"Imagination At Work"

My clothes dryer began misbehaving on Sunday. The heating element failed, and it took 8 hours to properly dry a load of clothes. Super Hubs got out his “Fix-It Yourself Manual” and wondered and pondered and flipped pages. Then he cleaned out the vent and declared the dryer "cured." The dryer obediently heated up for about 30 minutes, then went back to it’s former misbehaving status. So Super Hubs called and made an appointment for a GE Service Person to come and take a look.

Requesting and receving an audience with a GE Service Person is like trying to meet with The Duke of Gloucester: The appointments are golden. And, in the GE Royal Pecking Order, I, The Consumer, sit at the very bottom of the feeding pond. I need to take whatever appointment I can get and be grateful. So the service call was to be today, any time between 8am and 5pm. The company would not be any more specific than that, because they assumed I had nothing better to do than stay at my house and wait. (I actually didn’t have anything better to do. The only thing on my agenda was to empty the dishwasher, which I could very well do while waiting. But that’s hardly the point.)

While I was waiting, I plopped a load of wet clothes into the dryer, and noticed, with confusion, that the dryer was heating properly again. I texted Super Hubs to ask if I should cancel the service call. But he reminded me that the dryer was temperamental at best, with the heating element working only intermittently. So I waited some more, and then I got an automated message that the GE Service Person was about to grace my home with his presence, and to please lock up my dog promptly (which I deferred to do, just in case the GE Service Person had a second job as a Serial Killer.)

The GE Service Person showed up at noon in large, muddy work boots, glanced at my dryer, and told me curtly that if the dryer was currently working, there was nothng to be fixed. He did an about-face, and marched out the door, leaving, in his wake, a trail of dirty footprints on my white carpet.

My appliances consistently conspire to make me look like an idiot. I swear they have meetings about this when I go to sleep at night. So I am guessing that tomorrow my dryer’s heat will again fail. Then I’ll have to call the GE Company and schedule another appointment, and go through this same little ritual again. (Big sigh.) It’s going to be a long week.

Sneezles and Wheazles

Butterfly’s been living at her college for over a month now, and I miss her like crazy. It helps that we communicate almost every day, through facebook or skype or text messaging. And it encourages me to I know she has made some good friends and is really happy. She’s dating a wonderful guy, loves her classes, and is active in Lacrosse. It’s all good.

However, this week she was sick for the first time. I fielded a bunch of phone calls from her yesterday. She was feverish and achy, and wanting to come home. It took everything in me not to jump into the car and make the 5 hour drive to her campus with a pot of homemade chicken soup in the cooler. I wanted to plump up her pillows, make her some tea, and tuck her into bed.

Today, on the recommendation of her Lacrosse coach, Butterfly went to an ER with a fellow athlete who has also been sick. They had chest xrays and blood work, and the diagnosis came back as “viral.” They were ordered to bedrest for the weekend. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she was being cared for. And she has some good people in her life who will look out for her.

Several friends have told me, difficult as it is, this is an important adult step for my daughter. She had to navigate the medical field, figure out the paperwork, and, expecially, know she can be ill and survive without her mommy caring for her. But it is excrutiating for me. When my child is sick, she becomes 3 years old again in my mind. She probably always will.

Amino Acids And Omega-3

I went to the Vitamin Store this week, with a list of products that my friend advised me to take. I was a bit wary. Vitamin stores tend to intimidate me, for the same reason that Health Food Stores do. First of all, they make me feel guilty for not taking all the brews and concoctions they claim can protect me from disease and increase my lifespan. So when I pass labeled bottles with those promises, I begin obsessing that I’m going to walk back to my car to find the Grim Reaper sitting in the driver’s seat.

I also get befuddled by all the products they offer, most of which have names I’ve never heard of. Like Horny Goat Weed. There was a whole shelf full of that. For serious. I have no idea of the who, what or when, or if you smoke it. All I know is that it was a for-really-real product which my macbook has refused to let me google because of the filter I have on it because of my teenagers. So I’m still perplexed.

I finally found the products my friend recommended. They are supposed to make me stronger, smarter, restore my balance, cure insomnia, soothe anxiety, and help me to achieve my two key goals and possibly make a few more. I surely hope so. They cost me an arm and a leg. So, we’ll see.

Hello, Bottle Of Dreams And Aspirations!

I am Goal-less. Or, to be Politically-Correct, “Goal-challenged.” Or “Goldenly Un-Goal-Oriented,” if you are the Glass Half-Full Sort. I actually didn’t realize this until the other morning when we had a friend over for breakfast. She had come to pick Super Hubs’ brain about getting her Graduate Degree. My friend is almost twenty years younger than I, and has her whole sunny life ahead of her, filled with dreams, ambition, and wrinkle-free skin so far. It’s just all Happiness in her corner.

As I was hearing her process her next five years, and her next decade, I came to the grim conclusion that I have absolutely no aspirations. None. Is that bad? I have goals and aspirations for my children, and goals and aspirations for my husband, and I even came up with one for my cat: ”Hit the litter box when you pee, buddy. Or I’m cutting back on the catnip.”

To be fair, however, I do have two short-term goals. My Daily Goal is to make it to dinner without needing a nap. And my PMSing Goal is to get through the week without slapping a stranger. Currently I feel those are all that I need.

I have a friend who is my personal Health-Food Pharmacologist. She’s the smartest Health-Food person I know. And she is prescribing some frog oil and cat’s patella and INS or some such for me. And I’m hoping they’ll help me with my two current goals, and, if I’m lucky, will clear out the cobwebs in my brain and help me to reach a little farther. Maybe dream into my One-Year Future Self. Or my Five-Year Future Self. Who knows? I’ll keep you posted.

A Brief Story

We had a family over for dinner whom we really like and want to get to know better. Their son is Little Squirt’s homie, and our lives overlap through school and church. It was a beautiful, balmy September evening, and we adults enjoyed sitting on our back deck while our sons and their tiny daughter ran around playing Super Heroes.

Later that night, after our friends had gone home, we got Little Squirt ready for bed. “That’s my friend’s underwear. He left it here." He pointed to crumpled Power Rangers briefs in a corner. Huh??? I just tried to roll with it. “What’s up with your homie’s undies?” But trying to get a straight answer out of Little Squirt is like trying to make sense out of Trigonometry. You simply cannot.

So I sent a text to the parents, telling them I had found their son’s underwear, in case they noticed it was missing from his body and were concerned, and I didn’t know the story, but I’d wash the briefs and return them, and all was well and it was no problem because people frequently leave their underwear at my home. No biggie. I wanted to be super casual and breezy about it all.

I saw the parents the next day at church, and we had a conversation about the skivvies. And they, too, found History Fact-Checking a bit nonsensical with their First Grader, because First Graders tell you nothing that makes any logical sense. (Unless they are First Grade Girls, and then they tell you everything in complete detail 24 hours a day until you want to plug up your ears and yell, “Please stop talking!!” I know this because I proudly parent both genders.)

But, when we put our collective four adult heads together to puzzle out why their son’s drawers were found in Little Squirt’s bedroom, we came to this conclusion: They had been playing Super Heroes. And Little Squirt had loaned his friend a Spiderman suit. And Spiderman was never seen with panty lines.

I'll Take My Coffee With Cream And Boundaries

Apparently I have an ability to move people. And by “move” I mean “get them to go.”

Super Hubs and I went to breakfast this morning at our favorite Greek greasy spoon. It’s a little diner with all kinds of artery-revolting deliciousness. They let us seat ourselves, charge us next to nothing, and the food is served within 3 minutes. What could be better? I truly believe everyone needs a favorite little hole-in-the-wall. They are one of life’s pure pleasures.

We had just sat down and were given our menus when I saw an old friend walk in. She was a fellow comrade from my homeschool days, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Over the years, we’d gone to a conference or two together, shared curriculum, and occasionally socialized. I loved that she was a Free-Spirited Hippie. If she’d been a generation older, I’m certain she would have been Barefooted, Beaded and Beflowered.

She walked into the diner alone, and sat down at the booth behind us. I happily greeted her, and asked if she wanted to join our table. She shook her head. She was less than friendly, and dismissed me by reading her newpaper. In retrospect, I should have taken her standoffish attitude as a hint that she wanted to be alone. But that’s not who I am. I see “alone” and I want to fix “lonely.” I see pain and I want to make it painless. I am a nurturer by nature, often times to an unhealthy degree. I saw something in her face that said she wasn’t in a good place. So I asked, “Are you doing okay?” With that simple question, she got up from the table, burst into tears and ran out of the diner door.

The other diner patrons followed her with their eyes, then looked back at me as if I was Queen of the Drama Creating. I was stunned. My internal voice mocked me: “Way to go, Kel!” Super Hubs shook his head at me, and ordered an omelette.

I don‘t know what was wrong with my old friend, and I probably never will. I am sad for her, and wish her well. If I still had her phone number, I would give her a call. I feel just awful. It’s a talent of mine. (Big sigh.)

Cloudy With A Chance Of Gnocchi

I’ve had some Fairly Odd Food Encounters lately.

A friend and I went on a Spontaneous Adventure over the weekend. After seeing a movie and browsing through a flea market, we decided to pick up some food to cook back at my house. At the mention of the word, “Gnocchi,” an elderly lady at the store approached us and proceeded to grill my friend. She was a self-appointed Gnocchi Nazi with very strong opinions on the topic. She interrogated us on our cooking technique, types of potatoes and frequencies with which we cooked the pasta.Then she waved her dirty fingernails at us, gave a merry cackle and diappeared around the bend. It was all so very odd, and gave me Fairy Tale Wicked Witch chills.

Then today, I had a Confused Checkout Clerk, who kept trying to give me things I didn’t pay for. I watched her bag up some red and yellow peppers, and she was puzzled when I told her they weren’t mine. Then, as I loaded my groceries into my car, I found a bag in my cart with a vinyl striped shower curtain and a box of raisins. Again, not mine. So very weird.

I’m on a run with these Fairly Odd Food Encounters. (And one shower curtain.) I’ll let you know what happens next.

Shin Guards And Clover

Are you familiar with those times when it seems as if one more Thing Gone Wrong will throw you over the edge? The final Thing Gone Wrong for me yesterday was shin guards. They were missing from Little Squirt’s legs. We were already late for soccer practice, and he was supposed to have been ready. I figured it would take Two Boy Brains to get Little Squirt prepared for soccer practice while I finished cleaning up, which is why I asked Rock Star to partner with him. Their mission, I thought, was simple: “Get Little Squirt Soccer-Ready.” But even with Two Boy Brains burning, Little Squirt wasn’t ready for soccer practice. Collectively, the brothers had forgotten about shin guards.

It was the last straw on the back of a very fragile camel. I broke. I had had a week of being pushed to the limit emotionally and physically. But this camel still needed to get her son to soccer practice. So off we went, and then I sat on the grass, feeling completely deflated, and watched him practice drills.

My heart felt unbearably heavy. Emotions had surfaced for me earlier in the day, and I was feeling wounded and confused in some areas and relationships in my life. I was questioning things that I had thought were solid. And lots of losses loomed before me like the headlights of an inbound train. I was drained. Spent. Empty.

And then a little girl approached me. She was the sister of a soccer player, and she was only about three years old. She asked me if she could sit on my lap. I said Yes. She snuggled down, and we talked about Disney Princesses. And then she picked a handful of flowers and gave them to me.

Later that evening, as I placed the bouquet of clover into a cup of water, I recognized that Love had shown up in the form of a little girl and warmed my heart, just when my heart needed warming. Thanks, God.

A Day Of Triple Sighs

Yesterday was the first time in 18 years of Motherhood that I had all of my children in school all day at once! I’d been anticipating this day for months, dare I say years?? What would I do with all this free time? Seven whole hours to share with just Me By Myself! The pages of the day were beautifully blank, and just waiting for me to fill with bounty! What amazing things I could accomplish!

I thought, perhaps, I could clean and reorganize my entire house. Then I’d invite Martha Stewart over to gawk and envy, and perhaps take notes and pictures. Or maybe, without any Kid Interruptions, I could write half that book I'd been imagining for years. I’d madly type on my laptop as quickly as ideas flowed through my brain. With seven whole hours of straight writing, I could finish the novel by Tuesday, and would be well on my way to finding a publisher by Wednesday. Or possibly I’d get a head-start on my cooking; freezing meals for an entire month. Or I’d do all my Christmas shopping in one stop, long before the holiday rush. Who knew?? An entire day loomed before me, and I did not think my goals too lofty. But, frustratingly, all did not go as I’d hoped.

By 9am a school nurse called to tell me that my teenage son was feeling poorly with an upset stomach. So I picked him up and settled him into bed. He napped for one hour, felt better, and then proceeded to follow me around the house for the rest of the day, asking what he could eat. (First big sigh.)

Then my eldest child called from her out-of-state college to announce that she was about to “declare her major” to the Administration. And I took issues with her particular major choice, finding it (for lack of a better word) ludicrious. So I begged her, deplored her to wait and just take her time to consider all possibilities. Then she got angry and reminded me that it was her life and her dream and her future. And I agreed with all that, but reminded her of the issue of practicality. It is wise to consider the job market, and I learned this the hard way. When I was her age, my dream was to become a Princess, and I really wanted to major in Princess-ology in college. But although it was the prosperous Eighties, there were few job openings in the area of Royalty, oddly enough. So I wisely switched my major to nursing, and, by graduation, had landed an excellent job at a prestigious hospital. So I told this all to my daughter, and she promptly hung up the phone on me. (Second big sigh.)

And then my youngest came home from school copping an attitude. He, King of the Firsrt Grade Lunch Table, with his school choices of mini-corn dogs or chicken wrap, turned up his nose at the snack options I offered him. Then he was too cool to tell me all about his day. Or snuggle on my lap. Or listen to me read “Ginger Pye.” (Third big sigh.)

So, later that evening, when I got a text from some friends inviting me to join them for dinner at Portillos, I heard the Siren Calls of the Italian beef and cheese fries. I left Super Hubs with a pot of sloppy joes, and headed out for some Shameless Emotional Gorge-Festing over Girl Talk. It was critical.