When the Face on the Milk Carton is a Milk Carton

When I got home from the grocery store yesterday I decided to have some Oreos and milk to reward myself for remembering all the things on my grocery list. Things like Oreos… which I had forgotten to pick up the day before, when I went grocery shopping.

Except... we were out of milk.

I just got home from my second trip to the grocery store in two days, and I needed groceries.

The story of my life.

If only... I thought.

If only there were some way for the milk carton to let me know that it was almost empty and that I first trip to the store, but the children and the husband have been on a cereal-for-breakfast kick lately and I hadn't factored in the increased milk usage when I made out my shopping list.

should probably think about picking up more the next time I was at the store. I could swear I had checked the milk before my

If only... I thought.

If only someone who had – oh, I don't know – used almost all of the milk had told me “Hey, we're almost out of milk.” Or if only someone who had – oh, I don't know – actually used the last of the milk had told me “Hey, we are now actually out of milk.” Then maybe I would have remembered to add milk to the grocery list, and maybe I would have picked up milk either the day before, when we were almost out of milk, or yesterday, when we were actually out of milk.

I say “maybe,” because I have, on occasion, been known to forget to pick up items that are on my grocery list. And I have, on occasion, been known to forget to put things on my list thinking “Oh, I won't forget to get that, because that is totally the only reason I am even going to the grocery store.” And that is why I usually call or text my family while I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot to ask them if they've thought of anything else I need to pick up.

That's when I thought “If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a milk carton to remind you it's time to get more milk.” Then, when I'm writing out my grocery list and I shout “Is there anything else I need to get when I'm at the grocery store?” the milk carton could beep, or somehow reply “Why yes! You are almost out of milk! Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

Although I have to admit, hearing a voice call out from inside the refrigerator would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? Having my children or my husband reply “Why yes! I used almost all the milk this morning on my cereal (even though I didn't actually drink the milk that was left over after I ate my cereal and basically wasted a whole cup of delicious, sugary-sweet, vitamin-enhanced milk by pouring it down the drain). Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

And then I thought, “If only that little microchip in my milk carton could send me a text message or just call me up when I'm at the store and say 'Hey! It's me, your milk carton. I know I wasn't almost empty when you left to go to the grocery store, but I am now, so could you please pick up more milk while you are at the grocery store?”

Although, expecting a microchip in a milk carton not only to have that kind of self-awareness, but also to know my shopping schedule would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? If, when I text or call my family and tell them I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot about to go into the store and I ask them if they have thought of anything else we need, like milk, they would actually go to the refrigerator, open it up, check the milk and let me know if I need to get more.

But until microchip milk cartons – or helpful family members – become a reality I'm stuck making frequent trips to the grocery store. Even if that means going to the grocery store three days in a row. Or sometimes going to the grocery store three times in one day.

And so this morning I made a special trip to the grocery store just to pick up a gallon of milk. Then I came home to have Oreos and milk. I knew we had Oreos at home because I had just bought them yesterday.

Except I hid them.

And I don't remember where.

If only... I thought.

“If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a package of Oreos to remind you where you hid it.”

  

Watch Me Twirl, Watch Me Nae Nae

Due to popular demand (or lack of opposition), I feel compelled to share the story of The Great Color Guard Rifle Twirling Fiasco mentioned in my last post, as straight forwardly as I can.

Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and pterodactyls routinely picked off small children as afternoon snacks, being in the high school band was cool. At least that's what we told ourselves. We even had our own special “Bandcoming Week” with cool dress-up days like “Hat & Spats” Day, and “Shades & Bandanas” Day to celebrate our nerdiness... I mean coolness.

In addition to being cool, participation in marching band was on equal footing with football and cheerleading, meaning that participating in football or cheerleading did not get you out of marching with the band at halftime. (At least that's how I remember it, and this is my story, so....) Cheerleaders who were also flag girls or baton twirlers mastered the fine art of changing out of one short skirt into another in our cars. (We always kept our lollies – or privacy shorts – on, so get your minds out of the gutter.) Believe me that feat of contortion was much easier as a limber high schooler. (It was after a sweaty 5K, back out of the gutter.)

One more little detail which is vitally important to the story: Our band was blessed with a plethora of flutes and clarinets.

Another important detail: Our band director, affectionately referred to as Wim Jeaver, sweat more than any other human being I have ever encountered. In the heat of the directing moment I'm pretty sure he could sling sweat clear to the back row of the brass section. Flutes in the front row didn't stand a chance. Clarinets in the second row didn't fare much better.

So, partly because there were so many of us, and partly because we would do anything to get out of the sweat storm, most of the flutists and clarinetists became flag girls. I'm sure the term “flag girl” offends someone out there, but you're just going to have to get over it. This was back before we even thought about being politically correct. We were girls, we twirled flags, end of story.

In fact, as I recall we had almost as many flag girls (and two baton twirlers) as we did band members. This is (of course) yet another important detail.

When I was a junior, a new girl transferred to our school and our band. She had been a member of the color guard rifle twirlers at her old school, and, upon finding color guard rifles stowed behind the flags stacked somewhat haphazardly in our band room closet, she suggested incorporating those into our halftime show.

Back then, we didn't go to marching band competitions. I'm not even sure there was such a thing. My point is, we performed an entirely new show for each home football game. Things were simpler then. We only played other teams in our conference, all the conference teams were within a 45 minute drive, and we played home games every other week.

Again, that's how I remember it. I can't really say for sure because after running through the flag routine with us once, Wim pretty much left us alone to practice. Which we did. Vigilantly. Never goofing around or wasting time. High school girls are responsible like that. 

WLHS Flag Girls, Baton Twirler and Majorette circa 1983.

The only problem with adding a color guard rifle twirling unit was that there were only two color guard rifles in anything near twirling condition.

The solution: Our color guard rifle twirling unit would consist of only two members. Two girls would never be missed from the flag fleet.

Somehow I managed to convince Wim to let me join the new girl in the color guard duo. I'm not sure how this happened, but I imagine his final decision was announced with a heavy sigh, an exaggerated rolling of the eyes, and inspirational words along the lines of “Go ahead. Just don't screw it up.”

Now that you've read this far, I should probably warn you that I may be the only one who finds this story funny. It's really more of a visual story. The Princess always laughs when I tell it, but I'm not sure if that's because of the story itself, or because of the massive amount of pantomime twirling that accompanies it. Anyway, you're going to have to imagine a lot of hand gestures and spinning and twirling and tossing. If you've ever seen the precision movements of a real color guard, imagine the exact opposite.

I would also like to say that, unfortunately, I honestly don't remember the name of the other girl. She was a sweet thing, and this story should in no way reflect upon her as a person. In fact, I have never told this story to the general public before because I don't want to accidentally offend or embarrass her. For God's sake, if you think this story is about you, don't tell anyone. And don't slash my tires.

After much serious practice – remember, we were responsible high school girls – the night of the big performance finally arrived. The marching band took the field for the half-time show. The color guard duo took our places in front of the band. The eyes of the entire home crowd were upon us. You could sense the anticipation. You could cut the tension with a knife. The band started to play. We twirled our rifles once, twice and...

My twirling partner dropped her rifle.

OK. No big deal, right? Except that she didn't pick it up.

I gave her a look that said “What the heck?” I kept twirling. She didn't pick it up.

I gave her another look that said “No, seriously. What the heck?” I kept twirling. She didn't pick it up. But she did keep pantomiming twirls.

Wim gave her a look. I kept twirling. She didn't pick it up. She did keep pantomiming.

Wim rolled his eyes, shook his head and focused all his attention on the band, ignoring us.

I kept twirling. Except by now I was thoroughly lost and had no idea what came next in our routine.

I realized it didn't really matter, because I was the only one actually twirling a rifle.

I could do whatever the heck I wanted.

I did whatever the heck I wanted.

My poor partner stood there nearly in tears pantomiming what may or may not have been the rest of our routine as I twirled and whirled and flailed and danced about like some sort of deranged lunatic until the song finally, mercifully ended.

Tah Dah! I nailed the ending with great flourish.

Our brief but illustrious incarnation as the WLHS color guard ended with something less of a flourish.

At the next home game I was busted down to pretend trombone player, sans mouthpiece. I think Wim's instructions were something along the lines of “Stand between these two people. Do what they do. Go where they go. Don't play. Don't screw it up.”

I'm sure this was accompanied by a heavy sigh and an exaggerated rolling of the eyes.

There's a lesson to be learned here.

Keep on twirling.

Twirl like no one's watching.

Twirl and the world twirls with you, drop your rifle and you stand alone.

Never trust a flag girl with a gun.

When you have a blog, you can twirl the story any way you want.

Tah Dah!

While My Banjo Gently Weeps

I have decided I want to learn how not to play the banjo next.

I already know how not to play the ukulele, guitar and accordion. I have forgotten how not to play the flute, oboe and saxophone (tenor and baritone). And my ability to play piano is only just slightly above how not to play.

I think you could say that, technically, I know how not to play the trombone, although the one time I got to not play it for high school marching band I really did not play it. Since I was just being used a place-filler in the formation, the director didn't even issue me a mouthpiece.

Spoil sport.

(This was after an ill-advised attempt to learn how not to twirl a color guard rifle. Now that, in my opinion, is a really funny story.)

I say this to establish the fact that when I decide I want to learn how not to play an instrument, I don't give up. So there is a very real chance that at some point in the future a banjo will join the guitar, ukulele, flute and piano gathering dust in our house.

Make no mistake. These are instruments that I have actually made a concerted effort to learn how to play, but through no fault of my own – other than a complete and utter lack of talent and ability – I have failed.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to give up.

Take the last time I learned how not to play the ukulele. This was, I believe, the third time I've taken intermediate group ukulele lessons, in addition to the two beginner group ukulele lessons and two sessions of beginner group guitar lessons. I lump both instruments together only because they are both stringed instruments and you would think there might possibly be some overlap.

Turns out? Not so much.

I would like to point out that my lack of ability is not a reflection on my teachers. It is solely and completely a result of my lack of manual dexterity (my fingers don't bend that way), spacial recognition (my fingers don't know where to go), and my utter lack of rhythm. My teachers have all been amazing, which is evident in the rapid improvements made by my classmates as well as my teachers' kind unwillingness to either call me out in front of the class or kick me out completely.

This time around I was in a class of child prodigies. By the end of the first class they were playing chords with ease. By the end of the second they were fingerpicking melodies. By the end of the third they were experimenting with amazingly complex rhythms. By the end of the fourth they were all comparing acceptance letters to Julliard.

I actually did master a few chords and was able to transition smoothly(ish) between them. My downfall was the whole lack of rhythm thing. I mean, I can dance. Sort of. I can keep time when I play piano. Sort of. But moving beyond a simple “One, Two, Three, Four,” or “Down, Down, Down, Down,” strumming pattern was much more difficult than I had realized.

There were a few times I started to (slowly) get into a “One And, Two And” or “Down Up, Down Up” rhythm. (Some people might even call this an eighth note rhythm. I think. Maybe.)

But when I tried to strum that pattern and switch chords it went something like this:

“One And, Two And, Chordchange And, Wrongchord And,

One aaaa, Wheream I, Crap I, Missedit And,

There! And, Two Nope, Three oops, Change uhh,

Change Arrrgh, Almost GotIt, Whatdoyou Mean, Wefinished Twobeats, Ago And?”

In other words, I have absolutely no business learning how not to play the banjo.

I'm not really sure why I want to learn how not to play the banjo. Maybe it's because of the shape. Or the short, fifth-string reentrant tuning. Or the unique sound. Or because it's so Tragically (un)Hip. Or because I want to be able to (not) play “Dueling Banjos” and scare the bejeebers out of anyone who's seen Deliverance.

Or maybe it's because I'm one of those hopelessly optimistic people who keep on trying no matter what. I'm always certain that the next time things will be better. Success is just around the corner. Just around this bend in the river. Just beyond this set of rapids.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to strum faster.

I hear banjos.

Yo No Hablo Teenage Boy-O

When the children were little I wished they came with instructions.

I realize that was a very silly wish. They don't listen to instructions, and I never read them.

They are both teenagers now and I know what I really need is some sort of Rosetta Stone for teen speak. Or teen non-speak, as the case may be.

The Princess is getting easier to understand. I'm not sure whether that is because she is quickly approaching the end of her teenage years, or because I have some personal experience with teenage girl speak. She may not want to believe it, but I once was a teenage girl myself. It's like they say: if you learn a language as a child, you never completely forget it. Teenage girl and adult girl also have some common linguistic components.

I remember, or have learned, that a girl-child can change the meaning of the word “Mother” simply by changing which syllable is emphasized (“MO-ther” vs. “moth-ER”). Likewise, the volume, tone and spoken length of any individual sound (“Mmmmmmmmother” vs. “Motherrrrrrr” for example) can be altered to adjust the meaning.

Teenage girl non-verbal communication is just as, if not more, complicated. The simple eye roll can have many and varied meanings, from “I can't believe you're such a dork,” to “of course I love you.” Sometimes it can have more than one meaning simultaneously.

When it comes to The Little Prince, however, I am completely at a linguistic loss. Yo no hablo boy-o.

The Little Prince has become a surly foreign exchange student skulking about our house, leaving his room only to procure food (to take back to his room) or to scowl at the printer. He speaks an undocumented dialect of an unrecorded language that, for all of its complexity apparently consists of only three phrases: “Uh-huh" (affirmative?), "Nuh-uh" (negative?), and "Dunno" (everything else). His eye rolls, shoulder shrugs and grunts are in a dialect that is completely different than his sister's.

Last night, when I returned from a four-day absence, I stood, smiling, in his doorway waiting for a “Hi, Mom! Welcome back.” What I got was an impatient “Yeah?”

I hugged him anyway.

It's hard to believe that this towering stranger, with facial hair and deepening voice was once my cuddly, little boy. OK, so he was never that cuddly, but he was the little boy I held tight in my mother-arms. The little boy who exactly matched and filled the little-boy shaped space that had been formed in my mother-heart.

Now my head rests against his shoulder on the rare occasion when I am able to ambush him from behind to wrap him up in a tackle/hug. More often than not he turns around and heads the other way when he sees me coming. Much like dogs sense fear, teenage boys sense incoming Mom hugs. Although, sometimes I like to think that his evasive maneuvers are purposefully a step slow, or that he waits an extra beat before attempting an escape, allowing me time to sigh contentedly as that little-boy shaped space fills in once again.

This morning he stopped by my desk as he headed out the door to school. For a moment he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

“Do you need something, honey? ” I asked, my Mom-radar pinging away.

“My laundry basket is overflowing,” he said.

“Well, I'd be happy to teach you...” I started, my temper flaring.

Then I saw the smirk on his face, and I understood him perfectly. No translation was needed.

I love you too, Little Prince.

Will Run For Chocolate

Running can be an opportunity to spend some quiet time alone with yourself. A time to meditate, a time of mindful awareness. Whether alone, or at a crowded race, it's just the runner and their thoughts.

Some people may use this time to reflect upon their lives and make meaningful plans. Some people may think deep thoughts and build their character. Some people may get in touch with their spiritual side.

Not me.

For me, a 5k is really just an excuse for me to spend 30 minutes pondering any and all random thoughts that wander through my brain. For example, during this morning's Lagomarcino's Cocoa Beano 5K in East Davenport, my thoughts were a mix of highs and lows, goods and bads, just like the “moderately” hilly course.

The Bad: In a crowd of 3,750 plus, it is possible (I suppose) that a few people didn't read the multiple emails requesting walkers line up towards the back of the crowd. It is possible they missed the multiple signs towards the back of the crowd that said “Walkers Line Up Here.”

It is possible they didn't realize that your “pace” refers to how fast you intend to run the entire race (or most of it), and not how fast you plan on running the first three whole blocks before stopping abruptly to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

These people should be slapped.

The Bad: People who complain – even if they just think about complaining – about people who run three whole blocks before abruptly stopping to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

I should be slapped.

The Bad: People who get to the race at the last minute, find the small parking lot already stuffed to overflowing, yet insist on shoehorning their cars (and gigantic Escalades) into any semi-open space they can find, regardless of how that affects, or, ahem, almost completely blocks off traffic flow after the race.

These people should be slapped.

The Good: People who take the time to help other motorists maneuver their 72-inch wide vehicles through the 74-inch wide gap left between the back bumper of the shiny, new, black Escalade, and the driver's side door of the fragile, white Toyota Prius.

Those people deserve medals. Because if it weren't for them, I would have gotten out and hit those cars even if I didn't hit those cars.

The Bad/Not Inspirational: The runners who cross the finish line and then turn around and run the course backwards as a cool down, or to double their mileage. Especially if I meet them before I reach the half-way point.

These people deserve to be slapped.

The Good/Inspirational: The runner with the perfectly coiffed bun, designer sweats, aviator-style sunglasses and perfect running form. I want your hair and your style. If I can't run fast, I should at least be able to look good doing it. (Although I did pass her, so there's that.)

The Good: My music playlist for this race was amazing. I don't think many people would put Sammy Hagar, The Kinks, and Steve Winwood (and Billy Joel) on the same playlist.

The Bad: I MAY HAVE HAD THE VOLUME TOO LOUD. Wait? Is that even a thing?

Good, Better, Best: It's not called the Chocolate Beano for nuthin'. Runners got a piece of Lagomarcino's candy and hot chocolate at the end of the race. The only better way to end a race would be to have Billy Joel at the finish line. The only thing better than that? Billy Joel waiting at the finish line with Lagomarcino chocolates.

The Bad: People who think Iowa is flat. These people should be slapped and forced to run a 5K in a river town.

The Good: West Branch isn't near a river, but it has plenty of hills. I eat hills for breakfast. I love powering past others on hills. (I should probably be slapped for that.)

The Bad: Ending a 5K route with a long incline. You could hear the roar of the crowd, but you couldn't see it. That last quarter mile up hill was a real spirit breaker.

The Good: My spirit doesn't break that easy.

But I am going to lie about my pace next time.

A Nun Walks into a Bar...

“You can write about this. Just make it funny.”

That's what you told me just a year ago when you called us all together to give us the news. To tell us you had pancreatic cancer. (http://sandwichmomonwry.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-one-where-we-promised-to-laugh.html)

You said you only wanted to have to tell us once. But I think you knew we all needed to be together, to lean on each other, to pass around the tissues, to remember the fun times (we're all right behind you), to prepare for the future.

To prepare for today.

But we weren't.

We aren't.

“Just make it funny.”

I couldn't do it then, and I don't think I can do it now. And since you can't be here, I'm gonna write whatever I want.

Like you knew I would do anyway.

Damn it.

Today I cried at Panera. I didn't make a scene. Just some sniffling and blotchiness. Just enough to make the servers nervous. They finally stopped looking at me funny every time I went in to Papa Murphy's – where I cried after you first told us the news -- and now this. 

I'm not sure what that says about me... or you... or fast food. But the absurdity does kinda make me laugh.

I think it probably made you laugh this morning, watching me cry in my coffee.

They serve coffee at Panera, Brenda! Coffee! Do you know how much I love coffee?

I can see you with your head thrown back, blue eyes sparkling, and those dimples!

Earlier this morning I was thinking about how, when we lose someone we love, we cry for us... not for the one we lost. We cry to make ourselves feel better. Not because it will make the ones we miss feel better.

Was that you nudging me, reminding me? Preparing me for the call?

I know you are OK now. I know you don't hurt now. I know you're not sick anymore.

I know you're OK now.

I can hear the angels laughing and I know you are scandalizing St. Peter. Dear God, please tell me you didn't show up at the Pearly Gates wearing your “Nun Who Ain't Getting' None” costume.

But then again, why not?

And I think of all the people lined up to greet you. All the people who've been missing you as much as you've missed them.

As much as we'll miss you.

So, here goes....

A nun walks up to a bar in heaven.

“Gimme a Captain and Coke,” she says, winking at the cute angel tending bar.

The angel, shocked by her behavior, faints dead away.

“I didn't ask for Sex on the Beach,” she says.

Spirit Week and Other Fashion (Non)Sense

It's high school homecoming season in Iowa, which means “School Spirit Week,” which means teens across the Hawkeye state are rummaging through their parents' closets for the most out of date, dorkiest clothes they can possibly find.

Which means parents across Eastern Iowa can be heard saying “But wait! I just wore that last week!” in addition to the usual “Are you wearing that to school?”

This year I found my sartorial choices challenged by “Tourist Day.” Things started on a positive note, strangely enough, with a boost to my “Cool Mom” status. Both Little Angels wanted to borrow a Hawaiian shirt, which they knew I, as a “Cool Mom” had.

Unfortunately, in preparation for the great remodel I had actually cleared a few things out of my closet – including my three Hawaiian shirts. Shirts which they had previously ridiculed, I might add. Now my fashionistas were all “Oh, how could you... why would you....” Princess Pack Rat was able to one-up her brother, as she had snagged one shirt out of the donation bag and set about teasing him with it.

In order to keep familial harmony and avoid forever being labeled “The Mom Formerly Known as Cool,” I made a trip to the mall with The Princess acting as a proxy shopper. We selected a very nice, almost-not-obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, which we thought would fit The Prince.

And then the Little Prince went to the mall with his friends and picked out another one. In XXL. All three of us could wear it at the same time.

Shirt problem solved, the Little Angels started arguing over who would get to borrow my fanny pack. Once again, “Cool Mom” was called on for the costume rescue.

“Yeah, all the tourists wear those nerdy things,” they said.

“Huh, wha? Wait, what makes you think I have a... I'll have you know they're quite handy!”

Yes, I do have a small (?) bag which can be carried around my waist so as to free up my hands and shoulders to carry a bunch of other crap my family members don't want to carry themselves. When the children were younger I frequently used it to carry a variety of important supplies – money, band aids, money, wet wipes, Kleenex, money, hand sanitizer, and, oh yes, money! – on our adventures.

My ego was only somewhat bruised by all this until The Princess asked if she could borrow my khaki shorts. Ahhh. Finally! Khaki shorts, something nearly everyone has, sometime timeless, classic, not at all nerdy. Why sure, she could borrow my khaki shorts.

“Good. Dorky 'Mom Shorts' will really complete the look.”

Since when did shorts that cover your wha-hoo become dorky?

The King has escaped relatively unscathed by all this, although the children are disappointed that he doesn't wear sandals – or mandals – which they wanted to wear with socks to complete their ensembles. I tried to point out that he does wear black socks with shorts and work boots, but they did not find this to be nerdy enough for their purposes.

Really? Really, people?

All this pales in comparison to last year's “80's Day" debacle. Despite how many yearbook photos you show them, current high school students continue to show up for “80's Day" dressed like extras from “Flash Dance.” Or worse. I'll be the first to admit, the 80's were dark days for fashion, but they weren't that dark.

BTW, shoulder pads? Awesome. Big hair? Not so much.

I don't remember scavenging through my mom's closet for Spirit Week, but then again, it wouldn't have done me much good. I already had the overalls (a sweet purple pair!) and socks for “Overhaul and Sock 'Em” Day. My beloved vinyl go-go boots from color guard were repurposed for “Punk (rock) 'Em” Day (because, why not?). And who didn't love "Hat Day"? (Although it has been discontinued because apparently wearing a hat to school is too disruptive to the learning process... during a week of disruptive activities.)

In small town Iowa, circa early 1980's, "Dress Like a Farmer" or "Dress Like a Cowboy" day were almost guaranteed a 100% success rate – who didn't have jeans and a button down shirt? The only difference between the two costumes in our minds was the ever disruptive head gear. Did you go for the seed cap or the cowboy hat? Hot on the heels of “Urban Cowboy,” we all had cowboy hats of one type or another.

In fact, most of our ideas about cowboy attire came from that movie, which, upon reflection may have lacked authenticity. We may have been subject to revisionist fashion history, just like today's youth and their limited 1980's fashion knowledge. Come to think of it, there has probably always been a gap between reality and fun when it comes to dress up days at school.

I can picture the scene now: 1793, France

Louis XVI: Darling, have you seen my old, lounge around the castle crown?

Marie Antoinette: The Dauphin wore it to school for something called “Storm the Bastille Day.”

Louis: I have a bad feeling about this....

Marie: I'm sure it's nothing to lose your head over.

Or something like that.