Category: humor

land of plenty

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I finally got the photos off my camera. Easter’s on there. The last day of school. The first day of school, and everything in between which includes two different rounds of the boys’ haircuts and our official summer family vacation.

Like many a vacation tale, it started off a little iffy before it oozed into what would be a lazy, sun-drenched, donut-filled extravaganza. The first ½ hour was a little touch-and-go, what with driving out of the garage with the back hatch still open (hello vacation cliché!), Zachary dropping a ketchupy hamburger open faced onto the floor of the car, and John and I digging furiously in the console for the bridge toll transponder that was sitting safely on the hutch at home.

I was already apprehensive. Last year’s “vacation” was almost the end of me. It was two weeks on the road, driving through various deserty landscapes of the west. The boys fought constantly… to the point where I threatened to have taxi glass installed in the car when we got to Vegas. Oh yes, Vegas – a favorite destination of years past, but now where we had to answer an endless barrage of questions about the lady butts on every billboard, and what exactly  people were drinking out of the giant test tubes and plastic guitars. And why, in the pirate show, were the dozen bikini clad lady pirates holding that one poor man pirate hostage?

Then of course there was the great Bellagio buffet incident of 09 – where on top of me allowing the boys to maintain Vegas hours and walk amongst booze swilling pirate bikini fans, I ok’d at one of the ritziest buffets in town, a plate of sushi, a large coke, and a ginormous slice of hazelnut cake for our then 8-year-old. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about how that unfolded. I will say it ended with a mad dash across the restaurant, and us slinking out under the cover of darkness with John muttering something about the absence of a paper trail, and the unfortunate lady in the white pants.

As we high-tailed it out of town the next morning we told the boys to take a good look, because there was no way we were bringing them back to Las Vegas before they turned 21.

That was last year. This year of course, our plans for a variety of reasons included Las Vegas. Haven’t you had a trip, for reasons outside of your control, ended up including Las Vegas? I thought so. But you can understand my hesitancy as I prepared for this year’s trip. Two weeks again. Vegas again.

Las Vegas usually brings out the quirks in people, no surprise. Even outside of the seven deadlies…which probably, technically aren’t quirks. Ok, maybe gluttony is a quirk. The long-running joke in my house is my wacky and adorable scarcity mentality, and in La Vegas it comes out something fierce. Now this is actually very exasperating to me, because it is in direct contradiction with my own faith where there is an endless supply of grace, and love, and blessings and forgiveness. But, I’m fairly certain I would have been one of those Israelites traipsing through the desert, yammering into Moses’ ear about manna this, and manna that and getting a good spot to set up my sleeping mat for the night, because the desert, with all these people, feels scrunched.

The thought of going to the Las Vegas hotel pool any time past 10 am gives me the shakes. I’m certain we’ll never get a beach chair, and I’ll be left to wander around with armloads of books and towels and sunscreen, my kids trailing behind already wearing their goggles; roaming in between the oiled, tanned and hung over, like an agitated ghost in a sun hat, unable to find an eternal resting place. The joy of finding a chair, even one chair to share with three other people is just almost too much to bear. Suddenly that one little chair is the promised land. And you don’t care that you’re going to get splashed or burnt or maybe no sun at all. Because it’s yours. You earned it. And you’re not leaving ‘til dark.

Or until the buffet opens at 4:00. Now if your kid isn’t throwing up at the buffet, that’s the happiest spot in Vegas. Unfortunately, it’s the other place my scarcity mentality rears its ugly head. John rolls his eyes, but appeases my desire to get to the buffet the moment they open the doors. I try to compromise and allow a 4:30 arrival. Of course, the line is a monster, filled with people who will flat out tell us we are too young to be eating at 4:30.

I stand there in line fidgeting, looking over the little ladies in front of me without even standing on my toes, trying to sneak a peek at the dining room.

John looks at me, and sighs because he can read my mind.

“They are NOT going to run out of shrimp….(brow furrow)…or crab legs.”

This is always when I spy someone practically skipping back to their table with a plate in each hand – one piled high with shrimp, the other with crab legs. My brow goes back to the furrow.

“Colleen, they will NOT run out of shrimp. This is Las Vegas, they know what they are doing.”

I nod tentatively, but really don’t relax until I’m the one skipping back to the table with my shrimp, trying not to make eye contact with the people in line who are of course, eyeing my impressive shellfish haul.

I’m curious when I’ll learn. Because I’m never right. We always find a seat, and I always eat so much that I feel gross, in a good way. In fact my unfounded concerns are so rarely realized that I do that dumb thing, where you almost hope you don’t find a chair, just so you can feel justified in your unjustifiable concerns. Another quirk.

no commission

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There’s a good chance you’ve been on the receiving end of one of my enthusiastic, yet earnest pitches for whatever has most recently caught my fancy. I figure I was going to write about it all eventually, so I’d put it together in one convenient index, forcing me to find new stuff to write about later. You’ll see it’s broken down into three of my favorite areas of interest, Media & Books, Food & Beverage, Entertainment.  For fun, give yourself four points for every one that I’ve tried to talk you into, or if you’ve been a good sport and  tolerated one of the related Facebook posts.

BOOKS & MEDIA

Donald Miller had been on the New York Times best seller list for a bazillion weeks before I read Blue Like Jazz. But you’d have thought I was his agent. I was reading it in the front seat of the car in the church parking lot. (It’s a long story, I don’t usually just sit out there.) Some people I knew walked by and I stuck my head out the window to yell at them, “I’m reading Blue Like Jazz – have you read it? You have to read it.”

  “Um yeah – we’ve read it… like a year ago. Thanks though.”

 Joel Stein’s Awesome Column in Time Magazine. Sure I read the rest of Time too, but usually after I read the Awesome Column. However, if there’s a difficult story elswewhere in the magazine I know I’m supposed to read to fulfill my duty as a caring and informed human, I use it as my incentive to make it through the depressing statistics and heart wrenching anecdotes. You could call The Awesome Column my reading dessert. Joel Stein makes everything funny, and I like things that are funny.

New York Magazine. I actually wrote about this magazine last week in glossy. John was packing for Africa, and I was reading New York Magazine’s article on James Franco:

“John you have to take this with you.”

“I’m out of room in my carry-on.”

 “It’s a magazine – you can fit it.”

“No I can’t.  I have a huge binder.”

“How ‘bout I put holes in it, and then put it in your binder.”

 “No.”

“Ok, how about I rip out the Franco article and you carry it in your pocket.”

 “James Franco? You can’t be serious.”

“I am – you have to read this.”

 “Fine.” We had a very similar discussion a month early about their piece on bed bugs. This magazine is that good.

The Lovely Bones Ok, this is definitely not funny. Even if you loved it as much as I did, don’t make my same mistake and try to talk anybody, let alone everybody, into it. That’s not the kind of material you can force on another person.

FOOD & BEVERAGE

The Chilada – this is The Lovely Bones of adult beverages. Though I may associate this drink with lazy summer nights in the backyard, the base is Clamato & you can’t just make another person try to enjoy that.

I’ve had so many Facebook status updates about Jack in the Box tacos that I am finally out of material.

Ben & Jerry’s Vanilla Caramel Fudge & Coldstone Banana ice cream This all-important category depends on which of my two pregnancies we’re talking about. After Jake was born, John said he was fully expecting me to give birth to Jake and Ben and Jerry. I ate a pint of this just about every day, which paired with my daily secret second breakfast at McDonalds, helped me achieve those extra 70 lbs every pregnant lady longs for.  My enabling friends at the PR agency where I worked would accompany me for mid-day ice cream runs. Shortly before Jake arrived, I sat down at a staff meeting and cracked open a pint. I don’t remember the meeting topic, but I do remember scraping the bottom of the cup about 5 minutes later having inhaled its delicious contents. I looked up with the spoon in my mouth and the entire agency was staring at me, mouths agape.

Coldstone banana was Zach’s fault, and unfortunately my quest for this creamy perfection lead me to one of the moments I am least proud of. I like to think of myself as a really happy-go-lucky customer….I’d go so far as to say the waitstaff person’s dream! But the high school kid behind the counter that summer who broke the news that banana had been replaced with wasabi flavor for a fun promotion, might paint you a different picture. I may have yelled a little, but there was mostly snarky ranting until the kid looked like he might cry, and I had to go storming away with stupid vanilla.

Do you wonder whether God tests you sometimes? That maybe he puts the opportunity in front of you to do the right thing – the hard thing – to see how you might react? Well…. I failed. I was at the library the VERY next day after the wasabi incident, and here comes that poor kid. I darted behind the new releases and hid. I’m sure all I would have had to do was to point at my gigantic pregnant belly, crack a joke and apologize (I would have meant it), but I couldn’t because I was so mortified with myself. It’s been five years, and I obviously still think about that kid, and have a feeling I’m going to have to answer to that one someday. Oh and by the way Coldstone, how’d that wasabi experiment work out for you?

Banana yogurt shakes. The best ones ever were around the corner from my first real job at the headquarters of a stuffy, strict, now-non-existent bank. In hindsight, I don’t know if I should have tried to sneak so many of my coworkers out of our fairly monitored building at 2 pm in our suits and shiny shoes, only to have us return with giant Styrofoam cups of banana yogurt shakes.

ENTERTAINMENT

Disneyland. Dear parents, it’s never too early to take your kid to Disneyland.  

I had not realized my loyalty and devotion to the classic Christmas movie status of Elf, until I was walking from the parking lot at work with some guy who had a desk down the hall. I mentioned Elf, and he said it sucked. Before I knew it, I said sternly that I needed to go and jay-walked across the street, only to end up walking parallel with him, en route to the exact same destination.

Saturday Night Live. We were recently in New York and by a very happy set of circumstances ended up sitting in 30 Rockefeller Center, Studio 8H. It was a Tuesday (the Tuesday before Jay- Z & Betty White – holla!) but we got to see the set guys working. John turned to me and said, “oh no – are you crying?!?” Of course I was. When I got home I likened it to people with simpler tastes perhaps seeing the Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa, or the ocean for the first time. In all fairness Roseanne Roseannadanna was my earliest impression in pre-school, and then, ironically, there was that Church Lady phase during middle school.

Twin Peaks. I’m still thankful I was not alone in this during high school. There were a few of us, and we dressed up like the characters to watch, and worked in as many Twin Peaks references as we could into regular conversation. We felt so avant garde, because the majority of our classmates thought it was lame, and us lame by association. I know now we were ahead of our time. Twin Peaks makes Lost look as complicated as Murder She Wrote.

You knew I couldn’t not mention Twilight. Believe me I had no intention of loving Twilight at all, I fell into it. As I’ve heard from my Twilight semi-support group, that’s just kind of how it happens. I am buoyed by the growing network of fellow Twi-moms. For the rest of you, a word to the wise, there are more of us than you might think.

And alas, the DVR. The first piece of technology that I mastered before my tech-savvy husband. It has actually lessened the day-to-day stress of my life. You should have seen the crease in my brow when, back in 2002, I realized that our VCR wouldn’t record channel 7 or my beloved Alias. John would have to huff it down the hill from his very serious seminary studies in the very serious seminary library to take over bedtime so I could watch Sydney Bristow get herself out of yet another jam. The DVR – good for the heart, and the marriage.

 I know I get this level of generally unbridled enthusiasm from my dad. When he was into Marie Calendar’s frozen pot pies, he bought me a case of them, twice. The same goes for the Lipton powdered soup in the handy “3:00 pick me up” size. And then there are his movies – My Blue Heaven and Captain Ron starring Kurt Russell. Don’t tease him about Captain Ron – he’ll walk across the street just to get away from you.

Tally your points and let me know if I owe you a banana yogurt shake.

glossy

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Mmmmmmm, magazines. They’re glossy and portable. You can roll it up, and tear stuff out. You can recycle it, dog ear the pages, even make a collage. They come personalized – with your name right there on the front, delivered to your doorstep. They’re full of stuff that you want to know, already know, should know, and sometimes wish you didn’t know.

Someone worked hard to make it and get it out to you, and they cared what it looked like and maybe back in the day, they were a journalism major, and now they are worried about the future of the printed word. They’ve seen ad pages decline, and though I’m betting these fine people love the Internet, I’m pretty sure they curse it too.

My lifelong relationship with magazines started innocently enough when I was a girl. I’d find every hidden picture, and read every kid-submitted poem in Highlights. Of course the jokes in Readers’ Digest were BRILLIANT. Then things got a little dark and gritty as my relationship with magazines got complicated. The problem really started with Seventeen, and the now defunct teen mags Young Miss and Sassy. That’s when I was brainwashed into the thinking that pretty much every teen girl had a boyfriend and flawless skin and could easily fill out a strapless formal. I quit those, and opted for Newsweek and the since-shuttered TAXI, aimed at urban sophisticates. I skewed the demo for each.

I would be the first in my family to pick up Newsweek and read it cover to cover the day it came in the mail. My knobby knees would be slung over the side of the armchair, and my thumbs would be black from the ink on the cover. I’d proudly point out to my Dad that week’s Conventional Wisdom, cut out the few political cartoons I understood, and would nod solemnly with earnest concern as I stumbled through the meatier stuff in the middle. I was quite certain that this would impress my celebrity crush – Tom Brokaw – if I were ever to meet him.

I’ll never forget walking home with a classmate the week Leona Helmsley was the Newsweek cover girl. “The cover just says ‘Rhymes with Rich’ over her photo…Isn’t that awesome?….Get it? ” She looked at me like I was a major disappointment to our species then excused herself, suddenly remembering something she had to do elsewhere.

My adulthood garnered a number of short-term magazine relationships ….in retrospect, all fairly reflective of my stages in life: Elle, Rolling Stone, Spin, In Style, Biography, Cooking Light, Wired, People, Business 2.0, Real Simple, Entertainment Weekly, Parents, Bon Appetit, The Economist, Vanity Fair, Guidepost, Travel & Leisure and Time. My longest relationship so far is with Sunset, an annual gift from my brother and sister-in-law. I half expect to know someone every time I turn a page in Sunset. A couple of years ago, I yelped when one day I did turn the page and there was my neighbor, smiling and sitting in her very sleek Sunset-worthy kitchen.

Most of my magazine break-ups were undramatic, ending with me lazily letting my subscription expire… we simply grew apart. There were a couple of noteable and glorious flameouts though. People Magazine and I spent a lot of time together right after Jacob was born. There were issues spilling out of the pockets of the rocking chair in the baby’s room. I’d devour it shamelessly until one day, it turned out to be pretty shameful. As I finished the issue, simple crossword and all, I looked up to realize I’d absolutely ignored my baby for who knows how long, leaving him in the jumpy saucer until he was in a trance. I broke up with People right there, for the sake of my children and children everywhere.

Years later things got pretty hot & heavy with Vanity Fair. The pages are made from the most luxurious high quality paper in the universe – so shiny and glossy you just want to wrap yourself in it. The writing is superb – as if each word inside was penned longhand by someone smoking a cigarette in the bar at the Algonquin, wearing heavy spectacles and cursing me under his or her brandy laden breath while running their weathered hands through a head full of wild and unkempt hair. However, after each behemoth issue, I was utterly depressed. It was Seventeen all over again. Only instead of ill- fitting prom dresses I was up against “bright young things” who were all well traveled, well heeled, overly educated, perversely accomplished, and somehow actually saving the world. I walked out of that relationship in the night with nary a note, bitter, jaded and unsure if I could ever love a publication again.

I wish I could tell you who introduced us, but I did in fact meet one. New York Magazine, NOT to be mistaken for the New Yorker. The crossword puzzle is hard, but not too hard, falling somewhere between People and The New York Times. All the cool stuff I’m proud to know about art and music and interesting people – I get from this magazine. The writing is clever and smart, approachable but not pedestrian. It doesn’t depress you like Vanity Fair, or embarrass you like People.  It’s 2 hours well spent. I read every real estate ad for a city I will likely never live in, and every restaurant review for places that will most certainly be closed by the time I ever get back there.

I can happily report that my magazines and I are in a healthy place…they are well balanced and forgiving, not at all needy or demanding – I’m entertained and educated and allowed the space and time to be independent and my own person.

By the way, I did meet Tom Brokaw once when I was in college…I can’t say that he was entirely impressed.

atrophy

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Atrophy. If school wasn’t starting in two days, it certainly seems that would be the word of the week, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you how to spell it.  Looking around the house, it is essentially a time capsule from June of 2010. The backpack is slumped in a corner where it was dropped on the last day of school. The fool-proof organizing system of boxes and document holders with which I am continually tinkering, still spews papers from the top, mocking my good intentions.  Feeling entirely too much like an adult, I had to take pause this week and wonder, where did my summer, once so full of promise and untold delights…yes, THAT summer, go?

The last week of August already tends to be one of mixed emotions. The kids have dissolved into mini-delinquents whose sole purpose for punching each other is force of habit, but they shyly admit that they might indeed just be ready for regular school stuff. And while I fancy myself fairly footloose and moderately fancy free, I’m pretty stoked about having some structure reintroduced into our lives.

Faced with the reality of summer’s end, Jake shimmied out of one of his beloved baseball tees and into a collared shirt for school pictures this afternoon, followed by a peek into his new class. The glimmer of joy came when he realized he scored one of two air conditioned classrooms.

The glimmer disappeared with the school supply shopping. It should come as no surprise that when you’re shopping for pencils and paper, the biggest smiles are on the parents’ faces. You’ve seen the commercials. It’s totally true. Grown-ups chipper with anticipation, happily checking off otherwise mundane items from their lists.

 “3-ring binders? Theeeeere they aaaaarre!” …this from a smiling cherubic woman with a Blue Tooth headset firmly in place and the lilting sing-song voice of Snow White. She was followed by a wincing teenager whose hands were shoved defiantly into his pockets.

 All over the store, parents were holding up items, saying “which one?” enthusiastically trying to sell kids on the luxury of choice that they have in the color of their binder, their notebooks, their pencil case –  offering perhaps a semblance of control in a situation where essentially, young students have little. Jake haphazardly pointed at the red, the blue, the black. It seems he would have been happy if we were picking out a leather office chair or fax machine…that’s where his attention was.

 But now, as my tall funny fifth grader, and my cuddly sweet last-year-of-pre-schooler are not punching each other and tucked snugly into bed, I’m having a heck of a time being excited about launching into a new year without a firm grasp on what happened to the last 12 weeks? Where have we been that I didn’t finish the recipe project or paint the living room? How cute is it that I thought that I might?

Let’s see, the DVR sputtered out its last CSI weeks ago – dead of fatigue.  (Killing your DVR with overuse doesn’t result in the prideful feeling you’d think it would.) When that noble piece of technology finally went, it took about 18 hours of stored treasures that I had reserved for the summer programming drought. So aside from the recent delicious start of Mad Men, I wasn’t near the TV like I usually am. Hmm…the evenings were too cold to lounge around outside and spray down the boys with a hose, though there were moments I considered it. And I’m just as far into The Girl  With the Dragon Tattoo as I was in June.

Even my personal magazine pile has doubled. Have I really been that behind on Entertainment Weekly? Well, not entirely. I almost forgot to feed the boys dinner the day the fall movie preview issue arrived. And all those issues of The Economist? I did take the time to toss those, so that’s good.

So I did an exercise to get to the bottom of this mystery. Please, please, please don’t stop reading when I say this. OK, it involves Twilight, but it has a point. During the 9 hours of special features on the DVD that I watched as happily as I did the actual movie, the screenwriter, Melissa Rosenberg said she read the first book in a single sitting, focused on the scenes & images that stood out from this initial read – and then structured the screenplay around those. So I did the same thing, but to rediscover the highlights of a season past.

 Melodramatically closing my eyes…I flitted back to the ill-advised but glorious Dunkin’ Donuts breakfast in Las Vegas. The 4th of July fireworks over Disneyland. Sitting in the theater watching Eclipse with my friend Margie and a gaggle of really rowdy and inappropriate mothers. My friend Megan making me dinner in my own kitchen, and having a mom talk with the little one when I was just too tired to do it myself. Jacob jumping himself silly on a trampoline for his 10th birthday. Trying and failing to get our hands on chocolate covered bacon at the State Fair. The butterflies in my stomach when my handsome husband appeared on the escalator at the airport, finally home from Zimbabwe. The sinking feeling I had when I realized the gifts he brought the boys were two vuvuzelas. The plotting of where I could accidentally lose two vuvuzelas. A couple of great end-of-summer parties with old friends, and new friends, and many many appetizers. And then there was starting this blog, which during the nail-biting hemming and hawing stages of discernment about it, felt kinda self-indulgent, overly revealing, a little brave, a tad silly, and maybe a little bit cathartic.

And so now I will post this piece, walk by the backpack and filing system, and hop into bed with the triumphant posession of a summer well-spent. I suppose there are worse things than atrophy of housecleaning.

the carob chip resolution

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So many nights this week, I’ve turned this computer on and just sat here. Always after I’d finally gotten the boys bathed, jammied, storied and in bed. OK, so some nights the bath didn’t happen, but the jammies always did and so did the goodnight prayer, so I’d call that a success and I’d sit. And then it would be really quiet in the house, and I’d think about it and decide it really wasn’t a success after all because I’d lost my patience right at the end there, and I used not-the-nicest voice, and when I delivered more cups of water to each bedroom it was with a frowny face instead of a smiley one.

So I’d go back in and kiss their sweet heads whispering that I loved them, and I’m just tired which of course is my problem and not theirs.  I’d pad back out here with my hair in a messy ponytail and stare again. Sometimes at the blank screen, sometimes at the wall, sometimes at the TV. Occasionally, I’d mess around trying to create the perfect Pandora station. None of it though, could take away just how insanely tired I felt. Then I would think about John and the rest of the group in Africa, and how they’re up at 5 a.m. to carry around bricks and climb homemade ladders, and then I’d feel pretty stupid. And then I would think of all the people in the world who do that every day but with worse circumstances and worse ladders, and then I’d feel even more stupid. I’d be hopeful that the mere realization that I was being a ninny would make me alert and inspired….and that maybe I’ll write something I’m happy with, and plan the menus for the week, and organize the photo cabinet.

And then maybe I’d teach the boys how to make lasagna and I’d take down the mountain of t-shirts I haphazardly toss on the top shelf of the closet, find a few to give away, and perfectly refold the rest organizing them by color. While I’m at it, I’ll get down under all the beds and couches and deal with whatever I find there. I’ll write that stray thank you note from July. I’ll take care of the backlog of birthday, baby, anniversary and graduation cards and presents that haunt me every time I look at my calendar. I’m going to once-and-for-all get rid of the candy shelf by the fridge, replace it with dried fruit, carob chips, and almonds, and then rearrange the Tupperware. But I don’t. So I turn this computer off…the computer that feels more like an enemy now than a friend, and wonder if maybe I’ve very recently, just this week in fact, developed a not-too-serious, but just-serious-enough medical condition that makes me tired and unproductive. That must be it. I’ll probably be able to get a very sappy and concerned sounding note from my doctor.

So now instead of sitting comatose in front of the computer, I’m laying in the dark wondering how soon I should go in to get my diagnosis confirmed. Gah – forget it. I don’t want to have to make an appointment. You know what? I’m going to start going to the gym again, and I’m going to be so much more disciplined about morning devotions and eating almonds and carob chips and then….then I’ll have the energy I need.

But then today, the day we’ve been counting down to, is finally here. John and the group arrive on UAL flight 977 at 11:23 am. A journey that began three flights, four stops, four countries, and two days ago. The parents, siblings and nervous teenage boyfriends with their flower bouquets (how cute is that?) cheer and clap and whoop and holler as our loved ones descend the escalator. My boys even stop punching each other long enough so they can cheer too. It’s very exciting. Exciting for us and for the kids…confusing for the people on the escalator who are not with our group.

The big smiles on the travelers’ faces begin to wane as the minutes tick by and the wait for their luggage extends. There’s a lot of hugging, and a little bit of crying. But once the carousel starts up again, the wistful looks disappear, and people get back to business, snatching their belongings and high-tailing it out of the automatic doors into the sunshine, presumably to eat a burger and take a nap.

Once our now reunited family gets home, John hangs in as long as he can, listening to the boys march around earnestly blowing their new vevuzelas (thanks John!)…even taking them to the park before finally collapsing into a well deserved slumber.

And now here I sit… quiet house, three sleeping boys, cool new Pandora channel, and finally more typing than staring. Feeling like no less of a ninny for moping around exhausted, but buoyed enough where I think I’ll keep that candy shelf after all.

hero abatement

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A couple of weeks ago, John came into our room and said, “It looks like the MLB threw up on our son.” All I heard at first was “throw up” and “son,” and started to launch into vomit abatement mode.  

“No the MLB threw up on him,” (he emphasized like it’s actually a thing that happens)… “Mets Hat. A’s shirt, Rockies shorts.”

“On purpose?”

“Pretty sure.”

As of last month, Jake’s 10. He’s all limbs, freckles and Justin Bieber hair. He has very sophisticated culinary preferences, and tosses the kids’ coloring menu aside to peer over my shoulder at the grown up menu. When he finishes a meal, he unashamedly eyes my plate, so now I eat faster. He can carry on an intelligent conversation with adults, is good with the follow-up questions, and has amazing recall with biographical & historical factoids. I call him my cub reporter, and he rolls his eyes.

I see what a tween is now – stuck there between little kid and teenager. I can see it in his eyes, “I want to cuddle with you, but I don’t want you to think I want to cuddle with you.” He measures himself against me, waiting for the day he can look me in the eye. I remind him that even when he is taller than me, I will still in fact, be the boss of him.

He rises with or before the sun to turn on the MLB network to check scores and amazing catches and homeruns he missed while he was sleeping. He can rattle off stats I don’t understand, and who’s going on, or coming off the DLs across American and National Leagues.

He understands now, how hard it is to become a professional baseball player, so has been considering his options: sports analyst, sports agent, sports doctor.

I’m well aware that there are countless little kids out there who love baseball and basketball and football. But the one who lives under my roof has hit a rough patch lately with his sports heroes.

The first team he fell in love with was the USC Trojans. Poor kid didn’t have a choice in the matter. His father and I are both Trojans and football is just what you do when you go to USC.  Saturday games are still a major event at our house, and another excuse for hot wings and clam dip. When John was in seminary, before the advent of the smart phone, he’d excuse himself from mandatory Saturday seminary activities to stand in the hall yelling commands to some robot on the other end of his gigantic cell phone. You could call a number and get scores! Wow! It was all very futuristic and sophisticated and his classmates still remind him of his voice booming through the hall trying to get the robot to understand his needs. “FOOTBALL! FOOTBALL SCORES! COLLEGE FOOTBALL! USC FOOTBALL SCORES!”

Jacob had a Reggie Bush doll that has now been passed to his little brother, a sports nut in his own right (and who this year re-named St. Patrick’s Day “Dan Patrick Day” and had a fever-induced hallucination starring Kevin Garnett). The hands fell off the doll, Lil Reggie, about 4 years ago. Once in a while I’ll come across one of the hands in a toy box, and it’s really quite disconcerting. Almost as creepy as stretching out on the couch only to have Lil Reggie peeking at you from behind a pillow.

We live near Cal which means we are reminded frequently of USC’s recent fall from glory, or as we think of it, push from glory by the NCAA, based on the unsavory actions of the USC athletic staff, and (maybe not) Reggie Bush.

His next loves were the Giants and Barry Bonds. I didn’t know another little kid who was rooting for Barry Bonds more than Jake. He’d pretend to be Barry Bonds whenever he picked up a bat and would ask daily if there were new homers. Then we had to start talking about steroids and asterisks…with our 1st grader. We forbade him from walking away from us in the store, talking back to his mother, and taking steroids.

There was a point where we actually tried to refocus his attention on good guys. Hard working family men. You know, like Tiger Woods. Last holiday season was tricky, trying to steer away from sports news, regular news, entertainment news, newspapers, anything on the radio, or any conversations with other humans. We’d already had the steroid talk. I wasn’t ready to explain mistresses, bottle service or sex rehab.

He’d already seen Michael Phelps & Tim Lincecum each get caught with pot. Big Ben goes to jail for being gross. LeBron draws the ire of a nation with his one-man money show.

John & Jake were watching ESPN a few weeks ago when the the Lance Armstrong doping allegations story popped up. John said the look in Jake’s eyes was one of hurt and betrayal. “Nooo. Not Lance Armstrong!” before flopping back with the kind of frustration and defeat that should be reserved only for mothers. I’m afraid in 5 years, he’ll  look back on that moment as the one where he decided that heroes might be a waste of time.

Since then, two players from his other favorite team, the Mets, are in the news, Johan Santana has paternity drama, and Francisco Rodriguez, K-Rod, gets arrested for being in a super-classy fight with his father-in-law. We have about 100 pictures of K-Rod taken from 10 feet away, while Jake sat starry eyed watching him warm up. I’ve noticed in the last couple of days, Jake’s been absentmindedly flipping through these stories, on his way to the Disney channel.

I think it would have been easier if the MLB had just actually thrown up on him.

August 24, 2012: For his 12th birthday, the only thing Jacob wanted was a t-shirt with the number of his new favorite Giant, Melky Cabrera. Days later, Cabrera was slapped with a 50 game suspension for doping. We’ve delicately discussed the Penn State football program over the past months, and not so delicately, the New Orleans Saints bounty scandal. When I saw today’s Lance Armstrong news, I remembered this post I originally published almost exactly two years ago. Things change, but not really. And I really wonder how a family can collectively find a new interest – like bird watching or stamp collecting.

Big News Week

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Zimbabwe’s far. My mission pastor hubby John has once again made the 30-hour trek, this time with a planeful of energetic, ready-to-change-the-world teenagers and some pretty cool ready-to-change-the-world adults.

Relieving the sting of his absence, my friend Megan and her baby have flown out from New Mexico to hang with us. The baby is darling and has my boys enraptured with his little face, little hands and little Nikes. Having another mom on hand is of course, a Godsend. She has unending energy and instinctively bends down to tie a shoe, reaches out to hold a hand, jumps in to cook dinner, gives the mom-style laser eyes when mine are tired, and has been trying to help me figure out why the airbed keeps deflating and swallowing Jacob in the night. Megan’s a pastor’s wife too, and has been a source of comfort and understanding through both of our families’ wacky and fun-filled transitions into ministry.

Last night, with the boys tucked in, we watched Strictly Ballroom, and then she sat patiently while I tried to talk her into watching Twilight with me, which she won’t. Though we don’t have Masters of Divinity degrees like our husbands who were seminary classmates (and have apparently mastered divinity), we still find ourselves casually chatting about church polity and theology while sitting on the couch in our pajamas. If you can’t watch Twilight, theology and polity are the next logical choices.

And there’s been a lot to talk about. This last week or so, churchy news has made it into mainstream media something fierce. First Anne Rice denounces Christianity by way of Facebook, which if you are going to publicly and erroneously accuse an entire group of being hate mongers, Facebook is the way to go. And then there’s the big piece in the New York Times on clergy burnout which got all of the clergy types’ collective undergarments in a bunch. OK yuk, nobody wants to talk about clergy undergarments.

Now when this stuff comes out, there are countless platforms and forums and venues where we can virtually all jump in and talk at once. My instinct is to argue & defend when I feel wronged, and then reason & explain (which I’ve done this week), but that’s exhausting. It only goes so far, and in the end, just adds to the noise. Instead, it seems like a better idea to just let people know that right now, at this very moment, there are bright, talented, dedicated teenagers who are spending the last days of their summer thousands of miles away from home, carrying bricks, building pre-schools, and passing out shoes. As John very eloquently says, these are the kids who, in a blink, are going to be doctors, policymakers and world leaders. They’re bypassing the noisemakers – stepping out in faith and taking their big hearts, bright smiles and beautiful souls into the world to do something and show some love.  And not even Anne Rice can argue with that.

’til it sticks

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When I talk, it’s kind of like throwing spaghetti at a wall. I’ve been known to talk and talk until, mercifully for the person I’m talking to, something resembling a point comes out and sticks.

There’s an obvious hazard of this quirky and downright adorable communication style – something really stupid is also going to inevitably come out. And, unlike writing where you can enjoy the heady luxury of a healthy edit, once you’ve said something inane, it’s out there, man. For a, uh, prolific talker like myself, you have two options: you can suddenly see something far away that needs your immediate attention (pre-schoolers are especially handy for this) or simply start talking again until the stupid thing has been erased by 10 more somethings. Quantity here, not quality.

 Apparently, this rapid fire verbal assault doesn’t do it for everybody.

 Last week, I accompanied a couple of colleagues down to a two-day seminar where we looked at our strengths, and the benefits of working with the strengths God gave us instead of futilely toiling away trying to correct our weaknesses. (Take that, math!) One of my strengths turned out to be my ability and interestingly enough, desire, to chat up strangers, get their story and quickly find some level on which we can relate. Huh.

We all had to stand and share about our strengths and ourselves. When it was my turn, I may have been a touch animated and incorporated a half-fist-pump, but did my best to keep it simple. When we were all done, I turned to talk to the ladies behind me. I had noticed our strengths put us on opposite ends of the spectrum personality-wise. The woman with the curly hair smiled sweetly, and appeased me with polite conversation. The lady with the ponytail and the death grip on her study guide looked me straight in the eye and said, “people like me run away from people like you,” not cracking a smile and effectively ending the conversation right there.

I spent the afternoon chewing on this. Oh no – I’m scary.

What would happen if I spotted serious pony tail death grip lady (SPTDGL) on my church patio at coffee hour? There I would be, lumbering over in movie-style slow motion with her locked in my sites. With this attractive visual in mind, I pictured what might be going through my head as I tried to make conversation with her.

My inner monologue would go something like this: “I’m relating to you right now. I’m making you more comfortable by talking and asking you questions about yourself in a totally healthy, hospitable, not-weird way. Ok, what I just said might be oversharing, but by being upfront about my faults, maybe you won’t think we’re all goody two shoes. Are you looking at my feet? I know my shoes don’t exactly match and this ‘luminous’ self-tanner is making me glitter like a disco ball. Note to self, ‘luminous’ = glitter.”

See? I’m nice, authentic, and most definitely not scary. With this silent conclusion, I triumphantly looked over my shoulder at the lady, who wouldn’t meet my gaze.

Hmmph. It’s you wily stoic ones that make me nervous. Yes, wily. I’m onto you – you’ve learned to masterfully use your silence to make yourself seem wiser and more thoughtful than the other folks in the room. A skill that is enhanced into a superpower by the presence of a talker.  You are able to simultaneously lull others into submission and bubble up their self doubt with the simple and artful act of not saying anything at exactly the right moment. That leaves the talker to do what they do best, fill the silence. If for some bizarro reason, I ever end up in your interrogation room, all you’d have to do is sit across from me, silently smirking. You’d get everything you needed to know, and then some.

Uggh, that isn’t right either. Ok, well, parts of it are.

With a new resolve, I made SPTDGL my new personal project. I was going to literally talk her into liking me. (Um, seeing that in print makes me realize I may have other issues I need to explore – but that’s for another day.)

 The next day she showed up in a Mickey Mouse watch and jacket.

 A-ha!

I can talk about two general subjects intelligently and with aplomb. The first is pop culture – scripted television, celebrity gossip, movies. Secondly, and more importantly, Disneyland. I stood determinedly in front of her, arms folded, and said simply “I see your Mickey Mouse jacket and watch.” She started to squirm and squinch up her face, eyes darting around desperately looking for an escape route, until I belted out “I LOVE DISNEYLAND!” and threw in a subdued fist pump for emphasis. Her shoulders relaxed, and then it happened. Her frown relaxed…all the way into a sorta, kinda half-smile that was ambiguously pointed in my direction!

And on that day, in that conference room, whether she liked it or not, she shared an authentic moment with her admittedly worst chatty luminous nightmare.

WTF: Why the Fulcrum?

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Truly, it’s a miracle to be here. And I don’t mean that in any philosophical way. Getting this blog thing set up just about did me in. By the time I will actually get this posted, if in fact, I do, I will have ignored my children, stomped around the house growling, delayed cooking dinner and questioned whatever small dose of techie acumen I thought I had, as well as any qualifications that would allow me to even think about having a blog in the first place.

Thanks for coming.

Well, let’s start with the ridiculous title: The Fulcrum Chronicles. Again, I’d like to underscore the extent to which I do not enjoy being overly philosophical about anything. It’s obnoxious. However, I do think about faith, and God, and church…..a lot. I kind of have to. I’m a pastor’s wife, and a ministry director at our church (oddly, not my childhood goal).

 I’m not an engineer type, but I keep coming back to the idea of the teeter totter & the fulcrum. Life moves you in both directions, but the thing that keeps you in motion is that one ever – important point – the fulcrum. I like to think that’s where God is….encouraging you to kick off really hard with your feet when you hit the ground, and then celebrate with a whoop when you reach the sky. I also like to think that God would kindly re-direct the big mean kid on the other end of the teeter totter who keeps you trapped on your end with your feet dangling. In my imagination, it’s a scratchy pencil-drawn kid, and a pencil drawn teeter totter, and I have freckles and a bow in my hair, but that’s beside the point. You can picture how faith and God keep you balanced/centered/grounded – or not – in your own way. A beautiful bird? A sturdy boulder? A mighty oak? I don’t know what that would signify – it’s your visualization technique.

 The Chronicles part. Well, my kids (there are two) and husband (one of those) are really funny. My career choice, and our life choice – or calling, as they say in the biz -lends itself to wacky misadventures, an eclectic collection of friends, poignant moments, and instances where you’re ready to altogether give up on humans. So I’ll probably write about that stuff…to the extent where I won’t actually be outing anyone specific as being a jerk.

So that’s it for now. Fingers crossed, and a little prayer that this works, that it posts without incident and that I won’t have to break out my own personal brand of swearing that makes my kids laugh. “Jimminy Christmas!!” happens to be their favorite. (The thing is, I am REALLY mad & frustrated when I say that stuff – so the tone &  fury with which it comes out is actually super-, I think, -offensive, but nobody else does, which is almost, well, offensive.