CSquaredPlus3

Because They're Elderly

My mom and dad aren't really elderly.  They're not 70, but almost.  Like knocking on the door.  But "elderly" is a relative term.

The past few years, visits to my parents' home in Arizona have provided several family take-away stories.  There was the time I backed into their house... with Mom's car; the time I experienced heat exhaustion [Dad's diagnosis] or water intoxication [my diagnosis]; the time we debated the value of a Snuggie; and the time Mom and I learned that it's common for public bathrooms to have ice in the urinals.  I continue to find women, elderly women even, who's husbands have neglected to share that last fact with them.

**********

Middle Boy and I traveled to Arizona in June so he could attend a music camp -- we stayed with Mom and Dad.  Chris and our other two sons remained in Utah.

The music camp culminated with a Friday night concert after a week of lessons and rehearsals.  My parents and I happily attended the event to support our young rocker.

I arrived at the concert venue early so that I could snag some good seats.  Sideways glances shot my way, warning me that it was not cool to save seats.  I sat down in the second row, placed my purse on the chair to my right and a camera on the chair to my left.  Seats saved, glances ignored.

The small auditorium filled quickly.  With 15 minutes until show time, my parents still hadn't arrived and the only two seats remaining were theirs.  People asked, "Are those taken?"  I apologized to everyone and said yes.  Where were they?

The couple sitting in front of me turned around and gave me a sympathetic look. 

"I can tell it's poor form to save seats," I said.  "But we traveled from Utah and my parents are so excited to see my son play.  My brother and his wife are here, too, but they're on their own."  Then I embellished, "And my parents are... elderly."

"Oh we understand," said the woman while her husband nodded in agreement.  "Last year we tried to save a seat for my mother-in-law who'd just had hip replacement surgery.  She could hardly walk.  She got here late -- poor thing struggled in the dark parking lot -- and a rude woman plopped herself down in the seat we were saving.  Said we weren't allowed to save seats and she was going to watch her child perform."

"How old is your mother-in-law?" I asked.

"Eighty-four."

Great.

Mom and Dad finally bounced into the auditorium.  They looked perky, were dressed in their classic yet contemporary styles, and moved very non-geriatric-like through the crowded aisles to where I was sitting.  The couple in front of me watched my parents approach.  "Your parents?" they asked, eyebrows raised.

Twelve bands.  Twelve, young [ages 11-17], loud bands.  All very good, I might add, and playing to a mature, seated house.  Middle-aged parents, grandparents and a few younger siblings stared at the stage with goofy smiles on their faces and clapped courteously at the end of each performance.  Not your typical rock concert crowd.

"Is that a boy or a girl?" Dad asked me.  Repetitively and audibly.  I played deaf and hoped the parents of the androgynous kids weren't sitting near us.  His commentary continued.  I can't tell.  Seriously.  Is that a girl?  A boy?  Can you tell?  They all look the same.  Ooh.  That's a big kid.  Look how tiny that one is.  He can't be 11.  Was that a good singer?  Did you like that singer?  I can't tell who's good.  What about that one?  Boy?  Girl?

"They're all doing a great job!" I said loudly and fervently.  Damage control.

As we piled out of the auditorium at the end of the night, I managed to make eye contact with the couple who had been sitting in front of us. I raised my eyebrows.  Elderly.

On Turning 45

Sunday, June 5, 2011, was a beautiful day in our microcosm.  Blue skies, 70 degrees, no wind, smells of summer, and sounds of my sons and husband having an afternoon water fight in our backyard.  I was born on a Sunday in 1966.  For some reason when my birthday falls on the actual day of the week that my mother delivered me, it feels more... birth-day-like.

Still midlifing, I pinballed in my 45th year, bouncing off of spring-loaded emotions and experiences.  Some good, some bad, but all intense.  I don't know who's working the flippers, but I remain in play.  I'm ready for a break.  Let me go, move on, another ball is ready to feel the thrill of the plunger.  Launch it while I catch my breath, oh great pinball wizard.

There are too many thoughts and personal stories to share from the past 12 months, but a few words are boldfaced in my mind's memory cyclone. They define areas of growth and struggle.

RELATIONSHIPS continue to fascinate and challenge me.  Expectations can leave me feeling both hurt, when mine are higher for the relationship, and annoyed, when I can't meet someone else's.  I read somewhere that the average person can realistically maintain 150 relationships.  That sounds about right.  I wish I could maintain more, because I enjoy connecting with and knowing people.  Maybe I'm just nosy...

INTIMACY in new or rekindled relationships has been an issue.  I'm doing it wrong.  I either assume a level of familiarity that is inappropriate or out of someone's comfort zone, Hey, friend from 1975 who's bed I once wet on a sleepover!  Great to see you on Facebook!  Want to go on vacation together with our families?  Surely we've grown in the exact same direction and have identical memories of our time together 35 years ago! Or I appear aloof because I'm trying to throttle my enthusiasm.  Maybe it's called social anxiety...

NOSTALGIA is my crack.  I can't get enough. I torment myself by watching old television shows, sifting through boxes of photos, reading journals from my youth, reminiscing with my husband and friends in an attempt to pinpoint details from that time when.  Sometimes the reliving feels cathartic and other times it hurts.  Maybe it's time to be more present in this moment...

PEOPLE I love and have loved grow in importance to me every year.  I wish time wasn't linear so I could experience multiple people during a variety of calendar years... and all at once.  Sounds like having your cake and eating it too.  Maybe it's nostalgia again...

RELIGION shouldn't dictate our friendships, but I've lost friends due to belief systems.  The more I experience, read, observe, pray, meditate, the simpler my views become.  I believe God is in the beautiful, often messy, details of life.  I don't believe He's in the details of dogma.  Maybe they weren't really friends...

HEALTH in the fullest sense of the word as it applies literally to my mind, body and spirit, as well as my relationships, garden, finances, etc., is something I hope to never take for granted.  Maybe great blessings come from the most heartbreaking experiences...

**********

My mother has taken to making cards with old photographs... which fuels nostalgia.  My birthday card this year from my parents had a picture of Dad holding me when I was a baby.

 The inside of the card included one of Mom's clever poems...

I had a wonderful birthday and even though I feel like I'm still in that stupid pinball machine, I am in play.  Maybe I'll beat my high score before I turn 46.

Mom "Likes" Facebook

There are already too many jokes about our parents -- the senior set in general -- adapting to social media.  Just when some older people are comfortable consistently using email, we say... "Never mind. Start a blog.  Tweet.  Get on Facebook.  It's fun!"

My mother took the Facebook plunge.  Dad's holding strong.  I believe hell really will freeze over before he signs up for an account.

I talked her into it.  Poor thing.  I wore her down during a visit last November.  "It's SO easy.  We'll be able to share pictures.  You can keep track of Joe [my brother] and you'll find treasures in rekindled relationships from the past."

Mom bought the idea as I lied to myself as much as her.  Facebook is a time sucking, angst causing, self-esteem crushing, bizarre life distraction.  [Just me?]  It's like the bowl of M&M's and Hot Tamales on my kitchen counter -- for guests, of course.  I should have a piece of fruit or handful of almonds for a snack, but there sits that damn bowl of temptation.  At the end of some days, I've grabbed too many of the wrong things and I feel oily.  Too much candy... and too many clicks of the refresh/reload button on Facebook.  Loser.

So, Mom and I set up her Facebook account, selected a cute photo of her and started looking for all of her old boyfriends and that one girl who was mean to her in high school.  I alerted my brother immediately.

Joe has yet to reply.  It's been five months.

I told Mom that it's important to make an occasional appearance on Facebook.  Lurkers are boring and selfish.  [Harsh words from someone who lurks.]  I encouraged her to, at a minimum, comment on friends' photos.  So she tried.  I posted a picture of my sons and Mom accidentally updated her status.

Mom has made additional attempts on Facebook over the past few months.  I've seen her wish people a happy birthday and she enjoys the "Like" button.  But she still gets confused.  While trying to comment on something my cousin wrote, she again updated her own status.

I let my cousin know.

 

Mom's traveling to Utah to visit us in a few weeks.  I told her we would spend a little time practicing our Facebook skills.  Writing status updates, commenting, liking, removing comments, un-liking and polishing our personal brands in case we've screwed up our privacy settings... again.

In the meantime:

• Keep trying!

• Positive comments are never a bad thing and the safest for beginners.

• When in doubt, don't hit "Enter".

• And above ALL, if Dad ever joins us on Facebook [he won't], never ever, never refer to him as "babe".

Braces

I chose to have braces put on my teeth two years ago.  Just in time for my 25th high school reunion.  Neato.

One friend commented that braces would give me plenty of blog fodder.  But there wasn't much to say about them after the initial post introducing my new accessory.  I carried Ortho Wax and knew which neighborhood kids to call when I ran out.  My teeth ached occasionally and Mother asked, "When do you get those off?" EVERY time she saw me.

My braces seemed more visually intense than other mouthfuls I've seen.  Maybe it was because I selected traditional silver, wore power chains most months, or have small teeth.  Regardless, I felt like I looked like Jaws in the James Bond movies.

*****

I met a little boy named Albert in an Anaheim laundromat last March.  We were in California for a family vacation and I needed to wash clothes.  Four-year-old Albert asked me for money and mints that night while his mother and I did our laundry next to one another.  I gave him both as his mom said, "Albert! Eso no es amable."  That's not polite. 

He was round and dimpled.  The plump kind of child that I was certain would pop if I stuck a pin in him.  But I fell in love with Albert after he took one look at my smile and said, "Nice grill."

*****

My braces finally came off in November.  I apologize to my Facebook friends who have already seen the following photo, but I promised Gabi With An Eye a sans braces shot in this post.

So there you go.  It took me a few weeks to get used to my new teeth.  I felt like I looked strange and radically different.  Like when someone Photoshops big teeth on an animal or small child.

Recently, I purchased two new pairs of glasses.  One pair has progressive lenses.  I get motion sick easily and I'd heard that adjusting to no-line bifocals can make a person nauseous.  I figured the larger the lens, the smoother the adjustment.

My theory worked.  A little vertigo for the first few hours, but the bifocal sweet spot is small compared to the large distance lens.  I adapted quickly.  Only now it doesn't matter that I'm not wearing braces, because I look like the smart turtle in children's books.

Inspiration

When both of my grandmothers died, nearly twenty years apart, the importance of moments and not mementos was never more profound.  Especially with the people I feel connected to in life.

Although, I admit my desire to occasionally visit each woman's last apartment as it was when they died.  Furniture they'd each had for years, arranged just so; clothes pressed and hanging in closets; and kitchens organized similarly -- one grandmother preferred vodka in her liquor cabinet, the other bourbon.

A Graceland-like shrine in memory of Georgie and Jane would be nice some days.

But it's just stuff.  The older my grandmothers became, the more they shrugged their shoulders at their own belongings and boxes of sentiment.

When Georgie died, my mother's mother, all Mom wanted was one of her rose bushes.  Mom dug up a pink rose bush, placed it in a plastic bag, sat with it on the flight home after my grandmother's service, and planted it in her yard.

I have a few things from each of my grandmothers.  There are no family heirlooms or valuable antiques, but some old books and a photograph or two bring me great comfort and joy.

And a desk.  When Mamaw died last summer [Dad's mom, Jane], I had the space for a few pieces of her furniture.  A dresser and two night stands have been sanded, painted and repurposed in our home.  But it's the old, mahogany desk with drawers that stick and darkened brass hardware, that speaks to me every day.  "Come over here and sit.  You're not too busy.  Talk to me.  Think.  Write."

After some refurbishing, we placed the desk in a small area in our bedroom that has become my writing space.

I don't always sit at the desk.  Sometimes I sit on the small couch, or the rocking chair with the computer on my lap.  But I feel supported, encouraged, and inspired.  Not to mention reminded of the difficulties women endured in prior generations with fewer opportunities.

I don't have a piece of furniture from Grandmother Georgie, but the roses from my own garden are reminders of her fortitude and love.

The tequila bottle the flowers are displayed in?  A gift from my mother, who is very much alive, and collects them.  Mom does not drink the tequila [anymore], but asks bartenders at nice restaurants to save the expensive, unique looking bottles for her.

Mamaw would love the tequila bottle vase.  Grandmother [Mom's mother] would say, "Oh, for god's sake, Kaye Anna.  I think we can do a little better than that."

I love it all.  The desk, the roses, the tequila bottle, but mostly I love the reminder of the interesting, smart, strong women that are mine.

Ice In The Urinal And Family Traditions

I liked the Grapenuts in my cauliflower fondue at the Renegade Canteen.  Dinner with my parents, minus the kids was what Chris and I needed after a long 4th of July weekend in the Arizona desert.

**********

It's become a family tradition, the July pilgrimage to Scottsdale, Arizona.  We stay at Mom and Dad's for a week, swim, celebrate the 4th, visit family and friends, and try to relax.  There's usually a little drama.  A boy finds a scorpion in his room, runs into a jumping cholla, and someone gets a speeding ticket... or two.

[Chris and the boys - funky white.]

[This jumping cholla was stuck on the 4YO's ankle.]

[Dad sleeping, the boys watching TV.]

And every summer, I learn something new.

**********

Mom, Dad, Chris and I were enjoying food, drink and conversation at what has become another family tradition, the End-Of-Vacation-Adult-Dinner.  Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Stephanie [my brother and his wife] were graciously babysitting the boys, foregoing the grown-up outing.  Unfortunately for them, this is part of the tradition.  [Joe, I love you, man.]

[Enjoying dinner... Mom and Dad.  Chris and me - braces off in October!]

Mom and I excused ourselves and went to the ladies' room.  When we returned to the table, Mom said to Dad, "Our bathroom was nice. How was yours?"  Because as most women know, it's all about the bathroom.

"It was fine.  There was ice in the urinal."

We all laughed.  Dad made a funny.

"Seriously.  There wasn't ice in the urinal, was there?" Mom asked as we both studied our husband's faces for signs of lying.

Dad nodded, yes.

Chris nodded, yes.

Dad and Chris explained that ice in men's rooms is common and nothing new.  Mom and I still weren't convinced.  How could she be married to my father for 47 years and not know about ice in the urinal?  I felt the same.

"Why haven't you told me about ice in the urinal?" I asked Chris.

"It's not a big deal."

"I think it's weird you've never mentioned it.  ...  And I still don't believe you."  It might have been the Chianti fueling my fire, but I wanted proof.

Chris and I walked to the men's room.  He wasn't thrilled, but he's a good husband and he knew his wife had had enough Chianti to do it by herself if he didn't cooperate.

"It's empty.  Have at it," he said as he opened the door for me.

And I'll be damned...

 

We returned to the table and I showed Mom the pictures.  The guys were telling the truth.  But now we wanted to know why.  Why was there ice in the urinal?

Dad and Chris shrugged.  Not only had they kept it a secret all these years, they had never bothered to ask why the ice was used. 

We asked the waitress.  She had been a server for a decade and had never heard about ice in the urinal.  How did she not know about this?  We asked the busboy, but the slight language barrier resulted in smiling, scurrying and more ice in our drinks.

The waitress said she would talk to the manager and get back to us.  Dad left her his card and he recently received an email that said in part:

...here's the answer for your questions.  There is nothing special about it.  It was out of necessity.  They had issue with not enough flow of the water to flush urine at the time.  So they used ice to add water flow.

Regardless of the ice, or the reason for the ice, what I still can't get over is that I'm 44-years-old, my mother is... older, and neither one of us knew about this.

I wonder what I'll learn next summer.

Large Like Jabba The Hutt

It's my mom's fault.  My inability to explain things to the kids with straight talk.  My brother only wanted to know what the word "virgin" meant that summer evening while we ate dinner as a family in 1980.  After a lengthy explanation where Mom described "purely driven snow", "virgin wool" and things that had never been touched, she asked him, "Now, Joe.  Are you a virgin?"

He replied, "Nope.  I'm a Gemini."  He was eleven.

**********

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the Salt Lake City airport waiting for my two oldest sons to board a Southwest flight to Denver.  Because they're 12 and 10, I decided to forgo the $50 each way unaccompanied minor charge.  They've flown many times with Chris and me, and were excited to travel alone to spend some time with their grandparents.

The boys didn't seem nervous, until I finished the Mom Pep-Talk.

"When you get on the plane, don't pick an empty row.  You won't have control over who chooses to sit with you.  You're small, clean and quiet so you'll be attractive seatmates to everyone.  Do NOT sit next to a man.  Any man.  Not that all men are bad.  It's just that the majority of crimes are committed by men.  Look for a woman.  A clean woman... with kids.  But if she doesn't have kids with her, look for someone who looks like she probably has kids.  Or an old person.  Old women are usually very safe.  You can sit by an older man as a last resort, but only if he's really old and doesn't look creepy.  Not that you can tell if someone's creepy or bad by how they look.  Because sometimes someone can look nice and clean, but they're creepy... don't worry about that right now.  Avoid a large person if you can.  Large people aren't bad, it's just an issue of personal space.  Does that make sense to you?  I don't mean to sound unkind... I'm talking Jabba the Hutt large, not normal large.  You know, where they might leave some DNA on you.  But look out for the slender people who are shedding skin or don't seem clean.  It's a hygiene issue.  Look for someone who has good hygiene regardless of their size.  Know what I mean?  It's important not to judge people by their appearance.  Just look for a clean, mom-type woman... although women commit crimes too... just not as often.  You'll be okay..."

I babbled and confused and worried them.  They wanted to know what kind of crimes people would commit on an airplane.  I explained I would hate for someone to lift one of their iPods.

Oldest Boy is a germaphobe like me and can now add to his growing pile of nightmares, the vision of a Jabba the Hutt-like person invading his personal space and sharing germ-ridden DNA, then stealing his iPod.

A woman, the clean kind with a handful of children, was in earshot of my terrifying pep-talk and instructions.  She understood everything I was trying to convey to my sons and assured me she would keep an eye on them, even offering to sit with them if necessary.

The boys made it to Denver, had a great time, and returned safely with no tales of traumatic events [other than my pep-talk], no flesh-eating diseases, and all of their possessions.  Oldest Boy told me he scouted the moms in the boarding area for the return flight and found one to sit with them.  [He still listens to me and values what I say.  Good news, bad news.]

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy in Colorado - June 2010

**********

In case anyone was wondering...  I'm not a virgin either.  I'm a Gemini.

I Like Her

Admittedly she wasn't the type of mother who volunteered to host puppet shows in the basement on a rainy day, but she taught me that a Bloody Mary and a Coke would ease my motion sickness on bumpy plane flights.  The carbonation in the Coke relieved excess air/gas in the gastrointestinal tract, the sugary soda and the vegetable juice provided some "umph" to coat my stomach, and the vodka [just a little] calmed my nerves.

There have been occasions over the years that I have been very hard on my mom.  There were parts of her that weren't conventional.  When we lived in the Midwest in the 70s, she looked different than the other moms.  She didn't wear her hair permed and cut short, or carry Wyler's out to the backyard on a tray with a big smile.  She macramed hanging plant holders and matter-of-factly told us to drink out of the hose if we were thirsty.  Her long pony-tails, and Doris Day-like features caught people off-guard when she politely but firmly told a few folks in Indiana that she did not want them to say the "N" word in front of her or her children.

[Mom and me - Christmas 1967]

As each year passes, I appreciate my mother more and more.  Trite, but true.  I now recognize that she mothered conventionally in many ways -- the important ways -- by encouraging us to be kind, to laugh in general... and at ourselves, to read, to try new things, and ultimately to be independent.

Mom doesn't share my love of running, triathlons, skiing or hiking, and there are many aspects of our personalities that are different.  But we are "one" when we shop, and I can't think of a single person that in spite of everything and anything I could have ever said or done to hurt them, remains in my life, other than Mom.  She also makes me laugh.  Contort my face in ugly ways laugh.  I make her laugh too.

[We were trying to get a picture of her dog, Judy, in the tree. (Mom's idea, for the record.)  Every time Mom got close to the tree, Judy stepped on her head.]

We've been cooking together for years...

She's held the bowl not only when I've had to vomit, but has wedged herself between two car seats to help a sick boy on the way to the doctor's office. [It was serendipity at it's finest.  She happened to be at our house for a visit.]

 

Mom was just here for a few days for Mother's Day weekend.  We had a wonderful time.  We become better friends as each year passes.  We understand one another.  I love that she's smart, funny, interesting... and pretty.  She has good taste and a solid sense of self.  She's always been a strong person [probably why we've had our challenges over the years], and that remains, but there's an increasing softness.  A sensible softness, not an ooey-gooey saccharin softness.  Difficult to describe.

[Getting ready to go to brunch on Sunday.  The four-year-old boy refused to have his picture taken with us.]

[A full belly (and a sucker from Kay-Kay) helped him change his mind at the restaurant.]

As a teenager many years ago, I had been particularly sassy and disrespectful to Mom.  Through gritted teeth she said, "You may be my daughter, Christina Hautem, so I have to love you.  But I don't have to like you.  Right now, I don't like you very much."

I understood what she was saying then, but I understand the difference between "love" and "like" when it comes to family members more and more.

I suppose all I'm trying to say is... Mom's fun.  I like her.

**********

[The video shows Mom's picnic attempt with the four-year-old on a cold, windy day.  She was also kind enough to bring a set of her old golf clubs for me.  A friend invited me to play in a fund raising tournament.  I don't golf... but Mother did her best to teach me.]

Mother's Day 2010 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Christmas '09 - or - I'm Behind!

I've read several New Year's Resolution posts.  I'm not there yet.  I feel like I'm straddling 2009 and 2010.  If forced to claim a resolution, I commit to continuing my quest to triage relationships better.  I still find myself watering a few dead plants [unresponsive people], and not nurturing the thirsty ones enough.  Rereading my post [here] from last January, reinforces how important this remains for me.

Christmas.  It came, it went, it brought joy, and it brought stress.  The four-year-old boy refused to sit on Santa's lap, after waiting in line for a very long time, and after his two older brothers had grudgingly agreed to accompany him and prove that it was safe... and fun.  We have video of the drama.  Maybe...

My parents joined us for the holiday.  We went sledding, ate and drank too much, and attempted to get a picture of Mom and Dad with the boys for their New Year's card.

Because the four-year-old has a defiant streak, this was the best we could do.

 

A virus was amongst us over the holidays, and teased us with fatigue before making it's presence officially known.  The kids are doing better, but Chris and I encourage you all to purchase stock in Advil, Sudafed, and Mucinex DM.  We're increasing demand at a freakish rate.

Finally, Mom and I prepared Christmas dinner -- a repeat of last year's menu -- Beef Wellington.  The meal turned out great, and this year we remembered to video the flambe part.  [I recently posted a video of Mom and me from Christmas 2008 [here], where I mentioned we should have videoed us flambeing.]   You'll have to believe me when I tell you that we did a much better job flambeing our sauce in 2008 than we did in 2009.  Yes, we were drinking wine, and I beg you to remember that we were being ambushed by a virus, so fatigue was contributing to the lack of focus and general confusion.

And before I go, I need a jump-start for 2010.  Anyone?

Christmas Flambe '09 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Deviled Eggs

I like deviled eggs, but I've never made them.  In spite of this fact, my mother still thinks I need a deviled egg tray.

Every summer we have a Fourth of July party at Mom and Dad's house.  The menu rarely changes, but Mom excitedly reminds us that she's made her potato salad, her baked beans and as an extra special treat she sings, "And I'm making deviled eh-eggs!" 

The Potato Salad
When I was pregnant with all three boys I begged Mom to make her potato salad.  She puts lots of hard-boiled eggs, celery, pickles and just the right amount of mayo.  It's not too goopy.  Forget prenatal vitamins, just eat Mom's potato salad.

The Baked Beans
Her baked beans are equally delicious.  As a young working woman in my early 20s, I was deemed the "Bean Queen" at my office potlucks because I always brought a Crock-Pot of baked beans to share.  It was the only food item I knew how to prepare and transport that would feed a large group, thanks to my mother.  Brownies, cookies and chips were usually cherry-picked before the potluck sign-up sheet hit my desk.  Dumb men.

The Deviled Eggs
Mom's deviled eggs are... fine.  There are foods I prefer, but a deviled egg hits the spot once in a while.  Having been raised in the Midwest, I don't think there was ever a family gathering, picnic or holiday without a beautifully garnished deviled egg tray.  I don't recall one person's recipe out-shining another.  The eggs were always dusted with paprika and sprigs of parsley completed the egg tray presentation.

July 4th 2008...
...Mom and I were working in the kitchen.  It was late enough in the afternoon that she'd already asked me, "Are you ready for a little wine?"  I was. We sipped wine and clanked around the kitchen as we rearranged food, moving it from platter to bowl, seeking the just right serving piece for each snack and hors d'oeuvres.  She was ready to plate the deviled eggs...

"Look at my new deviled egg tray.  It's even shaped like an egg!"

"Neat, Mom."

"Do you have a deviled egg tray?"

"No.  I've never made deviled eggs."

"You've NEVER made deviled eggs?  It's really easy.  You should make them."

"My life's different than your's.  I can't think of a single place or event I've been in recent years where I would have brought deviled eggs."

"Because... you don't have a tray.  You need to get a tray."

My Plan
While reading cookbooks recently, I found a simple deviled egg recipe that uses curry powder and capers, two of my favorite ingredients.  Mom and Dad travel from Arizona to Utah every year to spend Christmas with us.  They usually arrive on my mother's birthday, December 22nd.  As a gift to Mom I'm going to prepare the special curry/caper recipe and sing, "I've made deviled eh-eggs," as they walk through the door.  And I'll find a way to serve them on a regular plate.  Although it's possible Mom's gift to me will be an egg tray... because I need one.

A glimpse of Mom and me at work in the kitchen last Christmas...

Cooking With Mom - Christmas '08 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Photo courtesy of Google Images.

Just Doing My Job

We're in Arizona visiting my parents.  I spoke with Dad a few weeks ago...

"I have a 15-mile training run scheduled for the first Saturday we're in Scottsdale.  I'd like to run on trails if possible.  Anything close to your house?"

"We have some GREAT trails two or three miles from the house!  I'll send you a map."

The map arrived in the mail.  I studied it and was concerned about the topography and elevation gain.  I was hoping for relatively flat trails.  I called Dad.

"I'm looking at this map.  Looks kind of technical, Dad."

"You'll be fine. Those are GREAT trails!"

We arrived in Scottsdale after ten hours in the car with our three boys and the dog on Friday.  I had one beer, swam, ate some dinner and was in bed by 9:30 PM.  The alarm beeped at 4:00 AM, I got up, drank a cup of coffee, and ate half a peanut butter sandwich.  I loaded my water belt, and drove to the McDowell Sonoran Preserve.

The Death March Time Line

5:05 AM - I began running on the trail marked "easy".  The trail was not easy.  It turned left, then right, then left, then left, then right every 5-10 feet, was very rocky and I was already climbing steadily.  I determined it would be very important to pay attention to the trail so I wouldn't trip and fall.

5:40 AM - A Gila Monster was sitting in the middle of the trail 15 feet in front of me.  I stopped but the lizard didn't move.  Did Gila Monsters move lightning-fast or sloth-like slow?  I decided to run around the creature.  As I passed, it rapidly stomped it's feet and hissed like a cat.  Scared me to death.  I screamed and my adrenalin surged for the next three miles as paranoia now joined me on the run.

7:05 AM - Still running, hot, hungry [even though I was consuming gels] and feeling less paranoid because I finally saw a few people on the trails and assumed they would save me from venomous animals.

8:00ish - Still running, unbelievably hot, but almost finished. I had fallen twice, my left knee was bleeding and I was dusty and salty.  I was unable to run many sections of the "GREAT" trail so I was out longer than I wanted to be.  I'd forgotten how intense the Arizona sun is in July.

??? - I don't know exactly what time I finished, but I ran all 15 miles.  I drank lots of water and thought I'd properly recovered.  I called Mom to let her know I was okay and I was going to visit Dad at the golf course where he has a part-time job.

9:00 AM - I visited Dad.  We drove around in a golf cart and I met all his buddies.  I felt fine.  A little tired, but fine.  Dad suggested I visit Mamaw on the way home. I said, "But I'm gross." He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head, indicating it didn't matter.

9:45 AM - I arrived at Mamaw's group home.  Sadly, she didn't recognize me...

"Mamaw.  It's me, Chrisy."

She smiled but I could tell she didn't know it was me.

"I'm gross, Mamaw.  I've been running... and I have braces now.  See?"  I showed her my teeth.

"Who are you running from?"

"No one.  I'm training for a marathon."

We visited for about 20 minutes and she finally knew who I was.  She commented many times on my braces.  "My, you have a mouthful," shaking her head.

10:15 AM - I told Mamaw I would return a few more times over the next week with Chris and the boys.  She seemed pleased.  We kissed good-bye and I was on my way to my parents' house.

10:25 AM - Something went very wrong.  I felt disoriented and dizzy while driving.  I felt like I was going to vomit or have diarrhea or both.  I pulled over and called Chris.

"Hey, I'm not well.  I'm not sure where I am and I think I might faint."

Chris and Mom arrived 15 minutes later.  Chris drove me home and helped me into the house.  I told him I just wanted to lay on the tile floor.

After resting for an hour on the floor and drinking Gatorade, I began feeling better. I've experienced heat exhaustion before, but never three hours after a workout.  I think I was salt and potassium deficient.  I actually felt a little embarrassed because I know how to avoid these situations.

As I was laying on the floor shivering with chills, Mom brought me a pillow and a blanket.

I said, "Thanks for coming to get me Mom.  I feel like an idiot.  I'm sorry for the drama..."

"That's okay.  It's your job."

You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part -- the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity -- I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos -- she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

**********

For those who are interested... and me.  Well, me.

Mother said, "No."

Growing up, my mother was politically liberal, opposing my father's conservative bent, but raised us in a home with routine, structure and emphasized the importance of being considerate and kind to others. In hindsight, my borderline-hippie mother was very old fashioned in her parenting style.  I'm thankful.

I'm a day late with my tribute-to-Mom post.  There are many fabulous "Mother" stories to share, but I thought the following captures her well...

******************************

I was home from college for a visit when I was 19 or 20.  Even though I had no curfew while I was at school, Mother imposed one when I was home.  She said she worried and that I would understand some day.  Sometimes my curfew was midnight, sometimes it was 1:00 AM, but there was always a time I was to be home.  I also had to give her an itinerary.  She never checked, and we both knew I often fabricated where I would be, because going out with friends was just that... going out.  We didn't always know where the soiree would be happening, until we got there.

One night I drank too much at a party.  I spent the last two hours prior to curfew hugging a toilet in someone's apartment while strange guys peed in the bathtub behind me.  A good friend held my hair and assured me, no one "noticed" I was so sick.  The same good friend called my mother at midnight and politely told her I wasn't feeling well and we'd better spend the night at the apartment.  Mother said, "No."  She told my friend, I need to speak to Chrisy.  Now.

"Moh-hom, I'm sick.  I can't get in a car.  I'll die."

"You won't die.  Either [your friend] brings you home, or I'm coming to get you."

My friend drove me home because she was afraid of Mom.  Mother was waiting in the driveway in her bathrobe.  She gave my friend a dirty look, like it was her fault somehow that I was an idiot, and helped me into the house.

It was a long night.  I threw-up in my bathroom and in the bowl Mom left by my bed.  I moaned and groaned and made promises to God I swore I'd never break... but did.  Early the next morning, Mother came in my room.

"Does Dad know?"  I asked.

"No.  But I don't know how we can hide this.  Was it worth it?  Was. it. worth. it. CHRISTINA?!"

I cried and said no, and told her how terrible I felt.  She toggled between trying to help me feel better by being a good nurse, and scolding me.  One moment she was placing her hand on my forehead, offering me water and ice chips, asking if I was ready for a little toast and aspirin, all in a soft, compassionate voice.  Then, she'd furrow her brow and speak sternly, What were you thinking?  Does this feel gooood?  Does it?  Do you realize what could happen to you?  Anybody could take advantage of you.  Anybody.  Jesus.

Back and forth... compassionate, nursey Mom... then angry, disappointed, what the hell were you girls thinking? Mom.

She was like Shirley MacLaine as she stomped around my room in her bathrobe, shaking her head at me, giving me the business, opening my window because, "We need to get some fresh air in here... honestly, Chrisy."  Then on a dime, "Honey, I'm sorry you feel so sick... can I get you ANYthing?"  On.  Off.  Black.  White.  Anger.  Softness.  It was classic.  It was Mother.

She may have understood my situation more than I realized at the time.  I found these pictures of her when she was 19 and in her college dorm room.  I'm thinking Grease, a little more Rizzo than Sandy...

 

Mother met Dad one summer while on college break.  They married and three years later Mom gave birth to her first child.  Me.  Marriage and motherhood summoned Mom's inner Sandy... but Rizzo's still there.

 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Like a Training Bra

I was in the orthodontist's waiting room, thinking... Eighteen months?  Do I really want these on for eighteen months?  The Today show was on the television and I half listened to President Obama talk about the swine flu.  yeah, yeah, yeah... the CDC and the WHO don't know what the hell is going on yet...

The women behind the front desk were coiffed and smelled good.  Their voices dripped with the sweetness of saccharin as they spoke to one another.  Look. At. You!  I don't think I've EVER seen you in pink before... Gosh, you look pretty today!  When one woman would turn her focus back to a computer screen or files on a desk, the others would take in every detail of her appearance.  They all took turns participating in the covert operation of sizing each other up.  I stared at their teeth.

I got braces on my teeth last week.  Not Invisalign, but the old fashioned, silver, train track braces.  They're only on my top teeth with plans to add them to my bottom teeth in a month or two.  I've never had braces, nor have my kids, so this is a new experience for me.

I told Mother I had made the decision to get braces a few weeks ago...

Mom:  What's wrong with your teeth?!

I explained.

Mom:  Well... so much for saving money.  I thought you kids were trying to save money.

Me:  We have extra money this year in our tax-free medical spending account, Mom.  If we don't use it, we lose it, so I've figured out a moderate and responsible plan to contribute to the braces without draining the account in case we have an emergency.

Mom:  I still don't see what's wrong with your teeth...

Several of my friends have had braces and a few are wearing permanent retainers.  I've had plenty of people to call upon for encouragement, support and to answer my questions.  I'm comfortable with my decision and after nearly one week, I have no regrets.  Only 77 more weeks to go!

A friend asked me how my mouth was feeling.  The braces had only been on a couple of days.  I told her it was like my first training bra...

***********************************

When I was in the fifth grade I wanted a bra so badly.  I didn't need a bra.  At all.  Many of the popular girls were wearing them, so I believed I needed one too.  Mom took me shopping and we bought a training bra.  I loved how when I bent over to reach for something, the back straps were very visible.  I felt like a 35-year-old.  It was awesome!

I didn't wear the bra all the time, just when I wanted to look 35, like when I went to the skating rink on Saturday afternoons to skate.  Boys were there.  Lip gloss?  Check.  Pom-poms for skates?  Check.  Training bra?  Check.  Tight, satiny shirt so bra strap would be visible when I flexed my back?  Check.

Mom and I were going shopping one afternoon.  It was a big deal for the two of us to have a shopping day.  We had to drive from our small town, Winchester, to Muncie [Indiana] so we could shop at a real mall.  We usually dressed up and ate lunch in a restaurant.  I decided to wear the training bra.

Mom:  Chrisy, if you're going to wear the training bra, you need to wear it... all day.

Me:  I will, Mom.

As much as I liked having visible bra straps under my shirt, the training bra irritated me after about an hour.  If I was with Mother, she found a bathroom so I could remove the bra and she would carry it in her purse.

After an hour of shopping on this particular day, I couldn't take it anymore.

Me:  Mom, will you carry my training bra?  It's hurting me.

Mom:  Chrisy!  C'mon, you're fine.

Me:  I can't, Mom.  It's tight and rubs my skin funny.

Mom:  Take it off, but carry it in your own purse.

Me:  My purse is too small...

Mom:  Maybe from now on you shouldn't wear it when we leave the house. [Crushing, because that was the whole point, for THE WORLD to see that I was old enough for and possibly needed a bra.]

She took the bra and I don't think I wore it again for at least a year, maybe two.

***********************************

The braces?  Not uncomfortable at all for the first day.  Now?  My mouth is irritated, my teeth hurt, and I'd like my mother to carry them in her purse... for just a few hours.

Image of Darla from "Finding Nemo" courtesy of Google Images.

Hazel

Mom and Dad selected our first family pet from what they thought was a litter of Basset Hounds.  It was 1969, my brother Mallory Joe was a baby and I was three.  They named the puppy Hazel and as she grew, it was obvious she wasn't a Basset. 

 

Hazel had the short legs, long torso, keen sense of smell and a-ti-tude of a Basset, but her other parts weren't right.  Her snout was long and pointy like a Dachshund, and her ears and markings were Beagle-like.  Her head looked disproportionately small compared to her fat torso. [Fat is a bad word in our house, but she was... fat.]  She was an odd looking mutt and people often asked, "What kind of dog is that?" 

What I remember the most about Hazel:

Danger Was Her Middle Name...  Hazel chased cars.  It was terrifying to watch.  Her short legs moved shockingly fast as she tried to bite a car's tires.  We lived in a residential area so the occasional car moved at a much slower speed than we see today.  I'm sure this fact saved her life many times.  I vividly remember seeing Hazel hit by a motorcycle when she and I were both very young.  It rolled right over her, then she rolled several times like a Little Smokie to the curb.  Hazel walked away from the accident, but Mother swears she was never the same.  She became quieter and moved too slowly for her young age, Mom says, because she was in chronic pain.

No Touchy - When new kids played at our house, they naturally wanted to pet Hazel.  My whole family could see a child approaching Hazel with enhanced peripheral vision.  We would simultaneously yell, "DON'T PET THE DOG!"  Then we'd laugh nervously, "Uh... she might bite."  Hazel was great with our immediate family, but snapped at anyone else who approached her.  She was fine with others in the house if they simply left her alone.  Eventually, only our closest friends were comfortable playing at our house.  We had the "mean dog".  But she wasn't.  She was a dog in pain.

Hold Your Cookie Up! - Hazel could smell a cookie from anywhere in the city.  She didn't move quickly though, more like Eeyore, probably because of her car chasing accidents.  But if a careless child held a cookie anywhere other than over their head, Hazel got it.  She sometimes got a finger too.  Mom would give us and our friends cookies, instruct us to, "Hold your cookie up.  I mean it.  Over your head.  HIGHER!  Go outside with it.  Quick.  I'll block Hazel."  And she did.

One-Trick Pony - Hazel didn't sit, stay, come, fetch, or anything else Hazel didn't feel like doing.  Hazel could "sit-up" and she did it well.  She sat square on her fat butt, posture-perfect [like a chubby ballerina] and begged for food.  She looked like a fire hydrant and could hold the position for several minutes.

Hazel was about 11-years-old when Mom determined it was time to put her down.  Hazel was suffering from cancer.  It was time.  We all cried, but knew it was the right thing to do.

 

Yesterday, Chris and I were in the park with friends and our conversation turned to dogs.  As we shared various dog stories, I thought of Hazel for the first time in years.  I joked that I grew up with a "DON'T PET THE DOG!" dog.

Awkward Segue:  This morning, I watched a YouTube video my mother emailed me.  It's about an 88-year-old woman who's the mayor of a Canadian city.  Her name is Hazel.

My Money's on Miss Piggy

Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.

... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."

One of our sons has been bullied recently.  He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation.  The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately.  I'm confident of this.

My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade.  We were raised to be lovers, not fighters.  No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated... Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory.  People aren't weird, she would say, they're... different.  

Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying.  I don't think Mom knew how bad it was.  She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones... all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words.  Mallory Joe did what Mom said... and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.

One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken.  Mother asked him what had happened.  I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.

She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon.  She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.

I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home.  Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Miss Piggy

He Just Wanted to Say "Suck"

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are in Arizona visiting my parents for a few days.  Their school dismissed them at noon last Friday for a two-week spring break.  We all need it.  We're trying to conserve money and minimize stress, so we chose not to take a family vacation.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were happy with the alternative we presented.  The chance to fly solo to see their grandparents, and enjoy valuable and rare one-on-one time.  The boys love it, and so do my parents.  The boys follow our rules better than Mom and Dad though.

Mom particularly enjoys pushing the limit.  She never does anything terrible, but things she knows we'd probably not do.  I don't know why she enjoys this so much.  For example, when Oldest Boy was six he was into marbles.  She said she had the perfect bag for him to store and carry his marbles.  A velvet, Crown Royal bag.  He didn't know what it was, but Mom loved the idea of a little boy carrying around a Crown Royal bag.  He still has it.

Before they were out of diapers, the boys were saying "Salud!" and trying to clink their sippy cups with other kids, thanks to Mom. 

They came home from an Arizona visit last summer with a picture of a dead snake.  Mom saw a coyote walking behind their property with the snake it's mouth.  She and the boys followed the coyote and when it dropped the dead rattlesnake, Mom took a picture of the chewed-on snake corpse for their scrapbook.  Cute.

Toddler Child declares anything gross or unpleasant, "Caca!  Kay-Kay says so!"  [The kids call Mother Kay-Kay after her attempts to have Oldest Boy call her "Nana Kaye Anna" failed.]

I called Mom and Dad's house yesterday to see how things were going.  Oldest Boy told me they were watching the movie Gremlins on television.  They'd never seen it and he was enjoying it.  Middle Boy shared the same information, but could hardly contain himself when he said, "Guess what channel the movie's on, Mom?  It's called Movies That Don't Suck."

"Hey.  You just wanted to say 'suck'."

"No, Mom.  That's what it's called.  Really."

The boys and I said our goodbyes, then Mother got back on the phone.  "Middle Boy could hardly wait to tell me about the channel Movies That Don't Suck."

"Well... that is what it's called, Honey.  There's one of those little logos on the bottom of the screen."

"Just so you know... we prefer the kids not say 'suck'."

I heard her sigh heavily, and I'm certain her eyeballs rolled back as she said, "All right.

Three Good Things

Chris and I were talking this morning about how heavy things feel, for all of us.  None of us [or very few of us] are completely insulated from what's happening with the economy.  It's a difficult, stressful time and not knowing what the next several months will bring, compounds the heaviness.

There are always things for which we are thankful.  We know this.  And after we have discussions where we review the worst case scenarios, we take a breath and remind ourselves of the good things.

Mom and Dad lived for a few years in Caracas, Venezuela right after Chris and I were married.  As a Christmas gift one year, Dad flew Chris, my brother Mallory Joe and me to South America for a couple of weeks.  I think it was a gift for Mom and Dad too.

On the surface, everything appeared wonderful.  Mom had spent much of her childhood in the Philippines so she spoke Spanish well and had experience living as an expat.  Mom and Dad lived in a beautiful penthouse apartment overlooking the new U.S. Embassy, had a full-time driver, maid and memberships to a prestigious country club.  Two months prior to the move Dad had been diagnosed with kidney cancer, had surgery to remove a kidney and was sent to Venezuela with a clean bill of health.  Life is good!  Right?  Well...

Mom's birthday is three days before Christmas and she was turning 50 that year.  She missed her friends, understandably.  Navigating life in a foreign country where only 3% of the people spoke English [statistic per Mother, at the time], required her to rely on the Spanish she hadn't used for years and it exhausted her.  We were out for lunch one day and she was trying to order sandwiches for all of us.  She became frustrated, looked at me and said, "I can't remember how the hell to say mustard in Spanish.  Can we lose the mustard?"

One afternoon, Dad was at work, Chris and my brother Mallory Joe were playing ping-pong, drinking Venezuelan beer [Polar tasted good.  Chris and Mallory Joe consumed it daily while playing ping-pong.] and Mom and I were sneaking a smoke on her veranda.

Mom said, "I don't know what to do.  This has just been so difficult."

We discussed various solutions, all involving travel and being away from Dad longer than she felt was reasonable.  She recognized she was tired and in a funk due to the many life stressors she'd just endured.  A major move, culture shock, a husband with a cancer diagnosis, finding homes for three animals she loved dearly prior to the move, turning 50, and missing her family and friends.  She knew she simply needed to keep moving forward.

She vented about the difficulties of living in Caracas.  There were many - all legitimate.

I said, "But Mom, there are some neat things about living here.  Can you think of just three good things?"

She thought...

"The birds are beautiful.  I love seeing parrots and macaws flying.  Free."

"And the orchids.  I can grow orchids on my veranda.  I've never been able to grow orchids like this.  Aren't they beautiful?"  [Mom has always loved gardening, so this was important and valued.]

She was looking a little perkier as she lit another cigarette.  We sat quietly while she thought.

Finally she said, "And when your father and I go out to eat, and I order a drink... anywhere... they bring you the whole bottle, even if it's Grey Goose, and set it right. On. The. Table."

I'd like one. Seriously.

Last weekend while in Arizona, Mom and I were standing in the kitchen in our pajamas one evening, chatting as we thumbed through some magazines.  The new People had arrived that day, which Dad had quickly grabbed and was reading in his bed.  I was loitering before going to bed myself, knowing Dad only takes about 10 minutes to get up to speed on the celebrities he doesn't know, so I could take the magazine to bed with me.

Mom was looking at Time magazine, she shook her head and said, "Idiots.  Anyone who would buy this is an idiot." 

Curious, I moved closer and looked over her shoulder.  I said, "Those are great!  It's simple genius.  Someone's rich because of that idea.  I actually want one."

"Are you serious?  All it is, is a robe backwards."

Looking at the robe she was wearing, I said, "No it's not.  The neck's specific to the Snuggie.  The seaming on your robe would strangle you."

She removed her robe.  "Allow me to demonstrate. [she put her robe on backwards]  Wa-lah!  IT'S A ROBE BACKWARDS!"

Her's was a blue, crisp-cotton, not-fuzzy, belted robe with a collar.  I said, "That's not right.  It looks like it's strangling you.  The Snuggie's seaming is better.  Plus your fabric's not cozy.  I think the Snuggie's genius."

She rolled her eyes and said, "Follow me."

We walked into her bedroom.  Dad comfortably reading his People magazine said, "I'm almost done, then you can have the magazine.  [poor guy]  What's so funny out there?"

"Mom's all uptight about the Snuggie.  She says anyone who buys one is an idiot because all you have to do is wear your robe backwards.  She flipped hers around, but she looked strangled and uncomfortable."

Mom appeared out of her closet holding a blue, fuzzy robe.  "THIS.  THIS COULD BE A SNUGGIE."

I was still skeptical.  "It looks too short.  The Snuggie people have their legs covered, and can tuck a child in there with them.  It's roomier."

"IT'S A ROBE BACKWARDS.  You're telling me you'd schlep a long Snuggie through the dirt to sit by a campfire.  Who does that?  It's a waste of money.  There's plenty of room in my robe for a child.  Look!"

She put the robe on backwards.  Then she put it on my Dad.

She made me try it on, too.  And I have to admit, it was comfortable, roomy and a nice length.

Mother had made her point and felt victorious!  [Notice her smug thumbs-up and all-knowing grin.]

After Mom's victory prance and "I told you so" and "uh-huh" rhetoric, I said I still thought the Snuggie was genius and I'd like to have one.

Dad sympathetically said, "Kaye, we should get the girl a Snuggie."

"Idiots," Mom said.

NOTE:  Chris forwarded me this article from Advertising Age.  It basically attributes the Snuggie's success to advertising and marketing [surprise surprise].  There's a waiting list for Snuggies! 

I think we'll be able to buff that right out...

Toddler Child and I are in Arizona.  We flew here on Thursday and return to Utah later this afternoon.  I'm here primarily to visit my grandmother - Mamaw - and I have Toddler Child with me because I lost the bet.  We're staying with Mom and Dad and things are going fine, although I'm tired. 

I'll post more about my time with Mamaw when I get home.  She's failing but it was wonderful to see her.

Toddler Child has a cold. [Of course.  I'm traveling alone with him.]  He developed symptoms about 20 minutes after we got off the plane in Phoenix.  This was after he spent the flight yelling, "Captain!  I need some orange juice!  Captain! Caaaaptain!"

Mom let me borrow her car to run to the store to get cold medicine.  I'll make this short.  I hit the house.  Backed right into it. In my defense, my car beeps when I get too near something [like a house] when I'm in reverse.  Her's does not.  My car has large windows and excellent visibility.  She drives a tiny convertible -- like a clown car -- with small windows and poor visibility.  It's like driving with a bag over your head.

I pulled the car back into the garage and entered the house to confess, only after contemplating if Mom and Dad would notice the damage to the car... and... the house.  I couldn't fly this one under radar.

"Hey, Mom."  She looked up from her spot on the floor playing with Toddler Child.  "I hit the house.  Sorry."

I'm a terrible driver, as shared in item number one in this post.  These things don't surprise or alarm my parents or husband.  When Chris and I were first married, I parked the car in our garage, on top of the lawn mower.

I showed Mom the damage, told her we'd pay for the repairs and went to the store.  Dad had been in their bedroom/bathroom showering after a bike ride.  Coincidentally, the part of the house that I hit.

When I returned from the store, Dad was in his office.  I walked in to tell him what I'd done and apologize.  He said he was in the shower when he heard and felt the "impact".  I asked him what he thought it was.  He said, "I figured Chrisy hit the house." 

Thanks.

Putting toothpaste back in the tube - that's what I'm doing.

Happy new year.  I don't want to add an exclamation point - a few people might be tired and headachey.  I'm tired, but my head's fine.

All the Christmas stuff that was *fun* to drag out and place around the house, now looks like clutter and has to be returned to boxes and the closet.  Not *fun*.  Chris tweaked his back a couple days ago, so he can't lift or bend very well.  The tree might remain in our family room with the top third of it decorated until he feels better.

A few things I've learned recently, that I should already know at my age...

• Don't pluck your eyebrows when you've been drinking.
• Sometimes severe flatulence in the car can linger for days, even if you have leather seats AND spray enough Lysol to make a small child retarded.  [I didn't do it - fart, that is.]
• We buy our kids too much on Christmas and say we won't make the same mistake next year.  We will NOT make the same mistake next year.
• When you're flambeing something - don't blow on it.
• Don't get all excited when your mother's in town helping you get the decorations OUT, and all tied, stapled and glue-gunned to the house.  Because your mother LEAVES and you have to undo all that crap by yourself.
• When Toddler Child says he wants a stick so he can give the snowman an arm and help "like the Big Boys", guide his arm placement.

Wishing everyone health, happiness, and the courage, strength and peace to handle what life throws your way in 2009! 

NOTE:  Chris just read this and wants it known that he didn't have the severe flatulence in the car either.

Christmas 2008 - The End

I'm certain everyone's tired of looking at, and reading about Christmas trees, cute kids and food.  This is the last from me.  Promise.

I posted a photo of our naked tree a few weeks ago.  It stayed naked for several days, and I really liked how it looked all undressed.  A couple of people [literally two] wanted to see it decorated.  Some of the ornaments are as old as I am, some are made by the kids, and some are from the grocery store "impulse buy" section near the gum, videos, and *warm french bread [*every day at 4:00!].

Other than having a tall ceiling, our family room isn't very big, so it was difficult to get a photograph of the tree in it's entirety.  Apologies for three unusual shots.

My parents spent Christmas with us.  Mother's birthday is December 22nd and I had intentions of doing a post in her honor.  I'll do that... later.  Mom and Dad arrived on her birthday after a long, snowy drive from Arizona to Utah.  We celebrated.

 

Christmas week, we went sledding, worked on a puzzle, ate and drank, shoveled snow, built an igloo in the backyard, relaxed, ate and drank some more, and shoveled more snow.

 

I made Beef Wellington for the first time EVER.  [Sorry Sherri, I know you're a vegetarian, so don't look at this or click to enlarge.  It's a big hunk of "tortured flesh" - John Robbins' words, not mine.]

 

The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were fewer this year.  I know many of us felt it.  I was mailing Christmas letters on the 24th, and I have a few more to address.

Christmas morning arrived even though I wasn't quite ready for it.  And everything was just. fine.  It was better than fine.  It was peaceful, there was falling snow, and we were all happy to share time together.

The economy dampens my spirit, and increases my stress.  It affects us all.  Chris and I are taking things a day at a time and trying to focus on what's important, and release the things we can't control.  [Remind me I said that when I freak out - please.]  I hope everyone was/is able to enjoy the simple things this holiday season.

Mary in her pretty dress...

 

My brother, my friend.

My brother Mallory Joe has always been one of my closest friends.  He's my only sibling and I'm older by three years. 

NOTE:  I only refer to him as Mallory in a loving way.  Our personalities were parallel to Alex and Mallory Keaton on the 1980s show Family Ties.  I was like Alex and Joe was like Mallory.  We've always been able to laugh at ourselves... and each other.

Growing up, friends teased us.  They said it was weird that we got along so well.  "Chrisy and Joey never fight.  So weird."  It was true - mostly.  We generally got along and played well together as young kids, and as teenagers we were tight.

I attribute this NOT to any inherent kindness or gentleness within my brother Mallory Joe or me, but to Mother.  On the occasion we had a kid fight, she would say and do the following:

1. If we hit one another then tattled, Mom would say, "Chrisy, if you really need to hit your brother, go ahead.  I'll just watch.  Go on now.  Hit him.  What?  You don't want to.  Joey, maybe you'd like to hit your sister?  Come on... let her have it."  My brother Mallory Joe and I would look at each other like she was sooo stupid, and try not to laugh.  It worked though.

2. She dramatically lectured us after each argument about how there's NO ONE in the ENTIRE world as close as siblings.  The BLOOD that ran through our veins was sibling blood.  Not even she and Dad were that close.  NOTHING was more important than the relationship between siblings.  The lecture was powerful every time I heard it.

3. Mother always made us apologize, hug and say I love you.  Always.

Except... for the times she wasn't there to lead us in a rousing rendition of Kumbaya.  We relied on our training to find Shangri-La, and it usually went something like this...

[My brother Mallory Joe 17, me 19 (home from college for a weekend), ending an argument about something important like, what kind of drink he should (beer) or should NOT (a Blue Hawaiian - duh) order when I get he and his friends into a bar when they visit me at school and ALL sleep in my dorm room.]

Joe:  You're just an uptight bitch!
Me:  YOU'RE an uptight bitch!
Joe:  Ha ha.  Bitch.
Me:  Bitch.
Joe:  You're an idiot.
Me:  You're a bitch.

[...]

Joe:  Wanna go sit on the swing set and have a cigarette?
Me:  I don't have any.
Joe:  I do.
Me:  Okay...  I'm sorry.
Joe.  I'm sorry too.

We hug.  My brother Mallory Joe gets the cigarettes and a lighter.  We climb to the top of an old swing set in the backyard.  It's dark.  We sit quietly, and share one cigarette between the two of us.

Me:  Are you sure the neighbors can't see us?
Joe:  No.  Just hide the cherry.

[...]

Joe:  Hurry.  Here they come.
Me:  How can you tell?
Joe:  I know their lights.  Give me the smoke!  Go!

I hand my brother Mallory Joe the cigarette, run inside the house, grab his Polo Cologne and spray it all over myself and him as he comes in the back door.  We hear the garage door open.  We frantically wash our hands, run to the couch, assume relaxed positions and turn on the Weird Science video we'd rented for the 10th time that year.

Mom and Dad walk in, smile at each other and say, "Isn't it nice to see the kids enjoying each other?"

Kumbaya.  Puff-puff.

Does it hurt? Will it make me pretty? I'll do it!

Chris received an email recently from a business acquaintance who's launching a new web service.  It's called Beta Test Beauty and it's "...a market research service for skin and beauty-care makers..." They're seeking people who are interested in sampling products then answering a survey.  The products are provided free and participants will be paid.  I've signed up, but have no personal experience to share yet - good or bad.  Check it out if you'd like.

My Beauty Philosophy (today)
I don't begrudge any person for wanting to look attractive.  I currently don't judge women or men who choose to use Botox, Fillers, Thermage, Lasers, etc... if it enhances their self esteem.  I also admire those people who are at peace with their appearance and don't feel the need to moisturize, plump, fluff or pluck.  How freeing that must be.

My Skin History (like you care)
In the 1970s I recall laying in the sun with Mother.  If I was reading a book, resulting in my face looking down towards my lap, she would lovingly say, "Chrisy, tilt your head back.  Your face needs a little sun."  I was eleven.  She was only trying to be helpful.

In the 1980s I lifeguarded during the summers throughout high school and college.  I never wore sunscreen.  Ever.  On my days off, I sunbathed in a bikini so I wouldn't have Speedo tan lines.

During the winters while attending college at NAU in Flagstaff, Arizona, I worked at Snowbowl - a ski area - in the Rental Shop.  I loved having a tan face from skiing, and often sat outside during my work breaks, tipping my face to the strong, mountain sun.  No sunscreen.  Ever.

In the 1990s Chris and I raced mountain bikes.  The unique tan lines cyclists get are a badge of honor, but for a gal, not so pretty.  When not riding, I sunbathed to even out my tan.  For hours.  Again, no sunscreen.

Ruh-Roh (not looking like the other girls my age?)
When I turned 35 in 2001, I looked in the mirror and said, "Shit."  Years of sun worship had taken their toll.  I vowed to use sunscreen daily, leave behind my tanorexia, and pursue safe wrinkle-reducing creams and strategies.  Pale is *pretty*, I decided.  I also became a marketer's dream.

The Products (you name it, I tried it)
I've tried everything over the past seven years.  Expensive, inexpensive, and infomercial products.

Little by little my skin began looking better. 

I can't tell you if it was Creme De La Mer, Darphin, La Prairie, Strivectin, Mary Kay, faithful sunscreen usage, or Kathie Lee Gifford's stuff on QVC.  Maybe a combination of everything, but there was a definite improvement.  The fact that I hadn't been baking my skin for a few years helped, I'm certain.

Then, I plateaued around the age of 40.  Nothing seemed to work any more.

Mother (trying to be helpful, and usually right)
"You know Honey, a little Botox and Filler wouldn't hurt you...  I really like that More magazine.  You should read it..."  She's been trying to get me to read More since I was 35 and accused her of prematurely aging me. [FYI, Mother has only heard that Botox and Filler are a "good thing".]

Botox and Filler vs. Expensive Creams? (laughing, snickering, winking with those who know)
So I did it .  Not a lot of it, and only a couple of times.  Mother took me in July of 2007 and I got some Botox and Filler.  To be honest, it was too much Botox and since then, I've found the amount that softens deep lines without affecting expression.  I've been told by close friends that it's so subtle, why do I bother?  Because it makes me feel better.  That's why.

The only creams I use on my face now are Retin-A and Neutrogena SPF 45.

Confessions
1.  Even though I signed up for the Beta Test Beauty project, I can't imagine I'll ever return to spending money on creams and serums.  Retin-A, sunscreen, and a little Botox twice a year...  I'm good.  Even if I don't do Botox - the Retin-A and sunscreen are better than anything I've done prior.  [Mother gets me Retin-A in Mexico.  Shhh.]

2.  I like More magazine.  I don't have a subscription, but I pick up an issue occasionally.

3.  Mother was right.  She usually is.  Except for the part where she prematurely aged my skin.

4.  I haven't had Botox in over six months and it REALLY does leave the body in 3-4 months.  I didn't believe people who said that, until I'd done it myself and felt sad when it's effects were gone.  I don't know when I'll do it again, but I will, and it won't be very much, but I'll feel happy, even if no one else notices.

5.  I had Filler in my nasal labial folds - the parenthesis on each side of the mouth.  FYI, Botox does not hurt.  Filler hurts.

Moral of the Story
Whether you're choosing to age naturally or... not... Use hair color, hair remover, moisturizers, sunscreen, make-up or... not... Let's try not to judge one another.  I don't get professional manicures...  you don't bleach your mustache.  We can still be friends.

Just a few more...

I've been tagged by two people for the same meme.  Tristan, who blogs but you can't go to her site because it's not for the puh-blic, tagged me, and so did Mrs. Maxwell.  It's a "7 Random Things" tag so I'll make it short.  I was tagged with a similar meme in August that you can read here if you're interested.

1.  I HATE scary movies.

2.  I've never brined a turkey, but I'm giving it a try this Thanksgiving.

3.  Chris (my husband) and I have the same initials and similar names.  He's Christopher Alan Ross, and I'm Christina Ann Ross.  When we were married and received our first set of checks with our full names on the top, I was concerned people might think I/he/we were a transsexual in the process of gender reassignment surgery.  [Chris was disturbed that I could think of such a thing.]

4.  I carry packets of Taco Bell Mild Sauce in my purse so I can occasionally rip them open with my teeth and swallow a squirt while driving.  I love Taco Bell Mild Sauce.

5.  Mary (our dog) escaped yesterday and was gone for an hour.  When she returned home, I was convinced she'd been violated.  Mother told me it was impossible because Mary's been fixed and unless coyotes held her little arms down, an unwanted dog assault simply could NOT happen.  [This thought disturbs Chris too.]

6.  I like to sneeze and poop.  Not at the same time.

7.  I spend too much time alone.

I promise to not do one of these again for a long time.  TMI and my filters are all distorted.  I apologize.  If you'd like to participate, consider yourself tagged.  Go!