CSquaredPlus3

Be Cool

Early January 1987

"Be cool."  That's all I requested of my brother and his two friends after we got into the bar.  Joe and his buddies were 17 and I was 20.  We all had fake IDs, but Joe & Company didn't look old enough to drive.

I was living in a condo at the Continental Country Club in Flagstaff, Arizona, pretending to attend college that year.  Joe and his friends came up from Phoenix to ski for a weekend and partay with the big kids.  Classes hadn't resumed after first semester break, so the town was relatively dead.  Getting three young-looking boys into a bar with obvious fake IDs, and using my own ridiculous alias of Lupita Gonzalez wasn't difficult when I knew the bouncer at Senior Frog's.

My boyfriend at the time was a nice SAE who lived in a neighboring condo with about 457 other guys.  He was amused by my brother and his friends, also knew the bouncer and thought I might need some help.  SAE-Boy and a couple of his roommates joined us that night.

I wore my cutest Belinda Carlilse "Mad About You" outfit [black leggings and black hip-covering turtleneck] with a 3/4-length red wool coat.  Joe and his friends looked very preppy.  Sweaters tied around their necks, spiffy loafers, coiffed hair and they smelled niiice.

The bar wasn't crowded but there were enough people to make it interesting.  I mingled with strangers, found a few familiar faces and lost track of SAE-Boy, my brother and his friends.  I tossed my coat over a seat at the bar next to an old guy [he was probably 30].  The old guy told me he'd keep an eye on it for me.

Throughout the evening I noticed the bartender making big fruity drinks.  Very unusual in a small, college town bar in the middle of winter.  I also noticed the bartender and the bouncer exchanging glances, shaking their heads and appearing generally irritated.

SAE-Boy approached me and said, "That old guy threw-up on your coat."

The old guy had leaned over [aiming for the floor], emptied his stomach, and some of his yack had gotten on my red coat.  Time to go home.

I went to find my brother.  Joe and his friends were sitting in a corner booth, at a table that was a little too high for them, emphasizing their youth/still small-ish stature, sipping giant blue drinks decorated with umbrellas, swords, fruit and bendy straws.  They were laughing and flirting with a couple of obliging college girls.

Mortified, I walked over to Joe and said, "What are you doing?  I told you to be cool."

He gave me a sincerely confused look.

"What are you drinking?"

"Blue Hawaiians.  Wanna sip?"  As he offered me his glass, I thought how much he and his friends looked like various versions of Anthony Michael Hall.  They were a scene from a John Hughes movie.

I took a sip.  "We need to go.  Some old guy threw-up on my coat and you guys should be drinking beer.  Nobody orders Blue Hawaiians."

Joe and his friends conspicuously and happily finished their drinks, sucking all the alcohol out of the pineapple pieces.  They grabbed the paper cocktail parasols along with their coats, and we left Senior Frog's.

**********

My brother turns 41 today.  Our birthdays are less than two weeks apart so as adults, before life separated us by a state or two, we usually celebrated together at Mom and Dad's house.  I have at least a dozen pictures of the two of us holding our shared cake while Mom takes our picture.

Happy Birthday, Joe.  When I see you this July, let's go out for Blue Hawaiians.

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.

In Sync

I'm not exaggerating when I say our three sons were all dreadful sleepers as infants and toddlers.  Even now, at the ages of 12, 10 and 4, we rarely make it through an entire week without a middle-of-the-night blood sugar issue, bed-wetting incident or nightmare.  Sleep deprivation is debilitating, especially when it lasts for years.  Not that it's a competition, but it takes a lot for someone to trump the length and extent of sleep deprivation that Chris and I have endured.  Regardless, we muster compassion for anyone who's experienced lack of sleep, even those on the less severe end of the spectrum.

Chris' career hasn't required him to travel much over the years, which means we've been able to enjoy most of the hellish, sleepless nights together.  Recently Chris has been traveling a bit more.  With the boys a little older and all of us better rested, a sharp contrast has emerged in how I physiologically react when Chris tells me he has a trip approaching and how I ultimately manage the challenge.

**********

NEWS OF THE TRIP
Then - Seize, whine, then apologize to Chris for seizing and whining, and immediately start mini-therapying myself by repeating affirmations of my patient mothering skills and ability to function on zero sleep.

Now - Calmly say, "No problem," plan what shows I'll watch after the kids go to bed and debate internally if it's poor parenting to have a glass or two of wine when Chris is out of town.

ANTICIPATION
Then - Knowing Chris had a trip planned created tremendous anxiety for me.  I lost precious sleep worrying about the fact that I would get even less sleep when he was away.  I always managed my single-parenting days and nights better than I thought I would, but with the fear I might "fail" [not knowing what that would look like, but knowing I didn't want to find out] sitting on my shoulder.

Now - I don't hyperventilate anymore when Chris gives me his travel dates.  Occasionally the boys and I have a long night or complicated day, but we don't have multiple challenging days stacked one on top of the other, week after week, month after month, year after year.  I can deal with "typical" curve balls.

SLEEP
Then - I simply didn't sleep well, if at all.  The kids were up many times a night.  Someone usually threw-up.  If it wasn't a child, it was a dog.  When the house was quiet for twenty minutes at 2:00 AM, instead of sleeping, I tortured myself with envious thoughts of Chris sleeping soundly in a hotel bed while simultaneously missing him in ours.  I struggled with bad dreams, so I rarely slept deeply.

Now - I sleep great.  Sometimes a boy needs something in the night, but it's manageable.  I still have a vivid imagination and experience a nightmare once in a while, but it seems better now.  Maybe because I'm getting more sleep.  It's also much easier to make my bed in the morning.  I enjoy that.  Bonus!

SCHEDULES [Chris takes the older boys to school when he's home.]
Then - Awakening a baby who slept poorly the night prior, placing him in a backward facing car seat when what he really wanted to do was nurse [ALL DAY], was difficult.  The four-year-old [then baby] was a car screamer.  It upset the two older boys and lasted until he was three-years-old.  No joke.

Now - I prepare the four-year-old the night prior, explaining his father is out of town so we get to take the big boys to school.  This reverse psychology worked a few times but now he groans.  He doesn't like being woken from a deep sleep, pulled from a warm bed and placed in a cold car seat.  But he does it without protest.  Sounds small, but it sends me to the moon.

**********

Chris is out of town.

Yesterday morning as I uncovered my four-year-old son's warm, sleeping body, I whispered, "Good morning.  It's time to take the big boys to school.  I'll carry you."  He rolled towards me, eyes closed, hair sticking up like a rooster and reached out obediently.  I picked him up and drew in his scent  --  clean sheets and lavender soap from his bath 12 hours prior -- and I reminded myself to never forget this moment, how perfectly we fit together as he clung to me.  I felt happy and content.

I carried him downstairs and put him in his car seat, the big boys quietly helped me by opening doors, handing me the four-year-old's blanket, and double-checking the house for lights that needed to be turned off and doors that needed to be locked.  We were in sync.

Five minutes into the thirty-minute drive, the four-year-old's eyes were open and he looked peaceful.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if we could listen to his iPod, but asked if we could call his dad first.  We called Chris and left a voice message telling him we missed and loved him, and wished him a good day.

Chris will be home late tonight, maybe even early tomorrow morning.  I used to memorize or have handy flight details, hotels, meeting times, etc...  It's not that I don't have that information... somewhere, I'm just... I don't know... busier, better rested, able to send and receive texts [finally].

The boys and I are glad Chris doesn't travel much or for very long.  But now when he does, we all work together to fill in the gap created by his absence.  Sleep helps; so do restaurants.  I might not be hyperventilating waiting for his return like I used to, but just like then, it's nice to have the other guy home so I can poke him in the middle of the night and groggily demand, "Cuddle me.  I had a bad dream."

Hoops

All the advice about bloggers sticking with one blog is true.  I've nearly abandoned See Chrisy Run [my other blog].  It's still there, but I haven't updated since Supermodel and I finished our final race last September.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

More importantly, I don't know what my next event/goal will be, if any.  Supermodel kind of broke up with me after the trauma of the Triple Trail Challenge.  I might have pushed her too far when I enthusiastically made reference to how great the events would be next year because we would be experienced trail racers.  I had this discussion with her less than an hour after she crossed the finish line of our last event -- a grueling trail marathon.  She was clearly irritated by my attempt to muscle her into being my training partner again while she was still trying to hydrate, catch her breath and wipe the blood from her body as she repeatedly mumbled, "That sucked."

I reminded Supermodel that it was just like having a baby.  We forget the pain moments after delivery.  She told me she's had six children and vividly remembers the pain of each birth.  She also informed me she didn't want to run with me during the winter months. 

I workout before the kids get up for school, so I'm typically out the door by 5:00 AM.  Supermodel had a little more flexibility with her schedule so she didn't need to run in the middle of the night in the winter.  I don't run alone in the dark, so Chris said he'd run with me at the offensive hour.

Winter has come and gone.  Chris ran with me on several cold, dark, snowy mornings.

One morning I was waiting for him to come downstairs.  Steam was swirling above his lovingly poured cup of coffee and our cold weather gear was thoughtfully displayed on the counter.  I was in the office checking my email... and the windchill.  Chris entered the office dressed in his warmest running tights and turtleneck, looked out the french doors at the snowfall [which would have been pretty had the wind not been driving it horizontally -- it was harsh], and calmly said, "I'm not running in this shit."  He turned around and walked back upstairs.

Supermodel asked how it was going running with Chris.  I told her it was great -- he'd only called one run.  She said she wouldn't have wanted to run in that weather either.  "He just has the balls to stand up to you," I believe were her exact words.  Whatever.

Now what?  I'm reviewing training plans, plotting event dates against our summer plans, and working on Supermodel and/or Chris for a commitment to... something.  So far, no dice.

I do have one goal...

We have an arcade-style basketball game in the basement.  On occasion, I play by myself.  A couple of weeks ago I hit what I thought was a family high-score for a one-minute solo game.  I called Chris and left him a message.

"Know your busy, but I was in the basement tidying... anyway... I played a few games of basketball.  What's your high-score?  I think I beat it.  Sixty-four.  Uh-huh.  Six. Tee. Four.  Call me."

Chris returned my call and said he didn't remember his exact score, but knows he broke 80 once and hit the 70s a few times.  I didn't believe him.  He said he was in the zone and one of the boys was his witness. Further probing revealed that Middle Boy [10] witnessed the high score, however he's been known to stretch the truth, and succumb to the power of suggestion.  Doesn't matter.  The score to beat is 80.

Chris has taunted me with email subject lines that say "made it to 80 yet?"  And salutations like "Hey Hoops."

Sixty-eight.  That was my highest score until a few moments ago.  I went downstairs to take a picture for this post.  I played one game before returning upstairs.  One game.  My score?  SEVENTY-EIGHT.

I feel a sore trapezius muscle coming on...

My Money Troubles

Our four year-old son attends preschool three afternoons a week for a couple of hours.  We live just far enough away from the school that it doesn't make sense for me to return home.  I went through this with our two older sons when they were preschool age.  In the past, I've used the time to run errands, go for a jog near the school, meet Chris for lunch, and purchase [then return] stuff we don't need.  It's amazing how many things you think you can't live without at Target, Home Depot or Costco when you're killing time three afternoons a week... for a year.

My current goal while the 4YO is at school is to accomplish real, productive, must-be-done [not buying-stuff-we-don't-need] errands, or find free Wi-Fi so I can dork around on the internet.  For one dollar per visit, I can use the public library's Wi-Fi, not have to purchase an expensive cup of coffee or too-large muffin, and "work" in a quiet environment.  I've enjoyed my afternoons at the library and consider my time there a display of sincere effort to adhere to one of my 2010 resolutions -- living more frugally.

I arrived at the library one afternoon last week, and I handed the young, persnickety, male librarian-in-training a one-dollar bill.  Not just any one-dollar bill, but a crisp, clean, wrinkle-free, good bill.

Self-Disclosure:  When I have good money in my wallet, I hate to spend it.  I can't get rid of bad money fast enough.  Handing a cashier a good $20 bill, then receiving crumpled, bad bills as change makes me feel like I've lost a bet.  When I receive good bills as change, I win... obviously.

I hated handing over that perfect dollar.  I ensured no other perfect bills were clinging to it, as is a common occurrence with good money.  The librarian-in-training handed me my temporary Wi-Fi card and I headed to the Quiet Area.

As I approached the information desk located in front of the Quiet Area, I saw an 8 1/2" x 11" piece of white paper taped to the front of the desk with the words, "NO WIFI TODAY".

Grrr.

I made eye contact with the older, heavy-set woman sitting behind the desk.  She shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, "Sorry."  I softened my expression and mouthed, "Oh well..."

I returned to the librarian-in-training and told him that the Wi-Fi was unavailable today, and asked if I could please have my dollar back.  He apologized and thanked me for letting him know.  I handed him the temporary library card and he handed me... a soft, faded, over-used, dirty one-dollar bill.  It was not my dollar.

It had been less than 60 seconds since our initial exchange.  It was a straight shot from the information desk to the library entrance.  No one had entered or exited after me.  I would have noticed with my peripheral vision, or the eyes in the back of my head.  My dollar should have been the first dollar on the small pile of dollars in the drawer.

The young, persnickety, male librarian-in-training looked at me, and in an instant, I knew that he knew that I knew that he purposely gave me the bad dollar.

I have been known to request a different piece of money from a cashier if I'm handed a particularly ratty bill.  Some cashiers are noticeably annoyed, but occasionally, a more mature [or equally neurotic] person sympathetically apologizes and honors my request.

On this day, I was looking into the eyes of an equally neurotic, yet competitive [likely bored] individual.  Without uttering words, we had a conversation with our eyes.  He began...

"I know you want the good dollar back, but I'm going to make you ask for it so you'll feel awkward and petty as you out yourself as a neurotic person."

"I won't give you the satisfaction, because I know that you prefer having my dollar in your cash drawer to satisfy your own neurosis.  You like good dollars, too.  I'm tougher, more flexible, less neurotic than YOU."

"Ha!  I win!  You lose!  Now you'll have to thank me, walk out of the library, bathe your hands in the giant container of Purell, that I'm certain you have in your car, then you'll drive to the nearest Starbucks so you can unload that bad dollar in the tip jar.  Ha!"

"You may have gotten the good dollar this time, you weird, little, librarian-in-training person, but I'll be back.  And next time... I'll have a bad dollar.  A reeeally bad dollar."

I gave the librarian-in-training a pursed-lip smile as I tried to smooth the flimsy hard-lived dollar into the type of bill that stays where it's supposed to when placed in a G-string, willing the bad dollar to behave like it had been starched.  Didn't work.

I shoved the dollar in my wallet... then I drove straight to Starbucks.

Tamale and Slash; A Boy and His Personal Brand

A couple of weeks ago, Middle Boy's beloved fish, Rainbow, went to the big fishbowl in the sky.  Rainbow was a betta and Middle Boy's first personal pet.  Mary, our dog, doesn't really count because Mary and Middle Boy never hit it off, especially after the two unfortunate pooping incidents of 2003.  One on his bed, and one almost on his lap.  It was as if the dog and the boy knew immediately that they didn't like one another seven years ago. 

Middle Boy [now 10] has always loved animals, so one year, his deductive reasoning skills led him to the conclusion that because Mary was an animal, and because he loved all living creatures, he must love Mary.  He's a logical child so the sound arguments left him no other choice.  I'm certain he continues to rely on this rationale every time Mary glares at him or chews holes in the carpet under his bed.

Rainbow's passing was heavy in our home.  The sadness he experienced surprised Middle Boy, which subsequently surprised and moved me.  He came down the stairs nervously saying, Rainbow's dead. He was fine this morning. Together we confirmed that, in fact, it was curtains for Rainbow.  Middle Boy wanted to execute the flushing ceremony himself, even after the color drained from his face when he thought he saw blood in Rainbow's habitat. [There was no blood.]

It was a long, sad afternoon.  I cleaned the fish tank.  I also removed some fishsticks from the freezer, per Middle Boy's request.  "Too painful," he said. [He's since managed to choke down salmon and shrimp, so I think he's recovered from the "seafood-is-Rainbow" PTSD.]

Middle Boy found comfort in processing his thoughts aloud.  I don't think I fed him too much.  He didn't act sick.  I've had him for almost two years.  That's old for a betta.  I think he died of old age.  Probably in his sleep.  That's gotta be it.

I finally asked, "Would you like a new fish?  Would that make you feel better?"

He tried not to jump on the offer, but I could tell it was exactly what he wanted.  "I think so," he said.  "Not to replace Rainbow, of course.  Just to help me with my grief."

We went to the store to purchase a fish.  Middle Boy wanted to make sure the new fish didn't resemble Rainbow.  Again he reminded me, Rainbow could never be replaced.

The new fish is bright red and perky.  He flutters and swims when he hears voices.  Middle Boy noticed that Tamale [the fish's name] does not like to be observed eating and we've been instructed to leave the room when the fish is fed.  He needs PRIVACY, Mom.

 

Middle Boy gave me permission to share this tender fish story.  In an effort to balance his soft side, he also gave me permission to share a drawing he created a few days ago.  It's Slash from Guns N' Roses, one of Middle Boy's idols.

Middle Boy -- a fish loving, electric guitar playing, softhearted, appreciative of the edgy and cool set, ten year-old.  I hope he never changes.

The Zen Of My Sons On A Beach

The boys have a two-week spring break every year.  It's great.  Long enough to do something special, as well as rest and refortify.

This year we chose to drive to Anaheim, California, and hit some theme parks.  The drive was only nine hours with Leadfoot Ross at the helm.  Chris and I have become pros at delicately balancing nutritional needs with dehydration while on the road to minimize needless bathroom breaks.  The kids are fine.

My fears about having a "caboose" child were vividly realized on this vacation.  I always wanted to have children close together to avoid the "Space Mountain vs. Tea Cups" dilemma.  Oldest Boy [12] and Middle Boy [10] had a blast riding thrill rides with their father.  Four-Year-Old-Boy and I spent a lot of time perusing gift shops, buying trinkets and toys he didn't need, and eating over-priced snacks.  He was completely overwhelmed by the noise, the music, the characters and the intensity of all things animated and robotic.

The sun even seemed to shine painfully brighter for the four-year-old.  He selected a pair of pink, bejeweled High School Musical sunglasses that he now wears all the time.  His father is so proud.

 

We were in California for a week and managed to hit Disneyland, California Adventure, SeaWorld and Universal Studios, in spite of the fact that we were all battling a virus.  The same virus I'm certain attacks all families as they embark on a much anticipated and valued family vacation.  We medicated.  Problem Solved.

[A medicated family is a happy family!]

We spent our final day of vacation on the beach.  Even though it was cool and breezy, the boys enjoyed flirting with the water and playing in the sand.  I sat on some rocks, taking a few photos and video, and minding our things.  I occasionally irritated all four of my white fellas when I interrupted their fun to reapply sunscreen, or remind Oldest Boy to check his blood sugar, snack or reattach his pump for a quick bolus of insulin.

My interruptions didn't affect them for long... 

[Chris and the boys - JOY!]
 

As I sat looking at the ocean and smelling the air, I looked up at the sky and thought of my grandmother.  She passed away in August 2009.  Before she died, she promised that if she was able [without scaring me], she would contact me after her death to give me the real scoop.  I summoned her, sitting there on those rocks.  Can you hear me, Mamaw?  Please answer me.  I've been waiting for months.  Where are you?  You promised.  There are so many things I need to talk with you about...

I waited, and still, nothing.  I miss her.  I need advice about some specific issues, and her thoughts on some general ones.  Sitting on those rocks, my mind meandered and bounced.  I thought about the past, the present, the future.  I continued to knock on Heaven's door... seeking Mamaw.

Then... I think I heard something.  It was probably my own voice, but allow me to pretend it was her's.  She gently said, Shhh.  I'm watching those wonderful boys play on the beach.  I suggest you do the same.

Priorities - Spring Break 2010 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

True Love

A very long time ago, a 17 year-old girl and an 18 year-old boy fell in love.  They married, probably too soon and adolescent by most people's standards, but I have to assume the passion was intoxicating, as it always is in young love.  They were joined by a baby girl shortly after.

There was a war that separated the young lovers, but they managed to conceive another baby girl.  The young father didn't meet his second daughter until she was two years-old.  Not uncommon for war babies.

After the war, the boy, now a man, returned home full of ambition and purpose.  Very intelligent, he was accepted to the Thunderbird School of Global Management, which at the time was a prestigious new school.  He graduated, began working for a global company, succeeded in climbing the corporate ladder and moved his wife and daughters to Manila, Philippines, where he assumed a significant leadership role for a large corporation.

A son was born in Manila.  The family was happy, healthy and wealthy.  They wanted for nothing.  There was a maid, a driver, a gardener, a houseboy, even people to sew haute couture dresses for the girls as they began attending formal parties.  They were able to travel the world and see sites with personal guides.  Life was good.

Then again... life was life.  Things happen.  People make mistakes.  There were parties and drinking and more parties.  It was glamorous to have a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other.  One thing led to another and the man began an affair with his assistant.

The girls had grown into young women and returned to the United States to attend college.  The mother and her son eventually followed.  There was a divorce.  The man married his assistant.  The woman remained single, although fielded a proposal or two in subsequent years.

Life continued.  Even though he'd married another, the man still loved the woman, and she him.  He returned to the United States with his new wife, battled heart disease and other demons.  The new wife seemed to understand where she fit into the hierarchy of his love.

Sadly, the still single woman, now a grandmother -- my grandmother -- developed esophageal cancer.  She lost her fight in a small Indiana town at the age of 69.  In a large California city, the married man, now a grandfather -- my grandfather -- followed her fight and was deeply saddened to hear of her loss.

I grew up hearing about the love affair that was my grandparents'.  It was difficult for me to understand why they just didn't run back into each other's arms.  My grandmother told me stories dripping with adventure, love, passion and heartbreak.  It's complicated, she would say.  Even at a young age, I began to appreciate this.

I want to believe that some people have a "love of their life".  As I've talked with the women in my family and some mature female friends, it saddens me to know that a few have experienced life's one true love, but it had escaped them, for a variety of reasons and circumstances.  But many managed to make a life with someone they loved.

In 1990 I traveled to Indiana for Grandmother's memorial service.  I had been married less than a year.  When I arrived at my aunt's small apartment, where Grandmother died, there was a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses.  It was from Grandad.  The card read, Goodnight Sweetheart.  I'll see you in my dreams.

True story.  Happy Valentine's Day.

The Dangerous Post About Religion

Politics and religion.  I've purposely not written much about either subject.  Not my expertise or my schtick.  Until now.

Organized religion fascinates me.  I'm drawn to rituals and traditions.  As a child raised in a small midwestern town, I watched neighbors faithfully attend various churches every Sunday.  People streamed like little ducks into the Methodist Church, some the Lutheran, and some to the nondenominational Main Street Christian Church -- the church where my family made an occasional appearance [usually on amateur night... Christmas or Easter].

When I was 11, I asked my mother if she believed in God.  She said it wasn't important what she believed, what was important was what I believed.  She told me all she knew for certain was that there was something deep inside of her -- a feeling -- that helped her discern the difference between right and wrong.  She said some other things too, but she supported me when I wanted to attend church, Mass or synagogue with friends, learn about Campus Crusade for Christ, or join the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.  Most of my friends had a tangible family religion.  I wanted one too.

I tried.  I kind of felt it, but I also faked it.  I tried again.  I prayed.  I meditated.  And I felt it -- and faked it -- again.

Christianity Seemed To Be The New Black

After the birth of our first two sons, Chris and I felt compelled to give them religion.  Having been raised in an agnostic household like I was, Chris struggled with me on how to accomplish this.  We attended a Unity Church in Kansas City for a brief period.  I cried a lot when we went, especially when we sang. Church -- corporate worship in general -- typically moves me.  It was okay, but still not right for us.

While enduring a very difficult and heartbreaking time with one of our young sons, a Christian friend and neighbor encouraged us to attend church with them.  Although I'd referred to myself as a Christian since I'd been a child, I REALLY jumped into Christianity with both feet.  I read The Good Book many times, as well as the works of Christian apologists, went to bible studies, conferences, and saw Josh McDowell speak.  I wanted to understand, know and feel what everyone else seemed to so comfortably embrace.

I was there.  I got it.  Chris got it.  We believed.  It made perfect sense, even with the leap of faith that is a part of all religions...  at least it made perfect sense most of the time.  In hindsight, there was a little bit of faking it, and an abundance of trying and smiling.

No Need To Debate

My goal isn't to change anyone's belief system or disprove a religion.  On the contrary, I would never presume to convince anyone of something that I'm not 100% certain of myself.  I haven't rejected Christianity in total; I simply can no longer fake... anything.  We've met some nice people through the churches we've attended, but I can honestly say that none of those people remained close to us when our church attendance began decreasing.  An all-or-nothing approach to social activities and relationships that were rooted in the church began to feel... not right... for us.  Not that it's a bad thing, because clearly there are many, many people whose lives revolve around their faith, and it's a positive thing for them.  I live in Utah.  Remember?  I understand.

I tried it on.  I wore it until the weight of the fabric became too heavy for me.  I unbuttoned a few buttons, shed a few inches from the hem, and finally stepped out of my dress.  For me, I could breathe again.  Ironically, many of my friends describe that feeling when they step in to their faith.  I'm truly tolerant and accepting of the beliefs of others.  I don't judge my devout, or non-devout, friends.  I suppose because I'm human, I'm prone to a bit of judgment, but my intentions are to understand.

What It Looks Like Now

We don't attend church as regularly as we used to.  The boys have a foundation in Christianity, but we were beginning to feel like we were brainwashing them.  It was time to back off... for us.  Not completely turn the bus around, but slow down.  Way down.

When I say I'll pray for you.  Know that I will.  Usually with Chris and the boys.  Without exaggeration, we get on our knees every night as a family, give thanks, pray for the needs of others and for ourselves.   We talk to God.  Together.  I also talk to God when I run, when I do dishes, when I'm walking through the mall.

The new phrase seems to be "reverently agnostic".  Maybe that's what I am.  I'm not sure.  Maybe a quiet, questioning Christian.  Maybe a phony, maybe not.

We named one of our sons James, although he doesn't go by James, Jim or Jimmy.  James is a short book in the bible.  I've always liked it.  Probably because it was short and easy to understand.  I'm also a huge fan of James Taylor.  What's not to like?  Our son's name will forever be a reminder of the beliefs I straddle and struggle to understand.  

In this moment, I find myself spiritually fed by this...

Coupons

I've always known I wanted to be a mother and a wife.  There was never a doubt in my mind.  As a young girl I embraced all things domestic.  I remember convincing my brother it would be fun to clean and organize the laundry room for Mom one afternoon.  I was eight.  My brother was five.  It would be a few more years before my brother wasn't such an easy sale, and I had to play "house-dork" alone.

I assumed I'd have two children, probably because that's what my family looked like.  My childhood friend, Samantha Kelly, and I concluded that all little girls had a tiny baby in their stomachs, and when we grew-up, the baby would be ready to crawl out our belly buttons and join us in life.  I don't recall which one of us initiated that theory or how we explained the arrival of subsequent children.

When I learned the truth, like many young girls, I was mortified.  I decided I would get married, do what needed to be done to have two children, but only if I was completely sedated both times I had to do it.  [Funny.  I have three children so I actually did it THREE times.]

Whether it was a college dorm room or an apartment, I liked my environment to be fresh, homey and organized.  My roommate, Em, allowed me to grocery shop for us and knew I didn't mind cleaning and cooking.  Some of it was my need to be in control and do things "right", but I also enjoyed it.

When Chris and I were first married, going to the grocery store was one of my favorite weekly chores.  The Sunday paper was worth it's weight in gold because of all the coupons.  I'm an ROI kind of gal, so the money I saved with coupons more than paid for our newspaper subscription.

I cut coupons, organized them by category and date, and used them faithfully.  Basha's, a grocery story near our first apartment that I knew so well I was able to make my shopping list in the order of the aisles [some call it OCD, I call it efficiency], had a Bargain Booster program similar to the S&H Green Stamp program I grew up watching my mother participate in.  When I noticed someone manhandling their stamps, I politely asked if I could have them.  Some days, with a combination of coupons and filled Bargain Booster cards, I was practically paid to purchase an item.

Because money was tight, I often shopped on Thursday nights after work.  Friday was payday, and twenty years ago, floating checks really worked.  No instant electronic transfer, thankfully. 

Once or twice a month I treated myself to a magazine like Glamour or Allure, justifying the purchase with all the money I'd saved using coupons.  I read every word of every article and advertisement.  Several times.  It was decadent to me.

The simple things in life truly made me happy.

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

Sunday afternoon, as I schlepped around parking lots with dirty slush from melting snow and carts not placed in the cart returns, trying to find more room in the back of my car to unload yet another stop's purchases... I felt tired and burdened.  Costco, the grocery store, PetSmart... then home to cook dinner.  All after sledding with Chris and the boys earlier in the day.  Chris had been out of town the week prior.  We were all tired.

I don't cut coupons anymore.  The payoff hasn't been worth the time it takes to sift through them... at least for grocery items.  Occasionally I'll find coupons for the children's museum, a haircut, or other service.  I like those.

I'm not as organized as I used to be.  Or clean. 

In spite of the busy days, complicated schedules and routines, heavier housework, fatigue, and the words "wash me" on the back window of my car in one of my son's unmistakable handwriting, I have to remind myself to remember...  this is what I've always wanted.

It's good, sincerely, but I'm not going to be sedated for a fourth time... unless Chris has a coupon.

Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes...

Twenty ten has a nice ring to it.  I've heard several people say, "This is MY year!  Good things are going to happen in twenty ten!"  The number is attractive to look at... 2010... it rolls off the tongue... it's hopeful and happy like a sunny day.

I've had a hard time jumping into the new year.  A mire of thoughts, goals and disappointments have temporarily bound me.  But... Here comes the sun.  Doot 'n doo doo.  Here comes the sun. And I say... it's all right...

I'm choosing to focus on two very important "Ef" words this year.

Photo courtesy of Google Images.

**********

FRUGALITY
My grandmother died August 20, 2009.  I continue to miss her.  I periodically watch video just to hear her voice and experience her as fully as I can.  There weren't many things left after Mamaw died.  She had a desk and some bedroom furniture that fit nicely in her room at the assisted living facility.  My dad said I was welcome to it.

The furniture wasn't valuable, but it was solid.  I don't know the history behind the desk, other than she'd always had it.  The bedroom furniture was purchased in 1939, the year my grandparents were married.  They weren't rich people, but they had enough money to replace furniture if they needed to.  Their belief: If something was functional and well-maintained, why would a person spend money to replace it?  Wasteful!  Mamaw painted furniture, rearranged it, sewed curtains out of sheets, made new covers for throw pillows, and her home always looked up-to-date, pretty and clean.  Papaw transplanted bushes, borrowed starts from neighbor's perennials and their landscapes were lovely.

Chris and I aren't flashy spenders and I don't think we're blatantly wasteful, but I wouldn't want the "Green Police" raiding our home and surveilling our spending habits.

A portion of "frugality" defined per Wikipedia:

Common strategies of frugality include the reduction of waste curbing costly habits, suppressing instant gratification by means of fiscal self-restraint, seeking efficiency, avoiding traps, defying expensive social norms, embracing cost-free options, using barter, and staying well-informed about local circumstances and both market and product/service realities.

We're not striving to be spokespeople for frugal living, but we both want to simplify without losing the spirit of generosity or the joy of occasional self-indulgence.  We want to do better.

FRIENDSHIP
Relationships have been a big topic for me over the past few years.  My desire to connect with people from my past, the confusion and disappointment I've experienced when someone has rejected me, the expectations I have of my family and friends, and the sadness and anger I feel as I try to understand that many people don't share my eagerness, or even worse... my memories.  I assume I've made a person or two feel the same way, and if they were to ever reveal themselves to me, I would sincerely and humbly apologize and search for the memories that were important to them.  If nothing else, I would listen and be thankful that I was a part of someone's recall... their personal tapestry.

My mother is in her 60s and has lost some dear friends over the past ten years.  Until recently, I never really thought about how that would feel.  I take for granted that T, Amy, Em and others will always be there when I call.  I don't want to have regrets. 

Chris and the boys are my natural priority in life.  This goes without saying for any partner or parent.  But the importance and value of friends... including the friends we're related to [my brother, my grandmother, my mother], and the friendships from our past, are at risk of slipping away due to busy, over-scheduled lives.  There are new friendships waiting to be nurtured and discovered, and I sincerely want and need to tend to some of them.

I've learned the hard way [jumping in too fast, revealing too much too soon] that the kinds of friendships that are worthy of the following two quotes are rare [which is unfortunate, really], often take years to develop and/or fall into the category of crossing paths with a kindred spirit.

A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him, I may think aloud.
    - Ralph Waldo Emerson, in "Friendship" in Essays, First series (1841)

Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
    - Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet, 1923

**********

Twenty ten is here in all it's sunshiny glory.  I'm finally ready to embrace it with a few personal goals, and intentions of improving frugality and friendships, inspired by a person who modeled both words for me, and managed to do so while smiling -- displaying hope and happiness. [I'm blowing you a kiss, Mamaw.] 

I know she would sing this with me.

The Moose And The Fireman

The moose in the neighbor's yard this morning was a bit exciting and entertaining, I have to admit.  I oohed and gasped and watched his every move... for TWO hours.  I know.  Get. A. Life.  But, this IS my life, people.

I contemplated writing a lengthy story about the moose, chronicling every riveting detail of his arrival, the police surveillance, the gathering of neighbors, children and strangers in a kind woman's master bedroom and bathroom so we could all get a closer look, and the eventual tranquilization and removal of the large animal.  But, after viewing the STUPID number of photographs I took and the nearly FIFTY minutes of Flip video, it's just not that riveting anymore.

Here's a quick photo recap...  The moose! [I was outside on the sidewalk for this picture.]

 

The moose stared at us staring at him through the window.  We all looked at each other for a very long time.  It was like being at the zoo.  Like I said, riveting. [Photo taken while in my neighbor's bedroom with several other people.]

 

Once the moose was tranquilized [a shooter hit him and the drug took effect exceptionally fast], they had to slide him onto a tarp so he could be transported across the snow to a trailer.

 

Notice the cameraman from a local news station walking backwards as he films.

 

The sedated moose resting in the trailer.  He was feeling no pain.

 

I wasn't going to blog about this, because... you know... boring.  But in the final five minutes of the moose ordeal, a young fireman made my day with two surprisingly witty comments.

Witty Number One
As the curious, worried and adrenalin-fueled neighbor children gathered around the moose while it lay in the trailer, the helpful, young fireman cleared his throat and spoke to them...Now remember, kids. THIS is why we DON'T play with matches.

Witty Number Two
I took some final photos and noticed the moose was trembling.  Oh, poor thing.  He's shaking.  The helpful, young fireman looked at me and said, "That's a goood shake.  It's morphine."

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.

Up In Smoke

The "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray featured in my last post generated strong responses. People either thought it was great or it made them feel uncomfortable.  My apologies to those of you who I offended.  Please don't read the rest of this post.  *kisses*

A few people have asked where they can get their own ashtray...

I recommend searching irreverent, greeting card stores, coffee shops, book stores, or your local gay porn establishment.  Here in Utah, it's one stop shopping.  I purchase the "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray at a store where I can buy irreverent greeting cards, best-selling books, keychains, have a cup of coffee and pick up gay porn.  Somehow I manage to do this with a four-year-old boy in tow, simply distracting him with the rainbow flags, kites and wind chimes that are tinkling above our heads.

Speaking of the Ashtray...
Two of my local friends requested an ashtray last week.  We'll call them Mulva and Juicy.  Because I frequent the store where the ashtrays can be purchased, and I usually have spares tucked away in my personal gift center, I was more than happy to help Mulva and Juicy score one.  These friends' kids attend the same school as our sons, so it seemed convenient to transfer possession of the ashtray at the school.

The Plan
Middle Boy [10] had a holiday concert on Friday morning.  I would stay home with Four-Year-Old Boy [uncivilized] and Chris would attend the concert.  Juicy would be at the concert, so Chris could discreetly hand her the small Williams Sonoma bag cleverly containing the ashtray wrapped in white tissue paper.  Mulva would not be at the concert, so I asked Chris to please deliver the small Sundance bag, also cleverly camouflaging the tissue wrapped ashtray, to Oldest Boy's [12] homeroom teacher.  Chris was supposed to simply hand it to the teacher -- we'll call her Mrs. Teacher -- and tell her that the bag was for Mulva, who would be by at the end of the day to retrieve it.

Note:  I do not know Mrs. Teacher very well.  We've only had the opportunity to chat in person during parent-teacher conferences.

Fat, Dumb and Happy
I assumed things went according to plan.  I hadn't heard differently.  My weekend was busy with ongoing Christmas preparation.  I do recall asking Chris, "Did you see Juicy at the concert?"  He told me he did and shared pieces of their conversation with me.

Sunday Afternoon
In an unrelated Facebook comment thread, Mulva casually mentioned that Mrs. Teacher wasn't in her classroom on Friday afternoon and an attempt to find the ashtray with the help of another teacher resulted in nada.

Hmmm...

Channeling Inner Special Ops Girl
Chris was outside shoveling snow.  I high-stepped through the house and out the garage, shrieking, "Chriiiis!"  I asked him if he gave the bag to Mrs. Teacher.

"What?  Uh.  No.  I was in a hurry so I gave it to Oldest Boy to give to her."

The color drained from my face.  "Did you tell Oldest Boy to tell Mrs. Teacher that she was to hold the bag for Mulva until the end of the day?"

"Uh. No."

I shrieked for Oldest Boy, who was in the backyard.  My entire body visibly throbbed with my heartbeat.

Oldest Boy happily answered my call.

"Did you give the bag Dad gave you to Mrs. Teacher?"  I manically chirped my question.

"Yes."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her, this is from my mom."

FAINT.

It's AAALLL Good
Somehow I managed to find Mrs. Teacher's phone number and dial it, in spite of the fact that I was convulsing.  She was gracious as I babbled and explained and apologized and offered myself up for detention.  I tried to throw Mulva under the bus too, but somehow it didn't work for me.  It was HER ashtray after all.

Mrs. Teacher shared my "gift" with other faculty Friday afternoon during a meeting, and... THE DEAN.  Neato.  She said it was a huge hit, although admitted to being confused as to why I would give her such a unique gift.  She laughed at the comedy of errors and offered to get the ashtray to Mulva.  I told her it wasn't necessary.  Mrs. Teacher seemed genuinely happy to keep it, for story value if nothing else.

Next year I'll get her a "Jesus Shaves" coffee mug.  His beard disappears when hot beverages are poured into the mug.

Forgive me.

The End

Sheltered

Our recent houseguest, Jane Devin, smokes an occasional cigarette.  We maintain a smoke-free environment here at Casa de Ross, but have a special place for our smoking relatives and friends to discreetly burn one.  I call it The Smoking Room.  It's a small but private porch outside of the walkout basement.

 

The weekend delivered snow, so the boys spent much of Sunday afternoon building a snowman and snow cave in the backyard.  Jane was at Starbucks and I was upstairs when Chris heard simultaneous, frantic knocks at two of our doors -- a back door, and a garage door.  Oldest Boy [12] was at one, and Middle Boy [10] was at the other.

Chris answered Oldest Boy's knock at the back door first.  "Dad!  There's cigarettes down by the basement.  They're in a shallow dish."

Chris told Oldest Boy to hold on a moment.  He then answered Middle Boy's knock at the garage door.  "Dad!  There's a pile of cigarettes.  In a dish!"

Jane's full, shallow dish was sitting on a window ledge outside.  The boys had to walk down the snowy stairs to the lower porch and must have searched to find it.  They couldn't get to Chris or me fast enough.

It was tucked in the far left hand corner of this space.

Chris explained to each boy that the cigarettes were Ms. Devin's.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if it was okay that Ms. Devin smoked.  Chris said she was an adult and it was her choice to smoke cigarettes as long as she didn't expose others to secondhand smoke.

When Jane returned from Starbucks, I couldn't wait to tell her that the boys had visited The Smoking Room and discovered her habit.  Middle Boy considers himself an artist and writer so I think he was particularly disturbed to know that Ms. Devin smoked.  He glanced at her suspiciously for the rest of the afternoon but avoided eye contact, like he'd seen her naked by accident.

Later that evening, Middle Boy was still processing the cigarettes.  "I thought it was a joke at first, Mom.  Like they were fake.  But then?  I smelled them, and they were REAL.  I know it wasn't good for my lungs, but I had to know.  Then I ran and told Dad."

I still haven't educated the boys that the word for a shallow dish that holds cigarettes butts and ashes, is ashtray.  I also haven't told Middle Boy that simply sniffing an extinguished cigarette probably won't harm his lungs.

I DID show them the shallow dish we offer to all of our guests who smoke...

 

Jane Devin

Chris, the boys and I have had the privilege and pleasure of hosting a wonderful writer and friend, Jane Devin, as she travels across the United States in an effort to "find her America".  The About page on her blog summarizes Jane, her journey, and provides key links.  My attempts to reword what she has already so succinctly written have been futile.  Please read the following:

Jane has been writing about cultural & social issues for several years. She presently blogs at Finding My America, which will chronicle her upcoming year as a writer on the road, as well as on The Huffington Post. Older articles can be found on JaneDevin.com. She can be reached by email at [email protected] You are also welcome to friend her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter.

To learn more about the origins of the Finding My America project, you can find the short version here. Or, if you’re feeling really industrious, you can read the following articles, which are in reverse chronological order.

• http://janedevin.com/2009/10/08/new-trails/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/29/waking-up/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/16/24-ford-hank/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/09/12/contest/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/08/16/ride-sally-ride/
• http://janedevin.com/2009/08/14/mustang/

Jane arrived at our home Wednesday evening.  She made noise about leaving on Friday, but I successfully guilted her into lengthening her stay.  Whining works.  She's been a delightful, low-maintenance houseguest.  I've embraced my opportunities to visit with her when she's not writing or thinking... or going to Starbucks.  For those of you who have followed Jane on Twitter and know about her coffee habit?  It's a heavy habit.  HEAVY.  I don't know how she sleeps.

Please peruse Jane's writing as time permits during these busy, busy days.  We're all drawn to different writers, blogs, friends, and relatives for unique reasons.  If you enjoy her poignant, thought-proving, beautiful writing as much as I do, at a minimum continue reading her blog.  Leave a comment if you're comfortable! 

Jane communicates her needs via her blog, Twitter and Facebook as she travels from city to city.  Sometimes she needs a host [a place to stay], recommendations for affordable, clean, safe hotels [if a person isn't available to host], Starbucks gift cards, and contributions to her PayPal account, even in the most nominal amounts.  I witnessed her conscientious handling of resources [even my own!] while she was here.  A little goes a long way with Jane.

The Ross family just bid farewell to a lovely, interesting and gracious guest.  Although my history with Jane is currently shelved under "recent", I feel like a woman I've known my entire life just pulled out of the driveway.  If you have the opportunity to meet Jane Devin, I suspect that you'll feel the same way.

Christmas Lights Did Him In

Nothing.  I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights.  Even the most patient of men.

I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married.  Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help.  Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."

Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights.  I was so impressed.

The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree.  It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house.  We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.

Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.

Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house.  It was easier while the tree was on it's side.

Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning.  At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot.  The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights.  One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.

Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times.  He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work.  Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room.  Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.

One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.

It's Sunday morning.  I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I  don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.

Because, he did this...

Gus

Theodore and Catherine arrived at the bar halfway into my first glass of a mediocre Cabernet.  I had been the only one there up until that point.  My two oldest sons were happily playing air hockey and video games just down the hall of the ski resort where we were staying; we were killing time before dinner.

I had enjoyed talking with Cindy, the very interesting 28-year-old bartender.  I smiled when one of her co-workers handed her a Grolsch bottle and told her it was his latest homebrew.  She was instructed to please return the bottle when she was finished with the beer.  Cindy said, "Hell, yeah.  Thanks."

Theodore was wearing a sportcoat.  That should say it all.  We were at a bar, next to a Mexican food restaurant, an arcade down the hall, at a Utah ski resort technically still off-season.  People were skiing, but the snow was poor.  Theodore pulled a chair out for his wife, leaving an empty chair between the two of them and me.

Over the next thirty minutes, I learned how Theodore hates to be called Ted or Theo and Catherine isn't a fan of Cate or Cathy.  They had two teenage kids who were up in their rooms because they were tired from their private snowboarding lessons and "...just had to have sushi."  *obnoxious chuckle*  The family was from Los Angeles.  Theodore told me about the runs he'd skied and how he's a lover of powder.  I think he's skied nearly every mountain in the U.S. and in Europe, per Theodore himself.  He told me he grew up in Europe and misses the loong runs of European mountains.

Theodore and Catherine... bugged me.  Theodore talked too much about money, clearly a man who's ego was fueled and identity defined by his income and bank account.  He and Catherine both recounted the winds and cliffs they'd conquered while skiing earlier in the day.  They looked older than me, and were the large, squishy variety of people.  It's always a little suspicious when the large, squishy folks boast about their athletic prowess.  Then again, I've been out-run by chunky gals, and seen some grace in motion on the mountain from the plus-size set.  You never know.

In walks Gus.  Glorious Gus.  He didn't look old enough to drink... legally.  He was carded and proved that he'd been 21 for three months, then he took a seat in the empty chair between Catherine and me.  He'd been coming to Utah every year for Thanksgiving since he was a kid and was meeting some buddies.

NOTE:  Gus' real name is something so COOL, but I can't tell you.  When we were talking about names he said his parents almost named him Gus.  I shared with him that Chris and I also almost named our 4-year-old son, Gus -- after Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove.

With a smile on his face and a thick, boyish lisp, Gus gave Theodore, Catherine, Bartender Cindy, and me a gift that night.

+++++

Gus joined the Army when he was 18 and is halfway through a six-year commitment.  He's currently stationed at Fort Hood and had just returned from Afghanistan when the massacre occurred.  He was in the building across from the tragedy when it happened.  Gus spoke freely about some experiences and understandably sterilized others.  He received a Purple Heart after being shot in the chest when he stood up in a foxhole.  He pulled the collar of his t-shirt down so we could see a portion of his scar.  He grinned and told us he and his buddy had been filming each other prior to the shooting.  As he went down, he childishly and honestly admitted that he looked at his friend and said, "Please tell me you got that on film..."

Theodore and Catherine were quiet.  Cindy listened as she cleaned glasses behind the bar.  I selfishly thought about my own sons as I absorbed Gus' words and mannerisms.

The conversation jumped from Gus' Army experiences to his high school days, and vacations with cousins.  We all let him drive.

Gus has seen young men die and recently lost his Lieutenant.  His mother encouraged him to seek psychological help to process all he'd endured at his young age.  I told him the media has highlighted the need for more mental health professionals in the military.  He told me, "Those guys sit behind a desk and push paper.  They don't know what it's like."  His half-smile and cheerful tone, punctuated his words with sharp irony.

He shared a particularly disturbing story about a puppy he'd adopted in Afghanistan.  He said the stray dogs were difficult for him because he loves dogs.  If a dog continued to trip a flare wire, intended to alert when an enemy was approaching, orders were given to kill the dog.  Gus used his night vision device to identify the dogs and threw rocks to scare them away.  He couldn't bear the thought of shooting the animals.

He adopted a puppy and named him Reggie after a dog he'd had as a child.  He said the puppy was still basically a stray because pets weren't allowed at camp, but everyone knew the dog was "his".  He said he has a picture he loves where he's cradling Reggie with one arm, the puppy's nose peeking out of his jacket, and his gun in the other arm.

One night one of Gus' fellow soldiers returned to his sleeping spot to find Reggie had peed on his blankets and bed.  Reggie wasn't even three months old.  Enraged, the soldier killed the young dog.

Gus' demeanor never deviated from light.  He didn't come across as complaining or trying to showboat with heavy stories.  He was a kid, talking with people at a bar, answering an occasional question, checking his cell phone, all with a boyish smile, Ron Howard eyes [sweet but old] and that awesome, thick lisp.

+++++

Theodore and Catherine needed to get their kids to a sushi bar, and Gus' buddies had called with word on where they planned to meet.  Theodore picked up Gus' tab and shook his hand.  Gus chatted with me for a few more minutes before excitedly leaving to join his friends.  I shook his hand and said, "I know it sounds corny, but thank you."  He smiled and said, "You're welcome."

Cindy and I visited for a while, discussing life, parenting and war... I imagine topics a bartender is well-versed in.

My sons entered the bar, signaling they were out of tokens and ready for dinner.  I proudly introduced them to Cindy, then she politely asked them to step outside of the bar...  because they were... too young.

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.

Resourceful

When a four-year-old boy has his favorite Lego sword taken away because he's been "battacking" the dog and his brothers and his parents, make sure he doesn't see where it's been stashed.  It's possible, he'll pretend he doesn't miss the sword for a day or two, then when you least expect it...

...curious noises are heard coming from his room, which is located above the office where his mother sits quietly writing.  Not terrible noises... just curious.

The noises cease and the four-year-old boy casually enters the office and ponders aloud, "I wish I could fly," as he sighs.

His mother smiles and replies sympathetically, "I wish I could fly sometimes too, honey."

An hour later, the mother makes one of her routine patrols of the house, picking up toys to be returned to their respective bins while dusting banisters with her forearms as she motors up the stairs.

Upon entering the four-year-old boy's closet, the mother discovers a project has been underway.  A project that had not been approved because it would have most likely resulted in severe injury or death.

 

Perched on the very top shelf of his closet, was exactly where the four-year-old's father had stashed the sword... for safekeeping.

There were no injuries or deaths, and the boy and his sword have been reunited.  The mother had cocktail hour early that day.

Twenty Years

November 4, 1989

 

 

Twenty years later...

 

Happy Anniversary, Chris.  I like you.  You're fun. 

Love,
The Other Chris [the girl]

Good Sports

From the beginning, Middle Boy said he didn't want to do it.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old Boy were in.  Mary [the dog] seems to enjoy the attention when I fiddle with her, so she's usually cooperative as long as her outfit isn't too tight.

I managed to talk Middle Boy into wearing the costume for pictures only.  Oldest Boy tried to persuade him to wear it trick-or-treating, but Middle Boy was firm.  He wanted to be Plo Koon, a Star Wars Jedi Master.  As far as he was concerned, his brothers and the dog could dress in The Wizard of Oz costumes I so lovingly purchased.

 

 

The Tin Man, Cowardly Lion and Dorothy embraced their roles!

 

The Scarecrow?  Not so much...

 

After we took pictures, Oldest Boy began feeling... awkward.  I think I said, "Adorable!" a few too many times.  Middle Boy quickly changed into his Plo Koon costume.  Oldest Boy watched his brother don a cool mask and a light saber.  His feet were growing colder by the second.

"I don't think I want to trick-or-treat as the Tin Man."

"You look awesome!  With [4YO Boy] and Mary, you'll be the hit of the neighborhood.  Just wear it with confidence!"

His eyes started to well.  Chris, standing behind Oldest Boy, looked at me and gently shook his head, as if to say, "Surrender, Dorothy."

"What are you going to be?" I asked.

"I can be a Jedi. It's easy."

Oldest Boy scrambled, removed his make-up and appeared on the front porch ready to trick-or-treat as a Jedi.  Our Cowardly Lion was confused and disappointed.  At four-years-old, he was young enough to want to remain in his costume, but old enough to know he'd been duped.

Mary dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween three years ago.  I thought it would be inappropriate for her to be Jabba's slave Leia [in the metal bikini], but I'm rethinking for next year...

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

Finding My People Is Like Learning to Drive A Stick Shift

I thought I had temporary arrested development a year or so ago.  I'm concerned it's not so temporary.

When I was kid, making friends was easy.  Whoever I sat next to in class was my friend.  Whoever lived on my street was my friend.  It didn't matter if we had opposing interests.  Other than the joy and exhilaration we both received while playing with matches, my childhood friend, Samantha, and I had very little in common.  The story is similar for the friends I made in junior high, high school and college.  Different sports, different boy or girl attractions, different styles and different quirks.  We were simply friends. 

Of all of those friends, I remain very close to a handful, and even fewer allow me full range of motion.  I feel thankful for those important relationships, but I enjoy meeting people and making new friends.

For many reasons, the past 12-15 years have afforded me few opportunities to cultivate new relationships.  We've lived in four states, have had to help our sons through some challenges [everyone's doing great now], and priorities have made themselves clear to Chris and me.  I've met several people, it's the nurturing and cultivating of the new relationships where I seem to fail.

Like learning to drive a stick shift.

I get excited and rev the engine, a little too much gas, then I pop the clutch and take off with a giant jerking motion, followed by several smaller jerking motions.  Then I slow down, because I came on too strong, but I don't get the clutch, the brake and the release from the gas just right, so I kill the engine.  Not enough.  Then I try again, still too much gas, I jerk and lunge, apologize for the whiplash and make promises of a smoother ride in the future, I pull back on the gas and kill the engine... again.

I assume a level of intimacy too soon, then I recoil and appear aloof.  My throttle's messed up.  I've noticed this as I've reconnected with old friends, and as I've made new friends in person or on the internet.  As a kid, I didn't put any thought into approaching others with a genuine enthusiasm for making new friends.  As an adult, I think it freaks people out.

Often, I truly don't have the time to cultivate relationships at a moderate pace.  It's speed dating for me, baby.  When I have the time, I'm all your's and I try to pour a month [or more] of "dates" into a brief conversation or email exchange.  Then, I fall off radar.  Other times, I'm overly-aware of my arrested development because it feels like it's been so long since I've had a consistent and moderate pace in life, so I disappear out of insecurity and embarrassment.  Paralyzed by what to say or not say.

I'm thankful for my tent-post-friends, the ones who afford me full range of motion.  With them, my tarp is large and strong.  They all live states away, so If it wasn't for the telephone and email, I'd be permanently, socially disabled.  I've gotten good at having an intense five-minute relationship with the grocery store cashier, the girls and boys who work at various cosmetic and fragrance counters, as well as anyone who's trying to sell me ANYTHING.  One of my tent-post-friends admits to doing the same thing, because she too is isolated and busy.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if you see me jerking spastically towards you, make some room and I'll do the best I can to not hit you too hard, shift smoother and not kill the engine.  Thank you.

I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination

I had picked up the boys from school, stopped at the liquor store, was driving home and called Chris to touch base...

Me:  Anything new?

Chris:  No. You?

Me:  Not really.  I've had an unproductive day.  Questioned everything I wrote.  I attempted three blog posts because I was procrastinating working on other things.  The first one on Why I Blog turned into Why I Write and it felt too personal.  I wanted to tap into the "attention whore" theory Neil blogged about along with Kyran's post -- which I still need to forward to you -- but I got sidetracked.  I don't have enough time to do all this.

THEN, I started a post on Procrastination and I got all freaked out that I have a psychological disorder after Googling it.  Wikipedia nailed me.  But I found some great articles on how to resolve my reasons for procrastinating.  So that was good... I still have issues though...

THEN, I thought I need to address my running blog because I haven't posted since the last race, but I want to let that blog go, so I need to post something on CSquaredPlus3...like... about how you're running with me now and I'm trying to talk you into doing the Triple Trail Challenge next summer because Supermodel says she's out.

I hardly even looked at my other projects...

Chris:  I think you should finish the Procrastination post and title it "I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination".

Me:  And have a blank page?

Chris:  No.  Post what you have written so far.

Me:  I only titled it, then I went to Google so I could paste a definition at the top of the post.  That's when I got freaked out and had to diagnose myself.

Chris:  So you have nothing?

Me:  I have nothing.

Chris:  So... the content is... light.

Me:  Very.

**********

Per Wikipedia [Which, according to my sons, is not a good source because, "...ANYONE can post information on there!"]

Procrastination is the deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite this human behavior as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. ^[1] Psychology researchers use three criteria to categorize procrastination: for a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.^[2]

For an individual, procrastination may result in stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and disapproval from others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. These combined feelings can promote further procrastination. While it is normal for people to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. *Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.

**********

*  Did you read that?  I'm SO freaked out.

The Fit

We had the stomach flu in our house last week.  First Middle Boy, then me, then the 4-Year-Old Boy.  It was a 48-hour, violent flu.  There was pain, moaning, dramatic proclamations -- "I'm going to die!" -- and lots and lots of laundry.

It began with a call from the school informing me that Middle Boy had been vomiting.  The 4-Year-Old Boy and I rushed to the school to rescue Middle Boy.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a little irritated when I found out that he hadn't even made it to a trash can.  He threw up sitting in his chair in Strings Class.  He told me he missed his cello, and only hit the bow.  I reminded him, lovingly, that he was TEN years old and next time he gets sick at school, he should GET UP and try to hit a receptacle.

Middle Boy was very ill.  I was a compassionate mother and nurse, helping him get to the toilet, brushing his teeth for him, wiping his face, feeding him ice chips, and providing bowls and Ziploc bags for security in case he didn't make it to the bathroom.

It finally appeared his stomach was calming.  Over the course of four hours, he drank ginger ale and ate a few soda crackers as he watched SpongeBob Squarepants on the couch.  I was happy to see color in his cheeks and hear him laugh instead of moan.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old-Boy were in bed for the night.  Middle Boy said his stomach still hurt a little, but he was ready for bed.  I tucked him in, showed him where the security vomit bowl and Ziploc bag were, and told him to come to our room or call us if he needed ANYTHING.  His father and I were there to help him!  Poor, poor child, I thought.

Five minutes later, as I was climbing into my own bed, Middle Boy appeared in my doorway.

"I threw up."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"In my bed."

"WHAT?"

It was horrible.  Chris and I obviously had not communicated well about how much ginger ale or how many soda crackers we were each giving Middle Boy.  There were at least two liters of stomach contents all over the bed, the carpet, the wall, the nooks and crannies of the bed frame, beadboard and baseboards... it might have even been on the ceiling fan.

"CHRIIIIIIS!  I NEED HELP!"

Chris ran up the stairs.

"He puked again.  EVERYWHERE.  He needs a shower.  He's already dripped to our room and back to his."

Middle Boy looked at me sheepishly, "Sorry, Mom.  I thought I was done."

I know he didn't mean to.  He was tired, probably very comfortable in his bed, and half asleep when he threw up.  But there was something about the brightness of his eyes and the rosiness of his cheeks, that made me think he COULD have gotten up.

I started cleaning the mess and the more I cleaned, the angrier I became.  I stomped and slammed as I moved wet linens from room to room and searched for the proper cleaning supplies.  I had "sick" fluids running down my arms and on my forehead.  I had been SO careful as I cleaned the vomit messes earlier in the day.  My fate was sealed.

As I continued to clean, I yelled weird things at Chris and Middle Boy.  I rarely use foul language in front of the kids but I said ass and shit and hell and damn and maybe even the Big Daddy of bad words.  I barked at Chris about picking up Mary's dog shit.  Because, you know, at 10:00 p.m. after your child has puked ALL OVER HIS ROOM, it's important that the dog shit is picked up in the backyard.

I've cleaned up vomit messes more than once.  All three of the boys have thrown up in their beds.  For many reasons that I clearly see in hindsight, this particular crime scene pushed me over the edge.  I had a fit.

Middle Boy went back to bed in a restored room and made wide-eyed promises to hit the toilet or the vomit bowl... next time.  He was fine that night, although he threw up again the following night.  I'm happy to report Middle Boy came into our room and announced that he needed to vomit.   Chris did a standing broad jump from our bed, ensuring Middle Boy was escorted to our toilet and properly aimed.  No fuss, no muss.

I apologized the next morning to the entire house for my fit.  The only one who didn't seem phased was 4-Year-Old Boy, probably because he's an expert fit-thrower.

Please tell me you you've thrown a fit.  As an adult.  With an audience.  While sober.