Sandwich Mom on Wry

Weathering My Moods

2011-11-07T16:56:00.000-08:00

My Grandparents had a “Mood Barometer” hanging in their enclosed breezeway. It was a round, wooden plaque, about six inches across, decorated with cheerful, tole painted flowers. The names of several different moods were written around the outer rim and a little red arm fixed to the center could be rotated to point at any of the moods.

I don't remember if it had Grandma's name on it or not, but it was understood that the barometer showed her mood just as it was understood that the quarter affixed to the glass in the window of the door next to it showed Grandpa's sense of humor. He had won the quarter in a friendly bet, and glued it there as a constant reminder to his unlucky friend. The Mood Barometer may have been another example of his mischief, but given the longevity of their marriage, I doubt it.

By the time I came along, Grandma and Grandpa were in their late 60s (which isn't nearly as old now as it was then), and babysitting me was quite a change from their regular routine. After getting on Grandma's last nerve, I would head out to the garage to bother Grandpa.

As I passed through the breezeway I would usually stop and move the barometer hand to “Grumpy.” If Grandpa caught me he'd chuckle and say “Ohhhh, we can't leave it that way. That would make Mommy cross.” This only supported my assessment, but I would dutifully move the little red pointer back to “Happy” or “Loving,” as Grandpa suggested.

I thought of that barometer as I was driving in to town this morning.

The long, long list of things that I need to get done was running through my head, at odds with the limits of a 24-hour day. The more I thought about it, the bigger the black cloud of crabbiness surrounding me grew. I really should warn people when I'm this crabby, I thought. I need Grandma's Mood Barometer, or maybe I should just wear a button that says “Warning: Crabby.”

I imagined how my kids would react to this idea and started to laugh. The high pressure system moved out, crabby clouds parted and all murderous thoughts cleared. The arrow on my mood barometer swung to “Happy.”

When I picked up the Princess after school, I told her about my idea for the warning button. She didn't say anything.

“I figure you and the Little Prince would probably make me wear it all the time,” I laughed.

She didn't answer.

“Um, so, what do you think?” I asked.

After a long pause she looked at me, sighed, then turned her attention back to the road.

“I was thinking you should have it embroidered on all your shirts.”

I'm sensing a drop in barometric pressure.

Reporting from the Uncommon Cold Front

2011-10-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

Officials from The University of Iowa, US Center for Disease Control and NASA confirmed today that an Iowa woman had been quarantined with an uncommon strain of the common cold.

“It's not like anything we've ever seen before,” Dr. Gus Undheit, UIHC, said. “Really. It's snot like nothing ever reported.”

The hallmark of this uncommon cold appears to be a particularly viscous strain of mucus. “It's like rubber cement right out of the bottle, but with more elasticity,” Undheit explained.

“And more slimey,” added CDC spokesperson Tia Shue. “It's just plain gross.”

Researchers have dubbed the new virus “Yo-yo Cold,” in light of the progression of symptoms and the stretchy nature of the mucus.

“It began as congestion in the left sinus cavity, advanced to irritation of the throat, and then lodged in the upper respiratory system,” Undheit recounted. “Just when we thought it was under control, it reversed direction, once again irritating the throat before withdrawing up into the right sinus cavity. It's a tenacious little booger.”

The mucus reportedly also displays enhanced tensile qualities in resisting the patient's efforts of blow it out via nasal extraction.

“The mucus seems to originate so deep in the nasal cavities, it has actually grabbed hold of and wrapped itself around the patient's brain stem,” Undheit says. “Any attempts to remove it by force – by blowing her nose – causes the mucus to respond like a recoil starter on a lawn mower. As the lead end of the mucus advances out the nostrils, the main stream of mucus uncoils, spinning the brain at approximately 33 1/3 RPM. Just when we think we have a tissue full – fwoop! A goodly portion snaps back into the sinus cavity, slapping the brain stem silly. Obviously she becomes quite light headed and dizzy.”

“It's really weird, man,” a lab assistant reported on condition of anonymity and the promise of an extra-large box of lotion tissues and a warm blanky. “I listened to a recording of the blow played backwards, and I heard a voice saying 'the walrus is Paul'.”

It was the extreme elasticity of the mucus that captured the attention of NASA officials. In light of recent budget cuts, researchers for the space program have been struggling to find low-cost alternatives to the conventional solid fuel rocket engines used for launches. Unconfirmed rumors suggest researchers plan to use the mucus to create a giant sling shot.

“Currently she's producing more than enough mucus to create a new sling shot every day,” said Robert Band, who claims to be a NASA spokesperson. “We have high expectorantations for Operation Sling Snot.” Other NASA officials claim not to know Band.

Government officials would neither confirm nor deny reports that the virus is being considered for use as a low-tech, non-lethal biological weapon.

“It would certainly be an effective way to incapacitate the enemy,” General N. Fluenza said. “It would be really easy to track infected enemy combatants by their tissue trail, too. But this illness makes the affected very crabby, and a crabby enemy is an unstable enemy. And our enemies are unstable enough as it is.”

Senators Conrad Gestion and Dray Nage, (I; CO, FL) unrecognized members of the Senate Committee on Ethics issued the following joint statement on the subject:

“Mild as it may be, knowingly infecting a sentient being with this communicable contagion would be an unspeakable act of cruelty, bringing to mind Nazi experiments on par with the horror of the small pox epidemic unseen since the proliferation of Disco and home perms. In short, at this pivotal point in mans' epic struggle for humanity, clarity and freedom from personal responsibility, it would be irresponsible and reprehensible to introduce this particular weapon in the ongoing, unending and literal, Cold War.”

Life's A Ditch

2011-02-01T13:13:00.000-08:00

Things I Learned From Putting My Car In The Ditch This Morning:

1. A light skiff of snow on top of ice may make the roads may be a bit slippery. Duh.

2. Anti-lock brakes do not guarantee an anti-slide car.

3. Swearing will not make your tires suddenly gain traction. It doesn't matter if you are slowly sliding toward the back end of someone's van, slowly sliding the passenger-side tires of your car into the ditch, or slowly trying to drive out of the half-ditch position (in low gear). Swearing will not change any of this. No matter how creative it is. Trust me.

4. On the other hand, swearing as you walk 0.3 miles into a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind will keep you warm. (Thank you, kind Samaritan for giving me a ride the rest of the way home!)

5. It's not enough to merely think "Gee, I really need to make sure I put my cell phone in my purse before I leave." You need to actually put your cell phone into your purse.

6. Mom was right: you should always take along a hat, gloves and boots when driving in winter. Even if you are only going a mile and a half into town. Not even going to speculate on the clean underwear advice.

7. Wow. I am really out of shape.

8. It's much easier to walk 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back, as you swear and stomp back to meet the tow truck.

9. Wow. I am really out of shape. Wheeze, gasp, wheeze.

10. Swearing and stomping 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back will give you time to calm down (a little) and put things into perspective. You will think deep thoughts such as: "I would have never know this was a 0.8 mile walk if it weren't for Googlemaps directions and navigational systems"; "Who knew pheasants made that funny sound when they fly"; "Whenever I vow to stick to a schedule and be less flexible crap like this happens"; And, "Dang, I could have made an easy buck if I'd brought a trash bag with me to collect cans".

11. The air is really, really fresh and invigorating when driven by a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind.

12. I may have to stop using the cold weather as an excuse not to exercise. Wearing snow boots, snow pants, a sweat shirt, coat, mittens, scarf, and a mad bomber-style hat -- and swearing -- will keep you surprisingly warm.

13. There is a good reason why I give up swearing for Lent. Every friggin' year.

14. If you put your car in the ditch before the blizzard hits, the tow truck response time is really quick!

15. Someone in the legal department at tow truck headquarters has a good sense of humor. I know this because the waiver I signed said "I acknowledge that I have put my vehicle in a situation not intended by the manufacturer." Ya think?

16. Seeing that the fateful, slippery intersection has been freshly sanded three hours after you've been pulled out of the ditch will not make you feel any better.

16. Neither will reading your horoscope three and a half hours after being pulled out of the ditch, only to find the stars recommend (honest!) "It's a good time to stay home."

Now they tell me.

Just Another Service Moms Offer

2011-01-05T20:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Princess,

I know that I have annoyed you. Yes, despite your best efforts to hide your feelings this morning as you stomped down the stairs, then turned to glare at me before slamming the door, I picked up a subtle vibe of unhappiness.

By the way, the foul cloud of doom that followed you as you drug your backpack to the drive way left scorch marks across the lawn. A skull and crossbones is permanently etched in brimstone where you stood and grumbled while waiting for the bus. I can only hope the heat of your ire didn't permanently weld the doors of the bus shut.

I know you think I'm being unreasonable. You can not understand why (yet again!) I have not given in to the argument that "everyone else gets to." Or its corollary, "no one else has to." Or the "no one else's mom does that" argument. Or the "that's so unfair" argument. You have yet to play the "I hate you" trump card (out loud), but let me advise you, that won't work either.

I annoy you because I love you. There are spoiled-rotten children everywhere who would love to have a Mom that annoys them. No, I don't have any proof of that, but my "Mom-sense" tingles whenever I see a pack of teens roaming the mall texting the person walking next to them because they can't carry on a conversation with ear buds in and the volume turned up so loud I can hear it over the music pouring out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Sure, they're all giggles and smiles on the outside, but inside they are crying out for a Mom Who Says No.

I took the full series of "Annoying Mom" classes at Mom School: "Annoying Mom 101," "How to Annoy Simply by Breathing," "Advanced Annoyance Techniques," and "Annoying Moms in History" (George Washington's mom annoyed him, and look how well he turned out! On the other hand, the vast array of current pop culture "celebrities" is evidence of a decline in the ranks of Annoying Mothers.)

I graduated at the top of my class. SummAnnoy Cum Laude. The Queen Mother, an Annoying Mom herself, was so proud. We come from a long line of Annoying Moms. It's that strong German heritage -- big butts and Annoying Moms.

All those tales you've told me of other people who have "lost this expensive, electronic gadget," "broken that expensive, electronic gadget," "had such and such expensive, electronic gadget taken away," have put me on High Annoyance Alert. I never got to take even a single expensive, electronic gadget to school. Granted, that was because the carrier pigeons weren't housebroken and the console stereo didn't have wheels.

Some day you'll thank me.

No, not really.

That's just something they taught me to say in "Annoying Mom 101."

Some day you will forget about this. Yes, really. Of course, it will be only because I will have moved on to bigger and better ways to annoy you.

But I hope you will remember I only annoy you because I want you to grow up to be responsible and well adjusted, without having to mortgage the house or sell your little brother to help pay for repairs and replacement plans.

And because I love you.

What could be more annoying than that?

Snooze Year Eve

2011-01-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

Every party needs a pooper. That's why my family keeps me.

By some strange twist of fate, the New Year arrived without me on hand to toot a horn, raise a toast or toss confetti. I was snug as a bug in my bed by the time the calendar switched over -- in Nova Scotia.

I haven't been a big fan of New Year's Eve since I matured enough to realize it combines two of the things I dislike most: cold weather and staying up late. Add the potential for a hangover and you get the anti-fun trifecta.

Sure, I remember when I thought I had, had, HAD to go out on New Year's Eve. But eventually the complimentary sip of warm champagne and $5 cover charge for the chance to pack the bar with the other sardines -- I mean revelers -- just lost its luster. Did I mention how cold it gets in Iowa on January 1? Or how we always had to park and hike to find a bar that wasn't over capacity (or pretended they weren't)?

Not all my New Year's Eve memories are bad. There was that time in Jr. High when Princess (now Queen) K. fell off the top bunk because she was laughing so hard at Slim Whitman singing "Una Paloma Blanca --ahh AHH" (on the Johnny Carson show, on the black and white portable TV). I believe that was followed up by running out into the front yard to shout New Year's greetings into the peaceful, frosty, Iowa night sky.

Only to realize that it was midnight in New York.

Not Iowa.

Our bad.

You see, that's the thing about New Year's eve that has always rubbed me the wrong way. Why should New York get to celebrate it at 11 p.m.? You get all excited watching the ball drop in Times' Square, and then you have to sit around waiting for another hour. It just kind of loses its luster. I mean, it could be worse. We could be in California. Those poor saps have to wait two whole hours to toss their confetti. By then Times' Square is just a barren wasteland.

Think about it.

Anyway, I woke up this New Year's Eve morning with a resolution to make New Years fun for the Little Prince and Princess.

At 10:30 a.m., when I searched for "Fun New Year's Eve Crafts" online, I fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 1:30 p.m., when I was shopping for snacks and craft supplies with the entire population of Eastern Iowa, I fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 3:30 p.m., when I stopped at yet another store to search for the sparkling grape juice that EVERY store was selling last week but which I didn't buy then because "pffft, you can get that anywhere," became "arrgh, you can get that anywhere, but not at 3:30 p.m. New Year's Eve," I still fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 5:15 p.m. when I was the only family member still gluing sequins on the "Festive New Year's Eve" sparkle ball, the craft billed as "simple fun for the whole family," I fully intended to stay up until midnight to enjoy the heck out of my sparkly handiwork.

At 7 p.m., when I realized the TV offerings on New Year's Eve were pretty slim, I started to have my doubts, but I still fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 8:30 p.m., when the King fell victim to the power of the Puppy Dog Eyes and let me watch "Men In Black" again, I still fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 9 p.m., when I made the fatal mistake of stretching out on the couch to watch "Men in Black" again, I wasn't so sure I still fully intended to stay up until midnight.

At 9:53 p.m., when the credits started to roll on "Men in Black," I was up the stairs and in my jammies quicker than you can say "Arquillian Battle Cruiser."

I guess you could say I beat those New Yorkers at their own game.

Happy New Year from me and Nova Scotia.

In the Dough(nuts)

2010-11-26T20:49:00.000-08:00

Blogger's note: Perhaps the most ill-conceived blog ever.

If I ever decide to pursue a life of crime, I have already chosen a mentor: The "Burley Bandit."

Yes, I know bank robbery is illegal (jokes about interest rates and loans aside). Yes I know the "Burly Bandit" was captured due to some of the very factors I find interesting, inspiring, and more than slightly humorous.

The Burly Bandit's story first caught my attention in a very short -- two or three paragraphs -- news brief. I will admit my fancy was more taken with what wasn't said about the case than what was. Just the facts Ma'am: a Greyhound bus driver was arrested for allegedly robbing 11 banks along his bus route. He spent most of the money at strip joints.

I do hate to let facts interrupt a good story, so let me just replay how my imagination ran away with those tantalizing tidbits.

It was estimated the Bandit stole nearly $100,000, but had only $10,000 at the time of his arrest. He blew close to $90,000 on a car (or car stero, depending on the source), strippers and steaks. Sure he broke the law, but he had a damn good time! Yeah, he's goin' to the big house, but he's gonna have stories to tell....

That was my main inspiration. If I ever do something stupid and illegal, I'm not gonna buy diamonds or furs or fancy trips. I'm gonna have fun NOW, damnit! Forget goin' to the casino, I'm just not the gambling type. And I doubt I could find $90,000 worth of male revues. I'm more the immediate gratification type anyway.

Second, he (allegedly) robbed banks along his bus route.

Think about it.

Helloo! No one noticed the big, silver bus idling outside the bank while the alarms were going off? No one on the bus thought it was a little strange when the driver made an unscheduled stop at a bank, then came running out wearing black and white stripes and a black mask, carrying big, white bags with dollar signs on them? (What, real life isn't like a Bugs Bunny cartoon?) Maybe he spent some of that ill-gotten booty on strippers and beer for the bus! ("No, Ocifer, we didn't notice anything unusual. 'Course Fantasia's set had just started....)

Nah, I just had to go and burst that little bubble of rampant imagination by doing a little Google work (yes, I wasted time Googling this guy). Turns out he didn't use the bus for the heists (so they say...). But he did rent a U-Haul truck for one job -- his last, as it turned out. Note to self: never use a U-Haul as a get-away car.

So, what did my demented little mind see as guidelines in this story? Immediate gratification and the old Realtor's mantra: "location, location, location".

I'm not concerned about sharing my plans for my criminal escapades, because I fully expect to be caught. Burn bright, burn brief, have some fun. I've already picked out a fugitive name: The Waddling Bandit.

I will chose which banks I rob based on their proximity to donut and/or coffee shops. I envision a pattern of concentric circles, with each heist getting closer to the crullers. When I hit the last job I will truly be the "Waddling Bandit." I'll have to ride my motorized scooter from the bank to the bismark (little "b") because I'll get winded just thinking about walking.

I'll be a folk hero by the time they get my case on CSI (my eyebrown twin, Brooke Shields, will play me). My undoing? Not an idling diesel, but a trail of chocolate sprinkles and powdered sugar finger prints.

The real genius of my plan? A naive dependence on the old stereotype of cops hanging out at the donut shop. I'll be hiding in plain site.

With sprinkles.

Ghostfish Tales

2010-11-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

October, especially late October is the time for spooky, weird things, right? That's how I explained the latest apparition at the royal castle.

I believe there are, at the very least, two explanations for most things: the logical (or boring) explanation, and the the "whoo-hoo" crazy (much more fun) explanation. Of course I favor the "whoo-hoo." So, given my fondness for the "whoo-hoo," and the spooky-weird spirit of late October, allow me to present...

The Tale of the Haunted Aquarium

I was enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun, streaming through the windows of the royal chariot as I made my way hastily back to the castle after another day of holding raucous hordes of elementary students at bay. The 5-minute commute offered a little precious decompression time, so direly needed before facing the raucous horde of my own children and their attack cat. My reverie was broken by a call from the Princess.

"Does this mean we're getting fish?"

Does what mean we're getting fish?

"The aquarium in the driveway. Can we keep it?"

Now, due to its unique situation near the bottom of a hill, the edge of a curve, and who knows what other natural and supernatural formations of land, time and space, the castle seems to be at the epicenter of the Vortex of Lost Toys. We have had all manner of inflatable toys -- beach balls, swim rings, a pool cover, and bouncy balls -- blow into our yard and come to a stop. Once they blow in, they don't blow out, no matter how long I try to ignore them. We've even found a small tent, scarf and gloves at the end of our driveway.

But never an aquarium.

I assumed the Princess meant a little one- or two-gallon fish bowl, probably plastic. But no. There settled neatly by the garage door was a full-sized, 20-gallon, glass and metal fish aquarium. Complete with gravel, lid, net and a couple of shells. All very dry, neat, clean and tidy. And mysterious. No note, no message on the answering machine, no nothing. I assumed someone just got the wrong address when passing along an unused tank. But the days passed an no one returned to claim it.

There was something about that gravel. It was so dull and brown. It reminded me of a desert scene. And there was no cute little castle, treasure chest, "no fishing" sign, or plastic seaweed. Hmmm... boring brown rocks like you would find in...

A REPTILE TANK!!! OR A TARANTULA TANK!!!

No note, no message, and no inhabitant!! Had our mysterious benefactor merely dropped off an aquarium? Or did they drop off an aquarium AND SOME CREEPY CRAWLY/SLITHERY creature that was now on the loose? Yes, it was cold enough out to slow down any cold-blooded critters, but the aquarium was situated right next to the garage door, which the children had opened and left open when they arrived home.

Was there something hiding in the dark corners of the semi-warm garage (or under all the toys strewn across the garage floor forcing me to park in the driveway?). Would it attack as I carefully picked my way through the garage? Or would it bide its time, discover a hidden entrance into the house and hide in my shoes, under the bed, behind the toilet or in the cupboard? Venomous or not, I'm sure the shock would do me in.

I moved the aquarium out to the end of the driveway and amused myself by sticking humorous signs on it: "I'm lost! Am I yours? Take me home!" and an owl asking "Whooo do I belong to?" I asked around the neighborhood and quizzed the kids. No one knew anything about it. But I felt sure an answer was out there somewhere.

I had just handed out the last of the Halloween candy to the trick-or-treaters and had bundled the Prince and Princess off to bed when the phone rang. The King was, I believed, ensconced in his office quietly working and too busy to answer the call. He had been working hard all day and, come to think of it, I couldn't remember the last time he had ventured out of his basement office. Strange, but I didn't have time to wonder about it now. I wanted to answer the phone before the shrill -- it had an oddly shrill ring to it this time -- and incessant ringing awoke the slumbering angels.

A deep raspy voice responded to my greeting.

"Did you find the aquariummmmmmm?" it asked. The line crackled and hissed with static.

"Yes, but..." I began to ask, confused.

"And how is Fluuuuuffy? Are you keeping him well fehhhhhhhhhhd? Bwahahaha..."

The maniacal laughter was cut off by a loud boom of thunder. At that moment the line went dead and the lights flickered before the electricity went out completely. The house took on an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of a footstep... and another, another, another, another, another, another, and another. Eight heavy footsteps on the stairway from the basement. A flash of lightning illuminated eight gigantic, inhuman, hairy legs inching closer, closer....

In the interest of indulging my fancy, that's how the story should have ended. Unfortunately, at this point our story takes on a decidedly logical, boring ending. The aquarium provider had, indeed, gotten names mixed up when delivering the aquarium. He then was called out of town and did not realize the mistake until I had sprouted several more gray hairs.

But that doesn't explain the half-dollar sized, black, fuzzy spider I squashed near the garage door. Or that strange rustling noise coming from the furnace room.

Bwaaahaahaaha!

Rough Draft

2010-08-12T21:04:00.000-07:00

As I look back over my spotty record of bloging, I am shocked! Shocked and appalled at my inability to blog regularly and consistently. Well, no more! No more, I say! I shall sit here and type until my fingers are nothing but bloody stumps. Or until I finish a blog entry. Whichever comes first. And I'm not getting up until I'm done!

After I sort the laundry, that is. I can take short laundry duty breaks. And potty breaks, of course. And food breaks. To recap: laundry, potty, eat and blog. That's it for the day.

I had a vision the other day. A beautiful vision that filled me with happiness, contentment and...

What? No, we're not out of juice. Look in the.... No, no, next to the.... Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll be right there.

So, as I was saying. I was zipping along the interstate when I saw...

Clean shorts? They're in the dryer. No one will see you if you run downstairs in your undies. Haven't you ever seen "Risky Business?" Of course not. Just a minute, I'll get them.

... the most beautiful thing! At first I thought it was a mirage, a trick of the morning sun reflecting off a dip in my caffeine level.

Speaking of caffeine, maybe a little sum-sum would be a good "perk" me up about now. Heh, heh, heh. A little coffee humor there. I crack me up sometimes. Can't type and drink hot coffee at the same time, so maybe I'll check my email quick.

But there it was, shimmering up ahead in the distant traffic. Well, not really shimmering, because it was brown...

Crappity crap crap! I forgot all about finishing up those reports for the church!

...a brown beacon calling to me from...

What do you mean the file's too big to email? I don't have time to drive to the church, fire up that computer and download everything to a flash drive. "Computers will make your life easier" my fanny!

... just up ahead. I put on my best NASCAR moves and pulled up right behind...

Of course we can have lunch now. What would you like? No, we're not going to Olive Garden. Let me rephrase that: What would you like that we have in the kitchen?

... a big, beautiful, 18-wheeler. Emblazoned across the back was...

Oh, jeez! I forgot to call the Queen Mother this morning. She should be back from lunch by now, but not completely in nap mode yet.

... the single most enticing word in the English language.

EEEEP!!! You're dripping all over the floor! Get a towel! NO! NO! Not with those muddy feet! Stay right there! I'll get it! Don't move!

Coffee.

If it takes the kids 10 minutes to get every bucket, pail, squirt gun and shovel out of the garage, why does it take so much longer to pick them up?

Forget the Porsche. Forget the Mini Cooper. I want my own, personal semi-tanker filled with coffee.

Dinner? Didn't we just eat lunch?

For a brief, blissful moment I just cruised behind the Holy Grail of coffeedom, fantasizing about driving my own tanker truck of coffee. Just me, my rig and an endless supply of java, making our way 'cross the U.S. of A.

Holy Crap! That's the smoke alarm!

It would be WAY better than those dinky, drink-holder hats. I mean, they only hold two cans. A mere 24-ounces. This would be an entire tanker-full!

Could someone please get the phone?

Yeah, I'd have to work out the whole freshness thing.

Hellooo. Phone's ringing.

And I'd probably have to hit every rest stop along the way.

Hey! Ya' phone's ringin'!

Plus a few gas station restrooms in between.

Oh, for the luva... Yes. No. No. Hmmm, Culver or Branstad? I'm waiting for door number three. The biggest problem facing Iowans today? Too many friggin' political calls! Hello? Anyone there?

Then I pulled close enough to read the fine-ish print.

Bed time! Bedtime, bedtimebedtimebedtime! Bed. Time. Now!

It wasn't actually a tanker full of coffee. It was a gas station tanker advertising...

Of course I'll tuck you in. Yes, and tell you a story. And rub your back.

... "best coffee on the..."

Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.

Yellowstone Light

2010-07-31T21:22:00.000-07:00

I usually try not to give parents advice on how to raise their kids, because I figure my track record is not quite perfect yet (close, but not quite). However, I do have one suggestion I think is excellent:

If at all possible, have your child win a trip to Yellowstone that allows you to tag along.

I don't mean as a chaperon. Ohhh no, that involves way too much work. I mean "tag along" as in enjoy all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. It's nice work if you can get it. And, thanks to the nice corporate sponsors-- but most of all to the Little Princess, her three fellow Princesses and their Queenly moms -- I got it.

We had a wonderful time, riding on the coattails of our Siemen's "We Can Change The World" Challenge second-place winning daughters. I'm afraid this might be the Little Princess' "Get Out of Juvie Free" card for a little while. The subtle, yet effective rebuff will go something like this:

Me: "Little Princess! I told you to clean up your room! I mean now, missy!"
LP: "Hmm, do you remember the Grilled Organic Chicken Breast with Artichokes, Olives and Pine Nuts we had at Yellowstone? Or what about those Honey Whole Wheat Blueberry Pancakes?"
Me: "Uh...yeah..well. Um, whenever you get around to it, darling."

Of course, it wasn't all catered meals, expertly guided tours and Phillipe Cousteau (such a cutie!). There was airline travel involved, after all. Our initial flight out of Cedar Rapids International was canceled, meaning we would miss the first of only two daily flights our airline had from Minneapolis to Bozeman, Montana. We had a choice of waiting nine hours in CR, or in Minneapolis. It was a tough choice -- the cities being so much alike and all -- but we decided to head north ASAP.

If you have to be stuck in an airport with four pre-teen girls for nine hours, the four Little Princesses are a good group to be stuck with. We probably could have spent all our time just wandering around Minneapolis-St. Paul International, but we opted to hop the light rail for a quick trip to the Mall of America. The trip organizers told us to be prepared to do a lot of hiking. We just didn't realize it would all take place before we even got to Yellowstone.

My last flight was pre-9-11, but I had been coaching myself for several weeks to suppress my natural tendency to make flippant (some would say "smart-ass") remarks. Apparently air-line security scanners are now so sensitive that they can actually pick up errant thoughts. How else to explain the fact that I was pulled aside for a pat-down? Twice. Once on the initial flight out of Cedar Rapids (while I was biting my tongue so hard it nearly bled) and on the return flight out of Bozeman.

OK, so I might have whispered some subversive comments to the Little Princess the second time. It's not my fault the TSA needs to read their postings for content. I mean, they tell you the name on your ID and boarding pass must match, but they never say it has to be your name. And requesting we "treat security personnel with the respect they deserve" is just asking for trouble. Granted, if I worked in that little closet they call a security checkpoint in Bozeman, my behavior probably wouldn't deserve much respect either.

It's a tough job, and better them than me, but come on now, getting pulled aside for a pat-down twice? If they tried it a third time I was going to demand they buy me dinner and flowers first.

I was just surprised I didn't get hauled into any of the many security checkpoints we walked by on our return through MSP International. Sometime after the second pat-down and re-packaging the 3-oz. liquids I foolishly didn't cram into my checked bag, I developed a massive traveler's zit. I was fairly certain I would have to pay for a second seat just for my blemish. I swear the security guys looked at it like they were considering waving their magic wands over it. Who knows what I could have concealed in there! If we had to make an emergency landing, they could have deployed my zit to cushion the crash.

The Yellowstone portion of the trip more than made up for the travel troubles. In addition to learning about the wildlife, ecosystem and geology of the world's first National Park, we learned a few other more practical tips for Yellowstone visitors:

Don't hike across a cactus-strewn field wearing flip-flops.
Don't walk through sagebrush wearing shorts.
Do always watch were you walk. There's a lot of poop in "them thar hills."

But most of all, I learned to be quiet and listen. To look and marvel at the splendor of nature. And to laugh and enjoy life with the ebullience of a pre-teen Princess.

Thank you, Little Princess. All four of you. For an experience I'll never forget.

Celebration Blog Dance

2010-07-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

The following was written in Dolby Digital Surround. To maximize your reading experience, you are encouraged to break into spontaneous cheering, singing, fist-pumping and random dancing. Warning: you may want to close the door and pull the curtains first.

O.M.G! Woo Hoo! Woo Hoo! Woohoowoohoowoohoo! WOO HOO!

In the immortal words of Mister Parker in "A Christmas Story," I have won a Major Award! And yes, I am considering hanging the framed certificate in my front window.

I do not see this as bragging or boasting. I am sharing my excitement over good -- GREAT -- news with friends. Come join the celebration folks. It may be noisy, because I'm tooting my own horn.

You know how I hate to cut to the chase. So let me tell you the story behind the winning.

Sometime back in the dark, dreary days of the last Iowa winter, I was feeling the need to confirm that I was, indeed, a semi-productive member of society (it had been a particularly difficult day of herding kindergarteners – I mean substitute teaching). I decided that in lieu of finding a cure for the common cold, I would finally enter a writing contest I found on-line.

After months of planning my entry, (Actually a year and months. It was a biennial contest.) I waited until the last minute to write my story. By “last minute,” I mean the email had to be sent by midnight and I finished it at 12:01 a.m. The entry form had two classifications, “local” and “national.” I figured people are people, but my little musings may not be of interest to someone living in California (heck, they may not be of interest to my next door neighbor) so I checked the box marked “local.”

As I clicked “send,” (at 12:03 a.m.) it occurred to me that Ohio (where the entry was being sent) is on Eastern time. This would make my entry one hour and three minutes late, not just three minutes late. A quick check of the contest web site confirmed my fear. It also revealed that “local” referred to Dayton, Ohio, not “local” in the sense of “limited scope of interest.” I figure my entry went directly into the file marked “DUH” for “slack-jawed mouth breathers too stupid to follow directions.”

Chagrined, but not disheartened, I found a link to another contest: the National Society of Newspaper Columnists was adding a blog category. After much consideration and input from the Little Princess, I selected three blog entries from the past year, printed them off and managed to get them to the post office before closing time. Then I sat back and waited. And promptly forgot about the whole thing.

When I received the first email stating my entry had been selected as one of the top three, I looked for the fine print that would tell me where to send the wire-transfer for my “cozin in Niarobi” to help "make speeding the red of the will."

There was no fine print. I started to do a little happy dance.

I was caught between a bump and a grind when I started to wonder how many entries there were. This was the first year for the "blog" category. Maybe no one else knew about it. Was there really much to celebrate if mine was the only entry? What if I got third place out of three entries? I decided I really didn't care and went back to my happy dance.

It was a deadly combination of Midwestern modesty and low self-esteem that kept me nervously checking my email. Every day I expected to find the message "Ooops. Sorry. We were trying to contact the author of 'Sandwich Mom on Bly,' a fan-blog for the poet Robert Bly." Or "Ooops, sorry. We're looking for a blogger named 'Ju Ann'." (To which I could reply, Dude! That is so totally me! The lawn care people have addressed our bill to Ju Ann for the last three years! I've thought about not paying it, but I'm afraid they'll come reposes our lawn.)

Finally, finally, finally the official announcement was made at the NSNC conference, and the official announcement email sent out and received. (Get ready to dance) Yes, indeed, your's truly did receive third place in the blog category! And there were two honorable mentions, so there were at least five entries! And all the other winners work for name-brand publications! First place even went to Roger Ebert -- the Roger Ebert, movie critic, not Roger Ebert, alligator wrassler (although I'm sure he'd write a fine blog, too).

The judge's comments were so nice I had to check to make sure that I wasn't related to him, or that the King hadn't recently written him a very large check. No and no. What followed next was a world-class session of happy dancing, hooting and hollering that rattled the windows and shook the walls. It also caught the attention of the Little Prince and Princess.

"What are you doing?" the Little Prince asked, looking confused and a little frightened.
"I'm dancing!" I said, stating the obvious.
"Don't," he said.
"Ever," the Little Princess added.

Thank goodness I have them around to keep me grounded.

Grounded, but still dancing.

Stifling Safety Mom

2010-07-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about being a stay-at-home mom is the chance to have fun like a kid again.

One of the hardest things about being a stay-at-home mom is convincing my inner "Safety Mom" to relax long enough for me to have fun like a kid again. And getting her to let the kids have fun like kids again.

Last week I took the Little Prince and Princess to the Coralville Dam to witness the awesome power of nature uncorked by flood control. I knew from experience (having had fun as a kid) that when they've cranked open the dam to maximum outflow, it looks really cool.

Fun Mom thought standing next to the outflow chute watching all that water rushing past just a few yards away -- roiling and splashing and bubbling -- was amazing.

Safety Mom thought it was loud, stinky, and a little too splashy for comfort. Safety Mom worried that a rogue wave would somehow suck the children over, under or through the 4-foot high chain link fence. She suspected that at the very least the Little Angels would become completely soaked with the farm-chemical and fish-poo laden river water. And they would still expect to ride home in her car. Wetter and stinkier than usual.

Fun Mom thought climbing up the rip-rap retaining wall to get a better look at the outflow and to search for fossils would be exciting.

Safety Mom worried someone would twist an ankle climbing on the rocks. Or that the rocks would give way and we would all be caught in an avalanche and crushed to death. Or that the children would disturb a rock-dwelling rattle snake. Even if the snake didn't bite them, we would still be crushed in an avalanche started by heaving a boulder at the snake.

Fun Mom thought it would be cool to climb to the top of the spillway and see how much of the beach on the other side was under water.

Safety Mom worried someone would fall over the top of the spillway and drown. Never mind that we were at the far western edge of the spillway, which is only about 6-feet above the beach and the water was only about a foot deep there. It goes without saying that we did not walk along the (3-foot wide) top of the spillway.

Fun Mom thought it would be neat to feed the ducks at City Park.

Safety Mom wondered if ducks have teeth. And do ducks get rabies? And should we really be feeding Rice Krispie Treats to the ducks?

Currently, the Little Prince bears the brunt of Safety Mom's nervous warnings. Fun Mom knows that to a 9-year-old on a skateboard, scooter or bike, every bump in the road or sidewalk is a ramp to be jumped. Safety Mom scans the area for splint-making supplies and a clearing for the emergency AirCare landing pad.

Turning the Little Prince loose to ride his bike down Orange Street Hill -- the steepest hill in town -- requires no less than four admonitions to be careful:

Safety Mom: "Be careful."

Little Prince: "I will."

SM: "No, really. Be careful."

LP: "I will."

SM: "OK, now, just be careful. And tie your shoe. You don't want your shoelace to get caught in the chain."

LP: (Sigh)" I know. What do you think is going to happen?"

SM: "If your shoelace gets caught, your chain will jam, your bike will stop and you'll go flying over the handlebars and do a face plant in the middle of the road. Try to land on your helmet. And remember you have to stop at the bottom of the hill. And there are cars parked along side the road. Be careful!"

But he is already down the hill and has stopped at the stop sign. Safely.

The best part of the best day was hearing the Little Prince breathlessly tell his father (the minute he walked in the door) "...and we stood by the fence... and the wave were at least 10 ft. tall... and we found fossils... and we climbed... and it was steep...." Because all I heard was "...do we have to... when can we... what are we doing next... and what's after that...."

I can only hope that when I say "Be careful," what they hear is "I love you."

Kicking Butt and Loosing Mine

2010-04-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

I think I may have finally found the perfect workout for me. The "15-minute Butt-Kicking Workout."

I have been remiss in butt-kicking lately. I have a lot of stored-up butt-kicking energy. I could really, well, kick butt at butt-kicking.

It helped that I had to drive in Iowa City/Coralville on a Saturday. Apparently Saturday is another way of saying "Morons Out Driving Around With the Sole Purpose of Pissing Me Off Day." Everyone has their little auto-pilot, cow-trail that they drive to and from work all week, then the weekend comes and they are overwhelmed by driving options. Should they drive faster? Slower? Drive in this lane or that one? Maybe right between the two. Run the red light? Well, duh, of course. Take up two parking spaces? Hell, why not go two-wide, and pull so far forward you take up four?

Those drivers needed a little butt-kicking.

On the off chance they actually have a destination in mind, they don't leave that inability to make a decision in the parking lot. Hellooo Ladies, decide which handbag you want to buy before you get to the check out. Do not ask the cashier for her advice. Do not model them for her and do not ask her to model them for you. Do not make me fantasize about 36 ways to strangle you with the strap of the purse you may or may not purchase.

You need your butt kicked. And I am just the person to do it.

Because apparently by kicking your butt, I will be making my butt smaller.
I had never heard of this particular work out before I saw it mentioned on the cover of "Get Fit and Look Like This Pencil Thin 16-Year Old Model (When Pigs Fly)*" magazine (*name has been changed to protect me from lawsuits).

It was the "Walk-Off the Weight" headline that first grabbed my attention. I wondered if this WOW would be somehow different from the WOW article in the magazine by my bed. Or the one by the couch. Or the one in the bathroom. Or the two that I've dog-eared and tossed in the "to be looked at some time in the future when I have time" magazine pile.

'Cause I gotta tell you, I've been a little disappointed in those workouts. I'm walking up and down the stairs doing laundry, walking around the kitchen making dinner, walking from the couch to the fridge, walking from the house to the car, from the car to the church or school or the mall or the grocery store, and I'm just not seeing any results.

Yeah, sure, maybe I'm not exactly following the workouts to the letter. Maybe I'm not really following them at all. But I have read them. OK, skimmed is probably more accurate. At least I bought the magazine and thought about reading it.

I thought mental exercise was supposed to be good for you. Let me tell you, in my mind I have exercised the hell out of those workouts. I've thought about walking. I've thought about getting up early to walk. I've thought about doing the "lunge step" and the "tick-tock walk" and the....

Well, OK, those last two I mostly thought about how I wouldn't be caught dead doing them. I mean really. They want me to swing my leg out to the side then back to the front, like a pendulum, for each step? In public? The last time I did something like that we had just closed down the bar and we called it "staggering." I'm pretty sure there were no calories burned off that night. And we were just lucky that no one got their butts kicked.

Which brings me back to the butt-kicking workout. I think someone at that magazine needs to have their butt kicked. Because when I found the article about that workout, it never mentioned anything about kicking anyone's butt. It was the same old lunges and squeezes and squats and leg lifts. Nothing about kickin' butt and taking names. Nada.

Which could mean that I have just stumbled upon The. Greatest. Fitness Craze. Ever. Forget Pilates and Tae Bo and Jazzercise. "Kick Butt Butt-Kicking' " will -- you guessed it -- kick butt.

Imagine rows of exercisers standing behind foam-butted mannequins. The instructor calls out: "With your right leg now, 'You stupid, (kick), moron, (kick), you cut me, (kick), off! (kick)
"And your left leg, 'The sign, (kick), says 10, (kick), items, (kick), or less! (kick)"

You can work out your aggressions and your glutes. I will be mellow, and I will have no butt.
But not so mellow that I quit feeling the need to kick butt. Which is another reason why this is the perfect work out: There is a never-ending supply of people who really, really need to have their butt kicked.

And I'm just the person to do it.

Parking Lots and Ship Wrecks

2009-12-19T20:55:00.000-08:00

Wow. The Nocember doldrums were a little more severe than I had anticipated. I set blogging sail when the gales of Nocember came early. I might have cracked up, or I might have hit a deep writer's block. But if I'd put 15 more blogs behind me, I wouldn't be making pointless allusions to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

Then again, maybe I would. It's kind of fun. There I was, cast upon the shoals of too little sleep and too much to do. The big blog they call Gitche Gumee never gives up inspiration to the tired and cranky.

Or maybe people have just run out of new ways to annoy me. Maybe I've built up a tolerance to stupidity. Maybe I'm mellowing.

Ask the Princess. We met a car going the wrong way up a parking lot aisle the other day and I was uncharacteristically gracious. I didn't stake out the middle of the lane, stop and glare at him while traffic backed up behind me. I thought about it, but I didn't do it. No, I pulled to the right and crept past him, looking down at his puny little 2-door, which I could have squashed like up bug if I had chosen to.

Ditto for the second moron I met while I was driving down -- the correct direction -- the next aisle. She was totally oblivious to the fact that she was this far away from becoming my hood ornament. I usually only cut slack to one person per day.

I mean, Hello, people! That giant arrow painted on the road? It's pointing the opposite direction you are going. All these parked cars? They are parked going the opposite direction you are going. All the cars you are meeting in this extremely narrow lane? They're all going the opposite way you are. Yes, there's a chance they're all wrong and you are right. But you forgot one thing. I'm one of them, and I'm never wrong. Even when I'm not right.

To be fair, I met these idiots while driving through the parking lot of the Coralville HyVee, without a doubt the most screwed up parking lot on the face of the earth. I met moron number two in the mysterious, off-pattern "out" aisle, which ends at -- in a stroke of shear genius -- the "in" aisle for the attached strip mall lot.

You would think the entire strip mall could adopt a uniform, alternating "up, down, up, down" pattern of parking aisle, beginning on one end and "up, down, up, down"-ing all the way to the other end. But NOOOO! Some sick, parking lot painting, psychopath went and threw in one extra, single-sided "down" row -- just to mess with people's minds!

This is the same parking lot pervert that put in a random stop sign at the other end of the lot so that the occasional person exiting the drive-thru dry cleaners can have a clear shot at messing up the main in-out traffic flow. The strategy here, I believe, is to make more work for the dry cleaner. Typically if you stop at this stop sign you run the risk of being rear ended. Not all the skid marks left here are on the road, if you know what I mean.

I think if Gordon Lightfoot had dug a little deeper, he may have found the captain of the Edmund Fitzgerald was following shipping lanes set up by the same person who designed this parking lot.

Snow Dazed

2009-12-09T19:46:00.001-08:00

Dear Diary,

4 a.m. It's snowing! Not much yet, but the weather man says more is on the way, followed by blizzard conditions. Ominous outlook, but for now Eastern Iowa has been transformed into a Winter Wonderland! It's so peaceful and calm. Except for the ear-splitting scrape of the snowplow. Hope we still have a road left.

6:05 a.m. Must have snowed more than I thought. No school today. The district's new automated calling system gives a much earlier alert than the radio. The kids don't have to get up, so maybe I can get a little more REM sleep. Prince Charming was just about to kiss me....

7 a.m. Kids are up already! Hmm, they never get themselves out of bed this early when they do have school. Oh well, who needs Prince Charming, when you have a charming husband? The sooner we get up, the sooner we can start our fun-filled snow day! I can hardly wait!

7:30 a.m. It must be magic snow! The kids made their own breakfasts and are downstairs eating, watching cartoons and making plans for a snow fort. Maybe later we can have hot chocolate and make cookies! Good thing I ran errands and picked up groceries yesterday. This is really going to be a such a relaxing, fun-filled snow day!

8:30 a.m. Kids are gearing up to go outside. There is some disagreement about which hat belongs to which kid. I'm pulling dual duty as referee and seeker of lost snow gear. I know I labeled that tote full of snow pants and boots. It's got to be here somewhere! I can't wait to get started on our first-of-the- season, fun-filled snow day!

8:45 a.m. The kids managed to get outside without killing each other. Note to self: forget the cutesy hats and the tough guy hats, buy identical hats from now on. I'm left behind to pick up the trail of discarded single mittens and gloves. Why did I pack away singles? Maybe the mates are in the other -- also missing -- tote. It might be a little tough to make a snowball with two mismatched, left-handed gloves, but kids adapt. You don't have to be able to use your thumb to have a fun-filled snow day!

9 a.m. Found breakfast dishes under a pile of Legos under a pile of discarded snow gear. Hmmm, the little scamps must have forgotten them in their hurry to enjoy their fun-filled snow day. Oh well, as long as they're having fun. Now I can sit down and enjoy a nice cup of coffee. There's more than one way to enjoy a fun-filled snow day!

9:10 a.m. Kids are back in already. Coffee will have to wait while I supervise hanging of wet snow gear.

9:20 a.m. Kids are going back outside. Have to lay down trail of throw rugs to laundry room.

9:30 a.m. Kids are inside. Remind them to stay on throw rug trail.

9:40 a.m. Kids going outside. Aarg! Stay on the trail!

9:50 a.m. Kids inside. Puddles forming on the trail!

10 a.m. Kids outside. I've locked the doors, microwaved my coffee and stuffed my ears with cotton. I swear I'll call them in after I finish this one cup. Please. Just. One. Cup!

10:20 a.m. How did they get back in? Not dirty enough to have come down the chimney.

10:25 a.m. They're hungry. How could I have gone to the store and not picked up snacky things? It's not supposed to snow and blow until later this afternoon, and the forecast is bleak for tomorrow as well. I'll never survive two fun-filled snow days without sweets. Emergency trip to the grocery store!

10:30 a.m. While all the other Moms are grabbing milk, bread and peanut butter, my cart is filled with cookies, ice cream, pop, chips, dip, Totino's Pizza Rolls, and candy. The other Moms are giving me the stink eye. The other kids stare at my kids with envy.

11 a.m. I shoo the kids outside one more time while I try to hide my own personal stash of HoHo's and licorice. Just assuring everyone's safety in case of a snacking emergency. Maybe after lunch we can play some board games and bake cookies. This is going to be such a fun-filled snow day!

1:00 p.m. We've played every board game, card game and dice game in the closet. We've made crafts, colored pictures and sculpted a replica of Michelangelo's "Pieta" out of Velveeta. We've read the Bible. Aloud. Twice. They're bored. They say this is a boring-filled snow day!

1:15 p.m. I've shut them in the TV room with snacks and a stack of DVDs. I'm locking myself in my room with the HoHo's and a bottle of wine.

4:00 p.m. They've converted a cardboard box into Santa's sleigh and built reindeer out of Legos. They're playing together quietly. More or less. They say this has been the best, fun-filled snow day ever!

8:00 p.m. Everyone is showered, jammied and ready for bed. Enjoying a little quiet reading time together before turning in. A peaceful ending to a fun-fill, snow day.

9:30 p.m. School has been canceled for tomorrow. Another fun... filled... snow...day. I can hardly wait.

Picking the Perfect Christmas Past

2009-12-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you just can't think too much about things. You've got to see the big picture. Look at the forest and see Bob Ross' "happy little trees." Recognize history as nostalgia, and not get caught up in specific time frames or accuracy.

So, what are we not thinking about this week? Oh, many, many things (has Britney finally found true love?). But specifically, the historical accuracy of the local community holiday celebration, "A Christmas Past."

The Royal Offspring and I partook of the hoo-ha over the weekend. First of all, let me say we had a great time, as always. In fact, since we didn't loose any body parts to frost bite, we probably had a better time this year than some years.

His Royal Highness the King, a.k.a. "Mr. Literal", stayed in the castle where he could work uninterrupted, enjoying such modern conveniences as computers, heat and a flat-screen TV. He suggested that if we truly wanted to celebrate "A Christmas Past," we should turn off all the power to downtown, carry buckets of water to boil for hot cocoa, and line up for the privy out back of Hoover's Birthplace Cottage. Note to self: I don't think there's a pit under the outhouse, so use the facilities early in the evening.

I would just like to point out that the festival is titled "A Christmas Past," and it does not specify which "Christmas Past" is being observed. Some of the activities may have been similar to what Herbert Hoover experienced living here in the mid 1870's. The idea for the festival was based on newspaper reports of similar celebrations taking place in the 1920s. Other parts are definitely more modern, or are modern twists on old traditions.

For example, Hoover probably did travel in a horse-drawn wagon. However, that wagon probably didn't have nice Goodyear tires, cushioned bench seats out of an old school bus, or steps that raised and lowered for boarding. While it may not be the stuff of Currier and Ives, I appreciate those little touches.

The Prince and Princess did learn a few things about horse-drawn wagons: they move slowly; they don't have heaters; and horse poo, historical or not, smells. A lot. And yes, the Queen Mother will join in (not lead, but join) when other riders start singing carols.

The Princess and I participated in another semi-historical activity: the 5K walk/run. Hoover probably did do a lot of walking to get around town. However, he didn't drive a car three-quarters of a mile to get to the starting line before starting out. My "Olde Tyme Shin Splints" feel pretty authentic, though.

The Boy Scouts' donuts, fried in a pot of oil over an open fire, call to mind the "fry bread" of the Native Americans -- residents prior to 1870. However, I don't think (politically incorrect alert!) the Indians had access to "whomp biscuits." If they had, the Indians could have easily subdued the white settlers by setting up a donut stand. The settlers would have been sitting ducks while they all stood in line patiently waiting for the next batch, like the crowd at ACP.

Of course the real purpose of ACP is not to impart great historical knowledge and insight. It is a chance to impart great knowledge and insight of local businesses. A chance to make cash register bells ring after the ring of the sleigh bells has past. Less cynically, it is a chance to foster community spirit and good will, a chance for businesses to thank their customers.

Whew. Glad I got that out of my system. We will now resume our regularly scheduled snarkiness, already in progress.

Of course, I have thought of a couple of ideas to improve A Christmas Past. Since this could, theoretically, be "any" Christmas past, why not celebrate a 1960s Fall Out Shelter Christmas? They could even replace the horse-drawn rides with a hot rod, ala the Beach Boys' "Little Saint Nick." Or how about a "Disco Christmas?" Just keep those polyester suits away from the bonfires.

On a more serious (perhaps?) note, the downtown businesses could all recreate the lavish Christmas window displays I recall from my youth. I remember going to Cedar Rapids at least one year to see the display at Armstrong's Department Store. Wouldn't it be cool if all those mechanical elves and reindeer and woodland creatures were in storage somewhere just waiting to be reused? At the very least, let's dust off the "Talking Christmas Tree" that was at Sycamore Mall.

What if all celebrations were like "A Christmas Past?" What if we could just pick and choose the best parts and get rid of the parts we don't like or find inconvenient? Like birthdays. Keep the presents, party and cake. Loose the "another year older" part. Ooops, I already do that.

I've always been a big picture kind of person.

Coffee Dreams -- Part 2

2009-12-05T19:29:00.000-08:00

When last we heard from our over-caffeinated heroine, Coffee C.O.P. Officer Valdez had remanded her to the demitasse tank to dry out.

"Demitasse Tank? You're putting me behind bars for a little too much caffeine?" I broke out in a cold sweat -- a sweat that smelled an awful lot like coffee. "I swear it will never happen again! I can control my coffee habit, really! I can quit anytime I want... a blinding headache from caffeine withdrawal. I promise, I'll get help."

"Jail? Who said anything about jail?" Officer Valdez looked confused. "You just need to sit over there in the lounge area and have a muffin and juice to counteract all the caffeine in your system. You've got the coffee jitters so bad you can barely hold your car keys. Jail? Huh, maybe there is a link between caffeine and paranoia."

While I was relieved not to be goin' to the Big House, there was no recalling the shot of adrenaline now coursing through my body. Somewhere along the way it re-ignited the caffeine laying fallow in my veins, mimicking the effects of a triple shot of espresso on an empty stomach. My mind raced like a hamster in a wheel rolling downhill. Images flashed through my head like dream sequences in a Disney Channel show.

"I can beat this," I whispered. "I'll get this java monkey off my back. I'll go straight, just you wait and see." My eyes glazed over as I imagined myself in my very own kitchen, standing in front of a Keurig single-cup coffee maker. I was dressed like Snow White, and animated bluebirds flew around me. Assorted woodland creatures surrounded me as I burst into song:
"Just whistle while you work,
Caffeine is bad, it makes me sad
One cup is quick to perk!"

The room spun and everything grew dark. As the darkness lifted I saw my husband -- my knight in shining armor -- standing in the kitchen doorway, shaking his head sadly. I was on the floor, slouched against the counter by the coffee maker, partially hidden under a pile of used K-cups.

Another fade to black. As action resumed, I was standing on a street corner holding out a Starbuck's cup, begging for money.

"Hey buddy, can you spare a five-spot for a venti Pumpkin Spice Latte? They're only available for a limited time!" I begged. Passersby avoided eye contact and quickened their steps as they approached. Finally a wino stopped and handed me a flask.

"Here you go, kiddo," he said. "It'll help wean ya' off the hard stuff. That demon coffee, it'll ruin your life."

The images swirled once again. As I shook my head I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

"Hey Jo! Long time no see!" Barbara the Barista was standing by the espresso machine, wiping down the steam wand.

I looked around and realized I was standing in the doorway of the coffee shop. Officer Valdez was no where to be seen, and the plaster was firmly stuck to the wall where it belonged.

"Are you alright? You look like you could use a latte," Barbara said.

"Uh, yeah. I mean no. NO! I mean, I think I'll just have some herbal tea," I replied weakly.

Barbara looked surprised.

Who am I kidding? I thought.

"Naaah, make that a mocha, please. Extra foam. MO-CHA, mocha mocha!"

Coffee Dreams -- Part 1

2009-12-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

I threw open the door to my favorite little coffee shop and breathed in the heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

"Ahhhh! I love the smell of arabica in the afternoon!" My favorite barista was at her station behind the espresso machine mixing up a little heaven in a cup for the only other customer in the shop.

"MO-cha, mochamochamoca!" I cha-cha'ed across the floor. "Mocha me, Mamma!" I said, slapping my hand on the counter top.

Instead of looking amused, which I had expected, Barbara the Barista looked a little nervous. I was instantly suspicious of the other customer. Was he hassling her? He looked pretty nondescript. Average height, average build, dressed in blue, wearing mirrored sunglasses. There was something vaguely familiar about him. I'd seen his type before, but where?

Barbara finished frothing his drink and slid it slowly towards him. She turned toward me, a look of concern on her face.

"How ya' doin', Jo? Switchin' to decaf for the afternoon?" Barbara spoke slowly, emphasizing the word "decaf" and darting glances at Mr. Mystery out of the corner of her eyes while she nodded her head meaningfully in his direction.

Decaf? I never order decaf. And that strange twitch. She must be speaking in code! I was certain she was trying to warn me of something, but what?

"Oh, no-nee, no-nee, no-nee. I don't drink that wimpy decaf! Heh heh heh. 'De-crap,' I like to call it," I said. Barbara continued to jerk her head toward Mr. Mystery and make "shushing" faces at me. Obviously this guy was trouble and she was trying to warn me. Well, I was just going to have to woman-up, and let him know that if he tried any funny stuff with me around he'd be sorry!

"Yep, I finished off a pot of dark roasted robusta this mornin'," I said, hitching up my pants and flexing my pecs. "Just need a little motorin' mocha pick-me up to keep my ninja-like reflexes sharp." I did a quick little kung-fu move I picked up from watching "Big Trouble in Little China."

Mystery Man didn't flinch, but Barbara looked nervous. "Well, gosh! Look at that! The espresso machine must be on the blink," she was talking rapidly now, almost babbling. "How 'bout a nice herbal tea? Maybe a beer or two (or twelve she added in a whisper) to mellow you out."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused. "I just saw you frothing his coffee. I don't need a pick me down, I need a pick me up!" I was getting agitated now, my caffeine level dipping dangerously low. "Don't 'cha have some house blend in a thermos or something? Just toss some grounds in a cup with hot water, I'll strain them out with my teeth." Desperation was setting in.

"Or, or, or..." I stammered, thoughts spinning wildly in my head. "Maybe I can just suck on some beans. Come on, man. I need a lil' sum-sum. Just let me sniff the empty bean bag!"

"What she means, Ma'am," Mystery Man spoke, "is that you seem to be a little over-caffeinated." I tensed as he stood and walked toward me. The light glinted ominously off the small, blue-black metallic object in his outstretched hand.

"I'm going to have to ask you to blow into this breathalyzer," he said. "I'm Officer Valdez, Caffeine Overuse Protection Services."

"Coffee C.O.P.S? Busting people for drinking coffee? Isn't that the coffee pot calling the kettle black?" I snapped.

"Ma'am, I can assure you we've heard all the coffee and donut jokes. And we are not amused." He waved the breathalyzer near my face. "Ma'am, you're registering a 2.0 on vapors alone. You're going to have to take a caffeination field test. Please stand with your back against this wall and hold completely still." I did as I was told, but it was harder than I could have imagined.

"Holy Sanka!" Officer Valdez cried. "You've got such a caffeine buzz you're vibrating the plaster right off the wall! You're going to have to spend a little time in the demitasse tank until you mellow out."

To be continued!

If the Shoe Fits

2009-12-03T20:58:00.000-08:00

Some people just don't like to shop. Maybe it's the pushy crowds, the clueless clerks, or the idiots in the parking lots. Me, I've never noticed those things. I'm all sweetness and light when I shop, naturally. But there is one thing eclipses my sunshine: shoe shopping.

I have no problem admitting my age -- 39. Alright, 39 and a half. I can admit that my "greylights" are courtesy of Mother Nature and not L'Oreal. But for most of my 4... I mean 38 and a half years, I've been reluctant to tell anyone just how big (size-enhanced) my feet are.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I have feet. I like my feet. They work just fine. They allow me to stand upright and provide balance in a strong wind. They add valuable inches of height when I stand tippie-toes. But when I go shoe shopping, they just get in the way.

There's nothing wrong with my feet. It's those arbitrary numbers they assign to shoe sizes that bother me.

It is nearly impossible to find shoes in my size. After years of contemplation, I have come up with three possible reasons: 1. Manufacturers only make five pair of shoes in this size for distribution throughout the entire country. 2. Someone (with a really big closet) is hoarding all the shoes in my size. 3. Drag Queens beat me to them. It doesn't really make me feel better to think that I could be wearing the same shoe as Patrick Swayze did in "To Wong Fu."

Several young girls the Little Princess' age already wear size nine. And they're not done growing yet! I am torn. There's a part of me that feels sorry for them, knowing they are facing a future of meager shoe pickin's. But mostly I'm just worried that they will mean added competition for a limited number of generous-sized shoes. I have seniority! I deserve the cute shoes!

Online shoe shopping is just not the same. All too often I've drooled over a cute pair of shoes on display at a store, only to puke when I look down and see them on my feet. I want them off my feet and out of my life NOW! Not after I've repackaged and hauled them to the post office. I'm all about the instant gratification.

One of my (many) ideas for building my hometown's business and tourism base is to open a shoe store. Not just any shoe store, but a SHOE store, catering to size-enhanced feet. Not just any shoe store, but a shoe STORE! Offering a unique shopping experience for a marginalized demographic who, far too often, wind up impaled on the pointy end of a stiletto heel when it comes to cute shoe choices.

The front room of my store would be modest, but cozy. A wide array of shoes styles would be attractively displayed -- no boxes up front! The shoe store equivalent of a maitre d' would welcome customers, politely answer questions and show them around. He would also be responsible for ascertaining the actual shoe size of the customer.

This is vital, because only shoppers with size 10 -- maybe nine -- or larger feet would be allowed to advance through the velvet curtain, past the security system/Brannock Device, to the back room. The inner sanctum, as it were. All you elfin-footed girls would have to sit out front on semi-comfortable chairs to wait for your full-footed friends.

The back room would be a shoe shoppin' Shangri La! Foot-fortunate females would be treated to champaign fountains, trays of gourmet chocolates and plush couches -- complimentary foot rubs optional. The sales associates would all be hotty-hot-hotties dressed in crisp, white shirts and dark, pin-stripped suits with skinny ties (Why yes, I have been watching "White Collar" on USA). All customers would be addressed as Miss, not Ma'm, and breath mints would be used at all times.

And the shoes! Oh yes, the shoes would be awesome! Not a pixie-sized pair to be found! Top designers would create styles especially for the grander sizes. We'd put an end to those shoes that look cute in itsy-bitsy sizes, but in the upper size range look more like clown shoes. We would turn the current trend of shoe size discrimination on its head by not even manufacturing these adorable shoes in sizes smaller than a 10-- maybe a nine.

Yes, I am a little bitter about not being able to find shoes in my size. And no, I'm not a big enough person to "just let it go." That's why I'm considering adding a closed-circuit tv that would allow the miniature-footed to see what they were missing out on while they sit on semi-comfortable chairs, drinking tap water and munching on generic, candy-coated chocolate drops.

Because in this case, size does matter.

Bridging the Political Divine

2009-12-02T22:51:00.000-08:00

One possible upside to my being so busy I missed November, is that I didn't have time to kick off my political career. I've long known that I have the answers to all of life's problems. As election day 2009 rolled around I considered blessing everyone with my insight and knowledge. I just couldn't decide who would benefit the most from my brilliance, and this wasn't a Supreme World Dictator election year.

My political aspirations began after a typically crazy day of so-called "stay-at-home" mom chores. I was seriously considering a career change. I mentally listed my strengths (keen sense of fashion, razor-sharp wit, infallibility) and my desires (unlimited power, a huge paycheck, to be worshiped in a manner befitting royalty). Two job possibilities immediately came to mind: politician and mob boss. Since there are fewer politicians in jail than mob bosses, the choice was obvious.

Besides, I've always enjoyed spending money. Particularly other people's money. OK, that was really what tipped the scales in favor of politics.

What could you expect from a Jomama administration? A chicken in every pot, pot for every chicken. Something for everyone at no cost to anyone, all financed by OPM (Other People's Money).

Anyone can make empty campaign promises and vacuous slogans. I offer real plans, solid solutions to the most pressing problems. The first stop on my roadmap to prosperity is right here in eastern Iowa.

The Johnson County Board of Supervisors continues to wrestle with the question of what to do with the historic Sutliff Bridge. At last report it would take a mere 2.4 million dollars of OPM (news flash, you are the other people) to replace the span washed away in the flood of 2008.

If only the raging Cedar had been considerate enough to wash away the other end and leave the span next to Sutliff. That span could have become Eastern Iowa's biggest and best back porch! The bridge was always a great place to enjoy burgers and beer from Baxa's Sutliff Store and Tavern. Half a bridge would be even better -- short and sweet and closer to the bar!

But that's not the way Mother Nature rolled. Most people would look at that half a bridge and see a problem. Not me. I'm a bridge half-full kind of gal. Where others see problems, I see possibilities.

Let me take you through my solution-making process. Part one: the Sutliff Bridge was over a river. The river flooded. Big problem. Solution? Move the bridge. Seems obvious, I know, and yet people continue to put bridges over rivers. Go figure.

OK, part two: it's an historic bridge. I think "historic," I think history, I think... West Branch! Heck, the tavern building would fit right in with the downtown architecture. Now we're getting somewhere.

Speaking of getting somewhere, let's face it, Sutliff is not in the middle of somewhere. West Branch, on the other hand, is right off the interstate. Bingo! Bring the history to the masses!

For you purists, West Branch is located on the west branch of the Wapsinonoc Creek, so the bridge could still be a "bridge." The creek has even been known to flood occasionally, so the element of danger would still be there.

In fact, the creek plays a vital role in my plan to move the remaining span to its new and improved home. What the Cedar River hath started, let the Cedar River finisheth, I say. Just attach a couple pontoons and an outboard motor to the remaining span, wait for the next flood and sail her on down to the Wapsinonoc. I'm not sure the two waterways connect, but have you ever heard of a little thing called the Panama Canal? Where there's a will there's a way, baby. This thing has "made for Discovery Channel" written all over it.

Oh yes, I have a dream. A dream that some day West Branch will not only be the birthplace of the 31st President of the United States, but home to the Sutliff Bridge, and campaign headquarters for the Supreme World Dictator.

Single-fan-tasking

2009-12-01T21:12:00.000-08:00

So, what have I been doing since Augtober?

Eh, a little of this, a little of that. It's amazing how time flies when you're not really accomplishing anything. You would think, with as many different things as I try to do, something would get done. I mean, what are the odds? Random, dumb luck should take over at some point and finish up at least one project.

It's the old infinite monkey theorem. Give a room full of monkeys typewriters and sooner or later one of them will pound out the works of Shakespeare. Ooops, I guess the secret to my blogging is out now. Of course the primates have a much easier time of it with my prose than with iambic pentameter:
Forsooth, I have forsworn the use of "thou."
The apes protest the ban and cry "alas."
Enough, I say, you pain me in my ...

Yeah, well, monkey kibble doesn't buy the same quality text it once did. It does explain the proliferation of limericks, though.

But I don't have a room full of monkeys. It's just me and my inability to say "No. I can't do that. I'm busy." I know I'm not the only one with that disability. I'm not even in the same league as some people who juggle multiple projects, jobs and volunteer positions. And I don't want to be.

I recently read an article about a man who noticed he was being pulled in too many directions and decided to make a bold move: He decided to spend an entire month single-tasking.

He didn't talk on the phone while putting away dishes. He didn't try to supervise homework while making dinner. He didn't fold laundry while surfing the net.

When he spoke with someone he gave them his full attention. When he worked on a project, he worked only on that project until it was complete. Then, and only then, he moved on to the next task.

Wow. What a concept. I was fascinated. I was ready to convert. I could single task. I could! And I would!

Then the Little Prince knocked on the bathroom door and asked if I could help him.

It took a couple of days, but eventually I finished the article. The author must have had some serious single-tasking time to dedicate to writing, or maybe his own room full of monkeys, or maybe he had just trained his children not to bother him while he was in the bathroom. Whatever his secret was, I wanted it.

The author warned that it took him a couple of days to adapt to single-tasking. He even enlisted the help of his wife keep him focused. I considered asking His Royal Highness, the King, to help me stay on track, but that would be asking him to multi-task and seemed like cheating.

In other words, trying to single-task cold turkey didn't work. In fact, I'm not sure I have ever had a sustained single-tasking experience lasting more than a min- (gotta switch the laundry) -ute. But I have become more aware of my multi-taskingness. I think I have cut back from capitol "M" Multi to lowercase "m" multi. And best of all, I have actually finished a few projects!

That first feeling of accomplishment was so sweet! And it encouraged me to focus on another project and finish it! And other, and another.... It was like a row of dominoes falling, or the leading edge of an avalanche.

In fact, I was so efficient I decided to take on a few more projects. So tomorrow, between doing loads of laundry, I'll be getting the crafts ready for CCD, and while I've got the glue gun out I'll work on a new wreath for Mom, so that will be done when I run to the bank on my way to the post office before picking up the kids for piano lessons to check on the information for PTO and finishing the newsletter after cross-checking the mailing list.

I think I'm getting the hang of this single-tasking.

No Novel November

2009-11-30T20:43:00.000-08:00

Holy Guacamole! What happened to November? It's already the 30th, and I've missed all but the last few hours of National Novel Writing Month. I have just hours to either write a 50,000 word novel -- at this point that's approximately 25,000 words an hour -- or face being a miserable failure once again.

NaNoWriMo has very few rules, you can check it out at nanowrimo.org, or just take my word for it. Write fast, write furious and write often, with the goal of producing a 175-page novel. Quantity, not quality. No plot? No problem. What's not to love? That Nov. 30 deadline, that's what. One little rule that has been my downfall the last three years.

But no more.

Rules? I don't need no steenking rules! I'm the Queen. I issue the rules around here. And so, by Royal Decree, I am ordering a re-do on November. Well, maybe not a re-do, exactly. I'm not sure November was good enough to repeat. It wasn't bad, but hey -- been there, done that, crossed the days off the calendar already.

It's not like I have anything against December, either. It's been waiting patiently -- through 11 long months -- for its turn. Repeating November would be like cutting in line. And I hate line jumpers.

Instead of a repeat or a delay, let's just call it "Nocember" and split the difference. If stores can market Christmas in July, and all but trample over the turkeys in their rush to welcome Santa, I can create Nocember.

Handy, don't you think, that Nocember starts the same day as the Gregorian calendar's December? Yep, that's my OCD showing. I have enough trouble remembering the dates of appointments and events without trying to figure out some sort of exchange rate between calendars. Once I get a little more comfortable in this new role of Queen of Everything, Including Space and Time, I might adjust the numbering or naming of days. A Monday by any other name would still smell just as rank, but troubled spellers the world over would thank me for changing Wed-nes-day.

Quite frankly, I'm tired of this 24-hour, 7-day a week schedule. The rest of the world can conform to my schedule for a while. Some days you just need an extra hour or two to get things done. And sometimes things need to move along a little faster. Ooops, sorry, Thursday has been canceled this week, we'll have to schedule that meeting for another day.

After all, isn't our entire concept of time just an artificial construct? Hours, days and weeks are just units of measure created to give structure to man's existence. They create the impression of order while ultimately limiting our experience to the here and now.

By the way, I spent my Augtober getting my PhD in BS.

But this is not a time to look backward, nor a time to wax philosophical. Now is the time to make plans for Nocember, and more specifically my own personal NaNoWriMo. So I suppose you could call it JoNoWriMo. Hmmm, that sounds a little too much like the way my November actually turned out -- Jo no write month.

NoProBlameOh.

Since my goal isn't to create a novel there's no "No" no mo'. Instead I shall challenge myself to blog everyday of the month, making it JoBloWriMo. That sounds vaguely... weird, but it will have to do.

Now for that word count. To reach 50,000 in 30 days I would have to write about 1,667 words every day. Considering this is number 537, this project may run into Nocemburary.

What the heck. I've got all the time in the world.

Getting the Best of Bad Luck

2009-09-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

Way back when, when I was a kid, I remember watching Hee-Haw with the Good King Dad. (Obviously this was before DHS, because cornball, redneck humor is surely child abuse). There was one recurring sketch that featured someone singing "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

Well, I was trying to explain to someone the other day how that could probably be my theme song. I know of no silver lining too shiny to dispel a dark cloud. But I've come to accept and, to some degree, expect that thunderhead. Instead of moping (too much) about the hole in my umbrella, I just look for the humor in the tarnished silver lining.

They didn't get it.

You see, in the cosmic storms of fortune and fate, I'm a lightening rod for bad luck, catastrophe, inconvenience and misfortune. It's no one's fault -- just the opposite. People try to do nice things for me, but once I get involved it turns out all higgledy-piggledy. And when I try to do nice things for me, it's "Whoa Nelly! Bar the door!" Which brings me to what I thought was a funny story.

About a year ago I had to go in for a follow-up mammogram because of a shadow on the initial x-ray. Given my family history, I wasn't too surprised. In fact, I had an eerie feeling when I left the imagining center that first time.

Happily, the second x-ray was clear. (Yay me!) I decided to treat myself to a little caffeinated goody to celebrate. I was in downtown Iowa City anyway, and I needed to go to the library, so I figured I'd visit one of the hundreds of coffee shops on the ped mall.

The shine of my silver lining must have been absolutely blinding, because I found an on-street parking spot only half a block from the library. I fed the parking meter, slipping but not falling on the icy curb. Did I mention it was February and colder than a witches' mammogram?

After a quick (but careful) sprint to the library I decided it would be best to limit my outdoor exposure, so I popped in to the adjacent coffee shop. My silver lining was frosted but still shining, and Lady Luck favored me with a comfy chair near the window, toasty warm from the sunlight.

I enjoyed -- nay, savored -- my latte and sinfully delicious blueberry muffin, while losing myself in the trials and tribulations of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood of "Sense and Sensibility." At length, my cup was empty, the crumbs cleared, and the Dashwoods had reached the end of a chapter.

I headed back to the car, filled with bonhomie. My tummy was full, caffeine level high and the girls had received a clean bill of health. All was right with the world.

I also had a parking ticket.

Take that, you silver lining!

Most expensive coffee I've ever had. And worth every penny.

Look Ma Bell! No Hands!

2009-09-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

I have got to get me one of them hands-free, cell phone headset thingies.

Not because I need to be available by cell phone at all times. Duh. Why do you think the ringer is usually off? OK, it's because I forget to turn it back on, but that's not the point.

Not because I need an outward symbol of how important I am. I think the tiara pretty much says it all.

No, I need a headset to disguise my crazy ramblings and outbursts. Oh sure, talk to yourself a little and people thing you're eccentric. Talk to yourself a lot and they lock you up. Give random strangers constructive criticism and they take offense!

But! Talk into a headset and no one bats an eye!

This morning I saw a woman carrying on a conversation all by herself outside the ice cream parlor -- which is closed for the season by the way -- in beautiful downtown West Branch. We assume that she was talking to someone on her headset, but how do we really know that? Sure, she had her Franklin Day Planner in one hand, and she was dressed in comfortable yet professional-looking business casual style. But how do we know her cell phone was even on?

This hands-free headset fetish has its place, but leave them in the car, people. I don't give a crap if they're hard to connect and disconnect and it's easier to just leave them on when you go in the store. And don't give me that "Oh, I forgot it was there" crap. Hellooo, it's a growth sticking out of your ear. You know it's there.

Yes, you do look like a crazy person talking to yourself in line at the grocery store. It is almost, but not quite as annoying as the people who talk on the phone in public restrooms. Do me a favor people, don't answer or -- God forbid -- place a call while in a stall. It will save me from repeatedly flushing in an attempt to annoy you and drive home a point to whoever is on the other end of the line.

Don't even get me started on how much I don't want to hear your conversation.

But since you brought up the subject, no! I don't want to hear your conversation. In fact, I don't want to hear your conversation so much that I usually just tune out anyone around me who is talking. Someday I'm going to be run down by a truck because I ignored the people shouting "LOOK OUT! THERE'S A TRUCK ABOUT TO RUN YOU DOWN!" because I thought they were talking to someone else on their cell phones.

On the other hand (and I would have both available!), I could use this to my advantage. I already feel perfectly free to offer much needed advice on driving (and, occasionally, fashion) from the enclosed and nearly soundproof comfort of my car. They can't hear me, but on some level -- whether it is psychic or body language -- I think I get my message across.

The headset would give me a similar sense of freedom to offer advice while outside my car. The random pedestrian would never be quite sure if I was talking to them or not, but subconsciously they would absorb my advice and use it to better their lives.

The moron blocking traffic in the cereal aisle would hear "Aisle hog on lane 3." He would look around, sheepishly, then decide to stand behind his cart instead of next to it, allowing other shoppers to pass.

The lady with the screaming kid at the mall would hear "future juvenile delinquent" and would probably assume I was talking about someone else. However, one day in the future while she's talking to Junior via a whole different type of "cell" phone and remarking on how that orange jumpsuit really brings out the blue in his eyes, she'll have a flashback and think "I really should have tried a more proactive approach to discipline when you were younger."

Viola! Another problem solved, another life improved.

All thanks to hands free technology. And me.

Teaching 'Snot for Me

2009-09-10T21:07:00.000-07:00

Recently I took the "What is Your Ideal Job" quiz on Facebook. I expected the answer would somehow reflect my regal status -- something like "Queen of the Universe," "Royal Bon Bon Inspector," or the straightforward "Boss of Everything and Everyone."

But oh no. The answer was "Teacher."

These are the same insightful people who brought me such meaningful (and accurate) time wasting quizzes as: "Which Peanuts Character are You?" (Snoopy, of course), "Discover Your Birth Number" (2, a natural born diplomat. Well, duh), and "Which TV Mom Are You?" (Peg Bundy. Girl's got style). How could they let me down with "Teacher"?

Sorry. Been there, done that, warped a few teenage psyches along the way.

I can turn the most mundane occurrence into a "sign" of something, so I knew that getting "Teacher" as my quiz result was a sign. A bad sign. An omen of end of the world proportions. It was just a matter of time.

Today my time ran out. My second day of substitute teaching during the 2009-10 school year. The day that I learned without a doubt, that "Teacher" is not my ideal job.

If I wasn't feeling so melodramatic, I would amend that to "'Kindergarten Teacher' is not my ideal job." But after the day I had today, I deserve to be melodramatic. And technically I should amend that to "After the two and a half hours I had today, I deserve to be melodramatic." It was the longest two and a half hours of my life.

In my defense, kindergartners this early in the school year (12 days in) are basically tall preschoolers. And the preschool teacher has at least one aide. I would have settled for a roll of duct tape. With that I could have not only taped their mouths shut (Please be quiet, pleasebequiet, bequietbequietbequiet!), but also taped their little hands to their sides (No touching, notouchingnotouchingnotouching!)

The phrase "herding cats" kept running through my mind, but only as an example of a much easier job.

It's not a matter of adapting instructional techniques from high school to small fry. It's the whole caretaker thing. Here's an example:

As I was herding -- I mean escorting -- little "Regan" (name has been changed to protect the guilty and to insert a sly reference to Linda Blair's character in "The Exorcist") back to his seat, he sneezed a mighty sneeze. Being a thoughtful and polite child, he covered his mouth and nose with his hands the way you do when you sneeze.

At this point, everything went into slow motion.

Little Regan lowered his hands slightly, took a look at them, then turned to look at me, eyes wide in amazement. A snot/spit mix puddled in his hands and ran down one arm to his elbow. Another drippy strand connected the puddle to twin rivulets coating his nose, lips and chin. I quickly handed him a couple of tissues, turned him toward the sink and told him to wash up.

Then I wiped down the faucet, the soap dispenser and the paper towel holder. And washed my hands. Several times.

I seriously need to re-evaluate my career choice.

Is anyone hiring cat wranglers?

Winning is for Losers

2009-08-24T21:10:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Queen who had lost her sense of humor. She looked everywhere, but just couldn't find it. The everyday foibles of the peasants around her just didn't amuse her anymore.

She still dispensed driving advice from her royal carriage. But her heart just wasn't in it. She still had trouble finding just the right glass slipper to wear with her ball gown. But instead of pitching a royal hissy, she quietly submitted to the geriatric loafers without the stroke-of-midnight clause. Many, many, many times her fashion police and grammar police alarms went off. But instead of cutting the offenders down to size with a snarky remark, she merely sighed and went about her royal business, not even bothering to refer to it as "bidness."

Then one day she registered for a prize drawing because one of the prizes was a free latte. "Free" and "latte" are two of her favorite words. Put them together and how could she resist?

Flash forward to after the drawing. Much to the Queen's surprise she won the Grand Prize! At first the Queen was disappointed because she really, really wanted a free latte. Then she decided it was rude to look a free gift horse in the mouth (carelessly disregarding the hard-learned lesson of the Trojans). Besides, it was a "Grand" prize, and she really should cut back on the caffeine, anyway.

So the Queen started to get a little excited about the Grand Prize. (This is where the Greek Chorus hiding in the horse whispers "wait for it, wait for it.")

"Guess who's a Grand Prize winner! Woo Hoo!" the Queen asked the Little Princess. There may have been some car-dancing, singing, fist pumping, and gloating involved. Just enough mayhem to mask the sound of the trap door opening in the big wooden horse.

"This certificate expired last month," the Little Princess said. Oh yes, the Greeks had most certainly arrived in the center of Troy. That's right, the certificate had expired about three weeks before it had been awarded.

The Queen, who had lost her sense of humor, did not find this funny.

So she sat, prize-less, latte-less and humorless, brooding and moping in a most un-royal manner. She wondered WWDAALD? What would Dear Abby and Ann Landers do? Nothing, that's what, because they are both dead! She was going to have to figure this one out on her own.

She thought about calling someone, but who? And asking for something, but what? Because every time she played the conversation in her head the words FREE and GIFT kept coming out in ALL CAPS, and it always sounded RUDE and GREEDY. Especially since what she really wanted was a free latte.

Then she finally smiled. Because in a really twisted, sick, perverse, it-could-only-happen-to me kind of way, the whole thing was sort of funny.

Sort of. Not much, but a little.

To recap: The Queen did not get the Grand Prize. She did not get a free latte. But she may be on her way to finding her sense of humor.

So maybe she did get the Grand Prize, after all.

Move Over, Piano Man

2009-07-23T16:48:00.000-07:00

We took the Little Princess out to a camp by Indianola a couple of weeks ago. The ride out was classic: scenic Iowa by I-80. In other words, nothin' but corn as far as the eye could see.

I was reminded of the "Interstate 80 Iowa" song by Heywood Banks. If you haven't hear it, you simply must rush to YouTube -- after you finish reading this, of course. The lyrics are simple, yet painfully honest: "Corn, corn, corn...." If you've ever traveled I-80 through Iowa you can probably guess the rest.

I'm a big Iowa booster, but even I have to admit Banks' depiction is close. It would be better with a few "soybeans" at least one "dead deer." I'd also get rid of his "what's that smell? line." Iowa is not without aromatic treats, but if you can smell 'em while traveling down the interstate, you're driving too darn slow, and I'm probably behind you. Besides I-80 doesn't even go through Cedar Rapids.

Boring scenery aside, it was a lovely, green, relaxing Sunday afternoon drive. Much to my surprise, His Royal Highness the King, who is typically an interstate/shortest route/what's a scenic byway?-type of guy suggested taking the two-lane state highway 92 on the return trip. I was so excited I nearly wet my pants! (Or maybe it was the Big Gulp I drank on the way out there.) I figured this would be our chance for a little sight-seeing. We could see small town Iowa at it's best, view the rural countryside in all its charming farm splendor.

Wow. Was I wrong.

By the time we got to Ackworth (at least I think it was Ackworth) I was nearly comatose. The only thing more boring than seeing endless cornfields go by your window at 70 mph is seeing endless cornfields go by your window at 55 mph, up close and personal without a nice wide ditch between you. Traffic on the interstate was pretty heavy, obviously because no one else was taking the 2-lane road.

No.
One.

We were out there all alone, surrounded by all that green. Soon I thought I heard music. Hmmm, what was it? The dueling banjos from Deliverance? The "Duuhh dut' duuhh dut" from Jaws? The "Eeeh- eeh, Eeeh- eeh" from Psycho?

No, not this time. It was the "Corn, corn, corn, corn..." from "Interstate 80 Iowa" song.

In a desperate attempt to hold on to my last shred of sanity, I changed it up a little to create "Iowa Highway 92" song. The tune doesn't really matter, but if you absolutely must have music to go with your lyrics, think of the hypnotic whir of tires on a straight, flat, endless road. Enjoy.

Corn, corn, corn, corn,
corn, soybeans, corn.
Corn, corn, whew pigs! corn,
corn, dead deer, corn.
Corn, corn, soybeans, corn,
rusty farm implement, corn.

Corn, corn, soybeans, corn,
corn, whew cows!, corn.
Corn,, corn, mini mart, corn.
Corn, corn, soybeans, corn,
corn, dead possum, corn.

Corn, corn, corn, corn,
corn, church and cemetery, corn.
Corn, corn, soybeans,
corn, dead coon, ditto, ditto, corn.
Corn, corn, weed field,
corn, old school house, more corn.

Corn, corn, corn, corn,
corn, dead skunk, corn.
Corn, DEAD SKUNK!?, corn,
corn, SKUNK SMELL, corn,
still smells like skunk, corn.

Corn, corn, soybeans, corn.
corn, dead ...somethin', corn.
Corn, corn, soybeans,
corn, windmill, corn.
Corn, corn, corn, corn,
corn, abandoned house.
Oops not abandoned,
corn, corn, corn, corn.
Corn.

Great Ex-skate-tations

2009-07-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

The Little Prince has decided to become a skateboarding punk. If you listen carefully you can hear the "sproing!" of each hair on my head turning grey.

This would be the same Little Prince who inherited my lack of coordination and grace. The same stubborn little boy who has decided he doesn't want to learn how to ride his bike because "balancing is too hard."

SPROING!

Youth, cuteness and big, brown eyes have a way of wearing down even the most nervous of mothers. And so, last week while the Little Princess was learning to be an astrophysicist at College for Kids, the Prince was learning to be a skateboarder at the Muscatine skate park.

Muscatine has it's share of drawbacks, but they have great parks and playgrounds. The skate park is no exception -- clean, well maintained, and completely empty at 9 a.m. To paraphrase Dickens, it was the best of parks, it was the worst of parks; it was a young boy's dream, it was a mother's nightmare.

The worst of it: there was a coffee shop right across the street. A drive-thru coffee shop. My idea of heaven on earth. But (!) this was during the Iowa Late-June Heat and Humidity Wave. Temperatures were in the mid-80s by 9 a.m. Sweat was rolling down my sides as I sat in the shade of the half-pipe watching the Little Prince. A bath in hot coffee would have been cooler. Drinking hot coffee seemed torturous, sort of like the Devil serving coffee in the third ring of hell.

It didn't take the Little Prince long to figure out skateboarding on a flat surface is hard work and not much fun. He was really looking forward to doing X-Game style tricks. He had researched his moves by watching endless You-Tube videos and playing a multitude of on-line games. In his mind this more than prepared him to master the half-pipe. An evil, mean, little part of me thought the skate park might provide a wallop of reality up-side the head. I just hoped it wouldn't be a very hard wallop.

In fact, there wasn't a wallop at all. His sister might have been the one at "college," but the Little Prince is no dummy. All it took was rolling backward down the bottom of a ramp to make him realize doing skateboard tricks is harder than it looks.

If you are standing up, that is.

Stubborn-streak firmly in place, the Little Prince quickly adapted and spent his time "butt boarding" or sitting on the skateboard. In no time at all he went from tipping cautiously over the top of the ramp to sailing down the ramp and zipping across the court -- a blur of helmet, pads and smile.

A big, big smile.

While the Little Prince was learning to skateboard (sort of), I was learning the lingo (sort of). Some of the definitions on the web were a little incomplete, so I've fixed them:

Quarter pipe: A ramp used in extreme sports to allow the rider to break bones quickly and efficiently.

Half-pipe: Two quarter pipes facing each other across a flat transition, allowing riders to break bones coming and going.

Grind rail: A square or round rail or bar used for performing tricks, featured prominently in videos of riders clutching their genitals.

Banked wedge: A small ramp which lures its victims by looking harmless, proving the old saying "the smaller they are, the harder you fall."

The Little Prince used his new vocabulary this way:

"Mom! Watch me fly down the arm breaker totally out of control! Then I'll slide across the elbow skinner and over to the skull cracker. You have 9-1-1 on speed dial, right? Thanks for bringing me here, Mom. You're the greatest."

At least I think that's what he said. It's hard to hear when you're blinded by the smiles.

Confessions of a Catalogaholic

2009-06-18T21:11:00.000-07:00

I am a catalog-aholic. For me, the best part of shopping is browsing. OK, the best part is finding something that actually fits, looks good and I can afford, but the browsing is how you get there. Catalogs allow me to browse without walking from one end of the mall to the other, something dangerously close to exercise.

Catalogs also show me a wide variety of items that I hadn't realized I couldn't live without. Items so specialized, so unique that they never actually make it to stores. Merchants realize they are never going to sell enough of these items to justify shipping them out to the stores where they would just take up valuable display space while gathering dust.

Things like the Margaritaville Trio frozen concoction maker.

I do love me a good margarita, but I don't make them very often. Crushing up the ice for a frozen margarita is just too noisy and time consuming. When I want a margarita, I want it now! I lusted after the original Margaritaville frozen concotion maker, which combined a high-powered ice-crusher with a blender.

I fantasized about building my own little Margaritaville-themed bar on the deck. I imagined a little grass hut-type awning, a string of parrot party lights, a neon light shaped like a palm tree, a pink flamingo just because, comfy chaise lounge chairs and music by Jimmy Buffet, natch. The centerpiece would be my shiny, stainless steel Margaritaville frozen concoction maker.

The only problem? I have a one-margarita limit. Two margaritas and my head is pounding like a, like a, like a really loud pounding thingy. I just couldn't justify all that snazzy-ness for one margarita every now and again.

But now.

Now there is the Margaritaville Trio frozen concoction maker. An even larger ice shaver with three -- count 'em THREE -- "independent blending stations" for a combined 72 ounces of margarita-liciousness. Available for your very own home usage.

It boggles the imagination! Of all the things in the Williams-Sonoma catalog that I desire but have absolutely no need for, this one takes the cake. It is the apex of margarita technology. The perfect blending (as it were) of consumerism and consumption, of impracticality and, well, that pretty much sums it up.

And I am lime-green with envy.

It's not just the Margaritaville Trio frozen concoction maker, it's the lifestyle that would cause someone to need the Margaritaville Trio frozen concoction maker. Who really needs to make a combined 72-ounces of frozen drinks at the same time, at home, often enough to justify the cost of such a machine? Other than Jimmy Buffet, that is.

And if you could afford it and needed one, would you really want to spend all your time standing around making 72-ounces of frozen drinks? Or cleaning up after a bunch of people who could drink multiple 72-ounce batches of frozen drinks? And if you could hire people to run the machine and clean up after your friends, would you really spend your time looking through catalogs?

I think not.

I think this is one of those products destined to be in the sale catalog next time around. And so, to save the good people at Williams-Sonoma the stress of worrying about how they are going to get rid of a warehouse full of Margaritaville Trio frozen concoction makers, I will volunteer to accept one at no charge.

Ole!

This Space for Rent

2009-06-11T20:29:00.000-07:00

I read an interesting article in the Cedar Rapids Gazette recently. It was a morning much like any other, as the royal family shared the paper and discussed important issues and world events.

"Darling children, what would you like for breakfast?" I called. "Lucky Charms or Cinnamon Toast Crunch?"

"Our Kellogg's Pop Tarts are already in the Kitchen Aid toaster, Mother dear," the Little Princess and Prince replied. "Would you please pour our Sunny D for us?"

"Of course, dears," I said. "It's right here in our GE refrigerator, right next to my Tropicana orange juice. I'm glad I remembered to pick up more Eggo Nutrigrain waffles."

"Hey, save the sports section for me," His Royal Highness said with a chuckle, knowing full well that we always do. "My heart-healthy bowl of Quaker oatmeal is almost done cooking in the Kenmore microwave oven, then I'll join you around our table from the Kalona Furniture Mart."

"What are you planning to do today, Mother dearest?" the Little Prince asked.

"I think I will do a few loads of laundry in our Maytag washer and dryer this morning, "I said. "Then you could help me make Kraft Mac and Cheese for lunch."

"Can we have Oscar Meyer hot dogs, too?" he suggested.

"I'd much rather have tuna casserole, made with Velveta Shells and Cheese, Chicken of the Sea tuna and Green Giant peas," said the Little Princess.

"That sounds good," the King said. "I see we're out of Campbell's soup, so I'll have to grab a sandwich at Subway. Maybe I'll get a bag of Sterzings and a Coke, too."

"According to the weather report on WMT AM600, this would be a great day for a ride on our Schwinn bicycles," the Little Princess said.

"I'd much rather stay home and play on the Wii," the Little Prince complained.

"If you'll put on your Nikes we'll walk into town for a Well's Blue Bunny ice cream treat," I offered. "But first it's into the shower for you two! The Dial soap, Suave shampoo and Cannon towels are all ready for you. And don't forget to brush your teeth with Crest!"

"Oh my goodness, look at the time on my Timex watch!" I said, turning to Hubby. "Honey, you'd better lace up your Timberland boots and drive the Honda Ridgeline to work."

"But first I wanted to draw your attention to this interesting article in the Gazette," said the King. "Did you know that some Bloggers earn money by mentioning product names in their blogs?"

"I am shocked! Shocked, I say," I said. "More than that, I am shocked and appalled."

"Shocked and appalled that you didn't think of this earlier?" he asked.

"No!" I said, vehemently shaking my head. "I would never compromise my principals by shilling for a product for cash!"

Not when they could write me a check.

Hairy Tale

2009-06-04T15:11:00.000-07:00

Got my hair cut last week. Added a little color. Nothing big. A little gray here and there. Just for kicks.

My friends have been trying to get me to color my hair for a long time. I must admit, the gray really "pops" with this cut. And it looks totally natural! If you didn't know better, you might think it came from years of worrying about and looking after kids, a husband and an aging mother.

I think the new color makes me look more mature. And to be honest, I was getting tired of looking so darn young. It was such a hassle being carded all the time. Having to wear the "teacher" badge at the high school so no one would think I was a student. Assuring strangers that the Prince and Princess are my kids, not my brother and sister.

It had only been a couple months since my last style change -- which I loved, loved, loved. But I was feeling restless and, as I'm still afraid of needles, a tattoo was out of the question. An Ahm naw ge-in my tuh pier! Ah doe cahr wah deh seh, you tah fuh-y wih a pier tuh. (Sound it out, people.)

Besides, I enjoy trying out new haircuts. It's a thrilling little battle of wills between me and my hair. I want it to curl this way, or poof up that way. My hair wants to lay flat, or stick straight out at odd angles. Eventually we come to agreement -- meaning I give up and let it do what it wants. Then it's off to the hairdressers for a new cut and a rematch!

My new 'do is supposed to look like pop-singer Rhianna's, although the gray reminds me more of Jamie Lee Curtis's hair. It's a toss up. I could easily be mistaken for either one. OK, I might have to add colored contacts, but then, for sure.

When it's not humid and the nozzle on the hairspray isn't all gunked up and I have beaten my hair into submission, it's kind of "poofy" at the crown with a straight "swoopy" over one eye. This is not to be confused with the mullet, which is "party" in the back, "business" in the front. However, the swoop over the eye does add a "business" element to it, as it reminds my family of Kate Gosselin of "John and Kate Plus Eight." Channeling Kate has really helped me get in touch with my inner bi... I mean, inner assertiveness.

The Royal Family likes the new hair cut. Or they've been too afraid of my inner-Kate to disagree. It's a win-win. His Royal Highness reserved comment, looking at me nervously until I confirmed that yes, I had gotten my hair cut. At least he noticed this time, although we do need to work on his enthusiasm and sincerity.

The Little Prince took one look and asked "Whadup wid' da' hair, Mom?" as he headed off to become a rock legend on Guitar Hero. Who is this little hoodlum, and what happened to my English-speaking boy? Maybe I should see if they have Baroque Hero, or Orchestral Hero for Wii.

The Little Princess didn't get the whole color thing. She suggested I replace the gray with blond highlights.

"Gray is the new blond," I said.

"Wow, you have a lot of blond hair," she said.

Who says blonds have more fun?

All Ready, Mr. De Mille

2009-05-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I had a wild hair (hard to believe, I know), and sent a resume in response to a casting call for an Iowa-made movie. In the end my wild hair was tamed and my cover letter was ... not as attention getting as it could have been.

Flash forward to now: I still haven't heard from that casting director and I've learned my brother (have I ever mentioned how talented and handsome he is?) will be directing a local production of The Music Man this summer. Coincidence? I don't think so.

Here is the cover letter I should have sent.

Dear Casting Director,
After missing the recent casting call in Cedar Rapids, I was excited to see you would be accepting applications by mail. This will give me a chance to put myself out there without actually, you know, putting myself out there.

In person, I can be rather reserved. But believe me, beneath this shy exterior beats the heart of a true ham. But enough of that dull, wallflower stuff! I'm ready to grab the spotlight with both hands and shake it until I'm on the cover of every supermarket tabloid!

This letter will give you a chance to slowly get to know me. You can keep it around, moving it from pile to pile, referring back to it. It will give me a chance to grow on you. I'm kind of like a pebble in your shoe: easy to miss at first, but impossible to ignore in the long run.

I think most people secretly wish for a little attention, even as they toil away in relative obscurity, keeping their heads down, trying to blend in, establishing a new level of anonymity. Except for that Unabomber guy. He really, really wanted to be left alone. Then again, if that manifesto wasn't a cry for attention, what was it?

Back to me. I realize my acting experience is limited and old. I was in all the usual high school and college productions. I played such roles as: Lady Walking Dog By Window, and Girl Number One. Speaking of that part, there is no truth to the rumor that our production of "Fieffer's People" caused IWC to close its theater department. It was merely a coincidence. Bad timing. Really.

However, to quote The Bard, "All the world's a stage," and since then I have taken on many different roles. My performances have been making people think I'm competent for years. Any Jen, Brad or Angelina can read a script and make it seem convincing. With me it's all improvisation. Extempore. All day. Every day.

You want me to act like I know what I'm doing? Hey, I'm a mom! I haven't had a clue since that first contraction. I'm a substitute teacher, for Heaven sakes -- Spreken ze Espanole? You want me to act interested? I've been to more board meetings than I can shake a stick at, and no one's ever caught me sleeping. You want me to act dumb? "Why no, Officer, I don't know what the speed limit is through here." You want me to act smart? "Yes, those pants do make your butt look smaller!"

In conclusion, all I can say is my "One Grecian Urn" will have you on your feet. "Two Grecian Urns" will make you cheer. And "A fountain"?

Trickle, trickle, trickle.

Mom-edy of Errors

2009-05-20T20:35:00.000-07:00

To the Mom at the ice cream parlor trying to break up a "raspberry" blowing fight between her two small girls: We weren't laughing at you, we were laughing with you.

I know you weren't laughing right then, as you wiped spit off your thighs, but someday you will. Because someday you'll be out shoe shopping by yourself, and you'll hear a little voice in the next aisle say in a loud voice "Wow, those shoes are ugly." Then you'll hear an embarrassed Mom hush the child.

It will be your turn to laugh. And you will. Trust me.

You'll laugh because it was not your child that said it. It could have been. It has been. But this time is wasn't. And you'll be grateful.

I still remember dragging my two little demons through Target, wondering if I could stamp a bar code on their butts and leave them on a shelf. Just as we were about to leave I saw the World's Most Perfect Mom, along with her four adorable and well-behaved young girls.

What she would think of my two uncontrollable, arguing children? I was ready to tuck my head and run past when I realized they were having their own little "Come To Jesus" meeting -- complete with rapid finger shaking right in front of the girls' little noses, and threats of "If you ever do that again..."

She was human. Her daughters were human. I wasn't alone.

We've all had those days. I've had so many of those days that I no longer look on them as a source of frustration or embarrassment, but rather a source of encouragement and support for other parents. Whether it's an awkward child-rearing moment, or some other domestic disaster, these incidents give us all a chance to laugh at ourselves. Eventually.

All that just to set up my latest run of bad luck. A calamity of previously unimaginable proportions. A series of errors so convoluted, it could only happen to me. Or you.

We were facing a daunting evening full of activities, but I had drawn up a battle plan: Dance pictures in WL, change and race back to WB for Little League pictures, then home to change clothes and hand off the Little Princess to Dad for transport to a softball game in Cedar Rapids with the other team while I took the Little Prince to t-ball practice. I even had the first two changes of clothes with me in the car, the third was laid out at home.

What's that? The sweet sound of smug superiority? Perhaps the off-key overture of overconfidence? Whatever it was, it was soon drown out by the discord of disaster.

Oops! Missed the note about contributing to the dance teacher's gift.
Oops! The time for Little League pictures was changed, then switched to another night. Ran home to get the change of uniform while Little Princess stayed to practice.
Oops! Forgot cleats and Little Prince's t-ball gear. Back home.
Sent the Little Princess and the King off to the game. Tried to help out with Little League practice while keeping an eye on t-ball practice. Ate more than my share of gnats.
Oops! Realized Little Princess didn't have her glasses. Considered hot gluing them to her head.
Ran home to get glasses.
Oops! Forgot Little Prince's homework which would now have to be done at the ball field. Back home.
Oops! Out of gas. Filled up, drove through McDonald's.
Oops! They put the "slow" in "fast food." Made it to Cedar Rapids in time for the second game.

Somewhere along the route I managed to escape from the black cloud of doom that had been hovering over me. Perhaps it floated off while I was crawling through the one-lane, reduced speed No Work Zone on I-380. It's not like I went looking for it. I'd had enough of bad luck.

Judging from all the "thbbbbs" at ice cream parlor, that black cloud has found a new home.

For a little while.

Who's Your Mommy?

2009-05-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

The bus was late yesterday morning. This actually worked out well, because it gave me five more minutes to yell at the Little Princess.

I don't even remember what the fuss was about. It was morning, she was being 11, I was being a Mom. Do you really need more reason than that?

It was one of those days I could identify with the wild animals that eat their young (bet they taste like chicken). Or at least those that push the pups out of the den before they become teens.

No matter what the nature shows tell you, I'm betting it's the mommy animals that run off and hide behind the trees hoping their little girl wild animals won't find them. The daddy animals are out showing the little boy animals how to operate power tools without opposable thumbs, and saying "Oh, now. You girls play nice."

Makes me wonder why the Queen Mother didn't slap a "return to sender" sticker on my forehead and arrange to ship me back via StorkEx. You see, I have reached a certain level of maturity which allows me to realize I might not have been perfect as a child. It took years for me to achieve perfection.

Maybe there's something about little girls reaching pre-adolescence that causes some sort of "Freaky Friday-" type switch. When she turns 11 (or 10, or nine?) the little girl's ability to empathize is zapped into the mom. But before anything can be zapped back, the little girl's brain holds up its hand, rolls it's eyes, says "Whatev," and stomps off.

I look at the Little Princess and all I can remember is the awful, horrible, awkwardness of being 11. The Little Princess looks at me and thinks "Yeah, right. Like you were ever 11."

But I was. And I remember what it's like to try to find a place to fit in. To want to be popular. To hate piano lessons. To have a life. To think the world revolves around me.

Of course, the world does revolve around me. Now. It took years for that to develop, too. Believe me, when you're the Center of the Universe, there's a whole asteroid belt of annoying people orbiting around you. And it's an elliptical orbit than really gets in the way when I'm driving. Or shopping. Or just about any time I'm in public.

I've read that most children go through a stage when they fantasize that the plain, ordinary people they call "mom" and "dad" aren't their real parents. Their real parents are movie stars, rockers, secret agents, or some other famous, exciting and glamorous people. They cling to the belief that some day their real parents will sweep in and rescue them from the embarrassment of "Mom" in her polyester pants. Oh yeah, today's children just think we dress dorky. They don't know the horror of pants with a sewn-in crease.

Yesterday I fantasized that a hospital official would knock on the door and say, "I'm sorry. There was a mix up in the nursery. Some children were switched at birth. These quiet, well-behaved, children who follow directions are actually yours. We'll just return those stubborn, surly kids you've been raising to their rightful parents. Sorry for the mix up."

"And by the way, Colin Firth will be along later in his Porsche to whisk you off to a private jet for a flight to a private villa in Greece, where you'll be meeting with a book publisher about your multi-million dollar contract."

Eh, as long as I'm fantasizing, might as well go all the way.

Driving Queen Daisy

2009-05-06T14:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I figure if I don't laugh, I'll cry. And I get all blotchy when I cry, so that is to be avoided at all costs. With that in mind, here's a little story from last week:

My "I'm a bad daughter" guilt was nearing bone-crushing proportions, so I borrowed a lower-riding chariot to take the Queen Mother for a ride. The QM has always enjoyed getting out to observe the kingdom, but her current lack of "up" motion and limited ability to stand once "up" has made it impossible for her to get into either of our vehicles.

It was a combination errand/lunch/sightseeing trip and the first two went pretty well. I managed to get QM into, out of, and back into the chariot without mishap and, most importantly, the coffee shop would still be open when we finished up. I was feeling a little smug.

We drove into West Branch from the west and had nearly reached the center of town, when she asked me to drive by the bank.

After I drove by the driveway, of course.

I continued on to the corner by the post office so I could go around the block and head back the way we came. She said she wanted to see the new bank, so we retraced our seven-block route out to the western edge of town. After driving out to and around the new bank, she decided that wasn't what she was looking for.

Back into town (seven blocks) and around the "old bank." Nope, this wasn't what she was looking for either. By now we were back at the corner by the post office, which I pointed out again.

We turned south toward West Liberty, and increasingly more important, toward my stress-relieving latte.

"That new building is out this way," QM said. Nope, nothing new out this way, I said. "Yes, the new post office," she said. "It's just out this way a little bit."

I "nope, no new post office"-ed and she "yes, a little bit further"-ed the entire 3.5 miles to Downey, at which point she conceded there was no new post office out that way. To erase any doubts, we retraced our route, returning to West Branch.

Back into town. Back past the Hoover Museum. Back past the post office. Around the block one more time, bringing us full circle to the post office. We turned south to head out of town once again.

I was starting to wonder if I could take my latte to the bar two doors down for a little extra stress relief.

This time we made it 1.5 miles before she asked where the Hoover Museum was.

Back into town, past the museum, past the post office, around the block, back in front of the post office. The only one we have.

Hoping the third time would be a charm, we headed out of town to the east. While she didn't say anything, I had the feeling she thought maybe the elusive new post office was out that way. However, we made it through Springdale and all the way back to West Liberty without another mention of the you-know-what.

As we entered WL from the north, she asked me to turn west. The guilty feeling returned, and I figured a short drive around town was a small penance.

"This road goes to Iowa City, doesn't it?" she asked. Yes, I replied.

"Well, maybe that new post office is out this way."

I decided to skip the latte and head straight for the bar.

When I told the Little Princess about our drive -- with my usual understated delivery -- she was overcome by the giggles.

"Keep laughing," I said. "In about 40 years, I'll be asking you to show me the new post office."

It's good to have something to look forward to.

Miss Smartie (Car) Pants

2009-04-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

I saw two Smart Cars on Earth Day. They were zipping around like a couple of gnats, flaunting their fuel economy. In case you haven't seen one, they are about the size of a dining room table -- about five feet wide by eight feet long. They are just so darn cute! Like a Barbie car, only bigger.

A little bigger.

Since we can't have a pet, I'm thinking of petitioning His Royal Highness, the King, for a Smart Car of my very own. I have my approach all planned out:

"Look what followed me home, Honey. Isn't it cute! Can I keep it? Please, please, puhhh-leeeze?

It doesn't shed or bark, and it would be cheaper to feed than the kids. Look at those little tires, it's never going to be very big, so it won't take up as much room as the kids, either.

Remember that playhouse we never built for the Princess? We could park the Smart Car in there and she would still have room to play. Or maybe that tool shed you've always wanted. OK, that I always wanted. There'd be room for the Smart Car and the lawn mower that we don't have. And the weedwacker, and the snowblower, and the bikes....

But it might get lonely out there all by itself. We'll have to get a ticking clock or a radio to keep it company. What am I saying? It already has a radio!

Yep, it would be pretty dark and lonely out in the shed. And cold. Maybe we could fix up a place for it in the family room. I'm sure it would fit through the patio doors. We wouldn't have to worry about the carpet, either, because it's already house-trained. I mean, they do call it a Smart Car.

I promise I would take good care of it and play with it and wash it and exercise it. I'd only drive it in to town and only on paved, two-lane roads. You didn't think I was going to drive it on the interstate, did you? Pppfff. Please. Are you trying to get me killed?"

Smart Car are being marketed as super fuel-efficient. But I'm not sure how practical they are for a family. I mean, it's only a two-seater, so if I wanted to take the Little Prince and Princess with me, I'd have to make two trips. So much for saving fuel. And there's only room for about two bags of groceries in there, so I'd have to go to the store every other day.

Practical, schmactical. It's still cute.

The real reason I want a Smart Car is because last year's quest for a motor scooter was unsuccessful. I had images of me flitting around like Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday," wearing a flouncy skirt, tasteful ballet flats, a jaunty scarf around my neck.

His Royal Highness had images of me with road rash covering 90 percent of my body. He said something about me not being able to walk across the street without tripping. Coordination is so overrated.

I promised him I would always wear a helmet. (Change the image to blue and white striped sailor shirt, white capris, white Keds, white helmet. I would still be stunning.) Maybe I can sell the Smart Car as a whole-body helmet! Much safer than a scooter. As long as I don't hit a car. Or a squirrel. Or a grasshopper.

The Smart Car would also be a lot more enjoyable to drive than a scooter in the rain and cold. Snow wouldn't be a problem either.

If I got stuck in a snowbank, I could just pick up the car and carry it home.

Up Your Sunny Side

2009-04-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think my writing is too acerbic. Too sarcastic. Too mean. "Lighten up!" I tell myself. Someday the Little Prince and Princess will go through my writings and see only the ramblings of a crazy, cranky old lady. How will they ever reconcile that image with the dazzling ray of sunshine that is the real me?"

In an attempt to leave a more accurate record of my cheerful demeanor for posterity, today's posting will be unrelentingly positive. No more Gloomy Gus here! I'm on the lookout for silver linings. I'm fastening on my rose-colored glasses with duct tape. You've been warned.

I felt just like a Disney princess this morning as I awoke to the melodious chirping of the birds outside my window. At 4:30 a.m. The little darlings couldn't wait to herald the dawn. Oh! To live without the restraints of measured time enforcing arbitrary concepts like: sunrise isn't until 6 a.m. Oh! To be as cheerful as they, lifting my voice to greet the promise of a new day. At 4:30 a.m.

Our newspaper delivery person obviously shared the birds' joy. His concerto of car stereo, faulty muffler and door slamming brought me back to consciousness when slumber dulled my attention to the songbirds. Happy was I the birds increased their volume to ensure my rapt attention.

Today was an absolutely gorgeous day. The sun shone brightly. The grass sparkled like emeralds, tossed about by a breeze bearing greetings directly from our generous, frost-bitten brothers in Alaska. What folly to expect spring weather to be warm. Such narrow-minded thinking!

It was a perfect day to enjoy nature. Or better still, to run time-consuming errands requiring driving. If I hadn't been out on the road today I may have forgotten that just because someone puts their turn signal on, they should not feel obligated to turn. Good for you, unknown driver! Defy conventions! Turn wherever and whenever you want. Or not.

Those energetic, mucus-enhanced, exuberant youths in the dentist's waiting room? Such a pleasure to share their company! I had no idea snot bubbles could get that large. It's true, America's Got Talent!

So what if the appointment ran a little longer than expected. So what if I didn't have time to stop in at the coffee shop. Who needs a little, pick-me-up latte when they are feeling stressed? Not me. No siree. I'm high on life! I'm no slave to Mr. Caffeine or his little buddy Mr. Brown Sugar Syrup, floating around all nice and warm and smooth under a soft cloud of foamed milk.

Pardon me. It just gets so hard to type when I can't see the screen because of (snif) the tears. But, like I was saying, getting up to go after a tissue is a good thing, and ..., and ..., yes, I think I'm OK now. Because I've saved the best for last! The perfect ending to the perfect day, brought to you the Visa commercial way:

Making three trips to the softball fields because I forgot the chairs and then the team's checkbook? $1.90 in gas money. Loosing feeling in my fingers and toes because of those air-sharing Alaskans? $7.50 for ultra-delux sweatsocks. Sitting behind a dog making the exact same sounds as Snot hacking up a bone in Christmas Vacation? $25 for a new pair of jeans. (I just about wet mine laughing). Watching the Little Princess' team crush the opposition? Priceless.

Whew. A whole day of cheerful. That wasn't so bad.

But I am reminded of the old saying, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

Catch the Wave

2009-04-15T19:41:00.000-07:00

Hot Snot on a Silver Platter! I have a guar-an-teeeed ba-zillion dollar invention idea. We're talking multi-million dollar lottery jackpot, load up the truck and head to Beverleee amounts of money.

You are all hereby sworn to secrecy or something very near like it until I can apply for a patent, registered trademark, and copyright. I just can't decide which to do first, fill out those forms or call Billy Mays and tell him to box up all that Might Putty 'cause we're goin' big time, baby! I tell you this idea will make my name synonymous with Ron Popeil and the Ronco Pocket Fisherman. It's not just the best thing since sliced bread its..., well, it's way better.

Anyhoo, about the new idea. The mind-numbing brilliance of this invention can best be appreciated when you start with the inspiration. Get ready, 'cause you are going to bruise your butt kicking yourself for not thinking of this first. But you didn't. I did. And the title of "World's Best Inventor" is not plural.

There I was, making my leisurely commute (8-minutes in heavy traffic) from the 'burbs into the thriving metropolis for another morning of church secretary-ing. Heaven knows I am typically a model driver. I sit up straight in my seat, hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, attention focused entirely on my surroundings, radio and cell phone set to mute so as not to distract.

But that day I was slouched in my seat, left hand pointer finger curled around the steering wheel at approximately the 7:43 position, right hand cradling my travel mug of coffee which was balanced on my right leg. As I crested a hill I met a friendly Iowan, giving me a neighborly wave. By the time I adjusted my grip on my mug and raised it in a half-assed wave/toast, they were just a speck in my rear view mirror. There is no way they could have seen my friendly reply.

Unfortunately, this has happened before. There are probably tens of people, maybe even less, out there wondering who is that snotty beyatch in the black Honda and why didn't she return my wave? This is Iowa, after all, where most people drive around with one hand on top of the steering wheel in a perpetual half-wave.

I am not a beyatch. Ok, maybe I am. But I am not a non-waving beyatch. It's just the coffee, and the holding, and the timing, and the potential for spilling. It's complicated.

Oh sure, some might suggest that I stop drinking coffee while I'm driving. Hellooo, this is me we're talking about. Why not just suggest that I stop breathing while driving? Obviously another solution is needed.

Something like (drum roll) the Auto-Auto Wave. (Applause, "Ohhs" and "Ahhs" are all appropriate at this time). You'll never again fail to return a friendly greeting when you use the Automatic-Automobile Waver (patent pending, all rights reserved).

Just attach the fake hand and cleverly disguised hinge to the top of your steering wheel. A rod made of space age polymers connects the stub end of the (fake) hand to an comfortable and stylish harness on the driver's (real) knee. All it takes is a gentle wiggle of the leg to cause the hand to raise up off the steering wheel in... a friendly wave!

Never again be thought of as inconsiderate. Show the world what a friendly person you are. Make someone's day with a cheerful greeting.

But wait! Call now and we'll include the Auto-Naughto Wave for those times when you don't need to use all five fingers to get the message across.

Because one good turn deserves another, but cutting me off in traffic deserves it more.

Spring It On Me

2009-04-08T12:13:00.001-07:00

As I was hunkering down for yet another winter weather advisory during "spring," it occurred to me that we really need a term that means "fake spring."

We call those rare, beautifully warm, late autumn days "Indian Summer," so why not have some nickname for those brief stretches of warm weather in early-early spring? Those days that trick us into putting away the snow pants, boots, heavy coats, hats, mittens and flannel jammies. Those intoxicatingly sunny days that Mother Nature follows up with a smack upside the head mix of snow, rain and wind? Or as I like to call it, Crap In A Cloud.

It fools me every year. A couple of nice, warm days and I move the turtlenecks to the bottom of the drawer. The Little Princess fell for it this year, too. Every morning for a week I had to send her back to her room to change into long pants and real shoes. Finally, with my Mom of the Year stock falling faster than the S&P 500, I let her wear her flip flops to school.

It snowed that day. Not much, but still.

That was also the day I also sent the Little Prince to school without his hat or gloves. I'm sure there were a few non-Mom teachers who were eying that Child Protective Services speed-dial button on their phones. On the up-side, the children now listen to my weather predictions with awe and reverence and don't even roll their eyes when I tell them to put on long sleeves.

Global warming be darned, this is not a new weather trick. When I was a kid, those first few warm spring days would lure all the little old ladies out of their houses to putter around in their yards. They'd rake leaves off flower beds and pick up sticks, their floral house dresses and chiffon scarves ruffled by gentle breezes.

Then in a colossal April Fools joke, Mother Nature would laugh, turn the thermostat back to 35 degrees and crank up the wind machine. The ladies would venture out again, floral hems peeking out from beneath woolen overcoats, knit scarves securing the chiffon scarves, rubber overshoes flopping about their ankles as they replaced the Styrofoam igloos covering the roses and spread sheets over tender flower buds.

Today their counterparts wear shiny, bead-dazzled warm up suits and flock to the casinos. You can't blame them, the weather in there is much better.

Fool me once spring weather, shame on you. Fool me over and over again and obviously we need government intervention. A task force must be assembled, funds must be appropriated, commissions appointed. But first we need a catchy title, which I would be glad to furnish (for a small consultant's fee, of course).

"Fake Spring" is brief and to the point, but a little harsh. "Faux Spring" has a nicer ring, but is a bit snobbish and hoity-toity. It needs to be a name that captures the essence of promises made, but not made good.

Like Politician Spring. Or more accurately, Candidate Spring.

Maybe even Office of Spring-Elect.

Press One Now

2009-03-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

This is your 358th notice that we are trying to waste your time with some special offer that you have absolutely no desire to hear about or respond to.

Your factory warranty, that you didn't know you had, on your outstanding credit card debt of an outrageous amount that we totally made up just to get your attention is set to expire soon. We know we told you that when we called the first time and every time since then, but this time we really mean it.

We need you to call your congressman, neighbors and everyone else you ever met in order to get this vital legislation passed. Please hang on the line to listen to a short, 30-minute recording that will make absolutely no sense but is designed to mentally beat you into submission so that by the time it is finished you will beg for the opportunity to send us any amount of money just to make us go away.

We know we interrupted your dinner, caught you just as you were walking out the door or on your way to the bathroom, or woke you up from your nap. We know that you are standing there with a toothbrush in your mouth and foam dribbling down your chin, or counting the seconds until the smoke alarm goes off because you left dinner to burn on the stove hoping this might be that important phone call you've been waiting for all day. We think this will make you more receptive to our sales approach.

We realize the only reason you are still on the line is that you think we will give you the opportunity to have to your name taken off the list. Before we get to that option we will continue to drone on and on about how your life, the lives of those around you, your money, and the fate of the entire United States is at danger without the excellent protection we offer. By now you have probably forgotten what this offer was even about. That is probably for the best.

To find out how we can fleece -- I mean help -- you, please press one now. You will be put on hold until you can be connected to a bored customer service representative who may or may not speak English, but who will be extremely angry that you interrupted his or her game of Spider Solitaire. He or she will hang up rudely if you say that you want to be taken off our call list for this spectacular, once in a lifetime opportunity which you will receive calls about every day for the rest of your life and even longer than that. Do not even try to argue with them. They are lifeless pod people who are paid by the hour, not by the response. They are not actually listening to you and couldn't care less about your response.

If you wish to be taken off our contact list, tough nuts to you. You can press two if it will make you feel better, but this will not accomplish anything. You may get a recording that says you will be taken off our list. This is a lie. Pressing two will just put you on our re-call list, because obviously you didn't realize what a wonderful program this is and how it will make your life richer and more fulfilling. We will continue to call until you surrender your soul and sign up.

Thank you, and have a nice day.

Get Away Replay

2009-03-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

Things I learned in Chicago:

1. Kindergarteners are nothing like piranhas. According to the Shedd Aquarium guide, the whole wild, thrashing, feeding frenzy, little fish taking down a cow thing is a piranha myth. Sort of. He said that was the impression given to Teddy Roosevelt during a trip to the Amazon, but what T. R. didn't know was that the piranha he observed had not been fed for a week. Makes sense, I'm a little cranky myself without my latte, which brings me to (quite possibly the most important thing I learned)...

2. The coffee you brew in the hotel room is nas-T. Ew. Even the memory is bitter. (HA! That was a good one. I'm pun-stoppable!) I don't even want to think about when that pot was last washed. Still, that was all that stood between me and a mythic piranha frenzy, because...

3. They charge out the whazoo for coffee at that hotel. Me, pay $3 for a cuppa plain Joe? Uh, what part of "Say Wha?" don't they understand? BTW, everything else at the Four Points by Sheraton (on Rush St.) was excellent, including it's proximity to...

4. Starbucks! That's right, the Mother Ship was on the corner. Perfect, no? No. What were all those people doing there at 9:30 a.m.? Doesn't anyone in downtown Chicago work? And don't they have coffee makers at home and/or work? Helloooo, I was on vacation. It wasn't like I had all morning to stand around waiting for my latte. Fortunately this was after I had learned that piranhas don't attack or I would have bitten someone, despite my new-found peace and tranquility acquired dirt cheap at...

5. Trader Joe's! Yes, Trader Joe's Market was squished in between the hotel and The-Pit-of-Desperation-Formerly-Known-As-Starbucks. Yay! I now have my very own, genuine Trader Joe's canvas shopping bag. At last I can show all the plebeians at Hy Vee how incredibly cool I am. I may even start walking around downtown Iowa City, just because! I am one of the beautiful people now. Bask in my hipness.

Oh yes, Trader Joe's had a full variety of Three Buck Chuck. TBC has restored respectability and good taste (that tastes good!) to a price range of wine whose reputation has been sullied by the likes of Mad Dog 20/20, Boone's Farm, and Night Train. But not everything at TJ's is good, for instance...

6. Using Trader Joe's Premium Quality Facial Tissues featuring 100% recycled paper is like blowing your nose on sandpaper. And I don't mean the Super Fine Finishing Grit, either. The King and I both know this because we were both hit with the Mother Of All Colds just as we backed out of the driveway. If you have not yet experienced the kick-assedness of this particular virus, you will soon. If you stop reading this blog every 30 seconds so you can blow your nose or pop another aspirin, you know what I'm talking about. You have my sympathy. 'Nuff said.

7. Speaking of kick-assedness: A couple of 20-oz. beers at ESPN Zone in the afternoon makes shopping sooooo much more fun!

8. Speaking of shopping and beers: Unfortunately there still is no bar/lounge at the American Girl Store although, as the King pointed out, sales would sky rocket if the Dad's didn't have to schlep around the place whining like little children (Can we go yet?). Also conspicuously absent: the "Molly's First Drunken Party" play set.

9. Speaking of All-American, I dragged the Royal Family to the top of the Sear's Tower. Yes they still call it that, although Sears hasn't owned it for quite a while as they point out in the pre-flight movie. Those are some fast elevators. I loved the view! The Prince and Princess? Not so much.

10. What else can I say? Great time. Definitely deserves the "Windy" nickname. Excellent pizza at Pizzeria Due (across from Starbucks!). Had to drag the family (especially the husband) out of the Museum of Science and Industry.

Can't wait to go back.

Trippin' Over Tripping

2009-03-17T20:33:00.000-07:00

I've been planning a short getaway for the Royal Family. I must say, if the allies had spent a proportional amount of time planning D-Day, it would have been called Z-Day and we would all be wearing lederhosen.

We're talking three, four days tops. To Chicago. It's not like we'll be spending a year in Zimbabwe. We don't even have to get passports. Do we? (Note to self, check on passport requirements for Illinois. You can never be too prepared.)

Yes. yes you can be too prepared. I passed too prepared a long time ago. I just didn't realize it until I Googled "Corner Bakery, Chicago" then wished I had done that before booking the hotel. (Looks like the nearest one is a good four blocks away. I suppose the walk might offset the calories from the blueberry muffins.) And I'm not even sure "Corner Bakery" is the right name. I just remember seeing a lot of them, they were all on corners, and they all featured a bakery.

It should not take four days to plan a four-day trip. Especially not when the big attractions are all set: Shedd Aquarium, Museum of Science and Industry, Field Museum, and Michigan Avenue. With the power of the internet at my fingertips, you'd think planning would be a breeze.

And it is. But the internet also makes over-planning a breeze. Each attraction has its own web site showcasing and highlighting and encouraging you to Plan Your Visit! I've taken so many virtual tours, I'm not sure I need to see the real thing.

I've downloaded maps, planning routes through the exhibits I think the Prince and Princess (and His Royal Kingness) will most enjoy. I've saved us valuable museum time that would otherwise be wasted standing around looking lost and arguing over where to go next, or how to find the nearest bathrooms.

Except that you know nothing will go according to plan.

First off, I'll probably forget the maps in the car and not think about them until we've hiked half a mile from the parking lot to the lobby. Oh yes, I Googled parking, directions to the parking lots, and parking prices, too. If I could reserve a parking spot, I would.

I've planned around the permanent, temporary and closed exhibits as listed on the web sites, but it would just be my luck for Sue, the T-Rex, to be out for dusting. Or for me to be the only one excited to see SUE!!! The T-REX!!!

I've used a nearly scientific method of determining the likes and dislikes of the Royals, based on their likes and dislikes for seven-, 11- and 40 some odd-years. But you never know when someone will suddenly develop a previously unexpressed desire to see the obscurest of the obscure. Like a collection of Chinese rubbings. Which is not on my list.

In the end, all my planning may be for naught. We may not face the same hurdles near 12th Street Beach that they did at Omaha Beach, but it could get pretty ugly. Especially if I don't get to see SUE!! The T-REX!!

Of if Corner Bakery isn't within walking distance.

"Lightning" Up for Lent

2009-03-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

So here we are in week three of Lent, and I'm, uh, still deciding on a penance.

Whew! Did anyone else feel that lightning bolt strike? It seemed so... close. Like it was... right beside me.

Maybe "still deciding" is a little strong. I've pretty much, like 95% of the time, except in times of extreme duress, given up pop. Or soda. If you narrow that down to "cola," my success rate goes up to 98%. It feels like a hollow victory, though, because cutting out pop would have been my New Years' resolution, if I made resolutions. Which I don't.

At Cathecism class I announced my plan to quit swearing. Unfortunately, for this to be possible I'd have to give up driving. And cooking. And my accounting class. And, well, pretty much everything.

The problem is that everything I consider as a penance either has unintended consequences, or isn't much of a sacrifice.

His Royal Highness, the King Husband, has suggested I give up coffee. I tried to explain that if this were to happen I would also have to give up the Prince and Princess as they wouldn't be allowed to visit me in the Big House which is where I would be after I killed someone (most likely him) in a rage created by caffeine withdrawal.

I could give up TV, but I never get to pick the shows anyway. I'm not sure giving up Disney Channel would count as a sacrifice.

I could give up being a smart ass. Ha! Oh, that was a good one! Woo hoo hoo! But seriously. No.

I could give up being right all the time. But that's not really a sacrifice on my behalf. It's not like I enjoy being right. It's a burden.

I could stop giving other drivers advice, but they don't seem to take it anyway. And they really, really need it.

I suppose at this late date, I should stick with giving up pop. Besides, drinking a Coke is soooo much more tempting when I think of it as a sacrifice, instead of just something to avoid.

And Lent is all about sacrifice and temptation, right?

And I'm all about the loopholes. St. Peter's going to have to meet me at the Pearly Gates with a squadron of lawyer angels. Of course, if the jokes are true, the lawyers will be stationed elsewhere.

Was that thunder I heard?

Not So Static Cling

2009-03-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

When the Prince and Princess were wee little ones, they would occasionally have "clingy" days. All they wanted, all day long, was to be held, rocked cuddled, and played with. In short, to be the center of Mom's attention all the time, all day long.

Now that they are asserting their independence, they can go nearly all day without needing dear old Mom. That is unless they need food, clean clothes, or a ride somewhere. Mom can referee the game, but she can't play it.

Back in the day, I used to get so frustrated thinking about all the things I wasn't getting done: the laundry, the cleaning, the dishes. I used to long for the day I could use the bathroom by myself. I still do. Nothing draws a crowd quite like heading off to the throne room with a good book.

These days I have a lot more time to myself to do chores. Just mention the possibility of work and the children who were about to die of boredom miraculously find something to do. I feel a bit like the Little Red Hen, if she had been a washerwoman instead of a baker. I wash the clothes, I fold the clothes, I put the clothes away, but everyone wants to get them dirty!

Yesterday was a throwback.

Yesterday was a "clingy" day.

The little Prince had two teeth pulled, and he needed a little TLC. On his own terms, of course. He didn't want hugs or cuddles. But he did want Mom to fix his drinks and snacks.

He didn't want Mom to hover, but he did want to have contact every 15 minutes or so. He needed to ask me a question, to give me an update on his Wii scores, to show me his latest creation. Short, but frequent interruptions that made it nearly impossible to concentrate on the work I'd brought home, or my on-line accounting class, or on finishing that book I was reading.

When the little Princess arrived home from school, she sensed the game and upped the ante by wanting not only my attention, but my participation. She wanted to know where the finger nail polish was and if I would paint her nails. The Prince countered by needed help finding the teeth that he had kept in his possession all day long. The Princess needed help with her homework. The Prince wanted to read with me. The Princess couldn't figure out how to use the TV guide by herself. They both took a sudden interest in learning how to cook and needed to be right beside me while I was making dinner.

I wish I could say I put aside all my chores and basked in their attention -- with a smile on my face. I wish I could say I didn't obsess over all the things I wasn't getting done. I wish I could say we all sat on the couch together and cuddled and read a book. Yeah, right, like that would happen.

I wish I could say I didn't snap at them out of frustration when they wanted me help them get ready for bed. I wish I could say I didn't feel relieved after hugging and kissing and tucking them in. Finally, a little alone time!

I wish I could say that relief didn't quickly turn to guilt. I wish it wasn't then that I realized how few and far between these "clingy" days were, and that they won't last forever.

I wish that evil little part of me hadn't thought "Someday, children. Someday I will have my revenge, and you will be waiting on me hand and foot!"

I wish that thought hadn't grown: "Someday I'll ask you to delete the messages on my voice mail, and I'll ask you to explain -- for the umpteenth time -- how to do that. I'll ask you to move a picture just a fraction of an inch, putting it right back where it was the last time I asked you to move it. I'll show you the angel I think someone just brought me, because I won't remember it's the one you gave me for Christmas."

I wish I hadn't realized those "clingy" days won't last forever either.

Touche', Queen Mother. Well played.

Vanity Is My Name-o

2009-03-03T19:47:00.001-08:00

I'm depressed.

Blue, sad, in a funk. Add to that irritated and annoyed. All over a photograph.

Well, not just any photograph. The photograph. Quite possibly the defining photograph of my life. The photograph that divides my life into two distinct, separate parts: Happy Me and Sad Me.

Why allow a photograph to wound so deeply? It's not just the picture, although it is one baaaad picture, let me tell you. What really bothers me is how much it bothers me.

Let's start with the picture itself. Ohhh, is it bad. So bad, that if it wasn't of me, I would laugh. With evil glee. Then, after snorting and wiping the tears from my eyes, I'd say, "Oh, poor dear. What an awful picture. She's really much better looking than that." Then I'd start laughing again.

There are logical reasons for my thinking it is a bad picture. I know there are, because I Googled it. That's how upset I was. According to on-line experts, this photo looks different than the me I see in the mirror because "blah, blah, blah, 3-dimension, 2-dimension, flip-flopping right and left sides, yadda, yadda, yadda." Or something like that.

I blame poor angle, poor lighting and poor caffeination. The photographer (who obviously hates me, although I don't know why) shot this from slightly below eye level, guaranteeing a good view of the turkey waddle starting to form under my chin. The crappy lighting forced the use of a flash and the red-eye eliminator pre-flash, guaranteeing a mid-blink picture of any contact lens wearer.

And it was taken after 8:30 a.m. Mass, so I had drank just one cup of half-caff an hour earlier and was running on fumes. Probably fumes from the decaff-half.

Oh, did I mention that this marvelous photo was going to be in the church directory? The adult equivalent of, say, a yearbook? I should be glad I didn't have a mondo-huge zit or that I wasn't wearing my "I'm with stupid" t-shirt. You'd think -- with the photo being shot in a church and all -- that God would have taken pity on me. But apparently he was siding with the photographer.

This brings me to part two of why the picture bothers me so much:

I can't believe it bothers me so much!

How vain! Who is this vain person obsessing over a silly picture? I'm not that vain! Am I?

Am I?

Crap. The truth sucks.

It double sucks, because not only have I been smacked upside the head with my own vanity, I finally have to admit that yes, I do look as old as my high school classmates. Let me tell you, some of them look like the birthday fairy beat the youth right out of them.

Holy Crow's Feet, Batman!

Of course, I only saw a poor quality, black and white, proof sheet copy of the photo. Everyone knows those are crap. And I'd been feeling a little under the weather. A little flu-ish. That would explain why I look so tired. Did I mention Mass starts at 8:30 a.m.? And that I haven't been sleeping well?

That part about my high school classmates looking old, you know I didn't mean you, right? Just those other people.

The old-looking ones.

Yeah.

'Cause you and I? We still look go-od.

Maybe even mahvelous.

If the lighting is right.

Kindergarten Baby

2009-02-23T17:46:00.000-08:00

OH.
MY.
GOD.
I am soooo not cut out to be a kindergarten teacher. Between job offers I tend to forget what a horrible, terrifying, painful experience subbing in a kindergarten classroom is. Or perhaps my desire for a paycheck helps me repress the memories.

The thought is always there (don't do it), just below the surface (please, don't do it!) when the school calls (anything, anything but kindergarten) and asks if I'm free to substitute (for the love of God, don't do it). It's like the spooky music playing during a scary movie: Don't answer that phone! Can't you hear the violin crescendo?

I remember the first time I subbed in a kindergarten room. They trickled in by ones and twos, quiet little cherubs full eager for learning. But soon I was caught in the swirling eddies of an ankle biter flash flood. I had stepped into a tranquil stream in the Amazon, only to see it become a churning cauldron of destruction as the piranha began to feed.

It's not that they wanted to take advantage of the substitute (that doesn't seem to happen until about third grade, a trust me). They were really trying to be helpful, the little dears.Each one knew what the schedule was. But each one's schedule was different. And each was absolutely certain they were correct. Kind of like politicians.

One on one, kindergartners are a manageable commodity. Oh sure, we've all seen the screaming toddler at the store. Always someone else's kid, right? An aberration, the exception to the rule. But as they are brought together, their energy level increases exponentially. A release of energy to rival the splitting of an atom.

Remember that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie Kindergarten Cop? He is completely overrun by the students, until they settle down, exhausted, for rest time. The director had it all wrong. The kids weren't nearly wild enough. And they don't settle down, exhausted, for rest time. The teacher might cower, quietly sobbing, in the corner, however.

Happily my day ended without bloodshed or wet pants. After about four or five (maybe it was eight or ten) tequila shooters (they're just like the kids: small, fast acting and they pack a punch) I mellowed enough to realize most of the students were good kids. In fact, I spent most of the day trying to corral just four kids: Beelzebub, Satan, Lucifer and Damien.

My favorite true story: I had just sent the students to their desks after group time on the rug. One little boy, whose assigned spot on the carpet was right up near the teacher (should be a hint), said his shoe was stuck to the table. I figured maybe his shoe lace had been tangled around the table leg. Oh, no. The shoe dangled from the support just under the table top, where it was bound by a knot any boyscout would be proud of.

How did this happen? I asked.
"I don't know!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with astonishment.
Was the shoe on your foot the whole time?
"Yes," he answered solemnly.
Was your foot on your leg the whole time?

Sarcasm is wasted on kindergartners. Another reason why I'm not a good match for them.

Blue Jean Bawling

2009-02-18T19:33:00.000-08:00

Bought myself a pair of new jeans the other day. I figure when the inseam on old ones start getting that white, frayed, poofy look, holes are not far behind. There's distressed, and then there's falling apart at inopportune moments.

The reason the old jeans were so tattered looking is because I hate shopping for jeans for myself almost as much as I hate shopping for jeans for the Little Princess. I can avoid the Hoochie-Mama low risers so prevalent among the pop-tart set, but there's no escaping the spandex-infused, "instantly slims you" fabric.

Ick. If I wanted to wear tights, I'd wear tights. I want good, old fashioned, 100% cotton, heavy-duty dungarees. Preferably dark enough to look like they're new. Hellooo. I have a shelf full of faded out, see-through thin jeans with that "worn look." I'm replacing them. I want to be able to tell the difference.

I resigned myself to the "instantly slims you" type, because I had no choice. Found a couple pair that had a "natural rise" waist, not the "don't forget to shave your pubie" rise. And they were dark blue. More or less.

The fit wasn't too bad. I was pleasantly surprised. Even in the store's evil, pound adding, sideshow mirror with shadow casting florescent lighting, these jeans looked good. Not too tight in the seat, not too loose in the thigh (Bwaa haa haa haaa. Like that's been a problem since... ever.), just a little gap around the waist band. Yeah, I don't understand that one either. It's like my body is taking that "hour glass shape" thing just a little too seriously. Maybe if I stand on my head everything will migrate back up to where it belongs. Including my boobs.

I even tried them on a second time at home before laundering them. Oh yeah, I launder all clothes before wearing. I've seen enough investigative reports to know that wearing unlaundered clothes is just asking for some deadly skin disease that only the CDC has ever heard of and won't be able to identify until after your autopsy.

Life would have been good if I had stopped there. But no. I did actually wash and dry them.

Enough said.

Now my thighs look, and feel, like overstuffed sausages. The only reason I don't have camel toe is because the jeans are too tight across my thighs to actually get up into my crotch. My tummy is so squished I have a constant urge to pee.

Yet despite this vise-like squeeze, the "natural rise waist" continues to move south. I feel like those kids I've seen over in Iowa City with their waist bands down around the bottom of their butt cheeks. Except that their jeans were all baggy and kind of puddled down around their knees. Mine fit like when I accidentally squeezed my tall, pregnant body into petite-size pantyhose. Don't ask.

But, you know, they don't look half bad. My butt is actually up where it belongs. The lower, looser waist eliminates "muffin top." Sure they're squeezing the heck out of my thighs and I'll be running to the bathroom every five minutes. It's a small price to pay for fashion.

Between the hitchin' and the runnin', I'll be moving so much no one will have time for a close look, so they just might work!

Lotta Latte

2009-02-04T19:31:00.000-08:00

I stopped in this morning for a latte (with Brown Sugar syrup, in case you're taking orders for delivery) at Local Grounds, the coffee shop in West Liberty. That's my little treat for being good. It's a little pick-me-up after visiting the Queen Mother at the nursing home, because those visits can be... well, stressful. The coffee is great, and the atmosphere is soothing and friendly. Just the thing to snap me out of my funk.

I think coffee, and food in general, is better when someone else makes it. Must be something about the lack of effort. Laziness just makes everything taste better.

I'm usually pretty picky about my coffee, because I like it weak. The weaker the better. So weak it needs a wheelchair, heh heh. It's 98-pound weakling-weak. Hot chocolate beats it up for lunch money. Weak-edy, weak, weak. Tea without the funny accent. Mom used to say I didn't make coffee, I just stored the coffee grounds somewhere near the hot water.

At home I make half-caff. Too much caff and I get jittery; too bitter and my tummy gets upset; No caff and my head gets upset. There's a fine line there. Honestly, I'm not sure caffeine causes the jitters I think it's just morning. Morning and a lack of sweets. A cinnamon roll and another cup and I'm good to go, in fact my productivity level goes way through the roof. Zoom! Like Hammie in the movie "Over the Hedge," the world just seems to slow down while I just keep on keepin' on, it's a beautiful thing. Drink just enough coffee (or booze) and suddenly EVERYTHING BECOMES CLEAR! Give me a couple lattes and a red phone and I could solve the world's problems. Or bomb the hell out of a couple countries. Maybe it's the same thing.

Of course I don't really believe red dye or sugar makes kids anymore hyper and obnoxious than they already are, it just makes the adults more aware of how hyper and obnoxious they are but if those parents had a little coffee and relaxed I'm sure everything would be just fine.

I do remember back in junior high one of my friends and I used to go downtown to the drug store to get a Coke after school -- it was always Dr. Pepper, but we called it a "Coke" because we thought that was the clever thing to do, I mean, we were in junior high, what do you expect? But anyway, we always got Dr. Pepper because we thought that made us silly, more silly than, say an actual Coke, but I'm sure if we thought Cokes made us silly they would have, too. I'm pretty sure Dr. Pepper has both red dye and sugar, in addition to caffeine, so it would be like hitting the trifecta, I think, but I don't really know what that is. It's a cool word though. Kind of like latte -- lah tehy -- latte, latte, latte. Hee hee hee hee.

So anyway, I was saying I liked Local Grounds because it's so laid back, I mean I've been to a couple coffee shops in Iowa City and everyone is all looking at you like you're an idiot if you don't know the difference between one crazy coffee name and another and if you didn't bring in your Save The Earth Refillable Mug, you're afraid they're going to spit in your coffee, and wouldn't that just serve you right, you beast, for destroying Mother Earth and for God's sake don't forget to ask for the Free-Range Free-Trade but certainly not Free-Cost special beans that were hand picked under a full moon at the peak of ripeness by virgins wearing 100% dye and perfume free cotton gowns and were individually individually cushion wrapped (the beans not the virgins) to avoid bruising during the flight to America on a soy diesel-powered airplane. Once in the States they (the beans not the virgins) are gently roasted (and I mean, really, how can you gently roast something?) in pure copper kettles by Monks who are first cousins to the virgin bean pickers and who personally watch via remote camera to make sure you enjoy your coffee because if you don't they will all (Monks, virgins and offending beans) throw themselves into a volcano to appease the Coffee Bean Gods -- who are no doubt named something like Grande Macchiato Frappa-hoochie.

But the girls who work at Local Grounds are really helpful and describe the drinks so you can understand and even offer suggestions and well, I suppose they're not really girls girls, I mean I'm sure there's a word to describe women of our age (sorta) other than that outdated "30-something", and yes I use the term "30" loosely because I think of myself as still 30-ish emphasis on "ish", but there was never a "40-something" and "30-something" just seems so 80s, although I remember when that TV show was on and I thought 30-something was just a hairs-breadth away from being ancient, and now here I am at that age where you start calling grown women "girls," and my gosh I sound like I'm ready for my wheelchair but only if it is custom designed to include a cup holder for my latte.

And maybe extra suspension because right now it seems the world has developed a little bit of a bounce. And maybe a seat belt because I seem to be having trouble holding still. And for sure extra wide tires because I'm gonna be burnin' me some rubber as I race down the road because I'm out of latte and I.
Need.
A Refill.
Now.

2009-01-25T19:02:00.000-08:00

I did not make a New Year's Resolution to lose weight this year. In fact, I didn't make any resolutions, because I'm so damn near perfect it already scares me. One fulfilled resolution might push me right over the edge, and then where would I be? Nobody's perfect, so if I were to become perfect, I'd have to cease to exist. Trust me, it's better this way.

Anyhoo, I've decided not to try to lose weight, because the cosmic cards are stacked against me. How do I know? Glad you asked. While I was out doing a little pre-New Year's shopping, I was hit by a double whammy of cosmic no-dieting energy.

How do I know it was a cosmic hint? Because it was two, two, two hints in one! Where else can you get a two for one without even trying? I was on a roll. Actually, a tortilla.

So there I was, trying to be a good girl by picking up a little drive-thru lunch before hitting the grocery store. Oh yeah. I've done the grocery shopping while hungry thing, and it was bu-ugly. Bags full of groceries, and still nothing for dinner.

On a whim, I decided to make a run for the border, not something I usually do. As a rule, the only tacos I like to get from a window are Ganzo's tacos at the Big Muscatine County Fair. Any other quick-style Mexican food brings back college age memories of closing down bars, or only having two dollars to my name.

Little did I know that Taco Whichever, had a New! Lite! Menu! I figured that many exclamations points couldn't be bad, so I ordered Lite! Chicken! Something! with an ice tea. No exclamation, but I don't really expect any excitement from my tea.

Fast forward thru the payment and pulling back out into traffic. Low and Behold, what do I find in my bag? Not a New! Lite! Chicken Whatever! That, I figured was cosmic sign number one (or numero uno, as it may be). I briefly weighed the option of going back to Taco Whichever and demanding a refund, but figured, hey, if they couldn't get it right the first time, what's the chance of them getting it right the second time? Besides, whatever was in the bag smelled much better than a New! Lite! Anything!

HELLOOOOO. Cosmic lightening bolt number 2 (numero dos): Did you know they make tacos with both a soft and hard shell?! I have got to get out more. I don't know who had this heavenly brain storm, but they are a freakin' genius! It's like a french fry that is both crispy and smushy -- and warm -- all at the same time. Think McDonald's fries fresh out of the fryer. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Add to that crunchy and smushy some spicy hamburger-like substance and a little grease and WHOO HOO -- a wrapper full of paradise. Waaaay better than any skinny ass, dry chicken and anemic looking tomato pico de gayo. Obviously a sign from above that I was not meant to eat dull, bland food.

I just feel sorry for whatever poor sap was expecting to get a couple of crunch wrap taste sensations, but ended up with New! No Flavor! Chicken Whatever! I sure hope they went back and complained. Or shot up the place.

Now that I have experienced Crunch Wrap Nirvana, I could understand New! Lite! Chicken Violence!

2009-01-04T18:54:00.000-08:00

I've been reading that researchers in Scotland have discovered that romantic comedies -- particularly movies -- are not realistic representations of life.

No shit. And just in case anyone's handing out research grants, I call dibs on finding out that cartoons aren't real, "processed cheese products" aren't real, and political campaign promises aren't really going to be kept.

In fairness, I guess their conclusion was more along the lines of watching romantic comedies gives people unreasonable expectations about married life and/or couplehood. They suggested that people needed more factual guides about how to get along, how to compromise, how to hang in there for the long haul.

I would suggest that we have those. They are called documentaries. And no one watches them.

Romantic comedies -- movies and tv in general -- are watched for an escape from reality, not for guidance. You don't watch "Roseanne" to find out how to treat your children. You don't watch "Halloween" or other horror movies to find out how to escape from a deranged killer. Although you could pick up plenty of pointers on what not to do: don't wear high heels, don't try to run backwards, don't walk down the dark hallway by yourself when there is creepy music playing.

It's all just a little too much like saying violent movies and games cause kids to behave violently. I watched countless episodes of Roadrunner and have never felt the need to drop an anvil on anyone's head. Well, maybe once or twice, but I've never actually done it.

I don't think it's the violent games or movies themselves, I think it's a lack of context. Let's side with the Scottish researchers on this one, and make the games a little more like real life.

For every character you kill, you have to go to trial. All hunting, fighting, street roding, etc. stops while you lawyer up. Navigating the legal system could be a whole new gaming experience! I suppose you could take it a step further and include being tracked down by police investigators, hiding out, laying low, blah blah.

Now, let's say you're found guilty. The game changes to surviving prison. You have to serve your virtual sentence before you can get back to the blasting. Or, if you get off as innocent, you have to avoid being chased by the family and friends of the character you off-ed, and try to re-establish your life as a productive member of society.

But! What if you were the one who was shot by the space alien? Now you enter the virtual hospital, and play a second character working at a minimum wage job in order to pay the bills. If you recover, your character may have physical limitations, or may have to stop play every once and a while for check ups.

And if you don't recover? Well, sorry Charlie, your game would self-destruct and you would be out the $40 or whatever it cost you.

Oh yes. I can see this idea is going to be a big hit. Don't worry. I won't forget you all when I become a big-wig at Sega or Wii or PlayStation. Maybe I'll even create a game about blogging your way to stardom.

Or not.

People are crazy

2008-12-13T18:33:00.000-08:00

Today was proof that the world is filled with people whose only purpose in life is to drive me crazy. Or proof that I deserve my own reality show.

I have a firm anti-weekend shopping policy during the holiday season. The stores are just too crowded and crazy. But I had to go out to the big chain drugstore to pick up a prescription and photo cards of the Prince and Princess. One stop, a drugstore, how bad could it be?

Actually, it wasn't too crowded. But it was off the charts crazy.

I walked back to the pharmacy pick up counter and noticed an older gentleman standing about five feet back from the counter and off to one side. He was hunched over with age and his coat hung from his thin body.

I figured he was waiting for someone, but, being polite, I asked him if he was in line.

He turned and snarled -- snarled -- "Yessss," using that "well duh" tone and giving me an eat-shit-and-die look that I thought only my children and high school girls were capable of.

I briefly considered running out to the car and using the drive thru to avoid being around when he started shooting, but didn't want to move too fast and startle him. I decided that if I stood real still and stopped breathing, he might forget I was there. Besides, those scrawny little arms wouldn't be able to hold a gun with much kick.

Along came a sweet looking little old lady with a walker -- obviously who he was waiting for, right? Of course not.

She asked if I was the end of the line. Psycho Man glared at both of us, and I half-turned to answer her, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered if I could use her as a shield, or if I would just end up tripping over her walker when I ran away.

Finally it was Psycho Man's turn at the counter. I slowly edged up to where the line normally would be, but hung back behind him by about two feet. God knows I didn't want him to feel crowded and nervous! Besides, I figured that gave me enough space to make my get away.

I was still concentrating on not listening to the conversation between Psycho Man -- except for words like "kill" and "gun" -- and making myself very small and inconspicuous, when two more ladies joined the line. We'll call them Snippy Lady and Hippy Lady.

Snippy Lady asked in a very loud and, well, snippy voice, "Is there a reason this line is so far back?" Psycho Man turned to glare at her, but of course, I was the first in his line of sight.

Now I wasn't sure which side I would get it from first. I turned to Snippy and tried to explain that I was giving Psycho Man a little extra space. I spoke quietly so I wouldn't attract his attention (or gunfire).

"What? I can't understand you," Snippy Lady spoke slowly and loudly because, obviously, I was either deaf or a blithering idiot.

I checked to make sure Psycho Man was still busy with the pharmacist (and not drawing a bead on me with his rifle), then turned to Snippy and said "He was giving the person ahead of him a extra space, so I'm just trying to give him little space." I spoke a little louder this time, and tried to use hand gestures to indicate "space," and "back off bitch," without actually flipping her off.

That's when we landed smack dab in the middle of Bizarre-o Land. I was waving my hands around saying "a little extra space." Hippie Lady piped up, "I think that's discrimination." Huh? What the? And Sweet Little Old Walker Lady said "I think it's so we don't all catch what he has."

I turned back to Psycho Man, fully expecting the worst. He gave us all a quick scowl, then tucked his head and took off out of there with surprising speed. Apparently three women yammering nonsensically were enough to scare him off. If only I hand known that before!

Unfortunately, the pharmacist also disappeared. Still wondering how I was discriminating against him, I turned to Hippy and Snippy and tried to explained once more. I thought they finally understood, but then Hippy said "I think it's so nice you 'signed' it to us."

"Yes," said Snippy, "I wish I knew sign language. How did you learn it?"

Oh. My. God.

No, it wasn't sign language, I just move my hands a lot when I talk, I said. Psycho Man may not have shot me dead, but now surely I was dying of embarrassment.

That would be a great place to end this story, but while we were waiting for the pharmacist to return, Little Old Walker Lady shared this with us. Back in the '60s, a friend of hers used to do sign language interpretation for the State of California. One night she was suffering from a head cold, and was not really "with it." She couldn't figure out why the audience thought the speech about water treatment was so funny. Later someone explained she had signed "My Mother and I cooked a turkey and put it in the toilet."

Yeah, I know how she feels.

Why I'm not a NASCAR driver

2008-12-03T19:24:00.000-08:00

I was cruising down I-80 the other day when -- faster than you can say Talladega Nights -- I slipped into race car mode. My right foot staged a coup and took over control of my driving senses. My pleasure cruise through the heartland became a challenge to catch up to and pass as many cars as I could, as quickly as I could.

While it was fun and all that, I didn't think a speeding ticket would add much pleasure to my travels. I reluctantly slowed down and put on the cruise control, thinking that maybe if this whole Queen of the World thing doesn't work out I just might have a future as a NASCAR driver.

I would be a success, of course, but surely being Queen of the Track would have its drawbacks. Then it hit me:
TOP REASONS WHY I COULDN'T BE A NASCAR DRIVER

1. No potty breaks. Well, not, you know, honest-to-God get-out-of-the-car-type pee breaks. I can barely make it from the Royal Castle in to town (all of 3 minutes, including waiting for the garage door) without a potty break. The little Prince and Princess hate shopping trips with me because I insist on potty breaks at nearly every store we visit. This is why it can take me all afternoon just to run a few errands. Better safe than soppy, I always say.

2. No eating in the race car. I've never seen a McDonald's bag rolling around on the floor in any of those "in car" shots during a race. And I've never seen a cup holder, either. I'll admit I don't watch a lot of NASCAR races, but you'd think maybe just once I would have noticed. When we bought the current Royal Carriage, I vowed no food would be consumed in it. That lasted approximately two days. And only that long because we didn't drive it on day two.

3. Jump Suit Ass. Need I say more? Sure Danica Patrick looks cute in her little jumpsuit, but she's elf-sized. Being of more Queenly proportions, I just don't think it would be a flattering look. Then again, perhaps a little fashion change is just what that sport needs!

4. Helmet Hair. Bad enough on its own, combined with number 3, this would be deadly. And a helmet is not something you could do without. Especially with those open windows. My hair would either be a wind-blown birds nest, or slicked-down, static clingy, helmet-shaped mop. I don't think there would be room under the helmet for my tiara, either.

5. More Voices in My Head. Just what I need, spotters and crew chiefs and who knows who else chattering away on the radio inside my helmet. I get enough advice about my driving already -- from the little Angels in the backseat, and the helpful gestures of fellow motorists -- I don't need anymore!

6. Road Rage. Despite my calm demeanor, there is a bitch inside me hiding just below the surface. I can picture the scene now: "Did Jeff Gordon really just cut me off? Oooohhh, I don't think so, Girlfriend. I'm gonna hafta get all up in his bidness. Looka hear you little..." Well, you get the picture. They'd be yanking my in-car camera and microphone for sure.

7. Too Freakin' Long. Those races are what, 200-, 500-, bazillion- laps? And for what? It all comes down to the last one or two laps anyway. If they finish under a yellow flag you could just chop off the last couple laps, too! The races are only that long so they can sell more concessions and advertising time. And as a potential driver, this gets back to numbers one and two. I couldn't race that long without a snack or a potty break.

8. They Don't Go Anywhere! So you finish the face. Where are you now? Right back where you started! To get my attention, they would have to move the finish line to somewhere important. Preferably somewhere with shopping. Or a restaurant. Or a bathroom.

9. Limited Computer Interface. Sure, the guys back in the pits are all sitting around watching U-Tube and playing Spider Solitare on their laptops while the drivers are out there ... driving. It would be just like at home, with everyone using my fast new computer except me!

10. It Just Wouldn't Be Fair. When you've got as much talent and beauty as I do, you have to work extra hard to keep everyone else happy. I don't want to be a glory hog. I can share the limelight. It's enough for me to know in my heart that I would rule NASCAR. I don't have to prove it to anyone.

Except that Suburban that passed me just past the Swisher exit. Next time I'll smoke him, but good.

Take this cheese and move it

2008-11-26T19:13:00.000-08:00

"Somebody moved my cheese." Ranks right up there with "is the glass half empty or half full ?" in terms of modern trite, overused cliches. But they both offer great possibilities for smart-ass elaborations. My "glass" imagery has overflowed, so now I turn my scorn to the cheese.

"Somebody moved my cheese." I can identify with the frustration over mobile goals. But in my kingdom, it's not always just the goal that moves. After a little (too much) thought , I found this one phrase could apply to oh, so many situations. A change in emphasis makes all the difference.

"Somebody moved my cheese." Meaning: I put it right here so I could start work on it right away. Now, 15 emergencies later, I'm here and it's gone. When I find out who moved it, there's gonna be hell to pay. Unless I didn't put it here, in which case, uh, never mind.

"Somebody moved my cheese." Meaning: I put it here. I know I put it here. I always put it here. Someone -- not me -- moved it. And why is it in the Little Princesses room, along with all my other stuff?

"Somebody moved my cheese." The most likely meaning: I put the cheese here so I could pick it up on my way out the door, and now it's gone and I will have to waste time looking for it and I'm going to be late -- again. Leave my freakin' cheese alone!

Another possible meaning: I put the cheese here instead of taking the extra five seconds to put it away properly. I knew full well I would have to move it. But now it's gone. Is it possible that someone else moved it for me? Could someone else actually have put something away? Aw no, that's just crazy talk.

"Somebody moved my cheese." Meaning: Awww man, I put my snack here and now it's gone. And I'm so hungry I might start gnawing off my own limbs. I've had a taste for cheese all day and I'm going to launch into full out pout mode if I don't get my cheese back. No, I don't want a cracker. I only hope they ate it, because if it sits out too long it's going to get gross and I'm not going to move it then. No way. No how. Oh, who am I kidding? Like anyone else would move a gross, smelly lump of cheese.

"Somebody, move my cheese." OK, a little change up, but it's close enough. Meaning: Would someone please move this cheese? It's been sitting here all week and you all have just been walking around it, setting stuff on top of it, generally ignoring it. Move the damn cheese already. What, are your arms broken? I'm not the freakin' housekeeper. Oh wait, I guess I am. Well, move the freakin' cheese anyway.

"Somebody moved my cheesecake." Meaning: Heads will roll.

"Somebody moved my cheese !?" Meaning: Huh, seemed much funnier when it first occurred to me and I was trying to drive and write at the same time. Back then it was like an epiphany that was worth the risk to my life. Now it's just kind of... (Oh yeah, you know what's coming)

Now it's just kind of cheesy.

Pot shots at the sunny side

2008-11-24T19:18:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been thinking about optimism and flexibility. The outlook isn't good for either, and I'm sure it's not going to change. (Rimshot).

But seriously folks, I'm starting to doubt my optimism. And I am nothing, if not optimistic. Except maybe... pessimistic? (Another rimshot. Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Please make sure to tip your waitresses.)

I don't know if it was the election (Nah, I'm a big picture kind of person. It's going to take more than four or eight years to really, really screw things up -- worse than they are); the usual holiday season malaise (eh); a birthday/aging related gloom (possible); or the ongoing glut of acquaintances diagnosed with cancer (hmmm); or a combination of these. Regardless of the cause, I've been questioning my ability to look on the bright side. And how can you question optimism without asking "Is that glass half empty or half full?"

The obvious answer is "depends on what's in it, and how thirsty I am." This snappy rejoinder reassures me that even if my optimism is waning, my smartass-ism is healthy. I've come up with several equally smartass answers.

Looking around the royal quarters, one might be tempted to ask not if the glass is half empty or full, but instead "Is the glass half dirty or half clean?" The correct answer is, "Either way, you can use it again." The same could be said for the laundry -- except for undies, in which case one always assumes they're "used."

If you were to ask the royal husband, he would respond "Glass? What glass? If it has to do with dishes, let me check with the wife." I've trained him well. Although I would prefer his answer to be more along the lines of "Glass? Where? Let me put it in the dishwasher for you, honey."

The little Prince would probably answer "Glass? Was it made of Lego? Did it have wheels?" If it doesn't fall into one of these categories, he wouldn't notice it if it were balanced on his nose. Once assured you weren't trying to get him to put away his toys, he would probably offer "That glass? I think my sister put it there."

Speaking of the little Princess, her answer would probably be "Glass? I looked for it but couldn't find it. Someone must have moved it." Of course, she would be holding the glass during this exchange.

All that deep thought, and I'm still not sure if I'm basically an optimistic person or not. But it does make me giggle. And in that case, I say the dribble glass is half full.

Drink up!

Birthday Decree

2008-11-17T19:33:00.000-08:00

I hearby decree, by my royal authority (granted by me), that if you are unable to sit down and eat your birthday cake with family and/or friends it does not constitute an actual birthday, and you are not allowed to add another year to your age.

I can hear the commoners cheering now. "Huzza! Huzza!" I acknowledge the the teaming masses with the royal wave.

Therefore, following my own decree, I shall remain 42 for another year.

What I had planned as a low-key birthday turned out to be more of a no-key birthday.

There was careful planning on my part. I angled to get what I wanted without inflicting pain upon those that I love. Yes, yes. I know. I am far too kind.

I wanted to do something cultural. So I took the little Prince and Princess, and her friend, (another Princess, of course) to the C.R. Museum of Art to see an exhibit of work by the illustrator of Harry Potter. The Princesses enjoyed Harry Potter. The Prince often says he plans to be an artist when he grows up. It seemed a near-perfect match.

Apparently enjoying the act of reading or creating art does not translate into enjoying an art exhibit.

I believe the highlight for the kids was jumping on the beanbag chairs. This, of course, was the worst part for me. Who puts beanbag chairs in a public place?

Lunch at Appleby's was a passable hit. The kids were freezing but the food was hot. The dessert was gone in a flash. Happily, no fingers were lost in the feeding frenzy.

To make up for the museum debacle, and because I am certifiably crazy, I took the kids to "Planet X," super arcade and fun land. And because I am super cool, (and it was my birthday we were celebrating) I took part in all the activities.

The youngsters bounced with excitement as we pulled into the parking lot. They sang my praises as I purchased the nearly full-access (Laser Tag included!) passes.

They nearly carried me on their tiny little shoulders as we toured the facility.

Then reality set in. Laser Tag is played in the dark with sometimes faulty equipment. The cries of joy turned to cries of frustration.

I recalled my fear of heights about half way up the rock climbing wall. Luckily that was only about three feet off the ground, and rappelling is much more fun than climbing.

The trampoline-basketball thingee -- the kids loved it -- would have been fun if I didn't have post-childbearing bladder. It's hard to jump and cross your legs at the same time.

Putt-putt golf and the arcade games were huge hits. Although the automatic ticket counter may have been the biggest hit of the day.

All in all, about a 7 out of 10.

The other part of my devious plan was to stay home by myself and watch movies I wanted to see. I planned to send the King and royal babes off to the football playoff game, leaving me alone, by myself. With the TV all to myself.

There were seven movies in the Iowa City Public Library's catalog I wanted to see. Not new releases. Not super popular movies. Not movies you could find on Red Box at HyVee, or even at Mr. Movies. And not, as it so happened, movies you could find at the ICPL.

All seven of them were checked out. Some with waiting lists.

What kind of weirdos live in Iowa City anyway? Hello-0, not first run movies here, people. Get a freakin' life.

I could have understood it if one or two of them were out. But all seven? What are the odds? I'm sure they are right up there with the chance of me winning the lottery.

But I recovered, settling in with my own copy of Pride and Prejudice. This is a movie best watched alone, without anyone around to ask things like "why are they talking funny?" or "why is he wearing those goofy clothes?" or "why do they spend so much time just looking at each other like that." And those are the questions the husband asks. (Just kidding, dear.)

A happy, quiet time watching 4 of 6 VHS tapes, and a thorough cleaning of the house: a solid 9 out of 10. Wine would have bumped that to 10 of 10, but the frozen chimichangas didn't set right.

On to the great cake debacle.

The Royal Book of Rules requires that, at a minimum, a birthday must be celebrated with a meal not prepared by the Birthday Person.

Unfortunately this rule does not take into consideration the obliteration of the royal family by various stomach ailments.

Mid-afternoon (with nary a dining out offer) I sought refuge in the comfort of a chocolaty, Betty Crocker Warm Delights. No sooner had I licked the spoon clean than the royal family approached bearing gifts and cake.

Oh. Hmm. That timing thing. Not so good.

Gifts were opened and enjoyed. Candles were lit and blown out, songs were sung. The cake was cut.

The little Prince didn't want any because he had a tummy ache. This was most likely brought on by unfettered eating of Halloween candy.

The King declined, also because of an upset tummy. This one of the flu variety. After a polite interval, he lay down and slept for a day and a half.

I didn't want any because I had just finished desert, and I didn't want to end up with an upset tummy.

The little Princess, however, did enjoy a large slice with extra frosting and ice cream.

Leftovers, microwave brownie, and chicken noodle soup. On any other Sunday this would have scored pretty well (it was easy, anyway). But on the birthday scale, factoring in the cake debacle, it's about a 3 for festive birthday fare.

Clearly a Sign From God. A heavenly "pass" or "do over." A "Get Out of Aging Free" card, if you will.

And now, by Royal Decree, available to anyone else with unbelievably bad birthday luck.

You're welcome.

Requiem for a Laptop

2008-11-13T12:38:00.000-08:00

Please join me in a moment of silence in memory of "Old Clunky," my beloved and belated laptop.

Ok, that's long enough.
It seems like only yesterday I was happily tap, tap tapping away at Clunky's keyboard when he started, well, clunking. But not when anyone else was around it hear it, of course. Clunky's clunking would immediately and miraculously disappear when I had my favorite IT guy and husband listen.
Eventually the clunking became both frequent and persistent enough to catch his attention. ("What the hell is that?") Irritating, but nothing to worry about, he assured me.
The sudden appearance of the blue screen of death? Unusual, but not fatal.
The switch to the boot up screen of no return, however, did catch his attention.
Plans were made -- hushed whispers, well out of range of Clunky. No need to add insult to injury when the patient is on (virtual) life support. After all, Clunky was considerate enough to let me finish and save projects before slipping into unconsciousness. For the most part.
Much too quickly Clunky's "spells" went from being a mere annoyance, to being a major pain the ass. One reason I can be a stay at home mom is that I can do all of my volunteer and "at home" work via computer. No computer, no volunteer work.
No e-mail, no patience.
No more Mrs. Nice Guy.
It was with heavy heart that I walked in the Best Buy that fateful Friday to find a replacement. How can you replace something that has been such an integral part of your life for lo, so many years?
No, really. How can you replace something that knows all your passwords and e-mail addresses an doesn't want to give them up? How can you replace something that knows all your documents and pictures? All your favorite programs that you have finally -- FINALLY -- figured out?
Yes, Slick, the new computer, runs faster (OMG, so much faster) and more reliably. And we (who am I kidding?), I mean, the IT guy was able to transfer all my old files. But the e-mails, bookmarks, and more importantly my passwords -- like for this blog! -- are somewhere in limbo between computers.
It is with heavy heart I embrace this new technology. The faster processor and slew of new games has made my computer the computer of choice by everyone else in the family. I have to wait in line to use my own computer. I frequently find my carefully searched out web sites abandoned, and my Mahjong games -- close enough to taste victory -- closed.
Don't even get me started on trying to figure out this new version (who knew?) of Spider Solitare. Open Office is nice, but it is so darned ... different!
My Cheese! Someone Moved My Cheese!
I am an Old Dog, being forced to learn new Programs. I am too lazy to learn new programs. To paraphrase Barbie, "Thinking is Hard."
Oh Clunky, how I miss you. And my passwords.
On the bright side, now I have a new excuse for those missed deadlines.

Super Mom

2007-10-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

One of the amazing things about being a parent, is that at times it makes you so much more than you ever thought you could be.
Just when you think you have loved and are loved as much as you possibly could be, you find the capacity for a little bit more. Just when you're sure you are completely out of patience, you take a deep breath and -- voila! -- there's just a little bit more.
Just when you think you've surpassed your squeemish and frightened level, you look at those little faces, and you suck it up and press on! And that is the point of my blogging tonight. I am quite chuffed with the way that I handled nature's little intrusion into our lives yesterday.
There I was, up to my elbows in peeled potatoes, when the little Princess called to her brother. "Come quick! I have something to show you!"
I was curious, but also relieved to think the small fry would be kept occupied until dinner was in the oven.
The little Prince came in with an update. "Gabby found half a snake in the door!"
To me, half a snake means a dead snake, which is twice as good as a live snake. But, I decided I should check this out for myself, so as to avoid having traumatized children later on.
The first report, as it so often occurs, was innacurate.
The snake half Max saw was still very much connected to the other half, and the whole thing was trying to wriggle itself out of the crack between the front and top of the threashold to the front door. While Max was retrieving me, Gabby had charmed the snake into a little mesh bug cage.
If the snake held still and could be stretched out, it would have probably been about the size of a new pencil. In fact, at first I thought it was an overgrown earthworm. But when it comes to snakes and me, size doesn't matter. All it had to do was move in that snakey way, all coily and springy, and icky, and my eeeewwww button was pushed.
The kids looked at me, eyes filled with wonder, surprise and excitement. This was adventure! Right on their doorstep! I reached deep inside myself and stifled the desire to scream "Kill it! Kill it! Chop it to bits!"
Instead we talked about why it was flicking its tongue out, how it had probably been sunning itself on the doorstep (Kill it!), and how it was probably afraid of us (Kill it!) and how we should put the cage down and not poke at it (Chop it to bits!).
We decided they could keep it (outside, duh) until Dad got home. Then they would all take it to the farthest reaches of the back yard to release it to the wild (where it will hopefully be eaten by a bird or chopped into bits by a lawn mower).
Then I went inside and did a heebie-jeebie dance like you would not believe. But as I danced, I hoped that my Marlin Perkins-esque brave front would rub off on my children and they would not be as creeped out by snakes as I am.
Because of them, I can be (if only for a moment) far more brave than I would have ever imagined.

A Shot Over Old Navy's Bow

2007-09-16T19:18:00.000-07:00

The struggle to stop dressing little girls like skanks continues.
I took the princess shopping for jeans today. Should be fairly easy, right? Yes, but only if I planned on setting her out on the street corner, instead of sending her to school.
The princess has a rather slim waist but regular-sized thighs and bottom, which makes finding jeans that fit half-way decent a bit tough anyway. Add to that the fact that I refuse to buy her pants that show off her pubic bone, and it become darn near impossible to find pants.
Sure, I had a pair of hand-me-down hip huggers (very cool) when I was probably close to her age. But they were hip huggers, not crotch huggers. And I knew girls who wore painted-on jeans in high school (not me, I like to breath and sit at the same time, thank you). And it was only their faces you saw turning blue.
I thought this whole "Look at me I'm a skank wearing lower than low low riders" fashion had run its course. If so, then the Midwest is truly light-years behind in fashion. This whole low-riders thing is just about the ugliest, most unforgiving fashion ever. It only looks decent on a handful of emaciated waifs. Everyone else -- normal sized, healthy girls -- end up looking like the Michelin Man when they squeeze into these unflattering pants, then top it off with the oh, so tasteful, tight, polyester t-shirt.
To paraphrase Scarlet O'Hara: As God is my witness, I will never set foot in Old Navy again. I wasn't too impressed with their three new categories of women's jeans to begin with. Something like "Skank", "Ho", and "You Don't Have to Pull Them Down, Just Slip In Over the Top."
Little girls have only two categories: The Darling (low rise) and The Girlfriend (classic fit). Although about 75% of their jeans were "darling," I managed to find a "girlfriend." To me, "classic" indicates that this would be about the rise that has been used for a long time.
Apparently to Old Navy, "classic" means within the last five years. I'd just like to know when "classic" came to mean three-inches below the navel.
I'll admit there is a chance this pair was mislabeled -- on the paper tag and the sewn-in tag. They certainly don't look that low in the picture on the web site. Then again, if they did, Old Navy would probably get busted for kiddie porn.
After four stores and nearly an hour and a half, we managed to leave the mall with two pairs of decent jeans. And I didn't kill any one.
Some people wonder why Islam, with all its restrictions and repressions is so attractive. It's simple.
There are no low-rise burhkas.

LiveStrong Wimps Out

2007-09-09T19:31:00.000-07:00

First of all, let me say I admire Lance Armstrong. He's an amazing athlete, and an incredible spokesperson for the fight against cancer. Him and his little yellow bracelet have probably done more to raise cancer awareness than just about anything else.
As a person who's family has been decimated by cancer I believe strongly that we need to find a cure for this horrible disease. I've lost my father, my sister, a sister-in-law, a brother-in-law, and at lease one friend to the rampaging killer. And my mother is a 36-year survivor of cancer.
Having explained my support for Super Lance, I must admit I was less than taken with his recent cancer forum for presidential candidate hopefuls in Cedar Rapids. For those of you not lucky enough to be from Eastern Iowa, let me explain. Lance invited candidates from both parties to discuss cancer, research, goverment's involvement, etc. on Aug. 27 and 28, in Cedar Rapids. Iowa's first in the nation caucus position does get us a lot of candidate face time every four years.
Only four of the bazillion Democratic candidates participated, which is still more than the two lonely Republicans who showed up. Among the reasons cited for the mediocre response were timeliness (cancer is not currently grabbing headlines), and the crowded campaign schedule.
But everyone is missing the obvious reason: what's there to discuss?
The forum was billed as an opportunity for candidates to outline their "policies to address America's #1 Killer." Was anyone surprised that these candidates, looking to drum up support, all said "spend more money on research." If so, they should be taken out and beaten.
They are in the middle of a campaign, for God's sake. They have one two answers to just about any question right now: "spend more money" and "form an exploratory committee." Increase in the number of left handed pole vaulters with athlete's foot on their big toe? Increase federal funding for research and treatment.
There's a part of me that wonders how much good increased funding will do. I'm sure there's new equipment to buy or labs to build, but who's going to do the research? Are there a plethora of researchers out there just sitting around doing nothing? Or are we going to buy the researchers away from researching muscular dystrophy, muscular sclerosis, autism, heart disease, AIDS, or any of the less-well publicized but no less deadly diseases?
I didn't attend the forum or even watch it on TV, what with recuperating, vacationing and all. My rant is based only on what I heard reported on the radio and read in the paper. However, I doubt that I would have been able to watch more than, oh, 30 seconds of this drivel before I made myself watch reality TV as a very painful penance.
While I admire Lance's dedication to keeping the spotlight on cancer, I can't help but think that any money spent to organize and run this joke of a forum could have been better spent on (all together now) funding cancer research.

Strokin'

2007-08-23T19:39:00.000-07:00

It was just another morning until the unexpectedly heavy pockets of gravity started popping up. I was dropping everything I put my hands on. Not too unusual for an early morning, except that it kept happening.
Then gravity seemed to loosen up, and suddenly little things like the refrigerator and the wall started bumping into me. But not just me -- the cake pan bumped into me, then ricocheted (there was little gravity to stop it) and bumped into my husband's, his Kingly-ness', bowl of oatmeal. Luckily gravity still had a tether on that.
His Royal Highness suggested that I sit down before I fell down. It sounded like a good idea to me, what with the funky gravity situation and all. Then I noticed my tiara seemed to be giving me a headache, and I thought I might have a little royal lay-down, anyway.
That plan was discarded, however, when I looked down the long hallway gauntlet. What
with the furniture moving around and all, I thought it prudent to take up the throne in the living room rather than risk falling over the royal banister and landing in the dungeon.
This was when things got weird. And lucky.
For this was when my husband, His Majesty, and forever here forward known as Protector of the Queen, had the good sense to call 911. For a while, I thought perhaps he was playing the jester when I heard him say something about "my wife, 41, having a stroke." It wasn't until he said "ambulance" that I realized something was seriously wrong.
With very little rhyme or reason -- no high blood pressure, smoking, excessive drinking, weight problems, etc. -- I had a stroke.
I was blessed, and very lucky. I had a wonderful, observant, calm and quick thinking husband who called for help right away. The doctors, nurses and technicians at Mercy Hospital were skilled, compassionate, and caring. Just short of a week later I was back home, hugging my wonderful little princess and prince. There have been no lasting side effects (as far as we know).
I've tried to keep a sense of humor about the whole situation, how could anyone tell the difference between my usual grace and coordination and my stroke-stricken weaving and bobbing?
But deep down it still scares the bejezus out of me. I wanted to be more humorous about the situation, because there has been plenty of funny times. It just escapes me now.
One friend today said that when her mother had a stroke they began working right away to practice all the skills she used. They were more concerned with walking, talking and using her hands. Those are all skills or abilities that, thank God, I did not have any changes in (I'm still as coordinated as ever -- no more, no less).
I wondered about writing, the whole thinking process, finding just the right words to express just the right ideas. How best to practice that? Well, try writing something. So, here it is. Not exactly what I wanted or expected, but something.
And I'll keep trying.

2007-08-09T19:28:00.000-07:00

I spoke with the Queen Mother this morning, as I do every morning, and I answered the same questions I answer every morning. QM has a bit of a dementia thing going on, but most people probably wouldn't notice. It's only when she asks about things that she really should know, or that I know I've told her recently, that it catches me off guard.
For example, this morning she asked how old my children -- the little princess and prince -- are. For the record, they are 9 and 6, the same as they have been for the past five days when QM has asked. And there is three-years difference in their ages, just like there has been for the past week.
On the other hand, she told me she was looking forward to getting a perm today. She has had this on her schedule for about two weeks, and has reminded me of it nearly every day. I even verified it when I made a deposit to her personal account at the nursing home just to cover the cost. I suppose tomorrow, and every day for the next week, I can look forward to hearing that she has had her perm (and that they need to be more careful when they give her a shower).
The QM has been in and out of the nursing home for about four years now. She has lost strength in her legs and has fallen a couple times. For the last 10 months she has been pretty much confined to a wheelchair, walking only during physical therapy sessions or on supervised walks from her room to the dining room.
The last time she was "on parole" and living alone in her home, I happened to run into an acquaintance who worked at the nursing home. "It's so nice your mom was able to go home," the young woman said. "She really didn't belong at the nursing home. She's so with it."
I didn't know what to say. One of the last times I visited QM (that time), she was holding court, telling a group of aides (this one included) about a trip my brother was taking. It sounded great, it all made sense, it was completely plausible.
It was also about 90% inaccurate. The basics were correct, and most of what she said had happened at one time or another, or was going to happen. But somehow when she put it all together, well, she put it all together.
So, where does that leave us now? Well, the QM will probably be just fine for a couple of weeks. She will know exactly what's going on at the nursing home, she'll remember how old the kids are, maybe even remember they'll be starting fourth grade and first grade later this month. She won't remember it's my brother's birthday next week, but then, neither would I if I didn't have it on my calendar.
And I'll start thinking she's got it all together again, she's really with it this time. I may even think that if she didn't really need that wheelchair to get around, she probably wouldn't need to be in the nursing home.
Then -- BAM -- she'll ask me what my middle name is (the same as her first name), or ask me if I ever was a teacher (up until five years ago), or when her birthday is. All of these are questions she's asked me before. And I'll be speechless with surprised that she doesn't remember.
And part of the surprise will be that I've forgotten that she doesn't remember.
And I'll wonder, which one of us has the dementia?

Back to School Shopping

2007-08-05T12:35:00.000-07:00

What could be more fun that going back to school shopping with your kids? I don't know, maybe gouging your eyes out with a blunt instrument?
Actually, my little angels were pretty good when we hit the mall a couple days ago. At least they seemed well behaved compared to some of the little hellions around us. This may have been due to the fact that I had carefully and calmly explained every little detail of our outing. I also warned them (and reminded myself) it would be crowded, noisy and unpleasant. And of course, I threatened that if they misbehaved I would make poster-sized prints of their naked baby pictures and plaster them all over the school.
Iowa has a "tax-free holiday" shopping weekend, suspending taxes on a very specific list of clothing for two days. This ensures that the stores will be teeming with tired, cranky parents with a specific budget in mind arguing with their tired, cranky kids with specific fashion desires. Luckily my kids are young enough that I can bend their fashion desires to my will (and pocketbook) with little opposition.
That is not to say that we always agree. For instance, they had the kah-utest! plaid capris at that find French department store, Tar-jay. I was oohing and awing over them for our 9-year-old daughter, thinking that maybe our sock and underwear budget could be stretched to cover one more outfit.
"Oh, aren't those just too cute?" I asked the Princess.
"Uh," she replied, hesitating to miss an opportunity to be fiscally irresponsible, "not really."
I plunged ahead, ignoring the Elvis-worthy sneer and dismissive tone of voice. "But that plaid is sooo adorable," I gushed. "And it comes in purple."
"Yeah, I just don't really like plaid," she said.
Doesn't like plaid? Doesn't like plaid? I did a memory scan of the entire birthing experience, wondering when my genetically-predisposed-to-like-plaid-child had been switched at the hospital. Nope, must have been when she was kidnapped by aliens.
Doesn't like plaid? And now, when she has a skinny little butt and can wear plaid without looking like a couch. Somehow stripes going in two different directions seem to have a 3-D effect on my butt, and God knows, it doesn't need that kind of... enhancement.
I sighed wistfully and steered the cart past the displays of cheeta-liscious outfits, and the low-rise lounge pants with "hottie" spelled out on the butt. Excuse me? I am not dressing my 9-year-old like a skank, even if that means breaking her little fashionista heart.
Oh, I know, the real battles are yet to come. But if she wants to wear a teeny-tiny, microscopic mini when she's in high school, I just might say yes.
Especially if it's plaid.

My First Blog

2007-08-03T18:05:00.000-07:00

This is it. I've decided to take the plunge. After five years of writer's block, I'm doing something constructive. Or productive. Or, well, at least I'm doing something, darn it.
I quit my job as a high school English and speech teacher about five years ago so that I could concentrate on writing the great American novel and raising our two children. All you stay-at-home parents out there realize the folly in thinking there is any free-time involved with that particular job. Yeah, I know, "excuses, excuses," but it's true. At first any extra time was gobbled up painting and decorating the home we just moved into (quit job, move into new house... sounded good at the time), along with getting our oldest into preschool.
Then my elderly mother started having problems -- medical and memory -- and I expanded my taxi service to include her trips as well as my kids'. Of course, she still lived in the town we had just moved out of. Tack on an extra 30-min. round trip on those excursions. (Yeah, I know, "cry me a river." Well, it's my bloggy and I'll cry if I want to.)
So, bingo-bango-bongo, here we are 5 years later. Mom's been in a nursing home for about 10 months now, so the worries are less, even if the visits aren't. Our kids will be starting first grade and fourth grade in about 10 days (Woo Hoo). And I'm thinking maybe, just maybe, I'll find the time to get some writing done.
Hey, I got this done, right?

OK, so the name, Sandwich Mom on Wry. I'm going for a little label humor here. Those of us taking care of both our children and our parents are often called "the sandwich generation." And "wry" -- get it? Sandwich, rye bread, "wry" humor. Oh yeah, I'm all about the puns.