Flupocalypse

I've been sick this year. Really, just, a lot of sick. Starting in November and seemingly with very few breaks before the next thing slams into me. The kids have had colds and stomach bugs and ailments and I think I've caught EVERY SINGLE ONE from them. And whatever they don't get, I seem to bring home from all the other little germ infested goblins I teach. It has been, legitimately, disgusting.

A few weeks ago I was struck with what can truly only be described as Montezuma's Revenge. Except that, well, I wasn't traveling. It was someone's revenge though. I lost four pounds simply by being glued to the toilet seat.

In The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, which I had the privilege of seeing on my first trip to NYC, there's a line that goes like this:

"Dengue--an infectious disease transmitted by mosquitoes and categorized by headache, joint-pain, skin rash, and severe diarrhea. When the Pediatrician asked Billy to describe the symptoms of his Dengue, he said, 'It was like there was a race out of my tushie, and everybody won.'"

That line has stayed with me. Because it is hilarious. Because who among us hasn't experienced the horrific nightmare of catastrophic diarrhea? 

I'm not going to focus on diarrhea though because I've been binge watching Downton Abbey and pretending I'm a lady. (When, really, I am about the farthest thing from English nobility.) I do know enough to know that ladies shouldn't share a lot of details about their bathroom escapades. But, you see, after I recovered from The Revenge, I had some good days and then I was struck with the other kind of flu. The Influenza A kind of flu. This ticked me off something fierce because we always get the flu shot. Yes, I know it was all but completely ineffective this year but that is not the point. I felt a bit under the weather when I left work on Thursday and by the evening I was running a fever. 

I stayed in bed almost all of Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I cannot tell you the last time I wallowed in bed for four straight days. This is why I have taken up Downton Abbey which I had saved for such a time as this. Oh I knew I would love it. I had so many friends who watched it AT THE TIME and loved it and wondered why, on God's wonderful earth, I was not among the obsessed. I always knew it would be a show for me. I somehow also knew I would pull it out at just the right and perfect moment.

The Great Flupocalypse of 2018 was just that time.

But the point of this post is not to discuss the Crawley's and their drama. It's not really to talk about that scene with Mary and Anna and Cora and a CERTAIN body. Even if I would honest to goodness hope to respond exactly like that mother did. To my children: I will not condone your bad decision making and I may make you pay but I will straight up help you move the body back to its own bedroom. JUST LIKE THE COUNTESS OF GRANTHAM. Anyway. The actual point is that my husband is an absolute blessing to me.

Sometimes we're married for fourteen years and the fire doesn't die or anything like that but the lingerie gets buried behind the flannel pajama pants and everything is just comfortable and nice. Let's face it, the lingerie, in and of itself, is not actually integral to the marriage. I happen to like the fact that he fits like a glove or, like a good pair of pajama pants. But sometimes, I'm shaking in bed with a fever and I can't stop. And then for some inexplicable reason I start bawling because I'm just so cold and I hear him beyond the closed door. He's taking care of three kids and doing laundry and making dinner and thinking about his sermon and changing a poopy diaper. I'm coughing. It's a deep, racking cough and he's there handing me medicine and putting a palm on my forehead. And when the flu goes up into my face and my sinuses are a brick wall, he's helping me use the terrible sinus pot because I really need it but I hate it so much it makes me choke and cry. 

I've been sick a great deal this year. I'm trying everything I can think of to build up my immunity and keep things away and yet, they have a way of clinging to my body and wiping me out. Through it all, my husband just keeps standing in the gap. And yes, it's what a husband SHOULD do. I couldn't agree more. But when I stop and really see that he is doing it, he is taking care of absolutely everything for FOUR ENTIRE DAYS, how can I be anything short of madly in love with this counterpart of mine?

This morning, I insisted on going to work. He texted me early in the day, "Hope your day is manageable. If it's too hard, don't be afraid to call it halfway through. Praying for you. Love you."

When you find someone who is praying for you and who loves you, don't let that one go. I just wanted to write something down so that my husband knew it didn't go unnoticed. All the praying. All the loving. All the doing everything. I see. Thank you.

Pure & Genuine

I'm gonna get hate mail on this one. I've been thinking about it for a long time and so I'm just going to throw it out there. But first, disclaimers.

1. I am in no way, shape, or form comparing my children to animals.

2. I fully support the adoption of shelter animals.

3. I fully support having biological children.

Now, don't go forgetting those disclaimers.

So here it is. If I see one more Facebook post talking about how wrong it is to own a dog that was purchased from a breeder or a cat that came from a pet store or a goldfish some kid won at a carnival, I'm going to straight up lose my mind. If I read one more article about the evils of buying a pure bred while mixed breeds die at the humane society, I'm going to scream. If I read another tweet about how I'm contributing to animal cruelty by not being a part of the solution, I will delete all social media and live as a hermit in a cave in the Uintas. Okay, I won't do that. I have limits on my follow through.

It is completely fine that you adopted a shelter dog. I actually love that you did that. Chances are he's a great dog and he brings joy to your family and you love him a lot. Tell me on Facebook that he is your most loyal friend. Sweet! I don't judge you for that. You made a choice that worked for your family. Well done. Post inspirational stories of rescue cats. Write whatever else you want that shows shelters and animal adoption in a positive light. I hope that it will encourage someone to consider that option in the future.

Just don't present it as the only way. Don't turn pet owners into villains if they didn't adopt from a shelter.

I spent a lot of hundreds of dollars on the two pure bred golden retrievers I've personally owned. I bought them both from "backyard breeders" and they've been amazing dogs. Okay. In the interest of full disclosure, the first one ate our couch and the second one is a little bit nuts but neither of them have consumed any of our children so we consider it a win. But I've seen countless memes like this one come through on my feed...

I don't care for the sake of myself or the sake of my dog. She can't read and I'm growing a thicker skin by the minute. I bought a dog that was bred and a shelter dog died. That's really sad. Someday, maybe I'll buy a shelter dog. Or three. I really have no idea.

The reason I care so passionately about this, the reason I want to scream every time someone lectures me on the crime of buying a pure bred, is because, shelter dog or not, they are still...dogs. Or cats. They are animals. Animals are wonderful and lovely and bring us such joy. I can't imagine living life without them and I have sobbed mightily on more than one occasion when my own pet reaches the end of his life. But they really, truly are...animals.

God made them, yes. But they are not made in the image of God.

You know what is made in the image of God? Humans.

Genesis 1:27 "So God created mankind in His own image, in the image of God He created them; male and female He created them." 

I've had people ask me point blank, right to my face, if I considered a shelter dog before I bought my golden retriever. You know what I didn't say? "Did you consider adopting from the foster care system or from a ministry to birth mothers or from China or Nepal or Guatemala before you had your biological children?"

You see, when someone gets up on a pedestal about where an animal came from, all I think about are my children. All I think about is adoption reform and kids aging out of the system and people not giving money to adoption grants.

Apples and oranges? Obviously. My kids aren't dogs. The 17 year old who is about to be thrown out of the foster system isn't a cat. And, OF COURSE, I realize that not everyone can or should adopt children. My point is not that everyone needs to think long and hard about having biological children. Certainly not. Have biological children. Of course, have them! My point is not that we can't worry about shelter animals or that I don't care when a shelter animal is killed...

Once upon a time we became the inadvertent caretakers of some sick, stray kittens. I told Troy to take them to the humane society and NOT TO BRING THEM HOME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE WHATSOEVER. He did as I said. I received a call from him later that day. "Since they are sick, they will euthanize them. What should I do?" Obviously those kittens came home and we nursed them back to health and then they found loving families. We've spent hours catching feral cats and taking them to spay and release clinics. We've owned two cats (HA! As if anyone ever owns a cat.) that were both homeless before we adopted them.  It breaks my heart when an animal is killed. 

My point is that we really ought to be valuing human life above all else. We ought to put our money, our mouths, and our memes where the Lord would put His. And, as He wrote through the hand of his own brother, James...

The orphan might be the foster child whose parents cannot break their drug addiction. She might be the baby who was left on the steps of the church in Haiti. He might be the child whose mama chose adoption because she, herself, aged out of foster care and wrestles with her own demons. She might be the newborn who tested positive for methadone. But regardless of what this looks like today, the truth rings clear. Pure religion...means caring for orphans. This doesn't always mean that you bring a child into your home through adoption or foster care. Sometimes it means helping someone to adopt. I am eternally grateful to the many people who contributed financially to our adoption stories. Thank you for caring for orphans. Sometimes it means writing Congress and imploring them to discuss adoption reform. Sometimes it means sponsoring a child overseas or moving abroad to work in an orphanage or donating to a ministry that cares for children.

I care about shelter animals but have chosen a purebred puppy in the way that you might care about the orphan but have chosen only biological children. I care about shelter animals, but I think about a couple of articles I read about a lack of foster families in Oregon. Children were staying the night in hotel rooms and spending their days in the DCFS office, waiting to find out where they'd go next. In a state that is known for its campaigns to hug trees and save spotted owls, one would hope that there might also be a value on hugging children and protecting them and caring for them. (I'm not trying to specifically throw stones at Oregon. Our lack of "orphan" care is a global problem.) I care about shelter animals, but I think about Shane, a man who aged out of the foster care system and is still haunted by the feelings that he wasn't good enough to have a family. I think about how some families adopt children and shelter animals and some families have biological children and purebred puppies and some families do some combination of the two and no one is evil because of their personal choices.

But as for me, when you say the word adoption, I do not think first of the animals. When you use your passion for shelter animals as a shaming device, I do not hear your cry for the dog or the cat, for the orphaned hamster or the rescued parakeet. Instead, I think first of all the children. I think of the words of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ who said, "Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?" (Matthew 6:26)

Fame, Fortune and Phlegm

I know my life seems incredibly glam. Part time substitute teacher of usually little, teensy people who sometime's take their pants off by day, pastor's wife by...also day. It's the kind of life with a lot of fanfare and paparazzi. Tabloids write about me and gossip columns talk about my height and weight. It's a really enviable life. I'm working on my memoir now.

But, in the event that you think I'm some untouchable celebrity who never has to use the restroom and wakes up airbrushed (I know I certainly give off such a vibe), let me put your ridiculous perceptions to rest. You see, I'm in the middle of a six week stint with kindergartners. Those little germ buckets have already given me strep and now, just a week after finishing the antibiotic for that, I've got the beginnings of what is sure to be an epic cold.

My colds always start with obnoxious nasal drip down the back of my throat that prevents adequate sleep for no less than three nights. I used to try to just swallow the garbage down while I attempted sleep but this proved useless. So then I started getting up every two minutes to loudly hack up whatever crap I could and then spit it, teenage boy style, into the sink. Finally, I got the attractive idea to keep a cup next to my bed. I'd just reach for the cup every time I needed to dispense of my thick, phlegm infused saliva. In the morning, I wash the cup out and, hopefully, my sleep the night before was slightly less interrupted. It's worked well and I'm still married.

But only because he said, "'Til death do us part." He forgot to add in the clause that keeping a spit cup next to one's head would also be grounds for divorce.

So, last night, I propped myself up on THREE pillows and tried to settle in for the night. Next to me, a child's green Veggie Tales cup waited for what was sure to be a wild night. A half hour later, it had collected quite a volume of nasal drip because honestly, I'm awfully attractive and not at all disgusting. I was exhausted and groggy. I hacked up an unhealthy amount of phlegm and then set the cup back on my night stand.

Or did I?

Suddenly, I heard a plop.

I quickly switched on my lamp. There stood my cup, upside down, inside my purse, which I happen to keep right in front of my nightstand. I picked up the cup and sighed loudly when I surveyed it's emptiness. I walked briskly to the bathroom and flipped on the light. I pulled items from my purse.

Checkbook. Covered in a long string of (thankfully) clear phlegm.

Chapstick. Covered.

Glasses case. Covered.

No less than six pens. All slimed.

And a pool of spit was collected at the bottom.

"Uggggg!" I moaned. This never would have happened if I was using my theatre degree for actual theatre instead of for pretending that I'm a kindergarten teacher. Because if I wasn't pretending to be a kindergarten teacher, I wouldn't be subjected to these super germs being carried around on the grubby hands of (albeit adorable) little people.

Ten minutes later I'd managed to clean out my purse and wash my items free of fluid. It was a disgusting job but someone had to do it. (And, really, who on earth else would have washed MY spit out of MY purse?)

So, you see, being a pastor's wife and substitute teacher is not all the fame and fortune and paparazzi and glamour that it looks like on the outside. Sometimes, it's an upside down phlegm cup in a purse.

On Dogs and Delusional People

Here's the deal. We wouldn't be talking about getting a new puppy if it wasn't for the fact that it's summer. Beck was our sweet baby and he's in a box on my mantel with an old ball and his collar resting on top. I know. This is exponentially weird. Last night I told my husband that I missed Beck's bad gas. His GAS, PEOPLE. Loving a dead pet makes you think all kinds of crazy things and I am sure to lose at least half my followers for the gross offense of even mentioning dog farts. And they smelled horrible. But now they're gone forever. Excuse me while I go cry some more about missing my old dog's disgusting digestive system. So, you see, I should not even be thinking about a new dog while I am in this altered mental state. But our boys will soon be out of school and since they're on year round, they only get six weeks off. They should enjoy their new pup while it's warm and they're not stuck in a classroom. Plus, I do NOT want to try to train a puppy in the rain/wind/sleet/hail/snow of autumn and winter...and spring.

So we turned to KSL which has a classifieds section for Utah and Idaho. Sure, there are plenty of legit, NOT ABSURD, less hysterical ads for dogs that a regular family living on a regular sized paycheck could afford. But those aren't gut-busting hilarious. I wish there was a comment section where I could make snarky statements but, as there is not, I decided to bring the ads over here for your enjoyment.

First, an explanation. Why was I up past midnight as is evidenced by the time posted on the screenshot from my phone? I HAVE NO EARTHLY IDEA. I get distracted. I sidetrack myself and then suddenly it is midnight and I'm still not asleep. AND THEN, ALMOST AS SUDDENLY, IT IS 7:00 AM AND I AM SAD ABOUT THE POOR CHOICES I MADE THE NIGHT BEFORE. 

First, I present you with Gunner. Gunner is a champion show dog imported from Hungary! He's not available for purchase for $1,500 though. No. That's how much it costs to use him as a stud. To put this into perspective, when we bred Beck (who was AKC registered), we were paid $450. Gunner commands more than triple that price!

You guys! Gunner might have the very best pedigree in all the world but Gunner is still JUST A DOG. His puppies will look a lot like the puppies you can find in any backyard in any state in this beautiful country (or Hungary). He will die in a handful of years and no one will remember his pedigree. The ad goes on to state that (and I'm sure I've never once used this word on my blog before) Gunner's fresh OR frozen semen can be shipped through a reproductive veterinarian. Oh my. Poor Gunner. Gunner wants to run and fetch and roll around in the mud. I'm going to go out on a pretty sturdy limb and say that he does not want to hang out with a reproductive veterinarian behind a closed door with copies of Pethouse and Playdog.

It's highly likely that by the end of this post my husband will have lost his job on account of his wife's questionable blog material. It's also possible that my blog will now pop up when people google gross subject matter.

Moving on.

Do you know what a Golden Doodle is? It's a mixed breed. A highly intelligent, generally compliant, specifically bred, mutt. We've very strongly considered getting a golden doodle. Made up of a poodle and a golden retriever, doodles are all the rage. Often, they don't shed which is a real bonus. They're often smaller than golden retrievers. They still love water. They're great. And cute. But they are mixed breed dogs.

So, with that being said, perhaps you can understand my confusion...

$1800 for a dog resulting in cross breeding? What the? I can't even...I just...what? In my opinion, all doodles are overpriced as they command more money than pure bred retrievers and pure bred poodles but that doesn't mean I wouldn't consider buying one if for no other reason than LESS DOG HAIR=HOORAY! But $1800 for a puppy that is going to grow up and eat you out of house and home and then die taking your heart with it? I don't think so.

But if y'all thought that was overpriced.

This one just about kills me.

So wait just one second. Your dog, the one you have, presumably, raised from a puppy, is RETIRING FROM YOUR BREEDING PROGRAM AND IS NO LONGER OF USE TO YOU AND SO YOU WOULD LIKE SOMEONE TO PAY YOU $2,500 FOR HER? Am I the only one who thinks this is not only delusional but also cruel and greedy?

The dog is FIVE. The dog, based on the average golden lifespan, has about five to seven years of life left. That breaks down to roughly $400 a year just to own her. She is house trained (most goldens by age FIVE are), crate trained (good for her), a therapy dog with champion bloodlines (all good things but you can't do anything about those champion bloodlines because she's retired from breeding), loves the water and to fetch a tennis ball (SHE IS A GOLDEN! So...duh).

I feel SO sad for poor Berkley. If I had $2,500 just lying around, I would buy her and love her and show her that some people like dogs just because. Not because of the money they can make off her womb. I certainly wouldn't discard her (for an exorbitant price) because she was retiring from my breeding program.

This next one, well, I thought it was a typo.

But then it turned out to not be. For FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS, these bulldogs had better plan on getting the boys to school, keeping my house clean, and bringing me breakfast in bed. Also, my husband has requested the occasional massage. I don't care if the blood pumping through their veins is liquid gold or if they are actually famous circus performers, THEY ARE DOGS. Correct me if I'm wrong but a $100 shelter dog and a $4,000 bulldog both sniff butts, right? 

On the other hand, if I bought one of these and bred it twice a year, my husband wouldn't have to work.*

Finally, there's this which, I mean, has to be a typo. Right?

The ad does state that this guy comes with a crate and a brush! Perhaps the crate is made out of precious gemstones?

*Breeding your dog twice a year is NEVER recommended and, as previously stated with poor Berkley the golden retriever, I would never buy a dog for her womb.

The Story of...

How have I lived my entire life without ever knowing about this short film?

It was made by Disney in 1946. The first part is an educational description of, well, why women menstruate. The second half is hysterical.

It includes such quotable gems as:

"Try not to throw yourself off schedule by catching cold."

"Some girls have a little less pep, a feeling of pressure in the lower part of the body, perhaps an occasional twinge or a touch of nerves. But don't let it get you down. After all, no matter how you feel, you have to live with people. You have to live with yourself, too. And once you stop feeling sorry for yourself, and take those days in your stride, you'll find it easier to keep smiling and even tempered."

"Exercises to relieve cramps are illustrated in the booklet. Try them. With the guidance of a qualified person, you may find they help."

"Incidentally, it's smart to keep looking smart. That well groomed feeling will give you new poise and lift your morale. Especially when it's backed up with year round fresh air and sunshine and plenty of rest and sleep. Because the best possible insurance against trouble on those days is healthy living every day."

Oh my goodness. Seriously. So hilarious.

To the three boys who read my blog...I'm sorry. To the five women who read it, WATCH THIS TEN MINUTE FILM. It will not change your life, but it will crack you up. Specifically between 7:25-8:06. Those were some of the best seconds of my life. You're all very welcome.

Love Child

Today, when I picked Garrett up from school, I was wearing nothing but a bathing suit, flip flops and a hippie/strapless cover up that I bought at a thrift store in San Diego last summer. This proved to be a bad idea because, while the garment is fun in a boho-chic, see you on the beach, sort of way, it also kind of resembles the love child of a tube top and a muumuu. This, in and of itself is not a big deal. I planned to jump out of the car, grab the kid, and hop back in the car, minimizing the number of students--who know me as a substitute--who would actually see me looking minimally clad.

But my kid's class was having a popsicle party outside. Garrett wasn't finished with his so we had to wait, while ALL THE CLASSES FILED PAST, for him to consume it. So there I was, looking like I belonged poolside (because, well, I did). Students, parents, and teachers, (specifically Garrett's teacher who, in fact, always looks cute and would never, never wear a baby muutube) all milled about.

My son eyed me. "Are we going to the pool or something?" No, Son. This is just a new style I'm trying out. I like to keep people guessing as to whether I'm nine months pregnant or not at all pregnant. Nevermind the bathing suit strap wrapped around my neck. Also, another clue was his little brother, clad only in swim trunks and a rash guard.

"When you finish your popsicle, yes."

He ate it quickly. That's when I noticed that he didn't have his basketball. Because of course he left it in his classroom. The doors automatically lock and I had to approach a fourth grade teacher to ask her if she could let us in. She was very nice about it. She didn't gawk at my interesting choice of clothing nor did she ask me how far along I was.

After the ball was obtained, we hightailed it to the van. Once inside I asked my son the dreaded question. "Were you embarrassed because I'm dressed like this?"

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Do I look silly?" I asked

"I saw you and I was like, 'WHA? WHY IS MY MOM WEARING THAT? She doesn't usually wear a weird dress and a bathing suit to pick me up."

"So, were you wishing you didn't have to be seen with me?"

"Well, once I realized we were going to the pool, I understood." Apparently we can cross the hippie look off of the list of acceptable attire when I'm going to be seen with my seven-year-old. But then I bought him a vanilla dish from Sonic and we spent two hours at the pool, so I'm forgiven.

My Sister Wives

So here's the thing about Utah. Before moving here I never would have joked about having a sister wife. I mean it. If someone said something about polygamy, I would have wrinkled up my face, made some sort of comment about women's liberation and then started quoting scripture. But here, in Utah, jokes about polygamy abound. As such, the term "sister wife" has made it's way into my vernacular.

Let me start off by stating that I, in no way, mean to offend any of my LDS friends with this topic. I know that you've moved way past polygamy and I know my Mormon friends are not sharing their husbands with any other women. To my knowledge, I don't even know anyone who is FLDS or an independent polygamist nor do I have any polygamist friends. Although, when we lived in Riverton, I did hypothesize that our neighbors were practicing polygamists because their garage had a separate living quarter off of one side, the wife/wives closed the garage door before getting out of the vehicle, and we never saw her/them despite seeing the husband and children quite often.

Still, the topic of sister wives comes up. I'm sure it's made more prevalent by the issue of Warren Jeffs as well as shows like Big Love, Sister Wives and whatever the one with Brady Williams and his five wives is called.  I have to admit that at one point, I sat down to watch one episode of Sister Wives and ended up being sucked in for hours. It was like watching footage of a train wreck. If, like, the people on the train somehow thought that what was happening was good and right and not at all damaging.

Anyway.

Since moving to Utah, I've thought about asking approximately eight different women, give or take, if they would become my sister wife. It's important to state that none of my sister wives would actually have any sort of perks or benefits. Really, I use the term lightly and, in my definition, it just means maid. Or unpaid employee. Not a slave because she would be free to leave if she wanted to. Each of these women would serve a very important role.

I've wanted my friend, Christy, as a sister wife because my boys love her equally as much as they love me. She "gets" to be the wife that serves as the nanny. I've wanted my friend, Christina, to join our family for the express purpose of giving me hugs when I need them and fulfilling the role of spiritual adviser when my husband isn't around. I'm also actively looking for a masseuse to join as the fourth member of this wife club. (Carol? Please?) We will all share the duties of cooking, cleaning and shopping. I promise to take good care of these women by providing a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. In return, they will perform their services for me. Babysitting, massaging, advising.

So, assuming that none of them see anything wrong with this idea where they basically become my unpaid employees, I've got my sitter, my spiritual adviser, and my masseuse. Am I missing anything?

Magnetic Resonance Imaging: Part Two

I was called into the room with the torture chamber MRI machine. The technician in there asked me if I'd ever had an MRI done before. When I told him that I had not, he gave me some rules. Rules like, "DO NOT MOVE A MUSCLE AT ALL OR IT WILL BLUR THE IMAGES AND YOU WILL SPEND MORE TIME IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH THAN NECESSARY!!!" Okay, so he didn't say it like that exactly. I mean he didn't use three exclamation marks or the word "death" but I got the point. He asked if I was claustrophobic.

Affirmative.

I informed him that I planned to go to my happy place. By happy place I meant that I was going to pray to Jesus continuously. You want to learn how to pray without ceasing? Stick a claustrophobe into a tube the size of her body. Speaking of "the size of her body" can I just ask a question? I am completely serious here. And I don't mean even an ounce of disrespect. I'm a fairly smallish person. I had a couple inches to spare on either side of me. Do they have different sized machines for different sized people?

I hopped up onto the gurney. He asked me if I wanted to listen to music. I figured a little music could only help. This ended up being a good decision. He asked me what kind of music. I listen almost exclusively to KLove and Christian albums. I didn't figure they had a wide variety of that type of music. "Just anything contemporary is fine," I said. This proved to be an unwise choice.

I laid down, flat on my back. He placed a contraption around my shoulder, a foam pad around my forearm, and a wedge under my right side. He asked me if I wanted a washcloth placed over my eyes. I thought this would be a very good idea because then I wouldn't be able to look around, even if I wanted to. He put the cloth over my eyes and the giant headphones over my ears. I slowly slid inside the machine. Both of my arms rubbed against the sides of the tube. The foam around my forearm moved down, pulling my arm into a slightly uncomfortable position.

I interrupt this story to bring you an important message. I'm all for breaking pastor's wives stereotypes. I mean, really. We are all gifted in very different ways. I don't play the piano, knit onesies for babies, or spend three nights a week entertaining in my home. I don't wear a dress every Sunday. Today I wore brown boots over reddish colored jeggings. With a shirt. I did wear a shirt. But when it comes to listening to music in an MRI machine, I maybe shouldn't have told them to play contemporary music for me when I haven't really listened to contemporary music since my oldest son was born.

While I'm all for shattering stereotypes, it is not my style to listen to an artist who calls himself Flo Rida and sings, "Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby? Let me know." And I'm just going to go right ahead and stop there because the lyrics just get worse. So I'm in a tube the size of my own body, my sight obstructed, my ears covered in huge headphones blaring about whistles, my shoulder immobilized, and that's when the machine gun began firing. It sounded like what I imagine a war zone sounds like. I could only kind of hear Flo Rida. (That was, of course, merciful, but the loud drumming sounds were not.)

I started to pray.

Please let me block out the song about whistle blowing. Please let me block out the loud gun fire sounds. Please help me not start hyperventilating.

The first fifteen or so minutes were relatively uneventful. The good thing about having music on was that I could guess how long I'd been in there. I'd been told that the first set of images would take 25 minutes. After several songs, my shoulder began to throb. All I wanted to do was move it. I knew I couldn't and that just made me want to more. My ears were on overload. I concentrated on breathing and tried not to think about how much my shoulder hurt. Then I made the mistake of opening my eyes under the cloth. I could see out the hole created by my nose. That's when I realized that the top of the machine was two inches from my face. I continued to hear loud gun noises and crashes and smashes and the only thing keeping me sane was the thought that I wasn't really trapped in there. I knew the end of the tube was open and I could wriggle myself right out if I absolutely had to.

Suddenly, I felt myself moving out. A woman removed the cloth from my eyes. The man took the headphones off. They asked me to position my arm over my head for another image that would last four minutes. I don't know whose minutes these were because they were certainly not Earth Standard Minutes. They were some sort of medical imaging minutes where four minutes might actually equal seven or eight.

Back went the cloth, except it only partially covered my eyes that time. Back went the headphones except they weren't positioned correctly and my ears were bent up inside. Back I went into the machine.

Roughly eight minutes (ESM) later they pulled me out.

And I was done.

So I survived my very first MRI. It wasn't actually as bad as I'd imagined it would be. Perhaps the most traumatizing thing was Flo Rida. In hindsight, I probably should have asked if they had access to KLove.

Weenie

I dreamed a dream the other night.

I was exhausted from a solid day and a half of running a women's retreat, listening to them share their hearts and their tears with me, battling a strange stomach ailment, worshiping with all I had, and failing to sleep much at all that first night.

So on Saturday night I dreamed a dream.

Earlier in the evening, my friend showed me a picture of her wiener dog. That's going to be important in about twelve seconds.

I went to bed at 1:00 am on Saturday night. My voice was already showing signs of years of smoking despite the fact that I've never taken so much as a puff. Or a drag. Or whatever you call it when you smoke a cigarette once. Because. No. But the point is that my voice was done and I was exhausted.

Still, I couldn't turn my brain off because of all the CRAZY MIRACULOUS that God had done in that place that day. The victory was for my friend but God had used my mouth to speak words and used the speaker's mouth to say THE SAME WORDS at a different time and stuff like that just does not happen all the time. And when it does it's as if God is saying, "TAKE NOTICE!" So I was letting my mind dwell on the praiseworthy which is all fine and good but, at some point, it really needed to dwell on some rapid eye movement sleep.

Eventually I fell asleep because eventually I woke up and remembered that I'd dreamed a dream.

There was a little old man. He was little. And old. And very slow. He asked me to help him burglarize some dude who appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. Although, I only ever saw the younger guy sleeping so it's hard to say just how old he was. Why is it that our dream selves are perfectly willing to go along with completely cockamamie plans? 

Because of course I was willing to hop into the passenger seat of the little old man's car--which was my first mistake because he was probably pushing 90 and should have had his license revoked--and be an accomplice. 

The little old man and I crept quietly in to the younger dude's second story apartment building. I collected all the prescription meds while the little old man procured the victim's wiener dog. Next thing I know, I'm riding around town with a lap full of drugs and a dog at my feet. That's when I started to second guess my actions. Up until that point, I was perfectly fine committing crimes but, suddenly, I was overcome with gripping guilt. I looked down at the dog and felt so terribly sorry for his owner. I looked at the little old man and felt so sad for this lonely criminal. There, in the passenger seat, I wrestled with what to do. 

Then I woke up.

And when I told the story I accidentally said, "I'm sure I dreamed it because Cory sent Christina a picture of the weenie." 

It took me a couple of seconds to realize that I needed to clarify that the picture was actually of a dog.

Maybe our retreat needs a disclaimer. What happens at the women's retreat stays at the women's retreat.

Satan Causes Imaginary UTIs: A Working Title

I have a very hectic six weeks coming up here. Starting, oh I don't know, right now and going until, say, exactly October 28. This Saturday I'm speaking at a conference. The following weekend I am running our retreat. The Saturday after that I am speaking at a day retreat and then, not long after that, we're leaving for 12 days in Israel where there will be no laundry services except, maybe, a bathroom sink and some soap. So maybe the thing I'm the very most worried about is packing two rowdy boys for 12 days of traipsing through archaeological sites, hiking up mountains, riding camels and wading through tunnels. All activities that will keep my sons' clothing bright and pristine, no doubt. But then, packing has always stressed me out.

I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking when I agreed to speak at two different events in two weeks with a three day retreat thrown in for good measure. Except I know it involved, "Sure I can do that because they aren't scheduled on the same weekend. Why on earth not?"

Imaginary UTI's. That's why.

Yesterday I went to my worship rehearsal at 8:00 am, hauled myself to InstaCare during our Sunday School hour and got back in time to sing for the service. Because on Friday night I started to be aware of my abdomen and lower back and all the trips to the bathroom I was making. This continued on Saturday with me thinking, "Am I making an unusually large amount of trips to the commode? Do I feel my guts?"

I assumed UTI and decided to GET RID OF THAT THING RIGHT QUICK ON SUNDAY MORNING. There I sat, in what is basically defined as Urgent Care, dressed in my church clothes, as all manner of horrible disease walked in wearing sweat pants and hacking up a lung. One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn't want to keep urinating eleventy million times a day.

But guess what?

My urine. It looked GREAT! My numbers were good--except I'm not drinking enough--and there was no sign of infection. But I promise you, it is not normal to notice your bladder. After tapping my back and shoving on my abdomen, the doctor decided to put me on a medication to make my bladder stop spasming. Or something.

And that's when I remembered that a couple of years ago, THE EXACT SAME THING HAPPENED the week before I spoke at a conference. I know because this pill turns urine a very bright orange and stains everything and that just so happens to be memorable to me. Right now I'm gonna go ahead and just tag this THINGS I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BLOG ABOUT.

So it would seem that Satan attacks my psyche and makes me think I have a UTI, when I really don't. Or he attacks my urinary tract system but masks it as EXCELLENT LOOKING LIQUID WASTE. I don't mean to be flippant about the very real warfare that Satan is permitted to have on us but, honestly, it's almost amusing how predictable he is. From now on, when someone asks me to speak at a conference or retreat, I might as well lead with, "Well, sure, as long as you don't mind every toilet bowl in the vicinity of your event turning orange. Because I will be experiencing a pretend UTI that day."

School Days

I was with first graders all day on Monday and I was with them all day today and I'll be there again tomorrow and I might be there on Tuesday because their teacher's father passed away. The bad part--aside from, of course, the obvious--is that Monday was their very first day of school. So, see, the thing is, by the time their teacher comes back, they'll have been with me more than they've been with her and that's just a strange thing to think about when you're six and trying to figure out the whole school thing.

So today I said the words, "I was with crazy first graders all day long so stop acting like a crazy first grader even though you are one because I've had quite enough and you need to stop crying because mom can only take so much first grade drama in a day." Or something like that. Don't quote me.

Because my first grader DOES NOT WANT TO DO HIS HOMEWORK. AT ALL. The kid never complained in kindergarten. Sure he'd come home and do his homework for the entire week on Monday without a negative word. Now? Now he cries his ever loving head off over ten minutes of math and twenty minutes of reading because, "BUT I'VE ALREADY BEEN IN SCHOOL FOR SEVEN HOURS!"

I get it.

I do.

Today I told a kid that he needed to take fewer than eight minutes in the bathroom. The next time he went I swear it was longer. The third time I finally stood outside the bathroom after six minutes and said, "Seriously, what are you doing in there?"

The answer, screamed for all the school to hear, was, "I'M WIPING MY BUTT, OKAY?"

Okay.

My bad for asking.

He walked out thirty seconds later.

"Did you wash your hands?" I asked, considering all the butt wiping.

"Yes!" he snapped.

"With soap?" I questioned.

He turned abruptly and headed back in, "Whoops."

So, yeah, I get it. First grade is long and then there's homework and sometimes you forget to wash your hands. But we're all going to power through. Those first graders will get their teacher back and she can deal with eight minute trips to the bathroom.

And my first grader will power through.

Cool and Breezy Sundress

Several weeks ago, in the newspaper, I saw an ad that caught my eye. Somehow, I still don't know exactly how it happened, the wording, "Cool and Breezy Sundress! Buy 2 for Only $22 3 for $32," stood out to me long before I actually looked at the picture. For approximately one second, my brain pondered the incredible deal that three sundresses for $32 would be. Then my eyes moved just a bit and I saw the model, in the dress.

How is this even remotely a part of the "sundress" family? No. This can be categorized in one of three ways. 

1. Nightgown-a loose gown, worn in bed by women or children.

2. Housecoat-a woman's dresslike garment, in various lengths, for casual wear about the house.

3. Muumuu-a long, loose-hanging dress, usually brightly colored or patterned, worn especially by Hawaiian women.

This is not a sundress.

"Slip on this cool and breezy short-sleeved sundress and go! Roomy style with V-neckline, patch pockets and flirty flounced hem. Woven cotton/polyester. Machine wash & dry."

SLIP IT ON AND GO WHERE? Bed? The kitchen? Because those are about the only places I'm going in this dress.

This is a sundress.

This is a sundress.

This is jammies. Or a muumuu. I still can't decide.

Anyway. 

I kept a totally straight face as I said to my husband, "Look at these dresses. They're such a good price. I think I'll go ahead and order them for our moms, and your sisters, and Heather (my brother's wife) for Christmas. I can get them each a different print." I KEPT A STRAIGHT FACE, Y'ALL. I did a good job sounding like I was completely dead serious.

And that man I married looked right at me, paused for the briefest of seconds, and said, "You can start with your mom and see how it goes over."

Reynaldo Strikes Again

I have three days left with Reynaldo. So what I'm saying is that Friday afternoon can't come fast enough.

Last Friday, I sat in a different place so I could get away from him. I was working on my Bible study and he climbed the stairs to where I was, smacked his hand down on my book, and said, "Hey! You look like one of my teachers."

His mother was down below me. I couldn't see her. I had a short conversation with him and he went on his way. Not five minutes later, he was back. He ran down the length of the bleachers, stopped when he got to me, stuck his face up to mine and screamed. Then he ran on.

Down one flight of stairs. Up the other flight. Run. Stop. Scream in my face. Repeat. At one point, I saw a man sitting on the bleachers down on the lower level. He was staring up at the scene. I was sure that he was counting his lucky stars that he hadn't decided to sit where I did. I began to reach up and plug my ears when the lad went darting by.

So, with my ears plugged, Reynaldo decided to try a different tactic.

He walked backward from one end of the bleachers to the other. In the process, he ran straight into me. I almost yelled at him to KNOCK IT THE HECK OFF RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW! But I caught the eye of the man on the lower bleachers and decided not to come all the way out of my Jesus. Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world. Even Reynaldo.

When the lesson--which is only a half hour but, with Reynaldo, feels like a day--was almost over, I gathered the boys stuff and walked down the stairs to meet them. I leaned against the wall. Reynaldo followed me and joined his mother. Then his little brother climbed out of the pool and Reynaldo shut his finger in the gate and the brother howled and the mother yelled. "WALK OVER TO YOUR FATHER!" she commanded. "GO STRAIGHT TO YOUR DAD, NOW!"

And Reynaldo walked directly over to the man on the bleachers.

The same man who had been watching his son the entire time that he screamed in my face, ran over me backward, and slammed his hand down on my study.

Sure, I could say something. I could explain to these people that their son is beyond out of control. But I've now witnessed both parents--fully aware of how obnoxious their son behaves--not doing anything to stop him. So I really don't think it would help.

Reynaldo From Swimming Lessons

The Rock Star and The Little Buddy are in swimming lessons right now. As it turns out, they are both the only ones in their classes which means that I paid the group lesson rate and my kids are getting private lessons. Which means HOORAY FOR US!

On the first day of this session, a mom walked in with her twin boys. (I actually just wrote two twin boys. You know, as opposed to three twin boys.) She was nice enough. She instantly started talking to Matthew and asking him if he'd be in class with her twins. We determined that he's actually one class above her boys but that, had her older son not just broken his arm, he'd be in Matthew's class. We chatted. She was friendly. Her older son wasn't with her.

On another day, Troy joined us and she had her broken armed child in tow. Troy and I were having a conversation and the boy kept joining in. He seemed a little old to be behaving the way he was but I didn't give it much thought.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the bench, watching my kids swim, when the woman walked in with her older son again. I folded my legs up so that she could get past me. She turned her back to me to shimmy down the row and ran her butt across my knee. Oh my goodness, I thought to myself. She's going to think I did that with my hand. "Oh I'm sorry," I said aloud. We'd had a few conversations so I was surprised when she didn't say anything.

I was on the very edge of the bench with my purse right next to me. The rest of the eight foot bench was empty. She sat about ten inches away from my purse. Her son followed her in and sat right next to her and half on top of my purse. I don't have a very big space bubble so it takes a lot to violate it. But it was feeling very close to popping.

I had my Nook on my lap. (This might seem like a weird detail but I assure you that it will come into play later in the story.)

The woman folded up a towel, put it on the railing in front of us and laid her head on it. Her son instantly began to nag her.

"Walk over there with me!" he demanded.

"No."

"Please walk over there with me!"

"No. Reynaldo*. Leave me alone."

"But I need you to walk over there."

"Go by yourself. You're eight!"

"Mom. Please. Walk with me," he whined.

"REYNALDO! NO! I TOLD YOU! I DO NOT FEEL WELL. I NEED TO STAY RIGHT HERE. RIGHT NEXT TO THE BATHROOM BECAUSE I AM SICK!"

At that point, I really contemplated picking up all of our stuff and moving to somewhere the germs weren't but Matthew looks at me for validation after every single exercise and I didn't want him to wonder where I'd gone. I tried to shift my face in the other direction without being too obvious.

After a ten second pause, Reynaldo started up again, "I really want to go over there." He pointed.

"THEN GO OVER THERE! I DON'T CARE. I SAID I DIDN'T CARE. GO OVER THERE. BUT GET OUT OF MY FACE BECAUSE I REALLY MIGHT NEED THAT BATHROOM!"

Yes, I was sitting next to her, but believe me when I say that the entire complex could hear her. I began wondering why you'd bring your kids to swimming lessons if you felt that sick.

The nagging and subsequent screaming went on for several more minutes. It was so ridiculous that I started to wonder if it was really happening or if I was Ally McBeal-ing the entire scenario. I could feel myself starting to laugh because it was so unreal. A grown woman--who up until this point had seemed completely sane to me--was engaging in an elementary aged fight with her child. There was no discipline, no correction of any kind. Just a continued shouting match. My lips began to quiver. My nostrils flared as I tried not to giggle. I needed a distraction.

I picked up my Nook, turned it on, and pulled up Angry Birds. Surely firing poultry at walls would keep me from laughing. The moment my screen lit up with those birds, the boy turned his attention toward me.

"Oh! Cool!" he shouted into my ear. Then he picked up my purse (oh yes, he did), moved it to the other side of him (pressed, now, up against his ailing mother), and sat half on my lap. It's true that I'm prone to exaggeration but let me assure you that this is not one of those times. "Oh hey, don't move that," I said but with no actual follow through because, well, it had already been moved and he was in my lap so I wasn't entirely sure what to do. I reached over him, picked up my purse, and put it on the ground. As I did this, I turned my body away from him and his mom in an attempt to breath clean air and regain my bubble. My legs were mostly hanging off the side of the bench and I had, literally, about five inches of wood for my butt. I could not scoot away from this kid without falling off. I turned the Nook away from him to try to give the social suggestion that DUDE YOU HAVE EFFECTIVELY PENETRATED MY SPACE BUBBLE.

His mother, still only ten inches away from me, with her head turned in our direction, said nothing. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that she didn't feel well. You're thinking that I should have had compassion. I know. I know all of this but her eight year old was on top of a TOTAL STRANGER and she didn't seem to care at all. And it's not like she was in a coma or something--she'd been perfectly capable of arguing with her child only moments before.

So, unsure of what, on earth, to do, I began playing Angry Birds. "Let me help you!" he yelled.

"That's okay," I said loudly because I was trying to let this mom know that I was uncomfortable. She said nothing. He stuck out his hand and started launching my birds. I tried to physically move his hand off my Nook.

"No! Hey. Let me show you!" he said, impatiently.

"I'm going to go ahead and do it," I said. Still nothing from his mother. I launched the bird and failed. It's really no surprise since I had a random eight year old sitting on my lap.

"Like I said, let me show you!" he spouted rudely and proceeded to try to take the Nook. I basically wrestled it back out of his hands. Then I did something I'm not terribly proud of. It probably definitely falls into the category of lying.

I faked a phone call.

I dropped the Nook into my purse, said hello into my phone and walked out the door. In the entry way, I proceeded to pretend to talk into my phone (theatre degree, you certainly come in handy sometimes) for a couple of minutes. When I went back in, Reynaldo had become interested in the drinking fountain.

I didn't get the Nook back out.

After a few minutes he approached his mom, "How do you feel?"

"A little better," she said. That's a relief--maybe you can discipline your kid now.

"Are you going to throw up?" he asked.

"Not right now." A bonus for everyone.

"Will you walk over there with me?"

"REYNALDO! I AM NOT GOING OVER THERE! GIVE ME A BREAK! COME ON."

Not long after this, another mom walked through the door. Her daughter is in the session after ours. She was pushing a stroller. Reynaldo jumped up and held the door for her (so, he has some redeeming qualities). "What a gentleman you are! Thank you!" the woman told him. He smiled.

She began walking over to the place of Paradise. Mecca. The location Reynaldo had been dying to get to for a half hour. THE SET OF BLEACHERS. "Hey!" he yelled after her. "Can I go with you?" She either didn't hear him or didn't think his question was directed at her because she kept walking.

"Yes! Go!" his mom said enthusiastically. "Go with her!"

This is not happening, I thought. And I began to feel the smile of absurdity forming at the corners of my mouth again. Sure enough, he trotted across the pool deck after her. She sat down on the edge of the bleachers. He sat right smack dab next to her. Right up against her torso. There was no room for her daughter. The woman looked back at our bench, confused. Reynaldo began to talk her ear off. She pulled her little girl on to her lap. Reynaldo stuck his head into her stroller and touched her baby. He talked more. I couldn't hear their conversation but it only took a couple of minutes before she stood up, pushed her stroller back across the deck and out into the entry way.

Still, his mother never said a word.

*Not his real name.

JAY!

Garrett had an appointment for kindergarten testing yesterday. The appointment was at 9:45 and, as the result of a swimming lesson registration blunder, I found myself running out the door like a crazy woman at precisely 9:39. It takes me about four minutes to get to his school. At exactly 9:43, he went tearing across the parking lot with a giant stuffed turtle, spun on his heels, yelled, "Whoops!" and came running back to the car with the animal. Of course I'd already locked it so I twisted the key in the lock again, threw open the door, tossed the turtle in, and we both took off across the parking lot. We stopped in front of his classroom with approximately no seconds to spare.

I found his teacher having a discussion with another teacher which included her saying, "Sayonara," and the other teacher saying, "Maybe you can sub," and her saying, "I don't want to sub," and, "It is what it is."

Naturally, my mind jumped directly to the thought that she was leaving the school. Truth be told, I immediately diagnosed her with a case of pregnant and not returning for the next school year. And here's the thing, until that very moment, I didn't know that I love her.

Do you know that scene in Clueless where Cher is walking in front of the fountain and suddenly the music swells and she declares, "I love Josh!" but up until that very moment, she didn't know it? It was like that. Except not really at all like that because I don't actually have a crush on Garrett's kindergarten teacher. But I was suddenly tingly all over and, honestly, kind of mad. I mean, good for her for being pregnant and good for her for wanting to stay home with the baby. Everyone knows that's the decision I would make--have made. BUT SHE'S MY FAVORITE TEACHER TO SUB FOR! And, what dawned on me yesterday was how desperate I am for Matthew to have her in a year.

This was a weird realization because Garrett's teacher and I are nothing alike. NOTHING. She (appears to be): quiet, reserved, introverted. The keep to oneself type. I: loud, demonstrative, extroverted. The let's invite everyone we know type. It's very difficult for me to know what to do or say or how to act around very quiet people. I tend to talk and talk and talk in an attempt to fill the acute awkwardness. We usually end up with a giant pile of my own word vomit and me singing R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion in my head. "Oh no I've said too much..."

So for a few months, Garrett's teacher intimidated me more than anyone has intimidated me in a good, long while. Her, with her quiet, business like personality. Me, with all the word upchuck. It was weird and uncomfortable. Then I started to substitute teach for her and she writes the absolute best, most concise sub plans. And then a kid took his pants off in class. And we laughed. And everything started to change.

Then there I was, sitting in a cold folding chair, thinking about how she couldn't leave. Sure, Garrett's going to go ahead and pass kindergarten and head off to first grade and, sure, we could change tracks or schools or any number of things before Matthew gets there in 14 months and, sure, there are other teachers in other schools for me to sub for BUT JUST NO. SHE CAN'T LEAVE BECAUSE, APPARENTLY, I LOVE HER TOO MUCH. She's structured and calm and everything Matthew needs in a teacher.

So I did what any normal person would do? I totally came right out and asked her. Which I never do because I feel like people will disclose the details of their lives when they want to. I don't usually nose around in some woman's business. So, when Garrett was done testing, he came out, grinned, and declared, "I'm reading at a J level!"

I smiled at him and said, somewhat blandly, "Great job. Can you go play on the playground for a minute?" Then I just came out and butted my head right into his teacher's business with a quick (and somewhat desperate), "Are you leaving?"

Turns out I read the situation so completely wrong it's ridiculous. She's not leaving. She's not pregnant. (Well, at least, I don't think she is. I didn't actually ask that question.) She's going to Korea for three weeks in the summer. The other teacher thought she should sub while she's there. And Sayonara makes a lot more sense given the context. So I confessed my undying love for her. Although I veiled it by saying, "Oh good! I really want Matthew to have you. And I really like subbing for you." Because everyone knows that's code for I love you.

We talked for awhile and then moved to the door. Then, and this is really the point of this entire story, she said, "I can't believe Garrett's reading at a J!" And that's when it dawned on me. For some reason, in my slightly panicked state, I had incorrectly believed that J came after G in the alphabet. See, Garrett's been reading G books for homework for the past several weeks. When he told me he was reading J, my mind just went one higher which was great but not GREAT! I mean, if he'd said that he was reading H books I would have been proud of him, of course, but not in a blown-away-wow-what-a-super-smarty-pants-kid-I-have kind of way.

"OH!" I exclaimed. "A J!" I turned and looked at Garrett, "YOU'RE READING AT A J? BUDDY THAT IS SO GREAT!" He smiled and nodded. I looked at his teacher, "I was so concerned that you were leaving, I didn't even realize what he said."

She smiled. "He skipped H and I."

Yeah. That. And also, I'm a horrible mother who, apparently, doesn't even hear her kid half the time.

But my kid is reading at a second grade level. (The kindergarten bench mark is a C.) And that's the whole point of this post. I probably could have said all that without allowing you a glimpse into my obsessive personality. Ah well. I'm just keepin' it real.

A Letter to My Dog

Dear Neurotic Canine,

First things first. I know that it was your owners who made the decision not to have you neutered. It was your owners that thought, "We have a great idea! Let's breed this furball and make him earn his keep." It is now your owners who feel like, at almost ten years old, the neuter ship has sailed. You might keel over and die next week for all we know so paying for you to lose a couple parts seems cruel.

I also realize that we aren't really the dog park kind of people. Trail people. Lake people. Camping people. Sure. So maybe if we'd taken you to a dog park before you were nine years old (and had you neutered) this conversation wouldn't be happening. When you were a little guy we had no other little guys to love and raise. So you were our only baby and we took you everywhere--just not to dog parks. Then the kids came and we realized that, "Whoa, this furry thing is just a dog and we have tiny humans to raise." So, sorry, but you took your rightful place as family dog and lost your status as golden boy. But you are, literally, a golden boy and, figuratively, my most well behaved child by far. Except that neither of the kids try to hump schnauzers.

Which brings me back to the point of this letter.

BECK! Seriously. Yes. It's our fault for not neutering you and it's my fault for taking you to a dog park for the very first time when you are old and set in your ways but OH MY GOODNESS AND GOLLY. You're humiliating. Why? Why can't you just run and skip and jump with the rest of the dogs? Why must you chase a poor, unsuspecting schnauzer mercilessly, repeatedly sniff her girly bits, and get "that look" that you get when you're about to mount? Why must I sound like a broken record howling for you to knock it off?

I know that you only want to sniff and mount for five minutes and then you're done but, dude, the other dog owners (not to mention the schnauzer) don't know this. When I could get you away from her you were so sweet and adorable running and frolicking and sniffing and playing with dogs that, for some reason, you had no interest in climbing atop. But, pal, your one track mind is exhausting. For me. I can only imagine how tiresome it is for you.

So there you'd sit, giant retriever tongue hanging out of your mouth while I quietly chastised you. Panting. Your eyes searching mine as if to say, "I don't know. I don't know why I do it. It's no fun being on the leash. Let me off. I promise not to get in that stance that suggests I'm about to try my paw at defiling this much smaller animal."

So I'd let you off.

And you'd play for ten minutes, completely ignoring the tiny, gray dog that was running alongside her owner (somewhat antisocially). You'd play with other dogs and you'd wear that big, stupid grin that we all love so much. And you'd say with your eyes, "Thank you. All my nine years I never knew of dog parks but boy oh boy oh boy is this ever fun!"

Then that little schnauzer, with all her feminine wiles, would inevitably come running by. So, after an hour, I decided it was time to go. The boys were devastated because they were busy throwing the tennis ball for a champion fetcher who defied the very law of gravity. But, Beck, I really can only take so much of your libido.

And, also, a schnauzer? Really? I don't think goldenauzers would be an attractive breed. At least stick to your own kind.

So I love and adore you. That's not in question. You are such a good dog and I couldn't have asked for a better canine to call mine. You've raised two babies who learned to stand by crawling over to you, clutching fists of fur, and pushing up on unsteady legs all while covering you in sticky baby drool. You've let them pull your tail. You've played so gently with them. You're worth it all, is what I'm saying.

But I am begging you to stop the incessant mounting.

Love,
Mom

'Cause I'm Keepin' It Real

When I was thirteen or fourteen, the movie Clueless came out. It weaved into the very fabric of the lives of girls my age. Containing phrases like As if! and I'm outtie, the film became a sort of instant cult classic. Clueless was a then modern day adaptation of Emma, except with better one-liners and that girl from the Aerosmith video. 

There's a scene in the film where the crew goes to a party in "The Val" (also known as Sun Valley). While there, Donald Faison's character decides to shave his head. His girlfriend finds him, mid shave, and they have the following exchange.

Dionne: Why did you do this to your head?

Murray: Because I'm keepin' it real. Because I'm keepin' it real.

Dionne: What!?

Murray: 'Cause I'm keepin' it...cause' I'm keepin' it real.

Dionne: Look! Look what he's done to his head! Can you believe this?

And from the time I first saw that movie, back in 1995, the phrase, "'Cause I'm keepin' it real," has gone through my head so many more times than I could ever count.

It's almost a slogan for how I want to live my life. Ask me a question in Bible study that I don't know the answer to (which happens a lot more than I'd care to admit) and I'll tell you I don't know but that I'll find out. Or I speculate an answer with the caveat that I don't actually know. Why? 'Cause I'm keepin' it real. Ask me if motherhood is all daisies and tulips. I'll probably tell you no. Why? 'Cause I'm keepin' it real. And, truthfully, sometimes motherhood is daisies and tulips but a lot of the time it's vomit and blood and dirt. So much dirt. I try to be genuine. I attempt to admit and own my mistakes. I believe in authenticity. I believe in keepin' it real.

That's why there's a label on this blog for Things I Probably Shouldn't Blog About. 

And this is one of them.

For some really strange and inexplicable reason, I decided long, long ago that there was something inherently disgusting about canola oil. I have no idea what happened or why I made this decision. Recent research on my part has led to the discovery that canola oil is actually a healthier choice than my trusty vegetable oil. I love vegetables. Perhaps it was this very piece of information that led to my conclusion that vegetable oil was somehow a less fattening and disgusting option than canola oil. Like I said, there's really no actual explanation--at least, not that I can remember.

Over the years, I've purchased and used bottles and bottles of vegetable oil. In my pantry, next to the golden child also known as vegetable oil, has sat a partially used bottle of canola oil. The reject. Truly, I haven't touched it in forever and a day. And a half. 

Last night, I decided to make popcorn for the boys. Armed with my recent information, I decided to try popping the corn in canola oil. I pulled the bottle down. It felt old in my hands. And ickily sticky. I checked the date.

And...only because I'm keepin' it real, I took a picture.

What the? 

Best if used by THE SEVENTH DAY OF MARCH IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD TWO THOUSAND FOUR!

Oh. Oh. The humanity.

I'm going to just go ahead and point something out ('cause I'm keepin' it real). That EXPIRED bottle of canola oil has survived not just one but two moves. In two thousand SEVEN (a mere three and a half years after it expired) we moved to a completely different state. In two thousand EIGHT we moved to a different house in the same county. Still, the grossly expired oil made its way off of a shelf, into a box, and back onto a shelf because, apparently, I'm super disgusting like that.

Folks, in just eleven months that oil would have been a decade past its expiration date. A DECADE. And I'm the one my family looks to for nourishment. Now, I've got a sneaking suspicion that oil can live well past it's shelf life. I mean, it's basically liquid fat so I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that it can take care of itself but I'm also fairly certain that a near decade is way, way past acceptable.

I'm also going to confess that when I initially read the date, I missed the '04 because of the lighting in my kitchen and the way I was holding the bottle. I thought it said March of '07. I almost gagged up my dinner. Then, and only then, did I realize it was actually '04. How does that even happen? I mentally berated myself. This bottle wasn't even buried in the back of my pantry. No. It was front and center for all the world to come over and see.

My parents.

My inlaws.

Dinner guests.

Any of these people could have happened upon my rancid canola oil and suspected some form of inventive, albeit horrifying, spousal or child abuse.

I'm ashamed, people. I'm ashamed.

So, I did what any humiliated-at-her-lack-of-domestic-skills woman would do. I put it back in the pantry.

'Cause I'm keepin' it real.

No I definitely didn't. I dumped that nasty fat down the drain faster than you can say, "Year of our Lord two thousand four." Even though I totally know that you're not supposed to put oil down the drain. Double fail.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to go tear apart my pantry in search of other heinously expired items.

Pie

When Garrett was younger, I had to sing him to sleep. Sometimes I would sing and sing and sing and just when I thought he was out, he'd pop his head up and say, "Another one." I can still remember cuddling into him in that tiny toddler bed and singing. Forever.

I got so tired of the same songs and I would search my brain for songs that I knew all the words to. Once, on a weird whim, I busted out the first verse of American Pie. Then the second. And so on and so forth until I'd finished the song.

For some strange reason, my then two-year-old fell in love with it and asked, often, for the song about whiskey and rye. So, you know, not my finest parenting moment.

Today, on the way home from visiting some friends, Garrett asked me to sing him the song about the king getting his crown stolen.

"What?" I asked him, confused.

"Can you sing the song where the king gets his crown stolen and a bunch of other weird stuff happens?"

And that, folks, is all it took. "Do you mean the one where the king was looking down and the jester stole his thorny crown and the courtroom was adjourned and no verdict was returned?" I asked.

"That's it!" he shouted from the back.

"A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance that I could make those people dance, and maybe they'd be happy for awhile. But February made me shiver with every paper I'd deliver. Bad news on the doorstep--"

"Why was there bad news on the doorstep?" he asked.

"It means that there was always bad news in the newspaper. Bad things were happening.--I couldn't take one more step. I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride. Something touched me deep inside the day the music died. So bye bye Miss American Pie drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry. Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye--"

"What's whiskey and rye?" he interrupted.

"An alcoholic beverage."

"Is it good?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I doubt it."

"Alright. Go on," he granted his permission.

"Singing this'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die. Did you write the Book of Love and do you have faith in God above?"

"I do!" came Matthew's voice. "I have faith in God above and Jesus in my heart wight now!"

"I know you do! That's so great!" I exclaimed.

"Yep. It's gweat!"

It's funny that American Pie is a full decade older than me. Funnier still that I memorized the entire thing during the Great Oldies Obsession of my middle school and high school years. And, perhaps, funniest--in a bizarrely poignant sort of way--that it is now a song that I share with my children. A song that immediately reminds me of snuggling my toddler to sleep and, now, the love my second son has for Jesus.

And, again, yes. Perhaps I won't be winning mother of the year any time soon.

Gotta Get Me A Burqa

I have long been vocal about my hatred and disdain for the burqa. You might say I'm an advocate for the abolishment of such an oppressor of human rights. In fact, in my younger years, I used to want to tear them off the head's of women screaming, "You're free! You're free!" Thankfully--for all involved, really--I refrained from such a public display of insanity.

So even I found it strange today when I said to my husband, "You know, there might be something to be said for the burqa."

He only paused for a moment before saying, "Why? You don't want to do your hair?"

"Or my make-up," I finished.

If it was entirely voluntary and not pressed upon me by an otherwise oppressive and stifling religious rule, a burqa or two in the closet might not be such a bad thing.

You know, for lazy days.

Chili Cook-Off

Confession: I've never been a huge chili fan. But, for the chili lovers out there who are shaking their collective heads in dismay, allow me to go into more detail. Some chili is good. If, say, there are no kidney beans, no spicy peppers and no undercooked onions. Also good = most chili that comes out of a can.

I know. I know. I just blasphemed the good name of chili forever.

I'm just saying, give me a hot dog and dump some canned chili on top and we're golden. Hand me a bowl of homemade chili brimming with semi-cooked onions and chock full of kidney beans in all their thick skinned glory and I'm gonna do my best to choke it down. Because my parents taught me to eat what is given to me without complaint, to try things again and again because I just might acquire a taste for them, and to think about the starving children in Ethiopia. Okay--that last one was probably my grandparents and they probably said China.

So it seems that our church has a Chili Cook-Off almost annually. This is one time a year too often for me but I understand that there are people who don't actually like the idea of Cheesecake Bake-Off and The Next Best Chocolatier Challenge. I don't know who these people are that would rather eat chili than cheesecake but I intend to find out. In any case, our (mostly) annual Chili Cook-Off is coming up on Sunday.

I'm thrilled.

Maybe someone will open a dozen cans of Hormel and toss them into a pot. Maybe someone will bring a White Chicken Chili because, well, in that case, yes please! Maybe someone will bring the chili that came to our house on the day we moved from California to Utah because that stuff was gooood. Maybe someone's idea of chili is to make a giant chef salad and just call it chili. Whatever. It'll be fine.

Except my husband keeps referring to it as a Chili Feed.

And, can I just tell you that for mostly inexplicable reasons, that phrase makes my stomach toss itself around like the aforementioned chef salad. Maybe it's because I didn't grow up in Texas. Maybe it's because I could live the rest of my existence on fruits and vegetables and the occasional hamburger and be just fine. (Oh and CHEESE! Because CHEESE! and I could never be apart for long.) Maybe it's because, as I said to our secretary earlier today, it has something to do with the connotation of "feed" implying that one is putting food in a trough for barnyard animals. Then, add chili to the mix and I picture a bunch of humans, leaning over a trough, consuming mass quantities of chili at a rapid pace.

But, you know, I just tried it with other foods as well...foods that I like a lot better than chili. French fry feed. Cadbury Egg Feed. Tostada Feed. Starbucks Tall Peppermint Mocha Feed. Those all sound better, but only slightly. I suppose I just don't like thinking of myself on all fours, inhaling my food. Maybe it's the same reason that the scene in A Christmas Story where Randy pretends to be "Mommy's little piggy" makes me want to toss my mashed potatoes. Because when I hear "chili feed" I totally picture people covered in beans and meat and red sauce as though spoons were not provided.

We don't have to agree on the place that chili has in society and in our mouths. We don't have to agree on much of anything, really. But can we all please agree that putting "feed" on the end of any kind of culinary experience is both uncivilized* and also disgusting?

Especially chili.


*I am not saying that my husband is uncivilized or disgusting. He is neither of those things. In fact, I find him to be quite wonderful. It's just that he was born in Texas. Apparently you can take the newborn baby boy out of Texas, move him to Oregon and Minnesota and California and Utah, but you can't ever take the Texas out of the boy.