"Lightning" Up for Lent

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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!