Granny

We have new daycare workers this year.  The manager is a nice woman about my age.  She has two teenage sons.  In fact, we're secretly conspiring to make our children marry each other.  In a timely manner.

Then there is 23 year old Stacy, recently married, waiting for her husband to graduate from college, and thinking about babies.  I thought we shared a collegial relationship.  I thought wrong.

Last week she asked me how old I was.  I replied with the standard, "old" response.

"No, really.  How old are you?"

"I'll be 44 on Tuesday."

"That's not old!" she laughed. "That's only a year older than my MOM!"

Wow. That comment did not make me feel old at all.

Having a 4 year old gives me a false sense of youth. I like it. I'd accepted that I am at least the age of many of my students' parents. They have teenagers.

I also understood that,  in theory, many of my former high school classmates are legitimate grandparents.  In theory.

But I had just been compared to a colleague's mother. With that one remark, she pushed me squarely into the next generation.

I pulled a tissue from the inside of my flowered polyester sleeve to wipe the tears from my eyes - or it could have been sweat from my hot flashes.

Sunday and Ginger Need Psychiatric Help

"I'm going to a conference in San Antonio," my husband announced four months ago. "Will you be okay for a few days?" I assured him that I could, in fact, manage without him for a few days.

Before leaving, he gave the children their assignments for taking care of the house and Mom.  The first day, all of the children took their assignments seriously and soberly.  The 9 year old boy checked that the dog had food and water every morning.  He took out the garbage to be picked up and brought it in after school. He didn't tease his siblings as much. He started out as gold and stayed 80% so for the duration.

The teenager cleaned up after dinner the first night, folded a few clothes, then pretty much left the rest of us alone for the next few days.

The 11 year old continued with her pre-pubescent identity crisis but tried to do what she was told.  When she didn't plan on doing what she was told, at least she had the integrity to inform me.

The 4 year old talked. Non-stop. I would find him draped across me sometime during the night, in the king size bed, like every other night.

Pretty much, it was business, as usual. We went to school, came home, argued a little about homework, had a doctor appointment, ran out of lunch money, a huge meteor lit up the sky in the middle of the night and may concerned me with the sonic boom a bit, but I continued reading my book. We did fine.

But nobody told the dog and cat.

The dog followed me around the house all the time. When I backed up to open the refrigerator, she was right there.  When I walked into the bedroom to pick up a book, she followed me.  When I put a child in the tub, she stretched out in the doorway like she would be staying for awhile.  When I stepped over her to find a towel, she followed me to the other bathroom, to the laundry room, and finally back to the bathroom with the naked boy where she would lay her head on paws again.

Every night the cat would walk around in circles and talk.  Loud.  She wanted someone to show her where we kept her food even though we've not moved it in the 8 years we've had her. I'd have to drag myself up from wherever I was reading (do you see a theme here?), pick her up, and plop her right in front of her food, which was 2 feet from her face, and stand there until she ate something and let her leave on her own terms.  She'd then start it up again 15 minutes later. She threw up three times that first morning.

And then they'd fight.  The cat would walk back and forth in the dog's line of sight, baiting her, sticking her tail up in the dog's face until the poor 60 lb. dog could stand it no longer. She had to pounce on the 8 lb. cat.  She'd nip at her while the cat swiped at the dog's nose, not once turning to run away to safety. Sad as it is, the dog was always the loser in the ring.

After four days, the kids and I picked up the Dad at the airport. They all had something incredibly important to tell him about what he missed like that the 9 year old got a crampy tremor in his left butt cheek or the 11 year old is writing a story in her special notebook but when he heaved his suitcase onto the bed, all children were at attention for souvenirs (except the four year old who fell asleep on the way to the airport).  Goods appropriated, the children wandered off to bed.  The cat sniffed the man's feet. The man grabbed the dog, gave her a good whiff, and announced that he missed her smell and he went to bed.

The cat remembered where we keep her food.  She stopped throwing up. The dog is curled up in the corner.  I've left the room no less than 8 times.  Alone.

Crisis is over. Next time I will put anti-anxiety medication in their food.

Thanksgiving

I like the cute blogs where people choose one thing every day to express gratitude about during the month of November. Might as well admit my shortcomings right now.  1) I am a procrastinator and 2) I have too short of an attention span. Let's go ahead and add 3) I can't be serious for 26 days in a row. It's just so un-Nancylike. Real word.  I'm going to add it to wikipedia as soon as I finish this post. (Definition: someone who can't be serious for 26 days in a row.  Brilliant.) 

So here is a smattering of my gratitudes:

1. Good friends who know me and like me anyway. No details necessary. They know who they are.  I love them right back.

2. Central air conditioning.  I realize it's November and quite cold but I know and remember the difference between no cooler, swamp cooler, and central air.

3.  Oversharing - a good psychiatrist who knows how to treat sweet 11-12 year old girls carrying the weight of serious anxiety.  

4.  The magic power of yeast.  It tickles me every time when my rolls or bread rises. 

5.  Contrast.  There's an old man in a nearby town who has chosen to live in a ramshackle house containing two bedrooms with no central heating or plumbing.  His 13 children are grown and raised but his youngest daughter was a friend of mine. There were/are two outhouses a few yards from the house.  Understandably, his children all married young and now live in homes with flushing toilets.  There's actually more to the story regarding his collecting of cars, upwards of 200 so all of his children could have transportation when the time came to return to Missouri for the Second Coming. Unfortunately the junkyard was a breeding ground for varmints called voles and rats. He eventually had to sell his precious cars to junk collectors. Which is an excellent segue to -

6. Normal parents and a good childhood. Not only did I grow up with indoor plumbing, heating, and central air, I grew up in the home of a Skinnerian Behaviorist. Bribes which were branded as "bad" in the 60's and 70's were called positive reinforcement.  Poor behavior brought on "extinction" or, more popular term is time-out. Yes, we also had a token economy sporadically throughout my childhood. There my be some who believe I had an atypical and completely screwy childhood. I can count the number of spankings I received on two fingers.  

7. Blogging.  I can't begin to express how enjoyable it is to write, get nice comments, and make new friends. I've got a whole new camp of Texas friends that I keep asking to adopt me. I can't quite grasp why they wouldn't want me.  I'll bet they will shed some light on my shortcomings in the comment section. Just to clarify, they do not belong to any fundamentalist groups nor do they know Warren Jeffs.

Actually, that's only an assumption.  Maybe they do and I'm too ugly to take as a plural wife. Huh. That would explain a few things.

Back to blogging and all bloggers - thank you for sharing your journey.  I love reading about you.

8.  The whole computer social networking gig.  I'm not terribly active on Facebook or Twitter but I've connected with some very old and very dear friends. I even found a very long, lost and distant cousin via FB in Australia or rather, she found me.

9.  The whole computer social networking gig.  Again. Do you know there is a built in calendar so I had my own little birthday party reading all the well wishers?  I even threw confetti over my head and pretended I was having a surprise party.  

10.  My garden.  I miss it.

11.  DVR.  How did I live before it was invented?  By the way, I don't officially know who won Dancing With the Stars.  Just haven't gotten to it.  

12.  My one true addiction - a good book, rare and precious. Nothing wraps me up like a good book.

13.   Erasmus for his wise words that allow my justification of book allowance:  "When I have money, I buy books, with what's left over, I buy clothes and food." 

I'm hungry and naked a lot.

14.  My king size bed.

I realize I left out the obvious vessels of gratitude but they are simply assumed.  They are also inferred in the king size bed.  Sunday mornings is where they all congregate. 

And now I must go enjoy that king size bed so I can get up and squeal with delight when the yeast works tomorrow morning.  Tomorrow I won't be hungry and, for my in-laws sake, I won't be naked.

Happy Thanksgiving!

But What if the Children Aren't Asleep?

I have mixed feelings about this post simply because I feel like a child holding up four fingers and announcing, "I'm four years old today!"  I'm not looking for well wishes or anything else. It's just that I got a really good present and I can't help myself but share. The stipulation was that I had to keep it on my bed and had to pass it on to someone else after one year. It requires no more explanation.

The Pretender

Sadly, our photographer was unaware that the focal point of this picture was not supposed to be our bellybuttons. Imagine me with the top of my head, and you have the Fabulous Four, so named by me, just now.

What can I say about these ladies besides they are amazing and I cherish their friendship?

Kristy, the one on the far right owns a dance studio. She is the catalyst of the Fab Four. She decided to open her studio again, a few years after having her second child and I signed my girls up as soon as they could walk. While there, I found an adult class and, after two years of contemplating, decided to try it out. It was hard.  It  hurt. But I would dream I could fly after every class. Kristy's second child was diagnosed with Epidermolysis bullosa, a rare, painful, and often eventually fatal skin disease. As her daughter's skin blistered upon touch, bled and peeled off, Kristy pulled up herself up by her bootstraps and created clothing that didn't damage her daughter's skin.  Once tried and tested, she sent the clothing to all EB babies born.  She regularly runs fundraisers for EB. She has also now adopted two more children to add to her biological two.

Jennifer is the tall brunette beauty. She is also a real dancer. She and I share a special bond because of our empathy for one another's hyperemisis. After losing some teeth and damaging her esophagus, she wisely stopped with two pregnancies. She has more creativity and artistic talent in one eyelash than I can ever hope to have.

Kari and I met shortly after both of us married in a student ward. She is intelligent, articulate, witty, and genuine. My small family moved to a new neighborhood after having our first child.  We ended up in the same ward again.  We had our children at the same time (except for the extra one I squeezed in), dropped our hours to part-time work at the same time, went to the park together, and regularly had one another's family over for dinner. We even shared the dubious distinction of having our husbands have their mid-life crises at the same time. Fortunately, my husband pulled himself out of his.  Kari's husband is now her ex-husband, as of September.

And then there's plain ole' me. One of us is a pretender of "Fabulous."

Regardless, this is the last dance performance we performed two years ago.

I'm the really good dancer.

It's Italian

My colleague tipped me off about a great sale going on at her favorite store, Macy's, and pushed me out the door early to go dig into the goods.  I was nearly giddy with glee.  I was going to The Mall.

As backwoodsy as it sounds, I rarely get to The Mall. A long time ago, not only did I work at The Mall but I would never capitalize it in a sentence.  I really hated working retail but I always looked so darling.  I think I can safely credit my hatred for working retail with my decision to go to graduate school.  That and my father's subtle urging. (Look what came in the mail today, Nancy! An application for Our Lady of the Lake University! Oh, and one for Oregon State. Let's sit down right now and fill these out. In fact, I've already started them.  Just sign right here.)

So there I was, in a store other than Target, Old Navy or Costco, looking completely bewildered.  I started out by having mini strokes as I looked at price tags.  Once recovered, I watched, stunned, as people spent hundreds of dollars on things they could get for a fraction of the price at Walmart.

I then decided to go ahead and live it up by browsing. I had also graduated from needing medical care from sticker shock to "tsk, tsking," people for spending so much money.

I reached the shoe section and really began rolling my eyes.  You see, I hate shoes.  I discovered long ago that shoes are for torturing tootsies. The 80's were a particularly painful time to be fashionable.  High heels and pointy toes lead to something similar to Chinese foot binding.  I believe in stockinged feet at the most and sensible shoes when necessary.

I reached one ominous pair of black, high heeled pumps and checked the price tag.  $100 on sale? "No way," I thought.  "I could get these, in a similar fashion, at Payless for so much..." At this point my fingers caressed the leather. It gives. I slipped it on my foot. It molded to my foot. What do those Italians do to their leather?  What kind of stretchy-skinned cows are they raising?

I empathize with Imelda Marcos to some degree.  I have more shoes than I use but it's not out of love of shoes but because of loathing.  I buy a pair of shoes on sale, wear them once, get the blisters and torture, and throw them in my closet where they are later joined by other co-conspirators of pain implements. Then I have my terribly unsexy sensible shoes.

But today I wondered if the Italians have figured out a way to morph a sensible-feeling shoe with sexy style. Could they?  Did they?  I'll never know.

With deep regret I left Macy's with two doorbuster men's shirts and a luggage set for my family.  I'll spend the $100 on groceries this week. I wonder if Italian cow tastes better than our country beef.

It's a Bidet

Years ago I attended a dinner party in an enormous house. This was back before the day of McMansions. There was a large game room along with a full size racquetball court.  However, the supposed crowning glory was a bathroom down in the recesses of the home.  The screeching woman sent her mousy husband ahead of the tour to prepare the bathroom for showing.

The bathroom was incredibly large and contained a steam shower which is what the obedient husband had to turn on for us (Oooooh) and, what I could only ascertain as two toilets, side by side. Why would someone put two toilets side by side?  "It's a bidet," the screecher informed us with superiority.

"Ohhhh," we all responded.  The group moved on.

"What's a booday?" I asked the quiet, computer geeky husband.

He blushed.  He stammered.  He stuttered.  He finally squeaked out something about a device from Europe that cleans the behind.  He also corrected my pronunciation.  "It's biDAY."

I have not seen a bidet since nor have I understood the point of one.  Toilet paper.  I'm a fan.

At a recent visit to much loathed retail store, my bladder called my attention just as I stumbled upon a family bathroom in the back of the store.  I walked past the paper towel dispenser.  It sensed my movement and dispensed a foot of paper towel. I continued past the hand dryers (they had both) and swept my hand under it until it turned on.

As I sat on the toilet, I mused how very little we need to touch in the bathroom when we go.  There are however, two areas we can not escape touching.  The toilet paper and the handle for the door.  I shifted my weight and then I got it.

The bidet. The accidental bidet, that is.

When I shifted my weight on the toilet seat, the sensor was set off and it flushed before I was finished.  With all the power that only a commercial toilet can produce, I was "cleansed."  It was not pleasant.

Thank you, founding fathers, for not bringing this atrocity into my bathroom. I still had to use toilet paper.

Best Picture Ever

I am being published!

I know! It just reeks of excitement, doesn't it?  I know what you are thinking.

"Who would publish that woman's thoughts?"

The answer is a lovely little outfit called www.blog2print.com. In other words, I haven't been discovered. I am no closer to being a published author than I was yesterday EXCEPT that by Christmas I will be the proud owner of my very own blog book!

I know. It's a little anticlimactic but here's the cool part. My friend, Becki, found me entertaining and directed me to a blog called www.josikilpack.blogspot.com.  She posted a little coupon code for 20% off which was supposed to end last week. Apparently, the code is still good and I saved $14. That said, you know it isn't exactly the cheapest way to get published but it's the best price I could find on publishing my blog!  And it requires very little technical know-how.  And that, my friends, tickles my heart.

And, for a small price of your integrity and dignity, I will share the code with you!  All you have to do is comment that, on occasion, I cause you to chuckle, grin, or force Coca Cola through your nose. If my thoughts resonate without tickling your funny bone, go ahead and tell me that, too. 

I'm going to go ahead and use the honor system.  The magical code is:  fall4b2p  

We're talking shamelessly begging for validation here, people.

How to Talk to Your Preschool Child About Sex

Act I

4 year old boy: Mom, do only grown-ups kiss and hold hands and have a baby in the oven?

Mom: Who told you about a baby in the oven?

4 year old: Does (pronounced Doos) grown-ups get babies in the oven?

Mom: There's a little more involved in getting babies in the oven than holding hands and kissing.

4 year old: What else?

Mom: Well, they have to get married and sleep in the same bed.

4 year old: What else?

Mom: It's time to go. Get in the car.

End Scene

Act II

Open scene to boy and mom in the car.

4 year old: Mom, does "baby in the oven" mean "trouble."

Mom: Absolutely.

End scene

Neurosis Part II

I didn't include ALL of the text from my the self-help neuroses pamphlet. Compare with last post.

1. You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him find it within himself. - Galileo
2. The secret of success is one who does not try to please everyone.
3. Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
4. It's easier to stay thin than to lose weight.
5. Imaginary worries are the hardest fears to overcome.
6. The safest gamble in life is to take a chance on yourself.
7. A man's own self is his friend. A man's own self is his foe.
8. He who angers you conquers you. - Elizabeth Keany
9. Let me open myself to the knowledge of wisdom.
10. He who finds understanding, finds knowledge.
11. Creative minds flourish in a tranquil environmen.
12. He who gains victory over liquor is strong, but he who gains victory over himself is powerful.
13. It is better to travel hopefully, than to arrive.
14. The breadth of personal power is awesome. Today will be what I choose to make it. No more and no less.
    

How To Be A Dedicated Neurotic

Going through old files from graduate school, I found an invaluable pamphlet.

Be a Dedicated Neurotic

Remember the Past. . . and Regret it.
Abhor the Present.
Dread the Future.

1. Become preoccupied with the body, and make a long list of symptoms. Make them sound very clinical and professional...

2. BLAME your boss, your spouse, your partner, your neighbor, your kid. THEY are responsible for your miseries.

3. Feel trapped. You couldn't possibly declare your own independence without hurting someone's feelings.

4. Overeat. Rationalize and eat! Eat an insulated wall around yourself. Diet for a few days and say it doesn't work for you.

5. Self-pity. No matter what, feel sorry for yourself. Agonize over things about which no one cares.

6. Don't ever try. That way nobody can really accuse you of failure. You can always say, "But I could have done it."

7. Stress how shy you are. Insist that the world must come to you. You're special.

8. Your aggression is now sanctioned by the best authorities; Menninger, English, Cantor, and a host of others.

9. Never listen to anyone. Kiss off all valid advice. When you need anyone's opinion, you'll ask for it. Escape into negativism.

10. Never forgive. Look for the mistakes of others. If you can't find enough, manufacture some.

11. Hyper-acidity is popular for immediate attention. Nothing is better! Develop your own set of symptoms and worries - into an ulcer. Cheerfully explain that half a gut is better than none.

12. Nobody has the same reasons for drinking/ingesting chemicals that you have. Your motivations are UNIQUE. Escape in liquor.

13. Never be satisfied. Tell yourself you can always do better...and better...and better. Apologize for everything, no matter how well done it is. Keep knocking yourself out. You HAVE to work yourself to death to be worthy of being loved.

14. Be a martyr. Sigh a lot. Martyrs must always sigh because of their suffering. Everyone takes advantage of you, so elicit sympathy.

There it is! Print it out, laminate it and memorize each step. Neurosis is an art. The best neurotics have been honing their skills for years.

Or give up now and never try. You'll never be a good enough neurotic. Feel free to blame others for your own neurotic shortcomings in the comments section.

Outpatient Procedure

Completely hypothetically speaking, let's say your spouse was slated to have an endoscopy next week and the hospital called to do "pre-check-in." Let's say the person asking the questions asks what kind of procedure your spouse will be having. You can say anything. What would your answer be?

1. Endoscopy
2. Colonoscopy
3. Vasectomy
4. (Fill in the blank)

Extra hypothetical fodder: After throwing up and bearing four of his wonderful children, you asked him to get #3 and he paused long and hard before he said, wistfully and with hesitance, "I will. . . if I have to."

I did not say colonoscopy. No I did not. Nope.

Adventures of Fluids (not mine)

Timelines are for history geeks. Sorry. Here goes mine:

5:23 Roll over to find a 4 year old boy in my bed who announces, "Mom, I had an accident."

7:10 Wake up for real and realize I'm late. Run into 9 year old boy's bedroom and shatter his lovely dreams. He jumps up. There's a dark circle on his bed.

7:15 4 year old announces for the second time, "Mom, I had an accident."

7:20 Standing behind kitchen bar, I hear the dog gag. I panic and yell at the 9 year old boy to open the door and let her out. "Too late," he announces.

7:50 I am muttering swear words under my breath because I don't know where my husband is. Take 9 and 11 year old to school.

8:00 11 year old calls to request that I bring over the container of collected pond water she has on the kitchen counter. I don't see it. I check in dishwasher with clean dishes. Oh, there it is. I assure her I'll be right there. I'm still muttering swear words as husband enters house in his suit. Oh, that's right. He was at the temple.

8:02 Drive past elementary school and stop at the closest canal. Exit van and begin descent on embankment to gross and disgusting (redundant, but well deserved) bottom of canal. My descent is accelerated as my sensible shoes (not at all) slip and I continue on my backside.

8:04 Walk through squishy bog to obtain pond water.

8:05 Arrive at grade school with smile on face. I'm faking happiness. Notice puddle on floor of van. The container has a crack. Pour out clean bottled water from van onto asphalt. Pour in gross and disgusting bog water. 11 year old girl is happy.

12:40 Pick up 4 year old from daycare. He has had another accident. There are no clean clothes except the ones I forgot to take to charity. They are in the car. I also hold baby Derik. He's 3 months old. He spit up on me.

1:05 Make it out to van, strip child and clothe him in clothes that are too small for him. No underwear. He's going commando.

1:06 Boy announces he has to go "potty."

1:06:22 Mother of child shields the boy with the van door and herself and allows him to pee on the parking lot. Hopes nobody is manning the cameras in the school.

I'm so excited to start this all over again tomorrow.

Beautiful

It is, isn't it? I could start and end this post with this picture and claim myself as a kitchen demi-goddess and call it good. But there is more to this story.

The recipe called it "Earth Bread." The cookbook has been a winner for me in the past. I scanned the recipe and saw that it required 1/2 cup of sunflower seeds. I forgot to go to the store. Never fear! Remember these babies? Oh, yeah. I had sunflower seeds.

I went out to the garden and pulled on one of those sunflower's droopy heads. Something sharp penetrated my finger. It hurt. It stung. It's November. It can't be a bug.

I realized something was wrong when I picked out seeds and dumped them into my injured hand and I couldn't hold the seeds. I ran inside and watched a part of my hand swell. This, in literary circles, would be referred to as foreshadowing. Fortunately, this interaction with, what can only be assumed as a spider, is anti-climactic. No black widow. No decaying flesh. I didn't even die.

80 minutes later and with the help of four children (three losing interest very quickly), I had 3 tablespoons of sunflower seeds. I deemed it good enough.

I am pretty talented in the kitchen. I bake very well. At times I border on genius. But not today.

I am a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda gal. I start measuring (read: eyeballing and dumping in) the ingredients. I dumped in the water, yeast, sugar before I started grinding the wheat. I added the white flour, the freshly milled wheat flour, quick look at the recipe, add oatmeal, then some cracked wheat.

I don't have any cracked wheat.

The point of this bread is to have the earthy consistency of dirt with small pebbles. Without cracked wheat, all I have is 3 T. of sunflowers. I have wheat. Lots of wheat but I don't know how to crack it.

I started tearing my house apart looking for my coffee grinder before I realized that I don't drink coffee, never have, and hence, don't own a coffee grinder. And so I improvised.

Blender? No. It didn't even cross my mind until the bread was complete.

Ziploc freezer bag and a hammer on cement!

There are hundreds, nay, thousands of tiny holes in this bag.

And this is my kitchen sink:

Why don't you go on back there and compare the size of that loaf of bread to the size of the mess made to produce it.

End result - beautiful loaf of earth bread with a sprinkle of sunflower seeds and a whole lot of whole wheat kernels, making those little pebbles into boulders turning the bread into a health hazard.

Moral of the story: Just because you can doesn't mean you should.