A Little Girl With Great Big Plans

I think I was smoking crack when I decided to sign my family up for the Bolder Boulder 10K.  The problem is, before you can run 6.2 miles, you have to be able to run ONE mile.  And then two, and then three and four and five, and even though it doesn't sound like a lot it kind of is.  I didn't realize it either until I tried to walk up a flight of stairs and talk on the phone at the same time without sounding like I was hauling 80 pounds of granite on my back - when the person on the other end asks if you're trying to blow the little pig's house down, that's your first clue that maybe you've bitten off more than you can chew.

Today when I was running I was thinking about two things:  One, how much I hated running and two, that there was half of a leftover burrito waiting for me at home when I was done.  Which just goes to show you, motivation is personal. 

Since we are doing this as a family Drew and I get up at 6 am a couple of mornings a week to get the running in before he has to go to school.  This kills me, and one day last week as we walked out of the gym I was thinking how our next family goal should be who can eat the most ice cream bars at Disneyland when Drew looked over at me and said, "Well, we're getting better!"  I wanted to hug him and smooch him on the cheek and take him to Disneyland right that moment.  But he just turned 11, and although he still allows the side hug before boarding the morning bus, I don't want to push my luck.

Saturday, however, I was doing my run alone, had about a mile to go, and wanted to sit down on the side of the road and call Jimmy John's to deliver me a sandwich.  I had already stopped four times to catch my breath, and even though I was approaching a downhill grade I simply didn't feel like I had anything left to give when guess what happened?  You guys, Mindy saved my life.  Not this Mindy,

(Mindy Cohn from "The Facts of Life")

Or THIS Mindy:

(From the sitcom "Mork & Mindy")

No, I'm talking about this Mindy.  I'm sure you've heard of her before.  She's a singer, which I love.  She just cut her hair super short, which I love.  She also reads my blog, which I LOVE love.  But most importantly on Saturday, when my feet wanted to stop and my heart wanted to rest and my stomach wanted some cereal, her voice began streaming through my iPod and just like that, my feet, heart and stomach said they could keep going.  

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (talk about an overachiever)

"I'm gonna whistle all the while" (she's obviously never seen me exercise)

"If that's what it takes to make me smile" (it's not, but okay)

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (or jog for one, as the case may be)

The lyrics make me feel like I'm 8 years old again, back when my friend's mom taught me ballet and she thought I had great potential.  It was before I turned 40 and tried to run a mile for each of those decades without stopping to breathe, pee, or order pizza.  Mindy makes me feel like maybe I actually CAN run right up that hill..."and maybe I'm just a little girl, a little girl with great big plans."

The al-Qaeda In My Mind

Often when I go several days in a row without writing, there is actually quite a lot going on in my head.  It’s a warzone in there sometimes people.  More than an angel whispering happy thoughts in one ear and a devil enticing evil in the other, it’s a virtual ground zero on some days.  Thoughts careen into my frontal lobe without warning and invite my spirit to wake up, because something monumental is happening.  But before I can write everything down, calm the chaos, and make sense of it all, the walls are already burning.  The foundation rattles, the sides give way, and although a few good thoughts escape, many collapse and become buried in the rubble of a life that doesn’t always make sense to me.

The truth is sometimes painful.

Facades cut even deeper.

Too heavy.

Too stupid.

Too annoying.

Too unfair.

Too much.

Too…

…much.

Running Is Hard

I have a dream.

Not the one where gas is free, lawns mow themselves and Chipotle delivers with complimentary guac, but the one where my whole family runs the Bolder Boulder 10K race together.  It’s a big deal in these parts, tens of thousands of people run this race each year.  I’ve done it twice, Cory did it once, and every time one of us has left early in the morning to join their heat on the starting line I have secretly fantasized that one day my whole family would get up and do it together. 

But see, it’s not really my thing to accomplish goals, it’s mostly my thing to have them.  Just ask the diet books on my shelf, the unfinished hutch in my garage, or the archives of unprinted pictures on my hard drive. 

Nevertheless, the rest of my family is entirely well versed with the concept of setting and completing goals, reinforcing my status as The Weak Link.  When I told the family that I wanted to do this, I knew how it was going to go – Samantha, who already runs up to 7 or 8 miles after school for track practice, would simply show up, kick all of our trash and have time to read War and Peace by the time the rest of us meet her at the finish line.  Cory would prepare not at all and run with Drew at whatever pace worked for the both of them.  I would spend months getting into shape by downloading a training regimen from the internet, taping it to the wall and crossing off the workouts as I accomplished them.  By the time the race came around I would be rearing to go, and hopefully make at least as good a time as I did when I ran it four years ago.

Here’s how it’s gone instead.

My goal in January:  stop eating sugar – lose 30 pounds – train every day

My goal in February:  eat sugar only on weekends – lose 20 pounds –  run three times a week

My goal in March:  eat sugar only on weekends. or weekdays. – listen, the scales aren't always right –  go for a run if the sun is shining, the wind isn’t blowing, and Jimmer isn’t playing (sort of excluding all of March)

It is now April, and with the race in 8 weeks it’s really time to fish or cut bait.  Tinkle or get off the potty.  Be part of the problem or part of the solution.  See the opportunity as a challenge or the challenge as an opportunity.  (Tony Robbins I've been listening!)

I’ve decided it’s time to quit.

Time

To quit making excuses

To quit whining

To quit expecting a chromosomal defect to blame

To quit pushing the “snooze” button

To quit hoping for a magic pill

To quit waking up in the morning, fully expecting to fail

It’s time to show up in my own life. 

Monday was harsh, but I did it.  Tuesday and Wednesday I followed through, and today is better than Monday.  It may not be much but for now…

…for now I’m running with it.

Sometimes I'm Awesome

I have a system when I need to go somewhere.  I get in my car, put on my seatbelt, turn on my Lower Lights CD (have I mentioned how much I love them?  LOVE THEM), back out and leave.  It's not a complicated system, so it usually works.  

I'll tell you what's NOT part of my system and that is hearing a funky noise while cruising down the street, pulling over only to discover that a missing part from the Titanic is sticking out of my left rear tire, deciding to leave it there and try to make it to the tire store for repair without getting a flat, having that plan fail with a dramatic *POP!* and a hiss, then while dealing with the massive disappointment that the sound was not in fact coming from a frosty can of A&W, pulling off to a side street to change my tire in sparkly flats and freshly coiffed hair.  A discouraging scene indeed. 

If you think I was intimidated though, think again.  I am woman, hear me roar!

Apparently I'm also a woman who needs Botox and a clearer definition of "freshly coiffed hair".  Anyway, here I am preparing to put the donut on - it's hard to do that and take a picture of yourself with your iPhone at the same time.  Cute necklace though, don't you think?

While jacking up the car I got a little distracted by my cute shoes too. 

It's a dirty job, but I bet if this is the worst thing Mike Rowe ever had to do he'd be stoked.

Not to worry, look what I keep in my door compartment!  What?  I drive a Honda Odyssey, what else would you expect me to put there?

All in all a pretty eventful morning.  Four different people stopped and offered help but I declined - one told me I was "better than his wife" (If I had a nickel...) and another clapped for me.  Nobody asked for an autograph, but I figure it's only a matter of time.

Wherein I Overshadow My Addiction To Chocolate With A Story About Irresponsibility

I’m not a big believer in buying books because one, I don’t read much, two, if you buy a book then you have to find somewhere to put it when you’re done and I don't want the clutter, and three, it's too expensive and libraries are free!  This particularly speaks to my sensibilities.  Unfortunately what doesn’t speak to my sensibilities is the concept of the world not revolving around me and the idea of having a DUE DATE on a book. 

You know when you’re looking for a specific book and you go to the library’s system to see if it’s available?  And the library only has three copies of the most popular book since Edward put the “V” in vampire and they are all checked out?  As you peruse the list to see when the books are due to return, hoping they will come back sometime before the suspicious mole on your right arm lands you in hospice with an IV drip, you notice that one of the copies was due back before Adam roamed the earth.  And you think to yourself, what kind of numskull hasn’t found the time in the last three U.S. presidents to return that book?  Well, that “numskull” might live somewhere in the Denver metro area near my house.  Fine.  IN my house.  She has poor taste in music, had 17 Dove chocolates before 9am today and desperately needs her roots done.  Anything else?

I didn’t know I was in trouble with the library until I got a notice in the mail the other day.  FROM COLLECTIONS.  What the…?  As far as I knew I didn’t even have any items checked out from the library.  When I called to work things out I had two questions:  What were the charges for?  And why was I just hearing about it now?  It is customary to get some kind of notice when books are late, a notice I had come to depend on rather than the notion of personal responsibility, but had never received.  As it turned out, notices HAD been sent.  To the house we lived in TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.  In the meantime we had racked up SIXTY THREE DOLLARS in late fees and replacement costs, and the collections agency was on our case.  Knowing these charges were negotiable, I sucked up big time to the lady on the phone.  I was so nice you would have thought I was trying to negotiate for a life saving kidney, and it worked.  She knocked off over half of the dues and I was left to pay her $25.

It’s been a good lesson for me because now I know, I can’t afford the library either.

What's The Buzz?

Internet, meet Cory.  Also known as Cooper, Studly, Are You Asleep Already, and Will You Please Take Out The Trash.  He is my favorite.

He is my favorite because when I am getting a headache he will massage my shoulders to help it go away even though he hates it.  He is my favorite because even though he likes Qdoba better, he will go to Chipotle instead because he knows I prefer it.  He does our taxes, pays our bills, and still treats Opening Day at Coors Field with the nostalgia of a kid.  (He's going today at 2:00pm)

Nevertheless, even our favorites have their challenges, and I'm not just talking about having to come home to me every day.  As of late it has centered more upon the frailty of his follicles, and their inability to produce.  In other words, when the photographer of your family portrait asks, "Hey, do you mind if we photoshop in a little extra hair?" it's time to reevaluate.  So this week Cory/Cooper/Studly took the plunge - no more bed head, bye bye blow dryers, hasta la vista shampoo - we buzzed his head.  Samantha took a crack at it first.

 

And now for the finished product:

Overheard

Samantha's birthday is coming up, and she has asked for two things.  1) An awesome pillow and, 2) a bow and arrow.  While hanging out in the kitchen just now her dad was curious about her bow and arrow request.  "What in the world do you want a bow and arrow for?"  Without missing a beat she replied, "This coming from the guy who asked for an Obi Wan Kenobi costume for Christmas?  Really?"

I love her more and more every year.

My Celebrity Handcart Company

A friend of mine told me that when she gets bored at church she sometimes looks around, sizes people up, and tries to decide who she would want in her handcart company if she ever had to be a pioneer.  I thought it was a genius idea if I ever got bored at church, but since I am far more evolved than my spiritually destitute friend it hasn’t been necessary.  However, sometimes I get bored thinking about going to church and that’s when I let my mind wander to this game, except I expanded the parameters and made a list of who I would want in my handcart company if I had to choose from celebrities.  You know me, I always like to take things a step further.  So, here you go. 

TOP 10 LIST 

 MY CELEBRITY HANDCART COMPANY

Chuck Norris – Duh.

Milli Vanilli – Making the trek across the plains means there will be rain, followed by mud, and then people will start to get cranky and just when we’re tempted to point fingers and blame each other Milli Vanilli will start singing “Blame It On The Rain”, which is kind of catchy and will put us all in a better mood.  Except, wait.  Maybe we should just bring a copy of “their” CD.

George Clooney – Cliché?  Maybe, but what if polygamy comes back?  Do we want all our kids to be ugly?

MacGyver – Need to borrow some corn from your Indian neighbors but they don’t understand your hand gestures?  Don’t fret, MacGyver knows Cherokee!  Got a bonnet that’s not keeping enough sun from your eyes?  He’ll weave some thread from the silkworm and stitch on a palm frond.  Where does he get the palm frond in the middle of Wyoming?  Silly rabbit, with a magnifying glass and a cow pie.  Don’t you know anything? 

Brian Regan – Ultimately, stick pulling is going to lose its flair and we’re going to need a back up plan.  Not to mention we’re going to need an opener on Family Talent Night.

Keira Knightly – I think if she told me to fetch some water it wouldn’t bother me because I’d be like, “Cool accent!” and I think all the other pioneer women would be the same way.  We would get so much done!  “Hey, grab that chicken by the talons and cut off it’s head.”  We’d run and get the chicken and come back giggling, going, “Say it again!  Say it again!”

Justin Bieber – On a bad day when all the young girls are PMS'ing and have their pantaloons in a twist, you could just be like, “Look!  It’s Justin Bieber!”

Hugh Jackman – FOR HIS SWEET SPIRIT.

Dr. Phil – Because eventually one of the handcarts is going to break down and MacGyver will be all, “Anyone got a safety pin?” and Norris will be like, “Just shoot it!”  Then, “No!  I just need a safety pin!” followed by, “Where’s my rifle?”   

“Safety pin!”

“Rifle!”

They'll go back and forth, and we’ll need Dr. Phil to be there to say, “I don’t care how flat you make a pancake it’s got two sides.”  He will hear them both out, MacGyver will fix the handcart and then Norris will go get our dinner.  Everybody wins.    

Paula Deen – Not only would she make us awesome scrambled eggs but I think she would be the sort to help me toilet paper Dr. Phil’s tent in the middle of the night.  He’ll think that’s so funny, then Paula and I will become Dr. Phil’s favorites.  This will come in super handy when I have to make the appointment to see him for  my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when this is all over.

So, what about you?  Who’s in your handcart company?

Cheap Art

Things You'll Never Hear A Southerner Say:  "Duct tape won't fix that!" ~ Jeff Foxworthy

I've had a piece of artwork hanging in my entryway for a long time that I am no longer in love with.  It gets a lot of light in the afternoon so it was faded and frankly, I was bored with it.  So I took it out, covered it with a piece of fabric I bought at (I'm afraid to admit it) Wal Mart, and using a highly civilized and technical process called Use As Much Duct Tape As It Takes, it now looks like this:

Cory thinks it's lame, but he's trying to be supportive.  I think it looks even more awesome than the $4.67 I spent on it.  Whose side are you on?

I Meant Well

One of my favorite things about the beginning of a school year is the ream of forms a parent is given to fill out about their child.  Name, address, phone number, those are the easy ones.  The two that always manage to trip me up are the Medical Release and the Media Waiver. 

When it comes to the Medical Release, we all know that it asks you to sign the dotted line and give the school permission to make medical decisions for your child should you become unavailable.  Most of the time what this means is, listen, if you’re in TJ Maxx and you turned your ringer off and your kid needs a Tylenol, can we give him one?  I say, sure!  But if it means, “Someone put a double espresso in your daughter’s Capri Sun and she took off running and the last time we saw her she was on I-25 headed north, do you mind if we hit her with a tranquilizer dart?” I’d say, “Send an ice cream truck to the freeway instead and I promise she’ll stop.”  Less invasive and 100% effective.  Only a mother knows these things.

The Media Waiver is another one that gets me.  Basically what they ask is for permission to publish your child’s picture wherever and whenever they want to.  At first I think these forms are mostly to protect children whose identities need to remain elusive.  I imagine abusive parents whose rights have been revoked only to peruse the elementary school websites looking for their child and say, “There he is!  On the monkey bars!  I KNEW it.”  And proceed to kidnap him from school at recess.  So for the last ten years of my children’s education I have always given permission for their pictures to be used and waited year after year to see their sparkly countenances grace the cover of a school district brochure.  Or something.  But last year as I prepared to sign the waiver and it asked to use my child’s picture on the internet I decided, “You know what?  I’m going to say ‘No.’  You never know when some creep might zero in on my kid and try to hunt them down.”  So I checked the box that said, “No thanks” which appropriately translates to, “I’m one of those parents.” 

Last week Drew came home from school and began going over his day.  “We had a cool assembly.  A meteorologist came from the news channel and talked about weather.  He was really funny, and our school is going to be on the news.  Except I had to stand in the hall while they were filming because you signed some paper….”

Doh!

Another Reason Not To Invite Us To Dinner

Samantha to Drew:  “If there was a dragon that breathed burps, you would fit right in.”   

Drew:  [Belched super loud and long] 

Samantha:  [Pointing at Drew and looking at me.]  “See what I mean?”   

Drew:  [clawing his hands in the air] “Rawr!”

Hi Dad. You Might Want To Skip This One.

A very nice couple invited us to dinner last night in their brand new home.  Since it was, quite literally, a brand new home and the hostess had denied offers for us to contribute to the meal I thought it would be nice to take some kind of token housewarming…I don’t know…thing.  As I rummaged around the house I remembered that I had some plain, leftover bundt cakes in my freezer that were undecorated, and wouldn’t it be nice to make a tasty buttercream frosting, decorate the cakes and bestow them upon our hostess at our arrival?  Why yes, I thought so too.

I pulled out the cakes to thaw and began mixing my frosting – some cinnamon here, a little almond extract there, and a drip of vanilla to round everything out and I was good to go.  Samantha gussied up a bit of cardboard, we set the cakes side by side and I began to frost.  Five minutes later I looked quizzically at my little creation and tilted my head.  What the tilt of my head was trying to say here was, “Um, Vern?  I know you think you’re all awesome and domestic and everything, but your cakes here LOOK LIKE BREASTS.” 

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You

Back when they took my ovaries out and I began menopause along with a hormone therapy replacement regimen, I was warned about several side effects. Dry mouth, night sweats, reduced sex drive, increased fantasies of assisted living facilities with Bingo every weekend, etc. It sounded like just another Friday night to me, so I wasn’t too concerned. The problem is they never once, EVER warned me about the possibility of unexpectedly bursting into tears during a Parent Teacher Conference.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Yesterday was chock full of excitement – aside from the normal tantalizing exercises of bathing and rummaging for the good cold cereal, I attended back to back conferences at different schools with both of my children’s teachers. Drew’s began uneventfully with talk of test scores, classroom participation, upcoming projects and then a Ra-Ra lecture to Drew from his teacher about how much she believed in him, that his work habits were great and that she had ZERO concerns about his ability to transfer to middle school. I mumbled under my breath, “Mama might have to go to therapy over it but YOU will be just fine.” I was just trying to be lighthearted, but then the teacher looked at me and asked, “Well, what concerns do you have about him going to middle school?” Without warning the likes of Mount Everest erupted in my esophagus and I felt my eyes begin to burn. I looked away and said, “Oh nothing, I know he’ll be fine.” But as I looked back she was still staring at me, and something about the eye contact felt like an open invitation to “Go ahead Drew’s mom, tell me aaaaaall about your crazy”, and I lost it. “Is he your first?” she asked. “No!” I claimed, “he’s my LAST!”

It takes a special gift to turn a normal meeting into a counseling session, and just when I thought I had run out of gifts….

I’m just not ready. I don’t feel old enough to not have anyone in elementary school anymore – for crying out loud, my mom at my age had just had a baby. I’m not ready to throw a perfectly nice, innocent, wonderful boy into an ocean of filthy language, hormonal behavior and shady influence. It doesn’t matter to me that I believe he can handle it, I don’t want him to have to see it. Boys are different than girls, and I’m not ready to watch adolescence take hold of him and give him acne and armpit hair and prevent him from giving his mom a side hug before climbing onto the bus. I’M NOT READY!

Is anyone else seeing a pattern here? I’ve managed to humiliate my kids and myself in less than a week and I guarantee somewhere along the way my husband has hung his head in shame. For matters of convenience and to further my denial, I’m blaming the hormone pills.

Roam If You Want To, Roam Around The World

It’s time for Spring sports at our high school and my daughter has decided to run track.  Yesterday as I drove to run a quick errand, I spotted her trotting against traffic on the sidewalk with her team and I’m telling you, I wanted to pull over.  “Are you thirsty?  You seem hot.  Why aren’t you wearing shorts in this warm weather?  Are you still self conscious about that mole on your leg?  I was self conscious about being so white, DON’T BE LIKE YOUR MOM!  Oh, that’s right, you are SO not like your mom.  What a relief!  I was (past tense?) such a piece of work.  You’re doing great, honey!  Keep up the pace, but be careful and don’t get separated from the group!  I’m so proud of you.”  It all went through my head.  Instead I just waved and smiled, and watched her narrow, determined form disappear in my rear view mirror.  There are so many truths in this moment.  She’s happy.  She’s working hard.  She’s setting goals and resolving to get the best out of her high school experience.  She’s thriving. 

Her mama, however.  Her mama is grateful, proud, and excited for her.  But still, mama wants to pull over.  Here’s when the hardest but more important truth hits:  It’s not my job to pull over, it’s my job to let her run.

Monday, I needed to stop by the school to write a check to the Athletic Department (another part of my job, just sit down and write checks.   All day long.  The checks never tire of this exercise.)  As it turned out, when I arrived at the school it appeared to be lunch time because kids were everywhere.  Girls giggled and texted in one corner, boys unengaged with headphones in their ears occupied another corner, and as I neared the Athletic office there was a young couple occupied in a heated but hushed exchange on Whatever It Is That Hormonal Teenage Couples Talk About.  I walked past, entered the office to pay our dues and then walked out.  I began to text Samantha to let her know that all the paperwork was in order for her to attend practice after school.  “But wait,” my head said to me.  Just like that.  Sadly, my head doesn’t always have the best instincts.  “But WAIT!  She’s probably right there in the lunch room, I bet I can find her.”  I peered through the window and looked around; some random kid waved and smiled at me as if to say, “I pity the fool on the other end of THAT search”.  I waved back, and then just beyond him I discovered the red sweatshirt I was looking for.

I KNOW.  Poor Samantha. 

I had found her, and I was on my way to her table. 

Maybe Tomorrow

So much to talk about, so little time.  Sunday I made an amazing discovery while watching the Oscars during the commercials of Undercover Boss.  You guys, did YOU know that Zachary Levi sang for real?  Like it's not enough to be able to channel Tae Kwon Do in a pinch.  Chuck jumped the shark over a year ago but now that I know the dude can sing I am recommitting. 

Monday was a big day - I went to pick up my hormone pills from the pharmacy and you wouldn't think this to be eventful, but then you obviously don't know my pharmacist because she's a friend of mine, and when I opened my container to pop the pill that helps prevent me from swimming in sweat in my sleep I discovered JELLY BEANS in my bottle mixed in with my real medicine.  People, THAT is a good pharmacist. 

Then today I went running at 6am with my son and after getting him off to school proceeded to make six casseroles.  [cue applause]  That's a real number folks.  I'm not bragging, just stating facts.  Now I'm tired, and while I'd love to expand on the story about how I mortified my daughter at school or wax poetically about how using Dissolv-It on your hair may remove the tree sap incurred on a morning run in with a pine tree, but indeed burns one's scalp, I'll have to save it for another day.  If you're dying for something entertaining to read, head on over for a visit to my buddy Kacy.  She's been dissecting this season's episodes of The Bachelor and if you have ever seen this show, you will wet your pants reading her synopsis.  I haven't even been watching but I am still entertained by her wicked sarcasm and profound wit.  Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, just go read this!  Now!

Assembly Required

A few random things to share with you.  First up, a quote from Drew yesterday:  "Wouldn't it be weird if your name was 'Green' and people called you 'Blue' just to be annoying?"  Because it's not weird enough that your name is 'Green'?

***

In case you didn't notice, I have a new button on my sidebar for Amy and Paul who are trying to adopt a child.  I've never met Amy and Paul but I understand they would make awesome parents.  It must be true because they took a self portrait with an amusement park in the background as if to say, "We're FUN!  We believe in COTTON CANDY!"  And we need more adoptive parents who believe in cotton candy because healthy marketing strategies are on the rise and it's time to take a stand.  I mean, oatmeal at McDonalds?  I bet the same people who order oatmeal at Mickey D's get the lemon sorbet at Baskin Robbins.  Please.  Although I bet Amy and Paul are totally into nutrition too, because they don't look irresponsible.  I bet they strike the perfect balance and would expect their kids to eat all their chicken nuggets before getting dessert.

***

I've been working on decorating Drew's room.  I found a great end table at Wal Mart but the packaging posted the dreaded words, "Assembly Required."  Remember how I'm really good at decoding?  Well, for all you rookies out there let me explain that "Assembly Required" can mean any of the following:

1)  "This kit most likely has missing parts"
2)  "You probably don't have all the right tools"
3)  "This weighs a ton, and feels even heavier when you have to return it"
4)  "Kids, please don't repeat any of the words Mama says while she is trying to put this &*%^! thing together"

***

Here's an awkward situation.  My friend had to make the following phone call to Poison Control today.
"Um, hi.  My daughter just mixed a bunch of medication into a glass of milk and I'm afraid she may have drunk some of it.  Is this poisonous?"
"What kind of medicine ma'am?"
"Ma'am" replies she is taking a healthy dose of STD medication, and Poison Control Lady starts to giggle.
"IT'S FOR COLD SORES!" my friend explained.
"So, you're NOT dating Charlie Sheen then?"
"It's okay ma'am, it's not poisonous."  But you understand if I don't allow my kids to play at your house anymore.

When I Roll My Eyes It Means I Love You

As has been mentioned before, sometimes I am prone to rolling my eyes.  Often it’s a gesture directed at my husband because I don’t get out much and he’s the only adult I see regularly.  It’s pointless to roll your eyes at a teenager because they stare at you as if to say, “Really?  I own that move.”  It would be like walking up to Dr. Phil, tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Hi there.  Can I give you a little advice?” or knocking on the door of Mr. Clean and handing him a brochure on baldness.  As for my other child, he’s still a little young to read into the sarcasm of an eye roll and I don’t want to hurt his feelings so yes, I save most of them for Cory.

But wait.

What if Cory doesn’t understand the sarcasm of my eye roll either?  Husband of mine, let me explain. 

It’s true, the other night when “Enchanted” was on TV and you jumped off the couch and started singing and dancing “That’s how you KNOOOOOW…” in the middle of the family room that I may have lifted my eyes a tad to the ceiling and shook my head.  Here’s the secret:  that’s how you know I love you.  Because the real meaning behind that eye roll is, “I’m not sure how to handle a singing spouse turning circles in the middle of the room by himself, but God love him for it.”

"That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘as you wish’ what he meant was ‘I love you’." - Princess Bride

Years ago we were heading down to my brother’s house for a family for dinner.  We were in charge of bringing dessert so we took a cherry cheesecake we had just purchased from some youth for a fundraiser.  You pulled our nephew aside before dinner and master minded a plot to stage an argument between you two that would end with him throwing the cheesecake in your face.  When you let me in on your secret, I rolled my eyes.  In case you misunderstood, what that meant was, “You are the coolest uncle ever.”  We had another incident when I was making rolls to take to another family dinner and you hid random food items in a few of them – a piece of potato, a carrot, some chocolate chips.  When our niece bit down on the one with potato she said, “What is wrong with these rolls?!”  You laughed and laughed.  I rolled my eyes and apologized, but what I was really trying to say is, “My husband is better than your husband and he kind of cracks me up.”

I rolled my eyes when you were conniving grand adventures for our son in the crevices of our neighborhood.  First, you led him on a treasure hunt that required him to break bottles to get clues, dig holes to find others, and ultimately resulted in the grand finale of finding buried treasure on a mountain top outside our housing development.  Then you convinced him that dragons were real, going so far as to dress in black accompanied by hornet spray and a lighter to simulate fire breathing in the distance when you knew he was watching.  And I confess, when you asked me to help write a message in dragon language on muslin and leave it for Drew on the fence across the street, I rolled my eyes.  Please know, however, what that really means is our son has the coolest Dad on the planet and I am keenly aware of it.  I may have rolled my eyes by day but at night I would say prayers of thanks to a God that loved me enough to let a guy like you ask me for forever. 

Two days ago I had this conversation in the church hallway when a guy stopped me to say, “Hey, I saw your husband at basketball on Thursday night.”
”Yeah?” I replied.

He continued, “Yeah, and when I went up to him I saw that his NECK was PEELING!”

“Oh, that,” I said.

“So I asked him what was wrong with his neck and he said something about seeing a magic trick on YouTube that he was trying to replicate or something?”

It was a question.

“Yes, he was trying to make it look like he was sawing through his neck with dental floss,” I explained.

“I love your husband man, he cracks me up,” the gentleman finished.

I rolled my eyes and added, “Yes, I do too.”

Nothin' Up My Sleeve!

I have something to tell you, but I don’t even know where to start.  I’ve been keeping it a secret for a long time, and for good reason.  It’s kind of embarrassing, hard to explain, and frankly, something I don’t really understand myself.

It has to do with Cory. 

And where he often goes on Friday nights. 

And why he sometimes disappears into the basement for hours.

And how it’s not “just a phase” I was hoping he would grow out of because he’s been doing it for about 17 years now.

You guys, my husband is addicted to Magic. 

But not that kind.

Not the pull rabbits out of hats kind.

Or the smoke and mirrors "presto!” kind.

And least of all not the, “hey, you’re hardly wearing anything and your hair is so bright you could see it through a smoke cloud, would like to be my assistant?” kind.

I’m talking about Magic: The Gathering.  It is a card game, and chances are if you have a pimply teenager without a lot of friends who plays in the band, wears a lot of black and occasionally dabbles in eyeliner, he probably knows how to play this game too.  Cory will be annoyed with how I am portraying this, but the following is a TRUE STORY.

It was a weekend, and Cory went out one night to play Magic at a card shop in a neighboring town.  He sat across his opponent, a young teenage kid, and began making small talk.  Cory asked him where he went to school and when he answered Cory said, “Oh hey, I have a niece that goes to that school!  Do you know ------?”  And he did.  And the next day at school this kid went up to my niece and said, “Hey, your Uncle Cory says ‘hi’.”  And she was like, “Wha…?”  So the kid explained, she came back to us and reported the run in, and we have made fun of Cory for that ever since.  It’s how I show my love.

Cory insists that there are plenty of normal people just like him who love to play Magic (and that’s where the definition of “normal” gets fuzzy), and he has continually defended the investment of the hobby.  I have always smiled and nodded at this defense, waiting to turn my head before generating an eye roll that could circle the globe.  HOWEVER.  (Cory, are you ready?  Because I’m about to put this in writing.) 

Cory.

Was right. 

A few weeks ago my good husband informed me that he was in need of new golf clubs.  Yes, and the Haitians are in need of clean drinking water because they are dying of the cholera.  Anything else?  Oh, he tried.

Cory:  “You know, I’ve had these clubs for like, 10 years.”

Me:  ….

Cory:  “And the technology is totally outdated.”

Me: ….

Cory:  “Maybe we could clip coupons to save more?”

Me: ….

Cory:  “What if I sold some of my Magic cards to pay for new clubs?”

Me:  “Bingo.”

This weekend there is a tournament going on in Denver, so Cory decided to look through his cards to see what he was willing to part with and trade.  Then, on a whim, I decided to go with him.  As we walked into the convention center it smelled like a boys’ dorm, where the dirty socks never get washed and the pizza boxes never get thrown out.  I looked around and leaned over to whisper in Cory’s ear, “You don’t have man boobs and I don’t have a lip ring, WE DON’T BELONG HERE.”  But he saw the guy he needed to do business with and we stood in line to wait for him.  It was just like Oz.  I needed a heart, Cory needed a brain, there were people in braids, and it smelled like dog.  Noticeably absent, any sequins or gingham.  THEN, a dude walked by wearing a shirt that said, no joke, “Once a King, Always A King But Once A Knight Is Never Enough.”  Oh, my life.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  Unlike Cory’s Magic cards, which I would trade faster than a hummingbird on Red Bull to get bedroom furniture.

Our turn.

Cory settled behind the table and pulled out his rarest, best kept card.  “Whoo boy!” the dude exclaimed.  Cory plopped down his second best next to it, and the guy inspected the cards.  Cory had paid approximately $40 for both cards some years back, and now the guy looked at the lesser card and declared, “I’ll give you $125 for that one,” and picking up the 2^nd card said, “and I could give you…$600 for this one,” as he held up the rare.  Cory looked him in the eye and said, “I think it’s worth more than that.  How about $1000 for both?”  He had to ask his boss, and his boss said ‘yes’, which is why you will want to invite Cory with you on your next trip to Tijuana when you go shopping for souvenirs.  After plopping a few more cards down Cory ended up walking out with $1200, enough to buy his clubs and a nice dinner.

We did both.

Cory wins.

Hammer Time

My Wii is giving me flashbacks.  There are dozens of songs on our “Just Dance” game, and one of our favorites is MC Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This”.  (Jill:  Yes, you should know who MC Hammer is.  Shut up already.)  The song may be old but the beat still urges me out of my chair.  However, every time I hear this song I am suddenly 20 years old in a Georgetown bar clearing the floor with a guy named Mike while my summer crush looks on.

Here’s what happened.

I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.  Wait, wrong song.  I was working as an intern in Washington D.C.  Yes, that’s more like it.  See?  

At the time my sister was the Executive Assistant for a California Congressman, and when we figured out that I could intern for their office over the summer while simultaneously earning college credit, I jumped at the chance.  It was one of the best summers of my life, and not just because of the super cute guy who worked at the Republican National Committee down the hall or the chocolate/peanut butter frozen yogurt that you could get from the cafeteria every day.  Except that had a lot to do with it.  Anyhow, I acquired a rather large crush on said RNC hallmate, so when he invited me out to play sand volleyball with some other Capitol Hill interns and employees after work I went for it.

We bumped, we set, we spiked, and following our two hours having fun in the sun one of the guys piped up about a bar in Georgetown that was having some intern specials on beer and recommended we move our little party over there.  As the only non-drinker in the group I was going to opt out, but RNC guy talked me into coming just for the company, no drinking required.  I relented.  (This was a bold move for someone like me – I didn’t drink, smoke, sleep around, or even say “dammit” at that point in my life.  I still don’t drink, smoke, or sleep around.  The end.)  “Hi Cute And Persuasive, meet Mormon And Naive.”

We caught the subway to the bar and entered the doors where I was instantly surrounded by a mob of thirsty, desperate souls, clamoring their way to the front of the line, waving their bills in the air and yelling their orders over the music and the crowd to the woman at the counter.  “Can I get a beer?  I need a beer!  Three beers please!”  The woman finally got to me and asked me what I wanted to drink.  It was like asking Martha Stewart what kind of Velveeta cheese she prefers.  “Um…can I just get, like, an orange juice or something?”  “What?” the waitress yelled back.  I tried a little louder, “An ORANGE JUICE?”  “We don’t have orange juice!!” she retorted.  I may as well have asked for the sun to come out at midnight, so RNC boy took me by the arm and steered me outside where we searched out some fast food.  After a quick dinner we made our way back to the bar to visit with the rest of the group where it was announced that MC Hammer had been requested, and a guy named Mike and I committed to dance to it before we left. 

But it was taking a really long time.

It was getting late, the subway had a schedule, and I was inching closer and closer to the last pickup time.  I was also dependent on RNC boy getting me to the station because wandering around an unfamiliar town at 11pm alone didn’t seem like such a wise idea, ESPECIALLY if I ended up missing my ride.  (Mom?  Dad?  You doing okay here?  I’m not sure you’ve heard this story before.  You were probably home watching Rush Limbaugh when this was all going down, thinking Sooz and I were just hanging out at her townhouse playing UNO.  Psych!  P.S.  This story ends well, which reminds me - thanks for paying your tithing.)

“I really should get going,” I said.

“Just one more minute, the song should come on any time now.”

[It’s been a minute!]  I looked at my watch, “I really have to go,” I said to my crush, begging him not to leave me stranded in Georgetown.

“It’s okay, if you miss the subway you can sleep at my house.”

?!?!?!?!?!?!

Did you know that sometimes God answers prayers that the rap music in a bar will come on faster?

[the speakers blared]  “Hammer Time!”

That’s my cue!  Mike and I headed for the center of the mob and busted out our best moves.  It's important to know here that NO ONE ELSE was dancing, so when we took the floor everyone in the joint made a circle around us and began clapping and cheering us on.  Mike was probably drunk, and I was stone cold sober and praying that the subway wouldn’t leave without me.  When the song ended RNC boy and I ran outside, rushed to the subway station, and I stood there, panting and hoping against hope that the line to Alexandria would come.

It did.

And now MC Hammer and I will live on forever in my memories.

And while playing “Just Dance”.

Changing Lives One Cupcake At A Time

I had to post a picture of something that a friend of mine who reads my blog just dropped off.  She was inspired by these bad boys that I made when I went to the radio station, but look what she did with the sugar embellishment!

She colored the burnt sugar with red food coloring - the chocolate frosting is homemade (because I know these things) and it's topped with chocolate shavings.  Not. Too. Shabby.  Thanks for sharing Nicol!  

Guess what else?  Another reader made some to take to a Valentine's Party.  That's true love, people.  (Way to go Katie!)  Also, people other than 3rd graders have Valentine's Day parties?

iLove

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, we here at Casa de Vern are technologically handicapped.  The kids at the bus stop have cooler cell phones and fancier gadgets than I do, and as long as we have been on the planet we’ve been at least a couple of years behind everyone else when it comes to the latest and greatest stuff.  A few years ago we were visiting some friends and they asked, “Hey, do you wanna see our new Blu Ray?”  “Sure!” I answered and thought to myself, that must be SOME aquarium, but then he headed for the entertainment center to start pushing buttons and I felt confused.  Quite honestly, not all technology excites me.  I still hate automatic faucets and drinking fountains because they never detect me to be in the right place at the right time, and there’s nothing more humiliating than bending over a drinking fountain with your mouth open and tongue hanging out, hoping against hope that your mouth and the water will meet amicably. 

Nevertheless, ever since sitting next to a chatty gentleman on an airplane and his showing me how he could color tint photos on his iPhone, I knew that the iPhone and I were meant to be together.  But they are expensive, and require different data plans and providers, and we weren’t ready to make the commitment.  (It’s not you, iPhone, it’s me.)  BUT.  Things change.  People change.  And when things AND people change at the same time one finds herself in the Verizon store pointing at the shiny thing behind the glass while clutching her checkbook and saying, “Can I have THAT one?”  And the guy behind the counter is incredibly accommodating and patient because he gets commission, and he tries to answer all the lady’s questions.

“So, how do I know if I want the 16 gig or 32 gig?”

“Well, what do you plan to use it for?”

“Um, well I’m hoping to call people on it.  And I’m very much looking forward to not having to press the 7 three times every time I have to text an ‘r’.  Also, I hear there are some angry birds that may be able to entertain me if I’m ever stuck in an airport.”

“Do you plan to set up any hot spots?”

“Hot spots?  You mean like Ft. Lauderdale?”

“I think you’ll be fine with the 16 gig.”

Cory bought me one for Valentine’s Day, and while our relationship is still new (mine and the phone’s, not mine and Cory’s – because hello, almost 18 years folks) I think we’re going to have a long and happy life together.  And that goes for Cory too.

Ice Ice Baby

While attacking a snow bank at the bus stop this morning a big chunk fell to the sidewalk, and Drew stood on it with the assumption it would collapse under his weight.  When it didn’t he looked at me and said, “Well, I AM light and skinny.”  I motioned him off and said, “Let me try it.”  I stepped up, gained my balance, and the block stayed firm.  “OR,” Drew started, “It’s just really strong.”  Bless his heart.

Bangs! Bangs!

In my defense it was a snow day, and I had cabin fever, and the scissors were RIGHT THERE.  And actually, when I say it was a snow day what I mean is it snowed all night, and then the phone rang at 5:30 am so the automated message on the other end could inform me that the high school was delayed a whole THIRTY MINUTES.  Thank goodness for that half hour, because I swear if I had had to leave at 7:00 am instead of 7:30 am I probably would have had to help shovel FIVE people out instead of just the FOUR. 

But eventually the day got underway and I was home alone for six hours.  Cold and alone and already caught up on my DVR'd episodes of The Middle, I looked in the mirror and said, "I think I need bangs."  That's how I got here:

And incidentally, how I ended up looking twelve years old.  And not even just because of the eyeroll. 

I discovered something while I was cutting my bangs in the mirror.  See that mole on my neck?

 How about now?

 

I've received mixed reviews on my bangs.  When Samantha got in the car as I picked her up from school she said, "What happened?"  "I was bored," I answered.  Then she said, "And THAT'S why I don't let you cut my hair."  Cory also confessed that it is not his favorite, but the guy gets credit for supporting me when I went red.  Remember that?  Ooh!  And remember when wearing a rainbow shirt didn't mean you were gay?

You could always just focus on my cute scarf.

After I Zoquo, I Like To Ushnu

I think I have writer’s block.  How else am I supposed to explain that I’m sitting here at my computer, staring at my scrabble dictionary and wondering if I have anything to say about it?  By the way, “rheology” is a word.  It means, “the study of matter in the fluid state”, which is code for “sucks to be a rheologist”.  Also?  “Quiff” is a word.  It means, “a forelock”, code for, “what the crap is a forelock?”  The point is I’m really good at decoding.

I’m also really good at identifying the difference between certain words.  It’s nothing special really, except I worry a little about the people who don’t share that ability.  For example, a person who gets confused between self deprecation and self defacation could be in BIG trouble.  Or, take Oxytocin and OxyContin – one is a hormone, one is an addictive opiate.  Critical information if one needs to stage an intervention.  Know what else?  Intervention and Intermission?  TOTALLY different.  If you need to stage an intervention and you go for an intermission instead, everyone will be totally confused.

Glad I could help.

p.s.  Anyone who can identify the reference of my post title without googling is my HERO!  Can you?  Huh?

Colder Than A Brass Bra On The Shady Side Of An Iceberg

Today's high in Denver is supposed to reach -3 degrees.  You heard me, the HIGH.  Seeing as it was 67 degrees two days ago this comes as a great shock to my system.  For kicks I looked up some cold jokes to see if there was anything funny to say on the topic, but I only found one that I liked.  Are you ready?

It's SO COLD...





...that the local flasher was caught describing himself to women.

I'm here all week, folks.