A Story From Christmas Past

Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you were with loved ones enjoying the magic of the season! I know I was exactly where I wanted to be - in my home (the kitchen, mostly) with my wonderful husband and sweet girls and my parents. We have so many blessings to celebrate and thoroughly enjoyed the day.

As you age, you begin to realize that giving truly is better than receiving. Particularly when people give you things you don't like. Kidding, of course. But the old adage it is better to give than to receive really does hold true. This year, everyone seemed happy with the things I had gotten for them. The girls excitedly riped through the wrapping paper and were overjoyed by the treasures inside. My mom was very excited about the John Prine tickets I got for her in addition to a DVD and a decorative piece for their house. Dad seemed happy with his gifts from me, although to him the best gift is being with his family on Christmas.

There were no disasters when it came to what I had gotten for Mike this year which is always a welcome change when I think back to The Year Of The Teapot. I cannot remember what year it was, but I'm thinking it was Christmas of 2007. Mike and I were home for Christmas with our girls and my brother and his (now former) wife and daughter were in town as well. As usual, there was no shortage of sarcasm in the room the entire day. At one point we began saying that what we would really prefer to the gifts we had been given would be the cash equivalent so we could go out and get what we really wanted. Each eagerly-awaited package would be opened and then a shout of "CASH!" would follow indicating that it was a nice effort, but that we'd still prefer the cash used to purchase it. All of this was in good fun of course, as it always is. Until...

Mike was opening his final gift from me. I had gotten him a teapot from Williams Sonoma because he and I had both recently begun drinking tea at night. He had mentioned an interest in having one, so I got him a nice one from a nice store. Although it wasn't terribly creative or expensive, I still thought that it was a thoughtful gift and thus would be well-received.

So Mike was unwrapping it and began to see the box as the paper was ripped away.

"Oh, yeah, a tea pot", he said sarcastically, thinking (or perhaps hoping)that this box was a decoy and his real gift would be something quite different.

"No, Mike, it really is a teapot", I said gently, hoping that he would not get his hopes up that there was something better inside the box.

"Right, Maggie. Sure. It's a teapot.", he went on to say. Now he was trying to break the tape at either end of the box so he could reach in a pull out his real gift.

"Mike, I'm serious. It is a teapot. Listen to me." I said emphatically. Now I was beginning to have tears stream down my face. For one thing, I cry over everything, so of course this would happen during all of this. But another thing was that this was happening in front of my parents. In front of my brother. When Mike discovered that this gift really was a teapot he was going to feel SO bad for making fun of it. I wanted so badly for him to quickly remove both feet from his mouth and close it before he tried to insert them again.

"Maggie, I know it's not a teapot", he said with almost a tone of irritation. I mean, WHO would give their husband a teapot for Christmas? The very thought of it is ridiculous! It was as though he wanted me to drop my act and just admit that the teapot box was hiding something wonderful inside.

Sadly, it was not. This banter went on for what seemed like 17 days. I was crying and then laughing because I couldn't stop crying. He got a look of confusion on his face; not knowing exactly what was happening and whether or not this was all some kind of joke.

He reached into the box, saw that it was a beautiful, stainless steel teapot and immediately said, "Well, I love it. It's really nice. I mean, we DO drink a lot of tea. It's a very thoughtful gift. I just wasn't expecting..."

He understood now why I was crying. The realization was hitting him and it was not lost on him that he and I are not the only ones in the room. He thought he'd hurt my feelings (which, he sort of had). But truly I just felt so bad for him because in the moments leading up to this, he was basically indicating that no person in his or her right mind would ever give this as a gift. Not that he had anything against teapots (he and I both do, now). I guess it was just something that a (straight) man in his early thirties wouldn't really get too jazzed about. Who could blame him?

I was able to dry my tears and pull myself together, of course. We went on to have a scrumptious meal as we do every Christmas and still enjoyed a sarcasm-filled afternoon. As a result of this little blunder though, my brother nicknamed Mike "Teapot", but it didn't really stick. Mike has gone on to be overly appreciative of any gift I gift him which was a nice side benefit of having to live through this experience.

The moral of this story is to never make fun of a gift until you are absolutely certain that what you are making fun of is not what you are opening. Also, that it is better to give than to receive. Oh yeah, and stainless steel teapots are very handy for hitting someone over the head.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

UPDATE - Socks, Highwaters and Owls, Oh My!

Just an exciting update to share with my (two) readers:

This past weekend, I met my sister (well, we had met before...) in Atlanta for a day of shopping and a night of food and beverages with friends. Mary, being one of my faithful blog followers, had read my post about my hideous fashion taste and decided to intervene. Of course, she was already aware of my lack of taste since we see each other several times a year, but I guess when she read it and knew that others probably were making fun of me, she decided now was the time to offer her counsel. Normally when we take this trip, it is to finish up any last-minute Christmas shopping. But this year she was on a mission. She was going to help me find and buy some decent looking, non-"mom" jeans. And guess what - she was successful!!

First we had lunch at Houston's (sssssslurp!) With a friend of mine from college. We had a great time despite the fact that I am not a friend mixer. You will never be invited to my house and be introduced to someone you do not know. I HATE being the common person that links a bunch of people who don't know each other. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. I almost passed out at my own wedding reception because I had people from every corner of my life {family, high school, college, work, all of my former lovers (as if!)} in one room together. Ugh! At any rate, Alisha is a college friend and had actually met my sister before when they both served as bridesmaids at my wedding. She is a pretty easy person to know, so I was able to relax and enjoy my meal. She also treated us to a glass of champagne to get our little shopping spree off on the right foot.

Somehow my bill for the lunch was $85.00. I'm still unsure as to how that happened, but apparently the champagne worked because I didn't seem to care much. I just paid it, hugged Alisha, and off Mary and I went. We went to Lenox and I was immediately reminded of why I hate Atlanta. There are ENTIRELY too many people in the city of Atlanta - and most of them were in Lenox Mall that day. We first went to Macy's to find some jeans. Of course, Macy's in as big as the entire mall in Chattanooga so finding the perfect pair of jeans for my misshapen legs was not going to be easy. Our first order of business, however, was to find the restroom.

Because it had been so long since either of us was in this mall, we weren't sure where the restrooms were. So, we followed the signs whose arrows were purportedly pointing us toward the facilities. We were following one sign when I looked up and saw another sign showing the restrooms were in the opposite direction. Frustrated, we shrugged it off and assumed we had just gotten mixed-up somehow. After a few minutes of walking in this new direction, we realized we had ended up in the exact same spot we had just been in. No restrooms. We were growing more frustrated and our bladders more full with every step we took in the wrong direction. Then we saw another sign that we started to follow claiming that the restrooms were in yet another direction. Long story short, about an hour later, our bladders were empty. I hate Atlanta.

Anyway, we found the section with the jeans and I have to say I hated everything I saw. The wash was so dark that it looked absolutely ridiculous. The jeans looked like Wrangler jeans that people wore back in my horse-riding days. I feared I would look like a cowgirl if I purchased them. But, my sister loving told me to shut up and let her handle it. She gathered what had to be 27 pairs of jeans and we trotted to the nearest fitting room. With skepticism, I tried on the first pair. I tried as hard as I could to pull them up to my belly button but 1. they were too tight; and 2. they were not designed to go up to my belly button**.

"These are WAY too tight", I told my sister. Her response? "Those look GREAT on you!". What?! They aren't roomy! They're touching the floor! I can still see my belly button! I look ridiculous! But no, she advised, this was how they were supposed to fit. This was how they were supposed to look. You have got to be kidding me! These jeans fit so snugly that every time I pulled them off, they clung to my granny panties and took them down with them. I made sure to position myself each time I slid a pair off so that my sister caught a nice glimpse of my "assets". She had been making fun of my taste and fashion sense this entire time, so I retaliated by giving her a nice shot of my cottage-cheese-resembling hiney. That'll show her... Of course, she then became concerned by the size and length of my underwear and, perhaps, has now formed a new mission - to get me out of granny panties and into, gulp, thongs!!! Eeek!

I tried on a few more pairs and honestly did begin to see that my grotesquely-shaped rear end and thighs did kind of look better in these jeans. What's more - I actually began to look taller. She informed me that our next stop would be to find a fun pair of boots that I could wear with these jeans. I had never considered using the word "fun" to describe clothing or footwear. I had never gotten past referring to clothes as "comfortable" or "roomy". Apparently, comfort has no place in clothes that you wear out of the house. Who would have thought it?

We did find some boots and even some new casual shoes to replace the clogs I have been wearing for... I'm going to say eight years now (but it's really probably closer to 10). I have to say that I really do like my new purchases. I have been proudly wearing all of it ever since I returned. I must admit, I was a little disappointed that no one commented on how cute my jeans were at a party I went to this week. However, it has occurred to me since then that no one would comment on it because it's not like I'm setting any new trends. I have just finally caught up with the one that is currently out there. Why would anyone comment on a person looking normal?!

My trip to Atlanta was a success not only because of my new clothes but also because I had a great time with Mary and the friends we were able to see while we were there. Plus, I was inadvertently groped as I tried to make my way through the massive crowd in Lenox mall - so there's that. I only got lost twice trying to make my way around the city (I hate Atlanta) and I managed to squeeze in getting a couple of gifts for others on my list. I am thankful for my sister for intervening on my behalf and helping to bring me out of my fashion rut. Never fear - I'm not totally out of it. You, too, can help in the area of shirts, scarves, jackets, underwear, my hair, bathing suits, skirts, pumps, make-up, running clothes, party clothes, pajamas, jewelry, purses, bras that actually match my underwear, home decor, etc., etc. All help is welcomed and certainly appreciated.


**The jeans that are designed to go up to a person's belly button can be found at your nearest Sears.

Peace Be With You

Did you know that doves symbolize peace? Of course you did - that's why people release them at weddings and funerals. We had an encounter with one a few weeks ago that I have been told is blog-worthy, so I am now sharing our story.

We were on our way back from a Japanese Steakhouse (see Fortune Cookie) and pulled into the driveway when I noticed a big, white bird perched at the top of our front door. My first thought was that it looked out of place - we never see birds like this flying around the neighborhood. This had to be someone's pet. My second thought was that it kind of looked from that angle like the barn owl at the Chattanooga Zoo which is obviously a very crappy zoo if the most exotic animal they have there is a barn owl...

Once we had parked in the garage and hustled the kids into the house, I went out on the front porch to take a closer look at our little visitor. I was careful to be very quiet and slow so as not to spook him away from our stoop. Being that this was a few days before Thanksgiving, I was feeling especially sentimental and decided I need to help this bird out. It had flown to me for a reason, dammit, and I would not let it down. All the while, Mike was making comments about how it would make a lovely addition to our Thanksgiving feast. Feeling undeterred, I went inside and called a neighbor to see if she knew who might be missing their pet.

My neighbor was unaware of any neighbors who had a pet bird, but she did suggest sending out an email to all members of the neighborhood Ladies' Association in case someone was aware of an anxious family searching frantically for their bird. I even took some photos (in case there were multiple families with missing birds) so that someone might possibly recognize our little friend and help us get him safely home. All the while, Mike was wondering aloud why we didn't won a BB Gun and wondering who we could call at this hour who would have one. I paid him no attention. Fate had brought this bird to me. It was now my mission to get him back to his warm, safe home. After all, I'd want someone to extend the same courtesy to our dog Dudley if he was ever lost, right? So I viewed this as me simply paying it forward. I called animal control (trying to find someone who could provide food and shelter for the night) as well as the local Nature Center to see if it was their bird who had gone missing. Since it was after hours, I wasn't able to get anywhere with either agency, so the bird was going to have to sleep outside in the cold. Can you imagine? A bird having to sleep outside exposed to the elements!

That night and the next day, I received several calls and emails as well as several Facebook comments about this little guy but sadly, no owner stepped forward. I know nothing about birds (after all, I thought that the bird needed to get home because it wasn't safe for him to be outdoors). At first, I thought it was a cockatiel and was actually telling people that's what it was. Imagine my embarrassment when I was told that cockatiels are native to Australia and are actually parrots. I know what a parrot looks like, and this wasn't a parrot. I also had never heard the bird say anything like "g'day, mate", so I didn't think he was Australian. I had one neighbor who said that it looked like an albino pigeon. A pigeon? I'm doing all of this for a pigeon?! Who's the pigeon now?

The same neighbor who told me this was a pigeon also called him a dove. I didn't realize that a dove is a pigeon, but saying I was doing this for a beautiful, white dove sounded a lot more benevolent than going to these lengths for a stupid, dirty pigeon. This neighbor also happened to have a bird cage and told me that if we could catch it, he and his wife would take it to the local nature center for us. At this point, it had been 24 hours and the bird hadn't budged, which means - you guessed it - bird droppings all over the door and porch. All the while, Mike is threatening to shoo it away, but I again guilted him into inaction by reminding him we'd want someone else to take care of our Dudley.

Begrudgingly, Mike decided to appease me and try and catch the bird and hand him off to our neighbors with the cage. It just so happened that he had been at a meeting the second night we had our dove as a guest and at that meeting was a representative from Animal Control. He mentioned to her that we had someone's pet cockatiel perched at out front door and she volunteered to help us corral it. Imagine her disgust when she arrived at our house and saw not an Australian bird throwing shrimp on the barbie but a stupid, lost pigeon. She good-naturedly tried to help Mike catch it, but it spread it's beautiful, white wings and flew to a higher point on our roof - safely away from the door and from any human interaction, but also perfectly positioned to still be able to effectively defecate on our front stairs.

So, this was night two with the dove, it was going to be colder outside this night than the previous night, and now he was way too high for us to catch. I worried about my little friend. Worried that he would fly away and end up somewhere where no one would care about him. Worried that he was used to being indoors and would get cold in the night. Worried that he missed his owner or that his owner missed him. I filled a box with some towels and lay it on the front porch in case he needed warmth during the night. (Mike later explained that birds don't sleep on the ground, but complimented me on my valiant efforts anyway.) I wondered about his little birdie life. Where had he come from before he was placed in my charge? Who had he been? Was he released at someone's wedding? Was he a pet in a old lady's house where he sang to her while she knitted all day? Was he a carrier pigeon who had gotten lost on his way to deliver the Salahi's their invitation to the White House State Dinner? Where did he belong? And, would I be able to get him there?

On the third day, I awoke and did not see him right away. He was not at his new perch on the roof and had not come back to the front door. Later in the day, however, he returned to the front door and back where we had a chance at catching him. I have a neighbor who offered to come over with a fishing net to try and catch him for us. Unfortunately, Mike thought he had a better idea. Mike, who had had enough of all of this at this point, simply got Dudley's crate, got on a step ladder and climbed up until he was eyeball to teeny, tiny eyeball with the dove. He opened the crate and - best I can tell - expected the bird to simply get up, accept his fate, and waltz into the crate. Instead, the dove spread his beautiful, white wings again and moved to another point on the roof. By now Mike was furious with the bird and I was furious with Mike. If he had just waited for our neighbor, this could have all been over.

Day Four - Bird back at the door. Poop everywhere. Mike losing patience. Marriage crumbling due to the fact that I was neglecting Mike's wishes and still trying to save this God-forsaken fowl. But this time, Mike acquiesced and agreed to have our neighbor come over with his net and catch the bird. Which he did, in one fell swoop. He then transported the bird from his net to the cage and off he went. So the bird was saved! Drama over! But questions remained. Who was he? And how did he get here?

Well, he was identified as a White Homing Pigeon named Clarence (okay, his name wasn't Clarence, but I kinda felt like he needed a name for the purpose of this story). He had a tag on his leg that showed him as having originated in Beaver Falls, PA. My neighbor contacted the breeder in Beaver Falls and was given the name of the owner in Riceville, TN. The owner indicated that the he was being trained to be released at weddings and funerals and had become lost and disoriented on his first training flight when a hawk scared him. The bird was less than a year old and had been missing for about a month. He was very appreciative of us and of our neighbors' efforts in bringing him safely home.

So, there you have it. A Thanksgiving and perhaps even a Christmas miracle. I found a bird of peace and was able to bring about a peaceful resolution to his plight. I was given a duty and I accomplished it to the best of my ability. I still will glance out my front door to see if he's back and I get a little tear in the corner of my eye when I catch the sight of some of his droppings that remain on our porch. I think about Clarence, and I hope he's doing well. I am now ready to accept the next Christmas miracle that comes my way - only this time, I hope it's in the form of an Ann Taylor gift certificate.

Socks, Highwaters, and Owls, Oh My!

I was actually excited when I turned 30 a few (okay, six) years ago. For one thing, I like myself and my life better and better with each passing year. I know myself better, too. But the main reason was that 30 seemed sooooo OLD when I was growing up. If someone was in their 30's they were ancient and out of touch. I'm not exactly ancient yet I don't think. But out of touch? Absolutely! I always have been. So turning 30 now makes it allowable, even acceptable, to be lame.

Needless to say, this is good news for someone who has been lame for a very long time. Nowhere is my lameness more evident than in my closet. I've never dressed well. I look back in horror at old pictures of me in high school. I should have known better; of course I should have. But I didn't. And if you've ever met my mother, you know I didn't have much help in the fashion department. My sister had better taste, but she was kind of a nerd until college, so again... no help. And yes, looking back I'm horrified, but I don't really know how to change all of the wrong fashion choices I made. Would I do things differently today? I guess. But what exactly I don't know. So when I turned 30 I figured I could continue dressing badly just as I always had, but now it would somehow look better because it would be more socially acceptable for a person in her 30's to be wearing that shirt, or those shoes. Or have, gulp, that hair!

To this day, I don't really know when it's okay to wear socks with dress shoes. In the spring and summer I think I'm in pretty good shape with my assortment of sandals. But since I have to dress up (somewhat - business casual) for work, I can't wear the clogs I normally wear in the fall and winter. I have to wear close-toed shoes in the cooler months. Is it okay to wear socks with them? I've noticed several of my younger coworkers don't wear them. But then, they wear tall heels with really pointy toes. That looks really painful, so I wear something with a low heel and comfortable sole. This translates into - an ugly shoe. Would socks make them more or less attractive? I just don't know.

There are a lot of times at work when I'm in the restroom where the full-length mirrors are and I notice that my pants come down to around my ankles. I have never viewed this as a problem, but my younger, cuter coworkers never have any ankle showing. Their pants are practically all the way to the floor! I'd trip over my pant legs if I did that! And anyway, the more weight I gain, the higher my pants seem to rise. So for these reasons, I sometimes wear high-waters. A bold fashion move or just a bad look for a thirtysomething has-been? Wait, don't answer that.

I can also tell you - and I'm not bragging here - that I am wearing several sweaters and shirts that I have been wearing for at least seven or eight years now. I'm pretty sure the styles have changed since they were purchased, but I will not be rushed into buying new clothes. Many items no longer really flatter me due to the fact that I'm at least 10 pounds heavier than I was when I bought them. So, I have to stretch them from here to Ohio just to make them fit. But I will not be defeated! I will continue to wear them until they disintegrate, are lost at the dry cleaners, or someone stages a fashion intervention and saves me from myself.

Really, it's not my intention to dress badly. It's just that I have no flair at all for fashion. I truly don't know what works together and what doesn't so I am at a horrible disadvantage. I used to feel some level of guilt about dressing so badly and having such lame taste. But I embrace it now because I'm in my mid 30's. I can proudly wear "mom jeans" and comfortable shoes because I don't have to be attractive anymore. Not that I ever was - but now there's no guilt involved. It's really quite freeing. You should try it. In fact, please do. Then maybe I won't be the only hideous person out there...

Of course I'm thinking of all of this because I was folding my kids' clothes tonight and I came across a couple of shirts with owls on them. What's the rule on owls? Are they strictly a Fall option? I see little girls wearing bunnies year-round and not only at Easter. Are owls allowed the same consideration? Ugh, I just don't know. (or maybe I don't give a "hoot" a-hahahahaha!) This is really hard. I could be shaping my girls' lameness by allowing them to wear something that it completely passe. Someone please help me or, better yet, help them. I'm already a lost cause. But they are young and still capable of being molded into snazzy dressers. Oh gosh! No one even says "snazzy dressers" anymore do they??!! I'm sure "lame" isn't even a cool enough word to describe something lame anymore. I'm probably too lame to know the new word for lame.

Well, please give me some guidance on the socks and the owls. That will at least get me started. And please don't hold my horrendous taste against my sweet children. They are innocent in all of this. I welcome your fashion advice but would appreciate it if you would be gentle with your critiques. I may look lame but underneath the ill-fitting shirts and short pants, I do care.

Fortune Cookie

I am the only person I know who has had not one but two fortune cookies that were empty on the inside. No fortune. No future? Well, this happened in college, so obviously I have had some kind of a future. But really, how sad is that? Sometimes you open a fortune cookie and you get some proverb that really doesn’t say or mean anything and it’s a total disappointment. (example: "Enough is as good as a feast".) How does this fortune motivate me to live a better life or be a better person? The answer is that it does not. But no fortune at all? What does that mean I should do? Just give up and go home to bed? Actually, it doesn't take much to make me go to bed. Now I have a good excuse!

Sunday night, Mike and I took the girls to Shogun for dinner. We hadn’t been to a Japanese Steakhouse in a while and I thought (mistakenly as it turns out) that the girls would get a kick out of it. So, at the end of the meal, Mike and I were sufficiently stuffed and the girls had hit their time limit on behaving in a public place. The wait staff was passing around fortune cookies which seemed to delight the girls. That is, until they actually tasted the "cookies" and realized that they were not cookies at all but rather flavorless, stale pieces of bread. At any rate, Meg being too young to understand why there was a piece of paper inside her cookie, promptly discarded her fortune onto the floor. Kate, however, was interested and wanted to know what her little slip of paper had to say. I read it to her: A lucky surprise is coming to you in the mail. She got excited thinking that she was about to get some sort of gift, so I tried to distract her by telling her that it was Santa who would be bringing this treasure and she’d have to wait a few more weeks AND would have to be good (since he’s watching and all).

Kate, while very timid and shy with new people or in crowds, is actually a playful little girl. After I read her the fortune tucked inside her cookie, she took it from me and began pretending (or “buhtend” as she says it) to read her fortune. She told me it said, “I Love My Mommy.” She smiled sweetly as she said this. It made my heart melt (well, that and the heat from the still-simmering cook top before us). I then began to envision how this fortune would change in her mind as the years passed. Fast forward 5 years and she’ll say her fortune reads, “I hate my mom”. Fast forward another 5 years and it’ll be, “My mom doesn’t understand me at all.” Fast forward maybe three years and it’ll be tempered somewhat to, “My mom is a total embarrassment” or “Why can’t my mom dress like the other, more attractive mothers?”. Hopefully a few years after that it will be something like, “My mom did the best she knew how to do.” I guess I'll know I've done a good job with her if down the road it reads, “My mom loved me no matter what.”

As things happen to me now, I try to think of a way I can write about it, making it deep and profound for the readers of my blog. I was sitting there in that restaurant, brushing Kate’s bangs to the side of her face with my gentle and loving fingers, looking deep into her eyes – lost in thought as I pondered these future fortunes (again, painting a picture of a profoundly reflective moment in my parenting for the purpose of this story…). I was suddenly bolted back to reality when I realized she was now saying that her fortune said, “Poo Poo Bottom”. So much for my blog-worthy, beautifully crafted moment with my adorable and loving child.

At any rate, my fortune for the evening was something lame like, "Doors will be opening for you" and it was actually a lady at our table who was the recipient of the cookie with no fortune at all. (I still have her beat, though. I had two in one sitting!) When I got home, I found that Kate’s fictitious fortune was correct. Her sister had a dirty diaper (the aforementioned “poo-poo bottom”) that I was lucky enough to get to clean.

The point of this story? There's not one, of course. Much like all of my other posts. Just my wish for you the next time you open a fortune cookie; a quote from Marcus Aurelius, "Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking".

Hope you had much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving!

I giggle every time Kate refers to her girly part as a "Ba-gina", therefore, I am too immature to be a parent.

Yes, it's true. Not only have I told Kate that that particular body part is called a vagina (there's just really not a good word for it, is there?), I also giggle when she mispronounces the word. What are some other things that prove I am a sub par parent? Sadly, it won't take long for me to think of examples...

For one thing, I am a voice-raiser. I am conscious of it when it is happening, and yet I allow it to happen. How else am I going to get the girls' attention, though? Really?! Perhaps they are misbehaving because they didn't hear my initial requests for them to stop whatever it is they are doing. So, I raise my voice to make my point and they end up winning whatever issue it was because I am now reduced to a 2 year old or 4 year old level.

I also use bribery in order to accomplish what I need them to accomplish. I said I'd never do it, but here we are. I have watched other parents beg and plead with their child(ren) to get them to cooperate and then ultimately give them some kind of goodie in exchange for their cooperation. Who is the parent here? I would wonder to myself. I wonder the same thing when I promise gummy bears if they will smile for a family photo. What I should do is allow them to act like the little monsters they can be so that later I can point out to them how they ruined every Kodak moment when they were kids. Which brings me to my next struggle:

Sarcasm. If there's one thing kids "get", it's sarcasm. (That, incidentally, was sarcasm.) I use sarcasm all the time with my kids. I am very calm and sweet with them as I chastise them with my words. And I do it with a smile on my face. The day they learn to do this back to me will not be a good day. When I use sarcasm with them, I am teaching them to use it with others. I happen to love sarcasm and think it is hilarious. However, it is an adult way to communicate; not for young little minds who want nothing more than to please their parents. Like I need to tell you what sarcasm is (again, that's sarcasm).

But the good news is, I do have a lot of positive things I want to bestow upon my children. I figure that because I have some good, valuable lessons I want to teach them that even with all of the yelling, bribery and sarcasm, they still have a shot of turning out okay. Plus, their father is a wonderful person. Hopefully his influence will outweigh mine. Here is a sampling of what I hope to teach my girls as they age through my words and more importantly, my actions:

1. Value each other and love having a sister. I have loved having mine.
2. Value family. Invest time with your family as you grow and even as your peer group changes over the years.
3. Seek out a husband who is a loving as your father. Don’t ever settle for less than that. It is better to be on your own than with someone who is less than wonderful to you.
4. Value your mind and body. Demand that other people value and respect it as well.
5. Appreciate what you have. Don’t focus on what you don’t have. (Happiness is wanting what you get.)
6. Don’t get married right out of college. Spend some time on your own developing your own identity.
7. Be nice to everyone. Treat everyone with respect and dignity. It’s better to be known as a nice person than to be labeled as “popular”.
8. Be comfortable doing your own thing. This requires comfort in your own skin.
9. Love the name you were given. It was special to your parents and it should be to you.
10. Surround yourself with people of quality. Recognize that quality comes in all shapes and sizes and from all types of backgrounds.
11. Read to develop your knowledge and interests.
12. Have hobbies.
13. Never let a boy/man come between a good friendship. Better to lose the man.
14. Care what adults think of you. Carry yourself with strong character, class and impeccable poise.
15. Don’t ever take up smoking. Not all people who smoke are trashy, but all trashy people smoke.
16. Insist on a sober driver, or be it yourself. Your life and the lives of your friends depend on it.
17. Never be out of control of yourself. If you are vulnerable to others, they may take advantage.
18. Never let your sister or your friend be out of control of herself and vulnerable to others. (My kids will know who Natalee Holloway was.)
19. Be a good listener. (Most importantly, listen to me!)
20. Whatever you do, do a good job. Yours should be tough shoes to fill.
21. Tell someone if you are unhappy. You don’t have to live in a cloud. There are things that can help.
22. Don’t let fear hold you back; but practice caution.
23. Problems do not go away by failing to acknowledge they exist.
24. Know that behind every lecture your father or I might subject you to, is love.
25. Despite mistakes your father and I make along the way, you are loved and our intentions were always pure.

I'm sure there are more, but that's a start. Parenting is the most important thing I have ever done in my life and it is the one I approach with the least amount of knowledge. We make this up as we go along, don't we? If we invest our time, energy and love into it, though, our kids will realize (through lots and lots of therapy probably) that we did the best we could do.

If I still have readers out there, tell me some of the things you want to teach your kids and I'll add them to my own list (if they're good). I had to end with some sarcasm...

Um... YUM!

I made these tonight and they are de-lish. I promise to have something witty and poignant for the next post. I figure, though, that every once in a while I'll post a tasty recipe and maybe if I do it often enough, Meryl Streep and Amy Adams will make a movie about me. So, here's the first:

S'Mores Cookie Bars

1 stick (or 1/2 cup) of butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup graham cracker crumbs (I actually probably used a little over a cup)
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
4 HERSHEY's Milk Chocolate bars
1 thingy of Marshmallow creme

Directions:
1. Beat butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the egg and vanilla, beat savagely. In another bowl, stir the flour, graham cracker crumbs, salt and baking soda. Add to the flour mixture and beat it until it begs for mercy. Press half of the dough into a greased/buttered 8x8 baking dish.

2. Arrange the Hershey bars on top of the dough (you'll need to break some of 'em to make 'em fit). Spread the marshmallow creme on top of the chocolate bars. This is the hard part because the candy bars want to stick to the spoon or whatever you're using to spread the seemingly un-spreadable marshmallow creme. Also, the marshmallow creme will somehow find it's way to things and objects you never knew it ever even made contact with. As I type this, it's on my wrist and on the recipe itself. I'm sure next time I use the computer, it'll be stuck all over the monitor...but I digress. Spread the remaining dough on top of the marshmallow creme and press it to form a layer of sticky, doughy goodness.

3. Bake at 350 for about 30 minutes or until lightly browned. The dough itself is kind of a light brown color, so you may not notice when it is lightly browned. Just leave it in until you get scared that you may be burning it. If it is really brown, you've ruined it. Nice going.

4. Let it cool and then cut it into bars. It may be so enticing that you eat it straight out of the dish. It's up to you. Just remember that if you put your entire face into the dish, you're going to get marshmallow creme all over your face and in your hair and then onto your brush and your pillow and so on.

5. Act coy when people tell you how wonderful they are. Hide your face in your hands and blush as though you are embarrassed by the praise being heaped upon you even though you are secretly relishing it. Tell them that it's really nothing and it took you no time at all. Tell them you just threw a bunch of items from your pantry together and voila! Tell them they are so easy to make that even they can do it. But, if they suck, for God's sake don't tell them I gave you the recipe.

Enjoy!

Helpful Parenting Advice

Prior to having children, I was every other mother's worst nightmare: I was a childless, judgemental know-it-all who freely dispensed advice to people who actually had children. If I wasn't giving out helpful advice I was shooting dirty looks to parents whose children were ruining my food shopping experience by running wild in the grocery store. If my sister's kids were acting up and she was beyond frustrated, I would simply tell her how the situation should be handled. I'm sure she was most appreciative of such wisdom. Free advice at the ready from someone with absolutely no experience in child-rearing - who wouldn't want that?!

In the almost four years that have passed since I became a mom, I have wondered exactly how many times I should apologize to my sister and others for being so completely ignorant and insensitive. (If you add in all of the other stupid stuff I've done, the answer would be, I'd have to do it 24 times a day for the rest of my life.) Something happened to me today that reminded me just how annoying I must have been to other mothers around me for all of those years. Here's the story:

We are having a photographer come to our house Friday morning to do a photo shoot of our family. Because of that, I had the girls at our salon this morning to get Kate's hair cut and my eyebrows yanked out in a desperate bid to be attractive by Friday. When we arrived, Mike was there in Ms. Stacey's seat getting his hair trimmed (took about 6.5 seconds). With the girls in tow, I breezed past the sign at the front of the establishment that reads: For the safety and comfort of our guests, please stay in the waiting area until your stylist can see you.

I plopped down in the empty chair next to Ms. Stacey with Meg in my lap and Kate scaling my leg to try and grab a spot next to Meg. We chatted with everyone - stylists and patrons - for a minute or two when Meg decided she had had enough of me and kicked and wriggled her way off of my lap and onto the floor. People were telling us how cute the girls are (which is so true) and how much fun they must be (sometimes that's true). They remarked about how similar they look (also true) and how sweet they were (not at all true).

Kate was being very coy and kept burying her face into my chest every time some spoke to her or even looked her way. She's very bashful just like I was at her age. Meg, on the other hand, was performing. She was dancing around for everyone; smiling sweetly and waving at everyone in the room. People would compliment her and she would tilt her head and say. "Kank Yew!" to which everyone would reply "Awwwwww".

I am always filled with such pride every time someone compliments my girls. They do have sweet dispositions. They are adorable. They are both very silly and very funny. Who wouldn't be proud? Of course, it never dawns on me how many times I've said these things to other parents just to be nice. It did dawn on me today, however, after one stylist said, "Maggie, could you pick her up? I don't want someone to trip over her."

What?!! Trip over her cuteness? Trip over her blonde, bouncing curls? Trip over her huge personality? You don't mean she's in your way, do you? But...But... She's Meg. She's not that nasty kid in WalMart with no shoes and Kool Aid all over her fat, filthy face. She's too cute to be in someone's way. She's too sweet to be...gasp!...annoying.

How did I miss this? I am always very tuned into the needs and feelings of others, particularly when it comes to the volume of my kids' voices and their heightened energy level. I always wondered how parents could be so oblivious to the fact that their child was misbehaving - could it be that they viewed it as "cute" behavior and assumed others thought it was as precious as they did? Or was I right all along and they truly are just all terrible parents and this was just a rare occurrence for me? I'm just sure it's the latter.

I grabbed Meg up into my arms, embarrassed, and apologized profusely. I noticed that there was not one, "Oh, that's okay" in the crowd. We walked over to the waiting area with Kate following close behind. I was acutely aware of both girls' behavior for the rest of our time there and I have to say, they were pretty well-behaved. Kate sat very still while Ms. Stacey trimmed her hair and even gave her a sweet, sincere "thank you". I apologized again as I paid for her services with Kate standing next to me and Meg zipping in and out of the "tunnel" of my legs. I pondered this important lesson that I was fortunate enough to learn. I decided to never again purport to be a better or more considerate mother than others and I would certainly be smart enough going forward to keep my opinions to myself.

On the way home, we had to make a quick trip into WalMart. We were in line behind this woman whose two kids were SCREAMING and demanding that she buy them some "Bubba" Gum (we live in Lookout Valley where this is the common pronunciation). As I looked at this harried woman, I felt her pain and I thought to myself, Someone should really tell her to shut those kids up.

The Post With The Most

Well, I was wide awake last night at 2:00 a.m. so I did what any other normal person would do. I "Googled" myself.

I started with my current last name. My Facebook page came up. Okay, harmless. It also turns out that I am a flutist in Missouri (I'm not. Some other, better Maggie McCallie is.). Pretty impressive. Also, interestingly, I was married to Alexander McCallie in Scotland in 1746. Cool! Then I searched under my maiden name. My Facebook page came up again as did several links to information from my time working in Student Affairs at MTSU (Go Blue Raiders!).

One entry that came up under my maiden name was something that I had hoped over time would be eternally lost in the myriad of sites out there in Webland. Something that has plagued me in the 11 years that have passed since it occurred. Something that to this day causes me a great deal of personal shame and regret. It requires explaining so here goes:

I was living in Knoxville in graduate school (Go Vols!) at the time and I had my first laptop in order to type and print papers and projects. I was just becoming aware of this new phenomenon called "the internet". (It wasn't exactly new at the time; it was simply something I had resisted becoming acquainted with because I thought it was just a trend.) A neighbor I had a crush on that never amounted to a darn thing helped me create a username and password in AOL. He told me I would need a username that was unique to me but that also didn't have too much personal information in it. He worked in a security business so he tried to steer me away from having my first and last name present in my email address. So, I did what any other normal person would do. I created a username that paid homage to my dog. Clearly I didn't have a lot going on in my life since that's the best I could come up with.

At any rate, my username was the catchy, maggiejrt@aol.com - the "JRT" stood for Jack Russell Terrier. As I began to navigate my way through this "internet", I did what any other normal person would do. I looked up dirty stuff. At the time, I kept hearing about all of these porn sites and I just couldn't imagine that there were pictures of that kind of thing on display for people to see. Once I was able to see that, in fact, there were millions upon millions of sex sites out there in cyberspace, I began searching for things I was actually interested in. I went to my undergraduate university's website (War Eagle!). I looked up celebrities I liked as well as lyrics to songs I couldn't figure out on my own. Then I did what any other normal person would do. I visited Jack Russell Terrier sites. (I think I may be starting to understand why nothing ever happened with my cute neighbor.)

Yes, on nights and not surprisingly weekends, I had puh-lenty of time to search several pictures of all kinds of Jack Russells. Short ones. Tall ones. Some with floppy ears. Some with pointy ears that stood straight up. Some with smooth coats. Some with rough coats. Some with smooth coats AND floppy ears, etc...

So apparently (well, not "apparently" - it is time-stamped for all the world to see) one Thursday evening in June 1998, I was just chillin' at my pad, kickin' it on a JRT site when I did what any other normal person would do. I decided to "Sign the Guestbook". Why I felt compelled to do this, I will never know. What I do know is that in a state of complete loss of my mental faculties, I wrote the following:

Your website is great! My JRT, Dudley, and I enjoy looking at all of the cute photos of other great JRTs.

And of course, in order to make it completely discernable that is was in fact Maggie Prugh of Birmingham, Alabama (even though I was in Knoxville at the time) that wrote this, I signed my name to it.

I am picturing this lonely, single girl with her dog in her lap spending hours upon hours crying and scouring the internet for the best pictures of dogs while never leaving the comfort of her pajamas. In reality that wasn't exactly the case. I was single, yes. I did have a dog. And I was going to dog-related websites. All of that is true. But I wasn't as much of a loser as the post would suggest. But of course, there was no guestbook to sign at an "I Promise I Am Not a Total Loser.com" site.

So what image do you think this conjures up for previous boyfriends? Certainly not one of "the one that got away". No, this post screams of "Thank God I dumped her"!!! What would this post leave enemies from high school and sorority days to assume? "She is the failure I always knew she would be". And you know they've Googled me. I've Googled them, so I know they've Googled me. That's what losers do.

So, every once in a while I will search for my name in hopes that this site has been shut down or removed so I can go on and live a peaceful - and very full, despite what the post would suggest - life. And every time I am disappointed to see not only the link, but my actual post come up in the results of my search. You may be asking yourself how full my life could be given that I continue to Google myself and have searched for former boyfriends. I don't think I'll address that question. Let's just move on.

So how did I combat this and ensure that my privacy is protected and that I don't post anything stupid out there in cyberspace again? I did what any other normal person would do. I started a blog.

New Diet Plan

I’m going to lose 10-15 pounds. But THIS time, I’m not going to put them somewhere where I can find them. I should at least make them difficult to find even if I do ultimately remember where I put them.

This weight gain is ridiculous. I’ve been telling people that I need to lose ten pounds even though secretly, I only thought I needed to lose about five. Then, I went for my yearly physical and it turns out that ten pounds is a little conservative and really I need to lose about 15 pounds in order to not be the amorphous mass I have become over time.

What has happened to my metabolism? Could it be that my clothes are all shrinking in the dryer or at the cleaners? That happens, you know. This most recent weight gain certainly couldn’t have anything to do with my eating habits. Let’s see:

Breakfast –
Most days, nothing or finishing of the girls’ food. Some days I’ll east a cup of yogurt or cottage cheese and a piece of fruit. Not too bad. Then the problem must be…

Lunch –
On the days I stay home, I’ll have a sandwich and chips. Or, if we are out and about, I’ll grab something from McDonalds or maybe we’ll hit the Pizza Hut buffet. Hmmm.

On the days I work, I usually begin emailing coworkers around 9:15 inquiring about the day’s lunch plans. I can suffer through a few rejections and not get discouraged. I am on a mission. When I do find someone who’ll eat with me (I realize this is making me sound like a loser, but a lot of times, my friends bring their own lunches because they are trying to eat healthily), it’s usually a Mexican restaurant (at least once a week) or we will go to a “Meat and Three” where I’ll usually get a big salad. Harmless right? Did I mention the contents of my salad are unrecognizable due to the amount of ranch dressing I have drowned them in? Uh oh. I think I see how this all could be happening. Then there’s…

Dinner –
Wait! I forgot my snack on the days that I’m home! Around 3:00, I usually sit on the couch and inhale a bag (a big one) of whatever chips I have in the house. I always have an impressive assortment, so on any given day it could be Funyuns, Doritos (nacho and cool ranch), chili cheese Fritos, sour cream and onion, or some combination of these. Okay, so…

Dinner –
If Mike is out of town, we hit the McDonald’s, Sonic, or Krystal. Certainly not because I want it. My kids like this kind of stuff. I would much prefer a big plate of vegetables… If Mike is not traveling, sometimes we hit the McDonald’s, Sonic, uh-oh. I’m sensing a pattern. But some nights, I’ll pick up a pizza. For the kids. They love it. I only tolerate it. Or, we’ll go to Waffle House. Again, for the kids.

On the rare occasion I am driven to cook, I’ll fix chicken and veggies (something none of us wants to eat) or spaghetti and salad, tacos, or something else that is quick and easy.

Looking over the list of what we eat, it does look pretty bad, but here is how I rationalize it. My kids are horrible eaters. The doctors have kind of given me license to give them fatty foods (in addition to healthy foods) in order to get some calories in them. So, cheese eggs from Waffle House aren’t as horrible as they sound (translation – please don’t think I am the world’s worst mother). Also, I have Jessica Seinfeld’s book that teaches you how to slide puréed vegetables and fruits into foods kids will eat. I do this with a lot of the things I cook. But, make no mistake. I have to hide healthy things in foods for myself as much as for my children.

I just don’t like a lot of things that are good for me. I love fried foods. I love chips and sweets. I love burgers and pizza. Tacos and meatballs. Bacon and sausage. All of it. And when I eat, I am operating under the assumption that this could be my last meal and I deserve to enjoy it. (If I keep eating this way, it very well could be my last meal on any given day.) What I need to do is to change my mindset about food. Do I have to scarf down every meal because it is so yummy that I can’t get enough? Or, should I start looking at food as fuel and eat things that are healthy for me and reserve the “bad” foods for a few times a week when I will see them as treats? Obviously, I should choose the latter. But really, dogs get treats. Am I a dog? No, I am not. I am a person who is 15 pounds overweight. Damnit!

So, how will I lose this weight? I’ve already established that my eating habits could use some cleaning up. I have begun exercising again. And by that I mean I’ve gotten on the treadmill twice in the past week. But that’s something, right? Gotta start somewhere.

Last week, one of my coworkers returned to work after tending to her sick child who had a stomach bug. Her child lost five pounds in one week because the horrible thing. Everyone around me was saying things like, “Poor thing”, “Sounds awful”, and “Bless her heart”. I was thinking, “Would it be weird if I asked if I could lick the inside of her mouth?” You know, just to kind of jump-start the process.

I guess I’ll have to do what every doctor, nutritionalist, and the like suggests – eat less junk, eat more good stuff, and exercise. That just sounds like a lot of work. I think I’ll just sit on the couch and eat Doritos. Anyone have the stomach flu around here? If so, can I borrow your toothbrush?

Happiness Is Wanting What You Get

It occurred to me last night as I was filling my coffee maker with coffee beans to grind for this morning’s fuel, how WONDERFUL coffee smells. I was also struck by the resulting letdown that is one’s very first sip of coffee. That horribly bitter taste is truly one of life’s little disappointments. How does something that smells so intoxicating turn into something so …well, disappointing?

It is wrong. Just wrong. And there are several other things both trivial and significant that you learn over time are not what you expected them to be. First-time sex comes to mind (not that I would know about that – just in case my dad is reading…). Your first sip of wine – blechhh! (Your 1052nd sip? MMMMMMMMM!) Discovering in your mid-twenties while trying to squeeze into a pair of previously loose-fitting jeans that your once robust metabolism is falling victim to the ravages of time. Getting your first “real world” job and seeing how the leaders actually conduct themselves. The inevitable pattern in your life of friendship erosion; losing commonalities with friends you always thought you’d be tight with. Yes, sadly, life is full of little disappointments along the way.

I can recall feeling at many stages of my life that things could be good IF/WHEN… fill in the blank. I will be happy WHEN I go to college; I will be satisfied IF I find a good boyfriend; I will be so much happier WHEN I no longer have this boyfriend; and on and on. So, at what stage do you say, “Things are just as I want them”? My grandmother had a sign hanging in her kitchen that read. “Happiness is wanting what you get”. As a kid, I argued with her: “No, happiness is getting what you want”. At that time, the concept was a bit too much for me to grasp.

Over time, thankfully, I have realized that happiness truly is wanting what you get. In most cases, you’re going to get whatever you’re going to get (It is what it is - ugh…). But what we would be better off focusing on is whether we are happy with whatever it is we get. If we are, that’s great. We are ahead of the curve. If we are not, then it is up to us to change our reality.

So, how do you avoid always feeling like things aren’t as good as you’d wished they would be? Well, one way is to change the things that we are not happy we have gotten. I recommend this one although it may be a long process. Another option that may require less energy (which is often the road I take) is to focus on life’s little pleasures. And there are many.

Finding money in your jeans pocket you didn’t know was there. Seeing yours or your spouse’s traits come out in your children. Taking an afternoon nap. Having someone confide in you thereby giving you an opportunity to help them in some way. Becoming friends with your parents and grandparents as you age. Having a really good hair day (maybe one day I’ll know the feeling of this one). This list can go on and on – hopefully longer than the list of disappointments.

Now, I am a natural pessimist. What’s with this uplifting post? Well, in the past few weeks, I’ve really become more aware of the passage of time and how quickly my girls are growing and changing. I spend a lot of time wishing they were a little older so I don’t have to do as much “work”. It’s like I don’t want to make time for them sometimes. But I have recently had some really good conversations with Kate. She makes me laugh so hard with the ridiculous things she says. And Meg is exceedingly happy and is always so excited to see me. She gives me these big bear hugs we call a “tight squeeze”. One day – probably sooner rather than later (but certainly sooner than I will want it to be) they won’t have time for me. And I will be forced to wonder why I didn’t take advantage of the pleasure of enjoying them now and in these moments.

So I am making a conscious effort to take pleasure in what I have right now. As it turns out, I have wanted a vast majority of the things that I’ve gotten. For that I am humbled and thankful. So, the next time I am faced with some kind of a disappointment or reality I wish wasn’t mine, I will try and choose my response and be grateful for what I have in this moment. That’s really all we have anyway.

My Deflated Ego

Before I got married, I was single for several years and completely self-reliant. If the trash needed taking out, I’d take it out. If a picture needed hanging, I’d hang it. If a bug was in the house and needed squishing, I’d squish it. Then I got married and I lost some of that. Why should I take out the trash when Mike is so good at it? Why should I hang a picture that will likely be hung off-center when Mike has a leveler that can aid in hanging it perfectly straight and centered? Is that a bug?!!! AAAAGGGGHHH!!! HEY, MIKE? CAN YOU COME HERE?

I have to say, I kind of miss that self-reliance I used to enjoy. Over time, I think I have lost some of the ability to take care of things. I don’t ever do anything related to home improvement or car maintenance or anything like that anymore. It probably sounds strange that I would be lamenting the days of toilet-plunging, but I just miss being capable of depending on myself to get things taken care of.

A good example of late is when an indication light in my car came on. I had no idea what it was indicating – I even referred to the Owner’s Guide to try and figure out what it was. I never found it and the car seemed to be running well, so naturally I ignored it. About a week and a half later, Mike mentioned to me that my back tire pressure was low and that he had fixed it. I looked at the dashboard and sure enough, the indicator light was off. Problem solved. I asked which tire it was that was low and he pointed to the back tires and said, “See?”. I, of course, didn’t see. They both looked the same to me.

So, over the course of the last few weeks, this light has kept coming on sporadically and Mike has magically made it disappear. Today, however, Mike was out of town. This was MY chance to take of it MYself. So, on the way to take Kate to her gym class, I happily pulled into the local gas station. I was now going to prove to myself that I could once again be self-sufficient.

My first annoyance was the banged-up truck and trailer that had pulled up and parked right in front of the air machine. The grizzly, hippy-looking guy saw me pull in behind him to wait my turn, acknowledged me, and then waltzed inside the gas station. So, this guy saw me… he just didn’t care that I needed what he was parked in front of. Grrrr…

So, I waited for a few minutes until I realized that he was in absolutely no hurry to get out of there and subsequently get the heck out of my way. So, I decided that I could probably just pull around and back in front of the machine to get my air. So, I angrily pulled over where I needed to be and noticed that there was a passenger in the car! At some point, this frumpy, groovy-looking girl could have moved the car since it was clearly blocking my path. But, no, she was too clueless – lost in a cloud of cigarette (or some other type of) smoke.

So, I shot her a dirty look and went about dramatically removing the air hose from its post and squatting next to my back tires – a move choreographed to excess just to drive home the point that they were still IN MY WAY. I had never filled my tires with air before, but I looked like I knew what I was doing. I had the pressure gauge in my hand (at least, I think that’s what it’s called) and when I inserted it into the back left tire, it popped out to about 15 whatevers. Seems like I remembered that tires should be at 30 whatevers, so I pushed the hose onto the thingy on the tire (this is all mechanic-speak for you lay people). I wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. Was I supposed to squeeze the handle to make the air shoot into the tire? It made sense to do so, so that’s what I did. I had considered calling Mike for assistance, but this was my task to accomplish on my own. I held the hose steady for a little bit but the hissing sound kind of made it appear that I was actually losing air instead of filling the tire. I wasn’t at all sure I was accomplishing anything, but I removed the hose and put the pressure gauge back into the tire. This time it looked like it was just a hair lower than the last time, so I clearly wasn’t using the gauge right. I put the hose back onto the tire for a little while longer just for good measure and then went to the back right tire (since I had never really been able to discern which tire was leaking) to repeat these steps.

The right tire seemed to be in better shape because this time the pressure gauge popped out to between 20 and 25 whatevers. I pressed the hose into the tire for a little bit and decided that I needed to go back around to the left tire. If the right tire was between 20 and 25 whatevers, then the left one was too low. Keep in mind, the grungy couple hauling the trailer was still parked in the same place while I was doing all of this bending, stooping and squatting. I was still shooting them exasperated looks whenever possible, of course, and was prancing around this air hose like I knew what I was doing (which I did not).

So, I filled the left tire again briefly and decided to drive over to the pump for some fuel. While I’m pumping the gas, I check out the back tires. They both now seemed noticeably low to me. Maybe it was because I now comparing them to the look of the front tires. I was being more deliberate about how I was looking at this since it was now my project and my first step in reclaiming my self-reliance. Nevertheless, I decided once the tank was full, to go back over to the air hose. By this time, the inconsiderate couple had decided to leave – presumably to go get in someone else’s way.

Once back at the hose, I again got out of the car and went around to the back left tire. I didn’t take the pressure gauge with me this time. I figured I just needed to keep the hose to the tire for a longer period of time. But now it was appearing that this tire was actually losing air. It was now clearly lower than it had been when I had started all of this nonsense. What was I doing wrong? Did I mention that it was drizzling the whole time I was squatting down next to my tires? Why was I doing this?

I went around again to the back right tire and the same thing happened! I was growing more frustrated by the minute. Then I turned to replace the hose and something caught my eye. A small coin slot (as opposed to the big one I was displaying every time I squatted next to my car). A coin slot that indicated that it was 75 cents in order to use the air hose.

Imagine my embarrassment (I’m thinking of that hippy couple watching me) when I realized what I had just spent the better part of 20 minutes doing. I wasn’t pumping up the tires at all. This whole time I had actually been deflating my two back tires by plugging an empty air hose up to them. After fishing around in my wallet to find three quarters, I was able to pump up the tires and we were on our way to the gym. My ego was still somewhere on the ground by the air hose.

Well, that was my heroic story of trying to become more capable of fending for myself as I so often did in my single days. My recommendation to my married (or otherwise non-single) friends out there is to find ways to take care of yourselves even if your significant other could do it for you. Save yourself from waking up one day to realize that you are incapable of carrying out life’s simple little tasks anymore. That realization can really let the air out of your tires. So to speak.

BREAKING NEWS!!

Well, I am hopeful that you are all finally getting back to your routines after last weekend's nuptials of Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom. I am soooo tired – still recovering from trying to care. What? You hadn’t heard? Where have you been? It’s been plastered all over the news. On the cover of every tabloid. The sole reason for E! Entertainment to exist…

I have just two questions about this wedding:

1. Who are these people?
&
2. Why should I care?

Okay, Lamar is in the NBA. I get why people know and perhaps care who he is. But Khloe Kardashian?!! Who is she? There are three Kardashian sisters if I’m not mistaken. Which one is she? Is she the one who was dating Reggie Bush? Is she the pregnant one? Is she the one whose hair is now lighter than it’s been in recent months? Who are these people?! And why must I constantly be accosted with information about them?

You know, after 9/11 happened, I thought, Now maybe our country can begin to focus on what’s important instead of on Britney Spears. At that time, Britney was everywhere and the paparazzi were following her every move. I remember thinking that the media was trying so hard to turn her into this manufactured star in the hopes we could one day compare her to a tragic legend like Marilyn Monroe. Then 9/11 happened and we began to think a little more seriously about what mattered to us as people and as a society.

But, here we are, eight years later and little has changed. And the worst part about it? Khloe makes me actually care about Britney! At least Britney can sing (okay, let's just say she's a singer). Khloe is a “reality” “star”. She’s not a singer. Not a dancer. Not a writer. Not an actress. Her father defended OJ Simpson. Her step-father is Bruce Jenner. But what has she done? What does she bring to the table? What does she contribute to the greater good? Now we are turning people with nothing to offer the world into these media darlings (hello, Paris Hilton!) and we have once again lost our way in determining what is important and what should be talked about.

Now any of you who know me, know that I love TV, movies, and discussing the Hollywood gossip and latest celebrity deaths. So maybe all of this is odd coming from me. I’m just so disappointed in my good friend, E! When E! was first launched, I’ll never forget it. It was as though my mothership had landed. Here was a network who would be devoted solely to famous people who made good TV shows, movies and music. Sure, it would highlight popular culture and not necessarily intellectual culture. It was like a Biography channel about slightly less interesting people than you’d find on A&E. It would be there simply to give you a little more background on celebrities you liked. What it does today is make stars of people who have no discernable talent other than maybe failing to wear underpants publicly.

I never watch E! anymore because they focus mostly on “young Hollywood” many of whom I’ve never heard of. They also have these ridiculous and trashy “reality” shows. Again, they are trying to make someone who isn’t seem interesting. Since they are telling me that these are the people I should care about or look to to set my standards, then they (E!) are dead to me. Even though I’ve sworn off E!, I still occasionally visit eonline.com for the latest entertainment headlines. But last weekend, it seemed like every hour they were posting some new BREAKING!!!! information about this wedding. First they showed us an invitation to the event which was later proven to be a fake/decoy. Then, by the grace of God, we were about to see the actual invitation. I was so relieved to be able to see the actual font that was chosen. It was as though I was able to be a part of their very special day.

I was also wondering how Lamar would celebrate on the night of his bachelor party. Where would he go? Who would accompany him? Would he do something foolish that would put a damper on the wedding itself (Mario Lopez-style)? Luckily, E! was able to provide me with updates. He ultimately chose something low-key. Whew! Marriage saved!

It was all so ridiculous and completely inconsequential in my life and in any normal person’s life other than the Kardashian and Odom families. A simple headline would have been more than sufficient. This couple shouldn’t be famous enough to even warrant that, but I would have been fine with it getting a mention. But E! lost their minds. Even CNN reported it!! Ugh! Is this the best we have to talk about? Apparently it’s the best I have to talk about…

Second Post - Hooray!

Well, obviously the world is overjoyed with my new blog. Not a single comment from my first post. Oh, well...

I've just put the girls down for a nap and am listening to them do everything but go to sleep. How is that possible? When I have the opportunity, I can't WAIT to lie down and go to sleep!!! If only they knew how precious a thing naptime is, they would savor it forever.

So, what's new in my world to "blog" about? Not a thing. I told you having a blog was a stupid idea. I guess I can spend this time talking about one of my pet peeves - turning nouns into verbs. Take a look back at the sentence I typed where I referred to blogging as a verb. A blog is not a verb but a noun meaning: complete and total waste of time for people narcissistic enough to think anyone cares what they do or say. But people always seem to want to take simple, everyday nouns and turn them into verbs. Are we that lazy that we can't take the time to say, "I am going to write something for my blog"? Must we simply say, "I'm going to blog"? Please, don't ever say, "I'm going to go key something into my blog". 'Key' is another noun that has been turned into a verb. We now 'incent' people to do better instead of offering a person an incentive. (I've also actually heard people say 'incentivize'. Are you serious?!!!) We 'access' things on the computer instead of gaining access to something on the computer. Ugh! It is so annoying. It's all I can think about 24/7 (another peeve). I believe I'll blog about incenting you to key stuff into your computer so that you can access it later.

* Incidentally, I just ran a spell check and it told me that blog (as a verb) and incent were not words.

I'll tell you what else I find completely irritating: the now popular phrase 'It is what it is'. Well, of course it is what it is! You've just wasted my time and yours pointing that out! A close second to my most-hated phrase is 'We can only do what we can do'. Again - you are not helping me, you're not solving a problem, you're not coming up with creative solutions... you're not making any kind of a profound breakthrough by saying this. You are, in fact, pointing out to whomever is within earshot, that you are an idiot.

So, what can you do about this growing problem? Commit to not falling victim to buzzwords and popular/trendy phrases. Use nouns as nouns and verbs as verbs. Don't invent words just because you are lazy. I am extremely lazy as I mentioned in my last post, but it doesn't give me the right to create a new word every time I want to. Sorry for all of the bitching (a noun used as a verb). I can tell this blog is really a bad idea.

Oh well. It is what it is.

First post!

Well, folks, I said I’d never do it, but for some reason I now find myself compelled to start a blog. I always looked down my nose at people who felt that other people cared what their opinions were about things that were happening in their world, so I start this by acknowledging openly that I am a hypocrite.

So why now?

Well, I have to have some kind of creative outlet. I can’t sing. I don’t dance in public. I can scrapbook, but I’m too lazy to do it. I like to cook, but not enough to put a whole lot of time into it. I don’t have any hobbies other than television viewing and napping. But that doesn’t make me very interesting to be around. I love to talk and I love to laugh. A ha! I’ve found something that I am reasonably good at. Now what? Just because I think I’m hilarious (which I am) doesn’t means you will. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? This is my blog and you don’t have to read it.

So why a blog? Well, I’ve tried writing a book. It’s taken me about 10 years - seriously – and I’ve written two chapters and the ending. And… it's HARD! You have to remember all of the names you’ve named your characters. And let’s face it: my characters aren’t really characters but actual people. So, then there’s that – the fear of offending someone by writing about them as you actually see them. Also, you have to have an editor (I think) and I know that I’ll have several grammatical and punctuational errors. (Is “punctuational” a word? It doesn’t matter – this is a blog, not a book.) Plus, due to my aforementioned laziness, I know I’d never finish a book. This format is much more conducive to my writing style and most likely to your attention span. So, here we are.

Plus, I have always kind of lived my life with the notion that I will one day walk into a Wal-Mart and be “discovered” and go on to a long and lucrative career as an actress/writer/producer in Hollywood. I don’t really want that life, mind you. It would just be nice for someone to meet me and instantly know that the rest of the world should be exposed to my wit and intellectual musings.

A few of my friends have compared me to former Saturday Night Live star, Amy Poehler. I take that as an enormous compliment. She has gotten to do so many things that I would have loved. And she is good. Really good. Also, a lot of people think I look like Gwenyth Paltrow (okay, I made that part up), so I am a natural fit for Hollywood.

Getting back to the blog – you will notice (assuming you haven’t already stopped reading) that I ramble a lot and get sidetracked. I have nothing new or original to say to the world. I’ll mainly be talking about parenting, work, silly things I’ve observed, movies I love, and food. So, I guess that's mostly what I'll write about. We'll see how it goes. Thanks for visiting!