Tell Me Why

(The Beatles, 1964)

Tell me why, why, why the Scripps Spelling Bee, broadcast tonight on national, prime-time television, was rated PG? I paid attention. There was no violence, sex or drug usage. There was, however, quite a bit of language that could have been construed as subversive: they had foreign (sometimes even unknown) roots. Like Latin or Greek. That had to have been the reason. Possible terrorist thematic elements.

After the second round I gave up trying to spell the words correctly (although I did spell helzel right; it's some kind of yiddish dish involving the skin of a chicken neck - how disgusting is that?). I gave myself points for just knowing what the words meant. I got one point. For pappardelle. It's a kind of pasta. It was embarrassing how excited I got when I heard the word and realized I knew what it was. I almost got out of my chair. Ok, I really only kind of raised my head off the back of the chair. I was in a fugue state. The sheer number of vowels involved in these words was apocalyptic. I consider myself a fairly decent speller, but these kids (aged 11-14) were off the hook. I have said a thousand times (and my children will verify this) that the best class I ever took in school (11th grade) was semantics. All those roots words, suffixes, prefixes, etc. It's helped me out of more tight spots than you can even begin to imagine, especially on Jeopardy (again, the useless information). I'm sure these cream-of-the-crop spellers could teach the class, although Miss Reidel, with her little bird legs, cat-eye glasses and permanently pursed lips, did a bang up job.

So, the next time the Scripps spelling bee comes on TV, cover the kids' ears. You don't know what's going to pop out of that reader's mouth. It might be the word for nicely formed buttocks, which is, of course c-a-l-l-i-p-y-g-i-a-n. Callipygian.

Rocky Mountain High

(John Denver, 1973)

Just typing the name of this song immediately transports me back to high school. I LOVE John Denver; his music makes my heart hurt it brings back so many memories. My dad used to torment me endlessly about his music, telling me that it was country. I'd fly into a tizzy denying it because back then country music was Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn and George Jones. And Tammy Wynette. Of course, today it would be classified as country and I'm happy to swear my allegiance to the mophaired songwriter who died way too young.

We're getting ready to head west this weekend to Estes Park, CO. This will be our ninth trip (I think) to this very family friendly vacation spot. It's just a few miles from Rocky Mountain National Park, truly one of the most beautiful places on earth. Or at least within 600 miles of Merriam. Returning home after our first vacation was emotionally devastating. I'd never seen such grandeur and bigness before. The sky was huge and impossibly blue. The mountains were towering, the water crystal clear. The air was clean, the wildlife abundant and the aspens were mesmerizing. I spent at least two days just listening to a cd of nature sounds recorded in RMNP. That this has become an almost yearly event has been one of our family's biggest blessings. We've talked seriously about moving there but realize that a large part of the attraction is that we're on vacation and don't have to mess with "life" stuff - like work and bills and lawncare. Maybe in retirement Ron and I will find us a little cabin and become modern day Jeremiah Johnsons. Ok, not likely, but the cabin thing is very seductive.

I have no idea what year our first trip was, but Kate was probably ten or eleven, making Tyler four or five (so I guess if I did the math I could figure out what year it was). The very first thing Kate did when we got there was push Tyler into the Fall River in downtown Estes Park. We have so many great memories . . .

Favorite hike - Cub Lake - breathtaking. One time we came up over a boulder and were face to face with three or four elk. Kinda freaky. For both species.
Worst hike - Bear Lake - the first hike we ever did. It took us four hours to get up (remember how young the kids were) and 30 minutes to get back down.
Best place to cool off tired, dusty feet - Big Thompson, near Moraine Park. Icy cold water - your feet sizzle when you dip 'em in.
Worst place to visit after you've driven all night to get there - the Coors brewery in Golden. Sta-inky!
Best pizza - Bob & Tony's. It's technically not the best pizza I've ever had, but it's been a mainstay in EP forever. They used to let you write on the walls (Kate's name is there) but have since hidden all the Sharpies.
Best rock sitting - Tie between Martin's Mountain, a cool rock formation we claimed the first year we were there, and Alluvial Fan, created by the flood of Lawn Lake in the early 80's. We're there nearly every day. Ron, Kate and Tyler have hiked all the way to the top, while I made like a lizard and soaked up the sun (with plenty of SPF product slathered on).
Best place to wait out a rainstorm - McDonald's Paperie. A tiny little store that has lots of classy note cards, papers, pens and artsy stuff.
Best place to feel like a hippie - In the Groove. One year Tyler made hemp bracelets while we were there and made $75.00!
Most meaningful quiet time - Praying for Mike McCulley and his family with Kate and Tyler at Copeland Falls.
Janet's Unfortunate Event #1- Flipping out of the boat when rafting down the Poudre River in Fort Collins. The only thing the kids were worried about was if I lost my contacts.
Janet's Unfortunate Event #2 - Slipping off our perch at Alluvial Fan the first day of our trip and breaking a toe. Tyler played Florence Nightengale and rented me crutches (of two different sizes) from the YMCA first aid station.
Janet's Unfortunate Event #3 - Going out early one morning to watch Ron fish and sliding down a rock into the water (fully clothed - Disco Duck reigns).
Best thing about this year's trip - going this early in the season guarantees that the town will be really empty during the week. And we get to stay two full weeks.
Worst thing about this trip - Kate's absence. We'll miss you (thanks for keeping the home fires burning - not literally, though).

Now he walks in quiet solitude, the forests and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake

I'm already there . . .

Disco Duck

(Rick Dees, 1976)

If you want to get a little chuckle, take a drive south on Antioch to about 83rd or 84th Street. On the left hand side of the road is a yellow house with a duck outside. Not a real one. It's plastic or ceramic or cement - whatever. This duck is, unquestionably, the best dressed duck in Johnson County (and most the likely the ONLY dressed duck in Johnson County, unless you count the ones dressed, in a culinary sense, for your holiday table). Yesterday, the duck had on a purple dress and red accessories, no doubt an homage to those old ladies who wear purple and red. Everyone, raise your right hand and swear on whatever is most meaningful to you that you will have me locked up if I ever even think about wearing that color combination. And for everyone's sake, throw away the key.

This haute couture duck has also been known to sport graduation attire, complete with diploma in hand/wing. And a Royals uniform, although it's not made an appearance this year (to my knowledge, anyway). The duck's stylist may be making some kind of statement, given the dismal year they're having. The duck has pilgrim clothes, Easter clothes, valentine clothes - nearly every major holiday is covered. I've seriously thought about snapping pictures of each outfit and making a calendar, but, honestly, that would just take too much time and point out even more clearly that I need a life and that I'm way to easy to amuse. I tried to get Tyler to go take a picture today for me but he just ignored me.

Another side, and rather embarrassing, note about this song, Disco Duck. It was my nickname in high school, not because I was a fly disco queen, but because I had a knack for falling into water fully clothed. It only happened twice, but both times were in winter and I was horsing around, trying to be cute and cool. Really only got the cool (cold) part down. It is NO fun trying to swim in bell bottoms and a down vest, even if a cute boy is watching (mainly laughing his arse off). Whoever says they want to relive their teenage years had to have been completely wasted the whole time and has an altered memory of what it was really like. Now those college days . . . THAT'S another story (and, if you're lucky, perhaps another posting).

Stormy Weather

(Lena Horne, 1941)

Last night, sitting on the screened-in porch, listening to it rain and thunder I had to think (again) that life doesn't get much better than this. Over the past three summers we've lived here, I've been known to get out of bed, creep down the stairs and sneak out onto that porch to enjoy a summer night's storm. In fact, that porch - and the promise of years of summer storms - is one of the main reasons we bought this house.

I wasn't always a fan of storms. The truth is, I was terrified of them, especially tornadoes. When I was growing up in Marshall, MO we had our fair share of tornado threats. Nearby Sedalia (30 minutes away) was nicknamed Tornado Alley and got hit numerous times in the 60's and early 70's. I clearly remember one day when the sirens went off and I was in school (probably first or second grade). We were all out in the hallway, backs against the wall with our heads tucked into our chests, hands around our heads. My dad arrived to take us home and that meant a whole carload of kids, since we had a huge neighborhood carpool - probably at least seven or eight kids (and there were no mini-vans back in the day, just huge, lumbering station wagons with maybe four seatbelts). About half way home, dad remembered he had forgotten to get Marcie Roberts. "JUST LEAVE HER! JUST LEAVE HER!" I screamed, my eyes wild with fright. I'm not even kidding one bit. I was perfectly prepared to let her get sucked up into the tornado, just get me home to my basement. Of course, we went back, rescued Marcie and lived to tell the tale.

I also have a vague memory of all the neighbors going over to the Yaeger's basement when weather was bad. I'm not sure why, since we all had basements, but I always thought I'd be safer there (or at least have more fun being terrified out of my wits). Perhaps my most surreal tornado memory was at the dentist's office when I was 12. I was getting teeth pulled in preparation for braces. I'd never had a cavity (and didn't until I was 30), so this was my first exposure to a dental procedure. I remember Dr. Cunningham telling me not to look at the needle he was about to use to administer the Novocaine. So I looked up - right into his glasses, which perfectly reflected the GIGANTIC shiny needle that was going into my mouth. And then the tornado sirens went off. Exactly at the moment the needle pierced my gums. I'm sure my eyeballs about popped out of my head. I remember asking them if we shouldn't go somewhere safer, but Dr. Cunningham just proceeded to yank out that tooth, cool as a cucumber.

I don't know when my fear turned into a near obsession with thunderstorms. I get really, really excited when severe storms are forecast and then get really, really pissed off when Ron tells me that they're all moving north and "we won't get anything." He obviously doesn't share my enthusiasm, but he clearly relishes being able to burst my bubble. Tyler and I stand around outside when the sirens are going off, while Ron's down in the basement glued to the weather channel. I'm sure if I'd ever really experienced a tornado up close and personal I wouldn't be as cavalier about it, but I figure if I can survive a tornado warning with a needle in my mouth, I can handle just about anything. Just call me Dorothy. And ixnay the witch comments.

Reeling in the Years

(Steely Dan, 1972)

One of Ron's and my favorite thing to do is estate sale hopping. We do it about once every two months and have quite a few things we've picked up over the years now taking up lots of space in our home. Today we went to three. Now, you may know that a cheap form of entertainment for us on lazy summer evenings is to drive around neighborhoods and look at houses. We have compiled unofficial lists of "Houses We Want to Go See If It Ever Goes Up for Sale," "Who Thought That Was A Good Color," and "That Is Butt Ugly." The best part of estate sales is actually getting to go inside some of those houses in search of buried treasure.

Sometimes it's quite depressing. I remember the first time I went to an estate sale and was horrified to see that the spices in the kitchen cabinet were for sale. Who buys that kind of stuff? I don't think I really want to know. The bathrooms are almost as bad . . . half empty bottles of shampoo, opened boxes of laxatives, pink foam rollers, electric shavers and faded bath towels.

Almost as fun as seeing all the crap people have accumulated over the years is the dreadful decor.

Today one of the houses we visited had turquoise wallpaper with shimmering birds all over it in the foyer. I felt like I had walked into a Hitchcock movie. The kitchen wallpaper was equally charming - tones of red, brown, gold and orange, with matching curtains. I have no idea what the pattern was, but I know for a fact that if I lived there I'd never be cooking. I'd be having a seizure. Kind of like those ones strobe lights bring on. The basement, however, was totally cool. It had this olive green shag carpeting, a massive bar and a linoleum section with a mirrored wall - I'll bet eighteen bucks that dance lessons were given on that patch of asbestos-ridden flooring. The bathroom featured a gold metallic wallpaper in a geometric pattern.

In one of the bedrooms were dozens of boxes of nylons. Not pantyhose. The kind you need a girdle or garter belt to wear. Ron suggested that I buy a pair and meet him at the top of the stairs one afternoon after work. You cannot begin to imagine the withering stare I gave him. Seriously, there were probably sixty pair of unopened Hanes and Christian Dior nylon stockings. They HAD to be forty years old! And they were all that kind of dark brown color . . . straight off of Mrs. Robinson's shapely gams.

For those of you who have not been initiated into the joys of estate sale-ing, here are some reasons why you should spend a Saturday traipsing into other peoples' homes . . .
1. You can find really great buys on just about everything, especially linens, garden tools, odd pieces of silver, furniture (although you really need to go early on the first day to get the best pieces), books, vinyl records and vintage clothing.
2. If you go on Saturday or Sunday, most prices are half off. A lot of times we'll go on Saturday and if we see something we really like, we'll go back on Sunday to try and negotiate a better price.
3. You can find out a lot about the people who lived there by rummaging through their stuff, especially their books. Today I saw a church plate (churches used to have plates made with an artistic rendering of the building, usually commemorating an anniversary - my parents have TONS). I therefore surmised that this might have been a pastor's home. It was confirmed when I found a book entitled, "Papa Was a Preacher."
4. It makes you realize that someday someone is going to be sifting through your belongings and it's best to pitch the incriminating stuff now while you've still got a brain.

So, grab a few bucks and a newspaper and go in search of treasure. And tacky decor.

Cherokee Nation

(Paul Revere and the Raiders, 1971)

Our friends, Tom and Leah, gave Tyler Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee for graduation. I started reading it tonight. By page four I was already appalled and ashamed to be a white person. I remember feeling the same way the first time I saw Dances With Wolves. From the first day European settlers set foot on what is now American soil, the Native Americans were driven from their homes, mostly by force and nearly always with lies and broken promises made by the white man. As I read those first few pages I tried to assuage some of my guilt by blaming the Europeans for introducing intolerant behavior in the first place. Alas, I see the error in my flawed thinking . . . as a new nation we prided ourselves on being free thinkers and, indeed, our nation was created by persons fleeing persecution . . . the same kind of persecution we inflicted on the Choctaws, Cretes, Pawnees, Narragansetts - the list of tribes is endless, as are the names of tribes that have been completely wiped out by the white man's insatiable lust for land and superiority. As free thinkers, we could have very well turned our hatred and mistrust into cooperation and tolerance that led to a peaceful co-existence. But we didn't.

In the last couple of years I've been increasingly disturbed by growing trend of American arrogance. I'm certainly patriotic and feel very fortunate and blessed to live in this country, but when did we start thinking that our you-know-what doesn't stink? I think the war in Iraq is a perfect example. Now, I'm certainly not skilled in foreign policy and don't know the ins and outs of global diplomacy, but I feel like we've taken on the self-proclaimed role of World Super Hero. I fully support our troops for doing the job they've been asked to do, but I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in wondering what we've really accomplished in the last five years. Last year when we were in Italy we could tell there was not a lot of love lost on us Americans. I wanted to tell everyone, quite apologetically, "Not everyone in America is an ass." Or Paris Hilton. However, I will admit that I kind of expected everyone to know English, at least a little bit. And I actually think most Europeans are semi-fluent, because nearly everyone we met that did speak English was not just bi-lingual, they were multi-lingual. So, my arrogance did raise its ugly head now and then.

I guess the point of this is . . . humble us (me), Lord. You created the world with a beautiful diversity and no one race has any superiority over another, although the ongoing presence of warring nations suggests that we still don't fully get that principle. We would do well to learn from the Native Americans of their love of land, nature, family and a peaceful existence. I'm sure my shame will continue to grow as I make my way through the pages of this book, but I also know with certainty that my respect and admiration for Native Americans will be raised higher and higher and higher.

Money

(Pink Floyd, 1973)

I hate money. It is, after all, the root of all evil. Although I don't recall any mention of it in the Garden of Eden. I'll be that slimy serpent secretly flashed Eve a drachma or two, just to sweeten the deal. THAT'S why I hate it so much. It's seductive, it's intoxicating, it's addictive. Much like chocolate. What if chocolate was money? I'd be in such big trouble . . .

Today I spent about two hours redoing our budget, or to be more accurate, our bill paying schedule. Once upon a time I used to pay the bills, but got fed up with it and handed it over to Ron, who did a fine job for about ten years. Then he got overloaded with work, and settling the estates of his brother and mom so I said I'd be glad to take it back. I had a perfect little system worked out. Now he gets paid every week (instead of every two) so I had to go online and figure out exactly when all of our automatic payments come out, when to make the mortgage payment, etc. Thank heavens for online banking. Otherwise I'd be biting my nails for a month waiting for everything to fall into place. And I've got acrylic nails. That would be some nasty biting.

Tyler and I have quite a few things in common, one of which is hoarding money. He is loathe to spend a single dime (although he's quite generous when it comes to gift giving). Once I've got a little cushion, I just want to keep stuffing it full of extra padding. We have secret goals regarding the level at which we want to keep our accounts that we don't dare mention because someone in the family (Ron) will do the eye rolling thing and mutter unkind words about us under his breath. Words like "Ebenezer" and "tightwad." I've come to realize that it's a total power tripping thing. See, it's evil, evil, evil.

If you want to see a meltdown in record time tell me we have to pay for car repairs. My blood pressure can go from fairly normal to stroke mode in 1.2 nanoseconds. I figure we've spent a great deal of money to purchase the car. It should NEVER EVER EVER need fixing. Ron says the Neon (aka The Beater) needs new brakes. I tell him "Just drive slower and be more aware of your surroundings." I'm not kidding. I'd just as soon cut out a hole in the floorboard and do some Fred Flintstone braking. New shoes cost a lot less than brakes.

And, speaking of hoarding money . . . it's been over two weeks since we filled up the Prius and we've still got half a tank left. I'm rubbing my hands together in perfect glee . . . hee, hee, hee.

Paperback Writer

(the Beatles, 1966)

Ok, you've read about my editing addiction. I wish I could claim I had one day clean, but it would just be a bloody lie. I can't get any further than a few minutes. In addition to my propensity to wordsmith stuff to the grave, I also get a little nutty about a few other idiosyncrasies that writers/clever marketing types employ in the name of creativity. Like cutesy spellings of businesses, mostly hair salons . . . Klassy Kuts, Kut & Kurl - to me, it has the same affect as nails on chalkboard. I want to shriek REALLY LOUD and poke my eyes out with a spoon. I swear on PeeWee Herman's indiscretion that I will NEVER set foot inside any establishment that chooses to use words not found in Webster's Dictionary. I'm dead serious. If you ever catch me transgressing in this manner, you have my permission to spray paint me purple and tie me to the bronze bears at the new Merriam Visitor's Center (is there a hibernating bear population in Merriam that I'm not aware of????).

I also take issue with people who abbreviate Christmas (XMas). It's more than taking "Christ" out of Christmas. It's plain laziness. And people who abbreviate "thanks" (thnx or thx) - don't bother! If you want to thank me then take the time to write out the whole word (it's only two more letters, for pity's sake!). The English language is a beautiful thing and we're on the verge of reducing it to an ever-increasing series of AIM shortcuts for the lazy and uninspired.

Which brings me to my final literary woe . . . where have all the commas gone? And apostrophes? And capital letters? When did it become acceptable to leave these flagships of writing at dry dock? I know I'm stepping on about eight hundred and four toes, but come on, lads and lassies. The whole point of using these tried and true punctuation marks is to convey meaning and emotion to the reader, not to mention provide clarity. I mean, what would "Catcher in the Rye" be without italics? At best, a dull read about a depressed teen. What's special about that? But add those famous italics and the whole book comes to life and you fall in love with Holden Caulfield and identify wholly with his teen angst and pain. Face to face interaction is so, you know, not done that SOMETHING has to be done to convey the human element in cyber talk. If you just type "wil u mry me?" how will you know someone really wants to marry you? It could mean that someone wants you to murdify them (ok, it's not a word, but in today's bastardized language it totally could be). That is so NOT romantic (not to mention unsafe). You'd show up at the church all dressed in white and the "groom" would say, "Where's the ax?" I shudder to think . . .

So, here's the challenge. Put punctuation back in your writing. Add a keystroke or two to your messages. And see what happens. It's like giving the whole world a Coke - everyone will be in perfect harmony. Or at least a little more literate.

House of the Rising Sun

(The Animals, 1964)

The other night at Tyler's graduation party this song came on. Our genius friend, Steve, asked me if I knew who sang it. I promptly called over Kate, who immediately knew the answer, even though the song was written 18 years before she was born. She's funny like that. And very much her father's daughter. I know a lot of music; she likes a lot of music. Big difference. Right now, Ron's in the other room asleep with the radio on, and there's a trumpet screaming some sort of obscenity that's supposed to pass for jazz. Don't get me started on jazz. Most of it makes me feel like I've taken eighty-five hits of speed and I'm doing everything I can not to jump out of my skin. Not a big fan. Not even a little fan.

But back to "The House of the Rising Sun." In fifth grade my best friend, Alesia Thomas, sang that song in our school talent show. Now, there are two things funny about that. First, she used her brother's bass guitar, which was taller than she was and a bit unwieldy for her little hands. Girls playing bass guitars were fairly rare back then (try nonexistent) and I'm surprised that our elementary school allowed that sort of subversive activity to take place. The song only has about three chords, so it wasn't hard to play, but just picture this skinny little dark haired pre-teen belting out this tale of a life gone bad. Pretty darn funny. Second, she was a hard core Assembly of God member and I'm pretty sure her parents would have had her exorcised (or healed or whatever it is they would do to remove the stain of sin) if they knew that the song referred to a brothel in New Orleans. Ok, really maybe the funniest part about the whole thing is that she and I then sang a duet of "How Great Thou Art." Maybe that was supposed to cancel out the other song about prostitution and debauchery. Also featured in the talent show: a lovely rendition of "Que Sera, Sera," sung by yours truly.

I think about Alesia now and then, and wonder where she is. We also wrote a looooong short story entitled, "Love and Tragedy," a torrid love story about vampires and witches and warlocks. We would pass it back and forth, each writing a few pages. I'd give a billion dollars if I could find it. Alesia probably changed her name to Anne Rice and is fabulously rich and I'm stuck here writing blogs, begging (practically paying) my friends and family to read it. Que sera, sera.

Pomp & Circumstance

(Edward Elgar, 1905)

As soon as the first notes of "Pomp & Circumstance" are sounded my mom never fails to start getting weepy. So tonight, when the SMN band squeaked out those first couple of notes, I leaned forward to take a peek and sure enough, her eyes were looking a little misty. And, of course, then my eyes start to sting. I'm thinking to myself, "I'm gonna be a mess."

Ron and Kate had gone ahead to save us seats and got really good ones, right on the 50 yard line. It's pretty much impossible to tell the graduates apart since they all have on the same get up, but Ron said he spotted Tyler two rows in front of the 50 yard line. The awarding of diplomas went by pretty smoothly and almost no one paid attention to the repeated requests to remain quiet during the reading of the names . . . not to yell, or use whistles or air guns. "Ok, they're two rows a way from Tyler's row. We're good." Then, all of the sudden we hear "James Tyler Martin." My first thought is "They read his name out of order!" But no. They didn't make the mistake. We did. We totally missed seeing Tyler get his diploma. It was like blinking the exact second the Plaza Lights are turned on. By the time I finally located his red head, he was walking off the stage. We didn't get to yell, whistle or do anything else distracting. It was all SO anticlimactic. Poor guy. Fortunately, he had quite a few friends who yelled for him, so he didn't feel like an orphan.

But talk about a serious right hook into the parenting self esteem. I had been trying to mentally prepare myself for this event for over a year. I had given myself pep talks all last week and thought I had gotten all my tears out of the way. And then I miss the whole dang thing. Life is just too funny sometimes. Or not. We'll see if I'm laughing come August . . .

School's Out (of control)

(Alice Cooper, 1972)

Ok, so this whole teacher thing. When I was in school - it's been thirty years since I graduated from high school - we had a great deal of respect for our teachers. We may not have liked all of them, but we respected their authority. For example, I hated my gym teacher. She was a mean old lady. One day in gym I was feeling really nauseous and asked to not have to dress out. It was my last class of the day and she asked me why I didn't just go home, or did I have something I wanted to stay after school for, basically saying I was faking it. My mom and dad were out of town and the lady who was staying with us couldn't come and get me. The second I got home, I threw up all over the place. I wanted to put my vomit in a bag and throw it at that old hag. But, I didn't. Instead, I got some good gossip on her. SHE SMOKED! A GYM TEACHER! I found out one day when I tried to sneak into the teacher's lounge to see if they had a knife to cut a cake we had for one of the teachers EVERYONE LIKED. And there she was, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, trying to hide her cigarette under the table. Heh, heh, heh. She really didn't like me then. I wasn't allowed to go to our senior pep club picnic because I hadn't attended one of the three required away basketball games because I had to work for a living as a teenager. It was a minor offense she could have easily ignored. I showed up anyway and she kicked me out. I hope she got kicked out of a really important event once in her life - like waiting in line for heaven.

We would NEVER call our teachers by their first names - we didn't even know their first names. We certainly didn't call them by their last names without Mr. or Mrs. or Miss preceding it. Only the jocks dared to assume that air of familiarity, but they had special privileges the rest of us paeans were denied (probably because they could seriously knock the crap out of anyone). Tyler calls his teachers by their last names and nicknames all the time. And teachers are way more laid back. Tyler and his English teacher were joking about a heroin den they both claim to have visited. (How come I wasn't invited? I don't care if Tyler does drugs, but he has to do them with me first.) And, teachers wear jeans and all manner of casual apparel to school. In sixth grade I was sent home because I wore pants (not even jeans) to school. The night before the big rebellion, I spent hours on the phone with my little sixth grade girlfriends. Each one swore they'd break the rules and wear pants. I was the only one who did. And it was really a pair of pants underneath a jumper in a kind of pseudo-pantsuit thing. Really tasteless. But, nonetheless daring.

Now, I think most kids still respect teachers and their authority, but it's like everyone's taken a gi-normous chill pill or something. Guess if we'd had gi-normous chill pills thirty years ago things might have gone differently for me and that hellish teacher. No. I'd still have wanted to throw that vomit in her face.

Let's Get This Party Started

(Pink, 2002)

We got it started all right. And ended (sigh). Ron was up before dawn this morning making sure there were adequate seating venues around the yard for Tyler's graduation party and patiently doing the 821 things I had on my "Martha Stewart Guide the Perfect Party" list. Ty and I ran around town picking up desserts, and then Ty went on an errand spree, returning with, among other things, $2.42 worth of goldfish to put in one of our birdbaths. We had one Nemo who jumped the tank, but the others provided much entertainment and not one got swallowed. On the way home from our dessert round-up we were talking about the picnic we had after Ron's mom's funeral (how many picnics have you been to after a funeral?) and that all the food for the entire picnic (for about 50 people) cost just $100 more than the petit fours and cookies we'd just picked up. After my mom saw the guest book I designed for Tyler she said I should try and sell them. I told her they were kind of pricey. "So?" she said. "People spend ridiculous amounts of money on graduation stuff." Consider us ridiculous. Very, very ridiculous.

We had enough food for the armies of Napoleon AND Sherman. And enough petit fours and cookies to induce eighty-five diabetic comas. Those petit fours were SINFULLY good. The chocolate ones just dissolved in your mouth . . . If those petit fours, you know, winked at me, Mr. Clooney might have to find another paramour.

The party really was a lot of fun. We got to see several people we hadn't seen in many years, which is always fun (and, at the same time, disgusting because you can just feel the gray hair and fine lines fighting to make their evil and unstoppable presence known). We had a "photo booth" set up with a cool backdrop Kate and Morghan painted, and Kate took Polaroid shots of everyone. Two of Tyler's elementary school teachers came and two of his favorite HS teachers also dropped by. (I'm making a note to have a posting about how teachers have changed since I was in school. Should be quite entertaining.) And we had the coolest music. Kate put together two cd's that had everything from "The House of the Rising Sun" to "Sweet Home Alabama" to some David Bowie nonsense. He's so creepy.

I've got another choice for Tyler's wife that's giving Danielle a run for her money. Her name is Sydney and she's SO funny. And smart, and beautiful. She's got really huge dimples, so if she and Tyler ever had kids, their cheeks would just be these huge holes where small animals could build nests or where things of great magnitude could disappear, like the Bermuda Triangle.

And, in case you're wondering . . . Martha has left the building. Praise the Lord.

Tears of A Clown

(Smokey Robinson, 1967)

I spent most of today choking back tears. It started off when I prayed with Tyler this morning, his last day of high school. Now this, unfortunately, is not a daily ritual, which may be why it led to wet cheeks. He went in late to school, I woke up early. I called him upstairs and had him sit on the bed. I took his hand in mine and I started to pray what I had been rehearsing in my mind (mostly because I DIDN'T want to cry). I thanked God for the beautiful gift He had given to me in Tyler. I thanked God for the wisdom He has given Tyler in choosing friends and making choices, and asked for His continued guidance. I asked for protection in the coming days, months and years. I asked God to let Tyler know how much he is loved, admired and cherished, and to know how much joy he gives to all who know him. I feel a little sting in my eyes even now.

Later in the day, Ty came home with his yearbook and I was looking at all the senior ads parents purchase to try and humiliate their kids by putting in the most embarrassing pictures they can find (I think I win - I've got one of Tyler and Kate in hula outfits, complete with grass skirt and coconut bra). One of Tyler's friends lost her dad several years ago and in her ad there were pictures of her and her dad, with a poem written from him to her. A big 'ole lump in the throat on that one. Then I saw an ad for Danielle (the girl I'd have as a daughter-in-law right now if I had to choose) and I lost it. Tyler's page didn't even do that to me (maybe because I spent hours and hours and hours designing it. It kicks some serious boo-tay).

Then later, Tyler and I were watching the Bob Barker special and the waterworks got turned on again. I have no idea what triggered it. Probably watching a rerun of that Samoan woman lifting Bob off his feet. Several times. Now that's just pathetic. And totally hormonal.

This empty nest thing is overrated. I don't know how birds do it. When Kate left home I still had Tyler. Now I'll just have Ron, which, all things considered, is not a bad thing. In fact, I'm sure it's God's provision for my sanity. Amen to that.

Georgie Girl*

I saw an ad for "Oceans 13" tonight. There's something about George Clooney that makes me want to jump into our Sony flat screen and accost him. And not in an unfriendly way. I told Ron about two months ago that I'd absolutely have to leave him if George ever, you know, gave me a wink. I'm dead serious. I've been completely infatuated with George since his ER days (not so much a fan of "The Facts of Life" George). That gravelly voice, the way his smile peeks out now and again, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles full on. Pretty darn irresistible. Then there's "O, Brother, Where Art Thou?" Quite possibly one of the funniest movies ever made. It gets a little long, but George is utterly charming as a ne'er do well depression era escaped convict trying to make his way back to his estranged wife and passel of little girls. "Damn, we're in a tight spot." His creative use of the English language is nothing short of brilliant.

His role as Danny Ocean made it official - George IS the sexiest man alive. Apart from his physical beauty I think he's a really good guy. I saw him on "Charlie Rose" one night and was really impressed with his world view and political convictions. I know it's considered very hip to be socially aware these days and to become passionate about the crises in the world, especially if you're in the entertainment industry. But, hey, those guys have got piles and piles of money, and if they want to do good things with it then more power to them. What does it say about our country, though, that in many cases the only way people become aware of the catastrophic conditions that exist is from the press the celebrities generate? Makes a lot of people in high places look incompetent. But that's not really news, now, is it?

Now, here's the reality check. There's absolutely no way, no how George Clooney is ever, you know, going to give me a wink. So I feel pretty safe in making that alarming statement at the beginning of this posting. But, if you get a postcard from me from the Lake Como district in Italy (that's where George's villa is), you better check on Ron to make sure he hasn't sunk into a deep depression over losing me. Oh wait. That's right. He'll be mending his broken heart with Catherine Zeta Jones. Or Diana Krall. Or Meg Ryan (circa 1988).

Wink. Wink.

*Declaration: Since I bragged about having so many song lyrics in my head, from now on all of my posting titles will also be song titles, along with artist and date, just so you know I'm not making it up. Today's song: from 1967, The Seekers (also the title of a movie of the same name starring Lynn Redgrave).

Channeling Martha Stewart

For years, Ron has said he'd love to meet Martha Stewart. Is he in luck! Within the next two days I'm predicting he'll be sleeping with Martha Stewart, aka me. It will be me on the outside, but pure Martha inside, which I'm pretty sure is going to be hellish and very unpleasant. We've been planning Tyler's graduation party for a month or so, writing down menus, making "to do" lists and everything else associated with a big blow out.Today I completely changed everything. The food was going to be inside. Now it's going to be outside. Why? Because our kitchen is narrow and it would be worse than I-435 at 5:00 p.m. I was going to have pasta salad and the ramen noodle salad (you know that salad that has made an appearance at every single food event in the universe since 1998). Now it's only the ramen noodle salad. Why? Who needs two dishes that similar? We were going to have the dessert table in the kitchen. Now the kitchen table's going outside by the grill and the desserts will be in the dining room. My brain is seriously in danger of becoming unfissured. At this point, I'm thinking that that might not be a bad thing.

Today I was standing in between the living room and dining room just staring. If you paid me eight hundred thousand dollars right now I couldn't tell you what I was thinking about. Probably trying to figure out which door will get used the most - front or back? Or maybe it was whether or not to move one of our toile chairs a little closer to the fireplace to improve the traffic flow. I swear to PeeWee Herman that Ron would have me locked up in a nanosecond if he could see inside my head. I'm about ready to make the call myself.

I think I'm so TOTALLY FREAKED OUT because I have no idea how many people are coming. Tyler nixed the idea of having an RSVP on the invitation, because kids his age think those initials are some AIM lingo (real sexy very pretty) and wouldn't RSVP even if they knew that it was the polite and customary thing to do when invited to a social engagement. And then he tells me that even if they come they might not eat, since there are multiple parties on the same night. But, I ask him, are they all going to have monogrammed petit fours and tiki torches and a kickin' slide show? Will they all have sparkling windows and scrubbed baseboards and candles of pyromaniacal proportions? Will the chef du jour be a cute, bald guy with a red goatee? Will there be party pics to take home as favors at those other parties? I thought not.

My biggest worry is now that I've got my Martha on . . . will I be able to get it off?

People of America, Come on Down!

I think I'm in denial about Bob Barker retiring. He's been on the air probably since the day I was born (yes, wiseguys, TV had been invented). My first memories of him are when he hosted "Truth or Consequences." He used to show his wife, Dorothy Jo, in the audience on a regular basis, which I thought was a sweet touch. I don't remember much more, except these heart-wrenching reunion things he'd do. He'd have some young wife on the show whose husband was in the service, and in those days that meant Vietnam. The announcer, in a really low, whispery voice - the kind that would land him in jail today - would tell the studio audience what was about to happen, while the unsuspecting wife was in "a soundproof booth," which probably meant the bathroom. There'd be some goofy stunt they'd be doing and they'd slip the husband into the mix somehow. Most of the time the wife recognized her husband and shed many tears of joy. I get choked up just thinking about it. If the wife was a little on the slow side, Bob would step in after a suitable length of time and re-introduce the couple.

Then, of course, there's "The Price is Right." You know (or maybe you don't) that once upon a time in America the daytime airwaves were crammed full of game shows. "Password," "Press Your Luck," "Tic Tac Dough," "Sale of the Century," "Let's Make A Deal" (probably one of my all-time favorites). Seriously, there were as many game shows then as there are reality shows today. "The Price is Right," "Wheel of Fortune," and "Jeopardy" are the only ones to survive, and "TPIR" is the only daytime show left. And I don't think it's ever changed its timeslot.

There are so many things to love about this show. Like Bob's microphone. A cross between a drumstick and a fairy wand, I think he's used the same one since the first taping. And the girls. All beautiful, all kind of plastic looking and all really talented with their hands and facial expressions. And willing to wear some really, really ugly (and sometimes demeaning ) clothes. Who really goes golfing in a bikini and high heels? I'm betting there's some adult entertainment out there that spoofs Barker's Beauties. The contestants are always fun to watch, too. I wonder if an ambulance has ever been called to the show. Some of those people are pretty excitable (and ancient). There was this one Samoan woman who about took Bob down. From then on, any time a Samoan got on stage, Bob looked more than a little scared and would actually take a step or two back as they came hurtling towards him. I've noticed lately that there aren't a lot of huggers. Guests probably have to sign some kind of statement giving up the rights to their first born (or any of the fabulous prizes they won) if they touch Bob.

And, of course, there's the games. I want to have a job coming up with new games for TPIR. I think a good one would be guessing the street value of popular drugs. My kids' favorite game of all time is Plinko. I don't know what it is about it, but they STILL get excited about it. One day I heard Tyler screaming his lungs out and I ran into the living room, thinking I was going to find him being mauled by a large bear, only to find out that Plinko's on. The other day he said if I loved him I'd get him tickets to the last show. I told him I'd gotten him a ticket to get a life.

So, farewell, Bob. But beware: I think that planet Earth will soon be overrun with unwanted cats, dogs, ferrets, hamsters and geckos because there won't be anyone telling us to have our pets spayed or neutered.

I Beg Your Pardon

About twenty years ago I decided to quit using the word "God" in exclamations, whether they be made in disgust, incredulation or otherwise. I'd like to say that this was prompted by a spiritual and moral awakening, which it was in part. I think, however, the overriding reason was the result of a visit to the St. Louis Art Museum. My dad was holding Kate and they were looking at some Native American artifacts. It was as silent as a tomb. All of the sudden, I hear Kate's strident little voice, clear as a bell, saying, "Oh, MY GOD. Oh, MY GOD." My dad's trying to shush her and act like he doesn't know why he's holding this tiny blasphemer-of-a-child in his arms, and I'm suddenly the recipient of some very pointed stares. And a few giggles.

Taking the "G" word out of my vocabulary required some substitutions. I tried them all. "Oh, my stars." "Heavens to Betsy." "Oh, my word." My favorites were "Holy Smokes" and "Holy Cow." But then, after an even deeper spiritual awakening, I started to think that these Holy phrases were a bit offensive. "Holy Smokes" could have been offensive to the Levite priests who lit the incense in the Holy of Holies (and perhaps Cheech and Chong, as well). "Holy Cow" must certainly offend the Hindu population. I think "Holy Toledo" is okay, but I can't say for sure. It may offend Ohioans. And isn't there a Toledo in Spain? It could be a double, multi-ethnic breach in etiquette. Even if it doesn't offend anyone, I won't use it. It's just doesn't have a lot of panache.

I have a friend who's mother-in-law says "Shoot a Buddha" (I'm not exactly sure that it's spelled that way, but that's what it sounds like). Pretty sure that offends a large segment of the world. I tried "Oh, my Allah." I really love how that rolls off the tip of the tongue, especially with a little kick of an accent. I'M SO BAD! My grandmother used to say, "Oh, lordy," or "Oh, murder." (What's that all about?)

When I was in college, I had a friend who made up this rule that you couldn't tell a lie if someone said, "Honest Injun?" to you. I'm embarrassed to say that, as a last resort, I use this on my family. Sometimes I use it as a first resort, just to bypass all the "Are you kidding me?" nonsense. I'M SO VERY, VERY BAD.

Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut. Yeah, like that's gonna happen.

(I'm starting to think these little tirades sound a bit like Andy Rooney's pieces on "60 Minutes." Isn't he about to retire...)

Queen for a Day

I am a lucky, lucky woman. Today I was treated like a queen. Ok, maybe I demanded that I be treated like a queen. It worked. I did pretty much nothing all day long. My folks came over for a picnic and we had a great time. They are so funny and I am truly grateful that they are close by now. It makes returning things they've left at our house SO much easier. Ron grilled some excellent burgers and hot dogs and we made s'mores, my mom's favorite. Nobody was really into them except me, mom and dad. I feel like I've robbed my children of some childhood rite of passage. Eating ooey, gooey marshmallows with melted chocolate that sticks all over your face should be a required childhood event. Like getting immunizations. And that sugar rush you get? Has to be better than meth. Has to be. Ron says he doesn't like them but tonight he was watching "How's It Made" on TV and there's a segment on Whippets (not the dogs). They're made of marshmallows that are on top of a cookie crust and covered in chocolate. He says, "Let's get some." Oy!

Tyler gave me a coupon for a meal with him, my choice of restaurant. Is he in trouble! The American? MelBee's? THE MELTING POT? That cheese is SCREAMING my name. I won't tell you what the chocolate is doing.

Kate gave me, in addition to an awesome homemade card, the most beautiful picture (at right). She has so much creativity inside of her it makes me sick. In high school she won the Judge's Prize for mixed media piece that she said took five minutes to do. I think I'm pretty creative. Compared to me she looks like Picasso, Warhol and Jackson Pollock all rolled into one.

One of my very favorite memories of Mother's Day (although it was not humorous at the time) was when Kate was about 12 and Tyler was six. Of course, it was Sunday morning and I was trying to get ready for church. I'm in the shower, trying to fix my thoughts on worship and other holy things, when both kids come busting through the door yelling, "Happy Mother's Day! Open your presents." Most loving, adoring mothers would have been thrilled with the recognition, but I'm sure I said something like, "Oh, for cryin' out loud, give me a break! I'm trying to humble myself before God." And to think I wonder why I never got "Mother of the Year."

On Being a Bird Brain

Ok, it's the whole bird thing again. Last night, Ron and I were sitting on the patio and all of the sudden he sits up straight in his chair and starts gasping, "Blue bird, blue bird. There's TWO of them! Look, look, look." (totally time traveling back to "See Spot run.") In my entire life (and it's quite an entirety) I've never seen a bluebird. Even though it's the state bird of Missouri and I lived there 25+ years, my eyes had not once laid eyes upon one. Slowly I turned in my chair, lest I frighten them off. And sure enough, there were two of the most gorgeous blue birds in the universe. We got to marvel at them for less that 30 seconds and they were off. Now this color of blue can only be described as Tiffany blue, but a deeper, richer blue. Like someone had bumped the saturation in PhotoShop. They were stunning. Except that we don't think they were really blue birds. Not the official Eastern Bluebird or the Mountain Bluebird. They were blue, all right, but according to Ron's field guide to birds, it was probably an indigo bunting. It was really, really cool. It's pathetic how little it takes to amuse me.

I'm so glad we live in a country where birds are allowed to fly wherever they want. They can get off course with being in danger of being locked up for flying into some international no fly zone. I love these United States of America.

So tonight we sat ourselves down on the patio, hoping against hope that the most beautiful blue birds in the universe would make another appearance. Alas, our hopes were dashed, I say, dashed. I think they found out about our reputation as being the government cheese equivalent in backyard eateries and moved on to more posh accommodations.

At least I can leave this world with the satisfaction of seeing a blue bird. Even though it wasn't a bluebird.

Things I Really Miss

Ron and I were talking tonight about PeeWee's Playhouse. We LOVED that show. Every Saturday morning, when Kate was little, it was a hallowed hour in our house. There wasn't a thing I didn't love about it, except maybe that bratty Randy. I'd have loved to punch him in that wooden freckled face! BOY! Was he annoying! I loved Miss Yvonne, Cowboy Curtis (later the indestructible Morpheus on The Matrix) , Jambi (Mekaleka Hi Meka Hini Ho), Chairy . . . all really inane things, but boy it was creative. Ron and I disagree about PeeWee's mode of transportation at the end of the show. I say it was a bike, Ron says scooter. Ron's probably right. We lived for the secret word of the day and would scream REAL loud whenever it was came up in conversation over the next 24 hours. It's a wonder Child Services wasn't called. I was really ticked off when PeeWee got caught doing despicable things in despicable places. Creep.

I miss when Kate would make these random statements like, "If boys had babies the babies would have to be really skinny." I would have loved to have been inside her brain to see the thought process that led her to arrive at that conclusion. Pretty smart for a six-year old. I miss when Tyler would say "Make a hole." Ron or I would lay on the couch on our side and draw out knees up to form a little pocket behind our legs. Tyler would hop inside and sit for hours, munch on his blankie and watch Rug Rats or Monsters. Or Twin Peaks. Not really. That was Kate's favorite show. BOB! Child Services really SHOULD have been called.

I miss the four of us all sitting down for dinner and having a meal right out of Martha Stewart Living (ha). Seriously, until Kate graduated from high school, there were not many nights that we didn't have dinner together. Now we're lucky if the three of us make it once or twice a week. I saw on a HyVee commercial that teens who sit down with their families for dinner at least four times a week (maybe it was three) are 25% less likely to get involved with drugs and alcohol. Sorry, Tyler. Prove 'em wrong, bud! JUST SAY NO! FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER.

Maybe it's not so much that I miss these things. I guess I should be glad I still have the faculties to remember them. And that's no small thing. Trust me.

Holding Court

One of my jobs as a child was to plug in the coffee pot every morning. There was no such thing as automatic timers back in the middle ages and no disposable filters. This was a percolator that let you know it was perking. So dependent on the caffeine buzz was my mom that I didn't dare show my face unless my chubby little fingers had plugged in that pot. I never failed to do it. And she never failed to ask me if I'd done it. On Sundays, when I got older, the routine included making Pillsbury orange danish rolls before church.

Some of my most favorite memories of my mom are when she'd hold court in her bedroom. I specifically remember opening my birthday present when I was eight on her bed. It was a box of 64 crayons with a sharpener in the back. All those lovely colors. My favorite: cornflower blue. (How pathetic is that? Crayons for a birthday present. I bet you think I got an orange in my stocking at Christmas. You'd win that bet.) But, I digress.

Later, after I was married and visited only occasionally, the routine was the same. My dad, or Ron, would bring her a cup of coffee (straight up black) and, if the pantry provided, a danish or some other sweet treat. I'd wander in and there she'd be, sitting up in bed with pillows behind her in her flannel pjs, dainty little china coffee cup in hand, and her hair mussed up. The kids would rush in and she'd have to remind Tyler (again) not to stand on the bedrails at the end of the bed. He and Kate would fly onto the bed and up her coffee cup would go in an attempt to not lose a drop of the precious black nectar. We'd sit in there for an hour or two and just catch up. We'd talk about who was ailing with what, the kids, my work, the birds outside their huge picture window and the level of the lake. And what we were going to do that day, once we deemed it necessary to leave the inner sanctum and walk amongst the peasantry. Anyone old enough to tote hot liquid would be asked, ever so nicely, to get her some more coffee. She ruled with absolute authority and lots of love and laughter.

Now that they've moved a half hour away those days of being in attendance at the queen's court are a thing of the past. I really miss it. I think everyone probably does. I may just have to spend the night sometime so I can bring her coffee and plop down on the bed and soak up the wisdom.

It's A Sickness, Really

I'm sitting here, wacom pen in hand, waiting for inspiration to raise its beautiful and shining head. Hmmm. Nothing yet.

Still nothing. I could write about my insane propensity to constantly edit and re-edit what I write. I read and re-read these blogs before I post them. I make a few changes. Never deleting words. Always adding words. Several words. Then I post it and I read it again. And edit it some more.

I knew I had a serious problem when I kept a prayer journal and I began editing my prayers. Sorry, God. (Like He hadn't already corrected them Himself.)

When Kate and Tyler hand me stuff to read/edit they ask me not to bleed on it too much (I like red ink). I try, try, try but more often than not it looks like a prop from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (not that I've seen that movie . . . it just sounded like a good metaphor).

I had a colleague ask me to read a paper she was doing for seminary. I made a few suggestions, really minor ones. She never asked me to read a paper again. I guess she just wanted me to look for typos. I can't help it - I look for thoughtos. You know, those thoughts and ideas that really would make better sense if this part of the sentence went before that part, or if this adverb were used instead of that adverb. What the heck! Let me just rewrite this whole paragraph. There! That's SO much better! (sound of little clapping hands)

So, as you read these words, understand that they have been carefully crafted and recrafted to provide you with the highest caliber of entertainment and enjoyment.

Teaching Old Dogs New Tricks

About a month ago, Tyler and I were at my mom and dad's to celebrate my birthday. Where was Ron, you ask. Out of town. Again. It was the second year in a row that he was out of town on my birthday. Don't think he didn't hear about it. Anyway, we were waiting on Kate to arrive so Tyler sent her a text message to determine her ETA. My dad became fascinated by this new fangled method of communication, so he asked Tyler to show him how to do it. It was quite a sight. Dad has macular degeneration, which basically means he's losing his sight. It's a wonder he could even see the keys. After about three minutes of patient instruction, he had completed his message. "Hi. Love, Papa." Once he'd hit the send button his face lit up like a six year old who had just read his first book all by himself. "I did it!" It was absolutely priceless.

My mom, on the other hand, is a complete and total technophobe. Anything that is not human is regarded as suspicious and a possible threat to her daily existence and the survival of mankind. She's never used an ATM, never pumped her own gas. When dad's going to be out of town she makes him turn off his computer because it makes a little hissing sound and she's afraid it's going to start talking to her. She was not at all pleased to know that her name could be googled and produce four results. Now, don't get me wrong. She is very intelligent, well read and pays close attention to the stock market. She just gets the heebie jebbies when it comes to anything automated. (She does, however, know how to get messages off the answering machine.) But the times, I think they are a changin'. She was recently elected as secretary of the church women's group and since she doesn't have a typewriter, she'll have to learn how to use the computer. She was a little less apprehensive when I assured her the the computer keyboard had the same keys as a typewriter and that they were in the same order. Twenty bucks says she writes the minutes out long hand.

Oh, guess what? I have that refund check from Toyota in my hot little hand. Hurray!

Wanted: Job for 18-year Old with Fire Red Hair and Stupidly Deep Dimples

Poor Tyler. He thinks he needs a new job. He works at Applebee's doing Carside to Go at College & Metcalf. According to him, it sucks. For one thing, he has to be nice on the phone. And type in orders into a highly sophisicated computer that does everything but walk the food out to the car. Tyler has to do that. I mean, come on. That's such backbreaking work for an 18-year old. I know he's going to come down with french-fried lung someday in the near future. The hours are horrific - three hour shifts. Oh, yeah. The pay is crap. On a bad night he makes $10+ an hour. On his best night he pocketed about $25 an hour. My heart just breaks into a million pieces when I think about how much he's suffering. Surely there's someone out there who can ease my pain.

Here comes the "When I was your age" story. My very first full-time job was the summer before my freshman year in high school. I babysat for two kids, Mark and Philip. Mark was the oldest, about eight, I think. Philip was this cute, cute little guy with huge brown eyes. He was around four. Mark used to call Pizza Hut and have pizzas delivered to the neighbors. I think he did worse things, but it was the summer of the Watergate hearings and I was glued to the tv the whole time. Seriously, there was nothing else on. No Price is Right, or Super Password or soaps. It was awwwwwfuuuuuullllllll. We had canned ravioli every day for lunch. Every single day. There wasn't really anything else in the house. I worked 8-5, five days a week. And got paid the handsome sum of $20 A WEEK! That's right, fifty cents an hour. Nowadays, the hottest job around is being a nanny (you can dress it up any way you want, but it's still pretty much just changing diapers and wiping snotty noses). They probably make fifty cents a millisecond.

So if you know anyone who needs to hire some summer help, call Tyler. His specific talents are: looking cute ALL the time, an ability to bamboozle anyone with (or without) a brain, and an uncanny knack for getting exactly what he wants without you knowing you've been played. Until you have time to think about it. And then it's too late.

Who'll Stop the Rain?

Ai yi yi yi yi! Rain day and night, night and day for eight hundred and sixty days already. I woke up this morning to a slamming clap of thunder and it hasn't stopped. The stormy forecast is probably why our neighbor began mowing his yard at 8:30 last night. Not even kidding. He was mowing by the light of the moon and the street lights and the phosphorus light emanating from his yard as a result of the manure-smelling weed killer he put on it yesterday morning. And he's got all these sticks and rocks in his yard so it was annoyingly loud. All while Ron and I were trying to have a nice, quiet evening meal on the patio. Mood killer. I guess it's a good thing he mowed it when he did because he travels all week and by next weekend he'd have needed a machete to make it to the back door.

About six or seven years ago Ron became an avid bird watcher. He's got the bird books with all the pretty pictures in them and he feeds them all this good stuff (sometimes I sneak some of the peanuts when he's not looking). Now, it's no secret that I'm easily excited and and it takes almost nothing to amuse me. Not so with Ron. It takes a lot to get him effusive and ebullient. But the other day he came leaping in the back door after work and said, "Get the book, get the book. We've got a red breasted grossbeak at the feeder." And sure enough, we did! The next day I hear him exclaiming, "He's back, he's back." The grossbeak again. Yesterday it was four yellow finches in our weeping willow. Today it was hummingbirds. Now this really is exciting because they usually don't show up until August. I'm thinking this little fella is on a recon mission, checking out friendly nesting trees and sources of food. Ron, right away, brewed up some hummingbird food and by golly! We had TWO! To be fair, I enjoy watching birds almost as much as Ron, but he gets real joy out of it, which is no small blessing.

The bird traffic has really picked up as of late, which I thought was kind of odd, since it's spring and there are berries and seeds and other bird delicacies all around. So I've decided that we've got the equivalent of government cheese in our back yard. For those birds who can't (or won't) get a job looking for food, they just mosey on down to Hadley and take a perch at the Martin Soup Kitchen. Pretty soon I'm going to have to start checking their papers to make sure they qualify for the free stuff. I'll have to probably get ultra-sharp bifocals to read their chicken scratch.

I'm drawing the line at giving them free smokes.

The Squeaky Wheel Does Get the Grease

So you may have read about my outrage regarding the dubious business practices Ron and I encountered during our recent car buying venture. In a nutshell, we were lied to when we asked our salesman what the Blue Book value of our trade-in was (we ended up getting a little over a thousand dollars less than Blue Book value). I was really incensed so I fired off a letter to the general manager telling him what had happened and indicated that the surveys we'd be asked to complete would very accurately reflect our poor experience. For some really unknown reason, these dealerships live and die by those surveys. Probably has to do with bonuses and other payouts that drive up the prices. Yes, they would receive failing marks unless, I added, we got a check for the difference. I really didn't think anything would happen but I felt like he should know that we know we got screwed. And I felt better having vented my spleen (I'm going to do a whole posting about weird sayings and what they mean.)

Today I got a phone call from the General Manager and he was very apologetic, going to far as to say that he was appalled at the situation, the sales staff had had some retraining this week about acceptable business practices and that this type of salesmanship was not customary. And we'll be getting a check next week for the difference. Ron and I sat in stunned silence for about 15 seconds and then started whooping and hollering like hillbillies. What an awesome feeling. I stuck it to the man. I trumped the system. Good triumphed over evil. I played their game and WON!

Now I'm considering calling "Call for Action" and telling them that a certain Toyota dealership is bribing customers for good survey results . . . ha!

Moral of the story: ALWAYS let businesses know if they've really missed the mark. And tell them when they do a good job, too.

Are You Sure You Want to Send Your Brain to the Recycle Bin?

"American Pie" (the song, not the insipid movie) came on the radio this morning as I was sitting in the drive-through at McDonald's. I sang every single word of that song. Didn't miss a one. And it's like one of the longest recorded songs in the history of music. I'm thinking: that song was popular when I was in seventh or eighth grade, roughly 35 years ago. How is it that I can remember every stupid word to that song, but I can't remember why I got up from the chair in my office and walked into the bedroom ten minutes ago. I literally had to stand in the middle of the room and reconstruct my thought process. Oh yeah, it was to go to the bathroom. Obviously I'm much worse off than I thought since I passed the bathroom going into the bedroom. It's a miracle I didn't end up in Arkansas before I realized I missed the potty 200 miles ago. I'd have better luck remembering the Gettysburg Address: "Fourscore and seven years ago our forefathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." (I memorized the whole thing in third grade, but can only remember the opening sentence.)

I've decided I'd like to have an "Organize Favorites" folder for my brain, like I have on my computer. Or better yet, of course, a "Delete" key. I'd be able to trash all those useless song lyrics I have floating around in that vast grayness in my skull. I swear that in any given conversation I can spontaneously recall at least three lines from songs that would be relevant to the discussion at hand. It's ridiculous. And annoying. If I could purge my brain of useless knowledge I'd be . . . . probably really dull. I think my superhuman ability to store useless knowledge is what makes me special. It makes people look at me and say "How do you know that?" I'm just a freak of nature. And knowing my luck, I'd accidently delete information that I really need, like my social security number, or the eight hundred and ninety five zillion passwords I have embedded in my brain. Or my name.

Tonight was the Spring Court ceremony at SMNorth. Tyler was in the top ten and got to escort the beautiful and extremely talented Danielle Marie Hohly. She is one of the nicest young ladies I know. She and Tyler have been good friends since middle school and they are quite a pair. If I had to pick a future daughter-in-law right this second, it'd be her. As it is, I'm just really grateful that Tyler's had the blessing of their friendship. This whole rite of passage (graduation) is nearly upon us and it makes my heart hurt to realize that this precious time with Tyler is slipping away, moment by moment. At our parent session at ESU the first thing one of the speakers told us was to "let go." I wanted to jump up on the table and scream at the top of my lungs, "I've only been holding onto him for eighteen years. I can't just let go because you say so!" Jeez, woman, is your heart made of stone? Sniffle. Sniffle.

Maybe if I deleted all those funny, tender, heart-stopping and indelible memories of Tyler it wouldn't be so hard to let him fly. Nope. Those things are part of the system network. Deleting them will make the computer unstable.

Give Me Liberty or Give Me A Break

Twenty six years ago I was awarded a Bachelor of Science degree in History. I started out majoring in sociology, with a minor in history. But, in the middle of my junior year I decided to switch it up. I'm not sure why, perhaps to give my parents heart failure and my advisors ulcers. If I'd known that I'd have to take "Nazi Germany" and "Rape and Suicide" in the same semester I might have pondered my decision a little bit more carefully. I think the breaking point was a sociology class about some primitive tribe in the Amazon and their social mores (morays) and customs. I couldn't help thinking, "Why do I need to know that walking in front of the medicine man's hut on a partly cloudy day will bring out evil spirits?" "How is this going to be useful to me in twenty years?" Whereas history . . . a whole different story. I somehow innately knew that there'd be a game invented some fifteen years later that would call upon my vast historical knowledge and allow me to win a piece of the pie. Yeah, that's what my degree in history's been used for. Trivial Pursuit, Jeopardy and occasionally Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. Lotsa money spent on an education that enables me to recall random dates and names. For instance, I know without a doubt that Jefferson commissioned Lewis & Clark's famous expedition that resulted in the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Lincoln was shot on April 12, 1865. The pilgrims landed in Plymouth in 1620. The first child born in America was named Virginia Dare. Somebody stop me.

Truthfully, I really do love history. I'm a firm believer that you can't really know who you are if you don't know where you come from - if you don't understand and appreciate the experiences of the past. I've spent some time walking over farmers' fields that became Civil War battlefields. I saw rows and rows and rows of card catalogue files with the names of Union prisoners of war at Andersonville. I've watched Ken Burns' Civil War piece several times and have a growing fascination with World War II. In Italy last year, I was completely humbled knowing that the very spot I was standing could have been occupied by Julius Caesar, or the apostles Peter or Paul. In Florence, we saw stunning works of art literally on every street corner. Art that was borne during the Renaissance, some 700 years ago. Our house is 70 years old. The villa we stayed in has vineyards planted in the 1300's.

I'm in the process of reading "John Adams" by David McCullough. It's a very detailed account of the life of our second president, along with fascinating insights into the creation of our country. There was something very noble and authentic in the way our nation was shaped, and I can't help but wonder what the likes of Jefferson, Franklin, Adams and the other framers of our constitution would think about our current situation.

From a strictly moral standpoint, they'd be appalled. A former president caught commiting adultery? Not uncommon back in the day; we all know Jefferson was no paragon of virtue when it came to monogamy. But the entireity of the world didn't know about it and wait with baited breath to hear and read all the sordid details. I think they'd be equally shocked to see how ineffective the legislative body has become. Those bewigged and tights wearing gents, I believe, truly had the country's best interests in mind when they began the fight for independence. They honored and respected differing opinions and made compromises that didn't affect the eventual outcome. Even though they had different passions and ideas, they all came together and were of the same mind when it came to the absolute and undeniable need to be free of England's rule. Today, we've got one bunch of people who think we must stay in Iraq until we WIN. Another group calls for some limitations. Another group says we should have never gone in like the Caped Crusader in the first place. And we've got a president who's dug in his heels and won't admit that the horse has run away with the cart.

Given the purity and elevated integrity of our country's early days I'd trade places in a flash. That's taking into account that there were squalid living conditions (at least by today's standards), a shorter life expectancy, exhorbitant child mortality rates, poor health care and no internet or reality tv.

Know what else my degree in history taught me? How to fill up lots and lots of blue books . . . and blogs.

Livin' the '60's in the Slow Lane

Tyler's "Rolling Stone" magazine arrived the other day in the mail. You might wonder why an 18-year old would be getting "Rolling Stone." It's really quite simple. A kid came to the door hawking magazines and Tyler couldn't say no. So he orders "Rolling Stone." I'm pretty sure he's never even opened an issue (probably because I throw it in the trash every time it comes). He's too young to be reading such inflamatory stuff. Heck, I'm too young. As much as I love music, the articles tend to ruin my perception of people I might admire. I read part of an article on Justin Timberlake one time. He used the eff word one too many times for my liking. And I thought he was such a nice boy. He's the only celebrity I ever saw on "Punk'd" that never cussed.

Anyway, the issue that came this week was the 40th anniversary issue. I was just a wee child of eight when it made its debut. Living in the midwest we barely knew the 60's were happening, except when it came to the civil rights movement. I remember very clearly my dad telling us that MLK had been killed. And RFK, too. The only hippies I knew were Bill & Widgie (pronounced wee gee) Lovell. Bill had a music store that had electric guitars in it and Widgie had a Janis Joplin thing going on, minus the drug overdose. But they went to our church, so how far out could they have been?

Back to anniversary issue of RS. There was a whole slew (what's a slew anyway?) of interviews with different people who lived the 60's and are still lucid enough to talk about it . . . George McGovern, Jane Fonda, Jackson Browne, Martin Scorcese and Jack Nicholson (just to name a few). Jack's always been just a little off the bubble. They asked him about the 60's and he says that, curiously, from about 1967-1972 he just kind of gave up dates. He called it "contemporary thinking" and "no conceptual realities." I think it's called narcotics. Heavy narcotics. He says he remembers things that happened during those years, he just can't remember the dates. Then he goes on to admit that there are things that happened that he doesn't remember. Really, Jack? And guess what? He was on an episode of "The Andy Griffith Show" titled Aunt Bea, the Juror. That's a looong loonnng way from the crazy Shining gig, eh?

What do I remember about the 60's? It was idyllic. There were about 20 kids on our block and in the summer we'd play Kick the Can for hours and hours. We'd hunt crawdads in the sewer (eyew) and come running with our nickels when we heard the ding, ding, ding of the ice cream truck. In the afternoons, my mom would put a sheet down on the living room floor (because the window air conditioner was in the adjacent dining room) and we'd have "horizontal hour," a concept my dad learned as a church camp counselor. The kids hated it; mom lived for it. I remember Pizza Hut coming to our town and my dad having a rather spirited conversation with a guy (hey, I think it was a hippie) during dinner about the song playing on the juke box, "Mama Told Me Not to Come." I think it was by Three Dog Night and I'm pretty sure it was about drugs, or the war, or both. I was so naive. And I totally remember going to see "Sgt. Pepper" at the movies. Why would my parents let me go to see a movie completely inundated with references to drugs? It was a cartoon! THEY were so naive. Of course, the adult themes went completely over my head. I was in love with "Nowhere Man." So my memories of the 60's are pretty much the "Wonder Years." It was a good time.

Rock on . . .

Things I'd Dry Up and Wither Away to Dust Without

If you think about it, the phrase "I'm dying for" or "I'd die for" is pretty insipid. It completely trivializes death, especially deaths that result from a cause. Ok, every death has a cause, but I'm talking about causes that people believe in so wholeheartedly that they lay down their lives for it. Like war and social injustices. Or deaths caused by no fault of the victims, like the situations in Darfur and the Sudan and in some parts of our own country. Those are never to be trivialized. So, in order to effectively and adequately communicate the deep emotion I feel for certain things, here's the new phrase: I'd dry up and wither away to dust without:

My family - you talk smack about them and I'll get all up in your face and let loose the mean lady. That is not a pretty experience. Or one you'll walk away from.

Blake Lewis - tonight that cutie on American Idol took Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" and completely turned it on its head, complete with beatbox licks and spot on vocals. I've had a thing for Blake since the first show when he sang "Somewhere Only We Know." Su-weet! How much do I dig this kid? For the first time ever, I called in to vote on a show that wasn't the finale. Uh, huh. That's right. And Melinda Doolittle - she's one classy woman with a set of pipes that rank right up there with, I don't know, Mahalia Jackson. Or Tina Turner. Or maybe Ella Fitzgerald. I'm showing my age, aren't I?

Chocolate pastry from Andre's - at least once a month my hormones start demanding a velvety smooth confection only Andre's can dish up. If I'm really raging, I'll just cram a whole Hershey Bar in my mouth and sit in a fugue state until it melts. Not nearly as satisfying, but it helps keep the jonesing at bay.

Fritos - on alternate days when the hormones aren't after the cacao, a few Fritos (or a couple of swipes on a salt lick) do the trick.

A good tear-jerker once in a while - it's always therapeutic to let the waterworks fall during a good movie. Top three that never fail to produce: Steel Magnolias, Land Before Time (how sad is Little Foot when he thinks he sees his mommy but it's only his shadow?), Band of Brothers (I know, go figure. I'm completely and utterly moved at the courage and bravery of our vets; my Uncle Bob was a paratrooper and was in the Battle of the Bulge). If you've got some time to kill, the Hallmark Visitor's Center has (or used to have, anyway) little viewing booths that show all of their commercials. It's hysterical seeing all the women dabbing their eyes and sniffling. The men just clear their throats and look at the ground.

Max Lucado books - this preacher man from Texas has an uncanny way with words. He can create imagery that nearly jumps off the page and can nail home a point faster than a Black and Decker pneumatic hammer. Inspiring, relevant, easy, easy to read and faith building.

DVR - When Ron's traveling during the week and Tyler's out and about (which is always) it's fun to sink into our leather chair and watch a whole snorkle of tv I've dvr'd. At one point I swear I had 30 CSI's recorded. I'm pretty sure I could pass the forensic part of the CSI exam. I don't think I'd be as proficient with a firearm. And lest you think all I watch are crime scene dramas, I have a smattering of shows from the History Channel, BBC, the Food Network and HGTV. (And MTV).

Sonic slushes - but only in the hot, hot summer. The few days when we moved into our current home, Tyler and I went to Sonic at least once a day, sometimes multiple times. Grape slush with extra grape. Soooo good. (HAWK!)

My sweet husband, Ron - I already mentioned family, but he gets a special line or two. His energy never ceases to amaze me (and that include the speed at which he can fall asleep - he's been known to fall asleep when we pray together!). He's downstairs right now (at 10:30 p.m.) rearranging the garage so we can put our cute little Prius to bed. He loves me, even when I'm getting up in his face - maybe not that particular minute (hour), but he eventually remembers why he's still here - and tells me I'm cute even when I darn well know that I look like Ma Kettle (take a look at the bottom of the Italy pix). He lets me read silly stuff to him and comes to watch silly things on TV with me. After 26 years (almost) I guess we've gotten comfortable with each other and that's a fine thing. Not many can say that (and really mean it).

So, what makes you irrational, obsessive or just plain ca-razy? What are those things that you can't survive without?