Hamster in My Head

I am living with a hamster in my head...or at least that's how it feels. And he's not very happy or well behaved. This one has a way of running around the Habitrail of my mind at three in the morning, throwing around bits of mental cedar shavings and hamster scat. It's no wonder I wake up in a cold sweat, unable to sleep.

Once I am awake, my hamster gets really busy. Running on his squeaky little wheel, my thoughts racing along with him. The subjects wobble from bills, to kids with shaky behavior, to work, to what I'm going to do about my mom and her dementia. I lie there, my thoughts racing the hamster, no finish line in sight, as the hours tick toward morning.

Ever been bitten by a hamster? It hurts! Well, if you've ever tried to sort out the things that bite you at 3 a.m., it's pretty much the same thing...they bite back and don't want to be dragged out of their cage, either. But, I continue to try to tame them. I really don't want that wild hamster running around in there forever. It makes my mental cage too hard too clean.

Getting rid of this thing won't be easy. I don't think the pound will take a mental hamster. And I can't give it away as a pet. I am going to have to face him head on and tell him to get out, and take all his, ok my, baggage with him. But if I keep it up, I think he (and I) will get the hint. And then we'll both be free of the cage of my mind, and all the mess that's in there.

My Dog Is A Pretty Good Husband...

Being the owner of a chihuahua, I am basically involved in a serious relationship. Considering dog years, he's only a little older than me, in excellent health, and very good looking. He has endless energy (well, he gets a lot of sleep I discovered, after watching what he actually does all day) and loves to take walks with me. So really, that makes for a pretty good companion.

He is also very protective. If he were a big guy, he'd be dangerous, since he won't allow anyone to approach me, or he'll attack. Fortunately only a few ankles, knees, and fingers have been damaged so far. But even little chihuahua teeth hurt when they clamp down on skin and bone. I can't help feeling warmed by his actions though, knowing that he is trying to come between me and what he perceives as danger, not repairmen and dinner guests. I certainly never had a protector like that from my real (ex-)husband!

When it's bedtime, he runs up the stairs and although I have to lift him into bed, he cuddles next to me all night long. If I go to bed without him, he scratches at the door and cries til I get up and let him in. I'm sure some husbands out there act like that too, but none I ever had. He never snores, stays out all night, or complains about my stealing the covers.

It's nice to have someone who never argues about what to watch on TV, complains about what I've made for dinner, or what I'm wearing or not wearing out to a party. He's always glad to see me when I get home, never grouchy when he wakes up, and never needs a shave, haircut, or trip to the marriage counselor. He listens to anything I say. The only girl he chases is the cat, who loves it and chases him right back (of course they are the same size...for now...she is only a kitten.) And at 5 lbs, it's easy to take him anywhere I go: errands, trips, and exercising, and when we take walks he wears out before I do. (Having arthritis, it's rare that I find someone who can't keep up with me!)

I don't really think of my dear doggie as my spouse, of course. But I do see him as my companion. And why not? People come and go, get busy, or bored, but not dogs. After all, there is a reason they are man's...and certainly this woman's best friend.

$1.50 Worth of Commitment

When I first met my "Dearest" (I am too old to have a "boyfriend," but when I refer to him as my "Man Friend" he thinks he sounds gay...and he is right, but if I say "Partner," people think I'm gay, so I just stick with Dearest) most of our relationship seemed pretty easy. He lived out of state, and so would just appear in town on business, and we would spend a few very happy days hanging out together. At first, he stayed with his mom, and would only come over to visit me, which was just fine. I wasn't looking for a relationship, and neither was he. What were we doing together, then? Well, for one thing, lying to ourselves and each other about the whole "not looking for a relationship," thing...

After several thousand frequent flyer miles, there came that weird and wonderful tipping point, where my Dearest started spending longer and longer hours with me, and fewer and fewer with mom, until...oops...he spent the night. Then, he spent a few in a row. This isn't going to be a tell all about how his mom dealt with finding out that her sonny dearest wasn't a virgin at 38(or that I wasn't either). Actually, it's about something much harder for couples to talk about than sex: it's about...toothbrushes.

See, the first time that D. spent the night, he just toodled out in the morning, and took care of his dental hygiene needs back at mom's. But, trying to continue this routine day after day not only became inconvenient, but time consuming, since he was driving about 10 miles just to go brush, floss, rinse and then come hurrying back to spend the day with me. And no, I didn't offer him mine. There are some things that even after sharing certain intimacies, are still too icky to consider. And one of those is having a man stick my toothbrush in his mouth after it has already been in mine. (Hey, we all have our hang-ups!)

This dilemma left me with only one horrifying alternative. I was going to have to get a toothbrush for D. It only seemed fair and practical, until I was actually at the Wal Mart, all alone (he was actually off working at the job that was supposedly bringing him to Idaho in the first place after all...huh!) and there I stood in the dental aisle. All of a sudden it felt like I was at Tiffany's, buying him a Man-gagement ring! After considering and discarding several options, and even leaving and coming back a few times, I finally made the commitment: for $1.50, I could get him a red Pepsodent toothbrush. It was decent, without being too fancy, and therefore indicating that I had more expectations than simple teeth cleaning. But, it wasn't the crappy 4-pack kind, that would seem like I didn't care about tartar build-up and gum disease. Yep, this was it.

Now, I am not saying this for dramatic effect, although I wish I were so creative: I actually got an anxiety attack on the way to the cash register. I. Was. Making. A. Commitment. Oh. My. Gosh. I was sure that I had gone too far, and my Dearest would be offended and never come back, after seeing that he had his own toothbrush at my house. Eek! Somehow, I managed to get my sweaty palms around the brush, credit card, and swipey thing at the register, and walked, weak-kneed to the car with my hard-won prize.

That night, as we cuddled up together in bed, I took a breath to tell him what I had done. Then, I just sighed. Another breath, another sigh. After a few of these, he asked, "Ok, what's up, Sparky?" (His much better nickname for me...but hey, this is why he earned a toothbrush!) "Um," I stalled. "Geesh, I hope you're not mad. I, uh, I thought maybe you'd like to have...this." And from out of the nightstand I whipped the red toothbrush. "Wow!" he said...yep, an actual wow over a toothbrush. Extra points. "That's for me? Cool! I'm so glad I won't have to leave your nice warm body in the morning, just to get rid of my death breath!" He sounded...sincere. Not mad, weirded out, or upset, just...grateful. Then he got out of bed and walked away. Damn. Spoke too soon! Until I heard the water running in the bathroom, and from around the toothbrush in his mouth, I could just make out, "Hey, vith is awephum! Fanks!" He had given it a test run, and then came back to give me a thank-you kiss, with very fresh breath.

I know this is a totally corny story, but it was a big deal to me at the time. It was when I learned that My Dearest was even dearer than I thought. He was not only someone I was beginning to love, but could also...trust. And here's the gushiest part of all. I have, of course, purchased many more toothbrushes over the past 5 1/2 years that we have been together. And he's even gotten some for me. But you know what? He has kept that silly old red one, for "sentimental purposes." Apparently it's the first gift I ever gave him. Now I wish I'd gone for the Man-gagement ring, instead of dental hygiene, but oh well...this is a whole lot more practical. I mean, you can't keep pearly whites at their best with a Man-gagement ring.

No News, When There's No Good News...

It's hard enough to write regularly. At least, it is for me. Maybe it's because I'm a procrastinator, or I get writer's block, or writer's cramp (is there such a thing anymore?), or maybe I'm just plain lazy. Hard to say. But when on top of all that, there's just plain no good news to report, and it makes sitting down at the ol' keyboard totally daunting.

There's this weird thing in our society, where we seem compelled to ask each other, "How are you?" But, we aren't actually allowed to answer the question honestly. The only acceptable answer is, "Fine." Oh, there are variations on the theme, including, "Fine thanks, how are you?" "Great!" and "Super!" But, we are rarely fine, great, or super, and when asking after the other person, most people don't listen to the answer. This is because the person who asked in the first place doesn't really care, either. Well, not true. Some of us might care, but we aren't about to break ranks and answer honestly first.

It's just not okay in our society for things not to be okay. I'm not sure why, since we live in a state of information overload, most of the time. Between Facebook status updates, Twittering, texting, voicemails, and emails, it's almost impossible not to know how people are. But, most of us use Facebook to share fascinating tidbits like, "Frank just can't wait til Friday!" and the whole point of Twittering is to limit messages to 120 characters. What can one really share in just a couple of lines? "Shelley is loving the summer sun!" (or not loving it, depending...) I know people who send hundreds of texts a day, and most of them are just smiley faces and abbreviations that end up saying nothing at all.

Not wanting to be the rebel, I find that I clam up and shut down when things aren't peachy keen. But that makes it harder and harder to say much of anything. I begin editing myself more and more closely, til eventually I find that I'm not talking to anyone, writing anything, or sharing anywhere, with anyone, at all.

So, here's the thing: I'm gonna have to find a way to write no matter what. Even though quite honestly, things pretty well suck right now. My ex is making life hell (well, that why they call them exes), my teens are, well, teens (meaning that the hormones are running pretty fast and thick around my house...), my bank account is dwindling, and I remain remarkably unemployed. And to top it off, the flowers I planted, died. There ya go. I'm sure there is a silver lining to the clouds that have rolled through my world lately, but quite honestly, I don't feel like looking for it. I am just too tired.

So, even though no one asked, I'll tell you how I am: pretty darn bummed. But, I'll survive. In fact, I will be fine. Really, just ask me.

Oh No, Not Another Sports Analogy

Having watched so many hundreds (maybe it's thousands, but I can't be sure) of hours of baseball, I feel an empathy with pitchers that runs deep and wide. Although this doesn't keep me from muttering curses at them anyway, the more I work on writing, the more I understand the pitcher's plight.

First of all, there is the pressure to perform. There is a lot less talk about a flagging offense in baseball than there is about poor starters and scuffling bullpens. And it's true: it doesn't matter how much run support a team gives a pitcher if the man on the mound walks too many and gives up too many long balls. But, if the starting pitching is decent, and the bully is even reasonable, there's still not as much focus on the bats as there is on the arm and the man behind it.

As a struggling writer, I know that sense of pressure. With no team behind me to provide support, there is even more pressure to perform. And the more people tell me to write, the less I do it. It's some kind of perverse mindset that makes the ideas go flat and the keyboard loom too large, every time someone asks me, "So, have you written anything lately?" I have to imagine it's a little like the reaction that a pitcher has every time the pitching coach gets on him about his ERA, or how many walks he issued in the last inning. Somehow, the mind digs in and then the body won't cooperate. But, if things are going well, and the ball is flying to the plate and then dropping into the dirt, or hovering around the corners and fooling batters into swinging when they shouldn't, a pitcher can do no wrong. Same thing with writing. When it flows, it flows and there doesn't seem to be a way to stop it. But there is no way to force the words to appear on that blank page.

An athlete's mind and body somehow have to work together, but not consciously. Tension in a pitcher or batter is anathema to success. As soon as a batter tenses up, his rhythm is thrown off, his mechanics aren't in sync, and he'll strike out, ground out, or fly out: anyway it's an out. A tense pitcher literally tries to get too perfect and starts nibbling. Trying to find the strike zone will surely lead to balls, walks, and runs scored.

Writing is much the same. Trying to write is impossible. That awful Nike ad was unfortunately right, in that one does have to "Just do it." Trying to be perfect as a writer leads to frustration and eventual "writer's block." There is no perfection in baseball or writing. But if you approach the plate or the keyboard relaxed and "in the zone," the stats are in your favor that you'll meet with some success.

It's a bummer being a fan of a losing team. Following the Diamondbacks for the last couple of years has been an exercise in frustration often times. But, it's also interesting, because you do learn a lot more from watching mistakes than from seeing success. As I have followed the trial and error of the Dbacks, I have discovered much about the importance of perseverance, patience, loyalty, and the willingness to try new things when the old just isn't working anymore. I have also learned that, truly, winning isn't everything, but it sure beats the heck out of losing. As I have struggled personally over the past couple of years myself, I am also realizing those same things. I am not going to try to be perfect. But I am going to keep trying. I am not going to expect to win all of the time, but I am not going to brand myself a loser. And if I compare myself in the rankings to all of the other teams out there, I will be totally disheartened. What I will do though, is focus on improving my own performance, increase my own stats, and expect that in the long run, even if I don't win, hopefully I can be proud of how I played the game.

Saleing

Summer weekends are often spent saleing with my kids. No, I did not just phenominally mispell "sailing", since we don't own a boat. The kind of sales that carry us out into the summer sun are of the yard/garage/rummage variety.

Once the morning chores are completed (ok, sometimes that's more like an "if") and the kids have gotten paid their weekly allowance (again, depending on whether the chores were tackled or ignored), those of us who have change jingling in our pockets head out the door in search of cardboard signs that read "Yard Sale" and bear arrows pointing nearby.

Not only does proximity help, but it also depends on the items that are strewn about people's lawns, driveways, or that may be stacked on tables in garages. My youngest, being the only non-teenager of the bunch, gravitates to displays of stuffed animals, dolls, and board games. She will peruse the clothes and shoes if they look to be her size (she is, after all, my child!) but will usually only buy these things if they are something I would never allow (think high-heeled sandals, tank tops with glittery trim, etc.)

Fourteen year-old twin boys are pretty easy to tempt: anything electronic (working or not), game tables (pool, foosball, air hockey, etc) and any or all military items. I remember last year, one of my boys purchased a pair of combat boots. He wore them a fair amount over the winter months, and all of his pals thought he was "the man." Best six bucks he ever spent, he said. It's funny though, just when I give them up for being such "boys," one of them will land an eye on an item I've been looking for, whether it's glassware or dishes, or some such, and say "Hey Mom, you might want something like this..." and I have to smile and remain hopeful that these "boys" are really becoming young men.

My oldest daughter, at fifteen, is a toughie. She will stop to scan everything, and has bought anything from cute hoodies and tennies, to roller blades and posters. She will point out items that would be great for decorating around the house, or kitchen items I've mentioned needing. But, she'll also spot something like photo albums and remember that we are in need of a few. She is in that strange place between child and adult, and yet seems to navigate them both with grace. Heck, I can't even do that, and I passed the child phase a long time ago, according to the calendar.

My own tastes tend toward the simple (polite term for mundane.) I am always on the lookout for cheap, but gently used furniture (I can sometimes find the latter, but never the former), cool stuff for the kids, unique clothing (the stuff you can't find at Wal Mart, like somebody's Grandma's mink stole, or white Go-Go boots, or whatnot), what my kids have come to call "pretties", which are really just knick-knacks that collect dust on shelves, and various kitchen and bath items that tend to look like a great deal in someone's driveway, and kinda grungy when I get them home.

Although we go saleing a lot during the warm months, we don't usually buy all that much. Part of the reason is that I have very firm standards about how items should be priced, and how haggling should proceed. I have passed this information down to my children and they now have the same expectations. Here's the thing: for common items like clothes, shoes, kitchen and bath stuff, etc. you have to expect to charge only what people are going to carry in their pockets. This means change! A quarter or two for nicer tops and pants, or dishes and glasses, nickels and dimes for the shabby stuff. After all, the reason you're selling this crap is in order to make a few bucks, and the rest is gonna have to go to donation anyway, right? Ok, now nicer items like a table and chairs, maybe ten bucks for the table, and five for each chair, then cut a deal if someone will buy the whole set. Same with a couch and love seat, etc. People should always be willing to break up a set, but throw in the whole enchilada for less. Oh, and I wish folks would mark stuff with the prices, for goodness sake. Even if it's just that stuff at each table is a certain price, or there's a box of twenty-five cent toys, that's much easier than having to find who is doing the sale and then ask about every single thing sitting out. Sheesh...

This brings me to the art of haggling. What is it with people not haggling anymore? The whole idea of having prices at a yard sale, is that you have to be willing to come down if: somebody buys a bunch of stuff, it's late in the day, or it's the end of the weekend. That's how it works! I am so shocked when someone wants half of what they paid retail for an item, won't budge on the price, and then sits there stonefaced as I walk away! I'm telling you, there should be a mandatory class about this stuff before anyone duct tapes a sign to a box and leaves it on a street corner.

I know I sound like a bit of a grump, which I really...ok..maybe I am. I don't mean to be. Most of the time I am a very nice person. But, walking block after block in the hot sun with whining kids whose allowance is burning a hole in their pockets all afternoon will make a person a bit edgy. All I ask is that the yard salers of the world unite! Set prices realistically (it's not a great economy, in case anyone hasn't heard. Maybe sellers are selling stuff because they need the money, but we are buying because we can't afford Wal Mart)! Be willing to wiggle a little on the total. Mark stuff so we know how much it is. Salers will beat a path to a yard sale if: everything is organized so we can tell what you have. My kids are dying to spend their hard-earned cash, and will do it at the one that shows them most easily what it is they just "have to have."

I think it's just wonderful that there is this "independent economy" in our neighborhoods, where people are literally taking care of business themselves. It helps buyers and sellers alike. It's also a fun tradition to have with my family, to "sale" the open sidewalks of our little world. Maybe we'll even have a sale of our own this summer. Heck, we should...we need the money, so we can go shopping! If I do, I will be sure to follow the rules. Happy saleing!

Accident Prone

I have become accident-prone. By this, I do not mean that I have begun having a lot of accidents. Rather, I have become addicted to watching TV shows about them. Thanks to “Nat Geo” (that’s the National Geographic Channel for those of you with jobs) I look forward to Tuesday like most people look forward to payday.

Tuesday is the day of the week when my TIVO gets deposited with “Air Emergency”, “Seconds From Disaster”, “Critical Situation” and “The Final Report.” All of these shows have the same premise: to tell about someone else’s misfortune in about an hour, including commercials (which of course, I can fast forward through, thanks to the miracle of TIVO.)
I don’t know if it was my illness or unemployment that first made me so attracted to other people’s bad news. Maybe I just got tired of movies and sports, although I still watch those, too. But, I don’t look forward to them the way that I do my disaster shows.

When Tuesday rolls around, I eagerly take inventory of what has been delivered to my television for the week. Then, I carefully portion out the shows throughout the week, so as not to make the mistake of feasting on them all at once. I have made that mistake, and then had nothing to look forward to for six whole days. There’s nothing quite so depressing when you’re unemployed, like knowing that you won’t get to watch a plane crash for a whole week. Ok, that didn’t come out quite right, but I know what I mean. I think.

Thanks to Nat Geo, I am on a first name basis with Greg Feith, the NTSB investigator that has handled hundreds of “Air Emergency” cases; I consider myself an amateur volcanologist, thanks to “Seconds From Disaster,” which has handled many volcano stories; I like those best, since I get to discuss “polyclastic flows” (those are the lava flows that are the most deadly parts of the volcanic eruptions); and due to the many hours of “Critical Situation” and “Final Report” I have a better understanding of things like the Oklahoma City Bombing, the 1972 Olympic Hostage Crisis, and the first and second Gulf wars.

I am aware that I watch too much TV. There’s no question. But, I’ve been working on dialing it back little by little. I’m not watching “I Survived”, “The Dog Whisperer,” or most of the Food Network anymore. There’s nothing I can do about the fact that it’s baseball season. And I just can’t give up on “The Alaska Experiment” before I find out if the four teams of regular people that volunteered to live in the wilderness for 90 days make it out alive. Although, I suppose it’s unlikely that Animal Planet would let anyone expire on camera. But, you never know.

It’s not easy being unemployed. It’s certainly harder than I expected. There’s the obvious economic hardship, but there’s also the pride thing. It’s embarrassing. It’s boring. It’s kind of bewildering. I am not sure what to do each day, after I have browsed around the ‘Net and seen the rather slim pickings for jobs. So, I get busy doing what I know I must. I get involved: in my disasters. These people need me. I need them. We are working together to prevent calamities like plane crashes and hostage crises, train wrecks and volcanic eruptions, wars and job loss, from happening to the next person.

Food Porn

Sitting slack-jawed, drooling, and motionless on the couch last weekend, I sat staring at the television as the hours passed. I was jealously watching the host of each show enjoy luscious dishes that I could only dream of encountering. At one point, I actually groaned as the host described a dish that he was preparing to enjoy. That’s when it hit me. These shows had crossed the line, or I had. Someone certainly had, as these oversized sandwiches, their contents temptingly spilling onto the plate and practically into my living room, desserts whose chocolate nearly melted right into my mouth, and sauces whose ingredients only needed to be mentioned to make me want to climb right through the TV into the kitchens that I was voyeuristically watching: I wasn’t watching cooking shows! These were food porn!

As the “Ace of Cakes” had shown me, even cakes can be pumped up with silicone (ok, maybe it’s Styrofoam). But thing is, even a simple cake needs a little help now and then to look her best! I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw what they call a “cake form”. If cakes need this kind of help, it’s no surprise I can’t keep my own layers from sagging.

It’s any wonder we are so obsessed with food, when we are bombarded with images of it, and not only that, but it is made up to look so darn pretty. I actually watched a show about how food artists do their jobs. Basically, it’s make-up for food. Most of the food we see in ads, magazine photo spreads, and TV ads is phony, just like those cakes that are decorated up so nicely. Orange juice has soap bubbles to make it look fresh, meat is seared on the outside and left raw in the middle so it will run with the right amount of juices, ice cream is actually mashed potatoes, so it won’t melt under the lights. The list goes on and on, of faked-up, maked-up food stuffs. And you thought it took a lot to make Angelina Jolie’s lips look good in the movies! (Or did you really think she rolled out of bed looking like that? I prefer to think that she needs a few soap bubbles and is made out of mashed potatoes, myself.)

Even with all of the knowledge that we possess about diet, exercise, heart health, and blah, blah, blah, the food we consume has little to do with our intellect, and a lot to do with our senses. This is why a channel like the Food Network can just show a burger being grilled, with cheese melting down the sides; the chef sliding that burger onto a bun with fries on the side, shaking some salt onto those crispy, slightly brown potatoes, serve up the whole thing right into the big screen of your living room, and you’ll watch. You might not be able to have that burger right then, but I can tell you this: the advertiser that buys time on that show would be smart to sell burgers! They might get someone to run to McDonalds’ or Burger King after the show. And the viewers might buy the products that were placed: whether it might be the ketchup, seasonings, or they might even have “Beef, it’s what’s for dinner.”

This “food porn” is in magazines (what publication doesn’t have a recipe section anymore? Popular Mechanics, maybe?), the morning news programs (since when was food news, but just ask “Good Morning America” and they’ll tell you it is), and certainly it’s all over the Internet, right next to sex in popularity. Recipes, diets, allergies, if you have an interest or a need, there is a website, a blog, and an e-community for you.

There is a difference, obviously, between the selling of food, and the pornography of food. Just as there is between a romantic comedy and a porno. Groceries must be sold; a recipe exchanged, and there has to be advertising, as well. But, I guess it goes from the sublime to the ridiculous when I am watching a show where someone is slicing a 16-inch thick sandwich, which is practically pornographic in and of itself, and the host of the show is moaning and groaning over it and begging to try a bite, does so, and then tells us all how great it is, before he moves on to the next item on the menu. No recipe, no information, just us, the audience, watching him eat. It has no socially redeeming value, really, which is the definition of pornography. And when, my friends, did we become people who felt this way about food? Ok, well apparently I did last weekend. Scary.

For Honest Parents

If, like other honest parents, you might be looking for ways to keep from losing your sanity here at the end of Winter Break (you'll note I didn't mention anything about it being New Year's Day...for one thing, because you, my dear fictional readers, do not yet exist, and for another...if you do one day, you'll understand that honest parents care nothing for New Year's Day: it's known better as "One Day Closer to School Starting Again!" And that's something worth celebrating!)

Anyway, these honest parents, and readers, if they do exist...would be well served to do what I happened to do today...and will resolve (pardon the pun) to do at least every week or two during vacations, if not during school time as well. What is this tonic, this elixir? Why, have the children's friends and their parents over for supper, that's what! I know this seems silly, and maybe I am just a lazy parent for not doing it more often, or perhaps an honest one for admitting that I don't do it that much...but the key here is not just the friends. It's including the parent(s).

We do on occasion have kids over for a dinner, or to spend the night. With tonight's revelation, though, it was in the inclusion of the siblings, and the parent, that I got such relief. And maybe it's just me, and maybe I just need to get out more...but I have spent much of the break running the kids to appointments, or myself to them, or the kids to church choir practices, or all of us to services, and by the time we had all of those things done, it seemed like we barely had time for the actual holidays themselves, and then it was...today. And when my oldest asked if she could have a friend over for dinner some time and then asked when, I thought of all the cookie dough still in the fridge, and all the decorations still looking pretty, and thought "Now would be great!" Plus, with the kids all being kinda tired and stir crazy from staying up late last night and then suddenly "nothing" to do but irritate each other, the distraction of unplanned "company" for dinner would be welcome.

The "company" thing was all well and good, although the kids were still weird. The boys fell strangely and for once unhelpfully silent (single dad that brought his two kids over, would have appreciated some "guy-talk", and I would have, too!) and the girls were suddenly teasing and picking, after spending a pretty peaceful vacation with each other. I would normally have been quite displeased with the girls, may have even punished them. The boys had misbehaved earlier in the day, which had really upset me, but after the evening had ended, I had a whole new perspective that, although it didn't change the way I dealt with the boys' misbehavior earlier in the day, it changed the way I spoke to them about it.

When this dad entered our home, he noticed that we had a "chore chart". He laughed, and asked whether I had difficulty getting the kids to get their chores done. I said, trying to be diplomatic, "Well, no more than the next person, I suppose." (Meaning, "You show me yours, I'll show you mine" in the problem department...I didn't want to tell too much, or too little...oh, if I'd only known!) Well, then he stated that his kids didn't really have chores, just to keep their rooms clean. After reviewing the daily and weekly chores that the kids have (1-2 on weekdays and 2-3 on the weekend, plus bedroom maintenance, and once someone has 2 days "on" dish duty, they get two days "off", lest you think me akin to Cinderella's wicked stepmummy and call in the Fairy Godmother brigade). He resolved (there's that word again! weird!) that his kids were going to start doing chores. I explained that they get paid for their chores, as long as they do them. He was shocked, as he just pays them their allowance "Just for 'being.'" Then I was shocked! I wish I could get paid "just for being!"

We sat down to dinner, which was steak and salad. I found it odd that my own children took no salad when first serving, so I reminded them that they had missed it. There were smiles and teases. In our home, everyone must at least taste everything is served, and then can opt for more or not. But if an appropriate amount is not consumed at dinner: no dessert. (Curses!) Well, I had been warned ahead of time by my oldest, that one of the children visiting was a "picky eater". "Oh well", I had told her when she said this, "I am sure she will manage to find something at the table that she can survive on, or her daddy can deal with her when they get home." Well, I am betting that his "dealing with her" is going to be very different tonight than in nights past. He watched in amazement as all of mine, including the youngest, ate steak AND salad, even though some professed greater or lesser preference for the salad. And even MY "pickiest" eater, one of my dear boys, said that he (Oh, bless me Lord, and forgive me for bragging here...but I earned this one): he (ok, I'll breathe) "Kinda liked it" (ah, there, I got to say it!) I approached the salad with humor myself, since it was not the kind I am used to, and referred to some of the items as "weeds", as I ate them. But ate them I did! (Curses!)

And as this man observed the reasonably clean plates all around, he said "You know, I think that is what I'm going to do. I'm going to have to tell mine that they just can't leave the table til they're done." And as he said this aloud, I thought "You know, that sounds so easy, when you say it aloud now, doesn't it? Makes ya wonder why you haven't." But I reassured him that I dealt with a couple of picky eaters myself, and pointed to the boys, who smiled at him as they chowed down their salads and prodded each other jokingly as to who tried it, or who had tried it "first", or "most". And our one guest's plate sat...full. I finally asked her if I could take it for her, and she nodded, quietly. I figured her dad was not going to start the rule while they were visiting. And it would take some time...and tears. I know...I lived it. Not fun. But worth it. Like one of my sons said later (again, God...just gimme this one: "I'll try anything now, and like just about all of it." Oh, thank you!!!)

Well, the funny thing is, when we were done, and headed for dessert, I smiled at the kids and asked them to have the table cleared up and dessert out, please. Not five minutes later, they were done, like a well-oiled machine. It was like a dance. Or a machine. Or a dancing machine. After all the chitchat, my kids got up, and casually, one of them gave the other a hug, and then one hugged me, just in the process of wandering about. The sad thing is, after all my pride in the chore calendar, their eating habits, the dish clearing, and their manners, what struck this visiting parent the most was when he witnessed physical affection. He raised his voice to his son (hm...) and said "See, they all hug, why can't you do that?" His son quietly shrugged, obviously embarrassed. But then the sister, who hadn't said more than a word or two strung together most of the night piped up and said "Whenever I want a hug, all he (the brother) does is hit me!" There proceeded to be a "discussion" about who hugs or doesn't hug, and why. This surprised me more than anything else about a family. I know there are families that don't make their kids help with dishes or vacuuming, or have varying levels of expectations about rooms. I know some pay allowances for "just being alive" (I suppose the motivation being: "Hey, don't die this week, please" ???) and I even came from a family that wasn't terribly big on hugging, although I am glad that I have created one that does. But one that hits instead of hugs? Whoa. Shortly after all the hugging, these folks went home, and I had a chance to talk to mine.

I was so happy to thank my kids for being such a pleasure. Even though earlier in the day I had wondered whether we'd make it to Monday with all of our wits, I know we will. I did have a "sit-down" with my boys, whose latest "go-round" earlier in the day had resulted in a "tattle" from their sister. When I spoke to them, what I explained was that although I am no fan of tattling, it was upsetting to me to know that they had misbehaved, and one of the reasons things do work so smoothly (that well-oiled machine) is that we have rules that everyone knows and follows. I told them how badly I felt at times like these, when I would like to reward them for one thing, and yet the rules prevent me from it. They actually stopped me themselves, and told that it was ok that they had the consequences that they did (no TV that night, and I had rented a movie...curses!) because they knew that although they had resolved their differences, their fight had upset their sister, and that was wrong. I thanked them for their maturity, and then we talked a little more about what they had observed in the family that had just visited. They were shocked as well, and were upset by the "hitting not hugging" and were the first to note that "There's no way we'd hit our sister for anything, especially a hug." And there was a list of things that they observed that was of concern to them. They seemed to have grown a little that night, throwing their shoulders back and saying "I've come a long way!" and one even said, "I feel as though I getting more mature every day." That's a lot from a 14-year old (Even a 40 year old...although some say "older," there's a big difference between "older" and "more mature...")

Anyway, that's a long way of saying, if you think your own kids are driving you nuts sometimes, all you really need to do is invite someone else's over, and their parent, too. The kids will show you how great your own are, and the parent will either be pretty darn impressed with what you are doing, or if they worth their salt, you might get some good tips. I am glad that this time, this one just made me feel impressive. I was in need of some feeling impressive. The next one might give me tips. Or, you might get some of each. And, your kids might have someone else to look at and talk to for a change, besides each other, and YOU. So, better pick up the phone, plan your menu, set the table, and get ready to feel a whole lot better! (And just a last note on the menu planning...I only served stead because that's what I had in the freezer! Make the plans first, then make the menu...otherwise you won't do it. Make anything: tacos, lasagna...frozen kind...or just do TV dinners! Believe me, no one cares about your cooking skills. It's the hanging out. And the feeling better about your kids! Call someone. Or at least plan to do it for MLK Day...it's coming up! In January! Yea!)