Maybe it’s my age, but I’m tired of the Valentine holiday. In my 34 years of living and celebrating the aortic tradition, I can only remember really enjoying a few. As a kid, I never won any “valentine box decorating contests” so I’m scarred for life. I’m a little more perterbured this year because now that all five kids are in school, I get to make valentines for each child and their classmates. That’s 140 valentines! ONE-HUNDRED-AND-FORTY. If I pace myself I can do 30 a day and make my goal by nightfall. No stickers, no candy attachments, just straight ‘tines.
When you stop and think about it, the whole concept of Valentines Day is almost Huxley- an. The ‘state’ mandates when we should recognize those that we “love.” We should do it this day, every year. It should involve hearts, roses and candy. (Oh, but I do love those little conversational hearts; yeah, I like those). When the day is over, if you haven’t done something for your loved one, you’re a LOUT! You have a time limit for cryin’ out loud. Don’t do it on Feb. 13, because that ruins the anticipation. Don’t do it on Feb. 15, because everyone knows that you’re just waiting to scour the clearance racks for a good deal, cheap skate.
Why must there be roses? I know, some people like roses. But why? I don’t like the pressure put on my husband to buy me roses on Valentine’s Day. Roses come to my house and begin wilting as soon as they cross the threshold. The little buds have already said their good-byes and made peace with the fact that their end is near. My house is like a botanical gas chamber. I kill flowers. If I can’t wear it, eat it, or drive it, then it just isn’t practical.
Frankly, I’d rather him spend the same $60 on something I could really use. Like cheesecake.
I declare from now on Valentine’s Day should be proclaimed as the day we were set free from the state ordained passion holidays. No Valentine’s Day, no Sweetest Day, no Groundhog Day, wait, that’s not related. If you’re guilted into gifting, then it’s not worth celebrating.
If you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you, it got lost. Let it go again.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
I Give Love a Bad Name
Telephone conversation:
Me: Hello?
Mom: Your brother told me that you wrote about me on your blog.
Me: Yep. Sure did. Funny stuff.
Mom: Like what?
Me: Like how you used to dump powdered herbs into our cereal and act like Cheerios were supposed to taste like weeds. Also how we could be bleeding out our eyes and you would drag us to the chiropractor instead of the ER.
Mom: You wrote about chiropractors? Oh no. You didn’t give them a bad name, did you?
Me: Nope. Not at all.
Mom: I hope my chiropractor doesn’t read it and get offended.
Me: Is your chiropractor one of the six people who read this blog?
Mom: Just in case, you better say something nice.
Me: Hello?
Mom: Your brother told me that you wrote about me on your blog.
Me: Yep. Sure did. Funny stuff.
Mom: Like what?
Me: Like how you used to dump powdered herbs into our cereal and act like Cheerios were supposed to taste like weeds. Also how we could be bleeding out our eyes and you would drag us to the chiropractor instead of the ER.
Mom: You wrote about chiropractors? Oh no. You didn’t give them a bad name, did you?
Me: Nope. Not at all.
Mom: I hope my chiropractor doesn’t read it and get offended.
Me: Is your chiropractor one of the six people who read this blog?
Mom: Just in case, you better say something nice.
Friday, February 9, 2007
I Love Words (and brownies)
I found this great word on dictionary.com. I think it should be used more often in the general population.
idee fixe \ee-day-FEEKS\, noun:
An idea that dominates the mind; a fixed idea; an obsession.
For example: Smelling the freshly baked brownies presented a huge temptation for me and became an idee fixe that could not be satiated until I had eaten the entire pan.
True story.
idee fixe \ee-day-FEEKS\, noun:
An idea that dominates the mind; a fixed idea; an obsession.
For example: Smelling the freshly baked brownies presented a huge temptation for me and became an idee fixe that could not be satiated until I had eaten the entire pan.
True story.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Everything I Know About Life I Learned from Jerry Seinfeld
My mother’s answer to every physical ailment is the chiropractor. Since I was 7 years old, I visited the chiropractor to “fix” my asthma attacks. My creepiest memories of childhood are of me on a table being smothered by a 200lb. man trying to twist my head off my neck.
I spent several years going to the chiropractor but never got better lungs; my chiropractor got a condo on Grand Cayman. To this day my mother believes that chiropractors are the true miracle workers of the world. Gall bladder problems? Chiropractor. Planter’s warts? Chiropractor. This, in combinations with her holistic, herbal mindset made for one weird childhood. I distinctly remember my mother being called to school to pick me up because I was sick. I was SICK! She brought in her liquid aloe vera extract, made me drink it and told me to stick out the day because I was going to be fine. The school never called her in again.
So when my husband starting having back issues, my mother’s response was, “get him to the chiropractor.” Twelve appointments, heat massage, and an expensive, custom made back pillow later, I fixed him. That’s right. I fixed him. Me and Jerry Seinfeld.
You know that episode where George’s wallet is stuffed so full of crap that his wallet barely even closes? I married George Costanza. I took one look at his wallet and found receipts from 1982, expired credit cards, frequent lunch punch cards with exactly one lunch punched out of all 122 cards; old movie stubs and "How to care for fish" instructions (don’t have fish); you name it, it was in there.
Anyway, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist caught in a love triangle to figure out that if you sit lopsided on your butt all day, you’re going to have back problems. Thanks to George Costanza, my husband’s wallet is no longer a pain in the butt.
That my friends, is educational TV.
** Not all chiropractors are quacks. I know some very fine people who happen to be chiropractors. Use with caution.
I spent several years going to the chiropractor but never got better lungs; my chiropractor got a condo on Grand Cayman. To this day my mother believes that chiropractors are the true miracle workers of the world. Gall bladder problems? Chiropractor. Planter’s warts? Chiropractor. This, in combinations with her holistic, herbal mindset made for one weird childhood. I distinctly remember my mother being called to school to pick me up because I was sick. I was SICK! She brought in her liquid aloe vera extract, made me drink it and told me to stick out the day because I was going to be fine. The school never called her in again.
So when my husband starting having back issues, my mother’s response was, “get him to the chiropractor.” Twelve appointments, heat massage, and an expensive, custom made back pillow later, I fixed him. That’s right. I fixed him. Me and Jerry Seinfeld.
You know that episode where George’s wallet is stuffed so full of crap that his wallet barely even closes? I married George Costanza. I took one look at his wallet and found receipts from 1982, expired credit cards, frequent lunch punch cards with exactly one lunch punched out of all 122 cards; old movie stubs and "How to care for fish" instructions (don’t have fish); you name it, it was in there.
Anyway, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist caught in a love triangle to figure out that if you sit lopsided on your butt all day, you’re going to have back problems. Thanks to George Costanza, my husband’s wallet is no longer a pain in the butt.
That my friends, is educational TV.
** Not all chiropractors are quacks. I know some very fine people who happen to be chiropractors. Use with caution.
Give Me the Finger
We listen to math and counting CD’s in the car so it’s not a big deal to hear counting sequences from the back of the car. Today the math skills were uttered with particular delight. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11! 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11!!
Over and over I heard this. Finally, with great exuberance the proclamation came from my preschool age son. “Yessss! I have 11 fingers! I have 11 fingers. I’m so grateful!” The heraldry and pageantry that followed such a discovery was contagious as his twin brother, whose computation skills are suspect, confirmed the discovery and they both whooped it up in the back seat.
I’m fairly certain that in the few years since his birth he hasn’t grown another finger and I’m definitely certain that he was born with only five on each hand. The result of duplicating fingers while counting was, no doubt the cause for such joy. I guess this gives new meaning to “double digits.”
For most people, growing an additional appendage would be the thing of tabloids and alien TV shows. Generally speaking, growing an additional anything is not a cause for holiday. Not so for my son. It was genuine gratefulness for something so generous. Had I announced ice cream and Cheetos for dinner, the delight could not have been greater. Oh the things one can do with an extra finger or two!
When was the last time that I was truly grateful for a circumstance deemed “terribly unfortunate” by others? No, I don’t have genetically warped DNA that causes such growth spurts. However, as a family, we have gone through some trying times together-a job loss, a house fire, a mediocre Buckeye football season-but the best joys are the simply profound revelations that are seen only by the beholder of such beauty.
The next time a dire circumstance looks bleak and unbearable, look through the eyes of a four year old. The beauty is there, just waiting for a grateful glance. Go a head, whoop it up, even in the bad times. People may look at you like you’ve grown an extra finger, but being able to count your blessings in every circumstance is living better than you can imagine.
Over and over I heard this. Finally, with great exuberance the proclamation came from my preschool age son. “Yessss! I have 11 fingers! I have 11 fingers. I’m so grateful!” The heraldry and pageantry that followed such a discovery was contagious as his twin brother, whose computation skills are suspect, confirmed the discovery and they both whooped it up in the back seat.
I’m fairly certain that in the few years since his birth he hasn’t grown another finger and I’m definitely certain that he was born with only five on each hand. The result of duplicating fingers while counting was, no doubt the cause for such joy. I guess this gives new meaning to “double digits.”
For most people, growing an additional appendage would be the thing of tabloids and alien TV shows. Generally speaking, growing an additional anything is not a cause for holiday. Not so for my son. It was genuine gratefulness for something so generous. Had I announced ice cream and Cheetos for dinner, the delight could not have been greater. Oh the things one can do with an extra finger or two!
When was the last time that I was truly grateful for a circumstance deemed “terribly unfortunate” by others? No, I don’t have genetically warped DNA that causes such growth spurts. However, as a family, we have gone through some trying times together-a job loss, a house fire, a mediocre Buckeye football season-but the best joys are the simply profound revelations that are seen only by the beholder of such beauty.
The next time a dire circumstance looks bleak and unbearable, look through the eyes of a four year old. The beauty is there, just waiting for a grateful glance. Go a head, whoop it up, even in the bad times. People may look at you like you’ve grown an extra finger, but being able to count your blessings in every circumstance is living better than you can imagine.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Doggie Years and Mommy Years
My husband and I were having an aggressive, financially driven conversation in the car on the way home from the Home Depot. My son is furiously tapping my shoulder trying to get my attention from the back seat. I turned around and issued the standard warning about interrupting and explained what is to be expected from a 10 year old when it comes to the art of inserting a request into a dialogue in which you are not a participant.
After all the unsolicited lecturing, he injected this pertinent question: “How long is a dog year?” That’s it. That’s all he wanted. Apparently the absence of this scientific conversion caused his thought process to derail. We don’t own a dog so I don’t know whose life expectancy he was calculating.
“How long is a mommy year?” my daughter shouted from the back seat. That, my dear, will take some consideration. Sometimes a Mommy year feels like seven dog years. The year I decided I would nurse, not bottle feed, newborn twins felt like untold dog years. The years that my husband worked third shift while I was at home with five children under age six, felt like eternity.
The years that my only daughter went from twirling through the house in a soft, white nightgown to holding her book bag for her first day of kindergarten were only a minute. The year that my other son learned how to write his name in cursive and detach himself from his big brother’s shadow passed so quickly, I don’t remember its existence.
The year that I made the New Year’s resolution to lose all the baby fat keeps repeating itself like an old woman with a bad hearing aid.
The year, the year, the year. So many years have passed, I fear they have doubled in speed and I have forgotten in halves. I have wasted time and wanted time. I have wasted time thinking about wanted time.
No, a Mommy year can’t be measured because it has too many variables. One thing is certain-a Mommy should enjoy every agonizing, beautiful minute of every year because a Mommy year will only last as long as the Mommy.
After all the unsolicited lecturing, he injected this pertinent question: “How long is a dog year?” That’s it. That’s all he wanted. Apparently the absence of this scientific conversion caused his thought process to derail. We don’t own a dog so I don’t know whose life expectancy he was calculating.
“How long is a mommy year?” my daughter shouted from the back seat. That, my dear, will take some consideration. Sometimes a Mommy year feels like seven dog years. The year I decided I would nurse, not bottle feed, newborn twins felt like untold dog years. The years that my husband worked third shift while I was at home with five children under age six, felt like eternity.
The years that my only daughter went from twirling through the house in a soft, white nightgown to holding her book bag for her first day of kindergarten were only a minute. The year that my other son learned how to write his name in cursive and detach himself from his big brother’s shadow passed so quickly, I don’t remember its existence.
The year that I made the New Year’s resolution to lose all the baby fat keeps repeating itself like an old woman with a bad hearing aid.
The year, the year, the year. So many years have passed, I fear they have doubled in speed and I have forgotten in halves. I have wasted time and wanted time. I have wasted time thinking about wanted time.
No, a Mommy year can’t be measured because it has too many variables. One thing is certain-a Mommy should enjoy every agonizing, beautiful minute of every year because a Mommy year will only last as long as the Mommy.
The Funniest Thing Happened at a Funeral the Other Day…
There is a song that fits my actions perfectly. “I’m the kind of guy who laughs at funerals. Don’t understand what I mean but you soon will.” Before we departed for the funeral, I warned my friend of my embarrassingly immature habit of laughing at funerals. She looked at me in doubt. Oh yes, I tried to explain. I don’t ever cry, ever. So when I get to emotional situations, I do the next best thing-I laugh.
As deaths go, one doesn’t plan in advance and so it was when a friend and I decided to attend the funeral service of a man whom we didn’t know. We did know quite well, the man’s sister, so we thought it appropriate to attend to show our support of her.
On a hot July evening, we traveled to rural Morrow County with no address in mind; just on the look out for the only church we thought might be hosting a funeral. We found seats near the back of the cinder block built room, filled quite to capacity. Several Army veterans were on hand to lay to rest a fellow soldier in the customary military fashion.
We just had time to take our seats, right next to a school family whom I’d seen but didn’t know by name. As the solemn organ music preclude, I heard a female voice speaking near the front of the room. It sounded quite like a eulogy, but I could see no human form. Dear God, where was the voice coming from? Was the casket speaking? Why can’t I see the person speaking? Why is no one else curious? I looked around to see if anyone else was alarmed at the bodiless voice stemming from the gardenia arrangement. I’m sure I must have had a quizzical look on my face as I craned my neck around to scan the front of the room without trying to appear morbid.
I caught the eye of my friend, who through years of friendship precisely read my demented mind. This caused a snicker. This was detrimental to maintaining decorum.
Finally, I saw a little women rise, dressed in a poofy black dress that looked like an opened umbrella. Her head perched and lolled on the umbrella dress where the point of the umbrella should be. Someone brought her a stool. As I watched her scamper up the stool, I felt relived that I hadn’t accidentally walked into a séance, but also delightfully mesmerized by the munchkin type person who commanded the word of the Lord with authority, yet didn’t seem able to see past the third row. I don’t know what came over me, but I was illuminated with comic genius. Everything I whispered seemed hilarious. I was on a roll and couldn’t stop.
To make a long story longer, that’s when the giggles began. The problem with laughter prohibition is the more you try not to laugh, the worse it becomes. I began to shake with silent laughter, feigning mild sobbing action.
This, of course, was contagious. My friend, trying not to laugh, tried the biting of the lip routine, which only served to make the inside of her mouth bleed.
There were several different events throughout the funeral which caused the laughing fits to wax and wane but the pinnacle of my outlandish outburst occurred at the end of the funeral. I knew it was a military funeral. I knew they were doing a 21 gun salute. However, there was such an awkward delay awaiting the guns to fire, I had nearly forgotten they were coming. They should really warn someone when there are going to be loud, very loud, guns being fired quite near the back of one’s head.
I had made the unfortunate choice to wear a long skirt with a slit up the middle. This detail is only significant because of what happened next. With a dull murmur of conversation beginning to creep over the congregation, those old soldiers fired those ol’ guns. It sounded like someone had misfired and shot directly into the church.
The burst of fire power so startled me that I flew back in my metal folding chair, legs all akimbo, feet flying in a most unlady like manner, all while yelping a most inappropriate “whoa!”
Thankfully, the chair did not fall completely backward, but that action was enough to start the laughing. Then the trying-not-to-laugh stifles which turned into snorts. And more shaking. I tried painfully pinching myself to keep from bursting. It hurt but it didn’t help.
After the service, my friend and I spoke briefly with our mourning friend, declined the invitation to stay for ham sandwiches and potato salad, and got out of that building as fast as we could. We waited a good three blocks from the church to really burst with obnoxious laughter. We didn’t want anyone to see us all upbeat so close to the funeral (how inappropriate). We laughed so long that my stomach hurt the whole next day.
Yep. I’m the kind of person who laughs at funerals. She didn’t understand what I meant, but now she does.
As deaths go, one doesn’t plan in advance and so it was when a friend and I decided to attend the funeral service of a man whom we didn’t know. We did know quite well, the man’s sister, so we thought it appropriate to attend to show our support of her.
On a hot July evening, we traveled to rural Morrow County with no address in mind; just on the look out for the only church we thought might be hosting a funeral. We found seats near the back of the cinder block built room, filled quite to capacity. Several Army veterans were on hand to lay to rest a fellow soldier in the customary military fashion.
We just had time to take our seats, right next to a school family whom I’d seen but didn’t know by name. As the solemn organ music preclude, I heard a female voice speaking near the front of the room. It sounded quite like a eulogy, but I could see no human form. Dear God, where was the voice coming from? Was the casket speaking? Why can’t I see the person speaking? Why is no one else curious? I looked around to see if anyone else was alarmed at the bodiless voice stemming from the gardenia arrangement. I’m sure I must have had a quizzical look on my face as I craned my neck around to scan the front of the room without trying to appear morbid.
I caught the eye of my friend, who through years of friendship precisely read my demented mind. This caused a snicker. This was detrimental to maintaining decorum.
Finally, I saw a little women rise, dressed in a poofy black dress that looked like an opened umbrella. Her head perched and lolled on the umbrella dress where the point of the umbrella should be. Someone brought her a stool. As I watched her scamper up the stool, I felt relived that I hadn’t accidentally walked into a séance, but also delightfully mesmerized by the munchkin type person who commanded the word of the Lord with authority, yet didn’t seem able to see past the third row. I don’t know what came over me, but I was illuminated with comic genius. Everything I whispered seemed hilarious. I was on a roll and couldn’t stop.
To make a long story longer, that’s when the giggles began. The problem with laughter prohibition is the more you try not to laugh, the worse it becomes. I began to shake with silent laughter, feigning mild sobbing action.
This, of course, was contagious. My friend, trying not to laugh, tried the biting of the lip routine, which only served to make the inside of her mouth bleed.
There were several different events throughout the funeral which caused the laughing fits to wax and wane but the pinnacle of my outlandish outburst occurred at the end of the funeral. I knew it was a military funeral. I knew they were doing a 21 gun salute. However, there was such an awkward delay awaiting the guns to fire, I had nearly forgotten they were coming. They should really warn someone when there are going to be loud, very loud, guns being fired quite near the back of one’s head.
I had made the unfortunate choice to wear a long skirt with a slit up the middle. This detail is only significant because of what happened next. With a dull murmur of conversation beginning to creep over the congregation, those old soldiers fired those ol’ guns. It sounded like someone had misfired and shot directly into the church.
The burst of fire power so startled me that I flew back in my metal folding chair, legs all akimbo, feet flying in a most unlady like manner, all while yelping a most inappropriate “whoa!”
Thankfully, the chair did not fall completely backward, but that action was enough to start the laughing. Then the trying-not-to-laugh stifles which turned into snorts. And more shaking. I tried painfully pinching myself to keep from bursting. It hurt but it didn’t help.
After the service, my friend and I spoke briefly with our mourning friend, declined the invitation to stay for ham sandwiches and potato salad, and got out of that building as fast as we could. We waited a good three blocks from the church to really burst with obnoxious laughter. We didn’t want anyone to see us all upbeat so close to the funeral (how inappropriate). We laughed so long that my stomach hurt the whole next day.
Yep. I’m the kind of person who laughs at funerals. She didn’t understand what I meant, but now she does.
I Heart Mediocrity
I don’t understand vehicular labels. I get the vacation labels-Hilton Head Island, Fiji Island, Hawaii Island, and Rykers Island. If I could afford to vacation at these places, I’d brag about it too. I’m talking about the dog labels. Isn’t it enough that I have to read where people vacation, but do I have to read what breed of dog they own? My brother loves his Labrador label, complete with the silhouette of a Labrador, for a literal translation. I’ve seen marketing ploys for nearly every breed. You name it, someone has stuck it on their car.
I’m not opposed to the shameless capitalist advertising gimmick, but I think it should be open to all breeds and not solely limited to purebreds. How dare we, as a society, decry intolerance yet practice the very inequality we oppose? Where are the stickers for the half-breeds, the mutts and the “My father is a stud and my mother could be your Labrador” stickers?
I demand the label industry rise to the occasion and produce auto labels for the common man who owns the common dog who drives the common pick up truck. I demand to see a “good hunting dog with a bit of an overbite” sticker.
While I’m at it, I hate the “my child is an honor student” bumper stickers. It’s simply not fair to the students who have broken the educational mold and cannot be confined to a cookie cutter education. Where are the “my child is home schooled so he’s waaaay smarter than your honor student” bumper stickers? Or, “my child can’t spell but he’s the reigning X-box champion in the tri-state area” label?
Why must we advertise our elitist preferences? Will it end with cars, vacations and pets? How about sporting a “What would Martha Do?” label as you defiantly pass the rest of us in the fast food drive through lane?
Isn’t it bad enough that if you drive a BMW and I drive a 10year old mini-van, that we’re already wearing our “labels”? On second thought, that's ok. I think I will stick a “My pit bull just ate your vest-wearin’ Pomeranian” sticker on my van.
Where can I get one of those?
I’m not opposed to the shameless capitalist advertising gimmick, but I think it should be open to all breeds and not solely limited to purebreds. How dare we, as a society, decry intolerance yet practice the very inequality we oppose? Where are the stickers for the half-breeds, the mutts and the “My father is a stud and my mother could be your Labrador” stickers?
I demand the label industry rise to the occasion and produce auto labels for the common man who owns the common dog who drives the common pick up truck. I demand to see a “good hunting dog with a bit of an overbite” sticker.
While I’m at it, I hate the “my child is an honor student” bumper stickers. It’s simply not fair to the students who have broken the educational mold and cannot be confined to a cookie cutter education. Where are the “my child is home schooled so he’s waaaay smarter than your honor student” bumper stickers? Or, “my child can’t spell but he’s the reigning X-box champion in the tri-state area” label?
Why must we advertise our elitist preferences? Will it end with cars, vacations and pets? How about sporting a “What would Martha Do?” label as you defiantly pass the rest of us in the fast food drive through lane?
Isn’t it bad enough that if you drive a BMW and I drive a 10year old mini-van, that we’re already wearing our “labels”? On second thought, that's ok. I think I will stick a “My pit bull just ate your vest-wearin’ Pomeranian” sticker on my van.
Where can I get one of those?
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