I have a friend who, a few weeks before her birthday, requests a chocolate cake. This may sound like a big deal to those of you who don't bake, but her taste in cake and frosting is simple: she wants nothing more than a box cake topped with a tub of frosting. I, being the baker in the group, and a chocoholic myself, always volunteer to make her cake. I do it out of love for her, but it also guarantees I get a piece of cake* AND, most importantly, that I get to see her near her birthday.
I understand my friend's desire for chocolate because I could eat my weight in the stuff then go back for more. Not only do I enjoy eating all versions of the cocoa bean, I also crave the divine scent. I'm so crazy about it that I once paid a fortune to have a "chocolate facial"**/***. Sadly, the whole wonderful event almost ended in me tackling the esthetician and pouring the contents of her bowl down my gullet just before the police arrived to arrest me****. Thankfully, I found some restraint before this whole, ugly scenario played out.
Armed with this information, you'll understand that I can empathize with an acquaintance who had a similar chocolate addiction. Her problem was that she couldn't keep any of her FIVE***** children out of her chocolate.
You see, she was a single Mom whose job required her to work shifts that caused her to arrive home well after her children had been dropped off by the bus. This left them, like bloodhounds at a fox hunt, to single-handedly dismantle the house to find whatever chocolate goodies Mom had purchased. And, dismantle they did!
You will then understand the desperation this woman felt. Her personal stash of M&M's was being devoured before she could even see if they really would melt in her hand. This was a tragedy of Greek proportions. So, she took matters into her own hands. Momma-style.
She gathered her progeny together in the kitchen and lined them up in front of her. Without saying a word, she carefully clipped open a new two pound-bag of the crunchy, melty discs and took one out. Then, she stuck it up her nose.
Yes, chocolate lovers. She desecrated the chocolate by sticking it up her sniffer.
What happened next was sheer Mom genius, deserving of a Noble prize and a standing ovation: she held the top of the bag wide open, aimed her nose at it, and SHOT THE M&M straight back into the bag. Then, she held the bag shut and SHOOK IT.
Mustering restraint only Mothers can conjure up when they are about to go homicidal, she explained that she didn't want ANYBODY, ever again, touching her M&M's. Then she walked away. Victorious.
Oh, yes, readers, the story really should end there. But it doesn't.
Do you know what those hellions did? They put their bony heads together and, working every collective brain cell she had birthed, figured out what COLOR that M&M was! And, then, the very next day, they found that bag and ate every M&M that couldn't have been shot out of their Mother's nose*******.
Oh, there just isn't a big enough paddle in this world for that kind of behavior.
I guess the consolation prize is that there are lessons to be learned from this story. Several take-aways, maybe:
1. if you ever become a contestant on a game show where you have to eat something totally random and gross, all you need do is mentally return to the snotty M&M's incident and you'll have the ammunition to beat the pants off your opponents.
2. five heads are better than one because someone is always paying attention to the details so you can figure out how to pull one over on your Mom.
3. and, most importantly, there is no such thing as bad chocolate. Even if it has been exposed to boogers.
Me? I've never quite looked at M&M's the same. Which explains why people look at me like I'm insane when I laugh absurdly upon opening a bag of them.
Though, I've never stopped to explain the laughing to the puzzled onlookers. I'm too busy inhaling the ambrosial scent and getting all manic on the little morsels of wonderfulness.
Chocolate, oh, chocolate. How I love thee!
*I NEVER miss an opportunity to gain weight!
**Under no circumstances should you have a chocolate facial if you are on a diet, between meals, or premenstrual. It is a recipe for disaster.
***Small nations have Gross Domestic Products equal to or lesser than the price of this facial. Oh, to have TRUE disposable income again....
****I'm sure the chemicals in the concoction would have killed me well before my attorney could have arrived (see Note below).
Note: I don't actually have an attorney. It just sounded good.
******Those of you who pity me for having three, take note. I'm not the most frazzled Mom in the universe.
*******Truly, there is a statistics problem here: "What is the probability, IF your Mother put a red M&M up her nose, and you randomly drew a candy out of the bag, that you would end up with an M&M that you couldn't eat?"
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Creative Cussing
When you grow up in a house where one-half of the lineage is German, there is going to be cussing. It's really almost a law.
Actually, it's probably closer to simple math: German + pulse = cursing.
Somewhere down the line, after arrival at Ellis Island, the Germans in my family settled in Upstate New York. Not long after that*, they installed a keg in the barn. I am not lying. Attached to a fridge, to keep that sucker cold 24/7.
Now, when you do the math here, you get: German + keg + conscious = extra cussing.
Then, along comes another generation of Germans. They marry a generation of much tamer Europeans, mostly of English heritage. The English are well-known for telling great stories after tanking up on a good ale.
That makes: German x bier + English x ale = more socially acceptable cussing.
Now I've laid the ground work for my childhood.
By the time I hit the scene, the heavy usage of bier/ale was down to a few well-executed beverages after work time. Cheese/crackers as a chaser.
This was, after all, the 70's, the decade of absolute crazy drug use, polyester pant suits, drinking, key parties**/***, and disco dancing****. Frankly, the 70's were UGLY. But the language, at least around our house, was pretty clean thanks to the new kids on the block. Yup, me and my little brother.
Not to brag, but there are few Scrabble players who can sit knee-to-knee with my Dad. And, in case you are thinking my transition from the last sentence is completely missing, let me guide you--to play Scrabble, you have to have an extensive vocabulary. In order to be really good at cussing, without REALLY cussing, you have to EXECUTE said vocabulary with ninja-like mastery.
So: Scrabble master + walking dictionary = creative cussing (the kind that can be done in front of kids.) Hence, the pretty clean language around our house.*****
What does creative cussing sound like? It's the "tapestry of obscenity" Ralphie's Dad weaves in "A Christmas Story". Only louder.
Take a typical Saturday repair. Culprit: faucet in the bathroom with annoying leak. Tools ready? Check. Kids looking on? Check. Pliers in hand, the painstaking dismantling of the faucet handle begins. Surgeons around the world only dream of performing the precision movements being exacted on this spigot. The air is rife with the excitement of avoiding the cost of a plumber.
The creativity begins innocently enough with "son of a biscuit eater" after the pliers slip and cut a knuckle. One band-aid and ten minutes later, once again the plumbing train pulls out of the station. All aboard!
When the handle proves too hard to unscrew, we ratchet up to "fudgemiesters"******. I'm too fixated on where I can find the fudge to realize he's practically dropped the "F" bomb.
We hit full-tilt with "frickinfrackinbabydiapers" after the entire contraption breaks in his hands and water starts spewing all over the bathroom. By the time he's at the third syllable and water has hit the mirror, bro and I have hit the door and run three blocks away. We only turn to look back when we are both winded. And we don't return until we see the plumber's truck pull up.
Once a professional is in the bathroom, we feel safe to return. Priceless tidbits learned from the plumber that day:
1. how to literally envision "butt crack"
2. how to properly use the phrase "son of a b^tch"*******
3. how to effectively use a credit card.
Takeaway: German + tools + creative cussing = expensive plumber with poor judgment of own hiney size and horrid verbiage use around kids.
Now, if you ever hear my kids say something odd like "bearhugalug" and you are wondering "What was THAT?", you'll know.
It's either homage to their German ancestors or the beginning of a beautiful relationship with wacky word problems.
I'll let you be the judge of that.
*I'm taking some time liberties here--I doubt they had a fridge until a few years after landing here. The keg? Bet that was there by noon on day one.
**Watch the movie "The Ice Storm" if you are confused. Better yet, skip the movie and Goggle the term. Buyer beware: you may not want to know.
***Disclaimer, lest I be yelled at by the parentage: to the best of my knowledge, this NEVER happened in our house or any house my parents frequented. It's just an ugly blotch on the decade. Disclaimer II: I only know what this is because I ante-upped money to see the critically-acclaimed "The Ice Storm". DEPRESSING.
****Which only looked good because of all the things that came before it in the sentence. I include the polyester pant suit in that statement. Really, what else WOULD you do The Hustle in?
*****Unless one of my German uncles was visiting. Then all bets were OFF.
******Note the nod to old German heritage. Nice.
*******As in "Well, this s.o.b. is really bent, ain't she?"
Actually, it's probably closer to simple math: German + pulse = cursing.
Somewhere down the line, after arrival at Ellis Island, the Germans in my family settled in Upstate New York. Not long after that*, they installed a keg in the barn. I am not lying. Attached to a fridge, to keep that sucker cold 24/7.
Now, when you do the math here, you get: German + keg + conscious = extra cussing.
Then, along comes another generation of Germans. They marry a generation of much tamer Europeans, mostly of English heritage. The English are well-known for telling great stories after tanking up on a good ale.
That makes: German x bier + English x ale = more socially acceptable cussing.
Now I've laid the ground work for my childhood.
By the time I hit the scene, the heavy usage of bier/ale was down to a few well-executed beverages after work time. Cheese/crackers as a chaser.
This was, after all, the 70's, the decade of absolute crazy drug use, polyester pant suits, drinking, key parties**/***, and disco dancing****. Frankly, the 70's were UGLY. But the language, at least around our house, was pretty clean thanks to the new kids on the block. Yup, me and my little brother.
Not to brag, but there are few Scrabble players who can sit knee-to-knee with my Dad. And, in case you are thinking my transition from the last sentence is completely missing, let me guide you--to play Scrabble, you have to have an extensive vocabulary. In order to be really good at cussing, without REALLY cussing, you have to EXECUTE said vocabulary with ninja-like mastery.
So: Scrabble master + walking dictionary = creative cussing (the kind that can be done in front of kids.) Hence, the pretty clean language around our house.*****
What does creative cussing sound like? It's the "tapestry of obscenity" Ralphie's Dad weaves in "A Christmas Story". Only louder.
Take a typical Saturday repair. Culprit: faucet in the bathroom with annoying leak. Tools ready? Check. Kids looking on? Check. Pliers in hand, the painstaking dismantling of the faucet handle begins. Surgeons around the world only dream of performing the precision movements being exacted on this spigot. The air is rife with the excitement of avoiding the cost of a plumber.
The creativity begins innocently enough with "son of a biscuit eater" after the pliers slip and cut a knuckle. One band-aid and ten minutes later, once again the plumbing train pulls out of the station. All aboard!
When the handle proves too hard to unscrew, we ratchet up to "fudgemiesters"******. I'm too fixated on where I can find the fudge to realize he's practically dropped the "F" bomb.
We hit full-tilt with "frickinfrackinbabydiapers" after the entire contraption breaks in his hands and water starts spewing all over the bathroom. By the time he's at the third syllable and water has hit the mirror, bro and I have hit the door and run three blocks away. We only turn to look back when we are both winded. And we don't return until we see the plumber's truck pull up.
Once a professional is in the bathroom, we feel safe to return. Priceless tidbits learned from the plumber that day:
1. how to literally envision "butt crack"
2. how to properly use the phrase "son of a b^tch"*******
3. how to effectively use a credit card.
Takeaway: German + tools + creative cussing = expensive plumber with poor judgment of own hiney size and horrid verbiage use around kids.
Now, if you ever hear my kids say something odd like "bearhugalug" and you are wondering "What was THAT?", you'll know.
It's either homage to their German ancestors or the beginning of a beautiful relationship with wacky word problems.
I'll let you be the judge of that.
*I'm taking some time liberties here--I doubt they had a fridge until a few years after landing here. The keg? Bet that was there by noon on day one.
**Watch the movie "The Ice Storm" if you are confused. Better yet, skip the movie and Goggle the term. Buyer beware: you may not want to know.
***Disclaimer, lest I be yelled at by the parentage: to the best of my knowledge, this NEVER happened in our house or any house my parents frequented. It's just an ugly blotch on the decade. Disclaimer II: I only know what this is because I ante-upped money to see the critically-acclaimed "The Ice Storm". DEPRESSING.
****Which only looked good because of all the things that came before it in the sentence. I include the polyester pant suit in that statement. Really, what else WOULD you do The Hustle in?
*****Unless one of my German uncles was visiting. Then all bets were OFF.
******Note the nod to old German heritage. Nice.
*******As in "Well, this s.o.b. is really bent, ain't she?"
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Saying goodbye....
As I start today's post, I'm strangely reminded of a Lynn Anderson country song titled "I Never Promised you a Rose Garden".
Mostly my posts are full of the funny events that make life bearable, but today is different. Today is the day my "birth family" is putting my "birth Mom" in hospice care.
There are so many sentiments I can't even sort out regarding this event. I think many of my emotions can be traced back to not knowing how to respond to being adopted. Some are about my "place" in the family. Then there are the deep feelings about someone I care for going home to God. Mostly, I feel sorry I've run out of time. Regardless of the emotion, they are all very powerful and deeply felt.
My feelings, over the years, have led me to make SO many mistakes in life. One of the mistakes I managed to correct, mid course, was deciding that I COULD be emotionally vulnerable to this new family who wanted to meet me after so many years. It didn't start that way--at first I just wanted medical information. Then it was just a conversation. Then it was accepting cards on my birthday. It was the proverbial "peeling of the onion", layer-by-layer, conversation by conversation, between just a daughter and her birth Mom.
Then, someone suggested I was complicating my life beyond what was necessary. In retrospect, I see this person was scared of how this might impact their life. My advice on this? Be very careful when people say they "have your best interest in mind." Sometimes they are speaking what is in THEIR best interest, along with words of fear.
One enormously profound thing my birth Mom said to me was "Much fear comes from the Devil. Fear is not of Christ." In this situation, she was very right. Fear of being hurt because you decide to invest yourself in a healthy, respectful relationship is not from Christ. I can see so clearly now that, as humans, we hurt each other, but that doesn't mean we don't TRY having relationships with others.
So, based on advice born out of fear, I cut communication for about 3.5 years. Then the cancer came back to her life and she made a very hard phone call, not knowing if she was going to be rejected again. When I received the call, I just knew this was the beginning of the end. I hardly hesitated to see what I could do to make her time left here happy and to right the wrong, to fix the mistake.
When we met on Valentine's Day this year, it was strangely comfortable. I FIT in this family, even though I had only met them that day. We played games (games I grew up on with my adopted family), broke bread together-- twice (and had some of the best fish I'd ever enjoyed, thanks to my half-brother-in-law), lingered over pictures of me and Mike growing up, engaged in political and religious conversations that involved a variety of opinions (all with no ugly disagreement or arguing--I felt like my mouth was hung so far open I was collecting flies--this was so odd to me!), and thoroughly enjoyed teasing each other and soaking in the love that was so thick in the room. It was, in a phrase, a perfect day.
I'll always remember my birth Mom standing on the porch as we got into the rental car, late that night. She didn't take her eyes off me, even after the door was shut and we started down the road. I think she was taking mental photographs to add to the few moments she knew me when I was only hours old.
When I think of those few minutes I'm reminded of a line from Psalm 121, her favorite verses in the Bible: "...he who watches over you will not slumber..." In fact, in this Psalm alone, the writer refers to God watching over us five times, in a short eight verses. I know that, as I write this and she struggles to get closer to her Heavenly home, God is wooing her, calling her name, watching over her Earthly life and looking forward to welcoming her to her reserved place in Heaven. Just as he is watching over those of us who will be left to grieve her passing.
This is one time I'd really like a do-over. But, I'll have to live with my fear-based blunder, which meant that we spent less time together here on Earth.
I hope she'll understand, when I see her again. I'm pretty sure she will. Because she's that kind of person: forgiving, generous, loving, and kind.
How blessed I've been to know that my life started in the womb of such a wonderful woman. How glad I am to have been a part of her life, even if just for a brief moment.
Mostly my posts are full of the funny events that make life bearable, but today is different. Today is the day my "birth family" is putting my "birth Mom" in hospice care.
There are so many sentiments I can't even sort out regarding this event. I think many of my emotions can be traced back to not knowing how to respond to being adopted. Some are about my "place" in the family. Then there are the deep feelings about someone I care for going home to God. Mostly, I feel sorry I've run out of time. Regardless of the emotion, they are all very powerful and deeply felt.
My feelings, over the years, have led me to make SO many mistakes in life. One of the mistakes I managed to correct, mid course, was deciding that I COULD be emotionally vulnerable to this new family who wanted to meet me after so many years. It didn't start that way--at first I just wanted medical information. Then it was just a conversation. Then it was accepting cards on my birthday. It was the proverbial "peeling of the onion", layer-by-layer, conversation by conversation, between just a daughter and her birth Mom.
Then, someone suggested I was complicating my life beyond what was necessary. In retrospect, I see this person was scared of how this might impact their life. My advice on this? Be very careful when people say they "have your best interest in mind." Sometimes they are speaking what is in THEIR best interest, along with words of fear.
One enormously profound thing my birth Mom said to me was "Much fear comes from the Devil. Fear is not of Christ." In this situation, she was very right. Fear of being hurt because you decide to invest yourself in a healthy, respectful relationship is not from Christ. I can see so clearly now that, as humans, we hurt each other, but that doesn't mean we don't TRY having relationships with others.
So, based on advice born out of fear, I cut communication for about 3.5 years. Then the cancer came back to her life and she made a very hard phone call, not knowing if she was going to be rejected again. When I received the call, I just knew this was the beginning of the end. I hardly hesitated to see what I could do to make her time left here happy and to right the wrong, to fix the mistake.
When we met on Valentine's Day this year, it was strangely comfortable. I FIT in this family, even though I had only met them that day. We played games (games I grew up on with my adopted family), broke bread together-- twice (and had some of the best fish I'd ever enjoyed, thanks to my half-brother-in-law), lingered over pictures of me and Mike growing up, engaged in political and religious conversations that involved a variety of opinions (all with no ugly disagreement or arguing--I felt like my mouth was hung so far open I was collecting flies--this was so odd to me!), and thoroughly enjoyed teasing each other and soaking in the love that was so thick in the room. It was, in a phrase, a perfect day.
I'll always remember my birth Mom standing on the porch as we got into the rental car, late that night. She didn't take her eyes off me, even after the door was shut and we started down the road. I think she was taking mental photographs to add to the few moments she knew me when I was only hours old.
When I think of those few minutes I'm reminded of a line from Psalm 121, her favorite verses in the Bible: "...he who watches over you will not slumber..." In fact, in this Psalm alone, the writer refers to God watching over us five times, in a short eight verses. I know that, as I write this and she struggles to get closer to her Heavenly home, God is wooing her, calling her name, watching over her Earthly life and looking forward to welcoming her to her reserved place in Heaven. Just as he is watching over those of us who will be left to grieve her passing.
This is one time I'd really like a do-over. But, I'll have to live with my fear-based blunder, which meant that we spent less time together here on Earth.
I hope she'll understand, when I see her again. I'm pretty sure she will. Because she's that kind of person: forgiving, generous, loving, and kind.
How blessed I've been to know that my life started in the womb of such a wonderful woman. How glad I am to have been a part of her life, even if just for a brief moment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)