You know what my high school didn't have? Well... lots of things.
But one thing in particular: the Cool Kids Lunch Table.
You know why? Mostly because we weren't in a John Hughes movie, but also because we could leave campus for lunch.
And the cool kids had cars.
Actually, a lot of kids had cars whether they were cool or not. I, however,--even though I was at least moderately cool--did not. Thus, I occasionally found myself stuck at school during the lunch hour when I couldn't bum a ride off anybody else.
On those rare occasions when I couldn't ride along with somebody to the Taco Bandido or the Dairy Queen, I had the choice whether to go through the hot lunch line or eat out of the vending maching. And every once in a while I would give into my hunger and bypass my standard Dr. Pepper and Snickers bar for an actual lunch. But that meant going through the dreaded "lunch line." Which, in all my sixteen year old wisdom, I had deemed as very uncool.
Every time I walked through that line there was a classmate on the other side of the glass partition who served the food. And if it was uncool to be on my side of the glass, it was definitely uncool to be on her side.
I didn't know her well, but in a class of fewer than 200 students it's pretty hard not to know everyone. So I would say hi to her. No big deal. Why wouldn't I? It seemed kind of silly not to when I knew her name and she was standing right in front of me. I mean, clearly I could see through the glass between us.
I don't know when it was--I sort of think at the end of my junior year--but this girl gave me a thank you card.
For saying hi to her.
And, because this is a week of gratitude posts, I'd like to write a thank you to her now.
Dear D...,
Thank you for your card. To you it may have looked like I--walking around in that silly cheerleading skirt-- had all the confidence in the world. But I had all the same insecurities that every teen-ager has. Except I thought I was the only one who had them.
I didn't think I was very special when I didn't make cheerleader my senior year and when the boys I liked didn't like me back. And, I'm embarrassed to say now, it was pretty important to me to have people think I was special back then. I beat myself up over all the stupid things I did -- and there were a lot-- and every little mistake I made.
But your card made me feel like I had done one thing right. I made someone else happy--at least for a moment--without even really trying. All it took was a smile and a hello. And I wish I had realized then how much more important that was than the things I chose to focus on.
So thank you, D, for teaching me how important those two little words are. And for showing me how little it takes to make a difference.
Sincerely,
Brittany
P.S. It's been twenty years and I still have that card.
**Come back Monday when you will see how this post ties into a free giveaway I will be sponsoring to show a little gratitude for you, my readers.***
Friday, September 16, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Key To Happiness
This week I have a theme for the posts--all two of them-- I have planned. Neither of them will be about writing, so I apologize in advance to those of you who've come to this site expecting to see things of a writery nature. But there will be writing for you to read, so I hope you'll stay for that.
And, while lacking writery things, there will be things of a Mormon-y nature. So, again, I'll give fair warning to anyone reading who was looking for something else. I hope you'll stick around anyway.
Because what my posts this week are about is Gratitude. And not just because it's the first full week of school--even though I am VERY grateful for that--but because it's something everyone can give. Whether you are a writer--or not-- or a Mormon, a Catholic, a Muslim, or an aethist. We can all make the world a little better place by showing more gratitude.
If you've been here for a few weeks, you may remember how my big city girls went to the country and learned how to herd cows. If not, here it is. Read it, then come on back.
Or not. It's not really necessary.The point is, I never said why my children were herding cattle. I mean, besidesme wanting them out of my hair for a few hours the chance it gave them to learn the value of hard work. They also did it to earn a few bucks. Not to spend on themselves, but because of this (you do have to watch this video. Sorry, it is a requirement to understand the rest of this post. But it will be worth it): http://humanitarianday.blogspot.com/2011/06/of-one-heart-zacks-shack.html
Cute, huh? But I have to believe that mom sometimes yells at that kid. It can't be all cookies and lemonade at their house. Right?
Anyway, that is beside the point, so let's get back to it. My Relief Society* President--who is awesome and one of my favorite people in the whole world--saw this video and decided to organize a ward (this is a funny name for a Mormon congregation) humanitarian mission where families who wanted to participate would earn money to donate for wheelchairs, just like Zach did. She especially encouraged us to get our children involved.
Pretty great idea, right? You know what's even better about it? We live in a place with nice houses, good schools, fancy cars and lots of people who have a lot of stuff. Sound like your neighborhood? And sometimes when life is pretty good, you forget it's not that way for everybody. Especially if you're a kid and you've never seen anything different. Having a lot of stuff seems like the norm, rather than something to be grateful for.
Our family wanted to be involved, but had to figure out a way to do it since the kids and I were going to be gone for a big chunk of the summer. That's why my girls asked my parents' neighbors if they could help with their horses and cows. They came up with the idea themselves and it worked pretty well.
But it didn't earn them nearly what they needed for the wheelchair. For that we had to go to Plan B. Which involved my surfng Afro uncle, his sons and the distribution warehouse they run, and my aunt's idea to set up recycling cans in each of the five breakrooms at the warehouse. The nuts and bolts of this plan were to 1) buy five plastic laundry basket thingys from IKEA 2) make posters about why my kids wanted to recycle cans and bottles 3) take the posters and baskets/make-shift garbages to the warehouse 4) ride around in a golf cart--much to my kids' delight--to the five different breakrooms to set up the garbages and hang the posters. 5) Leave the posters and garbages there for six weeks and 6) let my cousins do the actual work of emptying the recycling bins when they got full, into garbage bags and then storing them for us.
And guess what? Plan B totally worked. By the time I got back from vacation my cousin, Chris, had a room full of giant garbage bags full of soda cans, water bottles, and juice containers. Many of which were empty, save for the last few sips. So you can imagine that smell after they'd been sitting in a hot room for six weeks.
Chris offered to drive them all down to me, but I sure didn't want those things in my house. Plus, I have a friend who owns a recycling business in Fontana that pays a little better than the ones in Orange County. And, since it was only a thirty minute drive from the warehouse to Fontana and-- having never been to Fontana-- I thought it made perfect sense to just drive the forty-five minutes from my house to the warehouse, then the thirty minutes to Fontana, and finally the hour back to my house. Because somehow the extra few dollars we would earn by going to Fontana would offset the $100 in gas the trip would cost. (This is maybe why I am not an accountant.)
Also, did I mention this friend (who is an accountant and did the math to figure out letting other people haul this stuff around for me would save me a lot of time and money) offered to take all the bags up to Fontana himself?
Yeah, maybe should have taken up those offers.
Instead, on our last real day of summer vacation, I loaded the kids into my still pretty new SUV--which I had just barely paid $40 to get the dirt and cow poop washed out of it-- and drove them to the warehouse where our pile of garbage awaited. The pile, as it turned out, was much larger in real life than in the picture Chris had sent me. Go figure. Again, he offered to let me use his truck to haul it all away, but I refused. Ah, hindsight -- it really is 20/20.
I put down the back row of seats in my car, looked at our giant pile, then put down one of the seats in the middle row. Girl 1 would have to ride in the front seat, which, instead of illiciting excitment, evoked a panic attack on her part over whether or not I could turn off the airbags. What, the what? What kid doesn't want to ride in the front seat?
After covering every surface possible with plastic, my cousins and I began shoving garbage bags in my car. The SUV got more and more full, but the pile somehow didn't get much smaller. But, in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, we determined to "make it work." Finally, we made the kids get in and started piling the garbage around them--praying we wouldn't have to pile it on them-- until they were all smushed in there together.
Except for the last bag, which somehow we had missed. Our solution for getting it in was to roll down the back window and then, while I rolled the window back up, Ty kept the garbage from falling out and Chris shoved the last bag in. Which actually worked, much to the amazement -- and amusement--of the warehouse guys watching their bosses help some blonde chick with three kids haul away garbage in her fancy car.
And, just so you're not left out, here are the pictures:
And, while lacking writery things, there will be things of a Mormon-y nature. So, again, I'll give fair warning to anyone reading who was looking for something else. I hope you'll stick around anyway.
Because what my posts this week are about is Gratitude. And not just because it's the first full week of school--even though I am VERY grateful for that--but because it's something everyone can give. Whether you are a writer--or not-- or a Mormon, a Catholic, a Muslim, or an aethist. We can all make the world a little better place by showing more gratitude.
If you've been here for a few weeks, you may remember how my big city girls went to the country and learned how to herd cows. If not, here it is. Read it, then come on back.
Or not. It's not really necessary.The point is, I never said why my children were herding cattle. I mean, besides
Cute, huh? But I have to believe that mom sometimes yells at that kid. It can't be all cookies and lemonade at their house. Right?
Anyway, that is beside the point, so let's get back to it. My Relief Society* President--who is awesome and one of my favorite people in the whole world--saw this video and decided to organize a ward (this is a funny name for a Mormon congregation) humanitarian mission where families who wanted to participate would earn money to donate for wheelchairs, just like Zach did. She especially encouraged us to get our children involved.
Pretty great idea, right? You know what's even better about it? We live in a place with nice houses, good schools, fancy cars and lots of people who have a lot of stuff. Sound like your neighborhood? And sometimes when life is pretty good, you forget it's not that way for everybody. Especially if you're a kid and you've never seen anything different. Having a lot of stuff seems like the norm, rather than something to be grateful for.
Our family wanted to be involved, but had to figure out a way to do it since the kids and I were going to be gone for a big chunk of the summer. That's why my girls asked my parents' neighbors if they could help with their horses and cows. They came up with the idea themselves and it worked pretty well.
But it didn't earn them nearly what they needed for the wheelchair. For that we had to go to Plan B. Which involved my surfng Afro uncle, his sons and the distribution warehouse they run, and my aunt's idea to set up recycling cans in each of the five breakrooms at the warehouse. The nuts and bolts of this plan were to 1) buy five plastic laundry basket thingys from IKEA 2) make posters about why my kids wanted to recycle cans and bottles 3) take the posters and baskets/make-shift garbages to the warehouse 4) ride around in a golf cart--much to my kids' delight--to the five different breakrooms to set up the garbages and hang the posters. 5) Leave the posters and garbages there for six weeks and 6) let my cousins do the actual work of emptying the recycling bins when they got full, into garbage bags and then storing them for us.
And guess what? Plan B totally worked. By the time I got back from vacation my cousin, Chris, had a room full of giant garbage bags full of soda cans, water bottles, and juice containers. Many of which were empty, save for the last few sips. So you can imagine that smell after they'd been sitting in a hot room for six weeks.
Chris offered to drive them all down to me, but I sure didn't want those things in my house. Plus, I have a friend who owns a recycling business in Fontana that pays a little better than the ones in Orange County. And, since it was only a thirty minute drive from the warehouse to Fontana and-- having never been to Fontana-- I thought it made perfect sense to just drive the forty-five minutes from my house to the warehouse, then the thirty minutes to Fontana, and finally the hour back to my house. Because somehow the extra few dollars we would earn by going to Fontana would offset the $100 in gas the trip would cost. (This is maybe why I am not an accountant.)
Also, did I mention this friend (who is an accountant and did the math to figure out letting other people haul this stuff around for me would save me a lot of time and money) offered to take all the bags up to Fontana himself?
Yeah, maybe should have taken up those offers.
Instead, on our last real day of summer vacation, I loaded the kids into my still pretty new SUV--which I had just barely paid $40 to get the dirt and cow poop washed out of it-- and drove them to the warehouse where our pile of garbage awaited. The pile, as it turned out, was much larger in real life than in the picture Chris had sent me. Go figure. Again, he offered to let me use his truck to haul it all away, but I refused. Ah, hindsight -- it really is 20/20.
I put down the back row of seats in my car, looked at our giant pile, then put down one of the seats in the middle row. Girl 1 would have to ride in the front seat, which, instead of illiciting excitment, evoked a panic attack on her part over whether or not I could turn off the airbags. What, the what? What kid doesn't want to ride in the front seat?
After covering every surface possible with plastic, my cousins and I began shoving garbage bags in my car. The SUV got more and more full, but the pile somehow didn't get much smaller. But, in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, we determined to "make it work." Finally, we made the kids get in and started piling the garbage around them--praying we wouldn't have to pile it on them-- until they were all smushed in there together.
Except for the last bag, which somehow we had missed. Our solution for getting it in was to roll down the back window and then, while I rolled the window back up, Ty kept the garbage from falling out and Chris shoved the last bag in. Which actually worked, much to the amazement -- and amusement--of the warehouse guys watching their bosses help some blonde chick with three kids haul away garbage in her fancy car.
And, just so you're not left out, here are the pictures:
Do you see how my car-- nay, SUV-- literally runneth over? (Do you also wish I could get these pictures all in one row? Yeah, me too). And, remember that sticky smell of rotten mango juice coming from the room where the garbage was stored? It accompanied the garbage into my vehicle.
And then-- looking very much like an episode of Hoarders on wheels and without the benefit of vision out of any windows other than the front windshield--we drove to Fontana. The closer we got to our destination the more grateful I was for the protective cave of garbage my kids rode in. Because Fontana, if not literally, then figuratively, lies somewhere along the border of Tijuana and Las Vegas. Had my kids been able to see out the windows, I'm pretty sure they would have asked why only adults could go to the windowless "bookstores" we passed.
Minutes before we reached the recycling center the realization dawned on me that we wouldn't be able to just drop and go. No, we would have to sort. Because bottles and cans may mix and mingle, but they can't actually go to the recycling dance together. It was also about that time that Girl 2 announced she had to go to the bathroom.. Like, right now.
After confirming the little cement building constituting the "offices" of the recycling center did not have a public restroom, Girl 2 danced around for the next hour while Girl 1 and I sorted a truckload of bottles and cans into separate wire baskets. Girl 3 chose to sit in the car cowering in fear that one of the five million wasps attracted to the sugary sweetness of our garbage, would mistake her for a giant soda can.
Every so often when Girl 1 and I came across a bottle with water left in it, we would pour it over our hands and feet to wash the sticky away. When we got down to the last of the bottles I wished I'd thought to keep a half empty one for when we finished. Luckily we found one that had a drop or two of water left in it. Also, did I mention how unrefreshing the hundred degree temperature was?.
But here is the result of our efforts:
It might not look like a whole truckload, but those baskets hold a lot bottles and cans and we filled five of them. That was more than anyone else there. I checked.
But then I felt a little bad because I was pretty sure the other people there weren't recycling for charity. And I remembered when we were between houses and lived in an apartment for six weeks. A man would come in his truck and go through the apartment garbage looking for recyclables. When I figured out what he was doing I started saving mine and would watch for him. That man taught me a lesson in gratitude when I handed him those bags.
As we were waiting in line for our turn a man handed me a paper. I looked at it confused until he said, "Use it. You'll get more money for your stuff." It was a coupon that gave me a couple more cents per pound. He didn't know why we were there and there were plenty of other people who he could have given it to. But he gave it to us. Maybe because he thought I didn't know what I was doing and could use all the help possible. Which would have been a pretty fair assessment.
The very nice man who weighed our stuff didn't hide his surprise when I showed him my license and he saw my address. "This is where you live?" he asked. "You came all the way out here?" I just nodded and smiled. He was very happy for us when he announced our total. One hundred and thirty-eight dollars.
We were very happy too because that was more than enough to buy a wheelchair. The good kind. For
someone like this (I know you've been here for a while, but you should get tissue and not skip this part):
or this:
Did you see the looks on their faces? That's gratitude.
And it's priceless.
But it only cost us $138.00 and an hour in Fontana.
We celebrated by driving the hour back to Orange County and eating pizza. And going to the bathroom. Then we went to the lake with some friends and as I watched my kids play in the water with the sun dipping in the horizon, I tried not to think, why me? What have I done to deserve this life?
I don't have the answer for those questions. I just know I won't take what I have for granted when I look back on this experience.
And I hope that's what my children will learn from it too.
* Relief Society is the organization that all Mormon women belong to--whether they want to or not (I personally do want to)--that has been providing relief, as a society, since 1842. Often this relief comes in the form of dinners after one has had a baby, ill health, death in the family, etc. But really, it's so much more than that.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
I Am A Winner!
My parents always told me I was winner. Sadly, having never, in all my thirty-eight years, won anything, I've sometimes questioned whether they were just being nice.
But no more. Because today I am an actual winner. And here is what I have won:
2. Share 7 random facts about myself. -will do
3. Pass the award to 5 blogger friends -will do
4. Contact and congratulate the nominated blogs. -will do
(I totally just copied and pasted that from Jill, because I could also win the Will Take Shortcuts award).
Here are the 7 random facts about me. Drumroll please:
1. It took years of practice and hard work, but I can touch my nose with my tongue. Impressive, I know.
2. I used to have an irrational fear of the ocean and everything in it. So I learned to scuba dive. Which taught me that 1) there are even more scary things in the ocean than I ever imagined and I still don't want to touch them and 2) I should not be afraid to try new things.
3. I got my driver's license when I was 14. No 14 year old--particularly my 14 year old self--should be allowed to legally operate a two ton killing machine.* But I think I'll go ahead and mine that period of my life for some very entertaining blogposts.
4. I love bacon, pork chops and pork tenderloin, but I will not eat ham. Or Canadian bacon. Those Canadians can not be trusted when it comes to bacon.
5. Band-aids gross me out. If my children choose to bleed, they have to administer to their own wounds.
6. My grandpa invented the tater tot. But I don't really like them..
7. The pride I take in being from Idaho borders on the annoyingness of Texans and their silly "Texas Forever" pride. But I don't ever want to live there again.
Here are my nominees;
1. Becca http://www.beccawilhite.com/blog/
2. Kelly http://diversifiedbeeson.blogspot.com/
3. Kimberly http://www.kimberlymontgomeryblog.com/
4. Kristine http://kristystories.blogspot.com/
5. Angie http://livetowrite1.blogspot.com/
Whew. That took a little bit of work. Still, it was pretty nice to win something.
I just hope it doesn't happen again anytime soon.
Unless it involves a giant check and Ed McMahon.
But, I think he may be dead. I should probably go Google that now.
* Two ton killing machine was an actual description used in one of the Driver's Ed films I was forced to watch. There's very little else I remember from that 12 week course. Except for the screams of my fellow instructees coming from the backseat of the car when I drove.
But no more. Because today I am an actual winner. And here is what I have won:
I know, right? If there were three words to perfectly describe me these are definitely them. I'm not just sweet, I'm irresistibly sweet. People can not resist my powers of sweetness.
And versatile? Oh my goodness. You should see the many ways I can do stuff with things!
Many thanks go out to Jill, who nominated me for this award (which I am not sure is two or one. Is every one who is irresistibly sweet also versatile? Are they two gifts that always go together? You can't be sweet wtihout being versatile? And vice versa?), and who has a blog here: http://meoutsidethelines.blogspot.com/ that totally makes me LOL and often has me ROFLing.
Many thanks also go to the people who know me personally and will not be commenting on this blog about how I am actually more resistibly sarcasctic than irresisitibly sweet in real life.
As a recipient of this award I am now required to do the following:
1. Thank and link to the person who nominated me. -check
2. Share 7 random facts about myself. -will do
3. Pass the award to 5 blogger friends -will do
4. Contact and congratulate the nominated blogs. -will do
(I totally just copied and pasted that from Jill, because I could also win the Will Take Shortcuts award).
Here are the 7 random facts about me. Drumroll please:
1. It took years of practice and hard work, but I can touch my nose with my tongue. Impressive, I know.
2. I used to have an irrational fear of the ocean and everything in it. So I learned to scuba dive. Which taught me that 1) there are even more scary things in the ocean than I ever imagined and I still don't want to touch them and 2) I should not be afraid to try new things.
3. I got my driver's license when I was 14. No 14 year old--particularly my 14 year old self--should be allowed to legally operate a two ton killing machine.* But I think I'll go ahead and mine that period of my life for some very entertaining blogposts.
4. I love bacon, pork chops and pork tenderloin, but I will not eat ham. Or Canadian bacon. Those Canadians can not be trusted when it comes to bacon.
5. Band-aids gross me out. If my children choose to bleed, they have to administer to their own wounds.
6. My grandpa invented the tater tot. But I don't really like them..
7. The pride I take in being from Idaho borders on the annoyingness of Texans and their silly "Texas Forever" pride. But I don't ever want to live there again.
Here are my nominees;
1. Becca http://www.beccawilhite.com/blog/
2. Kelly http://diversifiedbeeson.blogspot.com/
3. Kimberly http://www.kimberlymontgomeryblog.com/
4. Kristine http://kristystories.blogspot.com/
5. Angie http://livetowrite1.blogspot.com/
Whew. That took a little bit of work. Still, it was pretty nice to win something.
I just hope it doesn't happen again anytime soon.
Unless it involves a giant check and Ed McMahon.
But, I think he may be dead. I should probably go Google that now.
* Two ton killing machine was an actual description used in one of the Driver's Ed films I was forced to watch. There's very little else I remember from that 12 week course. Except for the screams of my fellow instructees coming from the backseat of the car when I drove.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
How Thinking About Hoarding Makes Me Cry
In celebration of Labor Day, my family decided to forgo barbeques, the beach and all other fun day-off type activities in favor of actual labor. There may have been some strong arming and rallying cries of "School starts in two days! We need to get organized people!" on my part, but it was all in the spirit of celebrating our laboring forefathers fight against The Man. I got to play The Man. (I find I often get to play the part of the oppressor).
Some people spring clean, but I find a good before-school-starts cleaning to be far more beneficial. And necessary, by virtue of the fact we have neglected doing much cleaning all summer. And heaven knows nothing-- except homework-- gets done during the school year. And so the cleaning of closets, bedrooms, playrooms and such had to happen.
When I told Girl 1 we would REALLY be cleaning her room, because she could no longer use her floor as her closet, her response was, "I'm afraid I may be one of those people, like on that show, that can't throw anything away because they keep everything."
Me: "Do you mean Hoarders?"
Her: "Yeah, that one."
Me: "When did you watch Hoarders?"
Her: "At Grammy's"*
Me: thinking I should probably not be happy about her watching this show, and also assure her that her inability to throw things away is actually a laziness problem, as opposed to a psychological one, but instead, saying, "Well, you probably are a hoarder, judging by how much crap is currently littering every surface of your room, but if you clean it up, you'll be cured. Then we won't have to worry about the dog being buried alive somewhere in here and finding her when she's all crusty and decomposed."
Her: "I don't want to be one of those people... But I don't want to clean my room."
Me: "Start cleaning, or I will." (this is code for "I will throw everything you love in the garbage.")
And so we cleaned. And I wish I could write an inspiring story about how we worked together as a team and had so much fun and I taught her so many valuable life lessons as we went. But really, it just sucked and I said things like, "When are you going to need your notebook from 2nd grade again? You're in 5th grade now." and "We are NEVER having a doggy spa at our house again, so you can go ahead and throw away that schedule you made" in a really loud angry voice.
Part of the problem with cleaning her room was the little part of me that didn't want her to throw away that 2nd grade notebook. I wanted to sit down and look at it and remember her three years ago and what she was learning then. Because now we are reaching a point where she knows so much and I can feel her slipping away a little more each day.
She makes me crazy, but I want to hoard her. I'm torn between wanting to watch her grow and learn and wanting to keep every little piece of her locked away in a treasure box that I can keep all to myself. But not in a creepy/Mom's-gone-crazy way. I just want to be able to pull her five year old self out of that box and spend a little time with her. Then put her away and pull out her two year old self-- before she had sisters-- and we would sit in the rocking chair reading and cuddling.
I wish I could keep every picture she's drawn, every story she's written, every project she's completed. I wish I could remember every funny thing she's done and every word she's said-- at least the nice ones. Mostly, though, I wish time wouldn't go so quickly.
I spent a lot of years thinking it couldn't go fast enough. Years of pregnancies, diaper changes, potty training, permanent markers on fresh painted walls, permanent markers on freshly bathed children. Years of questions about what could we possibly be thinking leaving markers out--again.
Now I think it all went too fast. I should have used one of those permanent markers on my memory because I'm forgetting too much of who she was.
And darn it, this post was supposed to be a funny one about hoarding.
But now I'm crying.
So I guess my next post will be about the funny hoarding tendencies of my parents and in-laws. I have none of my own, of course. Except when it comes to my children. If I figure out how to hoard them without all their crap, I just may do it.
* other shows watched at Grammy's house: Cops, Lock Up, and UFC fights. It is a price I am willing to pay for a week alone with my husband once a year.
Some people spring clean, but I find a good before-school-starts cleaning to be far more beneficial. And necessary, by virtue of the fact we have neglected doing much cleaning all summer. And heaven knows nothing-- except homework-- gets done during the school year. And so the cleaning of closets, bedrooms, playrooms and such had to happen.
When I told Girl 1 we would REALLY be cleaning her room, because she could no longer use her floor as her closet, her response was, "I'm afraid I may be one of those people, like on that show, that can't throw anything away because they keep everything."
Me: "Do you mean Hoarders?"
Her: "Yeah, that one."
Me: "When did you watch Hoarders?"
Her: "At Grammy's"*
Me: thinking I should probably not be happy about her watching this show, and also assure her that her inability to throw things away is actually a laziness problem, as opposed to a psychological one, but instead, saying, "Well, you probably are a hoarder, judging by how much crap is currently littering every surface of your room, but if you clean it up, you'll be cured. Then we won't have to worry about the dog being buried alive somewhere in here and finding her when she's all crusty and decomposed."
Her: "I don't want to be one of those people... But I don't want to clean my room."
Me: "Start cleaning, or I will." (this is code for "I will throw everything you love in the garbage.")
And so we cleaned. And I wish I could write an inspiring story about how we worked together as a team and had so much fun and I taught her so many valuable life lessons as we went. But really, it just sucked and I said things like, "When are you going to need your notebook from 2nd grade again? You're in 5th grade now." and "We are NEVER having a doggy spa at our house again, so you can go ahead and throw away that schedule you made" in a really loud angry voice.
Part of the problem with cleaning her room was the little part of me that didn't want her to throw away that 2nd grade notebook. I wanted to sit down and look at it and remember her three years ago and what she was learning then. Because now we are reaching a point where she knows so much and I can feel her slipping away a little more each day.
She makes me crazy, but I want to hoard her. I'm torn between wanting to watch her grow and learn and wanting to keep every little piece of her locked away in a treasure box that I can keep all to myself. But not in a creepy/Mom's-gone-crazy way. I just want to be able to pull her five year old self out of that box and spend a little time with her. Then put her away and pull out her two year old self-- before she had sisters-- and we would sit in the rocking chair reading and cuddling.
I wish I could keep every picture she's drawn, every story she's written, every project she's completed. I wish I could remember every funny thing she's done and every word she's said-- at least the nice ones. Mostly, though, I wish time wouldn't go so quickly.
I spent a lot of years thinking it couldn't go fast enough. Years of pregnancies, diaper changes, potty training, permanent markers on fresh painted walls, permanent markers on freshly bathed children. Years of questions about what could we possibly be thinking leaving markers out--again.
Now I think it all went too fast. I should have used one of those permanent markers on my memory because I'm forgetting too much of who she was.
And darn it, this post was supposed to be a funny one about hoarding.
But now I'm crying.
So I guess my next post will be about the funny hoarding tendencies of my parents and in-laws. I have none of my own, of course. Except when it comes to my children. If I figure out how to hoard them without all their crap, I just may do it.
* other shows watched at Grammy's house: Cops, Lock Up, and UFC fights. It is a price I am willing to pay for a week alone with my husband once a year.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
A Post About Shopping For School Supplies Wherein I Rant And Curse.
When I was a kid I loved to go shopping for school supplies. I loved the pencils with perfect pink erasers, the sharp tips of never-been-used crayons and the clean white pages of spiral notebooks with funny covers (my favorite one ever had Miss Piggy dressed as Cleopatra and a brief history of Egypt inside the cover).
You know what I HATE now?
Shopping for school supplies. It makes me cringe almost as much as the memory of how I also used to like fried bean burritos dipped in ketchup. Blech.
But it has to be done. And-- having learned from past experience that Target and Staples woefully underestimate just how many supplies people with children have to buy--it had to be done yesterday. Even that was cutting it a bit short since school starts in 8 days (yes I'm counting down).
So, picture me now wandering the two "school supplies" designated aisles in Target-- where said supplies are strewn about the floor and those actually in bins or on shelves are in the wrong places-- clutching the two page list of things kids can't learn without, muttering "what/where in the hell is this thing?" to myself while Girl 1 keeps asking for things not on the list--like the box of 64 crayons-- and Girl 3 plays Do Whatever Possible To Get Hit By A Cart.
So then I say things like, "If you think you need 64 crayons then you can piece together the 6400 crayon remnants in the bottom of the kitchen drawer and take those to school!" All the while feeling guilty because one year my mom did buy me that box of crayons. With the sharpner. And man, was that cool.
I may have also said this, "If you stand in front of this moving cart one more time Girl 3, I will MOW you down!"
Other things said to no one in particular while digging through the THOUSANDS of notebooks--none of which had Miss Piggy covers-- to find the packages of looseleaf, wide-ruled, two hole punch paper, only to discover it had three holes, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHO MAKES THESE PAPER TO HOLE RATIOS UP??"
And when did loose leaf paper become all the rage? It's as impossible to find as large pink erasers, which can never be bought in packages of two--like you need. No, they only come in singles with about 20 of those pencil top erasers. Which are not on The List. Plus, I don't need 100 pencil top erasers! I have thousands already from years past when I had to buy that stupid combined package which Target refuses to believe no one actually wants.
I have had one bottle of glue at my house for three years. So how will my child use an entire two bottles in nine months when they don't even do art anymore? I'll tell you how. Because they turn all the supplies into the teacher who divies them out when needed. I'm fine providing supplies for kids whose parents can't afford to (I'm a registered Democrat, so I have to be), but I don't want to supply glue to that one weird kid who spreads it all over his hand, lets it dry, and then peels it off like dead skin. His parents should have to bring in four bottles of glue.
You know what else can't be found? Protractors. I thought I had found one, but it turned out to be a compass. And I thought to myself, If I have been misremembering what a protactor is for a quarter century now, is it really that important for my fifth grader to learn how to protact? I mean, I have never had to stand in a soup line, beg for money on the streets, or overdosed on drugs, despite my protactor deficiencies. And I'm guessing if I ever do any of those things, I won't be thinking If only I had kept up my protractor skills.
Also, I am not buying any Kleenex or Clorox wipes this year because 1) I am not afraid of germs and
2) I have seen the stockpiles teachers have of these things. They are prepared to battle the Flu Apocalypse when it comes.
So that is my rant about school supplies. I just hope Girl 2 doesn't find out I ripped into her brand new, perfectly pointy, package of colored pencils while still in the store because I had nothing else to use to cross off the things on the list buried in my cart under all the glue.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
You know what I HATE now?
Shopping for school supplies. It makes me cringe almost as much as the memory of how I also used to like fried bean burritos dipped in ketchup. Blech.
But it has to be done. And-- having learned from past experience that Target and Staples woefully underestimate just how many supplies people with children have to buy--it had to be done yesterday. Even that was cutting it a bit short since school starts in 8 days (yes I'm counting down).
So, picture me now wandering the two "school supplies" designated aisles in Target-- where said supplies are strewn about the floor and those actually in bins or on shelves are in the wrong places-- clutching the two page list of things kids can't learn without, muttering "what/where in the hell is this thing?" to myself while Girl 1 keeps asking for things not on the list--like the box of 64 crayons-- and Girl 3 plays Do Whatever Possible To Get Hit By A Cart.
So then I say things like, "If you think you need 64 crayons then you can piece together the 6400 crayon remnants in the bottom of the kitchen drawer and take those to school!" All the while feeling guilty because one year my mom did buy me that box of crayons. With the sharpner. And man, was that cool.
I may have also said this, "If you stand in front of this moving cart one more time Girl 3, I will MOW you down!"
Other things said to no one in particular while digging through the THOUSANDS of notebooks--none of which had Miss Piggy covers-- to find the packages of looseleaf, wide-ruled, two hole punch paper, only to discover it had three holes, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHO MAKES THESE PAPER TO HOLE RATIOS UP??"
And when did loose leaf paper become all the rage? It's as impossible to find as large pink erasers, which can never be bought in packages of two--like you need. No, they only come in singles with about 20 of those pencil top erasers. Which are not on The List. Plus, I don't need 100 pencil top erasers! I have thousands already from years past when I had to buy that stupid combined package which Target refuses to believe no one actually wants.
I have had one bottle of glue at my house for three years. So how will my child use an entire two bottles in nine months when they don't even do art anymore? I'll tell you how. Because they turn all the supplies into the teacher who divies them out when needed. I'm fine providing supplies for kids whose parents can't afford to (I'm a registered Democrat, so I have to be), but I don't want to supply glue to that one weird kid who spreads it all over his hand, lets it dry, and then peels it off like dead skin. His parents should have to bring in four bottles of glue.
You know what else can't be found? Protractors. I thought I had found one, but it turned out to be a compass. And I thought to myself, If I have been misremembering what a protactor is for a quarter century now, is it really that important for my fifth grader to learn how to protact? I mean, I have never had to stand in a soup line, beg for money on the streets, or overdosed on drugs, despite my protactor deficiencies. And I'm guessing if I ever do any of those things, I won't be thinking If only I had kept up my protractor skills.
Also, I am not buying any Kleenex or Clorox wipes this year because 1) I am not afraid of germs and
2) I have seen the stockpiles teachers have of these things. They are prepared to battle the Flu Apocalypse when it comes.
So that is my rant about school supplies. I just hope Girl 2 doesn't find out I ripped into her brand new, perfectly pointy, package of colored pencils while still in the store because I had nothing else to use to cross off the things on the list buried in my cart under all the glue.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
You Are Officially Old When You Hear The Rebellious Anthems Of Your Youth On An Easy Listening Station
The other day I was driving down the road totally rocking out to Def Leppard. Until I noticed which station it was on ... Easy Listening.
That's right.
Not Hair Nation-- where you would expect to find a band from the 80's with hair. But Easy Listening--which plays Lionel Richie.
Hell--oooo! It is not him I am looking for.
I took that as a sign that I am getting old. Here are a few more:
1. I have an Easy Listening station programmed into my stereo.
2. It's one of my top three.
3. The word hooligan comes to mind every time I see a teen-ager.
4. I had to read name tags at my 20 year high school reunion to remember who my former hooligan friends were.
5. I've called the cops to shut down my neighbors' loud, racuous parties.
6. I just used the words "racuous" and "hooligan" in one blogpost.
But, as I am a glass-half-full type of gal, there are some signs that I'm not totally over the hill yet:
1. I can still figure out how to program my stereo (barely, but still...).
2. I think I'll go ahead and move that Easy Listening station a little further down the list.
3. Teen-agers are actually hooligans, so everybody over the age of 30 is probably thinking the same thing.
4. I didn't need a name tag to remember my own name. Not that night anyway.
5. I haven't called them before 10:00.
6. At least I know what a blogpost is (though still unsure of its purpose...)
So, you see, I'm not that old.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my nightly glass of prune juice.
That's right.
Not Hair Nation-- where you would expect to find a band from the 80's with hair. But Easy Listening--which plays Lionel Richie.
Hell--oooo! It is not him I am looking for.
I took that as a sign that I am getting old. Here are a few more:
1. I have an Easy Listening station programmed into my stereo.
2. It's one of my top three.
3. The word hooligan comes to mind every time I see a teen-ager.
4. I had to read name tags at my 20 year high school reunion to remember who my former hooligan friends were.
5. I've called the cops to shut down my neighbors' loud, racuous parties.
6. I just used the words "racuous" and "hooligan" in one blogpost.
But, as I am a glass-half-full type of gal, there are some signs that I'm not totally over the hill yet:
1. I can still figure out how to program my stereo (barely, but still...).
2. I think I'll go ahead and move that Easy Listening station a little further down the list.
3. Teen-agers are actually hooligans, so everybody over the age of 30 is probably thinking the same thing.
4. I didn't need a name tag to remember my own name. Not that night anyway.
5. I haven't called them before 10:00.
6. At least I know what a blogpost is (though still unsure of its purpose...)
So, you see, I'm not that old.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my nightly glass of prune juice.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Back In Time
So you know where I went during my summer vacation?
I'll give you a hint: it didn't involve a plutonium powered DeLorean with a flux capacitor.
But it could have.
Because, seriously folks, I went back in time (cue Huey Lewis and the News background music).
It started when I went back to my hometown of Burley, Idaho to watch a little race called the Spudman my husband and brother were in. Not only did I see some people I used to know, but I also took a little tour of the place. And you know what? It hasn't changed that much in the past twenty years since I left. I could still get a Mexican pizza at the Taco Bandido and a strawberry shake at the Burgers Etc.
Except now there's a Walmart at one end of town and a lot of empty stores downtown that used to sell nice stuff.
And where once this was the inspiration for folks' hairdo's:
Now it is this:
And all I have to say about that is that I think the state of Idaho should ban the import of any more hairstyles from New Jersey.
But back to my vacation.
I spent a number of weeks in the fine state of Utah at my parents' house where all I did was write and do laundry. Which was a little like going back to high school-- except back then I had a job and had to make my bed regularly. My hair was also a lot bigger. Remember?
And you know who else lives there in Utah? Really a lot of people I used to know. So I decided to visit some of them.
Like the two girls who used to babysit for me when my ten year old was just a baby. They, by their own admission, were kind of bratty teen-agers and I won't disagree with that. But I, also, was once a bratty teen-ager, so I didn't mind it so much when they were too. I figured they'd turn out all right eventually. And, you know what? They did. Better than all right, actually.
From there I went and got my hair did by the girl who lived next door to me growing up. We took different paths when we got to high school, but we've ended up in the same place in many ways. I walked away from our visit with a renewed friendship and a great hairdo--one not imported from the Garden State.
I also ran into an old friend online. I knew him when I was in college and he...well, he was not. But he did have some serious hackey sack and syrup making skills. And though I never actually saw him do it, apparently he could bowl. Like he could have gone pro. Except, in his words, it made his arm too tired to practice that much. So he didn't.
Guess what he does now...
I'll just go ahead and tell you because I couldn't have ever guessed it, so how could you?
He decided to take on the small task of eradicating world poverty. Which, I guess, is somehow less tiring than bowling. So now he has his own consulting business about how to do this and gives lectures -- at places like Harvard and Stanford--about the microfranchising model he has created.
I'm not really doing justice to what it is he does, but I think it's pretty cool, so check it out here, if you like.
But I digress. Let's get back to my trip down memory lane.
I ended my vacation back through time by attending my 20 year high school reunion. (This is where the background music changes to Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, followed by John Lennon's In My Life, and that country song What Might Have Been-- except all I can remember from it is the tune and those words, but still, it works. Also throw in a few Monster Ballads).
And, boy howdy, did that bring back some forgotten memories. Some of which probably should have stayed forgotten because they were of things I hope my children never, EVER do. But, still, it was good to reconnect with old friends who I didn't know I missed until I saw them again. We've promised to not let another ten to twenty years pass before we see each other again, and--much to my husband's dismay-- I have offered up our home as a free place to stay during any Disneyland vacations.
I hope we'll keep our promises, but I know life has a tendency to get in the way of good intentions. So I guess I'll just look forward to the 30 year reunion and think good thoughts about old friends until then.
For now I am back to real life --or what constitutes it in this part of the world-- with a serious case of nostalgia.
And also a really long to do list.
Because the present just keeps moving toward the future.
Even if you get stuck in the past for a bit.
I'll give you a hint: it didn't involve a plutonium powered DeLorean with a flux capacitor.
But it could have.
Because, seriously folks, I went back in time (cue Huey Lewis and the News background music).
It started when I went back to my hometown of Burley, Idaho to watch a little race called the Spudman my husband and brother were in. Not only did I see some people I used to know, but I also took a little tour of the place. And you know what? It hasn't changed that much in the past twenty years since I left. I could still get a Mexican pizza at the Taco Bandido and a strawberry shake at the Burgers Etc.
Except now there's a Walmart at one end of town and a lot of empty stores downtown that used to sell nice stuff.
And where once this was the inspiration for folks' hairdo's:
Now it is this:
And all I have to say about that is that I think the state of Idaho should ban the import of any more hairstyles from New Jersey.
But back to my vacation.
I spent a number of weeks in the fine state of Utah at my parents' house where all I did was write and do laundry. Which was a little like going back to high school-- except back then I had a job and had to make my bed regularly. My hair was also a lot bigger. Remember?
And you know who else lives there in Utah? Really a lot of people I used to know. So I decided to visit some of them.
Like the two girls who used to babysit for me when my ten year old was just a baby. They, by their own admission, were kind of bratty teen-agers and I won't disagree with that. But I, also, was once a bratty teen-ager, so I didn't mind it so much when they were too. I figured they'd turn out all right eventually. And, you know what? They did. Better than all right, actually.
From there I went and got my hair did by the girl who lived next door to me growing up. We took different paths when we got to high school, but we've ended up in the same place in many ways. I walked away from our visit with a renewed friendship and a great hairdo--one not imported from the Garden State.
I also ran into an old friend online. I knew him when I was in college and he...well, he was not. But he did have some serious hackey sack and syrup making skills. And though I never actually saw him do it, apparently he could bowl. Like he could have gone pro. Except, in his words, it made his arm too tired to practice that much. So he didn't.
Guess what he does now...
I'll just go ahead and tell you because I couldn't have ever guessed it, so how could you?
He decided to take on the small task of eradicating world poverty. Which, I guess, is somehow less tiring than bowling. So now he has his own consulting business about how to do this and gives lectures -- at places like Harvard and Stanford--about the microfranchising model he has created.
I'm not really doing justice to what it is he does, but I think it's pretty cool, so check it out here, if you like.
But I digress. Let's get back to my trip down memory lane.
I ended my vacation back through time by attending my 20 year high school reunion. (This is where the background music changes to Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, followed by John Lennon's In My Life, and that country song What Might Have Been-- except all I can remember from it is the tune and those words, but still, it works. Also throw in a few Monster Ballads).
And, boy howdy, did that bring back some forgotten memories. Some of which probably should have stayed forgotten because they were of things I hope my children never, EVER do. But, still, it was good to reconnect with old friends who I didn't know I missed until I saw them again. We've promised to not let another ten to twenty years pass before we see each other again, and--much to my husband's dismay-- I have offered up our home as a free place to stay during any Disneyland vacations.
I hope we'll keep our promises, but I know life has a tendency to get in the way of good intentions. So I guess I'll just look forward to the 30 year reunion and think good thoughts about old friends until then.
For now I am back to real life --or what constitutes it in this part of the world-- with a serious case of nostalgia.
And also a really long to do list.
Because the present just keeps moving toward the future.
Even if you get stuck in the past for a bit.
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