In the Heat of the Moment

We were fast asleep in a motel somewhere between Charleston and Savannah when we were awakened by this frightening, loud blast of noise that didn't stop.    Even though our minds were fogged with sleep, we knew it was the fire alarm.

Here's where I'm supposed to say we rushed out of our room to safety outside.  However, that's not exactly how it happened.  It was more like everything we've ever known about fire safety got tangled up in the cobwebs of our sleepiness and we were unable to access it.  Mentally we went from being educated individuals to functioning like kindergarten dropouts.  

We all know that the first thing anyone is supposed to do in a fire is feel the door for heat.  That seems easy enough.  You'd think I'd at least get that part right.  And you'd be wrong. No, I whipped the door open, stuck my head out, looked down the hallway and didn't see flames or smell smoke.  

Next I put my shoes on, grabbed stray clothes, stuffed them in my suitcase, grabbed hanging clothes out of the closet, got toiletries, phone, computer, power cords, books, magazines....by now my arms are pretty full.  As I was exiting the room, I dropped the dental floss.  I kid you not, I bent over and picked it up.  That's right - I potentially risked my life for a partially used roll of dental floss that retails new for ninety-seven cents.  Wow.  That was monster dumb.

I am embarrassed of my behavior.  It was totally the wrong way to act in a crisis.  And where was my husband while I was scooping things up?

He was busy getting dressed.

Not that Bad

We were out in the yard this weekend planting when I was bitten on the neck by a vampire bat - or maybe a just an obese mosquito with the appetite of a vampire bat ~ it could have been either.  The results are the same:  I have a giant red welt the size of a hickory nut on my neck. It itches and it's ugly.

Speaking of ugly, let's talk some more about my current haircut.  Ever since I wrote about my recent salon experience, I've been running into friends who look at me and say, "Your hair doesn't look that bad."  While I appreciate "not looking that bad," it really isn't what any girl hopes to hear when others comment upon her appearance.

Jer read that post too.  He came home, looked at my hair and said, "Did you really get a haircut?" to which I replied, "Yes."

"Oh.  I thought you just quit styling it."

Charming.

The good news was that I go to a place with a customer appreciation program.  That is correct.  My ugly haircut was free.  At least it has that going for it.

T.V. Wars, Chapter Thirteen

 It's been a long, hard struggle but we are about to determine, once and for all, the winner of The Zimmerman Game of Wiley Wit and Cunning -- Ultimate Television Edition.

 

 

We'd been living in opposing camps on the television issue since before the first Bush administration.  Then, in January 2012, Jerry toted our only set to the Goodwill. I was thrilled!  I thought he'd finally "seen the light."

Deuce.

Then my February birthday rolled around.

Ad Out.

I've been looking for the perfect spot to put that flat screen TV that Jerry got me ever since.

 

Deuce.

 

Today, I found it.

 

Ad In.

Game. Set. Match.

By Popular Demand

Let's review...

Tuesday I wrote a blog about the worst haircut in my life and what do my friends and family ALL DO?  They ask to see a picture!  I'm not talking about just one or two random people here, I mean my sisters, my neighbors, my closest friends; people that I care about and who I thought cared about me.  Have I spent my entire life surrounded by a bunch of sadists? 

...and am I so masochistic that I'm going to actually post a picture?  Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.  No surprises there.  Anything for a laugh.  People, this is a bad haircut.  It deserves to be laughed at.  No one understands that at a gut level better than do I. Okay, so here it is - the picture you've all been waiting for.  The feather on my left side should be on the back of some large, brownish bird not on anyone's head.

Yes, I am wearing a ski cap.  The original photo was in color but I had to change it to black-and-white so you wouldn't be distracted by my flushed cheeks.  It's 76 degrees in the house and I am wearing a winter hat that should, by rights, be in my Norwegian sister-in-law's closet not in mine.  I think I actually bought it for Jerry as a joke.  And now, the joke's on me!  Literally.

My humiliation is complete.  Satisfied, everyone?

The Goth Girl & Me

The tattooed Goth girl came at me with a pair of scissors.  She grabbed a fist full of my hair, then went for a razor and hacked at it. I felt tugging and could hear the sound of hair being ripped away from my head.  It was sickening, like a bird of prey attacking me. 

I kept unusually quiet - I didn't want to antagonize the girl holding the weapon.
"How many haircuts do you do in a day?" I finally ventured.

"Up to thirty-five." she responded.  "You have thick hair." 

("Had" I thought.)

"I put a lot of layers in it so it will lay nice."

When she was finished, she whipped off the black cape and was clearly proud of herself.  After I put my glasses on she looked at me again.  Then she put the cape back on and whacked at my hair some more.  Finally satisfied, she let me escape.  I thanked her (I did mention that she was holding a razor, right?) and as I got out of the chair, glanced at myself in her mirror.

Where I once had hair, I now have feathers.  Lots of them.
 

The Morning Text

Just when I think life can't get any funnier, it does.

I got a text from a friend, normally a night owl, who got up early to exercise. 
She said she struggled for quite a while to put on her sports bra.......until she realized it was a pair of undies.

I laughed out loud.

At the Welcome Center

We stopped at a rest stop at the South Carolina Welcome Center and saw this sign: 

 

 

My imagination ran wild!  Is it okay to wash my feet there?  Elbows?  Legs?  It looks like only hands and/or face washing is/are prohibited, yet the fine print states that the "Water Fountain Is For Drinking ONLY."  It's highlighted in red, which leads me to believe that washing other body parts might be frowned upon too. 

In all my travels I have never actually seen anyone taking a mini-bath in a drinking fountain, but ya gotta think that since a notice is actually posted, there must have been a problem at this location.  If people really are bathing in the lobby of the Welcome Center, is a sign going to stop them? 

 

The water fountain is just feet from the entrance to the restrooms where large quantities of soap and paper towels are readily available.  Are these dirty South Carolina visitors so lazy that they won't walk another few steps to get inside the bathroom to wash up?  

 

                              

 

Every time I go to take a drink out of a water fountain from now on, I'm going to think of that sign. I think they should have added "and don't lick the spigot either" because I see little kids do that all the time. 

 

Gross.

 



The Switch

I love Daylight Savings Time!  We gain an extra hour of sunshine at the end of the day and the world suddenly seems more fun. 

I wish it could be DST all year long!
 

Saturday night we stayed up late (no surprises there) and Jer switched the clocks before we went to bed.  Sunday morning when I got up, it was earlier than I expected but then it clicked:  We'd changed the time.  That explained that.  Full of energy and enthusiasm, I was ready to start this bright, sunny phase of the year. 

By 10:30 Sunday night though, I was feeling unusually tired.  I cheered up when I realized that just yesterday it would have been 11:30 and I decided to turn in early.  I fell asleep fast and slept well.

Monday morning when I woke up an hour earlier than usual, I was excited.  My internal clock clearly had been readjusted and I was enjoying the extra hour, feeling great about all that I could accomplish with my longer day.  Then Jack called. "Man!"  he said.  "I'm really having trouble adjusting to the time change this year!  It's always tough to lose an hour," he said.

Lose an hour?  I thought we'd gained an hour! 

In my ignorance, I'd tricked myself into feeling better when I was supposed to be feeling worse!  Suddenly, I was exhausted and it was only 10:30 in the morning...which would normally be 11:30...or is it 9:30?  This is way too much math for me AND I think I got up two hours earlier than usual.

Nostalgia

I used to love to go to the filling station with my Mother.  When we pulled in under the big, beautiful sign with the flying red horse (with wings) a gas station attendant would rush out to the car and say, "Fill 'er up?"  Then  he'd ask "Regular or Ethyl?" 

The man would wash the car windows, front and back, and check the air in our tires too.  He'd check the fluid levels in the engine and use the mysterious dip stick and a red rag to see if we were running low on oil.  If we were, he'd remedy that on the spot by grabbing a can of oil that was sitting in a pyramid right by the pumps.  The whole event was handled professionally and took just minutes.  It cost Mom the change from her purse, pennies a gallon. 

A garage was attached to the filling station with a sign that said, "Mechanic on Duty."  If the car were making funny noises (or the steering pulling one way or the other) it would be driven into the bay and lifted sky-high.  Mechanics wearing white coats would examine the car and perform the necessary surgery right there in the car operating room while we waited.  They fixed flat tires there too.

I thought about this today when I went to the gas station.  No attendant rushed out to greet me.  No one washed my windows, checked fluid levels, the oil or the air in the tires.  I had to pump my own gas.

Instead of a mechanic on duty, there were two teenagers behind the counter inside the convenience store.  I waited in line behind guys buying lottery tickets then paid my twenty-five dollars.  It didn't even fill my tank to the half-way mark.  When I got back into my car to leave, my hands smelled like gas.

I realize I'm being nostalgic, but would somebody explain to me how this is progress?

Stylin'

2013 is MY YEAR!!  Oh, YES, it SO IS!!  Good things have been happening to me right and left already and my newest thrill is from, of all places, the fashion industry!  Being in style never happens to me.  Never.  Not ever.  Neverrrrrr....

I have this vivid memory from sixth-grade when my friend asked me an uncomfortable question which still haunts me to this day: "Would you rather be stylish or comfortable?" 

What?!?  Thanks a lot Bev.  That question ended my childhood innocence, BAM!  Until that moment, I hadn't realized that dressing was an "either/or" proposition.  I couldn't take the pressure.  I didn't even answer her.  Over the years though, as I 'passed' on miniskirts, stilettos, noodle straps and even Spanx, I fell solidly into the "comfort camp" by default.  (Decades of horrifying photos featuring questionable wardrobe choices verify this decision.  In my defense though, I'm rarely cold.)


Stylin' in my vintage skimmers

Back to my little kiss from the fashion gods.  This year they decreed, and I quote "The ankle skimmer is the key trouser length to try this season."  That's RIGHT, people.  Just when I thought things couldn't get any better, the new IN length in pants in 2013 just grazes the ankle!! I AM IN STYLE!!  Nobody who knows me would have ever guessed that THIS day would come!!  Hallelujah!

To think that I was SECONDS away from DONATING my high-water pants (the target audience of my largess being chubby third-graders) when I happened upon that advertisement in the Sunday paper!  Now my jeans have morphed into SKIMMERS, "the trouser length to try this season."  As an added plus, I don't even have to go shopping for any.  My closet is full of pants that I shrank in the dryer.  I am GOOD to GO!!!

Just for this one season, I CAN have comfort and style!!  How about THAT, Bev?

Toddler Fun

 

Two-year-olds are fun to be around and I swear this current crop is more savvy than kids used to be.  Here are some examples of the two-year-old mind in action:

Michelle to her son Lucas: "What do you want for breakfast?"
Lucas:  "Talk to me about options."

My whole family had iPhones but I was holding out;  I thought there was nothing wrong with  my old phone.  Brody felt differently.  He picked it up, fiddled with it and when it didn't connect to the internet, he brought it to me and said, "Broken." 

Rhona's granddaughter Lillian came to visit her, picked up a framed photo from off the shelf and moved her little finger horizontally across the bottom of it, trying to see the next picture.

When I Facetime my daughter I must keep the conversation fast paced and interesting - otherwise Brody will hang up on me.  He's very diplomatic though.  He always blows a kiss as he reaches for the Off Button.



Brody downloading his favorite apps onto Grampy's iPad

 

 

On Valentine's Day, With Love

You only have to spend a few minutes with Pamela and Jay to realize that they are crazy about animals.  They share their lives with a cat, two dogs and four chickens.  Whereas I'm certain that the cat and the chickens would be excellent blog subjects, this post focuses on the canines:  The Service Dog and the Pampered Pooch.

Caleb in a bow and Zoe in a Christmas gown
 

There's something special about Caleb.  At first glance you realize he's different. A beautiful animal with a white coat that looks like he just stepped out of a high-end salon, he is clearly a rare breed.  His Jindo lineage is considered a Korean National Treasure and it's more difficult for them to sneak out of their country than it is for Cubans to get to America.  And yet he found Pamela. 

Caleb is a service dog.  He is always on duty.  As much as you'd like to touch his beautiful fur, he won't let you.  He's working.  The stuff this dog does for his master is beyond amazing.  It's like he's a GPS system with ESP.  He could be the subject of a Hallmark Hall of Fame special, he's that amazing.  He actually will rouse himself from sleep to alert his Pamela that a medical crisis is imminent.  He senses this before she knows herself.  Once he even alerted Pamela that her friend was about to have an episode. This is one highly intelligent animal. 

Every male enjoys a little eye candy and that's where Zoe comes in.  Zoe is a Bichon Poodle with a fabulous sense of style.  She likes to be dressed up and after Pamela changes her outfit, she won't budge (not even for steak) until you take a series of pictures of her.  She has to see the camera flash three times.  She has three specific poses:  Standing, sitting, and coquettishly looking over her shoulder. 

While Zoe actually has a dog wardrobe full of clothes, including - but not limited to - rain wear, swimming suit and formal wear, Caleb is embarrassed to be seen in a bandanna.  Zoe, on the other hand (and I am not making this up,) will refuse to leave the house in her pajamas.

For more Zoe pics visit: Caleb Plus Zoe Nastase on Facebook

Today, let's celebrate love (and fashion sense) wherever we find it. 

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Happy Birthday to ME!!

It's my fortieth birthday.  The house is a mess.  Kate has come down with the chicken pox.  I'm homeschooling Jessica while trying to comfort my sick child. Josh comes home from school in a foul mood.  Happy birthday to ME.

"When are you going to clean this place up?" asked Josh.

"Tomorrow."

That answer is not good enough for him.

"It looks pretty bad in here," he announces.

"Yup."  It's my birthday and I am stressed out! I have enough going on.  Cleaning can wait. Besides, I rationalize, Jer and I are going out for dinner and movie with the Chirches and the kids will just trash it while we're gone anyway.

"Susan, my new girlfriend, might be stopping by tonight while I'm babysitting."

"You are not allowed to have friends over when you babysit."

"She'll be with her parents.  They're eating in Milan [nearby town] and might stop on their way back." Josh has always been a master of the quick come-back but even the "parent trump card" doesn't sway me. 

"Your girlfriend.  Her parents.  You want the house clean?  Clean it yourself.  It's my birthday and I'm NOT cleaning."  End of discussion.

I felt pangs of guilt because he was right, the place really did look like the inside of a wastebasket.  It really could wait until tomorrow though.  And doesn't a person deserve to take a day off on a Big Zero birthday? 

After we ate, Jer made some excuse about forgetting our tickets to the show, so we went back home to get them.  Obviously I noticed all the cars parked everywhere on our street, but we lived across from a funeral home, so at first I thought it was a visitation.  When we got close enough to see the parking lot was vacant, I came unglued: "I can't believe that JOSH is having a party when we're NOT HOME!!"  (No kidding, I am that easily fooled.)

When I saw my friend's van, realization dawned.  And then visions of the shape I left the house in flooded my mind.  I was about to experience the most embarrassing moment of my life and most of my favorite people were going to be there to witness it.  Clearly, this was not going to be my finest hour. 

Summoning up all my courage, I went inside and was STUNNED!  The house had never looked this good.  It was SPARKLING CLEAN!  How did this happen? 

After the party was over, I asked my son how he did it.

"Six black garbage bags in the garage." he said.

To this very day, that remains one of my favorite cleaning techniques.

Today's my 60th birthday and Mardi Gras!
Coincidence??
I think not...

 

 

Back to Reality

Last week, the Cayman Islands; this week, Atlanta.  Since Jerry had to work and I didn't have any big plans for myself, I decided to take a leisurely shower.  I hopped in, lathered myself all up and was shampooing my hair when suddenly the water stopped. I was sort of stunned as I watched the last few drops trickle out of the faucet. For a hot minute, I just stood there and waited.

Finally I snapped out of my reverie and realized no more water would be coming out.  I grabbed a towel, got out and called the front desk.  The "guest host" put me on hold for what seemed like a long time. I was dripping wet, seriously soapy and getting chilly. Suds were trickling down my the back of my neck.

Finally she came back on the line.  "The maintenance man is on his way up," she said.  As I hung up the phone, I heard a knock at my door.

I really miss the beach.

Last week I swam with the stingrays. 

0 to 60 in Z!

A Week in Paradise,
With Love

 

 

Sometimes the stars align just when the angels decide to smile down upon you.  The results?  M A G I C!  This happened to me last week ~ only in my case, in addition to stars and angels, it took six smart, sneaky adults five months of planning.

 

Saturday morning I was told I was going to Cracker Barrel for breakfast.  Imagine my surprise then to find myself, a mere two-and-a-half hours later, arriving at a beach house in the Cayman Islands!  Surrounded by those I love most in this world, I was [momentarily] speechless with joy.  The recording of my arrival tells a different story - it sounds like a drunken bird squawking...but they tell me it's actually me. 
 

 

We swam in the pool.  We swam in the ocean.  We snorkeled.  We saw blue iguanas, wild parrots, begonias with leaves twice as big as my hand and poinsettias the size of bushes.  We played on the beach, petted sting rays, held live starfish and found itsy- bitsy crabs living in teeny-tiny shells.  We ate delicious meals that I neither prepared nor cleaned up.  We even enjoyed cucumber water at the Ritz! (It was ritzy.)

  

I had the thrill of riding shotgun as  my husband, Mr. Fearless, drove our rental van on the left side of the road.  [On one trip, a lady in the car in front of us pulled off the road and took a picture of a restaurant sign.  It said: "Buy one jerk, get one free."]

 

Stargazing in the Caymans defies description; the night sky is ablaze with all the glory of the heavens above.  I have never seen so many bright stars.  It turned searching for Orion's Belt into a "Where's Waldo" event. 

One of the highlights of our trip was a night kayaking adventure into a bio-luminescent bay where the water twinkled.  When I ran my fingers across the surface, I left a glowing, glittering trail of fairy dust.

If that isn't magic, what is?

 

* * *

 

 

 

* Our youngest grandson is just seven months west of zero and I am eight days east of sixty, thus the birthday trip was dubbed "0 to 60 in Z."

  

Thanks, kids one and all, for the fabulous surprise.  I truly did not suspect a thing.   

 

 

 

 

Lizards

Here's a conversation that this Northern Girl never imagined she'd ever hear, let alone be interested in: how to remove a lizard from the house.

 

One friend throws a dishtowel over the lizard, scoops it up, carries it outside and shakes it out.  The other said she just carries it out on a spatula.

"Really?  The lizard will sit on the spatula long enough for you to carry it out of the house?"

"It will if it's been inside long enough."

I was relating this story to a gal who grew up in Florida and she told me her mother didn't remove stray lizards from the house.  She just let them live inside.  "Lizards eat bugs,"  my friend said.  "Why would you want to take them out of the house?"

After I finished mentally singing a few verses of that kid's song about the old lady who swallowed a fly, I decided any lizard who wandered inside our house would be unceremoniously escorted back outside. Unless...can lizards be litter trained?

If

I bought this book yesterday called If. It's a book full of questions to ponder.  It seemed like a fun way to exercise my brain and exercising more is always something I think about in January.

The first question was "If you could have just one wish, what would it be?" I thought about it all day, defining, deciding and then refining.  During my spare time, I agonized over this.  If I have only one wish, I want to make sure it counts.  Finally I was satisfied with my wish.

When Jerry came home, I asked him the same question. "That's easy!" he said. "World peace."

I've married Miss America.

Maybe he's wondering how he'll look in a tiara?



My Twin

Imagine my excitement at lunch today when my daughter Kate informed me that one of her friends is my identical twin! (Haven't we all had that secret fantasy that we were switched at birth and that our real family will suddenly rush into our lives to claim us as their own ~ maybe even later today? ...and wasn't there always an identical twin in that scenario too?)

Well my twin sister is a guy, at least thirty years younger than I am and has a different mother. Other than that, we're identical. Oh, yeah, apparently he tolerates his liquor better than I do too, but that's the only other difference. That and the fact that he's a foot taller than me and we have opposite political, religious and social views. We don't like the same types of movies or music either and I'm not even sure that he puts both marshmallows and whipped cream in his hot chocolate like I do. He may even (gag) eat meat. But that's totally it. Besides those minor differences, we are one-in-the-same. Seriously.



That shadow on Erik's shirt?  A drink.  Maybe he can't "hold his liquor" after all!

If I get to add an identical, taller, male, younger twin to my inner circle at this late date, I'm glad that it's Erik. He's got a wicked sense of humor, laughs a lot and dresses a heck of a lot better than I do. I can learn a trick or two from that guy.

So welcome to the family, Erik my twin. Want to switch places for a while?  You could come down here to cook and clean at my house and I could go up there and have my own radio show. Nobody would even know the difference. That's the beauty of being identical twins.

P.S. Do you know what happened to our real mom and dad?

Liquor Lightweight



The vacation martini and me:  BEFORE

I'm a liquor light-weight.  I know it but I don't care.  I'm not gonna say that I never drink because I can be persuaded to have a refreshing mojito on a hot summer's day. I also have had an occasional drink on vacation and Lord knows I loved that Nutty Irishman that Martin made me five years ago in February.  (I've tried to replicate it in my own kitchen more than once, with limited success.)   


  ... and AFTER

Wine doesn't call to me at all either.  The only wines that I'll even consent to try are either sugarier than Kool-Aid or ice wines (made from frozen grapes) which are a bit too pricey for cheap little me.  Beer?  Why even go there? The point here is I can take or leave alcohol and mostly I choose to leave it.  Knowing this about me, you'd think that I'd be a shoe-in for designated driver, wouldn't you?

You'd be wrong.  Today when I started my car, the air conditioning came roaring to life, that's how rarely I drive.  I'm the least-experienced driver in almost every group I'm ever in.  Some family members are even afraid to ride with me.  And, if they've had even one drink, I am afraid to ride with them, too.  (After all, I know how I feel after "just one!")

To remedy this sticky situation, we choose to host lots of functions at our house. Mostly neighbors will come to these affairs and if they get so drunk that  they wake up the next morning not knowing how they got home, well for all they know I could have been their designated walker. 
 

The Queen

I do not live in a monarchy but if I did, I already know what role I would fulfill.  I would be queen.

I know this because years ago I was given a crown of gold....by my dentist.  Well, technically I paid for it.  (We all know that even the best health insurance will only cover a small portion of the cost of dental restoration.)  But let's not quibble!  The point here is that I possess a golden crown and I never even take it off (like some other queens who will remain nameless.)  I wear my crown 24/7. 

As a rule, people never notice my crown because it's way in the back of my mouth.  It would be easy enough to show off and point it out but I don't.  I don't have to.  I know I'm a queen whether anyone else realizes it or not.  On days when I'm feeling especially regal and want the whole world to see it, I wear my tiara.  Most of the time though, I just live my life as a queen incognito. 

I have been living the dream now for many years; I don't brag about it though because that wouldn't behoove a queen.  We queens don't need to brag.  Being a queen is enough in and of itself.

For years my husband has led a happy and productive life as a prince consort ~ or so I thought.  Lately I have become suspicious.  I've noticed that he's been going to the dentist a lot these past weeks.  In my innocence, I thought that he'd already met his yearly deductible and wanted to max out his dental benefits before 2012 ended.  That seemed like a fiscally prudent thing to do, right? Then yesterday - just two days into the new year -he went to the dentist and came home with his own crown.  Is he attempting a coup?

He says that this crown is only temporary and that he waited until 2013 to get it because insurance will pay more toward it.  I'm not sure. What if this is just an ingenious cover story?  I'm keeping my eye on him.  In a couple of weeks he'll get his permanent crown and then the world will see if it's gold or if it's an ordinary white one (which, in my mind, befits the station of a prince consort.) 

Until then I'm on high alert.  He's going to have to taste all my food before I eat it and if I catch him trying on my tiara when he thinks I'm not looking, mark my words: there will be hell to pay.

Winter Hats

My grandson Brody has a royal blue coat. After Christmas I found yarn the exact same shade and decided to make him a hat.  Now I feel like Goldilocks.

The first hat was too big:

Daddy modeling the first attempt

The second hat was too little:



Baby brother models the second try

But the third hat was ... just right!

Brody, the dinosaur

It was ugly but my husband Jerry pointed out that measuring Brody's head and adjusting the gauge of the knit might have helped me in doing the project right the first time.

 Maybe I should have paid more attention to those story problems in eighth grade math.  Perhaps, just perhaps, there may be practical application for mathematical skills after all. 



Happy New Year everyone!

My Reindeer Ears

Our annual Z Indoor Christmas Caroling party was last Saturday night and fun was had by (almost) all.  One of the stellar moments of this special evening was when Miss Brenna Lockaby, age eight, brought down the the house with her spontaneous a Capella rendition of Pat-a-Pan, garnering thunderous applause as well as rave reviews from her audience.  (Jack and I immediately scrapped our plan to sing a duet of Silent Night in German...) 

For the first time ever, there was a dark underbelly to our (normally) joyous celebration.  For decades I have worn the same pair of reindeer antlers to this evening of caroling.  They are classic and classy and include dainty golden bells suspended from a beautiful red satin bow.  This year, however, my daughter, Captain of the Fashion Police, felt I should upgrade and spring for a new pair.  Although I looked, the new crop of antlers available for purchase were lacking in quality construction as well as in bells.  My old pair are nothing if not gorgeous, but I chose not to wear them anyway.

Midway through the event, Jerry had occasion to go into our bedroom and saw the lonely antlers hanging in the closet.  He must have felt sorry for them because the next thing I knew, I was wearing my reindeer antlers again.  God's in his heaven, all's right with the world. 



Did this woman steal my antlers?

Time elapsed and a friend (well, I thought she was a friend...) plucked them from my head and onto hers.  That's the last I saw of my beloved antique antlers.  Did my (former) friend spirit them off?  Did someone else take them from her?  Were my daughters involved?   

Whoever has stolen my reindeer antlers:  listen up!  Put them in a brown paper bag and leave them at my front door by Friday.  No questions will be asked and, if you follow these instructions, no police need to be involved.

Merry Christmas to everyone (else.)

The Haircut

I was getting my hair trimmed for the holidays when my beautician started to cough.

"You must have sucked in some hair," I said.

She just laughed, opened her equipment drawer and fished out a pair of tweezers.

"I use these to get all the hair out of my bellybutton before I leave the shop at night," she said. 

Wow!  That new tidbit of information inspired me to tip my stylist a lot more than I usually do.

The Committee Meeting

A recurrent problem in my life as a wife and mother has been that suppertime often creeps up on me and catches me unawares.  How can this be?  I mean, it happens every day.  You'd think I'd be better prepared for it.

Once I read an article by Rose Kennedy where she was asked her secret for feeding her large brood.  "Long ago, I made up a menu for two weeks," she said, "and I have been repeating it ever since."  She added, "Nobody has ever mentioned it.  They don't seem to notice."

As in love with the simplicity of this idea as I am, I have personally never been able to pull it off.  Not that anyone I ever should have fed regularly would have been more observant than the Kennedy Clan, but that designing and implementing the two-week menu has proven difficult.  I have attempted it more than a couple of times but somehow gotten distracted somewhere between the writing and repeating.  It seems to be a case of inner child rebellion.  (My bratty inner child acts up a lot.) 

Hope springs eternal. My mature self thinks it would be freeing to know what we're going to have for supper days in advance.  Organized me thinks this way I could be assured of having all the ingredients that I need on hand.  Frugal me adds that there would be less waste which translates into monetary savings, a delightful bonus. 

Apparently the whole "me" committee is willing to give this this brilliant idea one more shot.  My inner child will only cooperate if I allow her to bake cookies, but since it's December we all even agree with that idea.

Rose would be proud.

The Request

My daughter texted me asking if she could bring a friend to Thanksgiving dinner.

"Sure," I said and I meant it.  The more, the merrier.

Then she texted me instructions.  She said, "Be normal and don't wear something too weird." 

Yeah, good-luck with that, Kate. 

The Perfect Couple

When Jerry gets up in the morning, he's like a ninja.  He silently slides out of bed while I remain deep in slumber.  He could be dressing an inch away from my face and I'd never know it, he's that quiet.

When I get up, I'm like a baby elephant.  With every step I take, the house shakes on its foundation.  Pictures rattle as I bump into walls and doors.  It's hard to believe I can make this much noise when I'm trying to be so quiet.  Not only do I wake Jerry (and anyone else who might happen to be sleeping in our house,) I'm pretty sure I wake up the neighbors too.

It's true what they say:  Opposites DO attract.

Milk

Growing up, I was a feisty, stubborn little thing and I hated milk.  HATED!
My folks ascribed to the "clean plate" school of parenting (and that included liquids) which is how I ended up sitting alone at the dinner table one evening while my mother cleaned the kitchen.

I knew that children were starving in China but couldn't connect how my drinking this milk could help them.  Finally, I snapped.  When Mom had her back turned, I poured the milk into the trash can which was lined with a brown paper bag.

 "My milk's gone."

"You may be excused."

I went off to play while my mother finished up the dishes.  When she lifted the brown paper sack out of the wastebasket to take it outside to the garbage, the bottom fell out. 

My parents also believed in corporal punishment, so I got spanked.  I secretly felt things worked out well for me though - because nobody thought to pour me another glass of milk.

How I Spend my Time

This morning while I was in the middle of executing a perfect "Y" turn to get out of my garage and head up my driveway, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw that I'd nudged my garbage bin and it had tilted backwards.  I put the car in park and as I walked over to right the bin, I realized that it's twin, the recycling bin, was missing. 

My bin nudging had sent the recycling container sailing down the hill below our driveway. The garbage bin was empty but our recycling only gets collected every other week so it was overflowing.  A week and a half's recycling had now fluttered down to rest on the hillside. 

When I was cleaning yesterday, I dumped the shredder wastebasket into the recycling bin so there were teeny tiny strips of paper intermingled with the plastic berry containers, tin cans, bits and pieces of aluminum foil, newspapers, magazines and junk mail littered all over my backyard.  It was a major mess.  I would have to wade in leaves to get to the bin -- leaves that are, I might add, the same color as snakes. 

Earlier in the year I made a bargain with all creepy crawly things that if they'd stay out of my area, I would stay out of theirs. This hillside was clearly not my area. It seemed wrong to welsh on an arrangement that had been working so splendidly.

What to do? Honestly, my initial impulse was to let Jerry deal with it but I immediately discounted that as being a little immature.  It was high time that I put on my big-girl pants and handled this mess myself. 

I broke into my secret Halloween candy stash and ate three miniature Butterfingers.  Fortified by chocolaty goodness, I grabbed my jingly snake bracelets and searched the garage until I found my rubber knee boots -- these boots are not the cute kind like the girls in Charleston wear when it rains.  These are brown rubber farm boots which I wear when I don't know how high whatever muck might be that I'm about to step in.  I pounded them upside down on the pavement until I was satisfied that all the spiders were gone, crammed my feet in them and embarked upon my task.

It took two and a half hours for me to pick up the recyclables and drag the bin back up to my driveway.  Although I was serenaded by my neighbor dog during the entire time, the only living thing I saw was a Daddy Long Legs.  That's all I saw.  The whole time I imagined thousands of beady eyes staring out at me from under piles and piles leaves.

If, like my husband, you've ever thought to yourself, "Chris stays at home all day.  How does she spend her time?"  Well, now you know.  Not quite what you'd imagined, right?  Me either.



. 

The Night Text

Whenever I get a text from a kid of mine that starts out with the words, "Don't freak out but..." I know the next few words are not going to be something pleasant, especially when I receive the aforementioned communication at 3:21 a.m.  Just waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of a text coming is scary enough for me.

The bad news was that I did, in fact, freak out. The good news was, well I couldn't think of any good news right then.  The rest of the message read, "A tsunami is going to hit us on Oahu in an hour or so."  My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.  Most mothers will understand that, I think.

Josh and Susan were staying at Turtle Bay, one of "the most spectacularly beautiful places on earth, where every room has an ocean view."  I'm not sure how much of a plus having a window facing a tsunami is, but I can say that I prayed to God in Heaven that everyone would be okay and I believe he heard my prayer because about the time the tsunami hit, my lights flickered off, just once.  I took it as a sign from Heaven and calmed down a bit.

The second text, that the tsunami - which had roared in at a mere three feet -had been downgraded, arrived at 5:23 am.  It was the longest two hours and two minutes of my life. 



My ardor to visit our 50th state has cooled considerably. Most mothers will understand that, too.

Learning the Ropes

Wednesday was Brody's first trick-or-treat Halloween.  He and his baby brother dressed up as Mario and Luigi for parties, but Halloween night it was too cold to wear the outfit outside so he wore a cute sock monkey hat. 

At the first house, they put a Kit Kat in his bag.  At the second house, the man held out the bowl for Brody to choose a piece of candy.  He looked at it a little while, then Brody took his Kit Kat from his orange bag, gently placed it on top of the mound of candy in the man's bowl, turned around and walked away.

My Brilliant Halloween Idea

I became a vegetarian shortly after our son Josh was born and during his formative years I was pretty vigilant about what he ate.  (And by "pretty vigilant" I mean "fanatically zealous.") 

His first couple of Halloweens were not an issue because he was still little but by the time his third Halloween rolled around, there was a problem.  I was strongly against the idea of him gobbling up his weight in sugary junk (as I called candy back in the day), but I didn't want to deny him the fun that comes with dressing up in costume.

"Hmm....How to get around receiving massive amounts of candy without branding my child as a social outcast for life?" That was the question.  I mulled it over and over in my mind until I was struck with a brilliant idea! I would go in advance everywhere I would be taking him trick-or-treating and drop off a healthy snack for them to put in his bag.  This was creativity at its finest!  He'd have all the fun and none of the cavities!

And so it happened.  That Halloween and the two that followed it, Josh got tangerines, apples, oranges, bananas, popcorn and even the occasional fruit leather in his trick-or-treat pumpkin.  Everyone got to see how adorable he looked in his costumes and he got to see what all the other kids wore, too.  He got a kick out of the whole evening and seemed genuinely pleased with his healthy haul. (That's how it looked to me anyway.)

Fast forward to kindergarten.  Halloween approached but even then I didn't realize that I hadn't thought this idea through to its logical conclusion.  I had totally ignored the friend factor.  When Josh found out that all the other kids got candy when they went trick-or-treating, he had a melt down.  Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were nothing compared to this!  Josh was beyond angry.  He was livid. 

To this very day, if you mention Halloween to him, he will zero in his pre-school years and get annoyed all over again.  In his mind, I still owe him about a hundred pounds of nerds, starbursts and skittles.

Sometimes brilliant ideas are best left alone.

Yoga, Revisited

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I get on an elevator, descend into Hell, meet Satan's Mistress, and pay actual American currency for the privilege of attending her "Deep Stretch Yoga Class."


Deep Stretch Yoga is code for "Yoga for Old Ladies" and it focuses on flexibility and balance. I've never been particularly flexible and not even a stranger would mistake me for someone who was well-balanced, so this class is a good fit for me.


Today when I arrived in the studio, I noticed two chairs sitting sideways against the wall. Miss Mary Ann was feeling particularly feisty and had decided that today was the day we were going to stretch our trapezius muscles, doing a pose called the "fountain of youth."


I'm all for youth -- I even dimly recall being one once -- but had sincere reservations about this Cirque du Soliel move which consisted of suspending oneself with the head wedged between two chairs in what amounted to a headstand in midair.


Although I'm pretty sure that I verbalized my concerns, no one paid much attention to my pitiful whimperings and that is how I found myself in the aforementioned position and then, to add insult to injury, they took pictures of me.

If we're going to continue to do these types of moves - especially if I'm going to be photographed - I'm going to have to insist that we wear glittery outfits made of sequins and feathers, perhaps with the addition of a small, tasteful tutu.  In pink or turquoise.  Would a tiny tiara be asking too much?


People ask me why I return to yoga week after week when I make no secret of the fact that I don't enjoy this form of exercise one little bit. The answer is simple. I spend a lot of my time hunched over a computer and my neck and shoulders get tight and sore from it.


As much as I hate to admit it, I feel better after I leave yoga class.