The Hypocritical Oath

People always say they're suckers for men in uniform.  I admit I am one of those "people", especially when it comes to, say, Val Kilmer circa 1986.  Also, as much as I hate to give a nod to Tom Cruise because he is certifiably insane (obviously, because the "source" from People magazine is never wrong), but the guy can rock it when he's groomed from head to toe, there's a dewy glow along his brow and his steely gaze is fixed on saying, "Sir, yesSIR!"  (Now if he could just master the "Ma'am yes MA'AM!")  In addition to the uniform, men with badges also wield a certain appeal.  You can really tell how important it is when someone dies.  If you die and you have served your country in the military or community the picture that gets showcased on the nightly news is never the one from New Year's Eve wearing a sweater vest and Old Spice, it's always the one in uniform with the badges and the American flag hanging in the background.

However, despite the similarity of making oaths to perform duties to God and country, not all uniforms and badges are created equal.  For example, Scouts have uniforms and badges and yet they get no respect.  I guess we revere those who save lives and put away bad dudes more than those who clap in circles and give "rounds of applause".  Just a few weeks ago when we were flying home I passed a military officer down the airplane aisle so I caught his attention and simply said, "Thank you for your service."  But I would never single out a Scout Master and say, "Dude, thanks for teaching my son how to do blue darts."  When I worked a small stint at a photography studio we had mothers who came in all the time making their Eagle Scout sons wear their uniforms with all of their merit badges as an outfit to showcase in their senior pictures.  I always wanted to pull these boys aside and give them some hot wings and a Mountain Dew before going in so they could literally hold on to a little manhood before it was stripped away in front of the soft focus lens.  I imagined whispering to them, "Repeat after me:  I am cool like VinDiesel and one day I will have a girlfriend.  Say it."  They would repeat back, "I am cool like VinDiesel and one day I will have a girlfriend."  I would gesture a friendly smack on their butt and say, "Good.  Now go get 'em tiger.  This will all be over soon."  Regrettably, it never went down like that. 


It may not seem like I'm very high on the organization but the truth is, I support it.  I married an Eagle Scout.  I'm also in the process of raising one, and there's actually a lot of crap to do.  One of the requirements is that he has to have a certain number of nights spent camping with his troop, so he spent this entire week up in Rocky Mountain National Park passing things off.  His leaders are outstanding and they were very organized in letting us know the things Drew needed to complete beforehand.  We diligently hacked away at his list - he gave a speech, wrote a letter to "express [his] opinion" on a topic (and then the manager of our housing development called him back to say that the weeds in our yard were not his responsibility), prepared a creative introduction of himself (his rap was a big hit), and attended a public meeting.  The only remaining requirement was to "develop a plan to teach a skill or inform someone about something".  We had discussed various ideas and he assured me that everything was under control.  Unfortunately, "under control" is teenage boy code for "wait until 9:30 the night before and search for ideas on YouTube."  Which reminds me, I would like to amend the scout motto from "Be Prepared" to "If Momma Ain't Prepared Ain't Nobody Prepared".

Nine thirty.

THE NIGHT BEFORE.

I was not amused, but that's only because he hadn't yet arrived at the part where he was rummaging through the junk drawer mumbling, "Where are all the paper clips?"  He eventually found some and made his way toward me and said, "Ok, Mom.  Check this out.  I'm going to fold this dollar bill...and then attach these two paper clips.  When I unfold the dollar bill the paperclips are going to magically link together.  WATCH."  He unfolded the bill with hearty enthusiasm, paper clips went flying, and he almost ripped the dollar.  I observed in great frustration and mild amusement.  "Wait!" he urged.  "Let me try again."  NINE FORTY-FIVE.  He returned to YouTube and came back a few minutes later to show me how to hold a rope from both ends and tie it in a knot without letting go.  His right hand shot over his left, his left folded under his right, and he stood there struggling to get it right.  Samantha walked into the room to discover the scene, saw Drew fumbling and said, "Give it to me."  She performed the trick, threw the rope on the couch and triumphed, "There."  And then she walked away.  Drew ran back to the YouTube video to practice his tricks, and I returned to the couch and practiced not killing him.  Ten o'clock.

He got home last night so I've been gathering facts today about how things went.  "How did your skill teaching go?"  "Oh," he said.  "Well, it didn't work the first time because I forgot how to fold the dollar bill but I eventually got it right."  Communications Merit Badge - check.  As we speak he is upstairs arguing with his sister as they clean their bathroom, so I think he really soaked it in.

No respect.  There might be a reason for that....

St. Thomas - The Island, Not The Priest

It was raining when we got to the much anticipated Coki Beach, but a guy with red dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes who was trying to sell me a $12 grilled cheese sandwich pinky swore me that it would stop soon.  He lied.  Stoners, man.  You just can't trust 'em anymore.  However, the thing about rain when you're in the Caribbean is that it doesn't matter that much.  It's like the lines on a Saturday morning at Krispy Kreme; in 15 minutes you're still going to get a hot donut so what's the hassle?  I kept glancing up at the grey clouds spitting droplets onto my paperback and sat amused thinking, "Sorry tropical storm, you're going to have to try harder."  Apparently the storm didn't know that the alternative to my being on the beach that day was doing dishes at home while Good Luck Charlie played in the background as my kids ignored their summer homework.  It also probably helped that my parents never fed me the line about rain being God's tears that He shed over my mistakes or that could have been a serious buzzkill.  In that case I may have exerted the effort to get up from my chaise to shake my fist at the sky and yell, "All right, all RIGHT!  I promise to call my mom as soon as I get home and confess that I DID call and vote for those dancers on TV back in 1983 and that those charges on our phone bill were not bogus."  (Hey, Mom?  You maybe should have tried that line about God crying.  Forgive me?)

To sum up:  Never hang your hat on the pinky swear of a hungover beach bum, snorkeling in the rain is not the worst thing that could happen to a person, and Good Luck Charlie is trying to kill my dreams.  The only thing that sucked on this island...their grilled cheese. 

Drew's Clues

Drew was kind of on a roll this trip so we wrote down some of the funny stuff he said.  Here's a sampling:

"When a kid named Leland starts making fun of you that's when you know you've hit rock bottom."

"I'm willing to protest but I'm not going on strike.  A man has to eat."

"Tofu is like vegetable poop."

Unfortunately, at one point we passed a woman along the beach who didn't see the need to cover herself while breastfeeding.  I saw her first as Drew was walking behind me - I was hoping he wouldn't notice but it was too late.  As he passed her and realized what he was witnessing he grew wide-eyed and in horror confessed, "I think I just died right there."

While waiting for our flight home Drew was processing his withdrawal from the 24-hour access to food when we ordered him 10 chicken nuggets from McDonald's.  Five minutes later he said, "I'm still hungry."  The kid has grown an inch a month for the last year, so I believe him.  I bought him 10 more.  Five minutes later he said, "I'm still hungry."  I looked at him in dismay and he added, "Funny thing is, I haven't even pooped the others out yet."

He's a keeper.

Cruise Part II - Cory Speaks Whale

Going on a cruise was a first for all of us, so there were a few adjustments.  First, the drunken sailor syndrome.  Before we left I couldn't really comprehend how the movement of traveling on a small city across the ocean would manifest itself, but there were times where I felt like I'd had one too many citrus souffles with grand marnier crème anglaise.  IF THAT IS EVEN POSSIBLE.

Secondly, I couldn't get used to being surrounded by people whose only job was to clean up after me and make me happy.  I noticed you had to take an elevator 6 flights and walk a whole half a yard to this all-you-can-eat buffet, you must be exhausted.  Would you like a fresh towel for your weary, propped up toes as you lunch by the ocean?  Have you had 17 mickey bars yet?  There's still 6 minutes left in the day.  Perhaps you would enjoy it more if you were poolside while watching a movie?  Or maybe you would prefer this plush, corner loveseat overlooking the ocean to read that book.  Are you getting so sick and tired of all those clean sheets being changed on your bed every. single. day?  Do let us know if all of that cleaning of your bathrooms while you're at the beach and leaving chocolates on your pillow at night is making you tired.  P.S.  I lied.  I could get used to it. 

Third, in contrast to my normal life where I jump when the phone rings because it startles the silence, I was constantly entertained.  You don't get bored on a Disney Cruise any more than you don't get head lice in a refugee camp.  Not even dinner time was low key!  One of the meals we had was in a restaurant on the ship called "Animator's Palate".  During dinner one night we found ourselves engaged in a live conversation via a virtual aquarium with the popular animated sea turtle from Finding Nemo, "Crush".  I don't know how they do it, but somebody, somewhere behind the scenes takes on the persona of "Crush" and he can see the people in front of him, so he talks to his audience.  (You may have experienced a similar activity at Disney's California Adventure.)  Anyway, "he" managed to single Cory and I out and after giving Cory some pointers on how to speak in "whale" (again, inspired by Finding Nemo) he had him stand up in the middle of the restaurant and tell me that he "adored" me...IN WHALE.  I think they expected him to shrink a little at the request but Cory owned it and bellowed something to the effect of, "KristEEee, I adOOOOre yooOOuu."  You could hear it echo to the surrounding tables and then he sat down to the applause of the onlookers.  It was awesome.  Never underestimate an accountant, y'all.

Other things that happened during "down" time:  I practiced my Spanish with a Chilean guest, won a prize from the jewelry store, watched Drew eat snails, danced merengue with our waiter, saw 4 musical productions, solved an on-board detective game, reunited a lost boy with his mother, forced the kids to learn salsa, and eavesdropped on some teenagers talking about their prom from the observatory deck.  Never a dull moment!

Cruise Part I - St. Maarten

I think one of the hardest lessons in life after learning that actors can become politicians and two Fiber One bars can regulate a dormant volcano is when you learn that koala bears are not cuddly in person.  Next up is when you realize that your kids are about to leave home and render that whole Stay At Home Mom gig completely irrelevant.  I've talked about my daughter's impending departure from our home and how we hoped to engulf it in memories this summer here.  The best part is we still have a whole year to beat this to death!  Have I mentioned how much fun I am at parties?  At any rate, it seemed like the least I could do is follow up on that "Trip That Magic Bought" and give you some highlights and quotes from our excursion.  We were gone a week that felt like a month that we wish had lasted all year, and here's how it played out.

We went on a Disney Cruise to the Caribbean.  Are there any other words strung together in one sentence that could sound more lovely?  Other than, "Your kids will never suffer!" and "You just won a sectional from Arhaus!" it's pretty high up there.  I started off the week by taking notes on every dessert I had.  Let's just say that I had 29 desserts in 7 days.  Katherine Heigl had 27 dresses, Kate Hudson lost a guy in 10 days...they'll be making my trip into a movie any day now.  Our best food discovery:  Mickey ice cream bars delivered free of charge to your room ANYTIME YOU WANT.  Say I'm Angelina Jolie, and the Mickey Bars are orphans.  It was like that.

Early on our trip Drew noted an advertisement in our room with the name "Anders" on it.  He decided that was cooler than his own given name and told me we had made a mistake by not putting that on his birth certificate.  Later we had to chastise him for something and he responded, "Anders says he's sorry."  He's kind of a goofball.

Our first stop was St. Maarten where we signed up for an excursion to hike through the rainforest.  I envisioned plucking fresh chamomile leaves and petting chimps while maintaining a balmy glow along my forehead.  I neglected to envision that a 78-year-old man whose body would give out 1/4 of the way down the path would also sign up for this excursion and would result in Cory absorbing MANY extra pounds of weight to help this guy down the mountain.  Either we paid $250 for the world's lamest strength training class or we paid $250 for Cory to secure his mansion in heaven and we made some new friends.  We're gunning for the latter.  One thing is certain, we were bonded for the duration of our cruise.  Before our kids bailed and elected to run ahead of our struggling group we enjoyed a measure of comic relief when Drew said to Samantha, "If a tribe jumps out at us I'm handing over YOU as a sacrifice."

This is Cory and our new buddy, Glen.  His wife's name was Irma.  They've been married 51 years.  Also, Cory wears fedoras now.

The interesting thing about St. Maarten is that half of the island is Dutch and the other half is French.  Basically what this means is you can smoke pot on one side and go topless on the other, making it ideal for Justin Bieber but not our little Mormon family whose sole exposure to drugs and nudity is Tylenol and bathtime baby pictures.  So we headed for the clothing required side and made a break for the gelato stand.  We win.

The Truth About Life

There’s a commercial that runs rampant in my neck of the woods for a store called Kay Jewelers.  It’s a picturesque scene – husband and wife are staring into each other’s eyes over some filet mignon and chocolate mousse.  Hubby is all shiny in his pressed white shirt under his suit, and the wife is all decked out in her basic black dress that hugs and forgives in all the right places.  Their table is adorned with a simple rose in a vase as the scene behind them glistens in ambient light.  Then, from across the table the husband stretches out his arm and un-cups his hand to reveal a small, velvet box and hands it across to his wife.  He is smiling as if he’s courtside at an NBA game with hot wings in his lap rather than parked at a pricey restaurant with $20 wedge salads.  His wife responds by arching her eyebrows in gross anticipation, then gently takes the box and flips open the top only to reveal some emblem of diamonds.  Either shaped in a heart to signify their undying love, or perhaps in a circular round symbolic of a never-ending commitment to one another, the woman conveys her approval with a knowing look.  He nods proudly at his own move then smiles to himself as if to say, “I am so getting action later.”  Finally, in culmination of this perfect moment they lean across the small table to share a kiss, and then the commercial jingle pipes in, “Every kiss begins with ‘Kay’.” 

It makes me want to strangle a puppy.

And then it makes me want diamonds for my anniversary.  Which is today.

Twenty years, baby.  Or as Rent would say, ten million five-hundred twelve thousand minutes.  It’s been two whole decades since my sister did my hair, I gave myself a manicure with a polish I think they now label, “Grandma’s Powder Room”, and San Diego ordered a downpour that forced our garden reception indoors.  Twenty years is kind of a long time and I dare say I have learned a lot.

I learned that I share an anniversary with Mariah Carey and her ex-husband, Tommy Mottola.  I learned that getting married to further your career is a recipe for a divorce.  I learned that I am better at marriage than Mariah Carey. 

I have learned that New Year’s Eve will always be overrated, and that kissing under bright lights and mayhem at midnight is just as good as kissing under a fluorescent light in the kitchen at 9pm when you’re kissing the right person.

I have learned that not all husbands cry like babies when they see their babies being born.  Sometimes they hold your hand while watching the Masters and rooting for Phil Mickelson, but it’s ok.  Because 16 years later he’s going to take that baby out on a daddy/daughter date and make her feel like a million bucks and she won’t remember that he didn’t cry when she was born.

I’ve learned that jumping off waterfalls, exploring Israel, zip-lining through a grove of aspens and swimming with dolphins can be a lot of fun with your eternal partner.  And I’ve also learned that even though it’s fun it has nothing to do with love. 

No, love is when I was overweight for 10 years and he never EVER mentioned it.  Love is when I broke down crying in the bathroom, overwhelmed at the thought of being a first time parent and he held me and promised me we would figure it out together.  Love is getting in the bed first to warm up my side while I’m taking off my makeup.  Trumping all, I would say that Cory’s greatest gift to me in twenty years of marriage has been loving me when I’m not being lovable.  He’s really brave. 

The truth about life, and in this case the truth about married life, is that the perfect moments are usually messy.  For me, they haven’t been born in bistros over wine and diamonds.  He’s not wearing a tux, I’m not wearing a satin gown, and we’re not standing on top of the Eiffel Tower renewing our vows.  We’re usually at home.  He’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with the sprinklers, I’m trying to figure out how many chocolate chips I can fit in my mouth.  We’re often dealing with homework – he sits patiently aside a child and helps with math.  I make cookies while they study for Finals and teach them about the dangers of emotional eating.  We’re a team!

The truth is, not all kisses begin with Kay.  And even if they did, I’m confident that it wouldn’t be as satisfying as the commercial makes it seem.  Someday they will make a commercial where the wife is sitting on the couch and her husband comes downstairs wearing a fedora and a skull shirt and asks, “What do you think?”  Their 17-year-old daughter scoffs and says, “Wow.  I can’t un-see that.”  We’ll laugh as the husband retorts, “I kinda like it.  I’m wearing it anyway.”  His wife then takes him to a graduation party and jokes about her new boyfriend, Bruno Mars.  I’m not sure what the commercial would be for exactly, but my family would be the stars.  In the meantime, forget the diamonds.  

Just give me 20 more years. 

One Day More

Someone once told me that there is a difference between giving a PRESENT and giving a GIFT.  A present, they said, was something YOU wanted the other person to have whereas a gift was simply something the other person wanted.  I believe this distinction applies in regard to the choice Cory made about what to give me for Christmas last year.  I received three envelopes on our snowy, Christmas morning – one marked “February”, another marked “May”, and the final one was labeled “September”.  Hoping for the best (airfare to a warm beach!) but preparing for the worst (coupons for a date night to watch all of Star Wars on DVD) I lifted the top of February’s envelope and pulled out the folded papers.  I was delighted to find something completely unexpected, as a pair of tickets to Broadway’s Jekyll & Hyde was revealed.  Now, even more curious about May’s envelope I opened that one up and found two passes to the ever popular Les Miserables.  Amazing!  Finally, I landed on September which produced a final set of tickets to the musical rendition of Sister Act.  In a matter of seconds I went from having nothing to do in 2013 to having a year’s worth of musical theater to look forward to.

Present or gift?  I swear on the grave of my grandmother these tickets were positively, absolutely, unequivocally a GIFT.  For starters, aside from a short middle school stint with a trombone Cory’s musical appreciation pretty much started with Van Halen and ended with Guns ‘N’ Roses.  Throw in a little Kenny G we both tolerated on our honeymoon and you’ve got Cory’s musical background.  My next clue:  Early in our relationship when I attempted to explain my love affair with Les Miserables his response was, “The key word there is ‘LAME’.”  And as for that time he was kicked out of the 4^th grade choir – I think he still harbors a little resentment.  In short, musicals are not Cory’s thing in the way that jockeying is not Shaq’s thing.

Jekyll & Hyde in February was rough.  Maybe it was the bone chilling walk from the parking garage to the theater that set a poor tone, or maybe it was because the main character of the show starts out nice until he drinks a potion and then he kills everyone and it ends with him committing suicide that it was kind of a downer, but we didn’t love it. 

In preparation for Les Miserables we bought the movie and I told Cory how important it was that we watch it before we saw the live version so he could follow the story.  I just didn’t think he would do it with Drew while Samantha and I were gone and I couldn’t tell him which parts to fast forward.  Samantha and I arrived home mid-movie; we heard the music as we came in from the garage, turned the corner from down the hall and spotted Drew and Cory sitting on the couch.  Cory paused the show as he saw us appear and yelled, “What’s up with the Anne Hathaway character dying?  Didn’t she get an academy award for that part?  How can she get an award when she’s only in half the movie?” At which point Drew raised his voice, “What?!  This is only half over?!”  Groaning, he threw his head back against the couch and slapped the palm of his hand against his eyes. 

Meanwhile, I put on my pajamas and sat down with them to watch the rest.  I made them rewind “Do You Hear The People Sing” and proclaimed that this was the first time our surround sound had ever been put to good use.  They objected vehemently, something about Lord of the Rings Indiana Jones Harry Potter Crappity Crap and I had to shush them as Jean Valjean dragged Marius through the sewers to try and save his life. 

“Is he dead?”

“If he dies I’m turning it off.”

“Is that poo they’re walking through?”

“Who’s that guy stealing the teeth?”

“How long are those tunnels?”

“Why do they have to sing ALL the lines?”

“SHHHH!!”

Finally, Javert comes face to face with his demons once and for all in the film and as he bellows his struggle in song my tone deaf accountant spoke up once more and said, “Russell Crowe is terrible,” and for the first time in 38 minutes I wanted to kiss my husband on the lips.  I agreed whole heartedly but he didn’t stop there.  “I mean like, Pierce Brosnan in Mama Mia terrible.”  Again, I concurred.  Then, “Who would you rather hear sing, Russell Crowe or Pierce Brosnan?” 

“SHHH!”

When it was finally over Drew appeared violated, Cory looked mortified and while steeping in bewilderment he asked, "Wait, so then who won the war?"  I hung my head in defeat and told him that if he hated it so much I could find someone else to go with me on Friday.

“Wait, what?  Friday?!”  Drew said.  “But that’s when Fast & The Furious 6  is coming out!”  Cory made plans with Drew on Saturday and kept his date with me on Friday.  I rather enjoyed it – I think he would have rather shoved bamboo splinters up his fingernails and soaked them in lime juice, but he got through it.  After all, he had F&F 6 to look forward to the next day.

September’s show should be good; we’re looking forward to it.  As for Christmas in December, I can’t wait to see what he gets me this year.  Except this time it might be best if he got me a present.

Proof I'm Not A Robot

I'm kind of in a bad mood today and we are snowed in, so I find myself stewing about all the things that are irritating me.  It's the kind of day where I'm torn between counting my blessings that we have heat and a roof over our head as the blizzard rages outside or yelling at the refrigerator because it still insists on being a side-by-side.  Cory is currently stranded in Missouri due to flight cancellations on account of the weather, so the only thing sparing us from utter ruin right now are the 6 episodes of Duck Dynasty currently stored on our DVR and a box of girl scout cookies.  Hmm...I'm actually feeling better already.

But before I get too crazy seeing silver linings and stuff I feel compelled to air my grievances about word verifications these days.  Is it just me or are they getting increasingly complicated?  I understand the whole "prove you're not a robot" concept, but proving you're not a robot is one thing; it's quite another to eat a can of Alpha-Bet soup only to poop it out and ask me to decipher the letters.  Is it that critical to prove myself?  'Cuz if it is, I think I have a few other strategies.

Take RoboCop for example.  

I am nothing like him.  For one thing, he has probably seen the movie.  In addition, he was a "HE", and I am a "SHE".  What, you want me to prove I'm a woman?  Fine, once 20 years ago Cory told me I had that "outdoor smell" when I was giving him a hug and I have never forgotten it.  Boom.

Next, R2D2 is probably one of the most well known robots that has influenced many generations.

But guess what?  I AM NOT HIM.  I've never had a flashlight for an eyeball and haven't walked like that since my hysterectomy.  I've also never spoken in bleeps so I can understand if you get R2 confused with Jersey Shore, but not me.  Also, this robot is really popular and I...have a really sweet spirit.  Let's just say nobody has ever tried to turn my physique into a camping chair...  

OR A SLUTTY TANK TOP...

OR A COOKIE JAR.  Although, genius.

It hardly seems  fair to discuss R2D2 without mentioning his indispensable sidekick, C3PO.  

This is a trick example though, because everyone knows C3PO wasn't a robot he was a DROID.  Geez man, don't you know anything?  Proof that I am DEFINITELY not a robot but possibly a droid:

Finally, WALL-E.

Listen, just because people fall asleep while watching me too doesn't mean WALL*E and I share the same DNA.  Obviously, because robots don't have DNA and I do.  *I* DO!  There it is boys and girls, I am not a robot.

Perhaps I should have led with the DNA argument.

Be Mine

Around 10am this morning I noticed the lonely brown paper sack sitting in the fridge.  It was someone’s forgotten lunch, so I texted my daughter to ask if it was hers.  It was.  Her lunch break was only 45 minutes away so she asked if I would drop it off.  I was headed  out anyway so I said, “of course.”  I took it out, folded over the top and stapled it shut.  Catching a glimpse of the pink highlighter nearby I picked it up, popped off the lid and spontaneously filled in a pink heart on the front of the bag above her name.  Several minutes later it was waiting for her at the school’s front office.

I’m familiar with this routine – getting the call, “I forgot my (homework, folder, flute, Xanax, just kidding, Advil, not just kidding, underwear, still not kidding, running shoes etc.)” so I grab the item, jump in the car and make my way to the school.  Sometimes this exasperates me, other times I’m happy to help.  It usually depends on whether I’ve showered yet.  I’ve shown up in various forms of impressiveness/shame at that front office but today was extra special.  I was on my way to help my friend do some painting so I had not showered, was wearing paint stained overalls (overalls!) (with paint ALL over them) (they're going to make a comeback I just know it), had no make up on, and then, because it was cold I threw on a fleece jacket OVER my OVERalls just to help me get that female lumberjack who needs lap band surgery feel.

Rare form guys, RARE FORM.

Later tonight we decided to run through the drive thru at Chick-fil-A before dropping Drew off at basketball practice and on the way home, the girl who forgot her lunch just started talking.  And talking and talking.  She prattled on about school, boys, friends, teachers….  At one point she paused for emphasis before adding, “Mom, I LOVE ENGLISH.  I mean, when have I EVER loved English?”  Her teacher is someone that she adores, who went so far as to cheer for my Samantha when she spotted her after school running drills with the track team today.  I love teachers who root for their kids, especially when “their” kids are mine. 

The car ride monologue eventually transitioned to the kitchen as we arrived home.  I set to work unloading the dishwasher and just listened as Samantha analyzed her high school life and I marveled at her awareness and ability to dissect the psychology of it all.  That girl is paying attention to the world around her – she knows what she wants, and she knows what she doesn’t want.  She gets it when people are being manipulative, and her senses warn her when someone is being inauthentic. 

I’m just listening. 

I squirted some detergent on the dishrag and started to move it in circles around the counter as she talked about some of the decisions she is making and why she’s making them.  This whole time I thought she was just cruising along but no, she’s making conscious choices - freaking awesome conscious choices.  As I stood there and relished this seemingly out of body, glorious moment she suddenly stopped, looked up at the clock and gasped, “Oh!  I have to go!”  I checked the clock also and confirmed, “Yes, you do.  Drive safe, have fun.  I love you!” I called out as she grabbed the keys and headed for the door.  Seconds later the door reopened and she re-emerged from around the corner.  “Can I just give you a hug?” she asked as she came toward me.  “Of course, baby girl,” I answered as she threw her arms around me and told me she loved me.  I kissed her head and reminded her, “You know you never have to ask.”

After hugging her tight I released her from my grip; she started back toward the door and turned around before shutting it behind her and explained, “You know, when I went to pick up my lunch from the office today the security guard saw the heart you drew on the bag.  He commented about it then told me I should go home and give you a hug and I thought to myself, ‘Yep, I definitely should.’  Anyway, ‘bye Mom.”  And with that she was gone.

I stood motionless and stared at the freshly closed door, soaked in the lingering presence of that child who is mine and my eyes began to sting.

I’m so glad she’s mine.

The Cape And Drape

Back when I had all my “parts” I had the luxury of letting my annual violations lapse.  I know we’re supposed to get them every year but I’m also supposed to aerate my lawn every fall, make a vision board and swear off saturated fats.  There are only so many hours in the day people, and the Property Brothers isn’t just going to watch itself.  But then my epic hospital stay happened and I emerged without parts.  I also emerged with the notion that I was heretofore released from all future GYN visits.  Nothin’ to see here folks, go force someone else to sing “Moon River” while staring at the ceiling.  It was the silver lining around everything I had been through.  

Until I needed a refill on my prescription.  A year into my recovery with no apparent side effects from my hormone replacement therapy, I called in my refill to the Pharmacist who called back to tell me I was not eligible for renewal until I had a visit with my doctor.  I couldn’t understand what could be gained from this, seeing as I had nothing left to check.  I imagined the following scenario:

Dr:  Hey Vern, how’s that uterus?

Vern:  Well, see this 8 inch scar?  You put that there when you took it out.

Dr:  Oh, right!  That’s healing up nicely.  I did an awesome job.  

Vern:  Yep.  Hey, how did you spend that $30K?  Nice college fund for the wee lass, I hope.

Dr:  *chuckle* Silly Vern.

Vern:  No really, how’s the new car?

Dr:  She sure is a sweet ride but I’m due for a little extra window tinting.

Vern:  So THAT’S why I’m here!

The point is, now I have to go back every year whether I like it or not because I NEED THOSE PILLS.  Without those pills I could refill all the reservoirs with my night sweats and take down al Qaeda with my mood swings.  So against my will I made my appt. and went last week.  Even after 20 years this experience still sucks, but I like how they try to ease you in gently by telling you to first step on the scale and then go pee in a cup.  I want to say, “I thought this was the doctor’s office, not a sorority hazing ritual.”  While we’re on the topic, could someone please explain to me how we are able to grow babies in a Petri dish but we haven’t figured out a better system for collecting urine samples?  Like that little basket of wet wipes next to the Dixie cups is supposed to make me feel any better.  All that does is make me pine for BBQ ribs and fried chicken.  First I’m demoralized, then I’m inconvenienced, and now I’m STARVING.  

The nurse escorts me to the exam room where she casually tells me to undress and then gestures to the pink tissue paper on the table and adds, “And there’s your cape and drape, pink for the top and white for the bottom.”  Her tone is so deceitful, like a Nazi saying, “Oh here, go on into this lovely SHOWER!  You’ve worked so hard today, go relax and get nice and clean.”  It's a conspiracy, I tell you.  And now I'm to the part where I wonder, just how much time do I have before the good Doctor knocks on the door and comes in?  I have this fear that one day I won’t change my clothes fast enough and he’ll walk in on me, and I’ll be standing there in all my glory and 7^th grade PE will all come rushing back to me.  Then again, what am I hiding?  I’m wearing half a tablecloth with armholes the size of manhole covers forcryingoutloud.   

Having said all that, I’m really looking forward to getting that postcard in the mail telling me that my tests came out normal.  I can say, “No Duh,” my doctor gets his tinted windows, and the world gets the version of me that doesn’t require a pickaxe to relieve stress.

Everybody wins.

'88 = Not That Great

Are you gonna make me say it?  Alright, I hated high school.  I don't expect you to care, I just expect you to listen to me talk about it ad nauseam.  Apparently.  To sum up, I guess I grew up thinking I was special and the only thing middle/high school taught me was that I was, in fact, invisible.  Blah blah blah, crocodile tears, puppies die, cheese goes bad, and Channing Tatum won't always look like that.  I spent over a decade of my life living happily before high school and 25 blissful years since its anticlimactic finish, so what I can't figure out is why on earth these people are so excited about the prospect of getting back together to reminisce over "old" times; as if a half rate buffet at the Radisson is the ideal spot for that.  (Gee Vern, bitter much?)  Hey, you would be bitter too if you waited for four years to get acknowledged in the yearbook and this was the picture that made the cut:

Nerds' Wives Rule Too. - OR - Nerds' Wives Rule Too!

I don't know if you know this, but selling off hundreds of cards to pay for a family vacation is a lot of work.  Sure, Cory gets major kudos for being willing to part with his beloved collection, but I should also get points for doing the ground work.  In essence, I am turning into the ebay master.  The Ebay Master!  (Do you see the difference there?  First I said I was the ebay master.  Period.  Then I said I was the Ebay Master!  Exclamation point.  Doesn't the 2nd one sound better?  Like we're ALL having fun now.  You'll see in paragraph 3 how this is relevant.)  I have my own cubicle and everything.  I'm waiting for my cape, but in the meantime I'm making do with sweats and fuzzy slippers.  Just you watch, it will be all the rage at Halloween.

We've narrowed it down to a routine - Cory researches the value of the card, then I list it, keep tabs on the auction, and ship it to the highest bidder.  See how I just made it sound like Cory does one thing and I do three?  Don't be deceived, because you may recall that he is a CPA so when I say that he, "researches the value of the card" it means that he looks up the reseller purchase price, compares it to the market value, calculates the difference and formulates it all into a spreadsheet.  This, he can do.  It's Valentine's Day that he struggles with.  Speaking of Valentine's Day I gave Cory his gift a little early last week when I commented on one of the auctions.  "Did you see that Nether Void is up to $84?" I asked him when he walked in the door.  Then, shocked by my own words I steadied myself, looked up at him and said, "Have you ever been more attracted to me?"  I imagine it would be similar to Cory nudging me awake after a nap and saying, "Would you like some chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla bean gelato and caramel sauce?" followed by, "Are you always this pretty?"  This is why imagination is so important, kids.  

Nevertheless, I will admit there was a bit of an adjustment period because I am using Cory's already established ebay account, so I'm kind of trying to pretend I'm him.  Not only that, but I have to pretend that I speak this other language that includes words like "Tolarian Academy", "Earthcraft" and "Mox Opal" (just to name a few).  I'm trying to sound legit but let's be real here people, I am a stay at home mom who watches excess amounts of HGTV, appreciates the comeback of the color gray and understands that to love Pinterest is to love burlap.  I don't know how to communicate with boys who don't capitalize their sentences or use punctuation.  After a few encounters I asked Cory his opinion while responding to a query.  I wanted to sound friendly and accommodating, so I answered this guy's question and ended it with an exclamation point.  "Does this sound like something you would say?" Cory peered over my shoulder as I sat at the computer and the following conversation ensued.

"What's with the exclamation point?"
"It's supposed to make me seem nice."
"You're making me sound like a GIRL."
"So you just want me to end it with a period?  That seems so...cold."
[Cory shakes his head.] 
"I mean, really," I defended.  "This is a good card!  He should be excited about it!"
"You're lame."
Ok fine, Cory didn't say I was lame.  Not with his words anyway, but his body language was screaming, "You are a lame spice, lame nugget, lame-a-licious lamehead." 

Robots Periods it is.

Nerds Rule

I was born the 5th of seven children, so when I hopped in a car and left my home of 18 years to go to college my mom was like, "Peace out" and waved at me from the driveway until we were out of sight.  I pretty much love(d) that about my mom, because it allowed me to move forward and go live my life without feeling guilt that it was somehow causing her unhappiness.  How could it?  She was probably too busy throwing a party that the last of the estrogen producing spawn had left the building.  Besides, she had a retaining wall to build and whole wheat chocolate chip cookie bars to make.

I would like to say I learned from her, but I would also like to say I can do a pull-up.  You can't have everything.   And this is where it gets touchy, because I only have two children and one daughter; one daughter who just wrapped up 1st semester finals of her junior year in high school which means she only has a little over a year in this house and it is only causing me shortness of breath and "HOLY CRAP WE'VE NEVER TAKEN HER TO THE GRAND CANYON!" moments about 7 times a day.  It's not like I haven't known this, it's just that it's practically HERE!  I've got about 16 months to have her read Reviving Ophelia, get her those self defense classes, teach her how to budget and show her how to identify irregular moles and that's all before I've even attempted to teach her the art of a good buttercream.  That's a lot of pressure.

The other day I was thinking I would like to do some type of major family trip before she leaves our nest, so I started to casually browse the internet for possibilities.  As I narrowed down what I wanted to do, I looked at all my options - Fall Break in October, Winter Break in December, Spring Break of next year - none of them worked out.  I spent two weeks searching what to do and suddenly realized that if we were going to be able to make this happen it would have to be this summer.  This summer!  It wasn't as much time as I had hoped to have in order to save money so we could, you know, pay for it and stuff.

That's where Cory comes in because as I've mentioned before, Cory kinda has a unique hobby.  It's the kind of thing where he can sell off some of his stuff and make a profit (not that kind of stuff!) except this time, instead of using it to pay for a set of golf clubs he's willing to part with enough of his cards that we should be able to pay for the whole trip.  I gotta hand it to him, I've never had a hobby this lucrative.  I mean, I'm sure that the hundreds of dollars of unused scrapbooking crap in my basement is someone's treasure.  I don't know who that someone is but I bet they have a cow themed kitchen and still think gingham is all the rage.  In the meantime, Cory is the winner.  The one stipulation is that we can't tease him anymore and from now on we will have to refer to this summer extravaganza as The Trip That Magic Bought.  It seems kinda hard right now but as soon as I'm sitting on a beach drinking a pina colada and watching the kids frolic in the waves, it will slide right off my tongue.  The Trip That Magic Bought.

Nerds Rule.

If It Wasn't For 2012

It's a good thing that I established low expectations for New Year's Eve a long time ago.  I could try and make it sound like Cory and I are really fun by telling you we're going dancing tonight, and it wouldn't be a complete lie, but the truth is we get to have to chaperone a teenage dance.  If I was a good person I might find some sort of positive spin to put on this, but the way I see it I'm like the guy at the Carnival who has to clean the port-a-potties; you're not really there to have fun, you just have to make sure everyone else is taken care of.  Having said that, I think if I play my cards right I still might end up taking a hot guy home with me.

Say what you will about 2012, some of you might have wished the end of the world to happen as predicted by some on May 21st.  And then October 21st.  No wait, DECEMBER 21st.  As for me, there were a few days I wouldn't like to repeat but for the most part, I will shut the door on 2012 without slamming it and saying, "I HATE YOU!" and stomping away to my room.  After all, if it wasn't for 2012 I never would have seen my daughter turn 16 and start driving and dating.  I never would have seen my son grow 7 inches and win his first basketball game in 3 years.  (Seven inches!  THREE.  YEARS.)  They are the reason I don't have a career making four figures.

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have learned about Smashburger, seen my brother on National Television, or run into an Anime Convention with Cory on our date night:

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have gone to Vail and ziplining with my friends:

I wouldn't have seen two nephews get married, danced Gangnam Style in my brother's backyard dance floor or learned these important tips at the Salt Lake City Airport:

I never would have discovered A&E's Duck Dynasty.  This thought actually causes me to panic and have shortness of breath.

If it wasn't for 2012 I wouldn't have been in the middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving when Cory was awakened with a pain that seemed to be competing for a "How Do You Like Me NOW?" award and had to drive him to a hospital an hour away to get him help.  The doctor wouldn't have given him morphine, and he wouldn't have passed a kidney stone, and he wouldn't have been advised not to show it off to me.  (On a pain scale, the kidney stone is often compared to a woman giving birth.  It's not much to look at, and hard to believe such a small thing caused such immense pain, but I will say this - ever since it joined our family it has never asked to borrow money or left its shoes in the hallway.)  Oh, and Cory never would have caught this fish.

If not for 2012 Cory never would have bought a new car only to hit a deer three weeks later, and I never would have walked into my bathroom to discover my shower shattered to bits.

I never would have discovered this sidewalk sign,

or been able to write these notes to my kids' school when they were late.  (Yes, yes I did.)  October 19th was a rough day.

Most importantly, I wouldn't have been able to spend another 365 days with these people. 
  

 Happy 2013 everyone!  May your kidneys be free from stones, your roadways void of wildlife, your sidewalks lined with bacon, and may the magic of Duck Dynasty fill your homes with joy in the coming year.   

xoxo - the Vern Family

I Can't Even Roll My R's

One of the concepts I've been taught throughout my life is if you want to exercise your faith, even if you don’t feel like you HAVE faith, you can simply start by WANTING to have faith.  Then, letting that desire work in you will eventually lead you to where you want to be.  That’s kinda how I feel about blogging right now.  I don’t feel like I have it in me to do it, but I WANT to do it.  So here I sit, trying to let that desire work in me to see if I can come up with anything to write.  My fingers feel rusty, my brain feels devoid of wit, wisdom, charm, or anything else that would invite you to sit and stay a while. 

Did you catch that joke I just made?  I just wrote that my brain was devoid of “charm” as if they were once well acquainted.  Charm is a word I guarantee will never appear on my epitaph.  The day I wax charming is the day Prince William passes gas at family dinner.  I don’t know why but I always think of the Royal Family when it comes to gas.  Did you know that the average person passes gas at least 14 times a day?  That’s a lot you guys, and while the Royal Family is anything but average they are still human.  So maybe for them it’s just 7 times a day.  Still.  Where do they go?  What do they do?  Are there aides who pack travel size Febreze in their pockets JUSTINCASE?  This is what I think about at night when I can’t sleep.  HOW DOES THE QUEEN LET ONE?!

Did you see how quickly I transitioned from “charming” to “royal (gas) pains?”  It’s a gift, people.  Moving on.  (How do you think this is going so far?)

Here’s something else.  A few months ago I was asked to accept a new responsibility in my church community and because I am so nice need something to counteract all the times I drop minor cuss words, I said “yes”.  If you speak Mormon I am a counselor in the Stake YW.  If you don’t speak Mormon it means I go to a lot of meetings, nod my head in support when the teenagers suggest pumpkin bowling for an activity, and periodically raise my hand to say, “How about instead of taking 500 youth to Wyoming to reenact the Pioneer trek to Salt Lake City we just make some foil dinners and watch Brokeback Mountain?  Wasn’t that a nice family western?”  I’m a very integral part of the process.

As part of this job I’m also responsible for occasionally speaking to other congregations.  Recently, for example, I had an assignment to speak in a Spanish Ward.  In other words, no speaky the English during their meeting.  In cases like this they would normally provide a translator for guest speakers such as myself.  That didn’t appeal to me, because it seemed like that would be too distracting for everyone involved.  So, I thought (first mistake), “Hey, I took Spanish in college twenty years ago, I’ll just speak in SPANISH!”

Here was the problem with that.  Nowhere in my talk did I need to tell them I was going to the library (la biblioteca!), or that I needed to buy some lettuce (lechuga!) and milk, or that the bathroom was “over there” (¡El baño está allá!).  And despite the fact that I know a good empanada, make Mexican hot chocolate all the time and have seen all 4 seasons of Ugly Betty, I realized that I was not, in fact, qualified to speak for 20 minutes about Jesus in Spanish. 

ENTER:  My nephew’s new, cute wife.  We had just come home from celebrating their wedding nuptials in Utah – she had just received permission to leave her native Mexico for America to marry my nephew.  She didn’t speak English, but she DID speak Spanish and my nephew spoke both.  They rescued me using their gifts of translation, and I delivered my talk as planned in Spanish.  For all I know I announced that I was pregnant and told them all they were going to @#!*% if they didn’t start worshiping false idols but I haven’t heard.  It’s probably best.

Well, this was fun.  Was it good for you too?  If not, try WANTING it to be good.  You gotta start somewhere.

Off The Wagon

Sometimes after a hard day, even a good Mormon girl could use a nice, tall pint.  Hello lover:

What?  It was a small spoon, I had to improvise.