Category: Mysteries of Life

. . . I can’t stop wondering.

Spider-Killing and Kicking Butt at Baby Showers

The hour of David Letterman has nearly arrived and I am still sitting at my computer, peering at the screen with contact lenses still in place. I am creating documents and maps and beautiful works of art to aid me in my presentation tomorrow. I am training volunteers to work during our week of Vacation Bible School. I need to hand them gorgeous hand-outs, complete with cute little clip-art lions and elephants and zebras, oh my.

Even though my throat hurts (only when I swallow . . . must . . . not. . . swallow . . . gulp . . .).

Only two more days of school. Who are we kidding, though? We’ve sputtered to a dead stop. The public school plans parties on the last days . . . and now I know why. The kids have pretty much done all they can do.

I keep forgetting to tell you about the baby shower game. I am a ruthless competitor when it comes to baby showers. You know how you have to do a handful of silly games before the mom-to-be opens her stacks of gifts (“awwwww, how cute!”)? Well, I can’t help myself. Suddenly, I turn into fourth-grade Mel and I must finish the test game first. This time, it was a word scramble and instead of zooming through it with embarrassing quickness, I struggled a bit. This scramble was a challenge! Everyone was finally “cheating” out loud and yet, they still didn’t have all the answers. I puzzled and grimaced and rewrote the letters in the margin and finally shouted, “I’M DONE!”

I won a $10 gift certificate to Cold Stone Creamery.

Usually, I sweep the games completely, but this time the other games were random and unwinnable by simple will-power and brain-power.

As for spider-killing (and, yes, I know–spiders are good, spiders are our friends). Tonight, my mother called and asked if I could come over. I was going out anyway to buy posterboard, so I stopped by her house first. She launched into a tale of a spider, a spider so gigantic, so enormous that she could not walk through her kitchen to her bathroom for fear this arachnid would . . . well, I’m not sure what the spider would do to her since she is ten thousand times the size of a spider, but she is terrified of spiders, especially bigger than average spiders. (None of our local spiders are venomous, either.)

I am not fond of spiders myself. I don’t like how they look at me. But I rarely kill them. I’m too scared to kill them. (I know, irrational. What a girl! What’s wrong with me?!) I ignore them if they are not bothering me or have someone else kill them if they are lurking in the bathroom sink or something, standing between me and my toothbrush.

But my mother is beyond mere fear. She cannot sleep in an apartment if she’s seen a spider crawling around. So she called me.

As we chatted a while later, sitting on her bed, clipping her new kitten’s claws, the spider lurched toward us. She began to babble and scream incoherently, leaving me to be the brave rescuer. I had to spring into action. I grabbed a crockpot box sitting on her bedroom floor (why? because she’s a packrat) and slammed it down onto the spider.

Then we both clutched our hands to our chests and felt our hearts pounding.

Eventually, I gathered enough courage to lift the box, poke at the smooshed spider with a fly swatter and flush it down the toilet.

I hate it when I’m forced into being the Brave One. Aren’t mothers supposed to do this? I mean, shouldn’t my mother be the one protecting me? When did this shift happen?

Why My Sister and I Don’t Speak


Sisters Posted by Hello

I’m in pink. She’s in blue. She was born sixteen months after me. You might imagine that we grew up braiding each other’s hair and playing Barbies together. You might picture us whispering secrets from our matching twin beds covered with pink chenille bedspreads. You might think I am lucky to have a sister so close in age.

You’d be wrong.

My sister and I were never friends. Sure, we lived under the same roof for seventeen years, but we were never, ever friends. We were so different as little girls. I had no patience with her. I didn’t want to play with her–she did not follow rules, she was messy and she couldn’t fold a blanket into a neat square. (That really bugged five-year old me.) She whispered at night, keeping me awake. She left sandwiches under the bed. She bit me more than once.

By the time we were teens, our parents had divorced. I will never forget seeing tears stream down her face in the kitchen while my mother packed boxes. She ugly cried at my mother’s wedding a year later. Her grief swallowed her whole.

I didn’t comfort her.  I didn’t know how. I could barely keep my own head above water. I was broken and distraught but coped by striving for perfection. My emotions were tightly wrapped, under control, hidden.

Of course, from an adult vantage point, I feel sorry for her.  I wish I’d been softer and kinder and less self-concerned. But early on, I switched into self-preservation mode. I kept everyone a safe distance and worked hard at being good and right and smart.

My family might have been in smithereens, but I appeared to be thriving. I continued earning good grades, babysat, attended youth group, participated in student government, played the piano, read a lot, volunteered even more, and kept myself so busy I didn’t have time to worry that I was a failure.  I did fear I was on the brink of catastrophe at all times if I were less than perfect. I coped with our disrupted lives by controlling my own life with grim determination.

My sister struggled. Everything I was, she was not. I overshadowed her, but not with malice. In fact, I didn’t give it a second thought. I sound so ruthless, but in my family, it was every man for himself. We were very separate, isolated in our own bedrooms, never hanging out together. She was a grade behind me in school but I never saw her on campus.

And finally, I left home when I was eighteen.

When we were in college, we became pen-pals. She had pen-pals all over the world.  I was just another name on her list.  We exchanged pleasant correspondence, but we didn’t share our hearts. I always answered her letters, though, and tried to share my life.

I remember the last time we argued. I was newly married and she was newly employed as a language instructor in Japan. She’d come to visit. My youngest sister, my mom, my sister and I drove to the house in Whispering Firs where we spent our elementary school years. (My youngest sister was born in the master bedroom, as a matter of fact, attended only by my completely unprepared father, but that’s another story.) The house was for sale and my sister had arranged a tour. (I think she lied to get us in, actually.)

After our nostalgic tour of the shrunken house (it seemed so much bigger back then) we discovered my youngest sister had locked her keys in the car.  We stood in the driveway, helpless, hapless. My mother suggested asking a state patrol officer friend a few streets over for help. That plan failed. Then my sister mentioned she had a AAA membership. Hooray! We were saved!

Except she informed us, “It’s my membership. I’m not letting HER use it.” I said, “No, no, no, it doesn’t cover your car, it covers you. So, you can use it, even for her car!” I thought she just didn’t understand.

She understood. She was just inexplicably selfish.

We argued loudly and I admit I veered off topic, pointing out her failures, as if she hadn’t noticed them before. I was unkind and mean. She was worse.

Eventually, we called AAA.

After that, I vowed never to fight with her again. No more yelling. Ever. I hate conflict and didn’t want to be vulnerable again. I’d be polite as if we were mere acquaintances.

And so it went. We continued being pen-pals. As years passed and I had children, I thought maybe we could begin again. I wrote, “Let’s start over. Tell me what you like. What color? What music? What dreams do you have?” She said she didn’t have time to answer my questions.

Every time we interacted, I grew frustrated until one day, I realized my expectations were too high. I had grown up, gotten married and had kids while she was still living a weird adolescence. She acted like she was fourteen–completely self-centered, self-conscious, inconsiderate. For instance, she’d fly in from another country, appear on your doorstep and expect you to be excited to drop everything and entertain her.  I expected adult behavior and grew annoyed, but when I adjusted and expected teenage behavior, I could excuse it.  After all, a teen doesn’t know better and they will eventually mature.

So you can overlook their attitudes, make excuses for them, stop expecting things. You can laugh instead of grind your teeth.

Despite my misgivings and vows, I did keep trying. I really did.  After all, my dad was dead (when I was 24 and she was 23) and she had no one but family. No husband, no boyfriend, no children. We were family. I extended myself to her over and over, probably out of guilt, maybe to atone for my careless teen actions, perhaps to redeem my junior high self.

When I became unexpectedly pregnant for the second time (what do doctors know anyway?), I invited her to photograph the birth. I wanted photographs, but I didn’t want a stranger during those intimate moments. She dabbles in photography, had taken classes and owned a fancy camera. I thought I could share the miracle of birth and she could be my photographer. I thought my idea was a generous offer.

I went into labor on Labor Day.  My contractions were two minutes apart when my midwife arrived. By then, I was flinging myself to the ground and howling. Between pains, I telephoned my sister. When she arrived, I was in the birthing tub, clutching the edges of the pool, screaming through the contractions.

I looked up when she and my mom arrived and said, “I’m having contractions. I will scream in a moment. Do not be alarmed.”

And then I slid into another avalanche of pain. She clicked the camera, snapping picture after picture. I was vaguely aware of her camera, but contractions consumed my attention. Less than an hour later, my baby was born.

In the following days, my sister brought the packets of pictures to me. (Obviously, this happened in pre-digital days.)  She told me, “Look them over and I’ll get reprints.” I said, “Why?” She told me she wanted to keep the pictures with her. I said, “Why?” She hemmed and hawed and finally admitted, “I want to show them to people.”

Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding! Alarm bells went off in my postpartum head. “Who?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Oh, our brother and uncle . . .” she shrugged.

I went into full cardiac arrest and when the paddles brought me back to life (CLEAR!”) I sprang into action. When she left, I sorted through the stacks of pictures and removed all which were unflattering and unsuitable for public viewing. She’d taken some graphic shots of things even I didn’t want to see.

The next time I saw her, I handed over a heavily edited stacks of photographs. I explained I had removed the pictures I wasn’t comfortable with people seeing.

She nodded as if she understood my feelings.

After she left, she told my mother that I had stolen her pictures.

She came to say goodbye before returning to her home in Japan, dropping a final packet of pictures on my dresser. After she’d gone, I finished nursing my baby, picked up the envelope and pulled out the pictures. I found the negatives in sleeves, with twelve of them marked for reprints. I held them up to the light and discovered that she’d made copies of twelve of the pictures that I specifically deemed too private. The pictures she’d taken were of me at my most vulnerable, at the moment my daughter was being born.

I was livid.

I emailed her a furious demand that she return the pictures. She ignored it.

I told my youngest sister what had happened and she reported that our sister had showed her a picture. Our sister told her, “Mel doesn’t want me to show you this.”

I emailed her repeatedly. No response.

Almost a year later, our paths crossed at a barbecue held by my brother to celebrate his marriage. The small gathering was held in their backyard. No room to hide. How awkward! I decided I would be polite. I would respond to her, but I would not instigate a conversation. I would not extend myself. I wouldn’t speak first. Would she?

And so, we did not speak. It dawned on me that I had always been the one to reach out first. It was always me to say, “How are you?” “How’s your job going?” “What are you doing for fun these days?” “Did you enjoy your trip?” “Are you classes going well?”

She had never really cared about me before. That realization changed everything.

We had no connection, not because of me but because of her.

As I described this broken relationship to friends over the past two years, I sound like the villain holding a grudge. Why don’t I just forgive her for . . . what? Stealing photos I asked her to take? Ignoring my emails? Ignoring me? Cutting off my children entirely? Being rude and selfish?

I mean, it’s just so weird.

But still.

A few months back, I decided that someone needed to be the adult here. I hate for my mother to have her children estranged. I don’t want the rest of our family uncomfortable because I was mortified strangers would see my birth photos.

So I emailed her. I simply asked, “Are you willing to discuss the reason we are not speaking?”

After several days, she emailed back, “I’ll call you when I’m in town.”

I immediately replied, “When will that be?”

She did not answer.

My youngest sister let slip our sister would be in town in May. I emailed her and said, “I’d really like to discuss this issue before you arrive in May. Please email me back.”

She never did.

Ten days ago, she arrived for a one-week visit. She stayed with my mom a few miles from my house. She made a point of taking my niece and nephew on outings. She ignored my kids entirely. She had dinner with my youngest sister. She saw my brother and his wife. She did not call me. I didn’t see her.

I guess that’s the end of my tale. Maybe it’s just the middle, but I think it’s likely the end.

And the pictures? They weren’t even that good.

UPDATE: January 2016

We are still not on speaking terms. She has never reached out to me and in fact, when I reached out her to her in 2009 to send her a gift, she responded with this.  I’m still not sure if I’m the whale or the sloth.

Did you send me an email recently or is it spam?

Mom says I should write to you and talk to you, but I have nothing to say.  I am not angry at you.  There is just absolutely nothing that I want to share with you and I am not interested in hearing about what’s happening in your life.  If you want to write to me, that’s fine, but don’t expect to hear from me.

The way I see it, one of us is a blue whale swimming around in the ocean and the other one is a sloth happily hanging from the branch of a tree surrounded by leaves and noise.  What is there for the whale and the sloth to talk to each other about?  They can’t comprehend or care about the other person’s life…  That doesn’t mean either of them has a better life than the other.  They cannot be compared.  The whale does what feels comfortable and natural for the whale while the sloth does what feels comfortable and natural for the sloth.

You and I are just too different to have anything to talk about.  That’s the way I understand it, anyway…

UPDATE: August 2022: And her final email to me in 2009 after we went back and forth and I explained my viewpoint:

Ok.  You lied by telling me months before the birth that you would pay me for the pictures I took and then never giving me any money or any kind of compensation for them.  You stole the negatives and prints that legally still belong to me and you refuse to return them to me.  You lied to me shortly after the birth when you said you would write down the numbers of the pictures on the negatives so I could make copies of them for you (generous on my part, not even expecting you to pay me for them) at Costco before I took the negatives with me when I returned to Japan.  You agreed to that at the time we arranged it, but then when it came time for me to take the negatives with me, you had hidden them and you refused to give them back to me.  When I was there for the birth, you NEVER offered to give me any money.  I lost close to $5000 for missed work (I had no paid holidays), plane tickets, car rental, gas, film, a special lens that I bought specifically for the birth, a cell phone that I had to rent and leave on so you could contact me any time of the day or night, no matter where I was…  I would not have had to spend any of that money if it wasn’t for you.  I would not have even gone back to America then if it wasn’t for you asking me to be there because you so desperately wanted me there.  You seemed to want me to be there but then after the birth, you never said you liked the pictures I took.  You never said “Thank you.  You did a good job.”  or “Thanks for being here.”  You never said anything…

Yes, I went to Costco and made reprints of the negatives that legally belong to me.  They are my pictures. 

Yes, I showed some of those pictures to Becca.  She was invited to the birth.  She was there to be the first person (other than the midwives and you) to hold your baby.  How can you say that it’s ok for her to see the birth but not to see the pictures of the birth?!! 

Yes, I told you when you asked that I wanted to show some of the pictures to a few of our close family members.  I think I take good pictures and I am proud of some of my work.  Why should I not be able to share MY pictures with a few special people?!  Of course I wasn’t going to invade your privacy by showing all of your pictures to everybody.  You asked me to not show pictures of the birth to people who weren’t there or weren’t invited, so I didn’t.  What kind of a horrible person do you think I am?  I DO have the wisdom and the conscience to not do what is wrong and what I have been asked not to do!!!  Give me a little credit!!!

Her final email to me

To which I say:

I did offer to pay for the film and photos after the birth. She said no.

She “legally” owns the negatives and prints of MY BIRTH, the one I invited her to attend? Come on. That’s crazy. If I took photos at your kid’s birthday party at your request, would you expect me to keep them? I did not hire her. I allowed her to attend my birth as a personal favor to her. I cannot even begin to understand her viewpoint.

(And I’ve been in her situation. Before I had kids, a midwife friend invited me to a birth. When I arrived, I was handed a camera and asked to take photographs. I did so, and then GAVE BACK THE CAMERA ((and negatives, obviously)) to my friend. In a million years, I wouldn’t have thought I owned them.)

I invited my sister to my birth. I never, ever mentioned paying for her flight, car rental or anything. In fact, in those days she visited the U.S. every year and often went on holiday to other places as well. She could have declined, citing the lack of vacation or the expense. I just figured she’d work around my due date since she’d be in the States anyway on one of her frequent trips. But mainly, she NEVER EVER EVER mentioned this before this email. She simply agreed to come to the birth and seemed excited to do so.

I did not desperately want her there. I invited her as a favor to her. At my previous birth, I simply had a church friend photograph it for me (and guess what? that lady did not keep any of my photos!). I invited my sister in the spirit of generosity knowing that in all likelihood she’d never get to be present when a baby was born.

I was very disappointed by the actual photographs. They were poorly lit, not focused well and extraordinarily unflattering.

The bottom line was that she believed she owned the photographs that I had asked her to take. (This is still baffling to me to this day.) This was not a contract between strangers but an agreement between sisters and I guess that’s where I went wrong.

Can you imagine showing photographs of someone’s private birth to random friends across the globe? Imagine.

Finally, I started to really think about her outrageous beliefs and behavior and came to believe she has narcissistic personality disorder. So maybe I should feel sorry for her. It must be difficult to be her. This also explains why she thought that my daughter’s birth was somehow about her. It’s baffling.

And yeah, we still don’t speak, twenty years later.

Wondering

A few things I wonder:

1) When did “scrapbook” turn into a verb?
2) Do people realize there is a difference between a conservative Christian and a Christian conservative? I’m one, but not the other.
3) Are labels ever helpful? Does it give you a clearer picture of me when I describe myself as a Republican or do you automatically think I’ve been lobotomized by the right-wing media? I think labels blur true identity. I shun them, but sometimes I use them reluctantly as a short-cut because really, who has time to read a year’s worth of blog posts?

But I don’t really want to be swept into any category like so many crumbs on the floor.

I decided today that when one woman presumes to speak for All Women, she ends up speaking for no one, not even herself. I get annoyed when I read in a book or article how “women” feel about this or that. I speak for myself, no one else. I’ve never had trouble speaking up.

Just ask my seventh grade teacher. I was sent to the principal’s office for being mouthy. I was only asking questions. Why did we have to go over every single answer on the worksheet? My teacher did not appreciate my impertinence.

So I shut up in class for the next five years. Kudos to that teacher for shutting me down.

But I digress. All I’m saying is, “scrapbook” is a noun, not a verb.

Three Ducks in a Puddle and More

Please, come back with me in time. Look around. It’s Friday, 2:50 a.m. Babygirl wakes you from a dead sleep. Crying? What is that noise? Crying? You stumble from bed and pluck a distressed girl from her crib. You turn off the light and sit for ten minutes, rocking Babygirl. Then you return her to her crib.

Back to bed. You fall into bed, exhausted. You have resumed your walking program, remember? The alarm will ring at 5:10 a.m. You reach over and click the alarm off and doze to the sound of pouring rain. Babygirl wakes again at 6:20 a.m. This time, you bring her back to bed and you both sleep again until the phone rings at 7:42 a.m. You are still in bed because DaycareKid and CuteBaby aren’t coming today. You deserve a break.

So you say, “Hello?” in a voice that sounds as sleepy are you are. Your Texan mother-in-law, the one who rises every morning by 6:00 a.m., the one who cannot remember that you live in a time-zone two hours behind Texas-time, she says, “Are you still sleeping?” as if you have committed a crime.

You admit to your slothfulness and don’t bother to offer an excuse. She needs to know if you cashed the birthday check she sent in February. You assume you did–have you ever been known not to cash a check?–but you tell her you’ll investigate and let her know.

Even though you had sleep, interrupted, it’s still Friday and it’s your twin boys’ birthday. They are twelve. You had them do all their schoolwork the day before, so they are taking the day off from school. Your plan:

1) Cash check at bank.
2) Hand over $100 to each boy. “Happy birthday! You get this in lieu of a birthday party and gift!”
3) Drop off film at Costco, one-hour developing, please.
4) Arrive at Red Robin for birthday lunch promptly at 11:00 a.m.
5) Drive boys to Toys R Us so they can spend their money. Be surprised that they each only buy a GameBoy game.
6) Purchase a new dolly and carseat for Babygirl. Notice how cute she is, how thankful she is.
7) Return to Costco. Pick up film and stand in extremely long line to buy cake, meatballs, granola bars.
8) Stop by GameCrazy so TwinBoyB can buy “DonkeyKonga.” While the twins go into the store (park right outside the door), have Babygirl pee in an empty Taco Bell cup. Don’t forget to pour it into the grass so it doesn’t spill in your used van. Babygirl will beg to pee in cups for the next few days, but you saved yourself from having to take her into the Hollywood Video public bathroom.)
9) Go home. Nap with Babygirl.
10) Pick up YoungestBoy from school while Babygirl still sleeps and twin boys play video games. They are 12, you will only be gone 5 minutes. Don’t worry. Be happy.

And on the way, at the very beginning of your adventure, please take note of the three ducks–one mallard, two dull brown females–which are sitting at the edge of the busy road, filling up a small puddle with their duckness. Wonder if the ducks are lost. Point out ducks to kids, but kids won’t see them. Wonder if perhaps those were decoys and if you are hallucinating.

Your husband normally picks up YoungestBoy and NeighborBoy, but today, he’s in Seattle, visiting a child at the Children’s Hospital. When he returns home, say, “How was it?” and hear him say, “He died about thirty minutes before I arrived.”

Oh. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Shake your head.

The child, an only child, a five year old child of a mother who is now expecting her second child, this child died from a blood disease of some sort. Try to sort out the details and promise yourself that you’ll google “spleen, attack red blood cells,” to try to figure out what exactly the boy died from. Try not to imagine your own blond son dead. Stop yourself everytime you hear yourself say, “You are driving me crazy!” Rebuke yourself each time you think, “I am so sick of picking up after these KIDS!” Wonder if you’d survive if one of your kids did not. Stop wondering how that other mother handles walking into her absent boy’s bedroom, how she can bear to look at his stuffed animals and boy-toys.

But before you can think too much, you must take YoungestBoy to the school for a “Beach Party.” Stand near a wall and be grateful when a dad you know chats with you. Shout loudly so he can hear you. Smile as a mom you know approaches. Shout loudly to her, too. Watch your son–your healthy, alive son–as he tries to hula-hoop and laugh out loud. Wonder why the temperature in the multi-purpose room is always set so high that beads of sweat glisten on your upper lip. Be relieved when your son is ready to leave after an hour of beach music and red-faced children running berserk.

Sleep in this morning as late as you can, even if it involves tucking Babygirl into bed next to you. She won’t sleep. But you can give her a snack and crawl back between the flannel sheets and listen to the rain and doze while she plays. Shower late. While husband goes to meet with the family of the deceased child, putter around. Clean off the kitchen counter, put recyclables into the new bin, fold some laundry, relocate a table and bookshelf, make lunch. Stay busy.

When your husband walks through the door, he’ll say one sentence, “There goes Vegas.” He was going to meet his college buddies in Las Vegas for the weekend, leaving next Thursday. The guys have been getting together annually for quite a few years, but he’s never been able to afford the time or money to go. He’s looking forward to seeing his old friends. But the funeral for the boy is Friday.

You are as disappointed as he is because after being married this long, you truly want him to be happy. Struggle, though there is no point. That family lost their son. The family must fly in from Germany. Your husband didn’t mention his cancelled four day trip to them. It’s his job to comfort people in their time of loss.

But you can feel a little annoyed, if you keep the annoyance isolated from the rest of your more responsible, grown-up response. The timing sucks. Your husband rocks.

Now, it’s 1:00 p.m. and he suggests that you get out of the house for a few hours. Off you go (no need to tell you twice) and as you drive toward the freeway, you spot those crazy three ducks, sitting in their make-shift home, the puddle. It’s not even big enough for them all to sit in it at the same time and they certainly can’t float in an inch of water. Where do they live? Why did they claim that puddle? Think about the ducks all afternoon.

Wonder if you are a duck in a puddle. Is some part of your life a ridiculous compromise? Do you limit yourself because you claimed the first puddle you saw? Is there a pond around the bed? Just over the trees? Do you stay at a puddle just because your friends decided to stay?

Think that maybe you are insane because you see everything–ducks in a puddle–as a possible metaphor for life.

Realize while you are shopping that your right gold hoop earring is missing. Remind yourself to check your pillow before you sleep tonight.

Shop. Shop. Shop. In this order: Once Upon a Child (consignment shop–buy Babygirl’s summer wardrobe for $17), Value Village (purchase old Fisher Price cash register with decals intact, still containing six plastic coins for $3.99, three books, a leopard print comforter for church Vacation Bible School this summer), Famous Footwear (buy YoungestBoy, owner of the World’s Stinkiest Shoes, two new pair for $50 total), Fred Meyer (groceries).

As you drive toward home, notice the strip club advertising some XXX “star.” Do a double-take when you see a man standing outside his Hummer, grabbing at dollars the wind is whipping into a tornado of cash. Slow down and crane your neck, then do a u-turn so you can drive by and look again. Laugh when you see him clutching a handful of bills. He looks so frantic. Is he the owner? How did he drop a bundle of cash? Think again what a metaphor this is–the money swirling in the parking lot, the man in a panic, chasing his dollars.

Return home promptly at 5:00 p.m. and let the children create their own sub sandwiches.

You are almost done! Bathtime, bedtime routine with Babygirl, read a chapter of “Pride and Prejudice” while Babygirl watches “Spongebob Squarepants” . . . can you still catch a movie? Alas, you cannot. Bad timing. But now you can help out your husband and type his sermon. Good thing you type so quickly. You have enough time to blog about ducks and funerals.

Aren’t weekends restful?

What Thursdays Mean To Me

What Thursday Means to Me
I failed to plan dinner for tonight. Why do I always forget we have to eat dinner on Thursdays?

In Other News
I just realized something. Blogging for me feels like coming to a party late. Seems like everyone and their dog blogs already. They have existing blog rolls and links, they already have big old archives, they own domain names, everyone knows who is “cool” and who is not, and basically, I’m sitting in a corner (actually hovering near the food table) trying to be invisible, all the while, wishing I could sidle up to the laughing crowd in the middle of the room and join in the fun. Except I’m kind of shy. And I came late.

But I write, so I have a ticket in the door. And that’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Rolled Oats, Lentils and Y2K

Because my house was remarkably clean this morning–unless you count the seven dirty glasses in the sink–I had time to think today about forgotten chores. I thought about my extra freezer, the gigantic appliance that takes up the corner of my laundry room. I haven’t cleaned out that freezer since 2002, right before my daughter was born.

At the time, I made myself a list of Things To Do before she came, important things like defrosting the freezer and alphabetizing the spices and cleaning out every closet in the house. Because, you know, newborns will do a Martha-Stewart check of your housekeeping skills and return to your womb immediately if things are unsanitary, dusty or out of alphabetical order.

I use the freezer as an overflow area and then tend to neglect hunks of foil-wrapped ground beef and Costco-sized bags of vegetables and twenty Ziploc freezer bags of frozen strawberry slices. I wish I were one of those super-duper organized moms who filled her freezer with homemade frozen meals waiting to be defrosted and cooked and homegrown vegetables which were flash-frozen and meat purchased in bulk and hermetically sealed in Food Saver bags. But I’m not. In addition to the strawberries, ground beef and giant bags of vegetables, my freezer also features twenty pounds of rolled oats and fifteen pounds of lentils.

Why, you wonder? Well, don’t you remember Y2K? Also known as “The End of the World As We Know It?” My ex-stepmother (my dad divorced her when I was 18) who lives in a geodesic dome she built herself (which features a composting toilet and solar energy and a fancy wood stove) on thirty-five acres gave me those items, “just in case.”

So, if the world had come to an end and we had no electricity or gasoline or groceries, we would have lived for what–days? weeks? months? Of course, we would have wanted to kill ourselves if we had to subsist on rolled oats and lentils cooked over a fire we built using our kitchen chairs and pine needles from the yard, washed down with big old glasses of muddy water from the sandbox. We could have supplemented our oats and lentils with the stash of goldfish crackers and Cheerios under the couch, so that’s a bright spot.

But the world did not end and now I need to throw out the oats and lentils and defrost the glacier in the freezer. Unfortunately, I’m in the midst of a long-running Trash Crisis. Our decades-old trash compactor died and now every week, I desperately await the arrival of the trash collector. The second he leaves, I fill the cans with the accumulated trash. Somehow, we never have extra space for pounds of oats and lentils.

If only I could find a recipe for rancid lentils and stale oats, I’d be all set.

(And my husband doubted my ability to write an entire post about my freezer. Ha!)

Unfortunate Fashion Trend

I saw my high school neighbor girl leave the house today. I noticed her wearing saggy sweatpants with a word written across her rear-end.

Why do girls wear words written across their butts? I never wanted people to look at my posterior. Perhaps I’m just an anomaly, but you can be sure you will never have to read my backside.

The Human Condition

It seems that the human condition is essentially to be alone. You think you have friends and companions, but when it comes down to it, you are alone in the world. Well, maybe you are not alone, but I am. You see, I am a pastor’s wife.

This dismal thought brought to you courtesy of church politics.

More dismal thoughts from the pastor’s wife to come later.