Dec14

Word-Up: Poop

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I love words.  I love to laugh. You can only imagine my glee when I discovered the funniest word in the English language is  Poop.  I know this to be true.  I know this because I have proved it: methodically, scientifically and sometimes ruthlessly.

I submit for your consideration the following data.

Hypothesis: Whether by delivery or receipt, when in audible range of the word Poop, laughter will ensue.

Observations: I was fortunate to be able to conduct environment controlled experiments in three locations: Home, Work, Mall.

  • Home: It was in the home environment where the Poop  phenomenon first presented itself.  Once I had an inkling of the possibilities, I had to probe further. I began to insert the word Poop into various conversational situations.  For example:

In answer to what’s for dinner – Poop,

in reply to  complaints about school/friends/brother – Poop,

in response to husband asking how much I paid for a pair of jeans – Poop,

 at random, unsuspecting moments when subjects were otherwise engaged – Poop.

The results were indisputable and consistent –giggles, laughter, guffaws. However, I fear future repercussions as a result of extended, somewhat addicting research on the subjects are imminent.

  • Work:  During the experiment phase, I was asked to Substitute in the third grade at a local school. On this given day, after clearly losing my audience during an apparently not so scintillating reading lesson, I suggested I knew the funniest word in the world and could prove it. Thus began our lesson in scientific exploration.  I presented the test subjects with the opportunity to see how many times the experimenter (me) could say the word Poop and still evoke laughter from subjects (them). We proceeded. Unfortunately laughter was so raucous and contagious, 9 year old lab assistant failed to keep accurate count but offered “It was a lot” as evidence. Experiment was concluded when no end could be reached – oh, and principal came by for a visit.
  • Mall: This experiment was born out of necessity to prove to home-test-subject (i.e. my son) the infallibility of the Poop phenomena. Thus, while walking past random teen in local mall, I casually vocalized the word Poop in passing.  Although accompanied by a strange “what’s wrong with you lady” look, the goal of laughter was nonetheless achieved.

Conclusion: Poop is, without a doubt, the funniest word in the English language.

Final Note: If you attempt these experiments on your own, please keep in mind, your overall appearance of normalcy and sanity may be permanently affected.  But, you can laugh all the way down that slippery slope.

Lastly: For enhanced laughter a few ‘o’s can be added for optimal effect as in: PoooooooP

Poop out.

Dec12

Shaun White Move Over

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Today, I feel giddy!  Winter snow sport time is almost here.  Since relocating from CA to MO winter is a time to dread, fear, eat my weight in chocolate.  However, since my discovery of snowboarding, winters now have a redeeming quality – well, that and not having to shave my legs for weeks on end.  My fledgling adventure into snowboarding (or some might say, one way ride to Crazy Town) went something like this…

The day I turned 40 was a dark day.  4….0…forty? Turning 30 was no big deal.  I had just gotten together with my soon-to-be husband.  I was looking forward to leaving the smog and traffic in LA behind.  It was the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

But, turning 40 felt like an epilogue at the end of my book that read “She was in a big hair rock band, and then she turned 40…The End”.

So, I resolved to do something I had never done before – but what?  For days, I racked my brain.  My ultimate teenage goal of marrying Richard Gere seemed pretty much out of the question at this point (according to my husband, anyway).  And, becoming a professional ice skater looked like a dim prospect since, well, I couldn’t even really ice skate.

Then, it came to me.  Of course, why hadn’t I thought of it before?  Just because my one and only foray into this activity 20 years prior had ended in complete disaster was no reason to think I couldn’t succeed now!

I’ll ski!

So I dug out my frighteningly dated, thrift store snow clothes, shoved my feet into some very unattractive boots, strapped a plank to each boot, and headed for the nearest chair lift.  Kindly said, my first attempts were… ungraceful.  I was more down than up and I quickly learned the literal meaning of “eating powder”.  But,  I was determined and no amount of bruises, shouts of “wipe out” from smug little teens floating on the lifts overhead, or hikes around the mountain to locate runaway skis after executing something I liked to call “the flying stop”, was going to deter me.  Little by little I began to improve.

And even as my friends and family quietly looked on in disbelief, (yeah, like the time I wore tie-die leggings to my brother’s wedding wasn’t unbelievable enough!), I went from beginner, to intermediate to, on a really brave day,  an advanced run or two.

But, I wasn’t done yet. As if strapping two planks to my feet and heading down a steep incline wasn’t mind blowing enough, I decided it was time to strap both feet to one plank and attempt to snowboard.   Oh yes, I ate even more powder, acquired more bruises and was heckled by more of those smug little teens.  But, one time floating down a mountain of powder like a surfer in the pipe and I was hooked.

Now finally, after several seasons (although Shaun White need not stress too much), I can at last call myself a “snowboarder”; which, as I said, makes me giddy.

But, honestly, even better than giddy was the proof.  Proof to myself that turning 40 did not mean my only adventure left was getting out of bed in the morning to make coffee (although sometimes, that is pretty harrowing).

And with this evidence, I have proceeded to kick and scream through my 40’s –  looking for new beginnings,  facing challenges, smashing through self-imposed limits and remembering that nobody ever really looked good in spandex.

Not The End

Dec8

Where’s The Beef?

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Man cannot live on broccoli alone…or so my husband and kids tell me.  The truth is, as a singleton I attempted to prove the opposite.  I starved out more than a few guests who, looking for a snack, found only broccoli and water in my refrigerator.  But even I had to admit after a time, a re-acquaintance with chicken and fish was necessary. And with the advent of husband and boys into my life, even the occasional meeting with pork loin had weaseled its way into my culinary repertoire.

But, when my growing boys began to ask, “Where’s the Beef?”, I knew I was in trouble.  You see, I have never been on good terms with Beef.  We don’t like each other, and my attempts as a newlywed to prepare Beef resulted in varying forms of barely edible shoe leather – proving, Beef and I just did not play nicely together.

However, one night, while perusing a cookbook, I came upon a recipe for Beef Brisket.  In light of recent requests (demands, threats to hide my ipod) and excitement over mentioned recipe, I decided to take on Beef once again – beat him at his own game.

So off to the store, list of ingredients in hand, I went.  The first sign I was in over my head was at the meat counter.  I ordered the recipe required poundage whereupon the butcher began piling hunk after huge hunk of meat onto the scale.  It probably would have been back to the fish counter for me, but butcher-guy, seeing my deer in the headlights look, quickly suggested I cut the recipe down and try one hunk of Beef.  And once I solved the “consommé” vs “beef broth” mystery and got over my fear that liquid smoke was not just some guys dying breath in a bottle, I was ready to begin preparation.

However, from the outset, Beef and I suffered misunderstandings: First being that, Beef had to marinate for 24 hours (oops, “spaghetti for dinner tonight?”). And second, the following night after 24 hour marinating, discovering that Beef did not cook for 40 minutes but for 40 minutes PER POUND (umm, “dinner at 9:00 tonight?”). Nonetheless, hunk of Beef and I finally came together and completed the meal.

So finally, the moment of reckoning had arrived. I gingerly took Beef out of the oven.  Beef looked good.  Beef smelled really good.  I cut Beef into slices and served Beef to my, by now starving and salivating, victims family.  Whereupon we discovered…I had made… the most wonderful…possibly first time ever…Beef Brisket Jerky. It wasn’t flaky, or tender, or delectable.

Nonetheless, either out of fear this would be my last foray into Beef’s world or out of sheer pity; my patrons verbally declared it a rousing success:

“It tastes good”,

“At least its beef”,

“It’s not that chewy”,

“I like jerky”,

“It tastes like some I had in a restaurant once” (note to self, never go to that restaurant again).

Their heartfelt accolades were so sincere and insistent I almost began to believe them; enough, at least, to consider casting my lot with Beef once again.  I guess you could say we may never be BFF’s, but at least now, Beef and I seemed to be on speaking terms.

But, just so Beef would not get the last word…

I made Carrot Cashew Soup for dinner the next night.

Dec5

Come Fly With Me

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I love to fly.  Let me rephrase that – I love going places and since flying seems to be a necessary part of “going” I find I must endure the experience.  In truth, over the years I have developed a random fear of flying.  As a trip approaches, my growing anxiety blooms into full blown fear by the time boarding ensues.  At that moment, the only thing that propels me onto the plane is the comfort of strangers.  I reason that surely all these people around me would not be stupid enough to board a plane that is going to crash and burn, right? Clearly, they collectively have the inner track to divine knowledge.

And with this comforting although misguided sense of security, I am able to climb aboard, buckle in, and finally, breathe easy.

However, on recent trips, a flaw has developed in my strategy.  You see, the longer it takes to board, the longer I am privy to the behaviors, phone conversations, and smells of my fellow passengers. And, with every glimpse of their humanity, I begin to doubt their collective mystic abilities. Unfortunately, unless one is flying Southwest Airlines – the champion of boarding for the masses – the wait to be called forward and given the honor to climb aboard can seem interminable.

It used to be that all were only made to wait for the First Class passengers to comfortably take their seats – which seemed fair.  I mean, you should get something more than a big seat and hot towel for all that extra dough.  But, lately, the list of “preferred travelers” i.e. more important, special passengers who get to board before me, seems to be growing.

Case in point: My most recent trip over Thanksgiving.  There I was, with the mob of fellow travelers, poised in the most optimum spot to jump in line when my assigned boarding group was called, fear bubbling in my stomach, when finally, the boarding process began.  It started out in the usual way as the attendant called:

“People travelling with small children and those needing assistance” (drat those too old, kids of mine who refuse to board on their knees and do not have any broken bones at present to take advantage of)

“First Class Passengers” (not in this lifetime)

“Gold Elite Members may now board” (gold…that must be good, right?)

“Bronze Elite Members”  (clearly, not as good as Gold)

I began to get anxious in the waiting.  I could feel my stomach climbing up to my throat as the attendant continued boarding groups:

“Priority Frequent Flyers”(nope)

“Now, Frequent Flyers may board”(still waiting)

In my panic the question occurred to me.  How long could this go on?  How many groups could possibly be called before it was my turn to board??

“Those who drive BMW’s”

“Passengers currently in possession of an Ipad2 may now board – proof required”

“Niemen Marcus shoppers, welcome”

“Those with full benefit Medical Coverage”

I mean really, the possibilities at this moment began to seem endless!

“Passengers traveling with a Chihuahua or other appropriately dressed dog”

“Those who still have a 401K”

“Current residents of California, welcome“

 “All those traveling with more than one Apple product feel free to join us”

And as my panic began to overtake me, I feared my wait was not yet over.

“Boarding now, passengers who shop at Walmart”

“Those who watch WWF on TV”

“Those who watch WWF on TV, in their underwear”

“Those who pick their nose, while watching WWF on TV, in their underwear”

Then finally, I was roused out of my musings and impending panic attack as the attendant finally called:

“All remaining passengers”

There it was! The words I had been longing to hear. My group had finally been called.  I, and the guy next to me wearing mis-matched clothes and flip-flops in winter, shuffled forward. I pretended to confidently hand the flight attendant my, by now, sweaty boarding pass – Hoping that there was still room in the overhead bins for my carry on, scheming how to gain access to a more prestigious group on future flights, smiling as more possible ‘groupings’ popped into my head, and praying that the guy who could potentially have boarded in the group right before me was not my neighbor for the next several hours.

For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!

Nov30

My Miami

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Nov28

Hollywood Beach, FL

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A not so early beach walk…

And so castles made of sand melt into the sea… eventually    -Jimi Hendrix

Nov24

I Am Thankful for Bad Spelling

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Yesterday, I had an epiphany – a revelation.  You know, one of those moments when everything becomes clear.  The Catalyst?   – My Grocery List.

Now, I recognize that having an epiphany over a grocery list is not, well, the norm.  But, in the moment I looked at my list that day while standing in front of the grocery store, I happened to be thinking about my son’s struggle at school with the neatness of his work.  And, when I looked down at my confusing, messy, helter-skelter list, it suddenly dawned on me – Genetics can be so very cruel.

The thought instantly led me to begin a mental check list through all the ways in which Mother Nature had potentially failed my sons.

I thought about:

Every time one of my sons comes home, yet again, lacking the needed details that were clearly discussed but not absorbed by him, and I can hear my successive childhood “I don’t know”s to my Mom in her quest to discover times, details or specifics.

Every time my son struggles with spelling and I have to run for the spelling dictionary I was sent off to college with oh so many years ago.

Every time one of them finds themselves separated from classmates due to excessive in-class socializing and I get a mental flashback of the solitary desk in the corner where I spent a good part of the 6th grade.

Every time their obsessive love for a particular activity keeps me on permanent chauffer status and I realize how well and for how long my own Mom had to wear that hat.

And as all of these things quickly ran through my mind, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of…Thankfulness.

Yes, thankfulness.  Because, as I stood there, poised at the automatic glass doors, grinning like a dork in front of the Boy Scouts and  the all too premature ringing Santa, I felt:

Thankful for all the imperfections I have shared with them.

Thankful for all the struggles I get to go through with them.

Thankful that no-one else in the world is quite like them.

Thankful because the proof that they are part of me is never so apparent as in our shared imperfections.

Thankful that they are wonderfully, beautifully, magnificently,  perfect…in every single way.

Happy Thanksgiving

Nov22

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

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Sometimes I surprise myself – learning to snowboard when I freeze at 60 degrees, embracing co-habitation with the black snakes that occupy my yard, attempting parenthood (thank goodness for that therapy fund).  Well, my most recent questionable endeavor came in the form of a job.

A few months ago a call came with the request to do a show at a local professional theatre. And when I say ‘do’ a show, I do not mean as an actor on the stage – where I have spent many a moment throughout the years –  but as a dresser in the thick of the behind-the-scenes action.

I reasoned, how hard could it be?  I mean, I have dressed myself successfully for many years (although those severely torn Levi’s – self-patched with leopard print and worn frequently in the 90’s, may not qualify); And, I dressed my boys (hopefully they were not able to read the tags on the accidently purchased girls wear).  So, without any concern for the poor, unwitting victims actors, my desire for a new experience convinced me to say “Yes!”

However, when the time arrived, I discovered that dressing a real live, full grown actor through what was to be 20+ quick changes per show, in the dark, backstage, during near silence onstage, turned out to be more daunting than anticipated. I will admit – I made mistakes.  And, I felt bad. More than once, I decided I had kissed my end of the show ’tip’ goodbye along with possibly all or most of my paycheck. And I will admit I spent a few nights beating myself up over it.

Ok, maybe just one.

Because then, I remembered something. I remembered how dearly I love to laugh.

You see, as long as

  • No limbs are lost (broken bones I’ve got covered!),
  • Everyone is still breathing,
  • No eyes are poked out…shot out…gouged out,
  • And no natural disaster has ensued

I can handle the small stuff, like, I don’t know,

  • Sending an actor out onstage with shoes on the wrong feet,
  • Attempting several times to poke same actor in the eye with glasses,
  • Dropping a few or say, several props on hard floor during complete onstage silence,
  • Habitually refusing to remember one particular assigned job without constant reminders,
  • Or, forgetting my start time on opening day and almost taking down a few pedestrians crossing a small town Main Street in my haste to get to the theatre.

The best part is, once I remember I can handle the small stuff, I find I can laugh at them as well; which is like a gift and something of which I am very fond. The only thing better being when others laugh with you.

So, in closing, please accept my sincerest apologies:

To my Actor friends – who had to endure my fits of ineptness, thank you for letting me laugh at them and for (hopefully) laughing with me; and,

To the Pedestrians – who, I fear, will never look at the safety of crossing a small town Main Street with the same abandon again.

Nov17

If You Give a Chick a Shopping Trip

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An intermingled ode to a favorite bedtime story my Grandma Ruth used to tell, some of my fondest ‘chick’ memories with my Mom, and loved children’s book author, Laura Numeroff of the If You Give a Moose a Muffin fame.

If you give a Chick a Shopping Trip, she will want to go right away.

She will want to go to the mall.

When she gets there, she will decide she needs to buy something.

She will want to go to her favorite department store.

At the department store, she will see a beautiful dress in the window.  When she sees the beautiful dress, she will decide she needs beautiful shoes to go with it.

On her way to the register to buy the beautiful dress and the beautiful shoes to go with it, she will try all the perfume samples.  She will probably smell funny.

Before she reaches the register, it is entirely possible she will see a beautiful coat to match the beautiful dress and beautiful shoes.

She will buy the beautiful dress, the beautiful shoes and the beautiful coat to match.

Shopping will make her hungry and she will want to go to lunch.  When she gets to the café, she will order a Vanilla Coke.

Drinking the Vanilla Coke at the café will remind her of her Mom and all the shopping trips they have taken together.  Thinking of her Mom will make her homesick and she will want to go home for a visit.

When she gets home, she will want to give her Mom a present. She will give her Mom the beautiful dress, the beautiful shoes and the beautiful coat to match. She will insist her Mom try them on right away.

Seeing her Mom in the beautiful dress, the beautiful shoes and the beautiful coat, will remind her of their shopping trips.

She will want to go on one right away. She will want her Mom to come.

When she and her Mom go on the shopping trip they will see a beautiful dress in the window.

And chances are, when they see the beautiful dress in the window, they will need beautiful shoes to go with it, and a beautiful coat to match.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Nov14

What a Difference a Day Makes

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Nothing happened today.

While getting ready for school…

H: “Mom, I had a dream last night that you and Dad had gained tons of weight.”

P: “No, honey that is what you call a nightmare.”

We laughed.

While running out the door for school and work…

K: “Uhh -Mom, why are you wearing two different black shoes?”

We laughed.

While making an afterschool snack…

K: “Mom, I discovered a new way to pull out loose teeth…blue Jolly Ranchers.” (K produces out of pocket blue Jolly Rancher encrusted tooth).

We laughed.

While doing math homework…

H: “Mom, what did the Zero say to the Eight? …. ‘Nice Belt’”.

We laughed.

While making dinner…

P:  “Hey, guys, if you smell plastic melting in the kitchen, that’s because, well, it is.”

(peanut gallery comments ensue)

K: “If you smell the dinner burning, that’s because, well it is.”

H: “If you smell the house on fire, that’s because, well it is,”

 We laughed.

While getting ready for bed…

K: “What do you think the Tooth Fairy will give me for my jolly rancher filled tooth?”

H: “Nothing!”

K: “Half the usual gold dollar?”

P: “A quarter to call the dentist.”

We laughed.

Today was a good day – maybe, the best day ever.

But then, there is always tomorrow.

Nov10

Moon Over Missouri River

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“I like to think that the moon is there, even if I am not looking at it.” Albert Einstein

This is what greeted me at the door upon leaving work last night.

Nov7

A California Girls Rural Winter Survival Guide

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Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. For example, why do aliens only abduct sanity-challenged recluse people? What are artificial bacon bits really made of? And, how does a born and bred California girl end up living in rural Missouri?  Rural Missouri, mind you, where roads have letters instead of names, directions are given in reference to so-and-so’s house – whether they still live there or not – and…it snows!

Well, in my case, I was either crazy or in love, or both.  Whatever the case, the predicament of surviving the winters became glaringly apparent upon the first snow; A feat which my California upbringing had just not prepared me for.  Therefore, for those of you who have found or may find yourself in a similar fix, allow me to share 5 of my hard learned survival tips.

1.  Be Prepared: If you are to survive in the harsh environment of cold, ice, and snow, you must have the proper tools. Following are, in my experience, the most important items.

  • Cat Box Pooper Scooper – Oh, sure, you will be told that having an ice scraper is what you need to clear off your car windshield every morning.  But, in my opinion, the everyday cat box pooper scooper makes much more sense to get the job done.  It is always handy, never gets taken by other family members for use and well, has multiple functional purposes (need I elaborate?).
  • Ugly Shoes – Trust me on this one.  Those peep toe pumps will sing a good song, but when push comes to shove (or rather ice comes to driveway) those pretty shoes will leave you flat on your behind.  The ugly shoes, however, will be your friend for life. They will keep you warm, be devoted to your happiness, and never let you go down looking like a flapping dodo (bird, that is).
  • Hair Dryer – You would be surprised how often a good blast of hot air will come in handy for various frozen things and/or body parts.
  • A Hammer – No real function, but it will make you feel like you belong – like one of the natives.

2.  Be Wary:  Never trust ice – it is the enemy and yes, it is out to get you.  It will freeze your pipes as soon as you stop dripping them in order to head to the mall.  It will freeze the Frappuccino you left in the car overnight. And, if you have a change of heart (i.e. panic attack) about driving on it, it will promptly and not very graciously, introduce you to the side road ditch.

3.  Be Audacious:  When that fluffy white stuff starts pouring out of the sky, get in your car and just go for it.  And when I say, ‘go for it’, I mean, when your husband tells you to drive fast to get over snow drifts growing in the road – DO IT! Otherwise you might find yourself stuck on top of one of those pretty drifts like a whale bellied up on the beach (which is, fyi, not near as much fun as bellying up to the bar). And, it may take every relative and friend within a 20 mile radius to come and dig you off.

4.  Be Mindful:  As in all things, there are pitfalls to watch out for during the long winter season.

  • Do NOT discover online shopping.
  • Do NOT, under any circumstances, decide the inside of your house needs to be painted all colors of the rainbow. (You may not be fortunate for to spring to arrive moments before project commencement).
  • Do NOT try to eat your weight in chocolate.

However, DO, have as many snowball fights as possible, roast marshmallows over a candle, and treat yourself to every  ‘icure come spring.

5.  Be Canny: Sooner or later you will be faced with a suspicious random occurrence that can only be experienced in the rural wilds of winter.  Therefore, when you, for example, find a several foot long shed snake skin in a storage area behind your bed where said snake clearly hibernated the winter with you, don’t, whatever you do, tell your snakephobic husband.

Goodbye and Good luck.

Nov3

Come Home Proud

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Tomorrow’s Veterans.

Recently, I was given the privilege of showing my appreciation to the Men and Women serving our country overseas.  This honor was made possible by my young cousin Megan as she compiled letters of thanks to send to her fiance marine, Jared, and his Brothers in Arms – spending the holidays far from home on a final tour in Afghanistan.

To recognize all on this day, Veterans of the past, present and future, I wanted to share my letter.

Dear Jared and Brothers,

My day today was typical, uneventful – routine even.

I woke up, took a shower, made breakfast, forgot to make lunches, sent my boys off to school, went to work, drove to the store, left my grocery bags in the car, watched my son ride his bike around the block, went to the post office and bank, helped with homework, took out trash, wished husband was taking out trash, drove kids to soccer practice, waited, talked on the phone, cooked dinner, watched the Cardinals get beat by the Rangers…again, read my book, prepared for the next day…

But, here’s the thing.  Today was also the most extraordinary and amazing day ever. Today, I got to do all those things feeling safe, protected and free.  Today, I got to enjoy all those mundane, wonderful things because;

There is nothing typical about your dedication to my protection.

There is nothing uneventful about the personal risk you take to secure my safety.

There is nothing routine about the distance you have to spend away from your loved ones so that I can watch my son freely ride his bike around the block.

Not even by a long shot.

So in these closing moments of my typical, uneventful – routine even day, let me say thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for every moment of your phenomenal day that enables me to rejoice in my typical day.  It means more to me than you can ever know.

Come home soon.

Come home safe.

Come home proud.

Love,

Paula

Oct31

To Spider With Love

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Dear Spider,

I know  today’s holiday – Halloween – is your shining moment.  Nonetheless, I find it necessary, in light of recent events (I think you know of what I speak, spider who dangled in front of my face when I opened the front door!), to take this time to review our long-standing contract.

As you may recall:

You, may spin your lair-ish web, creep your skulking crawl, vibe your eerie vibe, trap your unsuspecting prey, and basically do your whole spider thing. And I, promise to leave you alone, free and unfettered, turn a blind eye, mind my own business.  That is, of course, under the condition that you carry out all said activities in the great out-of-doors.  However, the minute you bring your wily ways into my house, garage, car, on my person or anywhere within my personal space, I reserve the right to squash you, vacuum you up, sick the dog on you, beat you with a broom, and/or spray you with Windex/perfume/anything handy that sprays.

Now I know we had a brief respite from this arrangement in the wake of my 10 year old obsession with the book, Charlotte’s Web.  But, that was a long, long, looong time ago and it has been business as usual ever since that passed phase. I wish I could say there would be a return to that kinder, gentler time, but I fear it is not to be.

So you see, I am reminding you of the arrangement for your own good.  I feel we must maintain the observance of these rules in order to peacefully co-exist.

Thank you for your understanding in this matter.

Oh, and Happy Halloween

Sincerely Yours,

Paula

P.S. I feel obligated to add:  In the event of PMS or sudden attack of ‘creeped-outedness’, this agreement is null and void. In other words – run scurry for your life.

Oct28

Accidental Farmer – The Rest of the Story

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Around this time last year, I discovered something about myself;  something shocking but undeniably true.  However, until today, I had no idea there was more to the story.  I shared ‘Part 1’ of my tale on friend Sherri’s Oldtweener.com last year. I suppose in order to tell “the rest of my story” I have to go back to the beginning, where it all started…

2010

The moment a house plant enters my life I can literally see its life flash before my eyes.   It may come through my doors a full, vibrant, green plant, but soon it will start to show the signs of my care…wilting leaves, thinning vines, dulling color.  In an effort to stay alive it will begin to shuck off excess bulk until it is finally reduced to one, lone leaf clinging to a surviving vine.  But this too, will eventually lose the will to live.  And even though with each new vegetative ward that comes into my care, I vow to be a better guardian, I, at the same time, feel the sadness of inevitability.

However, at the pleading of my younger son, I was forced to face the ultimate agrarian challenge (with potentially soul damaging results) of actually planting an innocent victim in the ground in the attempt to bring forth life.  That’s right, my son wanted to grow a plant; outside… in the ground… from scratch, like, with a seed.  To be more specific, he wanted to grow pumpkins.  Well, I did what any sensible girl would do, I ran to Daddy.  Actually, he came to visit me and little did he know that he was soon to be an unwitting accomplice in what was sure to be a dastardly plan (as far as the plant world is concerned).  But Dad, being the accomplished gardener that he is, went right to work in the attempt to make his grandson’s pastoral dreams come true. He prepared the soil, digging up dirt that had been left to itself for way too many years, added nutrients, top soil and fertilizer, built a huge mound complete with watering mote and then… planted 4 seeds. With strict instructions to water and tend to the seedlings every day, Dad went on his way with great hope but possibly dubious faith as to the outcome.

Seven days later, much to my surprise – ok, more like shock, amazement, incredulity – all four seeds sprouted (go Dad!!).  And not only sprouted, but continued to grow, crawl and bloom flowers – all under my tutelage (because of course, it was just a coincidence they tripled in size during the 2 weeks the neighbor boy cared for them while we were away).

Then, the day finally came when my son uttered the words I had been longing, even yearning to hear… those three little words…

”We have pumpkins!!!”

Success washed over me.  I had done it!  I had taken a humble seed, tended to it, cared for it, coerced and nurtured it into giving its most precious gift – a fruit for my labors (or vegetable as the case may be).  I had to see for myself.  But, no sooner had I headed in the direction of my precious vines, I was drawn away by my son calling from the direction of our wild and overgrown field behind our house – “No, Mom, over here!”  For there, growing in our neglected field, unattended, wild and completely unbeknownst to us were pumpkin vines sporting two beautiful, perfect, orange pumpkins.  I stared at them in disbelief.  How could this be? Where had they come from? How had they survived? Was that where we threw the rotten pumpkins out after Halloween last year?

Unfortunately, all answers to these and other perplexing questions such as – what exactly is ‘Bieber Fever’ and how does one keep from contracting it? – remain forever part of the unknown. What is known, however, is that I had finally grown something, become a producer, joined the ranks of the tillers before me…albeit, by accident.

So now, everyday, I proudly walk out to my wild pumpkin patch, admire my crop of two and well, do nothing; for clearly, where plants and I are concerned, this seems to be the most productive strategy.

And the vines which my Dad so faithfully entrusted to me?  Well, they continue to persevere even under the duress of my constant care and devotion, sprouting flowers again and again but never being able to quite muster up enough oomph to produce a pumpkin. I fear they too will one day soon fulfill providence and join their unfortunate predecessors in that great nursery in the sky.

2011 – The Rest of the Story

Today I went out to my “crop” as it were.  More to the point, the place in my wild, unattended field where I, again, threw out last years rotten pumpkins.  The place I did NOT fertilize, I did NOT water, I did NOT weed, I did NOT season with rich top soil, I did NOT pay any attention to at all.  Until today, when I went out there to discover I had NOT grown pumpkins… I had grown gourds. 

Clearly, I’m even better than I thought.

p


Oct25

Nightmare on Doddridge Street

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Monday seemed like a normal day. Little did I know something was lurking, lying in wait for me. It started out like any other day; kids off to school, coffee hot, dog fed (thus, her own personal nightmare assuaged).  I turned on my computer, ready to work, blog, socialize, check Facebook.  And that is when the horror began as I was greeted by the words – NO INTERNET ACCESS. I took a deep breath, no need to panic, it’s probably nothing, I thought.  After all, my dog appeared unconcerned and you know how animals can “sense” things.

Very calmly, I began to work my magic…or rather, I began to work tech-guy-on-speed-dial’s magic.  But still, ACCESS DENIED.  Then tech-guy-on-speed-dial off-handedly suggested, “what about your home phone line?” (You see, us here folks out on Doddridge, a.k.a. the boonies, rely on phone lines for our DSL mojo).  I ran for my cordless phone like a chick trying to outrun a chainsaw and as in any good bad horror flick, the line was dead.

However, unlike next-to-die-screaming-teen, I still had cell phone service.

So, to the phone company I went for rescue. Harassed-phone-company-lady informed me that “they” (guys-with-huge-hacking-scissors?) had cut the lines and “no”, the DSL line would not be reconnected anytime soon because first the phone line must be repaired in order to restore 911.  But I stammered that this was a 911 – No internet, no access to the World Wide Web, NO FACEBOOK!!

Harassed-phone-company-lady, unmoved by my hysteria, hung up, leaving me once again to face the horror alone. So there I was, waiting, staring, pacing, looking out for strange-guy-in-hockey-mask; when suddenly, out of nowhere, a thought struck me.  Something my Dad used to always tell me;

“Don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers.”

I grabbed my car keys, I grabbed my dog, (because clearly, judging by her worried look, the canine sixth sense had kicked in), and we started driving – away from the dreadfulness and in search of flowers.

We didn’t find any flowers, because, well, it’s October, but we did find a pretty spectacular fall tree to hang out under.

We didn’t worry about work, we didn’t long to socialize, we didn’t angst over missed Facebook posts,

And nobody denied us access.

Oct21

For Love of the Game

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Summer…nice

Giants game…woohoo

Splash ball…perfect

14 inning win…unbelievable

Spectator dancing on video screen in horses head…saaaweet!!

Oct17

Word Up – Opus Anyone?

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The Definition:  Addiction is the condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something.

The Warning: The following activity has proven to be addicting, please proceed with caution.

The Disclaimer: No word was harmed in the writing of this blog… just abused a little.

The Catalyst:

Son:  “Mom, we had to make up sentences for the word ‘opus’ this week.

Mom: “Really? What did you come up with?”

Son (slight smile at corner of mouth):  “Don’t make me kick you in the opus” and  “Who threw up opus all over the floor”.

 

The Addiction:

  • Oh, I think I swallowed my opus!
  • Look at that man’s opus gut.
  • Would you like to buy my opus?
  • I’m in opus without you.
  • I think I just broke my opus.
  • Sorry ma’am, I have to perform an emergency opus-ectomy
  • You know what I think?  I think you can kiss my opus!
  • I would bet my opus on it.
  • Shut your opus!
  • Honey, could you please pass the fried opus?
  • Get your head out of your opus and get in the game!
  • What’s in your opus?
  • What the opus are you doing?
  • Mind you own opus.
  • Look, a rare-winged opus!
  • Do you feel opus, punk? Well, do ya?

 The Thank you:  To all opus contributors (I think you know who you are). Please seek professional help.

The Moral: Never deny humor; even especially the addicting kind.

Please leave your opus in the comments below. Thank you.

Oct14

Baby You Can Drive My Car

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My husband’s truck gives new meaning to the word “clunker”.  On more than one occasion I have suggested (begged, pleaded, demanded) he make a one way trip to the junkyard (for the truck, of course).

The body is not only rusting, it is rusting away.  I swear I have seen a bird nesting inside one of the cavernous orifices opened up by the decay.  At some point, repairs were done to hold the rim above the tires together… those plastic electrical cable ties and duct tapes really seem to be doing the trick.  The rear view mirror is, well, gone – no-one seems to know where.  The antenna, which some time back resided in its proper place outside, has now taken up residence inside the truck with its end jammed into an earthquake like crack that runs the length of the dashboard. The license plate is permanently bent into the shape of a taco, held on firmly with a wire hanger. And in order to start up the old timer, you must pump the gas not once, not twice, but three times and no more. I think the radio still works. Which is a good thing so you have something to listen to while you are freezing into an icicle or sweating into a puddle.

The other day, I walked out my door ready to drive my son and his friend to a birthday party.  It suddenly occurred to me that earlier in the day, in the wake of loaning his car to a friend, my husband had then borrowed my car leaving me with, yep you guessed it, the clunker. But, get to the party we must.  So in we three climbed.   Just a short distance, how bad could it be? Well, the answer to that quickly came when one of the doors began to randomly open of its own accord as if to be saying “get out while you still can”; which would have been a fairly safe jump considering the general 10 mile an hour maximum possible speed as we went up hills…with the pedal floored. And despite the rattling of the vehicle which threatened to bring doubt to my faith in those cable ties and giving up trying to solve the mystery of the dashboard antenna, we finally arrived at our destination.  Basically, in one piece.

Upon arriving back home in my driveway I had but one thought… I will NEVER in a million years get rid of that truck!  You see, for the entirety of our few mile trip that took, oh, 20 minutes or more, the three of us laughed until the tears were streaming down our faces.

You can’t buy joy like that, and you certainly don’t send it to the junkyard.

Oct13
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Am I a big dork for loving this tree?  Well, probably!  But, thanks to friend Jaime, I am now the proud owner of this beautiful, inspiring,”Sweet Spot” tree and design.  I want to camp out under my tree… cause, you know, under this tree there are hot showers, feather beds, and definitely NO bugs.

Looking for the Sweet Spot Tree