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.

The Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe

She's really not an old lady (probably in her late 30's) and doesn't live in a shoe (in Arkansas), but she definitely has so many children she doesn't know what to do. Obviously she doesn't know what to do or she wouldn't have so many children. This family bent on fielding two complete baseball teams is just a shortstop shy. The Duggar family added number seventeen to their brood earlier this week when daughter Jennifer made her debut in the minor leagues. Her oldest brother is 19 and her youngest sibling is two. They all have names beginning with "J." This last one was delivered in half an hour. Pushing that many out I'm surprised she doesn't just have a little area on her tummy that she could depress with her finger and out the new baby would pop. Like a vending machine.

This family, if you haven't heard of them, lives in Tontitown, AR, just a few miles from where my parents lived in Rogers. He used to be a state representative and, as my dad was the chair of the democratic party in Benton County, they used to receive Christmas cards from them. They were downright creepy. All the girls were dressed in red plaid (including mom) and the boys had matching outfits as well, perhaps with plaid bow ties. They all have the same kind of hairstyles and the same kind of plastic grins on their assorted mugs.

They recently built a new home - by themselves - that's 7,000 square feet. I think their old house had maybe two bathrooms. Did you ever see "Yours, Mine and Ours" with Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda. They were both spouseless and decided to get married. I think they had 18 kids between them. Fonda, a Navy guy, came up with this elaborate color-coded numbering system that identified which bedroom and bath each kid was assigned to. I'm sure this Arkansas family has some sort of system as well. They've been featured on the Discovery Channel and probably make a ton of money from it. From what I understand the father owns real estate in Northwest Arkansas, which has experienced stupid fast growth in the last 15 years. And, of course, Mrs. Baby Machine doesn't work. I'd think she'd almost like an eight to five job to escape the insanity. She homeschools them all, making the Duggar school one of the largest schools in Arkansas. Had to get a dig in somewhere.

Ron and I mailed our first payment to Emporia State today. So I got to thinking. If every one of their children goes to college at a state university that's $10,000 a year . . . that adds up to a whopping $680,000. And that doesn't take into account that tuition will most assuredly rise every year. They'll HAVE to keep having kids so the Discovery Channel will keep making specials about them.

The article I read said that they have used 90,000 diapers (which could be why we are experiencing landfill problems in our country) and that she's been pregnant for ten and a half years of her life. Re-read that sentence. Ten and a half years being pregnant. I have no witty comeback to that. Except maybe (of course you knew there was going to be an "except"): JUST SAY NO! Make Nancy Reagan proud.

Must See TV

I'm already semi-addicted to house flipping shows. There are actually two different shows with the titles "Flip That House" and "Flip This House." I think that's pretty funny. I love the drama, although it's hard to tell how much of it is created in the editing room. I HATE it when they get to the very end of the show and they don't tell you how much they made. Talk about getting all dressed up with nowhere to go . . .

There's a new show on Bravo called "Flipping Out." You MUST watch it. It's insanely funny, largely due to the fact that the star is, in fact, insane. Well, at least seriously afflicted with OCD. He's so grateful that he's found a profession that "capitalizes on and celebrates his disease." He also states quite matter-of-factly that none of his employees would be able to pass a psychological evaluation. He's got about five people who do his bidding . . . his assistant (who could be Julia Louis-Dreyfus' double), two house assistants (only one just got fired) who pick up dog poop in the yard, clean the cat "sand", go get lunch for him and make sure that all his items in the refrigerator have the label facing out. Jeff (the flipped out guy) admits that he's just like the guy in "Sleeping With the Enemy" except he doesn't have "the homicidal tendencies." He's got a guy who just takes out trash and cleans up his properties and he's got a maid. And three pets, one of whom, he claims, enjoys acupuncture. He also has a spiritual healer and a snorkle of psychics. If that's not enough to make you want to watch, then you'll just have to take my word for it. Or how about this? A recent order he placed with his assistant for a drink to accompany his sandwich went something like this: "Ideally, I'd like 15 percent fruit juice, 50 percent Sprite and 35 percent lemondade. If they don't have fruit juice, make it 15 percent lemonade and 85 percent Sprite. Or 7-Up." Not even kidding a tiny bit. Well, maybe the percentages were fudged a little because I can't remember them exactly (but you can bet he would). You get the point. Which is, YOU MUST WATCH THIS SHOW. At least once.

I'm seriously - and I mean, seriously - considering going insane to see if anyone will make a reality show out of my life. I'm already a good ways there and it wouldn't take much effort at all to finish the trip. Stay tuned . . .