I got all crazy today, and decided to move this blog... and rename it. The Silver Lining is now:
Julie's View
Same stories, same nonsense, same julie b. I'm easily confused, so bear with me as I figure out this new place. Thanks so much for joining me at my new digs.
http://julieview.wordpress.com/
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Good Stuff
All the Stuff That Went Right Today:
1. It wasn't bitterly cold this morning as I stood around in my front yard waiting for my dog to perform his morning duties.
2. I found a suitable hat to hide my wake-up hair - as not to embarrass my children in the school drop-off lane.
3. The walk that Henry (my dog) and I took today was more of choreographed waltz than drunken cha-cha - which is what it looks like most of the time.
4. I rediscovered a mighty fine play list on my ipod that I had forgotten about.
5. All breakfast items requested by my children were present in my cupboards and refrigerator.
6. A good friend stopped by to visit and she was good natured about the dreadful smells my dog was passing around in her personal space.
7. I think I actually heard the angels sing when I opened the doors to my new refrigerator that was delivered and installed today. Nothin' like a new appliance - only happens once or twice in a blue moon around here.
8. My dog did not escape and head for greener pastures when he had the chance of a lifetime today.
9. I lost my appetite for Butterfinger and Babe Ruth fun size candy bars.
10. When I thought I was going to have to clean up another more substantial dog mess today, I was pleasantly surprised to find out it was only Model Magic that my son had carefully colored and shaped to look exactly like... well... a substantial dog mess.
11. The sun was out all day.
12. I have two children who are worn out from a day well done.
I'm sure I could add more to the list, but I'm about to wind it up for the night. Thinkin' makes me tired.
13. Oh yeah, one more thing: the dead bird souvenir the dog picked up and smuggled into his lair was confiscated and no one even lost their lunch when a little bird bone fell on the floor.
1. It wasn't bitterly cold this morning as I stood around in my front yard waiting for my dog to perform his morning duties.
2. I found a suitable hat to hide my wake-up hair - as not to embarrass my children in the school drop-off lane.
3. The walk that Henry (my dog) and I took today was more of choreographed waltz than drunken cha-cha - which is what it looks like most of the time.
4. I rediscovered a mighty fine play list on my ipod that I had forgotten about.
5. All breakfast items requested by my children were present in my cupboards and refrigerator.
6. A good friend stopped by to visit and she was good natured about the dreadful smells my dog was passing around in her personal space.
7. I think I actually heard the angels sing when I opened the doors to my new refrigerator that was delivered and installed today. Nothin' like a new appliance - only happens once or twice in a blue moon around here.
8. My dog did not escape and head for greener pastures when he had the chance of a lifetime today.
9. I lost my appetite for Butterfinger and Babe Ruth fun size candy bars.
10. When I thought I was going to have to clean up another more substantial dog mess today, I was pleasantly surprised to find out it was only Model Magic that my son had carefully colored and shaped to look exactly like... well... a substantial dog mess.
11. The sun was out all day.
12. I have two children who are worn out from a day well done.
I'm sure I could add more to the list, but I'm about to wind it up for the night. Thinkin' makes me tired.
13. Oh yeah, one more thing: the dead bird souvenir the dog picked up and smuggled into his lair was confiscated and no one even lost their lunch when a little bird bone fell on the floor.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Beauty Tips
I know where you can go to get a complimentary facial. I know this because I received one today, without even requesting this service. Follow these steps carefully, and you too, could be the lucky recipient of a special effervescent treat.
1. Be in a hurry for no good reason.
2. Stop off for a car wash even though you are in a hurry for no good reason.
3. Don't pay any attention to the car already getting "The Elite" wash in the bay ahead of you.
4. Quickly, roll down your window to select your wash and pay your money.
5. Slide your debit card into the wrong receptacle - the one where "Speedy Car Members" ONLY put
their reward cards.
6. Be annoyed... and a little nervous.
7. Make sure your entire upper torso is now out of the window trying to diffuse this debit card melee.
8. When you hear the unmistakable sound of a horn honking, look up and face the car ahead of you that is presently receiving the "Total Turtle Misting Rinse."
9. Wait for a gust of wind.
10. Aah... enjoy the benefits of misty droplets that smell like cherry chap stick spraying your face.
Another quick tip for fresh breath:
Make sure to adjust the strength of the new automatic air freshener you just purchased while holding it so the nozzle is pointing directly at you. Then inadvertently yawn and enjoy the clean, crisp flavor of a mountain spring.
1. Be in a hurry for no good reason.
2. Stop off for a car wash even though you are in a hurry for no good reason.
3. Don't pay any attention to the car already getting "The Elite" wash in the bay ahead of you.
4. Quickly, roll down your window to select your wash and pay your money.
5. Slide your debit card into the wrong receptacle - the one where "Speedy Car Members" ONLY put
their reward cards.
6. Be annoyed... and a little nervous.
7. Make sure your entire upper torso is now out of the window trying to diffuse this debit card melee.
8. When you hear the unmistakable sound of a horn honking, look up and face the car ahead of you that is presently receiving the "Total Turtle Misting Rinse."
9. Wait for a gust of wind.
10. Aah... enjoy the benefits of misty droplets that smell like cherry chap stick spraying your face.
Another quick tip for fresh breath:
Make sure to adjust the strength of the new automatic air freshener you just purchased while holding it so the nozzle is pointing directly at you. Then inadvertently yawn and enjoy the clean, crisp flavor of a mountain spring.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
What I Don't Do: Part 2
I don't parallel park. There is something amiss in the spatial relationship department of my brain. My worst fear would be having to parallel park a pick-up truck rigged up with a boat trailer along a public street. In fact, just writing it down strikes fear in my heart. I do remember my Driver's Ed. instructor giving us very specific directions and tips on how to effectively park in a parallel fashion. During this very crucial time of instruction, I also remember becoming tremendously distracted by the new Dairy Queen that was being erected directly across from my high school. Would I be able to dart across the four lane highway, order up a Butterfinger Blizzard, slurp it down, and run back to the school in the twenty-four minutes of allotted lunch time? I became lost in my thoughts. This is the only time I can recall where ice cream was a detriment.
Not so long ago, after shifting into PARK, I actually jumped out of the driver's seat of the momvan, scurried over to the curb, and waited for my sister to leave her back seat position and take over my parking responsibilities. I didn't think this was a bad idea until I realized I hadn't communicated that thought to my sister. She was still seated looking out at me from inside the van, wondering where I was going. This is what I'm telling you: I don't perform this task under any circumstances. I've been known to park twelve blocks away from my favorite spice store in the dead of a Minnesota winter just to avoid the dreaded deed. If I can't slide up and just drive in, it's not happening.
I don't know if it's because I'm left-handed... but it seems like a decent explanation.
Not so long ago, after shifting into PARK, I actually jumped out of the driver's seat of the momvan, scurried over to the curb, and waited for my sister to leave her back seat position and take over my parking responsibilities. I didn't think this was a bad idea until I realized I hadn't communicated that thought to my sister. She was still seated looking out at me from inside the van, wondering where I was going. This is what I'm telling you: I don't perform this task under any circumstances. I've been known to park twelve blocks away from my favorite spice store in the dead of a Minnesota winter just to avoid the dreaded deed. If I can't slide up and just drive in, it's not happening.
I don't know if it's because I'm left-handed... but it seems like a decent explanation.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
What I Don't Do
I do not sew. I wish I did and I admire those that do. I will tell you why I don't sew. To begin with, my sixth grade Home Economics teacher (do they still even have that class?) spent an entire semester pursing her lips and sighing loudly through her nose down at me every time she had to come untangle my unsuccessful attempts at threading the sewing machine. That was the year I became close friends with kid who had a rap sheet at the tender age of twelve. He had skills in the area of threading, tying and rolling small bits of material... and hot wiring unattended vehicles. Just what I needed every time I found myself in what my teacher so eloquently called, "a left handed mess." It was the first time in my life that I found myself in a dead heat for last place - in of all things - a race to manufacture a drawstring bag. I think I was scarred for life.
Therefore, I have tried to rid myself of this sewing scourge through the next three decades of my life. Those attempts yielded a pair of clam diggers that did not close properly exposing the side of my hip and a tube skirt sans a kick pleat. That skirt eventually was the cause of an unfortunate incident involving an icy sidewalk and quick, small, running steps during passing time as I rushed from one side to the other of my college campus.
So as I have just squeaked by another Halloween without having to fashion a costume that needed more than a sheet and scissors to be properly scary, I was sitting here enjoying a big breath of relief. Then I made the mistake of thumbing through some of my favorite home magazines. And darn it all, they're jam packed with all the most bedazzled and beautiful Christmas presents and decorations you ever did see! And again, I allowed myself to become delusional as I started dreaming of beautiful table settings with sixteen different kinds of golden plates, advent calendars fully pocketed with glittered treasures, and wreaths complete with live cardinals. However, I am slowly nearing a point in my life where the muddled projects and "great" ideas have started to overtake my storage areas and it's becoming more and more difficult to forget that I can't sew. Not that many weeks ago, I finally put to rest what could have been a very striking grapevine wreath. It was supposed to be adorned with multicolored felt leaves and acorns. Fusing was involved in the process, and somehow, I unknowingly fused one of the place mats that was in harm's way on my dining table, to a limp pile of carefully cut, felt, maple leaves. I moved it aside and threw away my mistake pile (in the outdoor garbage... under the recycling), but hadn't given up on the idea that I could still make a go of it. Soon enough, I found myself throwing out the dried up mums and sunken jack-o-lanterns from the front step, and at that point, I realized the wreath of beauty would have to wait until next year... or go in the kids' craft supply box.
So tonight I am willing myself to stay away from all ideas that involve more than hot glue and ribbons. I can't get into too much trouble tying and gluing... can I?
Therefore, I have tried to rid myself of this sewing scourge through the next three decades of my life. Those attempts yielded a pair of clam diggers that did not close properly exposing the side of my hip and a tube skirt sans a kick pleat. That skirt eventually was the cause of an unfortunate incident involving an icy sidewalk and quick, small, running steps during passing time as I rushed from one side to the other of my college campus.
So as I have just squeaked by another Halloween without having to fashion a costume that needed more than a sheet and scissors to be properly scary, I was sitting here enjoying a big breath of relief. Then I made the mistake of thumbing through some of my favorite home magazines. And darn it all, they're jam packed with all the most bedazzled and beautiful Christmas presents and decorations you ever did see! And again, I allowed myself to become delusional as I started dreaming of beautiful table settings with sixteen different kinds of golden plates, advent calendars fully pocketed with glittered treasures, and wreaths complete with live cardinals. However, I am slowly nearing a point in my life where the muddled projects and "great" ideas have started to overtake my storage areas and it's becoming more and more difficult to forget that I can't sew. Not that many weeks ago, I finally put to rest what could have been a very striking grapevine wreath. It was supposed to be adorned with multicolored felt leaves and acorns. Fusing was involved in the process, and somehow, I unknowingly fused one of the place mats that was in harm's way on my dining table, to a limp pile of carefully cut, felt, maple leaves. I moved it aside and threw away my mistake pile (in the outdoor garbage... under the recycling), but hadn't given up on the idea that I could still make a go of it. Soon enough, I found myself throwing out the dried up mums and sunken jack-o-lanterns from the front step, and at that point, I realized the wreath of beauty would have to wait until next year... or go in the kids' craft supply box.
So tonight I am willing myself to stay away from all ideas that involve more than hot glue and ribbons. I can't get into too much trouble tying and gluing... can I?
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wear Those Bruises Proudly
This morning I had some one on one time with my son. I took him to a dentist appointment. We were exiting the van in the parking lot when I heard a sound that I've heard before. It's the sound of plastic slapping back on plastic. What happened you ask? I looked over at my son as he made his way toward me between the parked cars. He was giggling and rubbing his upper arm. I knew immediately what had just occurred.
Me: Are you ok?
Him: Yes. (giggle, giggle, snort)
Me: What happened? (already knowing)
Him: Mom, I just smacked into the mirror on that car... I'm just glad it didn't come off!
Me: Did you hurt yourself? (now giggling as well)
Him: No. My arm just hurts a little. Mom?
Me: Yes.
Him: I bet you've done that before, am I right?
Me: What would ever make you think that? (smiling)
Him: Well, you know how you have bruises in weird places? I bet it's from doing stuff like that.
Me: You know me well.
Him: I am your son.
This is true. He is my son. And although he was born to another mother on the other side of this earth, he, luckily, has been blessed with my uncanny ability to hurt myself in rather odd ways. I am so proud. And as stupid as that sounds, I actually am oddly happy about that. I certainly don't want him to have to explain to his friends or co-workers one day in the future about how he's missing half of his eyebrow (from an unfortunate incident with a gas grill) - or how in the world did he ever cut his nose on his jacket zipper (don't ask). I'm just saying I'm glad we have a common bond - one that builds character. And that, my friends, is one of the pure and simple reasons I love being a mom - I can pass on these indelible traits of honor without even trying. I can see my work here is done
Me: Are you ok?
Him: Yes. (giggle, giggle, snort)
Me: What happened? (already knowing)
Him: Mom, I just smacked into the mirror on that car... I'm just glad it didn't come off!
Me: Did you hurt yourself? (now giggling as well)
Him: No. My arm just hurts a little. Mom?
Me: Yes.
Him: I bet you've done that before, am I right?
Me: What would ever make you think that? (smiling)
Him: Well, you know how you have bruises in weird places? I bet it's from doing stuff like that.
Me: You know me well.
Him: I am your son.
This is true. He is my son. And although he was born to another mother on the other side of this earth, he, luckily, has been blessed with my uncanny ability to hurt myself in rather odd ways. I am so proud. And as stupid as that sounds, I actually am oddly happy about that. I certainly don't want him to have to explain to his friends or co-workers one day in the future about how he's missing half of his eyebrow (from an unfortunate incident with a gas grill) - or how in the world did he ever cut his nose on his jacket zipper (don't ask). I'm just saying I'm glad we have a common bond - one that builds character. And that, my friends, is one of the pure and simple reasons I love being a mom - I can pass on these indelible traits of honor without even trying. I can see my work here is done
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Snickers Anyone?
This year I bought more Halloween candy than I ever have. Why? Because I had huge hopes that hoards of little children in dragon costumes and princesses with wands would be stopping by to say, "Trick or Treat!" You want to know what I got? A wayward little lemon and a skittish ninja. That's it. So now I have a barrel of chocolate that is haunting me. I have hidden if from myself three times this morning already. The problem is that I was blessed with a tremendous sense of smell... no matter where I put that darn bowl, I can smell it!!! And I am so telling you that my mid-section does not need twelve pounds of "fun size" anything!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Another Lovely Spa Experience... at My House
I hadn't paid much attention to its continued presence in the rotation... until this past weekend when a house guest was searching for the towel I had forgotten to put out for her, and ended up with this treasure. Using this special towel when you are unaware of its hidden potential, is much like trying to stick your hands in your pockets when your gym shorts are on backwards... if that's ever happened to anyone before... hmmm.... Anyway, it's an awkward experience.
So I made an executive decision - it's time to move this (along with the turtle wash mitt) on to someone else. I think I thought that if I hang on to this stuff long enough, my kids will magically get little again. But as luck would have it, that didn't work when I kept the Winnie-the-Pooh silverware set or the little pink hat with ear flaps either. These items just mark another rite of passage... one that my house guests shouldn't have to experience along with me.
Monday, November 7, 2011
I Should Need This... I Just Don't
I used to be more attentive to the wrinkles in my life. During the first year of wedded bliss (when we thought mail addressed to "Pizza Lover of the House," was actually naming one of us specifically) I was very determined to get the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. I ironed my husband's shirts, my skirts and blouses, and even dinner napkins. Then somewhere starting around "Oh, my gosh, we're having a baby!" and ending at "Get your shoes, where's your coat, don't look at your brother, and quit slurping your go-gurt!" the ironing got left in the dust.
I really do admire those die hard ironers out there. My mom is one of 'em. She can iron like no other. I went through a ruffle stage during the '80s - and by golly, my mom smoothed out each and every one of those ruffles attached to most of my Jessica McClintock collars or hems of my Gunnie Sax skirts. And therein lies one of the differences between me and my mom - she truly embodied June Cleaver. She took those duties very seriously and completed each task with perfection. I, on the other hand, have taken to hoodies and yoga pants for my daughter and track pants and t-shirts for my son. Nothing like a little spandex/cotton blend and some swishy nylon to make a kid feel special.
Anywho, I should probably keep it around... in case neck ruffles and pirate sleeves come back into fashion.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Search for What I Don't Need
It didn't take long to find something. You know how the experts in spice-ology say you should never keep your spices past their expiration date? And you know how you rarely check an expiration date on cream of tartar or poultry seasoning? Well... if you have eaten a baked good in the last sixteen years from my kitchen, I guess you should consider yourself lucky.
I have had this bottle of fine Mexican vanilla since... well... a couple of presidencies ago. My question is this: Why would anyone sell fine vanilla in a two gallon vat - for home use? I was quite happy when this was gifted to me from a trip my parents took to southern Texas. I never predicted that it would take up residency in six different kitchens over the next quarter of century (almost). I've had this vanilla longer than I've had a husband... and there's still some left as you can see. I could indulge my "waste not, want not" mentality and whip up twelve double batches of chocolate chip cookies complete with vanilla frosting today... or I could just rip off the band-aid and toss it in the recycling... or I could press my luck and see if this fine bottle of delicious flavoring can make it through my 5th grader's college entrance essays.
What have you held on to past its prime? Stay tuned. This week, I'll be posting more "treasures" that have outstayed their welcome.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Truth and Santa - Read at Your Own Risk
I never thought too hard about what it would be like when the truth came out. I only hoped that it wouldn't be traumatic. Well, it happened... in the Momvan at approximately 5:35 pm, in the YMCA parking lot, last night.
Joseph: Mom, I have something I need to ask you. It's really stressing me out.
Mom: Go ahead.
Joseph: It's really weird.. I mean how do you get to know Santa Claus' phone number? And... is there really a Santa Claus?
Mom: Well... what do you think?
We've been through and around and under this question for the last couple of years now. I have always skirted the issue because I really wanted the "magic" to last as long as possible. But then there comes a time, when you are in the Y parking lot, and your ten and a half year old son is staring you down, asking:
"Are you just lying to us? (that hurt) Is he really a guy or what? I just need to know."
What would you do? Do I start telling more elaborate "lies" to cover up the last ten years of stories I told about this wonder guy who flies around the world overnight, delivering Hot Wheels and Barbie campers to all the good little boys and girls? Conflicted. That's what I was. Here's a kid who so badly wanted to believe... as you will soon find out.
Mom: Okay. Do you really want to know the truth? And if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell your sister. Do you understand?
Joseph: (Anxious and nervous) Yes... I understand.
Mom: Are you reeeeeeeally sure? (Taking a tremendous deep breath)
Joseph: MOM! Just tell me!
I then proceeded to unload the awful truth. When I was finished, he just looked down at his feet and didn't say anything.
Mom: Are you okay?
Joseph: Yeah. I'm just disappointed. I mean... for ten and a half years... that's a really long time... I totally believed in that guy. Of course you know his phone number... wow... I guess I know it too now... because it's our phone number. This is big, Mom... I really wanted to meet him and stuff. I just feel sad. I kind of want to cry. Do you think there's a guy that lives in the North Pole anyway? Was Santa Claus ever living? When did he die? How did you get those emails sent to me from the PNP (Portable North Pole website)? I suppose there's and app for that (very glumly). I mean, how did you get that reindeer to walk by the window? (hoof prints I made with a play dough cookie cutter in the snow six years ago) What about when the elves dropped off a present, and I saw you and dad putting it together... because... Santa... didn't... have time... oh man, this is big. I'm just really blown away. (I must have done a pretty good job with my Santa stories) Mom, I think I'm going to have to write a paragraph about this. (Whaddyuknow?) When did you find out about all of this?
Mom: Well, Nana and Papa told me when I was in 3rd grade.
Joseph: Wow... that must have stinked for you.
Mom: The word is "stunk" and yeah it did... but I kind of already knew. Did you kind of suspect it was us?
At this point, my heart is being ripped from my chest, and I am welling up with tears. I wanted to take it all back and say, "Just kidding! He's a real guy!" But I knew I couldn't go back. It had been done. It was out there. My mind was spinning, trying to figure out how to make this all better, so I launched into my "It's the Spirit of Santa We Want To Keep Believing In" story. I dug deep for that one. We talked about generosity and caring and how the story of Santa teaches us how important those personal characteristics are... but it was too late. He was just staring off into the night. I had to sweeten the pot.
Mom: Okay, here's the deal. I didn't want to tell you this right away, but you are now officially a member of the Secret Santa Circle. (Where do I get this stuff?)
Joseph: What?
Mom: Well, now that you know the secret, you get to help mom and dad make it really special for your sister.
Joseph: Like, do I have to wear a Santa Suit? I don't really want to do that. That looks too hot and mustache-y.
Mom: No, you, my friend, get to... wait for it...get to eat-
Joseph: ... EAT THE COOKIES????? YES! I knew it! And can I make clues like a scavenger hunt for Maya so she has to find her presents?? And maybe I can hide something extra special... like a cool ornament in the tree? And can I drink the milk before it gets warm? Are you going to wake me up at midnight? Do we do this with the lights on or off? I think we should turn at least one on right? So we don't trip over stuff. I want to be in the Secret Santa Circle... it sounds fun... but, man, that was some heavy stuff. .. hard news to hear tonight. Let's not talk about the Easter Bunny, okay? I don't think I can take it.
Mom: Fine by me.
We finally left the car and walked into the Y to work out for a bit. Periodically, he'd stop his work on the elliptical, look at me and just shake his head. He took this news far harder than I thought he would. It was a tough night. When we got home, we quietly ate supper and then I had to take few phone calls. He asked if he could watch "Home Alone" on ON DEMAND. I don't usually let the kids watch a movie on a school night, but I could see he needed to work through this Santa thing. When I put the kids to bed, and went downstairs to catch the news, I noticed the DVR blinking. Upon further investigation, I found that Joseph had set up the DVR to record all the Tim Allen "Santa Claus" movies and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." This must be I Can't Believe There's No Santa therapy.
I was feeling sad. I knew the magic of Santa had come to an end for Joseph. But as I was going through the events of the night, I realized something. For the last ten years, he's been all in... not a shred of unbelief. It was a good, magical ride.
Somewhere around 3 am, I heard someone breathing by me, and I woke up with a startle to see Joseph standing by my bed, looking very urgent and concerned.
Joseph: Mom, I have something I need to ask you. It's really stressing me out.
Mom: Go ahead.
Joseph: It's really weird.. I mean how do you get to know Santa Claus' phone number? And... is there really a Santa Claus?
Mom: Well... what do you think?
We've been through and around and under this question for the last couple of years now. I have always skirted the issue because I really wanted the "magic" to last as long as possible. But then there comes a time, when you are in the Y parking lot, and your ten and a half year old son is staring you down, asking:
"Are you just lying to us? (that hurt) Is he really a guy or what? I just need to know."
What would you do? Do I start telling more elaborate "lies" to cover up the last ten years of stories I told about this wonder guy who flies around the world overnight, delivering Hot Wheels and Barbie campers to all the good little boys and girls? Conflicted. That's what I was. Here's a kid who so badly wanted to believe... as you will soon find out.
Mom: Okay. Do you really want to know the truth? And if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell your sister. Do you understand?
Joseph: (Anxious and nervous) Yes... I understand.
Mom: Are you reeeeeeeally sure? (Taking a tremendous deep breath)
Joseph: MOM! Just tell me!
I then proceeded to unload the awful truth. When I was finished, he just looked down at his feet and didn't say anything.
Mom: Are you okay?
Joseph: Yeah. I'm just disappointed. I mean... for ten and a half years... that's a really long time... I totally believed in that guy. Of course you know his phone number... wow... I guess I know it too now... because it's our phone number. This is big, Mom... I really wanted to meet him and stuff. I just feel sad. I kind of want to cry. Do you think there's a guy that lives in the North Pole anyway? Was Santa Claus ever living? When did he die? How did you get those emails sent to me from the PNP (Portable North Pole website)? I suppose there's and app for that (very glumly). I mean, how did you get that reindeer to walk by the window? (hoof prints I made with a play dough cookie cutter in the snow six years ago) What about when the elves dropped off a present, and I saw you and dad putting it together... because... Santa... didn't... have time... oh man, this is big. I'm just really blown away. (I must have done a pretty good job with my Santa stories) Mom, I think I'm going to have to write a paragraph about this. (Whaddyuknow?) When did you find out about all of this?
Mom: Well, Nana and Papa told me when I was in 3rd grade.
Joseph: Wow... that must have stinked for you.
Mom: The word is "stunk" and yeah it did... but I kind of already knew. Did you kind of suspect it was us?
At this point, my heart is being ripped from my chest, and I am welling up with tears. I wanted to take it all back and say, "Just kidding! He's a real guy!" But I knew I couldn't go back. It had been done. It was out there. My mind was spinning, trying to figure out how to make this all better, so I launched into my "It's the Spirit of Santa We Want To Keep Believing In" story. I dug deep for that one. We talked about generosity and caring and how the story of Santa teaches us how important those personal characteristics are... but it was too late. He was just staring off into the night. I had to sweeten the pot.
Mom: Okay, here's the deal. I didn't want to tell you this right away, but you are now officially a member of the Secret Santa Circle. (Where do I get this stuff?)
Joseph: What?
Mom: Well, now that you know the secret, you get to help mom and dad make it really special for your sister.
Joseph: Like, do I have to wear a Santa Suit? I don't really want to do that. That looks too hot and mustache-y.
Mom: No, you, my friend, get to... wait for it...get to eat-
Joseph: ... EAT THE COOKIES????? YES! I knew it! And can I make clues like a scavenger hunt for Maya so she has to find her presents?? And maybe I can hide something extra special... like a cool ornament in the tree? And can I drink the milk before it gets warm? Are you going to wake me up at midnight? Do we do this with the lights on or off? I think we should turn at least one on right? So we don't trip over stuff. I want to be in the Secret Santa Circle... it sounds fun... but, man, that was some heavy stuff. .. hard news to hear tonight. Let's not talk about the Easter Bunny, okay? I don't think I can take it.
Mom: Fine by me.
We finally left the car and walked into the Y to work out for a bit. Periodically, he'd stop his work on the elliptical, look at me and just shake his head. He took this news far harder than I thought he would. It was a tough night. When we got home, we quietly ate supper and then I had to take few phone calls. He asked if he could watch "Home Alone" on ON DEMAND. I don't usually let the kids watch a movie on a school night, but I could see he needed to work through this Santa thing. When I put the kids to bed, and went downstairs to catch the news, I noticed the DVR blinking. Upon further investigation, I found that Joseph had set up the DVR to record all the Tim Allen "Santa Claus" movies and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." This must be I Can't Believe There's No Santa therapy.
I was feeling sad. I knew the magic of Santa had come to an end for Joseph. But as I was going through the events of the night, I realized something. For the last ten years, he's been all in... not a shred of unbelief. It was a good, magical ride.
Somewhere around 3 am, I heard someone breathing by me, and I woke up with a startle to see Joseph standing by my bed, looking very urgent and concerned.
Joseph: (whispering) One more question.
Mom: Yes.
Joseph: Would you have ever really given me coal?
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Lessons I Don't Really Miss
I miss a lot of stuff. Not like things I've lost. No, just stuff that I either don't get to do anymore because I'm too big, too old, too busy, too fearful, or just too uncoordinated. My mom and I were having a short conversation about this very topic as my seven year old was cartwheeling back and forth in between us. My mom said, "Don't you wish you could just fly around a room like that without a worry about hurting yourself?"
I said, "Yeah." But I really didn't think about it too much ... until now. I don't really want to do cartwheels, but I'm pretty sure if I tried to do one now, there's a solid chance that I would crack more than my knuckles. So here's the list for the day:
Things I Miss... Sort Of
1. My swing set. Ours had a glider bench thing on it. It was made of metal and the poles that held it up were hollow. So I could stand on the footrest of the glider, hang on to the top part of the A- frame brace, swing the lower half of my body back and forth, and yell, "TOOT, TOOT, ALL ABOARD?!" through the hollow, pole at the top that held the swing set together. Good times... until the summer a wasp made its home in that same hollow pole.
2. Rolling down the ditch in our front yard. That used to be fun. Now I have to take a Dramamine just to push my daughter on the tire swing at the park. What's up with that? I used to run in circles in the living room during the snappy musical numbers on the Lawrence Welk Show - all for the sole purpose of getting dizzy. That was all fun and games until I smacked my temple on the corner of the piano bench.
3. Slugging down two Ding-Dongs and an Orange Crush - without the slightest concern of consuming too much sugar in one sitting. I'd walk to my Grandparent's house following an afternoon of swimming at the town pool and simply have a snack of my choice. They had good snacks. However, having that particular snack and THEN going swimming had its drawbacks.
4. Ice skating on the frozen creek by our home with my sister. We'd glide and bump over the same bad patch of "skatable" ice over and over again. We would walk about an eighth of a mile down the frozen gravel road with our ice skates already strapped on to our feet. That's dedication... or stupidity. Eventually we figured out how to put on our ice skates AT the creek, and that if we brought a shovel, we could clear a much bigger area.
As I am making this list, I am realizing that it's really not that bad having to grow up. I had a pretty great childhood that I do miss some days. But really, when it comes down to it, being a kid isn't that easy either. Many lessons get learned the hard way - right in the middle of what seemed to be a really great time. A wasp sting on my upper lip, the shiny goose egg on my forehead, the embarrassing result of an unsettled stomach mixed with sixteen cannonballs off the low dive, and twisted, frozen ankles - all proof that it's okay to grow up.
What do you sort of miss?
I said, "Yeah." But I really didn't think about it too much ... until now. I don't really want to do cartwheels, but I'm pretty sure if I tried to do one now, there's a solid chance that I would crack more than my knuckles. So here's the list for the day:
Things I Miss... Sort Of
1. My swing set. Ours had a glider bench thing on it. It was made of metal and the poles that held it up were hollow. So I could stand on the footrest of the glider, hang on to the top part of the A- frame brace, swing the lower half of my body back and forth, and yell, "TOOT, TOOT, ALL ABOARD?!" through the hollow, pole at the top that held the swing set together. Good times... until the summer a wasp made its home in that same hollow pole.
2. Rolling down the ditch in our front yard. That used to be fun. Now I have to take a Dramamine just to push my daughter on the tire swing at the park. What's up with that? I used to run in circles in the living room during the snappy musical numbers on the Lawrence Welk Show - all for the sole purpose of getting dizzy. That was all fun and games until I smacked my temple on the corner of the piano bench.
3. Slugging down two Ding-Dongs and an Orange Crush - without the slightest concern of consuming too much sugar in one sitting. I'd walk to my Grandparent's house following an afternoon of swimming at the town pool and simply have a snack of my choice. They had good snacks. However, having that particular snack and THEN going swimming had its drawbacks.
4. Ice skating on the frozen creek by our home with my sister. We'd glide and bump over the same bad patch of "skatable" ice over and over again. We would walk about an eighth of a mile down the frozen gravel road with our ice skates already strapped on to our feet. That's dedication... or stupidity. Eventually we figured out how to put on our ice skates AT the creek, and that if we brought a shovel, we could clear a much bigger area.
As I am making this list, I am realizing that it's really not that bad having to grow up. I had a pretty great childhood that I do miss some days. But really, when it comes down to it, being a kid isn't that easy either. Many lessons get learned the hard way - right in the middle of what seemed to be a really great time. A wasp sting on my upper lip, the shiny goose egg on my forehead, the embarrassing result of an unsettled stomach mixed with sixteen cannonballs off the low dive, and twisted, frozen ankles - all proof that it's okay to grow up.
What do you sort of miss?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I Can't Talk Right Now... I'm All Tied Up... Seriously
If you happen to be someone who needed a good laugh about an hour ago, I hope you were a motorist on a well-traveled road in my neighborhood today. I delivered well. My new friend, Henry the puppy/ bane of my existence, accompanied me on my walk today. I don't always invite him - for good reason. But given the rough start to our morning, I thought I owed him a little fun and exercise. Before we even were out the door, I had to go on a search for my earphones - you know, the ones that used to be attached to my ipod before an unnamed child asked to borrow them for a "sound experiment" involving Tupperware, water, and a locked bathroom door. When I refused the inclusion of my earphones, they evidently went MIA. After locating a rather stripped-down pair in the zippered seat back of the mom van, I was set for a walk with man's best friend.
We started down the cul-de-sac with spirited intentions of getting a brisk forty-five minute walk. Just seconds into our mission, out of nowhere a speeding lawnmower came screaming down the walking path. I thought there was a special place for lawnmowers moving quickly - I mistakenly thought the name of that special place was "the lawn." I stepped back to allow the heavy machinery to pass. No problem. Next up, two runners with matching, leashed, well-behaved Springer Spaniels came flouncing by. Did I flinch or become rattled when Henry the Super Puppy proceeded to relieve himself in a rotating sprinkler fashion all over my shoes and the passing dogs? Of course not. I'm used to this lovely behavior. I have learned to simply apologize and keep walking.
It wasn't until I noticed some rather threatening rain clouds racing toward us, that I decided it was time to put the walk back on the shelf (probably the "second shelf") for another day. We turned and headed for home in a direct manner. So direct, that I did not notice the ferocious Irish Setter in a neighboring yard bounding toward us at top speed barking like Cujo. Henry and I both lost our composure at exactly the same time which resulted a bout of spontaneous, scared-puppy incontinence, followed up by jerky hopping that tangled four paws and two feet into a wet, leash knot that essentially caused the super puppy and its not so thrilled owner to fall sideways (fightin' it all the way down) on to the opposite side (closest to the road for better motorist viewing) of the walking path. From my perspective on the ground, it probably looked much like a hog tying that went way wrong.
I quickly untangled the puppy from the soggy leash and my feet, scooped it up, and tried desperately to look like it was no big deal as I made a bee line to my garage. Super Henry has since been sequestered in his crate for a few moments... for his personal safety. I can only hope that at least one driver of the six cars that passed by during the entanglement show needed a good laugh. You're welcome.
We started down the cul-de-sac with spirited intentions of getting a brisk forty-five minute walk. Just seconds into our mission, out of nowhere a speeding lawnmower came screaming down the walking path. I thought there was a special place for lawnmowers moving quickly - I mistakenly thought the name of that special place was "the lawn." I stepped back to allow the heavy machinery to pass. No problem. Next up, two runners with matching, leashed, well-behaved Springer Spaniels came flouncing by. Did I flinch or become rattled when Henry the Super Puppy proceeded to relieve himself in a rotating sprinkler fashion all over my shoes and the passing dogs? Of course not. I'm used to this lovely behavior. I have learned to simply apologize and keep walking.
It wasn't until I noticed some rather threatening rain clouds racing toward us, that I decided it was time to put the walk back on the shelf (probably the "second shelf") for another day. We turned and headed for home in a direct manner. So direct, that I did not notice the ferocious Irish Setter in a neighboring yard bounding toward us at top speed barking like Cujo. Henry and I both lost our composure at exactly the same time which resulted a bout of spontaneous, scared-puppy incontinence, followed up by jerky hopping that tangled four paws and two feet into a wet, leash knot that essentially caused the super puppy and its not so thrilled owner to fall sideways (fightin' it all the way down) on to the opposite side (closest to the road for better motorist viewing) of the walking path. From my perspective on the ground, it probably looked much like a hog tying that went way wrong.
I quickly untangled the puppy from the soggy leash and my feet, scooped it up, and tried desperately to look like it was no big deal as I made a bee line to my garage. Super Henry has since been sequestered in his crate for a few moments... for his personal safety. I can only hope that at least one driver of the six cars that passed by during the entanglement show needed a good laugh. You're welcome.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
No Top Shelf for Me
"We're kind of second shelf people, aren't we Mom?'
That is what she asked me as we were perusing the display of dog tags at our local pet store. I encouraged her to explain further - thinking she was about to define class society - at the tender age of seven.
"Well, you know how the really shiny tags are at the top? And how they are kind of too fancy for a dog that doesn't even know what accessorizing is? (I swear, I am quoting her verbatim) And how you and me like a little shiny, but not too much shiny?"
I nodded for her to continue.
"... and how the ones down here on the bottom are kind of dullish and cheapy looking? And how you and me like a good deal, but not all fall-apart-y?"
Yes.
"Well, I think that means the perfect ones are always right on the second shelf... you know, like Baby Bear: not too hot, not too cold... juuuust right."
I just stood there for a minute - a little stunned by her frank summation of my shopping habits - which I have unknowingly passed on to her. But then I was also pleased with her practicality and sensibility - which surely came from me as well.
With that, she chose a blue, bone-shaped tag, waltzed over to the engraving machine, and promptly picked out the fanciest lettering offered. Without missing a beat, she looked up at me and said, "Even Baby Bear likes a little bling."
I can't make this stuff up. We'll see if she's still a "second-shelfer" when it comes to birthday shopping.. stay tuned.
That is what she asked me as we were perusing the display of dog tags at our local pet store. I encouraged her to explain further - thinking she was about to define class society - at the tender age of seven.
"Well, you know how the really shiny tags are at the top? And how they are kind of too fancy for a dog that doesn't even know what accessorizing is? (I swear, I am quoting her verbatim) And how you and me like a little shiny, but not too much shiny?"
I nodded for her to continue.
"... and how the ones down here on the bottom are kind of dullish and cheapy looking? And how you and me like a good deal, but not all fall-apart-y?"
Yes.
"Well, I think that means the perfect ones are always right on the second shelf... you know, like Baby Bear: not too hot, not too cold... juuuust right."
I just stood there for a minute - a little stunned by her frank summation of my shopping habits - which I have unknowingly passed on to her. But then I was also pleased with her practicality and sensibility - which surely came from me as well.
With that, she chose a blue, bone-shaped tag, waltzed over to the engraving machine, and promptly picked out the fanciest lettering offered. Without missing a beat, she looked up at me and said, "Even Baby Bear likes a little bling."
I can't make this stuff up. We'll see if she's still a "second-shelfer" when it comes to birthday shopping.. stay tuned.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Eat That!
"Well... you're just lucky you didn't have to eat what we had to eat when we were kids!" Now, before I launch into my "I had to eat the yuckiest stuff ever as a kid story," be assured that I am aware of many out there - many in our own communities - who do not have enough or maybe anything at all to eat. It's not right. I have never gone without food. I have been blessed beyond belief. My mom cooked and baked and served many delicious meals. This is merely an example of a parental experience that illustrates how food can consume us - ironically - while we are consuming it.
Our son was lamenting about how I once substituted waffle fries for tater tots in the wildly popular and gourmet "Tater Tot Casserole." He's right. It wasn't good. But, what he doesn't understand is that it was not bad either. It simply was.
To further illustrate this point, my husband and I somehow read each others' minds and quickly staged the biggest, baddest one up-man-ship contest you ever saw... in the Burns house, anyway. I kicked it all off with,
ME:"Did you ever have to eat beef heart - under the auspices that it was simply meat?"
HIM:"No... but did you ever have pimento loaf sandwiches with a side of pickled herring?"
ME:"Yes... I mean, no. I have seen pimento loaf and I have eaten pickled herring... separately. But what about liver and onions... twice a month?"
HIM:"No we didn't have it twice a month... we had it once a week!"
This is where the kids offered their squinched up noses and ewwws and ick comments.
ME:"And what about oyster stew... every Christmas Eve?"
HIM:"Yes. We did that too. Kids, you don't know how good you've got it! When's the last time you had to eat anything that had to be fished out of a pool of hot milk and when you finally captured it and slurped it up, you were sure that someone accidentally dropped an eyeball with a rubber gasket around it in your bowl?!"
ME:"Yeah."
HIM:"And when's the last time you ate a Miracle Whip and peanut butter sandwich?"
That's where I had to stand down. Who knows why anyone would ever eat that? Thank you, Mom for never coming up with that combination.
ME: "And gizzards! Have we ever even shown you a gizzard - let alone, put one in your food?"
HIM: "Yeah... gizzards. We had to eat 'em with sauerkraut!"
Okay, so we were going off the deep end for a moment and this is where our son interrupted with, "What's a gizzard?" Everything was going fine... until then. For whatever reason, the Dad in this family decided to give a quick anatomy lesson on bird digestive parts - all of them. Let me just say that when it was over, my ten year old son was laughing so hard, his face was the color of stewed tomatoes (something else I had to eat) and he couldn't catch his breath... and I ended up leaving the table out of sheer disgust.
When the laughing fits ended (both son and father were suffering from gasping for air), my daughter, quietly added, "I liked the waffle fries." What she meant was, "Someone put me out of my misery... now."
I'm not sure any lessons were learned... Just thankful no one at my house ever said after running into one another, "Hey! You got your peanut butter in my miracle whip! No, you got your miracle whip in my peanut butter!"
Our son was lamenting about how I once substituted waffle fries for tater tots in the wildly popular and gourmet "Tater Tot Casserole." He's right. It wasn't good. But, what he doesn't understand is that it was not bad either. It simply was.
To further illustrate this point, my husband and I somehow read each others' minds and quickly staged the biggest, baddest one up-man-ship contest you ever saw... in the Burns house, anyway. I kicked it all off with,
ME:"Did you ever have to eat beef heart - under the auspices that it was simply meat?"
HIM:"No... but did you ever have pimento loaf sandwiches with a side of pickled herring?"
ME:"Yes... I mean, no. I have seen pimento loaf and I have eaten pickled herring... separately. But what about liver and onions... twice a month?"
HIM:"No we didn't have it twice a month... we had it once a week!"
This is where the kids offered their squinched up noses and ewwws and ick comments.
ME:"And what about oyster stew... every Christmas Eve?"
HIM:"Yes. We did that too. Kids, you don't know how good you've got it! When's the last time you had to eat anything that had to be fished out of a pool of hot milk and when you finally captured it and slurped it up, you were sure that someone accidentally dropped an eyeball with a rubber gasket around it in your bowl?!"
ME:"Yeah."
HIM:"And when's the last time you ate a Miracle Whip and peanut butter sandwich?"
That's where I had to stand down. Who knows why anyone would ever eat that? Thank you, Mom for never coming up with that combination.
ME: "And gizzards! Have we ever even shown you a gizzard - let alone, put one in your food?"
HIM: "Yeah... gizzards. We had to eat 'em with sauerkraut!"
Okay, so we were going off the deep end for a moment and this is where our son interrupted with, "What's a gizzard?" Everything was going fine... until then. For whatever reason, the Dad in this family decided to give a quick anatomy lesson on bird digestive parts - all of them. Let me just say that when it was over, my ten year old son was laughing so hard, his face was the color of stewed tomatoes (something else I had to eat) and he couldn't catch his breath... and I ended up leaving the table out of sheer disgust.
When the laughing fits ended (both son and father were suffering from gasping for air), my daughter, quietly added, "I liked the waffle fries." What she meant was, "Someone put me out of my misery... now."
I'm not sure any lessons were learned... Just thankful no one at my house ever said after running into one another, "Hey! You got your peanut butter in my miracle whip! No, you got your miracle whip in my peanut butter!"
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Worry Not
Happiness is so much more attainable than we think it is. Contentment is also sitting right next door. If only we continued to have the wisdom and faith of children. Last night, my son was working quite fervently on an origami project. He is usually uber-quite when making those detailed folds, so it is my job not to bother him. He's never asked this of me. It's just an understanding that we have. So I was surprised when he blurted, "Mom, do I have to go sit with the children for the story of Baby Jesus and all that at Christmas mass this year?" Since we are in the last days of September, I had to ask him to repeat his question. "Mom, I mean do I to have to sit on the floor with all the little kids when the priest says, 'Hey, kids, get up here!'?" First of all, I don't remember the priest ever saying that. Second, why in the heck was he thinking about that now?? I calmly responded with, "I guess not. But what made you think of that?" And here's the wisdom. "Well, mom, I was thinking about origami for ... like presents and stuff. Then I was thinking about going to church. Then I was thinking about sitting on the floor with little kids. Then I was thinking I'm too old for that. Then I started worrying about it. Then I thought it would be much better to just ask you now, so I don't have to worry about if for months and months."
You might ask yourself what kind of kid worries about something so trivial. But that's the beauty of it - the things he worries about are usually fixable. And he has learned that. So get it out. Be done. Get happy again. That's his mantra.
Later in the evening, he asked me about Santa. He asked me if God knows Santa. I replied with, "I think so... do you?" Then he confided that he thinks we (his parents) just get the presents and then hide. But as soon as that came out of his mouth, he recanted with, "Yeah, but I would know if it was you, right, mom?" (all the time staring me down, looking for any ticks or winks that would maybe clue him in) He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Oh, I don't know mom, I'm just going with that the guy comes down the chimney and God knows him and it's all happy." And off to slumberville he went.
And there you have it. Don't worry. Be happy.
You might ask yourself what kind of kid worries about something so trivial. But that's the beauty of it - the things he worries about are usually fixable. And he has learned that. So get it out. Be done. Get happy again. That's his mantra.
Later in the evening, he asked me about Santa. He asked me if God knows Santa. I replied with, "I think so... do you?" Then he confided that he thinks we (his parents) just get the presents and then hide. But as soon as that came out of his mouth, he recanted with, "Yeah, but I would know if it was you, right, mom?" (all the time staring me down, looking for any ticks or winks that would maybe clue him in) He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Oh, I don't know mom, I'm just going with that the guy comes down the chimney and God knows him and it's all happy." And off to slumberville he went.
And there you have it. Don't worry. Be happy.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The King and I
Something has changed. Although it's been coming on, it was not until a moment that happened about twelve minutes ago, I realized the transfer of power is now complete. Oh, many changes have come about in the last week since King Henry - King of the Shi-Poos - has taken the throne. For example, I should have sensed the change was now permanent when I realized that I have been up before break of day (waaaay before dawn) for the last seven days. I should have clued in when I realized the first aroma that meets me in the mudroom is that of a healthy blend of vegetables, protein, and crunchy goodness that ensures a shiny coat. I definitely knew something was brewing when as I sat at the breakfast table this morning, over my bowl of Life cereal - the same breakfast I have methodically eaten for the last twenty years - I slowly became aware of a whirl of high speed chase spinning around me and the entire first floor. King Henry was evidently ready for his daily exercise. This included a full throttle, four legged, ears flying sprint that began in the kitchen, skidded through the dining room, flipped up the floor rug in the office, and ended with a curtain-billowing race behind the sofa - about seventeen times. These all should have been the tell-tale signs that a puppy has been crowned and is now wielding his authority at the Burns house.
However, the "Ah-ha Moment" that confirmed that I have become a peasant in my own home was when I returned to my home this morning after a few hours of classroom volunteering. The excitement that my puppy feels when he sees me... somehow... makes him lose control of his bodily functions. It's very flattering. Not really. So after much consulting, reading and discussion of these matters, I have been lead to believe that if I want to stop this behavior, I need to approach the King at his level. This means that I have to go all "Mission Impossible" through the living room until he comes into view. At that point, I then get down on all fours and oh so carefully, approach his crate with my eyes meeting his - so he knows I am not interested in dominating him... and ultimately he is supposed to keep his fluids in the appropriate storage areas of his body. I am not talk to him or pet him until we are outside and the deed has been done.
But here's my question... what if I do want to be the boss... and I want him to know that? For the love of Pete, I want some living being in this house to know that I am in charge! It's not enough that I have become a professional schlepper of kids, their belongings, their companions, and their companion's belongings - now here I am - army crawling through my living room in the dark of night, using code words and signals - just to schlep my dog out the door to use the outdoor facilities! What have I become?
And there it is. He may look all cute and furry... but at the end of the day, he's just a soft, happy, friendly bundle of pent up fluids.
However, the "Ah-ha Moment" that confirmed that I have become a peasant in my own home was when I returned to my home this morning after a few hours of classroom volunteering. The excitement that my puppy feels when he sees me... somehow... makes him lose control of his bodily functions. It's very flattering. Not really. So after much consulting, reading and discussion of these matters, I have been lead to believe that if I want to stop this behavior, I need to approach the King at his level. This means that I have to go all "Mission Impossible" through the living room until he comes into view. At that point, I then get down on all fours and oh so carefully, approach his crate with my eyes meeting his - so he knows I am not interested in dominating him... and ultimately he is supposed to keep his fluids in the appropriate storage areas of his body. I am not talk to him or pet him until we are outside and the deed has been done.
But here's my question... what if I do want to be the boss... and I want him to know that? For the love of Pete, I want some living being in this house to know that I am in charge! It's not enough that I have become a professional schlepper of kids, their belongings, their companions, and their companion's belongings - now here I am - army crawling through my living room in the dark of night, using code words and signals - just to schlep my dog out the door to use the outdoor facilities! What have I become?
And there it is. He may look all cute and furry... but at the end of the day, he's just a soft, happy, friendly bundle of pent up fluids.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Bifocals and Junk Food
I have some new information that will no doubt be very important to the world of marketing! Now I know why all the sugar-infested, fatty, delicious, super-gooey food is arranged on the middle shelves of the super markets! It's not what you think - no, it's not for those short people in our lives that are made into zombies for a few seconds each time they see a package of Sponge Bob or Fred Flintstone snarfing down something crunchy, chocolaty, or sticky - no, I've got the answer! Those middle shelves are reserved for ... people with bifocals!!! That's the only damn shelf we can see! Except, the experts are totally misreading their audience - they need to place items like "Super Smart Vitamins for Middle Aged People" and "Chocolate Cookie Sandwiches that Make You Look Younger" in those hot spots! Heck, they could put anything there that looked edible or age-defying - and whatever it was would be flying off those shelves like hot-cakes!
Yes. I am wearing and adjusting to my new "progressive-lensed" eye wear. When choosing my new specs, I really tried to find something funky that would somehow "young-up" the trauma of ordering bifocals. The new pair are quite fine. I just didn't anticipate the inadvertent nodding and swaying of my head. I may have needed to consider purchasing a head strap or something. When I first put them on in the eyeglass clinic, I was ecstatic - I could see!! Later, I went for a walk with my bifocal sunglasses, and I had a very odd sensation.
When I was a kid, we used to hang out on Friday nights in the basement (rec. room) of whosever parents were hosting the Bridge party. We kept ourselves busy with activities like pretending we knew how to play pool, making shrinky dinks, or shocking the heck out of the "Operation" guy. One of these friends had a Hams Beer sign in their rec room that lit up. What was different and "cool" about it though was the fact that it had some scenery of a mountain and river that actually changed from season to season - all within a five minute period. It did this over and over again. One time, due to some 1970s lighted sign malfunction, the sign broke and would only change from winter to spring, winter to spring, repeatedly - kind of quickly. If you let your eyes settle on it too long, it would eventually make you want to vomit.
And this my friends, is how it feels to one day be skipping along in a harmless, half-blind fashion wearing single vision glasses - to walking along a path being strapped up with your first pair of bifocals - shamelessly asking fellow walkers where the nearest rest room is.
So once that pleasant sensation subsided, I found myself in Target... again. As I was looking for something that was half healthy, didn't contain peanuts or tree nuts, non-dairy and gluten free for school snacks for my children, I was shocked and amazed at the visual clarity of that middle to low shelf. The Kashi Wonder Twigs were not nearly as visible as the Avatar Air-Bender Fruit Snacks! And the colorful Danimals Crush Cups were far more eye-catching than the plain ol' Market Pantry tubes of lemon yogurt.
So, either the marketers are feeling sorry for the middle-aged, visually impaired and want them to feel more youthful by allowing them to only be able to read the labels of the Toy Story Easy Mac - or - they are just banking on the fact that we will only buy what we can read. I just know the response from my seven and ten year old after helping me bring in the groceries was much more enthusiastic than usual. I actually heard one of them say, "Dad must have done the shopping - this stuff is way too good!"
Yes. I am wearing and adjusting to my new "progressive-lensed" eye wear. When choosing my new specs, I really tried to find something funky that would somehow "young-up" the trauma of ordering bifocals. The new pair are quite fine. I just didn't anticipate the inadvertent nodding and swaying of my head. I may have needed to consider purchasing a head strap or something. When I first put them on in the eyeglass clinic, I was ecstatic - I could see!! Later, I went for a walk with my bifocal sunglasses, and I had a very odd sensation.
When I was a kid, we used to hang out on Friday nights in the basement (rec. room) of whosever parents were hosting the Bridge party. We kept ourselves busy with activities like pretending we knew how to play pool, making shrinky dinks, or shocking the heck out of the "Operation" guy. One of these friends had a Hams Beer sign in their rec room that lit up. What was different and "cool" about it though was the fact that it had some scenery of a mountain and river that actually changed from season to season - all within a five minute period. It did this over and over again. One time, due to some 1970s lighted sign malfunction, the sign broke and would only change from winter to spring, winter to spring, repeatedly - kind of quickly. If you let your eyes settle on it too long, it would eventually make you want to vomit.
And this my friends, is how it feels to one day be skipping along in a harmless, half-blind fashion wearing single vision glasses - to walking along a path being strapped up with your first pair of bifocals - shamelessly asking fellow walkers where the nearest rest room is.
So once that pleasant sensation subsided, I found myself in Target... again. As I was looking for something that was half healthy, didn't contain peanuts or tree nuts, non-dairy and gluten free for school snacks for my children, I was shocked and amazed at the visual clarity of that middle to low shelf. The Kashi Wonder Twigs were not nearly as visible as the Avatar Air-Bender Fruit Snacks! And the colorful Danimals Crush Cups were far more eye-catching than the plain ol' Market Pantry tubes of lemon yogurt.
So, either the marketers are feeling sorry for the middle-aged, visually impaired and want them to feel more youthful by allowing them to only be able to read the labels of the Toy Story Easy Mac - or - they are just banking on the fact that we will only buy what we can read. I just know the response from my seven and ten year old after helping me bring in the groceries was much more enthusiastic than usual. I actually heard one of them say, "Dad must have done the shopping - this stuff is way too good!"
Thursday, September 8, 2011
By The Pool...
This week has left me with so much to write about - but nothing that anyone would want to read. So, I pulled out my handy dandy Book of Write - and searched for an idea. This was the prompt. "By the pool..." And only one story came to mind. Sorry sister... it had to be told.
Back in the old days, before computers, cell phone, wiis, and the like, there was something called "figure out how to have fun on your own." There was also something called, "In the summer, you must have swimming lessons!" So the summers essentially, belonged to the two of us: me and my sister - except for swimming lessons. Without fail, for three weeks of each summer, our day began at 7:30 am so that we could be sitting on the edge of the outdoor pool in new one piece swimming suits to begin the bobs of torture and laps featuring the newly learned whip kick at exactly 8:00 am.
Now I want you to picture something for a moment: two girls whose hair had not yet been combed, toast crumbs still in the corners of their mouths, shivering in their awkward bodies (because June in Iowa is often still in its infancy - and rarely hands out temperatures higher than the 60s at 8:00 am). So, it was often a bit nippy these mornings. You may ask, why not have lessons in July - when it's too hot for Tarzan? The answer to that lies somewhere deep in our mother's 1977 rationale for how to start a summer. We don't know.
Okay, so now you have an idea of how chilly and brisk it could be.. and probably you also have an idea of how enthusiastic we were to be there. So, one fine June morning, by the pool, we were instructed to jump in and start doing 500 bobs - or something. It was frigid. So cold, that before the lessons began, we had been crouched up in our towels by the side of the pool while our teeth chattered. When the Rico Suave instructor finally appeared with his bleach blond hair and muscles popping out of everywhere, we all became a little nervous. When you are a fourth grader, with morning hair, jelly remnants hanging out on your face from your morning toast, and you are sporting a jungle green suit adorned with appliqued white palm trees and criss-cross straps in the back... it seems that the whole world is better looking than you are. So busting out of your towel and cannon-balling into the -40 degree pool isn't what comes to mind first. Just ask my sister.
Out of nervousness, or feeling like she needed a parka... she did the unthinkable. She jumped into the waves of ice... with her towel still wrapped around her. Now, once you're like over forty and could give a rip about what the rest of the swimming lesson world thinks of you - it's no big deal - just an inconvenience. But not when you're ten. When you are ten and you jump in and fully submerge you and your towel in the freezing water in front of your peers and the super hot, Rico Suave swim instructor... it's a little more traumatizing. And memorable. So memorable that your little sister (me) can tell the story with such clarity - it's eerie. What happened next wasn't as pleasant for the little sister.
My sister, quickly aware of her faux pas, spring-boarded out of the pool, threw her sopping wet towel at her laughing sister, and hopped back into the pool to finish out the lesson on the back stroke. When the lessons were finished, the still-laughing little sister didn't fair so well. The embarrassed older sister quickly nabbed the only dry towel left (mine), and stormed off to the changing room. By the time, I caught up to her, my towel was no longer dry. It was just a pile of wet left on the slimy cement floor. I guess that was the fine for laughing. It's okay... it was worth it. For a chubby eight-year-old with a lazy eye and a bad haircut, it was completely worth it to seem just a little cooler than my older, better-looking, smarter sister... even if it was for just one cold second.
Back in the old days, before computers, cell phone, wiis, and the like, there was something called "figure out how to have fun on your own." There was also something called, "In the summer, you must have swimming lessons!" So the summers essentially, belonged to the two of us: me and my sister - except for swimming lessons. Without fail, for three weeks of each summer, our day began at 7:30 am so that we could be sitting on the edge of the outdoor pool in new one piece swimming suits to begin the bobs of torture and laps featuring the newly learned whip kick at exactly 8:00 am.
Now I want you to picture something for a moment: two girls whose hair had not yet been combed, toast crumbs still in the corners of their mouths, shivering in their awkward bodies (because June in Iowa is often still in its infancy - and rarely hands out temperatures higher than the 60s at 8:00 am). So, it was often a bit nippy these mornings. You may ask, why not have lessons in July - when it's too hot for Tarzan? The answer to that lies somewhere deep in our mother's 1977 rationale for how to start a summer. We don't know.
Okay, so now you have an idea of how chilly and brisk it could be.. and probably you also have an idea of how enthusiastic we were to be there. So, one fine June morning, by the pool, we were instructed to jump in and start doing 500 bobs - or something. It was frigid. So cold, that before the lessons began, we had been crouched up in our towels by the side of the pool while our teeth chattered. When the Rico Suave instructor finally appeared with his bleach blond hair and muscles popping out of everywhere, we all became a little nervous. When you are a fourth grader, with morning hair, jelly remnants hanging out on your face from your morning toast, and you are sporting a jungle green suit adorned with appliqued white palm trees and criss-cross straps in the back... it seems that the whole world is better looking than you are. So busting out of your towel and cannon-balling into the -40 degree pool isn't what comes to mind first. Just ask my sister.
Out of nervousness, or feeling like she needed a parka... she did the unthinkable. She jumped into the waves of ice... with her towel still wrapped around her. Now, once you're like over forty and could give a rip about what the rest of the swimming lesson world thinks of you - it's no big deal - just an inconvenience. But not when you're ten. When you are ten and you jump in and fully submerge you and your towel in the freezing water in front of your peers and the super hot, Rico Suave swim instructor... it's a little more traumatizing. And memorable. So memorable that your little sister (me) can tell the story with such clarity - it's eerie. What happened next wasn't as pleasant for the little sister.
My sister, quickly aware of her faux pas, spring-boarded out of the pool, threw her sopping wet towel at her laughing sister, and hopped back into the pool to finish out the lesson on the back stroke. When the lessons were finished, the still-laughing little sister didn't fair so well. The embarrassed older sister quickly nabbed the only dry towel left (mine), and stormed off to the changing room. By the time, I caught up to her, my towel was no longer dry. It was just a pile of wet left on the slimy cement floor. I guess that was the fine for laughing. It's okay... it was worth it. For a chubby eight-year-old with a lazy eye and a bad haircut, it was completely worth it to seem just a little cooler than my older, better-looking, smarter sister... even if it was for just one cold second.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Huckleberry and Friends
"Can I come in your house?"
"Can I have a Popsicle?"
"Do you have any snacks?"
"Can I have a glass of water?"
"I know Karate."
"I can play any kind of music you want on my harmonica."
"I just saw your dad driving in the car." (My Dad lives in Iowa)
"Do you comb your dog every day?" (We don't have a dog)
For those of you that have been around this blog for awhile, you may know exactly where the above listed line of questioning came from. For the rest of you, I will clue you in: The Boys Are Back in Town! We have some great neighbors who happen to be the proud grandparents to three rather inquisitive, enthusiastic, friendly, story-telling, visiting about eight times a year, and somewhat-overbearing grandsons. The boys range in age from five to nine and a half. These grandsons live "in a forest far, far away in a tree that's like six buildings tall." Translation: somewhere in Wisconsin.
This past Labor Day weekend, we had the pleasure of their company once again. I happened to be tree trimming when they arrived. They like to be involved with all things Burns. So - you guessed it - I had six little hands joining me by my dead lilac bush, grabbing for the biggest branches possible and then six little feet hauling them off to parts unknown - all within approximately four seconds of arrival on site and then subsequent presence in our back yard.
Our children have always loved when the boys visit because our neighborhood does not include other children their ages, and so they are often found kicking stray sticks and rocks around in our cul-de-sac looking for friends and adventures. When the boys visit, there is never a spare moment to wonder what to do next. In fact, at one point during the weekend, my son announced that he and his sister would be "playing in shifts" with the boys - as it can be an athletic and/or Olympic event at times.
Throughout these visits, my husband and I are often barraged with strings of questions and hours of stories. We know far more about the goings-on in their family life than should be permitted. But most of the stories are just down right entertaining. For example, I was enlightened this weekend on the intricacies of housebuilding with the use of just one hand. I also now know how easy it is to learn how to play a variety of instruments - the middle boy can play the harmonica, the violin, the drums, and a "tootaphone." He can play any song. I asked him to play his favorite on the shiny harmonica as he brandished it around in our garage. He said he needed a little practice first. I said I'd be happy to wait. He left.
These boys are kind and generous. They always bring candy and trinkets for my kids. They also leave a variety of toys and clothing items around our yard. There have been several desperate hunts for shoes and sweatshirts in our yard as their parents were backing out of the driveway "politely" announcing their departure time. So when the sun had set on Sunday evening and it looked like it was time to pack it in for the night, my husband kindly bid the boys a good night and reminded the youngest to take his shoes with him. To that he replied, "I don't wear shoes anymore, I just lose 'em." And that's when I heard my husband laugh and call to him, "No problem, have a good night, Huckleberry Finn!"
Good-by summer. Good-bye boys. We'll see you when the snow flies - might want to pack some boots, Huckleberry!
"Can I have a Popsicle?"
"Do you have any snacks?"
"Can I have a glass of water?"
"I know Karate."
"I can play any kind of music you want on my harmonica."
"I just saw your dad driving in the car." (My Dad lives in Iowa)
"Do you comb your dog every day?" (We don't have a dog)
For those of you that have been around this blog for awhile, you may know exactly where the above listed line of questioning came from. For the rest of you, I will clue you in: The Boys Are Back in Town! We have some great neighbors who happen to be the proud grandparents to three rather inquisitive, enthusiastic, friendly, story-telling, visiting about eight times a year, and somewhat-overbearing grandsons. The boys range in age from five to nine and a half. These grandsons live "in a forest far, far away in a tree that's like six buildings tall." Translation: somewhere in Wisconsin.
This past Labor Day weekend, we had the pleasure of their company once again. I happened to be tree trimming when they arrived. They like to be involved with all things Burns. So - you guessed it - I had six little hands joining me by my dead lilac bush, grabbing for the biggest branches possible and then six little feet hauling them off to parts unknown - all within approximately four seconds of arrival on site and then subsequent presence in our back yard.
Our children have always loved when the boys visit because our neighborhood does not include other children their ages, and so they are often found kicking stray sticks and rocks around in our cul-de-sac looking for friends and adventures. When the boys visit, there is never a spare moment to wonder what to do next. In fact, at one point during the weekend, my son announced that he and his sister would be "playing in shifts" with the boys - as it can be an athletic and/or Olympic event at times.
Throughout these visits, my husband and I are often barraged with strings of questions and hours of stories. We know far more about the goings-on in their family life than should be permitted. But most of the stories are just down right entertaining. For example, I was enlightened this weekend on the intricacies of housebuilding with the use of just one hand. I also now know how easy it is to learn how to play a variety of instruments - the middle boy can play the harmonica, the violin, the drums, and a "tootaphone." He can play any song. I asked him to play his favorite on the shiny harmonica as he brandished it around in our garage. He said he needed a little practice first. I said I'd be happy to wait. He left.
These boys are kind and generous. They always bring candy and trinkets for my kids. They also leave a variety of toys and clothing items around our yard. There have been several desperate hunts for shoes and sweatshirts in our yard as their parents were backing out of the driveway "politely" announcing their departure time. So when the sun had set on Sunday evening and it looked like it was time to pack it in for the night, my husband kindly bid the boys a good night and reminded the youngest to take his shoes with him. To that he replied, "I don't wear shoes anymore, I just lose 'em." And that's when I heard my husband laugh and call to him, "No problem, have a good night, Huckleberry Finn!"
Good-by summer. Good-bye boys. We'll see you when the snow flies - might want to pack some boots, Huckleberry!
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