Living in Louisiana with Darcie's Bunch

David Goes To College

2009-06-18T20:40:00.007-05:00

Two years ago I began sharing my life every week with all of you on the eve of my older son’s departure for college. It only seems fitting that I end this journey on the eve of my younger son’s departure for the same. I have once again begun a summer of buying sheets for twin beds, desktop lamps, little bitty refrigerators, and laundry bags for dirty clothes that will hopefully bring him home to be washed.

Now I face my second little boy leaving my nice, safe nest. The little one that followed big brother around the house and back yard from the time he took his first steps. That same one that hid behind the couch while watching Jurassic Park just one more time. The one with the skinny little three year old shoulders that wriggled at me to scratch his back just a little while more. And the one whose pitiful calls echoed in a big empty house when big brother started his first year of school. "Charrrrr-leeeee! Where are you???"

He has grown tall and strong and smart, and I am so proud of the man he has become. As I watched another round of blue robed, young people walk across the stage for Airline High, I cried in the stands remembering the sweet little people they had once been. I heard echoes of soccer games, and tee ball, and field days gone by. I smelled remnants of popcorn I had popped and candy I had sold while all those young children jostled and pushed to get first in line every Friday. I remembered field trips of herding kids around the Fair, and hours of sitting through lessons while he made his first attempts at being part of a band.

Now he is heading way down south and it seems so far away. I began once again losing sleep fretting how he would adjust to a new place and new life. Late at night I woke up worrying about him playing hockey so far away. What if he got hurt? My older boy had gotten hurt once during Rugby and I had to rush to his side. But Ruston was much closer than Lafayette. Could they take care of him until I got there?

The next morning I called the school and asked if they had a doctor on campus in case he got hurt or maybe came down with the flu. The kind freshmen counselor assured me they had a clinic on campus and they would take care of him just fine. Then that night I worried that maybe a clinic wouldn’t be enough. Suppose he got hit by a speeding puck or misplaced skate? Lafayette was swampy and had alligators on campus and probably had mosquitoes biting worse than we ever even imagined up here. Suppose he got West Nile Virus or Malaria or Swine Flu, or suppose he tripped and fell down?

The next morning after another call, the ever patient freshmen counselor assured me that Lafayette was well equipped for anything that may happen. She said they had doctors and hospitals just like every place else, and they had not yet lost a student to a wild alligator running rampage on campus. She assured me he was a fine young man that I had raised to be smart and strong, and he would handle anything that came his way with the confidence and skills he had gained from the home I had given.

But this did nothing to stop my tossing at night. And as I lie in the dark, quiet house and think of my little boy turning into a man, I wonder. Would I do it all again? Would I spend hundreds of hours chasing little people around Chuck E Cheese, and spend thousands of dollars eating only Happy Meals every time we went out? Would I spend years again going only to G rated movies, and end every evening falling asleep in a chair with Harry Potter on my lap? Would I lose months of sleep tending sick little boys and go through 13 more years of getting up before first light? Would I spend years once again reading Mercer Mayer and have the TV forever tuned to Nick? Would I spend hours waiting outside of hockey practice, and spend eternities next to a bed waiting for a temperature to drop? Would that mean I would go through eons of holding little sticky hands as I crossed streets, and get food stained kisses whenever I walked outside?

Would I lose that much more sleep? Would I do it all over again? Oh, yes. Without a doubt. In a heartbeat.

An Appropriate Time To Talk

2009-06-17T19:03:00.004-05:00

After trying to explain to my husband why I had gone to the warehouse club that morning and bought more stuff than could fit in my car, my husband rather curtly told me that it was not a wise person that needed to put her convertible top down to stuff the last 48 packs of Ramen noodles in the car. He was rather insistent on my limiting shopping trips to only the amount that would fit through the doors, and very insistent on me not buying another pack of Ramen noodles or can of tuna until the year 2010. No matter how good a bargain they seemed.

I was still grumbling about his obvious lack of bargain sense when my son came into the kitchen and asked why I was grumbling. After I explained the situation, my son tried to explain why his father was perfectly justified in his reprimanding of me and that I really should be more reasonable and understanding. And maybe not shop as much. Holding up my hand to silence his third party explanations, I told him he really needed a lesson on the appropriate times to talk. And this was not one of them. Silence was golden when not agreeing with his mother.

Seeing an opportune moment to give a life’s lesson to my firstborn, I went on with illustrations of when to talk and when to be quiet. I started with the obvious. When in church, it is not appropriate to talk. However, you may whisper. Or give an exaggerated wave when spotting a friend across the aisle.

Movie theaters are a place where one should not talk. They even display warnings before the movie that silence is golden. However, everyone knows this is just a suggestion because you absolutely have to talk when guessing the ending of the movie or feel the need to guess every actor’s name and what previous movie they played in.

My daughter was standing nearby and already knowing the talking rules because, as a woman, it is programmed in her DNA, she went on to explain to her brother other situations where talking was appropriate. She explained that in her history class it was inappropriate to talk sitting down. So since she had a daily problem with this, her teacher often made her stand up. Usually at the back of the class. Once she was standing, it was then appropriate to talk. Although the teacher did not necessarily agree with this rule. Also, the boy sitting near her had a problem with listening. As she constantly chattered in his direction he made the mistake of listening and thus be made to stand against the wall also.

But, an appropriate time to listen would have to be saved for another lesson on another day.
She went on to explain that in her other class, she had a problem knowing exactly when the teacher did not want her to talk. So the teacher would kindly send her into the hallway. Every single day. According to my daughter, this was an appropriate place to talk. Especially with the other students in the hall. Out here they did not have to worry about disrupting the class. They just had to worry about the principal passing.

I patted my daughters head at her socialization prowess. After all, not everyone was born with such fine social skills. I had recently run into one of her teachers at church, and the teacher had told me that my daughter was.....um.....very "social." I was so very proud that the teacher had taken notice.

I also explained to my son, that being very social myself, I loved walking with my dear friend in the mornings. But, a truly skilled socializer knows that this may appear an appropriate time, but is actually not. My friend is much taller than me and walks very, very fast. This makes me trot at a very brisk pace and run very short of oxygen by the first quarter mile. Lack of breathing and risk of passing out and turning blue, makes it an inappropriate time to talk. However, it is perfectly fine for her to talk. And I do forget my prowess and attempt conversation periodically. Luckily my friend keeps a portable defibrillator in her fanny pack.

My son’s girlfriend walked in during our lesson, and we explained to her what we were explaining to him. Not necessarily agreeing with the three women in his life, he began to argue the soundness of some of our lessons. Once again, I held up my hand and silenced him. Explaining that when outnumbered three to one by very social women, he should have now learned that this was an extremely inappropriate time to talk.

Farm Town

2009-06-11T23:19:00.003-05:00

All my teenagers have Facebook accounts. For months I have heard them talk about what was on Facebook, what Facebook quizzes they took, what pictures they posted. After giving them the responsible mom speech of watch out for creeps and predators and freaky stalkers, I then gave the speech that they spent way too much time on an internet program and how much did they really need to connect with people they saw all the time. I would never do something so silly.

Then several of my friends told me they had Facebook pages because that’s what good moms do. That way they can oversee their children and what is on their pages to make sure no creepy predators will see too much. They said I should have one too. So one day I signed on and created my own Facebook account.

Well, I needed some friends, or it really didn’t work. My daughter was my first friend, still young enough to want her mom as her internet friend. Then a few of her friends became my friend, too. I asked my son to be my friend and he, and even his girlfriend, became my friend. This made me very happy. My other son blocked me. He wasn’t friendly. I told myself it was his loss that I was not his friend. After all, I am very friendly.

For awhile I signed on once in awhile and checked out my friends. Then one day, my son’s girlfriend posted a very nice photo and I left a comment. My son told me that was just too creepy to have a mom comment on a photo. I could remain their friend, but had to be a very silent one. I did not want to be creepy.

Then I started getting more friends. It was such fun. I reconnected with friends that had moved far away. I could now hear about when they drank their coffee and see pictures of what they cooked for dinner. This wasn’t particularly interesting, but it was nice to think about my far away friends.

Then I got some friends from high school. This was fun too. I hadn’t seen many of them in 25 years and now I could read about what movies they liked and see pictures of their kids I had never met. Since I posted a photo of myself from about 20 years ago, just so no one would know I am now middle aged, I was surprised to see that so many of my high school friends hadn’t aged either. It was amazing. But it made me feel very old. And wrinkly.

Then I got friends from when I was about only ten years old. And even ones from when I was five! And I hadn’t even thought of them since then. Of course we have nothing to talk about since we don’t really play Barbies or jump rope anymore. But it was nice to see when they stepped out for coffee and what Facebook games they were playing.

Then they started sending me quizzes. I could find if I was stressed, or what Star Wars character I was, or what superhero was most like me. Quizzes to find if I was normal or a potential serial killer, and I could even grow my own virtual farm.

This was the worst. I spent hours each day tending my virtual farm. I would plant my crops, and check back often to see them grow. I could harvest them and sell them, and build fences for my horses and pigs. I could go to my friends’ farms to help them harvest their crops and we could all be neighbors and send each other horses and pigs. I thought maybe I had been on a bit too much when driving down the highway I passed a barn. I thought only 50,000 more coins and I could own one too. When passing a beautiful garden, I wondered if the owner would let me harvest it and we would both get more coins. My children worried about my problem with farming and how I was ignoring my own too-much-internet advice.

Realizing my problem, I let my virtual farm finally go fallow and let my obsessions calm down. Then one morning I get an email from my mother asking to be my Facebook friend. She had her own account now and was gathering friends. She would take her own tests probably want to comment on my photos. I wasn’t too sure about having my mom comment on my photos. But, then again, if she had her own farm, would she let me help harvest her crops?

Pool Party

2009-06-03T16:47:00.003-05:00

After nine long months of waking up at 5:55 to get everyone dressed and out the door for school by seven, and passing out on the couch by nine, the last day had finally arrived. I made the last lunch, handed out the last backpack, and waited the last time for that teeny, tiny break in traffic where I could zoom into the busy street of other parents heading for school. I was looking forward to sleeping a bit later, taking life a bit slower, and having a less regimented schedule. And it all would begin today.

Well, it would almost begin today. It would begin right after my daughter had her End Of The Year Pizza and Swimming Blow Out. After 15 screaming girls piled into my car and then into my yard for some serious fun, then the slow lazy days of summer would hopefully begin.
My husband left that afternoon, as he had been told by my daughter that morning, to cart home many young ladies that were ready to swim. I stayed behind to start baking pizzas that I had been told were on the menu for the afternoon. The pool had been cleaned, the grass mowed, and the picnic table polished for the big day.

I was still pouring chips in a bowl when the car doors opened and a bunch of chattering, screeching, giggling young girls ran through the yard and my daughter led the noisy bunch upstairs to change clothes. They all crammed in her room while trying out her perfume and investigating her latest purchases from Belk’s. They hurriedly changed and wasted no time hurrying back down the stairs to head for the pool. But they did take a detour to yell names at her brother and tell the girl that her clothes were outdated and she seemed thinner last time they had met. Nothing like trying to knock out the competition while still several years too young.

Very pleased at the angry looks from the girl and dodging the swats from the brother, the gang of teen girls hurried out to the yard. I was amazed at how a pan of pizza could disappear in mere seconds. And also how pizza seemed just as edible after being dropped in the pool. And how 15 girls could all be talking at once, and yet insisting that the radio needed to be louder, and how cell phones didn’t seem to work as well when they got wet. And how pepperonis can float.

I brought out pizza after pizza, while trying to pick up glasses and cell phones from puddles of water and place them in dry, safe places. I would hurry back out when shrieks went up that glasses were missing and pizza ran out. Then right when I thought they were going to all die of starvation, one mom showed up with a pan full of brownies. A cry of glee went up in the air and they attacked the poor mom and left her damp and frazzled and holding a tray of nothing but crumbs.

After sitting the post-brownie mauled woman in a chair to recover, I hurried inside and outside, retrieving drinks and answering yells. It did make me wonder how after an afternoon of dozens of juice bottles, I had very few requests for directions to my bathroom. As I wiped my sweaty hair back from my face and plopped next to the brownie victim, I pondered the price of extra chlorine for the pool. And wondered if the person that named the lazy, crazy, summer days had ever thrown a pool party for teenage girls.

But after hundreds of jumps from the diving board and thousands of squirts with the hose, the moms began to parade in like the calvary coming over the hill. The screams began to quiet and no one hollered when I turned the volume on the radio down. I walked through the yard picking up scattered Sunny D bottles and skimming the last of the floating pepperonis out of the pool.

The lazy, crazy, days of summer had begun. Young people having fun and partying til they dropped. But even though I wouldn’t need to set my alarm for 5:55 in the morning, I had a feeling that if I made it until nine o’clock on this evening it would be my own high note of middle aged mom partying til she dropped. Those long summer days of no early mornings, afternoons of swimming, and watching TV until late at night would just have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow after I had removed all the pizza from the skimmers and dumped extra chlorine in the pool.

Houdini's Disappearing Pants

2009-05-27T17:59:00.003-05:00

Harry Houdini was a great magician. Performing all kinds of magic tricks, he could make all kinds of things appear out of nowhere. He could make a rabbit appear out of somebody’s hat. The Ace of Hearts would appear amazingly in the pocket of his coat. Or he could make a bird appear fluttering frantically right out of thin air.

Every mom knows that Houdini wasn’t unique in his magical abilities. When my daughter is scrambling frantically about for where she left her clarinet, I magically go look in the spot where it should be and magically make it appear. When my son is insisting that I have not washed his favorite, navy blue school shirt, I patiently ask him if he has looked in his closet. I then get that condescending look that only irate teenagers can give to parents that seem to be asking the world’s most stupid question. Of course, he has looked in his closet.

So I then go on to look in my ironing pile for the disappearing shirt. Then in the dryer. Then I dump out the bucket of dirty clothes to see if, just perhaps, when washing 90 loads of clothes each day, I happened to miss washing his favorite blue shirt for the last seven days. Then as he is frantically pulling at his hair, and pointing at the clock, and wailing that I have lost his blue shirt, his brother must have stolen it, I got it mixed up in the Goodwill bag, I patiently walk up to his room and look in his closet. And....Abracadabra!!!! It magically appears.

Well, it must be magic, because he insisted it wasn’t there.

A few weeks ago we had a family event where my son needed a new suit. Leaving the shopping to my husband while I handled things with the family, they naturally went to the store and paid no attention to price. Men tend to do that. He came home with a really nice new jacket with a matching, dapper, new pair of pants. After wearing them for a few hours, I found them a few days later crumpled up in his room.

Realizing that many men not only buy pants not on sale, but also leave them crumpled on the floor, I patiently picked them up and patiently had them cleaned. And then I hung them back in his closet. A few days later he had to wear them again. I told my son to take very good care of them, I just had them cleaned and they would be excellent pants to wear to graduation in a few days.

But then the pants disappeared. Almost as if by magic. Wanting to get them clean and pressed for the upcoming big day, I began to search around for the magically disappearing pair of pants. I searched high and I searched low, and no pants could be found. So I asked my son to please find them.

A few days went by. I asked him again. I got a huff and a puff, and a "Mom, quit nagging."
More days went by. I asked him again. This time with a bit more volume. And a bit more nagging. And a threat that we were running out of time. And a reminder that they had cost too much money. And another reminder that they had cost so much to be cleaned. And then I nagged some more.

Finally, after that last and best nag, my son went to retrieve the pants. Grumbling the whole time, because he knew just where they were. But then he searched in his room. He searched in his car. He searched in the garage, in the driveway, in the pool. He searched in the attic, and the back yard, and the mailbox. He couldn’t seem to find his pants.

Crossing my arms I asked where did he last see them. He told me in the garage. He knew they were there. His brother must have taken them. His brother must have lost his own pants, so was now wearing his.

Knowing that his brother was not wearing the pants, I searched couch cushions and under beds and behind doors. I made him call his friends and their friends and their friends, but still no pants were to be found.

Finally, I realized, that not only would be the one wearing nothing but boxers on that Saturday afternoon. But, just like Houdini couldn’t perform that one final trick, this magician of a mom would never find that one disappearing pair of pants.

The Last One Is Sweetest

2009-05-20T08:28:00.003-05:00

As a kid, one of my favorite candies was M&Ms. I loved sorting out the colors and eating all of, say, the yellow ones first. They were great fun to pelt that skinny freckled boy at recess who was always hanging around. And although they weren’t supposed to melt in your hand, they always did, and made a great multi-colored tattoo on your palm when holding it upright to give Mr. Spocks Vulcan greeting to your science geeky friends.

The only thing is, that in that little brown bag, there never seemed to be enough. After sharing them, and throwing them, and watching ants swarm them, I would get down to the last few and always wished I had enjoyed the others more. Eaten them slower. Thrown less at the freckled boy. Not agitated the ant piles. The last one was always the sweetest, I would take the most time before eating it, and I held it on my tongue the longest. And when finally the bag was empty, I really wished I had just one more. Because, after all, that final M&M was the very last one.

Last week my second son finished his last day of school as a senior. He is my second little boy to finish 13 years of getting up obscenely early in the morning to get dressed, eat breakfast, and grab lunches as I stood in the driveway to see three little people off on the big yellow bus. I would wave until it made the corner in the beginning, trying not to droop too badly as my tired body wanted to go collapse in the grass. And as they got older, I was no longer allowed to wave in the driveway, so I would watch the yellow bus make the corner from my kitchen window. And even later, I would clandestinely watch that blue truck pull out of the drive.

Now for the second time, it was over. No more arguments in the morning about where was his favorite shirt. No more complaints about how I had burned his eggs and used the wrong bread for his toast. He will be heading away down the highway to find his own clothes and toast his own bread, not needing Mom anymore.

No longer will I hear the arguments in the hallway of how his sister is hogging the bathroom, or getting makeup all over his stuff. I will never again have that scramble to find the essay he wrote last week or the Algebra homework he left on the couch. He has come over the crest of the mountain and done it so well, but 13 years seemed to fly by far too quickly just like those summer days flew by of vacations at the beach.

As he grabbed his last white collared shirt and khaki Hollister pants, and he ate his last scrambled eggs before dashing out the door, I stared at the young man that had once been my little boy. That same little boy who I had called out word after word on each Thursday morning while he was learning to spell. The same one who had counted the days until he could catch that bus with his big brother for the very first time. That same one who I had taken off work to attend field days and field trips, and dashed up to the school to bring forgotten backpacks and trumpets, had sold millions of candies and mountains of popcorn to fund 13 years of PTOs at three different schools. He came home that last day with a mortarboard and tassels and ran off with his friends.

I remember when they first started school, I thought I faced an eternity of those early, dark mornings where I would never sleep until the sun rose again. I thought I had forever of early nights for bedtime and countless hours of homework. I looked forward to the end of those many colorful days of regimented lifestyles and only buying white shirts.

And that last day in my kitchen I carefully cooked his eggs. I ironed his white shirt and handed him his last few dollars for lunch. This morning was so different than the thousands before. This morning I tried to make last just that few minutes longer, and hold each minute that much more dear. Because I knew this one was different. This one laden with regret of all the mornings I wasted. If only I had just a few mornings more. And as I watched that young man dash away I knew this morning was sweetest. Because, after all, it was the very last one.

A Mouse In The House

2009-05-14T11:13:00.004-05:00

In the south deer hunting is still a popular sport. Some people love it, anxiously waiting for deer season to open and regularly cruise Bass’s Pro Shop for every new gadget ever invented for hunters. They keep pictures of Charlton Heston on their walls, and have bumper stickers about prying guns out of cold, dead fingers. Others hate deer hunting and cringe at killing Bambi. Growing up loving Bambi, I understand how they think of the little speckled guy every time a shotgun blasts. I understand their feelings. I also love venison.

The sweet cartoon character came to mind the other night while lying in bed I hear a scratching in the ceiling. I froze while the scratching get louder and moved across my bedroom ceiling. I thought it could be a cute little squirrel like Rocky or it could be a kitty like Garfield. But it didn’t take long lying their in late night terror to realize it was a rat.

Hearing it move across the ceiling, I bolted upstairs to my daughters room to see if it was attacking her while I had been frozen in fear down below, and opened her door to find her sleeping peacefully, unaware of the monstrous beast. Finding her alive, I ran downstairs to retrieve our cats to slay the beast. I picked up the bigger of the two cats, who weighs about 25 pounds and prefers to not move if he doesn’t have to. I opened the attic door and told him to go kill the rat. He looked at me with heavy lidded eyes and yawned.

Pushing him with my foot, I tried to get him to run into the attic. Cats are supposed to love chasing rats. Maybe he didn’t know that. So I told him. He meowed again and headed back downstairs and sat down near his bowl. He didn’t appear overly enthusiastic at saving my life. The other cat ran away.

In spite of my late night wanderings, nobody else woke up with the monster running around our attic. I cautiously went back to bed and, after a very long time, fell back asleep. The next day I told my husband what happened. He patted my sleepy head and told me I had been dreaming. Seeing my face, he amended that with the suggestion that he would put some traps in the attic just in case I hadn’t been dreaming. But that I had.

After sprinkling the attic with several types of rat traps and sticky traps, the next few nights we all went to bed with only me awakened repeatedly to the scratching and clawing over my head. The last night I lay frozen in my spot for hours, waiting for the monster rat to make it into the attic to certain death, or ready to spring if he fell through the ceiling and landed on my bed. The rat took his time and didn’t head to the attic. Unwilling to remain in mortal peril, I went to sleep on the couch.

After finally drifting off to sleep, I was awakened again to a deafening clamor from the upstairs hall. Realizing the rat must have been caught in the sticky tape, he was pounding back and forth on the attic door. I waited for someone to wake up. The pounding got louder. I was not about to go finish him myself. No one woke up and after forever the pounding stopped.

The next morning I dragged myself into the kitchen after a week of sleepless, rat filled nights. I told my husband and kids that I thought he was caught. How had they slept through it all? They opened the attic door in awe that their really was a rat and he really was dead. And sticky. And that I really hadn’t been dreaming.

I asked what would have happened if it had been a burglar pounding on the door and they had remained asleep? What if he had been stabbing me and they hadn’t even known. They smiled and said, surely as he had been stabbing me on the couch, my screams would have wakened them and they could have all run to safety. Surely the rat wasn’t as loud as I claimed.

But that night as I dragged myself into my nice comfy bed to finally get a quiet nights sleep, one thought crossed my mind. Maybe some people’s hearts break when they think of all deer as Bambi. But, although I was a Disney fan too, not once in the past sleepless week had I wanted mercy for Mickey.

The Most Perfect Fit

2009-05-06T12:00:00.004-05:00

Back in the Eighties, which was probably way before I was born, it was absolutely necessary for all the most stylish people to only wear certain brands of jeans. If you showed up at school with jeans that did not say Lee, or Calvin, or Brittania, then you were outcast to the group that shopped wrong. The problem with many of these brands, however, was that most stylish clothes are modeled by women who have never eaten a cheeseburger in ten years and top out at about 92 pounds.

Now I did know several girls that topped out at 92 pounds, and they wore the stylish brands very well. And then some of them didn’t. They were so very skinny that the jeans were just saggy and baggy and didn’t fit. And then I had another friend that was absolutely beautiful, but very curvy. She loved Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and would rush to the store every payday to buy a new pair of those perfect jeans. Lucky for her they were one of the preferred brands on that teenage list, but most of all she loved them because they were the perfect fit. And that made her even more beautiful.

When I was about 8 years old, which was probably somewhere back around ten or twelve years ago, I would dream of having the perfect wedding dress. Of course, at age eight my dream of the perfect dress was this fur trimmed, diamond glistening dress with a 30 foot train that caused all the wedding guests to gasp at its beauty as I walked by. When I actually did shop for my wedding dress, I searched all places and prices. Being an only child, I knew my mother would be willing to pay whatever price for my perfect dress.

After trying on beautiful dress after beautiful dress, and having sketch after sketch of special orders offered to me, I stopped in one small store in Bossier and glanced through the ones hanging on the rack. And there I found it. Right off the rack, less than a quarter of the price of my next favorite one. And I thought it was the most beautiful dress I had seen, and it made me the most beautiful bride I could be. It was the perfect fit.

So now my son is choosing a college. And he happens to have a very, very big brain. And happens to be quite athletic, too. So we get letter after letter from school after school offering him wonderful things and wonderful places to go. Gathering up all these wonderful offers, we began to tour those that seemed best.

We toured a school of extremely big brained young people. They all walked around with special made hats for their extremely large heads. And they showed us inventions they had invented and new planets they had discovered. The professors had extra snazzy suits and wore extra shiny glasses to aid in teaching these extra smart kids. But my son just didn’t feel comfortable in a place where he would need that extra large hat.

So then we went to another school that offered all kinds of sports. The swimming pool was extra long and wide. The workout room would computer program your muscles. The athletes were extra tall and their faces glowed with the very best health. The football team threw extra long passes and the basketballs had that much more bounce. But with so many people teaming around this giant place, my son just didn’t feel like he was anything more than just another one of the extra strong guys. And the price of vitamins would have been far too much.

So we toured one more school before giving up on the rest. This one was just the right size, not too big or too small. This one was not very far away, so it wouldn’t take too much gas. The athletes were strong, but still friendly, their teachers glasses not too thick. And it was right here in Louisiana, had been right here all the time. It had mosquitoes and alligators, but had no bears or sharks.

And it proved just once again, although some people may rate things high, while others rate them low, that whether too big or too small, too pricey or too cheap, the most important thing of all is look very close at everything. Because hiding right on that rack, or right in your back yard, is the very thing that may be the most wonderful of all, and that very best and most perfect fit.

Mowing the Grass

2009-04-29T09:47:00.004-05:00

The days are getting long again and sunshine fills the air. Birds sing sweet songs again, bees buzz around fragrant flowers, and the grass, once again, has grown lush and thick. Time to wash off the grill, clean the pool, and, of course, take out the lawnmower.

As I heaved the dirt encrusted clunker across the yard, I remembered that the self-propelling mechanism had broken last year. But in a great brainstorm of economics, I had decided to not fix it. Having to push it myself would be great aerobic activity and supreme muscle building for my arms. I had decided to use old fashioned strength and determination to mow my yard. My giant yard. With lots of grass. More grass than I remembered it having.

So as my daughter reclined on the swing in the fresh spring air, I heaved and sweated and pushed that monster machine around the yard. Since my daughter regularly confuses herself with the Queen of England, I knew I would receive no help there. And having decided over the winter to accept my post-forty year old body, I knew this old mower was no longer the turbo-muscle machine that I had dreamed it to be. I seriously needed a new mower.

It was actually exciting to be the one to pick out the brand new lawnmower. I never had that privilege before. So trying to be the best lawnmower chooser ever, I went from store to store and observed many makes and models, and asked many mechanical questions of men that wore aprons and had pencils behind their ears.

I opted for a shiny black mower that propelled itself and came with a two year warranty. My son helped me pick it up in his truck and then put it together. It was nice to know that several years at Louisiana Tech and thousands of dollars had come to use by him being very proficient at assembling the handle bar of the mower. But all that shopping had left me very tired, so I waited several days before taking it for its first run.

Sunday morning I got up bright and early, and didn’t decide to mow. I waited until later. Then when no one else looked like they were going to mow, I ran outside and fired up my new machine. It was very fast, and very easy, and I buzzed right down the yard. And then it broke. I had a beautifully mowed half yard and a broken mower. My husband patted my back and told me he would take it back to the store.

When he got there they wanted to repair it. After all, I had bought the extended warranty. He patiently explained that it was brand new and he just wanted another one. The guy with the pencil behind his ear wasn’t very happy. He had coffee waiting and two donuts on a napkin. Telling my husband he couldn’t return it without the bags and papers it came with, he sent him back home while he went back to his donuts.

My husband remained calm and went back for the bags, of which, luckily, we still had. He then returned to the store where the man had finished his first donut. At this point my husband said he didn’t really want a new one anymore, he would prefer his money back. The man said he needed the credit card it had been purchased with. Which happened to be my mom’s. She had kindly used it that day when shopping with me, because my son had talked me out of all the cash in my wallet. And my one and only credit card, also.

So my husband had to retrieve my mother, which was not that easy a task. Prying a woman off a quarter slot machine, when she was just ready to hit three 7s, is very difficult. Especially when she hadn’t eaten her free buffet yet. But with much hard work, and promise of dinner at Captain Ds, he got her back to the store and they refunded our money.

4 hours later, 1 dinner at Captain Ds, 3 rolls of quarters, and much frustration later, my husband returned home having completed returning the mower. He smiled tightly and told me although I had done a very good job at choosing the last one, and was very good at tending the grass, he knew I wouldn’t mind if he bought our next mower. He just didn’t have any energy left for more returns. And not nearly enough quarters left to ask any more help from my mom.

A Long Trip to Dallas

2009-04-23T09:18:00.003-05:00

Vacations when the kids were little were never the days of rest and relaxation that we envisioned every time we packed up the car. From the moment we began to be seated it was a battle over who could get in the front seat, what we needed to listen to on the radio, where we would eat lunch, who would get the pull-out bed in the hotel. By the time the few days were over, my husband an I felt like battle weary soldiers who welcomed the return home to some peace and quiet. But that never came either.

Now they are all teenagers, much older than those trips from long ago. For some reason I once again beckoned them into the car for a weekend trip to Dallas, thinking that with MP3 players and Nintendos that now we would have the few days of relaxation that would feel so good.
Before we left the driveway my son bodily ejected his sister from the front seat and plants himself permanently in her place. My husband sighs, knowing it’s a battle not worth fighting and climbs into the back seat while I take the first turn at the wheel. My daughter loudly protests from the back seat, as my mom stares wide-eyed at the scene before her. It is her first overnight trip with the family and she has a lot to learn as far as teenage brawling across state lines.

Then my son claims he gets to choose the station on the radio because he is in the command seat of the vehicle. I told him actually I was in the command seat, since I was driving, so that should allow me to pick the radio station. He smugly offered to drive, and I readily turned him down. I had no desire to die before age 42, so since I had turned down his offer, he told me he got to command the radio by default. And the decibal level. Which was many decibals. And then some. I asked why he didn’t simply listen to his headphones with his MP3 player and he told me there was no need for that, the radio worked fine. And my daughter bellowed from the back seat that the songs were no good. My mother stared out the window, obviously reconsidering her decision to come along.

We then stopped to fill up and get some sodas and snacks. Which then lead to another battle of prying people out of the front seat. My husband, frustrated, retreats to the back seat again. I, by obvious default, got back behind the wheel. My daughter continues to scream the unfairness of it all from the back and how we have always favored her brothers over her. Multiple shopping trips, manicures, and every electronic horse game ever made did not count. We had always favored them more. My mother looked ready to apply for a job at the gas station just to prevent having to get back in the car.

And now we had to listen to the 15 minute dissertation from my son on the unhealthy qualities of chips, donuts, and Mountain Dew. That, he, the temple of healthy eating and masculine perfection, would never put such garbage in his body. And after deflating our egos, drinking his water, eating his organic beef jerky, proceeded to eat all our leftover donuts, chips, and Mountain Dew. We were not allowed to comment.

What seemed like 15 hours later, we had traveled the 200 miles to Dallas and reached our hotel. We entered the room to a new battle of who gets the extra bed, who gets the sofa bed, who commands the thermostat. Of course, the adults were not in the equation. My battle weary husband left to pick up pizzas while I dug through my luggage for Tylenol. And Advil. And Aspirin. My mom went down to the pool where about 35 kids were splashing and hollering. After the eternal car ride, she appreciated the poolside peace and quiet.

My husband returned with the pizzas where brother and sister than argued over what kind had been ordered, what kind should have been ordered, and who mom and dad had obviously favored the most. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes remembering the days when they were little and how I would miss those chaotic times of both fighting and love. Smiling to myself, I knew in my heart I was glad they were still traveling with us, and that those precious times were not over quite yet.

Which College To Choose

2009-04-15T08:05:00.004-05:00

Being a senior in high school isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Visions of being the top dogs in the building, throwing hats up at graduation, and partying all night when its over are dampened by the stress of the decisions in the next few months ahead and the stress of entering a new phase in life after being comfortably set in the routines of the last thirteen years. It’s not as much fun as it looks.

Once again, I have now entered that phase with my second child. And thought I would be much better and much wiser at handling the tough decisions. My oldest son dithered and dithered on which college to choose, when I thought it was quite simple. Wyoming had bears. Louisiana Tech had no bears. A very simple decision to me. I didn’t know why he was so stressed about it, and waited until June to decide. Even though I spent months having nightmares of my oldest baby being eaten by wild, western bears, I had discovered upon visiting Wyoming that I loved to ski. So even though I felt disappointment at my son choosing the south, I also felt relief that Ruston was a bear-free environment.

Now Child #2 began the college search. This seemed it would be quite easy. He likes to play hockey, so I showed him a variety of brochures of schools in the north. I eagerly awaited his choices, looking forward to taking up my skiing career again in multiple visits to my baby boy’s new turf. Shrugging his shoulders he said he really didn’t like the cold. Maybe someplace with heated ice. Like maybe Miami. I searched very hard, but colleges with ice in Florida and Hawaii seemed few and far between.

I found a few places in Texas, and showed him what I had found. Texas was southern, it was nice and warm, and it didn’t have bears. Although I was a bit worried about cowboys. Cowboys carried guns. And Texas also had cactus plants, which were very sharp. He frowned at my concerns and shrugged again at the choices I showed him. He didn’t seem to be too interested in even Texas. I didn’t know what to do.

Calling my close friend who always had answers to my life challenging questions, I discovered she was not at home. But her 17 year old son answered the phone and I chatted with him a bit. Smiling at how I would gain secret information from him as to how to choose colleges with a 17 year old boy, I questioned him to where he was going. He said he really didn’t know. I asked what he preferred? When he would choose? Sighing he said maybe Shreveport, maybe Tennessee, he didn’t really know which or when.

I said Shreveport was very nice. It was very close to home, it had a mom and a dad that loved him very much. It had no bears. And no very sharp plants that could stab him and cause a life threatening infection. But then Tennessee was very nice, too. It had Rock City and Dollywood, of which I had been to both places and had bunches of fun. People strolled around playing banjos and guitars on the sidewalks and music filled the air all day. I knew that from commercials I had seen on TV.

He didn’t seem very happy with my great knowledge of both places and telling me he would have his mom call me, he hung up the phone. Now I was no better off than I had been before, and time was running short. Hanging my head, I slumped into all my college brochures and didn’t know how to make my son choose where I needed to start sending loads of my money.

My daughter came up and patted my back. She told me to be strong, when she was 17 I wouldn’t have these same problems. She already had made her choice. Feeling much better, that I wouldn’t have to fret for months yet one more time, I asked where she was going.
She had chosen Pennsylvania, it was all set in stone. Happily I thought of Pennsylvania mountains, and once again I could dream of swishing down sparkling slopes. Shaking her head, she told me, no, this was near the coast, not a mountain around. I guess I had to finally realize that no matter where each child would go, skiing was just not in my cards, and although we had searched from Montana to Miami, we would just never find heated ice.

Visiting Friends

2009-04-08T08:10:00.003-05:00

This weekend I am getting some company. I don’t get company very often, they are coming from really far away. Well, one friend is from New Orleans, but my other friend is coming from France. France is very far away.

So now that I know they are coming, and am very excited, I have to plan a perfect itinerary of displaying North Louisiana culture and finding them a place to stay. The problem is my house is not very big, and it is also full of messy teenagers. They offered their rooms, but nobody has been able to actually navigate into their rooms in so many years that it has ceased to be an option.

But my mom has been very lonely and she has lots of not-messy rooms, so she wants them with her. One could sleep in my old room with her daughter and the other could sleep in the spare room. Now my friend will very much enjoy sleeping in my old room because it still has all my toys and has remained intact since my departure all those years ago. In fact, it is referred to as "The Shrine" since I left. People claim when they stay in it that wonderful things happen. Arthritis is cured, broken bones are healed, and all other sorts of things that should happen when one sleeps in a very special place.

Now that problem is solved, but knowing that someone is sleeping in my old room tends to bother me just a bit. Maybe she will play with all my old toys when I am not looking and maybe even break some. I used to have friends that did that. Or maybe she might change all my old Barbies clothes, and they will no longer be dressed with the superior fashion sense that I had when I was eight. But I am looking forward to seeing my friends, so I will have to leave my Barbies to their own devices.

The next problem is how to entertain people in North Louisiana when they are used to hanging around Paris. These friends will probably want a bit more culture than my usual pals who I take down to the rodeo and have a rip roaring evening of chili-cheese-nachos and watching cowboys get trampled by bulls. A bit too violent for people that enjoy the evening air of the Champs D'Elysee over a fine glass of burgundy. Maybe I’ll tone it down a bit and take them to the Alligator farm, and if we are lucky tourist might get eaten and we can make the evening news.

Or I considered a museum to look at some fine art. Then, again, they spend their days roaming the marble halls of the Louvre, and I don’t know if they would enjoy some paintings of horses when they spent the last weekend gazing at the Mona Lisa. But I really like paintings of horses. We could spend the afternoon at a local museum with horses and then maybe rent the DaVinci Code to watch back at home in the night. Or maybe I could take them by my other friend’s farm and let them pet some real live cows. Petting a real live Louisiana cow has to be more fun than spending so many afternoons gazing at a painting of a lady that no one really even knows.

And then I was thinking of someplace authentic to take them for dinner. Someplace that really represents my home. I envisioned a sunshine drenched lake, draped in moss covered trees while we all sat around and dined on cornmeal battered catfish. A trip to Lake Bistineau would be the perfect place. It would be as authentic and as beautiful as any European bistro, and the fish would be as delicate and delicious as any world famous chef’s.

But I still had a problem. Thinking of taking my friends to eat a delicious fish dinner, already had me thinking of why drive all the way to Lake Bistineau, when my very favorite fish restaurant was right here in town. And a view of Airline Drive wasn’t all that unpleasant. Maybe they were used to the wonders of France, but nothing would beat dinner at Captain Ds right here in Bossier City, right here in my wonderful Louisiana, right here in the good old USA. It was America they were after, and America they would get. And if they had a few extra minutes, it would be funnel cakes for dessert. They make great munching at the rodeo when the cowboys are getting trampled by bulls.

Nothing Better Than Bubbles

2009-04-01T08:38:00.003-05:00

I usually get pretty stressed around Christmas. So much that some presents don’t even get sent until after the holidays are over. So I still have had this present for my niece that I had wrapped all nicely in bubble wrap, and have been carrying around in the back seat of my car for months to mail. Now it is nearly Easter, and I finally pull up to the FedEx store to mail her present.

As I am waiting for the FedEx clerk to process my package, I fiddled with the bubble wrap that I had stuffed in the package. I have had another few weeks where I have been feeling much stress, and this bubble wrap was making me feel very good. But before I had popped enough bubbles to make me happy, the FedEx lady closed up my package and stacked it to be shipped.

Realizing that my stress had reached huge proportions and I really needed some relief, I went home to find other ways that might help me calm down. Taking out my yoga tapes again, I spent quite awhile in the lotus position, spent awhile in the Bali seal yoga pose, and then finally in the Padded Palm. I even practiced my Universal Sign of Peace. None of these brought me happiness and harmony so I decided to call on the great guru himself, Deepak Chopra.

Unfortunately Deepak was not listed in the Yellow Pages so I had to search him on the internet. I found his clinic and they were happy to offer me help for a mere $2500 fee. Well I certainly wasn’t THAT stressed. I politely told them to tell Deepak "hello" for me and I would call another time. I then found someone that claimed to be as talented as Deepak for a mere $25, which was missing a few zeros from my previous offer. But somehow I just did not feel like a $2475 discount would give me quality. I would search further.

Finding a number that actually was listed in the yellow pages for stress relief, I wrote down the address and drove out to the commune. I was immediately greeted by a woman in a long, flowery dress wearing beads. She gave me some of my own beads and wished me "Peace." Looking in the mirror, I immediately felt much better. I thought the beads looked very attractive on me and they were nice and shiny. The woman told me she would teach me how to breath and be one with the universe, if only for a small fee.

This gave me pause. Even though I really liked my beads, I felt like I already knew how to breathe quite well and didn’t really need lessons. She told me that I actually did need to be taught how to breathe and I really needed to adjust my diet. Reluctantly I gave her back her beads and reached for my car keys. I told here whenever I found myself not breathing, I would immediately return and seek her help. And how I really did not see how no more apple fritters would make me less stressed. And apple fritter-less life seemed like stress just waiting to happen. Giving her the Universal Sign of Peace, I went on my way.

This really reduced me to only one more viable option. The only technique left after my internet search was the help of L. Ron Hubbard. Tom Cruise would have to help me de-stress. However, after multiple phone calls, I was unable to get Tom Cruise to return any of my calls. I thought now that Shreveport was the Hollywood of the South, that maybe I could actually run into him and plead for admittance to the giant Scientology Center I always see pictures of in People Magazine. After hours of waiting outside the latest movie set, there was still no sign of Tom Cruise. But they did offer me a job picking up trash after hours in the parking lot.

Feeling my stress mounting even further after days of unsuccessful attempts at relief, I realized what I needed to do. I climbed back in my car and headed back to the FedEx store to beg them to return my package that I knew was stuffed plumb full of bubble wrap. I knew nothing would ever feel so good as busting thousands of bubbles all the way home, and I could always mail my niece her present by the 4th of July. And maybe along the way home I would stop in the store and buy a few apple fritters.

Remember When.....?

2009-03-25T10:47:00.002-05:00

Family gatherings are such wonderful places for remembering. Yet it is always surprising to me as everyone is gathered round the table remembering happy times gone by, how much I have already forgotten. They remembered wonderful times, silly times, embarrassing times, of which had completely slipped out of my mind. Then there were the events in life that I remembered perfectly, and which other family members had inserted themselves into when they were never even there.

As I was leaning across the table mentioning to my cousin that it must be wonderful to have lived vicariously through other people, all the experiences with none of the expense or needing time off work. Since, the family members in question had never even done these things they remember doing, I guess that is better than forgetting, which is what I had done. He said a great way to recover lost life events was to just Google yourself and see what you may have done that is forgotten.

Arriving home, I couldn’t wait to Google myself and see what I had done in life that had so unfortunately slipped my mind. I was then astonished at how much. The first thing that popped up when entering my name was that I had been, a Medical Disability Program Specialist. Now I had always been very good at offering expert medical advice, but at some point in life I must have actually been in the medical field. Just that afternoon I had been telling my elderly aunts to make sure and take their Ginkgo Biloba because they could not possibly remember being in the stadium when Hulk Hogan threw me across the ring. I specifically remember only my husband and son promising they would post bail as the WWE police were hauling me out of the building. But maybe that’s why I couldn’t remember pursuing the medical field, because my career as a ringside wrestling fan proved to be much more interesting.

My next Google showed that I had been a tight end for the New York Giants as recently as 2006. Not remembering this did not surprise me. After all, football players take many blows to the head and that would explain my lack of recall. However, it did say that I had torn my ACL which explained my sore knee on my daily walks around the block. If my career was so short lived, involved multiple blows to the head, and an injured knee, then I was rather glad I had forgotten. Although, I did see that I have a brother that played defense for the Minnesota Vikings. I decided to look him up to connect with long, lost family, and maybe he could get me good tickets to a Saints game.

The most exciting Google was when I saw I had played professional hockey for the Long Beach Ice Dogs. Now I could definitely understand having so many blows to the head that I forgot that sport. But that would undoubtedly explain my hockey prowess which I have constantly been trying to impart to my son. Now he could no longer tell me that I didn’t know what I was talking about. But it also stated that I was five feet eleven and over 200 pounds. Thank goodness I didn’t find any pictures, or I would never live it down with my daughter. Apple fritters at Wal Mart would be completely off the menu if she saw that picture. The torn ACL must have been the reason for my loss of height, and several pairs of pants that were too long. But I couldn’t wait for the next Mudbugs game so I could give the coach a few really good pointers, now that I had the indisputable knowledge to do so. I know he will be so excited to get my expert advice.
After seeing all the things I had done that had completely slipped my mind, I looked at all my elderly aunts, uncles, and cousins in a whole new light. Maybe they weren’t as off the mark as I had originally thought. Maybe so many precious memories were always lost to the sands of time.
Listening to them talk, I leaned over and told my cousin that they had completely inserted themselves in so many things I didn’t remember them doing. He told me to help me remember maybe I should Google myself. I then told him that was a great idea. Then he said that I might want to start taking large doses of Ginkgo Biloba. And if that didn’t work, I could always Google again.

Goodbye Daddy

2009-03-18T06:14:00.007-05:00

A few weeks ago I wrote about the scent of popping corn lingering in the air for long after the popping was done. How the essence of some lives could linger long after the people were gone. So many of you spoke to me of who you remembered, and how they were still with you. It touched me that so many came to me and told of special memories of loved ones that were no longer here. Special memories of childhood, or grandparents, parents, and friends that you called me up to share with me because they still needed to be shared. One of my friends walked into Friday popcorn at Cope and told me that when she walked into the building she stopped to smell the popcorn in the air.

A few days ago my father slipped away from us. Although at 91 years old, it should not have been a shock. At 91 years old, it was. I was fortunate enough to be with him and my mother and my children as he left this world for the next. And I was fortunate enough to have cascades of memories pour over me as my Daddy slipped away so quietly from our hands.

So many memories. Memories of him pushing me in a tire swing way over his head as I screamed in joy for just one more "Underdog" before he went back to work. Memories of him pushing a shovel into the snow for thousands of times as he tried to find the sled I had left out before the snowstorm the day before. And memories of him shaking his glasses at my basketball referee, telling him to have them because he obviously needed them much more than he.

And then there were the days of waiting to say our goodbyes for that very last time. Days of so many people sitting for awhile to tell us who he was to them and what they would always have. I watched as the elderly men who had teed off day after day told me of jokes he told after every missed putt. They sat in my mother’s kitchen and silently cried while their wives filled in on more memories of their husbands and their lost friend.

And one by one the young boys that had once worked for him walked into the house. Now middle aged with families, most of these men were from a totally different world than that of my father. Although they could not be from a more different place, they sat at the table and shared memory after memory of the boss that they had loved. They took the time to come to my mom and tell her how much they had loved him, how much they still cared. I sat and listened and laughed and cried at stories of how he had taught them that honesty was more important than any wrong deed. How he had coached a tug-of-war team that had jettisoned 15 men off the asphalt of the opposing side. A basketball team that had stood up to the opposing team that had been stacked. How when he had an irate customer threaten him with harm, 15 yellow shirted young men raced across a broiling hot parking lot, each trying and be the first to jump in. And how one of those boys had taught his children and now his grandchildren lessons he would never forget from his beloved Mr. Cash.

My father was a child of the depression. A soldier in the biggest war. He was honest and dependable, and, no matter whether you agreed with him or not, you could count on knowing where he stood. And knowing he definitely wouldn’t budge. He never missed cookies and coffee at Brookshire’s each dawn, and nothing would excuse missing tee time each day. Donuts were a staple and pizza was considered a snack, not a meal.

I sit and watch his family around the table. I see a shadow of his posture in my nephew, his hands in my brother. I watch my sons standing nearby. His determination in one, his love of carpentry carried down in my other. I can still feel his love for my mother draped across her shoulders, and can see his memories reflected in my daughter’s tears.

You slipped so quickly away from us my dear, sweet Daddy. I can still smell the popcorn lingering in the air.

Dear Darcie......

2009-03-12T07:49:00.004-05:00

Once again, I have received many letters asking for advice and have decided to answer a few for the benefit of my readers.

Dear Darcie: My mother-in-law babysits my toddler periodically and keeps him in a playpen whenever I am off finding my path to enlightenment in the Himalayas. I am a very advanced and modern thinking woman and do not approved of keeping children in pens. I am worried it will damage his psyche. What do you think? Signed, Dolly Llama

Dear Dolly: Do not worry about keeping your child in a pen. My own parents were employed amidst horses and kept me in what they referred to as "a yard.." Although, we all know it was a pen and was also suitable for dogs, chickens, or goats. This kept me very safe and allowed people to walk by and pat my head. Thus keeping me from the typical lonely life of an only child who happens to be in a pen. It also kept me safe from being stomped by rampaging horses. It promoted good problem solving skills and fence climbing techniques. Growing up in such a small space, I was quite comfortable living in the city in a townhouse with no yard, only a patio big enough to plant one tomato. It also promotes children to grow up and work for large corporations that provide only a cubicle as a workspace. In bad economic times when the large corporation fires 75 percent of their employees, it makes for a happy adult that is forced to live in the tiny space above the neighbor’s garage. It also keeps peace of mind when, even when having low rent in the neighbor’s garage, money gets tight and you are forced to knock off a bank. Then while doing 5 to 20, you do not mind that small cell and will emerge early for good behavior because of the positive mental attitude that was kept by enjoying small spaces. Your mother–in-law is providing your child with good future life skills. Remember to thank her.

Dear Darcie: My young daughter is deathly afraid of broccoli. Is this normal or should I consult a therapist? Signed, Vicki Vegan

Dear Ms Vegan: Don’t worry about a strong aversion to certain vegetables. I, as a child, witnessed a man choke on a pickle as he exited the cafeteria near my pen. Since CPR was not even invented until 1960 and my pen was in the rural mountains where people were unfamiliar with abbreviations, the poor man never had a chance. My mother then went into a state of full panic whenever I was inclined to want a burger and would remind me of the poor soul that so carelessly took his garnishments for granted. She would cut my burger into 78 tiny pieces while reminding me to chew good. I still get nervous around cheeseburgers and get very apprehensive when around sporting events that sell giant pickles in that paper sleeve. Possibly I need a therapist.

Dear Darcie: While visiting the circus, my little boy began to cry over the clowns. I tried to explain that clowns were funny, but he was very afraid. What do you suggest to convince him these are loveable characters? Signed, Ron McDonald

Dear Ronald: Your little boy is obviously a lot more in tune with life than you. Clowns are tremendously scary creatures hiding behind giant red noses and fuzzy hair. Although on the surface they are supposed to be funny, it is evident in popular reference that they are not. When someone wrecks into your car, what do you say? "That clown ran into me." When someone mishandles your groceries, you say, "That clown packed my bread underneath the soda bottles." Obviously a reference that clowns do bad things. And have you ever seen that Stephen King movie? Definitely not a warm and fuzzy character. Even in the rodeo, a popular local sport, the clowns try to save the cowboys and get the wild bulls to attack them instead. This demonstrates, at the very least, a culture of masochistic tendencies. Not healthy at all to expose your child to such psychologically twisted individuals. Thank goodness I grew up inside a fence that kept all the clowns on the outside. But, although my children loved to lunch at the local fastfood restaurant that had a caged play yard, it was too traumatic for me to bring them very often and order cheeseburgers that were served by a clown. Trust your child and nix the circus and opt for the WWE instead.

Warm Buttery Popcorn

2009-02-26T13:42:00.004-06:00

Another Friday I’m popping corn at the middle school. Its warm, buttery smell drifts out of the booth and permeates the school with delicious aroma. It hovers in the air through the entire day as students and teachers go about their work and breathe deeply of its heavenly scent. So simple a task, just putting the corn and the oil together. But what a wonderful result comes from that simple task.

While popping, I received a phone call from an acquaintance that desperately wants to be a financial genius. She calls me up periodically when she makes a mess of things asking for advice as to how to get out. It always amazes me that with all the other wonderful talents she has, at what a kind, caring and loyal friend she is, that she feels the need to go down in history as the next Donald Trump.

Another friend and I were discussing this matter after he had just returned from the cemetery. He mentioned how little sense it made that some people try so desperately to be something they just were never meant to be. That in the cemetery lay my uncle, in a lonely grave with no flowers or special care.

This uncle had made a fortune. A remarkable achievement for a man with basically no formal education that stepped off a boat from another country and amassed enough money and assets to send five children through college. They all grew up in a big, expensive house, all attended the best colleges, and grew up to be a doctor, a judge, an engineer, and a lawyer. And all we can remember of this uncle is that he had been wealthy and now lay in this solitary grave.

Yet next to him, a few rows down, lay another aunt. She never really did anything special in life. She never even held a job. Did not graduate high school. And didn’t know the difference in Dow Jones on Wall Street and the Dow Scrubbing Bubbles. But she could bake cookies. Thousands of them. Ones with chocolate fillings, and jelly tops, and chewy centers. I would go to her house as a child and she always had some little, cheap present for me and would set a plate of the most delicious sausage polenta in front of me. I never left her house without her sticking a dollar in my hand and engulfing me in a huge hug.

Her grave was covered in flowers. Along with that of my grandmother who also would be considered a nobody on the world stage. A woman who is remembered for silly jokes and delicious macaroni. Who held my shirt as she taught me to hang out a window and push clothespins onto wet laundry on a line. Who crocheted the softest afghans to cover a chilly little girl with the flu. And who was a haven of peace in a teenaged storm.

She did nothing but work in a factory from when she was twelve years old, yet old women kissed her coffin as it wheeled down the church aisle, and the faceplate was still crooked on her gravestone from someone recently pushing it back to peer at her beloved face for one more time.
These women had evidence of people loving them strewn all over the graveyard grass. Along with the others who were remembered, the baker who gave an extra bun in your bag, the hairdresser that gave friendly counsel along with her coif, the neighbor lady that never minded when you messed up her grass. And then my wealthy uncle’s barren plot, along with scores of others, lay forgotten under the leaf strewn ground.

Nobel Prizes will be given, medals hung around necks, but after the clapping is done and the lights are turned out, so many will be forgotten. Yet so many others will never be. They show up again in every soap scented breeze, every oven door expelling the sweet heat of warm cookies, every sizzling pan of onions in hot oil.

It leads to hope that maybe it doesn’t take much to be really worth while. That maybe I, too, lived a life with great value. I never became the astronaut that I dreamed of at 13. I never became the PhD that everyone thought I would be at 17. I never became a financial giant and showed my children all the countries of the world like I dreamed of at 25. But hopefully I have done something for somebody that made their life worthwhile. That maybe many of us can be like the popcorn. That long after the machine is cleaned and everyone has gone home for the day, its warm, buttery scent still lingers for hours in the air.

With Age Comes Wisdom.....Maybe

2009-02-25T17:55:00.003-06:00

Everyone has their own area of expertise. We all feel very comfortable in a familiar environment or sharing our knowledge on something we think we know everything about. And, although, we all should know that we are not experts on absolutely every subject, many have a hard time admitting to that.

My son called me the other day to say he thought he might have trouble keeping a good grade in one of his classes. He doesn’t like to get less than perfect grades because that would be a direct indicator that he does not know everything there is to know. Then he would have to face his know-it-all mother, who would remind him that she knows more than him and now has a report card to prove it.

I asked if he had the classroom schedule where he could tally how many possible points he had until the end of the course. He couldn’t find the schedule, but he did have the schedule on what nights his Asian friends cooked fried rice for the dorms. I asked if he had the professor’s schedule as to when he was available for consultations or homework assistance. My son couldn’t seem to locate that schedule, but he did have the jujitzu schedule posted on his wall right next to the TV line up for UFC fight-nights with Chuck Liddels appearances highlighted in yellow.
Sighing, I told him he might want to shift his priorities. Obviously he had great knowledge on how to locate some great Won Ton Soup and how to best fine tune his jujitzu skills, but was having trouble with knowledge of how to best open a Physics book.

Then I came home to find my daughter cramming to finish her homework. She was wailing that she hadn’t realized that her project was due so soon, and how did her teacher expect her to remember all these facts. I reminded her that she should have written the homework deadline on her calendar that so meticulously documented each gymnastics class and class trip. Also, highlighted in red was each night the Penguins would be on Fox Sports, and she could recite all the goals scored, assists, and penalty minutes of probably 80% of the entire NHL.

Memorizing statistics did not seem to be a problem. Memorizing a homework schedule and statistics for cellular mitosis didn’t seem to take priority over what days were sale days at Abecrombie and who had enough points to make the playoffs. I sighed again. With age comes wisdom as to what is most important and where one’s knowledge is best placed.

So my husband and I were out of town for the weekend and had to get from our hotel to a restaurant nearby. Being very familiar with the city, we knew exactly where to go and how to get there. Climbing into the cab, we instructed the driver as to the name and address of the restaurant. We both sat confidently back, knowing that the cab driver could not fudge and drive us in circles. It was only about a five block drive, we were just too tired to walk.

The cab darted off with my leg barely in the door, and the cab driver wove in and out of traffic as he kept up a heated conversation with someone on his cell phone in some foreign language. We realized he was going way too far up the street. My husband hollered that he was going the wrong way. The cabbie seemed agitated at being corrected and hollered something back at us and continued his jumbled up conversation with the person on the phone.

After about three more blocks we hollered again that he was taking us the wrong way and he screeched to a stop. In his very strange language he yammered that he knew where the restaurant was, he could not get around blocked off streets, and he was not taking us the wrong way. We could get out right there.

We scrambled out of the cab and stood on the dark, rainy street as he squealed away babbling out his window as he left. I even managed to actually understand quite a few of the verbs he threw at us along the way. But as we turned around and began to walk the 20 blocks back to our destination, I realized that even though we obviously had great knowledge of the city we were in and I had great adeptness at understanding profanity directed at me in multiple languages, possibly, the best knowledge of all would have been how to choose a good cab driver and not manage to get thrown out along the way.

Field Trip

2009-02-18T08:42:00.005-06:00

All the grades at Cope Middle School take a field trip in the spring. The kids look forward to it all year, and, for the most part, it is the first time for many of them to be many miles away for an extended time from their parents. That is, far away without a Grandma and Grandpa or Aunty and Uncle to watch over them. I remember the anxiety I felt when my first child went on his first trip with his middle school. I was a nervous wreck.

But now, being a mom of three, it is now my third child going on the field trip. After running into another anxiety-ridden mom in the grocery store, I told her to not worry so much. Being the world weary and savvy mother of three, I knew our daughters would be just fine. I explained when she would be sending her third child off, she wouldn’t even worry a bit. When she confessed she was following the bus in her dark glasses and unmarked car, I laughed at the fear of a newbie.

I happily helped my daughter plan for her trip. She came home from school and discussed who was sitting near who on the bus. Who she would room with at the hotel. What wonderful places they were discovering together in New Orleans. How she was lucky to get a friendly teacher as the chaperone in her group. She was very excited.

Enjoying her excitement and the calmness I was feeling as a third round mom, it disappointed me that I got a stomach virus the week before her trip. Telling my husband of this strange virus that leaped out of nowhere, he only answered me with a strange smirk. Obviously he cared nothing about my overall health.

And as I assisted my only, wonderful, precious daughter in planning for the same trip away from home that my two big, strong sons had taken, I noticed her happy chatter seemed to affect my really aching head. I really didn’t know what was making my head ache. And a headache along with a stomach virus seemed to point to something very dire that I could be suffering from. I went once again to my husband who gave me that same strange little smile and told me everything would be fine.

Telling him that I was not worried at all about our only daughter going hundreds of miles away with a group of misbehaved teenagers didn’t seem to wipe away that strange little smile. It rather irritated me. I told him I was not stressed at all about her going into a city that had recently spent weeks under nine feet of water and had to be occupied by the army. Not worried at all about prisoners breaking out of Angola to lose themselves among the population of the French Quarter and prey on young, innocent children. Not worried at all about nuclear bombs, or tidal waves, or the Mississippi River breaking its banks, or even the possibilities of an asteroid strike when my sweet, beautiful, little baby girl was so far from where I could assist her.

He obviously had no idea that I must be suffering from a large, growing mass of parasites in my brain just like on Grey’s Anatomy last week. I was very near death with my upset stomach and pounding head, and he was just standing there smiling. However, I did admit to being a tad worried about New Orleans being hit by a freakishly large and off-season hurricane. But that would not cause the pain in my head like this mass of brain eating parasites I was suffering from. I really thought I needed to see Dr. McDreamy.

Reminding me that I had not recently been to the Amazon rainforest to acquire brain eating parasites, and there had never been a hurricane in February in recorded history, he suggested that it was possible I was suffering from nerves of my daughter taking a trip without me. That in two days time I would find myself miraculously healed, and I really shouldn’t have laughed at that mom who was clandestinely following the bus in the unmarked car.

Too agitated to continue to argue with a man that was so obviously clueless to my medical condition, I headed to the phone book to look up neurosurgeons with great hair. And maybe to look up the number of the mom from the grocery store. I just happened to have an extra pair of dark glasses, if she just happened to have room for an extra mom in her unmarked car.

A Visit To The Doctor

2009-02-05T18:38:00.004-06:00

A trip to the doctor’s is never high on my list of fun things to do. Especially during cold and flu season. So when my daughter was feeling poorly, and I realized she needed to go, I packed my bottle of Purell, took plenty of Vitamin C, put on our bio-hazard suits, and headed for the doctor’s.
We entered a full waiting room of variously diseased people. I searched about for the healthiest person to seat her near while I went to sign in. A rather healthy looking woman was sitting next to an empty seat, so, after apologizing to her, since after sitting next to my daughter, she would not be healthy much longer, I left my daughter drooping in the chair while I signed the list. I then returned and waited for her to be called.

Having neglected to bring a book or a magazine, we searched for something interesting to pass the time. The television in the corner was not playing something interesting like The Terminator or Die Hard, but playing Sponge Bob with no volume. The doctor must like shows for kids. I passed some time rubbing Purell on different parts of my body and parts of the furniture that I was touching, before growing restless. In an effort to keep both myself and my daughter occupied, I grabbed some pamphlets that were on a nearby table and we began to read.
What interesting reading! All the pamphlets spelled out in very simple terms a variety of diseases that a large percentage of the human population happened to be experiencing at that very moment.

One pamphlet pointed out all the symptoms of whooping cough. My daughter went down the list and discovered that the very serious cough I had a while back probably had been due to the serious and deadly bordetella pertussis virus. She went through symptom after symptom of how I had coughed all over people at work, at school, in line at the bank, and how I should have been hospitalized. I knew now that if that woman at church that had grumbled so nastily at me and bolted away when I coughed all over her purse had known I was so close to entering the light, she would probably have felt very bad and not snatched her purse away and scolded me by claiming I should have stayed home. What luck I survived. Must have been because I was coughing in church.

The next showed gruesome pictures of an oozing ear, captioned by the dangers of a lengthy bout of otitis media. My daughter rubbed her ear and said she had been having a sore ear for some time and thought this must be why she never hears when I tell her to pick up her socks. The poor thing. It made me regret getting so mad all the time. Dirty socks were nothing, I should have been caring for my sick daughter.

And then we read about deformational plagiocephaly. How horrible! And I had it. A malformed head. My head had never been round and my grandmother would massage it saying all good grandmothers could mold a baby’s head into a beautiful sphere. She was not successful. I still stand on my head tilting to the side. Thank goodness modern science now had a special helmet.
When the doctor finally called us in, we were both in a state. We told him of all our diseases and I asked him if it was too late for me to have a helmet. I thought one that said Harley Davidson on it would look very nice.

He kindly told me that my head was fine and beyond molding. And he questioned when was the last time I had stood on my head. It had been years, but one never knows when one might need to escape a crisis by standing on one’s head. And mine, I now knew, was malformed.

Thank goodness for doctors. He told me that I really had just had a bad cough and should probably carry a napkin next time I went to church. He also said the deadly, oozing ear was not actually deadly or oozing. Her hearing loss was probably more selective. He also examined her and decided she had a virus that would be gone in a few days. She was not even close to the light.

Sighing with relief, I wiped the worried sweat off my malformed brow and asked if we would both be fine. He said yes, we would. And no matter how worried I was about finding myself upside down, I still could not have the helmet.

Apple Fritters

2009-01-29T18:07:00.006-06:00

While watching the news the other day, I was shocked at a story on how scientists discovered that 30% of Americans have a virus that causes obesity. And it is contagious! Now I knew the loss of my teenage body had nothing to do with no longer working out for two hours a day like I did when I was 18, or nothing to do with eating only tiny amounts for days like I did when I was 18, or nothing to do with maybe eating too much pizza.

It was a virus! I could give up walking every morning, give up counting calories, and just acknowledge I had a virus. How wonderful! I wonder who gave it to me? It was definitely someone that I really don’t like. Maybe I would give it to someone else. That got me to thinking who I would choose to breathe on over the next several months.

So last night I had to go to the store for bread and milk right around suppertime. I was very hungry. Upon entering Wal-Mart I headed for the apple fritters. I told my daughter that I was starving, and would eat an apple fritter to hold me until supper.

She grabbed my arm and reminded me that this week I had wanted to lose three pounds. That I could not lose three pounds if I ate the apple fritter. I explained that it was not the apple fritter that would keep the three pounds, it was because I had a virus. She shoved me away from the bakery and back into the store.

Now everyone knows you are not supposed to shop hungry. People buy all kinds of crazy stuff they don’t need when they shop hungry. I explained this to my daughter, but she still stood between me and the fritters.

Now we had just been shopping a few days before and our cupboards at home were full. I really just needed bread and milk. But as I went through aisle after aisle, wondering what I should cook for supper, my cart began to fill up with all sorts of things that would never fit in my freezer. A quick trip to the store lengthened as I pondered which Hamburger Helper would be best, and if anyone really did eat pigs feet or tripe.

An hour and a half later we exited the store with my stomach still growling and even my daughter now complaining I had taken so long that she was near fainting with starvation. I told her to quit fussing, that she should have more sympathy for a woman with a virus.

She then told me that I had taken far too long studying how many Lean Cuisine dinners constituted one serving for a woman who was now famished, and she could not wait for me to cook all that Hamburger Helper. We would drive through Taco Bell or she would die.

Happy to run through Taco Bell and grab some supper now that my virus was really acting up, I pulled into the line that was about 35 cars long. I knew immediately that these must also be virus ridden people that had been forced away from apple fritters and were now desperate for a beef-bean-burrito. I must be patient. We sick people needed to stick together.

Three hours later we made it through the line and returned home happily finishing our Mexican feast. Since it was now very late at night and it was taking me hours to fit all those groceries in a freezer already stuffed, my daughter left to take her bath and get ready for bed. While cramming the last Lean Cuisine on the bottom freezer shelf I heard a screech from the bathroom and ran to see what was wrong.

My daughter was shaking her head with frustration while standing on the scale. She kept repeating that she had barely eaten a thing for three days and had jogged nearly 6 miles, and, yet, she still had gained 3 pounds. How could that have possibly have happened?

Being the exemplary and self-restrained mother that I am, I refrained from telling her that my grandmother would have said it was because you "don’t spit up in the air," and I mentioned nothing about "poetic justice." I knew repeating my grandmother’s wisdom would only have made her madder, and I realize that young peoples’ idealistic views on how life should work take age and time before they settle down to reality. And I also realized that I should have just gone ahead and eaten the apple fritter.

We All Have Secrets

2009-01-22T20:26:00.005-06:00

A very close friend of mine was very upset and I was trying to explain to her that no family is perfect. No matter how perfect it looks, every family has secrets. She shouldn’t sink into sadness, thinking her life is defective, because, in reality, everyone’s life is defective. We just can’t always see where the defects are.

Imagine when looking through the glass at the beautiful window displays in a fancy store. All we see is the rotating figurines, the sparkling floss snow, the colorful, fanciful world that was created to view through a flat, glass pane. We don’t see that underneath all that floss is a plain plywood table held together by gray, steel bolts. And many of those figurines are glued and taped to the display, only meant to hold for a few short weeks. But the store keeps those things secret.

Every Friday I gather with the other moms at the middle school and we sell candy to the kids after lunch. It is my favorite time of the week. I get to be with other women that have similar lives and we all flap our gums about husbands and kids and whoever else is doing anything naughty within 200 miles of home. I learn whose husbands are on Viagra, whose diamond rings are really made of paste, whose neighbor got arrested, and whose mother-in-law is an overbearing nightmare. It is a weekly consensus that all mothers-in-laws fit that category.

But then there are even more secrets. There is the mom on the No Carb Diet and does aerobics faithfully 10 times a week. She stumbles into the concessions stand, starved and glassy eyed as she dives her head into my mountain of freshly popped corn and eats about three bushels of the buttery scented fluff. And her husband, her trainer, and even Oprah Winfrey will never, ever know. Now, we all forgive her weekly weakness because I do make very good popcorn. It is rated as some of the best popcorn in the nation by four out of five people surveyed. Of course, I do the survey. But did I mention it is very good corn?

Then there is the mom that is the Starburst addict. Constantly stating her pants are too tight, she never lets her husband know she sways from her diet by purchasing dozens of Starburst and sits back in a sugar induced haze every week while learning all the weekly news from those of us still fully conscious. I always make sure to bring my dental floss so she has clean, Starburst free teeth before leaving. No one is ever the wiser to her secret Friday Starburst benders.

And then the mom that just can’t resist the bags of M & M cookies stacked so colorfully on the counter. She empties her wallet every week, stocking up on the cookies until she can return to my concession stand once again. We all help her sew them into the lining of her coat, so no one will know that a mom eats even more cookies than her kids. And her husband just thinks she loves fluffy down coats, and always appreciates her delicious sweet scent when wearing that very same coat on chilly winter days.

But upon looking into the concession stand while standing outside, one can see a group of devoted mothers, smiling happily as they provide a sweet Friday treat to hundreds of Cope kids. All chatting happily with the children and each other while earning a few dollars for the good of the school.

And as I stand in the office turning in my bulging, green money bag, I watch as one mom is on the phone with her trainer, patting her popcorn bloated belly, telling him she needs a day off due to distress from eating far too many alfalfa sprouts that day. I watch another wave good-bye as she is checking her smile in her little mirror from her purse. And I get a happy "good -bye" from the last while pulling on her bulky, sweet-smelling coat. While the principal takes my bulging money bag and compliments me on how well I know the children and how my sales have been higher than any previous mom. She pats me on the back and tells me how valuable I have been.

I smile very big and give her my big, bulging bag. She does not know that much of my huge profits are due to selling some excellent popcorn to some very hungry moms. But, then, I like my back patted, and I do love the kids. And, after all, I need to have a few secrets, too.

Another Birthday

2009-01-15T17:06:00.004-06:00

Another year rolls by and another birthday. Since this is no big milestone like last year, the family asks what I would like to do. Certainly nothing like last year when my mom gave me a surprise party. Although I wasn't surprised, it was a really nice party. I had been terrified that she was going to have planned something weird. Like male strippers. Which have shiny, overly tanned skin and scare me. And drive old ladies crazy where they start hollering out all inappropriate things. That scares me too. I just don’t need to know those things about my mother and her elderly friends.

Or she could have invited our friends with their current spouses along with inviting the ex-spouses to liven things up. That didn't happen either. This was probably also a good thing. Although not nearly as interesting or as much fun.

It was a really nice party. Although my mom was told that any liquor on the menu would be an extra charge. So even though I am her only daughter, she went the more economical route. Unfortunately with no liquor at a party, it tends to quiet the party down. It’s just not the same as when typically sober people start drinking and dancing on the tabletops. We all ate ham instead. Pork products do not tend to get people dancing.

Also it was very quiet. I had them turn on the speaker system to pipe some music in and liven things up a bit. It did some. But not nearly as much as liquored up ex-spouses. Then nobody sang me happy birthday because my son was having an epileptic fit unless he could eat some cake. So I told him to go eat the darn cake and he did. Then everyone wolfed down cake and forgot to light candles and sing. The cake had black frosting, so everyone had black teeth for the rest of the party which made for an interesting scene in itself.

Our friend’s boy ate a piece of cake that must have been a solid square foot and he sat in a diabetic coma for the whole party. He was with his girlfriend, who is in school with my son, and is subject to his personal commentary all day every day, and thus, she hates him. So she sat next to her beau while he was in the coma and made evil faces at my son, who was grinning happily because he elicited exactly the reaction he strives for.

My son sat at the table with my other son and his girlfriend, and spent the evening being a Russian immigrant with a heavy accent. No one other than his brother knew what he was doing. So my mom's old people friends just stared at him like he had three heads. But the Russian immigrant was very happy in spite of all the stares. No doubt glad to be away from his communist motherland.

I did get some really nice presents. Not the typical lot of gag gifts. I got this one beautiful shiny thing that I had no idea what it was. I looked at my friend and asked her what it was. She is not aesthetically challenged like me. She said to hang it on the wall and I could put some dried flowers in it or something of the sort. She then promised to take over that task for me. Which was very kind of her.

But that was last birthday. Since then I have spent the last year hearing my mom retell how much money was spent on giving her only daughter a birthday, and myself trying to forget a roomful of sober, geriatric, diabetics with black frosting stained teeth. I had nightmares for months of being caught in Night of the Living Dead and would awaken exhausted and petrified of my next milestone birthday. Then all my diabetic, black teethed friends will be even another ten years older. And scarier!

This year will be just a quiet one. Who needs a party? What could be better than supper at Captain Ds before I return home to continue waiting on the mountain of presents that I just know must be coming. I can spend the evening with my own family close by, along with a bottle of wine, a tabletop for dancing, and watch Bruce Willis save the world in Armageddon (the very best movie....Ever).

Trouble At The Bank

2009-01-14T09:14:00.004-06:00

Troubled times being broadcast on the news nightly and forecasts of more hard times to come have made many businesses remember the old slogan "customer first." But troubling times can also bring people to work rather grumpy. This tends to work against keeping the customers you already have happy, but all people have bad days once in awhile.

My husband came home recently from the bank very unhappy. He had some problems with his account and the manager was purposely unhelpful and rude. She wouldn’t let him do what he needed to do. He told her we had been banking that way for over 20 years, just to ask the other employees. She had obviously not received yoga tapes for Christmas and was not very much into universal harmony.

In fact, she told him that she would like the names of everyone that had ever allowed him to bank that way and she would have them all fired. He told her that was a lot of people. Was she sure that the unemployment office could handle that. He also told her she made very bad coffee.
When he arrived home he was in a very irate state. But, I, being the new student of Christmas yoga tapes, unbent from the One Handed Tiger stance I had been balancing in, and told him to calm down. I would go back to the bank with him and try and straighten it out. We would try a different branch.

I put on my best snowman sweater to look appropriate for meeting a banker. And also my lucky furry boots. Anyone would immediately see upon my arrival that I was a business professional. Upon entering the bank I felt very positive.

A smiling young woman came out to greet us and brought us to her desk. She had a bowl of mints. And a cup full of pens. She was very pleasant and frowned sympathetically when we told her our problem. Apologizing for the other woman’s rudeness, she stated that their branch was the best branch. And the happiest. I nodded happily. I bet she knew yoga.

Offering me a pen to sign a paper for her to show her manager, I took it and signed my name. I wondered if the offer was just for the duration of my signature or if the pen was a gesture of friendship. I decided she had offered it to me for life. I stuck it in my purse.

While she went to consult with the manager, I perused her bowl of mints. I ate a few. She took a few more minutes, so I ate a few more. The two women came back a short time later and they both smiled and apologized for all the misunderstandings. They said things were just fine. She reached for her bowl to offer me some mints. But since she only had a few, so I declined graciously. So she offered me a pen.

We all laughed together and had made great friends. They apologized again for the previous problem. I said not to worry, everyone had bad days. The poor woman might have had a fight with her husband, or was worried about bank robbers, or maybe had really bad coffee. My new friends had more than made up for any bad feelings.

Upon leaving things only got better as a kind gentleman held the door open for us. A very nice thing to do since he must have been very uncomfortable in all that heavy dark clothing and thick wool overcoat. But he was obviously a famous, rich musician because he was still wearing his skimask and carrying his violin case. I could envision him playing his violin to the rich and famous while skiing the slopes of Aspen.

Feeling very good that our problems had been solved, my husband offered to take me to lunch at my very favorite fish restaurant. I was feeling peaceful and happy and pleasantly blessed as we headed off to lunch. We waited before making the turn as a bunch of police cars roared up the road to tear into the bank parking lot behind us.

No wonder they were all heading there. The bank had already demonstrated that it was obviously the most courteous branch. All those policeman had chosen to do their banking there, too.

I restated that by keeping in mind that everyone had really bad days once in awhile, everything had turned out just fine in the end. And didn’t I seem to have such minty, fresh breath.

New Years and New Attitudes

2009-01-02T09:18:00.004-06:00

Now that Christmas is over, we are all starting a new year of new beginnings and new attitudes. These few days every January are always a special time of resolve, peace, determination, and being better people . Also an excellent time to take a few days, sit back, relax, and enjoy a hockey tournament.

As I was sitting in the lotus position on the bleachers watching my son play, I had resolved not to get upset by players with poor attitudes, grumpy parents, or absolutely blind referees. I had been studying my Christmas yoga tapes for over a week now, and I would sit and enjoy the atmosphere of young people working together in a team sport, parents taking time to watch their children, and the Christmas spirit continuing to pervade a sporting event.

The game got a bit emotionally charged and the boys started pushing a shoving a bit more than usual. The dad standing near me was yelling some phrases that Deepak Chopra had never suggested in his new book. And he was turning quite red. He did not seem to be pervaded by the Christmas spirt.

He glared at me and I smiled very friendly. I showed him a lot of my teeth. This did not seem to make him feel more friendly and he hollered that our sons were not very nice. Or something along those lines.

Now I had resolved for the new year to be much better behaved and amicable to one and all. So, I would not let this angry man upset me. Drawing from my inner self, I let the serene forces of the universe swell up inside me and I held up my fingers, giving the dad the universal sign of peace. This should calm him down.

It did not. But I only had been studying yoga for about a week. Sometimes I tended to get my universal signs mixed up and display the wrong fingers. Realizing my possible error, I did not let his continued anger upset me.

The game continued to get more physical. How young men do love to exercise. Although it may appeared aggressive, I knew from Deepak Chopra that appearances can be deceiving. That these young men were just releasing their natural male tendencies of physical exertion. They seemed to be having great fun.

That angry dad had obviously never even read a paragraph of Deepak Chopra’s wisdom. His arteries began to raise up on his head. He also had surmised exactly who my son was. Possibly he was tipped off by my shirt that displayed my son’s name and number in very large lettering, but I could not be sure. I began to debate whether to call 911 when this man blew an artery. I also debated whether to move so when he blew the artery it would not mess up my new shirt with my son’s number. But, not wanting to leave the lotus position that my legs were now permanently frozen into, I decided to stay put.

Now the boys from both teams were obviously having so much fun that they decided to all jump on top of each other, arms and legs swinging in joy. That angry dad did not seem to appreciate the fun. He rushed up to me and yelled. I told him to please calm down, our boys were just playing a game. He should not get so upset because his team played like a bunch of girls. Girls could play sports very well, too.

I also noticed that when his mouth was open that wide to yell at me, I could see his tonsils very well. Also that little piece of throat that hangs down and wags back and forth looked a bit red. I knew I should have been a doctor. I was very good at identifying parts of the body and diagnosing potential illness. Maybe in a year of new beginnings I would go to medical school.

Telling him that he was not pervaded by the Christmas spirit, and he should really back away or I would also demonstrate my other Christmas gift which was an industrial sized can of pepper spray (in pink!), he snapped his mouth shut and skulked away.

Shaking my head at how some people take no heed to New Year’s beginnings and forming new attitudes, I folded painfully back into my lotus position, located my son once more in the game, and let myself be filled with the Christmas spirit. And I once more held up my hand and gave the angry dad the universal sign of peace. I think.