The Dirty Word

It has been a couple of weeks since I last posted a column. The past couple of weeks have been filled with big news and changes for our family. A couple of weeks ago Tom had to utter what has typically been a nasty word in our family to the girls and I. It is a word filled with stress, heartache, and chaos. The dirty word of all dirty words…relocation.

My family has already had to relocate a couple of times now for my Tom’s job. There are definitely positives and negatives with relocation. One great positive is that it really pulls a family together. When you don’t know a single person in your new hometown, it’s best to cling to your family like Brett Favre clings to football, like Detroit clings to the Redwings, like Michael Phelps clings to….well we’ll just stop right there.

The one thing that people always bring up when we relocate is how the relocation will affect my children. That’s understandable. I worry about them too. What I have learned on our most recent relocation is that children actually have it the easiest. My children get to go to school everyday where they are surrounded by kids their age and plenty of friend potential. They also have the added benefit of adult intervention to force interaction between the new child and the current students. Of my two daughters, Megan probably struggles the most with the changes of a new school, new home, and new friends. Hailey, on the other hand, approaches her first day in her new school with a “who gets to be my new friend” attitude. I imagine her in her new classroom boldly telling the kids to step aside and give her some room so she can evaluate them for friend worthiness. The girl has confidence. What can I say?

Tom doesn’t work in a traditional office setting. I think that would make things much easier for the two of us if he did. At least then we would have Bob from accounting who would approach Tom and explain that he and his wife would love to have our family over for dinner this weekend. At which time Tom would enthusiastically accept the offer. Our family would arrive at Bob’s house with dessert and wine in hand smiling ear to ear. We would enjoy a fantastic dinner prepared by Bob’s wife Louis. Megan and Hailey would be thrilled to meet Bob and Louis’ daughters Becky and Jane who coincidentally are the same ages as our daughters and totally into all the same things our daughters are in to. We would become instant friends. We would plan annual family camping trips to the lake. We would have regular dinner and game nights, join a bowling league, and swap babysitting needs. We would cry and snap pictures as our daughters headed off to prom together with their dates and share scary student driving stories. When the day arrived for our children to head off to college we would rejoice and cry together. We would celebrate together at our daughter’s weddings and the birth of our grandchildren. We would hold hands when one of us is diagnosed with cancer and when Tom is officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. Wow, what a dream. Alas this will not happen because like I said Tom doesn’t work in an office. So, no office means no Bob. But thanks for the dream Bob and Louis you are both beautiful people.


This will be our family’s third relocation in four years. Under normal circumstances, I would lock myself in my room and cry for hours but not this time. Why? We are relocating back to the same town we just moved from a year ago. I am happily looking forward to reuniting with my friends that I left behind. No worries that Bob and Louis don’t exist in our old/new hometown because I have replacements. No, in a strange turn of events when Tom mentioned relocation rather then burst into tears I screamed joyfully and jumped up and down. I also then thanked God that I never had the ambition to finish unpacking all the boxes and didn’t waste time hanging all the pictures. I did, however, bother to change my driver’s license and license plates. Crap! Oh well, no bother. I wasn’t crazy about that picture on my license anyway.

Yes, we are heading back to another Midwest location. To a town I often marveled at how lucky I was to be living and raising my daughters in. A town where neighbors bring Bundt cakes to new neighbors and pans of lasagna when a new baby is born. A town where families gather for Little League softball during the week and soccer tournaments on the weekends. It’s a town where garage parties still exist and neighbors compete for being the best decorated house during the holidays. It’s a town where people aren’t afraid to proclaim their love of God. Where farmers work endless back breaking hours and a cops busiest day is catching a teenage driver who tried to creep through a stop sign. Simply put it is in my opinion one of the greatest places in this great country and I just couldn’t be happier to have heard that dirty word, “relocation”.

Dressed for Success

When Hailey was four years old, Tom and I were trying to get some ideas from the girls for Christmas presents. We were expecting Hailey and Megan to list off all the latest and greatest in the world of Bratz Dolls which is exactly what Megan did. Hailey on the other hand announced that she wanted “work pants.” Tom and I were puzzled. What did she mean by “work pants” and why wasn’t she asking for toys like a normal kid? I asked Hailey what work pants were. She grabbed a hold of my slacks and shacked the pant leg back and forth and said, “Work pants.” Ahh, work pants equals dress slacks which is what I wore to work. I was tickled. My daughter wanted to dress like me. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Tom and I bought Hailey a pair of “work pants” for Christmas. She was so excited over that one gift. I will never forget it.

Recently I was looking at all of my “work clothes” hanging very neglected in my closet. I nostalgically ran my hands down the shirt sleeves of silk blouses and pant legs of slacks. “We had a good run black pants and striped shirt.” I said to my beautiful clothes hanging there and looking sad due to their current lack of need. I then turned my attention to my pride and joy, my beautiful high heel shoes resting delicately in my shoe organizer. I love all shoes but high heels are the chocolate nutty donut of my closet. They are the supreme shoe. The only action my beautiful stilettos have seen recently is from, you guessed it, Hailey marching around the house and playing dress up in them.

I remember one time Tom told the girls they should dress for the person they want to be. In terms of his career advice that saying was right up there with, “You’re no better then the people you surround yourself with.” These would be two phrases that the girls and I hear quite often. Anyway his advice to dress for the person you want to be rang in my mind as I was gazing upon my neglected work clothes hanging in my closet.

Perhaps it is the psych major in me but I was compelled to conduct a case study on myself. Would I experience more satisfaction and joy in cleaning my home if I were dressed in clothes that screamed happy employment to me? It was certainly worth a try. It would give me an excuse to put on my work clothes again after a long hiatus and analyzing my case study would definitely break up the normal housework routine for me.

The next day after I sent the girls on their merry way to school, I retreated to my closet and “pretended” that I was getting ready for a day at the office. I picked out a favorite pair of slacks, a blouse, and beautiful pair of heels. After showering and getting dressed in my work clothes, I styled my hair as I would if I were going to the office. I also, wait for it… put on make-up! If I was going to conduct this case study, I was going to go all the way. I completed my ensemble with jewelry and perfume. I took a glance in the mirror and must admit that I instantly felt a sense of importance. So far there really was something to this theory.

I exited the bathroom and headed to my “office”. The commute was pretty painless and quick. I set to work cleaning my kitchen which was followed by picking up the living room, family room, and sun room, and dusting all areas. I then moved on to cleaning the bathrooms. By now I was realizing that cleaning in nice clothes is a little riskier then cleaning in old jeans and a t-shirt. I was constantly mindful of where I was spraying the cleaner so as not to splash it on my nice work clothes and no doubt create a bleach stain. My next task was cleaning my floors. I went for the wood floor first. It goes without saying that stilettos don’t have a lot of traction. My shoes slipped out from under me a few times nearly resulting in me ending up on my bottom. Upon completion of the wood floor cleaning, I moved on to vacuuming. By now I had sweat dripping from my forehead, and I was breathing heavily. I was thankful that I decided against wearing the “dry clean only” silk blouse. It would have really made me mad if I had to pay to have a blouse dry cleaned because I was sweating in it while cleaning my floors. It’s just not right. By the time I completed my vacuuming, not only was my forehead and arm pits sweating but my feet were also sweating in my beautiful stiletto heels!

I collapsed onto the sofa and surveyed my completed work. My house was clean and it looked nice. My clothes managed to escape the case study without any bleach stains, but they were now sporting sweat stains and my beautiful shoes were housing stinky, sweaty feet. So, did I have a greater sense of satisfaction and joy cleaning my house simply by downing my work clothes? Umm, no. I wish I could report that I felt more energy, joy, and importance cleaning my house wearing dress slacks and stilettos but the answer is just no. I actually felt ridiculous and mildly uncomfortable. I guess I just don’t like cleaning my house. Some people do and I envy them for possessing this quality. Some people don’t like cooking which I think we have established I do enjoy. So what I need to do now is find someone who loves cleaning and hates cooking so we can job share household needs. She can clean for me and I will cook for her family. Hey I may be on to something here. I better go. I need to research this on the Internet. I also need to get my blouse and slacks out of the washing machine and hang them to dry.

Show Me the Daughter...Uh Oh

Not too long ago I was watching a TV show and an actress on the show said, “Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother.” The actress happened to be dying in the show and she was talking to her mother. She was praising her mother for raising her to be a strong, confident, and loving individual. It was a real tearjerker. Yes, I was watching the Lifetime channel.

Those words, “Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother,” really stayed with me. I pondered them for a while, ran them through my head, and then I thought, “Oh crap!” I’m not sure what concerned me more. Was it the images of the girls playing with their dolls and doing a high level of disciplining? Or was it Megan’s obsession with worrying? Her fear for everything from the destruction of the world to the milk is almost out. Or was it Hailey’s carefree, loves a good party mentality that has me threatening to send her to the same college as Megan who will help keep her under control. These fears were compounded when my thoughts were interrupted by screeching and screaming from the girls bathroom where they were yelling about who hit who first. Just great….”Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother”. Whoever wrote that must be a perfect parent or better yet, not a parent at all.

Much to my distress these words would not leave my mind. The next day spring conference schedules came home. It appears to be a growing trend in the public school system to have regular fall conferences with every parent and then optional spring conferences. The teachers seem to reserve the spring conferences for students who are having challenges or for any parent who specifically requests the conference. I am proud to say that my daughter’s teachers have not felt it necessary to have a spring conference with Tom and I.

Tom and I, on the other hand, along with our daughters have felt differently. Conferences are a rare opportunity to sit down with a third, non-biased, party and hear all the good things about our children. Tom and I need those moments to reassure us that we are doing a good job. We need those moments to hear about how awesome other people think our children are. It’s purely selfish and ego boosting for Tom and I. As for my daughters, well they like conferences for the same reason. They like to hear about their teacher bragging on them. I think it also sends a message to them that Mom and Dad care about how school is going, and we want to be involved in their lives. After all the girls spend 7 hours out of the day at school which is a significant amount of time. We want to know what is going on while they are away from us.

So, I sent back the form and requested a spring conference for both girls. Tom and I attended the conference, and as usual we received glowing reports on our daughters and their academic lives. “Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother,” started to have a slightly different sound to me. Suddenly I began focusing not so much on the negatives which I hope with maturity will fade a little, and I focused more on the positives as well as how some of the negatives could be positives. Hailey’s carefree love of life is often contagious. She is a ray of sunshine not only in our home but everywhere. She also has a big heart and 99.9% of the time if you ask her for help she will gladly respond with a, “yes”. She is a hard worker with a service heart. Megan also possesses a big heart. When she sees a person hurting you can almost see the hurt on her face too. She hates to see a person crying and when she does she is quick to offer comfort and reassurance. She is a nurturer with a caring heart. Her tendency to worry has benefited her in school. She is very studious and places great importance on her grades. What parent would complain about that? Megan studies hard and has great respect for her teachers.

I think all too often as parents we tend to hone in on negative character traits or behaviors in our children, and we forget to take time to focus on the positives. Tom and I have often used school conferences as an opportunity to soak in the good, but we need to do a better job on our own throughout the year. “Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother,” crosses my mind regularly now. When it does, I seize the opportunity to look at the positive things in my children, and I also let it serve as a reminder of the women I want them to grow to be. It also challenges me to be a better daughter so people can see what a wonderful mother I have. “Show me the daughter and I’ll show you the mother,” oh that Lifetime channel, it’s good, it’s real good.

The Babysitter

Finding a good babysitter is a challenge. I have always worked outside of the home. This full time stay at home mom thing is a new gig for me. When my daughters were babies, my Tom and I held off putting them in daycare for as long as possible. We managed this with the help of family and flexible work schedules. I dropped down to part time after having Megan so it was pretty easy. We did the whole daycare thing for a few years until Hailey turned 5. She was enrolled in a Young Fives program so we only needed someone to watch her 3 mornings a week. We decided to have a woman come to our house and watch her there. We found a wonderful woman who we will call Jenny.

Jenny was great. Hailey loved Jenny. I’m confident that she loved Jenny more then me and I am secure in my relationship with my daughter to be okay with that reality. Of course it helps that we later moved and put 200 miles between us and Jenny, but I digress. Jenny was cool. Jenny believed Hailey when she said that Mommy always lets her grab a stick of butter and eat away. Feel free to go vomit right now if you need to. Jenny took Hailey shopping when Hailey “had nothing to wear.” Yes this has been an issue since….well since birth. Yes, Jenny was cool and Mommy was drool. The truth is that I loved Jenny too. She was amazingly patient with my head strong, fiery Hailey. I could tell that she genuinely loved Hailey which is a great thing to find in a babysitter. Those of you who have been in my situation know that all you want is someone who will care for your child almost as good as you do. Jenny was everything you could want in a babysitter. She was a day at the spa, a night out with the girls, the realization that your favorite movie is starting on HBO right when you turn on the TV. Simply put she was fabulous.

Unfortunately Jenny developed pneumonia about three months after she started watching Hailey. She was off work for a couple of weeks. Hailey went into the deepest depression that a Wiggle watching 5 year old who has everything she could ever possibly want can enter into. Her life was off kilter. No more spontaneous shopping and no more lunches of straight up butter.

When Jenny returned to work all healthy and eager to see Hailey, Hailey was overjoyed. Fun Jenny was back! Hailey ran up to Jenny and hugged her and said she was so happy to have her back. Upon my leaving for work, Hailey took Jenny by the hand and asked her to go upstairs to her room. When they entered Hailey’s bedroom, Hailey said, “You have got a lot of work to do. Just look at my room since you have been gone. Mommy tried to make me clean it but I didn’t want to.” Oh yah, that’s my daughter. You can imagine how desperately I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me when I heard about this. The pathetic thing is that Jenny found it all amusing and she cleaned the little brats room.

Just in case you are wondering, Hailey does clean her own room, and we asked Jenny to please not clean up after Hailey. But you can see how I can sympathize with the challenges in finding a great babysitter. It seems we have always gone from one extreme to the other. Let me share with you the other extreme.

The other extreme is a teenage, Cell Phone Junkie, gum chomping, girl who can only say, “Yah,” when the phone is not in her hand. When I just need to go out on a date with Tom, the Cell Phone Junkie will do. What annoyed me about the Cell Phone Junkie was, well actually a number of things. When Tom and I returned home on the last night that we had Cell Phone Junkie babysit, I walked into a kitchen sink piled high with dirty dishes. Macaroni and cheese was smeared all over the counters. The sugar bowl was on the counter with a spoon sticking out of it and clumps of sugar stuck to it. $100 says it was Hailey who convinced Cell Phone Junkie that I allow her to eat sugar straight from the sugar bowl. Hailey has progressed from butter to sugar. Choose your poison. Beach towels are lying all over the floor. Apparently the girls went swimming like 20 times and not only needed a new towel after each time but failed to pick any of them up. All the relaxation and enjoyment of my night out with Tom was sucked out of me like fat pulled from a liposuction machine. I take Cell Phone Junkie home, thank her for watching the girls and get the usual, “Yah,” and head back home. When I walk in the door, I see Tom walking into the kitchen from the back porch with a noticeable scowl of annoyance and carrying…soaked paper towel?!?! I guess in addition to allowing my children to eat sugar straight from the sugar bowl, I also allow them to take whole rolls of paper towel, soak them in water, and throw them on the trampoline simply for the joy of seeing the clumps splatter all over the place and ultimately dry in disgusting odd shapes. Why you might ask? Well, according to the daughters the next day, “because we thought it would be fun”.

So in the words of my linguistic Cell Phone Junkie babysitter, “Yah,” it’s hard to find a good babysitter.

Plumbing Plague

Tom and I seem to be plagued with plumbing problems. As I look back on all the houses we have lived in over the years there is only one that never gave us any plumbing problems. For the lucky people who are gifted in the area of home repair this is not a problem. However, I learned very early on in our marriage that Tom was not shall we say a “handyman”.

Our first traumatic experience was a couple years into our marriage. Megan had joined our family, and she was sound asleep in her room which happened to be right off our kitchen. I mentioned to Tom that the kitchen faucet was dripping and wouldn’t stop. Tom said this was no problem and he could fix it. He stepped right up to the sink and began twisting and turning the faucet with a wrench with an appearance of knowledge. I was just about to ask Tom if he thought he should turn the water off when, SPLASH. Old Faithful erupted in my kitchen. The water shot straight up from the faucet like it was coming out of a hydrant. Water was spraying all over the little kitchen. Tom yelled for me to go turn the water off. Ah, little late there Tom. I yelled that I didn’t know where the water shut off was located. Tom ran to take care of it while I felt the instinctual need to run over to the faucet and hold my hand over the nozzle which was jetting water all over the kitchen. In hindsight this seems really ridiculous because there was no stopping the water. It was coming out and all I was managing to do was redirect the spraying to all over me. After what seemed like forever, Tom got the water turned off. We surveyed the water damage which wasn’t too bad all things considered and set to work cleaning up the mess. Remarkably, Megan slept through all the excitement. My dad came over the next day and helped Tom fix the faucet. I’m not sure what we would have done all these years without my dad who has always been willing and able to help with minor home repairs. Let that be a lesson to single ladies, if you are not handy, and you’re not marrying a handy guy, then you better have a handy father.

We had another Old Faithful moment in our next house but this time I knew where the water shut off was located. It also helped that we were renting that house so it was the landlords problem and not Tom’s. Well, let’s be honest here it wasn’t my dad’s problem.

Two houses later we experienced our most costly plumbing problem to date. We were living in a two story home with a finished basement. The basement had an office, family room, toy area and bathroom. When we had visitors they would stay in the family room on the pull out sofa which enabled them to have their own bathroom. Hailey was now an active member of our family. My mom was visiting us one weekend. On Saturday night she went downstairs to get something from her luggage and yelled for Tom and I to come down right away. The carpet was soaked all over the bathroom and well into the family room. Roto Rooter was called first thing in the morning. As the snake started down the toilet, I remember feeling sick with fear. What if there was significant root damage? What if a drain tile was broken? “What if” are such scary and potentially costly words when it comes to plumbing mishaps. It wasn’t too long when I got my answer. What if it is a bunch of Polly Pockets sent on a swim down the toilet by a potty training 3 year old who loves to flush the toilet! Roto Rooter man wasn’t too surprised. He said he usually gets Lego’s. Fortunately it wasn’t a costly plumbing problem, but it was a costly repair from flooding problem. $10,000 later we had the family room and bathroom cleaned, repaired and user ready again, and Hailey received a strong lecture on exactly what is allowed down the toilet.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that 3 months into our next home the sump pump broke and slightly flooded that finished basement. We were lucky that time because we caught it early enough that the only real water soaking was in the storage area. Nevertheless it did require some clean up efforts and a minor headache.

It appears that we are destined to have plumbing issues no matter where we live. When we made our most recent move, we were cautioned against buying a house with a basement because there are flooding issues in this area. Our realtor downplayed the issues as any good realtor would and said that the flooding was only in certain areas and not where we happened to be looking. I told Tom that if a basement was going to flood, it would be our basement, and it would be when he is out of town. No basement…not taking any chances. So we bought a house that does not have a basement. We moved into the house in December. The day after we moved in, the area experienced some of the coldest temperatures ever. I put a load of laundry in the washing machine. When I went to take the laundry out of the washer and put it in the dryer, I was greeted with standing water all over my laundry room. The pipes had frozen. There is just no getting around it. We are cursed. But we are also becoming very skilled in flood clean up. It makes me curious as to what will be our plight in the next house. Toilet? Sink? Shower? Who knows. One thing I am certain of is that odds are there will be a plumbing problem.

Maggie and Naggie

My Tom is directionally challenged, very directionally challenged. When we got married, we decided to move to the city he had grown up in. It always made me laugh because he could get lost in the city he had lived in virtually his whole life. It doesn’t really help to give him written directions because he can still get lost following those. After we moved to the suburbs of a major city, he would call me and ask me to look on the map and help direct him home. He would still get lost.

This inability to follow directions caused me to do something drastic. I bought Tom a Magellan Roadmate for Christmas two years ago. Tom affectionately called her “Maggie”. Tom and Maggie had a special relationship. Maggie was always patient and sweet to Tom. She was patient and sweet even when he blatantly disobeyed her verbal directions and missed turns. See…even gets lost with a GPS. Don’t send this man out into the forest with a compass. You’ll never see him again. I’m not kidding. Yes, Maggie would tell Tom to turn right at the next intersection, and he would fly right through it. Maggie would tell Tom to keep to the right on the highway, and he would stay in the left lane resulting in an exit or a merge onto the wrong highway. When these things would happen, Maggie would simply redirect Tom or politely ask him to, “make a legal U-Turn whenever possible.” Meanwhile, I would be sitting in the passenger seat about ready to explode because Tom is having difficulty following the simple and precise directions from a GPS that he seems to have great affection for.

I told Tom that I was going to invent the “Naggie”. Tom asked what the “Naggie” was, and I explained that it would be a GPS designed for women with husbands who have difficulty following directions. When Naggie told the driver to make a right turn and the driver disobeyed, Naggie would say, “What part of right turn did you not understand?” When the driver failed to veer to the right, Naggie would say, “You went left, and I said ‘right’. I guess I should have said, ‘Your other right!’” Naggie would also have a built in sensor for when the driver was excessively speeding and she would yell at the driver to, “Slow down! You don’t need another ticket!” Tom was not at all amused by my plans for Naggie.

Sadly I must report that Tom and Maggie have broken up. A couple months ago Tom came home with a new GPS. I asked him what happened to Maggie. Tom said that several days prior Maggie wouldn’t turn on for him. She was cold. Wouldn’t respond to his touch. Suddenly she had a change of heart the next day, and she was back. All lit up and ready to serve. Two days later she left Tom again. This time Tom kicked her to the curb. Well, actually he kicked her to a corner in the garage. He ended their relationship. He said he could take her back after the first time but not after the second time. Tom’s new GPS remains nameless. He is trying to keep this relationship strictly professional so as not to have any hurt feelings. No feelings of being let down. His new GPS also speaks 12 languages so it is way more impressive then Maggie. It would be difficult to have a personal relationship with all 12 ladies.

Still, I felt bad for Maggie, seeing her lying there in a heap in the garage. I took pity on the poor girl and welcomed her into my car. She doesn’t have the same glow about her. She’s a displaced GPS. She took a gamble playing games with Tom, and it cost her big time. She’s doing ok in my car. She hasn’t let me down yet. I guess she learned her lesson. Poor Maggie. She did last longer then a Naggie would in Tom’s car. I’m certain he would kick that to the corner of the garage after one day. Who needs a Naggie when they have a wife?

Reality of Plastic Surgery

Sadly I’ve noticed over the past 16 years that my face seems to be developing wrinkles at an alarming rate. As I vainly examine my wrinkles, I notice they are a road map to my past. There are the, “Will I pass this final exam?” wrinkles which were birthed while I was in college. The, “Will I get a job?” wrinkles came shortly after. Tom and I both sport the, “Will we be able to make ends meet?” wrinkles which first came into existence at the beginning of our marriage and have deepened periodically since. We also both have the, “Can we afford to have a baby?” and “Oh no, this next baby is coming about a year and a half early!” And, I am sure that we will never lose our, “Am I doing the right thing as a parent?” wrinkles.

A while back I was complaining about the deep wrinkles between my eyes. My cousin asked me why I scowled so much. She assumed this to be the cause of the wrinkles. In actuality I’ve learned it is from squinting at the sun. I now wear sunglasses nearly all the time when I am outside as a means to combat the enemy. I’m not that confident that it is working.

Tom likes to tease me because anytime I see a commercial for a new face cream claiming to restore youth, I buy it. I’m clinging to the hope that just one more bottle ought to do the trick.

Not all my wrinkles are bad. I have some deep lines around my mouth and some wispy ones by my eyes which say, “I love spending time with my family,” and, “I have the best friends.”

At one time I thought about getting Botox. I figured if this was the one vain indulgence I afforded myself then have at it. Well, one night I was watching a reality TV show and a woman got Botox on her face in the same exact troublesome areas that I have. As the doctor came at her face with a giant needle, I screamed. The reality TV star wasn’t screaming but that is OK because I was screaming for her. I was also shouting, “He’ll poke your eye out!” I decided after that to stick with my creams. No way was a doctor getting that close to my eyes with a needle.

At one time I also considered liposuction. It was a very brief dream shortly after the birth of my daughters when no amount of diet and exercise seemed to be having an impact on my saddlebags. Again, I was watching a reality TV show and liposuction was performed. That doctor rammed an iron stick up and down into this poor woman’s body over and over. He looked like he had an ice pick in his hand and he was fanatically chipping away at her. My hips and thighs were instantly sore. It was as if they had a mind and eyes of their own and could see what was happening to this poor woman. They were screaming, “Please no! Please don’t do that to us!” I comforted my hips and thighs with a donut and assured them that we would never let that crazy doctor near us with his ice chipper.

I have very thin hair. It is genetic. When thoughts of Botox and liposuction were banished, I thought maybe hair plugs would be the way to go. Perhaps I could be happy with wrinkles and saddlebags if I at least had a full head of hair. Well as fate would have it, I saw a man get hair plugs on, you guessed it, a reality TV show. First the doctor scalped the patient and then they treated his head like a giant pin cushion. I almost vomited. I did develop a raging headache. If the need arises, I will just use a wig. If it was good enough for Grandma, then it is good enough for me.

As I write this column, I realize one of two things is clearly evident. One, plastic surgeons should stop performing their services on TV. They are scaring away their customers. Or two, I watch too much reality TV. Perhaps both are true. Either way, I think it is safe to say there will be no Botox, liposuction, or hair plugs in my future. I’ll stick to creams, running, and wigs.

20 Something vs. 30 Something

Before Tom and I moved to this new area we had an opportunity to go out with a group of friends for a night out on the town. One of the couples offered to pick Tom and I up at our house and drive because our house was on the way to the restaurant. They arrived at our house in their beautiful Honda mini van. Now let me be clear here, I am the daughter of former GM employee so I always buy American when it comes to my vehicles. However, if I ever had to buy a foreign mini van, I would definitely buy a Honda. This mini van is amazing! The side doors can automatically open and close at the touch of a button. The seats are comfortable, and the interior as well as exterior are pretty stylish. I was impressed.

We had a fantastic dinner with our friends, and then we all headed over to a favorite Irish pub for a couple after dinner drinks. Parking around this pub could be tricky on any given day, but on a Saturday night it could be darn near impossible. We were ecstatic when we approached the pub and discovered there was a parallel parking place right in front of the pub. My friend pulled into the spot, hit the automatic door button, we all hopped out of the van, hit the automatic close button, and happily headed into the pub giddy with laughter and enthusiastically talking about our luck at finding such great parking. It was as I was walking into the pub that I happened to notice a group of younger guys standing outside of the pub smoking, and smirking at us. What was so amusing to these young, single, no obligations guys? Was it our obvious enthusiasm over finding front space parking? Was it the awe and excitement that Tom and I showed over automatic side doors on a mini van? Was it my clearly jazzed up clothing that I sported because I was so excited to be out of the standard jeans and t-shirt? Was it the near spillage of toddler toys and books that often happens when a mini van doors are opened? Or was it the obvious joy all of us showed over a big night out on the town without our children? Did we appear, dare I say, pathetic to these 20 something’s?

Personally, if I were a 20 something, I would have found the whole scene of these 30 something’s experiencing a big night out in the family mini van to be pretty comical. When I was a 20 something, I swore that I would never own a mini van. Tom and I purchased one just prior to Hailey’s birth. When I was a 20 something, I could head out any night of the week with my friends and stay out as late as I wanted. Tom and I are now reliant on the availability of babysitters, and we are also obligated to the babysitter’s curfew. We no longer close down the joint, because the babysitter has to be home by midnight, and the kids will be up early the next day. When I was a 20 something I could sleep in until noon the next day. Now I hope I can sleep in until 8:00am. To further that point, when I was a 20 something I was often crawling into bed at 4 am. Now as a 30 something there have been far too many mornings when I have been waking up at 4 am. Dreadful! When I was a 20 something, I had some standard “night out outfits”. Now I have standard “Mom outfits” and a night out requires hours of thumbing through my wardrobe looking for something “fun” to wear. It even occasionally necessitates a trip to the mall for a new purchase. When I was a 20 something empty diet coke bottles spilled out of my car. It wasn’t all that long ago that baby bottles and sippy cups were spilling out of my car. Now it is usually stale French fries, empty Gatorade bottles, and wadded up old school papers that never made it into the house. When I was a 20 something, I never really appreciated those nights when I was out laughing and having carefree moments with my friends. Now I plan outings days sometimes weeks in advance and look forward to them with great anticipation as the days edge closer to our night out. Now I truly cherish a night out with friends.

Yes, I sometimes miss those carefree moments of my youth, but I would never trade today for yesterday. I would never trade my girls for the no strings, no responsibilities of my youth. These truly are the days for Tom and me. Those 20 something guys were probably sympathetic towards those 30 something adults hopping out of a mini van, but these 30 something parents are sympathetic of those 20 something guys who just don’t know what they are missing out on. Nothing beats the smell of a newborn baby. Nothing beats watching your baby take their first walking steps and fall into your arms laughing and proud. Nothing beats watching your child learn to ride a two wheeler. Nothing beats the smile on your child’s face when they make a great play at a sporting event. Nothing beats a hand made Valentine from your child. Nothing beats breakfast in bed made by your children and spouse. Nothing beats crayon pictures of your family. Nothing beats an, “I love you Mom and Dad,” when the finances are tight and work is stressful. Nothing beats being a 30 something with kids.

Leaf Lady

Years ago Tom and I rented a house for a brief period of time in a remote area. The only neighbors we had were three houses across the street which were inhabited by retired people. The couples in two of the houses were very friendly and extremely helpful. This particular area received a lot of snow in the winter time. When I say a lot of snow, I mean it snowed everyday. Hailey had just joined our family. Between a newborn and a 2 year old, Tom and I were pretty busy. Our kind neighbors took turns coming over to our house and snow blowing the driveway everyday. It was the kindest and most helpful thing I think anyone has ever done for us. Tom and I both greatly appreciated their generosity.

The last of the three neighbors was a little different. I didn’t see the husband so much, but I saw the wife everyday. The wife was, shall we say, a little obsessive about her yard and driveway. In the spring she was out everyday picking up winter twigs and preparing her flower beds. In the summer she was either mowing her lawn, raking her lawn, pulling weeds, or sweeping (yes sweeping) her driveway. She swept her driveway everyday at least once. In the winter she was busy clearing her driveway of snow. But it was the fall that puzzled me the most. In the Midwest the trees lose their leaves practically by the second throughout the fall. My neighbor was outside everyday raking leaves. After she had raked all her fallen leaves from the night before, she would retreat to her home. If the story stopped here then it wouldn’t be odd, but the story doesn’t stop here. Whenever a new leaf would fall on her yard, she would run out from her house and pick up the leaf. I am completely serious. Her days in the fall were spent running in and out of her house grabbing fallen leaves as soon as they landed on her pristine lawn. Now I’ve heard of having pride in ones lawn but this takes it to a whole new level. I’ve also heard of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and I suspect we had a classic text book case of this going on across the street.

At that time, Megan was only 2 and I can recall standing in the big picture window of our family room watching the neighbor race out her front door in pursuit of the fallen leaf. I can also recall Megan commenting in her toddler vocabulary, “That weird Mommy.” Out of the mouths of babes. It was weird and sad at the same time. I was curious about this woman and what caused her obsession with her yard. I felt it was possibly my neighborly responsibility to run across the street and perform and intervention, but labor pains started and the only intervention I wanted was medical intervention for me.

Now that I am at home full time with two children in school full time, I see how easily it could be to slide down that slippery slope of OCD. I have nothing to keep me entertained during the day so why not run outside and play a game of keep away with the leaves and my lawn. Why not get down on my hands and knees everyday and clean my base boards with a little brush? Why not freak out whenever liquid from the nights dinner spills over onto the oven floor? Why not climb a ladder daily and wipe down the ceiling fans? Why not? Because there is a plethora of good TV to watch throughout the day. Because there is a whole world of knowledge to be found via the internet. Because there are countless hobbies that one can become obsessed with which are far more productive then lawn and house obsessions. Because I guess I am just too lazy and too strong mentally to take a ride down the OCD slope.

Still I do look back at the time I spent watching the Leaf Lady race out of her house and chase down leaves, and I feel great sympathy and regret. Sympathy because evidently this lady had nothing else in life to find joy and completeness. Regret because I never took the time to go over to her house and save her. Leaf Lady if you are still out there, there are some great 12 step programs to assist you with this problem. There are also some fine medications. I would suggest you pursue both.

The Daily Grind

When the car door slams behind my daughters after I drop them off at school, a seven hour stretch of quiet and boredom sets in. Have you ever gone seven straight hours without hearing your voice? I do it most days. I have actually contemplated calling my house phone with my cell phone just to verify that the house phone is working because it has been days since it has rung.

It’s a catch twenty-two. When your children are really little you long for a day alone in the house with peace and quiet. Then they get older and head off to school and most people head back to work full time. Due to my most recent circumstances I am back at home full time with no one to care for. I drop my children off at school and head home to an empty and very quiet house. I passed the point of being able to enjoy the peace and quiet a long time ago. Now it is just plain boring.

My weeks are pretty dull. I do laundry on Monday, clean the house on Tuesday, ummm nothing really for Wednesday, Bible Study on Thursday, and volunteer in Hailey’s classroom on Friday. I also get to go grocery shopping on Friday which is exciting for me because I pretend I am “real” shopping. Due to my recent circumstances I have also had to curb my shopping. Grocery shopping is a close second. Every now and then I get to throw into my week an “extra event”. This could be something like getting my hair cut, going to the PTA meeting, or visiting the dentist. It is on these days that there is a little extra pep in my step, sparkle in my eyes, and glow across my face. Now I ask you, how sad is it when a woman gets excited about her annual exam? It’s just not right.

Just recently I was roaming around my home town when I noticed a home décor store had a sign advertising free home decorating classes. I nearly stood out on the sidewalk and screamed! Are you kidding me? Oh happy day! I ran right in and signed up for every class. That evening I announced to my family that I had signed up for some free home decorating classes. Tom was overjoyed as he feels I definitely need classes in this area. Megan asked me when I would be attending the class. I told her it was on Thursday. She said, “Oh, Bible study and a decorating class all in one day. That’s a big day for you Mom.” So sad when your child even realizes that you have no life.

On the day of my mantel decorating class, a friend of mine from my old hometown emailed me for her routine safety check. I responded that I was alive and doing well. I told her that I had attended a mantel decorating class. Her response was, “What kind of class?” Yes, they do have whole classes devoted specifically to decorating ones fireplace mantel, and yes I attended one. I could tell she was laughing at me from the other end of the email, but she said it sounded like a great class. She admitted that she would be interested in attending a class on mantel decorating. She also stated she was glad to know I wasn’t spending all my days on the sofa viewing one Lifetime movie after another. Well not today anyway thanks to my class, but tomorrow is another story.

My friend shared this mantel decorating news with a mutual friend of ours. Her response was that the class sounded like fun but did they have a mantel building class as she would need that first. I told her I would check at Home Depot and look into it. I offered to take the class and build her a mantel if Home Depot had such a class. My friend didn’t seem opposed to my offer, but then again she’s never heard about my chainsaw massacre.

Yes, it is a challenge to fight the daily grind, but I am finding that there are a lot of unique and interesting opportunities out there. On my list of future possibilities are Salsa classes, a mammogram, and something called Krumba?

Hotel OBGYN

I feel obligated to disclose that this column might be uncomfortable for a man so beware and stop reading if you feel squeamish over discussions regarding females and their doctor appointments. With that disclosure out of the way, here we go.

I recently had to go to my annual exam. As some of you are aware, I have relocated to a new town which necessitated a new doctor. I have moved around quite a bit over the past few years, so I have had to get acquainted with a new doctor a lot lately. It is kind of like going on blind date. I’m not real sure what the doctor will be like or if I will want a long term relationship with the doctor. So it’s a gamble with each annual exam.

I have to admit that I was impressed when I arrived at my appointment. I walked into the office, and it looked like I was walking into a hotel lobby. It was nicely decorated with wallpaper, flower arrangements, and inviting plush sofas. I “checked in” at the front desk and patiently waited for the nurse to call me back to the exam room. Let me just say that I do not like having my annual exam. I detest it. So while I was waiting for the nurse, I sat in the waiting room and grew ever anxious about my impending appointment.

At last it was my turn. I followed the nurse back to the exam room which was also decorated very invitingly, very hotelish. I then proceeded to answer all of her personal and invasive questions. Afterwards I was instructed to strip down completely and put on a flimsy paper gown which I was to leave open in the front. Nothing quite like cutting to the chase. After the nurse left and I prepared myself for the exam, it occurred to me just how personal this relationship is. Here I am in an office that I have never been in before being questioned by a nurse and doctor that I have never met before, and about to have a very intimate moment with said doctor. It begged to question that perhaps having an annual exam would be a little bit more pleasurable if I were offered a glass of wine at check in and the doctor dimmed the lights a little. I mean seriously, here we are about to get very personal and the only efforts to make me feel comfortable and relaxed are some nice decorations and furniture. If you’re going to go to all of this effort, why not go the extra mile and offer some relaxing beverages and mood lighting.

A couple of years ago, I had to have a mammogram. I was pretty nervous about having the procedure and had put it off for a long time. I had heard so many horror stories from other women and let’s face it having your breast flattened like a pancake just doesn’t sound like a good time. When a friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer, I decided it was time to get over the fear of a mammogram because cancer is way scarier. I remember waiting in the exam room for the technician and noticing an array of comics related to having a mammogram hanging on a bulletin board. Not one to turn down an opportunity to have a good laugh, I began reading the comics. I also remember laughing very hard at the comics and instantly relaxing. I was no longer freaked out about the smashing machine located behind me. Not only was the procedure not bad at all, but I remember saying to the technician that I would much rather come back every year and have my breasts smashed then go to the gynecologist for my annual exam. She said they get that a lot.

So, if the OBGYN isn’t going to offer wine and mood lighting, can they at least offer up some good comics? I was talking with a pharmaceutical sales representative one time who calls on gynecologist offices. He said once when he was in an office he saw a comic in the break room that showed a woman looking at a written message her husband had left for her on the refrigerator door. The message said, “Your doctor called and said your Pabst Beer is ok.” Now that’s funny. If that comic had been plastered to the ceiling of my exam room, I could have been laying there laughing rather then hyperventilating. So my suggestion is this for the OBGYN, either offer wine or comics. I have a feeling comics will win out over wine, but hey, I tried.

Brownie Anyone?

There is another reason why I run other then the fact that I enjoy it, and I am trying to set a good example for my children. I run because if I didn’t then I would surely weigh close to 500 pounds. Why you might ask? Because I am addicted to the Foodnetwork channel. Yes I confess that I spend hours and hours viewing various shows on the Foodnetwork. Some of this time has been spent in frustration i.e. Croquet Monsieur is really just a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. I’ve been making those quite regularly for 10 years. I don’t need a detailed TV show to give me the how to’s on that one. Yes, that was a half hour of my life that I will never get back.

Now when I worked outside of the home both full time and part time, my family would regularly ask me if I could bake some brownies or cookies or cupcakes, etc. I was working and when I wasn’t working then I was usually trying to take care of more important household things like laundry and house cleaning. I didn’t have time to bake. If I did bake then most of the time it came from a boxed mix I bought at the grocery store on sale that week.

Since I am no longer working outside of the home, I do have time to bake for my family. Tom mentioned one night that brownies sounded good. I was elated. The next day I opened my computer and clicked on the Foodnetwork website and found a recipe for brownies which I made from scratch. From scratch people! Did you even know that was possible? I didn’t. I thought brownies were something that Duncan Hines and Pillsbury made up and boxed the mix. Those homemade brownies were fantastic if I do say so myself. I noticed that Tom and the girls enjoyed them very much too which made me happy.

A few days later, Hailey was complaining that there are “never any snacks in the house.” So the next day I set to work on cookies, followed a few days later by more brownies, and then 2 kinds of cupcakes with, wait for it…real buttercream frosting! When I tasted that frosting, I thought I was going to pass out it was so good. I got that recipe from the Foodnetwork website too. It was heavenly.

The problem is that I guess the novelty of homemade baked goods has worn off because every hour when I get up off the sofa to go get another treat, I notice that there is the exact same number of treats as the last time I had my hand in the cookie jar. What am I saying? I am the only piggy in this family! The three people who used to hound me for homemade cookies and brownies when I was working full time and had no time or energy to bake, now don’t seem so interested in all the homemade goodness that Foodnetwork and I have to offer. Well isn’t that just a kick in the hay? I am trying very hard to control myself with the sweets but have you ever had homemade buttercream? For a moment I thought I should just package the cupcakes up and take them to the girl’s school and put them in the teacher lounge, but I wasn’t ready to part with such sweet goodness. I pack the goodies in the girls’ lunches, but I noticed that they are not eating them. When they get home from school and I open their lunch bags the sweets are still in the bag. What is wrong with this picture? When I was a kid the first thing I ate in my lunch box was the dessert. Only my children would choose carrot sticks over a chocolate cupcake.

The other option is that I could gorge myself on the sweets. My parents pop kettlekorn at arts and crafts festivals in the summer. They have been doing this for a number of years now. When they first started working the festivals, I went with them and helped out with the popping and bagging of the kettlekorn. I took home big bags and ate it like my life depended on it. The result is that I can not even look at kettlekorn now without my stomach turning. I am sick of kettlekorn. So maybe I could apply this concept to cupcakes with buttercream frosting, brownies, and cookies. Except that I just found homemade buttercream and it seems a shame to end our relationship so soon after meeting. I think I better give it some further consideration before I make any hasty decisions. I mean there is just no going back after a good gorging. No, there just don’t seem to be any viable options at this time. Perhaps I should just sit down with a plate of brownies and a cup of tea and ponder my options. Brownie anyone?

One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish

Our family has a new member. His name is Blue Knight, and he is a fish. This is not our first experience with fish. It is a return to fish ownership after a good 4 year hiatus. I swore there would be no more fish in our household, but then again I also swore I would never own a mini van, and would never move again. Hmm, I am beginning to see a pattern here.

Why might I be so against fish? Let me take you back a few years to a bright and sunny, summer evening. Tom arrived home from work and asked the girls and I to join him outside because he had a surprise for the girls. Tom opened his van and presented each daughter with her very own fish bowl, rocks for the bowl, plastic plants, fish food, and 2 gold fish each. Their sweet little eyes lit up with jubilation. I crossed my arms and began whining. What? Seriously! I didn’t want any fish. Tom said that the fish would teach the girls responsibility and that the care and well being of the fish would be up to the girls. They were 4 and 6! I just wanted Hailey to make it the bathroom on time, and Megan to remember to brush her teeth regularly. If we could accomplish those two things before their next birthdays then I would have been ecstatic. That would have been about all the responsibility I expected of my daughters at that moment in their lives. Since we were having minor challenges on those two areas, I was pretty sure the fish were going to be either dead in a couple days or my responsibility.

The girls were pretty good about remembering to feed their fish for the first several days. Perhaps a little too good, within a matter of a day or two there were large amounts of uneaten food floating on the top and bottom of the fish bowl because a “pinch of food” to a young child is more like a “glob of food”. Tom gave a careful instructional to the girls on how to clean the fish bowls. I think he figured that showing them one time how to clean a fish bowl would equate to them being able to complete the task solo from then on out. Apparently he had forgotten how many times we had to show them how to tie their own shoes. But I digress, the second time the fish bowls needed to be cleaned I assisted the girls. The third time the girls were over fish bowl cleaning and didn’t want anything to do with it. The fourth time, I didn’t even bother asking for help. I just did it. I seem to recall I had other battles to win that day.

As was to be expected, after a couple of weeks in the new home one of Megan’s fish was discovered to be floating on top of the water. To say that Megan was upset would be an understatement. She seized the opportunity to practice the art of dramatics. We comforted Megan and offered to have a funeral for her fish. She perked right up at the mention of some new kind of activity to not only fill her day but also place great attention solely on her. Megan opted for a non-traditional fish burial. She opted to have her fish buried in the front flower bed as opposed to the more traditional water burial method. In lieu of flowers, she took up monetary donations for the purchase of a new fish. Following the ceremony we had milk and cookies in the kitchen. It was a beautiful ceremony in which Megan shared some of her more precious moments with her fish i.e. fishy faces through the bowl, singing fish his apparent favorite Hillary Duff songs, and telling fish all her secret thoughts and wishes.

Two days later one of Hailey’s fish died and we had to repeat the whole process over again. Common sense would have told me to not replace the fish as they died, but I was sad because my girls were sad. So, I continued to replace these fish even after the novelty of owning fish had passed and even though I was now the sole caretaker of the fish. The burial of the fish had by now resorted to me saying, “Another fish died,” at which time I would flush it down the toilet while the rest of the family simply responded with an, “oh.” Finally after months of this and more money then I care to count up, I said enough with the fish and discarded the neglected and empty fish bowls. Tom said the girls would be really disappointed. When asked they said they really didn’t care. I told Tom we would never own anymore fish because as suspected they had become my responsibility.

Fast forward 4 years and Hailey is now 8. Hailey has been bugging me for quite some time that she wants a fish, and I have regularly reminded her of our past fish experience of which she has no recollection. We went on a family trip over spring break, and Hailey decided that she was not going to spend any of her allowance money on souvenirs. No, she decided that she was going to save it and buy a fish when we returned home. I caved. I decided that she should be able to spend her money as she wanted and maybe if she had some ownership in the fish she would be more likely to care for it. When we returned home from our trip, she bought Blue Knight. Blue Knight has been in our home for 4 months and knock on wood he hasn’t kicked the bowl yet (get it? Bucket? Bowl? Ok so that was a stretch). Anyway, Hailey is doing better at caring for Blue Knight. She doesn’t clean his bowl completely on her own; however, she does assist which is more then she did on our last attempt at fish ownership.

Our last bout with fish was a learning experience for everyone including Tom. First you have to tackle one area of responsibility at a time. With toilet training successfully behind her, Hailey was more prepared to take on greater challenges such as caring for a fish. Second ask the wife before you bring another living breathing creature to the house who might require care and attention. There is only so much Mom to go around! Third wait until I am a full time stay at home Mom with nothing better to do during my day then to make fishy faces at Blue Knight through his bowl.

Mad Housewife

We had a rather large liquor distributor chain in our old hometown. Often, I would go to the store and waste away my dull, boring, housewife day just wandering up and down the aisles reading the labels on wine bottles. Have you ever taken the time to be amused at the many creative and laugh out loud funny names of wine that are out there? If not you are totally missing out, and I strongly urge you to head to your nearest and largest wine store for a couple hours of good times.

I discovered this store through my parents. Whenever they were in Chicago, they would go to the store and purchase liquor and wine because it was significantly less money then purchasing it in their hometown. We had no idea that it was a chain establishment so imagine my excitement when I was driving around one afternoon, discovering my new hometown and I happened across the store. Oh happy day!

The store is quite large and has every imaginable wine, liquor, and beer you can think of. They also carry a large assortment of cigars and imported foods (cheese, chocolates, crackers). Essentially everything you might need to throw a killer cocktail party. Whenever I had company coming in from out of town, or whenever I just needed a good laugh, I would head out to the store for guaranteed amusement. I am quite sure that the salespeople found me to be slightly disturbed. I would think so too because who could possibly be so hard up for entertainment that they would slowly wander up and down every wine aisle looking at every label.

Let me give you some examples of a few favorites. I first tried Red Truck at this store. It is now in many stores, but the first time I saw it was at this store. I love the simplicity of the name, Red Truck. There is also the white wine version which is White Truck. They should consider making a beer and call it Brown Truck. Just a suggestion but I want royalties from that. After Red Truck I moved on to another mode of transportation: Red Bicycle. All I’m going to say is that as you go down in transportation, you also go down in quality. Another one that I found to be laugh out loud funny was Marilyn Merlot. Now come on, you can’t tell me that isn’t a great play on words. There was also the Jailhouse Rock which I assume is from the same maker of Marilyn Merlot. Here is another suggestion, how about a hologram of Elvis on the label. When one turns the bottle ever so slightly back and forth they can see Elvis shaking his pelvis. Now that’s fun stuff. I also enjoy Middle Sister because I am a middle child, not a middle sister but a middle child so I enjoy it anyway. Three Blind Moose was not bad, and I would say better then Three Blind Mice. When I first saw LeSnoot with its bright cartoony picture of a pig wearing a feather boa, I couldn’t help but put that bottle in my cart. How could one pass up a Miss. Piggyish bottle of wine? It was fabulous. In hindsight, frog legs might have been a nice compliment to the wine. Sorry but I just couldn’t help that one. House Wine was quite good. The simple black and white label was reminiscent of the Unbranded foods my mom used to purchase when I was a kid. And then there was Oops. Oops is very good, but be careful because if you drink too much Oops you might oops and say something you might regret. Just a disclosure there. During a rather dark moment I happened across a beautiful black bottle with a delicate pink label. On the label was a black heart and there was a dagger going through the heart. The name of this wine…Bitch. Of course I bought it! I drank that with a dear friend of mine when she needed some “me” time and an opportunity to do nothing but bitch. I was most happy that I was able to supply a bottle of wine which could coordinate with the theme of the evening. How very Martha Stewart of me.

My all time favorite label and the wine that I practically bought in bulk was, Mad Housewife. The label sported a 1950’ish housewife all beehived up, in her pretty June Cleaver dress and pointy glasses holding a wire whisk in her hand. The first time I saw this label it was like one of those scenes in a movie when everything around me faded away and all I saw was Mad Housewife. There was a chorus of singers singing, “Ahhhh.” I had found my sole mate of wines. I laughed at this perfect bottle of wine and laughed and laughed. I laughed so hard, I practically had a, “might need Depends” moment, and then I grabbed a case and put it in my cart. Well, OK maybe not a whole case, but I have tried to maintain a constant supply of my good friend Mad Housewife. She makes me smile every time I pull a bottle from the wine cupboard. She may only be $9.99 but in my opinion, she is one classy and priceless lady.

Running

I am a runner. Please don’t conjure up images of me as a high school cross country star or track star. I was anything but when I was in high school.

I seem to remember enjoying gym class when I was in elementary school where the only real form of athleticism or skill that a person needed was the ability to bombard classmates with big Nerf balls in a serious game of dodge ball. Then came middle school and later high school when everything changes. Suddenly it mattered how fast you could run a mile, how many push ups and sit ups you could perform, or how many chin ups you could do. Even worse were the “team” sports activities which were anything but “team” oriented. Yah, you guessed it, I was among the last chosen and least used in the game which is actually a good thing. I really didn’t mind warming the bench. I really lack all coordination when it comes to sports. One time when Megan was about 4 years old she asked me if I would go outside with her and play catch. I can not for the life of me catch a ball when it is thrown at me. I gently explained to Megan that Mommy isn’t so good at that kind of thing and maybe Daddy could play catch with her. Megan in her sweet little angelic voice said, “I can teach you Mommy.” To which Tom replied, “Actually she could.”

Simply put I hated gym class. Gym class can truly rob a person of all self respect. At least if you suck in math class it’s between you and your teacher. But in gym class if you suck it’s between you and well everyone. Part of my problem was the “pleasantly plump” body that I carried around. The most dreaded event for me was the one mile timed run. I hated it. I more than hated it but right now I just can not think of a better word, wait, detested it. How’s that? The night before I had to run a mile in class I would pray that I could please develop the stomach flu or a raging fever. Maybe sprain my leg. Anything just please don’t make me run that mile. Our evil teacher graded us based on our time so I knew I was going to get a bad grade because no on with a “pleasantly plump” build could ever tear it up on the track. It’s hard to focus on getting a good time on your one mile run when you are focused on your lungs exploding because they haven’t had that much physical activity in a while and you’re concerned about your shorts bunching up in your crotch area because your blubbery thighs are pushing them there. Or, even better, the rash that is developing in between your thighs from the friction caused from the constant rubbing and sweat. Ugh! Horrid memories.

I would actually look forward to the Health Education segment in class which was actually just sex education. It wasn’t that I was really all that interested in sex education. I had an older friend who explained it all to me using Barbie and Ken as examples so I knew everything. No, I didn’t need the instruction, I just didn’t want to have to endanger my physical well being by putting exercise demands on a poorly cared for body.

Then college came along. By then I was a little interested in health. I had shed some of that plumpness and was interested in avoiding its return, so I minored in Health and Wellness. One of my classes that I had to take was a general phys ed class. Here we go again. Well not exactly. See I went to a small college and the playing field gets leveled a little. My college was in the middle of nowhere. The only form of entertainment on weekends was parties at the fraternity and sorority houses. Let’s face it, walking downstairs to get your next beer was the new mile run, keg stands were the new push up, and quarter bounce was the new dodge ball. Good times, good times.

Yet, inevitably my professor announced one day that we would have a one mile run during our next class. Well slap me with a beer bong, I didn’t even know where my tennis shoes were. The next day of class I schlepped to the track with my class who all looked to be schlepping too. It is highly possible that we were all at a party the night before and, well, enough said. Professor told us to start running and I did. I ran, well okay, I jogged, very slowly, but it was definitely more than a fast walk. I could hear that evil middle school gym teacher in her witchy, raspy voice yelling, “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” As I was running, right it was really just a slow jog but please indulge me here, so as I was running I noticed that many of my classmates, some of them “athletes” had dropped down to a walk. Was I actually doing something better than an athlete? It was almost like an out of body experience. Step by step and lap by lap I was actually going to accomplish running this mile while “real” athletic people in my class were walking. In my mind I could hear the song from Chariots of Fire as I glided, well actually stumbled, around the track. The finish line was in sight as I moved in some form of a jog towards it with lungs burning and a fountain of sweat pouring from all crevices of my body. I hurled my body across the finish line. This time there was no teacher barking out a time for all my classmates to hear. Instead I heard my professor say, “Good job. Way to run the whole mile and not give up.” It was the most positive feedback I ever got in a phys ed class. Thank you professor.

I don’t really know how I got from there to actually running a half marathon, but I’m glad that I did. Sometimes when I am really delirious, I actually think about running a marathon! I’m proud to be called wife, Mom, daughter, sister, and friend, but I have to admit there is a certain special pride I feel when I call myself “runner”.

Chainsaw Massacre

As I have established, food challenge shows have been known to get me into some trouble. Well….home decorating shows have been known to have the same affect. Some years ago, I was watching a decorating show and the interior designer cut the arms off of an old sofa and recovered the sofa in white fabric. The result was a beautiful chic and modern looking sofa. At the time Tom and I wanted to make some changes to our formal living room. We had an old sofa in there and it just wasn’t fitting into the color scheme. I suggested that Tom let me make some minor changes to the sofa. Actually all I got out of my mouth was, “I saw this designer cut the arms off a sofa with a chainsaw.” I’m not sure where I lost him there but I did. He immediately turned around and started to walk away. Well after chasing him down and begging him and assuring him that by simply viewing about 1 minute of TV footage I was surely and expert in sofa renovation, Tom finally gave in and told me to have at it. Actually, I think he said, “Whatever, just be prepared to buy a new sofa when your experiment doesn’t work.” His lack of confidence in me gave me all that much more motivation to prove him wrong.

Bright and early that Saturday morning operation sofa renovation commenced. Since the sofa was extremely heavy and difficult to move out of the room it was in, I decided to hack the arms off inside the house. Tom feared for his daughter’s lives so he ushered them outside for the day. I grabbed a hold of the chainsaw and some safety goggles and let her rip. VVVRRROOOMMM. In hindsight, I realize that for passersby it must have been quite a sight. I was standing right in front of our big front picture window with a chainsaw in my hand, sawing apart my sofa. Wood and fabric were flying all over the place. I am sure I looked like a crazed lady. Come to think of it invitations to neighborhood playgroups did dwindle a little. Anyway I digress, at one point the chain came off the chainsaw which necessitated a trip to Ace Hardware. When the sales man handed me back my newly repaired chainsaw, he said, “Be careful with that Mame.” Perhaps he saw that wild frenzy in my eyes. I was wild with determination that this sofa was going to be fabulous when I was finished with it, and Tom would be eating his words.

After a couple of hours (not the 1 minute as TV land had mistakenly indicated), I had successfully dismembered the arms from my sofa. I had also successfully weakened the back. Who new that the arms helped to support the back of the sofa? I ran out to the garage and grabbed a hammer and some nails. Using wood from the arms, I fashioned some new supports for the back. It wasn’t pretty but I figured it was ok because it would all be covered in fabric. Satisfied with my back supports, I moved around to take a look at my almost masterpiece from the front. It was really something….and it was slanting ever so slightly to the right. Apparently the arms also provide some support to the front of the sofa. Many hours later and lots of nails, screws, and wood later I thought I had the sofa stable. Well as stable as it was going to be for the day because I had about 10 cuts, sweat dripping from all over my body, and muscles aching from beyond exhaustion.

The next day I set out for the local fabric store and purchased my white material. I placed the material over the sofa and attempted to make a new slipcover just as I had seen the designers do on this decorating show many times. The slipcover also turned out a little cockeyed but I was able to make it work by tucking it under the cushions. I screwed the new legs I had purchased for the sofa on, and called Tom into the house to assist in setting my new masterpiece on its feet and into place.

Tom walked in and I could tell by the look on his face that he really wanted this project to be a success. It had encompassed my whole weekend and left behind many battle scars. Not to mention that the failure of my project would mean we had to buy a new sofa. With the sofa righted and in place, we both stepped back to view the masterpiece. We were both a little speechless. The new sofa stood about 8 inches higher then a normal sofa. I’m not entirely sure why that happened. It also still slanted ever so slightly to the right. But, if you stood slightly off center and tilted your head just a little then it looked closer to being straight. Now for the final test, someone needed to sit on it. I briefly considered challenging Tom to a game of rock, paper, scissors to determine who would have the “honor,” but I knew it had to be me. I walked up to the sofa, turned around, and very gingerly sat down on my new sofa. When it didn’t completely give way, I slowly relaxed more of my weight onto the sofa. I let out a sigh of relief. Ha! It had worked. A smile came across my face. The sofa didn’t look exactly like the one on TV, ok it didn’t look anything like the one on TV, but I had executed my plan to the best of my ability. I didn’t care how ugly it looked. I had decided to hack up my sofa with a chainsaw to make a new one and I did it. Tom congratulated me on my accomplishment, and because he is such a great guy he never commented on how ugly it had turned out. Just as I was getting ready to stand up from the sofa there was a tiny shift and the weight of the sofa moved ever so slightly. I suggested that perhaps we should just be careful with the sofa. I also pointed out that since the sofa was in the formal living room, it was most definitely off limits for the girls to jump on. They could save that for the family room sofa. Besides, this sofa was now my masterpiece and any artisan wouldn’t want children jumping on their masterpiece.

Two days later, Tom and I were trying to decide where to hang some pictures in the formal living room. We were getting frustrated over the process. Tom walked over to the sofa and sat down. He didn’t throw his whole body weight down onto the sofa, but he also didn’t delicately and timidly sit down as I had a couple days before and every time since that I had sat on the sofa. One dramatic shift to the right and BANG, down went the sofa with Tom tumbling after. The sofa was kicked to the curb and I was sent out to find and purchase a new sofa. I also had to admit that he was right and I was wrong.

Skinny Mirrors

This past winter I had an opportunity to fly out to Las Vegas and meet up with Tom as he wrapped up a business trip. Since it was winter in the Midwest, who wouldn’t jump at a chance to spend a weekend in the warmth of Las Vegas? In preparation for my trip, I went shopping for a few items. Nothing extravagant, just some capri’s and a couple short sleeve shirts. I was looking forward to getting out of the long underwear, jeans, wool socks, boots, turtleneck, and sweater that are a staple for one living in the Midwest during the winter. On the downside, I would also have to shave, but oh well it’s worth it.

I started my quest at a store I frequent quite often and had success finding the capri’s. No such luck finding any tops, so I headed over to a higher end store and decided to checkout the sale and clearance rack. I found a few items to try on including a sweater off the clearance rack. It was late winter and I was tired of wearing the same sweaters and sweatshirts.

I headed back to the dressing room to try on my finds. I started with the short sleeve tops that I had found. After I put one on I decided to see what it would look like with the capri jeans that I had just purchased at the other store. I pulled on the capris and was stunned when I looked in the mirror. They looked really good. I had just tried them on at the other store, but I didn’t recall them giving me such a slender appearance. A smile spread across my face. I decided that the top also looked really good on me, so it was a keeper. I reluctantly took the capris off and put back on my old worn jeans. I also took the top off and tried on the sweater. When I stepped back to eye the outfit, I was stunned again. I thought to myself, “I look good.” Those old jeans never looked so good and the sweater was fantastically slimming. I turned this way and that all the while smiling at myself in the mirror. I was on cloud nine. I had never felt so great about myself.

It’s been my experience that when I am walking on cloud nine, someone comes along and rains all over me. Just when this new found self esteem was really starting to inflate my ego, I heard a woman a couple dressing rooms down yell to her husband, “They have skinny mirrors here.” He answered her by saying, “Of course.” She then said, “Yah so you’ll look great in the dressing room and then get home and look like crap.”

Picture rain falling on my cloud nine. Picture a pin popping my ego and my ego flying like crazy around the dressing room as the air races out of it. Picture the prideful smile changing to instant disgust and fury at the skinny mirror. Oh evil mirror, you built me up only to let my honest mirror at home break me down.

A person wanting to take a stand against the cruelty of the skinny mirror would refuse to purchase anything from the store. A truly passionate person is able to take this kind of stand against the unjust. I on the other hand still bought the short sleeve top and sweater because I would just pretend that they looked as good on me as they had in the dressing room. I went to the nearby cookie stand after I left the store and purchased a sugar cookie to make myself feel better.

When I got home, I stormed into the house. Tom asked me how my shopping trip went. I said, “You will never believe this. Did you know they have such a thing as skinny mirrors?” I proceeded to tell him about my painful discovery. I then demanded that he buy these said skinny mirrors and place them in our master bathroom because, “every woman should have the right to feel as fabulous as I did when I was standing in that dressing room every morning of her life.” I proclaimed this with an Oscar worthy performance, fist thrust in the air, but all I got from Tom was, “O.K.”

I still don’t have the skinny mirrors in my bathroom. I just have the same old standard issue “kill your self esteem whenever you put on anything” mirrors. However, I have been known to go back to that store and pretend like I want to try something on just so I can go into the dressing room and have a little “me” time. It’s good for the self esteem. I highly recommend that everyone find their nearest store with skinny mirrors and enjoy a little therapy with them every now and then. It’s good for the soul, and it’s good for the hips.

Beach Bumming

I hate to work on Fridays. I know most people hate Mondays, but for me it has always been Fridays. I would gladly work a 10 hour day Monday thru Thursday if it meant I could have Fridays off. When Tom and I were first married, we couldn’t afford to take vacations, and Tom was an independent sales person so he did not get any vacation time. I was incurring vacation time at my job, but I couldn’t go anywhere with it so I chose to take Fridays off during the summer. I loved those Fridays. I look back on them now with such longing.

Tom worked a lot of hours back then. He would work until very late at night and on occasion started work early in the morning. I was pretty much on my own most of the time. I would sleep in on my day off. After waking up I would take Murphy for a walk. This was my only form of exercise back then. I hadn’t found my passion for running yet. After a long walk with Murphy it was off to the beach. I grabbed a bottled water, book, music, towel, and sunscreen. I was fortunate to live 45 minutes from one of the most beautiful beaches around. I spent my afternoon lounging in the sun and working on developing what would later become “suspicious sun spots”. But hay, I was young and skin cancer was not even a thought in my mind. Not in the minds of the hundreds of other people at the beach either. After an afternoon of soaking up the sun, I would head back home, shower, and then grab my scrapbooking things and go to my favorite scrapbooking store for a night of preserving memories. It was an added benefit that a dear friend of mine worked at the store. This way I was able to spend time with my friend and work on what was then a serious hobby of mine. Around midnight I would arrive back at home and in complete bliss over my practically perfect day.

I don’t have those Fridays anymore, and my trips to the beach have changed considerably. Back in the day I could be ready and out the door to the beach in a matter of 15 minutes tops. Now, 13 years and two kids later a trip to the beach is a major undertaking. On beach days there is no sleeping in. Actually there is no sleeping in on any day. Rather then take Murphy for a walk, I bypass that and set right to work gathering up everything a family of four could possibly need for one day at the beach. It’s a little something like this: hot dogs, buns, ketchup, mustard, grill, 4 bottles of water, 2 juice boxes, 2 cans of diet coke, chips, cookies, fruit snacks, frozen yogurt tubes, paper plates, napkins, plastic utensils, whole roll of paper towel, trash bags, sunscreen, 4 beach chairs, 1 Frisbee, 2 boogie boards, 3 softball gloves, one softball, 8 beach towels, 1 beach blanket, 2 pair of goggles, 1 beach ball, 2 water guns, 2 foam noodles, 2 inner tubes, 1 inflatable teeter- totter, 1 bag of sand toys, 4 bikes, 2 bike helmets, and one roll of toilet paper- just in case. Have you seen beach bath houses? You will notice that there are two things missing from this list that were a staple in my younger days, a book and music. Hmm, yah, enough said on that.

It takes a couple of hours to gather up everything and get it into the back of our vehicle. It looks like our family is headed out of town for a week long vacation rather then a day at the beach. We make the drive to the beach and drive around the parking area forever looking for a close parking spot because Tom is not walking “five miles with all that stuff.” After finally finding a reasonably close space we set out on the task of emptying the contents of our vehicle. Of course the princess daughters arms are “full of stuff” after we hand them one thing to carry. Once we finally get to the beach and unpack all our belongings, it is then a constant stream of demands. Will you play catch with me? Will you take me in the water? Will you blow up my inner tube? Did you bring my goggles? Will you blow up the beach ball? Is there anything to eat? I don’t feel like hot dogs. Didn’t you pack me a PB&J? I want to play on the teeter totter. Can you blow it up? Can you help me make a sandcastle? Can we go on a bike ride? It’s important to note that this all occurs over the span of the first 15 minutes.

After a few hours at the beach, the daughters are ready to go home. Tom and I must begin the daunting task of packing up all our contents which are now scattered all over the beach for as far as the eye can see and haul them back to our vehicle. The daughters then hop in the truck followed by Tom yelling, “Don’t get in the truck until you have cleaned the sand off your feet!” The daughters respond by saying, “Ooops.” Every time this happens. Every time. Why can’t they remember to clean off their feet? They can remember that 4 years ago I sold a pink sweater in the garage sale, but they can’t ever remember to clean their feet after a day at the beach. This is followed by a rant from Tom on how it is impossible to keep his truck clean. Welcome to life with kids. You mean you still haven’t figured this out.

Needless to say by the time we arrive home and unload the truck, I am not feeling complete bliss from a practically perfect day. Instead I am collapsing into bed completely exhausted and wondering why we put ourselves through such torture. But, we all know we’ll enthusiastically set out to do it again in a few weeks.

Cook Off

There are advantages and disadvantages to spending hours upon hours stuck to your sofa viewing multiple episodes on the Food Network channel. I ought to know because based on the sinking of my sofa and the well worn 1-1-0 on my remote control, I think it is safe to say that I have quite possibly surpassed the world record for the number of hours spent watching one channel.

The clear advantage to my obsession with Food Network is the number of fantastic meals my family gets to enjoy. Tom has often raved to people about my cooking and commented, “We have something new every night.” A clear disadvantage to my obsession with Food Network is the number of disgusting meals my family has to eat. Tom doesn’t rave about those so much.

A real danger is the increasing number of shows that are about cooking challenges. I watch these and I begin to get crazy ideas about entering, say the Pillsbury Bake-Off, Chili Challenge, or Wedding Cake challenge. I think the last one is most definitely never going to happen. The biggest cake I ever decorated was a sheet cake sporting the Lizzie Maguire cartoon. On the few occasions when I have made a regular two layer cake the top layer always appears to be leaning ever so slightly to one side. This could probably be passed off as “trendy” if I had half a clue how to even pull that off. So cake decorating may not be the way to go. I seriously get crazy ideas that I should come up with some bizarre yet fabulous recipe and enter it in a cooking contest and win the million dollar first prize, become debt free, take a vacation to Hawaii, and hire a maid to clean my bathrooms.

One day last summer, Megan marched into the kitchen and slapped a piece of paper on the counter and said, “Could you please pick these things up for me at the grocery store?” I asked her why and she informed me that she had “created” a recipe, and she was going to make it for the family for dinner that night. I looked over the recipe and must admit that I was a little freaked out at first. Chopped carrots, cinnamon, orange juice, Oriental 5 spice. Is it freaking you out a little? It should. Not one to dampen my daughter’s creativity, I picked up the ingredients at the store and watched as Megan carefully mixed her marinade and placed it over chicken. I convinced Megan that it would be a good idea to let the chicken marinade for 24 hours so the flavors would really have time to develop. The reality is that I was very hungry that night and not optimistic that dinner was going to turn out well. I suggested we go out to eat that night. The next day we grilled Megan’s chicken and to my shame I must admit that it was fantastic. Tom, Hailey, and I were completely shocked at how flavorful and delicious Megan’s chicken had turned out. I think Megan was even a little surprised. We have since made her chicken many times and it never ceases to amaze me how wonderful it is.

Since we have established that Tom does not cook and has no real knowledge of cooking, I assumed that Megan must have gotten her brilliance in the recipe creation department from none other than me. So when Hailey caught me after a Food Network Challenge show and stated she wanted to come up with a new recipe for dinner on Friday night, I thought myself totally capable of assisting in the creation of this new recipe. In hindsight, I should have either let Hailey come up with the recipe completely on her own, or I should have suggested that she talk with her sister about recipe ideas. Hindsight is 20/20.

Hailey said she wanted to make a Sloppy Joe. I saw an advertisement on the TV for contestants to send in their favorite peanut butter recipes. I suggested to Hailey that we try a peanut butter and jelly Sloppy Joe. Hailey looked at me with great skepticism. I guess my delusional confidence won her over because she agreed that we should give it a try. We decided that ground chicken would probably compliment the PB&J better then ground beef. Hailey went to work browning the ground chicken while I feverishly mixed equal parts peanut butter and jelly. When the meat was ready, Hailey stirred in the sauce. We made sure it was well incorporated and then we both sampled our creation. I’m not sure there are words to describe the look on our faces after we tasted the PB&J Sloppy Joe mix. I guess it was a cross between disgust and an unwillingness to admit defeat. We raced to the refrigerator and grabbed ketchup, Worcestershire Sauce, and then to the cupboard for brown sugar. A little of this, a little of that, a lot of that and we had something that was, well, something we could possibly eat for dinner.

We had an agreement that we were not going to tell Megan and Tom what was in the sauce. We wanted them to at least try it before they formed a negative impression. When we sat down to eat what we decided to call “Sticky Joes”, Tom took a big bite, chewed quickly, then very slowly, then very quickly again. “What is in this?” I anxiously spoke up and said that Hailey had helped to create the sauce. With this mention his face softened and he looked lovingly at his little daughter. “It’s very different.” Hailey beamed at the praise from her adoring father. Tom and I managed to get our Sticky Joes down, but Megan and Hailey claimed to be full and passed on dinner that night.

My lesson learned from this failed attempt at food creativity. First, next time Hailey wants to be creative in the kitchen, give her full rein. She can’t do any worse then I did. Second, maybe I’m not quite ready for a Food Network Cook Off. Although, I did have this interesting idea with horseradish and peanut butter....

I Ordered Out

When Tom and I got married, we had an agreement from the start. He would not have to cook, and I would not have to mow the lawn. Tom does not like to cook. He knows how to make one thing and that is spaghetti. He does not have a problem making this on occasion, and it actually does taste good. Anything else and you could be asking for trouble. His dislike and inability to cook is not a problem because whenever I don’t feel like cooking he simply asks, “Do you want to order out?”

I go away once a year for a long weekend with the women on my mom’s side of the family. It is our annual girl’s weekend away, and I love it. I look forward to that weekend for months. It is great just to spend some quality time with my family who I usually only see on that weekend because we all live scattered across the United States. One year we decided to go on a cruise so my time away from home was actually going to be 5 full days. When Megan heard this she went into panic mode. She shrieked, “We’re gonna starve! We’re going to die!” After I got her settled down and assured her that even if I wasn’t leaving behind some pre-made casseroles for her father to warm up, her father does know how to dial for pizza or run through the drive thru. I assured her that there was no way she was going to starve or die. She calmed down and I am happy to report that everyone had plenty to eat while I was away on my cruise.

Now my extreme dislike is mowing the lawn. I know that there are many people who love mowing the lawn. They love the opportunity to get outside in the fresh air and work in their yard. The only work I like to do in my yard is holding down my lounge chair while I soak up the sun. Occasionally I am inclined to turn on the sprinkler in the extreme summer heat but that is usually only when my children request it.

Tom loves to work in the yard. He finds it to be therapeutic. He actually gets a gleam in his eye when spring arrives and the winter snow has all left. There is a giddy sound in his voice as he plans out his Saturday which is full of trips to the home and garden store, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, planting stuff, and oh yah, scooping a winters worth of doggie no-no. He isn’t usually too excited about that last part which is why there is a winters worth. Anyway, I have never understood this elation anymore then he can possibly understand my excitement over getting all the laundry washed, dried, folded, and put away in one day. Pure joy!

As much as Tom loves his yard work, he does find it difficult sometimes to devote the time he needs to it when work gets really busy. One summer he was very busy with meetings and had no time to mow the lawn in the backyard. I had invited a few friends and their children over for an afternoon of playtime and was distressed when I looked out in my backyard and saw a near forest growing from a two week hiatus of mowing. I had some pretty young children coming over for the play date. They were shorter then my lawn. They would surely get lost in my home grown jungle. How would I explain that to the parents? “Sorry, I lost your child in my overgrown backyard.” I’m guessing that kind of news would spread through the PTA like a California wildfire. Fast and furious. The implications from something like this could be catastrophic. And I’m just thinking about my family, not the poor lost child!

So some of you might be thinking that I either called the play date off or got the lawnmower out and mowed the lawn. You would be wrong on both accounts. I marched across the street to the neighbor boy and asked him if I could pay him to mow the lawn. He accepted.

I have to admit that after he started I am sure he wanted to back out. Like I said, it was a jungle in the backyard. The poor kid was seriously straining to push the lawnmower. He looked like a football player at practice pushing against that padded contraption that they push against. You know the one that the most overweight coach stands on and yells at the players to push harder while he goes for a ride down the football field. Yah that one. Anyway, I did run out periodically with water and coke to hydrate the poor kid who looked like he was on the verge of passing out. A few hours later he was done. I’m kidding, it wasn’t three hours. Maybe 2. I profusely thanked my neighbor boy. I’m pretty sure he will hide if he ever sees me walking across the street towards his house again.

We had the play date. The backyard looked great. No children were lost in the weeds. Tom returned home from his business trip the next day. He walked out into the backyard and a huge smile broke out across his face. He looked like he was on the verge of crying tears of joy. I knew that he had been thinking about how tall the grass was in the backyard and stressing because he had not had time to mow it before he left. I knew that the whole time he was driving home he was thinking about that yard that he had to get mowed. Tom likes to work in the yard, but when he hasn’t seen his girls for a while, he would rather be with us not the yard. I knew he was incredibly happy and thankful that all he had to do was spend some time with his girls. He looked at me and said, “I can’t believe you mowed the lawn! Thank you!” Hmmm to be honest or not. To be a super hero or fess up. In the end I decided that I’m a super hero in other ways so I confessed, “I didn’t mow the lawn.”
“You didn’t? Then how did it get mowed?”
“I ordered out.”