I Used to Be!

Do you ever just.....struggle?

Is it just me?

I will never forget one of my youth that I led a group for looking over at me once and saying, "You need help." It was both an observation and a statement. Years before, while stumbling around at a fast food restaurant, trying to put an order together (my high school part time job), a manager, while leaning against a counter doing what he called 'supervising', made the comment that hiring people of my 'intellect' was very entertaining....they were fun to watch. He didnt' say it in precisely that way, but you get the idea. This, too, was not a compliment.



A few years ago, I was worried that this might be genetic. We had a set of four stairs in our former home, which was a multi-level establishment, that my children could not descend without tripping up them. That's right...UP them. They weren't falling down, they were falling up...and physically I'm not even sure that's posible, but they did it....almost daily. I would hear them running all the way up fourteen stairs from the basement perfectly, turn the corner and fall up the other four. Boom, boom, boom.....each time followed with either an, "OWW!" or a, "DANG IT!"

But it caused me to question...did they get this....from....ME?

I hoped not. But there is underlying evidence that they did. Take my wedding for example, the first one. Picture yours truly, dressed in white and looking for all the world like the perfect bride (even though my sleeves were way too puffy). The lovely room we were to be married in was packed with friends and family. I had but one small staircase to climb, and I entered the room. I could see faces of my future in-laws that I'd only seen in pictures, as they smiled encouragingly at me...."Here Comes the Bride", and what not. The last thing I remembered was thinking to myself, "Oh...that must be Cousin Rick and his wife, Lisa...." and then....Splatsville. I tripped UP the stairs. Oh, yes I did.



Moving out of that house seemed to solve that particular problem. Although we have other issues. Unexplained ketchup stains on the ceiling of the kitchen from, the kids say, when the ketchup bottle 'went flying out of someone's hands for no reason' as they were trying to pass the condiment during dinner to the person sitting right next to them....

We are so used to the sound of dishes breaking that we're not even worried if someone's mad anymore...and we're tired of clapping, like they do at all the fun Italian restaurants when someone drops a tray....it's old news. Tile floors were not a great choice for us in our eating area, either. Although I detest carpeting in either a kitchen or beneath a dining room table....we need it. The buffer would save a lot of glassware. Last Christmas my thoughtful son TJ bought me a set of twelve plexiglass tumblers...they can hit the floor at top speeds, and we won't have to sweep anything up afterwards. Great idea.

When I told a friend of mine that is somewhat of a mystic and a spiritualist my 'sign', she immediately asked if I was a 'klutz'. Seriously....? Even the alignment of the stars is against me, here? You've just gotta be kidding. Even my 'sign' won't give me a break.

I take comfort in the fact that this....ailment....is not just limited to the human race. I would have never thought such a thing, had I not been treated to one of the funniest of observations. While recently taking a walk, a cat that ran across my path got spooked, reversed directions, and ran back.... right smack into a wooden fence. It acted a bit dazed for a second or two, then shook itself off and ran away. And I suddenly realized-- between fits of laughter-- that the animal kingdom had klutzes, too. It wasn't just us. How did they do, survival-wise? I had no way to tell right then, but that would be a rather interesting study. Although how to conduct it would be uncertain. Dead animals tell no tales. Flat squirrels on the roadways can't disclose to you if they were a klutz in their former life. I guess if you asked them, and it were true, (and if they could talk to you from the Great Beyond...or, I'm forgetting, if they could talk at all...) their answer would go like this: "I used to be....!"

I wish I could say that this phenomenon was limited to tripping and bumping into things, with the occasional dropping of good china on occasion....Alas, it is not. At least three times that I know of, I've gone out in public with something on inside-out. One of the worst instances was to discover that I'd done this with the pants I was wearing....during intermission....at a formal concert.

I was thinking those inside-out years were all behind me the other day, laughing to myself about those 'good old times', as I strolled into the grocery store in my cute little white down vest. Something must have made me think of this, by way of a subconscious clue, because I looked down and discovered...you guessed it.....Inside-Outsville. Meaning, I haven't outgrown it yet. And since I'm pretty much middle-aged....it's not looking too good.

Although I can take heart in knowing that when I join my friend the squirrel in the Great Beyond, when someone asks me if I'm a 'klutz', I can say with a smile, "No....but I used to be.....!"

Think Harder

I worked for about ten years, off and on, at a grocery store chain, as a professional cake decorator.

For the most part, I liked it. I got to use my creativity, and I was usually stationed back in my own little corner, avoiding the hustle, bustle, and politics of the bakery folk. Every now and then I'd help them out when they were short-handed, but for the majority of the time, I could keep to myself and create works of art back in my own little part of the bakery.

But some of the ooze of bureaucracy still seeped over at times. They (who we all called the Big Wigs...or, the Big Bosses) were freaks about name tags. You had to have one on at all times. If not, there was some sort of punishment. They wanted to know what employee did this or that evil deed. Or, if you were rude to a customer,(even if they just THOUGHT you were rude, regardless if you actually were or not) they needed to make sure to have your name larger than life on your lapel, so they could give it to the manager.

Some days I forgot my tag; just plain left it at home. No excuse. Not to worry, Glenda, the other decorator, always left hers at the decorator's table on her days off. Some days I was me, some days I was 'Glenda'. A few times I've even been 'Robert', when he left his tag lying around. If they asked, I'd tell them the 'a' at the end dropped off. Or, I could say I was going through a 'change'...

I felt somewhat of an immunity in that job; I did not really need the money at that time. It was just play money that I was earning. So my attitude was different than that of my fellow employees. It made all the difference on whether or not I feared the 'bosses'....I didn't. One time the Big Wigs came in and one of them dared to ask me where my name tag was. (I'd forgotten to put one on that day, either mine or anyone else's). I just stopped and stared for a couple of uncomfortable seconds, and asked him where HIS was. He said nothing further. Not long after that, the bosses all began wearing these fancy golden name tags, wit their names and titles engraved on them. Clever.

I have to say, some of the dumbest ideas anyone ever came up with must have happened at their meeting tables. I could just picture them, the Big Wigs, sitting around in their fancy suits, drinking coffee and saying, "Hey! I KNOW! Let's make a rule that they have to have French Bread out every day by four p.m. at the stores, or they'll be in big trouble!" or, "Lets make them dress up like the Easter Bunny for Easter and sell personalized easter cakes out in the lobby!" or, "Lets pit them against each other and have a donut selling contest! On a Monday evening! Yeah!".....you see what I mean.

But the one that 'takes the cake' was the brilliant executive who came up with the bright idea for all of us to wear the tall, paper chef's hats. That's right. Now, just how dignified would you feel (granted that you're not a real chef) to A) have to wear a polyester uniform with the logo of the store emblazoned all over your chest, paired with polyester pants that are flaired to oblivion, and B) having to don an apron that has bakery goo all over it, because when you work with chocolate icing, that's unavoidable, and C) to be eight months pregnant, and D) to be wearing a 50 cent, paper chef's hat that was two feet tall?

Well, you wouldn't have a shred of dignity left, that's how you'd feel. All of us rebelled, begging the manager not to make us do it. But rules were rules, and he'd been threatened to comply...or 'else'.

Every time I went around the corner, off came the hat. When I decorated, I had to look DOWN at the cakes, and it went against the laws of gravity for that hat to stay put. It fell onto my smoothly iced surfaces. It fell onto my "Happy Birthday Bertha". It fell. All the time. So, every chance I got, I yanked it off. And every time the manager caught me, he made me put it back on. He was a really good boss, he left me to myself most of the time, and I liked him....and this was the only thing we ever butted heads on. Because it was stupid. I knew it and he knew it.

When the boss went home for the day, I still had a couple of hours left. It was just me in the back, and the bakery clerk out front. Who knew that the Big Wigs would make their appearance that day? When they did, my hat was off.

Two of them stood in their pretty suits, staring at me in disapproval. My hat was OFF, after all....and they'd commanded for all hats to be ON.

"Where is your hat?" one of them said, in a controlled voice. Ah, I got it...they were both showing off their 'power'...to each other.

"Oh, it's right over there," I said lightly, pointing my icing-laden spatula in that direction.

Long silence. Then they dove back in.

"....and why aren't you wearing it?"

I put my spatula down, and put my hands on my widening hips, displaying my eight-month pregnant belly.

"Because I am thirty years old. Because I am eight months pregnant. Because wearing a hat gives me a headache. Because when I tip my head downward, it falls off, and I've picked that thing out of the icing more than once today. And because whoever thought up this brilliant idea of these paper hats needed to think a little harder."

I expected another long silence. But what happened was even better than that. Acting like he'd seen something repugnant, the man's head quickly turned away, as if he were suddenly deciding to ignore me. He walked away, and the other man followed! Like it never happened!

I never had any fallout from that run-in with the infamous Big Wigs. But I hoped they'd remember my one little moment of input. I hoped the next time they thought it would be cute to dress their employees up as elves and approach people in the parking lot about buying our 'Christmas Donuts', or thinking it might be fun to attach bells to our hands or some such thing, that they would think again. Perhaps they would even think of the short, red-faced, hormonal pregnant woman telling them off in that dark corner of that one bakery they'd visited.....and then maybe they'd think again.

Hey...it's almost four o'clock....could I interest you in some 'freshly baked' French Bread?

Welcome, Ski Season!

I woke up slowly, remembering....ski day! Son Two, who was to be my ski buddy for the day, awoke even more slowly. Seems like a growing body paired with exhaustion from staying out too late the night before with his brother overruled even skiing up at his favorite resort.

Seemed like it took forever to pack everything up, and make our way up there. I attempted to purchase some new tires for my 4x4, but couldn't find a price that made me happy and didn't want to go into debt, so I took my chances with the old tires, even though the worrier in me was having thoughts of sliding right off the mountainside...not pleasant.

By the time we were loaded up, the sun was out, and it was a cold 23 degrees. It was going to be a gorgeous day.

So nice to be able to talk with Jordan on the way up...he's a captive audience for an hour and a half up there, and then an hour and a half back down. Who gets three hours of one-on-one with a sixteen year old, these days? That makes the cost of the ski pass for us this year one of the best investments, relationship-wise. You can't put a price tag on that; it's invaluable.

When we arrived, there was NO WHERE to park. Every parking space within shuffling distance (because that's what you do in ski boots, after all) was filled. We settled on a lot high above our normal parking area. While Jordan skiied off, I was dubious. You had to ski down a steep slope to get to the lodge below; there was no other way from this spot. That would mean that to get back to it, I would have to go on a more advanced hill, just to ski back down to it, and have access to my car. So, I started up the car and went back down t the main parking area, where I'm used to. I don't take risks anymore...I'm beyond that. Hey, things break!

In the main parking area, there were several possible spaces that I wouldn't call....'official'...spaces. Just inadvertant, accidental spaces just BARELY large enough for a vehicle...if no one wants to open any doors, that is. I eyed several of them while the incoming cars in the line behind me waited patiently, or not so patiently...I finally found one that just might work...although everyone else was passing it by in their SUV's, not daring to risk door-ding damage. My rig is older, so maybe I wasn't so picky nowadays.

I wedged my way in, while other would-be parkers watched, a bit admiringly, I thought, but I could have been just imagining that. I am proud of my parking skills, it has to be said. I scare the kids all the time, who just know I am going to bump into the car next to me, but then never do. "How do you DO that?" they ask. The truth is that I've been driving this vehicle for several years, and I guess I'm just familiar with its boundaries and size. That's all. No magic.

Jordan called on the cell and wanted his face mask, so he found me in the new location. When he shuffled up to me, he was grinning and shaking his head, surveying my parking job. "There is NO WHERE to park!" I said, trying to defend myself. I set to the task of writing on a sticky note, "So Sorry! Parking is crazy! If you need me to move my car so that you can access your vehicle a bit better, please call........" and I left them my cell number. Jordan thought that was funny, too.

"I just can't stand parking like such a JERK," I said, as we shuffled away.

While Jordan disappeared off the backside of the mountain, headed for the double-black-diamond runs, no doubt, I made my way to the more intermediate runs. The resort was packed, festive Christmas Vacation types everywhere. It gave me a warm, happy feeling. I also recalled that part of the sport for me was the people watching....it was a feast for the eyes...and people are so very, very funny. Everyone was having a great time...not a grouchy person in sight. The folks I had to share a ski lift with were ultimately entertaining. First there was the man that had the coolest Tennessee drawl. He was visiting a 'friend' that he pointed to in the chairlift ahead of us...an attractive blonde. I felt sorry for him that he couldn't ride with her, but she was with a couple of children and the seating just hadn't worked out. That happens a lot at a crowded ski resort....you have strange seat-mates. After that I switched runs and rode on another lift, winding up with a strawberry blonde-haired man...orange, really... (with matching eyebrows) and his ten year old daughter who did not have orange hair. It was brown.

It was a rather long ride, lots of starts and stops. (Every time we got stopped, you could hear an audible sigh from the riders). The man told me that he used to come up to this resort while he was in high school, almost daily during the season. He talked about how good skiing had been for family relations, while growing up. Originally, his parents had taken them up, so that they could learn how to ski. They bought the kids passes, and said, "Good luck! You can figure this out!"...and, the kids did. He mused that it was really interesting that the parents themselves did not ski at all, but were determined to have that for their kids. But then, lo! In their fourties, they got the itching to learn for themselves, took lessons, and began to enjoy it with their children. He said they always stuck to the trails and never did anything extreme, but they were doing it, and that was wonderful for the kids to be able to share that with them. He shook his head in wonderment, telling me all about it, even this many years later. He was laughing to himself when he said, " I don't know what came over them; all of a sudden they wanted to ski."

What a memory for that man. And now his daughter was skiing. I asked her who beats who, going down the hill, and she just smiled.... so I had my answer. Of course she makes it to the bottom before her dad does; just like my kids plaster me in a race, each and every time. I don't even compete with them, anymore. What's the point?

On another run, where I had the lift to myself, I was contemplating the forest of pine trees we were in, surrounded by white snow. By chance, right about that time, the lift stopped; delayed again. The air was still and I could hear the people behind me talking. I heard a child's voice say, "I spy something.....GREEN!" I had to laugh, being in the woods as we were. 'Yeah, good luck with THAT one, Dad!' I thought. If he were smart, when it was his turn, he'd say, "I spy something ....WHITE!"

But the funniest part of the day, by far, were the French Fry kids. A little pack of skiiers, probably around three years old, on the average, being instructed by a ski coach. There were about a dozen of them. They zoomed past me like I was walking (always a humbling experience), that is, until the one bringing up the rear totally wiped out.

"STOP! STOP! STOP!" He yelled, fully expecting everyone in the group to halt for him. They didn't. And the other little boy that he'd been skiing with, actually turned around and smiled a great big smile right back at him. The more the kid yelled 'STOP', the more his friend skiied faster, away from the struggling student. His was not a mean smile....it was more....gleeful. He was gleefully skiing away.

On the next run, I caught up with our little class. The two boys were now both upright and continued to hang at the back of the line. The boy who had crashed was griping.

"You were supposed to WAIT for me, you... French Fry!" he yelled.

"YOU'RE a French Fry!" said the still-smiling other kid.

"Oh YEAH?" said the Falling Boy, "Well you're a.....a.....you're a French Fry BUTTON HEAD!"

For a moment I wondered if I'd heard something much more crude, but he'd said 'button-head', all right, because he repeated it several more times. Possibly 'button-head' was as much as he dared say...for all I knew, that other kid could've been his brother...and brothers 'tell'. If so, I couldn't help but admire the clever twist by simply adding an 'on' to the intended word. Very clever, indeed.....

His friend had had enough and called him a 'French- Fry- Button- Head', right back. Then he began to sing about it, quite unexpectedly. I have to admit that I slowed down, just to listen to the exchange...

"French fry, french fry, french fry.....La la la.....French fries are good to eat....La la la....Keep your french fries UP!"

---I had no idea what this meant. Maybe the ski instructor had been calling their skis 'french fries'. Maybe the kid was hungry. Maybe he preferred french fries that were standing upright in the container they came in, as opposed to those mooshie ones that you find at the bottom.... Maybe their parents were biased against the French...who knows! But it was really, really funny.

I skiied the slope where Sis and I would always stop at sunset, overlooking the valley and would make a wish. I skiied down a trail that made me feel deliriously happy...I must've been thinking about very positive things in years past, while going around that particular hill. Funny how it all came back to me, that contented feeling, again and again yesterday, whenever I went on that trail. At one strange point, I could've sworn I smelled cleaning solution; the kind I had used last year for my cleaning business. Now THAT was a weird thing. I hadn't used that stuff for months, and I could smell it in my nostrils, just as plainly as if I had been wearing it on my person. Whoever says that sights and sounds can't take you back are just plain wrong. They can.

But I was back on My Mountain, and....gleeful. Yes, gleeful. I could've smiled (and probably did) just as brightly as that pesky little boy that left his friend lying flat on that trail.

Welcome, ski season!

Life Lessons

So I'm sitting here, staring at the computer screen, thinking that for sure I have something profound to express. But to tell you the truth, I've got nothin', here. Not feeling the vibes.

I've wondered lately, in my somewhat overly-dramatic mind, if this rash of writing frenzy is going to be for a vast purpose. Such as, I might get hit by a van hauling thousands of pounds of chocolate this year, and kick the bucket. One never knows. And honestly, I can't think of a better way to go. Death by Chocolate has always sounded 'right' to me. But if that happened, would my children, desperate for anything that was Mom, (Or Mommie Dearest, as they affectionately refer to me), search for and unearth my writings, and absorb every last word? If so, my time will not have been spent in vain.

I'm making light of it, of course, but I've been compelled to write more lately than I have ever been at any other time in my life...even those crazy teen-aged, journalling years ("I think he likes me, Dear Diary, do YOU think he likes me?" ....Oh, brother!) No matter the reason, it's been a curious happenstance for me. This Write-A-Thon, of sorts.

If I did Kick the Bucket, Buy the Farm, Check In....sometime in the near future....what would I want my two sons and a daughter to know? What would I want to pass on to them? Those little tidbits that I love to call Life Lessons, that's what. I'll have to ponder for a moment to think of some....

The Best Cleaning Advice Ever: Hire a MAID.

Chocolate can cure anything: Cramps. Headache. Heartache. Annoyances. Loneliness. Math problems (or at least make you temporarily forget about them). Boredome. An inferiority complex(You'll suddenly feel you're able to do anything!) A superiority complex (makes you realize you're nothing in comparison). Multiple Personality Disorder (you both realized you love chocolate, you find that one thing in common and build on that until you've melded personalities. See?....cured!) Marital problems. (Shut up and eat this chocolate off my bottom lip, Harold!) Financial problems (start selling it and it will make you rich....who doesn't like chocolate, for crying out loud?) The quest for religion. (I BELIEVE!) Medical ailments. (Pain? WHAT pain? All I know is the heaven this is resting on my taste buds...) See?....the cure-all.... Amen!

Always Wear Your Eyebrows. If you don't, no one will ever take you seriously. That, and your expressions will be impossible to read with those invisible things that Nature gave you. Or should I say, forgot to give you...

Look Both Ways Before Crossing the Street: Or, the freeway, as the case may be. If you don't, you could get run over by an eighteen-wheeler, flatten your first car, and have to ride a Huffy for a few months afterwards. And that hurts. Physically and financially... as well as socially.

Never Step Foot Out of Doors Without A Little Color: Even an old barn needs a bit of paint, from time to time. There are a seldom few that don't. Most of us aren't one of them.

Avoid People That Are Prone To Calling You 'Hon': Salesmen, Pastors, women your own age or younger, people that are taller than you. This is an act of aggression, meant to keep you as a subordinate. Do NOT, under any circumstances, publicly allow anyone to call you 'Hon'. This is different with friends and loved ones, of course, but those not within that privileged circle who dare utter the words should be immediately cast out. They probably think very little of you.

Run From Relationships that are Poison: Just like you know if you like a food, pretty much from the first bite....similarly, you know if it's going to be good or bad fairly early. If it's bad, for goodness sakes, don't keep breathing life into it! Be smarter than I was and don't stay in relationships for most of your golden youth that are not good for you. If they're mean, they're going to get meaner. If they're lazy, they're going to get lazier. If they have no respect for your kind, they'll have even less by the time you leave. Remember the old Yiddish proverb.."What starts badly, goes badly." Don't waste your youth! Make haste, child! Run!

Don't Forget To Play: I've heard from my brilliant son, TJ, who loves to share knowlege, that the most intelligent animals PLAY. You can tell who the smarties are, by whether they have the ability to play or not. When you're driving into the next town for that business meeting, pack a pair of Nikes with you and go for a hike up that hill right afterwards. Take a picnic with you and eat out of doors on a blanket or your jacket, like those in Europe do. Take a nap under a tree. Climb a tree. Dance in your living room and both frighten your children and delight your senses. Sit out on your front porch and greet every neighbor going by...offer them some lemonade. Teach a small child how to use a hula hoop. Sing at the top of your lungs in the car....and if you get caught by friends at a red light, just turn the music up so they can hear it, too! Eat ice cream out of a cone, no matter how old you are...make sure to order sprinkles on top. If you're a woman, wear your hair in pigtails sometimes around the house...it will make you feel like a girl, again. Overeat sometimes, and have someone join you. Have a movie marathon night, stay up all night and sleep in all the next day. Play checkers with a five year old and let them win. Visit the zoo with red balloons in your hands. Challenge some kid to a vicious demolition derby in bumper cars. Rent the paddle boats with the big swan heads. Bob for apples.

There are more, but none I can think of right now. I think I need to find some song from my high school years and turn it up as loud as I can, and go dance in my living room.

And Kids: If you're reading this right now...It was the butler, in the study, with a chocolate bar....Death by Chocolate...what a way to go. Tell him I said, "Thanks."

Pick A Pet

Pets are good. Everyone should have one.

My mother was not a pet person. She would eye a creature, giving it one courtesy pat on the top of its head. After that, she'd quickly find a faucet in which to wash her hands. She was never known to bury her face into the fluffy fur of a puppy. She handled our various pets as one would handle a stinky, wet dishrag; with only two fingers and a wrinkled nose.

Our pet career began with Mitzi. She was a black and white mongrel, given to us by a woman my father knew, because she was a patient at the hospital. She had terminal cancer, and felt she was near the end...she wanted her pet to have a good home. Mitzi couldn't have been more loved...or should I say, 'over-loved'. There were times she was probably quite smothered by Lauren and I...we were fierce pet-huggers.... we loved those critters so much, we'd practically gag them.

I'll never forget the time Mitzi was riding in the car with us, and Father decided to go through the automatic carwash. This terrified our dog. She was medium-sized, but somehow she fit herself UNDERNEATH the front driver's seat; she was that scared. Even at age four or so, I remember thinking that it was not very cool to subject a dog to such excitement. Poor Mitzi probably thought that her world was coming to an end. I whined right along with her.

Not long afterwards; the former owner of Mitzi decided that she was getting better after all (she wasn't), and took Mitzi back. I don't know what became of her after that. Lauren and I were heartbroken; how could that lady give us a dog, and then not give us a dog? It seemed so wrong. But in hindsight; I'm glad Mitzi went back to her...she'd had one too many carwashes with us. Who knew what else awaited her, if she'd stuck around...perhaps the drive in movie, or a trip to the laundromat?

Next was "Chuckie", the orange cat. I loved Chuckie. The neighbors did not. Chuckie was a real ladies' man-cat, I later learned. He died of a bullet wound... from one of the neighbors, I suppose. So much for Chuckie.

A little while later, a flaming-red furred dog (I'm not kidding) made his way into our yard, and into our hearts. We searched for his owner, but to no avail. After two weeks, it was decided that we would keep him. When it came time to name the dog, Lauren and I kept forgetting that he was a 'he'. I was still in my "Princess" stage, where I thought the most wonderful names in the world were "Cinderella", "Snow White", and "Sleeping Beauty". Lauren and I decided that the dog's name would henceforth be...."Beauty".

'Beauty' was the butt of many a neighborhood joke. Imagine my father trying to control his dog, putting both hands up to his mouth and hollering, "BEAUTY! GET BACK HERE!" and still trying desperately to maintain his masculinity.... Or, my mother, calling the dog in her opera-like, extended soprano, "Beau........tyyyyyyyy!" (The neighbor boys really got a kick out of imitating this; and, to their credit, were actually quite good at it). The boys also liked to put a hand to their face and say, in a love-sick tone, "Ohhhhh.....Beautyyyyyyy!"

It all would've been very funny if it wouldn't have been OUR dog. Perhaps we should have had a bit more parental guidance in the choosing of his name, back in the earlier years. "Beau" might have been a far better choice....or, "Red", due to his color.

It almost seemed that Beauty knew he was a bit of an oddball....he exhibited rather strange behaviors...kind of a weird dog, he was.

I figured that dogs die and we could put the whole Beauty thing behind us, rest his soul. But he didn't. Not for a long time. Oh, no...Beauty stayed around for fifteen years....clear throughout my junior high, high school, and some of my college years. Most of the townspeople knew all about Beauty...he was somewhat legendary. Quite the lover-boy, too, as the stories go. Through the years, every now and then, we'd see a flaming orange-red colored younger dog, and we'd...wonder...

Beauty was followed by Cinnamon, a Maltese-Poodle mix that nervously wet herself if you so much as looked at her, and Snookums...a strange combination of dogdome that no one could quite figure out; and to add to the mystery that was Snookums, was the fact that she....smiled. Just like I'd smile at you, lips thinning, teeth showing, eyes squinching....it was downright eerie...They say that the pets often imitate the masters...and admittedly, our family was a unique lot...it was no wonder that our pets throughout the years have been just as unique.

Years later, after I married and had our first child, TJ, I peeked outside in the yard and saw my son swinging what appeared to be a bread bag around his head, like one would a lasso. Stepping outside, I saw that there was something inside of the bread bag....one of four-year-old TJ's stuffed animals, perhaps. But alas, that was no stuffed animal...it was the black kitten we'd just adopted, named 'Lucky'....bet he wasn't feeling so lucky at that precise moment. Of course I put a stop to it, and the feline wobbled away, out of TJ's evil grasp.

I shook my head to myself....we'd gotten the wrong name for our pet, once again....

Don't Mess With A Woman

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat proud of myself for producing two sons right off the bat.

Sons for a husband's family that had mostly daughters. The ExMan was the youngest of five, and the only son, and yes, he got spoiled. ExMan was the only son of an only son, who was the son of an only son. A huge deal was made over him being the last of his line.

My father's first marriage had produced two daughters; his second marriage had produced five. No sons in sight. True to both Murphy's law and life, his younger brother got himself three sons right off the bat.

Living for years with a multitude of sisters wasn't always a great time; they stole clothes, hogged the mirror, and were overly dramatic. By the time I moved out of the house, I was ready for the break.

I liked having sons; they made nifty mouth noises and weren't high maintenance. If they were mad, instead of holding a grudge, they'd just bash each other over the head with something and be done with it. Quite frankly, I admired that. Let 'em know how you feel about 'em and move on.

But the time came when I began to wish for a little more estrogen in the household; my overdose from living back at the original family home had worn off. It was time; and I wished for a daughter in the worst way.

One day while I was standing at the sink doing dishes, I felt the strongest impression that I would have a daughter.

Nine months later almost to that day, I was giving birth to a child that had no use for 'waiting'. She shot into this world so fast, it took two doctors to deliver her (the one didn't get out of bed when he should have, and came running around the corner at top speed at the last moment, hair flying out from under the surgery cap and bug-eyed; I would have laughed out loud, if only I'd not been giving birth.)

---She even cried like a girl! Everything about this child was so feminine, so girly. I was back in my element again. Right ON.

Her father insisted that she was 'just like me.' Other than the fact that she was a female, I didn't see a resemblance. All features belonged to his side of the family. As I curled her hair and accessorized her to no end, he claimed that she was becoming more and more like me, and did so with a growing tone of disdain, insisting that she was developing my attitude. I thought, Hmmm.

I credited his comments to his history and left it at that.

ExMan began to point out what he thought were Sneaky Things about our daughter. It was true that when I told the kids to clean their rooms, the boys would moan and groan and eventually get the job done, while Sis would smile sweetly up at me with her round face and blue eyes, framed by her blonde locks and say, "Okay, Mommy! Anything to make you happy, Mommy!" Then she'd promptly go and stuff everything into her closets and under her bed.

As the ExMan pointed more and more things out, I became more and more defensive over this one and only daughter of mine. We sometimes argued about who knew her better; I felt that as her mother, that person was me.

One evening, as we were getting ready to lie down in our bed, the ExMan got a tiny shock. Lying on his pillow, practically smiling up at him, was a soaking wet washcloth. My words were feigning sympathy as I turned my head to laugh. What fresh evil was this?

I was sure there was a good explanation.

ExMan blamed Sis. I bawked at him. What looked like paranoia was now getting out of hand. To blame a little five year old for something so---well, weird---was strange in itself. When questioned, Sis very sweetly said that she loved her daddy, and asked why she would ever do such a thing. Exactly what I thought, too. Innocent.

For years afterwards ExMan would not let the 'Washcloth Incident' die. The story was brought up repeatedly through clenched jaws and pointed finger with the phrase, "You KNOW she's got it in her. She's your little apprentice, after all." I thought that was unkind. I knew my daughter, and from the bottom of my heart, I knew that she was capable of no such deed.

Time went by and many things changed. Eventually I took our children and moved out of the house. A divorce ensued.

We felt snug in our new little haven; no yelling, no discord; no more waiting for the other shoe to drop. We began to relax. Since all of the children had the need to debrief, we had some long talks about what had transpired over the period that we'd lived at the other house.

One day while talking to Sis,I said, "Remember that time you got accused of leaving a sopping wet washcloth on a pillow? That was the craziest thing I'd ever heard of!"

Sis was regarding me differently all of a sudden, wearing a curiously twisted-up face.

"I did it," she said. "It was me."

My mouth must have formed a perfect "O".

"...I remember I was five and he told me 'no' to something I thought he should have said 'yes' to, and he made me mad and so I put that soaking wet washcloth right there on his pillow."

I was stunned into silence. "W-What?" I croaked out. "I DEFENDED you all of this time, and you'd actually DONE that?"

"Yeah," Sis said quietly, putting her head down in what looked like shame.

"What on EARTH would possess you to DO something like that? How evil does a kid even have to BE to come up with something so---well, WEIRD---!?"

She kept her head down and we had a moment of silence as I allowed her some time to think about what she had done.

Then I started to laugh.
Like a madwoman.

"....GOOD JOB!"

Sis's head snapped up, and she appeared to be stunned.
Then we high-fived.



I was back with my kind, all right.
Bring on the estrogen, baby.

I just love having a daughter.

*Used as an article at http://igotmompower.com/

What's the Magic Word?

I'll admit it, I'm a swearer.
Swearing and I go way back.

My first 'profane' experience was at Evette's house. I'd been amazed to have obtained permission to stay overnight, since she lived in the projects and her mother wasn't married, regularly what would have been two strikes against the idea in my parental units' eyes. I later discovered her mother had begun attending our church, and that the folks hadn't wanted to offend her. They were okay with sacrificing me in order to see another worshiper on the pew.

Evette's 9-year-old brother Timmy knew all the words, yet they were new to me. She would just laugh at me and tell me I'd learn 'later'. So besides having a fun sleepover and wishing that my mother would let me have a poster of Shawn Cassidy in my room, like Evette's mom did, I also came back home with some newfound wisdom. I just didn't know exactly how to apply it.

A week later we were at the playground after-hours with some friends. Some neighbor kids encroached on our swingset, uninvited, and it created a conflict. The discussion became increasingly more abusive and one of my friends, Lori, began to use some bad words. This was the break I'd been waiting for. As the exchange escalated, I took a deep breath and blurted out, "You're a @#$%!"

It was as if time had stopped. Lori turned to me, somewhat admiringly, and said, "Amy" (The tone you'd use if someone did something kinda evil, but really amusing...) and Kimmie, the ringleader of the Others, said, "Ohohoh.....I'm gonna TELL!!!"

She and the Others ran off, leaving the four of us sitting there. Lori and her sister Lisa were saying, "Way to go, Amy! I didn't even know you knew how to talk like that!" and laughing... but Lauren was silent for some reason. Maybe she was just jealous; she'd always been competitive. Obviously what I'd said was an impressive enough word to make heads turn. Never before had I uttered a word that had such an impact. I loved the feeling of power associated with this 'magic' word. And you could be certain... I would be using it again in the near future. I wondered why everyone didn't know about this word, and why people didn't use it more often. I mentally patted myself on the back and we all went home to dinner.

Mother was still in the kitchen cooking dinner when the phone rang. I was upstairs in the attic room, reading, my favorite thing to do. It was so peaceful up there...

"AMY!" My mother screamed, "GET DOWN HERE, IMMEDIATELY!"

What ensued was like a scene right out of the Christmas Story Movie, if you've ever seen it. My mother kept closing her eyes, and shaking her head a little, trying, no doubt to make whatever it was she wanted to say to me...just... go away. I initially had no clue what on earth she was angry about, until I heard her say she'd just been on the phone with Mrs. Besnitt....Uh HUH! Kimmie's mom! She told, (what a brat)...so I steeled myself for a lecture on how to be kind to our neighbors...even when they're not kind to us. Instead, Mother kept closing her eyes, and rubbing her temples, as though she had a migraine. She then began to play somewhat of a word game with me...."Sounds like....." and she'd rhyme something that did not make ANY sense.... and in between clues, she'd shake her head vigorously, with her hands waving madly around her ears, as if to shoo away something bad, like a bee that wanted to sting her.... okay (deep breath)....next clue.... some bird that swims in the pond.....has feathers and goes 'quack'...."Starts with....." has four letters.....

"Oh, yeah, you mean @#$%!" I said, proudly. For once I knew the answer!...Most of the time I didn't understand Mother at all and the way she talked.... Instantly her eyes bugged out behind her glasses and her face turned the color of a ripe tomato. Five seconds later I was sucking soap. I wasn't exactly sure why, but it was slowly dawning on me that Evette's brother Timmy was very, very naughty. And those 'magic' words....not so magic after all.

The interesting part was that my mother did not believe that I had used that word unknowingly; she believed that I had a secret vocabulary for my 'private life' (and we all know that ten-year-olds have quite a life behind closed doors) that had, of course, shown through on that fateful playground day, as those things often will. I could not convince her that I had not one clue what they even meant.... because Evette wouldn't tell me, the skunk! If she'd only given me a definition, I could have avoided the Zest bar. We weren't friends anymore, I decided. She and her swearing brother could take a hike. I had the runs for days, thanks to them.

Once we moved to the small Western town that was 99.9% Christian, we heard very little swearing. But the funny thing is, where there's a will, there's a way...and leave it to kids to find the way. Lillian reported to me that her friends at school would often say "Teton Dam -it!", or "Shift!" And most of the kids would say "Gol!" as in short for 'Gol-ly!'....which I thought was dumb. Other popular phrases were "Dang it!" and "Oh my heck!", accompanied by lots of 'crap' and 'crud'. "Shoot!" was another one....but when we used it my mother freaked out, claiming we were making a reference to feces. We were not; she just needed to get her hearing checked more frequently. Not being allowed to say 'Shut Up' to each other was a handicap, as well....we began to just say, "Shut....!" and that made Mother go bullistic.

When we were a little older, we'd let the occasional profane word fly, right there inside the sacred walls of our home, just to test it out, see if we could get away with it. It was always downstairs, out of earshot of the parental units. If a sibling made you mad, you could make a suggestion on where they could go. If what they were wearing looked tacky, you could tell them that it looked just like where they could go, etc. If one of them asked you where their favorite sweater was, and what did you do with it you little creep, you could again reference where they could go, followed by an 'I don't know.' You get the idea. These words were very versatile, to be sure.

For the first ten years of their lives, my children never heard me utter one foul word. I had finally at long last,mastered my tongue. I was becoming quite the domestic, and a Church lady at that, and I figured it was time to be more mellow. But having a spouse that was a stinker, the construction of two houses, and a divorce later found me to be of a different mindset....something to the tune of 'if it helps, say it!'

I actually read an article the other day that praised the benefits of swearing...how it decreases blood pressure and stress....added bonuses, all. I just knew it felt good...now I know why. Now there is scientific proof.

I have never heard my children say a curse word. If reverse psychology is a true theory; here is living proof. They've all gone the other way. But that doesn't stop them in assisting me in my creative expletives....at which they are half-exasperated, half-mildly amused. My daughter told me a couple of days ago that I could stop saying, "I'm sorry" whenever I'd let one fly....that she was now used to it; no need for apologies. I wasn't sure if I should be feeling terrible about it, or grateful to have reached somewhat of a milestone in our relationship....They've even been rather supportive of my habit...enablers, if you will... One of the boys has mentioned that the word 'damaged' sounds exactly like something else, and if said in a fit of anger, it might work just as well....! Clever fellow!

Recently my daughter asked me if I was ever going to stop swearing, to which of course I replied "(very warm location)! I don't know....Teton Dam-it, someday... I just might!"