Max spontaneously sang this (original) song on the beach over the summer. And, no, it wasn't his birthday, not even close. I dedicate it to my brother James who is turning 30 this weekend. Happy birthday, J.D.! I hope it's not a rip off!
I'm thinking of submitting it to the Friend to be published and used as an alternate birthday song in Primary. What do you think?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Compliments With a Chance of Meatballs
Yesterday I ran away from my computer. I have to do that sometimes when I fear we are becoming co-dependent. The kids were out of school for an inservice day and the sun was shining, so I gave my computer the cold shoulder and put the kids in the car to run away.
"Where are we going?" they asked from the back seat.
"Somewhere fabulous!" I said.
"Like, where?" they asked with thick skepticism.
"IKEA!" I said with all the enthusiasm of a varsity cheerleader.
The noise from the backseat was a mix between a dying cat and a weary woman in her 73rd hour of labor.
"Oh, come on," I said, "we'll have meatballs. It will be great."
Within a few minutes, we'd struck a somewhat regular deal: if they were patient and long suffering while I shopped, I would take them to their favorite bargain store on the way home for a cheap toy. That's right, I bribe them to shop with me. Don't judge. My diplomatic skills are enviable.
Why was I headed to IKEA? I can't say what the lure is, exactly. I have a very traditional-style home and no need for furniture, but there's something about IKEA that I find very.....alluring. I walk around the showrooms and feel inspired to be more.....I don't know, European? I like walking through the swanky imaginary living rooms and kitchens where my imaginary Swedish friends Sven and Monika live. I ring their imaginary DUURBEL and ask to borrow a cup of SHOOGHRE. And while Sven is off in the kitchen, Monika and I tell each other witty GJOHKKS and compliment each other's SKAARVZ.
IKEA makes me feel bilingual. Plus, I love those meatballs.
The drive took a while and when the sixth indie-folk song played on the stereo, Max made a suggestion from the backseat.
"Let's do compulments instead of listening to music," he said.
"OK, we'll do compliments," I said, turning the music off.
We do on-demand compliment-fests from time to time in our family. It's very a very warm-and-fuzzy activity and the place I first learned that I was considered a "fashionist" by Max, which I believe is a fashionable pacifist. Which is pretty much what I am.
"You go first, Mom." Max said.
"OK, Max," I said, "I like the way you build aircraft carriers out of paper."
"Thanks," he said.
"And, Christian, I like the way that you get up every morning with no complaint. I admire that."
"Um, thanks," said Christian with one headphone in his ear.
"OK, Christian," said Max, "it's your turn to give compulments."
"Um, I don't think I want to play," said Christian as he put both headphones in his ears. Then he pulled one out and said, "Actually, I'll play but I don't want to give any compliments. I just want to get them."
I guffawed.
Ever accommodating, Max agreed to this and gave us each a compliment. I followed his be-the-bigger-man lead and gave them each another compliment. Max took a turn and then must have run out of ideas because he announced that he'd probably prefer to just receive compliments and not give any more.
I guffawed again, but I guess they thought I was coughing.
Suddenly, it became very clear what was happening. They had the upper hand and they knew it. I was a victim of extortion. First, they wanted cheap toys and now they wanted unlimited compliments, and they knew that I would oblige because I really wanted to go to IKEA and wander the showrooms and eat meatballs with gravy and jam! What was next, I wondered? Cash?
As Sven and Monika would say, I was totally SKKRWD.
"Where are we going?" they asked from the back seat.
"Somewhere fabulous!" I said.
"Like, where?" they asked with thick skepticism.
"IKEA!" I said with all the enthusiasm of a varsity cheerleader.
The noise from the backseat was a mix between a dying cat and a weary woman in her 73rd hour of labor.
"Oh, come on," I said, "we'll have meatballs. It will be great."
Within a few minutes, we'd struck a somewhat regular deal: if they were patient and long suffering while I shopped, I would take them to their favorite bargain store on the way home for a cheap toy. That's right, I bribe them to shop with me. Don't judge. My diplomatic skills are enviable.
Why was I headed to IKEA? I can't say what the lure is, exactly. I have a very traditional-style home and no need for furniture, but there's something about IKEA that I find very.....alluring. I walk around the showrooms and feel inspired to be more.....I don't know, European? I like walking through the swanky imaginary living rooms and kitchens where my imaginary Swedish friends Sven and Monika live. I ring their imaginary DUURBEL and ask to borrow a cup of SHOOGHRE. And while Sven is off in the kitchen, Monika and I tell each other witty GJOHKKS and compliment each other's SKAARVZ.
IKEA makes me feel bilingual. Plus, I love those meatballs.
The drive took a while and when the sixth indie-folk song played on the stereo, Max made a suggestion from the backseat.
"Let's do compulments instead of listening to music," he said.
"OK, we'll do compliments," I said, turning the music off.
We do on-demand compliment-fests from time to time in our family. It's very a very warm-and-fuzzy activity and the place I first learned that I was considered a "fashionist" by Max, which I believe is a fashionable pacifist. Which is pretty much what I am.
"You go first, Mom." Max said.
"OK, Max," I said, "I like the way you build aircraft carriers out of paper."
"Thanks," he said.
"And, Christian, I like the way that you get up every morning with no complaint. I admire that."
"Um, thanks," said Christian with one headphone in his ear.
"OK, Christian," said Max, "it's your turn to give compulments."
"Um, I don't think I want to play," said Christian as he put both headphones in his ears. Then he pulled one out and said, "Actually, I'll play but I don't want to give any compliments. I just want to get them."
I guffawed.
Ever accommodating, Max agreed to this and gave us each a compliment. I followed his be-the-bigger-man lead and gave them each another compliment. Max took a turn and then must have run out of ideas because he announced that he'd probably prefer to just receive compliments and not give any more.
I guffawed again, but I guess they thought I was coughing.
Suddenly, it became very clear what was happening. They had the upper hand and they knew it. I was a victim of extortion. First, they wanted cheap toys and now they wanted unlimited compliments, and they knew that I would oblige because I really wanted to go to IKEA and wander the showrooms and eat meatballs with gravy and jam! What was next, I wondered? Cash?
As Sven and Monika would say, I was totally SKKRWD.
Please Tell Me That Big Eighties Hair Is Coming Back
Fingers crossed, people, fingers crossed.
P.S. Just for clarification, I'm not constipated anymore. That look on my face is called "cautiously optimistic."
Monday, November 2, 2009
Wanna Read Part of My Book?
I've mentioned it before, but just in case you're new around here, I'm trying to write a book. And let me tell you a few things I've learned so far:
- Writing a book feels kind of like deciding you're going to go out into the backyard and count all the blades of grass and organize them according to height and girth and shade of green. And then ignoring the truth when you know that, realistically, it's probably impossible.
- Writing a book makes you intensely interested in other people because you're suddenly a sponge for ideas. I saw a t-shirt over the summer that said, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel." People of the world, please consider yourself officially forewarned.
- I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm excited to be doing it.
- I have no idea where story lines are going, but I'm excited about them.
- The more I talk about it and share it with others, the more committed I am to moving it along. I have discovered that I am motivated by accountability and deadlines, so I'm trying to create both as I go. (I am also motivated by pasta and burritos, but I haven't figured out how to incorporate those.)
Since I announced that I was starting a book here on my blog, and because you are so kind and encouraging, I've decided to start posting excerpts here for you to read. I hope you will enjoy them and I hope that I will have many, many more to share with you as this baby of a book gestates full term. I am shutting comments off for this post because I need to practice putting this out there without knowing what people think. I promise that it's not because I'm afraid of critical feedback; I'm more afraid that in this context I would only get positive comments from really nice people and could get a false sense of how it's really being read. So, I'm offering this as a no-strings-attached slice of this book. You can love it or hate it or sort of like it or not care about it and I'll never know. So many of you wonderful souls have told me that you know I can do this, but I need to practice proving that I know I can do this. Does that make sense? (You can't answer that because I shut comments off.) You are, however, welcome to send me pasta or burritos as motivation.
So, here it goes. I don't want to give too much preface, but you should know that this story is being told from the point-of-view of a ten-year-old boy named Clooney. (And just to be safe, you should also know that this is copyrighted and if you copy it or use it in any way, you will be hunted down and prosecuted by my cousin Guido and his baseball bat. Mmmkay?)
An excerpt (isn't "excerpt" a funny word?):
Britt’s funeral was…weird. First of all, I hated him, and I’m not sure you’re supposed to go to the funerals of your arch enemies. He used to beat me up every day after school. One time he kicked me in the back so hard, I peed red. I didn’t tell my mom because that was during her depressed time, and I couldn’t see how red pee would do anything but make things worse. I didn’t know what to do, even though I thought about it every night before I went to sleep, and every morning about two minutes after I woke up. I finally came up with a plan to get a King Cobra snake and keep it in my backpack until after school. I figured that I could train it to strike my enemies as soon as they began an attack. I checked out a book on King Cobras from the library and found out within the first few pages that they are not very trainable. Before I came up with another plan, Britt “dropped over dead.”
Problem solved.
Our whole entire class went to the funeral together on a Friday morning when we were supposed to be in school. We got special permission from the principal. Some of the parents came, but my mom had to work, so I just went along, following behind the others. My mom made me wear my darkest pair of jeans and a shirt with buttons. She combed my hair and put gel in it that morning to keep it nice and flat the whole day. She combed it so carefully, I remember, and then set the comb down and held my face in her hands.
“I’m really sorry about your friend Britt,” she said. “I know it’s hard to lose somebody. And if you need to cry or talk about it, you just come to me, okay?”
I hadn’t realized it, but tears were filling up in my eyes, because I was thinking about how I had wanted to cry and talk to her about Britt back when he was beating the crap out of me, but I hadn’t dared to tell her.
She saw my tears and hugged me and held me tight like a cast. And the tighter she held, the more the tears fell out. And the more the tears fell out, the more the snot started to run from my nose, but I didn’t even wipe it because I was too busy bawling and wishing I had told her about the red pee.
Finally, she released me and took me by the shoulders, crouching to look in my eyes.
“Oh, honey,” she said, “he was a good friend to you, wasn’t he?”
I looked at the floor. Then I lied another one of my lies and said yes.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Random: Sunday Night Edition
- It's Sunday night.
- I have Sunday Night Anxiety.
- Sunday Night Anxiety is when you realize the weekend is almost over and you haven't accomplished much of anything.
- I'm not sure what I was hoping to accomplish.
- There are dishes in the sink.
- I wish I would have accomplished doing the dishes tonight.
- I also wish that I would have magically finished some work.
- On Friday night, I always think I'm going to get some work done over the weekend.
- I rarely get any work done over the weekend.
- I'm tired.
- I'm also constipated.
- I'm never constipated.
- I pride myself in very regular bowel movements.
- Raise your hand if you feel uncomfortable right now.
- Halloween was fun.
- Max's best friend from school came over to trick-or-treat with us.
- He is Pakistani.
- Before he came over, Ryan was asking me about him.
- "What does he look like?" Ryan asked.
- "He looks like the Pakistani version of Max," I said.
- Swap Max's goldilocks for jet black hair and darken his skin tone four or five shades and there you have it.
- Other than that, they look remarkably alike.
- Have you ever wondered if you have a Pakistani version of yourself out there?
- I have.
- I have also wondered if my Pakistani twin is constipated.
- I hope she isn't.
- Constipation feels like hurrying to get into a movie, popcorn in hand, finding a seat, and then waiting for a movie that never starts.
- I mean, it seems like the movie is going to start, but it never does.
- Raise your hand if you've had enough metaphors for the day.
- I'm tired, but I think I already mentioned that.
- I liked reading the comments on my last post.
- It got me thinking.
- I'm not sure I expressed exactly what I wanted to say.
- I hate that feeling.
- I trimmed my fingernails today.
- I like them short.
- My dad used to trim my fingernails during church with the nail clippers he kept on his key ring.
- He'd even file them and push back the cuticles.
- Funny, the memories that stick with you.
- Sometimes I get overwhelmed being the mom.
- Like, knowing that toilets wouldn't get flushed without my prompting.
- Or hands washed.
- Or teeth brushed.
- Or baths taken.
- Or laundry washed.
- Or bedtime acknowledged.
- Or homework completed.
- Or dog let out.
- I don't like feeling overwhelmed.
- Especially on a Sunday night.
- Max needs to go to bed.
- It's past his bedtime because I am protesting motherhood right now.
- I've spent the last hour conducting an experiment.
- To see if he will tuck himself in.
- My hypothesis was that he wouldn't tuck himself in.
- And I was exactly right.
- He's wide awake and drawing a cartoon right now.
- I have proven a theory: My kids don't fall asleep voluntarily.
- He needs to go to bed.
- Even though he doesn't know it.
- I know it.
- I guess he needs me.
- That's not such a bad thing.
- Goodnight, y'all.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
All That the Blog Leaves Out
Does this ever happen to you as a blogger? You learn of a new reader and suddenly you look at yourself and your blog through this person's eyes? You re-read your most recent posts with this new lens and a furrowed brow. And then you become frozen in a coma of hyper-focused self-doubt?
Yes? {Crickets chirping.} No?
Upon request, I gave my blog address to a new friend. I was sincerely excited and flattered that she wanted to read. However, as I handed over the slip of paper with the URL written, I became ill with self-doubt and felt compelled to say, "I swear I'm not nearly as self-absorbed as I seem on my blog." It was a statement, but it sounded more like a plea. "Or as shallow!" I wanted to shout, but that seemed a little self-absorbed. And shallow. I also resisted the urge to crawl under the table.
I'm as fickle as a pickle; thrilled to share what I've written in one moment and churning in embarrassment the next. (I wonder, is this what makes me a writer?)
When this happens, I usually spend some quiet moments in the worn-out wingback chair deep in the mahogany library of my brain, holding an unlit pipe to my lips and asking myself, "Is my blog a good representation of who I really am? What does the blog leave out?"
As I ponder the answer, I usually develop a headache because pondering is very hard work for my mind. Besides that, the lighting is bad in my brain library, and that kind of gives me a headache too. After the pondering, I start pleading my case for and against myself. To myself. And then I let myself be the judge.
I usually settle down and embrace the fact that blogging is my wonderfully self-indulgent hobby that fulfills a need to express myself and my parade of passing thoughts. Narcissistic? Sure. Completely subjective? Of course. Worthwhile? Absolutely. It cancels the desire I might otherwise have to hush everybody and shout, "I'm telling the story!"
But, of course, there are parts left out, and the dangerously delightful thing is that I get to choose exactly what is left on the cutting room floor. And though I try to write this blog for myself, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that everything I post here is written with an audience in mind, an audience made up of people I love and respect as well as people who are completely anonymous to me. And I like all of them, I really do.
So what gets left out?
This blog is not a diary for me and, therefore, will never be the place where I splatter my uncensored opinions, never caring who gets smacked in the face with one of my flying notions. I save my flying notions for my real diary. (Actually, I don't have a real diary. My flying notions are saved for my conversations with Ryan; he loves my uncensored, flying opinions.) The point is that I try to be careful and thoughtful because I'd like this to be a friendly place for one and all. You know, like Disneyland but with free churros. Some blogs are all about opinion and debate, but that's not my goal. My goal is Disneyland. With free churros.
Next place for edit? The family. While I aim to portray a realistic view of my family (because this is a record of my life), I don't share everything about my husband and kids and our relationships. The longer I blog, the more sensitive I feel about finding the fine line between being authentic in my storytelling and being exploitive, especially regarding my kids. I didn't have my kids just so that I would have plenty of fodder for my blog. I had them for manual labor, so I've got to keep them healthy and happy. A good worker is a happy worker.
In the same way that I strive to be respectful of those reading this, I try to be respectful of anybody I write about. If I write about someone who doesn't know about my blog, I change their name. Or, I let them know and ask for their permission. When it comes to my family, I don't write anything about them that they would be unhappy or embarrassed to read. If I'm not sure, I ask them. And, occasionally, I think the precious, funny moments I share with them ought to stay just between us, so I don't write about them at all. I never want my first thought when something is said or done to be, "I can't wait to blog this!" I want to live my life first and blog about it later.
What else? Hmmm, let's see.... I don't write about fights or feuds with anybody. I don't see how this would ever be a good idea, and I could never pretend that this story I'm telling is anything but one-sided. On the other hand, little arguments are fine to write about, especially if I say something clever, and especially if I am right.
OK, that's it. That's everything that gets left out. Well, except for my current body weight--that's totally off limits. Unless I ever manage to weigh 103 pounds. In that case, I will start every blog post with, "HEY EVERYBODY, I WEIGH 103 POUNDS! In other news..." I don't see it ever happening, but I'd like to have a plan in place.
{Crickets chirping.}
Wow! Would you look at the time?
I'm think I'm finished now contemplating with my unlit pipe in my dark mahogany library. I'm glad I've taken a moment to ask myself a few questions about all that is said and unsaid, and I'm comfortable with my answers. It's an incomplete portrait, for sure, but if you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can tell it's of me and my family. That's the way I want it, I suppose.
And now I'd like to ask you: What are your thoughts? What do you leave out of your blog and why? And also, would you like a churro? They're free!
Yes? {Crickets chirping.} No?
Upon request, I gave my blog address to a new friend. I was sincerely excited and flattered that she wanted to read. However, as I handed over the slip of paper with the URL written, I became ill with self-doubt and felt compelled to say, "I swear I'm not nearly as self-absorbed as I seem on my blog." It was a statement, but it sounded more like a plea. "Or as shallow!" I wanted to shout, but that seemed a little self-absorbed. And shallow. I also resisted the urge to crawl under the table.
I'm as fickle as a pickle; thrilled to share what I've written in one moment and churning in embarrassment the next. (I wonder, is this what makes me a writer?)
When this happens, I usually spend some quiet moments in the worn-out wingback chair deep in the mahogany library of my brain, holding an unlit pipe to my lips and asking myself, "Is my blog a good representation of who I really am? What does the blog leave out?"
As I ponder the answer, I usually develop a headache because pondering is very hard work for my mind. Besides that, the lighting is bad in my brain library, and that kind of gives me a headache too. After the pondering, I start pleading my case for and against myself. To myself. And then I let myself be the judge.
I usually settle down and embrace the fact that blogging is my wonderfully self-indulgent hobby that fulfills a need to express myself and my parade of passing thoughts. Narcissistic? Sure. Completely subjective? Of course. Worthwhile? Absolutely. It cancels the desire I might otherwise have to hush everybody and shout, "I'm telling the story!"
But, of course, there are parts left out, and the dangerously delightful thing is that I get to choose exactly what is left on the cutting room floor. And though I try to write this blog for myself, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that everything I post here is written with an audience in mind, an audience made up of people I love and respect as well as people who are completely anonymous to me. And I like all of them, I really do.
So what gets left out?
This blog is not a diary for me and, therefore, will never be the place where I splatter my uncensored opinions, never caring who gets smacked in the face with one of my flying notions. I save my flying notions for my real diary. (Actually, I don't have a real diary. My flying notions are saved for my conversations with Ryan; he loves my uncensored, flying opinions.) The point is that I try to be careful and thoughtful because I'd like this to be a friendly place for one and all. You know, like Disneyland but with free churros. Some blogs are all about opinion and debate, but that's not my goal. My goal is Disneyland. With free churros.
Next place for edit? The family. While I aim to portray a realistic view of my family (because this is a record of my life), I don't share everything about my husband and kids and our relationships. The longer I blog, the more sensitive I feel about finding the fine line between being authentic in my storytelling and being exploitive, especially regarding my kids. I didn't have my kids just so that I would have plenty of fodder for my blog. I had them for manual labor, so I've got to keep them healthy and happy. A good worker is a happy worker.
In the same way that I strive to be respectful of those reading this, I try to be respectful of anybody I write about. If I write about someone who doesn't know about my blog, I change their name. Or, I let them know and ask for their permission. When it comes to my family, I don't write anything about them that they would be unhappy or embarrassed to read. If I'm not sure, I ask them. And, occasionally, I think the precious, funny moments I share with them ought to stay just between us, so I don't write about them at all. I never want my first thought when something is said or done to be, "I can't wait to blog this!" I want to live my life first and blog about it later.
What else? Hmmm, let's see.... I don't write about fights or feuds with anybody. I don't see how this would ever be a good idea, and I could never pretend that this story I'm telling is anything but one-sided. On the other hand, little arguments are fine to write about, especially if I say something clever, and especially if I am right.
OK, that's it. That's everything that gets left out. Well, except for my current body weight--that's totally off limits. Unless I ever manage to weigh 103 pounds. In that case, I will start every blog post with, "HEY EVERYBODY, I WEIGH 103 POUNDS! In other news..." I don't see it ever happening, but I'd like to have a plan in place.
{Crickets chirping.}
Wow! Would you look at the time?
I'm think I'm finished now contemplating with my unlit pipe in my dark mahogany library. I'm glad I've taken a moment to ask myself a few questions about all that is said and unsaid, and I'm comfortable with my answers. It's an incomplete portrait, for sure, but if you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can tell it's of me and my family. That's the way I want it, I suppose.
And now I'd like to ask you: What are your thoughts? What do you leave out of your blog and why? And also, would you like a churro? They're free!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Caring for the Sick and Afflicted
Ryan came down with the flu on Sunday. I'm not sure if it's brand name flu or just generic flu, but it doesn't really matter to me. I find that you can pick up designer flus at any number of discount places if you just know how to look for it. My favorite technique is a quick lick of doorknobs and countertops--works like a charm.
This morning I went to the local pharmacy to pick up some supplies for my darling infested husband, including the following staples:
This morning I went to the local pharmacy to pick up some supplies for my darling infested husband, including the following staples:
- Two DVDs from RedBox to watch
- Daytime cold and flu medicine
- Nighttime cold and flu medicine
- Sore throat lozenges
- Cough drops
- Neosporin (to rub in the nose and on the throat)
- Puffs Plus with lotion
- Cranberry juice
- Nighttime baby wash with lavender
- Reese's pieces
- A two-pound bag of M&Ms
- A big bag of candy pumpkins made out of the candy corn stuff
- Two little skull tea light holders
- Gum
He should be better in no time.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Come With Me to the Land of My People
It's a beautiful overcast morning, a perfect day to head out to Amish country.
Ah, yes. Here we are. Home at last.
Anyway, back to my old country. There are cows in the old country. "Hi, cows! It's me, Tiffany! Remember?"
Hello, silos! Good job storing all that corn and grain!
I'm getting hungry, are you? Let's stop for some freshly roasted Amish chicken, and let's eat it Amish-style. All you need is a napkin and ten greedy fingers. Mmmmm.
And for dessert, how about a warm Amish pumpkin pie? Made in a real Amish kitchen by a real Amish woman with a real Amish baby on her hip? And wrapped in real Amish plastic wrap!
Now some of you may be wondering if it's hard work and humility all the time out here among my people. Is there a place for fun? Do the Amish have a sense of humor? I answer you with Exhibit A:
It's complicated. {Sigh.}
Would you like to step out for a bit and get some exercise? How about a ride on these little Amish scooters, left here unattended?
Oh, that was exhilarating! In a modest, unassuming, God-fearing way.
Good golly, where has the time gone? We'd better get back in the car and head home. Wave goodbye to the sweeping landscape.
Fasten your seatbelts and settle in for the ride back to electricity and bean burritos! Our tour is over. Any questions?
Yes, you, in the back. What's that?
Oh yes, of course, I almost forgot to show you our new car! Here is the interior--very comfy and black.
And the exterior? Well, it's a little boxy, but I'm into that.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Thirty-Second Slice of the Last Two Weeks of My Life
I made this interpretive video (make your own here) to give you a small peek into our home for the past couple of weeks. Play the video over and over about six thousand times for more impact.
Thankfully, we can move on with our lives because we did, in fact, buy a car.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
All is Fair in Love and Board Games
We played Monopoly over the weekend. I used to beg my siblings to play that game when I was a kid, but everybody always rolled their eyes and moaned, "I hate that game!" Christian has been begging us to play it, and even though Ryan and I rolled our eyes to each other behind his back, we agreed to play. He's our kid, after all, and part of our obligation as parents is to clock a certain number of hours playing board games with him. Go ahead and check that; it's in the handbook.
So, we start playing and on my second roll of the dice, I landed in jail. JAIL! What the? But I didn't do anything wrong! I was forced to sit there in jail while everybody else pranced around buying up St. Charles Place and Marvin Gardens and B&O Railroad. I sat in the same spot, carving tally marks in the wall and getting tattoos. Doing hard time is so.....hard.
But finally, after three rounds of lost turns, I paid my debt to society (actually, I paid the banker $50) and headed out into the real world a changed woman. Or more particularly, a changed shoe. I stepped out into the "Just Visiting" area of the prison and looked around. I threw my shoelaces up in the air and exclaimed: The world is such a beautiful place! And it's so good to be alive! I'm going to live each day to the fullest by buying real estate and creating wonderful green houses and red hotels to shelter my loved ones!
Prison changes people.
The playing field wasn't exactly even at this point. Ryan had substantial holdings; Max was closing in on some utility ventures; and Christian was finding his place in the banking industry. Sure, I was behind in nearly every respect, but I had something they didn't have: PERSPECTIVE. And you just can't put a price or a big red hotel on that.
I worked hard and soon I was enjoying some success--Baltic Avenue, Illinois Avenue, and even a darling set of twins named Boardwalk and Park Place. When I landed on Water Works, I gladly handed over $120 dollars to Max's small pile of money, even though he was lying under the coffee table picking his nose and would never have known I owed him a dime. And when Christian owed me $14 in rent, but only had $11 without breaking a hundred-dollar bill? I said no problem, we're family. Mi casa, su casa. I was playing with integrity.
I was also playing with Ryan.
Ryan's approach to the game was quite different. It was like he was determined to own all of the properties and have all the money to himself. He quickly secured the trio of yellow properties and at the earliest convenience built a giant resort, three hotels deep, with water slides and chocolate fountains. I thought it was a tad showy, but I'm the one with integrity and perspective, so I kept my opinion to myself. Christian spent a lavish turn there, leaving him with nothing but a railroad and a five spot. He left in utter devastation. Max lost everything in a similar stay, although he wasn't really aware, being under the coffee table and all. I was a little bothered at how easily and cheerfully Ryan was bankrupting our children, but it wasn't until I checked into one of his smaller investments that I saw his true colors.
"That will be two hundred and forty dollars," he said (which is not really good customer service, I'd like to point out).
"I'm a little short on cash." I said.
"That's unfortunate," he said.
I offered him a nice fixer-upper property and a fifty dollar bill. He declined the offer, asking for my recently obtained one-house Pennsylvania Avenue--valued at $470.
"But, I don't owe you that much," I said.
"I don't care," he said. "You don't seem to have a lot of options."
"Well, are you going to pay me the difference?" I implored. (Imploring is like asking, but with more intensity and ticked-offness.)
"No," he said, without a second thought.
I stared at him, blinking in disbelief. And he had the audacity to laugh at me because he thought the disbelieving blinking was hilarious. The funniest thing he's ever seen, in fact.
"How do you sleep at night?" I asked. And I meant it.
There wasn't much game left at this point. Every roll of the dice led to more tragedy for me and the kids and more money and property to Ryan. Christian surrendered everything but his little metal top hat to Mr. Ruthless Moneygrabber, and was still in the hole when he made an emotional exit. Max--long gone to another one of Ryan's disgusting, garish, so-not-worth-it rent payments--took it much better. He was in the kitchen eating ice cream out of the carton.
I held on the longest, believing that all of the good karma seeds I had sown throughout my post-conviction playing time would finally yield a happy ending. You know, the one in which I own all of the properties and share them freely and equally with all the top hats, cars, irons, and wheelbarrows of the world, rent-free with an all-you-can-eat buffet? (Did you just get goosebumps?)
Yeah, well, I guess karma was taking a nap. I landed on another one of Ryan's pretentious properties, whose nightly rate was a trillion dollars plus one kidney.
"You could really use some time in prison," I said as I walked away in a huff.
So, we start playing and on my second roll of the dice, I landed in jail. JAIL! What the? But I didn't do anything wrong! I was forced to sit there in jail while everybody else pranced around buying up St. Charles Place and Marvin Gardens and B&O Railroad. I sat in the same spot, carving tally marks in the wall and getting tattoos. Doing hard time is so.....hard.
But finally, after three rounds of lost turns, I paid my debt to society (actually, I paid the banker $50) and headed out into the real world a changed woman. Or more particularly, a changed shoe. I stepped out into the "Just Visiting" area of the prison and looked around. I threw my shoelaces up in the air and exclaimed: The world is such a beautiful place! And it's so good to be alive! I'm going to live each day to the fullest by buying real estate and creating wonderful green houses and red hotels to shelter my loved ones!
Prison changes people.
The playing field wasn't exactly even at this point. Ryan had substantial holdings; Max was closing in on some utility ventures; and Christian was finding his place in the banking industry. Sure, I was behind in nearly every respect, but I had something they didn't have: PERSPECTIVE. And you just can't put a price or a big red hotel on that.
I worked hard and soon I was enjoying some success--Baltic Avenue, Illinois Avenue, and even a darling set of twins named Boardwalk and Park Place. When I landed on Water Works, I gladly handed over $120 dollars to Max's small pile of money, even though he was lying under the coffee table picking his nose and would never have known I owed him a dime. And when Christian owed me $14 in rent, but only had $11 without breaking a hundred-dollar bill? I said no problem, we're family. Mi casa, su casa. I was playing with integrity.
I was also playing with Ryan.
Ryan's approach to the game was quite different. It was like he was determined to own all of the properties and have all the money to himself. He quickly secured the trio of yellow properties and at the earliest convenience built a giant resort, three hotels deep, with water slides and chocolate fountains. I thought it was a tad showy, but I'm the one with integrity and perspective, so I kept my opinion to myself. Christian spent a lavish turn there, leaving him with nothing but a railroad and a five spot. He left in utter devastation. Max lost everything in a similar stay, although he wasn't really aware, being under the coffee table and all. I was a little bothered at how easily and cheerfully Ryan was bankrupting our children, but it wasn't until I checked into one of his smaller investments that I saw his true colors.
"That will be two hundred and forty dollars," he said (which is not really good customer service, I'd like to point out).
"I'm a little short on cash." I said.
"That's unfortunate," he said.
I offered him a nice fixer-upper property and a fifty dollar bill. He declined the offer, asking for my recently obtained one-house Pennsylvania Avenue--valued at $470.
"But, I don't owe you that much," I said.
"I don't care," he said. "You don't seem to have a lot of options."
"Well, are you going to pay me the difference?" I implored. (Imploring is like asking, but with more intensity and ticked-offness.)
"No," he said, without a second thought.
I stared at him, blinking in disbelief. And he had the audacity to laugh at me because he thought the disbelieving blinking was hilarious. The funniest thing he's ever seen, in fact.
"How do you sleep at night?" I asked. And I meant it.
There wasn't much game left at this point. Every roll of the dice led to more tragedy for me and the kids and more money and property to Ryan. Christian surrendered everything but his little metal top hat to Mr. Ruthless Moneygrabber, and was still in the hole when he made an emotional exit. Max--long gone to another one of Ryan's disgusting, garish, so-not-worth-it rent payments--took it much better. He was in the kitchen eating ice cream out of the carton.
I held on the longest, believing that all of the good karma seeds I had sown throughout my post-conviction playing time would finally yield a happy ending. You know, the one in which I own all of the properties and share them freely and equally with all the top hats, cars, irons, and wheelbarrows of the world, rent-free with an all-you-can-eat buffet? (Did you just get goosebumps?)
Yeah, well, I guess karma was taking a nap. I landed on another one of Ryan's pretentious properties, whose nightly rate was a trillion dollars plus one kidney.
"You could really use some time in prison," I said as I walked away in a huff.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What Does It All Mean?
I reached in the pocket of my hoodie and found a tiny tooth. This doesn't happen every day, so I figured it must be a sign. Of what, I'm not sure; but a sign just the same.
I went to church and while singing a song about Jesus, a little boy handed me three coupons for Dunkin' Donuts. Another sign? Obviously.
Later, in the middle of watching a movie, Christian turned to me and whispered, "I just lost a molar." I'm not sure if this one was a sign or not, but he was wearing a hoodie.
Two teeth and three coupons for donuts. What is the Universe trying to say???
I went to church and while singing a song about Jesus, a little boy handed me three coupons for Dunkin' Donuts. Another sign? Obviously.
Later, in the middle of watching a movie, Christian turned to me and whispered, "I just lost a molar." I'm not sure if this one was a sign or not, but he was wearing a hoodie.
Two teeth and three coupons for donuts. What is the Universe trying to say???
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Ten Items in My Closet That I Never Should Have Bought
I clean out my closet fairly regularly, so most of my hideous mistakes have been tossed long ago, like that pair of mens jeans I bought for $5.99, convincing myself that I could make the look work. (FAIL.) Turns out, they actually design mens jeans for men. With lines and cuts that fit all (ahem) that a man has to offer, of which I have none. Who knew???
The clothes that I'm featuring today are the ones that are not hideous, per se, but hideous on me and examples of my occasional poor judgment. And I keep them around because I believe in Big Dreams, even dreams that I will wake up weighing 101 pounds, standing five foot, nine inches tall, looking shockingly like Heidi Klum. Sometimes when I'm shopping, I hear a mysterious voice whisper, "If you buy them, they will fit."
So I buy them. And then they hang in my closet and stare at me, day after day, enticing me and then making fun of me behind my back. These clothes are textbook passive aggressive. I think this one is the ringleader. Just look at those shifty eyes.
This is Houndstooth Semi-Jacket. How fabulous is this crisp-weather top?
Yeah, well. On me, it seems to make my already large arms quite a bit larger. It makes me look as bulky as a case of toilet paper at Costco. I want to love this top. So I keep it in my closet and watch it mock me and my linebacker arms. It's very unhealthy.
Next up, I give you Crappy Plasticky Shoes from GAP Outlet. These blister-makers laugh and laugh and laugh at me every time I look at them. The Green Crappy Plasticky Shoes have been worn approximately 1.25 times and those experiences can be summed up in three words: sweaty, painful, toe-cleavage.
The Navy Blue Crappy Plasticky Shoes have been worn 0.0 times. They think they're so funny.
Next, I give you the Sundress collection. Poppy Sundress is all beauty, no brains. She looks like she'll work, but she makes me look like a sad, sad lump of cookie dough laced with salmonella. I keep her around, because she looks soooo good on the hanger. And I seem to believe that counts for something. I have a new theory: If something looks fabulous on a hanger, it will only look as fabulous on someone who weighs as much as a hanger. Confession: I bought this without trying it on.
This sundress is an older mistake called Target Easter Wrap Dress. It's too short, it wraps in the wrong places and it makes me look like I'm trying to pretend I'm in high school. I keep it around just in case I ever get a time machine and can go back to high school, because (evil chuckle) I have a lot of things I'd like to do differently in high school. And I want to look really cute while I'm doing them.
Pink Eighties Jacket and I started out alright...until I saw us together in a photo. Holy Doesn't Fit Me, Batman! Still, it stares at me longingly.
Strange Sleeve Sweater was an attempt to cover my linebacker arms. It's hard to tell in the photo, but there is a LOT of material there in those sleeves. I approached the sweater on the rack and said very Napoleon Dynamite style, "I like your sleeves." As it turns out, all that extra material just makes me look like I have extra large arms, instead of large arms. And that little ruffle around the middle? It produces that "Is she pregnant?" sentiment in passers by. Confession: I bought this without trying it on.
Old Navy Wedges and I go back a couple of years. I want to love them, but I'm not in love with them. I'm in love with the idea of them. Finally, I had to sit down with them and say, "It's not you, it's me." They wept for six hours and begged to be spared from Goodwill, even though I told them there was a pair of feet out there for them. Such clingy little shoes.
Question: Do you ever buy an article of clothing because it subconsciously reminds you of someone you like? I guess I do. I bought this shirt, and while I like it, I felt like I was trying to channel someone else in wearing it. Then it hit me--this is Should Have Been Kami's Shirt. (Seriously, Kami, do you have this shirt or one like it?) I bought it with subconscious hopes that I would suddenly be a nicer person, a great photographer, and capable of any do-it-yourself project in the world.
The tale of me and Betty Draper Wishes She Had This Jacket is a tragic one. I bought it a few years ago and if I could lose 9 or 10 pounds, we could totally get back together. "I eat because I'm unhappy that I can't fit into my favorite jacket, and I can't fit into my favorite jacket because I eat." TRAGEDY!
Finally, I give you Elf Dress Purchased for Mormon Singles Christmas Party. I hate to call this a mistake, exactly, but the facts of the story are this: I was visiting Alyssa in New York a couple of years ago during the holidays and she asked me to tag along to a fancy-schmancy Christmas party at the top of a fancy-schmancy apartment building. We decided that the skirt and jacket I'd brought with me was not going to do, so I picked up this jolly little number and wore it to the party with a gold belt. I haven't been invited to any Mormon Singles Christmas Parties since then. Perhaps it is because I'm married, but I think it may be because of this dress.
So, there you have it. These are the clothes that haunt me, taunt me, and remind me that I'll never be Heidi Klum, not even Heidi Kluminsky of Minot, North Dakota.
Someday, when I have enough courage and therapy, I will send these clothes off to bless the closets of others. And then I will replace them with new mistakes.
The clothes that I'm featuring today are the ones that are not hideous, per se, but hideous on me and examples of my occasional poor judgment. And I keep them around because I believe in Big Dreams, even dreams that I will wake up weighing 101 pounds, standing five foot, nine inches tall, looking shockingly like Heidi Klum. Sometimes when I'm shopping, I hear a mysterious voice whisper, "If you buy them, they will fit."
So I buy them. And then they hang in my closet and stare at me, day after day, enticing me and then making fun of me behind my back. These clothes are textbook passive aggressive. I think this one is the ringleader. Just look at those shifty eyes.
Next up, I give you Crappy Plasticky Shoes from GAP Outlet. These blister-makers laugh and laugh and laugh at me every time I look at them. The Green Crappy Plasticky Shoes have been worn approximately 1.25 times and those experiences can be summed up in three words: sweaty, painful, toe-cleavage.
Someday, when I have enough courage and therapy, I will send these clothes off to bless the closets of others. And then I will replace them with new mistakes.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Choose-Your-Own-Blog-Post Returns!
Remember that movie, How Stella Got Her Groove Back? Well, it's been running in my head ever since I lost my groove and I keep thinking about how much anguish Stella and I share. Actually, I've never seen the movie; I only know the title. So, it's the title that's been running in my head.
But the point is that I, like Stella, lost my (blogging) groove and need it back. Or else I will perish in the depths of uninteresting-ness. (And what a terrible place that is! Everybody sits around in beige sweaters, reading small appliance user manuals and eating fat free popcorn with no butter.)
Anyhoodle, I was channeling Stella this morning and came up with an idea that I hope will work. I am bringing back one of my favorite games here at the WBWG--Choose Your Own Blog Post! In case you missed it before, here's how it works: I will give you two blog post titles and you vote on the one you prefer and I will write the one with the most votes the next day. Good idea? It was Stella's, actually. She's got her groove back, as you recall, so she's practically bursting with good ideas.
Here are the choices for tomorrow's post:
Practice democracy and vote now. Me and my long-lost groove thank you for it. So does groovy Stella.
But the point is that I, like Stella, lost my (blogging) groove and need it back. Or else I will perish in the depths of uninteresting-ness. (And what a terrible place that is! Everybody sits around in beige sweaters, reading small appliance user manuals and eating fat free popcorn with no butter.)
Anyhoodle, I was channeling Stella this morning and came up with an idea that I hope will work. I am bringing back one of my favorite games here at the WBWG--Choose Your Own Blog Post! In case you missed it before, here's how it works: I will give you two blog post titles and you vote on the one you prefer and I will write the one with the most votes the next day. Good idea? It was Stella's, actually. She's got her groove back, as you recall, so she's practically bursting with good ideas.
Here are the choices for tomorrow's post:
Ten Items in My Closet That I Never Should Have Bought
or
My Parents Left Me at a Gas Station in Las Vegas
Practice democracy and vote now. Me and my long-lost groove thank you for it. So does groovy Stella.
Monday, October 12, 2009
It Was Bound to Happen
I woke up this morning and something terrible had happened: I was completely uninteresting. And everything I thought of to say was so boring and uninteresting that I had to drink half a Red Bull and wear red pants just to keep from dying of disinterest. After the Red Bull, I looked deep into my soul, earnest to find something moving and important to share, and this is what I found:
Me, at my desk, eating popcorn, riddled with uninteresting things to say.
Damn.
Damn.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I'm Proof That People Can Change
Big news, everybody. I changed grocery stores this week. (I'll wait while all of the ladies gasp and all of the guys scratch their heads and say, "So?") I did it, though. I shopped at a new grocery store on Tuesday and I didn't even tell the old grocery store that I was leaving it. It's a stone cold heart I have.
To be honest, my relationship with the old grocery store was doomed from the beginning. It was a marriage of convenience and I loved it for all the wrong reasons. First and foremost, it's ridiculously close to my house. It was one of only two landmarks I used to be able to find without my GPS when we first moved here (the other landmark was my mailbox) and I felt awfully proud of myself when I successfully pulled into the parking lot each time without getting lost.
Second, the store is named ACME (part of the Albertson's chain) and, call me crazy, but I frequently fantasized about purchasing anvils and dynamite and catapults there. Not that I have need of anvils and dynamite and catapults right now, but--and I cannot stress this enough--YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU'RE GOING TO NEED ONE.
Once inside, I did my best to overlook its faults--poor selection, annoying high prices, and bizarro employees. For example, there are only TWO brands of refried beans, a gallon of milk is four dollars, and the employees are part of a special work-release program from a traveling carnival.
My first experience at the store was late at night, the very day we signed our mortgage papers. We were driving home and I asked Ryan to pull in and let me grab a few staples for the fridge. He waited in the car with the kids and I quickly filled a shopping basket and found an open checkout lane.
The checker was a buggy-eyed fellow with no neck who looked suspiciously like the troll in The Three Billy Goats Gruff I used to read in first grade (Carnie Exhibit A). No problem, I thought, there are only so many Brad Pitts in the world. I will not be your judge. But when he started ringing up my purchases and making small talk? Well, that's when the strange-o-meter went off.
Troll: Mumble, mumble, mumble, nervous laugh, mumble, mumble.
Me: Excuse me? (I focused all my spidey senses on my hearing.)
Troll: Mumble. Cat. Mumble. Shoe horn. Mumble. Elbow. Mumble.
Me: .....Yeah. (Nodding politely.)
Troll: Mumble. Itching. Garbage truck. Window. Rice. Mumble. Dust. Chocolate. Asthma. Night. Dishrag. Mumble.
Me: .............Huh. (Nodding politely.)
Troll: Mumble. Mumble. (Hearty chuckle.)
Me: .....Oh yeah? (Nervously smiling, reaching hand into purse to locate makeshift weapon, securing plastic Happy Meal toy.)
Troll: (Handing me my receipt.) Mumble. Cotton. Mumble. Billy Goats. Mumble. Mumble.
ARE YOU CONFUSED YET? Yeah? Imagine standing there. And then imagine a host of other strange and not-especially-friendly-or-helpful employees on subsequent visits. And then ask me why I continued to patron this store for an entire year.
Why? Well, you know, one visit leads to another leads to another leads to another, and pretty soon you know where everything is located and you tell yourself that you're going to start clipping coupons and drink less milk and you never got to visit a real carnival as a kid and....I don't know, I really don't.
{Shrug}
But everything changed on Tuesday. I woke up feeling empowered. I counted at least seven landmarks I can find without my GPS. I reminded myself that people are selling gallons of milk for less than three dollars and that I recently forsook financial stupidity. And more than that--I committed myself to the belief that people should have options when it comes to refried beans. THIS IS AMERICA, ISN'T IT?
So, I went to another store. And it was nice. I found groceries and had a lovely conversation with the checker about frozen egg noodles. At no point did I locate my concealed Happy Meal toy. And though there were no anvils for sale in the produce section, I am convinced that, if needed, I could find and obtain many solutions to any pesky roadrunner problems that may arise in the future.
And that, my friends, is what I call progress.
To be honest, my relationship with the old grocery store was doomed from the beginning. It was a marriage of convenience and I loved it for all the wrong reasons. First and foremost, it's ridiculously close to my house. It was one of only two landmarks I used to be able to find without my GPS when we first moved here (the other landmark was my mailbox) and I felt awfully proud of myself when I successfully pulled into the parking lot each time without getting lost.
Second, the store is named ACME (part of the Albertson's chain) and, call me crazy, but I frequently fantasized about purchasing anvils and dynamite and catapults there. Not that I have need of anvils and dynamite and catapults right now, but--and I cannot stress this enough--YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU'RE GOING TO NEED ONE.
Once inside, I did my best to overlook its faults--poor selection, annoying high prices, and bizarro employees. For example, there are only TWO brands of refried beans, a gallon of milk is four dollars, and the employees are part of a special work-release program from a traveling carnival.
My first experience at the store was late at night, the very day we signed our mortgage papers. We were driving home and I asked Ryan to pull in and let me grab a few staples for the fridge. He waited in the car with the kids and I quickly filled a shopping basket and found an open checkout lane.
The checker was a buggy-eyed fellow with no neck who looked suspiciously like the troll in The Three Billy Goats Gruff I used to read in first grade (Carnie Exhibit A). No problem, I thought, there are only so many Brad Pitts in the world. I will not be your judge. But when he started ringing up my purchases and making small talk? Well, that's when the strange-o-meter went off.
Troll: Mumble, mumble, mumble, nervous laugh, mumble, mumble.
Me: Excuse me? (I focused all my spidey senses on my hearing.)
Troll: Mumble. Cat. Mumble. Shoe horn. Mumble. Elbow. Mumble.
Me: .....Yeah. (Nodding politely.)
Troll: Mumble. Itching. Garbage truck. Window. Rice. Mumble. Dust. Chocolate. Asthma. Night. Dishrag. Mumble.
Me: .............Huh. (Nodding politely.)
Troll: Mumble. Mumble. (Hearty chuckle.)
Me: .....Oh yeah? (Nervously smiling, reaching hand into purse to locate makeshift weapon, securing plastic Happy Meal toy.)
Troll: (Handing me my receipt.) Mumble. Cotton. Mumble. Billy Goats. Mumble. Mumble.
ARE YOU CONFUSED YET? Yeah? Imagine standing there. And then imagine a host of other strange and not-especially-friendly-or-helpful employees on subsequent visits. And then ask me why I continued to patron this store for an entire year.
Why? Well, you know, one visit leads to another leads to another leads to another, and pretty soon you know where everything is located and you tell yourself that you're going to start clipping coupons and drink less milk and you never got to visit a real carnival as a kid and....I don't know, I really don't.
{Shrug}
But everything changed on Tuesday. I woke up feeling empowered. I counted at least seven landmarks I can find without my GPS. I reminded myself that people are selling gallons of milk for less than three dollars and that I recently forsook financial stupidity. And more than that--I committed myself to the belief that people should have options when it comes to refried beans. THIS IS AMERICA, ISN'T IT?
So, I went to another store. And it was nice. I found groceries and had a lovely conversation with the checker about frozen egg noodles. At no point did I locate my concealed Happy Meal toy. And though there were no anvils for sale in the produce section, I am convinced that, if needed, I could find and obtain many solutions to any pesky roadrunner problems that may arise in the future.
And that, my friends, is what I call progress.
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