We all have moments when we would wish ourselves out of our lives if we could. For me, this most often occurs between the hours of 8AM and 5PM on weekdays, or in other instances, such as trying to pick up my mother on a busy street corner in heavy traffic. She sees someone she knows and instead of saying, "lovely to see you! My daughter is waiting so we'll have to chat later!" she engages in a full blown conversation. Twenty minutes, three trips around the block and numerous angry horn-honkings later, she is still chatting away, oblivious to the fact that I am about to become the victim of murderous road rage because there is nowhere to park without blocking traffic. At this point I snap and shriek, "MOTHER! GET IN THE CAR!" which is clearly audible to everyone in a 500 yard radius except the one person I am actually talking to.
But I digress. My point is that we all have these moments. And if we did actually wish ourselves out of our lives, maybe an angel would come visit and we would have a heartwarming, Jimmy-Stewart-esque moment where we realize how much we mean to the people in our lives, how much they mean to us, and how important we really are. The problem with this theory is timing.
Even if said angel were to appear and closely resemble Mark Wahlberg, you can't count on these things to happen when you really need them, as I have learned from waiting for the money tree in my backyard to bloom. So why not take the bull by the horns and figure the answers out on my own? I took it upon myself to execute a highly professional and accurate study using the very exact sciences of Guesstimation and Makingitup.
Here are the results:
My mom would be a whole lot more crazy - 317% to be exact - without my calming presence and constant voice of reason. (You may think it wouldn't be so hard to get a person to see reason if you haven't met my mother, who maintains that potato peels are toxic because some whack job proclaimed them to be so on a radio show in Milwaukee in 1957.) Her increased craziness would have far reaching effects. For Example:
There is a 71.8% chance that my dad would have faked his own death within the past two years and taken refuge in the Brazilian jungle.
My brother would be 67% more passive aggressive, driving my sister-in-law to be 209% more aggressive. As a result, 20% of their children would grow up to be criminal masterminds and/or megalomaniacs (I'm looking at you, Michael).
My sister is a tossup: There is a 43% chance that she would have run off and joined the circus, a 40% chance she would have become a blousy alcoholic, and a 17% chance she would have gone catatonic in 1984 and never recovered.
If I didn't exist, it is likely that my husband and I wouldn't have met. As a result, he would have forgotten every single parent-teacher conference ever and No. 2 would never have learned how to properly read. No. 3 would be a career criminal, specializing in forgery and identity theft, and would be featured in the "Stupid Criminals" column after trying to convince a bank teller she was Oprah.
No. 1 would have been born to a less conscientious mother who didn't think twice about pimping her out to the "agents" who wanted to put her in commercials when she was a baby. She would have shot to stardom and had her own show on the Disney Channel, sinking in to a crippling depression after its cancellation and the end of her high-profile romance with Chace Crawford. After three trips through rehab, she would spend the rest of her career making dreadful Lifetime movies with titles like, "Love Me, Love My Hip Displaysia: The Shirley Snively Story."
The disastrous consequences of my non-existence would stretch far beyond my family. Without my hard core Diet Coke addiction, the Coca-Cola company would have smaller profits and none of their employees would have gotten raises last year. Their entire production staff would have gone on strike and a worldwide shortage of Diet Coke would ensue, leading to a 91% drop in worker productivity at A Plus Benefits and any other place where employees get free Coke products. Thousands of businesses would go under, unemployment and homelessness would increase exponentially, and the USA would become classified as a third world country. Maybe fourth.
So, I'm pretty much the glue that holds the universe together.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Caught Red-Handed
We have previously discussed how sometimes things that seem like good ideas, like making your own potato chips, are really not very good ideas at all. I am a parent and although my children are perfect angels, they will occasionally try to get away with things they know they should not do, like watch "Jersey Shore" or wear ridiculously short shorts. The combination of these two thoughts reminded me of why I never rebelled: I always got caught.
Example #1
My friend Mary lived about an hour away and would come to my house on the weekends for a variety of reasons, the two most obvious being my extreme coolness and the fact that my parents let us do pretty much whatever we wanted. During one of our many escapades Mary met Derrick, and she was instantly attracted to him the way you are always instantly attracted to things that are bad for you, like chocolate mousse pie and chili cheese fries. Mary's parents were dead-set against her dating so theirs was a forbidden love. Things went pretty well for quite a while until my dad met Derrick and (rightfully) deemed him to be questionable. Dad forbade me - well, us - from associating with Derrick and his friends.
But Mary and I weren't going to let that stop us. We came up with a plan - a perfect and excellent plan - for her to spend an extended amount of time with Derrick. I would tell my parents I was going to Mary's house for the day and come home that evening. In reality, I would pick up Derrick and his friend Scott, go get Mary, and we would go to Watkins Glen for the day where we would have a highly romantic picnic. I would return home in the evening and no one would have a clue.
To be honest, I don't remember a thing about what we did that day. All I know is we drove home listening to AC DC and to this day I know all the words to "You Shook Me All Night Long." I dropped off Derrick and Scott and headed home, satisfied that we had not aroused any suspicions. When I got upstairs, my dad put down his book, stared at me meaningfully, and said, "Derrick's mom called looking for him."
Oops.
Example #2
My senior year I had French class the last period of the day. Our teacher was hugely pregnant and missed our class every Thursday to go to her doctor's appointment. We had the same sub every time, a clueless old lady who would collect our homework and did not take attendance. As a resourceful young person with top-notch forgery skills, I saw this as an opportunity. I would provide some friends in class with notes from their mothers excusing them for dentist's appointments at times of their choosing, and they would hand in homework for me and my friend Heather while we skipped class. It was the perfect plan.
Thursday came and Heather and I turned over our homework to our partners in crime. My parking spot in the Student Government lot allowed us to escape from school grounds without being confronted by one of the Teacher's Aides. We hopped in my Toyota Tercel and headed out on the Parkway. We had done it. We had pulled off the impossible, skipping class and leaving the school without getting caught. We were so cool. We knew we were cool because someone was honking and waving at us at a stoplight. It was our French teacher.
Example #3
Sometimes, when you are highly skilled like me, you can get caught and publicly blamed even when you aren't the one doing anything wrong. The summer I graduated from High School one of my friends came up with the brilliant idea for us to take an overnight camping trip before we all left for college. I'm not one for the outdoors or any other activity that involves insects, sweat, and/or dirt, so I was not too jazzed about the idea. I'd rather have a root canal and invasive abdominal surgery than go camping; at least the hospital has cable and a flushing toilet. Naturally, this activity was supposed to be free of adult supervision and full of the type of hijinks one would normally expect from marginally nerdy high schoolers who think they are rebels (i.e., three cans of beer and making out). We were all supposed to tell our parents we were sleeping over at each other's houses and they would never know.
Everyone was looking forward to the trip and thought it was going to be the best thing ever. Except me. I really did not want to go and was conflicted about how to broach the subject with my boyfriend, who I assumed was just as excited as everyone else. I agonized for a few days over what to say, and then we had this deep conversation:
Me, with angst: About that camping trip -
Boyfriend, interrupting : I don't think its a good idea.
Me, surprised: So you don't want to go?
Boyfriend, with decisiveness: No.
Me, relieved: Cool.
Thus, we removed ourselves from the process and the flurry of preparations went on without us. The night of the fateful trip arrived and I was working a shift at the grocery store when my friend Jen's mom came through my line buying a pound of butter. Jen and I had been friends since 7th grade, I had spent a lot of time at her house, and I knew Mrs. G well. Well enough to know that she, normally a kind and sweet tempered lady, was not at all happy. I could practically see rage emanating from her in waves.
Mrs G, in her scariest mean-mother voice, yelled,"I know what you are up to. And you are not going to get away with it!" By this point, everyone in the front end of the store was staring at me. "But I'm not going!" I protested. Mrs G. narrowed her eyes and hissed, "well, if you see Jennifer, you tell her if she doesn't come home by ten o'clock she will never leave the house again!" She then stomped off without her butter, and the bag boys fought over who had to chase her down because they were all terrified.
So you see why I didn't bother trying to get away with anything.
Example #1
My friend Mary lived about an hour away and would come to my house on the weekends for a variety of reasons, the two most obvious being my extreme coolness and the fact that my parents let us do pretty much whatever we wanted. During one of our many escapades Mary met Derrick, and she was instantly attracted to him the way you are always instantly attracted to things that are bad for you, like chocolate mousse pie and chili cheese fries. Mary's parents were dead-set against her dating so theirs was a forbidden love. Things went pretty well for quite a while until my dad met Derrick and (rightfully) deemed him to be questionable. Dad forbade me - well, us - from associating with Derrick and his friends.
But Mary and I weren't going to let that stop us. We came up with a plan - a perfect and excellent plan - for her to spend an extended amount of time with Derrick. I would tell my parents I was going to Mary's house for the day and come home that evening. In reality, I would pick up Derrick and his friend Scott, go get Mary, and we would go to Watkins Glen for the day where we would have a highly romantic picnic. I would return home in the evening and no one would have a clue.
To be honest, I don't remember a thing about what we did that day. All I know is we drove home listening to AC DC and to this day I know all the words to "You Shook Me All Night Long." I dropped off Derrick and Scott and headed home, satisfied that we had not aroused any suspicions. When I got upstairs, my dad put down his book, stared at me meaningfully, and said, "Derrick's mom called looking for him."
Oops.
Example #2
My senior year I had French class the last period of the day. Our teacher was hugely pregnant and missed our class every Thursday to go to her doctor's appointment. We had the same sub every time, a clueless old lady who would collect our homework and did not take attendance. As a resourceful young person with top-notch forgery skills, I saw this as an opportunity. I would provide some friends in class with notes from their mothers excusing them for dentist's appointments at times of their choosing, and they would hand in homework for me and my friend Heather while we skipped class. It was the perfect plan.
Thursday came and Heather and I turned over our homework to our partners in crime. My parking spot in the Student Government lot allowed us to escape from school grounds without being confronted by one of the Teacher's Aides. We hopped in my Toyota Tercel and headed out on the Parkway. We had done it. We had pulled off the impossible, skipping class and leaving the school without getting caught. We were so cool. We knew we were cool because someone was honking and waving at us at a stoplight. It was our French teacher.
Example #3
Sometimes, when you are highly skilled like me, you can get caught and publicly blamed even when you aren't the one doing anything wrong. The summer I graduated from High School one of my friends came up with the brilliant idea for us to take an overnight camping trip before we all left for college. I'm not one for the outdoors or any other activity that involves insects, sweat, and/or dirt, so I was not too jazzed about the idea. I'd rather have a root canal and invasive abdominal surgery than go camping; at least the hospital has cable and a flushing toilet. Naturally, this activity was supposed to be free of adult supervision and full of the type of hijinks one would normally expect from marginally nerdy high schoolers who think they are rebels (i.e., three cans of beer and making out). We were all supposed to tell our parents we were sleeping over at each other's houses and they would never know.
Everyone was looking forward to the trip and thought it was going to be the best thing ever. Except me. I really did not want to go and was conflicted about how to broach the subject with my boyfriend, who I assumed was just as excited as everyone else. I agonized for a few days over what to say, and then we had this deep conversation:
Me, with angst: About that camping trip -
Boyfriend, interrupting : I don't think its a good idea.
Me, surprised: So you don't want to go?
Boyfriend, with decisiveness: No.
Me, relieved: Cool.
Thus, we removed ourselves from the process and the flurry of preparations went on without us. The night of the fateful trip arrived and I was working a shift at the grocery store when my friend Jen's mom came through my line buying a pound of butter. Jen and I had been friends since 7th grade, I had spent a lot of time at her house, and I knew Mrs. G well. Well enough to know that she, normally a kind and sweet tempered lady, was not at all happy. I could practically see rage emanating from her in waves.
Mrs G, in her scariest mean-mother voice, yelled,"I know what you are up to. And you are not going to get away with it!" By this point, everyone in the front end of the store was staring at me. "But I'm not going!" I protested. Mrs G. narrowed her eyes and hissed, "well, if you see Jennifer, you tell her if she doesn't come home by ten o'clock she will never leave the house again!" She then stomped off without her butter, and the bag boys fought over who had to chase her down because they were all terrified.
So you see why I didn't bother trying to get away with anything.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Irrational Hatred
Do you ever find yourself utterly hating, loathing, or despising something - or someone - for no good reason? Do you feel guilty for having these strongly negative feelings about persons, places, or things that have done nothing to wrong you other than exist? Do you try really hard to like this person/place/thing and fail utterly? No? Maybe its just me.
Paulo
Let me introduce Paulo. I CAN'T STAND PAULO!!!! Let me list the reasons why:
1) His name is Paulo
2) He has a stupid accent
3) Every time he calls me, which is a few times a month due to our unfortunate professional association, he introduces himself to me as if we have never spoken to each other before. "Hello, my name is Paulo and I am calling from my stupid company and checking status on..."
Its not his fault his name is Paulo. Its also not his fault that English is not his native language and that even though he speaks it quite well he still has a slight accent. And he has to earn a living, so its not his fault that earning said living involves communication with me, and he is probably just trying to be polite and exercise good phone manners. Paulo is probably a really good person who does a lot of charity work and nurses injured animals back to health. No matter how many times I remind myself of these things, I still hate Paulo. I hate him so much I want to reach through the phone and whack him with a stapler. I want to meet him in person so I can punch him in the face and kick him in the knee. And I am not a violent person.
Birds, And More Specifically, Pet Birds
Birds are evil, wicked creatures who live only to poop on my car. And my house. And my driveway. And the fondest wish of their little black hearts is to poop on my person. I know this, because I can see it in their beady little eyes. Who in their right mind would want such a creature as a pet? People say how smart and cute birds are, but why are they utterly unable to be housebroken, hmmm? And why is it every time I have approached someone's "friendly" and "totally tame" pet bird out of a sense of obligation said bird has bitten me with its sharp little beak? And why are they so stupid that if you cover their cage they think you magically made it night time? You could never get a dog to fall for that. Plus, when you get close, birds are kind of ugly and creepy.
You may classify my feelings for birds as an irrational fear. I will cop to having an irrational fear of horses. I like to look at horses, but I won't go near them because I am afraid they will step on me or bite me. Also because they can smell fear, which makes me worry that if they can sense my fear they are more likely to step on me or bite me, which makes me more afraid, which makes them even more likely to step on me or bite me. That, my friends, is an irrational fear. And I really, really hate birds.
Mom + Carrots + Celery
For some reason, my mother was genetically gifted with a jaw which magnifies the sound of whatever she is eating by 300 times. When she eats carrots and celery, I am fairly confident they can hear her in the next county. She might even be breaking the sound barrier, its that loud. And my mom LOVES carrots and celery. She eats them, literally, all day every day. Again, its not Mom's fault that she has an amplifying mandible; its not her fault she was born with an innate love for carrots and celery. Yet every time she eats them, I feel like baby kittens are dying and Santa Claus isn't real. I have to leave the room before my irrational rage takes over and I yank the offending veggies from her hands shrieking, "WOULD YOU JUST EAT SOME FREAKING APPLESAUCE!!"
People Who Don't Love My Dog
It stands to reason that not everyone is a dog person, or a cat person, or even a bird person (ha!). It also stands to reason that even if you like dogs, you will not like every dog you meet, much like you don't like every person you know. I don't even like every dog I meet. But Sam is the greatest dog ever. Better than Snoopy and Benji combined. He is sweet, friendly, smart, cute, and all kinds of awesome. I may devote an entire blog entry to his greatness. I know it is totally illogical, but when people fail to be impressed by my little buddy, or worse, express open disdain for him, it makes me crazy with rage. Crazy, I tell you.
How can you not love this face?
People Who Promise Me Cheesecake And Don't Deliver
. . . Never mind. I am completely justified in my hatred of these people.
Paulo
Let me introduce Paulo. I CAN'T STAND PAULO!!!! Let me list the reasons why:
1) His name is Paulo
2) He has a stupid accent
3) Every time he calls me, which is a few times a month due to our unfortunate professional association, he introduces himself to me as if we have never spoken to each other before. "Hello, my name is Paulo and I am calling from my stupid company and checking status on..."
Its not his fault his name is Paulo. Its also not his fault that English is not his native language and that even though he speaks it quite well he still has a slight accent. And he has to earn a living, so its not his fault that earning said living involves communication with me, and he is probably just trying to be polite and exercise good phone manners. Paulo is probably a really good person who does a lot of charity work and nurses injured animals back to health. No matter how many times I remind myself of these things, I still hate Paulo. I hate him so much I want to reach through the phone and whack him with a stapler. I want to meet him in person so I can punch him in the face and kick him in the knee. And I am not a violent person.
Birds, And More Specifically, Pet Birds
Birds are evil, wicked creatures who live only to poop on my car. And my house. And my driveway. And the fondest wish of their little black hearts is to poop on my person. I know this, because I can see it in their beady little eyes. Who in their right mind would want such a creature as a pet? People say how smart and cute birds are, but why are they utterly unable to be housebroken, hmmm? And why is it every time I have approached someone's "friendly" and "totally tame" pet bird out of a sense of obligation said bird has bitten me with its sharp little beak? And why are they so stupid that if you cover their cage they think you magically made it night time? You could never get a dog to fall for that. Plus, when you get close, birds are kind of ugly and creepy.
You may classify my feelings for birds as an irrational fear. I will cop to having an irrational fear of horses. I like to look at horses, but I won't go near them because I am afraid they will step on me or bite me. Also because they can smell fear, which makes me worry that if they can sense my fear they are more likely to step on me or bite me, which makes me more afraid, which makes them even more likely to step on me or bite me. That, my friends, is an irrational fear. And I really, really hate birds.
Mom + Carrots + Celery
For some reason, my mother was genetically gifted with a jaw which magnifies the sound of whatever she is eating by 300 times. When she eats carrots and celery, I am fairly confident they can hear her in the next county. She might even be breaking the sound barrier, its that loud. And my mom LOVES carrots and celery. She eats them, literally, all day every day. Again, its not Mom's fault that she has an amplifying mandible; its not her fault she was born with an innate love for carrots and celery. Yet every time she eats them, I feel like baby kittens are dying and Santa Claus isn't real. I have to leave the room before my irrational rage takes over and I yank the offending veggies from her hands shrieking, "WOULD YOU JUST EAT SOME FREAKING APPLESAUCE!!"
People Who Don't Love My Dog
It stands to reason that not everyone is a dog person, or a cat person, or even a bird person (ha!). It also stands to reason that even if you like dogs, you will not like every dog you meet, much like you don't like every person you know. I don't even like every dog I meet. But Sam is the greatest dog ever. Better than Snoopy and Benji combined. He is sweet, friendly, smart, cute, and all kinds of awesome. I may devote an entire blog entry to his greatness. I know it is totally illogical, but when people fail to be impressed by my little buddy, or worse, express open disdain for him, it makes me crazy with rage. Crazy, I tell you.
How can you not love this face?
People Who Promise Me Cheesecake And Don't Deliver
. . . Never mind. I am completely justified in my hatred of these people.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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.
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.
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