she's THAT mom

All day long I squawk at the boys, "FIND SOMETHING TO DO."  I'm forever shooing them away from TV sets and video games all week and offering to help them figure out what to do if they're so bored.  The minute I think I have them settled into an activity, I turn away to try to accomplish something myself (because I, unlike them, have no shortage of THINGS TO DO) and I hear the electronic theme music from the Wii.  And we're back to step one where I'm shouting "TURN OFF THE DAMN SCREEN AND FIND SOMETHING TO DO!"

Because it's summer vacation and for the love of all things holy we live in Wisconsin where you're snowbound for 6 months out of the year with nothing better to do than zone out in front of a screen.

Sheesh.

So, last night Mr. T, Mr. B and I rolled in from karate class and found Mr. G (guess where!  You'll never guess ...) in front of the TV.  He'd discovered WWE and was ecstatic.  The holy grail of male entertainment.  Comic book heroes and villains,  and man-on-man violence come to life.  In other words, Nirvana.

The gang starts school next Tuesday, so I had this foggy notion that we'd get to bed kind of early all week in a feeble attempt to put our bodies on a schedule.  After the next commercial break, I told Mr. G (and now Mr. B who sat beside him, breathlessly watching the drama play out on Live Television!) to shut her down. 

Upstairs we went and on went the jammies and in went the toothbrushes.  And then?

Those knucklehead kids started TO PLAY.  In their room.  They dragged out the dusty Brio train set and began laying track.  Mr. G stacked pillows and began practicing the pile drive move he'd learned from Sin Cara.  Together they giggled, talked, stacked, arranged and PLAYED.

Just like I'd been begging them to all day long.

You can imagine my conundrum--remind them that they had all day to goof around and do these things and now it's time for bed OR close the door and let them play it out.  But school starts next Tuesday and I have an obligation to get these goobers on a schedule.  On the other hand, they'll get off schedule over Labor Day weekend when we have plans.  It's so hard being a mom, I tell you. 

You bet I told them good night, shut the door and went to bed.  I think they played until about 10:30 before they dropped.  I guess some battles aren't worth the fight.

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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. 

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midsummer assessment

There are rabbits all over our yard and yet the DOG who is supposed to be a CARNIVORE is napping in the shade and eating raspberries out of my garden.  We also have mice around our house, but the dog doesn't seem to mind them terribly.  I don't care that he enthusiastically greets us every time we roll in the driveway.  He's as happy to see us as he is to see the UPS man or our neighbors.  Having now lived with a cat and a dog, I can only say my skepticism of devout dog lovers continues to grow ...

The dry weather means NO mosquitoes (heaven!) but we've got prolific amounts of WASPS.  One stung my arm a couple days ago and it's still all puffy and itchy. 

My children are alternately fighting or bored.  I should start wearing black and white striped shirts and a whistle around my neck.  Their work ethic is deplorable.  All they want to do is lay around watching TV or playing video games.  It's a full time job keeping them off-screen.  I know a lady who cancelled cable for the summer and I think she's brilliant.  What did we do during summer vacation back in the olden days, before 150 channels and video games and the internet?  I don't ever remember being BORED as a kid--was I?  I remember swimming and hanging out with friends and reading books and riding my bike.  My kids have a pool, pals, books and bikes--so is this a boy thing or something else? 

The more my kids push to watch TV and play video games, the more I push back by refusing to entertain them with trips and treats.  Why should I reward their whining with a trip to the zoo or an amusement park?  I'm thinking they need some austerity to better appreciate the simple pleasures in life.   We're redefining "Summer Fun" as trips to the library, the occasional ice cream cone, maybe a movie rental one night.  Am I being too harsh?  Or preventing them from becoming entitled, spoiled, selfish brats?

Also, I've realized Mr. G doesn't know any strokes despite knowing perfectly well how to swim, so we've got to work on that. 

On a hopeful note, the Supreme Court showed some common sense and decency yesterday.   And I've discovered the joy of reading Penelope Lively.

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a bunch of true stories on election day

True story--I went to vote for myself this morning (to recap: I'm running for school board) and I was right behind my opponent! The ladies working the polls thought it was funny--I could tell when they looked up after I told them my name. Hilarious! I imagine in a small town it's bound to happen that two people running for the same seat would run into each other while casting their ballots... I tried to catch the guy's eye to laugh about it, but no dice. He knew I was there, but didn't seem to find it as amusing as I did. For the record (and off the record), I have no gripe against my opponent. I'm running for the seat, NOT against him. It's not personal at all. That said, may the best woman win (hahaha).

True story--Rick, that other guy who's running for president, was at one of the cheese factories up the road from my house yesterday. My phone's been ringing off the hook between him and the other, other guy vying for my vote. Had I been at the cheese factory, buying my monthly infusion of cheddar, I doubt I'd have stood in line smiling with excitement. Just sayin'. Nothing I've read in the Good Book inspires me to cast a ballot for him--or the other, other guy. Everything I've read in the Bible tells me to vote for the guy looking out for the poor, widowed, immigrant, imprisoned and destitute. It doesn't mention anywhere that Jesus wants believers hating on gays, arming everybody with guns, passing harsh immigration laws, restricting access to health care (including birth control pills, natch), destroying the environment for monetary gain or denying welfare to those suffering poverty or unemployment. So you can imagine how my jaw dropped when I heard on a local Christian radio station that "believers should vote for Biblical, Conservative candidates." (Their emphasis on the capital "C" in "conservative, reader.) As opposed to Biblical LIBERAL candidates? I wanted to ask. Trouble is, most believers I know are lock-step Republicans and most of my liberal counterparts are not believers. Trust me when I tell you that I pray for wisdom on these issues, but it feels lonely in my Christian Liberal Camp. Every time I struggle to reconcile my faith and my politics, I keep returning to Matthew 22:37-39, which tells me it all boils down to "love God and love each other," an incredibly validating passage for this liberal voter.

True story--part of me is nervous as hell about today's outcome. On one hand, it's out of my hands. I've put myself out there, staked signs in people's yards and gave good newspaper interviews explaining my positions. On the other hand, losing would feel like rejection, which would be kind of a downer. On one hand, if I win I have a chance to re-correct the course of things in our town's schools. On the other hand, if I lose, I won't be obligated to give up a bunch of Monday nights and sit through countless hours of boring meetings. As you can tell, I'm trying not to think about it a whole lot. And, apparently I have four hands.

True story--last week I mentioned two great books I'm reading, but I forgot to mention their titles. The book about Haiti is Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat and the book about Tuscany is The Reluctant Tuscan: How I Discovered My Inner Italian by Phil Doran. Both are categorically memoir, the one about Italy is really funny and insightful, the one about Haiti gives me a better idea about Haitian culture and while it's written in that disjointed, impressionist typical of South American memoirs, I like it.

Stay tuned for election updates and a bunch of other random stuff tomorrow.

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3 not-so-great things about spring

Daffodils bloomed yesterday. It's ridiculous here, really. I shall post photos tomorrow of all the loveliness in our world.

But springtime isn't all sunshine and lollipops. Three things are troublesome:

1. I have to shave my legs or wear long pants. Shaving is a b*tch. But stubble on pale skin looks awful and it's hot out--I don't want to wear long pants. Neither do I want to shave. Ugh.

2. Flies. They've hatched out and are everywhere, but especially on our screen porch. I've hatched a plan of my own to contend with them because I want to enjoy our nice porch soon. And by "soon," I mean "this weekend." It's where Mr. D and I like to take our morning coffee and enjoy the view.

3. Oh! My! Aching! Back! Perhaps it's a result of age, but I prefer to believe it's the result of repetitious motion. Regardless, my back is hurting from all the raking, pulling, hauling, cutting, dragging.

Not the worst trouble in the world, but these three things plague me. Spill it, reader. What plagues you in spring? Allergies? Flies? Back pain? Taxes?

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would you rather fight lice or zombies?

Yesterday Team Testosterone came barging through the door shouting "We don't have school tomorrow!" Gleefully they began stripping off their winter coats and backpacks and I helpfully corrected their assumption, "Maybe you won't have school tomorrow. We don't know for sure--the snow might miss us." (See: Winter Storm System Rolling Thru Midwest) They insisted, "No, Mom! Really we won't! Because of the lice!"

Before I staggered back too far clutching at my heart, one of the boys thrust a note into my hand that explained how the school would, in fact, be closed for intensive cleaning after several cases of head lice have been reported. It took about 3 seconds to scan the note and make executive decisions. (See: Reasons Why Green Girl Would Rock as President)

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" I commanded.

They froze.

"Strip naked--leave everything in the laundry room and then go upstairs and change into play clothes." They complied, and raced barefoot and bare-assed up the stairs to the safety of their rooms.

I shoved the first load of everything--boxers, khakis, shirts, sweatshirts, winter coats, hats, snowpants--into the washing machine and dialed the setting to Hot/Cold. For safety's sake, backpacks and the entire stash of mittens/hats/scarves went onto the "WASH" pile and I grabbed my coat and keys.

Instructing the boys to stay at the kitchen table no matter what and do not move until I get home--and eat a snack and finish their homework, I ran out to the Momvan.

We got the first note last Friday and I'd diligently pawed through the boys' hair, searching for nits and signs of lice. I'd peered closely at their scalps every day since, but now I was taking no chances. I shuddered when I thought of all those winter jackets and snow pants crammed closely together on classroom hooks--and the blithe way lice could climb and crawl from one head to the next. Can lice crawl from winter boot to winter boot? Maybe I should run all of their shoes through the wash. Suddenly my scalp began to itch.

Forty-eight minutes I returned home, a razor kit in hand. One at a time, I perched the boys on a stool in the middle of the driveway and began shearing their heads. I knew we didn't have lice, but I figure keeping them "high and tight" couldn't hurt.

Three loads of wash and three buzz cuts later, I feel confident we've kept the lousy parasites at bay ... for now. Others I know have experienced this terror. I realize this is only the tip of the lousy iceberg. Even so, that leftover book club wine is looking pretty tempting--since Sunday I've fixed a leaking dishwasher, dealt with a water heater on the fritz and sniffed out carbon monoxide in our basement.

My sons have offered encouragement during this ordeal. They assured me that lice like clean hair more than dirty hair, so they should be pretty safe. (See: Boys, Hygiene, Personal Care Is for Wusses) We've seen no trace of lice thus far and I believe my Buzz Cut/Laundry Attack is enough of a preemptive strike to negate any critical risk. And this has been a "Teachable Moment" as the boys wonder what eats lice, how lice have babies and who would win in a lice vs. army ant showdown.

I'm keeping the faith even though the back of my head feels itchy while I type this.

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what are you wearing?

In my Oscar Fantasy (the one where I accept Best original Screenplay) I'm wearing Colin Firth on my arm. I tell the red carpet people, "He went to Jared for the diamonds and the shoes are by Clarks."

Tim Gunn would fawn over my wit and then I'd say, "Seriously, I'm wearing Elie Saab."



Oscar Reality involved Horny Toad yoga pants, a souvenir t-shirt Mr. D bought for me in Arizona and a pair of socks by an unknown designer.

Spill it, reader. What did you wear to the Oscars?

Yes, this was a gratuitous post written only to put up the photo of Colin.

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things that make me peevish (in run-on sentences)

Saturday I was flipping through TV stations and got briefly sucked into Braveheart on Bravo and I found myself really pissed off at Mel Gibson for wrecking some great movies because now every time I see him I don't see a former sexiest man alive/awesome actor, I see CRAZYCRAZYLUNATICMAN and it makes me a little sad, too.

Twice in a month I've gone to church (and to appreciate this story you must know the average service holds 800 people), I've sat on both sides of the sanctuary in front of the exact same two women who carry on a conversation in regular volume--all through the worship, all through the offering, all through communion, up until the sermon begins and I think they're mother/daughter and I'm trying not to be distracted by them but I am and then the one lady chews gum with her mouth open as soon as the preaching starts (after taking 5 minutes to unwrap it from endless layers of cellophane) and I want to turn around and punch them both for not taking a social cue from the rest of the 778 people sitting quietly or singing (including small children, for Pete's sake)--it took all my willpower not to turn around and ask them to exchange phone numbers so they could talk as they wish in a more appropriate place.

Once a week I want to watch TV, just one show, never twice a week or more, Sons of Anarchy is over for now and last night Downton Abbey started up again and I had Team Testosterone tucked in well before 8:00 and besides it's a school night, so I'm trying to kick it in my living room and watch this glorious Public Television programming and don't you know all three of the little twerps are popping out of bed and fighting and generally driving me up a wall and Mr. D's hidden away in our room watching football so I had to deal with them (he had offered to watch football in the living room but I chose the spot--comfy chair, you know) and for the love of all things holy, can't a lady just watch a freaking 2 hours of uninterrupted TV once a week when she lets you play hours of video games and watch hours of Disney Channel/Animal Planet/PBS Kids and hardly gets in your face except to call you to supper?

Spill it, reader. You can run on and on in the comment box. What makes you peevish?

(seriously, try the run-on sentences. it feels exhilarating to rant that way.)

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hating on fall

A bunch of you asked about my harsh feelings towards autumn--the season of scarecrows, pumpkins, spiced cider and colorful leaves. What's to hate about it? I'll tell you what's to hate about it.

For starters, I'm Green Girl in Wisconsin and in my state fall leads to winter--5 months of bitter cold, slush, ice, snow and misery. We're shut inside for half the year, struggling through knee-deep snow as we navigate our daily lives, bundling up to head out, stripping layers to return indoors. Our cars are cold and start hard, our recycling bins get frozen into snowbanks, we live like rodents in hours of darkness with short days and long nights. The simplest tasks--going to the store for a gallon of milk, retrieving the mail, walking the dog--become Major Endeavors when the temps dip below zero and the roads turn slippery. Winter's a massive pain in the ass and fall means it's coming.

If that's not enough of a reason, fall's also a season of death. Those crisp days mean crisp plants. I'm always watching the weather forecast and deciding whether to water and cover my vegetables to eke a few more weeks out of the harvest OR dig the works up. Inevitably, the years I dig up my garden and give up, the fall weather becomes balmy and warm. Fall's a total crap-shoot, a gardening gamble that makes this girl crabby. Fall means the end of flavorful tomatoes and crunchy cucumbers.

Of course, since I garden, fall means the death of all the flowers, too. Sure, we've got the bright mums and asters, but it's a last hurrah before the petals and leaves turn black and decompose.

Fall means the start of school, the end of lazy August days floating in the pool and staying up late. It means rushing around, sticking to the schedule and homework. Fall means layering sweaters, wearing socks and digging in the cupboard for gloves and hats.

There you have it, reader. Fall bites--I'd take spring and summer all year long if I could. You can argue all you want about pretty colors, handknit scarves, football, apples and the rest of it. This gal prefers daffodils and sunshine, the promise of new life and fresh starts.

My instincts are to flee or hibernate when fall arrives. I think the geese have the right idea--fly to warmer climates and wait it out. Or the bears--eat a ton of food and hunker down to sleep through winter.

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we're that family

the one that quotes movies. All the time. We have our favorite lines:

"The sun is shining, the tank is clean ..."
"You're killing me, Smalls!"
"Squirrel!"
"Go ahead. Make my day."
"My Precious."
"These aren't the droids you're looking for."
"As you wish."
"I do believe in fairies!"
"For Narnia!" (usually declared with a flourish of sword, spoon or plastic light saber)
"To the Batmobile!"
"'Ello, Poppet"
"You want s'more? S'more of what?"
"Bond. James Bond."
"Fish are friends, not food."
"Just keep swimming."
"I find your lack of faith disturbing."
"The Force is strong with this one."
"Help me, Obi-Wan. You're my only hope."
" I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy. Come on, Squishy Come on, little Squishy. Ow. Bad Squishy, bad Squishy."
"To action! We surrender! Not that action, you idiots! The kung-fu thing!"
"Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Cheese, Grommit!"
"Skadoosh!"
"Oh, I do love a bit of gorganzola!"
"Sharkbait. Hoo ha ha!"
"You dum-dum. You give me gum-gum."
"You are a sad, strange little man."
"Way to go, I-Da-Ho!"
"That was totally wicked!"
"Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave."

We do use original dialogue, but you're guaranteed to hear any of the above quotes throughout the average week at Chez Green Girl.

Spill it, reader. What movie quotes are in your clan's running dialogue?

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a buddy for jax

I'm not a dog person. That being said, Jax is a good dog. He's figured out our property boundaries so I don't have to chase him a country mile and drag him back home. He appreciates that he has to sometimes go in his kennel, but mostly does not. He ignores the fabulous dog house we built him and sleeps in a burrowed out spot beneath our bedroom window. Because he poops in the tall grass and weeds preventing us from cleaning up after him, I'm not even mad that he dug up the daffodils in his sleeping spot.

Jax follows me around the yard while I'm working and up the driveway to get the mail and paper. He paws me when I sit, demanding that I pet him. Once a week I really dig in with my fingers and work out the loose fur and scratch and scratch him free of that burden. He loves being in the Momvan, he loves chasing the boys, he gently allows the neighbor girl to pat him and run away squealing.

He's a chubby (seriously--Mr. G fed him a whole box of dog treats the other week--the boys are always feeding him) and content. Like his predecessor, Violet the semi-stray cat, Jax does not bark or nip or growl or in any way act aggressive. He's just a friendly beast with a mellow vibe.

Mr. D keeps feeding me this line about how Jax will be this fantastic watch dog. He'll let you know if someone's coming up the drive--when you're home alone during the day, he'll keep you safe. True story: we have this wonderful man who fixes our small engines (ATV, chainsaw, etc.). We had a dead battery and I called him, he dropped by one afternoon to take a look and helped himself to the open garage. I joined him after he'd been here for maybe 5 minutes and he chuckled and told me he didn't know we had a dog. Apparently he was looking at the guts of the ATV and reached down for a screwdriver and touched a wet nose. That fantastic watch dog? Hadn't made a sound. When M looked down at him, Jax wagged his tail and smiled.

Usually if a car pulls in the driveway, Jax will come check it out, but he'll stand back. Imagine my surprise when I stood at the kitchen window yesterday doing dishes and saw Jax act completely out of character. A rumble down the drive sent Jax running full-tilt to greet the UPS truck. I've never seen him go at a vehicle like that. You know those stereotypes about dogs and mailmen? I figured we had a situation like that on our hands. I dried off while keeping an eye on the dog and truck. Jax stood at the edge of the truck, tail wagging with excitement. A moment later the UPS guy tossed him a treat.

Aha! That's why Jax got all revved up about the UPS truck. Treats! Later Team Testosterone informed me that "The UPS guy always gives Jax a treat. They're friends." Whether that UPS guy does this for all dogs or just Jax doesn't matter, Jax loveslovesloves him.

There's only one way to end a story about a dog these days.

Squirrel!

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well, I never

* went on a cruise
* painted my toenails or got a pedicure
* got a tattoo
* rode a snowmobile
* voted a straight ticket
* cooked lamb
* turned down a slice of pie
* went to an NBA game
* shopped for a car alone
* grew eggplant
* parasailed/skydived/went up in a balloon/bungee jumped
* bought myself an expensive piece of jewelry
* caught the bouquet at a wedding
* was a bridesmaid
* read Jane Eyre
* required eyeglasses or contacts
* golfed well
* tried one of those ice cream coffee things they serve at Starbucks
* bought store brand peanut butter
* listened to At The Edge, the commercials really creep me out
* sat through a horror movie without covering my eyes or screaming
* figured out how to see the image in those 3D pictures
* "layered" my scents--heck, I don't even own perfume
* recycled a newspaper without at least skimming it--no matter how many pile up
* got call waiting or caller ID
* understood NASCAR
* played poker

Spill it, reader. What have you never?

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