of "Who are you talking to?" "My mom, so shut up." "Tell her I say hi."
... joined the group "You Totally Just Crossed The Line!" "What Line?"
... became a fan of Pull up your pants, homeboy. You're white.
... became a fan of Ok, If we get caught here's the story... ·
... became a fan of The correct usage of "You're", "Your", "There", "Their" and "They're."

These options for belonging make for pretty interesting social commentary. Each time I log in there are invitations to join. Achieving that sense of belonging is such a huge part of the human experience. Hence the social networking within the social network.

Reflecting on this phenomenon, I realized I'm a HUGE DORK. While most people have become fans of witty things, and sports teams, I can think of only two things I am an official fan of. Yes, the above list is silly, but my personal list is downright geekness.

I am a fan of "Mandy Patinkin holding a gun while kissing babies"
"Of course," you say, that makes perfect sense.

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much, let me sum up. (From 'The Princess Bride) Mandy Patinkin played the sword-wielding Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride. While iconic in that role, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die!) another little known fact is that he is an amazing singer. One day while looking for information on Mandy, I came across the 'kissing babies' option, laughed out loud and joined.

I know this makes me seem interesting and witty in my own right. Here's where it goes bad:

I joined another group today, Reason Magazine. Let's just say 'Reason Magazine' is not the sort of material that the typical Facebook user is drawn to. After I joined, I took a look at how many people were also fans. All seven of us can have ourselves a nifty convention one day.

OK, there are a few more fans than seven, but Tickle Me Elmo has exponentially more fans than my little magazine. The reality is, things that draw other people don't really catch my attention. The upside of this is I don't spend much time around crowds. The downside: it puts a cramp my human need for belonging.

I am the only suburban mother I know that didn't attend the midnight showing of the Twilight movie. I like geek books. Geek magazines. Geek activities. I'm excited because later this week I am going to attempt to sew from tulle netting, a giant reverse tree-skirt that will catch mulberries as they fall from the tree. I have sketches, calculations and material samples. My sewing machine and I will have a grand time. And yes, I looked and there is not fan button for "Sewing reverse tree-skirts for mulberry trees"

But I am a huge fan.

More Mandy

Truth in Advertising

2010-03-29T07:18:00.001-07:00

This morning I received a coupon offer in my inbox for half off of laser tag. Woo hooo! My little family loves laser tag. Skulking around in a dark room with 30 people you've never met. Wearing a sweat-infused sensor vest worn by thousands before you. Identifying the weakling in the herd who has never played before and didn't know that the white on their shoe laces would fluoresce under the black lights - giving their location away to everyone in the room. Yeah, good times.

With the coupon, games were $4, which is a pretty good deal, so I picked up a few. As I read down the coupon, I started to giggle uncontrollably at an overzealous writer at the marketing department. Here is how they describe their laser experience:

"The cuddly lasers of Stratum Lasertag emit the perfect levels of nostalgic radiation to send any gamer's organic heart back to a more-innocent time of blacktop antics when tag was still played with hurled bottles and catapulted boulders."

I'm sorry, but what the heck? What part of that picture closes the deal? The cuddly lasers? Maybe the nostalgic radiation? Who doesn't miss the time when we played tag by hurling bottles at each other?

Good grief.

I'm going to tell the kids, "Kids, we don't need no pansy laser tag. We can just run around in the street hurling rocks and bottles at each other. It's cheaper and more authentic than simulated electronic substitutes." They will totally go for that. Although my option doesn't include any lasers to cuddle with.

Bummer.

Fair is Fair

2010-03-25T05:14:00.000-07:00

Years ago, as I returned from a shopping trip at Target, Unnamed Child #1 watched in horror as I unpacked my purchases. Among the packages of diapers, baby food and laundry soap I had picked up a few outfits for their then toddler younger siblings.

Poor Unnamed Child #1 could not fathom that there was nothing in the bags for them. In an all too human outburst, the words, "It's just not fair!" came screeching out.

After trying to explain the situation to my unjustly treated progeny, I finally sighed and said, "Do you want me to make it fair?"

"Yes!" They pouted.

"You have it pretty good right now." I reasoned

"But it's not FAIR!"

"OOOOkay..."

Unnamed Child #1 has come to know the look in my eye and the tone in my voice which tip off a 'learning moment'. They know to try and shut things down as quickly as possible when they see that look or hear that tone. This comes from years of experience.

Toting a few large garbage bags I went into the child's room and started making things "Fair".

"Wow, three pairs of shoes, your siblings don't have that! That's not 'Fair'. Underwear? They still wear diapers, that's not 'Fair'. Books? They can't read, this isn't 'Fair'. Special grown-up kid toys? They don't have these, that's not 'Fair'."

The garbage bags quickly filled with 'unfair' belongings as the child was completely freaking out.

But I wasn't done.

Looking around the room, I noted that the toddler siblings still slept in cribs. They didn't have a 'big bed'. Well, that's just not 'Fair' I exclaimed as I dragged the mattress out to the garage.

Dusting off my hands, I figured I had inflicted enough emotional damage for the day and exclaimed, "There, now that's 'Fair'!" and left the room. The stupefied kid sat on the floor of the remains of their once personal and special space sobbing hysterically.

The reality of life is that NOTHING is 'Fair'. Making things 'Fair' is not only unjust to those that have things others don't have, it also makes everything pretty stark.

Our president and his posse are very clear in their belief in 'Social Justice', in the redistribution of wealth and the responsibility of the government to make things fair. People, like one of the founders of Google, Sergei Brin, who has lived through the implementation of this concept, understand all to well the inherent problems with this idea. Right now, most Americans don't seem to get it.

Under "Fair" things don't get better. Ever.

To this day, when one of the younger kids in my family makes the statement: "That's not fair!" Their older, wiser sibling will yell out "STOOOOOP!!! YOU DON'T WANT FAIR!!" Lesson learned... by a six year old.

Why can't the rest of us get it?

WOW - What else is in there??

2010-03-24T13:12:00.000-07:00

Wonder what else we're gonna find in this bill we "had to pass so we could find out what was in it"? It says a whole lot about our legislative process that leaders vote for laws they haven't even read. Good thing we rushed this through:

Details on the new bill

A Fish Tale

2010-03-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

Recently a news item hit our papers, a ruling is iminent in the toothless-carp pedicure case. Yes, you read that right. Apparently in my glamorous locale, a salon has instituted toothless-carp pedicures where the slimy buggers will gum away dead skin and callouses from patron's feet.

Let me just give you a moment to stop the dry heaving.

OK, nasty as I find the whole idea of carp sucking on my feet (shudder), I cannot fathom how we have gotten to this point as a society. Yeah, yeah, yeah I know there are all sorts of plausible arugments about the expectations of cleanliness at a salon, the duty of the proprietor to maintain hygenic standards blah blah blah. Look, if you're stupid enough to want to put your feet in a poopy carp-filled vat and have them gnaw on your tootsies - and then to pay for the whole experience, you should be allowed to do just that. The notion that government needs to protect us from everything has gotten so far out of hand that dockets are being filled with this nonsense.

Here's a case that's perfect for Judge Judy, the capitalist's solution to judicial insanity. I think every municipality should have a public arbiter of nonsense. Someone who would triage recently filed cases, pick the stupidist ones for their docket and then broadcast the whole sordid scene over the web. I would pay a dollar to see that.

I truly can't understand how we have evolved into a society that tries desperately to protect it's citizenry from EVERYTHING, yet judicially forwards the annual Darwin Award e-mail that floats around to everyone in our address books. Look, it's not the government's job to protect us from fish. Foreign invasion - they're on it, but callous-eating fish? Let's focus people.

Duck Tape and Bailing Wire

2010-03-23T22:09:00.001-07:00

I'm trying to figure out the rosy side of the recent legislative events. So far I haven't come up with anything substantive. The system IS broken. It absolutely needs fixing...but have we done the right thing?

Shortly after I tricked hubby into marrying me we were enjoying marital bliss in our new home when we had a kitchen water incident. Fortunately it was not me that caused it. (Honest!) It involved a lot of potato peels and a garbage disposal installed by a non- cook. Needless to say, there was a lot of back-up, and a lot of spillage. Both not good words when referring to an in home water incident.

A few days after we thought the incident was handled, we were sitting in the basement. I looked up at the ceiling and in a bizarre inverted quilt pattern, the drywall tapes were sagging from water collection. We immediately stood on the arms of the couch and tried to poke at the tapes, they were a mess.

We waited a few days for them to dry out and in the meantime discussed our repair options. Since there was no paint damage, I had the idea we get a syringe, fill it with adhesive and inject, using the smallest possible needle, adhesive into the bubble to try and re-attach it to the ceiling. In my convoluted brain I thought the delicate approach was worth a try.

Hubby had different ideas. They involved a chain saw and a pick axe.

The final solution involved calling in professionals to fix what "we" had messed up.

I fear today, we not only injected a bunch of superglue then applied a chain saw and a pick axe to our healthcare problem and in this case, there are no professionals who can clean it up.

For the life of me, I can't figure how hiring 16,000 new IRS agents could ever be a good thing.

I can't understand how the convoluted accounting methodology they have used to claim this monstrosity is "deficit neutral" seems accepted by so many people.

I don't know a person who enjoys going to the DMV, the post office or thinks Medicare has been run well. Using that track record, are we kidding?

I suppose a lot of us in America try to 'fix' things and create bigger problems, so we can relate. But today's events are way worse than the bailing wire holding the bumper of our van in place.

Of that, I am sure.

Celebration

2010-03-21T22:41:00.001-07:00

Having a summer birthday has had a negative impact on my ability to appropriately honor milestones. This being said, I missed an important one yesterday... this post is my 202nd post since I started my foray into public humiliation. I have to say, sharing my shame has had a very therapeutic effect.

Despite this free therapy, I do pause for a moment when I realize that there have been over 200 posts, mostly involving stupid things I've done, or shouldn't have done. Hardly something to brag about. And, while my confidence may dip a little at this realization, it has been buoyed by the fact that I have reached another milestone: my 40th follower! Public follower that is.

Apparently, to some of you, my blog is a 'dirty little secret' as I get daily e-mails from non-public followers commenting on my post, lack of post, the fact that they saw me in the grocery store and turned the other way... and then felt badly because they realized that is something I would have done and have clearly rubbed off on them.

So, in honor of my achievements, today everyone shall allow themselves some: getting caught rocking out to a song in the car by another driver, shameless bakery goods theft, public flatulence, less than stellar parenting followed by donations to your children's therapy funds, and touchy wildlife encounters. Be free! Free in the knowledge that as far as dorkness goes - I have you beat by at least 201.

With more to come...

Oh, the Humanity

2010-03-21T22:17:00.000-07:00

We were fortunate enough to celebrate Spring Break last week. After years of traveling out of Arizona during what is arguably the best week of weather we get, we decided to stay put. There were a tremendous number of upsides to this plan. No travel, no packing, no dog sitting arrangements...I must say, it was a great decision.

It did have it's moments though. Feeling somewhat obligated to help entertain my kids, I agreed to activities I might otherwise avoid. A neighbor called and wanted to go to the roller skating rink. Seeing it was St. Patrick's Day, and if one wore green they were admitted for 99 cents, I figured, what the heck.

Let's just say, OH MY HECK!!!

Standing in line at the small city skating arena, an inordinate number of extremely overweight people surrounded me. While this might not cause any adverse reaction on a good day, every single one of them were clad in kelly green and surrounded by their leprechaun spawn. This adventure had Twilight Zone written all over it.

My kids, on the other hand, were in heaven. As we entered the rarely cleaned, roller disco inferno they could barely contain their enthusiasm as they laced up their oddly-smelling, well-used roller apparati. At first I was telling myself to take deep breaths, but quickly abandoned that plan as the aroma of Lysol, sweat and cheap cheese pizza blended into a nauseating bouquet.

I don't do crowds well. For some reason it seems everyone wants to lean against me, spill on me or as I had the good fortune during this outing, loose their footing on skates and fall grabbing on to my leg. Yep. Good times.

Once the kids were laced up and set free I settled myself at a frighteningly sticky table, ready to converse with my friend.

Over the lovely repetitive strains of My Sherona, the top-of-our-lungs conversation went something like this:

"The kids look like they're having fun!"

"No, I don't think we're quite done."

"Would you like me to get some food?"

"Yes that lady does have an attitude."

You get the drift. After about a minute of this futility, I settled in to people watch. There is something special about the time-warped patrons the roller rink attracts. A sinewy woman in her 70's had staked out the center of the floor and was doing all sorts of roller boogie tricks.

Deftly weaving in and out of the green-clad novices was a portly fellow, in too-short, too-tight attire he once wore in high school. I have to hand it to him, if you're gonna wear that get-up, complete with knee-high socks, you sure as heck better be able to skate. He could skate. So my gaze vascilated between amusement and fascination as I muttered to my self, "look away, look away..." but never did.

That Wednesday night, in the city named "Most Boring in Arizona" we shut down the Skateland. My personal leprechauns moonwalked to the minivan begging for a return visit.

Yeah, maybe they have an April Fool's special...

Getting Purseonal

2010-03-12T20:29:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a purse person. (Purseon?) All of my stylish friends have multiple handbags, in multiple colors, styles and labels. I have a purse purchased two years ago at Target. (Pronounced tar-jay) This purse should last me another four years. It replaced a purse that lasted about seven years, and also came from Target. My purse matches none of my shoes. People have asked me what brand my purse is, since usually everyone in the room has a brand name purse. It is so exclusive it doesn't even have a name, but it does have a label inside that says it was inspected by #7. #7 also put a little silica pack inside one of the zipper compartments, just for me. Fortunately it had instructions not to eat it, since I am prone to eat random unidentified things I find.

This week I attended a women's meeting at church that centered around a purse theme. The invitation played on the word 'purse' and stressed you should bring your purse.

I mull over the social ramifications of going into this situation blindly and figure I should look inside my purse, just to make sure there's nothing too scary in there. I confess, my purse is a catch-all for the fringes of my life. I rarely carry it on my arm, choosing instead to set it on the floor so I can fill it with the random bits and pieces I collect in my daily travels - cleaning it out biannually.

Underneath the dead squirrel and the set of keys to unknown locks I found a stash of crap that embarrassed even me. As I dumped the contents on to my desk my own version of the Sesame Street theme "all of these things are not like the others" kept running through my head.

Besides the expected receipts, loose change and food items, I had a broken Christmas ornament in the shape of a Schwinn bicycle. There was a chocolate hazelnut Kosher candy bar, inscribed in Hebrew, I picked up at my favorite Jewish deli. A plastic fork, a mis-matched set of dice, a paint swatch card of my house paint. There was a twenty peso note from my last trip to Mexico. A Cheesecake Factory gift card, library cards, Science center membership cards a packet of Goo for my next distance training run. Alcohol wipes, mouth guard, dental floss, and of course, a shark tooth.

I stared at the menagerie of crap, stunned at what a magnet I seem to be. It was a Jekyl and Hyde sort of moment. My closet is freakishly organized, all my clothing sorted and hung by color and sleeve length. My closet and my purse would not get along.

After consulting my personal Magic Eight ball - otherwise known as my Facebook Status Update - I decided that I should pack up my life, as I really am, and brave the party.

Upon entering the room invitees were supposed to weigh their purses. Fearing that my ridiculous collection of items would break the scale, I was shocked that it weighed only 3.9 lbs. The woman after me weighed 14.8 lbs. I gave her the recommendation for a good chiropractor.

We then settled in to the 'meat' of the evening - the whole reason I came: the game. In my mind I had decided that there was no possible way I could be trumped when comparing the selection of items I had amassed. I pictured myself standing atop a pedestal receiving the "Coolest Collection" trophy, and "Most Interesting Person" sash.

True to the reality of my life, most people do not operate on the same unique mental plane I find myself skating along. Instead of us collectively sharing the contents of our handbags, the emcee called out an item and participants were to run to the front of the room and drop their item in another purse. The first person to accomplish this task would win a candy bar.

Two problems with this scenario: 1. My table was the very farthest table from the front. 2. The incentive of a candy bar seemed pale compared with the trophy I imagined I should win.

The third problem, which was the most disappointing of all, was the list of items they were requesting: lip gloss, needle and thread, keys, car wash receipt, cell phone. B-O-R-I-N-G!!!

I had some of the items - a mad dash to the front of the room with my roll of stamps won me a Twix bar. Yet, as each mundane and benign item was called out, a little of me died inside.

Finally the category created just for me was announced: The Most Unique Item. I grabbed my shark tooth and triumphantly sprinted to the front. (Those of you who know me, know I have a slightly overinflated competitive streak). As I paraded my exfoliated tooth back and forth in front of the podium I swelled with pride. No one could beat a shark tooth. No one.

Except the ladies with the Gas-X and the paint sample wheel. When the emcee announced that we were all winners, I stomped back to my seat, refusing in protest to select from the remaining candy items. Shark tooth deserved its own prize. It represented everything unique and interesting about me. Everyone in the room wanted to sit by the lady with the shark tooth. I mean really, given a choice who would you pick? Shark tooth or Gas-X lady. Sheesh.

I thought so.

Confusion

2010-03-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

My name has been the source of consternation for other people my whole life. I eventually deadened to the humiliation of the first day of school roll taking. It ALWAYS went like this: Susan, Fred, Tammy, Joseph, uh, um, A...A....A.... - "Yes, that's me!" I would call out. My odd name has provided years of entertainment as people have wrangled all sorts of bizarre pronunciations from the six tiny letters that configure my moniker.

Ash-e-lyzz, Abertha, Aiyslee. And my favorite, a typed letter from my insurance company that read: Sdr;om. I did spend the time to figure out that the rocket scientist who typed the letter had shifted to the right, and would have typed it correctly had their fingers felt for the little placement dots on F and J.

I get that it's a unique name, and that people have trouble with new things, but still. I once dated a young man, rather seriously for over a year. Upon meeting his mother for the first time she exhaled mightily, heavily sighing out in relief "Oh, I thought you were black!" Yeah, sorry to disappoint you.

As I have aged, the uniqueness has been trumped by celebrities and civilians alike. I mean, really, Blanket? Dweezil? My neighbor named her daughter "Story". There are all sorts of creative people out there.

So, imagine my flattery when I learn that one of the young tikes I babysat as a teen named her child after me. Not just liked my name and used it, but actually told my mother that she named her baby after me. Imagine the swelled head I'm getting from this news. I mean, After? Wow. I didn't think I was a particularly good babysitter - but I guess I left a powerful adolescent impression on my young charge.

I'll have to make sure I set a good example for this little one. There are a lot of important lessons I should share. While I know it's still early, I have all sorts of life tips like how to put on make-up, dating advice, how to choose a fantastic husband.. things that really matter.

I decide to look through the birth announcements so I can see the details on little Aselin. There were a lot of babies born in my little hometown the same week, and the paper is full of these little darlings - all with unique names:

• Lilah Dean Jones was born to Thomas III and Andrea.

• Colt Bryan Smith was born to Cullen and Danielle.

• Dresden Michael Sanchez was born to Michael and Tana.

• Maeve Marguerite Taylor was born to Tyler and Jamie.

• Maximilian Alexander White was born to Michael and Claudia.

• Aselin James Ray was born to Douglas and Julie.

Gff - choke -gag... Aselin James? What the heck?

What kind of impression did I leave on this girl? I may have to re-think some of my advice.

Tax Dollars at Work

2010-03-08T13:55:00.000-08:00

Education is a big deal in our home. From the early selection of teaching methods: Saxon? Spalding? Montessori? Preschool? Charter school? Music? Foreign languages? Our kids have been exposed and instructed in a number of core concepts.

As a stay-at-home mom I worked tirelessly to prepare my kids to enter the educational system. Unnamed child #1 was singing in Spanish before she started Kindergarten. All three children were reading at three. One kid took physics in 6th grade. The curriculum was identical to my college physics syllabus. All play string instruments and piano. Unnamed child #2 and #3 are taking Mandarin Chinese AND Spanish at school. We are a colony of geeks living under one roof.

Last week I had to take Unnamed Child #1 to the doctor. Sitting in the waiting room, I was amazed at the spectrum of humanity. There were fellow geeks, with their kids in school uniforms (I gave them a mental high-five) all the way down to a frightening woman stuffed so tightly into a pair of spandex tights that the seams could barely contain her corpulence. We not only shielded our eyes from the 'not-left-to-our-imagination' view, but we hid behind our magazines for protection from potential popping projectiles.

Unnamed child #1 asked if they could fill out all the forms. Sure! Besides the beard-growingly long wait in the waiting room, filling out the forms is the most tedious part of the whole experience. As I'm supervising the process, I'm impressed; the kid does really, really well. I have clearly raised self-sufficient, intelligent people who will leave the nest and contribute to society. As I'm picturing the kid on a platform being awarded the Rhodes scholarship I'm jolted back to reality by: "Mom, how do you spell 'knee'?"

I look incredulously at the kid, who is sheepishly grinning back.

"You mean the 'knee' from 'Head-Shoulders-Knees-and-Toes? That knee?"

The crouching kids winces, "Yessss," as an older couple to our left snickers a little. Now I know, normally it would be cruel to laugh at a child, but this child thinks they're getting a driver's license pretty soon so they deserved the public humiliation.

"K-N-E-E."

"Oh, yeaaaaah" as if they were testing me rather than filling in their own mental void.

I roll my eyes and go back to my People magazine, the guilty pleasure of the doctor's office.

Moments later the same kid says, "Mom, your phone doesn't work!!!" I lean over to see what's going on, since it worked when we entered the office. "Look, I keep trying to text my friend that I'm at the doctor and it won't let me put in the word 'doctor'. See? D-O-C-T-E... E...E see it won't let me put in the "E."

Good grief. I've spawned a ding-a-ling. I share with her the correct spelling, to which we both get a good snorting chuckle. Maybe my hopes for their surgical career should be notched down a bit. I wonder if they know how to spell "surgeon"?

I wonder if Spandex lady knows how to spell doctor?

Back by Popular Demand...

2010-03-08T13:54:00.000-08:00

This is a repost of a fan favorite. Enjoy!

Somehow I've actually paid to be able to communicate less with my children. These new orthodontic appliances have made it extremely hard to understand anything they say. Quite frankly, I'm sure their teachers aren't calling on them in school.

Sitting around the dinner table hubby and I are conducting the nightly ritual of finding out the happenings of their day. It's going something like this:

"So, Unnamed child #1, what did you do today?"

"I had a fantastic day expanding my growing mind with the wonders of learning and possibility."

"Great. Unnamed child #2, how did your day go?"

"Wrble Grumph farqua harku zeelef!"

"Um, great." Figuring that requesting a repetition was pointless we move on.

"Unnamed child #3, how was your day?'

Fortunately this child's palate has expanded rapidly, and therefore the diction is not as garbled. Not clear mind you, but less garbled than #2.

"Today in science (pronounced thienthe) we pwayed where's my penuth"

I choke on my water. Hubby's eyes bug out and the other unnamed children completely lose composure. (BTW, I'm not explaining this to you if you didn't figure it out. Read it out loud if you're confused).

What are they teaching you at that school? We all realize that what is being explained is not what it sounds like, but Unnamed Child #3 keeps talking despite our gffaws. Apparently the class conducted a science experiment that gathered data on some shell-on roasted peanuts. What was being reported was an escalating series of:

"Then I weighed my penuth." "Then I measured my penuth." and finally "We all put our penuths in a basket."

We had completely lost our composure. Doubled over, the four non-scientists were chortling and snorting like the herd of juveniles we are. What made it more entertaining was Unnamed Child #3's complete oblivion to what was going on.

"What is so funny about my penuth?"

Wiping the tears from my eyes I'm completely unable to explain. There is really nothing funny about a penuth.

What Planet am I on Anyway???

2010-03-02T12:48:00.000-08:00

You would have to live under a rock to have missed out on Tigerfest 2010. The dalliances, indiscretions and unbelievable sleaze characterizing Mr. Wood's life have dominated the mainstream media the last few weeks. After a day of it I was done, but apparently the rest of America was not, so it continued.

Just when I thought the fever pitch had died down, and things were returning to normal I watched an interview with Attorney Gloria Allred that made my head fly off my neck. The publicity-loving, feminist attorney sat, next to Joslyn James, a porn star, who claims she 'gave it all up for Tiger' and was in love with him. Allred proceeded to demand, straight-faced that her client was entitled to, and demanded, an apology for lying to her and breaking her heart.

WHAT?!?

The woman cheating with a married man got her feelings hurt and wants and apology? She and her high-priced attorney were 'deeply offended' that Tiger apologized to his family and did not apologize to his paramour. Waaah, waaah, waaah.

Fascinating how Allred can argue she's all for women's rights yet completely obscure women's responsibility when there's a camera lens in there room. Here's a suggestion for Ms. James: Don't date married men. (Gasp!!! I know, I'm a genius!)

Well, that will teach Tiger to hang out with scum as scummy as he is. And I'm sure he's a quick learner.

Oh, and Tiger, there are some parasites penicillin doesn't get rid of.

Crap Apparent

2010-03-02T12:40:00.000-08:00

I get a number of people requesting my blog address. This is flattering, but I always hesitate a little since I'm not sure if this is because they really want to read my musings, or if it's how polite conversation has evolved. No longer do we only hear "Have a nice day", and "I'll call you," now we have "Send me your blog address."

Mostly, we know that "Let's do lunch" doesn't really mean that. I get "Let's get together soon" all the time and I am not sitting by the phone with my daytimer open waiting to schedule the date. I accept and am not remotely insulted by the profound insincerity in that statement. But the new, "Send me your blog" request has me a little stumped.

On the one hand, I would like lots of people to read and enjoy my blog. Of course. On the other hand... the requests usually come from someone who has heard from someone that my blog is "really funny." The pressure in that is HUGE. Like Final Exam huge. And, if they are just being polite, then is it a little self promoting to actually send them the blog link? I don't know.

Yesterday I got another request, via facebook. Interestingly enough, my address is right under my profile photo - so I think It's pretty easy to see without my help. So, I get this request and actually mull how sincere it is. I finally give in to my vanity and type the address in to the comment box. In order to send a web link you must enter security words. I'm used to doing this, anyone who tries to comment or order tickets in cyberspace knows how to do this.

As I'm wrestling with whether or not I should actually send this link the two words pop up, reminding me not to take myself so seriously: Crap & apparent.

The universe has my number.

So Many Thoughts...So Little Time

2010-03-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

Hi Peeps. I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, I've just been so consumed with the minutia of my life that I haven't blogged in a while. I have a new, St. Patrick's Day commitment to be better. Our time together is one of the joys of my life.

So what does constitute a 'good excuse'? My reference to falling off the 'face of the earth' is not as oblique as it may seem. This week I hosted three girlfriends for a few days of "fun." Now, let's be clear about something: I define "fun" as a sedentary activity. One that requires lots of sitting, reading, maybe some writing. I've had an entirely thrilling morning working at my desk and watching bees in the apple tree outside my window. Whoooo-weeeeee.

This is not true for my friends. Little did I know, prior to their coming, one of them said, "This is going to be a 'Go and Do' vacation." Had I known this I would not have picked them up at the airport. Apparently, 'Go and Do' involves 7 a.m. wallyball followed by a 3 mile run, a quick lunch (which I cook) then a drive out to meet our rappelling guide. Four hours of rappelling (which, by the way, does not just involve the 'coming down' part. There is also the 'going up' part, which involved a rather strenuous climb through a crevice.) a quick shower, a huge dinner and then a comedy club show. That was just ONE day. By the time my head hit the pillow at night I was drooling with exhaustion.

In fairness, I am their elder by a few years, but they should have respected their elders and let me sit in the car. Instead, they played a cat-and-mouse game trying to get sneaky photos of each other in random positions. Sleep was not excluded from this game, so I had to sleep with one eye open. These crazies are the same friends highlighted under a previous post Girl Lists. My REM deprived brain is glad they're gone. I mean, I really, really, miss them.

So imagine my dismay when, after repeatedly hurling myself off the side of Papago Peaks during our rappelling activity that I learn the present impact of the Chilean earthquake. During the earthquake the Earth actually contracted as one continental plate went under another plate, shrinking the earth six feet, but speeding up the rotation of the earth by 1.26 microseconds. The earth literally spun off of its axis - speeding up time, shortening the days... rocking my world.

I'm just too tired to have time go any faster. The idea that I have both jumped off one of the Earth's edges AND that the same Earth shrunk makes my brain hurt.

Less time, less space - we lost 1.26 microseconds people!!!

I need a nap.

Oblique Compliments?

2010-02-16T17:24:00.000-08:00

One of the best things about marriage is the complementary characteristics that the union joins, making a complete package. Theoretically.

It was a big deal to me when I got married that I now had someone who would be in charge of the yard. We fell into the traditional roles - he was in charge of the outside and I was in charge of the inside. That's why we've won "Yard of the Month" multiple times and our refrigerator has been reported to the Health Department even more times.

The sad reality is, that in our marriage he brings a broader, more applicable skill set to real life. I can sculpt an entire miniature doll house Thanksgiving dinner. He can actually cook real food. I can take my car to get the oil changed; he can actually change the oil. I can get a tan; he can waterski in a long-sleeved shirt and scrub pants and look like he's evading some sort of evil water villain. We have very different skill sets.

So imagine my delight when hubby comes home last week and tells me he needs one of my special skills. I had made social plans with a friend to go out for her birthday dinner. I am in charge of the social calendar - so what I say goes. (Unless he says no.) Well, this woman's husband had made plans to surprise her for her birthday, the same night we had planned our dinner. Why I wasn't invited to this celebration still eludes me; I have excellent party skills. But the husband told us that we had to cancel our plans so we didn't interfere with his; one of us had to break up with her.

History has shown that I'm not that good at the break-up. One college boyfriend took it so well he stood beneath my window and yelled, cried and sang for days. My floor-mates loved that. Another one just looked at me and said "No." We ended up dating for two more months before I could convince him it was over. So even though my track record was not good, hubby said clearly I was the one to do it.

Protesting I said, "Me? Why do I have to do it?"

Without missing a beat he said, "Because you're the better liar."

Sadly. He is right. At least I bring some value to the marriage.

Happy Valentines Day

2010-02-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

Valentines Day. The Grinch streak in me doesn't like it. The hope that somehow one's feelings can be expressed by a bunch of pink carnations, an overpriced box of chocolates and a foil-embossed card left me many, many years ago. This being said, I admit my hypocrisy and still get a little sappy on the day.

As we go into this year's Valentine celebration, it's the first year my kids haven't purchased the pre-packaged perforated classroom valentines. They're growing up. No longer is one's love to be shared willy-nilly with anyone lucky enough to be stuck in your class. At first I wondered if this was a bad thing, but the more I've thought about it, I believe it's a reflection of the fact that as they've grown up, they've developed deeper relationships in their lives. They are wonderfully generous with their love and concern for those around them. I admire this in them and try to be more like them.

These deeper relationships have a price. As I've developed those relationships my heart has expanded and I feel grateful for those I care deeply about. Yesterday was a pensive, prayer-filled day as one friend underwent brain surgery, another friend received the bad news of her son's biopsy. I sat with another friend who was recovering from a terrible accident which is ushering in some great changes in his life. I received a call from another friend struggling with great depression, and another suffering marital challenges.

As I spent time praying, trying to comfort, trying to lift their spirits, I felt wholly inadequate. My friend's challenges made my heart physically hurt for them, and I realized, for me, this is what Valentine's Day is truly about: sharing the burdens of those we love and care about deeply. It's noticing little things, celebrating, mourning, waiting, comforting, sharing - all the things that truly require the heart.

I have a lot of people I consider Valentines, but none greater than my own family. As I made my late-night rounds to tuck-in and kiss each of my children, my heart felt better. I took joy in my teenager's belly laugh that comes so easily. I smiled remembering my son's desire to sit next to me wherever I sit. My daughter's tender nature, making sure my feet are covered with a blanket or stroking my hair. My little Valentines are precious.

Entering my seventeenth year of marriage, I can't imagine my life without my daily Valentine. He is everything to me. One of the great things about our daily Valentine celebration is that it has nothing to do with candy, flowers or over-priced stuffed animals. It has everything to do with the quiet daily devotion. The service, the kindness, the tenderness, the forgiveness, the patience and the humor.

Valentine's, like any good holiday, should not be a one day thing. It's about loving the people in our lives enough to stand with them and support them all year long. Happy Valentine's Days!!!

Smarter than I Look

2010-02-09T18:42:00.001-08:00

Those of you who have been following my blog wondered why I haven't shared yesterday's story sooner. Unlike some Supreme Court nominees and Czar appointments, I fully vet the stories I share before they reach the public.

Like an inductee into the witness protection program, my story cannot be proved or disproved. Did it happen? Did I make it all up? Is there more I'm censoring?

Some of you were moved upon to do further research and try to find back episodes of the ill-fated show on the internet.

Some of you Google searched me. Let's just say when you typed "Aselin" and "Studs" in the search box, you deserve what you got.

Some of you searched Wikipedia and wondered how you can contact Marc deCarlo the original host of the show.

All I can say is, bummer for you guys.

On this subject I cannot be blackmailed. (Notice I said, "this subject").

Double Dog Dare

2010-02-08T20:30:00.000-08:00

I have a slight competitive streak. OK, the only reason I had children is so I had live-in people I could beat at games.

This character trait is usually cause for rejoicing. No longer am I chosen last for team games. I usually walk away from baby showers with nifty prizes and am in charge of the entertainment at family reunions.

I enjoy a good fight, and while I hate to lose, I am willing to risk losing just to have the chance to play.

This competitive quality has not been without it's downside.

Back before I had the wisdom of the sage, I had a hard time turning down a dare. Usually the dares I encountered were things like eating a raw jalapeno at a fancy restaurant, or running fully clothed across the gym during the time out of a high school basketball game. Nothing anyone else would remember. OK, my spicy daring date may remember me spitting out partially chewed jalapeno all over the table as I gagged for relief. He picked pepper bits out of his tie. But mostly, no harm no foul.

Recently I was reminded of an ill-thought out incident I've tried to block out.

Just a reminder, there are people in your life who are fantastic examples of how you should live. I am not one of those people.

In the early '90s I was sulking around the office after a breakup. It was a rough ending, and I was pretty mopey. Good friends trying to cheer me up gave the natural suggestions about other fish in the sea, and getting back on the horse. Platitudes did little, as everyone knows only time heals such wounds. Well, time and poorly used brain cells.

The '90s saw the advent of shock television. During this time there was a terrible dating show called "Studs". Two boys took three girls out on separate dates. The girls were interviewed and then boys had to guess which of the girls said various quotes. Everyone was watching this train wreck of a show, and my helpful coworkers suggested I audition to become a contestant.

After a number of unsuccessful requests, one of them called me a chicken, or something powerful like that. Not to have my honor insulted I immediately dialed the hot line for the show and left my contact information on their answering machine. HA! That will show my snarky co-workers. They all gathered around me patting me on the back and wishing me luck as they dispersed back to their important jobs.

Caught up in the adrenaline of the moment somehow I found myself at the audition. Dressed in business attire, in a large room filled with a large population of scantily clad females and mouth-breathing males I realized this was a baaaaaad idea. Each potential contestant was called to the center of the room to stand before the judges. After listening to imbecile, I mean potential contestant, after potential contestant, go through the audition I realized with great relief there was NO WAY a skinny little Mormon girl would ever be considered for the cast.

Finally my name was called and I took my mark. My business suit and heels hardly fit in with the crowd and the judges immediately picked up on the fact that I was probably lost. Reading my application a casting agent noted, "BYU huh? So, you're a Mormon?" All three agents rolled their eyes as another said, "Well that means you don't party then?"

See, this is where I could have gotten out of the whole thing, if I were smart. But noooo, I shot back (clearly without thinking) "I party as hard as anyone I just remember everything the next day."

The judges were reduced to laughter as the interview continued. I was the first person cast that day.

Driving home I could not figure out if this was a triumph or a tragedy.

I shortly found out: I had two very nice dates. An actor from New Jersey who had been in the movie Top Gun, and a lifeguard from Huntington Beach. While neither one was a love connection I decided this was not entirely a terrible experience. That was until taping.

After the second borderline obscene comment they were attributing to me, I stopped taping and took off my microphone. and stood to leave the set. Prepared to walk out, the staff surrounded me and attempted to smooth things over. We came to an agreement and everything that had to do with me became G rated from there on out.

The end of the show requires that each girl and each boy choose someone they would like to go on another date with. Imagine my joy as both boys chose the other two girls and I sat there as the loser odd- man out clapping for the newfound love that surrounded me. It was clearly a high point.

Weeks later, the night of the show, I sat alone in the dark, watching the train wreck unfold on television for millions to behold. Now I got the joy of watching my awkward self standing next to the host as the other two couples embraced. Gee, this is like high school all over again.

The show ended, I turned off the television and hoped that a good dose of Benadryl might drown out my humiliation. Suddenly the phone rang. I stared at it for a few rings, sure it was one of my friends calling to rub the whole experience in my face. (I've always had good friends).

Finally I picked up the receiver and squeaked out a hello.

"Aselin?"

"Uh, huh."

"My name is Aaron and I work with Jay, your lifeguard date from the show tonight."

"Uh, huuuh." I said even more tentatively. I quickly realized the bozo had given out my phone number to his friends. Niiiiice. This just kept getting better and better.

"Well, we're all down at the station and just watched the show and wanted to let you know we think Jay is a complete moron."

How sweet! I then heard sounds in the background of grunts, and oofs like the soundtrack from an Adam West Batman episode.

"We're teaching him a lesson and are embarrassed at how stupid he is for not choosing you."

The sound of breaking wood punctuated his Hallmark sentiments.

Aaron talked me in to meeting the whole group at Black Angus for a "drink" which Jay informed all of them was a ginger ale for me. I rounded up my roommate and went in search of my dignity.

While there was no love connection for the evening, it was a lot of fun to be out with an entire lifeguard troupe. As Jay walked me to my car he apologized for not choosing me, he confessed he was not sure I would choose him so he went with the ickier sure-thing contestant. He then asked if he could see me again.

Not being propped up by a gang of goading idiots, my brain was fully intact as I politely declined. Sorry Jay, you can't be a chicken on TV and get a second date with me. Noooo sireeee.

Yogariffic

2010-02-08T04:41:00.000-08:00

For some people following an exercise regimen is a challenge. There are a million reasons which prevent us from putting on our jogging shoes, or driving to the gym whose dues we've been paying for years only to use our membership card more for picking sesame seeds from Big Mac's out of our teeth than to check in.

I love yoga. I started practicing years ago when unnamed child #1 was a toddler and unnamed children #2 and#3 were infants. I am certain it was not the allure of the actual yoga which drew me to the practice. It was the free childcare at the local YMCA coupled with the 12 pm class time. This was a stage in my life when I could not get anything done before 11:30 am, and if someone would watch my three miscreants I would happily stand with my forehead against a wall for an hour. The yoga option seemed more believable as a productive activity, so I went - five days a week.

The YMCA had a variety of instructors of varying levels. I learned all sorts of things about myself I had never considered and gained a mental discipline which was totally outside my possibility without this experience.

So now, I'm a housewife armed with a little more focus, a little more flexibility and the knowledge of a few Sanskrit words.

Imagine my delight when a certified yoga instructor moved in next to me and wanted to teach classes... in my home. Let's see, overcoming the hassle of getting in the car and driving somewhere? Having my morning exercise commute be from bed to living room? Sign me up.

Somehow we talked a few more suburbanites to join us. So there we are, two mornings a week, twisted and contorted into all sorts of ambitious positions. I am the only member of the class who has had any yoga experience, so daily we go through the introduction and explanation of the name and mechanics of each pose.

Last week, our little band of women were laying on our backs, with bent knees, holding our toes in Ananda Balasana or "Happy Baby Pose." It's a pose where you really should avoid looking around at each other. It is not flattering, and you look as stupid as the person next to you, but the stretch on your hips is incomparable.

So there we are, a room full of beginner women trying to pull our knees to the floor when someone says "I wish I had known about this pose before I had my children." Um, ok, I see how it might help with the flexibility for delivery. I try and refocus on my pose as another pipes in, "Do they have the men do this pose too?" The instructor is trying to get us to focus but this question sets most of the women in the room off on a tangent. "They should have men practice all sorts of stuff so they know what it's like. Do you remember putting your legs in the stirrups for delivery?

OK, I'm as 'in the trenches' as the next gal, but you ladies are messing up my concentration and I'm not sure what this has to do with Happy Baby pose.

The instructor reels them in again, and begins to explain a few tips for Ananda Balsana. Breathing, focus, posture, all the stuff of child birth. As she's explaining some of the details she again says "As you're performing Happy Baby..." when one of the women pipes up very loudly: "Happy Baby??? Happy Baby??? Ohhhhh, I thought you were saying "Having Baby. This makes more sense."

The room devolves into laughter, including me. We were indeed happy we were not having babies.

Beautiful Stench

2010-02-03T19:03:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the universe looks out for me. Usually it doesn't, but I can tell it is thinking of me when I'm entertained.

Raising a teenager is an activity that deserves its own special awards. I got one today.

Teenage girls interests and focus narrow to an almost myopic scope. Universally their interests are not school, grades, curfew, clean rooms, or nutrition. Nope, their interests are, in no particular order, boys, hair, clothes, boys, clothes, hair and how their hair and clothes look to boys.

I'm not criticizing, I get it. I went through the same stage. It shuts all progression of time and space as those of us not enslaved by the minutia of lash length, curl variance and jean branding are held hostage to the amount of time it takes to get those details just right. So we wait, and wait, and wait...

Now, a quick digression, as I watch my own daughter gussy herself up each day - I'm WAY impressed. I was a teen fashion disaster. And not it a good way. Her creations come out pretty well. Mostly she has learned the art of 'less is more' when it comes to make-up, and 'more is more' when it comes to hemlines. I was not so evolved as a teen.

Back to today. She's primping and prepping for a night out with the girls. We have a deadline so the other family members are in the car inching out of the driveway as she comes running out, jumping in the passenger seat.

WHOOOO WHEEEE - I audibly note that it's a good thing her activity is outside since she has a gallon of perfume on. She giggles and says "Yeah, I had sort of a smell so I put a few extra spritzes on."

Ok, not a bad idea, but as I'm driving through the neighborhood I start to think...what kind of smell? I look over and notice with glee that she has borrowed her Daddy's sweatshirt.

I start laughing so hard I can barely speak. I almost have to pull over as she is begging me to tell her what is so funny.

"Well, you know how your Dad is training for a marathon?"

"Yeah..."

"That's his sweatshirt, and he trains in that sweatshirt, and it's really, truly a sweat-shirt."

She screams and says "It was hung up!!! On a hanger!!!!"

"So it could dry out from his run this morning, and yesterday, and the day before... it hasn't been washed this week."

I can't express the joy at this moment. We did not have time to return home for a change of clothes. Her activity was outside at night, so she would need the sweatshirt. This was too funny: she was a beautiful, perfumy, sweaty, stinky, lovely mess.

Yep, that's my girl.

Doppelganger

2010-01-31T19:52:00.000-08:00

This week on Facebook people have been posting in their profile box a photo of a celebrity that looks like them. It's been enlightening to see who people think they look like. Some are pretty close and some are pretty, well, let's just say a lot of my friends apparently are on drugs.

Shortly after hubby and I were married I was getting to know a number of people in a church congregation that was new to me, but hubby had been attending for years. Because hubby had a relationship with most everyone there they felt a little safer approaching me randomly. This was fine, except I have a hard time keeping names straight. Faces, I'm good with, but names flutter around my gray matter like moths who sometimes land on the target, but often just batter up against the wall of my skull.

So imagine my delight when one fine Sunday afternoon an overly friendly brother sidles up to me and says, "Ever since you've moved in, you remind me of a celebrity."

Awww. How sweet. He then starts fumbling for her name. After a few "Ums" and "Uhs" I start throwing out suggestions I had heard before: "Kristy McNichol?" "No." He emphatically shakes his head.

I'm wracking my brain trying to think of celebrities people have told me I reminded them of.

"Molly Ringwald?"

"No" even more emphatically.

"Sally Fields?"

"No!"

He's developed an acute frown and I'm feeling extremely awkward. To be honest, when we started this conversation I wasn't particularly interested in the celebrity I reminded him of, and now that we've spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to pick one, I just wish he would lie to me and PICK ONE!

Now, I'm at a loss. Even I think this one is a flattering stretch, but I throw it out there... "Audrey Hepburn?"

"Noooo.....................

"Aaaahaaa!" He holds up his finger like he's made some sort of important discovery and I'm so excited to learn the glamourous eminence he pictured every time I entered his line of sight. I'm lost in my musings when his exclamation pulls me back to a screeching reality as he yells out:

"OLIVE OYL!!!"

Oh. Yeah. Um, thanks. Is it the nose, the stick legs or the big shoes?

XY Chromosomes

2010-01-27T13:44:00.001-08:00

I don't get boys. This past week we were gifted a HUGE storm from California. I believe we surpassed our annual rainfall averages in a couple of days. As a state we desperately needed the moisture and welcome the change in our usual weather patterns. Here in the lower portions of the state the storm was rain. In the upper portions of the state it was snow. Lots, and lots and lots of snow. It shut down major highways, cancelled lots of plans and left a thick blanket of white wherever the storm touched.

Lots of people around me were planning ski trips, sledding trips, trips to their cabins - all to enjoy the winter wonderland. Even though I don't like being cold, I get the love people have for the fun winter brings. I understand the joy of spending a day on the slopes, building snow sculptures, generally frolicking, then coming inside to a warm fire, a warm meal, a warm bed. Yes, this I get.

What I don't get is when hubby comes home from church and says: "The scouts and I are going on a snow camping trip."

"A what?"

"A snow camping trip."

"Where you sleep outside in the snow?"

"Yes, because we're men." He beats his chest and likely scratched something as he said it.

I'm thinking he's messing with me, because who in their right mind would sleep in the snow. "Don't most of the boys in your scout troop belong to families with cabins?"

"Yes, but we're men."

Clearly.

So now, a bunch of moms and wives are scrounging around trying to find adequate equipment for a group of stupid, thin-blooded, sun-lovers to sleep in the snow.

There is something broken in boys. Girls plan spa weekends, boys want to sleep in the snow.

Groundhog Day

2010-01-26T11:30:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how it happens to me. In my own mind, I think I'm pretty memorable. You may not remember my name, but you'll remember it's weird. You may not remember where you know me from, but my big flashy teeth I inherited from my dad make an impression on people.

Well, I just returned home from taking my sixteenth test at the Mesa Community College testing center. All of these tests have been proctored by the same woman. Every time I go in there, I feel like I'm in that movie "Groundhog Day" where the scenes just repeat themselves over and over.

I walk through the door this morning and one of the other employees recognizes me (we've had one conversation) and says "Hey! You're back!" I give him a high five and smile.

Approaching the proctor lady I feel like I'm in the right place. She looks up at me and says (no kidding):

"What do you want?"

"Um, I'd like to take a proctored test." I slide my student ID toward her.

She takes the ID and says "What kind of test?"

"A proctored test." Because I have been here so many times, I know there is a big drawer where all the proctored tests are kept. Mine will be in there she just has to match the name on my ID with the name on the envelope.

"What's your name?" Sigh. I tell her and she says "I need your ID."

"You have it right there." I state patiently. Last time I was in here I was held up for a good half an hour waiting for clearance to use paper during an essay exam. I don't want to ruffle her feathers, so I use my inside voice.

"What kind of exam again?"

"A Proctored exam."

"Has it been mailed here?"

This would be a reasonable question if she had looked in the "Proctored Exam" drawer, but she hadn't yet. "Yes, I'm sure it's here." I state, in my Mary Poppins voice.

"What's your name?"

"Aselin - it's on the ID you have if that makes it easier."

"What ID?"

"My ID, in your hand."

"What's your student number?"

"It's also on the ID."

"They don't put those on the ID."

"Well, (deep breath), I can show you mine on the front of my ID." I take the card and recite the number to her.

"I've never seen it on and ID before. Hey, Joe! Have you ever seen this before?" She actually gets up, walks away with my ID to show another staffer my student number. Mentally, I'm just trying to maintain my composure, singing 'If you're happy and you know it....' when I realize I'm finishing the song's statements with things like "Kick a hole in the wall" and "Rip the computer monitor off the desk and chuck it through the window." I take a deep, cleansing yoga breath.

My proctor comes back, sits at her desk with my ID in her hand and says... I swear... "Can I help you?"

Galt's Gulch

2010-01-24T21:07:00.000-08:00

No, the photo is not me, but it might as well be. This is a quote from one of my favorite books, Atlas Shrugged. I read a lot. It's a characteristic of my geekness that I heartily embrace. Encounters of great literature, the good turn of a phrase, a well developed character have been known to bring me to tears. I love pieces of lots of books, and feel like there are some whole books that should be requisite reading before one is let out into society.

My challenge is that due to my eclectic taste, few people agree with me. I just don't like the stuff other people read. I think I am the only person within the incorporated boundaries of my town that has not read the Twilight series. I didn't read "The Secret" and after one unfortunate selection in the late '90's have avoided anything with the Oprah stamp on it like the plague.

So imagine my joy when I very discreetly snoop at the lady sitting next to me reading her Kindle during our kids' basketball game on Saturday. I recognized the passage and my heart leapt with snooper's joy. She's reading Atlas Shrugged! On her Kindle! At a basketball game! How COOL is this?

I have a list of three must reads in no particular order: 1. Les Miserables - unabridged version. 2. The Peacegiver and 3. Atlas Shrugged.

Books so powerful I have read them over and over. Keep them on my nightstand and get all giddy when another member of general society finds them interesting too. It's rare. I usually get comments like "Those have too many pages." "I don't like to read books I don't understand." "You're a geek, don't ever recommend another book to me again."

And I skulk away in literary shame.

So here a normal, non-geeky member of society reading this book. In PUBLIC! I fully acknowledge this is not an actual validation of my entrance card to normalcy, but it's nice to be able to talk to some of you. She's not far enough into the book to analyze much of the content, and my wide-eyed violation of her personal space wasn't greasing the conversation skids, but I couldn't let it go. Like some sort of David Cassidy groupie of the '70's I'm reciting RANDom facts (See, that was a play on the author Ayn Rand's name - if you were cool like me I wouldn't have had to explain that to you.)

I was offering to let her borrow my "Who is John Galt?" sweatshirt and show her my early edition hardback copy. She was leaning away from me and suddenly snapped her head around yelling "What? Oh, I'll be right there...." as she ran away.

I get that a lot.

Twinkletoes

2010-01-22T06:58:00.000-08:00

I have always had a disconnect between the mental vision I have of myself and reality. In my head, I believe I'm a floating twirling suburban Disney princess skipping through life with my feet barely touching the ground. The reality is much different.

Years ago, circumstances unfolded that found me as a contestant in a local beauty pageant. (DO NOT LAUGH!) During rehearsals for the show I thought I was a carbon copy of Miss America herself as we went through the dance routines, different line up patterns and the evening gown parade. After a particularly long practice, the choreographer excused the troupe and then hissed "Except YOU!" Pointing at me. Immediately my fingertips went to my chest as my eyebrows raised and I looked over my shoulder. "Me?" I mouthed. He didn't flinch, just remained pointing a vengeful bony finger at me - now the only person left in the room.

He proceeded to express outrage that I was wrecking his whole show. That if I didn't learn how to keep up, particularly how to walk, then he would have to design a back row. A back row of one.

So I practiced, learned, practiced, had nightmares, practiced until finally, a week or so later, he deemed me "Proficient. Not good, proficient." Hey, I can live with proficient.

The night of the show I did great. I've seen the video, I didn't stand out at all. I was in my spot, I was on beat, I did just great. Until the evening gown portion.

Linked arm in arm (thank goodness) with the military escort who would set me adrift in my floating cloud of princessness we ascended the four steps to mount the stage. Smiling out at the audience, like any good princess, I mentally coached myself. "Step, and glide....step and glide... I was fine until the last step when it went something more like, "Step and grunt, and tip into military guy and stumble onto the stage trailing the tulle petticoat your last step had ripped from the inside of your gown."

It was an entrance worthy of a "Ta daaaaaa". I actually saw the choreographer in the back with his head in his hands.

Fast forward to last week. I'm still mentally coaching myself as I try and glide through my day. Unloading groceries from my car I have this whole mental dialogue going on about how many bags I can carry, how strong I am how graceful.... OOOF!

Holding umpteen full grocery bags my feet fly out from underneath me, I sail up into the air and land with a resounding thud squarely on my back. If this wasn't insult enough, it knocked the wind out of me so badly I was unable to respond to the glass pickle jar soaring in slow motion through the air. Soaring, soaring, soaring, dropping, dropping, and fortunately missing me just to the left where it hit the ground shattering in a kabillion shards of glass and pickle.

Laying completely incapacitated in a pool of kosher dill shame, it took me a good fifteen minutes to gather the strength to extricate myself from the pile of groceries, glass and gherkins. Leaving the mess, I crawled into the house. Greeted by the dog who got one whiff of me and ran in the other direction.

It just takes a special kind of grace to fall with style like that.

Social Socialite

2010-01-19T12:38:00.000-08:00

Not many years ago, Unnamed Child #1 suffered from a crippling fear of public speaking, being around people and just plain being noticed. When I say crippling, I mean crippling. Not average shyness which all of us suffer from in one degree or another, but complete, shutting down, running away, crying, hiding and breathing into a paper bag crippling.

As a parent it was pretty hard to watch. Coming home from school sobbing because someone looked at her, or trying to get her to participate in average activities like school pictures was an endeavor that required Donald Trump and his 'Art of the Deal' to negotiate. Usually we achieved success, but not without significant effort.

Yesterday was Martin Luther King day, another holiday that sounded good on paper but in reality is just another day off school. So there I am with my three kids in our morning standoff. Unnamed Child #3 "What am I going to doooooooooooo today?" "I'm soooooooooooo bored!" I am of the renegade opinion that it is not my job to entertain these people. They have food, shelter and the occasional pat on the head, so what more could they need from me?

As I'm working on my very important mom-stuff, each child would come in to report on the progression of their chores and social plans. So and so wasn't home. Did they have to put away ALL of the breakfast food? and If it was a holiday did they really have to practice piano? Standard negotiations. For the most of the morning Unnamed child #1 slept.

Suddenly my important mom-stuff was interrupted by the Cheshire Cat grin of Unnamed Child #1. "Mom, all of my chores are done." She then proceeded to tell me the activities she had organized for her posse. I nodded and she skipped out.

Ten minutes later she returned to report how the plans had changed and now they were going to Plan B.

Over the next two hours we made it to Plan Q, and finally she left the house to play football with a number of other adolescents.

Fast forward to 8:30 p.m. I'm sitting outside the home where she and eight hundred of her closest friends ended up. The front door to the home opens up and like some sort of swamp-monster-from-the-South she sloshes out in her shoes, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, stringy hair - all drenched. Leaving a trail of soggy footprints leading up to the car she opens the door looking like a wet rat sporting the same Cheshire Cat grin from earlier.

"Mooooooooom! It was soooooooooo fun. Maybe the best day of my entire life, oh, can I get in the car wet?" as she slides into the passenger seat.

"What happened to you? It's freezing outside!" I'm really not concerned for her welfare, rather the welfare of my car, but I had to pretend.

Somehow, the shy little girl from years gone by was jumping off who knows what, getting people to take turns following her into the unheated pool, all clad in her winter ensemble. Girls, boys, pets - everyone was following her lead. I can only suspect she's been banned from returning to this home ever again.

The entire ride home she reported on the events of the day, most of which she choreographed. According to the details, she's overcome her fear of having people notice her.

Guess my work is done.

Qualifications

2010-01-18T05:06:00.000-08:00

Recently I've had the opportunity to apply for a job. I'm a really good employee. The problem is, my main employer for sixteen years has been my family, and many of the skills I've mastered don't automatically translate into the traditional workplace. But make no mistake, these skills still have value.

For instance, I can tell with 99.6% accuracy if someone is going to barf. How many Administrative Assistants have that skill? I can distinguish between a Krispy Kreme and fruit snacks induced stomach ache, food poisoning and multiple strains of influenza. I don't even need to see the person, I just need to hear their voice and can immediately triage the situation.

Also unique to my past experience, I have amazing multiple species mind-control skills. Whether applied to juvenile delinquents trying to avoid spinach consumption or canine aversion to bathing - one look, one particular look from me and my subjects haste to compliance. I defy you to show me an office manager with those powers.

I have developed a tremendous ability to operate at a high level despite my sleep pattern the night before. Look at all those single young things getting jobs right and left. They stay out late, imbibing who knows what and show up to work the next morning in varied states of consciousness. Me, since the birth of Child #1 I've yet to have a good night sleep. From the demands of infancy to the 4:35 a.m. 'butt dial' calls (this happened yesterday - kid was home but phone was in their pocket when they rolled over and redialed) I don't know the meaning of 8hrs sleep. This has done nothing to diminish my high levels of functioning, rather it has conditioned me to be a maintain acute focus rivaling any cyborg.

What employer wouldn't want that?

The plight of the American Housewife re-entering the workforce has been well chronicled. I'm not sure if I will actually take the plunge, but make no mistake. An employer would be hard pressed to find someone with more tenacity, patience, focus, multi-tasking skills than me.

Excuse me, the dryer cycle is complete...

Armed Etiquette

2010-01-13T04:49:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I am such a magnet.

A few months ago I was picking up a prescription at the Walgreens drive-thru. I'm not sure my Walgreens drive -thru is faster than if I were to go into the store since every time I pick something up I end up turning off my car to wait for the complicated task of finding the prescription in the "M" box and handing it through the window. These things are tough you know.

So minding my own business, I'm sitting in the drive-thru blocked by the car in front of me and a car behind me waiting for my turn when this red truck comes screeching around the corner and flies past the drive-thru line at way-fast miles per hour. I could hear the tires squealing over NPR and I mentally gave the irresponsible driver a lecture about safety.

It's my turn to drive up to the window so I move forward and turn the car off as I'm talking to the attendant when suddenly, behind the attendant, the driver of the car appears. He's yelling and wielding a gun. Pointing the gun toward the attendant and by extension at me.

I don't like guns. I think people should have the right to bear arms, just please, please, please don't bear them at me. This is one of those moments when time goes really slow, even though in reality it is going quite quickly. The car in front of me has not pulled away. My own car is off. I have no idea how effective bullet-proof glass is or if they bothered to install it at this Walgreens. So I do what any brave prescription-picking up patron would do... I ducked.

It's hard to say how much protection I actually received, but with my head in the proverbial sand I did feel more secure.

I have no idea what was going on inside the store, the robber didn't push the "talk" button so I could hear him. Rude.

After a few moments I heard the now familiar squeal of tires, and I peered over the dash to see the same truck, backing up at "way too fast" miles per hour. He spun out, and drove straight into traffic on the main road speeding away. Employees had run into the parking lot, seemingly chasing the perpetrator. I was more than a little shaken up at what had just happened.

I looked over at the window to see my attendant ringing up my prescription. What does one say after a robbery? I am not up on the current etiquette. Without missing a beat the attendant matter-of-factly tells me the total of my purchase.

Really?

I ask if she thinks I need to stick around as a witness and again without missing a beat she says no, they'll call me if they need me.

Um, OK. I clutch the bag she handed me, start my vehicle and drive away.

How does one react after witnessing, sort of, a robbery? I've never had a gun pointed AT me. What kind of danger was I really in? I have NO idea. Time passed and I mentally recovered from the unsettling fact that I have no answer to these questions.

Until today.

While lunching with some friends at a popular local eatery we were immersed in food, conversation and ambiance. Walking out to our cars we were still chatting when I looked up at a balcony above the patio we had just been on. Nudging my companions I say - hey, there's a guy in a ninja mask up there...with a bullet-proof vest and a rifle. Hey, there are three of them. Hey they are cops. YIKES?!?!?

Moments before we had been conversing literally under the feet of this undercover swat sting. Weird thing is there was no commotion, no yelling, even though they were wielding weapons, there was no action going on. This made me even more uneasy. Not interested in reenacting my Walgreens experience I said my goodbyes and jumped in my car. As I drove away I got a better look - yes they were wearing black ninja masks. Yes they all had rifles. Yes they were all wearing bullet-proof vests.

How does one react? Well, like any responsible citizen, I got in my car and drove away.

Brush With the Law

2010-01-12T05:45:00.000-08:00

As I listen to my eldest child opine about her future driving opportunities, I chuckle. She has all these plans for the glamorous vehicle she's going to receive. As if a teenager should receive an award for aging up. I often remind her that she's not living on the set of the Price Is Right.

My first car was an El Camino pick up truck. The starter had long worn out so you didn't need the key, you could start it with a butter knife. It had a cage on the back so we could haul sheep in it. And, if that wasn't memorable enough, it was BRIGHT yellow. Who paints their car BRIGHT yellow? Well, a parent who wants everyone in a small town to be able to narc on their teenage kid's bad driving habits.

There was no driving this car and claiming it "Wasn't me." I'm sure it was the other bright yellow El Camino-with-the-cage-on-the-back in town.

I remember getting pulled over the first time. Unjustly accused of rolling through a stop sign, Officer Davis, one of two officers in our Mayberryesque town, strode up to my window. Leaning down to talk to me, he said, "Now Aselin, who taught you to drive?"

Sheepishly I thought, "Well, your brother the town driver's ed teacher." But I was smarter than that and just tried to look innocent. It worked and I got off with a stern lecture and the required promises to be a model driver from there on out.

Despite what one would think, I've had fairly good luck with the law in my life and considered all the times I've been let off as a huge blessing and a tribute to my ability to look innocent. This morning I was reading an article about a police officer in Utah when something jolted me:

If Deputy Greathouse Fox pulled you over but didn't give you a ticket, that may not have been a good thing.
Before she started work as a deputy, "She said she wouldn't give tickets to ugly people because it would be their only break
in life,"

Oh crap. All these years I've thought it was my winning smile, demure charm and some sort of X factor I possessed which made enforcement officers take pity on me. I snickered at my friends who racked up tickets like they were collecting autographs. I gave unsolicited advice to fellow teens on how to evade capture. In my own mind, I was a cape-wearing, police-evading, teen superhero.

Turns out I was probably just ugly.

Two Birds, One Stone?

2010-01-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

I'm an efficiency nut. If something in my life can be streamlined I'm all over it. I constantly wonder why we haven't come up with a washing machine/dryer in a single unit. Moving the clothes from one pod to another seems such a waste of my energy. (Hence, the odd aroma surrounding most of my family). I constantly talk to other drivers as we are, what I call "working together" for the common good. Common good being my ability to drive where I want, when I want and how fast I want without Minerva Nimrod driving her car like a drunken Fred Flintstone.

Generally my predisposition toward efficiency does not lend itself to parenting. Everywhere we go someone has lost something, forgotten something or needs to express something. Despite my pleas to prepare for departure, I've yet to leave home with my progeny all coherently arranged. I constantly point out they're wearing mis-matched shoes, have hair growing on their teeth or have forgotten pants. This being said, I am training them well.

Over our holiday break I took a chill pill and let everyone pretty much run their own schedule. Sleep in till three? Sure. Eat kettle corn and cheese whiz? No problem. Don't bathe for days? Just wear this handy air freshener around your neck and you're good to go! While this allowed for a mellow couple of weeks, we got absolutely NOTHING done. I do confess to getting up at night after the kids had gone to bed and cleaning out one of their drawers. I agree, I'm a blessing in their lives!

So imagine my delight when the night before school, (AKA schedule), was to resume my kids would not go to sleep. 8:30, still giggling.
9:00 Threatened once.

9:01 Greco-Roman Wrestling breaks out.

9:15 Threatened second time.

9:16 Face painting and opera singing.

9:30 Threatened a third time with "You can either choose to sleep or sweep the garage!!!!"

My kids should know better than to push me, but apparently they take after my side of the family.

So Sunday night at 9:45 p.m. guess where they were? Yep. I pulled the cars out of the garage, made sure everyone had either a push broom, sweep broom or an old paintbrush, and ordered them not come in until it was clean.

Sufficiently secure in the knowledge that this will be one of those painful parenting stories they will tell their children, I settle in to wait... And wait... And wait...

Suddenly the door swings open and I'm prepared for the weeping and wailing to present, when what to my wondering ears did I hear? Singing. Happy, harmonized three-voice singing.

What???? This is not the meaning of punishment!!!!! Like some sort of confused Mother Grinch perched on the mountaintop I'm completely perplexed. Suddenly "Cindy Lou Who" approaches me and says "Mommy, where's the Pine Sol? We're gonna mop the floor too.

I dumbly pointed and realized I had been foiled by a genius I can never beat.

Well, at least my garage floor is clean.

Happy New Year

2010-01-03T20:21:00.000-08:00

As the dial rolled over ushering in a new decade I found myself at a loss. I know millions of my fellow humanoids are inspired by the passage of time, but I came to terms years ago with the fact that I will not stick to "resolutions" "goals" or "lifestyle choices" unless they involve developing new bad habits.

The sad thing is I could really benefit from the incorporation of some of the fitness, health, or inspirational ideas sold on late night infomercials. I could stand to smooth out a few of my rough edges. This I know, but am highly unmotivated to confront the reality of the mountain of work that would entail. I mentally balance precariously between the fact that I am a better person than the average underwear terrorist and delusion that I am equal to a Salvation Army bell ringer.

Over the holidays someone said to me "After getting past your exterior you're a wonderful person." They then hugged me. All my dreams came true.

How much actual change comes as a result of the New Year? My gourmet cousin has announced her divorce from cheese. All sorts of my friends have announced they are 'giving up sugar,' 'getting in shape,' 'being kinder.' Yes all noble goals, but how many of them will really last? Is the January momentum enough to carry them across the finish line? What is the finish line? How do you measure when you've gone long enough without cheese? At what point is one pinned with the "Kind Enough" medal?

So another year passes, actually it was another decade, and I find myself in no better shape, not much wiser and still eliciting snarky comments from new acquaintances.

Thank goodness some people are willing to get past my exterior.

Please pass the cheese.

Christmas Journey

2009-12-20T21:22:00.000-08:00

The following is the draft of the talk I gave today during our Christmas Sacrament meeting. I'm hesitant to post it since I don't ever read my talks, and what I actually said varies from this text but the ideas are the same. My prayer is that the spirit of the journey of Christmas long outlives December. Merry Christmas!

Christmas 2009

The Christmas story is relived each December in celebration of Christ’s birth but it’s really a story for the whole year.

The beginning of the story has always struck me - announcing the newborn Messiah by scaring people. I imagine the shepherds of the story, settled in for the night. Chatting around a fire, keeping watch or sleeping soundly when suddenly “an angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.” (Luke 2:9)

The first words of Christmas and not Joy to the World, Hosanna, Hallelujah. The first words of Christmas are “Fear Not” These words show how unexpected, out of place, and unnatural this occurrence was. The reality of the moment was even bigger than the shock of the poor shepherds. With the birth of the Savior everything was going to change. What was promised would now be fulfilled and nothing would be the same.

The shepherds teach us that at the heart of the story of Christmas is a journey. Not a journey of one night, or one year or even 33 years. The story of Christmas is the journey you begin the moment the Savior is born into your life. It is the journey you walk with family. The journey you take with friends, it is the journey all believers take together. And ultimately it is the journey you walk alone, with your Savior.

It is the road to Emmaus. It is the road to Damascus. It is the road to Bountiful. It is the Trail of Tears and the trek to Salt Lake. Scripture records again and again the journeys of believers of Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Mary and Joseph, Saul...Paul, Ammon, Nephi, Pioneer saints the list goes on.

It is the record of those who heed the call to “Come follow me” and try their very best, to actually follow Him. Yet like Peter who offered his life for the Savior’s sake only to deny him thrice a short while later, we fall all too short only to have the Lord as he says in Isaiah whisper - “I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” (Isaiah 41:13)

So how do we Journey to Christ? We can learn a lot from the shepherds. Finding Christ is about changing, becoming. It’s about getting up from the place where we are comfortable and stepping outside of ourselves. Doing things we wouldn’t normally do, often in new places with new people. The journey of the shepherds was quick. Scripture says “they came with haste.” Finding the newborn babe lying in a manger.

Few of us in this room are actual shepherds, or have had angelic visitations, yet we all have heard the whisperings of the Spirit. The call of the Savior to be more like Him, to follow Him - to come unto Him. Really doing that requires change. It requires us to, like the shepherds, move from where we are comfortable much closer to the manger.

I have a long list of character traits, quirks, idiosyncrasies - OK, flaws that as a disciple of the Savior I should change. One that I’ll admit publicly is my tendency to over focus. If I have something I’m doing, working on or thinking about I tend to block the rest of the world out. More than one of you have scolded me for ignoring your friendly waves as you drive by. On more than one occasion I have been standing next to a person I know and not noticed - I’m just living in my own little head world. This would be useful if I were say a brain surgeon, but as a housewife, it’s not so useful. I am constantly chastising myself for missing an opportunity to do something good, not taking notice of a person in need, realizing after the fact some great window of opportunity that had closed.

A few years ago I was reading the Ensign and came across an article that struck me to the core. It was the story of a woman at the grocery store at Christmas time, with her two young, tired and unruly children. She was checking out and trying to decide which line to get in - the line with one person who had a full cart or the line with three people with only a few things each. She chose the line with the one person and as the lines progressed she felt quite pleased with her choice.

The story continues: And then, over the sound of the store’s cheery holiday music, I heard the checker in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.

“No, I’m sorry,” the checker was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn’t seem to understand. “That card won’t work. You are past your limit. Do you have another way to pay?” The tiny old woman blinked at the checker with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage bagger rolled her eyes and sighed.

I thought to myself: “Boy, did I choose the right line! Those three are going to be there forever.” My mood was positively smug as my checker began scanning my food.

But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman’s side and ran her own credit card through the reader.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, still smiling.

And then everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere.

It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checker, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman’s bag.

“I can’t accept …” the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes.

The smiling woman interrupted her. “I can afford to do it. What I can’t afford is not to do it.”

This story made my heart leap - this was exactly what I wanted to be like! I copied the story, carried it in my purse. I read it almost daily for weeks and in my prayers offered pleas to help me see as He would have me see. To notice others that needed to be noticed. While I was kinder, calmer and more deliberate nothing huge happened. I was standing in a checkout line getting the last of my shopping done. Working furiously on the lists of things I had to do inside my head, I was feeling quite overwhelmed. The man behind me gave a few exasperated sighs and then said “Come on lady” I looked up and noticed an elderly woman trying to find her debit card. She kept saying, I’m sure I put it in here. I have enough to pay.

Because I’m not that quick it took a few moments (I’m sure God was saying to the angels “Wait for it...wait for it...) when AAAAHAAAA!!! This was exactly like the situation in the story! This was exactly what I had been praying for! I sidled up to the woman, put my arm around her as I swiped my own card and with tears in my eyes said “Merry Christmas”

It is true. He will hold us by the hand and help us.

Wise men

The wise men also teach us something about the journey to Christ. They are an interesting inclusion in the story of the Nativity. Most scholars agree that the wise men arrived at Joseph and Mary’s home years after the birth of the Savior. Matthew records “and when they came into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down and worshipped him”

To do what they did they had to be men versed in scripture, to be watching for the signs and men motivated to act upon them. A hundred new stars could appear in the sky and I would have no idea. Yet these men were so certain of this sign they dedicated their life to following and finding the Savior that they might worship him. We don't’ know their names. We only know they came from the east, but the Christmas story is not complete without them.

I’ve reflected on the impact wise men have had on me. While there were probably more than three wise men in the group seeking the Savior, I think it’s an interesting number that I see reflected in my own life.

Spencer W. Kimball was the prophet when I joined the church. I loved him, and following his words and counsel directly blessed my life in powerful ways. Each subsequent prophet and First Presidency have been amazing guides that have drawn me closer to the Savior as I have listened to them and heeded their counsel. My own three wise men.

Similarly, I have been blessed by Bishops and Bishoprics. In this room are men who have served as the wise men of wards, men who are currently serving and other men who will serve one day. None of these men have been perfect - yet when I have chosen to sustain them, to pray for them and to follow them my life has been infinitely blessed. I am forever grateful to have the blessing of having wise men to guide me on the journey of my life. As I have followed them I have come closer to my Savior.

The wise men brought very specific gifts. Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. While these gifts are somewhat foreign to us today, they were very symbolic and clear to those of the Savior’s time. Gold represented Royalty, the Savior’s divinity. Frankincense was a resin used in temple worship and represented His priesthood. Myrrh was another resin used in burial rites, a symbol of His mission to overcome death. Their testimony of the Savior’s mission is found in the gifts they bestowed.

Likewise, our testimony of His mission is found in the gifts we bestow. What will we do with our lives? On our journey? At the end of each day are we closer to Him? At the end of our days will we be like Him? That all depends on how we journey.

Listening to the Spirit

Everything important depends on our ability to listen to the Spirit. The fact is, I’m not so good at it. I’ll say a prayer, get an 'outside my comfort zone' prompting, and then have been known to go back and say “Now Heavenly Father, if this is really, really, really you...” More than once the answer has been “Aselin, it is really, really, really me.”

Trying to become more like the Savior is a big challenge because in so many ways we are nothing like Him. It takes courage and stamina. I’m sure this is why there are so many journey stories chronicled in the scriptures. They act as metaphors for the spiritual journey every true disciple is required to make.

It is the journey to make our lives less about ourselves and more about Him. It comes in baby steps for most of us. God knows this. All he asks of us is effort. Real effort. The author of the Grocery store story finishes her thoughts with:

I could not afford my current, self-absorbed frame of mind.

I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion only from strangers.

I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christ at any time of the year—especially during this great season of giving.

I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.

I’ve been tremendously fortunate in my life to witness other people giving their lives to His purpose.

1998 the year Connor was born our Relief Society in Layton, Utah put on a Christmas program. One of the presenters asked if she could borrow Connor for the program. I agreed. As I sat in the cultural hall at one of the round tables having been fed Costco lasagna and jello I waited for the program to start. It was a musical program, and Connor was the baby Jesus. He was wrapped in an almost translucent white blanket. The spotlight beamed right on him as the sisters sang hymns of Christmas. What happened in that room was magical. As sister after sister took my baby in her arms and sang her testimony of the Savior I wept. As a mother you could want little more than to have others feel the love you feel about your children. More surely than I ever had before, I knew how Heavenly Father wants us to feel about each other. We’re all His children.

I’m sure each of us has a story of someone who loved you, or your children in a special, unconditional way. We each have amazing tales of generosity and love from the sisters.

The reality is, we are all on this journey together. As we come closer to Christ, we start to see each other more as God sees us. We are slower to find fault, quicker to lift up, quicker to give a hand. And as we continue this Christmas journey all year, may we be like the Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. May we, like the shepherds, fear not. May we walk with the wise men, may we more fully follow him.

For the full "Hero at the Grocery Store" by Stephanie Meyer click here

Dear Abby

2009-12-16T22:15:00.000-08:00

As all of my readers know, I hold myself up as a paragon of wisdom in this crazy world. The vacuum created by the passing of Dear Abby sucked me right in and I readily dispense advice to any needy soul. Yesterday the following plea came to my attention:

Dear Abby,

There's this certain blog I've been reading. Now that you are dead and I don't read traditional print media that carries your daily column written by an alive someone who pretends to be you, this blog offered me the anticipation I needed to get my tired bones out of bed and turn on the PC every morning. This blogger is every bit as good as you ever were. Unfortunately, this blogger has given up! What do you suggest I do?

Signed,

"Miffed"

_____________________________

Dear Miffed,

It makes perfect sense that your world has been turned upside down by the absence of your favorite blogger. A good blogger is hard to find. Everyone knows that bloggers are lazy, attention seekers who will drop their loyal readers for shallow pursuits. So "Miffed" I am sure that the absence of your blogger is all your fault. Have you fanned this blogger's ego by commenting on their posts? Have you submitted to any subliminal messages hidden in the blogger's posts, for say, a pastrami sandwich? If your blogger is not sufficiently attended to then silly things like final exams, children and holidays crush the blogger's creativity. So, remember, be good to your blogger and you will likely see their return.

Signed,

"Not the alive someone who pretends to be Abby in print media"

(See, I'm a natural!)

Because of the volume of requests I get for my life coaching skills, and my general magnanimous nature, I want to share some other wisdom I got off the Internet to get you through the holiday season. Everyone knows if it's on the Internet then it must be useful AND true.

Avoid cutting yourself when slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop.

Avoid arguments with the Mrs. about lifting the toilet seat by using the sink.

For high blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for a few minutes, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. Remember to use a timer.

If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives; then you'll be afraid to cough.

You only need two tools in life - WD-40 and Duct Tape. If it doesn't move and should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn't move and does, use the duct tape.

Remember: everyone seems normal until you get to know them.

Don't Encourage Me

2009-11-23T07:35:00.000-08:00

If you've been a follower of my blog, or happen to know me personally, you know I have trouble "staying inside the lines" of life. Usually my little escapades get me in less than ideal situations. Scenarios like, getting called into the office by the principal and told to walk my flock of sheep back home. Having to dive in the bushes to hide from a boss. Flashing the hospital gardeners in my hospital gown. I've had some high points.

Usually I just have to suck it up and move on, trying to block out the overwhelming shame a normal person would feel. I've gotten pretty good at it.

Then, I steal the lemon bar. A rather innocuous crime that caused me great distress, embarrassment and a large clean-up detail. When something involves a clean-up crew, it's harder to 'shake it off.' (If you're new to the blog, scroll down a few posts and read Thou Shall Not Steal.)

Most of my days are spent isolated from humanity. I drop my children off at school and return home wearing some form of work out clothes. Then I run, I study until my brain has seized up and I run again. You will note there is not mention of personal hygeine, social time and as many of you have noted - rarely blogging time.

Imagine my delight last week after six hours of study, two runs and a little housework my doorbell rings. During the day it's one of two people: someone wanting to cut my palm trees or my postman. The postman and I have become friends - although you wouldn't know it by the frequency he gives my mail to another family.

Making my way to the door, I hope it's no one I know since I look like I've never used a hairbrush, am drenched in sweat and have an aroma that's the cross between bad cheese and copier toner. While I've been attracting neighborhood dogs it has a more repellent effect on humans. Stuffing my hair under a hat I crack the door and yikes, it's a neighbor, all dressed up and perfumed. She's smiling, and holding a paper bag. Not good signs.

"I was out and saw these, and thought of you."

Uh oh. The bag could contain an innumerable number of things. Deodorant, "How to Win Friends and Influence People," my mis-delivered mail. I wasn't quite sure what to say. I had a friend relay a prank they had played where they filled a paper bag with dog poo and lit it on fire on a classmate's porch. I suppose I should be relieved that the bag is not on fire... but I'm still a little nervous.

Accepting the offering I peek in as she giggles..."They're lemon bars."

SCORE!!! Never before have I committed a social faux pas and had it reward me. This was awesome. Hugging the paper bag I waved as she drove away. It brought a tear to my eye. "Wind Beneath My Wings" ran through my mind.

Now my challenge is, how to I continue to write with integrity and not throw in subliminal suggestions to the rest of you. Hey, have I written about the time I wrestled a girl scout for a pastrami sandwich?

Is it Better to be Alone?

2009-11-19T05:53:00.000-08:00

I had a recent conversation with a friend that went something like this:

"Aselin, the problem with you is you would rather be alone than be with an idiot."

Yeah? So?

"Friend, the problem with you is you would rather be with an idiot than be alone."

My husband points out that I don't 'suffer fools lightly,' which may be true, but seeing as how the fools have overtaken the rest of us in numbers; I must suffer.

I'm finishing up a university degree right now. It is consuming my life. I've been taking one to two tests a week. Because much of my coursework is online, I need to take these tests at the local community college testing center. People who give tests, all day, every weekday, for a living.

This week I was taking a large final exam in a law course. The exam required that I write multiple, long essays. My writing hand is still cramped up from the experience.

I check in at the testing center, where I have now taken about fifteen tests, administered by the same person. On my first visit I found out that she is the same religion as me, attended the same university I am now attending and grew up in the same area I did.

We have our standard check in conversation:

"Hello, what are you here for?"
"I am here to take a test."
"OK, what's your name?"

Now, I am used to people having trouble with my name. My name is weird, I get it, but EVERY time I check in for a test I have this exact conversation with the SAME person.

"Wow, I've never heard 'Aselin' before (Except for two days ago when I was in here taking another test) ((Oh, and the fourteen times before that)).

I take a deep breath. It's OK, I'm a very forgettable person.

We then proceed to the guidelines of the test, which the administrator reads in detail, out loud, to me. I wait patiently until the ritual is completed and I have been fully informed of testing procedures. She then hands me the test, which consists of one sheet of paper and says "Good Luck."

Grabbing my stack of college-ruled paper and handful of freshly sharpened pencils, I start to enter the testing room when the proctor stops me.

"Wait!" she yells. "You're not allowed to take paper in to the test."

Taking a deep breath I attempt to explain that the test consists of a series of essays and these would require paper.

"Well, the instructions don't say you're allowed to use paper."

Really? Rats! I left my papyri at home.

My proctor is completely flustered as she frantically rereads the instructions. Finding no guidance on the subject she decides she better 'ask her boss.'

Deep breath.

The boss has no idea how to handle this bizarre turn of events. Paper? In an essay test? How rogue! The boss suggests that my proctor call the university.

This is no joke. I am not exaggerating. I stood there for fifteen minutes while she got someone from the university on the phone to ask if I could take paper into my essay exam.

We finally got approval for my bizarre request and I set my mind to conquer the academic behemoth before me. Clutching my paper and a handful of newly-sharpened number two pencils, I prepare to enter the testing chamber. As my hand rests on the knob of the testing room door she yells out again "WAIT!"

What? Another testing emergency? you ask. Well, as a matter of fact yes.

"You can't write essays in pencil! You need a black pen!"

Gritting my teeth I try to explain that I have about 24 pages to write ahead of me. There will be a lot of editing, a lot of erasing, the test will not be photocopied, or preserved for posterity so the pencil really won't be a problem.

She again gets out the instructions. Reads them in their entirety. Consults her boss, who tells her she better call the university.

I've had it at this point and say, I'm taking my chances. If they deny my exam because it's in pencil then so be it! I am a carbon renegade!!

As I exit the testing room three hours later, completely spent, I present myself at the counter. Addressing the proctor by name I tell her I'm finished.

"Finished with what?" she asks
"My test."
"OK, um, what was your name?"

Sigh.

Thou Shalt Not Steal

2009-11-09T08:32:00.001-08:00

As I've shared before, I have a really hard time turning down food. You can trust me in most other areas, but if you have a plate of cookies lying around, a crudite platter nearby or an unattended cheeseburger - well, you've been warned.

Last week, as I was finishing up my teaching duties at the local elementary school, I'm winding my way out of the building through the office. I have my own classroom, so to return the key I must go into a makeshift copy room where the key vault is situated. This copy room has all the modern necessities, copy machine, coffee maker, microwave, tanning bed. OK, not a tanning bed, but there are a lot of appliances that have nothing to do with copying packed into this little room.

There's no one in the office so I let myself in, hang up my key, and as I'm turning to leave something catches my eye... LEMON BARS!!! I poke my head out into the office and there's still no one there. My heart begins to beat a little faster as I behold their lemony goodness. Anyone with good taste knows that lemon is the best flavor of a dessert, and The Bar holds a particular place on my dessert pedestal.

A flood of thoughts go into my mind. There is already one bar gone, so another wouldn't be missed. These are set out in the public domain, and have no requisite "Hands Off" sign to keep miscreants away. I have spent a number of hours doing good and probably in all my goodness, actually deserve a lemon bar.

The first time I checked the office I was looking for someone who might give me permission to sample a bar. The second time I checked I was making sure the coast was clear. Swiping a bar I turn to make my escape when the door swings open perfectly timed with the insertion of the bar into my salivating mouth. Panicked, I stuff the whole thing in take a quick chew and smile at the attendance officer who I don't know by name, as I make my way into the parking lot.

OH MY HECK!!! This thing is not a lemon bar. In fact, I don't think it was food at all. Stuffed to the molars with some bizarre unidentifiable slime I look for somewhere to spit it out when the smiling principal rounds the corner. Wide eyed, I wave and pretend I'm in a rush to get somewhere. Actually I was trying not to vomit at the front door of the school. People frown on that sort of behavior.

The glob in my mouth has the consistency of tapioca pudding mixed with raw egg. It has kernels of corn in it. Maybe green chilies - but that could have been a backwash of bile induced by the noxious slop I was trying to hold without being caught by the herd of PTA ladies headed my way. They're waving at me, calling to me, I'm dry heaving and waving back.

Classy.

I jump in my car and scramble around with no success for a napkin to deposit the putrid wad. I decide I'll pull a block away from the school and spit the glop out the window. Waving to the PTA I peel out, kernels of corn and raw egg slime start seeping out of the corner of my mouth.

I'm not sure there is an "appropriate" place to spit, but I find an area less likely to be encountered by a jogger and move to discharge what has now broken down into a sort of mushy blob. I realize I don't have the skill or power to launch sufficient distance, I have no napkin, so I spit the ooze into my palm, intending to throw the thing away from my moving vehicle. Just as my arm swings wide, the orb looses form and breaks up into slimy chunks. Some of which do not make it out of my freshly washed van.

Using my finger I try and pick sticky chunks of corn from the open window bay. I'm pretty sure I got most of them, and use my sleeve to finish polishing off the evidence of my crime.

What had promised to be a beautiful, lemony moment had turned into some sort of Candid Camera skit. I'm sure I'm caught on surveillance and the staff is laughing hysterically at the trap they set for me. Fortunately, my offense is limited to a sphere where the rest of my family will not find out.

Driving my daughter home from school later that day, I roll up my window. A long, smelly, corny ooze smears a long stripe up the glass.

My consequences have been long, and painful.

Please Trust the Sign

2009-11-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

I can not turn down food. An invitation to lunch would make me drop everything and leave in the middle of surgery, if I were a surgeon of course.

So imagine my delight when I get a spontaneous text from a friend inviting me to lunch. With glee, I eschew the glamor that is my daily life and peel out in the driveway to eat, I mean meet my friend.

Lunch was delicious, as food is wont to be, and the conversation was delightful. Having the usual pressing items on my list, I ignore them and suggest a pedicure. (This is why I have no productive friends).

I have a particular salon I have come to favor. Their polish lasts an unusually long time making the amortization of the investment more prudent. The sign above the salon is a catchy slogan like "Nails Only." We enter the establishment and are immediately intoxicated from the fumes of productivity. I settle in to the massage chair and start to flip through People magazine. My sister in sloth settles in for a manicure. Half way through my treatment she heads to the back room where they wax eyebrows. Every nail salon waxes eyebrows. Apparently it's not something that requires a lot of skill, but I certainly can't do it myself, so it's worth the investment.

Behind the curtain she disappears. I'm engrossed in Jon and Kate's divorce proceedings when I hear a muffled "Aaouw" from the waxing stall, I mean room. I look at the patron next to me and smile and awkward toothy grin. She nods trying to reassure me it was a one-time odd noise. Moments later we hear it again. It sounds distinctly like someone is being poked with a safety pin while being smothered with a pillow. My reassuring buddy now looks a little afraid.

I'm not sure what to do. My feet are submerged, the massage chair is mid-cycle, but that is my friend in there. "I-i-iiiii" comes from behind the curtain. As I am wrestling with what to do, (don't take me to an emergency) the curtain from the stall parts and my pedicurist emerges.

Without a word, she sits down and with a flourish, finishes my feet. I ask her if everything is OK, to which she nods yes and runs back to the stall. I shrug, and resume reading the upcoming roster for "Dancing with the Stars." "Eeeee-oof" What the heck is going on in there?

I have now been sitting a good fifteen minutes, unattended. No further noises have emerged from the stall so either my friend has expired or everything is going better. A few minutes later she emerges, looking just fine. We pay, chat as we return to my car and slide in to the plush minivan seats. The second her door shuts she yells "WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?"

Shocked, I have no idea. My pedicure was fantastic. In fact this episode was three weeks ago and it still looks wonderful.

She then reveals that she asked for a bikini wax. The bikini wax is a tricky endeavor. Those parts are delicate, and quite frankly, I wouldn't trust mine to just anyone. My deeply wounded friend reveals that the first rips didn't go so well, and the few hairs that were removed didn't satisfy the technician who decided to tweeze the remaining ones. P-u-l-eeze. Even if you've never had a bikini wax you can figure out that you don't tweeze down there.

As I sit stunned, listening to her tale of beauty torture, I can't figure out who I blame: my pedicurist who had no business attempting a bikini wax having only mastered the eyebrow level at beauty school. Or my friend. The sign is VERY clear, this is a NAIL salon. Just like I'm not going to my podiatrist for a root canal, I'm pretty sure even my limited intelligence would have done a little wax reconnaissance before I stripped down and acquiesced to this scheme.

She clearly holds me partially accountable for her mishap. I did suggest the salon. Well, yes, I did for NAILS. I read the signs. I believe the signs, and I have avoided any scars to prove otherwise.

1,000 Crickets

2009-10-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

Life at my house is nothing but excitement and blue-ribbon parenting.

As I have discussed earlier. Hubby (Grrr) encouraged and enabled our children to purchase a bearded dragon. He tries to deny it now that the thing has blown up in our faces a couple of times, but since our children cannot yet drive, and most of their purchases were made at Petsmart, without a consenting driver they could not have accomplished their evil plan.

So "Jimmy" is here. Before he arrived I was all, "I'm not doing ANYTHING with this @#$# new pet." Now I find myself watering the dumb thing, feeding the dumb thing and buying crickets for the dumb thing. Aaaah motherhood.

Buying crickets for Jimmy is quite the ordeal. Fortunately, the cheapest purveyor of crickets is close to our house. I have formed a friendship with the owner of the store, so when I come in, she invites me in to the back room to chat while she counts out twenty dozen crickets at ten cents a piece.

The back room of a pet store would make Alice Cooper scream. The first time I entered the room the stench was unbelievable. There was a rooster, two dogs, tanks of worms and all sorts of ick. There are rows and rows of cages where all kinds of rodents breed willy-nilly. I think rodents can be cute until I realized that these rodents were not intended to BE pets they are intended to FEED pets. This explains the many happy snakes in the shop.

Of course there are also three large metal trash cans that hold the three sizes of crickets for sale. Small - like a tic-tac, medium - like an almond and large - like a prune. The trash cans are too tall for the crickets to escape - theoretically, but I still get the heebie jeebies trying to have a casual conversation back in the lair.

Each week I walk out of the store having paid for a bagful of vermin I pay my exterminator to keep out of my house. It goes against every fiber of my being. (Grrr)

After a number of weeks the proprietor mentions that I can order crickets by the thousand. They come delivered and cost about what I was paying for a few hundred. Sounds great!

I'm driving home with the box of 1,000 crickets in my passenger seat. Stopped at a light I get the creepies when I realize the strange sound is a thousand crickets crawling all over each other writhing in the box of cricket creepiness. It was an eerie sound Hitchcock must have used because I haven't felt that creeped out since color movies were released.

Now that the crickets are home I realize they must be transferred to the "cricket keeper" so they can be fed and kept alive. How does one transfer a thousand crickets from box to container? All I know is that 1. This is definitely NOT my job and 2. This will only be done in the closed shower of the guest bath.

Child #1 was in charge of the endeavor. After closing her in, like an episode of Fear Factor, she attempts to open the box. Next thing I know all heck broke loose. There was screaming and dancing and pounding on the walls, glass and ceiling. Hubby was shouting, children were shrieking - yelling, "they're in my pants! they're in my pa-ants!" Hubby is yelling that the door of the shower is going to be broken if everyone doesn't calm down.

"Take off your pants!" I yell from the other room, 'cause you'll remember, I don't do anything with this bearded dragon.
"I don't have any underwear on!" comes the hysterical reply.
I'm giggling, but the struggle going on in the other room is getting pretty serious.

Finally extracating her from the enclosure hysteria is still in full swing. Screaming, kicking, hitting the wall - it was a full on panic attack. Hubby is calmly restraining the Tasmanian Devil when I come in to see what the heck is going on. Kid #2 is still in the shower trying to catch loose crickets in their hands while Kid #1 has lost all sense of control. I reach for them when I get whacked in the face and kicked in the shin.

Now, what happens next will be left to your imagination. I will give you some suggestive tidbits to spur you along. What would the "Mother of the Year" do with her writhing panic-stricken child? Well, I didn't do that. You know in old movies what they do with a hysterical woman? Even women who think they have crickets in their pants? Yeah, well I may or may not have done that.

Needless to say, calm was restored rather quickly after my gentle nature prevailed. Dad and kid #2 caught the rest of the crickets and got them into the enclosure. None of the crickets escaped the bathroom, so it is safe for you to come visit.

I can't wait until our second shipment arrives.

The Sunny Side

2009-10-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that my last post was less than uplifting. So in the spirit of not being Debbie Downer I would like to share some positive things about having a slipped jaw disc.

1. Despite yesterday's decline in the Dow, I am singlehandedly increasing Advil stock.

2. I no longer have to attempt to eat those pesky cruciferous foods.

3. Wearing a nifty mouth guard makes people notice me.

4. It is not corn on the cob season.

5. I can finally store a wad of chewing tobacco in my cheek without people noticing.

6. This episode is helping me achieve that svelte physique I've always wanted.

7. Lhaso Apsos have been flirting with me.

8. When I sneeze I gross my kids out.

9. Over the phone people mistake me for Barney Frank.

See, this is much more fun than I intimated in my last post.

Status Report

2009-10-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

Thank you to everyone who has missed me lately. I am so grateful I even have readers at all!

I will get back to normal soon, but for the time being I have done something terrible to my jaw. I can't open my mouth completely - which many people are thrilled about, and I can't close my mouth enough to get my teeth to touch - which makes it hard to chew.

My doctor says it will get better; I have to believe him. For now, any creative thoughts I have are clouded by quite a bit of pain. While I no longer look like I am storing nuts for the winter, I am slowly starving to death. (Dramatic sigh).

For example, tonight my darling unnamed child #1 made dinner. She made a fabulous Jambalaya which I normally would have gobbled like a rabid dog. At the table, against better judgement, I was trying in vain to chew a carrot between my front teeth. This is a skill one would think takes little coordination. One would be wrong. The small surface area between my four front teeth make for a tricky balancing spot. Looking like an over-sized squirrel, carrot kept springing from my mouth, requiring me to hold up a napkin like a drop cloth in order to catch orange projectile bits and corral them to my plate. Let's just say any comedy found in the skit was lost as I gasped and winced any time I overextended my jaw. (Dramatic sigh)

I do have things to chronicle: our trip to DC. Our attempts to get in to the White House. Marvin the tour guide. A rash of lost pets in our area. Oranges and poop. Boughten candy. Doggie day care... but the titles are all that come as I attempt to remain still, attempting to stave off the pain.

So thank you all who have missed me. I miss you too, but my mind is an Advil numbed vacuum. (Double dramatic sigh)

The Hamster Wheel

2009-10-19T01:39:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember I have been plagued with an overactive brain. I don't have ADD, but I do have a terrible time turning off my brain at night. As soon as my head hits the pillow my brain snaps into action planning tomorrow, making lists, figuring out world peace treaties - you know, really important late night stuff.

This malady is partially how this blog came into being. Prior to this venue being opened up to me I just filed these musings away, where they probably should be still, but alas, here they are.

Usually a bout of writing puts me right to sleep - as I suspect my writing does for many people.

I was fortunate enough to spend this past week in our nation's capital. One of the blessings of travel is that for me, if done right, I am so spent at the end of the day I actually fall asleep rather quickly. Such was the case in D.C. Waking at dawn to get three kids and hubby ready for the excursion of the day, figuring out public transportation, walking 78 miles before lunch, and sitting rapt during the "Monuments at Night" tour which lasted until 11:30 p.m. only to do it all again the next day made for great beddie bye time for me. I loved it.

The nightly throbbing foot pain and stinging chapped hands from being over sanitized were no match for my exhaustion.

Curled up one lovely Tuesday night at the Embassy Suites I was happily slumbering away when the nemesis I thought I had left at home struck. 3:a.m. and the fire alarm goes off. I admit I lay in bed WAAAY too long having a loud discussion in my head "I don't smell smoke," "It's probably on another floor" "I'm not wearing 'outside' clothes" "#@%# fire alarm"

I finally decided I should at least try and save the kids so I bundled up, remembered (somehow) to grab a my key and herded my incoherent children down the stairwell to the blaring shriek of the alarm and the three fire trucks pulling up outside the building. I was looking for an adventurous vacation, but this was not what I had in mind.

We assembled our little family among all the other displaced patrons in their jammies and began to wait. One of the many reasons I dislike groups of people is the lack of leadership that always seems to accompany them. There we sat, having no idea what was going on, milling around in the street like zombies for long after the fire trucks had aborted the mission. One of the other patrons told us it was OK to return to our rooms. This duty should have been performed by a uniformed staff member, but hey, there was a leadership vacuum and I appreciated whoever got sucked into it. At 3 a.m. I am likely to follow pretty much anyone.

Nestled back in our beds it took a good hour for the adrenaline to dissipate from my blood stream. The brain was active and workin', much to my dismay. Morning came all too soon.

I learned something new about my overactive night brain during this experience: night brain is amazing at holding grudges. Retribution must be had. Vengeance should be mine! I spent the next morning giving the stink eye to any patron I passed who looked like they were stupid enough to have pulled the fire alarm at 3 a.m. Charges should be filed. Seriously.

Night brain is still mad as I sit here - in the early morning hours of tomorrow, cursing the prankster and realizing that in D.C. right now it is 5 a.m. I hope Karma kept them up too.

My Friends

2009-10-08T07:20:00.000-07:00

I run with a bunch of delinquents. Those among us that you shake your head at in the grocery lines, the post office, you know - shameful people who really aren't safe to be among the general population.

This week I spent time with a couple of friends who separately shared their recent run-ins with the law. My personal goal is to stay far under the radar - literally. I try not to be noticed. I don't drive a red car. I shield my face in the bank line. When I see "photo enforcement zone" signs I look over my shoulder, despite my speed. I like anonymity from the law.

Not these ladies.

After a particularly stressful day, friend #1 asks her hubby to join her in picking up their children. Like most Neanderthal Y-chromosome carriers, he didn't get why it required two people to drive a few blocks and he declined her invitation. Stupid man. Justified in all her emotions of abandonment, lack of support and whatever drama us girls can come up with she jumped behind the wheel of her souped up minivan.

Souped up because like most of our minivans, if you scraped the stuff off the back seats and floor there are enough discarded ingredients to make a nice minestrone.

Peeling out of her suburban driveway she's headed the few blocks to her destination when her phone starts to ring. Trying to reach for it (which of course is her husband's fault) she stops abruptly (screechingly) at a stop sign. Coupled with a little erratic driving, which was clearly her husband's fault, post stop she caught the attention of the law. Sirens blaring she was pulled over.

Like most innocent people, she couldn't figure out why she was stopped. After speaking with the fine officer she was informed he thought she was drunk.

Yep. Drunk on love. Dang Mormon drunkards.

My second friend e-mails me this morning a story of her legal troubles. After three photo radar tickets in a short period of time, she realized she had a problem and did what any self-respecting American would do, she went to court.

Entering the vestibule of justice, she approached an man who seemed to have some authority and asked if she should sign in. "I don't know, I'm just here" he said.

A couple of minutes later the judge walks in and asks the same man what he is there for and he says a name strikingly similar to my friend's name. Looks at my friend who gives her name, and then another man who responds with a name that starts with... let's say for anonymity's sake "Q" Because it starts with the same letter as her name, she realizes that they must group these hearings alphabetically, which makes sense to a left-brained delinquent.

Being the one of the friendlier criminals, my friend leans over to the man and asks "Is your name "Q" too?

Without missing a beat, the man looks at her as if she is a complete idiot and replies, "Lady, I'm your arresting officer."

Friends, they live among us and they drive!!!

Oh, drunk friend #1 got off with a warning and the card of a marriage counselor. Friend #2 lost her case and went to traffic school. Both have been infraction free for a few weeks now.

You Just Can't Judge By the Cover

2009-10-06T07:10:00.000-07:00

In general I would classify myself as an optimistic realist. Most of the time I'm not wearing rose colored glasses and am OK with the realities of the world that might disappoint others. I don't get surprised by people too often - I experience other emotions derived from their behavior but surprise is not one of them. Also, I've learned I don't expect much from external sources. Life is what it is.

Last week I was at a small store that sells home decorations and produce. I know what you're thinking - how those naturally go together - well at this store they do. I often pop in to purvey their wares. Chatchke's I can't live without, vine grown tomatoes from a garden that didn't have to be tended by me, all sort of exciting things. Last Friday, it was Utah Peaches.

We all know about "Georgia Peaches". Back when we lived in Texas everyone would get all excited about Georgia peach season, so I got excited about Georgia peach season. Year after year the peaches would arrive, and while sometimes they tasted pretty good, they samplings I had were never freestone and always small. Small enough you wouldn't buy them in the store. Smaller than a plum.

I will never forget my first trip to my new in-laws home in Utah. The home was lovely, but what made a huge impact on me - surpassing my expectations - was the acreage of peach trees dotted across acres of manicured lawn. It was idyllic. Then, to go out early in the morning, select just the perfect peach fresh from the tree, so large two hands were required to carry it. Then to enjoy it for breakfast, bright, sweet. juice running down my arms - it is summer encapsulated. There is something alive and joyful in the memories of those experiences for me.

So this little store has Utah Peaches. I go in to check them out and they are spectacular. Two hand large, Blush of the color only a peach gets with the almost animal print of red across the rosy skin. Even the store clerk gasped when she saw the beautiful box. "These are the best we've had so far." I smile at my acquisition, carrying the hefty box to my car.

Home, I pull out one of the beauties, admiring it, smelling it, and then gently wash the fuzz off the skin. The smell is one of my favorites in the whole world and as I hold the orb of goodness with both hands I sink my teeth into the flesh...only to recoil, chew a little, then walk to the sink and spit like my disrespectful children used to do with my cooking before they were afraid of me.

Good grief this was terrible. Pithy, mealy, dry, no real peach flavor; it was awful.

Of course I figure I just got an anomaly peach so I slice up a second (too smart to bite into another) and it is the same. The third, the fourth. Awww crap. I'm so disappointed I want to cry. Now I have this huge case of peaches, inedible peaches, and the store is closed...and hubby is coming home. AAAAAAA he will see these. He is a peach bigot, deservedly so, he grew up at Peach Nirvanaland. Where can I hide them? He will be so disappointed in me...

My mind is racing, the panic making my throat tighten. Can I fit the box in the oven? Maybe somewhere in the garage? Under the laundry that needs to be folded - he surely won't look there. Suddenly, I hear the garage door. In panic I pick up the box, then I set the box down, then I pick it back up, finally - having taken too long in my indecision hubby walks in.

"Oh, you bought peaches." He smiles.
"Uhhh, uhhhh, yup. Soooo, how was your day? Tell me everything." The distraction attempt was lame, but it worked for the moment.

Finally, I can distract him no longer, he selects a peach to try. PLLLEEEEEAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEE let there be a good one in there. PULEEZE!!!!

As he's peeling the skin off he comments that it's not very juicy. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Then comes what I expected - the bite, the double chew and then the audible spit. "This is terrible."

"Yes, they all are, they looked so good, I can't believe how bad they are, I don't now what do to, maybe I can salvage them, maybe they'll be OK in pie..." I blather on.

"Well, did you sample them first? If they aren't giving out samples that's your first clue."

"No," I reply, hanging my head in mordant shame,"I just judged them by their cover."

Somehow I'll Fix It

2009-10-02T07:03:00.000-07:00

WOW, who would have thought that my plight with the Federal Government would have inspired such passion and empathy. I feel like I'm not alone.

For some reason, again, my tricky little blog is filtering out who can and can't make comments, some can, some can't; it's a bit random. The irony is not lost on me as I have been 'filtered' from attending the White House tour for no good reason.

So as we all rail against the cosmic dartboard that is blog comments and White House tours, we can feel united in a common cause. Join together in purpose and meaning. Rise up against injustice and confront unfairness wherever it is encountered...

Oh, who am I kidding? Just e-mail me your comments if you need to. But unlike the White House staff, I will actually try to resolve the problem, not create new ones.

(Think this sentiment may have something to do with the 'denial'?)