comfort zone

Monday night at the Derfwad meet-up someone asked if we'd ever done something far outside of our comfort zone.  My immediate answer was grappling in karate class.  Upon further reflection, I realized that grappling was pretty tolerable compared to something else I'd done a long, long time ago.

Years ago, before Mr. T was born, before WI-fi and bacon crazes and reality TV, I was a member of a fitness club.  I'd faithfully head there after work a few times a week to lift weights and clock my cardio minutes on the stair-climber.  Naturally I became friendly with the other regulars who came to get their sweat on during that time slot, including a nice gal named Jen.

During the course of our friendship, Jen and I talked about men, weekend plans, work, movies we'd seen and our shared annoyance at the New Year's crowd who piled on the (seriously limited) cardio equipment in the middle of winter, preventing us regulars from accessing time on the stair-climbers and treadmills.  Then one day I mentioned Mr. D's baseball playing and everything changed.

"He plays baseball?" she asked eagerly.  "Where?"

I confess in my attempt to impress my new pal, I got a little braggy.  "Well, he played in college, was drafted, played semi-pro and now he plays in the Dairyland League and does Field of Dreams stuff.  He's a pitcher and a really good hitter."  (I may have tossed my sweat-damped hair over my shoulder at this point before continuing.)  "People are always begging him to play softball because he always pounds the ball over the fence," I finished, my scorn of softball emphasized by the wrinkle of my nose.

"Really?"

"Really," I confirmed with a nod.

A week later Jen casually mentioned that she and her husband were on a coed softball team in a town league.  "We're always looking for a couple of good players.  It's lots of fun.  Would you be interested?"

Reader, I must provide you with some background at this point.  The only team sport I ever played was basketball.  I kept the bench warm in grades 5, 6 and 10.  For my tenth birthday my parents bought me a baseball glove, but I never understood why because I was never signed up to play in any type of softball or baseball league.  The glove appeared on my birthday in the most random way--my birthday's in February, we never went to ball games, I have no memory of ever playing catch with my dad using the glove. 

"Hm," I considered the offer.  "What nights do you play?"

Jen provided me with a schedule and explained how a local bar sponsored their team and all the other people playing on the team were friends.  "You and D would have a blast!" she enthused.

The idea of having a team of friends to spend weekends with--boating, bar-hopping, barbecuing--appealed to me.  At this point in my life we had no "couple friends."  D had his co-workers and teammates, I had my co-workers and, well, I had my co-workers and D was not inclined to hang out with any of my people, so my eagerness to hook up with a group of fun people overruled my common sense.

"I'm in!" I told her. 

Then I went home and told D we'd be playing on a coed softball team and he explained that no, I would be playing on a coed softball team because he already had signed up for a men's golf league on that night of the week. 

My enthusiasm still ran high, who cared if D was part of my new team of friends?  Jen gave me a cool shirt to wear at our first game and invited me to join them for a practice before the season began.  I could hardly wait to meet my new friends and Jen assured me that any time D was free and wanted to join us, he was very welcome.

Reader, I don't need to tell you how I throw like a girl, right?  I mean, I am a girl, so that stands to reason.  D tried to coach me a bit on my form, but my throwing arm was pretty hopeless. 

And I didn't catch the ball too consistently.

I also couldn't hit the ball at all.

At the first practice I was awed by everyone's official-looking bat bags and cleats.  I was wearing cut off jeans and sneakers.  I hung in and gave it my best shot, and everyone was very kind.

Then the season began.  I was parked in the outfield where I could do the least amount of damage.  I think all summer only two balls got hit in my direction and the center fielder, a woman who'd played high school softball, sprinted across the turf to snag the balls and expertly lob them towards the second baseman. 

Unfortunately, I caused more damage at bat.  Every single time I was up, I whiffed and struck out.  As the season progressed I could feel my team's irritation growing.  It occurred to me that Jen hadn't recruited me (a huge liability), she'd wanted to recruit D.  This occurred to me because Jen and her husband kept asking, "Isn't D free to come watch you play?  He could play with us!  We have an extra shirt in his size!"

Each passing week as Tuesday night approached I became filled with more dread.  I didn't like driving alone to the park, finding the diamond (there were so many), navigating through the men's teams, and looking like a doof in my work out clothes next to the athletes in their baseball pants, cleats and hats.   I couldn't comprehend the warm-up drill where people tossed the ball across the infield and outfield in a strange and ever-changing pattern that everyone else could predict.  I definitely did not like going out alone to the bar after the game, the only lone woman in a team of couples.  But worst of all, I hated taking my turn to bat.

At first people tried to help me, provide suggestions, encouragement.  Eventually they resigned themselves to the fact that I Could. Not. Hit. The. Ball.  At all.  Ever.  Probably not even if it was lying perfectly still on the ground.

I'd get up to bat, stand cringing in front of home plate and the pitcher would wind up to throw the ball.

Whiff.

Strike one.

Whiff.

Strike two.

Whiff.

Strike three.  You're out.

That depressing scene played out week after week without any variation.

About midway through my season of shame I begged D to help me out.  "They're beginning to hate me.  They really wanted you to play, not me.  If you showed up and crushed the ball over the fence, they'd get over it and like us both!"

"I don't want to play softball," he argued (legitimately, I'll add).  "This is your thing, not mine."

Finally, at the very end of the season, I managed to convince D to play the last two games.  Even his amazing performance couldn't erase how miserably I played softball.  I continued my hitless season right through the last inning. 

That fall Jen started coming a bit later to the fitness club, so we rarely ran into each other.  I'll never know whether she was deliberately avoiding me or not.  I ran into one of the other couples a year later at a gas station.  The woman was friendly in her greeting and explained that they were off to meet other teammates for the day, their boat was hitched to the back of their truck.  I watched them pull away and wondered if I couldn't have become part of their group if I had been able to hit the damn ball.  Some time after that I came across my team t-shirt in my dresser and I stuffed it into the bag destined for the thrift shop.  I can't even drive past the bar that sponsored the team without feeling my cheeks burn a little.

Reader, softball was one thing far outside of my comfort zone. 

Read More

makeover REVEAL!

Such a barrage of comments on my plans to visit the make up counter! Had I known my grooming habits were such a fascinating topic, I'd have mentioned them sooner.

After dropping Jax off at his groomer, I drove in the direction of the mall. I don't shop at the mall, so I had to find a map to locate the Sephora store. Dodging the mallwalkers (and there were many, which surprised me, it was a beautiful day outside!), I passed through 2/3 of the building and found the Sephora store, nearly empty on a Tuesday morning. I approached the two clerks stocking a display and said, "Hi," in a loud voice.

Me, before I left the house. (With sober face, Blackbird.)

"Can we help you find something?" one asked.

"Well, I hear you can help people like me," I began by way of explanation. She kindly guided me by my elbow to a stool by a mirror and make up counter and began peppering me with questions while scrutinizing my pores. Suddenly I felt red and hairy and greasy and blotchy and all the other adjectives that describe an ugly face.

Next thing I knew, "Kate" was called over to advise me on skin care and clean me up. Reader, Kate was the most delightful girl, serious with bangs and full of encouraging comments. She's the roommate you dream of having in college--the type that will make you hit the books all week long but go to parties on the weekend. I desperately wanted to ask Kate if she needed a new BFF, but she distracted me with skin care products--serums and creams and I was under her spell as she brushed clarifying agents across my face, smoothing me into an object of beauty.

Too soon she finished up and called "Kari" back over. Reader, Kari was a younger Carrie Bradshaw with green nail polish, from the way she talked right down to her petite frame and long ringlets. At one point she actually jumped up and down in her excitement about something. I'd placed my face in the most skillful hands around.

These gals wore tool belts filled with make up brushes. I kid you not. They were equipped to deal with any make up/skin disaster. I had come to the right place. Returning with a basket full of products, Kari picked up where Kate left off, buffing and polishing my skin into a creamy texture. The whole time she worked, Kari explained what, why, how and when--I got a thorough education on application techniques and the importance of good brushes.

Armed with a single case of eyeshadow colors, Kari demonstrated how to vamp up my "daytime look" to a "nighttime look." (She kindly called it "date night," and I did not correct her assumption that my date nights involved a bowling alley twice a month.) She smudged and highlighted and blotted me a bit more.

I felt like I was on What Not to Wear as she swiveled my stool back to her and back to the mirror. The final look was definitely more polished and pulled together than I've ever looked in my life.

Kate returned to admire Kari's work and reiterated the importance of good brushes and proper skin care. We chatted a bit while Kari gathered up the various potions I'd agreed to purchase. After spending a mind-blowing amount of money on products and tools, I made up for 2 decades of not coloring my hair. The entire experience took an hour, though I suspect I got red-carpet treatment because it was Tuesday morning and the store was empty. I drove to my hair appointment checking out my face every few miles. My cheeks shimmered. My complexion looked flawless. My eyes smoked and my lips shone.

The first thing Kristy said when she saw me was, "You're wearing make up! It looks so pretty!"
After I explained my recent mission (now accomplished!), Kristy told me that good make up costs a LOT, but it's worth it. She shared her experiences with drugstore cosmetics and how there was really no comparison. I had NO idea. She also stressed the importance of good brushes. How did I miss all of this information? One truly wonders.

Then Kristy performed her magic with scissors and sent me on my way. Jax and I returned home looking sleek and sexy.

Team Testosterone arrived a couple hours later and immediately noticed my face. The verdict was "You look different. In a good way. Like, younger." (Mr. T, who now gets a raise in his allowance.) "You're wearing make up! You look sort of ... goth. But pretty." (Mr. B, who got grilled on what "goth" means.)

Last night at Cubbies my leaders looked at me differently, too. Embarrassed to admit to wearing make up, I fessed up only to the new hair cut. They gave me a stamp of approval.

But now I'm boring you with details, aren't I? You really just want to see a picture.

Behold:

That, friends, is "date night" me. And I shall leave you with these thoughts:
1. There is much to recommend quality make up. My morning makeover didn't come off my face until 10:00 that night when I washed it off with soap.
2. I feel quite prepared after a practice run today for tomorrow and Friday's book events.
3. I did not buy several things, including an eyebrow pencil. I didn't really see a marked difference in my face when Kari used it. I also skipped lipstick, though I bought a coral-colored gloss that smells nice, and concealer, since the other stuff I bought covers me pretty flawlessly.
4. I totally expected my credit card company to call after I went to Sephora. Seriously.

Read More

oooh, baby, it's a wild world

I'll never tell which member of the Team asked--confidentiality is a big deal around Chez Green Girl--but they saw the words on a banner ad on my computer while I was reading blogs. They'd come in to ask me about something and the ad was right there: Brazilian Wax! It totally wasn't the blogger's fault--but it was a good reminder of why I'll keep things ad-free in my zone.

What did I tell him? I explained that we're mammals and grow all kinds of hair everywhere, including (how does a mama put this delicately?) "down there." Heh. Yes, I pointed. "So during swimsuit season, people like to remove some of that extra insulation. Waxing is when you pour hot wax on your skin and when it cools, you rip it off and the hair comes with it." (Interesting to note, that's the point during my explanation that totally freaked out the Unnamed Team Member.) "Why 'Brazilian'?" I continued to explain, "in southern climates, people bare more skin. The swimsuits are cut higher, hence the name of a more extensive wax job." This seemed like a satisfactory amount of information and we then discussed some other important stuff, like what I'd put in the oven for dinner and were we doing anything special this weekend.

Unnamed Team Member left the room a few minutes later. I finished drinking my Road Slush (which was incredible, never had one before) that I'd opened before he asked about Brazilian Waxing (and after a whole day with 3rd grade, blesstheirhearts) and yes, dear reader, I did stop after just one delicious oatmeal stout.

Speaking of mammals, it's all about animals around these parts. Team Testosterone is WILD about animals.
This book is permanently on the kitchen table--we read it every day and discuss the fun facts. "Who would win--a mountain lion or a black bear?" (Inevitably I get smart and ask, "Who would win--a hamster or a sparrow?" and things start to get silly.) My kids cannot get enough of this book.

They've always been fans of nonfiction, but to have PREDATORS "versing" each other is the pinnacle of literary awesomeness. (Yes, "vs." is a verb that means "to compete" or "battle", as in "I'll vs. you in Bey Blades.")
The pictures have something to do with this book's awesomeness, I'm sure. All those TEETH.


And every week day at 4:30 we're tuned in to watch:

I kid you not. They watch this as religiously as Mr. D watches the NFL and that's saying something. I confess, it pleases me to see those crazy Kratt brothers back in action. Years ago we loved Zoboomafoo. Team Testosterone absorbs this show and then they even play it out afterwards.

And when Wild Kratts isn't on TV, they switch over to Animal Planet to watch programs about insect infestations, cheetahs, crocodiles, goats and gazelles. They're constantly discussing the plight of tigers, how much gorillas weigh, where you can find a snowy owl and what fire ants eat. My head spins with the glorious facts. "Did you know that a whale's heart beats 10-15 times a minute?" "Did you know that coyotes only killed 13,000 deer last year in Wisconsin, but hunters killed 226,000?"

Wild love, creature fascination, whatever you want to call it, I think it's great to live in a house where the natural world is all the rage.

Read More

pandora's box

It's been opened, I fear. Monday Mr. T had a friend over, a nice kid who we really like. He brought his new ipod touch and the boys swapped recommendations for game downloads, songs, etc. Then the friend showed Mr. T a texting app. I had no idea that you could text using an ipod touch. I actually thought the app wouldn't work, but Mr. T downloaded it, and the boy told him, "I'll text you when I get home." Since Monday night, Mr. T has entered a whole new society.

Cut to last night: I sat playing mahjong on his toy while the boys finished watching a TV show. Twice I got a little message on the screen--two texts from a girl. I ignored them and when the boys' show was over, I called Mr. T over to hand back the ipod. "By the way," I said, "you got 2 messages from someone named Ava."

Silence.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody."

"I'm just curious--do you know her from school?"

"Yeah."

"Your class?"

"Yeah."

"Hm."

"She spends 24/7 at her computer, Mom. I swear, she has no life."

"What does she text you about?"

Then he showed me--I skimmed the texts that he'd exchanged (I had no idea!) since Monday--mostly about school assignments, a few photos of people's dogs, nothing of great importance.

My mind processed this new situation.

On one hand, my slightly antisocial kid has a new way to interact with more people. Good. This might help inspire better spelling (I noticed one girl pointed out his errors in spelling "stoopid"). Good. I have no qualm about him interacting with kids his age about dogs and school assignments.

On the other hand, I'm well aware of the danger (Danger, Will Robinson!) associated with kids and technology. (It doesn't help at all that at tonight's Bumble Book Club meeting we're discussing This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman.)

I don't want to eavesdrop, read every text, hover and smother my son.

But I'm smart. Our laptop is in a public zone in our house--the boys do not have their own computers, game systems or televisions in their rooms. Mr. T bought his own ipod touch and I control the password so I can control what he downloads--he doesn't mind and so far it's not been a hassle. Mr. T borrows my cell phone as needed, none of them play online games (except for Lego Universe which will disappear at the end of this week), none of them are on Facebook, I'm aware of the sites they visit online and the media they ingest.

I want Mr. T to have independent relationships and evidently if he owns an ipod touch, he has access to texting.

How does a parent monitor this silent, private world of communication? It's so different than the days of passing notes (written on looseleaf paper folded into clever triangular shapes and covered with letters like "BFF" and "SWAK") between desks at school or talking on a telephone (connected by a twirly cord to the kitchen wall) where your entire family walked past as you chatted about boys and parties and who said what where, when and how.

We talked about this New-Fangled Texting Stuff and I told him that I trust him. He's a good kid with good judgment for his age. But I'm the parent, so as long as he's under my roof, I need to have a baseline knowledge of what's going on in his world. I told him I would occasionally check his texts--just skim through them from time to time to make sure the tone and topics are appropriate. "I won't tease you," I promised, "and I won't ask you tons of questions unless I think it's important. I don't care that Mary likes Nick or any of that stuff. I respect your privacy, but I need to make sure you're safe and stuff. Because I'm your mom and I love you."

Spill it, reader. I'm feeling my way through the dark, here (as often happens with your firstborn child). How do you handle kids and texting? Do you have rules? Boundaries? Checkpoints?

Read More

bucket list item: roller derby

I never watched a roller derby growing up. In fact, they weren't even on the periphery of my horizon until about 5 years ago and I cannot recall when or where or how I first heard of it. But the idea of a bunch of women getting down with their bad-ass-roller-skating-shoving-racing selves naturally appealed to my gentle Downton Abbey viewing/baroque music listening/Jane Austen reading sensibilities. The thought lingered: I need to go watch a roller derby.

You know how life rolls--dentist appointments, Boy Scout meetings, church night, karate classes, book club meeting--we keep that schedule so full anymore that there's barely a free night for spontaneous TV viewing or attending random civic events. That all changes this year. I'm navigating the time/space continuum more thoughtfully, leaving room in my schedule to DO MORE STUFF. Stuff I've never done before, like going to see a roller derby.

I know the local derby women practice at a sports complex about 10 minutes away from my house. I've seen them there--larger than life in their tattered tights and punked out hair. While skimming the newspaper last week, I read that the Fox Cityz Foxz (roller derby folks seem inordinately fond of invented spelling--part of the whole "rebel" thing they've got going) had their season opener at that location Saturday night. A night wide open on my calendar.

My last-minute query to girlfriends either ignored or denied, I was left with two choices: attend alone or bring my sons. And why hadn't I thought to bring my boys to a women's sporting event? I hung my feminist head in shame. Of course they would come along--Mr. G had perked up when I mentioned slushies and popcorn.

Whenever you're out of your element--as I was at the roller derby--your senses are heightened. I knew one person there--the guy who runs the sports complex--he's a baseball guy who goes way back with Mr. D. He greeted me right away but from that point on, my boys and I were on our own.

The woman ahead of us handed me an extra ticket, so I wound up paying for only one person's admission--a fortuitous beginning. We held out our hands for the skull-and-crossbones stamp and passed through the gates.

It was a mixed crowd. The biker crowd showed up, leather and patches declaring their various alliances. The hipster crowd was out in force. There were families, old people, young people, men, women, granola-crunching types, beer-swilling types. One woman sat on the sidelines in her wheelchair, a sign taped on the back proclaiming "I raised a Socio SMASH"--the proud mother of a skater, no doubt.

We passed a series of booths--a silent auction, a bake sale, even a kid's corner with coloring pages. Take away the skulls & leather, crazy hair, tattoo parlor sponsorships and Planned Parenthood booth and I could have been walking through any church picnic or community festival. (Although those church ladies do rock some crazy hair...)

We perched on the bleachers and took in the scene. Four teams would compete, the skaters rolled around the rink and the sidelines in ripped tights and inked arms. There were cheerleaders, referees and team managers. My learning curve was steep--I had to figure out that each "bout" lasts 40 minutes, a "grand slam" is worth 4 points, the bigger skaters are usually "blockers" and the faster skaters are generally "jammers." It was a lot to take in. I wished I was there with someone experienced, I had so many questions.

The event kicked off with a horrible electric guitar rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. Then the first bout got under way. The gregarious announcer kept talking while the women raced around the track, knocking/shoving/falling/sliding past us. The stand-out skaters became evident: Tootsie Rollher, Derrieress, Killer Doom Kitty, and Socio Smash. Fun fact: roller derby names are registered, so only ONE skater in the entire world of roller derbies has her very own unique name.

The scoring was confusing, for the longest time the score was a patriotic 17-76. In the second half I had a better sense of who to watch and began to ascertain the skill and technique required to score. It seemed crucial that a jammer stay low while moving through the blockers and the blockers definitely have a tough job, blocking out their opponent's jammer while facilitating the path for their own.

At the game's end, people rose from their seats and I watched them line up along the circumference of the track. The tradition appeared to be for both teams to skate around the track and high-five all of the supporters, friends and family from both teams. Hands down the coolest finish to any sporting event I've ever seen.

The boys and I left after one bout, though I'd have liked to stay for the second. A smart mom knows her boys' limit for estrogen-loaded fun.

What did I gain from this experience?
1. I found something truly entertaining and fun--I will go watch another match. In fact, their next home bout is on my birthday...
2. Next time I go, I'm bringing other grown ups.
3. I rediscovered my long-ago-buried rebel self at this event. While I have no plans to get inked anytime soon, I'm inspired to sharpen my edge. I used to be a girl who wore long underwear as leggings beneath a skirt and leather jacket. Where did she go? It's time to find what's left of her.
4. For my karate form I've decided to use a piece by The Donnas. Because chick-power rules.

Read More

an accidental answer

First, thank God everyone has weathered Irene okay. Most of my east coast pals are waterlogged, but everyone came out in one piece. I was so glad to get an email from Marni especially because North Carolina took the hit first and fiercest.



So, for years I've driven past this very curious building. It's obviously well-kept, has a sign on the front of the building and flags that flutter above the roofline. The flags are always new, never look tattered, but the building has no "open" sign, nor have I ever seen anyone enter or exit the building. I've never seen cars parked near it. I've looked in the phone book and never found a listing. It looks like maybe a bar or restaurant, but the lack of any advertising or phone listing had me guessing it was a private club. Or used to be open but is now vacant? I've never ever heard anyone speak of this place, either.



My curiosity has run deep for years, even to the point of writing the local business columnist to try to learn what this place might be. I have never tried to enter the building, it's not a welcoming facade--the picture really does it justice. There is nothing on the exterior to indicate if this place is even open for business.





Fast forward to this weekend: I'm a busy worker bee trying to bring my manuscript up to snuff. In addition to making characters send text messages instead of emails, I have to check the locations I reference--the bulk of the story takes place in Madison and I want everything up to the minute. The lesbian-owned club I mention in one chapter has gone out of business, so I Google "lesbian clubs madison" to find a new spot to mention. The first link listed is a directory of LGBT clubs in Wisconsin--and there--right there at the beginning of the list of Wisconsin cities in alphabetical order--I spy a listing for "Rascals." In fact, I could even link directly to a website to learn about their weekly specials and even see a picture from the inside of the bar. What a satisfying discovery!



Still ... with my 20/20 hindsight, you'd think the rainbow flags would've clued me in, right?

Read More

the one where green girl is a snob

We all have prejudicial attitudes about where we'll indulge a little more. We opt for brand name peanut butter instead of store brand. Driving through Starbucks instead of going into a convenience store for a cup of coffee. Tanqueray gin instead of Heaven Hill. Simon's cheese instead of Velveeta (a cheese product). Real butter, never ever ever margarine. You know what I'm talking about, right?



*crickets*



No? Maybe it's just me...



In last week's post about how I spend below the average on school shopping, I mentioned $70 (incl. tip) on haircuts. A number of people commented on the haircut expense, seems like most people rely on razors to buzz little boys and send them back into battle. Believe me, I've thought about this. It's ridiculous to pay someone to run a razor across Team Testosterone's skulls, the amount we spend on 3 buzz cuts would pay for a razor kit at Target. I get it.



But here's the thing, Mr. D and I grew up on the cheap end of hair care. Mr. D had his hair cut by his mom--we've got nearly two decades' worth of photographic proof that my MIL had no business wielding a scissors on her son's fine, flyaway blonde locks. Mr. D looks like hell in most of those photos. Everyone looking at him knew right off the bat he had his hair cut at home. On a stool in the kitchen. With a bowl over his head to mark the scissors' path. Home haircuts were also a clear mark of not having enough cash for a trip to the barber shop.



Likewise, my dad perched me on a stool in our basement, marked my bangs with Scotch tape and clipped across that straight line before heading around to trim the back. Then he used his shop vac to clean up the scraps. My first permanent wave took place at a beauty college when I was in 3rd or 4th grade. So did my first "real haircut." Except for when my hair was one length and long, my photographic history is a testimony to bad hair care, too. (Mullets, too-short bangs, heavy wings--you name it, my head sported it.) Horrible, terrible hair cuts given by women who possessed paperwork but no talent or real skill for cutting hair.



I hated my hair for years--whether feathered, spiral-permed, flipped or layered, it never did what I wanted it to and it required gallons of hairspray and gel to stay put. Even on my wedding day I returned to the beauty shop that had tended me through high school and college. I walked out that day with an up-do resembling a football helmet--and with enough lacquer to make it just as tough. Tears streaked my cheeks.



(I should have known better--D had worn her hair the same way for the past 10 years--possibly longer--she knew one cut and style and was committed to it. The lesson I learned is your hairdresser's appearance provides good insight into their ability to stay up with trends and listen to their clients' preferences.)



The cost of bad hair cuts really piled up, too. Countless hours spent trying to "fix" my hair. Hundreds of dollars invested in products and tools (gel, mousse, hairspray, conditioner, clips, curling irons, flatirons, dryers, barrettes). The emotional turmoil of hating how I looked, constantly checking my reflection as I passed mirrors, windows, clean cars--heck, any reflective surface. I avoided hats (fear of flattening), open windows (wind) and water sports many times because I'd gotten my hair to cooperate and nothing would wreck it! My insecurity and discontent ran deep.



Years later a former student of mine graduated from beauty school. I decided to visit her chair in a show of support and I was amazed by the results. Instead of "giving me a hair cut," K cut my hair. I looked fine leaving the salon, but two days later when I washed my hair I was shocked to discover it looked fine after it dried. K knew how to cut hair. The difference between the hair cut she gave me and the cuts I'd gotten before going to her were as vivid as the difference between Bradley Cooper and Nick Nolte. I learned a lesson about finding that rare stylist who can give a quality cut. I've never gone anywhere else since that day. (In fact, I have such faith in K that I brought my MIL to her once while she was visiting--and my MIL also experienced K's genius, walking out with the best haircut of her life. She's since converted to my school of thinking and has found someone down in Iowa to take over where K left off.)

Good. Very good.

Oy.

K cuts my hair, MY hair, not the hair in a photograph or on a celebrity's head. She cuts it to spec, aware of its unique texture, the cowlicks, the tendency to flip out by my right ear. She knows I'm lazy and cuts it to wash and wear. She advises me on bangs or not (NOT!) and length. She doesn't hard sell me on getting highlights, lowlights or feathers. Heck, thanks to K, I can wake up and get moving without looking like I've got bed head--she's given me wash and WAKE and wear hair!



I've learned there is no substitute for a great hair stylist.



I also know I'm not a hair stylist. I attempted to trim Mr. T's hair back in the day. He's a little kid, it doesn't matter, right? But little boys have complicated hair, short around the neck, ears, face. Regardless of the tools I bribed him with (popsicles, suckers, M&Ms) or where I cut his hair (kitchen, back patio, bathtub), he came out looking like what he truly was: the victim of a home hack job.



In my view it's totally worth the money to bring Team Testosterone to a properly certified hair stylist to get their quarterly trim. I know they're little boys, but in this one area I am a stickler for quality grooming. If they want "long on top so it can look spiky" or buzzed a centimeter long, it doesn't matter to me because the person wielding the sharp objects can do it. And when Mr. T declared he wanted to grow his hair long, I brought him to K this time around--I'm all for my kids wearing their hair the way they want to. And I never want my sons to leave the salon chair in tears (like I had experienced for so many years) because they hated their hair.



My silly prejudice: good, professional hair cuts. For everyone in my house.

Read More

tapping into my inner tigress

Mr. D and I went golfing last night with another couple. I haven't had my clubs out in over a year, but for a while I golfed every week in a women's league. I was awful. Perfectly dreadful. I putt beautifully thanks to many hours at Tom Thumb Mini Golf back when I was in high school, but my long game is wretched. (We're talking double digits on several holes, my score for nine holes rivaled other people's scores for eighteen.)

Then I went out with my MIL about a year ago and halfway through our play, I thought to hell with this crap started lining up my feet with one slightly forward, I dropped my shoulder and HEAVED the club forward at that golf ball like Happy Gilmore. You know what? My ball sailed into the air and flew straight ahead to the mark like a pro had hit it.

Apparently when I totally ignore all the stuff about lining up my knuckles, lining up my feet, bending slightly at the knees, keeping my arms straight, twisting my shoulders, keeping my head up, etc. and so forth to the tenth power? I can golf a fairly decent game.

I look like hell, feet splayed out, totally off-kilter in my stance, but it works!

Last night I golfed the same way, flushing all the tips and golf lessons out of my mind and just concentrating on hitting the ball however my body seemed naturally inclined. We were coming up on the ninth hole and for the first time in my life I felt ready to take on the back nine--just for the fun of it. I was actually golfing so well that I enjoyed myself.

Golf--fun? When I play by my own rules, it actually is. I only lost ONE ball, only landed in ONE sand trap, only shanked ONE time too far to the right. And my putting is still righteous.

I'm looking forward to next weekend when I get to play again.

Read More

off

Sure, we're spraying it to keep the mosquitoes from draining us every night.

My balance is off, too. I rolled my left ankle at karate and it's swollen up like an apricot on the side of my leg. It hurts when I bend it wrong. I know, I know. Quit bending it wrong.

I've signed off on sending Team Testosterone to parochial school. It was a decision we reached earlier this summer, but certain people deserved hearing the news in person, not via the grapevine. A tough call, I feel like I'm bailing on public education, never in a million years would I have thought I'd send my kids to parochial school. But that was when I was a teacher, a taxpayer, an average citizen. Now I'm a mom and it's become a personal choice. Factors weighing in included my philosophy about kids and learning and how the entire process should not be skill/drill but rather employ higher level thinking skills and develop their curiosity and talents. The public school is all about "How fast, how many?" and they like the kids to fit into a box, any kid who thinks outside of the box isn't encouraged or supported. This philosophy is driven in part by testing and in part by teachers to whom things have come easy. If I were an administrator, I'd like to see at least one B or C on a new teacher's transcript because it would demonstrate that they struggled at some point in their education. Struggle develops empathy and better teaching methods. The straight-A gang of teachers tend to be baffled by kids who struggle because they have no concept of what that means. They lump it as "lack of effort" or shrug their shoulders and write the kid off as a failure, but they don't think outside the damn box to address the issues. I believe in authentic assessment, testing kids to see if they understand the concepts. I'm seeing a lot of good things at the parochial school down the road, I want all three of my sons to have access to the same quality of education, regardless of their learning styles, strengths and weaknesses.

I also have three sons who think outside the box and I want that to be celebrated, not frustrated by their teachers. I like sending my kids to school in a uniform, I prefer the rigor of the curriculum at the parochial school and the administration over there kicks butt. A little liturgy every week is a small inconvenience when there's so much to be gained.

I'm still spouting off to the school board, however. The superintendent has finally presented the teachers with a contract. Box or no box, some of the terms of the contract are shitty. I can still support the public school even if I'm opting out of sending my kids to it.

I'm laying off the blog a bit, too. Regulars probably notice. It's summer. We're busy. Just like everyone else. And I'm trying to keep my kids away from TV/video games so I need to set a good example, right?

Now I'm off to clean the fridge where something smells a bit off. (Come on, you totally saw that coming.)

Read More

one grande java chip frappuccino with a side of toenail polish

You know I never did some stuff (see: post from last week) and naturally some people took that to mean I'd created some sort of funky bucket list that involved following NASCAR and knocking down wedding guests so I could catch a bridal bouquet. Au contraire. Nevertheless, prodding came from all corners to quit being a fuddy duddy about my toenails. My neighbor gal, J, invited me out for ice cream-coffee drinks and pedicures to help celebrate her birthday. "Go! You must go!" everyone encouraged.

Well, here you go, readers.

I began the day with reasonably clean feet and picked up J after lunch.

toes in the buff

We arrived at Starbucks and J explained the different drink categories. After much discussion while studying at the menu board, I decided to copy my friend Sarah's daughter and order something called "Java Chip." Totally copying J, I ordered a "grande java chip frappuccino." Naturally this led to the barista asking more questions--"Whole milk? 2 percent? Skim? Soy?" "Whipped Cream?" Obligating with the "routine" of a Starbucks counter, I filled in the blanks, including, I think, my blood type, athletic shoe brand preference and marital status.

Eventually this arrived:

Smooth, creamy, I confess I should've gone with another flavor because those little java chips kept lodging in my throat like tiny pills. It was yummy, but not unlike a chocolate milkshake. People, the jury is out. I like coffee and I like ice cream, but they don't need to be mixed together for any particular benefit that I can fathom.

After sitting at an outside table and enjoying our cups o' frothy sweetness, we headed toward the beauty school where our side-by-side chairs awaited us.


The chairs had massage features (nice!) and the hot bath felt pretty relaxing on my feet. The photo above is of J's feet. Note her pedicurist's long blonde hair--it was really remarkable hair. My pedicurist (M, a nice gal from North Carolina who was seeking a career change from her gig as a CNA at a nursing home) was only in the nails program, her hair was nothing to get excited about.


Here's the little tub for my feet. Yes, those are my Germanic calves framing the shot, lending the entire photo a p*rnographic quality I just now notice.

The view from our chairs was really nice.


After much soaking and exfoliating and disinfecting, some clipping and filing took place. I thought the sloughing with the big file would feel worse than it did--really wasn't an unpleasant sensation. My cuticles (I have them on my toes? I had no idea!) were softened, pushed back and trimmed. Massaging, rubbing, scraping and polishing took place. My feet never looked quite so clean and pink before.


Then the pedicurist painted them.

I confess, every time I look down, my toes make me smile. Kind of like when you see a monkey wearing a dress. It's unexpected, you never thought the monkey looked naked before, but now with a dress it looks sort of cute.

I have cute toes.

Cute, robin's egg blue toes. On Green Girl feet.


My verdict? A pedicure is a relaxing treat and, unlike getting a facial or massage, you get to actually see the results which in my view adds bang for your buck. Will I get another? I imagine I will. Will I always paint my toes? Highly unlikely. Am I glad I did this? Yes, I am. Thanks, J, for a fun afternoon--and happy birthday!

(J's toes look elegant--she opted for OPI Red.)

Read More

confounding

Yesterday I was helping Mr. T with his social studies homework. He had to write a paragraph describing the Constitution. After asking him to tell me what he knew about the Constitution (pre-writing), I realized he had no idea it was a written document, a plan of government, a roadmap, if you will. He thought the Constitution was an event, not a thing. Love that boy, but I cannot fathom how he's had 2 years of 5th grade social studies and never grasped that basic knowledge. Now I understand why he struggled to understand the Bill of Rights...

I drove him to school quizzing him about the Federalists, Anti-Federalists, amendments and ratification.

Flipped the couch cushions the other day whilst on a tear around my house with the vacuum cleaner attachments. How--HOW do the BOTTOMS of couch cushions become encrusted with crumbs and lint and candy wrappers? HOW do the TOPS of the cushions, the part exposed to human activity and the light of day, stay relatively clean? One of life's great mysteries.

Nine inches of snow. Robins look totally peeved. Snow pants and boots again taken out of storage and made muddy. (This could be a haiku!)

Nine inches of snow.
Robins look totally peeved.
Snow pants and boots wet.

Read More

Terror Vortex!

No, I'm not talking about the political climate in my fair state (although that's horrifying on an apocalyptic level), I'm talking about TV.

Let me back the truck up. I'm sick. Sick with a hacking, phleghmy cough complicated by my asthma so I feel like total crap. Last night we bagged our karate class and stayed home. Mr. D had his monthly poker party and I had Total Control of the Remote--a rare and wonderful thing. While my sons played nicely, I switched on the ol' TV and thoroughly enjoyed watching an episode of The Middle. Then I switched it off and bundled the boys into bed with stories and wishes for sweet dreams. I flopped back onto my own bed and debated whether to reach for my book or the remote.

I chose the remote and began to flick-flick-flickity-flick through the channels. (For those of you without cable--it's mostly a wasteland out there, people. SO not worth the money. But I have a husband who wins all the bread in our house and he luffs his TV, so cable it is.) The History Channel had an interesting story about 2 men who went to the bottom of the ocean in a submarine. When a commercial break came on, I flipped around some more and made another discovery: Hoarders: Buried Alive! on TLC.

Clutter makes me nuts, but I just couldn't tear my eyes off the screen. This woman literally crawled and climbed over piles to get into and back out of her house--she had acquired so much stuff that she couldn't move freely--she was long past the point of having passageways between the piles. She lived in a sea of crap. Her daughters were shocked, professionals were enlisted and this woman kept breaking down and falling apart. Her stuff--her stuff--represented all of her failings in life, but she was physically and mentally incapable of letting it go. She was quite ill and resisted intervention.

Commercial break again and I switched back to the divers at the bottom of the sea, the only two men to land there and come back up alive. Apparently there are no currents at the depth of 3.5 miles below sea level, so the sediment they kicked up when they crashed into the bottom never settled. They never saw anything but milky white dust.

At the next commercial break I returned to the poor woman buried in stuff. I've never seen anything quite this extreme--you couldn't discern between valuable and useless, clothes, stuffed animals, boxes, magazines were piled to the ceiling and she didn't want to part with a single scrap of it.

Reader, I'm not a fan of reality TV, but I do love me a little What Not to Wear, another TLC program, so I stayed on until the end credits, waiting for the "reveal." Surely they'd find a way to help her, right? RIGHT?

After several false starts, her daughters returned to visit and the house looked good--the kitchen and living room had become a charming, livable space. Yet all she'd done is pile her stuff further against her back door and onto her driveway. The city was threatening legal action against her--eventually they'd condemn her property. Neither she nor her daughters could afford inpatient care to deal with her mental illness. While the end credits rolled, the show's producers explained that she had not improved and the city had begun legal action against her property--the mountains of stuff in her driveway and cluttering her yard--the end.

What the WHAT? That's it? Where was the happy ending? Why didn't they fix this woman's problems? A show like Horders: Buried Alive!--is it created simply for shock value? What's a viewer supposed to walk away feeling or knowing? I felt sick--both by this woman's terrible story but also the landfill that had come to define her purpose for living. I felt sick that I'd spent an hour learning about her problems, but no solution ever emerged. I already knew hoarding was bad, now I know specifically about some poor woman living near Chicago who will probably die buried in her stuff. After watching this show I was no smarter, not entertained and not enlightened. I had to purge myself of all the bad feelings, but it was already 10:00.

So I switched channels and found old episodes of How I Met Your Mother on Lifetime. Ted, Barney, Robin, Lily and Marshall helped cleanse my palate and restore my sensibilities. Two episodes later, at 11:00, I finally switched off the Terror Vortex and set the remote control on the table next to Mr. D's side of the bed.

Random television viewing--I've learned my lesson. It's not for the weak and fainthearted. I'll stick to my scheduled programming from now on and leave the channel surfing to the professionally mindless and slack-jawed.

Spill it, reader: what's the scariest thing you've experienced on your Terror Vortex?

Read More

3 musings, 3 kings, 3 fabulous things

1. The Last Airbender is hands down one of the worst movies in the history of film-making. Horrid acting, miserable effects and I've seen my kids develop better plots and dialogue just messing around with my video camera. I wish Santa hadn't brought it, heck, I wouldn't have even paid to rent it. (No, I could not bear to sit through the entire movie--I got up after about 20 minutes and retreated to my bedroom.)

2. In great contrast, I am engrossed by Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. I cannot just read a few pages--I have to block out a couple hours at a time because I cannot put it down. It's an amazing mix of literary, brilliance, insight, plotting, characterization and theme. Normally I have a low tolerance for "literary" novels--I find them pedantic, show-offy and poorly edited. It's refreshing to read an exception. Am very anxious for the Bumble Book Club discussion about it.

3. Our bird feeders are bringing us daily visits from all nature of songbirds--we sit entranced, looking out the windows at them flitting around.

***
I've read the Christmas story in Luke and Matthew probably a hundred times, but on Christmas Eve our pastor pointed out something kind of interesting that I hadn't noticed before. When the magi (not necessarily three of them, but I tossed that in the post title because I'm obnoxious about symmetry that way) were searching for Jesus, they stopped by Herod's palace first, figuring he'd know the skinny on where the new king could be found. Herod called in the religious leaders of the time, who then advised everyone where to look: Bethlehem. They didn't hesitate in providing an answer. But then our pastor highlighted this fact: the religious leaders didn't go with the magi to see the new king. They didn't even send along a servant kid to check it out. I mean, here are wealthy, wise leaders from the east (Persia? further out?) who have risked their safety and spent money to follow a sign in the sky in search of the king of the Jews. King Herod welcomes them with a red carpet. But the religious leaders of the time don't give their interest or effort more than a passing answer. The magi head out alone from Jerusalem to find Jesus and Mary in Bethlehem.

Our pastor's point? Just because you know the Bible inside and out doesn't mean squat if you aren't acting on that knowledge. Pretty convicting.

My point? I can read something over and over and still learn from it and gain a new perspective.

***
December's FABULOUS is hand-made by moi: wool hand mitts, raspberry jam, good-for-you granola. How can you win? Each comment in the comment box is an entry to win. I'll announce the lucky winner next Monday.

Spill it, reader: are you recovered from your Christmas or are you still buried in wrapping paper and relatives?

Read More

screening

Before rumors start that I hopped on the back of a Harley Davidson roaring through my po-dunk farm town in a leather-clad moment of Bridges of Madison County desperation to follow my heart's desire of romance and excitement and passion, I figured I better post something.

"Something."

*Collective groan*

No, the truth is much more boring than that. I didn't meet a scruffy, muscle-bound, charming stranger with haunting blue eyes. Instead I've racked up over 7 hours of volunteer time this week and I've still got 5 to go--namely, I agreed to help replant a garden at Happyland Elementary. I'd grossly underestimated how much time that project would take. You'd think that I, of all people, would know better, wouldn't you?

I've learned a few other things this week. This morning I discovered that applying hand lotion before practicing yoga is a Very Bad Idea. Particularly when moving into Downward Dog. With slippery hands on a yoga mat that position quickly becomes Face Plant.

Ahem.

I've also been researching various topics for a New! Top-Secret Book Project! Did you know that according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and the U.S. National Resources Defense Council (NRDC) there is no such thing as a safe air freshener or spray? Not only did I discover ALL! CAPITALIZED! WARNINGS! telling pregnant women to avoid these products, there's consensus that they're quite dangerous. Whether you're using a Glade Plug-In, Ferbreeze or some store-brand can of spray in your bathroom, they're all made with the same chemicals used in paints, paint thinner, fuel and varnish--terrifying things like formaldehyde and phthalates. The chemicals in these products are linked to cancer, respiratory and cardiovascular problems, hormone disruption and dizziness. Pretty darn scary if you ask me. Reader, I'm begging you to rid your house of these products STAT. For your health and for your family's. Here's a link to one of the articles if you'd like to read more.

I've never bought any of these products because a) they're unnecessary, and b) I've always been suspicious of their effectiveness. I've got asthma and I'm sensitive to smells and airborne particles, so I avoid fragrances, chemicals, sprays and cheap perfumes as a general rule. But it's astonishing that these products are even allowed to be manufactured and sold.

Now it's your turn to share some information with me. I finally finished washing all my windows and screens and I'm keeping the screens off the windows this winter until springtime. I figure I can mend the holes more easily over the winter months, they'll stay cleaner, it'll make it easier to wash the storm windows again come springtime if they're off, and without the screens we'll have less obstructed daylight coming in--especially with the long winter ahead. I've never done this before, so I'm asking seasoned window-washers what is the established screen protocol.

Spill it, reader. Screens on or off? And do you use air sprays and air fresheners?

Read More

the fame didn't go to my head

it went straight to my gut. True story, readers. While the rest of you were ignoring my post on lovely things here yesterday, my Eco Women post was featured on "Freshly Pressed" over in the Land of WordPress.

For a day I experienced the heady rush of being a "popular" blogger. "Popular" meaning "read by a couple thousand people." My inbox was full all day, 90% were very encouraging, agreeable comments. But honestly? By 3:00 when I went to gather Team Testosterone back into my loving arms after school, I was quite tired of it. A little fearful. The stats kept climbing, the comments kept coming, I felt the edge of panic scrape against my nerves. Later that evening I checked in again and another 30 comments barreled into my inbox, clamoring for my attention. This Freshly Pressed business is only a 24-hour honor, right?

The Eco Women blog has a singular purpose: encourage people to live more thoughtfully and carefully on our planet. This blog? This is all about connecting with readers, making friends, sharing advice, opinions, stories. You all are my neighborhood coffee klatch/Bunko club/Stitch n' Bitch. My heart is here.

I felt compelled to respond to all the comments over at Eco Women yesterday--an overwhelming task. I felt the urge to visit all of their sites and check them out--an unreasonable expectation--no way can I become bloggy pals with all of those people. I had to quelch the urge to be "Green Girl in Wisconsin," mild-mannered, friendly Midwesterner; and wear a more professional, guarded hat as "Enviro Girl." I had to behave totally opposite of how I behave here.

I realized that this rash of comments explains why the famous gals like Jen Lancaster no longer allow comments on their posts. They'd spend entire days just reading the comments, without responding to any of them.

I felt a little naked and exposed with all those people reading my ideas and thoughts--which seems silly since blogging is all about exposure, right? The very premise of a blog is to throw yourself into a public forum for some kind of attention. I felt hypocritical about my sudden hesitation about the entire business--like people on reality TV shows protesting people watching their behavior once the episodes air--I put my work out there. Of course people are going to read it. DUH. But these people are strangers. The people over at Green Girl in Wisconsin are my friends. There's trust and context and mutual support. Then I started to reflect on how this experience might compare to one of my books selling. Hundreds, maybe thousands of total strangers paying money to read my work. What if they hated it? What if they felt ripped off or angered by what I wrote? Would I spend hours online watching the stats on Amazon.com, obsessing over who is buying my work and why or why not? After yesterday, I think publishing might be terrifying in a particular way. Maybe there's a good reason why I haven't landed a book deal for it yet. God knows I may not have the stomach for it. Perhaps He's protecting me from myself and my foolish pride and ambition.

Blogging for me is about the give-and-take. It's relational. I get a lot of joy and love out of this site and the places it leads me to (Georgia, Germany, California, Florida, England,Tuvalu). There's a world of difference between here and there.

But I still have a lot of "freshly pressed" thoughts to process.

Read More

like a bad habit

I cannot just leave this dang blog alone for a whole week. So. We arrived a day ahead of schedule because Mapquest and the GPS had different conclusions about how long it would take to travel 828 miles. We swung by the Corn Palace before checking into our lodging in Rapid City. Today we did the faces of South Dakota.

Mount Rushmore was as grand as I remember it from my childhood visit. We ate at the cafeteria on site (great food--you cannot go wrong eating at national monuments) and saw license plates from all over North America. Putting a particular poignancy to our visit was a Naturalization ceremony that afternoon. We recognized the future citizens by the fact that they were dressed to the nines for their special occasion. I kind of choked up at the idea of these people becoming citizens. FYI: Thomas Jefferson is my favorite of the four presidents up there.

We hit Crazy Horse next. It has changed quite a bit since my last visit in 1978 (or thereabouts). Much more commercial. The armpit and face are more defined. They barely got a caterpillar through the armpit when I last saw it and the face wasn't even started yet. When I went last time you really had to use your imagination to see the face and horse head in the mountain. And today I confess to not having any love for Indian (Native American? They say "Indian" here but if you were to travel to Oneida Nation north of where I live they'd get their dander up, so what to say?) art. The beads, designs, colors, all of it does NOTHING for me at all. Consequently, I found the Crazy Horse museum one giant yawn. I have no interest in seeing more beaded eagle/turtle/wolf necklaces, thankyouverymuch. We left carrying a couple of rocks blasted off the side of the mountain. Whew. Sorry, folks, but taste in art is subjective and this Western stuff is NOT my cup of tea.

Nor are the Great Plains. We drove through some of the most desolate, empty, wide open land to get here. Not for millions of dollars would I want to live here. It creeps me out, all this vast flat nothingness of plains before the mountains begin. I much prefer my forests of trees.

There appears to be some devastation of the pine trees around here, not sure. Huge swaths of land in the Black Hills National Forest/Park were either brown or cut down for some reason or another. Beetles? That's my guess.

And we ended our first day at Bear Country U.S.A. where we saw the bears getting fed (shovelfuls of bread) and lost Mr. G. We found him at the far end of the park making friends with a bear cub. We escaped that tourist trap with a coffee mug for Mr. D.

Now, after running Team Testosterone totally ragged at South Dakota's largest indoor water park (a shadow of what we're accustomed to, living near the Wisconsin Dells), we're waiting for dinner to be delivered and bedtime...my legs are so tired from walking hither and thither and yon all day. Tomorrow: horseback riding, a wild west show, caves and Reptile World. As they say in the Wild West, "Hold your horses! We're in for a wild ride!"
Yee haw!

Read More

because I'm nice

I always answer my door. Our driveway is a quarter mile long. We live kind of in the middle of nowhere special. It takes an effort, a real effort to knock on my door. Consequently, I entertain the idealistic dreams of politicians running for office, the promises of door-to-door salespeople, the carefully choreographed presentations of the Jehovah's Witnesses. No kidding, two just left my house right now. I took their tract politely and answered their questions, but was that insincere of me to accept their literature when I have no plans to read it? I don't know...

So I receive a fair share of proselytizing, pimping, promoting and parroting. Which leads me to a funny store from the Green Girl Chronicles. A tale trotted out to entertain folks at bonfires, at public taverns, at family gatherings and at neighborhood parties.

Green Girl and the Meat Man

It was a blistering hot July day when the doorbell rang. Green Girl answered it, wiping the glean of sweat from her forehead. Before her stood a young man who greeted her enthusiastically and gesticulated to a van behind him. "I work for a meat wholesaler--I sell meat to different restaurants and businesses in your area. Boy, it's hot out today. My van's overheating and the cooler in back is broken. I just got off the phone with my manager over in Bigville and he gave me permission to sell everything in back at a discount. Practically at cost. I'm not going to make it back to Bigville and I need to get rid of this meat. Can you help me out?"

Green Girl married a carnivore and together they'd enjoyed many a cut of beef over their charcoal grill. She thought a moment and agreed to look over the Meat Man's brochure.

"See, it's all Grade A cuts of meat, premium quality. Like you'd get at a nice supper club. Each is individually packaged and flash frozen for maximum taste. They're super convenient." Meat Man pulled a box of steaks out of the back of his van and opened it to demonstrate. "Each case gives you cuts of bacon wrapped filet, sirloin, porterhouse, T-bone... every one in your family can choose their cut, just like in a restaurant. They cook up tender and tasty at every meal."

Green Girl considered the attributes of the case of meat.

"I've got cases of pork, beef, chicken and fish." He dug out a order form and a pencil, scrawled a few numbers and looked up at Green Girl. "Fifty percent off. That's what my manager told me I could sell them at."

"Tell me about the chicken," Green Girl said.

"Each case has different marinated chicken breasts and breaded chicken nuggets. I bet your kids love chicken tenders. These are the best I've ever eaten. There's teriyaki, honey-mustard..." Meat Man pointed to the colorful brochure in Green Girl's hand. "Your satisfaction is guaranteed. If you decide you don't like the meat, we'll come pick it up and reimburse you for whatever you don't eat."

Green Girl thought this made his business sound on the level.

"And after a year, we'll replace any cuts you don't eat with fresh meat. We stand 100% behind our product." He paused and shot her a pitiful glance. "Do you mind if we stand inside? Can I get a glass of water? It's really hot out here." He looked worriedly at his van. "I've been driving around since six this morning and I've got to get rid of these last 10 cases before I can head back home."

Green Girl escorted Meat Man into her kitchen where she poured him a glass of water. She felt safe, Lefty was nearby with the kids and Lefty was a big kid. He'd protect the family if anything got funny.

Mr. D loved meat. Green Girl imagined his delighted surprise to find a freezer full of delicious cuts of beef, chicken and pork. And at half price! He'd be happy and proud of her clever bargain. "Ten cases, you say?"

Meat Man nodded earnestly at her. "That's all I've got. Like I said, it's a steal. It's less than what a restaurant would pay, but my manager said..."

"I'll take them."

Meat Man and Lefty hauled 10 cases of meat to Green Girl's basement. They managed to pack frozen packages of meat into the basement freezer, the upstairs refrigerator and when they ran out of freezer space, filled the top of the beer fridge in the garage. That's a lot of meat, Green Girl thought with a twinge of worry. Then she turned to Meat Man who handed over the bill. Oooh, that's a lot of money. Even at 50% off, this was an expensive purchase. She and Mr. D had agreements about how much money they could spend without checking in with each other. The bill in Green Girl's hand violated that agreement.

But, she looked at the Meat Man, all the meat had been taken out of the cases and now sat in three different freezers throughout her house. She looked at Lefty, who gulped a glass of water and studiously avoided her gaze. The pressure. "Fifty percent's the best you can do?"

Meat Man nodded.

Green Girl wrote him a check and prayed hard that Mr. D loved meat as much as she hoped he did.

After Meat Man drove away, Green Girl called Mr. D to prepare him. "I bought you a surprise today," she said.

"What's that?"

"Meat! You love meat and this guy in a van ..." she related the story to Mr. D.

"But honey, I just ordered a half a cow from Our Favorite Butcher. What are we going to do with all this meat?"

Oh dear. "But we love meat! We're carnivores! We'll eat it." Green Girl said with false confidence.

Mr. D went straight to a ballgame that night and talked to Lefty. "I hear my wife bought some meat today."

Lefty avoided eye contact and nodded.

"How much did she buy? Like a hundred dollars' worth?"

Lefty never answered. Instead, he took off running to the dugout, the palor of fear draining color from his face.

Later that night Mr. D came home and saw the freezers. Then he saw the checkbook. Then the yelling started. "How could you?"

"I don't know." Green Girl sat down and covered her face.

"What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't." Green Girl began to weep.

"Where will I put the half a cow?"

"I don't know."

"I don't understand. You're smart. You don't do things like this. Why? How? Why?" Mr. D shook his head and stared dazedly at the checkbook again.

"I don't know," Green Girl moaned.

A week later Mr. D had a brand new chest freezer delivered. Lefty hauled half a cow to the basement and Mr. D instructed him to load it into "Freezer B." Green Girl tried desperately to sell the meat at cost to all of her friends and neighbors, but had no takers.

In a final blow to her ego, Green Girl heard the women at golf league talking about the man selling meat, his van was breaking down and his manager had given him permission to sell the last ten cases at half price. "Was it some kind of a scam?" "Maybe, but I bought a case?" Another woman had bought three, a few others bought four. Even with her sorry math skills, Green Girl could add it up: she'd been suckered.

The meat was delicious, even though Green Girl's carnivorous family and friends could not eat it all. Mr. D still refers to "Freezer A" and "Freezer B" and has banned Green Girl from selling anything sold door-to-door--especially meat.

Two years later the Meat Van pulled into the driveway. Green Girl was ready for him this time. She'd role-played her response to his pitch. "My brother-in-law just opened a butcher shop, so we're good," she lied.

But we're carnivores, baby, she says to Mr. D every time they grill a steak. And they laugh.

Read More

longest day

Happy Summer Solstice! I tried Google images for a picture for this post--either they were incredibly inappropriate (some men are waaaaay too proud of their anatomy, people!) or obscure (kayaks? Justin Long? too confusing). But Solstice it is, and in my neck of the woods this Official First Day of Summer began at 6:00 with Mr. G's smiling face (although dusk actually got started at 4:33) and won't end until the sunlight fades into black sometime around 9:30 tonight. According to my research, tomorrow will be the same length of day, so if you can't celebrate Solstice today, you should have time tomorrow. 16 hours and 45 minutes, to be exact. About the same time I spent in labor with Mr. T.

Today we'll celebrate by picking strawberries. Somewhere else. Because I thought I was so smart last summer when I dug up our strawberry patch and filled it in with soil from the creek bed to enrich it. What I actually did was introduce a whole bunch of invasive stinging nettle and reed canary grass seeds which have successfully taken over the strawberry patch again, making it look even worse than before. So this summer I'll have to kill the entire patch and smother it with newspapers and a compost soil mixture I bought from a landscaper and replant the whole works. In essence: I'm really dumb. But fortunately we can still find sustainably grown strawberries a short drive from home.

Spill it, reader: what's on your Solstice agenda?

Read More

irony appreciation 101

6:00 D wakes me up and says his car battery is dead. Takes the Momvan to work.
7:00 Get kids to school, mop floors, clean kitchen, make grocery list, hang with Mr. G
9:30 Write post oozing with gratitude and pat self on back for thinking of every little thing I take for granted.
11:15 Cannot reach Mr. D.
11:20 Call friend and cancel lunch plans we'd made a month ago. She is wonderfully understanding. Decide to use entire afternoon to work on manuscript after I bring Mr. G to school.
11:50 D calls, wants to take me to lunch and then jump start his car.
12:00 Bring Mr. G to school, listen to D rant on way to restaurant, lose appetite.
12:40 Return home. D cannot get car to start.
12:45 Go in house to find spare key for his car. This results in emptying all purses and bags, the discovery of many treasures and trash but alas, NO idea where the extra car key is.
1:00 Drive D to auto shop to get him a spare car and arrange for a tow.
1:20 D drives away, but not before mentioning to auto shop owner that his website needs help. He'd promised I'd help him. And indeed, there I am.
1:25 Join Al in his office and listen to his website woes. Yes, his site is a wreck. Yes, I know exactly what he wants to do. Yes, I will help him fix it. Adjust halo and superhero cape while taking good notes.
2:10 Return home to jumble of purses, pens, chapsticks, receipts, change, tampons and broken necklace on kitchen floor. This morphs into cleaning out all purses and entire cupboard where they were stored. Am happy to find $10 bill.
2:25 Determine there is not enough time to work on my manuscript, so read some blogs. Notice the cat is acting strange.
2:50 Pick up children from school, sort backpacks, mail and homework assignments.
3:45 Al calls with more thoughts and ideas about his site. Take more notes.
4:15 Load Momvan to bring Mr. B and Mr. G to karate and go grocery shopping.
5:30 Return home, put away groceries, make supper, prod Mr. T to finish math homework, notice cat is acting odd still.
6:30 Go to karate class with Mr. T. Work on Velocity (hard, but fun) and spar. School is SO hot and I get so sweaty that when an opponent steps on my foot, it literally slides right out of protective foot padding and remains on floor for duration of our round.
7:45 Return home. Really really really want a shower, but must get kids to bed first. Mr. T takes a shower. Tuck everyone in.
8:15 Decide to go to basement to feed cat (who is still acting odd) before take shower. Discover water.
8:17 Learn that the water is actually raw sewage. With actual turds floating around the basement.
8:25 Learn that our sewage goes into a tank which is probably full so it's backing up into our basement through a drain.
8:40 Use neighbor's shower. Because we cannot use our drains without adding to the floaters on our basement floor.
9:15 Realize the great irony of the day: in listing all the little things I take for granted, I considered lights and running water, computers and cars--things that you don't notice until they're lacking or broken. Never, ever, ever thought about sewage and waste and where it goes and how it gets there. Sure appreciate that now, though.

Which leads me to: Part II--20 Things I'm thankful to know...

1. how recognize and appreciate irony.
2. how to drive.
3. where to go for help.
4. who to trust.
5. household management (including how to clean up raw sewage).
6. to ask questions.
7. how to isolate my fears.
8. how to dream.
9. when I should shut up and listen (usually).
10. Jesus.
11. history.
12. how to read.
13. how to teach.
14. how to edit.
15. how to grow stuff.
16. how to bake pies (and make my own crust).
17. how to ride a bike.
18. to say the right thing (sometimes).
19. yoga.
20. the awesomeness of motherhood.


Spill it, reader. What are you thankful to know?
I'm going to the basement now with my bucket of bleach and water. Also thankful to get the name of a plumber who showed up at 7:30 this morning to start fixing the problem downstairs. Here's to flushing and draining!

Read More

tranquility

This is the view out my back door this morning. October has passed--a long, busy, blustery and unruly month. November stretches out ahead of us, full of long nights, short days and fewer obligations. I see my Write On! student for the last time this week. I've two things remaining on my fall chore list. The party decorations are boxed up and stacked in a closet, the garden stripped and potted plants dumped onto the compost pile. Saturday night I get my black belt at the Big Ceremony and Monday we begin a new schedule that will free up 5 hours a week to my benefit.

The blues hit me this time of year. Not enough sunshine, not enough fresh air, not enough exercise in the garden. No crickets or bird songs--everything hibernates or migrates, leaving behind a wasteland full of cold air and silence. I become restless and sad.

I've said yes to too many people and things, bitten off more than I can chew and slacked off on commitments to others and to myself. Guilt breeds inside me and I lay awake late into the night thinking of all I should be doing yet there aren't enough hours to even scrape the surface of it all. I'm letting myself down and I'm letting down people I like and care about. Overwhelmed by all of the lists and reminders, my scatterbrain gets even less attentive and more distracted and it's easier to pick at my cuticles than take a deep breath and focus on a single task.

But I'm trying. In the midst of craziness, I'm committing myself to trying with God's grace and more patience with myself. I'm going to eat apples instead of my kids' Halloween candy. I'm going to keep running 3 miles a week no matter how frickin' cold it gets outside. I'm going to divide those 5 extra hours of free time--3 for me and my own writing pursuits, 2 for others and their requests. I'm going to drink more tea and sit in a quiet room in the evening hours after the kids are tucked into their beds and read, read, read. These things should help slow down my mind and help me accomplish the tasks at hand.

I want to embrace November this year. I'll repeat over and over this word: tranquility. The silence and solitude, the darkness and the stillness can be a good and healthy thing. Tranquility.




***For updates on Attila and her Big Kid click here--he's on the mend, slowly but surely but keep them in your prayers. Thanks.

Read More