The Randomness of My Thought Processes

One night last week Ron and I were channel surfing and he paused on a channel that was televising a game of high stakes poker. Now, for the life of me I've never been able to figure poker out. Too many kinds of hands. Royal flush, straight, full house. If I ever played poker I'd have to have sunglasses that hide my whole face because I'm sure I'd stick out my tongue or spit or say something inappropriate if I got a bad hand. But then again, I wouldn't know if I had a bad hand. Anyway, Ron says, "Oh, he's got wired nines." Once again, as has happened more times than I can even begin to imagine over the last 27 years, my jaw dropped open and I stared dumbfounded at him. "How in the heck do you know that?" He shrugged and gave me his "Betty" face, which mainly says, "Oh, I don't know. I just do."

Later in the evening a commercial came on and I said, "That font is 'Afternoon Delight.'" How pathetic is that? I now can identify fonts on sight. Again, with the useless information. I lamented to Ron that at least the knowledge he has could potentially win him a million dollars. My "fontabulary" has no value whatsoever. Unless there was a game called "Name that Font." "Pat, I can name that font in one letter." "Janet, name that font." (Does anyone even remember "Name that Tune"?)

Changing gears . . . the other night Tyler found his "Identi-Kid" card that was made in 2001. It was downright hysterical. He would have been 12 and he only weighed 85 pounds. Then I remembered a conversation I had with Jessica (my beautiful boss lady) about her son, Brogan. She had a booster seat in the car and when I asked her what it was for and she told me that KS safety laws now require booster seats for all kids under 100 pounds. So I got even more hysterical when I told Tyler he should have been in a booster seat. We laughed our heinies off! So, take a look at the picture on the left . . . it was taken around the same time as his "Identi-Kid" picture. He absolutely HATES this picture, but it's one of my favorites.

Finally . . . Ron listens to NPR constantly and there's this segment called "Star Date." It usually sends me to the moon (ha) because it just points out how much money is being spent acquiring knowledge that we really have no use for . . . like what's inside a star. Show of hands . . . who cares what's inside a star? Has anyone successfully lassoed one and performed an autopsy on one? Yeah, I didn't think so. Now, if someone was to discover that it was full of chocolate mousse. . . well, that's another story entirely. Gimme a spoon.

Eccentric or Crazy? You Decide . . .

From time to time Ron gets a little, shall I say "put out" by the fact that he appears so regularly as a featured guest/target in my blog. This discomfort usually comes when someone other than the four people in our family actually read my blog - which is increasingly rare and may prompt me to just forget the whole thing (yes, that's blackmail). The other day one of his colleagues at work happened upon it and read about Ron's stereo component revelation and apparently gave Ron the business (that's a phrase straight out of "Leave it to Beaver" - translated it means he gave Ron a hard time).

So, now Ron's all "Quit using me in your blog." To which I calmly and lovingly reply - again -"Quit giving me so much good material." I told him not to worry, that it just makes him appear eccentric, which, in my mind, is a much kinder and gentler word than "crazy." So over the last few days Ron's been polling our family about which word is better. Most agree with me (smirk) and just leave it at that. Which should make Ron really nervous because you know they're all thinking "Pretty words can dress it up BUT A NUT IS A NUT!"

Actually, I think I'M the one whose certifiable. Discuss . . .

Old Lang Syne

Dan Fogelberg died today. It was surprising to me how instantly and profoundly sad I was. My heart literally hurt. I don't know when I first became aware of his music. It had to have been in college.

The year I was a junior my family took a road trip to Williamsburg, VA, leaving the day after Christmas. Ron and I had just started dating a few months before so the last thing I was really excited about was being separated from him for a week during our Christmas break. I remember riding in our huge Buick LeSabre down a really snowy and slick road in the hills of Virginia listening to "Old Lang Syne," just craving Ron's arms around me. That song immediately transports me back to that cold winter day. And I'm still craving those strong arms of Ron Martin.

We had "Longer" sung at our wedding (by Robin Lynn Macy, one of my sorority sisters and one of the original Dixie Chicks). And I sang it at a friend's wedding. Kate was incubated to the sounds of "Home Free," my favorite Fogelberg album (and I think one of his first, if not THE first album). And, not surprising at all, it's one of Kate's favorite albums, too. The music is hauntingly poignant in its lyrics and has beautiful instrumentation. I can be totally stressed out and as soon as I hear the first chord it's all gone. I think if more people had "Home Free" the makers of Prozac would go out of business.

I have one of Dan Fogelberg's guitar picks. My brother found it onstage at the concert hall at MU after one of his concerts. How do I know it was Fogelberg's? Because he was the only one on stage.

We got to see him once in concert. I was about eight months pregnant with Tyler and it was at Sandstone. Again, he was the only one on stage and it was unforgettable. Tyler says one of his strongest memories of our old house is coming downstairs on Saturday mornings to a warm fire and Dan Fogelberg music. I'm so glad we didn't go to a Kiss concert during our children's formative years.

I'm going to go dig out all those cd's right now and let the mellow begin . . .

Glitterazi

This morning I felt like I was driving through Narnia. Or on my way to the Ice Palace in "Dr. Zhivago." It was really stunning.

Of course I say it was stunning because - miracle of miracles - we didn't lose power like thousands of others in nearby towns. I was so convinced that we would be shivering in front of the fire that I told everyone that we'd be shivering by the fire. Evidently that was a good strategy because not once in the last few days have we been shivering by the fire. So, that's my new M.O. I'm going to be a Negative Nellie. Mr. Glass Always Half Empty. Doomsday Dora. Anyone who utters anything that remotely smacks of optimism will be met with a hearty scowl and gruff "Bah, humbug!"

So there.

The Brain of My Husband

I've known for quite some time that my husband possesses a brain unique only to him. I don't think he knows what it's like to think INSIDE the box. I gave up trying to figure out how he processes things a long time ago. Here's why. Tonight we were watching one of the few shows that he'll actually sit down to watch - "Life" on NBC. It has one of my favorite actors, Damian Lewis, and another of my favorites, Adam Arkin. Anyway, Lewis' character spent 12 years in prison for a crime he didn't commit and, as a result, had a lot of time to think about things. A lot of time. Therefore, he, like Ron, processes things a bit oddly. He (Lewis' character) was having a discussion about physics with another character on the show. Something about how everything's always in motion so in reality it really isn't there, it's just more there than not. Whatever. All of the sudden, Ron Martin, exclaims, "I've had a revelation. A pure and powerful revelation." I immediately told him to be quiet and save it until a commercial. Which was a risk, I know, since neither one of us seems to be able to remember anything these days.

Finally! A commercial. So I asked Ron what the revelation was, thinking it was some sort of spiritual awakening or some kind of psychic communication as to the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa. But no. It was all about the cable box. We recently chucked the gargantuan armoire that held our tv, so now all of the stereo components are underneath the tv on the floor. His big revelation? The cable box has no moving parts, so we can put the dvd player on top of the tuner and cd player and stand the cable box on its side, thereby making it much more presentable to the human eye. ARE YOU SERIOUS? Of course he is. Two minutes on the floor and he's grinning like he just discovered that the city of Merriam is allowing burning today. No kidding. His day is perfect if he can play with fire. Am I a blessed woman or what?

Up next: A kinda funny, maybe not so funny story about Tyler.

This is AMAZING!

I got this link from another blog (dooce.com). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM Be patient and watch the whole thing. I guarantee you will gasp at least once.

About dooce.com - this lady is fu-hu-ny, but sometimes her humor goes a bit wacko. Ok, sometimes it's off the chart wacko. Still a cool site to visit. And - she supports her family of three with her website.

Enough Already

I've decided to live my life in a dvr'd state. Or at least the part of my life that watches television. If I hear "Every kiss begins with Kay" I think I'll drive nails into my ears. It's a very handy thing, this dvr technology. I'm kind of wishing they could develop a version that tapes life's most unpleasant moments. You know - during those times when I'm just too busy (or tired) to deal with the chaos of being an empty nester, working whenever I darn well please, trying to decide whether to watch Martha Stewart or Ellen or The People's Court and really being in want of nothing. (Is the sarcasm just a little too much for you? Perfect! I do have to confess that I rarely watch any of the aforementioned shows. Prime time's my guilty pleasure.)

Back to my sad little life . . . those messy little episodes could be viewed at my convenience. Oops, what do you know? I've accidentally erased one or two (or all) of those unpleasant moments without ever having to deal with the pain, awkwardness, anger, self-loathing usually associated with those life events that . . . what? Build my character? Grow my faith? Make me wise? Dang. Double dang. I really thought I was onto something there. Ok, so no dvr-ing my next run in with an incompetent salesclerk or bad driver or Ron. I'll live life in the moment, flying by the seat of my pants, throwing caution to the wind. Now THAT would be something worth taping.

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

In my mind I've been compiling a list of the best and worst commercials on TV. Compiling in my mind is always a dangerous expedition because I know half of it will be lost and I'll spend at least a few minutes with my elbows on my desk, head in hands trying to regain the full use of my brain. Why am I so confident of this? Because I just did it. So, here's a list of the good, the bad and the ugly.

BEST
Any Sonic commercial that features the two guys or the married couple. I will actually rewind a dvr'd program to watch them.

The new Geico commercials that feature Jed Clampett, the Flintstones and a Cabbage Patch kid. These ad guys are very, very clever. I think my favorite of these is the Flintstones, where there's wild speculation as to how Fred can afford - on his meager salary as a quarry worker - to buy Wilma that necklace with the huge rocks.

UGLY
Any Mucinex commercial that features that obnoxious wad of phlegm.

The herpes commercials. I guess I should be grateful that they're all about being safe so as not to infect their partner. Seems to me they should have been all about not being so dang promiscuous in the first place. Then they wouldn't have to embarrass themselves and their families by admitting on national tv that they've got a highly transmittable std.

WORST
The Stanley Steamer commercial that features a little boy imploring his mom to "Come see the new trick Toby knows." Turns out Toby is scooting his hiney across the living room carpet, obviously in an effort to diminish the discomfort caused by impacted anal sacs. I think that's like a human version of hemorrhoids. Those ad people should be FIRED.

NUMBER ONE WORST COMMERCIAL
The commercial for Viagra that bastardizes Elvis' "Viva Las Vegas" into "Viva Viagra." That alone will make Elvis come back from the dead to smack his reps for letting them use that song.

So there you have it. Got any to add?

Words of Wisdom (and other stuff)

Yesterday, Ron and I wandered around the countryside in our energy-friendly hybrid and about broke our necks looking from side to side at the absolutely stunning fall foliage. It's really, really beautiful this year. My wonderful grandmother, looking at one of nature's little gifts, like a sunset, or flowers or a rainbow, would gently shake her head and say, "When you see something like this, how can ANYONE be an infidel?" Amen.

In other news . . . we were watching the KU-OSU game on Saturday night and a KU defensive player (can't remember who - someone with a couple of "Q's" in his name) intercepted the football. As I watched the replay, I asked Ron, "How come he wasn't guarding his guy?" Because he clearly was just lookin' for the ball, not being defensive at all. Ron paused for about half a second and said, "His guy's sick." I whooped and hollered, finally having definite evidence that Ron has an answer for EVERYTHING, most of which is made up.

When I told my mom I'd ordered our turkey for Thanksgiving, she said, "Oh, is it a live one?" "Well," I said, "It probably is now . . . " She meant "fresh." I'm excited for turkey day. When I was little, each year we rotated between our house, my dad's brother's house and my dad's sister's house. If we were at Uncle John's, a high school football coach, we'd load up our plates, grab a tv tray and park ourselves either in the living room or family room to watch the Detroit Lions play. For as long as I can remember, they ALWAYS play on Thanksgiving. The best part of thanksgiving back then? We got CHRISTMAS presents from our aunts and uncles and got to open one each Sunday in Advent. I remember the year my brother got a ring toss game for the bathtub. It was a moosehead that had a suction cup on it and the object was to toss the rings onto the moose's antlers. I think my brother was about 12. He didn't really like the moosehead ring toss all that much.

Gotta jet . . .

The Vicious Bite of Reality

"See that blonde girl over there with the white sweater? I think I went to high school with her."

"Umm," I said. "And what year did you graduate?"

"Nineteen-seventy six."

"Yeah. Ok, maybe it's her daughter."

The look I got? Priceless.

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm glad I'm Not A Dog

10. I don't have to eat my food in a bowl on the floor.
9. My entertainment consists of more than chewing on a red kong and a bone (but just barely).
8. I don't have "sit" to have Ron pay attention to me.
7. I don't have to wear flea collars.
6. I get a bath more than three times a year.
5. I don't shed (well, not as bad).
4. I don't have to wear "period panties." Oh, wait . . .
3. I don't feel the overwhelming need to bark at inanimate objects.
2. I don't have to sniff the butts of new acquaintances.
1. It doesn't take me ten minutes to find a suitable place to do my business.

How It's Made

Because we are scintillating conversationalists, suave and sophisticated human beings and generally THE people to hang with, you might be surprised to learn that Ron and I spent an uncharacteristic Saturday evening alone. Having just completed a very thorough biography of Jane Goodall, we finished watching the last of three documentaries on this woman's extraordinary life. In fact, given the chance, I'm sure Dr. Goodall, having been informed of the stellar qualities we possess (see above), would have gladly dropped every one of her activist activities and joined us for brandy by the fire.

After seeing Jane romp with the Gombe chimps, we somehow got sucked into a marathon of "How It's Made." Normally, this isn't something I'd watch, but Ron loves it so I practiced my wifely submission (for the first time in, let's see . . . forever) and got some techy education. We watched how bread was made. Have you ever seen a TON (literally) of bread dough? As I watched it glump down a shoot I became convinced that bread dough was used to create Jabba the Hut. Yeah. Pretty disgusting. We also saw how chocolate was made (have to say, a bit of a disappointment. If you want to have a chocolate orgy watch the movie "Chocolat," starring Johnny Depp. Enough said.) And flashlights, mozzarella cheese, pasta, contact lenses, florescent lightbulbs, pills, cd's, skateboards and . . . I think that's all.

What blows my mind are the complex machines that do most of the work. I mean, it took a lot of genius brains to figure this stuff out. It's really, really crazy and makes my very non-genius brain hurt. Which is probably why I haven't invented one of those clever machines. Unless you count the robot I made in the basement that, in theory, cooks, cleans, and takes out the garbage. "In theory" because I haven't got all the kinks worked out. What's that? That sounds like Ron? Dang. Already invented. Back to the drawing board . . .

Rants & Raves

Let's start with the Raves . . . this weekend we enlisted the help of Kate's roommate, Morghan, to take our family picture for our Christmas card. This is a total break with tradition. Up until this year it's always just been the kids on the card (or as Kate pointedly pointed out, sometimes just Tyler - as in last year's Italy collage). I thought I might have a mutiny on my hands but I was surprised (and a little annoyed because I had a whole slew of arguments to use) that no one seemed to mind. Keep in mind that up until a few years ago I was the photographer. I am certain that Kate and Tyler planned for months in advance how to be rotten little kids when it came to picture time. It was awful. I had to take literally three roles to get ONE picture where they weren't poking each other in the eyes or slobbering on one another. After we had the family shoot, Morghan took us to see her office, Barkley USA. They moved into the old TWA building downtown and it is beyond fabulous. It's ultra modern and sophisticated - and wild and wacky at the same time. No one has an office - even the VP has a cube, but they really aren't even cubes. They're more serpentine, flowing and curving and looking very sexy. They have ping pong tables, darts, ASTEROIDS!!!! and one of those rocket rides that used to be outside grocery stores that you'd beg your mom pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease can I have a nickel so I can blast through space and get the heck out of this stinkin' grocery store. They also have beer on tap - it's strongly suggested that all imbibing be done AFTER 4p.m. Maybe the coolest thing of all are the client meeting rooms. The Sonic Drive-In room has an actual menu board - like the ones you order on (yes, I pushed the red button, but no one waited on me. I'm writing a letter). The Blue Bunny room had a whole freezer full of Blue Bunny ice cream stuff. I didn't see the Helzberg Diamond room, but I'm sure there were precious stones just lying all over the place. For some people it would be complete sensory overload, but for those creative types it's like LSD. Like wow, man. It was a very fun (and perfectly legal) trip.

Ok, now for the rants . . . I have two.

Rant #1: Flyaway hair. I've just spent the last two hours retouching, sorry, editing, a really cute girl. Great smile, beautiful teeth, incredibly straight, fine hair. It's enough to make me want to start doing something very illegal and highly addictive. I zoom in to 300% and, using the miracle patch tool, remove each strand, one microscopic bit at a time. I'd love to put before and after pix on my blog, but then I'd have to get her permission and I'd probably end up telling her that next time she wants to get her pictures taken she might want to consider shaving her head. I'm so tactful.

Rant #2: Dumbledore is what? Last week, during an interview about the Harry Potter series, author JK Rowling made the startling revelation that Dumbledore (the headmaster at Hogwarts, the wizarding school) was gay. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME????? You'd think that in seven books - and about 6,000 pages - that there might have been some sort of tip off to that fact. I think Ms Rowling needs to take a writing course in Character Development. That's like Harper Lee revealing that Atticus and Calpurnia had a thing going on in "To Kill A Mockingbird." I have two theories as to why she waited so long to out him. One: She knew it would be a HUGE log to throw on the fire set by some religious right groups who were already convinced that children reading her books would all change their names to Damien and begin asking their moms to pick up some "eyes of newt" at the grocery store. Two: She was starting to shiver from being out of the limelight and, thus, needed to find a way back into that warm spotlight.

So there you have it. One rave. Two rants. Time for bed.

Recent Viewings

That sounds creepily like something that would be on a funeral home marquee. Which would be equally creepy - a funeral home with a marquee. Instead of "Now Playing" it would be "Now Resting." ForEVER! Talk about a long-running engagement . . .

Actually, I'm referring to what I've recently been viewing via Netflix DVD. Those Netflix guys must be lounging somewhere in the south of France, slouching in the beach chairs once occupied by Blockbuster corporate execs. I noticed our local Hollywood Video is going belly up and all of their dvd are on sale for $5. I zoomed in there one afternoon and asked if they had "Band of Brothers." An employee, obviously dreaming of being anywhere but there, told me they had one copy and that it was (with a half-hearted sweeping gesture) somewhere out there. So, I began the arduous task of going down each row, looking at each shelf. It was the stupidest display of chaos I've ever seen (except maybe for Kate's room circa 1996). Nothing was in alphabetical order, nothing was categorically organized. I found the first season of "Rome" on one of the outside walls and season two clear across the room. I spent an hour wandering like a lab rat in and out of the aisles, only to find one DISC of the series. Arrrsghslssstshtsthslslsl! And, seriously, didn't find a single other movie I was compelled to buy. However, if you're dying to buy "Flight 93" or "Failure to Launch" . . .

Back to my recent viewings. It's "Dexter." I'm so conflicted I think I may need long-term psychoanalysis. It's about this blood splatter expert (brilliantly played by Michael C. Hall, the guy from "Six Feet Under") who has a secret life as a serial killer. Turns out his foster dad, a cop, discovered Dexter's dark side and helped him channel his lust for death by telling him that there were lots of bad people who needed to be killed. Also taught him a thing or two about leaving a "clean" crime scene. So, Dexter researches (hunts) people who do bad things and then . . . well, he kills them. Oh, his dad also taught him the importance of learning how to blend in. Things like smiling for a camera and pretending to like people. Because Dexter is pretty much dead inside. And boy, does he have the pretend thing down. You can't help but like the guy. And when he was about to be exposed, I was frantic with worry. I DO need a shrink! The language is rough and there are buckets of blood, but if you can get past that - it's a good watch.

The other night Ron said he was going to start sleeping with one eye open. I said he didn't have to worry. I'm going to start sleeping with a bowie knife under my pillow.

Keeping Up with the Sagdiyevs

I know I'm behind the cultural curve by about five light years . . . I just watched "Borat." And I have to say . . . I thought it was, for the most part, really, really funny. Irreverent? Yes. Scandalous? Yes. Offensive? Yes. But still really funny. Maybe because he spread his prejudice and tastelessness over the entire human spectre. And because it was so over the top. And, if we're honest, nearly every ethnicity and "specialized" class makes fun of itself. Remember the Seinfeld episode when Jerry was convinced that his dentist converted to Judaism for the jokes? Borat just steps over the line (about eighty million steps) and takes advantage of the "he doesn't know any better" excuse.

Perhaps my favorite: the "not" joke scene. And the feminists who were just not having it. And I thought it to be very telling that he referred to the war in Iraq as our "War of Terror" instead of our "War ON Terror."

I won't watch it again, but now I know what all the buzz is (was) about.

Boomers Coming of Age

I heard this week that the first baby boomer born began collecting social security. And that something like 70 million others are lining up right behind her. I think I'll just close up shop now. Check out. Push up some daisies. Turn into worm food. Because, of course, by the time I'M eligible for social security the word "security" will no longer be part of the title. It will be something like "social obligation" or "social burden." Or "Shut up and eat your prunes."

Who started social security anyway? Was it Roosevelt or Truman. Wait let me google it.

Officially titled Federal Old-Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance, the program was started in 1935, which makes it Roosevelt's baby. The first benefits were paid in 1937. I think we've been behind the eight ball ever since. Experts say that "According to most projections, the Social Security trust fund will begin drawing on its Treasury Notes toward the end of the next decade (around 2018 or 2019), at which time the repayment of these notes will have to be financed from the general fund. At some time thereafter, variously estimated as 2041 (by the Social Security Administration or 2052 (by the Congressional Budget Office]), the Social Security Trust Fund will have exhausted the claim on general revenues that had been built up during the years of surplus. At that point, current Social Security tax receipts would be sufficient to fund 74 or 78% of the promised benefits, according to the two respective projections."

I think that means we'll be robbing Peter to pay Paul. And Mary? She'll be SOL.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

No, I'm not back to using song titles; it just happened to be appropriate.

I'm in the middle of retouching a girl with a zillion freckles. (Sidebar: I've noticed recently that most people who do what I do refer to retouching as "editing." I guess that's the politically correct term. Retouching is much too . . . um, let's see . . . honest?) Back to the freckles. I would bet Ron's brand new nine-tools-in-one screwdriver that she hates them. Dreams of peaches and cream skin. Has heard the "let's play connect the dots" just one too many times for it to be amusing. Longs for alabaster skin.

Why do I know? Because I've had a similar yearning - long, straight hair - my entire lifetime. Ok, only since about the third grade when the curls slowly began their takeover - a hostile one, I might add. It was the 70's. Marcia Brady and Laurie from the Partridge Family had stick straight hair parted down the middle were the epitome of the cool girls. I wanted straight hair so bad I put pink tape on my bangs. Yes, pink. It was made especially for hair (didn't pull out every third hair). Sometimes I was so desperate I used real tape. Wouldn't advise that. All the tape really did was flatten my wavy bangs to my forehead. I kinda looked like Donald Trump. Ok, that makes me sick to my stomach.

All my friends who have straight hair, of course, covet my curly hair. Once, when I got my hair cut, I scooped up all the hair on the floor, put it in a ziploc bag and gave it to my friend, Judy. She looked at me like I was crazy. "What?" I asked. "You told me you wanted my hair! Take it!"

Over the years, I've found that there are certain benefits of having a permanent perm.
1. I really never have to brush my hair.
2. It's never the same look two days in a row.
3. I don't have to sleep on curlers (ha - how old am I?)
4. It drives Ron wild.
5. I can never commit a murder (or other heinous crime) because my dna will be everywhere.
6. Marcia Brady and Laurie Partridge are now jealous of ME.

Who's the cool girl, now?

An Actual Conversation

I'm in the kitchen. Ron walks in and says, "You been here long?"
In what can only be explained as the onset of hearing loss, I whirl around and sneer, "YOU leave ME alone!"
It's starting. Laugh or cry?

Make Me Laugh Out Loud

I think the neighbors heard me tonight. It was the opening scene of "The Office" and Meredith comes back from her hospital stay (caused by Michael hitting her with his car, resulting in a fractured pelvis). She shuffles over to Jim and thanks him for visiting her in the hospital. Jim points out that EVERYONE visited her in the hospital and she says, "But I'm singling you out." She pulls out a sharpie and asks if he'll sign her cast. He says, in his agreeable kind of guy way, "Sure." She then pulls up her dress to her waist to reveal her female anatomy encased in a plaster cast. This provokes my first WHOOP of laughter. Jim's eyes widen nervously and he hurriedly scribbles his name. Meredith leans in and whispers, real sexy-like, "I'll read it tonight when I get home." Oh my gosh! I want to be in the room with the people who write this stuff. Of course I'd make a complete fool of myself, but whatever. So, so funny.

You might be amused to find out that I do a lot of my laughing in the bathroom. That's because my Reader's Digest library is in there. (Guideposts is in there, too, but it doesn't produce too many guffaws.) Every month those two magazines arrive in the mail and I put them in the wire basket in the corner. Used to be I could read both issues in a month. But somewhere along the line I got behind. I'm pretty sure my trips to the loo haven't decreased that much, but I just can't figure out how I got so backed up (ha). Anyway, my point is, I'm reading issues from last year and finding out important stuff that I completely missed when it was relevant. Oh well. I guess life will go on.

The current issue I'm reading is all about humor. So, for the next few posts, I'll include some of the best of the best . . . today a thought-provoking observation from Jerry Seinfeld:

So they're showing me, on television, the detergents getting out bloodstains. I mean, come on, you got a T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it. Maybe laundry isn't your biggest problem right now.

Laugh well . . .

Taking Action

Ever since "The War" documentary ended on PBS last week I've been haunted by my perception that we (and by "we" I mean "I" - hee hee, Leah) aren't doing enough to support the troops in Iraq (and all over the world). Some time ago I read an article either in "Reader's Digest" or "Guideposts" about adopting a soldier. So I googled "letters to soldiers" and landed on http://www.soldiersangels.org/. It was started by a mom of a soldier who was inspired by her son once he finished his tour of duty. He was telling his mom how much he appreciated all the letters and care packages she sent. But he was also amazed by the number of soldiers who rarely got any mail at all. So, Soldier Angels was born. I signed up.

My soldier's name is James and he's in the 82nd Airborne Division. Those two things alone make my heart beat fast . . . Both my dad and Tyler are named "James" and my uncle served in the 82nd during WWII! How cool is that? By being James' angel, I've committed to sending him one card or letter a week and at least one care package per month.

So here's the challenge . . . adopt a soldier. Maybe a group at work could adopt one and take turns writing letters and donating stuff for care packages. The package I sent cost $12.90 and letters only require regular postage. Now would be a great time to adopt a soldier since the holidays are right around the corner.

On a completely unrelated note . . . in the last month or so I've seen a number of trucks sporting a new bumper ornament. It is, without question, all the evidence I need to verify that our society has sunk to a new low. Without going into too much graphic detail, it involves a certain part of a male's anatomy, swinging to and fro. I guess it's now not enough to have "HEMI" emblazoned somewhere on the vehicle to prove that you're a man's man. Tyler was in the car the last time we spotted a pair and he and Ron had a great time saying lewd things that they knew I'd object to. Ron says he wants to get a pair of steel ones for the Prius and hang them so low that they throw sparks. I asked him if he'd be donating his. That shut him up.

I think women all over America should steal those fake boobs they give you at mammograms to school you in finding lumps (ugh) and super glue them onto their headlights. Yeah!

The Mammary Explosion

Warning: This could be rated "girls only"

I've been retouching seniors (the ones in high school, not geriatric folks) for a long time now. When I first started doing it at home Ron would invariably walk in, take a look at the girl on the screen and ask, "How old is SHE?" My reply was always the same: "She's a senior in high school." Right now I'm having a powerful attack of deja vu, like I've already told that story. I can only hope that all my readers are as daft as I am and can't remember either. Anyway. Always the same question, always the same answer. Maybe we'd follow up with a brief conversation about how the girls we went to high school with never looked like these gals.

I think it's mainly the large boobs on these girls (pardon my frankness) that makes them look ten years older than they are. It's getting a bit ridiculous. Some of these girls are going to need to start wearing counter weights hanging from their bums lest they tip over. I can't help but think that in 40 years there's going to be some major saggage and sore backs. I'm not sure there's a correlation between breast size and breast cancer, but I'm sure some medical researcher somewhere is spending lots of grant money to figure it out.

I've read that this "big development" is caused by the drugs they pump into our protein sources, namely poultry and beef. And then I heard something about the plastic storage containers we use? I give up. Pretty soon they'll try to convince us that smoking is bad for us. What???? Oh.

Moving on to other things that females routinely fret about . . . I am so ready to be in menopause I can hardly stand it. Every month I pray and pray . . . and every month I'm sorely disappointed. It's the headaches, cramps, tenderness . . . the whole ordeal. Thirty-five years of it. I just know if I go to Costco and buy a thousand tampons it'll happen next month and then I'll be forced to sell the surplus on Craig's List. Enough already! Knowing me and my flair for the dramatic, once it does happen I'll probably wail for a year or two that I can't bear children anymore, that my womanhood is gone, that I miss the monthly inconvenience and blinding mood swings. I give you permission to slap me. Several times. But, you never know. I might just slap you back!

The End of the War . . .

After fourteen+ hours of really fascinating footage, broad coverage and excellent writing, Ken Burns' "The War" is over. Actually, it's not over . . . it will run most of October on KCPT . . . I encourage you to watch it.

As I sat there listening to Nora Jones' rendition of "American Anthem" - tears streaming down my face - the pictures of the young boys who consented to telling their stories in this documentary came across the screen. They're men in their late seventies and eighties now, most of them having lived full and productive lives. Remember, 1,000 veterans of this war are dying each day. Soon they'll all be gone.

Because I have this seemingly unquenchable thirst for history, it's easy for my whole heart to become engrossed in the magnitude and scope of their endeavor. But, when I let it - and I fight it - I start to think about the men and women who are currently fighting in the war. I wrote a blog for Fox 4 last week about this shift that seems to have happened in the mindset of the American people as it relates to war and our willingness to support it. I think it might have happened sometime after the Korean War and during the Cold War. I think the Cold War involved more political games than war games and kind of took the human equation out of the mix. That blog post I wrote got no comments (I got nine when I wrote a piece on OJ . . . )

During WWII, nearly everyone had a victory garden of some sort and there were tin drives, rubber drives, all sorts of drives to collect items that could be transformed into war materials. They even had drives for bacon grease, which could be converted into glycerin and then into bombs. There's nothing like that today.

And then I read a story in "Reader's Digest" about a returning Iraqi vet who has brain trauma, spinal cord injuries and PTSD and had to fight ten months to get his claim processed. Meanwhile, monthly checks totalling $14 million are being distributed to vets with hemorrhoids. Really. Whether or not they support the war in Iraq, most people are quick to add, "But I support our troops." How? A question I need to seriously consider myself.

The Proof is in the Pudding (or pie plates)

So what does it say when you open up the dishwasher to put in some dishes and the only dishes on the bottom rack are dessert plates with the scraped off remnants of apple pie?

First (obviously), I make a pretty mean apple pie.

Second (maybe not so obvious, at least to us), we're letting this empty nest thing get out of hand.

Cleaning Drawers, Saving Memories

Used to be that whenever I'd call my mom - and I mean, seriously, EVERY time - I'd ask her what she was doing and her answer would be, "I'm cleaning out a drawer." One time it might be the drawer in the kitchen with all of her recipes. Another time it might be her underwear drawer. Or a drawer with family photos. It got to be a running joke with us. It got so I would just begin the conversation - with no hello or anything - "What drawer you cleanin' out now?" Naturally, she'd get finished with every drawer in the house and then just start over again. Years and years of cleaning out drawers and really never cleaning anything out.

I think I began to see a lifelong pattern when a friend of Kate's interviewed my mom about her recollections of WWII. My uncle was a paratrooper who landed in Normandy and fought in the Battle of the Bulge, so my mom's family was, as were nearly all families, directly linked to the war. Annie asked my mom what she was doing when she found out the war was over. Mom thought for a minute and then said, "Cleaning out a drawer!" Not even kidding. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

Over the last few years I've come to realize that those drawers hold the precious memories of my mom's life. I am the Rambo of cleaning out drawers. I can move through a desk in under ten minutes and eliminate its contents by half. I take no prisoners. Not mom. She looks at every piece of paper, every photo, every trinket. And it's not just a passing glance. She has a little conversation in her head about each item: "So and so gave me that recipe. I think I made it once." Does it go in the pitch pile? NO. Because somebody she cared about gave it to her.

A couple of weeks ago mom and I were at an antique store and she spied a set of lawyer's bookshelves that also had card catalog drawers. About six drawers wide and four or five deep. Her bright blue eyes lit up and she said, "Look at all those drawers . . . I could put so much stuff in those!"

Maybe I'll start a drawer cleaning campaign, but it will be a kinder gentler drawer cleaning campaign than my pillages of the past. Maybe I'll linger over the odds and ends I find and try to recollect how it made its way into my life. Then I'll have to face the fact that my favorite fridge magnet is a self-fulfilling prophecy. It says "Please tell me I haven't become my mother." When it's all said and done, though, I'd be lucky if I became the kind of woman my mom is. I already have her sense of humor. She's the one who gave me the magnet.

Stop the Madness!

Snap! There it is. I've lost it. Gone. Over the edge and then some. If I hear ONE more walnut hit the roof I'm clawing my way through the ceiling and personally ripping down every one of our seven mammoth walnut trees. With my bare hands. I don't care that I just got my nails done. Or that they look really lovely. Thud. Thudthud. THUD. Thudthudthudthudthud. It's been a nonstop barrage for two weeks. You know that commercial where all the weapons of yesteryear come raining down on some guy's deck? That's what it's like sitting on the screened in porch. I've got a permanent jerk to all of my features now because those damned walnuts keeps - DAMN - another one just hit! The product for that deck commercial is some weather proofing paint stuff you can put on it to minimize damage (it obviously also protects against those weapons of yesteryear, because if it didn't it would be considered false advertising). I think I just need to get some six foot thick foam rubber and blanket the house and yard with it. That wouldn't be too weird, would it? Can't be any more unsightly than the Motel 6 next to us.

When you add in the squirrel factor, Ron's the one who goes off the deep end. They are digging up everything diggable in our yard. Why? To hide the damn walnuts. Ron wants to buy a gun, which I've said is too inhumane, because I'm thinking that we'd have a bunch of squirrels limping around our yard, with little casts on their paws. That's just what we need. A VA hospital for varmints. If this constant assault of walnuts and digging doesn't stop soon, both Ron and I will need a hospital. And lots of drugs.

The War

Ron just looked over at me and said, "Do you think you can take twelve more hours of this?" We've just finished watching the first installment of Ken Burns' new documentary about WWII, called "The War." It runs through Wednesday this week (7pm on PBS) and three days next week. This first segment covered roughly the first year of the US involvement, beginning in December, 1941, just days after Pearl Harbor was attacked.

This documentary, like Burns' other films, draws on the personal experiences of soldiers who fought in the dozens of theaters of war during WWII. In an interview segment on MSNBC, Burns said that ten years ago WWII vets still weren't ready to talk about their experiences of over 65 years ago. He says five years from now, no vets of that war will be alive. He says 1,000 WWII vets are dying each day. That begins to illustrate the magnitude of that war. It's impossible not to draw comparisons from the war over six decades ago with the war we fight today in Iraq. Burns said that in his travels over the past five years across the country doing research, he would ask audiences for a show of hands of people who knew/know someone involved in this war. He said, outside of military communities, if more than two percent of the people raised their hands he'd be surprised. During WWII, every town, every street, almost every family had a loved one overseas. In the first year of war, 35,000 Americans died. By the end of the war, in 1945, that number was multiplied by ten. Estimates place the total death toll from 50 to 60 million people, and most of those were civilians.

I would encourage you to take some time to watch this compelling story. I've seen "Band of Brothers" numerous times and each time am completely overwhelmed with emotion as I consider this life changing event that occurred during my parent's teenage years. My uncle was a paratrooper who landed in Normandy on D-Day. He still doesn't talk about it. I'll warn you, the footage and still images are very graphic and horrifying. This documentary will provide a much larger picture than "Band of Brothers," which focused specifically on the 101st Airborne Division and its involvement in France and Germany.

World War II has sometimes been called "The Good War." At the beginning of episode one, a vet remarked that he didn't think there was such a thing as a good war. "There are necessary wars, and even just wars, but no wars are good." God help us.

This Will Be Of Interest Only To Photoshop Geeks

I'm thinking back to yesterday. I'm thinking, "Well, there's seven hours of my life I'll never get back." Yesterday I went to a Photoshop seminar at Bartle Hall. I went with three other women who happen to all work together at a wonderful photography studio called epagaFOTO (pronounced ee-pay-ga; it's "agape" spelled backwards). I am blessed to be able to design wedding albums for Jessica, the owner and photographer and work on some other marketing pieces - it keeps me busy and Tyler in college, so, like I said, I'm blessed. Check out her website . . . http://www.epagafoto.com/.

The seminar, however, was not blessed. Unless you want to call it a blessed mind-bending, mind-numbing, mind-altering event. Ohmyallah! The presenter was this middle-aged, bearded guy with a pony tail down his back with obviously waaaaayyyyy too much time on his hands. When he's not flying about the country doing these seminars he's hunched over his Mac creating rivets and scuffed up door mats and neon lighting for stupidly intricate photoshop "paintings." It takes him about a year to do ONE painting and then heck if I know who buys it. Probably Adobe, so they can put it on a beginner CD that states "See What YOU Can Do With the Magic of Photoshop!" When I design wedding albums, one spread (two pages) might have as many as 15 layers, and that's a big file. This guy's stuff has - get ready - 15,000 layers! It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. He has to save each painting in multiple files because the computer starts spewing green vomit and levitating and hurling lewd comments about his mother's computer when he tries to save it as one file. His computer at home has 16 GIGABYTES of RAM and three TERABYTES of memory (I don't even know what a terabyte is . . . must be dreadfully big).

All four of us agreed that these techniques were more geared towards commercial/graphic artists - he didn't show one picture with a zit on it. I mean, really. We also agreed to skip the last session - although he said it would all "come together" and make sense. I'm thinking that the session could have lasted until Christmas and I still wouldn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. After we made our escape through the bowels of the Convention Center we headed to Baby Cakes, a fabulous little bakery down in the River Market area. They make melt-in-your-mouth cupcakes and some pretty wicked chocolates. I'm planning on luring Ron down there some weekend to look at lofts and then kidnap him and take him to Baby Cakes. By the way, the hot new trend in wedding cakes IS cup cakes! I think about four of the last five albums I've designed have featured them. I'm over it already.

Gotta run. I'm getting ready to start re-creating the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Photoshop for our Christmas card. If you don't hear from me in a week or so assume I've been crushed by the suspended monitor - 'cause I'll be on my back, of course.

Only Ron Martin

Ron has said, from time to time, that I shouldn't write about him so much in my blog. I told him to quit giving me so much good material . . .

On Friday night, about 10:30 p.m., I happened to notice that Ron wasn't in the living room anymore watching TV with me. I think I realized that he had gone outside, but I hadn't noticed the time exactly. I was pretty sure he hadn't been gone an hour or more (I really get engrossed in my TV watching, but I can't recall what it was that had my rapt attention . . . ). Anyway, a few seconds later I heard the telltale swishswishswish of a broom just outside the screened-in porch. I think to myself, "You have got to be kidding me." I say out loud, "Ron Martin, what are you doing?" "Sweeping," he says.

I just sat there dumbfounded for a minute or two. Remember, it's 10:30 AT NIGHT. Then I could tell that he had moved to the driveway. Swishswishswish . . . I got up, walked out to the screened-in-porch and called out to him "I don't know whether to call you Emmett or Idiot." He chuckled and said, "How about Idiot Emmett." Emmett, for those of you who don't know (which would be everyone except Kate and Tyler), Emmett was the slightly off-kilter old man who lived up the street from us at our old house who routinely washed the street for no apparent reason. And he had an Native American carved out of a tree that sported a yellow trash sack for a headband. And it had a circle of forest animals sitting at its feet. And about eight million other odd yard ornaments. Now, I'm not sure I ever actually saw Emmett sweeping in the dark, but it's totally something he'd do. And, it was the only name I could come up with that kind of rhymed with idiot.

I may give Ron a lot of grief, but I have to give him this . . . he is a master with a broom. It's really a sight to behold. Quick, short swishes and the dust/leaves/walnuts/whatever just flies. He gets it from his mom, who was also a broom dynamo. Today was the fourth anniversary of her death. It doesn't seem possible that it's been that long. I can still hear her raspy voice and see her feet scurrying along. So, here's to you, Betty. You gave me a good man.

A Short Byte

Tonight Kate called. She says, "What's a good resolution?" I thought for a second and said, "Quit smoking." Turns out she was talking about the resolution of a picture.

Drum Roll, Please

Whew! At long last the bathroom is about as done as it's gonna get. I have one more thing I'm going to do, but thought I'd share some pix so you could see for yourself. The pictures really don't do it justice. You're free to drop by . . . just call to make an appointment. Seating is limited . . .

Blasts from the Pasts

I don't know if we're officially empty nesters or not, but we're sure behaving like we are. I think nowadays you are considered a "successful" empty nesters only after a period of, say, five consecutive years have passed without a child at home. But we don't care. We are doing what we please, when we please and we are pleased to say that it's agreeing with us. Today we decided to do a little road trip back to the town where I lived the first twelve years of my life, Marshall, MO, situated about 70 miles east of KC.

We took the scenic route on Highway 24 to Marshall (we hopped on I-70 for the return trip). We stopped in Waverly, where we got some freshly picked Jonathan apples that will no doubt find themselves in a pie soon. We drove through Grand Pass, one of the tiny hamlets where my dad did an itinerant preaching gig for several years. His claim to fame during that time of his life? Getting indoor plumbing for all the churches. Yes, I spent many a Sunday planting my bum on splintery outhouse potties, always in great fear that a spider or snake was going to interrupt me. Anyway, we got to Marshall around 11:30 and spent the first hour or so driving around town, with me saying, "Slow down! Slow down!" I was amazed at how small everything was and how very different it all looked. When I was a kid I thought the block we lived on was really long, but it's not. I almost missed our house, but once I found it I could identify almost every house on the block. It was a neighborhood full of kids and we spent many summer nights playing kick the can in the Fischer's front yard, or capture the flag between our house and the Yaeger's. It really was like a scene taken right out of "The Wonder Years."

We then made our way across town to the first house I ever lived in on Eastwood, a beautiful street lined with absolutely fabulous homes that still make my heart stop. My good friend, Susan, and her folks bought the house after we moved out, so I really have more memories of that house when they lived in it than when I did (I was five when we moved). To my surprise, it was for sale (as was our other house - how weird is that?). Ron called the realtor and found out that it was empty. He said that I had lived in the house years ago and told her my name and she said she'd be glad to take us through it. Turns out my dad was supposed to perform her wedding but had a flat tire and arrived after the wedding was over (another minister was on hand). It was wonderful to be able to walk through that house and have the memories come flooding back. The beautiful dining room and living room, big foyer and big staircase, the back "servant's" stairs . . . I remember watching Kennedy's funeral on TV in my parent's bedroom (really not happy that Captain Kangaroo wasn't on). My brother and I are both adopted and I remember quite vividly (or maybe I remember quite vividly being told) that I told the social worker who was making a home visit that she could just take that baby back. I wasn't having it. We were on the screened in porch, which has now been enclosed. The upstairs bedrooms were tiny, tiny, tiny and we thought the asking price of $185,000 was a bit steep because there was quite a bit of cosmetic work that needed to be done.

We drove through the city park, which is really huge and still beautiful. The very cool swimming pool is still there, with its classic art deco design. I remember thinking when I was a kid that it had to be the biggest pool in the world. It's still pretty big but has acquired several slides and other bells and whistles that kids today seem to need. All we needed was water and a dime for a frozen Snickers. The playground we spent hours was still there and I'm pretty sure most of the merry-go-rounds and tee totters were the same ones I played on. I'm thinking that it's probably not very safe, not to mention probably loaded with lead-based paint! We then headed downtown. Marshall has an old-fashioned square with a stately courthouse in the middle. It seems like there were weekly ice cream socials during the summer and frequent Midnight Madness or sidewalk sales. Sadly, the area has become rather a lonely place. The only familiar businesses were the banks. One of the girls who lived two doors up from us (one of the Fischers, whose front yard was used in kick the can games) owns an antique store so I spent an hour talking to her and her sister (who used to babysit me), reviving memories and finding out who was still around. Ron and her husband took off down the street to look at another building they own, the old Marshall Hotel. Ron came back drooling and, of course, now wants to move to Marshall.

It really was a perfect day. All day long, little flashes of the past kept firing in my brain and I remembered people I hadn't thought of in years. Throughout the day I found myself being filled with really deep, deep joy. I think revisiting places of my past that hold warm memories affirms who I am today and helps shore up the core values that my parents instilled in me. I feel so so blessed.

Almost There!

Finally. The bathroom is 90% complete (only thing left to do is spend some more money on other cool things/accessories). I was seriously beginning to entertain the thought of installing a Johnny On the Spot in our backyard, but wisely realized that if we did that we'd only be one step away from becoming - I'm seriously so tired I can't even make anything up. A county fair, maybe? An outdoor concert? Better quit while I'm ahead.

We chose two complementary colors: Ovation and Turkish brown; walls in Ovation, trim in the TB. Once Ron got the wall color done I was a little aghast. It looked like the room had experienced a nuclear bomb and the radiation was pulsing out all over the place. So, I did a little faux treatment with glaze, the TB color and those plastic grocery sacks. I have to admit, it looks pretty dang good. Kind of like a worn saddle. You can see me demonstrating my technique on HGTV's "Projects Designed to Threaten Even the Best Marriages." In the process I burned my arm on one of the wall sconces. Twice. Cussed twice, too. I'd taken off the shades for better access and that stupid little tiny bulb burned the heck out of my forearm. I told Ron I can't imagine what it feels like to have a serious burn injury. Dang.

Despite several logistical problems and the horrifically long time it took us to get it done, it was fun. Earlier this evening I commented to Ron that it was probably a good thing we didn't own a home for the first six years of our marriage because I don't think the union could have survived remodeling projects. But, after 26 years, we kind of know each other's strengths and weaknesses (and which buttons to push if we really want to get it started). I'll have pictures soon. We plan to have a private ribbon cutting ceremony next weekend and then it will be open to the public. Admission will be $2 per person, free to kids who are potty training. Included in the admission price is a guided tour and ten minutes of private time. Magazines will be provided at no additional charge. Hope to see you soon.

Can It Really Be Ten Years?

Ten years ago this weekend our family was in Laurens, Iowa, a small farming community just a few short miles from the Minnesota border. We were there because the small Christian ensemble I sang with was giving a concert for one of our group members' home church.

As I was getting ready in the bathroom of our host family (who lived in a home that once served as the community's bank), Ron yelled in that Princess Di had died. Of course I was dumbfounded, but was too busy getting nervous about the concert. (That was actually the day that, just seconds before I was to begin a solo, I forgot the first word of the song. Thankfully, my brain kicked in and I came in on cue. The word? "Silence." How weird is that?)

However, once we returned home and began seeing the images of the unfathomable grief of the British public - and the world, really - I became quite sad. You see, Diana and I had much in common. She was a beautiful, shy girl . . . and got married just two weeks before I did, in 1981. I got up at the crack of dawn to watch her wedding ceremony, already in progress by the time I tuned in. It was such a fairy tale, the likes of which I'd never seen. Then, Prince William was born just a couple of months before Kate. My brother studied in England the summer they were born and brought back a London newspaper heralding William's arrival. We still have it somewhere. We plan to sell it on Ebay once he becomes King and make a fortune. Actually, I think Ron would rather be a pauper than part with it.

As it became clear that the fairy tale was turning into a nightmare, I was grateful that, although we had several things in common, I was just a normal commoner who could live my life (with my own prince) without the glare of the public lights. I think it's so hard to believe that it's been ten years because her picture still pops up on magazines all the time. As I watched an interview with William and Harry tonight I had to wonder how they've handled it. The public's drive to keep her memory alive has to be extremely taxing and burdensome. I wonder how it's possible to fully grieve and then move forward when the public refuses to let her go. I must say that her sons seem very much her sons - relaxed, outgoing, engaging. They planned two memorials to her - one today that was solemn and proper in a church, and one on July 1 (her birthday) that was an all out rock concert that featured home movies and her favorite band, Duran Duran. Clearly they understood their mum so much more than anyone else. And in the end, that's all that really matters.

Phone Calls That Make Your Hair Gray

The other night, Tyler called me about 10:30. That in itself was cause for a tiny little bit of alarm. He usually doesn't call that late, but he knows I'm a complete night owl so the initial ring didn't make my heart race.

"I'm not saying this happened," he began. "But what would I do if my car was stolen?"

"Tyler, did your car get stolen?" I asked.

"Well, no. I just can't find it."

I just had to laugh. But I kept it to myself for a few minutes longer. "What do you mean, you can't find it?"

"Well, I thought I parked it down here but I can't find it. What should I do?"

"Keep talking to me until you do find it."

He finally found his car, safely parked and unscathed. Then I let myself laugh.

I was telling my mom this story tonight and also added that when Tyler turns 19, (which happens on Saturday) that his car insurance will go down twenty percent. "Well, for Pete's sake don't tell your insurance people that he can't find his car," she said.

That's why I'm funny.

Living in the Loo

I just don't understand it. This bathroom we're remodeling is no bigger than 32 square feet and it is taking FOREVER to get done. In our first house we ripped up the carpet and pried loose a billion tiny carpet nails in one weekend. We're into our second week on this silly project. You know why it's taking us this long? Well, there are several reasons. The most time-consuming task (and the biggest pain in the arse) is the bead board. Ron decided he wanted to strip it. After five days of applying that orange gelatin stripper and scraping like a lunatic, we've still got one whole side that's not completely finished. Pushing my silvery locks out of my gently perspiring face with the back of my hand, I looked up at Ron and asked whose idea it was to paint the bead board in the first place. "Tyler's." I then said I was going to make him withdraw from college and come home to scrape these grooves with his teeth we paid a lot of money for.

Here's the process . . . slather on the goop. Wait for 30 minutes (but I usually forget and it sits on there for at least an hour). Go in with my trusty little scraper and scrape the wide board first. Then run the scraper up each groove on an angle to get most of the goop out. Then go back and scrape very carefully up the teeny tiny middle that divides the grooves. Then go back up each groove again, this time with the scraper at a 90 degree angle. Every time you go up the groove, more goop oozes out onto the wide board, so you have to get up that excess, most of which ends up back in the groove. Ok, so why am I not in rehab already?

After a couple of days of fighting the residual goop, Ron comes in with steel wool and mineral spirits (labeled "less harmful" - that's not all that reassuring to me . . . ) and scrubs the holy heck out of the wood. Ah, finally, it's beginning to look somewhat done. Then I come by with a wire brush that's attached to his drill and ream those grooves one last time. I have to admit I feel a little OCDish with these grooves. I want them COMPLETELY free of goop. Is it wrong to get a little shiver of joy when I see the goop piling up on the scraper? Do you think that the Promises rehab center would take people like me? More importantly, would my insurance cover the $30,000/month tab? Yeah, I don't think so.

We plan to finish it with a satin varnish - NO MORE PAINT! We got this completely awesome sink (see pic at right) and we're waiting on choosing the color for the top half of the walls until we get it. I'm leaning towards rust . . .

Losing One's Head (and other vital organs) Part II

Last time on the Chrysalis Imaging Blog:
Henry the VIII married his brother's wife, Katherine of Aragon, whom he later divorced after Anne Boleyn set her sights on becoming Queen of England. Her ambitions, however, proved to be her Achilles Heel and she was beheaded after being found guilty on bogus charges. Next on deck, Jane Seymour (not Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman - I keep putting that in because I know someone's gonna think "Wha? Henry the VIII was married to Dr. Quinn?"). She was a good wife and Henry never had reason to say "Off with her head!" because she died from complications of childbirth.

And now, the rest of the story . . .

After Jane died, a marriage was arranged with Anne of Cleves, a girl of German descent. Henry had only seen an artist's rendering of Anne and was appalled when he finally saw her in person. "I like her not!" he declared and refused to consummate the marriage. Anne was so naive that she didn't know her marriage hadn't been consummated. "The king comes to my bed every night and kisses me," she protested when her ladies in waiting tried to educate her. Definitely no heirs of any kind coming from that marriage. Henry, however, treated her with respect (largely because she never lost her respect for him) and allowed her to retain much of what she had been given in marriage after their divorce (or it might have been an annulment since they never sealed the deal).

After Anne was successfully dispatched to a lovely country estate, Henry fell in love with little Katherine Howard, who was all of fifteen when they got married. By this time Henry was around 50 or so and had grown to the bloated, elaborately dressed image we see in most of his portraits. He also had some ulceration on his leg that evidently stank and produced copious amounts of pus - I know, it's just sick. Not long after their marriage, information was obtained that the young queen had not come to the marriage the maiden she swore to be and was not honoring her vows to "cleave only to thee." She was accused of adultery and she ended up with her head being permanently detached from the rest of her body. In addition, the two men who were accused (with no absolute proof) were strung up, their bowels cut out while they were still alive and then beheaded and quartered. Kind of puts a little more ooomph to the term "fatal attraction."

This leaves only Katherine Parr. Henry was her third husband. She was rather bland compared to Henry's other wives, but she was well loved by both her husband and her subjects and provided much-need mothering to Henry's three children. There was a half-baked plot to expose her as a Protestant (which she was and which was also a big no-no at the time), but she managed to keep her anti-Catholic tendencies hidden and entered into history as a good and faithful wife. She outlived Henry, who died at the age of 55.

Now, keep in mind that the whole time he was married (except maybe when he was married to Katherine Howard), Henry was carrying on affairs with a number of different women. It was his RIGHT. Oh, the arrogance! HE was never punished, except for the fact that he failed at the one thing his father had told him was his number one priority as King of England: produce a male heir. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Guess he had to pay the piper, reap what he sowed, and lay in the bed he made, etc. And you know what? I would almost give a king's ransom (!) that he never realized the error of his ways.

Losing One's Head (and other vital organs), Part I

I'm nearly done reading the biographies of the wives of Henry VIII. What an interesting lot of women. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, was deemed an unsuitable spouse when she failed to produce a male heir. And because the temptress Anne Boleyn batted her eyes at the king. This was before science had discovered that it's the male's sperm that determines the sex of a child. Even if it had been known, I'm sure Henry would have found a way to make it the woman's fault, because he was, after all, THE KING.

In a scandal lifted straight from ancient tabloid headlines, Henry attempted to have the marriage annulled, based upon the fact that Katherine was once married to Henry's brother and that made it uncanonical (which, I think, means unsanctioned by the church). To make a very long story short, Henry established himself as the head of the Church of England and gave himself a divorce. It was a huge deal and took about eight hundred years to figure out (really only about eight). He married Anne B. and all was well and good for about six months and then he got bored. Like that's a new story. Anne also failed to give him a male heir, although she did produce Elizabeth, who would grow up and become the first Elizabeth and a force to be reckoned with. Henry got so tired of Anne and her independent ways that he had his underlings trump up charges against her that included adultery and incest, neither of which were true. Back then, that was considered treason, punishable by death. She lost her head; just think how many headless people would be in cemeteries today if that law was still in effect.

Next, Henry married Jane Seymour (I've pointed out in a previous post that this is not the same Jane Seymore aka Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman). She was a real nice lady, who was successful in giving Henry a son. She died just a few months after the child was born. The son died when he was 16. Seems like old Henry was not destined to have a son.

Next time on the Chrysalis Imaging Blog: Heads Roll

Bad Dog, Zooey

I thought, just for the briefest of moments, that Zooey had climbed up a few rungs on the canine intelligence ladder. You may remember my lament when I realized that she was not going to let us retire in luxury because she sorely lacks the superior intelligence that other notable dogs possess. She's not like Astro or Lassie. Or Scooby or Rin Tin Tin. She's never pulled a child out of harm's way or solved a ghost mystery. Or been able to master running on a treadmill. She's just an ordinary tail-wagging, tongue-hanging-out-of-her-mouth, fur-shedding black lab. The definitive moment came when I told her to go get her gun and she brought back her ball, which really isn't a ball at all, but that's what we call it, so how smart can we be?

Anyway, yesterday, after going downstairs to do a few chores I headed back up to the sweatshop, expecting Zooey to charge past me and hop around excitedly until I lumbered up the stairs, like she does every single day. But she didn't. As soon as I walked into my office I knew why. She'd gotten in the trash. It was all over the place. After I quit muttering and had picked up the mess I walked over to the stairs, prepared to yell, "Bad dog, Zooey!" As I poked my head over the half wall, I could barely see Zooey's head, just peeking in the door. Her head was kind of lowered and she was looking up at me with some pretty pitiful eyes. SHE KNOWS SHE'S DONE SOMETHING BAD! And she knew I was going to be displeased with her, which, to a dog is possibly the worst feeling ever. I was so excited I almost did a jig. Zooey IS a super dog because she knows right from wrong! I'd always heard that unless you catch a dog in the act of misbehaving it's useless to reprimand them because they won't remember what they've done wrong. HA! I went ahead and yelled at her anyway, because clearly she was suffering remorse from her transgression and I wanted to implant that memory firmly in her dog brain.

About half an hour later she comes slinking into my office. She hadn't made a sound coming up the stairs; I can usually hear her toenails clipping up the steps so she had to be veeeeerrrrrry sneaky. I didn't say a word. I figured, lesson learned.

Two hours later she got into the trash again. Not a super dog AT ALL.

Bathroom Remodel 101

Tyler had been gone all of five minutes, headed back to Emporia State, when I looked at Ron with a gleam in my eye and said, "Let's DO IT." Ron got his own gleam going, but not for long. He was more than a little disappointed when he realized I was talking about tackling the bathroom remodel we'd been planning for several months.

We found these awesome towel holders made out of wood that had been buffed and polished to a beautiful warm patina in Colorado. We also bought some rustic looking switchplates and other miscellaneous "mountain" decor (we were shopping for these items when we got the news that Paris Hilton had been put back in jail. Or was it that she was released? Who could keep track?). Meanwhile, back to the present . . .

The first thing that had to happen was the stripping of all the paint on the beadboard on the lower half of the walls. Ron found this non-lethal stripper that has a decidedly citrus smell. Not unlike Starbursts that have been left in the sun too long. It's orange and very viscous. I swear it looks just like this jello thing my mom makes. You have to put the orange jello in the frig for about an hour, just long enough that it starts to jell. Then you add ice cream and mandarin oranges. It's really, really good. (sound of smacking lips). I had to keep reminding myself that I couldn't take even a little tiny taste of it. I slopped that stuff on for the better part of the day, occupying myself during the 30-minute curing periods by watching Daybreak online.

Once the waiting was over, I trotted downstairs, trusty scraper in hand, to remove the goop and paint. A messy job, to say the least. Those little grooves are the devil to get clean. The next step is to use mineral spirits and steel wool to remove any remaining traces of the goop and paint. I'm leaving that up to Ron. I tried a little, but I don't have the muscle power he has. And, quite frankly, I'm over it. I'm all about the peeling and scraping. Here's another insight into my twisted world: I love to peel stuff. Wallpaper, sunburned skin, plastic wrap off of new appliances (I had to beg Tyler to let me peel one of the sticky things on his printer. He got the other one. He's sick, like me.). When we redid our bathroom in our other house, Tyler would be late to school because we'd be having a contest who could get the longest strip peeled. I saw a car lot the other day that had white plastic stuff all over the cars to prevent scratches. I started drooling. I started to tell Tyler about it and he said, "I KNOW. Let's go there some night and peel them all off." I'd risk spending a night in the pokey for that.

So, the remodel is on. I'll keep you posted on its progress. We'll probably have an open house and ribbon cutting ceremony when it's done. Look for your invites in the mail.

Oh, I almost forgot. I've got a new blog (no groaning, please). See it at http://community.myfoxkc.com/blogs/merriammom

Head Over Heels

I'm not sure why I feel compelled to write about all the stupid stuff I do. Maybe it's a way to make me into a lovable character, like Stan Laurel or Jerry Lewis. Or maybe it's to make me appear completely ordinary, which, of course, I am not. In all likelihood, it's because I do stupid stuff every day and I figure it's better for you all to laugh with me, not at me.

I know you're all dying to know the latest stupid thing I've done. Well, let me paint you a picture. I was up in my office, sitting in my black office chair, watching "Day Break" on innertube (or whatever ABC calls it). I leaned back to stretch and . . . now, go into slowmo . . . I feel the chair shifting a little too far back and all of the sudden I realize I'm going . . . going . . . gone. Head over heels and there is no love anywhere in sight. I landed flat on my back, my head missing the overstuffed chair behind me by mere inches. My head got a pretty good thumping, so I just laid there for a minute, waiting for the "dooonnnnnnngggggg" sound to subside. I really don't know how I extricated myself from that unusual position, but after I did, I just laid there some more. I'm not sure why. Maybe to berate myself about how stupid I was not to buy that Life Alert thing that could summon help once I'd fallen and couldn't get up. Dang it.

I eventually did get up, and I had a whopper of a headache the rest of the day. The next day, boy was I sore. In my lower stomach and neck. I guess from tensing up as I was going over. Of course, no one was there to see it, so I could be making all of this up. But I'm not. I'm not THAT stupid.

The King and Aging

If you're a die-hard Elvis fan, chances are you were glued to TCM yesterday for the Elvis movie marathon. I mentioned this to Ron, whose loyalties lie not with the Presley Elvis, but the Costello Elvis and only because he's married to Diana Krall, he said, "Yeah, it's the 30th anniversary of his death."

That stopped me dead in my tracks. Why? Because Elvis died a week before I went to college. And that was thirty years ago? It was a good thing I had on my Depends and that my Rascal scooter had its brakes firmly engaged. How can that be? Three decades have passed since I left home and ventured into the wide, wide world. Yes, I've been married 26 years and have an almost 25-year old daughter, but somehow that thirty year designation wigged me out. What have I done for the last thirty years? Had two kids, worked for some good people, worked for some bad people, learned how to cook a few decent meals, recorded a cd (totally true), loved an awesome man, learned to love and serve God in new and exciting ways . . . I guess that's time pretty well spent. Still . . . thirty years?

I remember exactly where I was when Elvis died. My family was on vacation in Branson (the pre-chaotic Branson). There was a movie marathon then as well. I'm sure I parked myself in front of the telly and watched them all. Such a sad, senseless end to a really remarkable career. I once worked with this lady who had this velvet lined box that opened up and had Elvis in the middle and it played one of his songs, maybe "Can't Help Falling In Love With You." Pretty, um, how can I put it? Tacky. She used to take off August 16th every year, dress entirely in black and go the bar and get blotto. Yikes.

Tonight Ron and I watched one of my all time favorite movies, "Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou." If I've mentioned this before (which is a distinct possibility since I talk about George Cooney all the time) just get over it. George (wink, wink) is a riot and the writing is priceless. A wonderful movie for one-liners . . . "Damn, we're in a tight spot." "I'm a Dapper Dan man." "I seen 'em first." "We thought you was a toad." "Gopher, anyone?" I seriously could go on and on and on and on. But I won't. If you haven't seen it, do it. I keep telling myself I'm going to read Homer's "Odyssey," which is the basis of the movie, but I think I'll just keep watching "Brother" and call it good.

The Most Boring Job Ever

You might have surmised that my awareness of the world at large, for the most part, comes from the MSN homepage. I watch the news every now and then but I either get so depressed that I have to take to my bed in order to pull the covers over my head and block out the madness/badness/sadness of it all OR my blood pressure rises so high that every vein in my body is distended so much that I look like I am a mass of earthworms. So MSN it is.

Today there was what I thought would be a fascinating article on why yawns are contagious. This is something I have pondered quite a bit, usually after someone has yawned and I, like a sheep, yawned right back. So, quite enthusiastically I double clicked and prepared to be enlightened. I found myself yawning all by myself because it was mind-numbingly boring. Basically all it said was that autistic children yawned less when watching a video of yawning people than kids without autism. The article went on to say that yawning may be triggered by empathy, an emotion most autistic people don't possess.

The article also suggested that "Contagious yawning is seen in only a few other primates and studies have suggested the behavior has played an evolutionary role in helping groups avoid danger by keeping animals awake and alert." For Pete's sake. Next they'll be saying that we learned to pass gas and cheat on our income taxes from primates.

The article concluded by saying that more research is needed to fully understand why one yawn leads to another. That's code for: I Need Another Grant for A Million Bucks So I Can Continue To Do Nothing and Write More Meaningless Reports So I Can Get Another Grant for A Million Bucks So Can Continue to . . . you get the point.

On a brighter note, Ron and I celebrated our 26th anniversary with dinner at PF Chang's and dessert at The Cheesecake Factory. Ron got a piece of carrot cake that was as big as Zooey's head. Not even lying a little. We capped the celebration by watching "Flipping Out," which continues to prove the point that insanity pays.

Bald Is Not Necessarily Beautiful

Look at this poor bird! Bald as a cue ball! Ron caught him taking a dip in our pond yesterday. I just have to feel sorry for the poor thing because I'm sure he's being ridiculed by the rest of the birding population. They can be so cruel. Ron said it was perfectly normal and I kept my thoughts to myself. Mainly that he didn't know what he was talking about. But, sure enough, I googled "bald cardinals" (which in itself is hysterical) and some cardinals do go through a post breeding molt. Or it can be caused by mites. If we were trained ornithologists we could put a little band on this bald bird's foot and track him to see if he grows new feathers (the info said he should have a new batch of feathers in about a month). My initial thought was that there had been a nuclear explosion in our backyard and the bald bird was an unfortunate casualty. Was I ever glad to realize I was clearly out of my mind!

You know that gargantuan limb that fell during the storm last week? Well, Ron didn't get around to taking care of it until Saturday. He was sawing a smaller limb and managed to puncture his forearm with the saw. He didn't rake it across it; it came straight down with probably eight hundred pounds of pressure and made a nice little row of offset puncture marks. By Saturday night it was hurting so he called Ask-A-Nurse and she advised him to go to the Emergency Room. I was beside myself with excitement. What better way to spend your Saturday evening than sitting in a room with The Strangest People Ever to Walk the Planet Earth?

There was a young gal who had severed the artery in her arm, or so she said. Even in that extremely perilous state she was able to talk on the phone in a very loud voice for a very long time about how the blood shot up three feet into the air and that it was her hair cutting hand and the doctors were just going to have to figure out how she could use her thumb because she had a new job to go to on Sunday. Or the man whose eye was bleeding because it was a glass eye and it was obviously not working properly. And he wasn't the one that needed to be seen. It was his mother, who kept moaning over and over (I really did feel sorry for her). There was a skinny young girl who was pregnant, with her belly button protruding through her knit top like a carrot. And the mother who had a migraine headache and brought her three kids with her. There was a kid who came in with his head split open, smiling like a doofus the whole time. The guy who came in right before us had some sort of severed thumb action going on and after about half an hour left to go to Menorah. After about three hours we finally saw a doctor, who told Ron to take some ibuprofen and ice it . This valuable piece of medical intervention will probably cost $2,000. I think I'll set up my own emergency room clinic in our basement. Because I can't get enough of The Strangest People Ever to Walk the Plant Earth.

Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?

The other night we had a little storm, eh? I was working in my office and was marginally aware that it was raining outside. Then I heard a thud on the roof of our screened in porch. A rather loud thud. Not like a book falling off the copy table and landing on the carpet. More like the body of a large male falling out of a commuter airplane. Then I heard another one. Possibly an adolescent or skinny twenty-something. Then another one. And another. I quickly surmised that since we don't typically have bodies falling from the sky in our neck of the woods that it was probably a branch from one of the eight thousand walnut trees we have in our yard. I realized that this could be a bad thing, so I started downstairs. About halfway down the lights went out. This was followed by three or four vain attempts of the transformer trying to re-electrify the neighborhood. How do I know this, you ask? It makes a strained arruuuuunnnnh sound. Not unlike a woman in the final throes of childbirth.

I got downstairs without breaking my neck and went to open the door to the porch. That's when I started channeling Dorothy. The curtains on the porch were whipping around like mad and rain was literally shooting through the screens. The whole porch was completely drenched and the wind was fierce. It was raining so hard I couldn't see across the street and the lightning was apocalyptic. I was trying to use a flashlight to see outside but discovered I really didn't it since the lightning was doing a kind of strobe thing. There it was. A branch the size of Dallas was lying prostrate on the ground.

I again had the debate of whether or not to wake up Ron because of the whole disorientation thing. I walked back upstairs and he was already awake, mainly because his breathing machine had stopped and his body wisely told him that there was no air getting to his lungs. Another reason I didn't want to wake him up is because his first instinct would be to go out there and cut up the fallen limb, sort through what could be used as firewood, save any potential woodworking pieces and mulch the rest. You think I'm kidding. I've twice seen him attempt similar feats during highly inclement weather. On a metal ladder no less.

Once he determined that the rest of the tree was not coming down I then began to get irritated that the power was out. I am extremely dependent on electricity when it comes to going to bed. I have to have my "Lord of the Rings" cd playing and a fan at my head. And I have to watch about an hour of TV before my eyes grow heavy. The only thing heavy that night was the level of my consternation. I finally moved my pillows to the foot of the bed in order to catch a glimpse of a breeze and eventually fell asleep. The next day I was confiding to Kate that the only time I ever want to live in the suburbs is when the power goes out. "You do live in the suburbs," she said, not without a trace of disdain in her voice since she's an urbanite through and through. "I mean the new ones because their power lines are buried," I said.

We eventually got power back at 2:31 the next afternoon. About noon I told Tyler to go out and tell those electric guys that he had a mother perishing in the house because her iron lung wasn't working and he sure as heck wasn't going to put her in his car to take her to the hospital, so they better get cracking. Of course he didn't obey me, so we sat in the house for two more hours with the drapes pulled , lying on the leather furniture because it was cool (by cool I mean in the temperature sense, although the two-piece set is quite classy). I'm sure if a total stranger walked in he would have thought he'd stumbled into a very tastefully decorated heroin den. My eyes were kind of glassy and my hair was matted to my forehead. And I had a slack jaw. A vision of loveliness to be sure.

Sometime I'll have to tell you about the time we were without power for a week. It's a real gut buster.

Quench THIS Thirst

I have put my foot down. Firmly. I told our Aquafina-swilling son the other day that I was never buying bottled water again. Ever. Why? Because I read an article on MSN the other day that put me in a cantankerous mood. You can start shaking in your boots now.

In our quest to become stupidly obsessed with stupid things, Americans spent 15 BILLION dollars on bottled water last year. We also manage to toss 38 billion plastic bottles into landfills, which completely confounds me because I'm spending half my life putting my diet Coke bottles into plastic bags that will eventually be put into our recycling bin. I thought my plastic was being used to make park benches and swing sets. I think I'm the proverbial sheep with the wool pulled down low over my eyes. No, it's not just a fashion statement.

Back to water . . . I will admit we spent an obscene amount of money on water last year in Italy. We'd been there about two and a half weeks when I read in my travel book that we could ask for tap water, that we didn't have to buy bottled water. Duh. But, most of the bottles were glass, but still. We could have flown home first class if we hadn't bought bottled water.

The article was full of interesting - and completely and utterly irritating - facts. Irritating in that I was forced to clap a hand over my mouth so I wouldn't cuss. Stuff like this: A bottled water plant in Figi turns out a million bottles of water a day, but half the country of Figi doesn't have safe, reliable water. From the article: "The global economy denies the most fundamental element of life to 1 billion people while delivering to us an array of water "varieties" from around the globe, not one of which we actually need." And, in San Francisco, you could drink a bottle of Evian that costs $1.35 and then refill that bottle every day with tap water for ten years, five months and 21 days before it would cost $1.35. Is your jaw dropped? Well, it should be. There are estimates that if we used bottled water for all of our household uses our water bill would be $9,000 a month.

What's wrong with us?

We grew up drinking tap water. Our parents and grandparents and descendants clear back to Moses drank tap water (or River Jordan water). The highly developed brains of lots of people have developed technology that allows us to have the purest water ever with a flip of the wrist, and yet we still think we'll become more highly evolved if we can just pay through the nose for designer water. You know that old joke about "it's in the water." I'll tell you what's in the water. Greed.

Is It Mocking Me?

Two separate occasions involving the Prius are leading me to think that I'm being mocked. And this I do not appreciate. And after I've had nothing but positive things to say about it. This month's gasoline bill was $31 and some change. And that's for a whole month for both cars. Nothing but compliments and accolades.

The first incident was when Tyler and I were making one of his Going To College Shopping Trips During Which It Is Impossible to Spend Less Than One Hundred and Fifty Dollars. As usual, we were yacking when we got out of the car and I pushed the little button in the handle to lock it and it made a long beeping sound. I was walking away when I realized that this was not the normal short beeping sound it usually makes, so I walked back to the car and it was still unlocked. I pushed it again and got the same long beeping sound. I got in to make sure I hadn't left the key in there and I hadn't. I tried to lock it using the button on the key and got the same long beeping sound. Tyler finally got in and promptly diagnosed the problem. I hadn't turned the dang car off. How embarrassing was that? Well, I'll tell you how embarrassing it was. I didn't tell Ron for a week.

A couple of nights ago I was getting ready to go to bed (it was about 1:30 a.m.) and I got up one more time to see if Tyler had come home. I'm staring out the window and all of the sudden I see this red light flashing inside the car. I stared some more. Yep. It was blinking. So, I got dressed, went downstairs and outside to see what was going on. I checked to make sure all the doors were locked, which they were. I unlocked it, got inside and opened up the glove compartment (one of about four) and got out the manual. There I was, sitting in the car, with the door open, lights on trying to think like the Toyota employee who wrote this manual in order to figure out what I should look for in the index. In my mind, there should be a heading in the index that says "Red Blinking Lights." They should have two indices (?): One for Left Brainers and one for Right Brainers. But, then I'd have to remember which brain I am. Do I even have one? Okay, I found the panel display. There's a symbol of a car that has a key inside it that says Theft Protection Signal. I look up at the blinking light. It's the shape of a car, but I can't tell if it's a key inside it or a straight line. A straight line would mean I needed to Take the Vehicle to the Dealership Immediately. My palms started to sweat.

I finally gave up and locked the door. The red light was still blinking. I tossed around the idea of waking up Ron, but that's usually never a good idea once he's sound asleep. He gets very disoriented and loud. So, I called Tyler. About eighteen times (no kidding). The first two I figured he had his music up too loud. The third through 18th times I was imagining all sorts of dire scenarios that involved a dark road and the Emergency Room. I finally reached him and we had a nice conversation about how a cell phone's really of no use if you can't hear the ringer, which, of course, was his excuse. I then abandoned my nagging and proceeded to ask him about the blinking red light, to which he responded with no useful information. He wondered why I was obsessing about this at a time when most decent people were tucked comfortably in bed. I said because I'd never seen this blinking (I really said "blinking," not some swear word) light before. He found me back in the car when he got home around 2:00 a.m. and we sat there together for about ten minutes. After the first minute he said it probably meant that the Anti Theft Protection system was engaged because he had the same thing on his car. I just sat there for another nine minutes, repeatedly flipping through the manual because I couldn't find that stupid symbol with the key in it. I truly thought I was going mad, mad, mad.

He finally persuaded me to come look at his car. Sure enough there was a red blinking light. So I went back inside, tried to creep up our creaky stairs quietly and was met with a disoriented Ron saying, "Where have you been." When I told him about the light he said, "Oh, that's the Anti Theft Protection light." He didn't seem to think it was all odd that I was out in the back yard in the middle of the night. He knows me like a book. A book straight off the psychiatric shelf. Anyway, he promptly went back to sleep.

Not me. I thought I could hear, ever so faintly, the Prius mocking me. Blink. Blink. Hee hee. Blink. Blink. Hee hee. Blink. Blink. It'd better watch it's back. I'm not one to be messed with. I've got a pair of wire cutters and I am not afraid to use them.

Notes to My Son

Ron arrived home today to find me in a puddle in the middle of Tyler's bed. One guess as to why.

In six days we will drive the longest ninety minutes in the history of the world. Or at least in the history of my world. My baby is going to college. And, while Ron has told me repeatedly that this is what we've been preparing for for the last eighteen years, I still can't believe it's finally here. And while Tyler may be thoroughly prepared, I am so totally not. It seems like just a year or two ago I was nursing him, looking into those impossibly blue eyes and thinking, "I've seen those eyes before." Of course I had. They were mine.

About ten years ago Tyler and I began a back-and-forth correspondence in a paisley patterned journal. I'd write something and leave it on his bed; he'd write back and leave it on my pillow. We were faithful journalers in the beginning, but fell off the wagon once he hit middle school. I unearthed it today and wrote one last note to him - that's when Ron found me.

It's hard to describe how it feels. Intellectually I know he's only 90 minutes away and that I'll see him on a fairly regular basis. It's the thought that the basic training part of his life is over. I know there's something vital I've forgotten to tell him. Like, it's really not a good idea to ever miss a class (well, no more than three a semester). Or people may try to tell you the weekend really begins on Wednesday. Stay away from them.

Once he leaves on Friday, coming home will be different. He's starting a life that I won't be so much a part of. And that's fine. Ok, maybe I'll feel a little left out. Again, intellectually I know that's what's supposed to happen and that I should be a little worried if it didn't. But I think we have a relationship that's a bit different than most mothers and sons. I mean, how many nearly nineteen-year-old boys will let their moms hold their hands in public? And how many sons that age say "I love you" at the end of every telephone call and every time they walk out the door? (Ok, he says that to his sister, dad and grandparents, too). How many sons will come upstairs to watch this guy sing opera because his mom wants him to, and enjoys it even after he's said he won't?

So, Tyler, know that your mom is going to miss your presence, your face, your smile, your laugh, in her daily life. Know that God will continue to watch you and guide you and give thanks when you succeed and when you honor Him. Know that this home will always be YOUR home, no matter how old you get. And know that you always, always, always make my heart sing. Even though there are a few tears slipping out right now.

Dang. I feel the puddle reforming.