New Ride

It was time.  After close to nine years of more physical abuse than should ever be experienced, our family car was finally put out of its misery. Chugging along in its final days, as it emitted unrecognizable noises from the bowels of the worn out engine, I became surprisingly nostalgic about this hunk of metal that had served us so well.

I remembered the three car seats that secured our little ones behind me as I drove.  With one hand gripping the wheel, I became proficient at servicing all manner of needs with the other.  Miraculously, this limb could stretch out behind me , like a freaky female version of Plastic Man,  and return dropped sippy cups, locate a fallen pacifier or hold the chubby hand of the child most unhappy.

One by one, those baby seats were removed, leaving permanent remnants encrusted in the upholstery that would make even the strongest stomach gasp in disbelief.  And the abuse would only continue - windows left down in a pouring rain, forgotten lollipops entangled in the carpet, and spilled milk that would sour in places unreachable. Many brave souls attempted to detail our car only to walk away in defeat, shoulders slumped discouragingly at trying to accomplish the impossible.

Over the years our family car has suffered through carpool lines, been assaulted by wayward birds, and presented a humiliating award in front of thousands.  It has served as my office, as a traveling closet, as an impromptu infirmary. This car has been ridden hard and  has the vomit stains to prove it.

When looking for a new family vehicle, I didn’t have a long list of expectations. I wanted it to be large enough to tote our children and their friends as well as the sports equipment that would take up permanent residence. In addition, I wanted a working air conditioner, having spent the last year with one that only functioned sporadically.

We narrowed down the choices, and on recommendation from my sister and a close friend with a similar vehicle, we chose the one that seemed to be sturdy enough to withstand the battery our family would surely bring.

Because we haven’t owned a new car in close to a decade, it was with childlike joy that we discovered the bells and whistles available to those in the current century.  Seat warmers that ensured one’s tush is never cold and a DVD screen that flips out of the ceiling were unexpected bonuses to the simple list of wants that included an operable cooling system. The added delight of the lady from outer space that can be summoned with the push of a button labeled OnStar, providing direction, area interests and companionship when one is bored, seemed almost too good to be true.

I liked  my new ride and as evidenced by the tone and affection of the OnStar lady, it liked me.

That is, until the car decided to punk me last week.

I was riding along the interstate, talking on my cellphone to my good friend, Tricia. In mid conversation, a phone began to ring loudly inside of the vehicle.

“What’s that noise?” Tricia asked me.

“Um, I’m not sure, but I think my car is calling me,” I responded.

(loud ringing continues)

“Don’t you think you should answer it?” my friend prompted.

“I don’t know how,” I said a little panicked.  “Hello! Hello?  Who’s there?” I said into the air. The ringing continued.  Obviously.

Tricia burst out laughing. “I don’t think its voice controlled. There has to be some button you can push to answer the phone.”

I began pressing random buttons and the ringing suddenly stopped.“That was weird,” I told Tricia, relieved at the absence of the noise.

Five seconds later the phone began to ring again.

“Wow, your car must really want to get in touch with you,” said my friend. “You better answer it. What if your SUV has an emergency?”

“Very funny,” I responded, frantically pushing the random buttons that previously stopped the ringing phone.

Silence.

“Hello?” said a deep, husky voice through the speakers in my car. “Hello? Can I speak to Raymond?”

I punched a new button and the phone cut off again.

“That was bizarre,” said Tricia. “But I have to go now. Hope you work out things with your car.”

Soon after hanging up with my friend, the phone rang again. After more random button pushing, the same, 

deep voice came through the ceiling of my car. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

My heart beat out of my chest. Was I about to have an experience with God? Sort of a modern day version of Moses and the burning bush, but instead Joni and the fuel burning car?

“Hello?” I croaked out in a shaky voice.

“Can I speak to Raymond?’  said the speaker voice.

Raymond? I don’t remember a Raymond from Scripture. I don’t even know a Raymond. Who is God talking about?

“There isn’t a Raymond here,” I told the caller/God

.

“Well, what number is this?” demanded the person looking for Raymond. I was starting to get that it wasn’t the Almighty on the phone. I am quick like that.

“I don’t know,” was my intelligent response.

“How do you not know your own phone number? And where is Raymond?!” responded the man with more contempt than necessary.

Now that I knew it wasn’t God, the initial shakiness in my voice turned a little sassy.

“Look, mister, you are calling my car. MY CAR! And no, I do not know the number. I imagine it is the same number YOU JUST DIALED. If you are looking for Raymond, I suggest that you call the OnStar lady in outer space. She can find anything.”

And with the stab of a button, we were disconnected. I rode home in silence, waiting anxiously for the man from who knows where to call back. But it seemed as though he realized I was a dead end to his search for Raymond. Or maybe OnStar pointed him in the right direction.

For a brief instant, I missed my old car, lacking in complex features and complications. Its stereo speakers had only harassed me with static, not random voices from way out yonder. However, the melancholy moment didn’t last long. The remembered appreciation for a functioning air conditioner quickly replaced the misdirected emotion.

Not to mention the opportunity now available for a warm tush.

Block and Tackle

His eyes were intense, his posture one of anticipation. The muscles in his quadriceps trembled slightly at the prospect of sudden, reluctant use. Would muscle memory kick in, summoning the mechanics necessary to properly execute the tackling technique? Or would advancing age and blown out knees betray him, leaving him in a cloud of dust created by the flip-flop clad opponent sitting to his immediate right?

Promises made to an eleven-year-old boy were sincere and full of good intention. Any effort needed to subdue the potential hysterics from the estrogen-filled half of the parenting unit could only be considered a worthy calling and noble cause. Through out the football game, an event that entailed the crunching of helmets and prepubescent grunts that are unnerving to all whom are maternal, the dad squatted uneasily in a three point stance beside the bleacher supporting his hand-wringing spouse .

“It’s a contact sport,” he repeatedly reminded his wife. “The players are supposed to hit each other with intensity and aggression. Laying someone out flat brings the coaches joy.”

“ It’s against all that is good and holy,” she often responded, in the same tone used when telling her oldest child how fun it would be to be home-schooled in college.

An ongoing conversation that always ended with the son pleading for the dad to intervene on his behalf during a game. “Block her, tackle her, do what you have to do to keep her on the sidelines where she belongs. You gotta do that for me, dad,” my son implored in the same tone used when he told us how not fun it would be to be home schooled in college.

So, the man sat tensely, ready to spring forward at the first hint that the mom might sprint onto the field to comfort the shoulder pad wearing boy that just yesterday had been a diaper wearing infant. The man’s running shoes held the advantage over the flip-flops, but her quivering womb edged out his momentum.

First quarter. Second quarter. Third, then fourth. The boy held his own while his dad held the back of his mom’s shorts. “He’s fine. See, he jumped right up after that play. Maybe you’re a motivating factor after all,” he stated while gripping tightly to her belt.

The game ended, the man’s quadriceps relaxed, the technique remained untested. Only ten more games to go.

Loving Laziness

An abundance of activity peppered with sporadic productivity typically characterizes the environment in our home. The frantic hamster wheel, otherwise known as the calendar school year, rotates forward on some days at a manageable speed of controlled chaos, while on others it spins dizzyingly backwards, carrying us to the brink of bedlam. Running a busy household while admittedly running in circles is not a feat for the weak. Or for those terrified of rodents.

Summer days, however, are a stark contrast to the mommy madness that builds towards a hormonal crescendo as the school year mercifully ends. Granted, I always misguidedly begin the flip-flop season with good intentions. Ambitious projects that include organizing closets, cleaning out junk drawers and fumigating the playroom fall to more lofty goals like lounging by the pool, relaxing on the beach and playing infinite rounds of UNO.

The lazy bones in my body rejoice all summer. Out of hibernation they emerge, like a grumpy Mama Bear trapped in a domestic trance, demonstrating a languid and leisurely pace that makes Jabba the Hut seem hyperactive.

Summer time is lazy time. And it brings about great joy. All tasks that normally encompass my realm of responsibility fall drastically to the wayside.

Time to pay the bills? What’s the hurry, Mr. Utility Company? Threat of disconnection doesn’t concern me. Lack of telecommunications and lifestyle by candlelight is the glue that held the Ingalls together in the prairie.

Out of clean clothes? That can be remedied, small, dependent child, but it means all of the laundry mounds we have been jumping up and down in like a pile of Fall leaves will be but a distant memory.

What’s wrong with cereal for supper? As far as I am concerned, the Food Pyramid Police can keep their intimidation tactics and fancy posters to themselves. Our artificially colored preservatives can beat up your leafy, green vegetables any day of the week. And it doesn’t make us nearly as gassy.

Did we miss Sunday School again? Thankfully, grace covers us. There will be many jewels in your crown, Charles Stanley, for providing the Word via television, allowing us to faithfully watch while we ingest Cookie Dough Pop Tarts in mismatched pajamas.

I love laziness and it loves me.

But like that summer romance that lasted as long as the career of Milli Vanilli, the season will inevitably come to a dreadful end. Routine and responsibility will take the place of all things sluggish and slothful. Reasonable nutrition will again be considered. The washing machine will resume with its spiteful mediocrity. And the hamster wheel will be waiting.

But this year I’ll be running it in my flip flops.

Expect More, Pay Less.

I was involved in a little incident this past week. Each time I embark on a day trip to Atlanta, it seems as though trouble seeks me out, sort of like my nemesis, Mr. Double Chin, turns up uninvited in all of my photos.

A misunderstanding with the law occurred the last time I ventured across the Perimeter, an area inside I-285 that offers endless retail joy. That episode of miscommunication between the grumpy police officer and me resulted in a fine that still makes my pocket book visibly quiver and dysrythmic palpitations to my husband’s heart.

While the occurrence in which I was involved didnt entail intimidating law enforcement, it did include the closest thing to it.

Target Security Guards.



They are tougher than you think. Their logo – a red bulls eye – is not as friendly as the red shirt and jolly name tag would suggest. After my experience, I am fairly certain that the Target Security Team boasts military backgrounds with supplemental training on handling pricing guns with accuracy.

It was a two-story Target, complete with escalators, elevators and an attached parking garage. The enormity of the store was a little overwhelming, which led to a scattered approach in shopping that quickly wasted the remaining minutes available before my rushed return to carpool duties.

Hurrying through the checkout line with the pitiful two items purchased, I headed to the store cafe for a diet coke. As I filled my cup with much needed caffeine, I calculated the time it would take me to return home, worrying if I would make it in time to retrieve my three children from school.

I hastily turned to a side glass door that led to the parking garage. In my distractedness, I failed to notice the red lettering that identified the exit as one for emergencies. As I opened the door, screeching alarms and flashing lights momentarily stunned all shoppers and employees in the store. Every eye turned in my direction, the lone figure with one hand still on the door, the obvious source of all disorder and disruption.

Standing somewhat off-balanced in sassy wedge shoes, I confronted the swarm of security guards moving steadily in my direction. In an attempt to lighten the moment, and disarm the serious scowls from the faces of the Target Team, I said, “Should I get down on the ground?”

No one laughed.

“Please step away from the door,” said Target Security Guard #1, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and the other precariously close to his pricing gun.

“We’ll need to see your shopping bag and receipt for proof of purchase,” continued Target Security Guard #2.

Somewhat shocked to find myself in a situation that labeled me as a potential criminal, I shakily handed over my purchases, all the while explaining how a normal, law abiding citizen might wander through a door clearly labeled for emergencies.

“Here’s the thing,” I began, watching the T-Team rummage through my plastic bag, “I’m in Atlanta to shop because there isn’t a Target where I live and I wasn’t paying attention when leaving because I was concerned that I would be late picking up my children and that would result in the headmaster giving me the evil eye while possibly causing my children to have to attend therapy for child abandonment issues so I walked through that door because I was in a huge hurry and not because I would ever steal anything or want to cause a public commotion because that is just plain embarrassing and who would purposefully do something like that?’’

Big breath.

The run-on sentence didn’t register with the guards because they were too busy smirking at one another over the contents of my bag, mercifully validated by the receipt found inside.

“You drove all the way to Atlanta for these two things?” asked Target Security Guard #1. He laid the offending items on the table beside him.

Baseball cards and one pack of Reese’s Cups.

“Really?” asked Target Security Guard #2.

I didn’t say anything in return as I had already used all available words in the previous exchange. As I stared at them blankly, Guard #1 told me I was free to go and to enjoy the rest of my afternoon.

I picked up my items and turned to leave, only taking a few steps towards the exit when I felt a meaty paw on my left shoulder.

“Ma’am, I don’t think that you want to go in that direction. Remember? That door is for emergencies only”.

A cackling from their walkie-talkies diverted their attention from my continued ignorance and summoned the guards to their next mission.

Twirling their pricing gun on two fingers with more confidence than store management should allow, the Target Security Guards smoothly reholstered their retail weapons and sauntered off towards the aisles in the wild blue yonder.

Swallowed Whole

I was minding my own domestic business. Sitting on the floor in my bedroom and sorting through a mound of laundered socks that seemed to lack a significant other, particularly since said cotton companion was most likely on the ground next to the trampoline or abandoned in the neighbor’s yard, I haphazardly glanced towards the window in front of me.

The Holly Tree outside my window appeared to have a branch that was mobile. I blinked my eyes, hoping that what I was seeing wasn’t true, sort of the same way I wish that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were non-existent, but even the best prescriptive bifocals couldn’t correct the horror show I was facing.



A big, nasty snake with creepy, scaly skin that made my own crawl was looking directly at me through the window. Unrecognizable noises erupted from my lips and my hands began to involuntarily flutter as I encountered a creature that is just plain wrong. Unknowingly, I spun around in a few circles before good sense finally took the place of the bad.

With my eyes never leaving the reptile, I backed slowly towards the phone and dialed the number to animal control, a number that also coincidentally summons my spouse.

My husband answered the line in his office. Skipping pleasantries, I yelled, “You have to come home quick! There’s a giant snake – a BOA CONSTRICTOR - and it’s right next to our house!”

Replying in that irritatingly calm doctor’s voice that has potential to cause my head to spin right off of my body, he responded, “Considering that the Boa Constrictor is primarily found in deserts and tropical forests - places ranging from Northern Mexico to Argentina - I doubt very seriously that a Boa has taken up residence next to our home.”

Speaking as though he were Jack Hanna joyfully educating a TV audience filled with curious boy and girls instead of his very freaked out wife, I replied that I was not looking for information about the life of the snake. In fact, I was calling to see how we could bring about its rightful death.

It’s not as though this were the first time we have had difficulty with critters. We’ve had a phantom skunk in our basement, a wayward bat hanging in our window treatments, a spastic bird in our den, a family of frogs in our mailbox and a herd of aggressive deer residing in our front yard.

Clearly, it should come as no surprise to my spouse that a BOA was lurking outside the bedroom window.

In an even, composed tone that only served to incite my own, my husband asked me to describe the terror before me. After ciphering through descriptions like “big enough to eat me and my three children” and “slimy, black monster sent by Satan”, John determined that the evilness causing such distress was a black snake. He further elaborated, “That’s the kind of snake we want around to kill other bad snakes and rodents. It’s a good snake.”

“Really? A seventeen-foot long reptile with teeth and scales and a slithering tongue is a good snake?” I countered in a high-pitched voice that caused our Labrador to howl. “In my opinion, the only good kind of snake is a dead kind of snake.” Over the phone line, I could hear my husband rolling his eyes. It was that loud.

The oddity of the situation, and all others involving the unwelcomed creatures we’ve experienced, is that it’s not like we live in the country or the jungle where animals are welcomed to roam freely. We live in a neighborhood, in a very developed part of town, with actual running water, inside toilets and working electricity.

My husband did not come to rescue me from the snake that day as sick patients took precedence over hysterical housewife. A priority he will sorely regret one day when the thing swallows me whole.

Where The Sun Doesn't Shine

It took me weeks to make the appointment. Numerous phone calls were made but never completed, pressing the off button as soon as I heard the voice of the receptionist. Clearly, not the nicest of manners demonstrated but somehow, wrongly justified by the self-induced phobia from which I suffer.

Undergoing a tooth extraction or removal of an appendage seemed preferable over the yearly screening that examined all available epidermis. An experience that never fails to disrupt my sense of modesty, it is one that has to occur due to unfortunate skin type and progression of a condition known as delusional paranoia.

The last few visits to the dermatologist occurred while living in South Carolina. On those visits, I disrobed down to undergarments, despite repeated instructions that the physician preferred patients in their birthday suit under the drafty, open-backed gown. Although I complied each time, I did so with my eyes tightly shut, wondering how in the world the doctor could talk about mundane topics like the weekend weather and tasty crock pot recipes, all the while examining personal parts of which only God should be aware.

(My husband, John, just interrupted my blogging to inform me that skin is the largest organ in the body. It reminded me a little of the whiz kid in the movie Jerry MacGuire who knew the weight of the human head. Except John is a grown man. And spits out scientific facts because he cannot help it.)

Since moving across state lines, I have dreaded the inevitable appointment with a new physician, with new eyes, with new topics to endure during an examination. After succumbing to the ridiculousness of the unintentional prank calls made to the dermatologist’s office, I finally scheduled the visit that always finds me desperately praying for the return of Jesus before the doctor enters the exam room.

On the day of the appointment, I sat anxiously in the reception area, mentally preparing myself for meeting a colleague of my husband’s in the buff. It did not escape me that I was blowing the impending interaction completely out of proportion, as though my nudity were a blip of concern on his clinical radar, but the aforementioned condition prevented me from responding like those considered reasonable.

The nurse called my name and led me to the exam room. She handed me a flimsy, see-through gown and instructed me to unclothe down to bra and underwear.

Huh?

“Excuse me, “ I said to the retreating back of the nurse. “ Are you sure I shouldn’t remove, um, well, you know, everything?”

“That is not necessary,” the nurse responded with a raised eyebrow and a questioning look as though I were some floozy patient just dying to get naked.

Don’t get me wrong - on any other occasion I would have been thrilled to keep my stuff covered and all to myself . It’s just that experience would suggest that going commando was standard of care in the dermatologist’s office and I had prepared for such. Said differently, I had not planned for the doctor to see my underwear and had unwisely opted for comfort over cute.

There is some colorful history with these underpants. They are leftover from maternity days - the kind every female loves but pretends that they don’t own. Uncommonly bulky and elastically challenged, yards of cotton provide a roominess that can only be described as joyfully comfortable.

In a panic, I texted my husband at work.

Me: “uh-oh.”

John: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “You know those u-wear you hate?”

John: “The ones I threw away?”

Me: “I saved them. And I’m wearing them. And Dr. C is about 2 C them.”

John: “Just take them off. You have on a gown, don’t you?”

Me: “Yeah, but he’ll think I’m a perv."

John: “Better than thinking you are Baby New Year.”

A sudden knock at the door made the decision for me. Friendly and easy going, Dr. C introduced himself and told me how much he admired my husband. I wanted to say that I hoped poor choice in underwear would not adversely effect his opinion of my spouse, but knew that there really were not enough words to protect against the cloth-like diaper he was about to behold.

Without going into the embarrassing details of the exam, suffice it to say that it took extra effort to clear away all of the fabric to thoroughly examine the area where the sun doesn’t shine. While he smiled throughout the ordeal, and acted as normally as could be expected while drowning in stretched-out cotton, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, speaking of the significant task endured.

I recounted the experience with my friend, Beth, over lunch today. After she stopped laughing at my undergarment faux pas, she said, “Well, you know what you need to do on your next visit, dont’ you? You’ve got to wear some really fancy underwear so that the dermatologist at least understands that you know better.”

But, I can’t do that. I’m not even sure that I can return to an office that probably refers to me as PWBGP - Patient With Big Girl Panties. So, I’ve already started my round of hang-up calls to various offices of dermatologists in the hope of securing another appointment by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I have been unable to find the worn-out underwear that caused such distress for me and a hard day‘s work for my doctor. I suspect that my husband might have actually followed through with his ongoing threat and dumped them ceremoniously into the nearest trash can.

Either that, or handed them over to Baby New Year.

She’s Six Today and I Feel Sick.

She’s six today and I feel sick.

The birthdays of my three children have also caused me to feel faint, unwell, and irrational.

Every passing year brings the opportunity to publicly lament the fact that my children have become twelve months older. I don’t know why it is surprising to me. It’s not as though I really expect the Laws of Time to suddenly suspend for my particular family. A satisfactory understanding of chronometry would suggest a personal acceptance of the manner in which the clock is measured, but I also know that despite said head knowledge, I still found myself in a state of shock that yet another year has expired.

The issue remains that each passing year is a step closer to self-sufficiency for the three of them and a giant leap towards psychosis for the one of me. (My husband does not want me to include him in the dramatics and irrationality that is brought on by birthdays. He is reasonable and well balanced like that. It is irritating.)




The first words to emerge from the toothless grin this morning were, “Mommy, I’m finally six!” For Mary Mac, it is a day that she has been looking forward to ever since the momentous day she joyfully announced, “Mommy, I’m finally five!” The enthusiasm in which my daughter embraces another year rivals the eagerness in which I looked forward to her arrival six years ago.

I couldn’t wait to meet the baby girl the obstetrician promised I would deliver. It would be my third and final child – as evidenced by the “wing clipping” appointment my husband already had on his calendar – and I was bursting with anticipation. Sort of the same way the elastic in my maternity underwear was teetering on explosion.

In those final days of pregnancy, I experienced an impatience that can only be described as supernatural. Couple that restlessness with a history of birthing babies relatively quick and the notion that I was going to deliver ANY MINUTE became a somewhat manic preoccupation. Timing the birth of my little girl within the window of all available anesthesia was a prospect I did not intend to miss.

Although this was not my first maternity rodeo, I began second-guessing every little twinge and spasm, like a rookie cowboy questioning every bump and buckle of his ride. Doubts about those spasms graduated to certainty of the pain, and the bat call to my husband was made.

Off to the hospital we raced, suitcase in one hand and cell phone in the other, calling our family and friends about our baby’s imminent arrival. Checking in at the front desk, I inquired of the whereabouts of the anesthesiologist, reminding all who could hear that I was ready for the numbing process to begin. Stat.

With a roll of her eyes, the lady at the front desk informed me that there was protocol to follow before Dr. Epidural could be called – inconvenient details like assignment of room, receipt of backless gown and actual examination to determine stage of labor.

Hoping to be considered compliant, I reluctantly agreed to their demands and obediently followed the nurse to my new room. However, I walked in a bent over position, making my spinal column readily available to any anaesthetist that happened to pass me in the hall.

As visions of pink booties danced in my head, the nurse completed her examination. With a sarcastic snap of her prophylactic glove, it was dramatically announced that I was nowhere near being in labor. To punctuate her disdain, the nurse reached into a shirt pocket, abstracting a pre-printed card that listed in bullet form all the signs of true labor. She further suggested that I examine it very carefully before my next visit to the maternity ward.

I would go on to collect three more copies of that spiteful card.

On the fourth occasion of ejection from the delivery ward, we happened upon my obstetrician in the elevator, whose very presence caused me to burst into tears. “Joni, what’s wrong?” she asked in a voice full of concern.

Because words were temporarily unavailable, I held up all four of the rejection cards, and cried an ugly cry that makes all others look pretty. My kind-hearted physician looked at me and then at my weary husband, and finally said the words I wanted to hear, “Let’s go have this baby.”

And I did.

And it was worth the snide looks given at all of my hospital entrances and the pitiful glances at all of my exits.

It was worth accepting informational cards in bullet form, when everyone knows I like instructions numbered.

And it was worth the immeasurable joy of those first six seconds that today I celebrate in years.

Sweet girl, you make my heart full. The world is a better place because you are in it, despite its unyielding adherence to the Laws of Time.

Happy, happy birthday Mary Mac. You are so loved.

Citizen's Arrest

It’s the closest I have ever come to making a citizen’s arrest. The opportunity literally was within my grasp and then it was gone, sort of like the words isosceles triangle escaped me in ninth grade geometry.



Captivated at a young age by the adventures of Charlie’s Angels, I have always visualized the scenario that would prompt the display of hidden, Ninja-like moves necessary to detain a masked offender. After the final karate chop that would lay the suspect out flat, I would then call Charlie, only to hear the joyful words, “Well done, Angel!”

(And you wonder why the laundry in my home overflows to the street. Overactive imagination, anyone?)

Our family was eating in a local Mexican restaurant. There were only two booths in our particular section, an undesirable corner that faced the kitchen and backed into the bar. A young couple and their toddler were seated in the booth adjacent to ours.

After ordering the giant bowl of cheese dip that hardens into something like enamel if not eaten within the first three minutes, the five of us began talking about our day. The stimulating, intellectual conversation went like this:

Chase: “Mom, you know that song ‘Imma Be’? I thought it was called ‘Lima Bean’ because the Black Eyed Peas sing it. Get it? Lima beans and black eyed peas?”

Chandler: “Dad, can you believe I stayed up for the whole super bowl game? I wasn’t even tired because you know I can take it. When I play football in the fall, I don’t want to be a linebacker ‘cause I’m too skinny.”

Mary Mac: “Look what I can do! Since I lost my bottom three teeth, I can push the cheese dip right through the hole with my tongue!”

We are nothing, if not a fascinating family.

I noticed that the booth next to us became increasingly loud in their conversation. In the short time we had been there, the young mom and dad were on their second round of margaritas, complaining bitterly to the waiter, “There ain’t no liquor in these things! Take ‘em back, and do 'em right this time!”

Overhearing this exchange, my ten year old whispered, “If that were me, I would be in big, fat trouble.”

“You mean, sending back your sprite because there isn’t enough liquor in it?” I asked, surprised.

“No, mom,” in a tone that suggested that I never understood ANYTHING, “I would get in trouble for saying, ‘there ain’t no’.”

The young mom and dad became even more boisterous as dinner progressed, clapping and singing to songs only they could hear. Plates of food were ordered and then plates of food were sent back as the couple issued a litany of complaints that had the waiter hustling back and forth between their table and the kitchen. They finished their meal with two desserts washed down with two more margaritas, and then mercifully ended their shenanigans by demanding the bill.

And that’s when I missed my chance at a citizen’s arrest.

Twice.

Once the bill was given, frantic whispering ensued between the couple, and the family of three abruptly left their table in a manner that seemed quite suspicious. My Scooby Doo radar went off – Ruh Roh - and I urgently asked my husband, “Did they just leave without paying their bill?”

A potential scenario instantly flashed through my head. In my mind’s eye, I imagined that I leaped over our table overflowing with spicy enchiladas and half-eaten soft tacos, and then chased after the tequila-filled man in my sassy knee-high boots. A flying tackle subdued him into him submission as I proclaimed in a very authoritative voice, “Sir, I am placing you under citizen’s arrest.” For effect, I was wearing a sombrero.

Before my husband could respond to my question, and seemingly out of nowhere, the young man hurried back to the table.

The knucklehead had forgotten his car keys.

And then he ran out of the restaurant, again.

“But.....but..... did you see.....we need to....”, I stammered as I realized what had happened. The man was long gone before I slowly came out of the reverie in which I was calling Charlie on my cell phone looking for the congratulations my tackle deserved.

We talked to the waiter afterwards, expressing our sympathies for the unfair situation. He explained that it happened quite often, a discouraging reality of the restaurant business.

Walking to our car, I kept thinking of the different ways in which I could have better reacted. If only I had yelled, “ALTO (halt)” alerting the other employees to the “eat and run” taking place. If only I had been quick enough to grab the offender’s keys, playing keep away with my husband until the law arrived.

If only.

It all happened so fast, dashing any dreams of responding like one of Charlie’s Angels. Not only did those high-heeled girls have quicker reflexes than yours truly, they clearly were not distracted by overactive imaginations.

And all of their laundry was clean.

Pioneer Woman

There is no doubt that I should be embarrassed for myself. I am well aware that the behavior I am about to describe is not considered normal, admirable or in any way cool.

Yet, lacking genuine shame for my conduct, and accompanied and encouraged by a similar thinking/acting good friend, I am quite certain I would do it again.

Every once in a while, I am reintroduced to the impulsive and somewhat uninhibited side of my personality. Maturity and life experiences coupled with adult responsibilities have managed to keep that aspect of my person within appropriate boundaries, but every so often, the outrageous overcomes the respectable.

Sometimes an idea is born because it makes me laugh. When that idea is shared with a friend who also sees the humor involved, then it has good potential to catapult into reality. Such is the event that occurred when Mandy and I began to plan an Atlanta day trip to a cookbook signing by Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond.

Pioneer Woman – known as P-Dub to her closest friends – is a renowned blogger that garners over a million and a half visitors each week to her website. Mandy and I have been following this blog for over a year, and like most harmless internet stalkers, feel as though we know her well. So well that we are certain she would like us as much as we like her.

Surely.

Pioneer Woman lives on a ranch in the middle of Oklahoma that starts nowhere and ends nowhere, and is married to a real live cowboy with real life cowboy/cowgirl children. They entertain guests from all over the country in a renovated lodge on their property, riding horses, cooking fabulous dinners, and singing songs around the campfire.

(I may have made up the part about the campfires but I like the notion of it so I’m going with it.)

Discussing our upcoming trip to Atlanta, my friend and I were talking about how great it would be if somehow we could get ourselves invited to Pioneer Woman’s lodge. She would have so much fun with us! We would be her new best friends! We would be invited back again!

Talking ourselves into this new friendship that was pre-destined to happen - unless she’s Baptist and doesn’t buy into the whole pre-destination thing – we realized that our only real obstacle to visiting P-Dub’s homestead in Oklahoma was an actual invitation.

So, like most well-mannered Southern women with more grace than guts, we invited ourselves in a very subtle, and entirely distasteful way.



(The T-shirt reads on front: Please find me Lodge worthy. Lodgeapalooza 2010. And on back: Team P-Dub.)

(Know that I can feel your embarrassment for us.)

I’m not sure who actually came up with the t-shirt idea. Mandy would say that I did; I’m claiming it was totally her. Regardless of responsibility, we both clearly participated in the wearing of said t-shirts.

Lacking the time, and obvious good taste and sense to have shirts professionally designed, we were left with the tried and true iron-on transfers that screams to all who can see that we are clearly amateurs.

(The instructions for the transfers were VERY misleading, erroneously stating that it was a "fun activity for all girls and boys." It was not. Sadly, a black sharpie had to be used for some of the lettering that spontaneously fell to the floor. )

Entering the bookstore where the signing was to take place, we suddenly lost some of the bravado that influenced our bold t-shirts. It dawned on us that we were grown women, with seven children between us, donning T-SHIRTS that asked another grown woman if we could come stay at her house.

Really. Really? What were we thinking?

We quickly buttoned our coats, falsely reassuring one another that it really would be best to do the big t-shirt reveal when we met Ree in person. So for 45 minutes, we stood in line, coats fastened to our necks, like we were waiting in line to get on a ski-lift rather than in line to have a cookbook signed.



As we inched forward in line – 3 more people, 2 more people, 1 more left – we became even more nervous that we were going to be received as the freakshows that we really are.

Eyes wide, and pen in hand, the Pioneer Woman took us in as we walked toward her in all of our homemade glory. Her look seemed to say, “Really. Really? What were you thinking?”

She good-naturedly laughed at our shirts, but did not issue the coveted invitation. She did, however, instruct a traveling companion to take our picture which we thought might end up on her website.



It didn’t.

And we didn’t.

And thus the sad end to our little escapade.

But we went down trying, even if a little of our pride went with it too.

All is not lost, though. I’m sure there is another joyful adventure just waiting around the corner. Not to mention that I still have four iron-on transfers remaining.

Paula Deen, anyone?

A letter to Santa....

Dear Santa,

I don't know if you are still taking requests but I have a few that I hope you will take the time to consider. I’m fairly certain that my name won’t be found on the naughty list, unless of course, you are counting receipt of the unfortunate traffic ticket or the tussle with the man over the baseball, or the passive aggressive behavior demonstrated with the heat-packing patient.

If you were able to overlook those minor transgressions, then the following items could really supplement my holiday joy. So, if you can, could you help a mother out?

1. I would like the magic potion that would allow my children to sleep past 7:00 am. I'm all for the early bird getting the worm, just somewhere else besides my house.

2. I love my husband - really, I do - but could I also have a wife? One who washes clothes, packs lunches, remembers show and tell and all tennis lessons, pays the bills and irons clothes properly (instead of willing the wrinkles out with the dryer). A gal who returns phone calls and emails in a timely manner, makes dinner representing all the food groups, and cares about dirty baseboards and cobwebs.

3. I would like for my children to grow verrrry slowwwwly. While I still want to sleep a little later, I want my little ones to stay little. It's all going by too fast and there's too much I want to remember. Can't you fly around the world super-duper fast and slow the world down? (It worked in the Superman movie.)

4. I would like to use the bathroom alone. Enough said.

5. I would like a razor and a tweezer that produce yearlong results. Unruly eyebrows that point rudely at others is not cool.

6. I would like a turkey I can cook for Christmas dinner minus the unnecessary guts found inside the cavity of every bird. Who decided that gore should be included with the purchase price?

7. I would like a SUV makeover so that when the door is opened in the carpool line NOTHING falls out of the door. Not one pencil or one old field trip permission slip, not one shoe or one croc, not one empty juice box or one Happy Meal french fry. Nothing. Denada. I want to win the clean car award rather than be humiliated in front of thousands.

8. I would like smooth, luxurious Clairol hair. The kind that withstands the southern humidity instead of the current mane that turns into Bon Jovi concert hair at the slightest moisture in the air. Unless, of course, I am wearing acid wash jeans, jelly shoes and blue eye shadow. Or a crazy prom dress.

9. I would like to wake up Chistmas morning with everything magically "lifted", certain areas properly "tucked", and all cellulite abstracted. Things pointing North rather than South would be especially appreciated.

10. I would like my own stash of orthodontic floss. My ten year old son keeps stealing mine.

11. If you happen to have extra coal and switches handy, could you drop some off in the stocking of Badge 97? His manners weren’t the nicest this year.

12. And finally, I would like for Martha Stewart's show, magazine and products to be available only in the Netherlands. Reminders of my ineptness in napkin folding, candle creating, fresh juice squeezin', gravy makin' and pillow stitching is cruel and unnecessary,

Just like the turkey innards.

Joyfully yours,
Joni

Bracing For The Future

There are a number of middle aged scenarios that could have easily influenced my reluctant approach to turning forty. Some buy sports cars in an effort to distance themselves from the worn-out minivan that carried multiple carloads of children, rotating them out of the magic marker stained passenger door like an overused turnstile . Others assume younger dress and longer hair in a last ditch effort to keep up with youthful, fresh faced cohorts who have yet to experience the evils of gravity. And then there are those who open home equity lines to buy various miracle creams and chemical peels as seen on QVC that promise to grammatically eradicate the parentheses mark between brows, the semi-colons around the mouth and the exclamation points punctuating the area around sleep-deprived eyes.

All of these things, among a litany of others, had the propensity to lead me to age-defying waters all in the name of splashing and then cannon-balling into the fountain of youth. The countdown to forty, however, would unwittingly lead me down an entirely different path. My mid-life crisis would turn out to be mid-life crooked.



I use the term crisis very loosely here because it was unknown to me that the potential for chaos was brewing along in my mouth. For my oblivious part, it never occurred to yours truly that I might chew food in a sub par manner as thighs that touch when standing clearly vouch for success in this area. My smile, while far from perfect, never scared small children or demonstrated unsightly rot; imperfections that never lessened my joy or caused awkwardness when laughing.

Dutiful visits to the dentist, brushing twice a day and flossing when I can find it - usually tied to a door knob with a Star Wars figurine dangling precariously over any choice of galaxy - resulted in a satisfactory state of dental health as evidenced by the free toothbrush and sample toothpaste awarded after each dental hygienist encounter.

So it was with a bit of surprise to receive the diagnosis that would lead me to my current predicament. At an orthodontic appointment for my son, Chandler, I noticed the metal work of a similarly-aged friend employed at the office. I commented to her that I thought that it made her look younger - words that would later mock me - and she began to tell me the circumstances that led her to the orthodontist’s chair. Concerns for crowding as the jaw line grows smaller, a condition adults experience as they age, influenced my friend’s decision to join the ranks of prepubescent teens all over town. Peering intently at my mouth, she then said the words that unbeknownst to me would distance me from my love for all things in the chip aisle:

“Why don’t you let Dr. V have a quick look while you wait on your son?”

I had already perused the Southern Living magazine in the waiting room, and played two rounds of Lady Pac Man in the game room, so I had a little time to spare for a fast inspection.

Quicker than the spin cycle on my front load washing machine, I was swirled through x-rays and tossed to and fro in a photographic session that distorted my lips in a manner that would make the Joker look handsome. Every nook and cranny of my mouth was documented making me wish that I had taken some time that morning to untangle some of the floss wrapped around my son’s bedroom door. Remnants of a strawberry pop tart would later materialize in an unfortunate photo close-up.

The end result was a similar assessment as determined for my friend, and a course of treatment was presented. The kind orthodontist gently encouraged immediate action as the crowding was only going to get worse in the future, necessitating the removal of a few bottom teeth to maintain proper dental hygiene. I flip-flopped between the choices offered until I remembered an unfortunate incident at the local Waffle House that involved missing teeth. Suddenly, the decision seemed clear.

Soon after, my mouth was outfitted with more metal than the Commandments should allow. I am now commiserating and swapping complaints with my ten year old son in similar state, sharing wax and antiseptic cleanser just like the three other mother/son orthodontic combinations reported in our region of the country.

That monumental age still looms on the horizon, but it doesn’t quite intimidate me as much, as I find myself bravely, albeit reluctantly, bracing for the future.

Besides, forty is the new thirteen.

The Princess and the Faux Pas

Mary Mac, our precocious, dramatic, five year old, was truly in her element while visiting the Magic Kingdom. Cinderella’s Castle beckoned to her in the same way Swiss Cake Rolls summon her to the kitchen pantry. The cast members at Walt Disney World furthered the delight by referring to our five year old as “Princess” at every interaction. With each greeting, I watched her stand a little taller, walking with her hands clasped delicately in front of her chest, even speaking sporadically with an English accent.

Several days into our trip, Mary Mac, with a contemplative look on her face, asked me if I thought that she might have been switched at the baby hospital, that perhaps Cinderella was raising a child that looked like me with dark hair, brown eyes, and freckles on her nose.

(If it hadn’t brought me such great and immediate joy, I might have been offended. Apparently, brunettes with excess freckles do not a princess make.)

I assured her that I was certain she belonged to me, even though our appearances were different.

“In fact,” I continued, “you look very much like your dad which is why I think you are so beautiful.”

“I guess so,” Mary responded, somewhat disappointed that royalty was not in her lineage or a royal court in her near future. “But he says I act just like you.”

(If it hadn’t brought me such great and immediate joy, I might have been offended for the second time that day. Apparently, this brunette with excess freckles ancestrally contributes to and is solely responsible for the monkey fits, mild histrionics and over the top dramatics occasionally demonstrated by our blond haired beauty.)

When booking our vacation months ago, I desperately tried to make a dining reservation with Cinderella. Evidently, Her Highness’ calendar was full at the Castle but she would be able to fit us in with all the other princesses in Norway at Epcot. It was very impressive that Cinderella could honor multiple commitments in multiple places. Clearly, she rocks it at carpool, baseball practices and school functions, a commonality we can finally share.

Our meeting with all of the Disney princesses occurred over breakfast. We were ushered into a makeshift photo studio to take pictures with the very glamorous Belle. The both of us were completely mesmerized- Mary Mac by her beauty and me by her ultra-white teeth. Oh, Crest White Strips, how you let me down.



After the photo shoot, a friendly fellow clad in velvet knickers and unusually pointy jazz shoes led us to our table. He swiftly pulled my chair away from the table with a theatrical swoop and grand bow, a movement so sudden and unexpected that it left me slightly unbalanced. With very little grace, I plopped – or fell - into the wooden chair, while Mary Mac daintily took her seat in a place she knew, with up most certainty, she rightfully belonged.

Minutes after our seating (or falling), the first princess arrived at our quaint table for two. With an abundance of red hair and green sequins, the lovely princess warmly embraced my little girl.



“Oh, Mary Mac, it’s your favorite princess MURIEL!” I exclaimed a little too eagerly.

Rolling her eyes in a way that could only be construed as true to her DNA, Mary Mac quickly corrected the first of two faux pas that would cause her great embarrassment. “Mom, this is ARIEL,” she said with great exaggeration and pronunciation of the mermaid’s name, sharing a knowing look with the princess.



For a moment, I had that same excluded feeling felt in grade school when friends were astonished at the lack of interest I showed in feeding their Baby Alives or changing the diapers of said babies which only made me want to vomit in my own mouth.

Quickly trying to cover the appellation blunder, I whipped out the camera to take pictures of the two beauties, all the while calling out ridiculous, yet encouraging, comments as I snapped away.

“Oh, that is so pretty ARIEL! Isn’t ARIEL a beautiful name, Mary Mac? In fact, I should have named you ARIEL, because I like it that much!” And on, and on, and on. Know that my behavior embarrasses even me.

With great relief, I was able to correctly identify the other princesses who visited our table. Cinderella:





And then Snow White:



But then the stumper came along. One would think that I had learned my lesson just minutes before with the incorrect misnomer used for all to hear, but the accurate recognition of Snow White and Cinderella unfortunately instilled a false sense of confidence.

“Mary Mac, here comes LENORA!” I enthusiastically announced.

This time, the princess corrected me.

In a high lilting voice that causes all small birds to sing and rejoice, the lady wearing pink, funky shoulder pads firmly responded, “My name is AURORA.”

Mary Mac looked at me and slowly shook her head, letting it be known that my princess skills were clearly lacking, and bounded out of her seat for a photo op with her long lost sister.



Later that day, Mary Mac recounted the excitement of meeting all of her royal kin with her Mimi (grandmother).

“And I met Cinderella and Snow White and Aurora and Ariel and Belle,” she said in one precious run-on sentence. “It was so much fun. But mommy had a little trouble with the names, because you know that she’s not a big fan of the princesses,” she added with hand gestures punctuating each declaration.

“But it’s okay,” she continued, with a smile in my direction that always melts my heart. “I’m still glad that mommy and I are just alike.”

And for that very reason, she will be receiving the coveted Baby Alive for Christmas.

Weary

I thought I understood weariness. Particularly as the mom of three children, having experienced and survived those first few terrifying weeks after each was born, I believed that I fully comprehended the meaning of tired.

I clearly remember being up with my firstborn in the middle of the night, in a neighborhood that was dark and silent and peacefully asleep, feeling the fatigue deep down in my incompetent bones and wondering if I would ever feel well rested again. That exhaustion mutated into inexplicable irritation with my husband, and on that night, as I rocked the infant that had rocked my world, I methodically divided up our shared belongings in my head, like the stingiest divorce lawyer during heated arbitration. My spouse could have the sofa, but I was taking the dining room table. The casual dinnerware I suppose would have to go with him because everyone knows that the woman gets the fine china.

And the crazy thing about this train of thought that kept me occupied until our fussy two week old finally, with God’s great mercy, closed his sweet little eyes, was that I felt completely justified in my aggravation. I didn’t know exactly why I was so angry at the man who could make me weak in the knees with just a look, but what I did know, without a hormonal doubt, was that somehow he was to blame.

After a few continuous hours of sleep later that night, I woke up and all was well in my unstable world. The hormone monster was back in his cage, and I was able to spend the daylight hours marveling how good God was to bless me with such a wonderful husband. John, however, regarded me with apprehensive and watchful eyes, wondering when the next mood would swing, knocking his head high in the air and over the right-field fence.

Those middle of the night cries would wake me each night, the sound transported shrilly through the sardonic baby monitor glowing like the worst kind of kryptonite, and in a sleepwalk stupor I would find my way to the nursery, to the same rocking chair, and begin once more the task of splitting our marital possessions as amicably as I thought reasonable.

This same cycle of existence during those tumultuous days of infancy occurred until the hours of uninterrupted sleep outnumbered the missed episodes of Friends. Eventually routine and rest and restoration of balanced hormones replaced the unwarranted annoyance towards my innocent significant other, but I’ve never forgotten that feeling of indescribable fatigue which transformed into various emotions that suggested that my head, at any given moment, might just spin off of my body.

For the past 5 years, this type of tiredness has only been a distant, hazy memory. That is, until our trip to Walt Disney World last week.

This was the third time our family has visited the theme park that curiously inspires grown men to don Mickey Mouse ears, Goofy themed t-shirts and fanny packs spilling over with fast passes and autograph books. It is a joyful place, complete with non-stop music and smiling staff (cast) members, ice cream cones and light-up toys sold at every street corner.

We knew this trip would be different than the others. Our plan (Can you hear God chuckling?) was to visit all four of the major theme parks, a task never attempted before because of the ages of our children and the mandatory naps weaved throughout previous stays. Four parks in six days didn’t seem inappropriately ambitious, especially considering the high levels of energy exhibited on a daily basis by our three offspring.

But it wasn’t the children we should have been worried about.....

(part two tomorrow )

Freezer Screams

In my humble opinion, true irritation has not been fully experienced until one has been subjected to the screaming alarm of a freezer. In fact, you may not even know that your unit is capable of such an earsplitting warning, but I’m here to tell you that the manufacturers of the refrigeration system take very seriously the unsolicited thawing of one year old frozen pot roasts.

It seems as though the demise of the appliance always happens when there is not a capable spouse to be found. The same can be said for a kitchen sink leak, toilet overflow or flat tire – all occurrences that cause momentary panic because of the very few occasions a toolbox and I have ever coincided successfully.

In typical fashion, immediate phone calls are made to my husband to report the latest household travesty. In most situations, he can calmly talk me down from the edge of the roof, gently reminding me that water overflowing from the commode is not necessarily life threatening nor does it warrant helicopter rescue. There are even times helpful instruction can be received and implemented effectively if my husband is able to recognize a moment of clarity in yours truly, seizing that brief window of opportunity to direct me towards a temporary fix.

More often than not, and only if it doesn’t interfere with the examination of a patient with medical needs that outweigh my domestic ones, John races home to rescue his housewife in distress. As his truck pulls into our driveway, the clouds slowly part and the angels joyfully sing, foretelling that clean clothes will now be had for everyone because the washing machine repairman has arrived or that toilets will once again flush because the plumber has entered the building.

He can fix anything. Convenient skills learned growing up on a farm that required that he know more than the average bear. John has delivered calves, mended fences, sheared sheep, and once singlehandedly erected a large NASA-like antenna on the top of his family farmhouse, ensuring that Friday night episodes of The Dukes Of Hazard were not missed. There is very little the man can’t do, and I say that in the most biased and non-objectionable manner possible.

So imagine my consternation this morning when I made the bat call to my household hero caped in a white lab coat. Over the shattering noise of the freezer alarm, I relayed the refrigeration emergency to my husband. Unfortunately, an admission of a patient to the hospital superseded the potential damage to my eardrums, and as a result, John would not be able to make it home before the canals in my ears imploded.

“So what should I do?!” I shouted over the increasing racket bellowing from the freezer convulsing in my pantry.

“You can do this,” he replied in the kind doctor voice he often uses with folks stressing about high cholesterol. “Simply go to the breaker box and open it, which will reveal the electric panel of circuit breakers. An electrical overload has probably occurred which means that you will need to flip the appropriate circuit to reinstate the electrical flow.”

Despite all of the clatter reverberating off of the walls, I was able to hear John pretty clearly. However, I didn’t understand one word that he said. Breaker box? Electrical panels? Circuit breakers?

These are not words found in my love language and undoubtedly of no help, in the same way the words North, East, South, and West offer little assistance when driving.

“I just arrived at the hospital so I have to run. Let me know how it works for you.”

I already knew how this was going to work out for me, but I didn’t say it out loud. Somehow it looked like my day was going to involve adornment of the big, red earphones John used to wear to the Darlington Speedway when we lived in South Carolina. Complete coverage of my ears was going to be the only relief to occur for the next few hours because I was about ninety-nine percent sure that it would be easier to dig through his bag of racing paraphernalia - complete with “Peace to 3” koozie, cut off khaki shorts and half eaten bag of beef jerky - to find the cumbersome earphones rather than attempt to locate the breaker box circuit thingy.

Before placing the headphones over my ears, I realized that they were only going to exacerbate the already bad hair day I was having. Did I really need to resort to such dramatic accessories for a little quiet?

With new resolve, I laid the monstrous earphones aside, determined to find the breaker box that would silence the raucous freezer. To my surprise I found it almost immediately, opened the metal door, and then stopped dead in my tracks, my breath momentarily leaving me:



I have never seen so many black switches in all of my life. What in the world? I wasn’t trying to fly an aircraft; I just NEEDED THE NOISE TO STOP. Stat.

Fearing that I just might blow our house to smithereens with all of the manic pushing of mystery buttons, I decided that I should just spend the morning at Starbucks, waiting until John finished with the medical priorities he had chosen over a loved one’s sanity. The nerve.

But that’s when my eagle eye spotted it. In a place hidden deep behind the insubordinate freezer, I zeroed in on the plug. With a snatch that reminded me of a recent baseball catch, I yanked on the cord with more force than necessary, and the wailing of the alarm mercifully stopped.

It was finally silent.

Maybe I am more capable than I give myself credit for. (But evidently not clever enough to remove a preposition from the end of a sentence.) Maybe I am selling myself short when it comes to household mishaps that sometimes just entail more reason than skill to address. From now on, I am going to wholeheartedly try to fix things on my own rather than interrupt the busy day of my spouse and all those lovely sick people. I will take on the temperamental dishwasher, the faulty light switch, and the slow drip from the sink faucet .

And after that, I will erect humongous antennas and deliver baby calves.

Dangers of Shopping

There would have been a better chance of winning the lottery. The odds would have been more in my favor to be recruited by a professional basketball team as a starting center or to get struck by lightning in a passing thunderstorm than the fortuitous events that occurred Friday afternoon.

We were headed to the lake for the weekend. About an hour outside of our destination, we stopped at an Oriental rug warehouse well known for the deep discounts offered to the public. With fabric swatch in hand, I joyfully bounded from the car in search of the perfect rug for our bedroom.

Upon entering the store, I was greeted warmly by the Egyptian owners, who quickly assessed my needs, and led me to a large collection from which to choose. Poles attached to the ceiling suspended the large area rugs with heavy-duty metal clips. Customers were encouraged to browse through each section of Orientals by “turning” one rug to another, like the pages of an oversized periodical, in order to fully view each selection.

Business was slow so the Egyptian man – Jafari – offered to assist me in finding the size and design I desired. I pointed to a rug that I liked, and Jafari placed his hands on the edge of it, turning it so that the full length and width could be displayed.

And that’s when I felt it.

It took a few seconds for the pain to register, but the searing sting at the top of my noggin immediately made me dizzy. I sat down on a pile of nearby rugs, and placed my hand on the throbbing area of my head. The look on Jafari’s face was a mixture of astonishment and horror, and then quickly transformed to one that was almost cartoonish in appearance when he saw the blood seeping through my fingers.

Really, what are the chances? Never had it occurred to me that shopping for Orientals could be a dangerous sport. If only I had known, safety precautions would have certainly been considered. When we ride bikes, we wear helmets. When we ride in cars, we wear seatbelts. When we ride in boats, we wear life vests. We are safety minded like that.

Holding my head in my hands, I leaned over my knees, partly because I was somewhat light headed, but mostly to keep the steady stream of blood from staining the pile of rugs on which I rested. The large metal clip from one of the rugs had popped free, swan diving 25 feet below, the corner of which punctured my scalp.

The owners and my husband instantly surrounded me. Chase, my tender-hearted ten year old, ushered his two younger siblings to a different area of the store, protecting them from witnessing the remnants of my losing battle with the metal clip.

Someone handed my husband a towel to put direct pressure on the wound while the owners spoke rapidly to one another in their native tongue. After a few minutes of conferring, they tried to insist that an ambulance be summoned, but luckily, John pulled the Doctor card and convinced them that the injury wasn’t as serious as the puddles of blood would suggest. After about 15 minutes, the bleeding subsided and I slowly started to regain some sense.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had most likely earned a “slightly injured customer” discount. Surely, suffering the impalement of a metal object to my person warranted some sort of price concession. With renewed purpose and sights set on row after row of Orientals, I informed the very surprised Jafari that I was ready to proceed.

With a questionable gait, slightly blurred vision, and a head of hair matted with blood, I perused the store with a very nervous Egyptian man, determined to buy a rug with my injury coupon. My family walked behind us, and I overheard Chase say to his dad, “Only mom would bleed all over someone’s floor and then continue to shop.”

After looking for the better part of an hour, I finally accepted with much sorrow and regret that there was not a rug to match the swatch of fabric in my hand. With great relief, the owners accompanied us to the door, firmly clicking the lock in place after our departure.

Although I was still in a little bit of pain, I immediately began thinking of other potential rug dealers that I could visit the next weekend. You may even see me if you happen to be in the Atlanta area.

I’ll be the one flipping through rows of rugs wearing a helmet.

Blue Light Special

Blue flashing lights in one’s rear view mirror is rarely a welcomed sight. Either it is a signal for you to get out of the way or blunt indicator for you to pull the heck over. Often times, the sudden appearance of sirens and lights cause my unsuspecting feet to crazily clog over the pedals in a schizophrenic dance of uncertainty, trying to decide if I should stay or should I go, a thought similarly expressed by The Clash.

(If I go there will be trouble, And if I stay it will be double...)

For the record, I am very careful and very safe when behind the wheel and a somewhat manic passenger when not. The older I get the more worrisome the very fast interstate becomes. Those who have had the unpleasant riding experience of my presence to their immediate right understand my potential to demonstrate unfortunate backseat-driving behavior. My husband just wishes I would ride in the backseat.

Yesterday morning I impulsively decided to head to Atlanta for the day. I was supposed to be at work, but figured the joy of shopping would be worth any cross remarks made on my quarterly review. (Not to mention that my boss relies on me for supper and clean underwear, so I wasn’t too concerned about the possible repercussions.)

With my hands responsibly in the ten and two position on the steering wheel, I cruised along in the slow lane at a safe speed, mindful of all traffic laws and in full respect of law enforcement officers. (That was for you, Badge #97, and all of your quick and spiteful judgment.)

After an uneventful trip - minus the interaction with the burly truck driver who felt it necessary to wag his scary and grotesque looking tongue in my direction – I spotted my exit ahead and prepared to take the exit in a manner that can only be described as a state of upmost awareness peppered with extreme caution.

As I slowed, I suddenly noticed a police car, blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, traveling in the left-hand emergency lane in a BACKWARDS direction off of the exit ramp I needed to take. He was gunning it (pun intended) in reverse, and by my estimations, was going to crash into my car about the time I arrived onto the exit ramp.

What happened next occurred in a matter of seconds. As I veered to the left out of the exit lane to avoid a crash with Smoky, the police car came to a screeching halt, allowing my vehicle the room needed to safely exit towards all the glorious retail. With cat-like reflexes, I swung my car back to the right into the exit lane, passing the directionally challenged police officer in the process.

And then more blue lights, more sirens, with the added delight of a honking horn, directly behind my Expedition’s bumper.

For an erroneous moment, I thought that Smoky wanted to apologize for the distractions caused by his driving, commending me for the level headedness with which I responded when presented with a precarious situation on the interstate. Maybe this would serve as a good lesson and gentle reminder for him when there are circumstances that involve a gearshift placed in the wrong position.

With a forgiving heart and an abundance of grace to offer, I rolled down my window as Badge #97 approached my car.

“Ma’am, would you like to tell me what you were doing back there?”

Huh?

I didn’t want to be disrespectful by pointing out that I was trying to avoid an IMMINENT CAR CRASH with the law, especially when exercising all manner of driving precautions as evidenced by my hands still in the ten and two position.

“Ummm, well, ..I was trying to exit....” I stammered, trying to remember if accusing a law enforcement officer of sub-standard driving warranted arrest. Plus, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings before he offered his apologies. That would be rude.

“I need you to give me your driver’s license now.”

“Well, okay,” was my very brave response, thinking that he just wanted to use my name when saying that he was sorry.

Smoky took my license and headed back to his vehicle. I slowly began to comprehend that somehow this did not mean good news for me. I am very perceptive like that.

After several minutes he returned, citation in hand, to explain the many ways in which I had broken the law with my indecisive and erratic driving. (His words.)

My brain, and flashbacks of the perverted truck driver, reminded me that I still had a tongue.

“Seriously?” I asked incredulously. “You were driving backwards on the very fast moving interstate with flashing lights and sirens and I was trying to avoid a collision with you. Where’s the emergency?! Clearly, my indecisive and erratic driving is keeping you from it.”

Long, scary sounding pause.

“MA’AM, THAT IS NO EXCUSE FOR THE UNSAFE WAY YOU WERE DRIVING!” the man barked, using his capital letters voice to let me know that those carrying badges and loaded guns are not tolerant of sassy mouthed housewives.

Unsafe? UNSAFE?! Did he not realize my hands were in the ten and two position?


“I have listed your violation as crossing the gore of converging lanes,” he continued, handing me the yellow ticket that meant I had a lot of ‘splainin’ to do to with my spouse.



“Your court date is set for September 23rd. Here is an additional copy in Spanish in case you didn’t understand your ERRATIC and UNSAFE driving in plain English,” Badge 97 concluded with a smirk, igniting a number of sinful responses in my head that I wisely managed to keep in said head.



Crossing a gore? What’s a gore? That’s how I’m going to go down, tarnishing the clean record that for years has demonstrated all manner of safe and cautious driving?

Later that night, I recounted to my husband the events that led up to my mishap with the gore. He was very understanding, and with a wink, suggested that I may want to spend a few extra hours at the office next week to appropriately pay for my driving waywardness.

I replied that he could absolutely depend on my help in the office, but depending on supper and clean underwear most likely would be a different story.

He can blame the gore advocate- Badge 97- for that minor inconvenience.

So This Is The Way It’s Gonna Go

I just wanted a little quiet time to myself.

I woke up around 6:00 am, excited that the house was soundless, children were still sleeping and the coffee already made. A perfect setting to study my Bible in peace, delight in caffeine saturated with Splenda and crème, and discern the message God would have for me this morning.

As I was preparing my cup of coffee – or as John calls it, my milkshake – I decided that it would be a nice treat to retrieve the paper from the end of my driveway so that my husband could read it before going to work. A fresh, crisp morning paper instead of the soggy, run-over-by-the-car-multiple-times newspaper he normally receives after arriving home from the office.

Grabbing my coat, I quietly headed out the door in my very cool bedroom shoes, still joyful about the quiet time that would be mine in just a few, short moments.

It was pitch black. Walking down our somewhat lengthy driveway, I thought I detected a small movement several feet ahead, causing my steps to slow, but not in a manner that was yet afraid. I cautiously continued my short journey until suddenly I heard a loud and frightful SNORT, one that might reasonably suggest a scary monster if any had recently been spotted in my neighborhood.

Behind the unpleasant snort was an even more unpleasant deer, surrounded by his snorty, unpleasant friends. My limited experience with deer in the past is that they are skittish creatures – scaredy cats if you will – but these I happened upon seemed freakishly confident and just a tad bit hostile.

The Master Snorter, sporting four antlers on either side of his aggressive head, looked me directly in the eye, drew a line across the driveway with his creepy hoof, double-dog- daring me to pass into his marked territory. (Not really, but he did make eye contact with me, followed by another mean snort which precipitated my next reflexive action.)

(Allow me a short side note. I live in the deep South, a place where babies are delivered from the womb wearing camouflage and then graduate to loading a shotgun by the age of two. Weddings, funerals and pregnancies are planned around hunting season as this southern past time takes precedence over almost all occasions, with the exception, of course, of anything having to do with NASCAR. Hunting is a big deal around these parts, which begs the question, WHERE ARE THE HUNTERS WHEN YOU NEED THEM?!)

Back to my story.

So, there we stood, the herd of deer blocking my way to the morning paper, giving me the evil eye while simultaneously flaring nostrils with mean-spirited snorts. I was hopelessly outnumbered and the freaky deer seemed unnecessarily antagonistic. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard of anyone being mauled by a deer or losing their life prematurely from a herd attack, but I wasn’t in a position to take that chance.

So, I turned tail and ran. In turn, the deer also ran, in different directions, and some unfortunately, in mine. As fast as my house shoes would allow, I sprinted up the driveway with pure panic in my bugged-out eyes and images of my ill-fated demise in my very freaked-out head. The sounds of scurrying hooves seemed to be all around me, and with an extra burst of speed that had to come from Jesus Himself, I flew up the stairs of our front porch and safely found the front door.

Regrettably, I lost my shoe, and my pride, in the process. And when John gets home tonight he'll have to read a soggy, run-over-by-the-car-multiple-times newspaper.



Welcome 2009. I have a nagging feeling that this is the way it’s gonna go this year…

But you knew it all along, didn’t you?