The To-Don't List

We have recently been doing home improvements to my parents' old house. They decided to sell it after the renters moved out. Like any home improvement situation, it has been endless, frustrating, and time consuming. At first, I was deeply sentimental about their putting the old homestead up for sale. Now, I'm starting to hate it and probably wouldn't even care if it got swallowed by a sinkhole or taken out by a F5 tornado.

The other night during a particularly arduous linoleum removal operation, Husband and I discussed how the helpful home shows you watch on TV are always giving you to-dos, when really they should be giving you to-don'ts. So with the help of my handsome assistant, I am providing a handy list for your reference:

1) DON'T sand and restain cabinets. Its a lot of effort for very little return. In fact, they will look so crappy you will just end up painting them, then realize it would have been 300% easier if you had done it in the first place, which will lead to self-loathing

2) DON'T let your 13 year old and her friends do anything, even extremely simple tasks such as painting the front door or pulling weeds, without close adult supervision when there is a cute boy living across the street. You may as well make a poster for counterproductivity.

3) DON'T think that if you start peeling up a corner of linoleum that was installed in 1967 (and hasn't been attractive since 1970) that the whole thing will just come off. It won't. Arm yourself with screwdrivers, scrapers, flat headed shovels, back-support braces, and hand grenades.

4) DON'T let family members who are not home-improvement savvy work in your absence without very specific instructions, or else they might spend an entire day vacuuming cobwebs out of the far corners of the attic and think they actually accomplished something helpful.

5) DON'T let your children pick out colors for interior decor. Royal blue trim is one of those things may seem like a good idea at the time and it might even look pretty good, but painting over it is a serious pain in the butt. Choose your paint colors in accordance with how easy they will be to paint over. Blaming said child for the color choice 20+ years after the fact is pointless.

6) DON'T let your sweet little dog run free in the house when the freshly painted cabinet doors are laid out to dry on the floor. You may find little footprints all over them. I'm speaking hypothetically, of course. My Sam would never do such a thing.

7) DON'T set an unrealistic timeline like, say, two weeks to paint an entire house, totally rehab a kitchen and bathroom, polish 1000 square feet of hardwood floors, and clean top to bottom. You can only fail, and failure is discouraging.

8) DON'T buy cheap painter's tape. When you remove it, some of the paint will come with it regardless of how soon you pull it off or how long you wait. This time around I accidentally bought the blue tape that cost twice as much; worth every penny, I tell you. Even after a few days, it came up easily and didn't pull any paint off with it. Best erroneous purchase I ever made.

9) Likewise, DON'T buy cheap paint. You will end up having to paint extra coats to get even coverage, and then as you paint your extra coats the coats beneath will get mushy and you will have to paint yet another coat on top of that. Buy the Valspar stuff with the primer in it. It costs, literally, five times as much but is soooo worth it.

10) DON'T try to mix your own paint. Leave that to the creepy friendly guy with a random extra "e" in his name at the Home Depot paint counter. You may think that adding white to brown will make tan, but it will actually be pink. Then you will have wasted a ton of paint. Again, this one is purely hypothetical.

If you follow our helpful to-dont's, perhaps you will emerge from your home improvement projects with a shred of your sanity intact. Or, if you are like my parents, you will just ignore any and all home improvements until the last second, when you can just make your children worry about it.

Church Magazines + An Evil Child = Disaster

When I was a kid, I loved The Friend Magazine. I couldn't wait until I got my next issue. I loved the stories where they used a picture of an eye instead of the word "I", a picture of Planet Earth instead of the word "world", etc. and the Friends in the News. I wanted to be a Friend in the News so bad, but apparently I wasn't cute enough or diverse enough or whatever it was you had to be to get chosen. I would read the whole issue front to back and then I would read it again. I still loved it when I got older and begged my parents to renew my subscription, even though by 1984 I should have been more interested in the teen-friendly New Era. They got me that too, but the articles in the New Era were all words and there were no puzzles, so I left it in its plastic package and read The Friend. My parents encouraged this. They figured that reading a magazine in which most of the articles were about Jesus would encourage me to develop strong moral convictions and stuff.

It occurred to me sometime in college that I could not recall being babysat or being left home alone very often as a child. At the time, I decided that it was because my parents were either very devoted or very boring. I realize now that it was because I was such a turd that no one in their right mind would want to babysit me and/or they were afraid of what I would do if I was home alone. This turned out to be a completely valid concern. (Note: Foreshadowing)

There I was, home alone on a very rare occasion on a summer afternoon, when the Mailman pulled up and delivered The Friend. Yippee! The last article was awesome. Not about Jesus, but about one if His greatest creations - potato chips! - and how they were made. "Hmmm," thought I, "all it takes to make potato chips is oil, salt and potatoes. I have oil, salt, and potatoes. I will make my own potato chips!" Like all my childhood ambitions, i.e. the second grade talent show, doing cartwheels in the choir seats during church to make Kenny Klingler love me, being a successful adult, etc., this one was doomed to be a spectacular failure.

My experiences with cooking had been limited to opening cans of Spaghettios for my dad to heat up, but I didn't let that put a damper on my enthusiasm. I pulled out a five gallon jug of imported Italian olive oil and filled a large pot to the top. I turned the burner on high and sliced up a potato. This was going to be awesome. It took forever for the pot to come to a boil. I figured the little bubbles didn't count so I waited patiently for the big ones. I speared my first chip with a fork and stuck it in the oil, which bubbled ominously. I was oblivious to impending doom because my chip was perfect and delicious. I speared my second chip and stuck it in the oil, which reacted by blowing up and spurting flames all over the kitchen. The force of the heat knocked me over, probably saving me from some vicious burns.

Fortunately, I also had a subscription to Ranger Rick and had read its numerous articles on fire safety. And although I may lack a certain degree of common sense, I am a quick thinker. I knew that water would not put out an oil fire but baking soda would. I grabbed the baking soda out of the cabinet and quickly doused the fire. Unfortunately, quick thinking and fast action can not hide the effects of a column of flames on kitchen cabinets. The heat made the stain bubble and crack on the cabinets above and below the stove and there was a gigantic scorch mark on the ceiling. There was no hiding this one.

I was debating whether or not to call the fire department to make sure the fire was actually out when my parents arrived. My mother, who has a way of being positive about selected tragedies (meaning, a tremendous capacity for denial) praised my quick thinking and was glad I was OK. My dad didn't say anything and cleaned up the grease spattered walls. I didn't touch the stove again until college, when my roommates had to teach me how to cook pasta and brown ground beef .

The moral of the story is, letting your children read church magazines can be more harmful than you think.

My Mother the Vegetable Pimp

Meal time in my house could be described as barely controlled chaos. My dad cooks; most of the time it is delicious, sometimes its just OK, and once in a blue moon his experimental cooking goes really, truly, awfully, horribly wrong. Regardless of the outcome, the meal always starts the same way - six of us gathered around the table, waiting, whining, begging, and pleading for my mother to come to the table so we can eat. In my mother's universe - which is a totally seperate place from where the rest of us live, by the way - the eating of unblessed food is a cardinal sin.

When Mom finally breezes into the kitchen, instead of going straight for her chair, she casts a critical eye upon the table to see what we have missed. No matter how hard we try, its always something. "Is that yesterday's water? No? Do we have enough napkins? What about knives? I know we're eating macaroni and cheese, but you must have a knife. Those are salad forks. Where are the dinner forks? Does anyone need a napkin? Who sat in my chair? There are crumbs by my plate. Charles, was it you? Is that a spot on the tablecloth? ARE YOU EATING AN UNBLESSED CROUTON? Is there a serving spoon for the squash? Napkins?" I wish I were exaggerating, but this is really how it goes. By the time she sits down, we are all hungry, edgy and ready to shank her with a soup spoon.

One of the girls gives a quick blessing on the food, and Mom immediately launches into a criticism of the prayer. Too short, talking too fast, lacking in deep metaphysical meaning, etc. I am certain that the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, mercy, and understanding, knows that the person giving the prayer is irritated, hungry enough to eat the contents of the recycling bin, and above all else, a child. I mention this to my mother, at which point she turns from prayer critic to parenting critic, and complains about my "relaxed" parenting and how silly it is of me to allow my children to make choices for themselves. Then, the real fun begins: The dinner conversation. It starts out with me asking someone about their day, which invariably leads to:

No. 3: Well, me and Elizabeth went to the park and -

Mom: Elizabeth and I went to the park

No. 3: (Sighs) Elizabeth and I went to the park and down by the creek there was this -

Mom: Does anyone need a napkin?

No. 3: Anyway, down by the creek there was a frog and -

Mom: Who would like some Lima beans?

(No. 3 growls in frustration and rolls eyes)

Me: I'm listening, tell me about the frog.

No. 3: So we tried to catch it, but Elizabeth-

Husband: Hey, isn't Wipeout on tonight?

No. 3: (With visible irritation) But Elizabeth hit her head on a tree branch and then -

Mom: There aren't enough vegetables on the table. Who wants a carrot?

No. 3: (Slightly louder) Then she fell in the creek, and-

Mom: Celery? Would anyone like celery?

Me: I'm still listening. Is Elizabeth OK?

No. 3: Yes, but her pants-

Mom: Did you eat some lima beans? What about carrots?

No. 3: BUT HER PANTS RIPPED-

Mom: Has everyone had some vegetables? Who wants the rest of these lima beans?

No. 3: (Stands up) AND SHE SKINNED HER KNEE!! (Agressively puts dirty dishes in the sink and stomps off, followed closely by No. 1 and No. 2)

Mom: Where do you think you're going? We are having a family conversation here!

At this point, the conversation comes full circle and the topic returns to my piss-poor parenting skills.

Time Management, or Lack Thereof

Its been a while since I posted something. I have been working on some entries but haven't had time to finish them. My problem is that I have a hard time scaling my ideas down to fit the time I actually have available. This principle applies to my life in general and not just my blog. My ideas are grand and detailed, and I have a full time job, a husband, three kids, parents, a dog, and mountains of dirty laundry. Does this stop me from making my daughters' dresses for special occasions? Tackling complicated home improvement projects? Severely overestimating my abilities? No, but it sure interferes with my sleep patterns and sanity.

Last night is a good example of this. I got a call at work in the morning asking me to sub for ballet class at 6:30, which of course I was delighted to do. There was no CD player there, so I would have to bring my own. Not a problem, I told myself, regardless of the fact that I do not possess a CD player. I would just buy a ballet class album from iTunes since I needed one anyway and take my daughter's iHome. I had a CD with a track on it I was going to use to teach a variation, and I would just have to load that in to my iTunes and put it on my iPod.

My dad called to say he was busy getting the floor at their old house ready for new tile to be laid, so I would need to cook dinner. There was a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove and all I needed to do was cook the pasta and a vegetable or two. Not a problem, I told myself, I will have plenty of time.

I got home at 5:20, threw some pots of water to boil on the stove, fired up the laptop, and rummaged through the freezer in search of broccoli. First speed bump: iTunes needs to be updated. Of course, iTunes ALWAYS needs to be updated. So I set it to download and install, and tossed the veggies in the microwave. I checked on the computer's progress, and wouldn't you know it, some stupid Java popup stopped my iTunes update. Grrr. I cleared it up and started it over.

I tracked down No. 3 and put her on setting the table, made the rounds of talking to the husband and No. 2 to see how their days had gone, came back to the kitchen, searched iTunes for the album I wanted, and started the download. No, not really, I just hit another speed bump. It was in my daughter's account and I didn't know the password. I texted her, got the password, and again... No, the password was incorrect. So we tried my husband's. No luck. Everyone in my house except for me has an iTunes account, and no one knew their stinkin' password.

It was now 5:50 and dinner was ready. Through some miracle, my mother actually just came in the kitchen and sat down and ate, which was a pleasant change from her usual 412 distractions: "Napkins? Spoons? Water? Napkins? Is this pitcher OK? We need more condiments... Does everyone have a napkin? Everyone? Are you sure? What about spoons? Water? Does anyone need a napkin?" (I'm not making this up. It really is that bad, every single night. Except for last night.)

By 6:00 I was done eating and decided enough with the messing around, I just needed to make my own iTunes account. More speed bumps were encountered, such as "You forgot to choose a salutation", because apparently it is just not possible to make purchases from iTunes unless it knows if you are a Mrs., Ms., or Miss. At 6:10 it finally started downloading the album while I changed into my clothes for class.

Those of you intimately familiar with iTunes are probably laughing at me right now. I don't know where, in the neurons and synapses of my brain, my concept of time became so warped that I thought this whole thing was going to work out. But there I was at 6:15, with 2 of 53 tracks completed, believing that somehow this was all going to work out.

When it was 6:18, I had to admit defeat. Not only had I downloaded a paltry 4 of the previously mentioned 53 tracks, I hadn't even gotten the music from my CD to load on my iPod because it was to full. Remember that part about me not having a CD player? Still a problem. At this point I pretty much freaked out. I ended up grabbing my daughter's alarm clock which has a CD player in it and running out the door. I was halfway to the studio when I realized I had forgotten my class plan and my water bottle.

At this point, a weaker person might have cried; I just called my husband and guilt tripped him until he offered to bring my stuff to me. I got to the studio right on time at 6:30, ran in and...discovered that no one was there. In the end, a few people showed up for a class which had to be danced to ballroom music because the alarm clock/CD player did not have the firepower to kick out classical music loud enough to be heard over the roar of multiple electric fans, one of which is a genuine relic from the Stone Age. (Going without the fans was so not an option; there is no air conditioning and this is upstate New York in August.) I was distracted and frazzled and kept churning out exercises that didn't work because I had lost all sense of space and time. We did the Four Little Swans variation from Swan Lake to music we couldn't hear and nearly died of heatstroke in the process.

What can we learn from this? When I try to do too many things at once in too short a time, everything melts into crap.

The End.

Community Theater: A Haven for the Mentally Ill

Over the past ten years I have performed in a number of Community Theater productions. I do it because I love it. I love the lights, I love the music, I love the costumes (unless they are constructed out of vinyl tablecloths), I love the dancing and most of all, I love being up on stage. I highly recommend the experience to all. It doesn't matter if you can't sing. Trust me.

One of the things I love most about Community Theater is the people. They are some of the greatest people you will ever meet. You have something in common with them right off the bat because you are both willing to sit for hours at a time on a hard plastic chair in a sweltering church basement inhabited by a rabid and incontinent cat so you can eventually sing your heart out in front of an audience. (When I refer to the cat as rabid, I mean it in the literal sense of possessing the viral infection known as rabies. And nothing, I mean nothing, can compare to the smell of cat pee in a poorly ventilated space in July.) You are willing to walk a 2 1/2 mile parade route in 100 degree heat while wearing a unitard long past your physical prime in hopes of attracting said audience. In other words, you are crazy.

When I say "crazy" I mean it in the best possible way, but people are all kinds of weird. In order for the uninitiated to better understand I have broken Community Theater Crazy down to eight types. Not all are bad. If you are involved in community theater, there is a 100% chance you fall in one or more of the following categories:

The Fame Whore

This person would do absolutely anything for attention. They are like Tinkerbell and need applause to live. They are drawn to the theater like moths to a flame. They jump at the chance for stage time no matter how small, insignificant, or uncomfortable. "Yes, Mr. Director? You need me to stand frozen on one leg while balancing a platter on my head for the entire second act? I'm on it!"

I credit my friend Kathy with coining this term. It is extra funny because she was talking about my brother when she said it.

The Gross and the Stinky

Very little explanation is required here. Some people, despite numerous lectures and hints regarding the necessity of deodorant, just don't get it. This type includes several subcategories, including The Dragon Breathed (these are the people you are typically required to dance with or, even worse, kiss), The Sweaty (who make you wish your costume consisted of rain gear) and The Gassy (these are the people who you are inevitably stuck behind, with your face not far from their butt, during a freeze).

The Awesome

These people have it all. Brains, talent, beauty. They have their lines memorized at the first rehearsal; they execute every step flawlessly; they can ad lib at the drop of a hat; they sing like angels; they wear awesome t-shirts that say things like "Actually, I'm really quite busy on a cellular level". You would hate them if they weren't incredibly nice. They are so cool, you are dying to be their best friend, but afraid that asking them to hang out would seem too desperate.

The Diva

The awesome, but with an ego. Not quite as much fun to be around, but more likely to be your friend because they are looking for groupies.

The Delusional

This person beleives themselves to be one of The Awesome or a Diva. In reality, they are anything but. Their singing is pitchy, their delivery flat, and whenever you watch them dance you get that sick feeling normally associated with dead puppies, burning orphanages, and the environmental consequences of catastrophic oil spills. They hog the stage, push people out of the way both literally and figuratively, and can't understand why they didn't get the lead. This person is going to be a star, damn it, A STAR!!!

The Director

Contrary to what the title may imply or what this person may believe, they are not actually the director. But they don't let that stop them from constantly correcting everyone and offering suggestions to "improve" the show. Every idea and random show-related thought in their head MUST be shared with the whole cast in the loudest and most obnoxious way possible. There is a line between sharing ideas for the greater good and attempting to hijack the entire production, and this person is firmly camped out on the wrong side. Sadly, The Director is so busy telling everyone else to do and sharing anecdotes of "that one time I waterskiied into a cliff" that they never learn their own lines or cues. And they touch the props constantly.

The Creeper

The name says it all here. There are several reasons why this type is attracted to the theater, and very few of them are actually related to a love of their craft. In fact, many of these people can't sing at all. Mostly they come because the stage gets them in close proximity to women who won't give them the time of day otherwise. This person is a never ending fountain of inappropriate comments, many of which are directed at 14-year-old girls. (i.e., "I like it when you show a little leg.") They may lurk in dark corners across from the dressing room hoping to catch a glimpse of you partially dressed; they are among the last to leave the cast party, hoping someone will be drunk enough to need a ride home; they may even be a "professional photographer" who specializes in head shots. I don't care how desperate you are for a headshot, DO NOT go to his house to have one taken. If you are foolish enough to do so, just keep in mind that it is customary to be fully clothed in your headshot. Trust me.

The Just Plain Crazy

These poor souls typically wade in the shallow end of the talent pool. Perhaps they are drawn to theater looking for acceptance, and perhaps because they want to learn how to act normal. Disaster is inevitable. Things may be going along just swimmingly when out of nowhere someone is obsessively slapping a prop box and someone else is beating their head against a cinderblock wall. One cast member may accuse another of checking out his butt, then threaten to unleash the fury of the FBI on them. If you are lucky the disaster will be small and easily contained, like a mercury spill in a high school science lab or it could involve assault and battery, restraining orders, and renegade strippers. The Just Plain Crazy are what make a production truly memorable.

If you are interested in Community Theater, please don't let these completely true and factual accounts put you off. Your experiences will be enjoyable and will continue to entertain you for months, even years, after they are over.

Putting the "fun" in Funeral

I got a phone call today asking me to play the piano at a funeral on Friday. I am not acquainted with the deceased nor, I think, am I remotely acquainted with anyone who is acquainted with the deceased. Sounds crazy, I know, but its pretty much par for the course in my life. And it isn't the first time such a request has come my way.

If memory serves, it was the summer of 1988. Someone who had grown up in our small city had died and their final wishes were to be funeral-ed and buried here. Kind of an odd request, given that the decedent hadn't spent so much as a weekend here since before World War II, but the ladies' auxilliary at my church has never backed down from a challenge. The service was to take place at a local funeral home and a small group of us was asked to sing. Being teenagers, we were thrilled beyond measure and bursting at the seams to contain our joy.

To say the event was sparsely attended would be an understatement. There were four or five of us in our makeshift choir and I think we outnumbered the attendees. We stood at the front of the room across from the creepily open coffin and sang "How Great Thou Art" with gusto. (I'm kidding. There was no gusto. I'm pretty sure we sounded as bored and uncomfortable as we felt.)

I don't know what actually happened, but I do know that in the middle of our song there arose a great clatter. The best I can figure is that someone dropped a grand piano or something. There was a big bang, the walls shook, and the coffin moved. You read that right. It moved.

What is a group of teenaged girls girls to do in such a situation? Giggle like there's no tomorrow, that's what. We tried very hard to be serious and failed utterly. It was a good ten years before I could keep a straight face through that hymn.

Here's hoping nothing that exciting happens on Friday.

Dad-isms: July 9, 2010

I had an idea for a feature I will call "Dad-isms". My Dad is hilarious. (I had to get it from somewhere) He is also quite deaf and refuses to wear hearing aids (his passive-agressive way of getting on my mother's nerves while simultaneously having an excuse to not listen to her) so he often mis-hears things, and hilarity ensues.

Since his strokes he doesn't speak as much, which is tragic because it deprives the world of his wit. So I am taking it upon myself to share his bon mots. Here are some recent and no-so-recent highlights:

It was No. 2's 15th birthday and she had a few friends at the house for cake, ice cream, and a sleepover. The whole fam was gathered in the kitchen, the candles were lit, the singing began, and my mom totally disappeared.

Husband: Where did your mom go?

Dad: The dog is in the bathroom chewing on a bone.


One of Dad's most prized possessions is a Star Trek glass with Uhura on it. He refers to it as his "Foxy Chick"

Dad: Where's my Foxy Chick?

No. 2: Isn't Grandma your foxy chick?

Dad: Hell, no. She's no one's foxy chick.


I was rooting through the refrigerator looking for lunch...

Me: Dad, do we have any lunch meat other than bologna?

Dad: I don't know where No. 1 is, I haven't seen her yet.

Me, louder: Dad, I'm asking you about lunchmeat here.

Dad, with a shrug: Bummer. (walks back to his computer to watch Pigeon:Impossible on YouTube for the millionth time)



My children and husband were trading blonde jokes at the dinner table

No. 3: How do you get a blonde to commit suicide? (dramatic pause) You give her a gun and tell her its a hair dryer!

Dad: What does the hair dryer do? Warm up the gum so you can chew it again?


My sister-in-law and I are discussing the rehearsal schedule for a production of Ruddigore we are starring in. OK, a production of Ruddigore SHE is starring in...

Me: Who has to be at rehearsal tonight?

Rebecca: Bridesmaids and Bucks and Blades.

Dad, perking up: Did you say something about boobs and babes?