Witness

There are days when I truly believe that I will go crazy. Snap like a twig. Like a dry, brittle, drought-stricken twig. Yesterday was one of those days.

The kids were all wound up from a weekend jam-packed with things going on. Grant's birthday party was Friday night. They played with their friends all day on Saturday. I had a friend come over with her daughter on Saturday night. They had another birthday party Sunday morning. Grant played football that afternoon and then there was the more "friend" time after that. Constant activity which quickly led to constant mouthiness.

The neighborhood Preteen Male Syndicate (PMS) was meeting for another afternoon of hijinx-planning when I stepped out into the garage and could not believe what I saw. (Well, I can believe it. I just didn't want to.) Total devastation. There were about four or five totes that usually held various odds and ends in them, contents strewn all over the garage. The large garbage bag full of packing peanuts that I save for shipments out of state was empty and the floor of the garage looked like January after a blizzard. A Garage Armageddon with ragged, dirty stuffed animals, various hotwheel tracks, shelving pieces, nerf guns and packing peanuts thrown every where. After spitting out some speech about the importance of respect and gratitude, I was able to get the boys to start cleaning up the mess. I stepped back inside for 10 seconds (I think Mia had stopped up a toilet or something) came back out to the garage to find the boys back on their skateboards/bikes/scooters with the garage completely uncleaned.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not on my watch buddy. I sent the non-resident offenders home, which lead to loud shrieking of how evil of a mother I am. Resident offenders were sent to their rooms. Groundings threatened, swear words shrieked and over-all loud nastiness. And I do mean LOUD! I'm sure the barbeque at the church down the street loved to hear what a good mother I am. I decided that everyone needed to calm down and had each child take a shower.

It was quiet for 3.5 minutes. I walked into the boys' room and every piece of clothing that was in their dressers was on the floor. I walked into the bathroom. There were three toy dolphins, a few kitchen utensils, my (now empty) cotton-scented sugar scrub tube and a broken ceramic vase lying amid the goop of the now-freed sugar scrub on the bottom of the bathtub. There were three completely soaked towels on the floor. Two pairs of dirty boy underwear and five or six wet/dirty/stinky articles of clothing from the girl. Bright blue toothpaste (with sprinkles :)) smeared all over the sink and mirror.

I completely lost it. Loud voices. Sore throat. Slammed doors. Early bedtimes. It hadn't even been an hour from our conversation about respect and watching out for other people's things and just "not living like a total pig". It was if they had never heard me.

At all. After a nice quiet morning ("Rise and Shine!"), I came back into the kitchen this morning to find two bowls of Fruit Loops spilled all over the table, the floor and the female child. (I had been outside picking up the dead half of a rabbit that was a gift from the German Shepard. Lovely.) (BTW, after an evening of searching, I still haven't found the other half.)

Now I know children are messy. I am messy. If you've read any other entries in this blog, you know how much I hate to clean. Life is too short to be cleaning all of the time. Plus, when you're working a 9+ hour day (factor in commute time) plus activities, plus errands, there really is only so much time in a day. I am perfectly fine with a certain level of messiness. A few toys on the floor? No problem. A board game left out overnight? No big deal. Dirty dishes still in the sink? They can wait a few hours.

But the levels of mess that these kids were committing were no where near normal childhood messes. They were epic, over-the-top, gratuitous messes. Unnecessary filth. Monstrous chaos.Who uses one of their mother's high heel shoes to smash cereal on the counter top and then try to kill their brother with it? Who needs to take every article of dirty clothes out of the hamper and make a reading nook "nest?"

Worn out, I walked into work this morning desperate to find out a way to teach these children respect and to not lose my cool when dealing with them and the inevitable messes. And I remembered my dear, sweet cousin Margie. (She's one of those Reynolds' cousins I have talked about in the past.)

When Grant was about 18 months old, Grant had taken one of those bottles of diaper rash ointment and smeared it all over his body. Head to toe. He was like a little naked greased-up Casper the ghost. I tried washing him off, but do you realize that diaper rash ointment by design, was created to be waterproof? Freaking out and not knowing how to take care of the situation, I called up Margie. The first thing she asked me was, "So, did you take a picture?" Brilliant!

Taking the time to find the camera can break up any tension and turn what could be an explosive situation (sometimes literally) into a photo-op. And a lot of times that is what I really get mad about. No one ever witnesses the insanity of my life. Here I am in the house alone with these children, slowly going insane and with one or two clicks of the camera, I can have proof of what they are doing to me.  See? I'm not going nuts. Someone shaved the dog. I have proof!

Armed with this little lightbulb, I now have a new approach to parenting. The kids will be doing a lot more picking up the house in the next few weeks. (Maybe if they see what a pain in the rear it is to clean it, they won't be as apt to mess it up. Fingers crossed.) And I'll be blogging a lot more. Some days it might only be pictures. And that's okay. I just need a witness.

Just a Number

So I've got a big birthday coming up and I don't know how I feel about it. Part of me is excited and the other part wants to throw up. I am going to be 40. And I know there are so many people older than I am and 40 is the new 20 and blah, blah, blah blah. But 40 is old. 40 is middle-aged. I am on the downhill slide to death. Uff dah that sounds grizzly.

But then I've had so many people tell me that their 40s were their favorite decade. That is the decade when you really step into your power. It's when you have the opportunity to make the best business decisions. You have experience, plus connections which can lead to explosive business opportunities. When you're in your 40s you still have energy. You have all of the wisdom that you gained after making all of those stupid mistakes in your 20s and 30s. You've gotten a system down (more or less) for parenting. You got a great network of friends. You're established in your career. Power.

But things are starting to sag. Physically. I've never been a thin woman, but parts of my body that I used to be proud of for their semi-in-shapeness are not even close any more. My ankles hurt a little bit when I walk and my back gets sore from sitting all day. And the gray hair! I came across an article today about saving money while dying your hair. One of the women that commented after the article suggested that we should not even try to cover our grays and embrace them and all that aging has to offer. She's nuts.

I'm only 40. If I let my grays show, I'd look like a grandma. And yes, I do realize that I could be 40 and a grandma. (Just typing these word out is making me wince, you realize. It's one thing to think you might be getting old. It's another to actually put your fears down in writing.) But I am not giving up entirely.


Sure it would be easy to just give in. Eat what ever I wanted. Drink my wine. Eat the nachos. And the donuts and the pasta with the rich sauces. (I should not blog when I'm hungry.) Stop dying my hair and wearing make-up. Wear comfy clothes and wait to die. But as tempting as that sounds, I'm not ready. Because I don't feel old.

And that's what other people say about turning 40. You're only as old as you feel. Well...I feel 28. I still listen to contemporary music. I'm into Rhianna and Lady Antebellum and just the other day I had the rock band Jet (not to be confused with the late 80s R&B/pop group) blaring from my minivan speakers. (Well, Deanna, you say, Jet was popular 8 years ago. What are you, old?) I can still rock out. Look out when I get my Muse on. And I get the Black Eyed Peas cranking when I'm cleaning the kitchen. The kids are mortified when I dance around like I'm a Solid Gold dancer (I keep aging myself, don't I?)

While I am nowhere close to dating again, I do notice guys when I bop around town. The problem is that most of the guys I am attracted to are all about the age I was the last time I was single. And that is pretty creepy. I now know why the whole "cougar" phenomenon exists and can empathize with "Dirty Old Men." It's not necessarily because they want to take advantage of a younger (more impressionable) woman, it's because they simply cannot come to grips mentally with the fact that they are old farts. It's tough.

But then I'm not an old fart. I'm not ready to give in. Seriously. I feel like there is a whole lot more for me to accomplish. I've got big goals and dreams. I want to run a marathon. I want to vacation in Greece. I want to drive a pink Cadillac. I just need to get a move on to accomplish those goals.

Which leads me to a cool thing that happened at the grocery store the other night. I stopped by one that I usually don't frequent to buy a bottle of wine and the clerk asked for my ID. Seriously. And he was visibly shocked when he looked at the date. Yeah, it says 1971, buddy. My body feels likes it's 40, my brain thinks like it's 29, but my skin looks like it's ageless! (Thank you Mary Kay cosmetics! --shameless self-promoting plug.) Now onto the Cadillac!

That's Nuts

I've decided there is no such thing as summer. There's just baseball. Good thing I love baseball.

If you've read any of my other blog posts, or have children yourself, you are familiar with the "Wham, bam, Thank You Ma'am" speed of life. Today I called ahead to the house to have the babysitter have Grant get his uniform on for his 6pm game. I would be home at 5:10 and the coach likes them at the game 45 minutes early (and I will tell you that it is longer than a 5 minute drive.) (And don't even get me started about the trip to the eye doctors to fix his broken glasses.)

Of course, I get home and Grant is not dressed, but making himself a bowl of ice cream. So I whisk him upstairs and scramble to find all of his gear. Luckily, we had a 3-day weekend, so I was able to cram in some cleaning and a little bit of laundry and his uniform was clean and waiting for us. I also cleaned his...athletic undergarments and its funny-shaped accessory.

We were rushing to get dressed. He was wriggling on his shirt. I was trying to figure out how to put the slightly curved, triangular-shaped protective thingamabob in his shorts. Which end goes up? (They really should put arrows on those things.) How the heck does this thing work?

And Grant says to me, "What Mom, you didn't wear a nut cup when you played softball?" (The one whole season I played.)

"Nope," I explained. "Girls don't wear nut cups."

The look on his face was priceless.  "You mean they make them suffer?" he said. Shock, mixed with sadness for the fairer sex.

Yes, honey. For the rest of our lives.

Rock Star

The crack of the bat. The ball hitting the glove. The crunch of the seeds. It is baseball season once again in the Capital City.

We've actually spent a majority of our lives sitting on the sidelines of my oldest son's athletic pursuits. Spencer and Mia are usually the tag-alongs while we watch Grant hit, slide, shoot and score in a whatever sport he could get his hands on. I convinced Spencer, my middle one, to try baseball one last time before giving it up forever. (Sniffle.) And he had practice tonight.

So Spencer went off with his team, trying to get all excited about a sport that doesn't involve a wii remote. Grant and Mia ran over to the playground to play with the other tag-along siblings. Which by the way, were all 3-5 year old little girls. About eight of them. Grant, my almost 10-year old, and eight 3-5 year old little girls.

The sound of pleasure, mixed with terror, at a decibel and pitch unknown to any musical scale, that is what we would hear as he flopped his lanky not-quite-teenage body on the end of the teeter totter, sending the pigtailed little sissies flying up in the air.

"You're so scary!" "Ahhhhh!!!" "Do it AGAIN!" they would scream as he would chase after them imitating a monster-eating zombie all over the playground. He'd push them higher and higher on the swings, much higher than they could get on their own and so much faster. Now they all had older brothers. But those dorks were their older brothers. This older brother was cool. Exciting. A Rock Star.

Grant was eating it up. To these little girls he was like Elvis, Mick Jagger and Justin Bieber rolled into one. He was so great with these little girls, showing them the right amount of excitement and danger, but looking out for their best interests at the same time. A complete opposite of the way he is at home, where he would just as soon use your arm as a test subject for some strange science experiment involving Windex, Pop Rocks, and peanut butter.

And that's when it hit me, the answer to making the world a better place: We all just need to treat each other like Rock Stars. That's all everyone really wants anyway. It's not the cars or the gadgets or the diamonds and pearls. All people really want is for someone to think that they are kind of cool. Everyone wants to feel important.

So my advice is (if you want to help me try this experiment that doesn't involve household cleaners and small explosive candy), go up to someone today or tomorrow and compliment them. Tell them how important they are to you. Let them know that they are really awesome at something. Let them know that they excite and inspire you. And then, ask for their autograph.

The Dogs and the Gift

"Well, you gave him a good home and a good life and that's all they really want."

I heard the vet talking to the patient ahead of me today at the clinic. I was bringing in my two dogs, Rosie and Lacey for their regular visit. Rosie is a big black German Shepard/Border Collie mix that we rescued from the Capital Humane Society almost 7 years ago. She's old (about 9 now), lazy and pretty chunky. The only time she gets up from her comfy spot on the carpet is to eat or to go. Lacey is a 4 year old West Highland Terrier with a lot of energy and smart naughty skills. And my dogs love to test me.

We got Rosie when we moved into our new house. At that point in time, it was just Chris and I and the boys. I felt like we needed another female presence in the house, so we went to the shelter. She came up to us and offered us her belly and we knew we had to take her home. (I found out I was pregnant with Mia the next day.) Rosie is not good with other dogs. She gets nervous and wants to protect us from them. I think its the herding breed instincts in her. Protect the flock. When the kids have friends over and they play "Light Saber Duel," she goes nuts. She is so afraid that someone will hurt one of her sheep.

We got Lacey from Chris' boss about two years ago. She just loves to bark. And she has the most ear-piercing loud arf you've ever heard. She'll bark at anything with fur or feathers and is just dying to "have at it" and rip its head off. Once a possum moved into the neighbors yard. I have never heard such a frustrated yelp of desire. (Okay yes, that sounds clumsy, but that was exactly what it sounded like.) She wanted sooooo badly to kill that possum. To taste its sweaty, dirty possum-y body in her mouth and to shake it until it couldn't fake it. Arf!

Since Chris has been gone, these two furry "children" are what lets me sleep at night. Knowing that they are so protective of us. Knowing that they will alert us to danger. That they will fight tooth and paw to keep me and the kids safe. I love my dogs.

And I hate my dogs. Once I returned to work they started to rebel. One morning I found an obvious yellow stain on the carpeted floor in the t.v. room. Not knowing which dog it was, I cleaned it up only to find a fresh stain the next day. We tried putting one dog in her kennel. New stain. We put the offending dog in the garage. Another new stain. And then we figured it out. They were marking on top of each other. Lacey would go and then Rosie in her "one-updog" mentality would have to go on top of where Lacey just went. Of course, her aim isn't good. So in any case, you can imagine......my carpets are getting pretty much ruined.

I think I have figured out a solution, however. I didn't want to keep the dogs in their kennel all day and I have been opposed to shock collars my whole life. I love animals and do not want them to be injured in anyway. But Chris got one of those area sound and shock collars.  It emits a sound when the dog gets too close to an area that we want them to avoid and then gives them a small shock. Sound first, then the shock. Both of my dogs are smart cookies and it took them only one quick shock to associate the sound with the ouch and they have avoided the "indoor" bathroom area of the living room for weeks.

Today they had their vet appointment. I took the collars off the dogs and got them in the van. Both dogs are nervous to be in a car. I would be too. How can they possibly understand the concept of movement when you are standing still? Lacey was all over the seats looking out the windows at the scenery rushing by. Rosie was quivering like a big fat hairy baby next to me.

We got to the vets office and they were going crazy. Smelling everywhere. Ohhhh!!!!! The smells! I could only imagine that a trip to the vets office would be like going to some hotspot night club. Smelling the chihuahuas, the Labradors, the hounds, the dachshunds, the poodles.... they couldn't get their sniffers full....

And then I heard the vet talking to the man before me. I couldn't see him and it took a second before I knew exactly what the vet meant by "You gave him a good life." The man had come to the vet with his beloved pet and now he was going home. Alone. The man was in his 50's. Older and established. His eyes met mine as he was walking out the door. They were filled with tears. I don't think I have ever seen a man his age cry before. My heart was breaking for him.

I could only imagine the car ride home. Alone. Walking into his house to give his wife the news. Looking at the water and food bowls knowing that he didn't need to fill them tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again. Watching t.v. and not having that soft fur to stroke mindlessly while the news of the day blared from the screen. Barbecuing in the back yard with no quick little furry blur to eat up any fallen hot dogs. Walking around the block without something tugging on its leash trying to get you to go faster, or trying to get you to stay just a few more minutes because this hydrant smells oh-so interesting. Going to sleep that night without that feeling of safety and security provided by the four-legged, foul-breathed guardian angel that sleeps at the foot of your bed.

So, I bought my girls an extra bone. Stocked up on their Frontline and heartworm medicine and came home. I went back to work for the afternoon more appreciative about the world we live in. How God gives us little gifts everywhere we go. How our world has been made so perfectly for us. He not only gave us each other, but He gave us wonderful creatures who love us as much as we love them.

After I picked up the kids from school, I pulled into my driveway and saw my canine girls with their tails wagging wildly at the window. Barking with excitement and so happy that we were home. I dropped to my knees to hug them and kiss them and let them know how great it was to be back. To let them know how much I loved them. Only to feel a strange dampness on my knees. Hmm.

It looks like my girls gave me a little gift of their own.

The Bridge and The Apple

The ability to read = Freedom. I just realized a few days ago, that I don't have to read the subtitles at movies any more for Grant and Spencer. They can read. Mia can sound stuff out, but not fast enough for a movie scene. Not yet anyway. So my kids do a lot of reading and asking questions.

We were driving around today and were waiting at a stop light on the corner of 70th and Vine right next to a church called The Bridge.

"What's that Mom? Why do they call it The Bridge? It doesn't look like a bridge, it looks like a building."

I'm sure with more thought, I could have explained that that is a place people can go to feel connected to God and Heaven, much like a bridge connects people to where they want to go. That would have been the smart answer, but remember I'm in marketing.

"Well, I think they called it that because some people don't like to go to Church," I emphasised this last line. (I've been trying to get them to go to Mass with me and it's like a battlefield. Bribes don't even work anymore.) "So, the Church people thought if they named it something different, maybe more people would come and get the benefits of going and hearing the message."

"The Bridge?" Grant said, thinking of other things The Bridge sounded like. "So do they think they're going to a bar?"

The apple does not fall far from the marketing tree. And of course that got my creative juices flowing...to name a church after a nightclub: The Little Lambs Lounge? Galilean Grill? Trinity Pub? Heavenly Angels Honky Tonk? Disciples Discotheque? Saints and Saloons?

There probably already is a Garden of Eden, but I don't think that's probably a place to hear a good message. Or get an apple.

The Answer to the Mystery Machine

So today, I took my lunch break. (From work. Because I have a job now!) And I ran some errands. One of the errands I had to run was to go to a bank (Which is not the bank that I work at. I plan on transferring things, just not yet.) I was sitting in line at the drive-up when I saw it.....The Mystery Machine.

If  you live in Lincoln, NE you have probably seen it. Somebody got a van and painted it to look exactly like the Mystery Machine from the old Scooby Doo cartoon. The same bright aqua and purple paint. The logo exactly the same as the cartoon. And if  you weren't thinking too hard about the fact that cartoons don't really exist in the real world, you could imagine Fred behind the wheel and Scooby and Shaggy eating scooby snacks in the back.

This Mystery Machine is famous in Northeast Lincoln. My kids have seen it and wondered. Other kids have seen it and rumored. Who is it that drives the Mystery Machine all over the neighborhood? Is it a mega-fan of the show? Is it an anime-loving cartoon-aholic? Is it some cheeky advertising executive that thinks its artsy/retro-cool? Is it some teenage burnout that giggles at the thought of opening the van doors only to find clouds of smoke and the essence of "scooby snacks?" Is it Shaggy?

I finally saw the driver of the Mystery Machine today. He is a 50-something dude with a big bushy beard and khakis. He looked a lot more like a professor than a burnout. Glasses and a beige jacket, he looked like he was going to lead a class on anthropology. Not find out who was behind the zombie dilemma at the new cemetery country club.

He was walking out to his van at the same time another guy was walking out of the bank. This other guy looked like a thug. Now that I'm working at a bank, I'm constantly on the lookout for thugs. He had a ball cap on, pants slung low, underwear all up in there....or all up out of there...or wherever it is that thugs put their undergarments these days. He looked a little thug-ish. And he was texting.

Wanna-be Scooby got in his van. Thug-kid was texting on his phone and walking out into the parking lot. Wanna-be Scooby started up the car. Thug-kid was texting and not paying attention and walked right into the path of the reversing Mystery Machine. He didn't even see it. The Mystery Machine for crying out loud.

The van came inches from running the thug over. Inches. The Mystery Machine went forward, obviously not even seeing the thug, still in the van's blind spot. The thug gave the Mystery Machine the finger. Nice.

At this point, I knew I had to decide who to root for. If a cop came, the decision would be in favor of the pedestrian (Thug). Drivers should be cautious and look for any obstacles/pedestrians/baggy pants-wearing wanna-be gangstas in their way. But this idiot was so oblivious to the world around him. He was so engrossed in his text conversation. He was walking right in the middle of the parking lot. And almost got hit. BY THE FREAKING MYSTERY MACHINE! How do you not notice that and get the heck out of the way? Fred, Daphne, Velma, Scooby and Shaggy are coming straight at you. How do you not move over?

Turns out meddling kids these days wear their pants too low or their underwear too high. And they are so engrossed in not talking to each other that they would sacrifice their lives in order to text "clues" to one another.

Ruh-roh Raggy. There's a monster on the loose and his name is Thug on the Phone. Or Thug n' Thumbs. Or The Saggy Pants Text-a-holic. Or Phone Thugs N' Harmony. Something like that.

Piece of Cake

"Zach has loo-kee-mata," Grant said when he came home from school one day.

Thinking I misheard him I asked, "You mean mononucleosis?" Not that most 8-year olds get the kissing disease, but I didn't want to think about the alternative.

"No, it's a kind of cancer," Grant said. One of his classmates, a little boy that he had known since pre-school had leukemia.

I've been fortunate in my radio career to be able to go down to St. Jude's Research Center in Memphis, Tenn. The amazing work down there has drastically changed the survival rates of childhood blood cancers. Now, with the right treatment and prayers, kids who are diagnosed with leukemia have a 94% survival rate. Of course, the treatment sucks. Kids miss a lot of school. And it is expensive.

So Grant's Cub Scout pack decided to do a Cake Auction fundraiser. I love to bake so I was all up for it. It was not a competition. It was a fundraiser. However, the idea of my cake bringing in a huge bid was exciting so I knew I needed to get creative. I also knew my target was 8-9 year old boys and their parents. So I hit the internet and stole the idea to do 2 little cakes that looked like wii remotes.

Of course the morning I was doing these I was completely rushed and had to drag all three kids with me from store to store, so I had to use some shortcuts. I used already made frozen pound cake, rolled out premade fondant and bought some of those edible markers you can get at Michaels. Easy as pie, except that it was cake.

We headed over to the auction with our creations and picked up an extra 5 or 6 neighborhood kids on our way there. Not on purpose. But when you see a lady walking down the street with 2 cakes in her hand, you follow. I'm the new Pied Piper of my neighborhood. I brought $10 because I knew my kids would want to buy a cake of their own.

I put my cake down on the auction table and was amazed at what I saw. There were probably about 30 cakes there. All different kinds and shapes and flavors. Some absolutely gorgeous. Some plain. Cupcakes, pirate cakes, Cub Scout cakes, tiered cakes, treasure cakes, a Stormtrooper cake (!)... Amazing.

I asked which cake the kids wanted to take home and Grant told me he had his eye on the Army cake. Grant is very into all things military and this cake was incredible. It had little plastic Army guys all over it. A tank next to it. The frosting was a mix of green and brown food coloring and looked a little like camouflage. There were crumbled up bits of graham cracker to look like "dirt." This was a cool cake. And it was towards the end of the auction.

The auction began and I started to get nervous. The bidding started at $5 and almost all of the cakes went for at least $15. Most went for $30 or more. When the (plain) homemade German chocolate cake went for $51, I got really nervous. I only brought $10. How was I going to get Grant his Army cake?

And then I remembered my Aunt Terri. Just a few days earlier I had gotten a note in the mail. I had seen my Aunt Terri at my cousin T's wedding a month ago when I was still unemployed and going through my rough patch. She sent me a little note telling me how much she enjoyed seeing my kids and how I was in her prayers. Inside the note, she stuck a check for $50.

I received this note a week after I started my new job at the bank. I didn't know what to do with the money. I know she wanted to help me out of a rough spot, but I was now getting out of the rough spot and I felt like I didn't deserve it anymore. Thank goodness, my run of bad luck was over. My mom said that Aunt Terri wanted me to have it even still. "To spend it on something fun with the kids."

The Army cake was coming up for bid. With Aunt Terri's help, I knew I could put in a bid. And then some. The bids went up and up and up. I kept raising my hand. "$25...who's got $26?" I do! I do!

The frenzy of an auction can be intoxicating. You don't ever really feel like you're buying something, you feel more like you're winning something. And I felt like I could really win this cake.

"$45 now, who's got $46?" the auctioneer called out.

"I've got $50!!!!" I yelled, so excited to try and make my little folks happy.

"51!" Someone yelled from the back of the room. "$55!" "I've got 60!" The bids kept going up and up. Higher and higher.

"Mom! Bid higher!" Grant pleaded. But I couldn't. Even with my generous gift, I don't have that much money. I've got a job now, but I also have a year's worth of unemployment debt to recover from.

The cake finally went for $78. Grant started to cry. We had lost the cake he had his hopes on.

"That's okay Grant," I told him. "Remember, the money is going to Zach." (And it turns out that particular cake was going to Zach too. The winning bidder wanted Zach to have that cake.)

There were only two more cakes up for auction. One of them being perhaps the biggest sheet cake I have ever seen in my life. It had the Cub Scouts Bears logo on it and it took almost two people to hold it up. The neighborhood kids who were sitting with me were anxious. To come to a cake auction and come away with no cake just didn't seem fair. And then the bidding began....

"$25...$30....$32....$35....$38?"

"$40!" I yelled and raised my hand!

"Sold! To the woman in the front row with the 20 kids!" My little crew got so excited. They couldn't wait to get a closer look at that cake. I needed a couple of them to help me carry the thing home, it was so huge.

We got back and everyone had a slice. And then some. I took a third of the cake over to the neighbors and sent each group of kids home with another huge chunk. We have had cake for breakfast for the past 3 days. And there is still some left in the refrigerator.

It made me feel fantastic to be able to buy that cake. I was able to get something fun for my kids. I was able to get something fun for all of the kids in the neighborhood. I was able to feed my neighbors. And I was able to help out a kid who was going through his rough patch. A patch rougher than I have ever had to face.

Now, if you can do the math, you must realize that I only spent $40 on that cake. And Aunt Terri gave me $50. What am I going to do with the other $10?

I am going to the store to get some little Army guys, a tank and some graham crackers and I am going to bake the most fantastic Army cake ever!!!!!

Snackin' with Zac

OMG!!!!! I thought to myself. Loudly. Is that who I think it is? Is that....?

I had to stop at Target on my way home from a Mary Kay benefit. I needed toilet paper and bread. (And Target just so happens to have these little single servings of wine that look like juice boxes, but aren't.) I didn't get a cart because I was only getting two things. But I had to pick up some chips and salsa to go with the wine, so now I am fully laden with Target goodness when I saw him walk right by and turn into the aisle behind me.

Zac Lee, third string quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers!!!!!!!! He was first string last year and this year played in quite a few games actually as the other two guys kept getting hurt. And that's one of the things that I love about him. He basically was demoted from a superstar position and rather than be pouty and quit, he sucked it up and for the love of the game and the pride of Nebraska he played anyway. He gave advice to the younger guys that got promoted ahead of him. He's one stand-up guy.

Plus, he's totally hot! I would include a picture of him right here, but I am not legally allowed to do so. So you have to imagine a young Adonis with short brown hair, dreamy eyes, broad shoulders, a twinkling smile, and a schnazzy blue hoodie.

He was there looking in the food section of Target with some guy and I wish I would have paid attention to what they were looking at. That would have made a good addition to this story. "OMG, I saw Zac Lee at Target and he was buying....cheezits or pickles or peanut butter." But I was so flustered it was all I could do to not drop my salsa.

I stood in the next aisle over wondering what to do. What was amazing to me is that I think I was the only one who seems to have recognized him. Should I go up to him and casually give him a wink? "Like you know that I know who you are but I am not going to be obnoxious and spoil your shopping experience because I'm cool like that."

Or should I think of my children and go and ask for his autograph? I considered this but also remembered that my arms were full of toilet paper, bread, wine and chips and salsa. So, rummaging around in my overstuffed purse for something for him to write on and the odds of finding something for him to write with (that wasn't made by Crayola) were slim.

I also considered the honest approach. But then how often does he get women blabbering, gushing all over him saying that they are his biggest fans. He should be able to come to Target with a buddy to by....granola bars without getting accosted by middle-aged stalkers.

Of course by the time I collected my wits and calmed myself down (a little), he was already in the check out lane. I stood in line with my secret wondering if anyone else was going crazy inside.

He left and I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Did you see who that just was?" I exploded. "Zac Lee! And he was here! And in person! And he's a Husker! And I can't believe he was here at Target! And oh my gosh he's so cute!!!!!!!"

The male checker just looked at me. Blankly. "Well you know, he's got a girlfriend."

I took a minute. Thought about it.

So you mean, if it weren't for the girlfriend, I might have a shot with Zac Lee?

Whoo Hoo! Not that there's a 15+-year age difference or that I'm a newly separated, mini-van driving mother of three with graying temples and hopefully eventually smaller saddlebags? Not that he's a collegiate superstar athlete who could rival any movie star with his handsomeness? There's only one thing keeping me from falling into the arms of this hot, young, talented golden boy. It's the girlfriend.

Darn. Oh well. Look me up when you're free, Zac. I'll be at Target, buying some of  your favorite....snack crackers?

Snuggling with the Jonas Brothers

So if I would have gotten the news 3 weeks ago, I would have been sick. Might have pushed me over the edge. I woke up two mornings ago and it felt cold, I went downstairs to check and it was only 57 degrees. Called the heating guy and sure enough, our 20-year old furnace bit the dust. (Which makes me feel good that I am not a furnace, but really....1992 did not feel that long ago. How ancient must I be if I can outlive a major appliance.) The damage? $1700. The good news? I have a job!!!!!!!!!

I finally got hired. After 13 months and lots of applications and no phone calls and strange personality tests later, I have been hired by a regional bank to do their social media marketing: Facebook, youtube, twitter, blogging....right up my alley!!!! (I told you! You just have to get out of the house every once in a while.)

So, even though this huge expense is debilitating, it's debilitation that can be paid off....eventually. I'll have a paycheck coming eventually. I start on Tuesday. In the meantime, the house was FREEZING. The furnace guys were coming in the morning, but that night we had to go all Pioneer-style.

I borrowed some space heaters from my fabulous friend Christy. (Check out her blog: raisingjustice.blogspot.com) And went to the HyVee to buy some firewood. One of the reasons we bought this house was for the fireplace and last night, its value was recognized 10-fold. At this point the temperature in the house was only 52-eventually it got down to 44. It was the coldest day of the year so far in Lincoln, NE. Something like 5 below with 11 below windchills. (And yes, for my friends in Fargo, that is nothing. You have it much worse. Remember, I lived up there for 6 years. That is why I do not live there now.)

I decided that the kids and I would all sleep in the tv room with the fireplace. The rest of the house was already very cold. I grabbed as many blankets and pillows as I could and made a nice little mommy nest in front of the fireplace. I also thought ahead (so proud of myself for this one), and grabbed clothes for the kids for the next day, because I know how tough it is to put your warm body into semi-frozen undergarments. (Again, Fargo. 6 years.)

I got that fire going. Read book after book. Did a lot of snuggling. And I am well aware that I start my new job on Tuesday. My days of being able to take the kids to school and pick them up are over. The trek home after a long day of math and reading and writer's workshop are over. My days of helping Mia's kindergarten class learn how to hold marshmallows in their mouths, over. (Brilliant idea of how to keep little ones quiet: Tell them to hold pretend marshmallows in their mouths.) Bundling the kids up, looking for shoes, packing backpacks and watching them walk in those school doors to be "educated." Those days are over. I'm not a reluctant stay-at-home mom any more.

But now, I can pay for a furnace. I do have to admit that I was a little worried about our safety. The temperature was dropping in the rest of the house and even in our little room, outside of our nest, it was pretty chilly. I had my fake down comforter for the boys. And Mia and I had on 3 layers of blankets, including a blanket featuring the Disney pop sensation the Jonas Brothers-a "hand me down" from one of my sister's friends. (Oddly enough, in our current cable-free, economic status, my daughter doesn't know exactly who the Jonas Brothers are. But they look cute enough.)  And I don't know what kind of fleece hybrid this blanket is made out of, but it is an amazingly warm little throw. And perfectly sized for a 39 year old woman and her 5-year old.

After what seemed like the 30th chapter out of a Harry Potter book, the kids finally fell asleep. I kept an eye on the fire hoping that we didn't either catch on fire or freeze in the middle of the night. As I looked in the fire, I got all spiritual and philosophical. (As most do while gazing into a roaring fire at 3 in the morning.) I was reminded about how crazy it is that fortune and tragedy are intermingled. I get a job. I have to pay for a furnace. The house is freezing, but we have a fireplace. We could become little people popsicles in the middle of the night, but we would have adorable Jonas Brothers wrappers.

As I finally drifted off to sleep myself, I was grateful. Grateful for the blessings that I have been given. Grateful for my children. Grateful for wonderful, supportive friends. Grateful for the opportunity to now show a business what I can accomplish. Grateful to be alive in 2011, where we actually have solid walls and cars and furnaces (when they work) and indoor plumbing (as cold as our toilet seats got....I could only imagine having to walk 10 feet to an outhouse.)

And last, but not least, of course, I am grateful for snuggling with those Jonas Brothers.

Unemploment Envy and Naps

One of the features I wanted to include in this blog (besides the therapeutic release of being able to share the stories of this crazy Tilt-a-Whirl of a life I have) was to use it as a public service guide for the Unemployed. I'm sure that no government agency will officially sanction it. And that's okay. It's really just a few things that I have learned in my 13 months of being unemployed that I wanted to share with my friends/family that are also newly left "without a paddle."

So here are some more tips learned from the Unemployment Line:

1) There is no unemployment line. In fact, most times, there is no one to talk to. My fellow "Non-jobbers" joke that the ideal solution is to give unemployed people jobs at the unemployment office, because the office is woefully understaffed.

I think the original idea was to try to make filing for unemployment insurance strictly an on-line endeavor. Which is great, but there are so many questions, the website isn't always clear, and for most of us, this is the first time we have been unemployed and have absolutely no clue how any of this is supposed to work. Talking to a person and having them answer our questions is soothing. Especially for people who are on the cusp of spiraling depression and doom. There is a phone number to call and talk to someone, but I was on hold for 45 minutes the other day waiting to file for my Emergency Unemployment Insurance, (it's been over a year-no job) before I was able to talk to someone. (Also, never call on a Monday. You will NEVER get through.) Which leads me to my next tip....

2) Be nice to the Unemployment Person. He/she can help you a lot. Sure, you have no job, and you are a little bitter about the fact that you've been on hold for 45 minutes or longer and are frustrated and on the brink of financial ruin, and some schmo who does have a job finally picks up the phone to answer your question. The first instinct is to be nasty. But imagine what job this schmo has: nine hours of being yelled at by jerks like  you. That's what his/her job is. Maybe a lunch break in there. But nine hours of being yelled at by crazy, slightly unhinged, panic-ridden jobless folks who are disparately clinging to a few hundred bucks a week so they can afford ramen noodles and cheap wine. And I'm guessing these customer service positions don't exactly pay well themselves. So be nice to them. They can submit your paperwork. And get you a check. (Plus, I think the world would be a better place if everyone was a little nicer to each other.)

3) Take a nap. Because you can. You will walk around during the afternoon, envious of all that are working. I drove by a construction site the other day, so jealous of the dirty guy in the hole cleaning out some gunk that needed to be cleaned out in freezing weather. He had a job. He knew he would get a paycheck at the end of the week and he knew that he could pay his bills and feed his family. (I could clean gunk!) But I don't have a gunk-cleaning job right now. They haven't called me back from my application. I've gotten one job-related call this week. Other than that my phone has been quiet. After a certain period of time, there is nothing I can do. I now have to sit and wait. And take a nap. I'm envious of the gunk guy. He's jealous of me for the ability to take a nap in the middle of the day. It's one of the perks of having nothing to do.

You can drive yourself crazy with the "I shoulds." I should be cleaning the house. I should be organizing the garage. I should be cleaning out the closets. I should be alphabetizing the Hot Wheels collection. I should be micromanaging and sorting the Legos. But you will become crazy. You have enough pressure on you to deal with your job loss and on-going depression that it is perfectly okay for you to take a nap once in a while. Go for a walk. Read a silly magazine. Spend too much time on Facebook. All without judgment from the Have A Job folks. If you are honestly applying and looking for work, it is okay to take a break here and there. Just make sure that your hour-long nap doesn't take up your whole afternoon. Or your half-hour Bejeweled session doesn't last all weekend.

Just a few more tips from the Land of Joblessness. I'll have some more as I think about them. I do have a busy day today. Lunch with the first-grader. Maybe a little vacuuming in the afternoon. Right now, I'm off to take a little siesta.

Names

I went home for the New Year's weekend to celebrate with family and friends and to attend the wedding of my cousin Tee Reynolds (who is the most beautiful young woman in the entire world). I love going to weddings, even in my broken-marriage state. Life is so beautiful so new. Love is young and full of potential, before selfishness and mental illness can spoil it. (Whoops. This is supposed to be a positive blog.) And the great thing now is that I can actually go to out-of-Nebraska weddings. When I was in radio, I couldn't leave during our ratings periods which tended to be in the Spring and Fall, also a very popular time for weddings. Tee has 7 other brothers and sisters so there have been 6 Reynolds weddings in the past 12 or so years and I have missed most of them.

I ran into my cousin's cousin Steve.(I'm not sure if I am related to him or not. If I am once, twice or thrice-removed/) The joke was that at the last Reynolds cousin's wedding, Steve introduced his wife by the wrong name. I think they had been married for a year and he introduced her to my sister as "Amy." Her name is Kim. Whoops! My sister tried to make a joke about how the people in our family always call people by the wrong names, but the year-old bride was not happy.

At another Reynolds wedding, my mother was seated at a table with her brother and his new girlfriend. My mother has a fabulous personality, a warm spirit and can remember lots of things....except the names of things. So you can imagine how great it went over when my mom kept referring to her brother's new girlfriend, "Kathy" as "Sally" his ex-wife's name.

I have had lots of names over my life. I have been Sue Bayou, Deanna Santana, Deanna D, Cyndi Layne and maybe one or two others that I can't think of. My step-mom asked me at the dinner table the night before New Year's whether or not I was going to keep my married name. Absolutely! I've never felt that my name made me who I was. What I did, what I said, how I made people feel, that is what made me who I was. Never my name. A name is just something that you use to call someone. And sometimes people don't even get that right.

My mother-in-law (ex-mother-in-law?) has a terrific method of getting your attention. She came from a family of like 32 kids, had 5 of her own, and somehow always had the neighborhood hanging out at her house. She calls everyone "Charlie." She only needs to remember one name, and, believe it or not, you know exactly when she's referring to you.

And then discussion turned to whether or not I should change the name of this blog. Chris has suggested that I change it for a while, considering I don't talk too much about football. My sister Krissy says that it makes me sound like I should have a son on the Nebraska team. The name came from the idea that I am a mom from Nebraska and I write little stories. But again, the name isn't too important to me, so I'm up for suggestions. "Off the Air?" "The Mic-less Wonder?" "When's She Gonna Snap?" Send me an e-mail or note with any ideas that you have and I will consider them.

Or I suppose I could always call it "A Day with Charlie."

Joblessness and BS

So as of December 11th, I have been unemployed (in a full-time status) for one year. And I have learned a few things. I thought I'd write a little something about what I have learned and you can take it or leave it....(keep in mind, I am still without a job). Maybe this is more of "learn what not to do" list than a "to do" list, but you can make up your own mind.

1) Shower every morning, put on some make-up, and put on your pants. And sweatpants/pajama bottoms don't count. Unemployment ranks right up there on the scale of "death of a loved one" when it comes to emotional stress, ask any therapist. As Americans, our identity is so closely linked to our occupation that when we lose our jobs, it's exactly like losing our sense of who we are. And if we aren't careful, "who we are" can easily become a depressed, lost mess. It can be so easy to stay in bed and/or become one with the couch. So by forcing yourself to be clean, forcing yourself to be presentable, and squeezing yourself into your jeans, you are at least "faking" it to yourself that you know who you are: a clean, pretty, presentable person who will find a job. Very soon.

Very important: the whole jeans vs. sweatpants thing. I have gained 30 pounds over the past year. 20 of which have been in the last 2 1/2 months. Not pretty. But it's really hard to notice the waistline expanding when the waistline of your pants expands with it. Plus a kitchen full of Nutty Bars, Swiss Rolls and Doritos calling your name all day doesn't help either.

2) Get out of the house. Take the mornings to apply for unemployment insurance and look for jobs on-line. But if  you sit in front of that computer all day, YOU WILL GO CRAZY. I will admit to being addicted to Facebook, because somewhere in my twisted mind I am sure that one day, someone will say, "Hey! You are so great at this Facebook thing, how'd you like a job doing it for $100,000/year."

Plus, I think there is something to be said for "a watched pot never boils." Get out of the house in the afternoons and someone will call you for an interview. Sit there by the phone and no one will.

Volunteer for something. Help out in your child's class. I've been helping out my daughter's kindergarten class on Wednesday afternoons and have learned a ton about how those little minds work. Plus, she loves it and I get an inside scoop on all of the 5-year old drama going on.

Run an errand. I do a lot of grocery shopping (maybe that has something to do with the weight gain....?) because I love that store. There is just something so soothing about the bright calming lights of the HyVee. All of the employees are so friendly. There's free samples at every turn. And who knew that you could get absolutely delicious fried won tons in the Chinese department of a grocery store. Pick an errand to run and get outside.

3.) Don't expect the call. I have applied for on average 5-6 jobs a week and will get 1 call back for every 20-25 jobs I apply for. And that might even be stretching it. No one calls you back any more. And I have a college degree and 20 years experience in the work force. I suppose I am under/over qualified for a lot of the positions that I am applying for, but.....I just need a job. I've read that if you really want the job, you have to call and pester the hiring manager, but I have noticed that a lot of the jobs that I am applying for are faceless. There's no one to call, no one to talk to. Plus, I never really know if I want the job to begin with. I know I want a job, but there's nothing making me fired up to call the company back so that I can work 50 hours a week selling....door hinges.

But they for sure won't call you. At least not as often as  you would like and that can bruise the old ego a bit. So don't take it personally. The job market sucks. You just gotta keep plugging away.

4) B.S. Every once in a while you may get an interview and this can be where things get tricky. I have now gotten to do several interviews, and you start to feel like a robot, answering the same questions over and over again. One of my favorites is "Why do you want to sell door hinges?" (Or obviously whatever the company does that you are trying to get the opportunity to do for them.)  And then you have to come up with some inspired and passionate-sounding answer to why you just really want a paycheck because you need to pay some bills and feed your children. "Because I like the idea of being able to open the door on a future with your company....(BS, BS, BS...)"

There is a fine line between creative BS and desperation. If you start to feel that your answers to interview questions are like those coming out of a blond beauty pageant contestant's mouth and don't feel like they are your own, you may need to practice your BS-ing. skills. Find a friend and have them interview you. There are also a lot of great mock interview questions on the internet that you can practice with over and over again. The main thing to remember when shoveling out your BS, if you're not sure of the quality, keep things short. Just a whiff, instead of a full-on aromatherapy session will do for your interview.


There's the first four tips. I'll try and share more over the next few days/weeks. But it's time for me to get my pants on and leave the house. Otherwise I could be trapped in my own B.S.

Locked Out

I am the worst mother ever. (And I'm sure all moms will relate to this story and it's accompanying feeling.)

Last night, Grant had his first basketball practice. I remembered to buy him a new ball, but I forgot to get him some new shoes. So there he was slipping and sliding all over the court in his "running around in" shoes that I bought him in September. (I've heard Michael Jordan started out slipping and sliding all over the court in bad shoes.)

So I took him to the store to buy him some new ones and find out that in 3 1/2 months his Size 3 1/2 shoes were waaaay too small. My little man now wears a 5. His feet have grown a full size and a half in just under four months! This kid has been walking around in shoes that are way too small, so now not only do I have to buy him basketball shoes, I also have to buy him "running around in" shoes. (And yes, I do mean my little man. He just started wearing deodorant. Because he needed to. While I'm sure he doesn't want me to share that with the rest of the world, I cannot believe my baby stinks like a man.)

We went to Target, and he picked out a pair of "skater" shoes (on sale only $19.99!!!) and we headed out the door. This morning we woke up and started getting ready for school. Ten minutes before the final bell rang, we were putting the shoes on, and I realized that I have no idea how to tie these shoes. When I was in school, the skaters wore Chuck Taylors and they were easy to tie. These new Millennium "skater" shoes had two sets of laces. Two sets, per shoe. (WTF!!!!-What the French Horn!?) I could not for the life of me figure out how to tie two sets of shoelaces, especially not on a time crunch (now 8 minutes before they need to be at school), so I yelled, swore, and blamed the stupid shoes. I promised them a certain return to Target (with receipt) and made Grant stuff his Size 5's back into his Size 3 1/2's just so we could get to school on time.

I headed out to Target to return the shoes (with receipt) and as I headed back to my minivan, I fished around in my purse looking for my keys and had that sinking feeling.....I locked my keys in the Honda. There they were, plain as day, sitting locked in the van. And I didn't freak out.

Remembering I have no cell phone, I again fished around in the bottom of my purse, feeling my way past lip glosses, pens, a Hot Wheels car and more receipts for some spare change and headed back into the store. I looked up and down the front of the store, by the bathrooms, by the customer service desk and I realized that it is 2010 (almost 2011) and pay phones don't really exist any more and haven't for at least two decades. Again, I didn't freak out.

Right then, my friend Pam walks through the door. Beautiful, beautiful Pam whom I worked with at the radio station. Beautiful Pam, with a cellphone. Quick hug and "How ya doin'" and she lets me borrow her phone. I call my ex-husband (Estranged spouse? Father of my children? Keeper of the extra van key?) and leave a message on his cellphone telling him that I am locked out, and I realize that I don't know if he will get the message at all. Pam and I chit chat for a while. I leave another message on Chris' phone. Pam has got to get back to work and again, I don't freak out.

I started to feel a little bit like that movie with Natalie Portman, where she's pregnant and lives at Walmart. Only, I'm not pregnant, I'm at Target, and I have a debit card. So I buy myself a sandwich and go sit on the bench outside, just in case Chris should show up with the extra key.

I'm sitting outside enjoying the wonderful day. 50 degrees and sunny on a December day in Lincoln, NE. I'm enjoying watching the people go by. A (I hate to be judgmental, but what looks like a scruffy bum) scruffy bum walks by talking on his cellphone. (I am sure by now that I am the last living person without a cellphone.) My friend Meredith drives by and I consider chasing after her, not to see if she can save me or break into my car to rescue my keys, but to tell her Happy Birthday! And then I decide to walk home.

Target is only about 25 blocks or so from my house. I am guessing 4-6 miles. I used to run 3. I could walk for 6 miles. The weather is beautiful. The only place I need to be is at school to pick up the kids at 3:30 and it is only 1 o'clock. So I leave a note for Chris under the windshield wipers and start to walk.

And that was when I realized that I have been truly, truly blessed. The crises that I have suffered over the past two years with my job loss, my marriage failure and the constant challenge of child-rearing. The pain. The depression. The day to day stress and struggle to keep my head above water. What the "bad stuff" truly prepares us for is for moments like this. I locked myself out of my car. Any other time before this, I would have agonized over this. I would have looked at the worst. I would have stressed OUT at being inconvenienced and despaired over my plight.

But today, it was an adventure. Okay, so I locked my keys in my car and don't have a cell phone, now what? Oh, God Bless! Here comes Beautiful Pam! Oh, I'm stranded at Target during lunch time, now what? Oh, God Bless! Target has a delicious turkey flatbread sandwich. I was able to soak in some sun. I could enjoy watching the Christmas shoppers. I had no place I needed to be. And even starting the six mile trudge home, it was 50 degrees outside. I had to take off my scarf because I got warm. God Bless!

We hear all of the time that God does not give us more than we can handle. Of course when we are going through the storm, all of that seems hard to understand. But it is so true. Every challenge only makes us tougher. Every obstacle only makes us smarter, more agile. The challenges in life are God's gift to us. With every challenge in life, we get stronger and He so wants us to be strong. The good thing is He knows how much we can handle. Even when we don't. And he will reward us on our journey. With good friends, a sunny day, and a delicious turkey flat bread sandwich.

Thanksgiving

The storm was coming with lots of snow and blowing snow and drifting snow, so Chris decided to take the kids up to Fargo for Thanksgiving weekend Tuesday night. My dad was worried that I would be lonely all weekend. My mom was worried that I would be alone on a holiday. I was thrilled that I could have five days to clean the house and do whatever the heck I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. It was like I was 18 again and off to college. Except this time, what I wanted to do was clean. (I know. Shocking!)

If you are a parent of a child under 10 (I am also guessing that this type of thing happens if you are a parent at all, regardless of how old your child is). you know how tough it can be to keep your house clean. You clean a room and the kids are in the rest of the house completely destroying it. And then they come into your brand spankin' new clean room and completely trash that. So you could live in a house that is moderately messy, or clean and have the place look like a lego/moonsand/littlest pet shop tornado came through.

I also have this dog issue. Two of them. I mean I have two dogs with a lot of issues. Mostly where and when and how much they relieve themselves. They are both girl dogs and both have a need to "one-up" each other. Lacey started things by....sprinkling upstairs in our tv room. This is the room in the house with the tv, a fireplace, really the coziest, comfiest place in the whole house. And she peed in there. Well, Rosie couldn't stand that, so she peed on top of it. And so on, and so on, and so on..... I've bought special stuff from the pet store that is supposed to cover up the smell so that they are not tempted to re-offend. Doesn't work. Called my friend the professional carpet guy. Cleaned the stain, but the girls are still at it. I wound up putting the baby gate back up, so they can't even get to the room. Until Wednesday night, when I was up there trying to clean and I left the gate open for 2 seconds to get the vacuum....one of them sneeked a leak.

And now today is Sunday. The kids are on their way home and I only have 1 and a half rooms clean. What did I do with all my free time......

That is what I am thankful for. I have had a pretty rough year. If you have been reading/following my blogs you know already. Job loss, divorce, shoe loss, broken toes, dogs messes (read above). But I have the most fantastic friends EVER. There is one family of friends that basically adopted me this weekend. They invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, they invited me over to a big bonfire Friday night after the Husker game, and they make me laugh non-stop. My next door neighbors, The Welcomers, also invited me over for a Thanksgiving meal (yeah, I ate like a rock star that day) and we've been borrowing/lending movies back and forth all weekend.  My friends Katie and Natalie and DeAnna all stopped over this weekend to chit chat, play with makeup, and Katie loaned me her vacuum when mine went kaput.

These are just a few of my friends and this is just one weekend. I've had a lot of friends step up and offer me a hand or a shoulder over this past year, and this is my opportunity to say Thanks. I don't say it enough, and can't show you enough, but the support I have had from my neighbors, my fellow Mary Kay ladies, my high school and college friends, my former co-workers and their family members, and my siblings is unbelievable. And it means more to me than I can say.

People can say this world is in trouble all they like. That people don't care anymore. But I have proof that they do. Just look at my friends. Happy Thanksgiving!

The F-Word

I have a love/hate relationship with swearing. I don't like hearing swear words around kids and yet I have been known to throw out a well-varied string of foul language while in unexpected pain. My mother goes to church every Sunday but can swear like a sailor while watching high school basketball. (So funny, people around her at the games, noticing how intently she would follow the action, would always ask, "Which player is your son?" And she would say, "None of them, my daughter is the cheerleader.") I actually prefer to listen to edited songs so that I don't hear bad language in my favorite toons, but I know a well-placed swear word can add extra heft when you need to get a point across.

Of course, I don't like it when kids swear. Sure it's funny when a little baby mistakenly says something else when asking for a firetruck. Who doesn't laugh when a toddler runs around with a pirate ship calling it something else? That is funny because it is not on purpose and accidents are funny.

I've always thought that the real reason people swear (and I try to teach my kids this) is because they aren't intelligent enough to come up with a different word. The English language is full of lots and lots of different words that we can use to mean the same thing. We just have to get creative.

Like Spencer. He has been swearing like a truck driver. Without swearing. Just this afternoon, after his brother snatched his gigantic bag of rainbow popcorn out of his hand (leftover birthday treat), just as he was settling in to play another marathon session of Mario, Spencer yells, "Hey! You are such an F-word idiot!!!!"

He didn't specify which f-word. He said literally "you are such an f-word idiot." The f-word could have been...funny, frugal, fantastic, frumpy, flatulent (ooh, that would be a good one), fat, fraternal....you get my point. So, by not swearing, he was using his creative talents to insult his brother in an ambiguous way.

Ambiguous insults. Could be the wave of the future. Could be the answer to world peace. Could be an awesome band name.

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I don't have a cellphone. I have a land line. I know I'm old school, but I really prefer it this way. We tried having just cellphones when we moved into this house, but I could never find the stupid thing when I needed to make a call. It was usually hidden under a couch cushion, or under the coffee table, or in the laundry basket or someplace weird. And if the ringer was off, fugeddaboutit.

We have three phones connected to our landline. One "corded, really old school, attached to the wall" phone-which will never, ever, ever in a gazillion years get lost. And two cordless phones with a really cool feature, when you press a button on the base of the chargers, the lost phones will beep until you find them. So if you need to call your sister, or follow up on a job interview or call the doctor, you just press the Search Button, and beep, beep, beep, you've found your handset!

I just wish someone could install this feature on everything else in my life that I seem to misplace. Mia had a Thanksgiving project for school that involved 3 components: We were supposed to decorate a paper turkey, print out a picture of our family, and bring in a can of food for a Thanksgiving Food Drive for their school.

The paper turkey was just a picture of a cartoon turkey that we, as a family, were supposed to decorate as a togetherness project. We just never seem to have time together. Mia started to decorate it by herself. Grant pitched in by doing some "improvements." Spencer was glued to his video game. I always seem to have to clean something or pick something up or run an errand or look for something, that I never have time to "collaborate." It needed to be handed in on Friday, which I found out about Friday morning, 5 minutes before we left the house. It wasn't on the kitchen table. It wasn't on the homework table, which has turned into a Lego table. And it wasn't in Mia's backpack. I need a Search Button!

I wanted to print out a picture of our family, but couldn't decide which picture to print out. A picture with the kids and mom. A picture with the kids and dad. Just the kids. I'm not even sure if there is a picture of us all together, but now with the separation/divorce I'm not sure what the definition is of our family anymore. I need a Search Button!

The whole school is doing a Thanksgiving Food Drive for unprivileged families in our community. The goal is to get each kid to donate a can of food for the less fortunate. At the school my children attend, 45% of the kids qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I think that we might qualify. But I'm too afraid to check. I am a smart and talented person. I have a college degree. I work hard and take great pride in what I can accomplish. I cannot qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I give to charity. I don't accept it. All I need is a job, not charity. An opportunity to show what I can do. I know that I can make some company a lot of money. I have a billion ideas (a few of them good!) floating around in my head.

A job. A chance. I need a Search Button.

Envy and Cheezits

So I went back to the well this weekend. Or the cave. Or where ever it is that you go when life's got you down and you need the love and support of those who love and support you. And I also realized that it sucks to be around happy people. Unless they are kids.

I have three adorable, yet challenging kids. My sister Krissy has the same. We've been pregnant simultaneously twice and have two sets of children that are only a month apart. If you can only imagine 6 kids and two dogs (mine at home soiling the carpets and leaving fabulous "Why'd ya go?" presents for me) running all over an enormous, happy house in Elmhurst, IL.

My sister is amazing. She's a size 2. She's gorgeous. Doesn't look a day over 26 (Actually she does, but she's the kind of woman that looks better in her 30's than she did at 21.) She has a huge house, a happy marriage, lots of money, kids who behave and dogs who don't bark at the mailman or pee on the carpet. Perfection. Oh, yeah and she is a great and giving person.

Which makes it hard to be me right now. Because I feel completely the opposite of that. I feel gray and small (and fat) and lumpy and bitter and shriveled and sad and pathetic. Next to her fabulousness, I'm just...bleh. And she'll read this and tell me, "No! You're awesome!" and give me a pep talk and offer to paint the world for me, all I'd have to do is name the color. Because that is the kind of person she is. Awesome. And I'm not. Not right now.

It's not envy exactly. I love my sister and wish her only happiness and the thought of myself being envious of her life is not true at all. I'm envious of everyone that is happy right now. People who have jobs that they can complain about. People who can buy things knowing that they will have paychecks coming in the next few months. People who can text on their cell phones. People who can decorate their houses for Halloween. People who can go to movies. People who can get their children haircuts without putting them on the charge card. People who can plan for Christmas. People who can sign up their kids for anything without wondering about the pricetag and whether or not you can afford it. People who can buy their kids a second pair of shoes. People who don't have to worry about someone they love lying to them over and over again. Envy.

So that is why I chose to focus on our children this weekend. Something about their exploits, innocent and new. I could sit and watch them envy-free. I could just enjoy their sweet spirits and their innocence. (Plus the wise sage Luke-who is my eldest nephew and who's brilliant mind who I cannot wait to see bloom, insisted that I write about them.)

Highlights of the weekend include:

1) Grant and his cousin Alec (both 9) coming upstairs from the play room with matching bloody noses. (?????) Both of them.

"What were you guys doing?" I query.

"Oh, nothing. We were just playing a game." Alec quips. Neither one was crying. No whining. No crying. Just bloody noses. And Grant looking a little green.

I could remember some crazy games of Twister growing up. Or maybe playing Barbies. Or an intense game of Monopoly with my brother. But nothing that would involve two bloody noses.

"Oh, in that case...." I handed them some tissues and sent them on their way.

2) If anyone can throw a party, it is my sister Krissy. She had the music pumping for the kids. Pepperoni pizza on these funky skull and cross bone plates. And she served sparkling apple cider in fun Halloween glasses. So festive!!!! I looked over at Mia (my 5-year old) and she looked horrified.

"What's the matter sweetie?" I ask.

"I don't want to drink....beer!" she cried. The look on her face was priceless. I plan on holding that one in my mind when she's 16 dresssed in a white tank top and miniskirt and out with some Nebraska corn-fed boys looking for the street dance. At least I know she doesn't like beer!

I assured her it was just apple cider. She took a tentative sip and loved it! (You better believe I am buying a shotgun with the first paycheck of any job I might get.)

3.) The kids were sitting at the table, playing with the new toys that Aunt Krissy had bought for them earlier in the day. When sweet little blue-eyed, blond-haired 5-year old Jack asks me, "So....when did'ya get a divorce?"

That one threw me. I've had conversations with my own kids. And conversations with grown-ups. With well thought-out and scripted reasons of why my marriage fell apart. But when a kindergartener just throws it out there in the middle of a "happy" day.....I just didn't know what to say. So I went in the pantry and cried. In the middle of single serving packets of chocolate chip cookies and Cheezits, I cried.

And then I realized, I am having a breakdown surrounded by Capri Suns and Enteneman's donuts. Small bags of fish crackers and pretzels. 5 oz bottles of water and granola bars. It was a little weird. Things in small packages. Little things to grab when you need that small something to get you to the next stage.

I have decided that even if my envy seems like it can consume me, even if the happy grown-ups are more than I can handle, I need to remember to look at my little somethings. (And the adorable little somethings around me.) Innocence. Purity. Easy nibble-ability. All in convienent self-serve packages.

Bumpers

The other day I got rear-ended. On 84th Street on my way to HyVee to buy some groceries. There were a bunch of people turning into Kohl's for some reason and the traffic was backed up and I had to stop and the guy behind me wasn't paying as much attention as I was. Bam!

I get out. He gets out. My rear bumper is already pretty messed up from the day I drove the minivan off the Honda lot. I got rear-ended that day within 5 minutes of driving off the lot. No kidding. But all she left was the imprint of the screws on her license plate. This guy left the imprint of the screws of his license plate and a little extra small dent just for good measure.

I look at the damage. The guy was young, but not too young. Maybe 5 years younger than I am. His car was some average white sedan made most likely in the late '90's. He worked hard for the little money he had and it showed. I am unemployed. I am a single mom. I have no money and very soon could go into some serious debt. A little ding on my back bumper is really no big deal. To drag police officers and lawsuits and tickets and deductibles seemed like a serious waste of negative energy. So I sent him on his way. And he was happy.

Saturday was the Husker game vs. Texas. Chris had the kids in the afternoon, so I thought it would be fun to join my friends watching the game at a bar in downtown Lincoln. If you've never captured the frenzied fan atmosphere of Game Day in Husker Nation, you are surely missing out. Thousands of people, not only descend upon Memorial Stadium to cheer the Big Red on, but thousands of ticketless souls also (myself included) love to just drink in the spirit (pun intended) and revel in the sport of fandom.

I didn't get downtown until 2 and the game started at 2:30, so officially, I couldn't even find a parking spot "downtown." It was a little more like....down, dowtown. Not in the safest neighborhood in Lincoln. But there I saw it.....a spot just big enough to fit the Honda! If I just nestled it in so carefully.....backing up just a little bit to get it in just right......easy, easy....and I just gently kissed the car in front of me. I was being as careful as I could be. There was a guy on his cellphone on the other side of the road and two scary looking ladies (using the term the kindest spirit) smoking cigarettes outside of their rundown apartment. I admit, I was bumper to bumper with the car ahead of me, but I was grateful to have found a spot at all with all the craziness of Game Day action.

And then there was the game. (Ouch) Head hanging low, I head back to my car. It was dark. I was a little scared. I had my keys in hand, just in case some psycho wanted to steal my purse with the 4 different shades of lipgloss I have inside. Most of the traffic had gone by this point. I think that most people just wanted to go home and stick their heads in cartons of ice cream. (Yes, the loss was that bad.) And then I saw the note.

"You parked into my car and damaged the back bumper. Your plate info was taken along with pictures. Expect to hear from my lawyer."

Really? Really? First of all, I remember back in the day, the entire purpose of bumpers was to allow for a little bumping and scraping from time to time. That was why they were called "bumpers." Second of all, if you are this un-used to "creative parking" at Husker games, you should take the shuttle in. And third of all, what lawyer has access to running license plate numbers? And why would you pay that lawyer the $85 an hour to fix a $25 scratch on your bumper?

But really what struck me is how irate someone had gotten over something so stupid. Would this guy have gotten so mad if I had been there? If he had gotten to see my "disheveled-unemployed-I-need-help" face? It's a car!!!! When did we get so possessive of our "things?" I didn't hurt him or any of his family members. I maybe (and just maybe) scratched the bumper of his car a little bit. Something he worked hard for, sure, but again, just a "thing." It wasn't like I plowed into him. I nestled my car up next to his. Going maybe .5 miles/hour. It's a "thing!" If I had caused any damage (or even thought I had), I would have popped a note on his car. (Remember, there were witnesses.) Again, it is just a thing.

One day, we'll all be going somewhere where posessions don't matter. What kind of cellphone we had. What kind of shoes we wore. What kind of car we drove and whether or not it had a teeny tiny scratch on the back end bumper. What is most important is how we treat other people, how we spread kindness and love and how we forgive even those whose names we don't know: people who trespass against us (and drive Honda Odyssey mini-vans.)

The Men in Blue and the Boy on the Red Bike

So they say that God only gives you what you can handle. Well, today I got tested.

I do think it is important for kids to start to develop a sense of independence. Play on their own. Make some mistakes. Scrape some knees. All without Mommy looking over their shoulder. Yesterday, I let my nine-year old ride with his friend to his friend's house after school with the promise that he would come right back. He followed directions and I was so proud. I was hoping that this could be a changing point. A sign of maturity. He did just get a new pair of glasses. Maybe the new spectacles gave him a new vision (pun intended) on how a mature, responsible 3rd grader should behave.

He asked to do the same thing today. He had homework, but since he was so responsible the day before, I told him to come right back and could get started on his homework later. He took off with his buddy at 3:45. I figured that they probably took the long way. They had been joking about going past not one, but two girls' houses on their special route. It was 4:25 and I started to get nervous. He was supposed to come right home and work on that homework. I went over to the friend's house where his dad told me that they hadn't seen Grant since 4:05 when they sent him home.

So now you know what starts racing through my mind. Of course there's the panic. The what-if. But I wouldn't let my mind go there. I just figured he must have stopped at a friends house on the way home. I took the route back looking for his tell-tale red bike in the front yard of his 3 possible stops. I went to each house and rang the doorbells. No one was home at any of the three houses. No parents, no kids, no one. I started to get even more nervous. I went to the school. There were lots of kids playing, but no Grant. I drove slowly through the neighborhood. Why couldn't I find that bike?

I'm friends with several police officers and I know the stats. The majority of child abduction cases involve a parental dispute or some other kind of family issue. And think of the times you even hear about those. I tried to think of the odds. But then I also thought about what else could be going on, could Grant be so upset about our changing family environment that he ran away? I called Chris and he told me to call the police.

They came to the house quickly. Took Grant's description and his new school picture. ( I had grumbled about having to spend $60 for school pictures. The cheapest/value package was $20 x 3 kids=expensive, but now totally worth it.) He told me what would happen if they didn't find him in an hour. They told me what would happen if they didn't find him in 4 more hours. By this time, Grant had been not seen for an hour and a half.

I asked him if this happens frequently. And he said, "All the time." Usually kids go over to play at a friend's house and never tell anyone. But this police officer said, "But we never take chances." He hopped back in his patrol car and worked on canvassing the neighborhood.

Some of my neighbors started coming home from work and had noticed the patrol car right outside of our house. And then I see him. Grant riding his bike back to our house. He had stopped at a friend's house, one of the houses that I had stopped by to see if he was there. There had been no bike in the driveway. No one had answered my knock at the door. Somehow he had been squirreled away inside playing video games with two of his buddies.

And I started to think about all of the things we tell our kids to keep them safe. Don't answer the door, if you don't know who is there. These boys had an older brother home, but he must not have seen or recognized me at the front door. Their bikes were all in the garage. (There has been a rash of bike burglaries in our neighborhood. Read my blog post Training Wheels.) They were trying to be safe and at the same time, scared me to death.

Grant is grounded. Big time. And I keep letting him know that I am not angry with him. I was just scared. And he needs to really, really learn a lesson. If you want respect, you have to give it. Independence isn't free, it is earned. Integrity. Trust. Responsibility. All traits that even we as adults struggle with every day. But really, it all boils down to this: Do what you say you are going to do. Be where you say you are going to be. And everything will be all right. (And no one will have to call the police. God bless them.)