I do not like having things up in the air. I like knowing what's going to happen tomorrow. I get very frazzled when I am left wondering what the next step is going to be in any situation. When I wake up every morning, I go over in my head the things that need to be done that day. In fact, I start doing that before I fall asleep at night.
Which could explain my chronic insomnia.
When something comes up that is not part of the plan, I go into a little bit of a tail spin. A CONTROLLED tailspin, but still a tail spin.
I am a planner.
So when we got the news, two months ago, that my dad's cancer was indeed terminal; I of course was not only struck with grief; but also with an utter sense of things spinning out of control. Because there is no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring, what the next hour will bring, when dealing with terminal illness. This was something for which I could not plan.
And that is difficult to handle for someone who is not good at playing the "What If" game.
But there are some things I decided I COULD control in this situation. I could, to some degree, start making a plan.
I decided to start with what was most important to me, my children. What would I do with my children when we got a call to get there as quickly as possible? Our children are 14 (tomorrow) and nearly 17 (in July) so we believe they are old enough to decide for themselves whether or not they want to be present while we deal with this issue of death. You know? Up close and in the midst of it.
So we came up with a plan for when we got "a call" and told the kids how we thought it should work.
For Kayla we decided we would first call one of our neighbors for whom she babysits. She could spend the evenings with them, sleep on their couch or in the guest room, and come home in the mornings to get ready for school. Or we could call the parents of one of her friends and get her there quickly; since I had already talked to one or two of the parents and asked if this would be possible. This was if she didn't want to come with us.
For Blake we decided he could stay home, and we would contact the parents of his friends and ask them to keep an eye on the house and allow Blake to call on them if he needed anything. I know. I know. Some would not agree with this, letting a nearly 17-year-old boy stay home alone over night, but in three months, he will be able to serve in some branches of the Armed Services. In three months he will be considered the age of majority.
So when we got the call last Tuesday that we had a matter of hours to get to Dad, we put the plan into action.
I started running through the house yelling "THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
Oh, no I didn't.
We asked Kayla what she wanted to do. She opted to go with us, so I told her to go pack a bag with at least 3 outfits, books, movies, medications, a pillow etc. and be ready in 30 minutes. She did great. And I mean GREAT.
Blake opted to stay home. I gave him money for food, instructed him to take care of the pets and lock all doors at night, and reminded him that we would be calling at least three families to let them know to keep an eye on the house.
As we were driving to Indiana on the first trip over, Paul's cell phone rang and it was Blake's friend Cody. First he said he was sorry for what we were going through. I know, this from a 16 year old boy. Neat, huh? Then he said that his parents said he could stay with Blake if that was ok with us. Of course it was. Then his mother got on the phone and assured us that she and Cody's dad would keep a close eye on the boys.
Let me just say this. Until Blake shows us that we cannot trust him, we choose to trust him. And having Cody here with him, was a huge help to us. Because, next to Paul, Cody's dad is the ONE man that Blake would not want to disappoint.
No. No way, would Blake want to disappoint Chief O.....
On that first trip, Kayla was such a good sport. She settled herself in the lounge on the cancer ward and read her books and watched movies on the portable DVD player. She sat in her Grandpas room occasionally. She never complained once, not even when we were checking into a hotel at 2 in the morning, and we were all bone tired.
And Blake? I got home and the only mess in the house, was what I had left in the kitchen from dinner the night before. The counter tops were clean, the pets had been fed. The litter box wasn't a disgusting mess.
The second trip, Kayla stayed with a track team mate since they had a meet on that Saturday, and we decided it would be good to leave her with somebody that needed to keep the same schedule as she. That was the first night. On the second night, she stayed with one of our neighbors. Blake took her over and walked her in, and they both represented us well. I know this because our neighbors later said some wonderful things about both our kids and I was so proud that I started crying on the phone as he spoke.
Blake, on the second trip, had Cubby stay with him the first night and Cody stay with him the second night. Again, both of their parents knew we were going to be gone and agreed to keep close tabs on them. Again, Cubby's dad is NOT a man that Blake would want to disappoint. Not only is the man 6' 8" and almost 300 pounds, but Blake likes and respects him.
On the second trip, we left each of the kids some cash to use for meals out or emergencies.
During one of our phone conversations, Blake said that he had eaten some "nasty gross quesadillas from the freezer" and I reminded him that I had left cash for him to go get a couple of good meals.
His response?
"I'm not wasting that cash on food. I'm hoping to buy myself a new video game. You know? To console myself over the extreme loneliness I feel from missing my parents...."
Uh, yeah, right!
I rattle on like this to say that I think our planning worked. I feel confident that the kids were prepared, as well as they could be, for this emergency. I feel confident that they both got through the week well and felt secure with our arrangements.
And I felt better knowing that our preparations and our forethought made things a little easier on our family. I felt like I had a little bit of control in a very uncontrolled situation.
I will try to make this the last post about terminal illness for a while. Tomorrow is Kayla's birthday so I might come up with a sappy, boo-hoo kind of post.
You know? One that celebrates life.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
LESSONS
I would never presume that my brand of suffering is worse than somebody else's. My problems are not any more upsetting, my worries are not any more consuming. It's all just different.
However; as I go through this phase of life, where I am dealing with the imminent death of my dad; I am struck with the unique nature of my grief - unique in that it's not the standard way one would hope to get to experience something like this. You know, if you have to watch your dad die, there are things that would make it a little more bearable.
I would HOPE to experience the death of a parent with the other parent by my side. I would HOPE to have the distraction of comforting that other parent, guiding that other parent, helping that other parent with decisions. I would HOPE that other parent would be comforting me. And I would HOPE to have the cushion of thousands of memories with my dying parent to fall into once he has gone. None of these things is happening for me and my siblings. And I am a little angry about it. I feel cheated. I feel REALLY cheated. They have been divorced over thirty years and that divorce still leaves its ugly stain on our hearts. That divorce has even cheated me out of a healthy grieving process. That divorce has scarred each of us four kids in different ways.
Instead of getting to comfort our other parent, we have to placate her and make excuses. We have to withstand her accusations and verbal attacks. We have to constantly reassure her of our loyalty and love. We are exhausting ourselves dealing with one parent's jealousy and resentment while we are preparing to bury the other.
There is a dimension to this process, this process of saying good bye, that simply should not be there. There is a dimension to this process, for my siblings and me, that, were it to be alleviated,
would lighten our loads just a little.
I have no delusions about the kind of dad he was. He was absent. Plain and simple. Once the divorce occurred he quickly saw the opportunity to cut and run and free himself from the business of parenting. I have no happy memories of him. But I have no unhappy memories of him. He simply was the distant parent who showed up occasionally but always sent child support and NEVER said a bad thing about our mother.
HE NEVER SAID A BAD THING ABOUT OUR MOTHER TO HIS CHILDREN.
And if nothing else, I will forever be thankful to him for that.
And I will always love him, because he is still my dad.
And now he is in the end stages of cancer. And the right thing to do is be there and minister to him and love him. Simply love him. My children are watching, and I WILL NOT allow them to see me turn my back on a parent, regardless of the past. But even if my children were not involved in this, I would be there as much as I can.
Because it is the right thing to do.
And I don't understand why that is so hard for somebody to see. I cannot comprehend why it is so hard to see that doing the right thing is not a betrayal.
An that is why my grief is a unique kind of grief from what I wish it could be. Because I am preparing to say goodbye to a father I never really knew. And saying goodbye to him is like saying goodbye to hope, hope that he would eventually, someday, have decided that he wanted to know me and my family. Along with that, I am enduring a constant pull and strain on my emotions by a jealous and insecure mother who cannot understand why I need to minister to this dying man and somehow make peace with what my life with him has been like - and what my life with him SHOULD have been like.
Death. It is a part of life. And like every other part of life, I am trying to learn from it. I am learning from the dignity my dad is showing. I am learning from the utter, tireless devotion my stepmother is showing to him. I am learning from the selfless behavior of my children over the past week. I am learning from the utter, tireless devotion my husband has shown me over the past week.
I am learning that it's ok to accept help from other families. I am learning that it's ok to let the tears fall when they creep up on me at the oddest times. I am learning that it is not my job to know what will happen tomorrow; and so I must not worry about it. I am learning that it is ok for my prayer to simply be "Please God..." when my mind and heart simply cannot find the words. Because I know He will fill in the blanks.
Death is full of lessons. Just like life.
Life.
It does indeed go on.
However; as I go through this phase of life, where I am dealing with the imminent death of my dad; I am struck with the unique nature of my grief - unique in that it's not the standard way one would hope to get to experience something like this. You know, if you have to watch your dad die, there are things that would make it a little more bearable.
I would HOPE to experience the death of a parent with the other parent by my side. I would HOPE to have the distraction of comforting that other parent, guiding that other parent, helping that other parent with decisions. I would HOPE that other parent would be comforting me. And I would HOPE to have the cushion of thousands of memories with my dying parent to fall into once he has gone. None of these things is happening for me and my siblings. And I am a little angry about it. I feel cheated. I feel REALLY cheated. They have been divorced over thirty years and that divorce still leaves its ugly stain on our hearts. That divorce has even cheated me out of a healthy grieving process. That divorce has scarred each of us four kids in different ways.
Instead of getting to comfort our other parent, we have to placate her and make excuses. We have to withstand her accusations and verbal attacks. We have to constantly reassure her of our loyalty and love. We are exhausting ourselves dealing with one parent's jealousy and resentment while we are preparing to bury the other.
There is a dimension to this process, this process of saying good bye, that simply should not be there. There is a dimension to this process, for my siblings and me, that, were it to be alleviated,
would lighten our loads just a little.
I have no delusions about the kind of dad he was. He was absent. Plain and simple. Once the divorce occurred he quickly saw the opportunity to cut and run and free himself from the business of parenting. I have no happy memories of him. But I have no unhappy memories of him. He simply was the distant parent who showed up occasionally but always sent child support and NEVER said a bad thing about our mother.
HE NEVER SAID A BAD THING ABOUT OUR MOTHER TO HIS CHILDREN.
And if nothing else, I will forever be thankful to him for that.
And I will always love him, because he is still my dad.
And now he is in the end stages of cancer. And the right thing to do is be there and minister to him and love him. Simply love him. My children are watching, and I WILL NOT allow them to see me turn my back on a parent, regardless of the past. But even if my children were not involved in this, I would be there as much as I can.
Because it is the right thing to do.
And I don't understand why that is so hard for somebody to see. I cannot comprehend why it is so hard to see that doing the right thing is not a betrayal.
An that is why my grief is a unique kind of grief from what I wish it could be. Because I am preparing to say goodbye to a father I never really knew. And saying goodbye to him is like saying goodbye to hope, hope that he would eventually, someday, have decided that he wanted to know me and my family. Along with that, I am enduring a constant pull and strain on my emotions by a jealous and insecure mother who cannot understand why I need to minister to this dying man and somehow make peace with what my life with him has been like - and what my life with him SHOULD have been like.
Death. It is a part of life. And like every other part of life, I am trying to learn from it. I am learning from the dignity my dad is showing. I am learning from the utter, tireless devotion my stepmother is showing to him. I am learning from the selfless behavior of my children over the past week. I am learning from the utter, tireless devotion my husband has shown me over the past week.
I am learning that it's ok to accept help from other families. I am learning that it's ok to let the tears fall when they creep up on me at the oddest times. I am learning that it is not my job to know what will happen tomorrow; and so I must not worry about it. I am learning that it is ok for my prayer to simply be "Please God..." when my mind and heart simply cannot find the words. Because I know He will fill in the blanks.
Death is full of lessons. Just like life.
Life.
It does indeed go on.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
ONE
I do not know what day it is.
I barely know what time it is, as we changed time zones when we came here. True, we only changed by an hour, but even that simple ONE is difficult to add (or subtract) when your head is fuzzy with dread and fatigue.
And I do not look at that clock without doing the math because I want to remember what time it is at home.
Home. Where my children are. Where a touch of normalcy awaits me. Where I might for brief moments escape the oppressive waiting and dread that come with imminent death.
I have developed a fear of the telephone. The phone that rang at 5:45 yesterday morning to bring me more bad news. My mind still fuzzy from 3 hours of sleep; I somehow knew enough to feel fear. The phone never rings at 5:45 unless it is to bring bad news. Or news of a baby. And our newest baby arrived 3 weeks ago, so there was no hope in the way this phone rang.
No hope?
Another call to 911. More bleeding. Stay there. We'll let you know.
Why? Why, did we bring him home? Why didn't we keep him in the hospital where trained professionals could treat him?
Because he wants to be at home. And he told the paramedics just that when they stopped the bleeding and stabilized his vitals. I'M. STAYING. HOME
And so it continues. This hopscotch game of waiting on death. Jumping from "what if?" to "should have," from hope to dread; from fatigue to deeper fatigue; from "please let it be soon" to "Not yet."
PLEASE. NOT. YET.
And still there is that phone. That phone that haunted my four hours of sleep last night. That phone that rang in my dreams over and over and over again, only for me to force myself awake to hear that the hotel room was silent. That phone that I have so often in the last few days handed to my husband, my ONE, and said "Please carry this for me." And he knew by that I meant answer it, answer the questions, intercept the bad news, carry this load.
And he has. He has carried that cell phone and flipped it open when that obnoxious ring sounds and taken care of things, small and large. And in carrying the bright pink razor, he has carried me.
And I am so unbelievably thankful that he is my ONE.
**************************************************
We are staying in a hotel. Why, when my father is dying, did we choose a hotel? Because there are four of us, with spouses, coming in and out. Plus, my dad's siblings and mother. The house gets crowded and chaotic. Sometimes a good chaotic, sometimes not.
The hotel room is good. It allows me to escape the sadness; and through all of this so far, I have made a selfish vow that I WILL take care of myself to some extent.
Because my children are at home waiting for me. My children, the top layer of this generational sandwich. And I WILL be in good shape for them. At least as much as circumstances allow.
They are, after all, my other two ONES.
I barely know what time it is, as we changed time zones when we came here. True, we only changed by an hour, but even that simple ONE is difficult to add (or subtract) when your head is fuzzy with dread and fatigue.
And I do not look at that clock without doing the math because I want to remember what time it is at home.
Home. Where my children are. Where a touch of normalcy awaits me. Where I might for brief moments escape the oppressive waiting and dread that come with imminent death.
I have developed a fear of the telephone. The phone that rang at 5:45 yesterday morning to bring me more bad news. My mind still fuzzy from 3 hours of sleep; I somehow knew enough to feel fear. The phone never rings at 5:45 unless it is to bring bad news. Or news of a baby. And our newest baby arrived 3 weeks ago, so there was no hope in the way this phone rang.
No hope?
Another call to 911. More bleeding. Stay there. We'll let you know.
Why? Why, did we bring him home? Why didn't we keep him in the hospital where trained professionals could treat him?
Because he wants to be at home. And he told the paramedics just that when they stopped the bleeding and stabilized his vitals. I'M. STAYING. HOME
And so it continues. This hopscotch game of waiting on death. Jumping from "what if?" to "should have," from hope to dread; from fatigue to deeper fatigue; from "please let it be soon" to "Not yet."
PLEASE. NOT. YET.
And still there is that phone. That phone that haunted my four hours of sleep last night. That phone that rang in my dreams over and over and over again, only for me to force myself awake to hear that the hotel room was silent. That phone that I have so often in the last few days handed to my husband, my ONE, and said "Please carry this for me." And he knew by that I meant answer it, answer the questions, intercept the bad news, carry this load.
And he has. He has carried that cell phone and flipped it open when that obnoxious ring sounds and taken care of things, small and large. And in carrying the bright pink razor, he has carried me.
And I am so unbelievably thankful that he is my ONE.
**************************************************
We are staying in a hotel. Why, when my father is dying, did we choose a hotel? Because there are four of us, with spouses, coming in and out. Plus, my dad's siblings and mother. The house gets crowded and chaotic. Sometimes a good chaotic, sometimes not.
The hotel room is good. It allows me to escape the sadness; and through all of this so far, I have made a selfish vow that I WILL take care of myself to some extent.
Because my children are at home waiting for me. My children, the top layer of this generational sandwich. And I WILL be in good shape for them. At least as much as circumstances allow.
They are, after all, my other two ONES.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DO THIS
The call came last night after supper; although it could have been a week ago, so tired are we and so long has the day been.
My aunt - "Your dad has been taken to the hospital by ambulance. The doctors are saying the family should get there. He is pretty bad."
He has terminal lung cancer and we had been told he had a year.
I live the closest to him and we are four hours away.
Three phone calls - one to each sibling. Get on the road. We're leaving now. We can get there faster than any of you. We'll see you at the hospital.
Another call - my brother "Heidi, Bill said it's a matter of hours. I'm leaving now." Bill - his best friend. My brother lives twelve hours away. He won't make it. None of us will.
Please, God. Let one of us make it.
Controlled panic.
It's not supposed to be this way. We are supposed to have a year. This death is supposed to come upon us like a dimmer switch. We are supposed to have time to adjust to each phase of darkness before the blackness hits. But no. Someone has plunged our world into blackness without warning. That kind of blackness that engulfs you and squeezes the breath out of you. I do not know how to do this.
How do you pack for what could be the last minutes with your father?
How long will I be there? Where are my tennis shoes? Why can't I find a brush? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn't I wash that last load of whites? Migraine medicine. Bible. Cell phone. I am not ready for this.
Driving, driving, driving. Will this road ever end? Phone call after phone call. More questions. "I don't know.'' "I don't know." I. DON'T. KNOW.
Twenty minutes to go, another phone call: "He has rebounded, and seems to be stabilized."
Hemorrhage from the lung. Failing organs. Fatally low vital signs. Three units of blood. Rebounding....
But.
Do not get your hopes up, the doctor says. It is time to get your plans together. It is time to consider hospice. It is time for all family to get here that will want to be here. It could be days, weeks, months. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
And so it begins.
The roller coaster of a terminal illness. The fear of the telephone. The spark of hope with the words "stabilized" "rebound."
HOPE.
Except perhaps it is time to believe there is none; hope that is. Only that his suffering will be brief.
Thirty six hours at home and then back to his bedside.
I do not know how to do this.
My aunt - "Your dad has been taken to the hospital by ambulance. The doctors are saying the family should get there. He is pretty bad."
He has terminal lung cancer and we had been told he had a year.
I live the closest to him and we are four hours away.
Three phone calls - one to each sibling. Get on the road. We're leaving now. We can get there faster than any of you. We'll see you at the hospital.
Another call - my brother "Heidi, Bill said it's a matter of hours. I'm leaving now." Bill - his best friend. My brother lives twelve hours away. He won't make it. None of us will.
Please, God. Let one of us make it.
Controlled panic.
It's not supposed to be this way. We are supposed to have a year. This death is supposed to come upon us like a dimmer switch. We are supposed to have time to adjust to each phase of darkness before the blackness hits. But no. Someone has plunged our world into blackness without warning. That kind of blackness that engulfs you and squeezes the breath out of you. I do not know how to do this.
How do you pack for what could be the last minutes with your father?
How long will I be there? Where are my tennis shoes? Why can't I find a brush? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn't I wash that last load of whites? Migraine medicine. Bible. Cell phone. I am not ready for this.
Driving, driving, driving. Will this road ever end? Phone call after phone call. More questions. "I don't know.'' "I don't know." I. DON'T. KNOW.
Twenty minutes to go, another phone call: "He has rebounded, and seems to be stabilized."
Hemorrhage from the lung. Failing organs. Fatally low vital signs. Three units of blood. Rebounding....
But.
Do not get your hopes up, the doctor says. It is time to get your plans together. It is time to consider hospice. It is time for all family to get here that will want to be here. It could be days, weeks, months. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
And so it begins.
The roller coaster of a terminal illness. The fear of the telephone. The spark of hope with the words "stabilized" "rebound."
HOPE.
Except perhaps it is time to believe there is none; hope that is. Only that his suffering will be brief.
Thirty six hours at home and then back to his bedside.
I do not know how to do this.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE
Paul is a coffee drinker. I wasn't, until I finally grew up a few months ago and bought a real,
gen-u-wine coffee maker to have at our house. And I feel like a real woman now. Except I'm really not, because I put lots of cream and sugar in it. I'm pretty much a coffee sissy.
Until we had our new coffee maker, I had bought a couple of little things for Paul to use as the only coffee drinker in the house. I bought him a two cup maker. I bought him a four cup maker. I bought him a one cup maker. Actually I think I just bought those things because he is so incredibly hard to buy for on birthdays and Chrtistmas that I just kept trying with the coffee maker idea. They all quickly ended up in storage because Paul would say it was silly to go through the hassle of making coffe at home when he could get it at work.
Translation: why buy coffee for home, when it's FREE at work?
But I noticed that Paul was getting a lot of headaches on the weekends and I, being the expert on all things headache, quickly diagnosed him with caffeine withdrawal. I couldn't stand to see my beloved suffer from a headache each and every weekend.
Translation: it made no sense for him to be out of commission on the weekends when I needed him to help me around the house and to chauffer the kids to and fro during that 48 hour period each week.
The only answer was to make sure he had caffeine on weekends.
Call me an enabler if you will. We all have things we must do to survive.
So I bought the coffee maker. But not before calling Paul and asking if we needed the 8-cup or the 12 cup. We quickly decided on the 12 cup for the times when we have company. Plus, a "cup" according to the box equals 5 ounces. I do not know anybody who drinks a five ounce cup of coffee except June Cleaver. Well, I don't KNOW June Cleaver personally, but I've seen her on TV.
I also bought coffee filters, only to get home and have Paul tell me that our new coffee maker doesn't need filters.
Oh.
With our new coffee maker, I had visions of Paul and myself sitting at the kitchen counter each morning sipping our coffee together, filling each other in about what our days entailed; gazing lovingly at our two offspring as they peacefully got themselves ready for school, laughing and bantering with each other. The kitchen would be sparkly clean, the dog would not be licking her private parts, the laundry would be caught up....
Um. Not so much.
In reality, Paul fills a travel mug while his laptop bag is slung over his shoulder and carries it out the door while saying, "Thanks for making the coffee. Have a good day. I love you."
And the two offspring laughing and bantering? Well, you know....
Then every few days, Paul brings home about 4 travel mugs that have been left in his car and lines them up on the dining room table, or drops them in the sink, without removing the lids; and I look at them and see nothing but shattered dreams.
So, about 4 weeks into my new habit of a morning cup of coffee, I started having heart palpitations. I actually had one "episode" of the type that comes along every now and then with my mitral valve prolapse.
"Hmmm. That's odd. Why am I having palpitations all of a sudden when I had been doing so well?"
I even mentioned it to my doctor and he said if I have another episode he wants to put me on a monitor again for a couple days.
Then. BOING. I realized one day that PERHAPS. JUST PERHAPS. The heart palpitations could be caused by the fact that I'm drinking like 80 mg of caffeine a day, and I'm supposed to have like...none.
I know. I'm pretty brilliant like that.
So I now make 1/2 caf coffee and I drink ONE cup a day. Then have ONE cup of decaf in the afternoon. I've been doing it like that for a few months and no palpitations. Smart me.
The thing is I can't drink just ANY 1/2 caf. I have to drink Folgers Simply Smooth, because I have a history of ulcers (I am just a buffet of medical ailments, aren't I?) But Simply Smooth doesn't come in 1/2 caf.
So we have to make our own. We mix the red can of Folgers Simply Smooth with the green can of Folgers Simply Smooth Decaf and have our own house blend. But this makes coffee buying at our house a very distressing event.
We still have to keep regular on hand for the times Paul is making a pot for himself; but part of that regular has to be mixed with the decaf so we can have our own 1/2 caf (which we have so cratively marked with a sharpie with a big '1/2' on the can) and then we have to have plain decaf on hand for my afternoon cup.
The pressure of figuring the ratio of full caf to decaf needed at our house so that all coffee needs are met is enormous.
And yet I am off to the store to buy coffee. And I'm taking my calculator.
gen-u-wine coffee maker to have at our house. And I feel like a real woman now. Except I'm really not, because I put lots of cream and sugar in it. I'm pretty much a coffee sissy.
Until we had our new coffee maker, I had bought a couple of little things for Paul to use as the only coffee drinker in the house. I bought him a two cup maker. I bought him a four cup maker. I bought him a one cup maker. Actually I think I just bought those things because he is so incredibly hard to buy for on birthdays and Chrtistmas that I just kept trying with the coffee maker idea. They all quickly ended up in storage because Paul would say it was silly to go through the hassle of making coffe at home when he could get it at work.
Translation: why buy coffee for home, when it's FREE at work?
But I noticed that Paul was getting a lot of headaches on the weekends and I, being the expert on all things headache, quickly diagnosed him with caffeine withdrawal. I couldn't stand to see my beloved suffer from a headache each and every weekend.
Translation: it made no sense for him to be out of commission on the weekends when I needed him to help me around the house and to chauffer the kids to and fro during that 48 hour period each week.
The only answer was to make sure he had caffeine on weekends.
Call me an enabler if you will. We all have things we must do to survive.
So I bought the coffee maker. But not before calling Paul and asking if we needed the 8-cup or the 12 cup. We quickly decided on the 12 cup for the times when we have company. Plus, a "cup" according to the box equals 5 ounces. I do not know anybody who drinks a five ounce cup of coffee except June Cleaver. Well, I don't KNOW June Cleaver personally, but I've seen her on TV.
I also bought coffee filters, only to get home and have Paul tell me that our new coffee maker doesn't need filters.
Oh.
With our new coffee maker, I had visions of Paul and myself sitting at the kitchen counter each morning sipping our coffee together, filling each other in about what our days entailed; gazing lovingly at our two offspring as they peacefully got themselves ready for school, laughing and bantering with each other. The kitchen would be sparkly clean, the dog would not be licking her private parts, the laundry would be caught up....
Um. Not so much.
In reality, Paul fills a travel mug while his laptop bag is slung over his shoulder and carries it out the door while saying, "Thanks for making the coffee. Have a good day. I love you."
And the two offspring laughing and bantering? Well, you know....
Then every few days, Paul brings home about 4 travel mugs that have been left in his car and lines them up on the dining room table, or drops them in the sink, without removing the lids; and I look at them and see nothing but shattered dreams.
So, about 4 weeks into my new habit of a morning cup of coffee, I started having heart palpitations. I actually had one "episode" of the type that comes along every now and then with my mitral valve prolapse.
"Hmmm. That's odd. Why am I having palpitations all of a sudden when I had been doing so well?"
I even mentioned it to my doctor and he said if I have another episode he wants to put me on a monitor again for a couple days.
Then. BOING. I realized one day that PERHAPS. JUST PERHAPS. The heart palpitations could be caused by the fact that I'm drinking like 80 mg of caffeine a day, and I'm supposed to have like...none.
I know. I'm pretty brilliant like that.
So I now make 1/2 caf coffee and I drink ONE cup a day. Then have ONE cup of decaf in the afternoon. I've been doing it like that for a few months and no palpitations. Smart me.
The thing is I can't drink just ANY 1/2 caf. I have to drink Folgers Simply Smooth, because I have a history of ulcers (I am just a buffet of medical ailments, aren't I?) But Simply Smooth doesn't come in 1/2 caf.
So we have to make our own. We mix the red can of Folgers Simply Smooth with the green can of Folgers Simply Smooth Decaf and have our own house blend. But this makes coffee buying at our house a very distressing event.
We still have to keep regular on hand for the times Paul is making a pot for himself; but part of that regular has to be mixed with the decaf so we can have our own 1/2 caf (which we have so cratively marked with a sharpie with a big '1/2' on the can) and then we have to have plain decaf on hand for my afternoon cup.
The pressure of figuring the ratio of full caf to decaf needed at our house so that all coffee needs are met is enormous.
And yet I am off to the store to buy coffee. And I'm taking my calculator.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
NOTES FROM THERAPY
Last week while Paul was in London (or Lille, or Hamburg, I wasn't keeping track) I sent him an e-mail that went something like this:
On the morning of Saturday April 5th, I have an urgent appointment at the um...the...medical offices of Doctors Christopher and Banks. The Doctors are having a special on their therapy sessions - 40% off.
I knew he would understand this urgent psychiatric need because it is really not much different than the "last minute management meetings" he frequently gets called into at 5:30 on Friday nights. Interestingly, these meetings are always held at one of the downtown drinking and dining establishments, and are usually facilitated by the management team of Jack & Coke. How can I argue with management?
How can he argue with therapy?
So this morning I got up and fortified myself with a cup of coffee and half a piece of his birthday cake - Peanut Butter Crunch - dressed for battle (cell phone? check. credit card? check. 40% off must-have coupon? check) and reminded Paul that I was only going shopping to save him some money. He does not even try to argue with my logic anymore.
And off I went.
I entered the store and immediately noticed that the atmosphere was charged with controlled chaos. But no matter. Sometimes therapy is hard. You must break through those things that frighten you in order to come out the other side a whole person.
There were probably about 25 women shopping in this little store; and as I slowly walked around and immersed myself into the world of spring tops and capris (because I am a proponent of immersion therapy) one of the clerks saw me and said "Oh, Hi Heidi."
*Gulp*
I am such a bad girl.
Out of ALL these women who came in today seeking therapy to make themselves better, more well rounded individuals, she knows ME by my first name? Yes, I am the one who has sought therapy there so often that when I walk in it's like Norm walking into Cheers.
They do not even offer me a dressing room anymore, because they know I'm going to say "No thanks; I'm sure of the sizes." I must change my ways.
So I have two choices. I can either go cold turkey and put myself on a complete spending freeze for a set amount of months; or I can immerse myself in shopping until it makes me absolutely sick and I never want to step into a clothing store again.
I think I'll run this by Paul.
Any guesses as to what he'll say?
On the morning of Saturday April 5th, I have an urgent appointment at the um...the...medical offices of Doctors Christopher and Banks. The Doctors are having a special on their therapy sessions - 40% off.
I knew he would understand this urgent psychiatric need because it is really not much different than the "last minute management meetings" he frequently gets called into at 5:30 on Friday nights. Interestingly, these meetings are always held at one of the downtown drinking and dining establishments, and are usually facilitated by the management team of Jack & Coke. How can I argue with management?
How can he argue with therapy?
So this morning I got up and fortified myself with a cup of coffee and half a piece of his birthday cake - Peanut Butter Crunch - dressed for battle (cell phone? check. credit card? check. 40% off must-have coupon? check) and reminded Paul that I was only going shopping to save him some money. He does not even try to argue with my logic anymore.
And off I went.
I entered the store and immediately noticed that the atmosphere was charged with controlled chaos. But no matter. Sometimes therapy is hard. You must break through those things that frighten you in order to come out the other side a whole person.
There were probably about 25 women shopping in this little store; and as I slowly walked around and immersed myself into the world of spring tops and capris (because I am a proponent of immersion therapy) one of the clerks saw me and said "Oh, Hi Heidi."
*Gulp*
I am such a bad girl.
Out of ALL these women who came in today seeking therapy to make themselves better, more well rounded individuals, she knows ME by my first name? Yes, I am the one who has sought therapy there so often that when I walk in it's like Norm walking into Cheers.
They do not even offer me a dressing room anymore, because they know I'm going to say "No thanks; I'm sure of the sizes." I must change my ways.
So I have two choices. I can either go cold turkey and put myself on a complete spending freeze for a set amount of months; or I can immerse myself in shopping until it makes me absolutely sick and I never want to step into a clothing store again.
I think I'll run this by Paul.
Any guesses as to what he'll say?
Thursday, April 03, 2008
SOME IMPORTANT QUESTIONS
Perhaps you all can help me with these questions that are swimming through my brain lately.
-Is Tupperware the only one who makes an orange peeler? Because I couldn't find one at Target. I found an avocado slicer, a pineapple corer, an apple corer, a melon baller, a lemon zester, a grapefuiter, a grapefruit SPOON....but no orange peeler. Oh, we have one, but I refuse to put it in the dishwasher because if it's not available when I want to peel an orange, well, then I get a little flustered, because once you've peeled an orange with the Tupperware orange peeler, there's just no going back. So I have to just keep washing it by hand so that it's always ready at a moment's notice. I'm thinking that having another one (or two) on hand would relieve this stress in my life.
-Is anyone else's husband (or important male in your life) really hard to buy for? And I mean REALLY hard to buy for? I mean for birthdays and Christmas? Because mine is so hard to buy for, that when I try to shop for him (for his birthday) I almost get resentful and wish he were just a little more self centered, just a little more greedy. But alas he's not, so I just buy more things for myself.
-If pet hair sticks to everything, like clothes and furniture so doggone well, WHY, for the love of Fido doesn't it stick to the pet?
-Are jean designers EVER going to make a flattering jean that does not sit so low on the waist? Because I am getting REALLY tired of seeing the backsides of so many women at the mall. Today I saw most of a woman's backside, WHILE SHE WAS STANDING UP at a changing table in a public restroom. It was so disturbing. I also saw a mom, about my age, who was wearing low rise jeans and a top that showed about two inches of her abdomen. The tattoo sticking out of the back of her waistband was a pair of eyes. SO. CLASSY.
-Why, when I double space between paragraphs on my blog posts, does it show up as a triple or quadruple space in the editing window?
-Does anybody else cut their own hair between visits to the salon? Anybody ever done it with sewing scissors? The big ones? You know, if you can't find the hair scissors? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
-Does anybody else then dread visiting your stylist because you know you are going to have to confess that yes, not only did you trim your bangs, but you cut the sides and top as well, because you were desperate and couldn't get an appointment? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
-Does anybody else hate to hear "What's for dinner?" some days, because you just couldn't think of anything exciting to fix so you wasted all afternoon THINKING about dinner instead of actually PREPARING dinner?
-Has anybody else ever had to hide their face behind a magazine in the doctor's waiting room so the other patients wouldn't see you laughing at the old lady who was listing VERY LOUDLY the foods that gave her gas, to her friend that brought her? Something like this: "I just been eating cereal for breakfast 'cause that bacon gave me gas. Bacon gives me gas, even if I put it in the microwave. Same with Brussels sprouts; I love those but they give me gas real bad. And baked beans? Those baked beans give me gas. And I love broccoli, but it gives me gas...." Gas gas gas gas gas. That's all I heard from across the way. And I couldn't stop giggling into my Good Housekeeping.
-Has anybody else had to run out for a grocery item EVERY DAY of the week, because, even though you have enough of some things to feed the local track team, you have forgotten the chocolate syrup you have to take to your mother's for "Dessert Night", the vegetable oil needed for your husband's birthday cake, pancake syrup because your family members treat it as a beverage, and Tums because, for some reason your stomach is a little upset lately?
-Do any of you get really excited to see, like say SIX comments on one of your blog posts, only to click over to them and see that two of them are your own? It's kind of a Ziggy moment....
-Have any of you seen my white bra? Oh I don't mean while I'm wearing it, silly! But like anywhere? Because I have completely lost my new white bra, and with spring upon us I will be wearing my standard spring uniform of white t-shirt and pastel cotton cardigan, so I really need that white bra. I don't think my red one or my "coffee" one will cut it, unless I'm going for a "Sex and the City" look, which I'm totally not; so I actually had to go out and buy a new white bra so I'd have plenty on hand. You know? To relieve that stress in my life.
It is so hard to be me.
-Is Tupperware the only one who makes an orange peeler? Because I couldn't find one at Target. I found an avocado slicer, a pineapple corer, an apple corer, a melon baller, a lemon zester, a grapefuiter, a grapefruit SPOON....but no orange peeler. Oh, we have one, but I refuse to put it in the dishwasher because if it's not available when I want to peel an orange, well, then I get a little flustered, because once you've peeled an orange with the Tupperware orange peeler, there's just no going back. So I have to just keep washing it by hand so that it's always ready at a moment's notice. I'm thinking that having another one (or two) on hand would relieve this stress in my life.
-Is anyone else's husband (or important male in your life) really hard to buy for? And I mean REALLY hard to buy for? I mean for birthdays and Christmas? Because mine is so hard to buy for, that when I try to shop for him (for his birthday) I almost get resentful and wish he were just a little more self centered, just a little more greedy. But alas he's not, so I just buy more things for myself.
-If pet hair sticks to everything, like clothes and furniture so doggone well, WHY, for the love of Fido doesn't it stick to the pet?
-Are jean designers EVER going to make a flattering jean that does not sit so low on the waist? Because I am getting REALLY tired of seeing the backsides of so many women at the mall. Today I saw most of a woman's backside, WHILE SHE WAS STANDING UP at a changing table in a public restroom. It was so disturbing. I also saw a mom, about my age, who was wearing low rise jeans and a top that showed about two inches of her abdomen. The tattoo sticking out of the back of her waistband was a pair of eyes. SO. CLASSY.
-Why, when I double space between paragraphs on my blog posts, does it show up as a triple or quadruple space in the editing window?
-Does anybody else cut their own hair between visits to the salon? Anybody ever done it with sewing scissors? The big ones? You know, if you can't find the hair scissors? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
-Does anybody else then dread visiting your stylist because you know you are going to have to confess that yes, not only did you trim your bangs, but you cut the sides and top as well, because you were desperate and couldn't get an appointment? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
-Does anybody else hate to hear "What's for dinner?" some days, because you just couldn't think of anything exciting to fix so you wasted all afternoon THINKING about dinner instead of actually PREPARING dinner?
-Has anybody else ever had to hide their face behind a magazine in the doctor's waiting room so the other patients wouldn't see you laughing at the old lady who was listing VERY LOUDLY the foods that gave her gas, to her friend that brought her? Something like this: "I just been eating cereal for breakfast 'cause that bacon gave me gas. Bacon gives me gas, even if I put it in the microwave. Same with Brussels sprouts; I love those but they give me gas real bad. And baked beans? Those baked beans give me gas. And I love broccoli, but it gives me gas...." Gas gas gas gas gas. That's all I heard from across the way. And I couldn't stop giggling into my Good Housekeeping.
-Has anybody else had to run out for a grocery item EVERY DAY of the week, because, even though you have enough of some things to feed the local track team, you have forgotten the chocolate syrup you have to take to your mother's for "Dessert Night", the vegetable oil needed for your husband's birthday cake, pancake syrup because your family members treat it as a beverage, and Tums because, for some reason your stomach is a little upset lately?
-Do any of you get really excited to see, like say SIX comments on one of your blog posts, only to click over to them and see that two of them are your own? It's kind of a Ziggy moment....
-Have any of you seen my white bra? Oh I don't mean while I'm wearing it, silly! But like anywhere? Because I have completely lost my new white bra, and with spring upon us I will be wearing my standard spring uniform of white t-shirt and pastel cotton cardigan, so I really need that white bra. I don't think my red one or my "coffee" one will cut it, unless I'm going for a "Sex and the City" look, which I'm totally not; so I actually had to go out and buy a new white bra so I'd have plenty on hand. You know? To relieve that stress in my life.
It is so hard to be me.
THE PREGNANT MAN
I will not go into ALL of the reasons this pregnant man, who is evidently going to be on Oprah today, makes my skin crawl.
I will leave my religious beliefs out of it. I will leave my utter lack of understanding of the transgender mind out of it.
But I will say this about the pregnant man; he was a woman. He felt the need to be a man. He felt like he was really a man all of his life. He had his body changed into a man's body. Well most of it. He kept the parts that would allow him to grow a child.
So. If he did not enjoy being a woman, and all that came with it, I think he is absolutely NOT entitled to enjoy the most beautiful and magical part of womanhood - growing and bearing a child. I feel like he is stealing something from the rest of us. He has turned womanhood into a freak show. And our society has done a good enough job of that over that last few centuries without his help.
Womanhood is not a cafeteria line. We do not get to walk through and choose the parts we want and the parts we don't. We do not get to forego cramps, menopause, wrinkles, sexism, cooking, cleaning, panty hose,etc. only to choose the best part - motherhood.
And now he is going to be on Oprah. And People Magazine. And who knows what other publications and news stories.
I smell a carefully crafted scheme.
I will leave my religious beliefs out of it. I will leave my utter lack of understanding of the transgender mind out of it.
But I will say this about the pregnant man; he was a woman. He felt the need to be a man. He felt like he was really a man all of his life. He had his body changed into a man's body. Well most of it. He kept the parts that would allow him to grow a child.
So. If he did not enjoy being a woman, and all that came with it, I think he is absolutely NOT entitled to enjoy the most beautiful and magical part of womanhood - growing and bearing a child. I feel like he is stealing something from the rest of us. He has turned womanhood into a freak show. And our society has done a good enough job of that over that last few centuries without his help.
Womanhood is not a cafeteria line. We do not get to walk through and choose the parts we want and the parts we don't. We do not get to forego cramps, menopause, wrinkles, sexism, cooking, cleaning, panty hose,etc. only to choose the best part - motherhood.
And now he is going to be on Oprah. And People Magazine. And who knows what other publications and news stories.
I smell a carefully crafted scheme.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
WALK OR NO WALK?
How has my morning been?
Well, thanks for asking. I'll just tell you about it right now.
Yesterday evening Blake called while he was out with Cody. Or as we like to say "Dumber called while he was out with Dumb..." But it is said in love, I assure you.
Anyway, he called to say he was going to wrestle after school tomorrow (which is today), so Cody would pick him up in the morning so they could go to wrestling together, and could Kayla ride the bus, and I said alright; thanks for giving us some notice, because sometimes he tells us THAT morning that he's not driving and Kayla has to scramble to get her things ready to get on the bus and then it puts a kink in the morning; and here we go with one of those run on sentences that we all love.
But poor Kayla had lots of stuff to carry. She had, not in order of importance:
-Her backpack which was stuffed to the gills, because she missed two days of school last week, so she had makeup work to finish.
-Her track bag.
-A Wal-Mart sack holding her volleyball uniform which had to be turned in today.
-A Wal-Mart sack holding her gym shoes because they ran in the rain yesterday for track practice and she changed into her gym shoes for the indoor part of their workout.
-Her lunch bag, which usually goes in her backpack but it was too full.
So I took pity on her and drove her to school so she wouldn't have to contend with all that crap...I mean junk....I mean all those things that are vital to her education and her development as a well rounded young woman...on the school bus.
I decided to look at this early trip as a "glass half full" kind of thing. While I was out anyway I'd just go ahead and stop at the mall after I dropped her off and get my morning walk in. I try to walk a little over 3 miles at the mall most mornings.
By the way, do your local malls open early for walking? Ours opens at 5:30 and they have little signs up showing the distance per lap, etc. I thought it was standard operating procedure for malls, but I've heard of communities that don't do this. It really is a great service the mall offers.
Anyway, I got into the mall right at 8 and I could tell as soon as I walked in that something was amiss (rather than a mister) because I heard lots of people talking and laughing. More than I usually hear when I'm there walking with the over 70 crowd.
Turns out they are holding try outs for the game show Deal or No Deal at the mall. Turns out the line ran the ENTIRE length of the mall. I don't know how long that is, but one lap around the whole perimeter is .66 miles. And the front of that line was pretty crowded because it was actually one of those giant maze-like things that you see at theme parks. You know to keep the line manageable? And of course it wasn't a single file line. It was about six people deep, all the way from Bergners to JCPenney.
I was really ticked off.
Because I like my walk at the mall. I like the relative quiet, even though there are usually about 30 other people walking. I like the music they play over head. I like the time to plan my day, compose blog posts in my head, and just gather my thoughts. I like to come home afterward and feel good about my self for exercising first thing in the day. And I like to window shop while I walk.
So I stayed just long enough to walk the length of the line to see if it did, indeed cover the whole mall. Well, and to see if they happened to be serving free coffee and donuts anywhere, but they weren't. Sure enough, the line did run the entire length of the mall. So I said to myself "I'm not staying and trying to walk in this mess. This is RIDICULOUS!" As I was leaving, I noticed a few people actually sleeping on the benches of the play area. Can we say CLASSY? Did those people stay all night? Had the mall allowed these people to camp out? Did these people really think they had a snowball's chance of being chosen for the show and then actually winning?
Could any of these people actually EXPLAIN this show to me?
If the managers of the mall can use their facility for this, will they be willing to open it up the next time there is a community emergency that displaces its residents, like a tornado, or flooding? Would they have been willing to open it up to the homeless last winter when the temperatures were about 6 below?
So. With my non-walking morning, I can go to the gym and exercise, which would probably entail time on the treadmill and I HATE the treadmill; or I can get on the elliptical machine here at home, or I can run the vacuum and try to convince myself that those magazine articles are right when they say housework burns calories, or I can go clean my craftroom and the bathroom and then finish the laundry, or I can make my grocery list and then head to wal-mart because I need stuff to make my husband's birthday cake, or I can sit in my favorite chair and stare out the window and CONTEMPLATE exercising, or I can get out my college English books and re-learn the evils of the run on sentence.
Actually typing this entry has worn me out so I'm going to start with the 'sitting in my favorite chair' option.
Well, thanks for asking. I'll just tell you about it right now.
Yesterday evening Blake called while he was out with Cody. Or as we like to say "Dumber called while he was out with Dumb..." But it is said in love, I assure you.
Anyway, he called to say he was going to wrestle after school tomorrow (which is today), so Cody would pick him up in the morning so they could go to wrestling together, and could Kayla ride the bus, and I said alright; thanks for giving us some notice, because sometimes he tells us THAT morning that he's not driving and Kayla has to scramble to get her things ready to get on the bus and then it puts a kink in the morning; and here we go with one of those run on sentences that we all love.
But poor Kayla had lots of stuff to carry. She had, not in order of importance:
-Her backpack which was stuffed to the gills, because she missed two days of school last week, so she had makeup work to finish.
-Her track bag.
-A Wal-Mart sack holding her volleyball uniform which had to be turned in today.
-A Wal-Mart sack holding her gym shoes because they ran in the rain yesterday for track practice and she changed into her gym shoes for the indoor part of their workout.
-Her lunch bag, which usually goes in her backpack but it was too full.
So I took pity on her and drove her to school so she wouldn't have to contend with all that crap...I mean junk....I mean all those things that are vital to her education and her development as a well rounded young woman...on the school bus.
I decided to look at this early trip as a "glass half full" kind of thing. While I was out anyway I'd just go ahead and stop at the mall after I dropped her off and get my morning walk in. I try to walk a little over 3 miles at the mall most mornings.
By the way, do your local malls open early for walking? Ours opens at 5:30 and they have little signs up showing the distance per lap, etc. I thought it was standard operating procedure for malls, but I've heard of communities that don't do this. It really is a great service the mall offers.
Anyway, I got into the mall right at 8 and I could tell as soon as I walked in that something was amiss (rather than a mister) because I heard lots of people talking and laughing. More than I usually hear when I'm there walking with the over 70 crowd.
Turns out they are holding try outs for the game show Deal or No Deal at the mall. Turns out the line ran the ENTIRE length of the mall. I don't know how long that is, but one lap around the whole perimeter is .66 miles. And the front of that line was pretty crowded because it was actually one of those giant maze-like things that you see at theme parks. You know to keep the line manageable? And of course it wasn't a single file line. It was about six people deep, all the way from Bergners to JCPenney.
I was really ticked off.
Because I like my walk at the mall. I like the relative quiet, even though there are usually about 30 other people walking. I like the music they play over head. I like the time to plan my day, compose blog posts in my head, and just gather my thoughts. I like to come home afterward and feel good about my self for exercising first thing in the day. And I like to window shop while I walk.
So I stayed just long enough to walk the length of the line to see if it did, indeed cover the whole mall. Well, and to see if they happened to be serving free coffee and donuts anywhere, but they weren't. Sure enough, the line did run the entire length of the mall. So I said to myself "I'm not staying and trying to walk in this mess. This is RIDICULOUS!" As I was leaving, I noticed a few people actually sleeping on the benches of the play area. Can we say CLASSY? Did those people stay all night? Had the mall allowed these people to camp out? Did these people really think they had a snowball's chance of being chosen for the show and then actually winning?
Could any of these people actually EXPLAIN this show to me?
If the managers of the mall can use their facility for this, will they be willing to open it up the next time there is a community emergency that displaces its residents, like a tornado, or flooding? Would they have been willing to open it up to the homeless last winter when the temperatures were about 6 below?
So. With my non-walking morning, I can go to the gym and exercise, which would probably entail time on the treadmill and I HATE the treadmill; or I can get on the elliptical machine here at home, or I can run the vacuum and try to convince myself that those magazine articles are right when they say housework burns calories, or I can go clean my craftroom and the bathroom and then finish the laundry, or I can make my grocery list and then head to wal-mart because I need stuff to make my husband's birthday cake, or I can sit in my favorite chair and stare out the window and CONTEMPLATE exercising, or I can get out my college English books and re-learn the evils of the run on sentence.
Actually typing this entry has worn me out so I'm going to start with the 'sitting in my favorite chair' option.
Monday, March 31, 2008
I CRIED BECAUSE I HAD CRAMPS UNTIL I MET A GIRL WHO HAD NO MIDOL
Hey Ladies.
Go to this blog http://www.countrydoctorswife.blogspot.com/ and read the Country Doctor's Wife post today. It looks like you'll have to scroll down to the second post, because she's added something since I first saw it. It's in the post about the anniversary. You might also want to scroll through her archives. She'll have you falling off your chair laughing. But first check out how you can donate to the cause she talks about.
I'm going to donate right after I send my check to Scott for Relay for Life.
So many worthy causes......so few checks in the check book.
Go to this blog http://www.countrydoctorswife.blogspot.com/ and read the Country Doctor's Wife post today. It looks like you'll have to scroll down to the second post, because she's added something since I first saw it. It's in the post about the anniversary. You might also want to scroll through her archives. She'll have you falling off your chair laughing. But first check out how you can donate to the cause she talks about.
I'm going to donate right after I send my check to Scott for Relay for Life.
So many worthy causes......so few checks in the check book.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
WE DO NOT GO TO WAL-MART ON SATURDAY
Except, well, I did.
For the past 17 years, I have been fortunate to be a stay at home mom. Well, for most of that time. This means that I get to do my grocery shopping (and my recreational shopping) during the week when the stores and malls are not very crowded. I have become so accustomed to shopping during the week that, on the rare occasion we shop on weekends, the crowds make me pretty jittery and I don't enjoy it. NOT. ONE. BIT.
As the kids were growing up, if they asked to go to Wal-Mart for anything on a weekend, I woud always say "We do not go to Wal-Mart on Saturday, because we can go through the week, and I am not fighting that crowd on weekends if I don't have to." I know. I'm a really mean mom.
Seriously, the thought of shopping at Wal-Mart, or any grocery store, on Saturdy has always made me feel a little...well...a little scared. Because I don't like crowds. And I also lose my patience real easily when people don't follow basic shopping cart etiquette. And when the stores are very crowded you are sure to run into many people who don't follow basic shopping cart etiquette. We'll discuss Basic Shopping Cart Etiquette at a later date.
So late last week when we were out of lots of stuff, I kept thinking I'd wait until Monday to go to the store. Plus payday isn't until Monday, so that made a little bit of sense too. When my daughter would say "Mother, when will we have oranges again? When, mother? When will there be broccoli in the house again? Please, mother, please may we have fresh produce again soon?" or something like that; I'd say "Soon dear one. But we must not enter the gates of the all powerful evil mega mart on a weekend. For surely doom and gloom await us there, if we enter those gates on this, the final day of the week." Or something like that.
But Saturday evening came and I was craving an orange and my poor pitiful daughter was growing weak from lack of fresh produce so I said "Surely I can do this. Surely if I am brave, I can enter the gates of the all powerful mega mart and buy some food stuffs for my suffering children. For I am a mother. I am strong and selfless." Actually, I said "What the heck, I got nothin' better to do." I must add that it had been three, maybe four, weeks, since I actually did a full grocery trip. We went away on vacation a couple weeks ago and during the week leading up to that, I kept telling the kids "I'm not buying many groceries this week because we're leaving and we don't need food sitting in the house spoiling." So we really needed lots of stuff. I'll also add that my husband is out of the country right now, so when I say I had nothing better to do, I really mean I had nothing better to do.
So I started at Sam's club, figuring most people would be eating supper at that time so it wouldn't be that crowded. Turns out I was right. It wasn't bad. The worst part was running into my friend who has seven children and noticing that I had about four times the amount of groceries in my cart as she did. "I CANNOT BELIEVE I have more crap in my cart than the woman with seven kids," I told her. And she confessed that she had already spent two hours at Wal-Mart so I shouldn't worry.
Not only did I forget milk at Sam's; I forgot to even check how much milk we had at home, because we keep our extra milk in the basement refrigerator, and I simply could not trouble myself to go down those stairs. So while I was going into Wal-Mart for a few things that I needed in small quantities, I picked up three gallons of milk. I usually buy four at a time, and since I couldn't remember the last time I bought milk, I thought three would be a safe number.
Did any of you stick some milk in my fridge?
'Cause turns out, I had three whole gallons already in there. Now I have SIX - yes that's half a dozen - gallons of skim milk in my refrigerator. Thankfully their expiration dates are more than a week apart. It looks like I will need to bake some cookies because that's the only way I'll be able to work my way through my share of SIX gallons of skim milk.
And, since I couldn't bother to go down the basement stairs to take inventory before I went shopping (because we keep our overstock in the cabinets down there) I also bought a few other things I didn't need.
Like peanut butter. I now have FOUR 40 ounce jars of Jif peanut butter.
And 100 calorie pack chips for Kayla's lunch. I have, well, I didn't count, but I have lots of those.
And jelly. I have THREE 32 ounce jars of grape jelly.
And Gatorade. I now have a whole case plus about two thirds of a case of the small Gatorade bottles.
I am thinking of opening a homeless shelter.
I do NOT, however, have enough garbage bags to get through the week 'cause I totally forgot those. Nor do I have spaghetti sauce, and that's a major staple in this house. Ditto with noodles.
But we have oranges, strawberries, apples, pineapple, bananas and fresh broccoli, so my daughter is beginning to have a spring in her step again. Plus I bought some oatmeal cream pies and she totally loves those.
What is the point of this long, ever important post?
The point is...there is no point. I sit here typing so I don't have to do laundry and mop my kitchen floor.
And I can't think of a better reason to blog.
For the past 17 years, I have been fortunate to be a stay at home mom. Well, for most of that time. This means that I get to do my grocery shopping (and my recreational shopping) during the week when the stores and malls are not very crowded. I have become so accustomed to shopping during the week that, on the rare occasion we shop on weekends, the crowds make me pretty jittery and I don't enjoy it. NOT. ONE. BIT.
As the kids were growing up, if they asked to go to Wal-Mart for anything on a weekend, I woud always say "We do not go to Wal-Mart on Saturday, because we can go through the week, and I am not fighting that crowd on weekends if I don't have to." I know. I'm a really mean mom.
Seriously, the thought of shopping at Wal-Mart, or any grocery store, on Saturdy has always made me feel a little...well...a little scared. Because I don't like crowds. And I also lose my patience real easily when people don't follow basic shopping cart etiquette. And when the stores are very crowded you are sure to run into many people who don't follow basic shopping cart etiquette. We'll discuss Basic Shopping Cart Etiquette at a later date.
So late last week when we were out of lots of stuff, I kept thinking I'd wait until Monday to go to the store. Plus payday isn't until Monday, so that made a little bit of sense too. When my daughter would say "Mother, when will we have oranges again? When, mother? When will there be broccoli in the house again? Please, mother, please may we have fresh produce again soon?" or something like that; I'd say "Soon dear one. But we must not enter the gates of the all powerful evil mega mart on a weekend. For surely doom and gloom await us there, if we enter those gates on this, the final day of the week." Or something like that.
But Saturday evening came and I was craving an orange and my poor pitiful daughter was growing weak from lack of fresh produce so I said "Surely I can do this. Surely if I am brave, I can enter the gates of the all powerful mega mart and buy some food stuffs for my suffering children. For I am a mother. I am strong and selfless." Actually, I said "What the heck, I got nothin' better to do." I must add that it had been three, maybe four, weeks, since I actually did a full grocery trip. We went away on vacation a couple weeks ago and during the week leading up to that, I kept telling the kids "I'm not buying many groceries this week because we're leaving and we don't need food sitting in the house spoiling." So we really needed lots of stuff. I'll also add that my husband is out of the country right now, so when I say I had nothing better to do, I really mean I had nothing better to do.
So I started at Sam's club, figuring most people would be eating supper at that time so it wouldn't be that crowded. Turns out I was right. It wasn't bad. The worst part was running into my friend who has seven children and noticing that I had about four times the amount of groceries in my cart as she did. "I CANNOT BELIEVE I have more crap in my cart than the woman with seven kids," I told her. And she confessed that she had already spent two hours at Wal-Mart so I shouldn't worry.
Not only did I forget milk at Sam's; I forgot to even check how much milk we had at home, because we keep our extra milk in the basement refrigerator, and I simply could not trouble myself to go down those stairs. So while I was going into Wal-Mart for a few things that I needed in small quantities, I picked up three gallons of milk. I usually buy four at a time, and since I couldn't remember the last time I bought milk, I thought three would be a safe number.
Did any of you stick some milk in my fridge?
'Cause turns out, I had three whole gallons already in there. Now I have SIX - yes that's half a dozen - gallons of skim milk in my refrigerator. Thankfully their expiration dates are more than a week apart. It looks like I will need to bake some cookies because that's the only way I'll be able to work my way through my share of SIX gallons of skim milk.
And, since I couldn't bother to go down the basement stairs to take inventory before I went shopping (because we keep our overstock in the cabinets down there) I also bought a few other things I didn't need.
Like peanut butter. I now have FOUR 40 ounce jars of Jif peanut butter.
And 100 calorie pack chips for Kayla's lunch. I have, well, I didn't count, but I have lots of those.
And jelly. I have THREE 32 ounce jars of grape jelly.
And Gatorade. I now have a whole case plus about two thirds of a case of the small Gatorade bottles.
I am thinking of opening a homeless shelter.
I do NOT, however, have enough garbage bags to get through the week 'cause I totally forgot those. Nor do I have spaghetti sauce, and that's a major staple in this house. Ditto with noodles.
But we have oranges, strawberries, apples, pineapple, bananas and fresh broccoli, so my daughter is beginning to have a spring in her step again. Plus I bought some oatmeal cream pies and she totally loves those.
What is the point of this long, ever important post?
The point is...there is no point. I sit here typing so I don't have to do laundry and mop my kitchen floor.
And I can't think of a better reason to blog.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
TO MY DEAR HUSBAND
Dear Husband,
I do miss you and hope you're trip across the pond is going well.
When you called just a little while ago, did I seem a bit distracted? Because I was. See, it was nearly 7:30 p.m. here and I had not eaten supper yet, and for lunch I had eaten only half a sandwich and a fruit and yogurt parfait. And those fruit and yogurt parfaits have gotten quite small.
I had just walked in after getting groceries from Sam's AND from Wal-Mart, on a Saturday evening no less. Being alone on a Saturday night will make you do crazy things. On my way out of the Wal-Mart mega plex, I had driven through Burger King and bought myself a Whopper Jr. (no cheese, thank you very much) and a small root beer. And there that Whopper Jr. was sitting on the counter smelling all greasy and delicious and tantalizing me to the point of being distracted from even my dearly beloved. So while I am thrilled you arrived in London safely, and always weak with relief to hear your voice, I kept staring at that fast food sack and thinking "It's getting cold...it's getting cold...."
I know. Some might think this makes me a horrible wife.
But, come on.
You have traveled for most of our nearly twenty one years of marriage so, while having you gone is something I will NEVER get used to, life must still go on while you are away.
Right?
And sometimes that means letting things like, oh, hunger pains and junk food distract us from what really counts.
So, please forgive me. Although, since you assure me quite frequently that it is impossible to hurt your feelings because you have NO feelings (your words, not mine) perhaps I am worrying over nothing. But, if it is any consolation, I am expecting to have an upset stomach tonight from that greasy burger. So perhaps I will receive my just rewards for being distracted while on the phone with you.
Enjoy your time with the Brits. And the French. And the Germans.
Cheerio, Au revoir, and Aufweiderzehn.
Love you,
H
I do miss you and hope you're trip across the pond is going well.
When you called just a little while ago, did I seem a bit distracted? Because I was. See, it was nearly 7:30 p.m. here and I had not eaten supper yet, and for lunch I had eaten only half a sandwich and a fruit and yogurt parfait. And those fruit and yogurt parfaits have gotten quite small.
I had just walked in after getting groceries from Sam's AND from Wal-Mart, on a Saturday evening no less. Being alone on a Saturday night will make you do crazy things. On my way out of the Wal-Mart mega plex, I had driven through Burger King and bought myself a Whopper Jr. (no cheese, thank you very much) and a small root beer. And there that Whopper Jr. was sitting on the counter smelling all greasy and delicious and tantalizing me to the point of being distracted from even my dearly beloved. So while I am thrilled you arrived in London safely, and always weak with relief to hear your voice, I kept staring at that fast food sack and thinking "It's getting cold...it's getting cold...."
I know. Some might think this makes me a horrible wife.
But, come on.
You have traveled for most of our nearly twenty one years of marriage so, while having you gone is something I will NEVER get used to, life must still go on while you are away.
Right?
And sometimes that means letting things like, oh, hunger pains and junk food distract us from what really counts.
So, please forgive me. Although, since you assure me quite frequently that it is impossible to hurt your feelings because you have NO feelings (your words, not mine) perhaps I am worrying over nothing. But, if it is any consolation, I am expecting to have an upset stomach tonight from that greasy burger. So perhaps I will receive my just rewards for being distracted while on the phone with you.
Enjoy your time with the Brits. And the French. And the Germans.
Cheerio, Au revoir, and Aufweiderzehn.
Love you,
H
Thursday, March 27, 2008
NOTES FROM NASHVILLE - PART V - THE PLANTATION
We visited a plantation while in Nashville; the Belle Meade Plantation to be exact.
Belle Meade means "Beautiful Meadow," just in case you were wondering.
When we bought our tickets for the tour, we were given a little map of the grounds. The map showed the dairy house, the garden house, the mansion (of course), the carriage house, and the Enslaved African American Workers Dwelling. Seriously. That's what they called it.
Um....isn't that going a little far with the euphemism? ENSLAVED AFRICAN AMERICAN WORKERS DWELLING? Are you kidding me? Don't they mean SLAVE CABIN?
Strangely enough, this had left me pretty much without words until the next week when I found the brochure from the plantation in my purse and read it for the first time.
The brochure starts out like this:
Belle Meade, meaning Beautiful Meadow, was founded in 1807 by John Harding and his wife Susannah. Through their hard work and determination the farm grew from a log cabin and 250 acres of land into a massive operation that at one time covered 5,400 acres....
Are you kidding me again? Through THEIR hard work and determination? Don't they mean through the back breaking work of human beings captured like animals from their own country and brought across the ocean like freight, the farm grew blah, blah, blah? Don't they mean through placing other human beings in shackles, ripping families apart, and often keeping them at the mercy of a leather whip the farm grew blah, blah, blah...?
Un. Be. Lievable.
When I read that I went on a mini rant in the mini van and then calmly said "I'm afraid I'm going to have to blog about this..."
This is not an indictment against the South. I have seen in my kids' own history books, up here in the North, slavery described as "an essential tool in helping the economy in the Southern states to thrive...." or some such nonsense. And when I read THAT I went on a mini rant that went something like "....an essential tool in helping the economy to thrive?? The North managed to make their economy thrive with their new factories and businesses. They managed without slavery." Of course there WAS the whole sweat shop thing, and the garment district was a hot house of horrible child labor practices, as were many other industries. So the North wasn't exactly innocent in the realm of human rights during those years either. But slavery?
Ugh.
I just cannot wrap my mind around any words that try to soften it or make it seem less of an obscenity than it was.
Ironically, our guide on the tour was a young African American man who was working toward his PhD in history. He did tell us his friends give him quite a hard time for working at the plantation.
I imagine so.
The tour did allow our family to have some interesting conversations in the van as we drove back to the hotel, taking one of Daddy's um...short cuts...which always seem to take a really long time.
Like, what must it have been like for Christians who owned slaves? Did they truly believe it was ordained by God that they be slave owners? Did they ever feel any guilt over owning slaves? How did they reconcile being slave owners with their faith?
I was not as impressed with the mansion as I thought I'd be. Partly because all the stuff was really gaudy and, well, ugly; but mostly because I couldn't help but think how this family had "earned" their wealth. Also, there were a few photos of slaves that had actually been owned by the family. A couple of them had been given to John and Susannah Harding as wedding presents.
Ugh.
So, all in all, our visit to the Belle Meade Plantation made me sad.
Belle Meade means "Beautiful Meadow," just in case you were wondering.
When we bought our tickets for the tour, we were given a little map of the grounds. The map showed the dairy house, the garden house, the mansion (of course), the carriage house, and the Enslaved African American Workers Dwelling. Seriously. That's what they called it.
Um....isn't that going a little far with the euphemism? ENSLAVED AFRICAN AMERICAN WORKERS DWELLING? Are you kidding me? Don't they mean SLAVE CABIN?
Strangely enough, this had left me pretty much without words until the next week when I found the brochure from the plantation in my purse and read it for the first time.
The brochure starts out like this:
Belle Meade, meaning Beautiful Meadow, was founded in 1807 by John Harding and his wife Susannah. Through their hard work and determination the farm grew from a log cabin and 250 acres of land into a massive operation that at one time covered 5,400 acres....
Are you kidding me again? Through THEIR hard work and determination? Don't they mean through the back breaking work of human beings captured like animals from their own country and brought across the ocean like freight, the farm grew blah, blah, blah? Don't they mean through placing other human beings in shackles, ripping families apart, and often keeping them at the mercy of a leather whip the farm grew blah, blah, blah...?
Un. Be. Lievable.
When I read that I went on a mini rant in the mini van and then calmly said "I'm afraid I'm going to have to blog about this..."
This is not an indictment against the South. I have seen in my kids' own history books, up here in the North, slavery described as "an essential tool in helping the economy in the Southern states to thrive...." or some such nonsense. And when I read THAT I went on a mini rant that went something like "....an essential tool in helping the economy to thrive?? The North managed to make their economy thrive with their new factories and businesses. They managed without slavery." Of course there WAS the whole sweat shop thing, and the garment district was a hot house of horrible child labor practices, as were many other industries. So the North wasn't exactly innocent in the realm of human rights during those years either. But slavery?
Ugh.
I just cannot wrap my mind around any words that try to soften it or make it seem less of an obscenity than it was.
Ironically, our guide on the tour was a young African American man who was working toward his PhD in history. He did tell us his friends give him quite a hard time for working at the plantation.
I imagine so.
The tour did allow our family to have some interesting conversations in the van as we drove back to the hotel, taking one of Daddy's um...short cuts...which always seem to take a really long time.
Like, what must it have been like for Christians who owned slaves? Did they truly believe it was ordained by God that they be slave owners? Did they ever feel any guilt over owning slaves? How did they reconcile being slave owners with their faith?
I was not as impressed with the mansion as I thought I'd be. Partly because all the stuff was really gaudy and, well, ugly; but mostly because I couldn't help but think how this family had "earned" their wealth. Also, there were a few photos of slaves that had actually been owned by the family. A couple of them had been given to John and Susannah Harding as wedding presents.
Ugh.
So, all in all, our visit to the Belle Meade Plantation made me sad.
Monday, March 24, 2008
NOTES FROM NASHVILLE - PART IV - THREE DRESSES
Does anybody know where I can buy a tube top?
'Cause I'm gonna get one of those glamour portraits done and I want to wear a tube top, frayed Daisy Duke shorts, cowboy boots and hat, and big ole hoop earrings the size of saucers.
Oh! I'M KIDDING.
I'd never wear a cowboy hat.
Seriously, I want a tube top so Kayla can wear it under one of the THREE dresses I bought her in Nashville. It has a v-neck. A REEEEEEALLLLLY V-ish V neck. So I thought a tube top would solve the problem without my having to take the dress to the seamstress. The seamstress is very good, but frankly, I'm a little scared of her. We'll talk about that later.
So, yeah. I bought my daughter THREE dresses in Nashville. But it was at an outlet mall. And the prices were really good. And we have two weddings, a retirement ceremony, 8th grade graduation, and a spring dance to dress for. Normally I'd add "plus church," but since our church is very casual she probably won't wear them to church.
Anyway we got these dresses at a store called The Body Center. Or Body Central. Or something questionable like that. I was offended immediately upon coming to the entrance because they had failed to dress one of the mannequins. And that's just wrong. But we went in anyway.
And found all sorts of cute dresses for her to try on. I kept yelling through the dressing room door "I'll be right back. I see another one you need to try." And yes I had to yell, because the music was ridiculously loud.
I could not get away from loud music on that trip. Is that why they call Nashville "Music City?"
But, I digress. I had to convince my daughter to let me buy her three dresses. She kept saying, "But I don't think I need three and I don't want you to spend the money." And I kept saying, "The prices are great, and we have all sorts of events this spring. Let's just get 'em." Of course I had to have a similar conversation with her father when we met up with the boys, but he's a good sport.
So other than the extreme v-neck issue and the need for a shrug or two, and some brown shoes for one of the dresses, and a little brown clutch bag, and the proper jewelry for each dress, we're all set.
Good thing it was an outlet mall.
'Cause I'm gonna get one of those glamour portraits done and I want to wear a tube top, frayed Daisy Duke shorts, cowboy boots and hat, and big ole hoop earrings the size of saucers.
Oh! I'M KIDDING.
I'd never wear a cowboy hat.
Seriously, I want a tube top so Kayla can wear it under one of the THREE dresses I bought her in Nashville. It has a v-neck. A REEEEEEALLLLLY V-ish V neck. So I thought a tube top would solve the problem without my having to take the dress to the seamstress. The seamstress is very good, but frankly, I'm a little scared of her. We'll talk about that later.
So, yeah. I bought my daughter THREE dresses in Nashville. But it was at an outlet mall. And the prices were really good. And we have two weddings, a retirement ceremony, 8th grade graduation, and a spring dance to dress for. Normally I'd add "plus church," but since our church is very casual she probably won't wear them to church.
Anyway we got these dresses at a store called The Body Center. Or Body Central. Or something questionable like that. I was offended immediately upon coming to the entrance because they had failed to dress one of the mannequins. And that's just wrong. But we went in anyway.
And found all sorts of cute dresses for her to try on. I kept yelling through the dressing room door "I'll be right back. I see another one you need to try." And yes I had to yell, because the music was ridiculously loud.
I could not get away from loud music on that trip. Is that why they call Nashville "Music City?"
But, I digress. I had to convince my daughter to let me buy her three dresses. She kept saying, "But I don't think I need three and I don't want you to spend the money." And I kept saying, "The prices are great, and we have all sorts of events this spring. Let's just get 'em." Of course I had to have a similar conversation with her father when we met up with the boys, but he's a good sport.
So other than the extreme v-neck issue and the need for a shrug or two, and some brown shoes for one of the dresses, and a little brown clutch bag, and the proper jewelry for each dress, we're all set.
Good thing it was an outlet mall.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
WHAT IS YOUR SIGNATURE BAGEL?
*just a brief departure from the ever exciting Nashville series to ask this all important question:
What is your signature bagel?
My husband hurt my feelings this morning when he said "....but nobody likes the French Toast bagels." And I said, with great maturity and sophistication "Uh....*I* like the French Toast bagels. How can you NOT know my signature bagel??? I know YOUR signature bagel....Cinnamon crunch. I mean, how many times have you heard me say 'get me a French Toast bagel, that's my favorite?'" I mean knowing your spouse's favorite bagel is, like, REALLY, important, don't ya think?
We have kind of started a habit of buying a box of bagels from Panera every week or two. You get 13 in a box and it's nice to have them on hand for a quick breakfast or snack.
The trick is finding the precise balance of bagels, flavor-wise, so that everybody gets what they like. I, being the ever astute and attentive wife and mother that I am, pride myself in knowing everybody's favorite bagel
Dad likes cinnamon crunch.
Kayla likes cinnamon crunch; although she used to be a plain bagel gal. She is a new convert.
Blake likes blueberry.
Mom likes French toast.
Except. Sometime in the middle of the last bucket-o-bagels, Blake snatched one of my French Toast bagels and decided he liked those as well. And, to further complicate matters, I ate part of a blueberry one that we had pulled from the freezer, just yesterday morning, and decided it was pretty good. See? Things around here are oh so complicated.
So yesterday while we were on our Saturday afternoon date, i.e. running to Sam's and Walgreen's, I decided to run into Panera and buy a bucket-o-bagels for the upcoming weekend.
I bought 7 cinnamon crunch, 3 blueberry, and 3 French Toast. I did not really expect the bagels to last much longer than tonight because there was an extra teenage boy in the house and would probably be a spare girl in and out as well.
So this morning, when Paul and I returned from our walk Blake said to us "Hey guys, I ate one of those things that's like a bagel but doesn't have a hole in it. And it was covered with all this crunchy cinnamon stuff. Is that a bagel?" And I said "Yes, it is a cinnamon crunch bagel." And he said "Dude! That was awesome. I'm eating those from now on." So I said "Ok. Let me get this straight. You used to like blueberry. Then you snatched my French Toast bagels. Now you're telling me that you like Cinnamon Crunch?" And he said "Uh, yeah." So I immediately started calculating how many cinnamon crunch I'd need to order the next time I went to Panera.
See? My life is extraordinarily complicated.
It is really hard to be me.
THEN. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went about picking up all the things that didn't belong in the kitchen. I heard the beep, beep, beep of the microwave, and looked up to see Blake putting TWO French Toast bagels in to warm them up. TWO WHOLE FRENCH TOAST BAGELS. After he had just finished a Cinnamon Crunch bagel. So I whispered to Paul and told him that our son was eating TWO MORE bagels. AAAAAANNNND. They were MY bagels.
Where have we gone wrong?
So, what is your signature bagel?
What is your signature bagel?
My husband hurt my feelings this morning when he said "....but nobody likes the French Toast bagels." And I said, with great maturity and sophistication "Uh....*I* like the French Toast bagels. How can you NOT know my signature bagel??? I know YOUR signature bagel....Cinnamon crunch. I mean, how many times have you heard me say 'get me a French Toast bagel, that's my favorite?'" I mean knowing your spouse's favorite bagel is, like, REALLY, important, don't ya think?
We have kind of started a habit of buying a box of bagels from Panera every week or two. You get 13 in a box and it's nice to have them on hand for a quick breakfast or snack.
The trick is finding the precise balance of bagels, flavor-wise, so that everybody gets what they like. I, being the ever astute and attentive wife and mother that I am, pride myself in knowing everybody's favorite bagel
Dad likes cinnamon crunch.
Kayla likes cinnamon crunch; although she used to be a plain bagel gal. She is a new convert.
Blake likes blueberry.
Mom likes French toast.
Except. Sometime in the middle of the last bucket-o-bagels, Blake snatched one of my French Toast bagels and decided he liked those as well. And, to further complicate matters, I ate part of a blueberry one that we had pulled from the freezer, just yesterday morning, and decided it was pretty good. See? Things around here are oh so complicated.
So yesterday while we were on our Saturday afternoon date, i.e. running to Sam's and Walgreen's, I decided to run into Panera and buy a bucket-o-bagels for the upcoming weekend.
I bought 7 cinnamon crunch, 3 blueberry, and 3 French Toast. I did not really expect the bagels to last much longer than tonight because there was an extra teenage boy in the house and would probably be a spare girl in and out as well.
So this morning, when Paul and I returned from our walk Blake said to us "Hey guys, I ate one of those things that's like a bagel but doesn't have a hole in it. And it was covered with all this crunchy cinnamon stuff. Is that a bagel?" And I said "Yes, it is a cinnamon crunch bagel." And he said "Dude! That was awesome. I'm eating those from now on." So I said "Ok. Let me get this straight. You used to like blueberry. Then you snatched my French Toast bagels. Now you're telling me that you like Cinnamon Crunch?" And he said "Uh, yeah." So I immediately started calculating how many cinnamon crunch I'd need to order the next time I went to Panera.
See? My life is extraordinarily complicated.
It is really hard to be me.
THEN. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went about picking up all the things that didn't belong in the kitchen. I heard the beep, beep, beep of the microwave, and looked up to see Blake putting TWO French Toast bagels in to warm them up. TWO WHOLE FRENCH TOAST BAGELS. After he had just finished a Cinnamon Crunch bagel. So I whispered to Paul and told him that our son was eating TWO MORE bagels. AAAAAANNNND. They were MY bagels.
Where have we gone wrong?
So, what is your signature bagel?
Friday, March 21, 2008
NOTES FROM NASHVILLE - PART III - THE BLACK NAPKIN
We, the W family, visited a plantation while in Nashville. I just didn't feel like I could go to the South and not see a real plantation, so I subjected my family to it. I understand my husband and son had a talk at some point before we left because when I said something to Blake about him "tolerating" the plantation visit he said "I know. Dad and I have talked." Hmmmm...
He actually did really well. In fact, as we got in the van after our tour, he said something like "Dude, I made it through the plantation visit without griping one time." Ahhh, how he's growing up. He did however, express quiet disgust several times over the slavery issue and mirrored my own concerns when he asked "are we, like, justifying this whole way of life by paying to take a tour of this place?" Pretty insightful for a sullen teenage boy.
Anyway, before we toured the mansion and the "Enslaved African American Workers' Homes," we ate in the plantation restaurant.
I was a little disappointed because I expected to see people in period costume giving us a real taste of what a meal would be like on a rich Southern plantation - you know the mistress of the mansion serving us up some corn pone and ham slices with some biscuits dripping in molasses. I seriously love that kind of stuff.
Instead we were seated in a nice little dining room and served by young college kids dressed in all black. Our menu selections were things like chicken salad sandwiches, crustless quiche, and Greek pasta salad.
Whatever.
So we were seated at our table and very quickly one of the young servers came by and whisked away my white cloth napkin and the silverware it contained and replaced it with a black one, saying "here's a black napkin for you, ma'am."
Wait, what?
At first I was a little panicked. Is there some sort of Southern napkin etiquette I don't know about? Could they tell I was over 40 and therefore should only use a black napkin? Did I appear to be in mourning? Was I being marked for some reason, like in that horrible story we read in High School literature where the whole town draws lots once a year and whoever gets the black dot gets stoned to death? Was I going to get a pie thrown in my face?
Speaking of pie...could it be that my black napkin marked me as the recipient of some special prize? Like maybe a rich decadent Southern dessert? Now I was getting excited. If that black napkin meant I was going to get something sweet at the end of my meal - FOR FREE - then it would indeed be a happy day. Please, please, please let it mean a special dessert!!!
There were confused looks all around our table as we all stared at my black napkin, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the other white napkins.
We, in all of our Northern sophistication and dignity were uttering: "What the heck's this here black napkin all about?" We, the W family were all atwitter.
So, I said to our hip young server "Um....I don't understand why my white napkin was replaced with a black one." And I said it as though I was confessing to my calculus teacher that I did not understand that first problem on the board.
And she said "Cause you're wearing black pants," as though that was all the explanation that was necessary.
HUH?!
No free dessert?
The only thing I can come up with is that perhaps a white napkin would leave little white specks on my black pants.....? Which I've never seen happen before; but what other explanation is there?
I am an educated person. I have been to my share of "upscale" events. I don't usually enjoy them, but I've been to them. I like to think I won't usually embarrass myself or my husband when we go to said upscale events. I want my kids to be comfortable at upscale events so they can relax and enjoy them when they are in that phase of life.
So, somebody please help me. What is this mystery of the black napkin? What have I missed?
Have any of you ever been given a black napkin because you were wearing black slacks? Is this a Southern thing I've never heard about? Because I went to college in the South and my roommate was most definitely Southern and SHE never taught me anything about the black napkin rule.
I truly do not need this added stress in my life - worrying about the black napkin rule.
So come on, my ones of readers, educate me.
He actually did really well. In fact, as we got in the van after our tour, he said something like "Dude, I made it through the plantation visit without griping one time." Ahhh, how he's growing up. He did however, express quiet disgust several times over the slavery issue and mirrored my own concerns when he asked "are we, like, justifying this whole way of life by paying to take a tour of this place?" Pretty insightful for a sullen teenage boy.
Anyway, before we toured the mansion and the "Enslaved African American Workers' Homes," we ate in the plantation restaurant.
I was a little disappointed because I expected to see people in period costume giving us a real taste of what a meal would be like on a rich Southern plantation - you know the mistress of the mansion serving us up some corn pone and ham slices with some biscuits dripping in molasses. I seriously love that kind of stuff.
Instead we were seated in a nice little dining room and served by young college kids dressed in all black. Our menu selections were things like chicken salad sandwiches, crustless quiche, and Greek pasta salad.
Whatever.
So we were seated at our table and very quickly one of the young servers came by and whisked away my white cloth napkin and the silverware it contained and replaced it with a black one, saying "here's a black napkin for you, ma'am."
Wait, what?
At first I was a little panicked. Is there some sort of Southern napkin etiquette I don't know about? Could they tell I was over 40 and therefore should only use a black napkin? Did I appear to be in mourning? Was I being marked for some reason, like in that horrible story we read in High School literature where the whole town draws lots once a year and whoever gets the black dot gets stoned to death? Was I going to get a pie thrown in my face?
Speaking of pie...could it be that my black napkin marked me as the recipient of some special prize? Like maybe a rich decadent Southern dessert? Now I was getting excited. If that black napkin meant I was going to get something sweet at the end of my meal - FOR FREE - then it would indeed be a happy day. Please, please, please let it mean a special dessert!!!
There were confused looks all around our table as we all stared at my black napkin, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the other white napkins.
We, in all of our Northern sophistication and dignity were uttering: "What the heck's this here black napkin all about?" We, the W family were all atwitter.
So, I said to our hip young server "Um....I don't understand why my white napkin was replaced with a black one." And I said it as though I was confessing to my calculus teacher that I did not understand that first problem on the board.
And she said "Cause you're wearing black pants," as though that was all the explanation that was necessary.
HUH?!
No free dessert?
The only thing I can come up with is that perhaps a white napkin would leave little white specks on my black pants.....? Which I've never seen happen before; but what other explanation is there?
I am an educated person. I have been to my share of "upscale" events. I don't usually enjoy them, but I've been to them. I like to think I won't usually embarrass myself or my husband when we go to said upscale events. I want my kids to be comfortable at upscale events so they can relax and enjoy them when they are in that phase of life.
So, somebody please help me. What is this mystery of the black napkin? What have I missed?
Have any of you ever been given a black napkin because you were wearing black slacks? Is this a Southern thing I've never heard about? Because I went to college in the South and my roommate was most definitely Southern and SHE never taught me anything about the black napkin rule.
I truly do not need this added stress in my life - worrying about the black napkin rule.
So come on, my ones of readers, educate me.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
NOTES FROM NASHVILLE - PART II - THE JACK DANIELS SALOON
We were fortunate enough to get to stay at the Opryland hotel while in Nashville.
It's a big hotel.
Really, really, big.
It has several restaurants, boutiques, garden walkways, and goody shops, including Godiva Chocolates and Haagen Dazs. Kayla and I enjoyed walking around browsing in the shops and watching people. We even got to spy on a wedding reception that was being held in one of the little garden atriums.
One of the restaurants was the Jack Daniels Saloon. Paul and the kids ate there on our first evening in Nashville. I was fighting a head cold and didn't have an appetite, so I stayed in the room.
Anyway, it was pretty close to our room, so they weren't gone very long.
And when I say it was pretty close to our room, I mean so close that when the live band began playing at 9 o'clock that night we could hear EVERY WORD OF EVERY SONG. We could not just hear the thump, thump, thump, of the bass, or the applause after each song. We could hear EVERY WORD OF EVERY SONG. In fact I was quite surprised when they started singing "Nine to Five." I was even more surprised when I started singing along with it at 12:45 a.m. We could hear the musicians introduce the next song. We could hear individual voices as the crowd mingled. And we got to hear all of that until one in the morning.
Every. Night. That. We. Were. There. Even Monday night, which is a school and work night.
And, as Blake said, "They're not even that good....tomorrow I'm going down to look at them so I can get a visual of what a lousy band looks like."
We were not happy.
Why didn't we call and ask for another suite?
Well, when you travel with kids, of any ages, you have lots of stuff. You have food that's already been unloaded into the little refrigerator. You have clothes that have already been thrown on the floor. You have earphones, and chargers, and game cartridges, and books, and magazines, and coats, and sacks from the shopping you've already done.
You have the laptop that dad brought and the extra pillows that mom has to bring with her.
So you have to really weigh the inconvenience of moving against the inconvenience of being kept awake until one in the morning.
Plus, we had already made a couple of calls to the front desk because our suite did not have the couch we were promised, there were no extra blankets in the closet, one of the televisions didn't work, and the refrigerator wasn't working. And frankly, we weren't thrilled with the less-than-warm response we got from those calls.
Thankfully, our kids are teenagers and they were not really bothered by the loud noise. (In fact, I think we were called "too old fashioned" a couple of times for being appalled at the noise.) Also, we did not have to get up early any of the mornings, so we knew we could sleep in once we were finally able to drift off.
So we decided to put up with it; even though we were paying good money for this hotel experience.
But, come on!!
Shouldn't an upscale hotel like that be more aware of where they are placing their guests? There were many, many families with young children in that hotel, who were sure to have been bothered by that loud music like we were. I kept saying "We CANNOT be the only family that is upset by this...." To which Paul would reply "I'm already drafting my complaint letter in my head...."
We actually came home a day early, partly because of the hotel experience.
Couldn't the booking people tell their guests "Now, this room is above a saloon, where there will be loud music ALL NIGHT LONG, are you into that? Because if not, we can move you a mile or two away where you won't hear it." 'Cause the hotel is that big.
So, the e-mail has been sent telling them of our disappointment. It was sent in response to the "guest survey" they sent us upon our arrival home. They may be sorry they asked us how our stay was.
So, tell me, my ones of readers. How would you have handled it?
Tune in next time for.....THE MYSTERY OF THE BLACK NAPKIN.
It's a big hotel.
Really, really, big.
It has several restaurants, boutiques, garden walkways, and goody shops, including Godiva Chocolates and Haagen Dazs. Kayla and I enjoyed walking around browsing in the shops and watching people. We even got to spy on a wedding reception that was being held in one of the little garden atriums.
One of the restaurants was the Jack Daniels Saloon. Paul and the kids ate there on our first evening in Nashville. I was fighting a head cold and didn't have an appetite, so I stayed in the room.
Anyway, it was pretty close to our room, so they weren't gone very long.
And when I say it was pretty close to our room, I mean so close that when the live band began playing at 9 o'clock that night we could hear EVERY WORD OF EVERY SONG. We could not just hear the thump, thump, thump, of the bass, or the applause after each song. We could hear EVERY WORD OF EVERY SONG. In fact I was quite surprised when they started singing "Nine to Five." I was even more surprised when I started singing along with it at 12:45 a.m. We could hear the musicians introduce the next song. We could hear individual voices as the crowd mingled. And we got to hear all of that until one in the morning.
Every. Night. That. We. Were. There. Even Monday night, which is a school and work night.
And, as Blake said, "They're not even that good....tomorrow I'm going down to look at them so I can get a visual of what a lousy band looks like."
We were not happy.
Why didn't we call and ask for another suite?
Well, when you travel with kids, of any ages, you have lots of stuff. You have food that's already been unloaded into the little refrigerator. You have clothes that have already been thrown on the floor. You have earphones, and chargers, and game cartridges, and books, and magazines, and coats, and sacks from the shopping you've already done.
You have the laptop that dad brought and the extra pillows that mom has to bring with her.
So you have to really weigh the inconvenience of moving against the inconvenience of being kept awake until one in the morning.
Plus, we had already made a couple of calls to the front desk because our suite did not have the couch we were promised, there were no extra blankets in the closet, one of the televisions didn't work, and the refrigerator wasn't working. And frankly, we weren't thrilled with the less-than-warm response we got from those calls.
Thankfully, our kids are teenagers and they were not really bothered by the loud noise. (In fact, I think we were called "too old fashioned" a couple of times for being appalled at the noise.) Also, we did not have to get up early any of the mornings, so we knew we could sleep in once we were finally able to drift off.
So we decided to put up with it; even though we were paying good money for this hotel experience.
But, come on!!
Shouldn't an upscale hotel like that be more aware of where they are placing their guests? There were many, many families with young children in that hotel, who were sure to have been bothered by that loud music like we were. I kept saying "We CANNOT be the only family that is upset by this...." To which Paul would reply "I'm already drafting my complaint letter in my head...."
We actually came home a day early, partly because of the hotel experience.
Couldn't the booking people tell their guests "Now, this room is above a saloon, where there will be loud music ALL NIGHT LONG, are you into that? Because if not, we can move you a mile or two away where you won't hear it." 'Cause the hotel is that big.
So, the e-mail has been sent telling them of our disappointment. It was sent in response to the "guest survey" they sent us upon our arrival home. They may be sorry they asked us how our stay was.
So, tell me, my ones of readers. How would you have handled it?
Tune in next time for.....THE MYSTERY OF THE BLACK NAPKIN.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
NOTES FROM NASHVILLE
So we, the W family, made a trip to Nashville for a few days as kind of a celebration of the kids' first week-long spring break... EVER!!
There are a few things I'd like to share with you on this here blog about our trip, including but not limited to:
- the Jack Daniels Saloon live band
- the mystery of the black napkin
- the Belle Meade Plantation and its "Enslaved African American Workers." Uh huh. That's what they called them.
- I Am Legend
- Three dresses
But first I'm going to talk about traveling with teenagers.
Because it's my blog and I can.
About halfway through our trip TO Nashville, I glanced in the backseat and noticed Kayla reading her book while listening to her MP3 player. I commented to Paul that traveling these days was SO much easier than traveling when the kids were little. So I decided to share my SECRETS OF SUCCESSFUL TEENAGE TRAVEL with my ones of readers.
Here they are in no particular order.
* SEPARATE 'EM. Give each kid his/her own space - in the vehicle and in the hotel room. Kayla usually gets the backseat while Blake gets the WAY backseat. In the hotel, each will stake out his/her own spot. Do not, under any circumstances invade said teenager's territory. This is true especially of the male variety.
* FEED 'EM. Teenagers are like infants. They must eat at regular and frequent intervals or there could be much wailing and holding of breath. This is true especially of the male variety. Pack plenty of good stuff in the car - fruit, granola bars, crackers, Gatorade, juice, skittles. Also pack plenty of one dollar bills so they can buy more junk in each gas station at which you stop. But no matter how much food you pack, or what is available at your hotel, what do you do when your teenage daughter suddenly announces "I really want some fresh veggies, especially broccoli."? You try offering her one of the oranges you brought along. You try offering to take her to the Haagen-Dazs ice cream shop that's right there in the hotel. But she wants broccoli?
There was no wailing or holding of breath for that, but still. Whatta ya' do?
I got nothin' for you on that one. But I'll do some research and get back to you.
SLEEP 'EM. Make sure your teenagers get to sleep as much as they want - in the car and in the hotel. It is their vacation after all. This is one good reason to give them their own space. It helps when one of the teenagers, usually the female variety, is quick to volunteer to sleep on the floor, when your suite does NOT have a couch as promised. Tell said teenager she once again wins the "Golden Traveler Award," which in all actuality means she receives absolutely nothing. But keep saying it anyway, not only to praise her selflessness but to also to make her brother feel a little bit guilty. He WON'T feel guilty, but you can keep trying.
PLUG 'EM IN. Bring all the electronic devices you can possibly fit into your vehicle. Since most gadgets and gizmos are the size of a mousetrap, this should not be difficult. This includes MP3 players, PSP machine and games, portable DVD players (although we left ours at home this time -ahh, they are growing up) and of course, the ever important life sustaining cell phone. Do NOT under any circumstances forget the cell phone chargers. You absolutely do NOT want your teenager's cell phone to lose power while they are away from their friends. Contact with their friends, while on vacation with parents, is the absolute only thing that gets a teenager through such a horrible ordeal. We fortunately have NEVER made the deadly mistake of losing cell phone power. My mind cannot even wrap itself around the horrible consequences of such a mistake. Please, please, please, if you do not remember anything else, remember this tip about the cell phones. It is for your mental well being. Also, it doesn't hurt to let each teenager have a little bit of computer time, if your husband happens to bring his laptop. Again it is their vacation, and it's what they like,so why not let them log on for a little bit each evening? Besides Mom and Dad enjoy a little e-time each day also.
PRAISE 'EM. Everybody, regardless of age, likes to receive praise. Tell them you appreciate their willingness to be flexible when things don't go as planned. Thank them for their willingness to compromise. And when they thank YOU at the end of the trip, eat it up like it was one of those Haagen Dazs sundaes you DIDN'T have.
SOAK 'EM UP. They're teenagers. Time with them is rare. Soak up every moment. Remember everything you all said and did on the trip and etch it into your memory, because, if you have teenagers, you already know how quickly time is rushing by. And if it happens to be a trip to visit a college for your older child?
Well, that's another one of those things I can't wrap my mind around yet.
Let's just say part of my heart is still back there in Nashville....
There are a few things I'd like to share with you on this here blog about our trip, including but not limited to:
- the Jack Daniels Saloon live band
- the mystery of the black napkin
- the Belle Meade Plantation and its "Enslaved African American Workers." Uh huh. That's what they called them.
- I Am Legend
- Three dresses
But first I'm going to talk about traveling with teenagers.
Because it's my blog and I can.
About halfway through our trip TO Nashville, I glanced in the backseat and noticed Kayla reading her book while listening to her MP3 player. I commented to Paul that traveling these days was SO much easier than traveling when the kids were little. So I decided to share my SECRETS OF SUCCESSFUL TEENAGE TRAVEL with my ones of readers.
Here they are in no particular order.
* SEPARATE 'EM. Give each kid his/her own space - in the vehicle and in the hotel room. Kayla usually gets the backseat while Blake gets the WAY backseat. In the hotel, each will stake out his/her own spot. Do not, under any circumstances invade said teenager's territory. This is true especially of the male variety.
* FEED 'EM. Teenagers are like infants. They must eat at regular and frequent intervals or there could be much wailing and holding of breath. This is true especially of the male variety. Pack plenty of good stuff in the car - fruit, granola bars, crackers, Gatorade, juice, skittles. Also pack plenty of one dollar bills so they can buy more junk in each gas station at which you stop. But no matter how much food you pack, or what is available at your hotel, what do you do when your teenage daughter suddenly announces "I really want some fresh veggies, especially broccoli."? You try offering her one of the oranges you brought along. You try offering to take her to the Haagen-Dazs ice cream shop that's right there in the hotel. But she wants broccoli?
There was no wailing or holding of breath for that, but still. Whatta ya' do?
I got nothin' for you on that one. But I'll do some research and get back to you.
SLEEP 'EM. Make sure your teenagers get to sleep as much as they want - in the car and in the hotel. It is their vacation after all. This is one good reason to give them their own space. It helps when one of the teenagers, usually the female variety, is quick to volunteer to sleep on the floor, when your suite does NOT have a couch as promised. Tell said teenager she once again wins the "Golden Traveler Award," which in all actuality means she receives absolutely nothing. But keep saying it anyway, not only to praise her selflessness but to also to make her brother feel a little bit guilty. He WON'T feel guilty, but you can keep trying.
PLUG 'EM IN. Bring all the electronic devices you can possibly fit into your vehicle. Since most gadgets and gizmos are the size of a mousetrap, this should not be difficult. This includes MP3 players, PSP machine and games, portable DVD players (although we left ours at home this time -ahh, they are growing up) and of course, the ever important life sustaining cell phone. Do NOT under any circumstances forget the cell phone chargers. You absolutely do NOT want your teenager's cell phone to lose power while they are away from their friends. Contact with their friends, while on vacation with parents, is the absolute only thing that gets a teenager through such a horrible ordeal. We fortunately have NEVER made the deadly mistake of losing cell phone power. My mind cannot even wrap itself around the horrible consequences of such a mistake. Please, please, please, if you do not remember anything else, remember this tip about the cell phones. It is for your mental well being. Also, it doesn't hurt to let each teenager have a little bit of computer time, if your husband happens to bring his laptop. Again it is their vacation, and it's what they like,so why not let them log on for a little bit each evening? Besides Mom and Dad enjoy a little e-time each day also.
PRAISE 'EM. Everybody, regardless of age, likes to receive praise. Tell them you appreciate their willingness to be flexible when things don't go as planned. Thank them for their willingness to compromise. And when they thank YOU at the end of the trip, eat it up like it was one of those Haagen Dazs sundaes you DIDN'T have.
SOAK 'EM UP. They're teenagers. Time with them is rare. Soak up every moment. Remember everything you all said and did on the trip and etch it into your memory, because, if you have teenagers, you already know how quickly time is rushing by. And if it happens to be a trip to visit a college for your older child?
Well, that's another one of those things I can't wrap my mind around yet.
Let's just say part of my heart is still back there in Nashville....
Friday, March 14, 2008
IT'S 9 A.M. AND MY DAY ALREADY STINKS....
Edited to add: Boomer (the sick bloody cat) is in pretty bad shape. He had developed a severe infection in his back teeth which worked itself up his jaw bone into his eye socket, causing his eye to bleed profusely. After four days on antibiotics he will have his back teeth extracted. The vet assured me that with a cat so young (5 years old) I would never be expected to predict something like this. It is very rare for a cat this age to have such problems. This reassurance came after I repeatedly said I felt so bad for allowing this to happen. It is frightening and astounding how quickly this infection became so severe. Here's the amazing thing: this sweet young vet offered to take Boomer to her home and care for him while we are gone and until his surgery is over. By the time I got back to pick him up today, she had already called her husband and he was preparing their spare bedroom for him. She is charging me a daily fee, but it is so worth it. I was speechless with gratitude at her offer. God does indeed answer prayers. Now I can go on vacation with my family and rest easy.
Of course we can't make our mortgage payment next month.....
So I'm standing in the exam room at the vet HOSPITAL while they examine my cat's swollen bloody eye. I am near tears because my cat looks as though he's had his head shut in a car door, and he's suffering. We are leaving town tomorrow for 5 days and I have absolutely no idea who will take care of my cat while we're gone.
So I ask the vet "Do you do any sort of medical boarding?" and she says "No. We don't board at all." And I glanced up at the big sign on the wall that says PET HOSPITAL and I wanted to scream "Then how can you call yourselves a hospital if you don't keep your furry little patients overnight!!!" But I didn't because I was upset enough. Instead I asked if she had any suggestions for his care since we were leaving town and she said to wait and see what the results of his x-rays show. Somehow I don't think waiting will provide the answer.
Plus I looked really dumb because I was standing there in my prescription sunglasses because I had left my regular glasses in the van because my cat weighs 25 pounds and I couldn't carry him, his carrier and my purse at the same time. And I think the fact that I was in sunglasses interfered with my comprehension because I could not understand one thing she was saying. I don't know what she said is probably wrong with my cat and why his condition has worsened so much since she saw him 3 days ago. All I know is he is a bloody mess, he's in pain, and we are leaving town tomorrow and I don't know who in the world I can ask to come and administer medicine to a sick bloody cat.
THEN. My cell phone rang and it was my daughter's school. The secretary said "Hi, I'm calling to check on Kayla....she's absent today?" And I screeched "Kayla's not in school?!!! Because she left with her brother at 7:40." And in my mind I'm screaming "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD...." So she put me on hold and found out that the substitute teacher didn't realize that student council was meeting this morning. She double checked with the student council advisor and Kayla was with them. She apologized Profusely for "making me answer the worst phone call a parent can receive....." By then my heart had worked it's way onto the vet's floor.
My house is a wreck. I need to pack. I need to do laundry. And run to the store. And run a key to the neighbor girl who agreed to feed the cats (that is, before one became so ill) I need to have lunch with my two friends. I need to pick the cat up after lunch. I need to figure out who's going to take care of this sick bloody cat. I need to figure out how they can call themselves a PET HOSPITAL if they don't board pets. I need to figure out how to avoid spending our whole stimulus check on cat care.
And I need to open a bottle of tequila.
Of course we can't make our mortgage payment next month.....
So I'm standing in the exam room at the vet HOSPITAL while they examine my cat's swollen bloody eye. I am near tears because my cat looks as though he's had his head shut in a car door, and he's suffering. We are leaving town tomorrow for 5 days and I have absolutely no idea who will take care of my cat while we're gone.
So I ask the vet "Do you do any sort of medical boarding?" and she says "No. We don't board at all." And I glanced up at the big sign on the wall that says PET HOSPITAL and I wanted to scream "Then how can you call yourselves a hospital if you don't keep your furry little patients overnight!!!" But I didn't because I was upset enough. Instead I asked if she had any suggestions for his care since we were leaving town and she said to wait and see what the results of his x-rays show. Somehow I don't think waiting will provide the answer.
Plus I looked really dumb because I was standing there in my prescription sunglasses because I had left my regular glasses in the van because my cat weighs 25 pounds and I couldn't carry him, his carrier and my purse at the same time. And I think the fact that I was in sunglasses interfered with my comprehension because I could not understand one thing she was saying. I don't know what she said is probably wrong with my cat and why his condition has worsened so much since she saw him 3 days ago. All I know is he is a bloody mess, he's in pain, and we are leaving town tomorrow and I don't know who in the world I can ask to come and administer medicine to a sick bloody cat.
THEN. My cell phone rang and it was my daughter's school. The secretary said "Hi, I'm calling to check on Kayla....she's absent today?" And I screeched "Kayla's not in school?!!! Because she left with her brother at 7:40." And in my mind I'm screaming "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD...." So she put me on hold and found out that the substitute teacher didn't realize that student council was meeting this morning. She double checked with the student council advisor and Kayla was with them. She apologized Profusely for "making me answer the worst phone call a parent can receive....." By then my heart had worked it's way onto the vet's floor.
My house is a wreck. I need to pack. I need to do laundry. And run to the store. And run a key to the neighbor girl who agreed to feed the cats (that is, before one became so ill) I need to have lunch with my two friends. I need to pick the cat up after lunch. I need to figure out who's going to take care of this sick bloody cat. I need to figure out how they can call themselves a PET HOSPITAL if they don't board pets. I need to figure out how to avoid spending our whole stimulus check on cat care.
And I need to open a bottle of tequila.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
THANKS A LOT EVE....
....for plucking that fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and taking a big ole' bite out of it; leaving women for the remainder of time to experience the "greatly increased pains of childbirth..." which evidently includes pain during our periods as well. I mean, what were you thinking!?!
Sorry guys, but this is life on this here blog....
I suffer from dysmenorrhea, or painful periods. I also suffer from mittelschmerz, which is painful ovulation, so basically half of every month pretty much stinks for me. I am SO ready for menopause!
Anyway, let's get back to Eve.
Do you think during her first cycle after eating "The Fruit" she regretted taking that first bite? Do you think she sat in her little hut....shack....tent...rocking back and forth with mind numbing cramps wishing pharmacies had been invented so she could send Adam out for some Midol? Do you think she ever thought to herself "Well, shoot! If only chocolate had been discovered by now, I would whip up a pan of brownies and sit in the corner eating every last bite.?" Do you think she wanted to cut the heads off of every serpent she could get her hands on? Do you think she wanted to smack Adam on his forehead every time she merely heard his voice?
'Cause I can kinda relate,...
Except, she brought it on herself.
Yeah, thanks a lot for that Eve. I hope that fruit was REEEEEALLLLY good!
***********************************************************************************
I had talked to my doctor several times about my extremely painful cramps. He first started me on some prescription strength anti-inflammatory drugs. They succeeded....in giving my an ulcer. So I stopped taking any kind of pain relief. All along he kept saying, "when you're ready, I can start you on a narcotic. A lot of my patients take them for painful periods."
So at my last checkup I asked him "Um....what is Butalbital?" And he said "It's a highly addictive barbiturate; and yes, it's in your migraine medicine." And I said "I know it's in my migraine medicine, but it doesn't work for my cramps."
And he laid his forehead in his palm and started shaking his head back and forth, mumbling through his laughter about how I shouldn't take medicines for things for which they aren't prescribed. So I said "Don't tell my doctor or anything, but I tried it and it didn't work."
But, come on! Desperate times call for desperate measures.
So he prescribed Darvocet for my cramps.
That's right. My cramps are so severe, that I take a narcotic for them. But I have to be very careful when I take it because it makes me a little loopy. So I can only really take it at night, or if I have absolutely nothing to do through the day -which is like, never. It is so hard to be me.
And I blame Eve.
I also blame Eve for the fact that this afternoon I was SO TOTALLY in need of anything containing peanut butter and chocolate that I was afraid I would start taking hostages. The only thing I could find was Kayla's box of Peanut Butter Patties Girl Scout Cookies, on which she had written on one side "GET YOUR HANDS OFF. MY COOKIES." On the other side she had written "KAYLA'S ONLY....OR ELSE."
I ate three. I am so sorry, Kayla. I am a BAAAAAAD mom. (hanging my head in shame)
But I wanted to eat them all, and I didn't because, really, I knew that our family did not need a war going on between an adolescent girl and her perimenopausal mother.
Plus, I knew she could totally kick my butt.
So I fished out these chocolate graham cookies we found at the Dollar Tree, and the Jif peanut butter and spread the peanut butter on the cookie.
And, Lord have mercy!! Were they ever good.
So, despite my very healthy eating habits over the last several days, I succumbed to this horrible chocolate-peanut butter temptation - for the good of the people around me, of course.
Yeah, I'm pretty selfless like that.
But, Eve? If we happen to meet in Heaven....let's talk, girlfriend.
Sorry guys, but this is life on this here blog....
I suffer from dysmenorrhea, or painful periods. I also suffer from mittelschmerz, which is painful ovulation, so basically half of every month pretty much stinks for me. I am SO ready for menopause!
Anyway, let's get back to Eve.
Do you think during her first cycle after eating "The Fruit" she regretted taking that first bite? Do you think she sat in her little hut....shack....tent...rocking back and forth with mind numbing cramps wishing pharmacies had been invented so she could send Adam out for some Midol? Do you think she ever thought to herself "Well, shoot! If only chocolate had been discovered by now, I would whip up a pan of brownies and sit in the corner eating every last bite.?" Do you think she wanted to cut the heads off of every serpent she could get her hands on? Do you think she wanted to smack Adam on his forehead every time she merely heard his voice?
'Cause I can kinda relate,...
Except, she brought it on herself.
Yeah, thanks a lot for that Eve. I hope that fruit was REEEEEALLLLY good!
***********************************************************************************
I had talked to my doctor several times about my extremely painful cramps. He first started me on some prescription strength anti-inflammatory drugs. They succeeded....in giving my an ulcer. So I stopped taking any kind of pain relief. All along he kept saying, "when you're ready, I can start you on a narcotic. A lot of my patients take them for painful periods."
So at my last checkup I asked him "Um....what is Butalbital?" And he said "It's a highly addictive barbiturate; and yes, it's in your migraine medicine." And I said "I know it's in my migraine medicine, but it doesn't work for my cramps."
And he laid his forehead in his palm and started shaking his head back and forth, mumbling through his laughter about how I shouldn't take medicines for things for which they aren't prescribed. So I said "Don't tell my doctor or anything, but I tried it and it didn't work."
But, come on! Desperate times call for desperate measures.
So he prescribed Darvocet for my cramps.
That's right. My cramps are so severe, that I take a narcotic for them. But I have to be very careful when I take it because it makes me a little loopy. So I can only really take it at night, or if I have absolutely nothing to do through the day -which is like, never. It is so hard to be me.
And I blame Eve.
I also blame Eve for the fact that this afternoon I was SO TOTALLY in need of anything containing peanut butter and chocolate that I was afraid I would start taking hostages. The only thing I could find was Kayla's box of Peanut Butter Patties Girl Scout Cookies, on which she had written on one side "GET YOUR HANDS OFF. MY COOKIES." On the other side she had written "KAYLA'S ONLY....OR ELSE."
I ate three. I am so sorry, Kayla. I am a BAAAAAAD mom. (hanging my head in shame)
But I wanted to eat them all, and I didn't because, really, I knew that our family did not need a war going on between an adolescent girl and her perimenopausal mother.
Plus, I knew she could totally kick my butt.
So I fished out these chocolate graham cookies we found at the Dollar Tree, and the Jif peanut butter and spread the peanut butter on the cookie.
And, Lord have mercy!! Were they ever good.
So, despite my very healthy eating habits over the last several days, I succumbed to this horrible chocolate-peanut butter temptation - for the good of the people around me, of course.
Yeah, I'm pretty selfless like that.
But, Eve? If we happen to meet in Heaven....let's talk, girlfriend.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
THANK YOU GOVERNOR SPITZER....
....for bringing morning television to yet another all-time low.
This morning The Today show was doing a segment on "High Priced Call Girls." I did not feel like vomiting up my Slim Fast bar, so I switched to Good Morning America, which was doing a segment on "High Priced Call Girls."
Un. Be. Lievable.
Even more unbelievable was that I chose to stand and watch The Today Show's version of "High Priced Call Girls." I know. I know. Disgusting.
But what was REALLY disgusting was the perky little blonde "High Priced Call Girl" who told the interviewer "The beauty of America is that I can have a business of my own where I can make so much money and provide a service to men where they can talk and express themselves...."
GAAAAAAK!
Of course she lived in Nevada where her "small business" is legal.
Um. Lady? Don't wave your tainted brand of patriotism in my face while you proclaim the virtues of your business which allows you to trade sex for money. You can wrap yourself in the American flag and talk all you want about how great it is that living in America has allowed you to become so successful. You can talk all you want about the wonderful "services" you provide to these poor lonely, misunderstood men. The bottom line is, you are still a tramp. You may have better shoes than I have, but um...yeah...you're still a tramp.
I don't mean to be catty or anything....I'm just sayin'.
This morning The Today show was doing a segment on "High Priced Call Girls." I did not feel like vomiting up my Slim Fast bar, so I switched to Good Morning America, which was doing a segment on "High Priced Call Girls."
Un. Be. Lievable.
Even more unbelievable was that I chose to stand and watch The Today Show's version of "High Priced Call Girls." I know. I know. Disgusting.
But what was REALLY disgusting was the perky little blonde "High Priced Call Girl" who told the interviewer "The beauty of America is that I can have a business of my own where I can make so much money and provide a service to men where they can talk and express themselves...."
GAAAAAAK!
Of course she lived in Nevada where her "small business" is legal.
Um. Lady? Don't wave your tainted brand of patriotism in my face while you proclaim the virtues of your business which allows you to trade sex for money. You can wrap yourself in the American flag and talk all you want about how great it is that living in America has allowed you to become so successful. You can talk all you want about the wonderful "services" you provide to these poor lonely, misunderstood men. The bottom line is, you are still a tramp. You may have better shoes than I have, but um...yeah...you're still a tramp.
I don't mean to be catty or anything....I'm just sayin'.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
DON'T YOU HATE IT WHEN....
Don't you hate it when you are sitting at the kitchen counter on a Saturday morning, eating a healthy breakfast...okay a girl scout cookie...and reading the paper, the house is quiet because your husband has taken the kids to the state basketball tournament for the day, and you are all relaxed and feeling pretty good and still in your jammies and a Matt Damon movie is on the little kitchen tv and the doorbell rings and you look up and see your neighbor standing at the door?
Don't you hate it when you have to answer the door on a Saturday morning in your jammies with your hair going three different directions and you just know you have a little smudge of mascara under one or both eyes?
Don't you hate it when said neighbor smiles expectantly at you and hands you a garage door opener, and you have to say "ummm...er...I....well....I guess Kayla is taking care of your cats this week...?" And he says "Yeah, I talked to Paul; did he not tell you." And you get all hostile inside and decide your ARE NOT going to cover for this inconsiderate lapse on Paul's part, so you say sweetly and with a fake little chuckle "Um... No. No. He did not tell me." And then you go over the dates with him and take the little garage door opener and say goodbye and on your way back to the kitchen make a detour past a mirror - just to reassure yourself that you do, indeed look like death warmed over.
Don't you hate it when the mirror is SO PAINFULLY HONEST and does, in fact, reassure you that you MOST DEFINITELY look like death warmed over, with your hair going in all different directions, a little mascara remaining under your eyes, AAAAAAND a tiny dot of dried blood on your chin from the pimple you picked before bed last night? Don't you hate it when you're afraid to look at your teeth in the mirror for fear that you will have greeted your neighbor at the door, not only with the hair thing and the mascara thing and the blood thing, but with food in your teeth too? I mean there's just so much humiliation a person can take in one morning.
Don't you hate it when you have to call your husband on his cell and with a sweetness dripping in venom say "I guess Kayla's taking care of our neighbor's cats next week..." and he's all like apologetic and explains that the neighbor talked to him while he was shoveling snow ANNND he has the gall to ask if you covered for him and pretended he had told you and you have to say "Tuh. NO I did NOT cover for you" and then you have to go for the kill and ask "well, does Kayla know about this?" and he's all like "No, I forgot to tell her too...." and then you have to get just a tiny bit sarcastic and say like three times "well, you might want to tell her that she has a job next week. It would be nice for the person DOING THE JOB to know about the job"?
Don't you just hate when your Saturday starts like that?
Not that I'm irritated by it or anything. I'm just sayin'.....
Don't you hate it when you have to answer the door on a Saturday morning in your jammies with your hair going three different directions and you just know you have a little smudge of mascara under one or both eyes?
Don't you hate it when said neighbor smiles expectantly at you and hands you a garage door opener, and you have to say "ummm...er...I....well....I guess Kayla is taking care of your cats this week...?" And he says "Yeah, I talked to Paul; did he not tell you." And you get all hostile inside and decide your ARE NOT going to cover for this inconsiderate lapse on Paul's part, so you say sweetly and with a fake little chuckle "Um... No. No. He did not tell me." And then you go over the dates with him and take the little garage door opener and say goodbye and on your way back to the kitchen make a detour past a mirror - just to reassure yourself that you do, indeed look like death warmed over.
Don't you hate it when the mirror is SO PAINFULLY HONEST and does, in fact, reassure you that you MOST DEFINITELY look like death warmed over, with your hair going in all different directions, a little mascara remaining under your eyes, AAAAAAND a tiny dot of dried blood on your chin from the pimple you picked before bed last night? Don't you hate it when you're afraid to look at your teeth in the mirror for fear that you will have greeted your neighbor at the door, not only with the hair thing and the mascara thing and the blood thing, but with food in your teeth too? I mean there's just so much humiliation a person can take in one morning.
Don't you hate it when you have to call your husband on his cell and with a sweetness dripping in venom say "I guess Kayla's taking care of our neighbor's cats next week..." and he's all like apologetic and explains that the neighbor talked to him while he was shoveling snow ANNND he has the gall to ask if you covered for him and pretended he had told you and you have to say "Tuh. NO I did NOT cover for you" and then you have to go for the kill and ask "well, does Kayla know about this?" and he's all like "No, I forgot to tell her too...." and then you have to get just a tiny bit sarcastic and say like three times "well, you might want to tell her that she has a job next week. It would be nice for the person DOING THE JOB to know about the job"?
Don't you just hate when your Saturday starts like that?
Not that I'm irritated by it or anything. I'm just sayin'.....
Friday, March 07, 2008
WHAT WORKED FOR US...
When our kids were little we attended a church that had several young couples right around our age. We were very blessed to have a circle of friends with children the same age as ours, going through the same parenting stages at the same time.
In fact, the year Kayla was born, there were five other women at church expecting a baby too. It was an incredible time for me -going through pregnancy, childbirth, and infancy with these close friends. Plus most of them had a child about Blake's age as well, which was about two and a half.
We traded babysitting with these other couples, even for weekend getaways. We moms spent many lunch times at McDonald's play lands with our toddlers, usually after Ladies Bible classes.
As the kids got older we even ventured into sit down restaurants with our little circus of preschoolers taking up a couple of large tables and ordering countless kids chicken fingers meals.
I have almost as many funny stories about these other children as I do my own; and I'm sure our friends can remember the goofy things our kids said and did.
Now when I see my kids with these families, especially THEIR kids, I feel a gentle tug at my heart, knowing that they have known my children since infancy, and I have known THEIR children since infancy.
And it is the only thing that makes me miss that church.
But there is something about those early stages of parenting that is still a little painful for me.
Along with the young families to whom we became so close at church, there were a couple of older women who were already grandparents that were very vocal with their criticism of how we "young moms raise our kids."
And I mean VERY. VOCAL.
No matter what the topic was in Bible class, one of these ladies often found a way to make some parenting point about how lax "young parents today are with their kids." If we were studying the book of Revelation, she'd make a comment and somehow segue into parenting and launch her attack on "young parents in church today." We didn't make our kids stand up to sing. We didn't make them hold a song book. We took them out too often. We didn't take them out often enough. We didn't carry Kleenex with us. We didn't make our eight year old boys wear ties. We didn't teach them to speak to the elder members. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH....
Another lady launched an attack one time on our diaper bags. Yes, our DIAPER BAGS!
"I've never seen so many bags in all my life, they way you girls carry diaper bags to church."
Huh?
We have an infant and a two year old and we shouldn't carry a diaper bag?
It was relentless; it was not a couple of passing comments. It was a near constant barrage of verbal bullets. And we young moms spent much of our time together licking our wounds, and trying to figure out why we bugged these women so much.
Because, come on!
Shouldn't we have been able to go to church, a safe haven, and be loved and encouraged? Shouldn't we have been able to go to church and feel like this older generation was glad to see us making the effort with our little ones? Especially since we all got our little ones to church THREE TIMES A WEEK? Four, if you count Ladies Bible Class?
I never had the courage to say what I wanted to say, which was A) "Do you REALLY remember? Were your kids REALLY that perfect? Because, surely you had struggles too while you were raising little ones." and B) "Please don't judge us yet, because our work has just started. Please wait until our kids are grown and you can see the final product. Because judging from some of your kids (and you know who you are) you haven't done such a fine job."
But I never did.
I did, however, notice one older lady who had already raised her children (and grandchildren actually) who never uttered a criticism about us. If parenting came up she would make quiet comments that started with "What worked for us was...." and then she went on to explain how she found success as a parent. She never said "I NEVER..." or "Young moms today should..." She simply said "What worked for us was..."
And I appreciated it so much.
I appreciated it so much, that I have tried to follow her example now that I am in the "been there - done that" phase. Now that my kids are past the magical yet exhausting baby, toddler and preschool phase; now that I have a little bit of experience under my belt, I try to be an encourager to those around me who are in the throes of parenting little ones.
Because, really, it is a hard job. And as in any job, we can all use a little encouragement, an occasional "atta girl," a little reminder that we're doing something right.
And, since I love all kinds of bags, I will just say that I LOVE all the diaper bags "these young moms" carry today.
In fact, the year Kayla was born, there were five other women at church expecting a baby too. It was an incredible time for me -going through pregnancy, childbirth, and infancy with these close friends. Plus most of them had a child about Blake's age as well, which was about two and a half.
We traded babysitting with these other couples, even for weekend getaways. We moms spent many lunch times at McDonald's play lands with our toddlers, usually after Ladies Bible classes.
As the kids got older we even ventured into sit down restaurants with our little circus of preschoolers taking up a couple of large tables and ordering countless kids chicken fingers meals.
I have almost as many funny stories about these other children as I do my own; and I'm sure our friends can remember the goofy things our kids said and did.
Now when I see my kids with these families, especially THEIR kids, I feel a gentle tug at my heart, knowing that they have known my children since infancy, and I have known THEIR children since infancy.
And it is the only thing that makes me miss that church.
But there is something about those early stages of parenting that is still a little painful for me.
Along with the young families to whom we became so close at church, there were a couple of older women who were already grandparents that were very vocal with their criticism of how we "young moms raise our kids."
And I mean VERY. VOCAL.
No matter what the topic was in Bible class, one of these ladies often found a way to make some parenting point about how lax "young parents today are with their kids." If we were studying the book of Revelation, she'd make a comment and somehow segue into parenting and launch her attack on "young parents in church today." We didn't make our kids stand up to sing. We didn't make them hold a song book. We took them out too often. We didn't take them out often enough. We didn't carry Kleenex with us. We didn't make our eight year old boys wear ties. We didn't teach them to speak to the elder members. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH....
Another lady launched an attack one time on our diaper bags. Yes, our DIAPER BAGS!
"I've never seen so many bags in all my life, they way you girls carry diaper bags to church."
Huh?
We have an infant and a two year old and we shouldn't carry a diaper bag?
It was relentless; it was not a couple of passing comments. It was a near constant barrage of verbal bullets. And we young moms spent much of our time together licking our wounds, and trying to figure out why we bugged these women so much.
Because, come on!
Shouldn't we have been able to go to church, a safe haven, and be loved and encouraged? Shouldn't we have been able to go to church and feel like this older generation was glad to see us making the effort with our little ones? Especially since we all got our little ones to church THREE TIMES A WEEK? Four, if you count Ladies Bible Class?
I never had the courage to say what I wanted to say, which was A) "Do you REALLY remember? Were your kids REALLY that perfect? Because, surely you had struggles too while you were raising little ones." and B) "Please don't judge us yet, because our work has just started. Please wait until our kids are grown and you can see the final product. Because judging from some of your kids (and you know who you are) you haven't done such a fine job."
But I never did.
I did, however, notice one older lady who had already raised her children (and grandchildren actually) who never uttered a criticism about us. If parenting came up she would make quiet comments that started with "What worked for us was...." and then she went on to explain how she found success as a parent. She never said "I NEVER..." or "Young moms today should..." She simply said "What worked for us was..."
And I appreciated it so much.
I appreciated it so much, that I have tried to follow her example now that I am in the "been there - done that" phase. Now that my kids are past the magical yet exhausting baby, toddler and preschool phase; now that I have a little bit of experience under my belt, I try to be an encourager to those around me who are in the throes of parenting little ones.
Because, really, it is a hard job. And as in any job, we can all use a little encouragement, an occasional "atta girl," a little reminder that we're doing something right.
And, since I love all kinds of bags, I will just say that I LOVE all the diaper bags "these young moms" carry today.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
I'D LIKE TO REGISTER A COMPLAINT
Let's talk about The Gift Registry, shall we?
The gift registry makes me nervous. Very nervous.
First off, I will admit that I have never registered for gifts. Never ever ever. When we were engaged it just wasn't something our families did. When we were having our first child, it wasn't even very common to see a baby gift registry. I don't think any of our friends did a baby gift registry either. I personally like the surprise of an unregistered shower. I definitely like shopping better for an unregistered gift. Perhaps that makes me a renegade. I'm also a little uncomfortable with The Gift Registry because the recipient knows how much you spent.
On the other hand, I know The Gift Registry is a very convenient thing. It allows the guest of honor to let people know what she wants and needs; and it makes it easy for the giver to be sure they are giving something that will be enjoyed and appreciated.
Anyway, yesterday I had to buy a bridal shower gift.
So I went to the bridal registry computer screen and risked a migraine because it was real blurry and flashy and the words kept blinking in and out. So things did not start out well.
But after I got the print out and headed to the housewares department, I said to myself "This can't take long. I'll buy something in my price range that's easy to wrap and be home in no time, eating my lean cuisine."
Yeah, right.
The sheet set was exactly in my price range. The bride wanted "Queen sized/Ivory," and wouldn't ya know? They only had "Queen sized/white." So I stood there debating whether to get her the white in the EXACT BRAND she had specified on her registry, or get her THE COLOR she wanted in a different brand.
See? If I had just heard by word of mouth "oh, the bride and groom need sheets - queen," I could have picked up a nice neutral set of queen sized sheets. But because of the registry, I felt I had to get THE EXACT ones she had picked out.
The pressure was increasing by the minute.
I moved on to the dishes and bake ware. I though I'd get her the "Oval Platter/white" but it didn't come in a box. Neither did the "Cake Plate/white." And I like things that come in neat boxes so I can wrap them easily.
Slight increase in pressure.
So I found the dishes she wanted which, like most dishes today are packed separately - four bowls in one box, four plates in one box, etc. Looking at the registry I guessed she was hoping for service for twelve. I noticed somebody had already bought 2 boxes of SMALL bowls, and she wanted three. But nobody had bought LARGE bowls yet, and she wanted three of those also. I could not calculate how to get her the quantity she wanted of one or both sizes of bowls, while still staying within my budget.
More pressure.
I could only afford TWO boxes of large bowls, so that's what I got, leaving one box for somebody else to buy. And now I feel guilty because I only bought two boxes of bowls, when she wanted three boxes of bowls. I feel like I'm giving an incomplete gift. And the bride is going to have to go out after the wedding and try to complete her set of dishes.
The pressure is very intense by now.
What if the store quits carrying them by then, and she doesn't have the same number of each piece? What if she ends up with four salad plates, eight dinner plates, 12 mugs, eight small bowls? What if she can never ever ever find the rest of her dishes to complete her set?
I will have played a part in creating kitchen chaos at the beginning of her marriage. And I'm not sure I can live with myself.
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An interesting side note. Several years ago, we were invited to a 25th wedding anniversary party. The couple had registered for gifts.
Have any of you ever heard of registering for gifts FOR AN ANNIVERSARY?
'Cause we thought it was kinda tacky.
The gift registry makes me nervous. Very nervous.
First off, I will admit that I have never registered for gifts. Never ever ever. When we were engaged it just wasn't something our families did. When we were having our first child, it wasn't even very common to see a baby gift registry. I don't think any of our friends did a baby gift registry either. I personally like the surprise of an unregistered shower. I definitely like shopping better for an unregistered gift. Perhaps that makes me a renegade. I'm also a little uncomfortable with The Gift Registry because the recipient knows how much you spent.
On the other hand, I know The Gift Registry is a very convenient thing. It allows the guest of honor to let people know what she wants and needs; and it makes it easy for the giver to be sure they are giving something that will be enjoyed and appreciated.
Anyway, yesterday I had to buy a bridal shower gift.
So I went to the bridal registry computer screen and risked a migraine because it was real blurry and flashy and the words kept blinking in and out. So things did not start out well.
But after I got the print out and headed to the housewares department, I said to myself "This can't take long. I'll buy something in my price range that's easy to wrap and be home in no time, eating my lean cuisine."
Yeah, right.
The sheet set was exactly in my price range. The bride wanted "Queen sized/Ivory," and wouldn't ya know? They only had "Queen sized/white." So I stood there debating whether to get her the white in the EXACT BRAND she had specified on her registry, or get her THE COLOR she wanted in a different brand.
See? If I had just heard by word of mouth "oh, the bride and groom need sheets - queen," I could have picked up a nice neutral set of queen sized sheets. But because of the registry, I felt I had to get THE EXACT ones she had picked out.
The pressure was increasing by the minute.
I moved on to the dishes and bake ware. I though I'd get her the "Oval Platter/white" but it didn't come in a box. Neither did the "Cake Plate/white." And I like things that come in neat boxes so I can wrap them easily.
Slight increase in pressure.
So I found the dishes she wanted which, like most dishes today are packed separately - four bowls in one box, four plates in one box, etc. Looking at the registry I guessed she was hoping for service for twelve. I noticed somebody had already bought 2 boxes of SMALL bowls, and she wanted three. But nobody had bought LARGE bowls yet, and she wanted three of those also. I could not calculate how to get her the quantity she wanted of one or both sizes of bowls, while still staying within my budget.
More pressure.
I could only afford TWO boxes of large bowls, so that's what I got, leaving one box for somebody else to buy. And now I feel guilty because I only bought two boxes of bowls, when she wanted three boxes of bowls. I feel like I'm giving an incomplete gift. And the bride is going to have to go out after the wedding and try to complete her set of dishes.
The pressure is very intense by now.
What if the store quits carrying them by then, and she doesn't have the same number of each piece? What if she ends up with four salad plates, eight dinner plates, 12 mugs, eight small bowls? What if she can never ever ever find the rest of her dishes to complete her set?
I will have played a part in creating kitchen chaos at the beginning of her marriage. And I'm not sure I can live with myself.
************************************************************************************
An interesting side note. Several years ago, we were invited to a 25th wedding anniversary party. The couple had registered for gifts.
Have any of you ever heard of registering for gifts FOR AN ANNIVERSARY?
'Cause we thought it was kinda tacky.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
The other night after supper, Blake initiated his nightly wrestling match with his dad.
This usually entails him going up to his dad and trying to put him in some wrestling hold, causing Dad to say "Don't. I'm not in the mood." So Blake does some dancing around and some more faux moves, and Dad says "I'm not kidding, Blake. I don't want to fight." Then Blake bends at the waist and pretends to thrust his head into Dad's stomach, causing Dad to say "Alright, but I'm gonna hurt you."
Then I say something like "Paul, don't hurt him, okay." And then Paul says to Blake "Someday when I get you away from your mother, I'm gonna hurt you bad."
And then they wrestle for a few minutes, and Blake tries to teach his dad some real moves and I end up yelling something like "If you guys pull my dining room drapes down, you're both in trouble!"
During this particular match, Blake decided to teach his dad how to do some defensive wrestling. You know? In case he's ever mugged or somebody tries to kidnap him.
So I said, "That's the kind of move I've been telling you to teach your sister."
At that point, Blake stood up straight and made a sweeping triangular motion starting at his waistband and encompassing the groin area. And he said "This is all she needs to know. Right here. She just needs to remember to aim for this triangle right here and down we go."
So then I asked him if he and his buddies would be willing to pad themselves up really good and let Kayla and her friends use them as self defense dummies.
He didn't answer me, though.
The look he gave me said it all.
This usually entails him going up to his dad and trying to put him in some wrestling hold, causing Dad to say "Don't. I'm not in the mood." So Blake does some dancing around and some more faux moves, and Dad says "I'm not kidding, Blake. I don't want to fight." Then Blake bends at the waist and pretends to thrust his head into Dad's stomach, causing Dad to say "Alright, but I'm gonna hurt you."
Then I say something like "Paul, don't hurt him, okay." And then Paul says to Blake "Someday when I get you away from your mother, I'm gonna hurt you bad."
And then they wrestle for a few minutes, and Blake tries to teach his dad some real moves and I end up yelling something like "If you guys pull my dining room drapes down, you're both in trouble!"
During this particular match, Blake decided to teach his dad how to do some defensive wrestling. You know? In case he's ever mugged or somebody tries to kidnap him.
So I said, "That's the kind of move I've been telling you to teach your sister."
At that point, Blake stood up straight and made a sweeping triangular motion starting at his waistband and encompassing the groin area. And he said "This is all she needs to know. Right here. She just needs to remember to aim for this triangle right here and down we go."
So then I asked him if he and his buddies would be willing to pad themselves up really good and let Kayla and her friends use them as self defense dummies.
He didn't answer me, though.
The look he gave me said it all.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
A LETTER TO WAL-MART
Dear Man Who Runs Our Local Wal-Mart,
I do not profess to know much about running a giant superstore with millions of locations that serve to ruin small business owners everywhere.
I do, however, know quite a bit about shopping in said giant superstore; although I've earned that knowledge quite reluctantly, being drawn in like so many other helpless shoppers by your lower prices.
I also possess a fair amount of common sense.
And that is why I just have to ask you this question.
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?
What were you thinking yesterday when you decided to have nearly every aisle in your store blocked by store personnel stocking shelves, rearranging items, and yes, even just standing around talking about the weather?
In some aisles, though, there was no dedicated staff member working on the shelves. No, there was just a pallet of boxes, parked across the aisle causing traffic jam after traffic jam.
This was a poor plan, for a few different reasons, and I, being the helpful person that I am, would like to point these reasons out to you so that you can learn from your mistake and move forward in your quest to please your customers. You ARE on a quest to please your customers, aren't you?
First, yesterday was the first Monday of the month. Most people had received a paycheck over the weekend, either from their jobs or from the government. That means the store was going to be crowded. You really should have known that. One look at the calendar and you should have been able to predict a fairly large crowd of shoppers. One look at the calendar and you should have said to yourself "HMMMM...It's the first Monday of the month. That means we will be busy. Maybe we won't stock shelves this morning. Let's wait until the crowd thins."
Second, there was a snow storm brewing. Surely, you know that when a snow storm is predicted, people come out in droves to buy bread and milk. Anybody who has lived here for any length of time knows that. It doesn't matter if we don't need bread or milk; if snow is coming, we go out and buy more bread and milk. And maybe eggs. Do not try to understand this. Just accept it. Again, this prediction of inclement weather should have made you say to yourself "HMMM...winter weather is coming. That means we will be very busy today. Maybe we won't stock shelves this morning. Let's wait until the crowd thins."
Third, the shelves did not appear to be in need of stocking. In each of the aisles where I was actually able to squeeze in and pick up a couple of things, it looked as though your staff was having to make room for the things they were pulling out of the boxes. As I stated before, I don't know much about running this kind of operation; but that seemed like a lot of wasted effort.
Fourth, your crowded, sloppy aisles prevented me from spending more money at your store. Yes, I grew weary and left the store before buying several items I knew I needed. Because I did not want to battle your boxes and pallets any longer, I came home without ziploc bags, string cheese, napkins, and pine-sol. See? If your store was easier to navigate, people would stay longer and spend more money.
I will not threaten a boycott of your store because we both know I would never follow through.
But, come on!!
Things are getting a little ridiculous in your aisles there. Let's try to improve things just a little.
M'kay?
I'm certain you will read this letter and act immediately to improve things; and I will be glad to help you any time I can when I notice further shortcomings.
Sincerely,
HW
I do not profess to know much about running a giant superstore with millions of locations that serve to ruin small business owners everywhere.
I do, however, know quite a bit about shopping in said giant superstore; although I've earned that knowledge quite reluctantly, being drawn in like so many other helpless shoppers by your lower prices.
I also possess a fair amount of common sense.
And that is why I just have to ask you this question.
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?
What were you thinking yesterday when you decided to have nearly every aisle in your store blocked by store personnel stocking shelves, rearranging items, and yes, even just standing around talking about the weather?
In some aisles, though, there was no dedicated staff member working on the shelves. No, there was just a pallet of boxes, parked across the aisle causing traffic jam after traffic jam.
This was a poor plan, for a few different reasons, and I, being the helpful person that I am, would like to point these reasons out to you so that you can learn from your mistake and move forward in your quest to please your customers. You ARE on a quest to please your customers, aren't you?
First, yesterday was the first Monday of the month. Most people had received a paycheck over the weekend, either from their jobs or from the government. That means the store was going to be crowded. You really should have known that. One look at the calendar and you should have been able to predict a fairly large crowd of shoppers. One look at the calendar and you should have said to yourself "HMMMM...It's the first Monday of the month. That means we will be busy. Maybe we won't stock shelves this morning. Let's wait until the crowd thins."
Second, there was a snow storm brewing. Surely, you know that when a snow storm is predicted, people come out in droves to buy bread and milk. Anybody who has lived here for any length of time knows that. It doesn't matter if we don't need bread or milk; if snow is coming, we go out and buy more bread and milk. And maybe eggs. Do not try to understand this. Just accept it. Again, this prediction of inclement weather should have made you say to yourself "HMMM...winter weather is coming. That means we will be very busy today. Maybe we won't stock shelves this morning. Let's wait until the crowd thins."
Third, the shelves did not appear to be in need of stocking. In each of the aisles where I was actually able to squeeze in and pick up a couple of things, it looked as though your staff was having to make room for the things they were pulling out of the boxes. As I stated before, I don't know much about running this kind of operation; but that seemed like a lot of wasted effort.
Fourth, your crowded, sloppy aisles prevented me from spending more money at your store. Yes, I grew weary and left the store before buying several items I knew I needed. Because I did not want to battle your boxes and pallets any longer, I came home without ziploc bags, string cheese, napkins, and pine-sol. See? If your store was easier to navigate, people would stay longer and spend more money.
I will not threaten a boycott of your store because we both know I would never follow through.
But, come on!!
Things are getting a little ridiculous in your aisles there. Let's try to improve things just a little.
M'kay?
I'm certain you will read this letter and act immediately to improve things; and I will be glad to help you any time I can when I notice further shortcomings.
Sincerely,
HW
Saturday, March 01, 2008
The Bucket
Any of you have cats?
Cats will take over any horizontal surface in the house. Cats will lie down on a post-it paper in the middle of the living room carpet - just to prove it is theirs.
My husband is like a cat. He tends to take over any horizontal surface in the house with all of his stuff; not that he actually "lies down" on any horizontal surfaces, but he likes to "mark" said surfaces with all of his stuff. He likes to take up all of the horizontal space in our house with his keys, wallet, Blackberry, watch - whatever is in his pocket as he comes in from work each evening.
Kayla and I have tried to convince him to buy a man purse, but he is not going for it. Not even after we told him that Joey on Friends used one for a while.
Go figure.
So I tried a different tactic. A couple of years ago, I gave my husband a priceless, oriental ceramic bowl that had been handed down for five generations in my family.
OK. I bought it at TJ Maxx, but it's really pretty.
Anyway, I placed this bowl on the table in our entry way and I said "Honey, this is your bowl. This bowl is for your stuff. When you come in after work, you can put all of your oh-so-important things in this bowl. That way, all of your stuff will be in one place, and not lying around on various horizontal surfaces in the house. See how neat it is? It will hold your keys, wallet, Blackberry, and your watch. It's your own special bowl."
He started calling it his "bucket," and I started looking forward to the familiar "clank" of his stuff going into the bucket as he walked in after work each evening.
It seemed like a simple solution had at last been found. All of his stuff was contained discreetly and conveniently in his very own space, and I got to display my really neat bowl from TJ Maxx.
Except, now, he seems to be getting carried away and I am starting to feel my eye twitch with his over-dependence on his "bucket....."
Somebody send help.
Cats will take over any horizontal surface in the house. Cats will lie down on a post-it paper in the middle of the living room carpet - just to prove it is theirs.
My husband is like a cat. He tends to take over any horizontal surface in the house with all of his stuff; not that he actually "lies down" on any horizontal surfaces, but he likes to "mark" said surfaces with all of his stuff. He likes to take up all of the horizontal space in our house with his keys, wallet, Blackberry, watch - whatever is in his pocket as he comes in from work each evening.
Kayla and I have tried to convince him to buy a man purse, but he is not going for it. Not even after we told him that Joey on Friends used one for a while.
Go figure.
So I tried a different tactic. A couple of years ago, I gave my husband a priceless, oriental ceramic bowl that had been handed down for five generations in my family.
OK. I bought it at TJ Maxx, but it's really pretty.
Anyway, I placed this bowl on the table in our entry way and I said "Honey, this is your bowl. This bowl is for your stuff. When you come in after work, you can put all of your oh-so-important things in this bowl. That way, all of your stuff will be in one place, and not lying around on various horizontal surfaces in the house. See how neat it is? It will hold your keys, wallet, Blackberry, and your watch. It's your own special bowl."
He started calling it his "bucket," and I started looking forward to the familiar "clank" of his stuff going into the bucket as he walked in after work each evening.
It seemed like a simple solution had at last been found. All of his stuff was contained discreetly and conveniently in his very own space, and I got to display my really neat bowl from TJ Maxx.
Except, now, he seems to be getting carried away and I am starting to feel my eye twitch with his over-dependence on his "bucket....."
Somebody send help.
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