These days it seems everyone worries about their freedom and their rights.
Take, for example, smoking vs. non-smoking in public. A non-smoking section in a restaurant doesn’t help those of us who are bothered by breathing in and smelling cigarette smoke. Smoke wafts throughout the building or room. Where there is smoke, I’ll have to breathe it, “non-smoking section” or no. Isn't having a smoking section in a restaurant like having a peeing section in a swimming pool?
I know, people who smoke have rights. However, do those rights include forcing me and other non-smokers to breathe in their cigarette’s carcinogen-filled smoke? Non-smokers have rights also, and choose a smoke-free way of life. Even smokers know the dangers of smoking, yet they get upset when those of us who choose not to smoke speak out about our right not to join their habit by breathing their smoke. Is it more important for them to smoke, or me to breathe? Which is really a right? A necessity?
There are people who are health-conscious. Smoke-free places would contribute as much to their good health as eating all the right foods and exercising. I know a gal who claims to be a health nut, eating healthy foods, drinking lots of water and always concerned about her health and weight. Then, she goes outside to smoke. I’d be more worried what the tar and smoke are doing to my lungs and throat than eating a cheeseburger and fries.
My sweet, non-smoking grandmother used to say, “If I only had all the money your (deceased) grandpa spent on cigarettes over the last 40 years…” She lamented over the clean spots where pictures hung on the wall, the rest of the wall dirtied by his smoke.
We were in a public auditorium recently where I was happily surprised to see “no smoking” signs posted very prominently. Also posted were signs directing smokers where smoking was permitted.
Inside the auditorium, two teenage boys sat in front of us. One of them took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. I thought he was going to light up, but to my surprise, he asked the usher if smoking was allowed. She told him it was not and he thanked her. I told my husband how nice it was to see that he asked. My husband, cynic that he can be, informed me he was only asking so he’d know whether or not to hide it. Lo and behold, within 10 minutes, he lit up, his smoke rising directly into my face. I blew it back towards him, but he didn’t notice. I fanned my hand through the smoke to redirect it, to no avail. With that, I leaned up and asked the curly-haired teen if he’d mind not smoking please — and thank you. He turned around to look at me and put it out without a word.
Soon, he and his non-smoking buddy relocated. They found other seats, but I suspect were kicked out of them by the ticket holders, so minutes later, they returned. Thankfully, he didn’t smoke again.
I know I’m stepping on some toes here, but I know that I wouldn’t wish my bad habits on others, giving them no choice in the matter. I won’t pick my toes near their table in a restaurant. I can wait until I get outside, in my car or home.
I’ll take this chance to thank the eating establishments (and shopping malls) that have banned smoking. People do have the right to smoke, but people generally go to a restaurant to eat. Yes, EAT. Do they really need to smoke while there? Can they not refrain for 30 minutes? Smoke before you enter, and when you exit.
All a non-smoking section accomplishes is separating people. It doesn’t keep smoke away from people who don’t want to smell/breathe it.
I also want to make clear I don’t dislike smokers. I dislike rude, thoughtless smokers (their actions), just as much as I dislike rude, thoughtless people’s actions in general. I appreciate when someone takes his/her smoking outside, even when the weather is extremely cold or hot.
My husband suffers from asthma, which is aggravated by smoke and other irritants. (I can't even use candles or air fresheners in the car or house). Should he be forced to stop going to restaurants or public places? It makes me feel nauseous, should I just have to stay home? Maybe restaurants should consider the business they lose from people who can’t breathe when there is cigarette smoke. There are places where smoking is prohibited, and those are the places we’ll choose first. I’d like to hear from people who agree with me, just to find out how many of us would patronize a new restaurant if they changed their policy to non-smoking.
I’ve seen people smoking in their cars who fail to use the ashtray I’m sure is built into their car. Why is that? They don’t want the butts to stink up their car’s upholstery? Instead, they flick it out the car window and I hope it doesn’t ignite a drop of gasoline or something as I pass over it. (I know, pretty unlikely, but it could happen).
I feel the same way about my hair and clothes as they feel about their car’s upholstery. I don’t want to smell that way. I don’t want to be in a restaurant or public place and have to go home and take another shower because I smell as if I’ve been smoking. I don’t want others to smell smoke on me, and I hate the smell. It’s frustrating to go somewhere, freshly showered and smelling nice, only to smell like smoke within minutes.
There are other places, such as auctions and outdoor events where we have to put up with it. At the amusement park (a place we visit frequently and where we would consider discontinuing our practice of spending $500-plus per year on passes for the family), people smoke in the lines to the rides, even though smoking in the lines is prohibited. It’s a family place. Where is the enforcement? I think I need to just stop being intimidated and ask people to put out their cigarettes, or go to the management. Does our non-smoking offend them or cause them any discomfort? Does it affect their health in a negative way?
Let’s make a deal: I won’t pick my toes in front of you and you won’t smoke in front of me.
One last thing, while I’m airing things…what’s up with people of the male persuasion who leave the "turlet" seat up?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Priorities Change from Kid to Kid
It's amazing what kids call a priority. My kids started school after Labor Day. I talked to them all on the phone at the end of the first day and they all had a different perception of how the day went.
My youngest, a fifth grader at the time, when asked how her day was, replied, "I LIKE my teacher" with a puppy love sound in her voice. She volunteered to be the teacher's helper before school each day. This school year promises to be a good one for her.
My oldest, a sophomore boy, said, "I have a class with 31 girls and no boys." He almost sounded like that was a bad thing. I asked which class that was and he told me it was a childhood development and parenting class. He wondered why there were no boys, saying, "I guess boys aren't parents?" That's a good question. I imagine the reason is boys aren't dreaming about marriage and having children at this point, while the young ladies are dreaming of their walk down the aisle and having a family.
My freshmen daughter lamented, "There are no hot guys in any of my classes!" I reminded her she doesn't need any, she has a steady. "Moooooom!" was all she could wail. Apparently, I just don't get it.
Anyway, she's got to keep up her studies if she's to be the valedictorian of her class some day. She has always made excellent grades, but is afraid she will be unable to keep them up in high school. (She ended up being fourth in her class of over 250).
Wait a minute, hot guys? Is that how they describe what we used to call a fox? We didn't say, "Oo, he's so hot." We said, "He's such a fox" or "He's so good looking" or "He's so cute!"
If I had been lucky enough to have a steady when I was that age, I would have been ecstatic. I wouldn't have been worrying about anyone else if I had a nice boy to blabber on the phone and go to school ball games with. Kids today expect so much. They perceive that parents somehow owe them all the comforts and luxuries they have.
For example, schools are often let out due to the heat. When I went to school, we didn't have air conditioning, but we stayed in school and ran fans. My kids have an air-conditioned house to go to after school but don't realize it's a luxury--one that some cannot afford.
Their TVs, stereos and telephone privileges are taken for granted. We "owe" them those things. There's too much "keeping up with the Joneses" in our society. We're mean if we give them rules and telephone limits. I so wish to have a halfway clean house, but it seems to be pretty taxing for them to carry a dish to the sink from their room or the living room. And boy, they really do live in that room.
My desire is for them to realize what they have. They have loving parents, an air-conditioned house in summer, pets they love, siblings they hate, they are allowed freedom to go with their friends, they have looks, intelligence and wonderful senses of humor--the list could go on and on. My freshman daughter even had a job working in a daycare all summer, affording her the luxury of spending all her waking hours at the mall, doing her part to keep a strong, healthy local economy.
They don't even have to walk to school like I did, 10 miles, in the snow, uphill…both ways. That might be a slight exaggeration--I had to walk to school in rain, sleet or snow just like the U.S. Postal Service, but it was only about eight blocks and no real hills. My kids rarely have to walk to school.
I continue to try, although I sometimes fall short, to teach the kids what matters. Love, giving, unselfishness, forgiveness, a good work ethic--all those things, among many others, will get them far in life.
My youngest, a fifth grader at the time, when asked how her day was, replied, "I LIKE my teacher" with a puppy love sound in her voice. She volunteered to be the teacher's helper before school each day. This school year promises to be a good one for her.
My oldest, a sophomore boy, said, "I have a class with 31 girls and no boys." He almost sounded like that was a bad thing. I asked which class that was and he told me it was a childhood development and parenting class. He wondered why there were no boys, saying, "I guess boys aren't parents?" That's a good question. I imagine the reason is boys aren't dreaming about marriage and having children at this point, while the young ladies are dreaming of their walk down the aisle and having a family.
My freshmen daughter lamented, "There are no hot guys in any of my classes!" I reminded her she doesn't need any, she has a steady. "Moooooom!" was all she could wail. Apparently, I just don't get it.
Anyway, she's got to keep up her studies if she's to be the valedictorian of her class some day. She has always made excellent grades, but is afraid she will be unable to keep them up in high school. (She ended up being fourth in her class of over 250).
Wait a minute, hot guys? Is that how they describe what we used to call a fox? We didn't say, "Oo, he's so hot." We said, "He's such a fox" or "He's so good looking" or "He's so cute!"
If I had been lucky enough to have a steady when I was that age, I would have been ecstatic. I wouldn't have been worrying about anyone else if I had a nice boy to blabber on the phone and go to school ball games with. Kids today expect so much. They perceive that parents somehow owe them all the comforts and luxuries they have.
For example, schools are often let out due to the heat. When I went to school, we didn't have air conditioning, but we stayed in school and ran fans. My kids have an air-conditioned house to go to after school but don't realize it's a luxury--one that some cannot afford.
Their TVs, stereos and telephone privileges are taken for granted. We "owe" them those things. There's too much "keeping up with the Joneses" in our society. We're mean if we give them rules and telephone limits. I so wish to have a halfway clean house, but it seems to be pretty taxing for them to carry a dish to the sink from their room or the living room. And boy, they really do live in that room.
My desire is for them to realize what they have. They have loving parents, an air-conditioned house in summer, pets they love, siblings they hate, they are allowed freedom to go with their friends, they have looks, intelligence and wonderful senses of humor--the list could go on and on. My freshman daughter even had a job working in a daycare all summer, affording her the luxury of spending all her waking hours at the mall, doing her part to keep a strong, healthy local economy.
They don't even have to walk to school like I did, 10 miles, in the snow, uphill…both ways. That might be a slight exaggeration--I had to walk to school in rain, sleet or snow just like the U.S. Postal Service, but it was only about eight blocks and no real hills. My kids rarely have to walk to school.
I continue to try, although I sometimes fall short, to teach the kids what matters. Love, giving, unselfishness, forgiveness, a good work ethic--all those things, among many others, will get them far in life.
Monday, March 17, 2008
You Can Fail a Job Application?
I needed a job. I had been a stay-at-home mom and operated a child-care business in my home for 14 years, but that came to a halt one day in the fall of 2000.
I was a single mother left with sort of an empty nest, no income and three children to support.
I decided to go to the local shopping mall to look for a job. After all, the mall is the place where all the hip, cool people work and hang out. I went from store to store, choosing the ones where I thought it would be fun to work.
One place I chose to apply, a major department store (we wont' mention any names, JCP), requires you to fill out your application on a computer. This application asks dozens of questions, such as: “If you have a problem with a customer, what would you do?” The multiple-choice offerings went something like this: A) Call your supervisor. B) Call a co-worker. C) Call your mother. D) Tell them too bad and to go home. (Well, I might be exaggerating a little.)
I went to the receptionist to let her know I was finished. She punched her keyboard and brought up my results. Job applications have results?
Apparently they do these days. And apparently they’re pass/fail. She told me I’d failed the application.
Had I known about this application/examination, maybe I could’ve studied, prepared for it. I was shocked, thinking, “How can you fail a job application?” What happened
to the old-fashioned, “We’ll review your application get back to you” or “We don’t have any openings at this time” or “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”?
I think the woman behind the counter could see the surprised look on my face and told me I could reapply in 30 days, or she could give me the handwritten version right then. I told her I’d come back another time.
I thought about it a while and wasn’t sure how to react. It’s tough for people who have been homemakers for years to get back into the job market, but I was sure these things could be taught.
Every employer has its own way of running things, and those things must be taught on the job, not asked on a questionnaire — excuse me — job application. This method probably gave a failing grade to many potentially good employees, discouraging them. I would do my best for them, but I guess they want ‘correct’ responses even though there were no absolute answers.
Not to worry. I proceeded down the mall and stopped at a few small shops to fill out more applications. I ended that day before noon at another major department store, where I filled out one last application. It was a real sheet of paper with an ink pen. I turned it in, ran an errand or two, and was home in time for lunch.
I went into the kitchen to check my answering machine as soon as I walked in the door. It was blinking. It was the last store I’d visited asking me to call to set up an interview.
Within days, they offered me a full-time position. (Apparently, I passed this application). I made the Top 10 in sales several times in the short time I worked there before moving on to work in the newspaper business. I guess the old saying is true, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
It’s still beyond me how someone can fail a job application, but this time, it was their loss.
I was a single mother left with sort of an empty nest, no income and three children to support.
I decided to go to the local shopping mall to look for a job. After all, the mall is the place where all the hip, cool people work and hang out. I went from store to store, choosing the ones where I thought it would be fun to work.
One place I chose to apply, a major department store (we wont' mention any names, JCP), requires you to fill out your application on a computer. This application asks dozens of questions, such as: “If you have a problem with a customer, what would you do?” The multiple-choice offerings went something like this: A) Call your supervisor. B) Call a co-worker. C) Call your mother. D) Tell them too bad and to go home. (Well, I might be exaggerating a little.)
I went to the receptionist to let her know I was finished. She punched her keyboard and brought up my results. Job applications have results?
Apparently they do these days. And apparently they’re pass/fail. She told me I’d failed the application.
Had I known about this application/examination, maybe I could’ve studied, prepared for it. I was shocked, thinking, “How can you fail a job application?” What happened
to the old-fashioned, “We’ll review your application get back to you” or “We don’t have any openings at this time” or “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”?
I think the woman behind the counter could see the surprised look on my face and told me I could reapply in 30 days, or she could give me the handwritten version right then. I told her I’d come back another time.
I thought about it a while and wasn’t sure how to react. It’s tough for people who have been homemakers for years to get back into the job market, but I was sure these things could be taught.
Every employer has its own way of running things, and those things must be taught on the job, not asked on a questionnaire — excuse me — job application. This method probably gave a failing grade to many potentially good employees, discouraging them. I would do my best for them, but I guess they want ‘correct’ responses even though there were no absolute answers.
Not to worry. I proceeded down the mall and stopped at a few small shops to fill out more applications. I ended that day before noon at another major department store, where I filled out one last application. It was a real sheet of paper with an ink pen. I turned it in, ran an errand or two, and was home in time for lunch.
I went into the kitchen to check my answering machine as soon as I walked in the door. It was blinking. It was the last store I’d visited asking me to call to set up an interview.
Within days, they offered me a full-time position. (Apparently, I passed this application). I made the Top 10 in sales several times in the short time I worked there before moving on to work in the newspaper business. I guess the old saying is true, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
It’s still beyond me how someone can fail a job application, but this time, it was their loss.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste
I met a man who either needs a new eye exam, or he’s a real flatterer.
I was in line at a Platte City grocery store last week to rent a video when he began talking to me. He flattered me, saying I must be a cheerleader, no more than a junior in high school. In the real world, I’m a 36-year-old (today’s my birthday) mother of two high school children and one who will enter the fifth grade this fall. (This was written 5 years ago, so I'm not 36 anymore.)
This gentleman told me to let him know how my rental, “A Beautiful Mind” with Russell Crowe, was. I know he was just kidding, being friendly, but after watching the movie, I thought writing this could not only answer his request, (if he reads this) but encourage us all with this story of overcoming great odds.
Despite my dislike for the actor, the movie, based on a true story, was good. A little slow during the first half, the second half began to unfold with Crowe’s character, Dr. John Nash determined to overcome his schizophrenia.
It was the 1950s and he was a brilliant young man who married his true love, Alicia, and began a bright career in mathematics at M.I.T. During his wife’s pregnancy, delusions began to overtake his life. His thinking changed from scientific and rational to the delusional thinking characteristic of those who are diagnosed as schizophrenic or paranoid schizophrenic.
Nash became paranoid, believing he was into code breaking for the U.S. government. He was convinced Russians would harm his wife and child if he ignored the omnipresent, aggressive government boss in his mind who gave him orders to go through magazines looking for codes and deposit his discoveries in a mailbox behind an iron gate.
He was so convinced, he even believed they had implanted an infrared access code for the drop box under the skin in his arm and tried to rip it out in hospital lockup. Also living in his mind were a college roommate and a young niece. It finally dawned on him one day that this “roommate’s” niece never aged.
Upon entering the hospital, his arms and legs
were restrained, and he was given insulin, other medications and shock therapy to control the delusions.
The government conspirators who worked for a CIA-type agency were actually ‘seen’ by Nash. He had conversations, even altercations with them. As Alicia came inside from retrieving laundry one night, her husband had started the baby’s bath and left him lying in a tub of running water. She rescued the crying baby, as the water was about to cover his face and rushed to phone the doctor. At that moment, the government boss appeared and in the process of trying to protect his wife from him, Nash knocked her and their baby son to the ground, putting more strain on their marriage.
Since his work suffered while he was on the medications and he was unable to be intimate with his wife, he stopped taking the drugs, discarding them into a desk drawer.
Nash was determined to teach a class with real students and continue his research, but those situations put so much stress on him, the delusions heightened. As things became worse, his wife and physician insisted he voluntarily return to the hospital.
Not wanting to resume shock therapy and drugs, he refused, and focused on ignoring the people he saw in his mind. The more he concentrated and told them he was no longer able to speak to them, the stronger he became, until he was able to function in the real world again. He was later recognized with the Nobel Prize for his research in the mid-1990s, with his wife and son still by his side.
So many people want to blame others for all the bad things they do, or that happen to them, but here is a man who had every excuse to fail, yet overcame. There are others who have no excuse to fail, but find every reason to and blame it on everyone else.
No matter what has happened to me, I’ve never had to worry about the appearance that I’m having a fight with the air, or imaginary people are stalking me or having the feeling that someone is going to kill my family.
My outlook in life is that there is always someone who has it worse than I do — not that there is someone who has it better than I do. I am fortunate to have what I have and am grateful for it. If we all go around wishing we had what the Joneses have, we’d be miserable all the time. Plus, what if the Joneses appear to have it all, but have their own demons the outside world doesn’t know about?
Money doesn’t buy happiness, or power, or love.
This brilliant doctor had a terrible illness, suffered many years and surely still struggles every day with it, but determination and his struggle to return to more scientific and rational thinking saved his life and his family. He didn’t give up, despite his demons. His wife stuck by his side through the decades in an ever-changing world, refusing to let the changing times contribute to a downfall.
It’s a story that should give hope to every one of us. If he can manage those demons in his mind, we all surely can manage our everyday demons and have a full life — and maybe even help someone else go through a tough time, too.
I was in line at a Platte City grocery store last week to rent a video when he began talking to me. He flattered me, saying I must be a cheerleader, no more than a junior in high school. In the real world, I’m a 36-year-old (today’s my birthday) mother of two high school children and one who will enter the fifth grade this fall. (This was written 5 years ago, so I'm not 36 anymore.)
This gentleman told me to let him know how my rental, “A Beautiful Mind” with Russell Crowe, was. I know he was just kidding, being friendly, but after watching the movie, I thought writing this could not only answer his request, (if he reads this) but encourage us all with this story of overcoming great odds.
Despite my dislike for the actor, the movie, based on a true story, was good. A little slow during the first half, the second half began to unfold with Crowe’s character, Dr. John Nash determined to overcome his schizophrenia.
It was the 1950s and he was a brilliant young man who married his true love, Alicia, and began a bright career in mathematics at M.I.T. During his wife’s pregnancy, delusions began to overtake his life. His thinking changed from scientific and rational to the delusional thinking characteristic of those who are diagnosed as schizophrenic or paranoid schizophrenic.
Nash became paranoid, believing he was into code breaking for the U.S. government. He was convinced Russians would harm his wife and child if he ignored the omnipresent, aggressive government boss in his mind who gave him orders to go through magazines looking for codes and deposit his discoveries in a mailbox behind an iron gate.
He was so convinced, he even believed they had implanted an infrared access code for the drop box under the skin in his arm and tried to rip it out in hospital lockup. Also living in his mind were a college roommate and a young niece. It finally dawned on him one day that this “roommate’s” niece never aged.
Upon entering the hospital, his arms and legs
were restrained, and he was given insulin, other medications and shock therapy to control the delusions.
The government conspirators who worked for a CIA-type agency were actually ‘seen’ by Nash. He had conversations, even altercations with them. As Alicia came inside from retrieving laundry one night, her husband had started the baby’s bath and left him lying in a tub of running water. She rescued the crying baby, as the water was about to cover his face and rushed to phone the doctor. At that moment, the government boss appeared and in the process of trying to protect his wife from him, Nash knocked her and their baby son to the ground, putting more strain on their marriage.
Since his work suffered while he was on the medications and he was unable to be intimate with his wife, he stopped taking the drugs, discarding them into a desk drawer.
Nash was determined to teach a class with real students and continue his research, but those situations put so much stress on him, the delusions heightened. As things became worse, his wife and physician insisted he voluntarily return to the hospital.
Not wanting to resume shock therapy and drugs, he refused, and focused on ignoring the people he saw in his mind. The more he concentrated and told them he was no longer able to speak to them, the stronger he became, until he was able to function in the real world again. He was later recognized with the Nobel Prize for his research in the mid-1990s, with his wife and son still by his side.
So many people want to blame others for all the bad things they do, or that happen to them, but here is a man who had every excuse to fail, yet overcame. There are others who have no excuse to fail, but find every reason to and blame it on everyone else.
No matter what has happened to me, I’ve never had to worry about the appearance that I’m having a fight with the air, or imaginary people are stalking me or having the feeling that someone is going to kill my family.
My outlook in life is that there is always someone who has it worse than I do — not that there is someone who has it better than I do. I am fortunate to have what I have and am grateful for it. If we all go around wishing we had what the Joneses have, we’d be miserable all the time. Plus, what if the Joneses appear to have it all, but have their own demons the outside world doesn’t know about?
Money doesn’t buy happiness, or power, or love.
This brilliant doctor had a terrible illness, suffered many years and surely still struggles every day with it, but determination and his struggle to return to more scientific and rational thinking saved his life and his family. He didn’t give up, despite his demons. His wife stuck by his side through the decades in an ever-changing world, refusing to let the changing times contribute to a downfall.
It’s a story that should give hope to every one of us. If he can manage those demons in his mind, we all surely can manage our everyday demons and have a full life — and maybe even help someone else go through a tough time, too.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Camping Trip Proves to Be Adventure
Turtles and snakes and burps, oh my!
Our family has found another summer activity to try. In addition to Worlds of Fun, some of the kids have voiced their desire to go camping. I remember hating the whole camping thing as a teenager. I couldn’t live without my friends and the comforts of home — my blow dryer, my curling iron, my radio, my bed… If my parents mentioned a camping trip, a feeling of dread passed over me. Since I couldn’t get out of it, I usually asked if I could take a friend along. Sometimes they would say yes. One trip, they let me take my girlfriend, Lorrie. We had a good camping trip, canoeing on the Current River singing the Flintstones theme song. “…from the town of Bedrock….”
My 14-year-old daughter is a chip off the block. “Aw, Mom, do we really have to go camping this weekend? Can I take a friend? Will it be both nights?” I had to remind her that there are already nine of us, which requires two tents (if we ever receive the second tent we ordered). The state parks have a two-tent limit, so I don’t know where we’d put another person. There’s also a six-person limit to a campsite, but the camp attendant told us they have to make exceptions in cases like ours. They can’t very well split up parents and children. (Wait a minute…why not?)
We went on our first outing last weekend, with four of the kids. From the time we set up the tent until dark, the kids couldn’t wait to get in the tent and go to bed. We had to keep telling them to come out until it was actually bedtime. We took them to look for frogs, water rats, turtles and other creatures at the lake and roasted marshmallows to keep them occupied and their minds off going to bed. At last, we said ok, you guys can go into the tent and get to bed now.
“Do we have to?”
I don’t get it. We couldn’t keep them out of that tent all afternoon and they were so very tired, they just had to go to sleep immediately. Now, at 9:30 p.m., they aren’t tired? I forgot, kids are known to be contrary.
Once we got the three boys inside, we kept hearing laughter. Apparently, boys will continue to be boys, belching and making other, um, noises. The youngest, a girl, was sitting on her daddy’s lap in front of the fire waiting for it to die down, (and proving she could belch as masterfully as any boy), until dad went to find some corks for the boys.
By 10:30, I was done waiting for them to calm down and I decided to turn in also. It took a while, but they finally zonked out.
At 6 a.m., we were awakened to the sound of rain viciously slapping the tent. We were certainly glad we installed the rain cover when we set up the tent. We went back to sleep since we were staying dry and spent a lazy morning in the tent, enjoying the kids sleeping in.
The rest of the day was spent watching snakes in the rocks at the lake’s edge and trying to find a small turtle we could take home, since nine of the 10 baby-cricket-size frogs they caught in the rain at Worlds of Fun are dead now.
We also learned we need to plan better before the next trip. We had expected this first camping trip to be a kidless one, but we spoke to my husband’s kids and they were dying to join us after we got there, so we were a little unprepared. Since we were thrilled they wanted to join us, their mother brought them to us at the park and we made do with what we had brought. Always remember pillows when you are going to sleep on the ground. We began making a list right away so next time we’re more prepared. And if we’re not, surely there will be a Wally World nearby, won’t there?
It looks like we will be camping this weekend. My son called me at work to tell me the tent arrived - just in time. Now if we can convince my daughter of the fun to ensue.
We couldn’t convince my daughter how much fun camping was going to be (she will soon have all the fun she can stand, camping for two weeks with her dad). And it turns out my husband’s oldest son wasn’t convinced either. He stayed home with his mother and didn’t come with his siblings even though he was the one who seemed most anxious to do the whole camping thing in the first place.
Kids. Go figure.
Our family has found another summer activity to try. In addition to Worlds of Fun, some of the kids have voiced their desire to go camping. I remember hating the whole camping thing as a teenager. I couldn’t live without my friends and the comforts of home — my blow dryer, my curling iron, my radio, my bed… If my parents mentioned a camping trip, a feeling of dread passed over me. Since I couldn’t get out of it, I usually asked if I could take a friend along. Sometimes they would say yes. One trip, they let me take my girlfriend, Lorrie. We had a good camping trip, canoeing on the Current River singing the Flintstones theme song. “…from the town of Bedrock….”
My 14-year-old daughter is a chip off the block. “Aw, Mom, do we really have to go camping this weekend? Can I take a friend? Will it be both nights?” I had to remind her that there are already nine of us, which requires two tents (if we ever receive the second tent we ordered). The state parks have a two-tent limit, so I don’t know where we’d put another person. There’s also a six-person limit to a campsite, but the camp attendant told us they have to make exceptions in cases like ours. They can’t very well split up parents and children. (Wait a minute…why not?)
We went on our first outing last weekend, with four of the kids. From the time we set up the tent until dark, the kids couldn’t wait to get in the tent and go to bed. We had to keep telling them to come out until it was actually bedtime. We took them to look for frogs, water rats, turtles and other creatures at the lake and roasted marshmallows to keep them occupied and their minds off going to bed. At last, we said ok, you guys can go into the tent and get to bed now.
“Do we have to?”
I don’t get it. We couldn’t keep them out of that tent all afternoon and they were so very tired, they just had to go to sleep immediately. Now, at 9:30 p.m., they aren’t tired? I forgot, kids are known to be contrary.
Once we got the three boys inside, we kept hearing laughter. Apparently, boys will continue to be boys, belching and making other, um, noises. The youngest, a girl, was sitting on her daddy’s lap in front of the fire waiting for it to die down, (and proving she could belch as masterfully as any boy), until dad went to find some corks for the boys.
By 10:30, I was done waiting for them to calm down and I decided to turn in also. It took a while, but they finally zonked out.
At 6 a.m., we were awakened to the sound of rain viciously slapping the tent. We were certainly glad we installed the rain cover when we set up the tent. We went back to sleep since we were staying dry and spent a lazy morning in the tent, enjoying the kids sleeping in.
The rest of the day was spent watching snakes in the rocks at the lake’s edge and trying to find a small turtle we could take home, since nine of the 10 baby-cricket-size frogs they caught in the rain at Worlds of Fun are dead now.
We also learned we need to plan better before the next trip. We had expected this first camping trip to be a kidless one, but we spoke to my husband’s kids and they were dying to join us after we got there, so we were a little unprepared. Since we were thrilled they wanted to join us, their mother brought them to us at the park and we made do with what we had brought. Always remember pillows when you are going to sleep on the ground. We began making a list right away so next time we’re more prepared. And if we’re not, surely there will be a Wally World nearby, won’t there?
It looks like we will be camping this weekend. My son called me at work to tell me the tent arrived - just in time. Now if we can convince my daughter of the fun to ensue.
We couldn’t convince my daughter how much fun camping was going to be (she will soon have all the fun she can stand, camping for two weeks with her dad). And it turns out my husband’s oldest son wasn’t convinced either. He stayed home with his mother and didn’t come with his siblings even though he was the one who seemed most anxious to do the whole camping thing in the first place.
Kids. Go figure.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
I'll pledge my allegiance 'under God,' thank you
I have some questions about taking the words “under God” out of the pledge of allegiance.
What about the person(s) who changed the pledge in 1954 to include “under God”, how would they feel about government taking out what they must’ve believed was the cornerstone of the pledge? What about those who adopted it as our country's pledge? Where were the atheists/freedom criers then? (You might be safe betting that if something tragic happens to them, an "Oh my God" or "Oh God" might slip out of their mouths.) But don't make them say or hear it in a pledge that, realistically, isn't even said every day.
If you don't want to say the pledge, don't. It would be different to protest if this was a new pledge being adopted, but it's been around for many years. Is someone going to make a big stink about our U.S. currency, which declares “In God We Trust”?
Because one man didn’t want his daughter to hear the pledge with “under God” at school, the Supreme Court is going to possibly deem it unconstitutional?
Did anyone force the child to say the pledge? When I was a child, I don’t remember anyone making me say the pledge. Saying the pledge didn’t make me a Christian; many other factors played in that. Did someone force this father to hear the pledge as a child and he’s now traumatized as an adult, trying to save his little girl? Perhaps he could move to another country where he has more “freedoms.” I think we live in the greatest country on earth.
I don’t agree with some things being taught as fact in the public schools, but I’ve taught my children what I believe and they know that everything they’re taught in school isn’t necessarily true according to our beliefs. They are taught to learn what they can in school and go on. Parents can instill whatever beliefs they choose, however, I think they should leave a country’s long-standing pledge alone.
I don’t like a lot of laws and rules here, but that would be a whole other story. Who likes being told to wear a seatbelt? But, you may choose whether or not to wear it and pay the consequences if you don’t. Either the police catch us or we get hurt, hurt someone or die in an accident. It’s a choice.
This democracy was founded with God included, and in this country, the majority rules. Maybe a national vote should be taken to clear this up.
Separation of church and state was intended to keep the government out of the church's business, not the other way around. And since when is saying “under God” about church anyway? Church is a place where a group of people meet to worship God. “Church” is not merely saying "God". Most people have a god or gods, no matter what they are, so the pledge should cover almost anyone who wants to be included.
How about swearing in those who testify in a court of law with "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth 'so help you YOU?' Would you rather someone swear by oneself, to no one or nothing, or God? I’d rather someone testifying on my behalf to feel like they’re swearing to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth” to a higher being (that would be God) rather than having no motivation or anyone to answer to.
Perhaps that’s why some people don’t want to include God’s name in anything -- they don’t want to feel like they have to answer for anything to anyone but themselves? Whether we like it or not, we all have to answer for our actions, whether it’s to God, a parent, a teacher, the law or each other. We all, as humans, hold each other accountable.
What can it hurt to say God’s name if you’re an atheist? Who’s going to care? In the atheist’s opinion, to whom will they answer in the hereafter for it? We Christians, who do believe in God, believe we will ultimately answer to the God we are all arguing about taking out of our pledge of allegiance if we don’t stand up and defend him.
Sometimes having freedom weighs us down. Kids cry they want freedom. Does that mean they should get to do anything they want, or should parents limit them for their own good? Everyone cries that our freedoms are being taken away one by one.
We’re making them say “under God” when we pledge allegiance to the flag of this great country. This wouldn’t be a great country without those who fought for our so-called freedom. The stripes in the flag we salute represents the bloodshed of war, and purity, which none of us possess, only God possibly could. Were those soldiers all free as they were slain for our freedom? I think not. They lost their lives; their families lost them forever.
Being free doesn’t always mean getting things our way. It’s about sacrifice. You can choose to not recite the pledge if you don’t believe what it is saying and has said for many years, but if you take it out, what shall those of us who believe it should remain do?
I suppose we can all just say it how we choose and be out of sync with one another. That’s no way to be united now, is it?
What about the person(s) who changed the pledge in 1954 to include “under God”, how would they feel about government taking out what they must’ve believed was the cornerstone of the pledge? What about those who adopted it as our country's pledge? Where were the atheists/freedom criers then? (You might be safe betting that if something tragic happens to them, an "Oh my God" or "Oh God" might slip out of their mouths.) But don't make them say or hear it in a pledge that, realistically, isn't even said every day.
If you don't want to say the pledge, don't. It would be different to protest if this was a new pledge being adopted, but it's been around for many years. Is someone going to make a big stink about our U.S. currency, which declares “In God We Trust”?
Because one man didn’t want his daughter to hear the pledge with “under God” at school, the Supreme Court is going to possibly deem it unconstitutional?
Did anyone force the child to say the pledge? When I was a child, I don’t remember anyone making me say the pledge. Saying the pledge didn’t make me a Christian; many other factors played in that. Did someone force this father to hear the pledge as a child and he’s now traumatized as an adult, trying to save his little girl? Perhaps he could move to another country where he has more “freedoms.” I think we live in the greatest country on earth.
I don’t agree with some things being taught as fact in the public schools, but I’ve taught my children what I believe and they know that everything they’re taught in school isn’t necessarily true according to our beliefs. They are taught to learn what they can in school and go on. Parents can instill whatever beliefs they choose, however, I think they should leave a country’s long-standing pledge alone.
I don’t like a lot of laws and rules here, but that would be a whole other story. Who likes being told to wear a seatbelt? But, you may choose whether or not to wear it and pay the consequences if you don’t. Either the police catch us or we get hurt, hurt someone or die in an accident. It’s a choice.
This democracy was founded with God included, and in this country, the majority rules. Maybe a national vote should be taken to clear this up.
Separation of church and state was intended to keep the government out of the church's business, not the other way around. And since when is saying “under God” about church anyway? Church is a place where a group of people meet to worship God. “Church” is not merely saying "God". Most people have a god or gods, no matter what they are, so the pledge should cover almost anyone who wants to be included.
How about swearing in those who testify in a court of law with "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth 'so help you YOU?' Would you rather someone swear by oneself, to no one or nothing, or God? I’d rather someone testifying on my behalf to feel like they’re swearing to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth” to a higher being (that would be God) rather than having no motivation or anyone to answer to.
Perhaps that’s why some people don’t want to include God’s name in anything -- they don’t want to feel like they have to answer for anything to anyone but themselves? Whether we like it or not, we all have to answer for our actions, whether it’s to God, a parent, a teacher, the law or each other. We all, as humans, hold each other accountable.
What can it hurt to say God’s name if you’re an atheist? Who’s going to care? In the atheist’s opinion, to whom will they answer in the hereafter for it? We Christians, who do believe in God, believe we will ultimately answer to the God we are all arguing about taking out of our pledge of allegiance if we don’t stand up and defend him.
Sometimes having freedom weighs us down. Kids cry they want freedom. Does that mean they should get to do anything they want, or should parents limit them for their own good? Everyone cries that our freedoms are being taken away one by one.
We’re making them say “under God” when we pledge allegiance to the flag of this great country. This wouldn’t be a great country without those who fought for our so-called freedom. The stripes in the flag we salute represents the bloodshed of war, and purity, which none of us possess, only God possibly could. Were those soldiers all free as they were slain for our freedom? I think not. They lost their lives; their families lost them forever.
Being free doesn’t always mean getting things our way. It’s about sacrifice. You can choose to not recite the pledge if you don’t believe what it is saying and has said for many years, but if you take it out, what shall those of us who believe it should remain do?
I suppose we can all just say it how we choose and be out of sync with one another. That’s no way to be united now, is it?
Friday, February 22, 2008
Dear Diary, I Sure Miss My Grandma
Sometimes we never know how profoundly someone has affected our life until they’re gone. This is a diary of the last days of my grandmother, Doris Young.
Thursday, October 25, 2001: Haven’t seen my 76-year-old grandma in a while. Mom said she’s going in for surgery in Kansas City tomorrow to have a cyst removed from her liver. It’s serious, but they say she has the best surgeon, and they don’t expect any problems. She’s healthy as a horse.
Friday, October 26: My sister called to tell me Grandma’s surgery went well. As she talked to me on the phone, her cell phone rang, and it was Mom. Grandma stopped breathing — no one knows why. The worst part is that the respiratory therapist assigned to her thought it was just a defective monitor. By the time he got another and hooked it up, they estimated she hadn’t been breathing for about 15 minutes. Grandma’s in a coma.
Saturday, October 27: Not much change in Grandma’s condition. Doctors are monitoring brainwaves. Parts of her brain are dead, but her heart is strong.
Monday, October 29: The hospital waiting room was filled with family. My aunt took me back to the intensive care unit to see Grandma. It was the first time I’d seen her since last Christmas, because of busy lives and living in different towns. She didn’t look like herself. She looked like a linebacker lying there, big shoulders and swollen everywhere.
After speaking with the doctors, the family made a caravan to a restaurant. We sat at different tables since all they had available were booths, but we were all still one, big “trying-to-be-happy” family. My uncle had the foresight to grab some butter and a loaf of Grandma’s homemade banana-nut bread from her freezer. After we ate, he sliced and served us all a slice of the last thing she had baked.
Tuesday, October 30: Waiting is difficult. They’re talking about starting our good-byes to Grandma. They might turn off the respirator, if her brain shows no activity.
Wednesday, October 31: The test showed a decline in brainwaves since Monday, yet she responded to her children’s voices as the doctors did the test. A good sign, right? Tonight, I stood by Grandma’s bed, stroking her arm. She was much less swollen and looked so much better. Mom talked to her and told her I was there.
Saturday, November 3: Mom called. The catheter used to take the fluid off Grandma’s brain and other organs collapsed. This meant it was only a matter of time. One by one, they took out the tubes and left her with only her respirator.
Sunday, November 4: The family discussed many things: Who would sing at the funeral, what Grandma would wear, what she’d want for her funeral; how proud she was of her grandchildren’s accomplishments. We reminisced and learned many new things about our family. We returned to the hospital to see her, maybe for the last time. All I could hear when I looked at her is her laughter, knowing I won’t hear it again. We won’t get to visit at Christmas and see how huge her hoop earrings are or her enormous, crazy watches she loved so much. She loved to have her nails done in wild shades. We won’t get to eat her famous homemade rolls this holiday season.
Wednesday, November 7: My biggest fan, my Grandma, who told my uncle I was going to be famous someday, went home to be with the Lord today. The family stood and held hands around her bed, prayed and sang “Amazing Grace” as she left us. As much as I love to sing, I found myself unable to.
Saturday, November 10: Grandma’s funeral, or celebration of life, as we prefer to call it, was today. It was amazing to see how many people attended and filed by her casket to pay their respects. She touched many peoples’ lives with her volunteer work and outgoing personality.
I sobbed as I walked by her casket and had to leave the sanctuary to compose myself. I didn’t want her to go.
At the cemetery on that unseasonably warm, sunny winter day, each of the grandkids was given a purple or white balloon. At the signal, we all let them go toward the sky, and laughed and watched until they were out of sight. It kept me from crying and made me think happy thoughts. I think I heard her laughter.
It was the most beautiful celebration I’ve ever seen.
Thursday, October 25, 2001: Haven’t seen my 76-year-old grandma in a while. Mom said she’s going in for surgery in Kansas City tomorrow to have a cyst removed from her liver. It’s serious, but they say she has the best surgeon, and they don’t expect any problems. She’s healthy as a horse.
Friday, October 26: My sister called to tell me Grandma’s surgery went well. As she talked to me on the phone, her cell phone rang, and it was Mom. Grandma stopped breathing — no one knows why. The worst part is that the respiratory therapist assigned to her thought it was just a defective monitor. By the time he got another and hooked it up, they estimated she hadn’t been breathing for about 15 minutes. Grandma’s in a coma.
Saturday, October 27: Not much change in Grandma’s condition. Doctors are monitoring brainwaves. Parts of her brain are dead, but her heart is strong.
Monday, October 29: The hospital waiting room was filled with family. My aunt took me back to the intensive care unit to see Grandma. It was the first time I’d seen her since last Christmas, because of busy lives and living in different towns. She didn’t look like herself. She looked like a linebacker lying there, big shoulders and swollen everywhere.
After speaking with the doctors, the family made a caravan to a restaurant. We sat at different tables since all they had available were booths, but we were all still one, big “trying-to-be-happy” family. My uncle had the foresight to grab some butter and a loaf of Grandma’s homemade banana-nut bread from her freezer. After we ate, he sliced and served us all a slice of the last thing she had baked.
Tuesday, October 30: Waiting is difficult. They’re talking about starting our good-byes to Grandma. They might turn off the respirator, if her brain shows no activity.
Wednesday, October 31: The test showed a decline in brainwaves since Monday, yet she responded to her children’s voices as the doctors did the test. A good sign, right? Tonight, I stood by Grandma’s bed, stroking her arm. She was much less swollen and looked so much better. Mom talked to her and told her I was there.
Saturday, November 3: Mom called. The catheter used to take the fluid off Grandma’s brain and other organs collapsed. This meant it was only a matter of time. One by one, they took out the tubes and left her with only her respirator.
Sunday, November 4: The family discussed many things: Who would sing at the funeral, what Grandma would wear, what she’d want for her funeral; how proud she was of her grandchildren’s accomplishments. We reminisced and learned many new things about our family. We returned to the hospital to see her, maybe for the last time. All I could hear when I looked at her is her laughter, knowing I won’t hear it again. We won’t get to visit at Christmas and see how huge her hoop earrings are or her enormous, crazy watches she loved so much. She loved to have her nails done in wild shades. We won’t get to eat her famous homemade rolls this holiday season.
Wednesday, November 7: My biggest fan, my Grandma, who told my uncle I was going to be famous someday, went home to be with the Lord today. The family stood and held hands around her bed, prayed and sang “Amazing Grace” as she left us. As much as I love to sing, I found myself unable to.
Saturday, November 10: Grandma’s funeral, or celebration of life, as we prefer to call it, was today. It was amazing to see how many people attended and filed by her casket to pay their respects. She touched many peoples’ lives with her volunteer work and outgoing personality.
I sobbed as I walked by her casket and had to leave the sanctuary to compose myself. I didn’t want her to go.
At the cemetery on that unseasonably warm, sunny winter day, each of the grandkids was given a purple or white balloon. At the signal, we all let them go toward the sky, and laughed and watched until they were out of sight. It kept me from crying and made me think happy thoughts. I think I heard her laughter.
It was the most beautiful celebration I’ve ever seen.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
So You've Had a Bad Day
Ever had one of those days? I just had one of those days. Those days never come with a warning, but I guess that's what makes those days, those days.
Here's what made that day "one of those days."
I'd been wanting a new bed, but couldn't find what I wanted that was within our budget. Since my husband has been collecting tools for the past year, he decided to try and build a new headboard and footboard as his Christmas gift to me.
He didn't have time to get it done by Christmas and he also didn't have the router he needed to help complete the project.
Christmas Eve came and he decided to build a model of the bed he had in his mind. He grabbed my daughter before I got home from work and the two of them went to the craft store for supplies.
When I got home, we packed our old Suburban and headed to my mom's in Plattsburg to spend the night.
As I stuffed stockings and did some last minute wrapping, my husband and daughter went to a back room and started their project. A tiny four-poster bed, complete with comforter, pillows and a canopy was born. Other than almost super-gluing his fingers together, it turned out well.
He presented me with his creation and I was so touched by the thought alone, all I could say was, "Aww..."
It was adorable.
One of the obstacles we encountered was the lumberyard's holiday hours. They were closed on the only days we had off work.
We made plans to go the following weekend, making sure to get there before they closed at noon. (We like to sleep in on Saturdays, so we set the alarm clock. Just kidding.) We made the trip to look at wood the next Saturday. We got our estimates and told the clerk we'd be back the next weekend with our truck.
This brings me to "one of those days".
We got the kids ready, and it was cold outside, so I went out to start the Suburban. I didn't notice anything strange, but when I climbed into the seat and closed my door, the rear quarter window on the driver's side shattered all over the street. I couldn't believe it. We're talking a four-foot-long window here, no small beans.
This would definitely put a damper on the day's plan of going to the lumberyard and building our new bed. Not to mention blowing the budget, since I was pretty sure a window of this size wouldn't come cheap.
I began to call for estimates. They were just under the amount of our auto insurance's deductible, at $400 plus. And they couldn't get it done until Monday.
Luckily, my husband is from the KC area and thought of a place we could call there. Turned out, they had the glass we needed, and for only $75. Just one catch -- it wasn't the privacy tinted glass we needed to match the rest of the windows.
Still, with a cost difference like that, we decided it was worth it. After all, it was wintertime, and we could always tint it later. We loaded everyone in the truck for the trip to KC.
Maybe we could still squeeze the bed materials into the budget after all.
I thought that was the end of "one of those days", but this vehicle just won't quit -- giving me trouble, that is. I guess things happen in threes, so I should be good to go from here on out.
We came out of the video store and when we returned to the truck, it wouldn't start. We walked across the parking lot to the mall, thinking we could hit Sears up for one of their famous Die Hard batteries. But oh no, they don't carry those anymore. Wasn't Sears known for its Die Hard batteries?
We hiked back to the truck where five of our kids were waiting. Someone had offered to jump-start the truck according to my son, but he didn't have the keys to start the ignition. After waiting quite a while, we finally had an offer from two nice ladies who didn't mind giving 60 seconds of their day to jump-start us.
We drove straight to the auto parts store, and the clerk tested the battery and said it was fine, but he suspected the alternator was going bad.
The next week I continued to drive the truck back and forth 50 miles every day for work, but I had to hold my tongue just right, wink one eye and hike my left leg at a 45-degree angle to get it to start each time.
Finally, I decided it was time to go buy an alternator. I took it to a garage, but they didn't think it was the alternator. He brought it back to me within an hour or so, and said it was, in fact, the battery. Good, that's cheaper than an alternator and it's all done and overwith.
Not so fast. As I drove home that evening, I exited from the highway to go to the bank and I heard a noise. I turned the radio down, and heard a hissing sound. Oh no, did that tire with the bubble in it just blow out?
I made it the next block to the bank and had to go into the pizza place and call my husband, who wasn't home yet.
I went back to wait in the truck, and he arrived 15 minutes later. We got out the jack and the lug wrench didn't seem to fit. We ran to the friendly neighborhood auto parts store again, and then weren't sure whether we needed metric or standard, so we bought both.
Upon returning to the truck, my husband said, "I'm so stupid, there was a cover on the tire."
Have you ever tried to jack up a Suburban with a long back end? You have to jack it up by the rear axle. It was nice and wet and muddy from all the snow, so this wasn't a fun job.
At last, the tire was changed and we returned both jacks to the auto parts store, grabbed some burgers and went home to watch TV.
So, I shouldn't be due for any more problems for quite some time, I hope. Cross your fingers.
Here's what made that day "one of those days."
I'd been wanting a new bed, but couldn't find what I wanted that was within our budget. Since my husband has been collecting tools for the past year, he decided to try and build a new headboard and footboard as his Christmas gift to me.
He didn't have time to get it done by Christmas and he also didn't have the router he needed to help complete the project.
Christmas Eve came and he decided to build a model of the bed he had in his mind. He grabbed my daughter before I got home from work and the two of them went to the craft store for supplies.
When I got home, we packed our old Suburban and headed to my mom's in Plattsburg to spend the night.
As I stuffed stockings and did some last minute wrapping, my husband and daughter went to a back room and started their project. A tiny four-poster bed, complete with comforter, pillows and a canopy was born. Other than almost super-gluing his fingers together, it turned out well.
He presented me with his creation and I was so touched by the thought alone, all I could say was, "Aww..."
It was adorable.
One of the obstacles we encountered was the lumberyard's holiday hours. They were closed on the only days we had off work.
We made plans to go the following weekend, making sure to get there before they closed at noon. (We like to sleep in on Saturdays, so we set the alarm clock. Just kidding.) We made the trip to look at wood the next Saturday. We got our estimates and told the clerk we'd be back the next weekend with our truck.
This brings me to "one of those days".
We got the kids ready, and it was cold outside, so I went out to start the Suburban. I didn't notice anything strange, but when I climbed into the seat and closed my door, the rear quarter window on the driver's side shattered all over the street. I couldn't believe it. We're talking a four-foot-long window here, no small beans.
This would definitely put a damper on the day's plan of going to the lumberyard and building our new bed. Not to mention blowing the budget, since I was pretty sure a window of this size wouldn't come cheap.
I began to call for estimates. They were just under the amount of our auto insurance's deductible, at $400 plus. And they couldn't get it done until Monday.
Luckily, my husband is from the KC area and thought of a place we could call there. Turned out, they had the glass we needed, and for only $75. Just one catch -- it wasn't the privacy tinted glass we needed to match the rest of the windows.
Still, with a cost difference like that, we decided it was worth it. After all, it was wintertime, and we could always tint it later. We loaded everyone in the truck for the trip to KC.
Maybe we could still squeeze the bed materials into the budget after all.
I thought that was the end of "one of those days", but this vehicle just won't quit -- giving me trouble, that is. I guess things happen in threes, so I should be good to go from here on out.
We came out of the video store and when we returned to the truck, it wouldn't start. We walked across the parking lot to the mall, thinking we could hit Sears up for one of their famous Die Hard batteries. But oh no, they don't carry those anymore. Wasn't Sears known for its Die Hard batteries?
We hiked back to the truck where five of our kids were waiting. Someone had offered to jump-start the truck according to my son, but he didn't have the keys to start the ignition. After waiting quite a while, we finally had an offer from two nice ladies who didn't mind giving 60 seconds of their day to jump-start us.
We drove straight to the auto parts store, and the clerk tested the battery and said it was fine, but he suspected the alternator was going bad.
The next week I continued to drive the truck back and forth 50 miles every day for work, but I had to hold my tongue just right, wink one eye and hike my left leg at a 45-degree angle to get it to start each time.
Finally, I decided it was time to go buy an alternator. I took it to a garage, but they didn't think it was the alternator. He brought it back to me within an hour or so, and said it was, in fact, the battery. Good, that's cheaper than an alternator and it's all done and overwith.
Not so fast. As I drove home that evening, I exited from the highway to go to the bank and I heard a noise. I turned the radio down, and heard a hissing sound. Oh no, did that tire with the bubble in it just blow out?
I made it the next block to the bank and had to go into the pizza place and call my husband, who wasn't home yet.
I went back to wait in the truck, and he arrived 15 minutes later. We got out the jack and the lug wrench didn't seem to fit. We ran to the friendly neighborhood auto parts store again, and then weren't sure whether we needed metric or standard, so we bought both.
Upon returning to the truck, my husband said, "I'm so stupid, there was a cover on the tire."
Have you ever tried to jack up a Suburban with a long back end? You have to jack it up by the rear axle. It was nice and wet and muddy from all the snow, so this wasn't a fun job.
At last, the tire was changed and we returned both jacks to the auto parts store, grabbed some burgers and went home to watch TV.
So, I shouldn't be due for any more problems for quite some time, I hope. Cross your fingers.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Football Girly-Girl
(Again, one of my former columns, edited slightly)
It's that time of year again-Nebraska football. What, you might ask, am I talking about? Why, the annual spring football scrimmage played every April in Lincoln, of course. I married a Husker fan, which means he (we) must attend.
I am not a sports fan. I'd rather be shopping. Not because I'm a stereotypical female who can't get enough of the mall. I'd just rather be doing anything else besides watching football. Anyone got a toilet to clean? (I'm feeling kinda gutsy, publicly admitting this with my boss's column, which is often sports-related, which was put right above this column. And that I'm not speaking of MU doesn't help matters either.)
Anyway, here's my attempt to write a sports column based on the events of that day. It was just my way of adding to the proud sports tradition of the newspaper in which it was published. Since I kinda like my husband's company, we woke up early to get ready for the spring game. We stopped and got some breakfast for the road. It was a windy, cold, cloudy Saturday morning we hoped would clear by the time we arrived at NU's stadium.
We arrived in Lincoln, but parking is a luxury for the rich. We chose to park free and walk a half-mile to the stadium. Since the wind was so fierce, I decided a seat under the top tier might shelter us a bit from the sharp wind. I was mistaken. I started wishing I'd worn a winter coat as I wrapped a big black tent, I mean rain poncho, around my legs.
"What do you have to say?" my husband asked as halftime neared. "Brrr," was my reply. "We're at a football game, none of those girly complaints," he zinged back.
"Should I scratch myself, prove I'm a man?" I asked.
"That'd be cool," he smiled as halftime began.
We went to the bathroom, but he wouldn't let me go to the men's room. So much for me trying to be less "girly". At least we were able to warm up a little.
As we turned to go back to our seats, we noticed people walking by with wet jackets on. Lo and behold, it was raining. And, we had lost our seats underneath the upper tier. They always say, "Move your feet, lose your seat." Whoever said that must have been at a football game where they stole some poor, cold, had-to-go-to-the-bathroom people's seats under the upper tier.
My husband asked if I wanted to leave and of course, I did. We swam the half-mile back to the car and found a place to eat. It rained all day and night.
I think we were both a little girly that day.
Oh, and Nebraska won the game.
It's that time of year again-Nebraska football. What, you might ask, am I talking about? Why, the annual spring football scrimmage played every April in Lincoln, of course. I married a Husker fan, which means he (we) must attend.
I am not a sports fan. I'd rather be shopping. Not because I'm a stereotypical female who can't get enough of the mall. I'd just rather be doing anything else besides watching football. Anyone got a toilet to clean? (I'm feeling kinda gutsy, publicly admitting this with my boss's column, which is often sports-related, which was put right above this column. And that I'm not speaking of MU doesn't help matters either.)
Anyway, here's my attempt to write a sports column based on the events of that day. It was just my way of adding to the proud sports tradition of the newspaper in which it was published. Since I kinda like my husband's company, we woke up early to get ready for the spring game. We stopped and got some breakfast for the road. It was a windy, cold, cloudy Saturday morning we hoped would clear by the time we arrived at NU's stadium.
We arrived in Lincoln, but parking is a luxury for the rich. We chose to park free and walk a half-mile to the stadium. Since the wind was so fierce, I decided a seat under the top tier might shelter us a bit from the sharp wind. I was mistaken. I started wishing I'd worn a winter coat as I wrapped a big black tent, I mean rain poncho, around my legs.
"What do you have to say?" my husband asked as halftime neared. "Brrr," was my reply. "We're at a football game, none of those girly complaints," he zinged back.
"Should I scratch myself, prove I'm a man?" I asked.
"That'd be cool," he smiled as halftime began.
We went to the bathroom, but he wouldn't let me go to the men's room. So much for me trying to be less "girly". At least we were able to warm up a little.
As we turned to go back to our seats, we noticed people walking by with wet jackets on. Lo and behold, it was raining. And, we had lost our seats underneath the upper tier. They always say, "Move your feet, lose your seat." Whoever said that must have been at a football game where they stole some poor, cold, had-to-go-to-the-bathroom people's seats under the upper tier.
My husband asked if I wanted to leave and of course, I did. We swam the half-mile back to the car and found a place to eat. It rained all day and night.
I think we were both a little girly that day.
Oh, and Nebraska won the game.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Pale is Pretty
“…I will not obsess about my flaws.” This is the mantra I asked readers to repeat after me in my last column. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to work on some things, and be content with what God has given me.
After the column ran, I talked to my aunt in Parkville. She said she always worried about her mother, my beloved grandmother, being so vain. Grandma always worried about her hair, making sure it was rolled and set, and that it was just the right color if she was to be seen by absolutely anyone. She always had to have a purse and matching pumps before leaving the house, even if it was only to the store.
Now, after reading that story, my aunt said she didn’t worry so much about Grandma and her vanity (before she passed away), it indicated that she had no other worries and that she cared what she looked like and had a healthy self-image. She added, “Thanks for writing it.”
As for me, I could be using the weights we have set up in the basement, but I always conveniently forget. I wonder if Ms. Brinkley has these same memory problems. Does she have someone to remind her that it’s time to work out, or is she more disciplined than I am, getting up at 6 a.m. to work those muscles?
Currently, I have a fingernail problem. It’s not that chip in the polish or them being different lengths. Oh boy, here goes. The secret’s out. I was dying that pesky little bit of gray hair that shows up in my dark hair, the dye got into the glove, and now I have a stained nail. Hubby said, “Just let it go gray.” Easy for a blond to say.
I tried nail polish remover, soap and water, and even bleach, but it was too late. The next day at work, a friend told me that alcohol or Goop (hand cleaner) would have gotten it out. And I know that Goop gets everything out. I’ve used it to remove ink, chocolate, and tomato stains from clothing a million times. I have some on hand, under the kitchen sink. What was I thinking?
I tried polishing my rarely polished nails with a pale pink, even underneath the nail. It still showed through. Maybe I should try a dark color for the time being. Or maybe I should not worry about it and let it wear off.
I’ve not done a very good job about protecting my skin either. On the first day of our vacation at the beach near my mother-in-law’s home in Florida, I got sunburned. I used a little bit of sunscreen, but I thought that since last year, only my shoulders got burned at first, I would be fine.
I peeled for two weeks.
I returned to work the following week, thinking my burn had turned into a pretty nice tan. I’m sure it would’ve been better had I not been sore and avoiding the outdoors the rest of the trip.
People at work said, “You can’t tell you’ve been to Florida. Where’s your tan?” That’s what I get for worrying about having my dream tan.
Vanity.
I should be happy with the color I get going to auctions, walking around Worlds of Fun, and gardening. Maybe I should cut some trees down around my house so I can get sun while I work in the yard, thus killing the proverbial two birds with one stone—getting exercise AND a tan.
Seriously, most of us have feelings about getting a tan. Some people, like my 13-year-old daughter, think that having porcelain white skin is a curse. She tries to get a tan, but can only stand the sun for about two seconds at a time. She looks beautiful with her light skin and chocolate-drop-brown eyes. She doesn’t know just how lovely a porcelain doll is. She’ll probably be among the few people in this world with very healthy skin.
With all the vain attitudes being thrown at us from every direction, maybe someone should say it’s the “in thing” to be pale, and pale is pretty…and healthy.
After the column ran, I talked to my aunt in Parkville. She said she always worried about her mother, my beloved grandmother, being so vain. Grandma always worried about her hair, making sure it was rolled and set, and that it was just the right color if she was to be seen by absolutely anyone. She always had to have a purse and matching pumps before leaving the house, even if it was only to the store.
Now, after reading that story, my aunt said she didn’t worry so much about Grandma and her vanity (before she passed away), it indicated that she had no other worries and that she cared what she looked like and had a healthy self-image. She added, “Thanks for writing it.”
As for me, I could be using the weights we have set up in the basement, but I always conveniently forget. I wonder if Ms. Brinkley has these same memory problems. Does she have someone to remind her that it’s time to work out, or is she more disciplined than I am, getting up at 6 a.m. to work those muscles?
Currently, I have a fingernail problem. It’s not that chip in the polish or them being different lengths. Oh boy, here goes. The secret’s out. I was dying that pesky little bit of gray hair that shows up in my dark hair, the dye got into the glove, and now I have a stained nail. Hubby said, “Just let it go gray.” Easy for a blond to say.
I tried nail polish remover, soap and water, and even bleach, but it was too late. The next day at work, a friend told me that alcohol or Goop (hand cleaner) would have gotten it out. And I know that Goop gets everything out. I’ve used it to remove ink, chocolate, and tomato stains from clothing a million times. I have some on hand, under the kitchen sink. What was I thinking?
I tried polishing my rarely polished nails with a pale pink, even underneath the nail. It still showed through. Maybe I should try a dark color for the time being. Or maybe I should not worry about it and let it wear off.
I’ve not done a very good job about protecting my skin either. On the first day of our vacation at the beach near my mother-in-law’s home in Florida, I got sunburned. I used a little bit of sunscreen, but I thought that since last year, only my shoulders got burned at first, I would be fine.
I peeled for two weeks.
I returned to work the following week, thinking my burn had turned into a pretty nice tan. I’m sure it would’ve been better had I not been sore and avoiding the outdoors the rest of the trip.
People at work said, “You can’t tell you’ve been to Florida. Where’s your tan?” That’s what I get for worrying about having my dream tan.
Vanity.
I should be happy with the color I get going to auctions, walking around Worlds of Fun, and gardening. Maybe I should cut some trees down around my house so I can get sun while I work in the yard, thus killing the proverbial two birds with one stone—getting exercise AND a tan.
Seriously, most of us have feelings about getting a tan. Some people, like my 13-year-old daughter, think that having porcelain white skin is a curse. She tries to get a tan, but can only stand the sun for about two seconds at a time. She looks beautiful with her light skin and chocolate-drop-brown eyes. She doesn’t know just how lovely a porcelain doll is. She’ll probably be among the few people in this world with very healthy skin.
With all the vain attitudes being thrown at us from every direction, maybe someone should say it’s the “in thing” to be pale, and pale is pretty…and healthy.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Beauty & Self-Esteem
Sometimes I get self-conscious and worry about little things. Surely every woman must be like me, a little vain and worrisome over things no one really cares about.
“If I wear this top, the moles on my arms will show.” “These pants bring out the lumps in my thighs.” “Horrors, my nail polish is chipped and some of my nails are shorter than others.”
I assume that everyone will notice things about me just because I do. If we looked at any woman anywhere, even Christie Brinkley, I would bet she would have moles, zits, a broken nail or chipped polish on occasion, and no one would notice or care. We’re all too busy worrying about our own flaws to worry about anyone else’s bodily dilemmas.
So if this is true, why do we worry? We should just assume that everyone is looking at their own problems and won’t notice our issues. That’s how it should be, right?
Then why do I know women who won’t let their own husbands see them without makeup? What’s the tragedy if your nail polish chips? It means you work hard.
I once worked with a lady who said that she notices right away how a woman’s nail polish looks. It was, to her, a terrible thing if a lady didn’t have a perfect manicure every single day. I was thinking, ‘Maybe if I didn’t have kids, a husband, cats, work, chores, gardening, I would have perfect nails.’
Weight is another thing people spend too much time concentrating on. I don’t just mean overweight people either. I went through a tough time once and at times I could only stand to eat a couple of bites at a sitting. My weight dropped to a mere 99 pounds. I regained my appetite and my weight and am average-size now.
I’ve always been a fairly small person, and I don’t do anything special to lose weight, but people say things like, “You make me sick, you’re so skinny.” Or, “I hate you.” One well-meaning man (not to mention any names, my stepdad knows who he is) asked me “Do you go to the bathroom after you eat and…. (He stuck his finger down his throat)…? Some people are built with a petite frame and others with a bigger one. I never say to an overweight person, “Gosh, you make me sick, you’re so fat.” We should practice a little sensitivity.
A person’s weight should not be of concern to the general public, it’s personal.
I think that if we have a flaw we don’t like, (barring what anyone else might think) we conceal it if we so choose, to please ourselves, and no one else. I complain about little things all the time and my husband tells me no one would even notice that, and not to worry about it. I tell him that it bothers me, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.
I shouldn’t even let things bother me, because it probably means I do have a small worry about what people think. That I might someday gain a little weight or get wrinkles, or gray hair will overtake my dark hair.
Well, I guess I just told on myself and every other human female on the planet. No matter what, we’re always going to worry about our flaws, even if we say we won’t. Or we shouldn’t. But, how about we make it our goal? Now, repeat after me, “I will not obsess about my flaws…”
“If I wear this top, the moles on my arms will show.” “These pants bring out the lumps in my thighs.” “Horrors, my nail polish is chipped and some of my nails are shorter than others.”
I assume that everyone will notice things about me just because I do. If we looked at any woman anywhere, even Christie Brinkley, I would bet she would have moles, zits, a broken nail or chipped polish on occasion, and no one would notice or care. We’re all too busy worrying about our own flaws to worry about anyone else’s bodily dilemmas.
So if this is true, why do we worry? We should just assume that everyone is looking at their own problems and won’t notice our issues. That’s how it should be, right?
Then why do I know women who won’t let their own husbands see them without makeup? What’s the tragedy if your nail polish chips? It means you work hard.
I once worked with a lady who said that she notices right away how a woman’s nail polish looks. It was, to her, a terrible thing if a lady didn’t have a perfect manicure every single day. I was thinking, ‘Maybe if I didn’t have kids, a husband, cats, work, chores, gardening, I would have perfect nails.’
Weight is another thing people spend too much time concentrating on. I don’t just mean overweight people either. I went through a tough time once and at times I could only stand to eat a couple of bites at a sitting. My weight dropped to a mere 99 pounds. I regained my appetite and my weight and am average-size now.
I’ve always been a fairly small person, and I don’t do anything special to lose weight, but people say things like, “You make me sick, you’re so skinny.” Or, “I hate you.” One well-meaning man (not to mention any names, my stepdad knows who he is) asked me “Do you go to the bathroom after you eat and…. (He stuck his finger down his throat)…? Some people are built with a petite frame and others with a bigger one. I never say to an overweight person, “Gosh, you make me sick, you’re so fat.” We should practice a little sensitivity.
A person’s weight should not be of concern to the general public, it’s personal.
I think that if we have a flaw we don’t like, (barring what anyone else might think) we conceal it if we so choose, to please ourselves, and no one else. I complain about little things all the time and my husband tells me no one would even notice that, and not to worry about it. I tell him that it bothers me, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.
I shouldn’t even let things bother me, because it probably means I do have a small worry about what people think. That I might someday gain a little weight or get wrinkles, or gray hair will overtake my dark hair.
Well, I guess I just told on myself and every other human female on the planet. No matter what, we’re always going to worry about our flaws, even if we say we won’t. Or we shouldn’t. But, how about we make it our goal? Now, repeat after me, “I will not obsess about my flaws…”
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Amusement Park Fun
Recently I told you about my wacky wedding day. I left you saying that we created a family of nine. I have three children, who are 15, 13 and 9. I also now have four stepchildren, who are 11, 10, 6 and 4. That gives us four boys and three girls altogether.
Now, however, if you've read my bio, you will see that my kids are now 21, 19, 15, and my hubby's kids are 17, 16, 12 and 10.
You might imagine things can be little bit hectic at our house at times. There is jealousy. ("How come HE gets to play the Nintendo, he's had it all day!") Apparently, anything over 10 minutes constitutes all day to a kid. But there are always the fun little things that siblings do-the older girls fixing the youngest one's hair, making pizzas, listening to the youngest scream orders at someone, or driving to Florida and splashing at the beach in the Gulf of Mexico where their grandma lives, despite stinging jellyfish.
It also occurred to us that getting season tickets to Weirds of Fun—I mean Worlds of Fun (that's how the four-year-old pronounces the name of the amusement park), although very hard for us to afford, would be a great way to occupy some weekends last summer with seven oft-bored kids. Not bad, but with ages ranging from four to 15, and us parents, it's difficult to ride some of the rides.
Puzzling to me is the rule that our four-year-old can ride things that fling riders into the air as long as they're accompanied by an adult, but cannot ride a big tire-type water ride down the Fury of the Nile, even with a parent.
So, we take turns staying with the younger ones in Camp Snoopy while the others go ride the roller coasters and water rides. I've been given the privilege of being Sydney's riding partner on the Wacky Worm and the "Mini
Detonator.” (Snoopy's Airmail is its real name, but it is much like the adult ride called the Detonator, just kid-sized.)
When I first saw the adult-sized Detonator years ago, it looked like no big deal. You go up, you come back down. I decided to try it to see what the big draw was.
Riding the Detonator is like sitting in a seat that has a rubber band attaching it to the ground. You hear a rush of air, nothing happens. “OK, this is no big deal,” I thought. Then, when you least expect it, the rubber band breaks and you fly up the 200-foot-tower and fall back down, and back up again, lather, rinse, repeat.
The first time you shoot up in the air, it takes your breath away and your eyeballs retreat to the back of your head. I screamed as the shock hit me. I vowed to never ride it again. (Turns out, I broke the vow, and have come to like the ride.) The pure surprise is worth it. And the view up there is awesome.
It's amazing that Sydney, the youngest, likes the "Mini Detonator,” because she doesn't like the bumper cars. I thought everyone liked the bumper cars. She and her brother, Richard, wanted to drive the kiddy bumper cars, so we headed that way. We sent them to stand in line, and when it was their turn, she ran straight to the purple car. She had never done it before, but she got in her car, and she was a perfect driver. She didn't run into anyone and obeyed all traffic laws, while her brother, (who was 5 at the time), was gleefully bumping into his fellow drivers. I guess she didn’t understand the ‘bumper’ part of bumper cars.
Suddenly, she ran into the curb and it jolted her into the floor of her car. She got upset, but we yelled for her to get back into her seat and keep driving. "And start hitting some cars," I called to her.
She again was driving along, not bothering a soul, when, WHAM! she hit the curb again. This time, she fell out of her seat and hit her little chin extremely hard on the steering wheel and scared us and the poor ride operator to death. We made our way to the exit to get her and hold her and after a little TLC, we were able to proceed back to good ol' Camp Snoopy.
Unfortunately, I don't think she'll ever drive the bumper cars again, and who knows about a real car. But she has asked when we're going to Weirds of Fun again.
Now, however, if you've read my bio, you will see that my kids are now 21, 19, 15, and my hubby's kids are 17, 16, 12 and 10.
You might imagine things can be little bit hectic at our house at times. There is jealousy. ("How come HE gets to play the Nintendo, he's had it all day!") Apparently, anything over 10 minutes constitutes all day to a kid. But there are always the fun little things that siblings do-the older girls fixing the youngest one's hair, making pizzas, listening to the youngest scream orders at someone, or driving to Florida and splashing at the beach in the Gulf of Mexico where their grandma lives, despite stinging jellyfish.
It also occurred to us that getting season tickets to Weirds of Fun—I mean Worlds of Fun (that's how the four-year-old pronounces the name of the amusement park), although very hard for us to afford, would be a great way to occupy some weekends last summer with seven oft-bored kids. Not bad, but with ages ranging from four to 15, and us parents, it's difficult to ride some of the rides.
Puzzling to me is the rule that our four-year-old can ride things that fling riders into the air as long as they're accompanied by an adult, but cannot ride a big tire-type water ride down the Fury of the Nile, even with a parent.
So, we take turns staying with the younger ones in Camp Snoopy while the others go ride the roller coasters and water rides. I've been given the privilege of being Sydney's riding partner on the Wacky Worm and the "Mini
Detonator.” (Snoopy's Airmail is its real name, but it is much like the adult ride called the Detonator, just kid-sized.)
When I first saw the adult-sized Detonator years ago, it looked like no big deal. You go up, you come back down. I decided to try it to see what the big draw was.
Riding the Detonator is like sitting in a seat that has a rubber band attaching it to the ground. You hear a rush of air, nothing happens. “OK, this is no big deal,” I thought. Then, when you least expect it, the rubber band breaks and you fly up the 200-foot-tower and fall back down, and back up again, lather, rinse, repeat.
The first time you shoot up in the air, it takes your breath away and your eyeballs retreat to the back of your head. I screamed as the shock hit me. I vowed to never ride it again. (Turns out, I broke the vow, and have come to like the ride.) The pure surprise is worth it. And the view up there is awesome.
It's amazing that Sydney, the youngest, likes the "Mini Detonator,” because she doesn't like the bumper cars. I thought everyone liked the bumper cars. She and her brother, Richard, wanted to drive the kiddy bumper cars, so we headed that way. We sent them to stand in line, and when it was their turn, she ran straight to the purple car. She had never done it before, but she got in her car, and she was a perfect driver. She didn't run into anyone and obeyed all traffic laws, while her brother, (who was 5 at the time), was gleefully bumping into his fellow drivers. I guess she didn’t understand the ‘bumper’ part of bumper cars.
Suddenly, she ran into the curb and it jolted her into the floor of her car. She got upset, but we yelled for her to get back into her seat and keep driving. "And start hitting some cars," I called to her.
She again was driving along, not bothering a soul, when, WHAM! she hit the curb again. This time, she fell out of her seat and hit her little chin extremely hard on the steering wheel and scared us and the poor ride operator to death. We made our way to the exit to get her and hold her and after a little TLC, we were able to proceed back to good ol' Camp Snoopy.
Unfortunately, I don't think she'll ever drive the bumper cars again, and who knows about a real car. But she has asked when we're going to Weirds of Fun again.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Internet Dating
Some people see the new age of computers as moving into the future, while others see it as a step backward. I can see both sides.
On one hand, computers speed up our work by making it more efficient and organized. But when a power outage hits or the kitten knocks the plug out of the wall while I work, I wonder why we just don’t use a pencil and paper. However, as I scribble this down and scratch things out, a computer’s Word document looks awfully good.
I’ve seen both sides.
Allow me to elaborate. Computer privileges can be abused. Pornography can appear on an unsuspecting soul’s screen. I’ve seen people click on a celebrity’s web site only to be shocked by graphic images of nude women. Not only is it there faster than a speeding bullet, it can not easily be shut off. Once, a co-worker of mine had to kill the power to her machine to stop it. Was a request to search for Melissa Joan Hart too much to ask?
Here’s the positive part of my story. Although a computer can sometimes be harmful to human relationships, and some even say Internet chatting causes families to split, there is a flip side. Sometimes people learn by trial and error how to use a computer and end up with a computer job, and also meet their soulmate via cyberspace.
I’m one of those people.
I was home working last year and I checked my e-mail. Two weeks before, I had put a personal profile on a web site which listed my likes and dislikes, hobbies, favorite music and movies, church preference and so on. I got a response from a man and we met at a restaurant for dinner. We were polite, but bored silly. We parted ways and never spoke again.
The following week, I received an e-mail from a curious Kansas City man telling me that he read in my info that I was within 60 miles of him in Omaha, Nebraska. He wrote, “Now, I am originally from that area, and the last time I checked, the distance between Kansas City and Omaha was more than 60 miles…. lol” (Translation: laugh out loud.) I lived in St. Joseph, Missouri, by the way.
I checked his profile, which was included in the e-mail, (not his personal e-mail—the web site is the mediator so one doesn’t use a personal one, for obvious safety reasons). I wrote back as I did one or two others, telling him a date of mine must not smoke or drink, and would go to church with me. Typically, they didn’t write back after that.
This man, however, wrote back. I wrote back. He wrote back. We had many intelligent conversations via e-mail for a few days, then decided to meet. I asked to meet at a restaurant (a girl can’t be too careful meeting a stranger.)
We met at a Mexican place. He arrived and apologized for being late (what, one minute?) because he had to stop and buy me a single red rose. OK, forgiven. I had gone to a tanning bed on the way to the restaurant, and as we talked and ate, I began to itch in all the wrong places. From there, we went to play miniature golf. After a quick round, I thanked him and we agreed to meet online an hour later.
I couldn’t wait -— not only to get home and relieve my itching ‘sunburn’, but also to chat with this man again.
I went home and soaked my itching self in the tub as I waited for the hour it took him to drive home to Kansas City. Finally, we began to chat. He asked me what I liked in a man. Physically, I told him, I liked dark hair and a clean-shaven face; in general, intelligence and wit. This man had blond hair, blue eyes, and a goatee, and the intelligence and wit.
We chatted until after midnight about my love of gardening and lots of other things, agreed to meet in a couple of days, and retired for the night.
We met again a few days later at the same place. This time, he gave me a potted flower (not a cut flower that would wilt in a week) and -— he had a clean-shaven face. I knew right then, he was something. He’s a keeper. We married within six months, and have seven children between us, thanks to a computer.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
On one hand, computers speed up our work by making it more efficient and organized. But when a power outage hits or the kitten knocks the plug out of the wall while I work, I wonder why we just don’t use a pencil and paper. However, as I scribble this down and scratch things out, a computer’s Word document looks awfully good.
I’ve seen both sides.
Allow me to elaborate. Computer privileges can be abused. Pornography can appear on an unsuspecting soul’s screen. I’ve seen people click on a celebrity’s web site only to be shocked by graphic images of nude women. Not only is it there faster than a speeding bullet, it can not easily be shut off. Once, a co-worker of mine had to kill the power to her machine to stop it. Was a request to search for Melissa Joan Hart too much to ask?
Here’s the positive part of my story. Although a computer can sometimes be harmful to human relationships, and some even say Internet chatting causes families to split, there is a flip side. Sometimes people learn by trial and error how to use a computer and end up with a computer job, and also meet their soulmate via cyberspace.
I’m one of those people.
I was home working last year and I checked my e-mail. Two weeks before, I had put a personal profile on a web site which listed my likes and dislikes, hobbies, favorite music and movies, church preference and so on. I got a response from a man and we met at a restaurant for dinner. We were polite, but bored silly. We parted ways and never spoke again.
The following week, I received an e-mail from a curious Kansas City man telling me that he read in my info that I was within 60 miles of him in Omaha, Nebraska. He wrote, “Now, I am originally from that area, and the last time I checked, the distance between Kansas City and Omaha was more than 60 miles…. lol” (Translation: laugh out loud.) I lived in St. Joseph, Missouri, by the way.
I checked his profile, which was included in the e-mail, (not his personal e-mail—the web site is the mediator so one doesn’t use a personal one, for obvious safety reasons). I wrote back as I did one or two others, telling him a date of mine must not smoke or drink, and would go to church with me. Typically, they didn’t write back after that.
This man, however, wrote back. I wrote back. He wrote back. We had many intelligent conversations via e-mail for a few days, then decided to meet. I asked to meet at a restaurant (a girl can’t be too careful meeting a stranger.)
We met at a Mexican place. He arrived and apologized for being late (what, one minute?) because he had to stop and buy me a single red rose. OK, forgiven. I had gone to a tanning bed on the way to the restaurant, and as we talked and ate, I began to itch in all the wrong places. From there, we went to play miniature golf. After a quick round, I thanked him and we agreed to meet online an hour later.
I couldn’t wait -— not only to get home and relieve my itching ‘sunburn’, but also to chat with this man again.
I went home and soaked my itching self in the tub as I waited for the hour it took him to drive home to Kansas City. Finally, we began to chat. He asked me what I liked in a man. Physically, I told him, I liked dark hair and a clean-shaven face; in general, intelligence and wit. This man had blond hair, blue eyes, and a goatee, and the intelligence and wit.
We chatted until after midnight about my love of gardening and lots of other things, agreed to meet in a couple of days, and retired for the night.
We met again a few days later at the same place. This time, he gave me a potted flower (not a cut flower that would wilt in a week) and -— he had a clean-shaven face. I knew right then, he was something. He’s a keeper. We married within six months, and have seven children between us, thanks to a computer.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
Friday, January 25, 2008
A Wedding Day to Remember
Keep in mind, these stories were written back in 2001-2004, so they're not current time-wise, but I wanted to start with the oldest and work forward.
Brides, I tell you, your big day will not go off without a hitch. Why do I say this? I got married just over a year ago. The love of my life, the most beautiful gown ever made, a beautiful historic mansion in which to have the wedding, but nevermind all that. Here’s how my fairytale went. That gray first day of December, I picked up a rental car, (it wasn’t perfect, but better than the ones we owned). I drove the little red compact to the hair salon and the updo turned out lovely, barring all the hairspray she applied and I hate.
I then drove to pick up the lovely all-ivory cake on my way home. As soon as I walked in my front door, I went straight to my desk and e-mailed my soon-to-be husband letting him know everything was going well, and how I couldn’t wait three more hours to be his.
I have three children, one of which doesn’t like to do anything with her beautiful curly hair (like comb it). My son informed me that he’d left his dress shoes at his dad’s and would just wear whatever he could find. That just wouldn’t do, because he was to be my escort down the aisle. I said “That’s fine, we have time to stop there and get them.”
It was time to make last minute checks on my suitcase for the weekend away. Check. My son started loading the car while I grabbed the ingredients for the punch. “Oh yes,” I told myself, “get the CD of wedding music off the desk.” Check.
“Does everyone have everything now? We need to go.”
“Yes,” my three offspring declared.
It was lightly snowing and misting on this December afternoon as we got into the car to get my son’s shoes and pick up his friend. Halfway to our destination, I realized I had failed to grab the soda for the punch.
“That’s okay,” I thought, “we’ll just run back home, we’re doing fine.”
We picked up the shoes, drove back home (within the speed limit, of course) and got the soda. We picked up my son’s friend; she was to help my two daughters get ready and do their hair. Finally, we were on our way to the large house on historic Hall Street in St. Joseph and finish getting ready. We were shown to one of the big bedroom suites where we spread our belongings on the bed. We took our makeup and accessories to the bathroom, where I began to put on my foundation. My daughter told me she’d forgotten her slip. I told her, “Do without it, no one will know.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then I heard someone call my name from the hallway. It was the lady of the house, asking where the CD was. I told her it was with the other things I had given her. She held out the case, opened it, and there was no CD inside. “Oh no! It’s still in the computer at home where I was previewing it! No problem, I’ll go get it. If I take the highway, I’ll be there in 5-7 minutes.” (Doing the speed limit, of course).
Halfway there, I realized I had grabbed only the keyring with the rental car keys—no house key. “Sheesh, now what am I going to do?” I decided I would try and get into the house by alternate means. I managed to get a window open. Remember, my hair was in that lovely updo.
Of course, I picked a window with mini-blinds and our old console TV in front of it. I
climbed in through a 12-inch opening, fought the blinds, and danced with the swivel TV.
“Oh, there goes my hair,” I thought. I got in, grabbed both girls’ slips, the CD, and maneuvered myself back out the window. (The door only locks with a key, so you exit the way you enter.) My hair and I escaped unscathed. Thank goodness for all that hairspray that I hated.
“Alright, now I’m rolling.” I jumped back in the car, and drove (within the speed limit, of course) back to the house.
Back inside, I gave the CD to the hostess and went upstairs to finish putting on my face and gown. One daughter was happy to have her slip; however, the youngest was offended by the idea.
Now, I had to put on a sticky bra, and didn’t know the adhesive had to dry for 15 minutes prior to putting everything in place. So, I applied the adhesive, fanning it in hopes it would dry faster, and was ready to put the gown on in five, much more convenient, minutes.
Next, I applied lipstick and had a Kodak moment with my baby girl.
After determining that my grandmother wasn’t coming because of the snowy weather, we went downstairs. I unwittingly rushed the processional, forgetting to take my son’s arm at first. Finally, I was at my groom’s side. He stood there by the Christmas tree in the glow of the fireplace, flanked by two of his sons, handsome as ever.
As he said his vows to me, he looked at me with the most adoring eyes and all I knew was this had been the perfect night.
Now there are seven children in this new family of ours, but that’s another story…
Brides, I tell you, your big day will not go off without a hitch. Why do I say this? I got married just over a year ago. The love of my life, the most beautiful gown ever made, a beautiful historic mansion in which to have the wedding, but nevermind all that. Here’s how my fairytale went. That gray first day of December, I picked up a rental car, (it wasn’t perfect, but better than the ones we owned). I drove the little red compact to the hair salon and the updo turned out lovely, barring all the hairspray she applied and I hate.
I then drove to pick up the lovely all-ivory cake on my way home. As soon as I walked in my front door, I went straight to my desk and e-mailed my soon-to-be husband letting him know everything was going well, and how I couldn’t wait three more hours to be his.
I have three children, one of which doesn’t like to do anything with her beautiful curly hair (like comb it). My son informed me that he’d left his dress shoes at his dad’s and would just wear whatever he could find. That just wouldn’t do, because he was to be my escort down the aisle. I said “That’s fine, we have time to stop there and get them.”
It was time to make last minute checks on my suitcase for the weekend away. Check. My son started loading the car while I grabbed the ingredients for the punch. “Oh yes,” I told myself, “get the CD of wedding music off the desk.” Check.
“Does everyone have everything now? We need to go.”
“Yes,” my three offspring declared.
It was lightly snowing and misting on this December afternoon as we got into the car to get my son’s shoes and pick up his friend. Halfway to our destination, I realized I had failed to grab the soda for the punch.
“That’s okay,” I thought, “we’ll just run back home, we’re doing fine.”
We picked up the shoes, drove back home (within the speed limit, of course) and got the soda. We picked up my son’s friend; she was to help my two daughters get ready and do their hair. Finally, we were on our way to the large house on historic Hall Street in St. Joseph and finish getting ready. We were shown to one of the big bedroom suites where we spread our belongings on the bed. We took our makeup and accessories to the bathroom, where I began to put on my foundation. My daughter told me she’d forgotten her slip. I told her, “Do without it, no one will know.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then I heard someone call my name from the hallway. It was the lady of the house, asking where the CD was. I told her it was with the other things I had given her. She held out the case, opened it, and there was no CD inside. “Oh no! It’s still in the computer at home where I was previewing it! No problem, I’ll go get it. If I take the highway, I’ll be there in 5-7 minutes.” (Doing the speed limit, of course).
Halfway there, I realized I had grabbed only the keyring with the rental car keys—no house key. “Sheesh, now what am I going to do?” I decided I would try and get into the house by alternate means. I managed to get a window open. Remember, my hair was in that lovely updo.
Of course, I picked a window with mini-blinds and our old console TV in front of it. I
climbed in through a 12-inch opening, fought the blinds, and danced with the swivel TV.
“Oh, there goes my hair,” I thought. I got in, grabbed both girls’ slips, the CD, and maneuvered myself back out the window. (The door only locks with a key, so you exit the way you enter.) My hair and I escaped unscathed. Thank goodness for all that hairspray that I hated.
“Alright, now I’m rolling.” I jumped back in the car, and drove (within the speed limit, of course) back to the house.
Back inside, I gave the CD to the hostess and went upstairs to finish putting on my face and gown. One daughter was happy to have her slip; however, the youngest was offended by the idea.
Now, I had to put on a sticky bra, and didn’t know the adhesive had to dry for 15 minutes prior to putting everything in place. So, I applied the adhesive, fanning it in hopes it would dry faster, and was ready to put the gown on in five, much more convenient, minutes.
Next, I applied lipstick and had a Kodak moment with my baby girl.
After determining that my grandmother wasn’t coming because of the snowy weather, we went downstairs. I unwittingly rushed the processional, forgetting to take my son’s arm at first. Finally, I was at my groom’s side. He stood there by the Christmas tree in the glow of the fireplace, flanked by two of his sons, handsome as ever.
As he said his vows to me, he looked at me with the most adoring eyes and all I knew was this had been the perfect night.
Now there are seven children in this new family of ours, but that’s another story…
Thursday, January 24, 2008
At last, I'm a blogger!
That has a certain naughty ring to it, "I'm a blogger." Anyway, I'm going to try my hand at entertaining you with my life experiences. I've been through quite a lot, getting married the first time very young (18), living for 14 years with an abusive man and our 3 children. Finally, I got out and later on found a great hubby, who has 4 children.
I used to write for a couple of newspapers, and I didn't like working for a newspaper, but I LOVE to write, so here I go. I will publish here my previously written articles/stories, and I think this blog is just what the dr. ordered to get me writing new stuff.
I don’t know when it all started, but somewhere, sometime, I became a stickler about spelling and pronunciation. Maybe the spelling thing began at the county spelling bee in Lathrop, Mo. It was yours truly (a sixth grader), against two eighth graders, left to spell our hearts out to determine the champion. This is where I became petrified. Of what, beating eighth graders, or winning?
They gave me my word—lingerie. I quickly thought of a way to misspell it to relieve the pressure and get the heck off that stage. I spelled slowly, l-o-n-g-e-r-i-e, knowing full well the real spelling. (I think I finally ‘fessed up to my mom, but if I didn’t, the cat’s out of the bag now, 24 years later.)
I left that stage and went back to sit with Mom. Everyone was so proud. (How much more so would they have been had I spelled it right?) My two oldest kids have been in spelling bees, and I’ve told them to never do what I did; they would regret it later, as I do. They are excellent spellers, but don’t care as much about participating in the bees as I would like them to.
I really don’t know how I became so worried about how people pronounce things, but when someone spells something wrong, or says something wrong, I get my bloomers in a bunch. When I got married the first time, I started having to spell my name to everyone, or tell them how to pronounce it correctly. It was Boller. A simple name, pronounced bowler. It became automatic for me to just say and spell it all at once, with barely a breath between. People said baller, boiler, beller, just to name a few.
My maiden name, Taylor, sure looked good at those times. No one needed to ask any questions about that one. (Well, almost no one.) For a year and a half, I had my maiden name back, and there was no spelling T-a-y-l-o-r to everyone who needed to know my name. But soon enough, I remarried, and I’m now back to spelling, and pronouncing, my name to everyone. I asked my husband, “Can’t we just use my name?” He said no. (He did say I could keep using my maiden name though.) The second ‘t’ is silent, (say Tee-junz) but my kids have come up with a pronunciation that is quite amusing. Hello, my name is Tracy Tightjeans.
I get bugged when people mix up words, as in. “I’m getting a prescription (subscription) to a magazine.” Or using words that sound alike in the wrong way, such as, “There (their) dog got it’s (its) nails polished and a hair bow to.” (too) “There (they’re) nice people.” “Your (you’re) not going to wear that, are you?” These are some of my pet peeves. I feel so much better having gotten them off my chest. Just call me Tracy Tightjeans.
I used to write for a couple of newspapers, and I didn't like working for a newspaper, but I LOVE to write, so here I go. I will publish here my previously written articles/stories, and I think this blog is just what the dr. ordered to get me writing new stuff.
I don’t know when it all started, but somewhere, sometime, I became a stickler about spelling and pronunciation. Maybe the spelling thing began at the county spelling bee in Lathrop, Mo. It was yours truly (a sixth grader), against two eighth graders, left to spell our hearts out to determine the champion. This is where I became petrified. Of what, beating eighth graders, or winning?
They gave me my word—lingerie. I quickly thought of a way to misspell it to relieve the pressure and get the heck off that stage. I spelled slowly, l-o-n-g-e-r-i-e, knowing full well the real spelling. (I think I finally ‘fessed up to my mom, but if I didn’t, the cat’s out of the bag now, 24 years later.)
I left that stage and went back to sit with Mom. Everyone was so proud. (How much more so would they have been had I spelled it right?) My two oldest kids have been in spelling bees, and I’ve told them to never do what I did; they would regret it later, as I do. They are excellent spellers, but don’t care as much about participating in the bees as I would like them to.
I really don’t know how I became so worried about how people pronounce things, but when someone spells something wrong, or says something wrong, I get my bloomers in a bunch. When I got married the first time, I started having to spell my name to everyone, or tell them how to pronounce it correctly. It was Boller. A simple name, pronounced bowler. It became automatic for me to just say and spell it all at once, with barely a breath between. People said baller, boiler, beller, just to name a few.
My maiden name, Taylor, sure looked good at those times. No one needed to ask any questions about that one. (Well, almost no one.) For a year and a half, I had my maiden name back, and there was no spelling T-a-y-l-o-r to everyone who needed to know my name. But soon enough, I remarried, and I’m now back to spelling, and pronouncing, my name to everyone. I asked my husband, “Can’t we just use my name?” He said no. (He did say I could keep using my maiden name though.) The second ‘t’ is silent, (say Tee-junz) but my kids have come up with a pronunciation that is quite amusing. Hello, my name is Tracy Tightjeans.
I get bugged when people mix up words, as in. “I’m getting a prescription (subscription) to a magazine.” Or using words that sound alike in the wrong way, such as, “There (their) dog got it’s (its) nails polished and a hair bow to.” (too) “There (they’re) nice people.” “Your (you’re) not going to wear that, are you?” These are some of my pet peeves. I feel so much better having gotten them off my chest. Just call me Tracy Tightjeans.
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