cubicles and financial tests...

I remember, about a year ago, writing about motherhood and the fact that I'm really only good at that job. I mentioned how amazed I was by women who can pull off a career and motherhood, because I was crazy busy with the mom bit, and was fairly certain it was all I could do. Funny, how when you say things like that out loud (or in print, as the case may be), you find yourself walking into the very thing you thought you couldn't do.

Oddly enough, now I find myself in the market for a job. Dave has enrolled in school full-time (YAY!) and I have been officially looking for a job for the past two months. I've spent several hours -- many several hours -- writing resumes, cover letters, and applying online for I don't know how many positions. That's okay, it's all part of the process, right?

Part of the process for businesses apparently sometimes includes a measure of weeding out the "lesser" applicants, in the form of a test. In my case, I've been searching for a receptionist/secretarial position, and for one position, was required to take a financial test. Okay, I thought. How bad could it be? I've been running payroll and doing the taxes for the last 2 and a half years. There's probably just a few little math problems, maybe a pretend payroll sheet, and we're good.

Silly me. I arrived at the testing site (which was also my potential workplace) and entered a sea of cubicles. Cubicles. Could I work in a cubicle? The place was deadly silent: No elevator music overhead, no happy chatting around the water cooler, no water cooler, come to think of it. I was greeted with blank stares from the 4 women in their glass cubicles nearest the door. "Hello?" I ventured. Usually hello doesn't require a question mark, unless one is answering a phone, or one is met with mindless gazing from people who, you would think, should be friendly and encouraging. "I'm here to take the financial test?" A question again, met with expressionless gaping. Is there a CubicleLand language I'm unfamiliar with? Perhaps some breach of conduct I've committed? If the financial test doesn't weed me out, my lack of cubicle-etiquette certainly will.

A second later, the cubicles seemed to part like the Red Sea as a woman walked through them with a stack of tests in hand. She handed me a stapled, 5-page test, and told me to take it to room 314 when I had completed it. I pulled out my pencil and calculator (don't worry, that was allowed) and prepared to amaze the world... Or at least the person correcting my test.

"Page 1," I read. "Using the principles of Accounting, please answer the following true/false questions. 20 points."

Hello. Principles of accounting? I can tell you that cash is an asset, does that count for anything? To my horror, the entire 1st page was filled with accounting terms and odd things like, "True or False: If you make a payment on a loan account, it will be reconciled as a deposit." What? I'd just call it a payment on a loan, why do we have to give it a name? So I flubbed my way through page one, thinking, hey, it's a 50-50 chance on all of these, how bad could this turn out?

Ha. "Page Two. Using the Principles of Accounting" (those keep turning up!), "determine which category each of the following fall into: Asset, Liability, or Owner's Equity. For example: Cash on hand -- Asset" (told you). "20 Points."

Great, they used the one I knew for sure as the example. Down the page I went, assuming that anything that was a loan was a liability, and anything that was paid for was an asset. But then I came across "Office buildings." Office buildings? I don't know, do we own them? Suddenly I pictured myself sitting in one of the cubicles, looking through the glass at the back of the brown-haired woman in the next cubicle and wishing there was a dang radio in this place, when my supervisor (in my mind, a friendly, balding, somewhat harried man) rushes to my cubicle and says, "Quick! Marianne! Are our office buildings an asset or a liability??" I could see how this part of the test would be extremely relevant at work. Apparently I don't know anything about accounting.

Page 3 brought the easy math questions, at least until number 32: "Compound Interest. On December 1, so and so deposits $500 into an account that is compounded annually at 5% interest. How much will be in the account on July 1? November 31?Blah blah blah and such and such..."

Okay, let's be honest. This is how the question should have read: "Compound Interest. Do you know how to search the Internet for equations or websites that could provide you information on compound interest, and likely even allow you to punch in the appropriate numbers, whereupon you will receive the correct answers and provide them to your friendly, balding, somewhat harried supervisor?"

Alas, what should have been was not, so I did my best (which I'm certain was wrong anyway), and flipped to the last two pages. "Using the following balance worksheet, reconcile this account." Finally. Easy. But irrelevant. If this company is still reconciling their accounts by hand and hasn't joined the rest of the world in utilizing financial software, I don't want to work here. Plus they don't have a water cooler.

I was one of the first ones done (probably because I aced all the accounting terms), turned my test in and thought, "Well that was interesting." A cute, blond girl turned her test in right after me, and we were asked to sit down and wait while they were corrected. I complimented the cute girl on her on her fantastic pedicure, which you could see because of her smart-yet-stylish shoes. She heaved a little sigh of relief and said, "Well that was easier than I thought." Sure, if you're an accountant. I smiled. Weakly.

After a few minutes, the woman correcting the tests called Fantastic Pedicure's name and they huddled in front of me. In order to be considered for the job, you had to get at least 75 on the test. They would be administering the test the next day as well, just in case anyone wanted to retake it. I heard the testing lady tell Fantastic Pedicure, "Okay, you got an 85, so put that on your application." She handed Pedicure her test and called my name. "So you got a 55," she began, and looked as if she were going to continue. "Okay," I said as I turned tail and tried to look dignified as I walked out. I walked down the long hallway, smiling to myself --smiling, I suppose because that was a total flop. Sure, I could take the test again, but could my dignity handle it? And if I passed it the next time, would I pass the Cubicle Etiquette Test?

I caught up to Pedicure on the way out. "Howdja do?" she asked.

"Oh, I got a 55," I said, hoping I sounded like I was talking about something clever.

"Psh," she snorted. "Sure."

Awkward.

"Uh, no, I really got a 55, they held onto my test and everything."

"Oh," she said. It's what I'd have said. I wished her luck with the job and climbed into my car, grateful to have had a glimpse of CubicleLand, at least to see that I didn't really want it. Sure, I could say I failed on purpose, but we'd all know how true that was.

PS. The formula for compound interest is M = P(1 + i) to the nth power, by the way. You know, in case you're ever stuck in a financial test in CubicleLand.

A House Called Awful End

Ok, so this is not like my usual posting, although I've been laughing to myself over 2 things I plan to blog about soon...I just have to wait til enough time has passed...

But I had to tell you: I grabbed this book at the library the other day, along with its 2 sequels. TheBoy was like, "I don't know what to read!" and I was in the 8-12ish section, and the cover looked like fun, so I was like, "Here, try this one." Well today when I was going to blow dry my hair, I wanted something to read for the 4 minutes that it takes; so since TheBoy has yet to pick it up, I grabbed it and started. It took me about as long to read the first chapter as it did to dry my hair, and I LOVE IT!! Already! It is hilarious!! It was compared to Lemony Snicket, which was fun, but different. Philip Ardagh (the brilliant writer) has yet to take himself seriously. For example: Eddie took a seat across from his aunt. "Put that back!" she said, so he did, and sat down across from her. That's not a direct quote, you get the gist. It's so fun already! I wish I had a coupla hours to just read it all, it's delightful! I'll letcha know how it ends...

More life stuff later...

the idiot in delivery room 303

No, I'm not pregnant. I have some friends who are, and that topic always makes me blush for some reason. Okay, it's not that pregnancy in and of itself makes me blush. It's the fact that I'm always reminded of the deliveries of my kids, and that makes me blush. With the exception of one -- RyBread, bless her -- I have plenty to blush about.

Never fear, I won't shock you with all the gory details. I'll just fill you in on the least embarrassing, the twins' delivery. While it's the one that makes me blush the least, it's the one that makes me laugh the most.

One terribly early morning in February, I was awakened by the alarming feeling of my water breaking...actually, I guess it would be more accurate to say that one of my waters was breaking. ...Never mind, let's move on.

Whenever I start this story with my kids, they always say, "What does that feel like?" How do you answer that? ...Uh...wet?

Anyhoo, I remember just kind of yelling, "Oh, oh, oh!"

Dave, who is never actually ready for an emergency in the middle of the night, outdid himself and jumped out of bed, yelling, "WHAT? WHAT?! What's wrong?!"

"My water just broke all over the place," I said, and he let out a burst of air and sighed, "...Finally!"

My thoughts exactly. People like to say a rather absurd thing to a woman carrying twins: "Wow, twins! Two for the price of one!" No. It is not two for the price of one, it is every bit, two for the price of two; and while every pregnancy is difficult in its own right, take each typical difficulty and multiply it by two. In many cases, you could add on doctor-prescribed bed-rest for who knows how long, non-stress tests, twice a week, for at least the last 8 weeks, a constant feeling that your body is being slowly ripped in two, and in my case, extreme itching of the palms of the hands and bottoms of the feet (go figure. But have you ever tried to satisfy an itch on the palm of your hand? It's physically impossible. I seriously thought I might go completely crazy some nights). Now you're getting the gist of carrying twins. So the idea that we were finally actually going through with this whole thing was, indeed, quite a relief.

We called my friend, who came to babysit (or really, just sleep out the rest of the night on my couch, as the bed was no longer an inviting idea to anyone), called my mom to let her get all excited about the next few hours, and headed off to the hospital.

Truthfully, I don't remember most of the details once we got to the hospital. It seemed like checking in took about 72 years, but that can't possibly be right, since their birthday has been recorded on the hospital and state records as the same date my water broke... I do remember how freezing cold I was as they prepped me for a C-section and gave me an IV. Not until I was shivering uncontrollably did someone get me one of those delicious blankets from the warming bins, and stuck a new, warm IV in. I also remember being a little nervous about the spinal anesthesia -- my first 3 kids were delivered without any meds, so that needle going into my back, while I was supposed to be calm and exhaling, was a bit unnerving. I know, Chicken.

I remember that as I was being wheeled into the delivery room, my little silly surgery hat fell down over my eyes. I laid there on the bed helplessly, since, of course, I couldn't move, and said, "Could someone fix my hat?" One of the nurses glanced down at me, and just kept on pushing my little bed. "Ok," I thought. "It's probably not important that I can see right now anyway." A few seconds later, someone pulled my hat back up to my forehead.

Of the actual C-Section, I remember 3 things: Dave almost got kicked out for crossing over the doctor's imaginary (but apparently very real to her) "do not cross" line -- he needed a better view. That was bad, but when he watched them stretch my skin apart with the those metal claws of pain and told me I was going to hurt in the morning, that really ticked them off. Please. if I didn't know I was going to hurt in morning, something was seriously wrong with me.

I remember when they brought Morgs around to show her to me (oh sure, they can cross the little line), I just couldn't believe how skinny she was. SO skinny. "Here's your baby girl!" they said. "Man, she's skinny," I thought. Tender, wasn't I?

Then two minutes later, they pulled out The Boy, and brought him around for me to see. He was obviously shorter than Morgs and was screaming the most pathetic little wide-mouthed sound I'd ever heard. More sentimentality from my groggy brain: "I had a frog," I thought.

And that was it. The next several hours were a blur of half-awake, groggy sleep; the kind where you don't really feel like you're sleeping, and when you are sleeping, you keep dreaming that you can't stay awake. I remember being so tired, but feeling a terrible need to stay awake because...what was it? I'm sure someone brought some sort of food or something in and left it by my bed...at least it seems like that could have happened. A very helpful nurse came in to check on me every so often, and finally told me I needed to remember to breathe. Really? Don't most people just do that automatically? I remember Dave coming in and telling me that The Boy had been having a hard time breathing. Huh. Me, too, apparently.

The days passed; the twins cried; we slipped into a weird new reality of life with five children, ages 5 and under; the twins still cried, I got used to missing twice as much sleep (two for the price of one -- Please!); and did I mention the twins cried? But it was good. We were a big little family, and happy in our sleepy, cry-ey new life.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. That's no big deal, what's there to blush about in that story? It is this: One day, several weeks after I had brought them home, I sat remembering the morning of their birth. I remembered Dave, and The Frog, and the Skinny Thing, and that stupid hat that someone had to push back up for me because my arms were... my arms... they...

There was nothing wrong with my stupid arms! They weren't numb, I could still move them around, even with the IV, they weren't pinned down to the bed or anything! I totally could have pushed up my stupid little hat! No wonder the nurse just kind of blew me off. She was probably thinking, "Push up your own hat, I'm pushing a bed here!"

There. That's my little blusher moment with the Twins. It's really nothing, I know, but I have a strong suspicion that the nurses were calling me "the idiot in room 3" for duration of my stay.

Oh well. I was ticked that they wanted to kick Dave out. They were ticked that they had to push my hat up. We'll call it even and move on.

internet snobbery and other such nonsense...

I have a confession. I do not play nice on the Internet. Well okay, not to be misunderstood, I always give positive feedback on eBay (well at least I did the two times I used it); I almost never type in all-caps in my emails, lest someone mistake happy yelling with angry-e-yelling; I never make people feel dumb when they pass along a billionth-forwarded email with a "Snopes Verified! story about someone's pet giraffe that ate an entire house, and here's the pictures to prove it," and it turns out to be completely bogus on snopes. I never do any of that stuff.

For the record, I rarely leave comments on people's blogs, or play "tag" games of any form online, and certainly never bother with the applications on facebook. Internet snobbery? Probably. But really, I certainly don't expect everyone who reads this flapdoodle to comment on it. Who's really got time to comment on every blog they read?

Where was I?

Oh. The Internet. You should know then, that, at least according to the emails I've received, I don't really love my country, I really don't care about protecting my children, I've cursed myself with tons of bad omens, I have no heart, I've lost my one chance with my big crush, I've offended slews of veterans because I didn't boycott Target, I'm a lame friend, I'm likely responsible for most of the bad things that have happened to my friends, and I've broken at least 27 chain-emails that some kid was supposedly doing for his 4th grade science project.

And all because I don't forward emails. Oh sure, I used to, way back when the Internet was new and it was the first time I'd received some touching story about a lost child and (sniff) knew that I had to forward this one, because what if I was his mother?!!

But then time happened. And I kept getting the same emails about someone trying to outlaw God in schools or some tragic story about someone who desperately needed a miracle and sending this email on would somehow provide that, or someone else who, while putting on lipstick and facing east while standing on one foot, was attacked by a crazed lunatic, just two feet away from her vehicle.

Have I turned into a cynic? I can't say, but who wouldn't become at least a little cynical when their inbox is being flooded with countless messages about how the world is coming to an end because the guy they didn't like was voted in as President; or how a bazillion germs are on my toothbrush because I don't keep it 100 feet away from the nearest toilet; or how lemons in my ice water are covered in e-coli and I should never order "with lemon" again. Come on, life is too short to be pestered with this kind of stuff. Sheesh, we've made it this long, haven't we? Even with the lemons in our ice water or toothbrushes in the cabinet right next to the toilet, and heaven forbid, a Democrat in office.

I got a good one yesterday. It had a link to some guy on YouTube, but the details on that don't really matter. The introduction before the link told the thirsty email masses that the very President of the United States had viewed this video, and had been so disturbed that he called the guy and asked him to a secret meeting at the White House to discuss it. The President "told the White House staff to handle the press and not to talk about the video or the visit."

"That's interesting," the email said.

You're telling me. Anyone else wondering who told about the "secret meeting?"

Help me.

Okay, so I'm a cynic. At least email-ly speaking.

But I've got one word for you: Delete.

It's a beautiful thing.

Pass it on.

a few words on my long absence...

Okay, so was it wrong to miss an entire month and a half without some sort of mention of what in the world was going on at my house?

Here it is, in a couple of deliciously long, run-on sentences.

Long about the beginning of May, my husband's masonry work finally dried up, causing a few dark weeks, made darker by hopeless thoughts, of blah and oh dear and what in the world are we going to do; by June we began survival mode, in the form of selling anything that could be liquidated, buying new, used-paid-for vehicles, and trying to come up with a general plan of what in the world are we going to do next; in the midst of all that, I was called as the Young Women President in our ward (do you ever wonder if the Heavens snicker a bit behind discrete hands?).

Let me be honest. I couldn't even think as far as next Tuesday to get my perspective straight. I had to just wait until next Tuesday came, and come it did, long about mid-June. The darkness left, even though no great, substantial things happened to push it out. It was just hope. Delicious, lovely, hopeful, Hope. We are certainly not out of the woods yet, but we are definitely not alone in the woods, and because of that, life keeps going, and we keep living it. Not just surviving, but living.

Thank goodness for Next Tuesday.

on being sick...

A coupla weeks ago, at the close of our morning rush to get everyone out the door on time, RyBread stumbled to the couch, curled up in mortified pain, and moaned, "I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Twenty minutes later, she did.

Dang. The Barfs. I would change 2897 diapers 17 times each if I never had to deal with throw-up again. Luckily I don't have a particularly sensitive gag reflex, but the Barfs are the one thing to truly try that part of me.

Okay, so really it wasn't so bad; she made the bucket every time. I played my part well, I thought, present for all but one of the barfs, holding her hair back, rubbing her back, and handing her a clean, warm wash cloth when she was all done to clean up the yucks dribbling off her chin. That's a nice mommy, right?

It reminded me, though, of a time when I didn't really make the nice mommy. Shocker. Poor Morgs was the victim this time, and it had been a long day. She had felt terrible all day, with a fever and everything, but she hadn't actually thrown up.

She had languished most of the day up in my room so I could check on her, but I moved her down to the TV at dinner so I could make something for the rest of us to eat. See? I make dinner sometimes.

I assumed, of course, that I was safe sending her down to the brand new couch and the brand new carpet, since she just had a fever and felt yucky in general, right? Silly me. I was minutes from placing dinner on the table when I heard the 5 words that can strike fear into the heart of any mother: "Mom! I'm gonna throw up!!"

What do I do in these brief moments before the inevitable mess? Rush down with a bucket and warm wash cloth in hand, ready to assist and calm the sick child? Pause for a split-second to sympathize with the poor little pre-schooler on the verge of experiencing the yuckiest thing about mortal life? No. Not me.

"Run for the tile, Morgs! Run for the tile!!"

That's right. Save the carpet. Save the couch.

Forget the kid.

All's fair in love and barf.

not-quite mother-of-the-year... okay, not even close...

Mothers Day is fast approaching. I've spent the last several days putting together my ideas that will further cement me into the mortar of sibling rivalry as Mom's Favorite. Despite what my brothers and sisters would tell you, I'm certain I achieved that title years ago, and everything I do now just solidifies that position. Really. Don't bother asking them. What do they know?

I have an incredibly wonderful, beautiful mother. I don't think I realized it half as much when I was still under her constant care as I do now. It's the ironic thing about motherhood: By the time you figure out how completely amazing your mom is, you've moved out and started your own family.

That's what did it of course -- the starting my own family bit. I never really saw the noble character of my mother until I became a mother myself; and one day in the midst of changing diapers, driving carpool, this morning's cocoa pebbles still floating in the soup bowls I need for dinner right now, the endless piles of laundry that never seem to go away no matter how many loads I manage to push through in an hour, the science project gone bad in the dining room, and forgetting to put the tooth fairy money under the pillow -- again, I see clearly the incredible ability, talent, and moxie my mom has. ...WAY more incredible than anything I possess.

Last year for Mother's Day, the graduating high school seniors were asked to stand up in church and give tributes to their mothers. Those were good mothers. We were regaled with wonderful tales of these women; one who never made her child wake up to the sound of an alarm clock, but instead quietly (and I'm sure drippingly lovingly) whispered into her son's ear to bring him into wakefulness each morning. (At my house my kids have a choice of "buzzer" or "shock beep.") Another mother always let her daughter have the last piece of cake. (For my children, that would go something more along the lines of "Mom, can I..?" "BACK OFF! This piece is MINE! I MADE this cake, and so help me, I will EAT the LAST PIECE if I want!") The queen bee of mothers spent hours staying up late waiting for her daughter to come home from a night out, whereupon they would stay up for hours longer talking and laughing together. (My kids, quite frankly, aren't allowed out of the house past 7:30 pm, since I'm lucky if I can keep my eyes open past 8:12. Forget hours of talking and laughing. I'm already LONG gone.)

I can sum up my feelings at the end of that meeting with one word: Huh.

Imagine that. In one hour I realized my place in the Mother's Day Tributes of the future will be somewhere in the "My mom let us eat all the cold cereal we wanted" realm. I'll be forever immortalized as the one who, if nothing else, made dinner two of every seven evenings. I'm not so sure my children will rise up and call me blessed so much as loud. Don't believe me?

Recently Morgs was asked to give a talk in Primary. Her topic? Mothers. Golden. I wrote down several fill-in-the-blank statements for her that, read in succession, would make a beautiful tribute to a glorious mother. They were statements such as, "I love my mom because..." and "My mom teaches me..."

Really, she filled in all the blanks as if I'd coached her. It was perfect. Until she read aloud her answer to "When I'm hungry, my mom..."

Obviously I'm going for "makes me my favorite dinner, with healthy, fresh food from each of the food groups, and sometimes even a heavenly dessert."

Instead, I got, "When I'm hungry, my mom tells me a list of what I can make myself to eat."

...Now that's a good mom.

Looks like the jig's up. I'll never make Mother of the Year now.

Whatever.

Happy Mother's Day anyway.

kids these days...

Several weeks ago Morgs came home from school asking me something like this: "Mom, if you could do anything, or go anywhere, or meet anyone, what would it be?" Even though it was not the most grammatically correct question, I gave her my answer (which she didn't like much, but we'll get to that at a later post), and then asked why she was asking. Turns out the Make-a-Wish folks had been to school getting the kids all excited about the fun-run they were sponsoring to raise money for a girl in our area.

I had to wonder a bit at some of the answers I was told the kids shared. For example, apparently the woman began by asking, "If you could meet anyone in the entire world, who would it be?"

Boy #1: "...Um... X-Box 360?"

Make-a-Wish lady: "No, who would you meet?"

Boy #1: "...Uh..."

Make-a-Wish lady: "Anyone in the world."

Boy #1: "...Umm..."

Make-a-Wish lady: "We'll come back to you. How about you, little girl, who would you choose?"

Girl: "Neil Diamond."

Neil Diamond? How does she even know who that is, and what second grader, pray tell, wants to meet him?! I mean, come on, this guy was cool like 25 years before she was born. He's like a grandpa now. A Jazz-Singer Grandpa.

Whatever.

Back to school:

Make-a-Wish lady: (to boy #1) "Ok, did you decide on someone you'd like to meet?"

Boy #1: "Lord Vader."

Lord Vader? Neil Diamond? What year is it? Where's Ironman or Hannah Montana?

And Lord Vader? This kid obviously has a healthy respect for the Dark Side. Most kids would probably just call him Darth Vader. You know, me and Darth, we go way back. Not this kid. He knows you don't mess with Darth; oh no, it's Lord Vader.

I'm sorry to say, this sort of random oddity has not escaped my own family. The other day I came home from running errands to find the kids playing house. Ah, house. I spent hours and hours of my childhood pretending to be the mom, take care of the baby, talk to my neighbors, go grocery shopping, evade burglars, and pick up the shattered pieces of my life after our house mysteriously burned down.

Come on, you gotta have a conflict or there's no story.

Anyway, when it came time for the kids to clean up, I asked if they'd had any fun. "Yes," Ry said. "I'm a dermatologist."

"No," Mak said. "A dermatologist takes care of people's skin. You're a germaphobe."

"You're a germaphobe?" I asked.

"Yes, it's hilarious," she said. True. Hilarious. But weird.

But there's more. Then The Boy piped in with "I'm OCD."

OCD?! Come on! Whatever happened to just being the police man and the lady next door?

Oh well, what did you expect from the offspring of a woman who once used to be petrified of plug sockets and their uncanny ability to chase you around the house?

True story.

the glory of the casserole

Do you know what the definition of casserole is? It is (#1)"a large, deep dish in which food can be cooked and served," or (#2)"food prepared in such a dish." That means, of course, that if I were to prepare, say, Roast Turkey in a casserole, used as in the first definition, I would not have made Roast Turkey, but Roast Turkey Casserole, because, of course, it is now definition #2, food prepared in such a dish. Mashed potatoes prepared in a casserole dish would not be mashed potatoes, which my children would devour happily and greedily, but Mashed Potato Casserole, which my children would likely not touch. The word casserole rarely bodes well.

When I was growing up casserole usually meant "plug your nose and eat it" because it was usually preceded by "Corn." Ugh. Corn Casserole: Hands down, the least favorite food ever made on a consistent basis at the home I grew up in. Ask any of my 6 siblings, and my father, ps. Bless my angel mother, I believe she liked it, and she made it ALL THE TIME, at least according to my childhood memories -- although I've learned through my own children's childhood memories that those things aren't always accurate. But that's another post. It wasn't until my dad quietly admitted (after another night of gagging and nose-plugging) that it wasn't among his favorite dishes, that we were released from the sentence of yuck-for-dinner.

I have to admit, I now can relate to my mom and her loved-that-casserole-that-everyone-else-hated. Mine was Chicken Broccoli casserole. I loved that stuff so much that it was all I asked for for dinner, every birthday. It was one of about 2 recipes I brought with me into marriage (by no fault of my mom's, by the way. It didn't actually occur to me that I was the mom, and therefore, could make dinner every night until my own blessed mother came and stayed with us after the birth of our first baby. She made dinner for us every night and froze a whole bunch more so we had dinner for like a month. And after we had eaten our way through them all, I thought slowly, "...I guess maybe I could make something for us to eat for dinner...Maybe..." Who knows what we ate before she stopped by. But I digress. Shocker).

Chicken Broccoli casserole. What's not to love? A little chicken, some broccoli, some cheese, and of course the main part of any casserole, some cream-of-something-or-other soup. Toss in a few other miscellaneous ingredients and Voi la! Dinner. I probably made that stuff every two weeks, once I discovered that I could cook, of course. Mmmm! Yum! Chicken Broccoli casserole again!! And everyone else is eating it with a sorta-smile on their faces (okay, that's Dave, everyone else-else is plugging their noses and gagging all the way). Never fear, at least Dave likes it! The kids will learn to like it! It'll come!

...That's what I thought, anyway, until one evening as we rinsed the last of the broccoli-bits off the plates, Dave quietly admitted that he really doesn't care for Chicken Broccoli casserole.

At all.


What?


I...


What?!


You...


Really? You don't like it?


I was devastated.

Devastated, because, of course, I'm not making a whole dang casserole for one person, especially if it's just for me. And of course, there's no such thing as a casserole-for-one, unless it's a frozen meal-for-one and if I'm cooking dinner for everyone, why would I make a frozen meal-for-one?

I paused for a bit, there by the kitchen sink, and savored the last memory of my last dinner of my favorite dish ever. Never again would I happily eat that lovely mixture of a bunch of stuff thrown altogether into a rather fetching one-dish meal. Never again would I watch as my 5-year-old methodically plugs, chews, swallows, and gulps a drink of water as fast as she possibly can to get the awful thing over with. Never would I see my little 4-year-old wrestle her way through that gag reflex as she dutifully eats all of her 4 bites. Never would I...

Ah, it wasn't really worth all that, now was it? I mean, sure, it was good, but once I got over the initial shock of being the lone member of the family who liked it, I realized that the stuff just wasn't that good. I mean, really, of all the dumb battles to choose, I'm going for the "Forcing-You-To-Like-Chicken-Broccoli-Casserole" one? Please. I'm an idiot.

And then I thought of my mom. And I wondered if she ever missed eating Corn Casserole. And then I pictured all 7 of her children gathered around the table in various stages of gagging and plugging, and I knew she hadn't missed it for a second.

I'm with you, mom. How 'bout Olive Garden tonight instead?

Mmmmm. Breadsticks.

And not a casserole dish in sight.

monday at the gym... again.

We went in the "out" today. Just thought you should know.

flapdoodle and bosh

I love words. Obviously. I have a habit of using too many of them all at once and far to rapidly to be understood well. I love really great sounding words, like rigamarole or triskaidekaphobia, although the latter is a little difficult to throw into everyday conversation. I suppose I could use it if one of the kids came running into my room with a bad dream on Friday the 13th. I could say, "What is it, triskaidekaphobia?!" Or if I went to stay at a high rise hotel and the front desk guy asked if I minded being on the 13th floor; I could say, "Of course not, I don't have triskaidekaphobia."

Flapdoodle and bosh are two of my absolute favorites ever, which you may have realized if you've read many of my blogs. I stumbled upon flapdoodle while listening to one of the audio books from the Amelia Peabody series, thank you very much, Emerson. And I found bosh while looking up the definition of flapdoodle. They mean the same thing - nonsense. Someday I'm going to open a store and call it Flapdoodle & Bosh. Those two words just go together so beautifully. I don't know what I'll sell but I have no doubt it will be nonsensical and delightful.

I'd like to get the job of the guy who names everything so I could spend all day in a thesaurus. I know I wouldn't do as smashing a job as the people who already have that job. I mean, seriously, it's gotta be pretty tough coming up with 154 different names for pink. But wouldn't that be a great job? I'd be the lady holding the clipboard, with the two pencils in my hair, and goofy-looking glasses going, Let's see, how bout Blushing Rose Petal? No, no, we used that 78 shades ago. Tickled Pink? Used that one, too. Bloody knuckles. ...Sounds too red.

I actually have a friend who re-names all of her nail polish. That little piece of information reflects her personality well. She's the kind of gal that you could picture throwing open the windows to call in the local small animal population to help with the housework while she supervises in a poofy dress and tiara. And I mean that as a compliment.

Contrast that to myself: I'm the one you'd find in holey sweats and a nasty-looking shirt with yesterday's makeup and a pony on the top of my head, trying to exterminate the local small animal population. Forget about housework.

Her nail polish names would be magical names, like "Shimmering Biscotti Day Dream," or "Sparkling Bittersweet Fairy Dust" Mine would fall more along the lines of "Dries too slow" or "Way purpler-looking when applied." I suppose my prospects for Nail Polish Namer are not very promising. Who's going to buy something called "Only good for nylon-repair?"

Despite my completely unmagical naming techniques, I've been reclassifying things for years. Ponytail holders have been called Hair Doinkers since before any of my children were born. Quaking Aspens were promptly named "Western Flutter Leafs" (not Leaves) soon after my arrival in Utah. The mountain range closest to my house has been dubbed "The Big Blue Mountains to the East," mostly because I don't know if they have a name. I suppose they are probably just the tail-end of the Wasatch Mountain range or something. Now that's a dumb name. Big Blue Mountains to the East: Better name. Okay, not much better, but they are a delicious color of blue during most of the year. They kind of take on a brownish color in the fall but I refuse to change the name for one season of the year.

Most of the objects in my house are never called by their given names any more. At some point or other, almost everything ends up being called something like, "That big black thinger in the living room," or "That chest thingy next to the couch." Now that's really gotta be improving my kids' vocabularies.

Oh well, I'll get them each their own thesaurus and they can read it for 10 minutes a day. Then they'll have enough gibberish and gobbledygook to last a lifetime. And yes, that's really a word. Look it up, bookworm.

thoughts on a monday morning at the gym...

My day today started out as it usually does on a Monday morning. As if to mock the early hour, I was awakened by the absurd radio station Dave has set the alarm to. In protest of the talk-radio station I had set it to a few days ago, he found some dumb station that plays not "the best hits of the 70s, 80s, and 90s," but "the lamest songs no one listened to during the 60s and 70s, and now you know why." Dave's not bothered by stupid music in the morning. He's just out of it enough that he's kept in a sort of stupor until he stumbles into the light of the bathroom. I told him he had to change the station because I cannot bear another second of whatever that music is supposed to be and he goes, "That wasn't NPR?" So like it or not, my day starts all too early to the tune of stupidness. I don't care who you are, that's a great start to any day.

We wake up at 4:30. It's an obscenely early hour to be doing anything besides sleeping, but in order to be one of the lucky winners of a treadmill at the gym (I use that term loosely -- It's actually the community rec center, and I think there are about 9 treadmills there), and to be done using it in time to get home and get the kids up for school, we have to arrive at the gym no later than 5:02. I discovered this last year, when I first started coming. After about a week of trying to get a treadmill before 6 and ending up on an elliptical instead, I showed up at the crack of 5 and secured one.

Already you have a good indication of my stupid level. I wake up every weekday morning at 4:30 to 70s guitar rock (I guess) in order to fight 15 other people for one of the 9 treadmills. That's pretty high on the stupid list, isn't it?

Even stupider is the insane need to comply with posted signs that keeps me and Dave from doing what every other rec center member does with no conscience: They all enter through the "exit only" door to get to the treadmills more quickly. But not me and Dave. No, some stubborn streak in us makes us walk all the way around the entrance area, because we will certainly not stoop to the level of going "in" the "out!" I'm sorry to say, we have lost the last treadmills for this hardheaded display of pride.

I used to go to a gym; you know, the real gym, with like 150 treadmills and 70 tvs, a weight room the size of wal-mart, and a women's weight room on top of that. The gym commands a different slice of humanity than the rec center. At 5:00 in the morning, at least half of the people showing up at the rec center are over the age of 65. This is good for me, because that means I'm still nimble enough to beat them to the treadmills -- or I would be if I didn't have to keep the rules. The gym, on the other hand, seemed always to be filled with far too beautiful people, looking far too beautiful to be working out, with far too coordinated outfits (think fantastic fitting yoga pants with some cute halter thinger and a great headband thing wrapped around amazing hair that looks like the wearer truly doesn't care how she looks, even though she looks completely fantastic, and I couldn't hope to look that good if I spent hours getting ready to go to the gym).

I fit better at the rec center than the gym. And I've become rather oddly attached to so many of the people there. After a year, I know two of them by their given names. The others, who we always smile and say hello to, have all been affectionately named by Dave and myself. There's Sweaty-John-Jones, who runs like crazy on the elliptical and sweats all over the place; there's The Man with One Red Arm, who actually has two arms, but who is always wearing a red, noisy warm-up suit and does all the "both-arms-at-a-time" exercises with just one of his arms. There's Margaret, who, though I'm fairly certain is not really named Margaret, reminds us of Margaret Houlihan from M*A*S*H; I wonder why we don't call her Hot Lips. There's Evan, who runs on the elliptical in his swim trunks and has an uncanny resemblance to Dave's 3-year-old nephew, Evan. There's the PPSSHH Guy, who grabs really heavy weights and curls them about 2 inches, exhaling with a PPSSHH sound on every rep. There are the Raucous Laughter Duo, the two big guys who often show up in camos and beanies and spend a lot of time sitting at the curl machine... well, laughing raucously. Then there's the new guy I call the Jazz Man. He wears shiny purple shorts to work out in every day. He only started coming at the first of the year, but the first time I saw him, I thought, Wow, someone actually picked out shiny purple shorts for himself. On purpose. Purple. Must like the Jazz. Go figure. I worry about him because the man puts his whole body into everything. When he walks in, he takes up a lot of space, despite his somewhat lanky appearance, because he swings his arms wide, and takes a wide stance as he walks. But most striking about this man is his active use of his head while exercising. He swings his head backward and forward with every repetition. Not just a little, but enough that I can't help wondering if he's gonna hit his head on the butterfly machine someday soon.

I wonder what someone would affectionately name me and Dave... Red-faced Girl and Baldy? Wimpy-Thing and Strong-Man-Muscle-Shirt-Guy? I'm good with that. I mean, at least I'm there, having braved the stupid music on the radio, the terrible hour of the morning, and Sweaty-John-Jones'...well, sweat. It's a brave thing I do every morning. Can't wait til tomorrow.

Course, I can't wait til Saturday even more. Saturdays know no 4:30 am.

ushering out the holidays

Well the Thanksgiving turkey was fantastic (but the stuffing was king), the fall colors - gorgeous, the first snowstorm - delicious, the tree - so cute, the decorations in general - brilliant, the Christmas trip to Island Park - hilarious, the New Year - new. And there you have the last month or two in a nut shell.

Life moves so fast. Too fast recently. I had to take a break from my blog in November so I could help design a brochure for the business that really ended up being re-designed in full by a far more talented person than I. But once the design had shifted to someone else, I was in the midst of all the yummy things I love about the holidays, so there was just no time for mindless flapdoodle and bosh and suddenly it's two months later and I can finally take an hour or so to sit and write long run-on sentences and use too many commas. Oh, but, they're, lovely, aren't, they?

I thought I'd just tell you about one of my favorite things that happened all season, and it's up there not because it's centered around my kids or family or any of the other things I love so much about Christmas. It's more because it was a night just jam-packed with people's delightful absurdities. In fact, as far as holiday absurdities go, it's second only to the Ruin of the Spectacular Shoes of 2007's holiday. But that's likely another post. And it'll be a good one.

So this year, I ended up "volunteering" as an usher at my 7th-grader's Christmas chorus concert. I use the quotation marks because I really kind of had to volunteer -- her chorus teacher required parental involvement in order for the student to be eligible for an A, as I remember it. I can't possibly be the reason for a B, for heaven's sake, so I signed up to usher at one of the two performances. No big deal, right? How hard could it be, after all, since I'll be there to hear her sing anyway; I can certainly stand at the door and tell people where to go. Ha ha.

I was contacted by a cheery-sounding woman a day or two before the performance. She assigned me my door, and told me my only job really, was to keep the door closed if the hallways became a little too noisy, and to not allow people in and out during the songs. Easy.

Little did I know that the chorus teacher had each one of his music ensembles performing that evening. That included the beginning chorus, his advanced chorus, some other chorus (maybe they're the in-between-chorus), his guitar ensemble, some mixed chorus, and it seems like a violin group or something. Really I can't remember, the night was a blur of hot, angry, over-crowded people.

So that each class can appreciate the talents of the others, the teacher requires all of the performers to sit in their ensembles with the audience. That takes up a good 1/4 to 1/3 of the seats. Then he asks the students (with the threat of lower grades, I think) to make sure they bring 5 people to the concert. Five people for every kid in the ensembles! You've got to be kidding me, even if there are two shows, there's not a chance we can all fit in that auditorium with a bunch of the seats already taken by his choirs. Of course, I didn't truly know this until after the concert began.

I arrived a little before call time, you know, so I could make sure my "Usher" badge was straight and in full view (it was actually a sticky label with a hastily-scratched "usher" in Sharpie black), and find my "specially marked" seat by my assigned door. Well imagine my surprise when I walked in to find a full-house already, with 5 minutes until show time, and someone sitting in my usher seat! Well I'll tell you what, I'm not going to stand for 2 hours while I have this sticky label on my chest guaranteeing me a seat. My first order of business was to remove the seat-stealer from my chair.

"Excuse me," I said -- politely, I might add. "Are you an usher?"

He looked at me blankly.

I pointed at my tag. "I believe you're in my seat. They reserved this seat for the usher."

Nothing.

"I'm sorry," I tried again. "I think you'll need to find a seat somewhere else, this seat is reserved for the usher." Now I pointed pointedly (which is really the best way to point, isn't it?) at the sticker on my chest.

He looked at me for another second and said, "Oh. Do you need a seat?"

Well yes, but it's not like I'd ask you to move if I just needed a seat. You're in MY seat, man. I'M the usher! I get the seat by the door! I've got the sticky label, I've got dibs. "I'm the usher," I said, hoping he might somehow make the connection between me and the seat he was in.

He stood up a little confusedly, and looked at the chair. Sure enough, on the back of the chair was a sticky label almost identical to the one I was brandishing on my chest.

Understanding washed over his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm in your seat." Oh really?

By now, some representative of the school had begun to welcome everyone, etc and blah blah, and now let's begin. Well unfortunately, only the really smart parents who have had other children come through the ranks of the chorus ensembles knew to show up an hour early to secure an actual seat. The other half of the parents were still streaming in. And I mean streaming, none of this one-or-two people here and there. They were lined up outside my door, and waiting for their moment of horrible realization that there is no where left to sit in this auditorium, and at some point, we're going to have to stop walking in and try to start walking out. Couldn't that vice principal take a little longer in his intro? Now here goes the piano intro on the first song, and oh dear, it's not a little noisy out in the hall it's full of giddy teenagers yelling and shouting and laughing and meeting up at the big Christmas chorus concert, and my door's still open. But there's like 50 people standing in it and there's no way in a million years I can close the dang thing, and there's also no way in a million years that anyone in the back of the auditorium could hear that song. 8th graders.

By the end of the song, people had started back out the door and I managed to get it closed as the 2nd song began. It locks on the outside when closed, of course, so that's when the brilliant people who hadn't yet made it inside to witness for themselves that there's fire-code-violating standing room only began to knock on the door. Knocking. On a door. During a concert. ...Who raised these people?

I opened the door after the 2nd song to let in another flood of people who stopped short upon their first view of the place -- every seat and most of the isles, filled. But of course, the people at the back of the flood can't figure out what in the world could possibly be stopping the idiots at the front of this mass. So they're grumbling, and I'm smiling and apologizing (I'm not sure why, I'm just the dummy with a sticker on my chest. I have no real authority.), and mumbling non-sentences like, "No where to sit," or "so many people," and "no where to go." One particularly grumbly woman with a pierced tongue glared at me as she said, "Well if they'd just move up, I could at least hear my kid sing!" I nodded with a frozen smile and just barely squeezed the door shut as the next song began.

And here's where it started getting ugly. I've just squashed about 20 more people into a space that comfortably holds 3-and-a-half. There is no where to move forward, and a closed door is behind us. I am the only thing standing between them and freedom, yet I am forbidden to open the doors during a song. I now have 20 people with no where to go. A few move to leave and I stand with my arms protecting the door and whisper as quickly as possible, "I'm sorry, you'll have to wait til the end of the song to leave!"

Miraculously that sticky label carried more authority than I thought. They all nodded at me, like they were accepting their death sentence, and waited for the song to end.

It went on like this for a song or two, with people knocking on the door, and others trying to leave during the middle of the songs (and most of these are adults, mind you, not irresponsible teenagers who don't know better), and almost everyone getting grouchier the more crowded and hot it became.

Part way through the second or third group, the woman with the pierced tongue returned. Apparently she had heard her "kid" sing, and was ready to go. She was followed by a scraggly-looking young man, and a taller, back-woodsy-looking man, who I assume, was her husband. Up they come, squishing through people in quite a rush, until they get to me, The Keeper of the Door.

I guarded the door again, amid knocks from the outside and whispered (probably too loudly) "I'm sorry, I can't open the door until the end of this song."

She was mad.

And bigger than me.

"We were supposed to be on the road two hours ago!" she said.

Well what difference will another 3 minutes make?!

I didn't say that. I only thought of it later. ...Probably better that way.

"I'm sorry, I can't open the door until the song is over," I repeated with that obnoxious frozen smile of mine. No, I'm not nervous. Not at all. I mean, sure, she could take me in a bar-room brawl in a second. And then take me and squash me again if she wanted. But no, no, I'm not nervous.

Did I mention she was mad?

Then her husband says something to her that I thankfully, couldn't hear, to which she responded (unfortunately I could hear this one), "What do you want me to do -- knock her out of the way?"

Um. Does anyone else want to wear my sticker? I'm done now.

Thankfully I was spared (chalk that one up to a Christmas Miracle) as they waited impatiently for the song to end (and by the way, I do believe it was the longest song on the program), and the rest of the night went on much like the excruciating first 25 minutes.

About 3/4 of the way through, the lights quit working. That was a highlight. But the show must go on, and on, and on, and so it did. With flashlights. But by then I was giddy with the lovely absurdities presented to me, one right after another. It was delightful. Having escaped certain death (or at least certain pain) from the tongue-pierced woman, I became suddenly very appreciative of all the funny quirks that come out in people when they're shoved into a hot, over-filled auditorium with other hot, over-crowded people, a faulty lighting system and an absurdly determined usher at the main door. Each new grumpy face delighted me. Every bang on the door became funnier and funnier.

I vowed, of course, that I would never, ever, in a bazillion years, volunteer to do this again. But it's been a month since the concert and now I almost might do it again. But only if the lights go out again. And the lady with the pierced tongue comes back.

I've been working out. I think I could take her.

Merry Christmas. Late or not.