Soccer Mom

Here is another post in my "rerun" series.  It was originally posted in 2009.

Today my girls had soccer practice. They're involved in a Parks and Rec team, a very low-key activity with the main goal being for the children to have fun. And really, that's about all I've seen so far.  I'm not seeing any learning of useful soccer skills, such as how to actually make your foot come into contact with the ball. But at least they're having fun, right?

Tonight, the soccer coach decided that at the end of practice, the children should play a scrimmage against their parents. In her words, she thought it would be "fun". Well I don't necessarily agree with her definition of fun, because in my estimation, it would be more in the category of torture. I hate playing sports. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I am deeply tormented by memories of any attempt at playing sports throughout my life. I had extremely bad experiences of gym class from the earliest elementary years all the way through 8th grade. You have no idea how heartily I rejoiced once I finished Junior High and I was no longer required to participate in Physical Education.

The year 1976 was an Olympic year, so our gym teacher thought it would be "educational" to set up gymnastics equipment. I really have no memory of any of the other equipment besides the rings. For some idiot reason, the rings were suspended about 20 feet off the ground. OK, so it was probably not quite that high, but I was in Kindergarten so I was only about 3 feet tall and everything looked really high to me. We had to climb up on a small platform to reach the rings. The platform was high enough to scare me, but then my teacher had to hoist me up on the rings and make me do a somersault. And I'm sure I was visibly terrified because I knew at any moment I was going to plummet back to earth with an ungraceful splat. However, the teacher made me do it anyway. You know I could probably go back and sue that gym teacher for all the emotional distress that he or she caused me, if I could remember his or her name.

In about 2nd grade, Ms. PE teacher had the brilliant idea to teach us basketball, and by teaching I mean she simply said "Play." So, I had no stinkin' clue how to actually dribble a ball or what responsibilities that players in different positions had. We just had to play, and it appeared to me that everyone else knew what they were doing except me. So, when we had basketball days in gym class, I would conveniently excuse myself to go to the bathroom until gym was over. I think my teacher eventually caught on, but it still never occurred to her to actually teach us some darn basketball skills.

In 5th grade, I tried to sprain my ankle during dogdeball season. I would run really fast down our gravel road and purposely step in the potholes. I used to deliberately irritate my older brother so he would inflict some kind of brotherly agony upon me, and then I would shout, "go for the ankle!" I once had to get a plantar wart removed, and I asked the doctor to write a note excusing me from PE for the rest of the year. He didn't. I even tried climbing up on our gigantic console TV set and jumping off. But it was all for naught, as I was still forced to participate in the misery of team sports.

Even in college, a friendly game of volleyball with my dearest friends would throw me into a panic. I could usually hit a volleyball with some degree of consistency as long as I was not involved in an actual game. But if the ball ever came to me during a game, I was either completely immobile, or I was flailing around like an injured animal. And then of course, I would say some dumb thing like "the sun was in my eyes," or sometimes I would choose the simpler option which was to feign death.

Suffice it to say, I have never had any desire to participate in team sports, even for "fun". Because although it may be "fun" to some people, I'd rather have one of my limbs severed.

The Spelling Bee

I'm a gud good speller.  I always have been.  I think it's because I have a photographic memory.  For real.  If you show me how to spell something one time, I will remember it forever.  Even a moronic word like Kashyyyk.  One thousand points if you know what that is without having to look it up.  (Don't try too hard.  This is the blog where everything is made up and the points don't matter.)

My kids have inherited my good spelling gene.  I guess Al has one, too, which surprises me a bit because he is also a math genius.  I thought you had to be one or the other, but I guess he was blessed with both.  In fact, the psychiatrist who evaluated Al's post-stroke brain functioning told him, "The stroke knocked you down a few notches so now you have a normal brain like the rest of us."

Because of their exceptional ability to spell, my children have swept the school spelling bee every year.  I'm proud of them, but it's getting a little old.  And spelling bees are quite stressful.  I'm a total sideline screamer when it comes to watching the kids participate.  Except that I just have to scream in my head, otherwise, I would be ejected from the game.

If you've never been to a spelling bee, it can get quite tense.

The first task is usually the most daunting.  The judges tell every competitor to approach the microphone and spell their name.

Joey steps up to the mic.  "Joey.  J-O....Can you use that in a sentence please?"

The problem I've found with spelling bees is that no matter how intelligent a child is, if you put them in front of an intimidating crowd with a microphone and require them to spell something out, they will forget every word you ever taught them.  Why can't they just take a spelling test and have it graded in front of everyone?

You can totally see the strain on every parent's face when their student begins a turn.  They're mentally calling out, "Okay, Sally.   Take a deep breath.  Concentrate."

The word Sally is given:  love.

Sally begins.  "Love.  L............................U....................................V........................................E.  Love."

Sally's dad jumps out of his seat and "Come on, Sally!  You know that word!"  He throws his pocket dictionary across the floor and is escorted out of the gym by armed security guards.

Next comes Johnny.

Johnny's word is:  antidistestablishmentarianism.

What happens with these exceedingly long words is that the kid gets lost in the middle somewhere.

Johnny begins, struggling just to pronounce the word, let alone spell it.

"Antidistestablishmentarianism.  A-N-T-I-D-I-S-E-S-T-A-B-L-I....."  Because there are enough i's in this word to fill an entire dictionary, Johnny forgets which i he's on.  The rules say that he cannot go back and change the spelling.  So, for several extremely painful moments, he stands there, with everyone and their dog staring at him, while he tries to remember all the letters he just said.  He finally finishes up by sputtering out, "I-S-S-I-P-P-I.  Antidisestablishmentarianism."

The problem here is that the audience is not allowed to applaud or give any kind of feedback until the round is over, which is why Sally's dad will be banned from the school grounds for the next six months.  However, everyone knows immediately whether the word was spelled correctly or not, so the student only has to scan the faces of the people to know whether or not he was successful.  His parents have fake smiles plastered on their faces, nodding encouragingly.  His fellow students are snickering.  Grandma has buried her face in her hands and is writing Johnny out of her will as we speak.  

Now, you're probably thinking that I'm some cranky old curmudgeon who thinks that spelling bees are a waste of time.  Well, you'd be right, but I am proud of my kiddos for their accomplishments.

Way to go, Evan & Joy.  Way to make mama look good!  ;)

The Coldest Winter

Okay, friends.  I know you've all been dying with anticipation to read my next spectacular blog post.  But guess what?  I'm writing a book instead!  (Pray for me and wish me luck!)

So, I've decided to re-publish some of my older posts.  Hopefully you won't mind reading them again.   I should be writing on my other blog soon, too, but I'm not making any promises.

I originally posted this in August 2012.  It seems a bit more fitting to post it now, in the middle of the longest, coldest winter ever.  (By the way, if you know me, you know that I. LOVE. SNOW.  And this winter has not turned me off yet, although I occasionally receive death threats when my status update on Facebook asks, "Don't you just love this weather???")

I grew up in Northern Michigan (i.e. the Upper Peninsula, the UP, da Yoop).  It's the closest you can get to Canada without actually being in Canada.  But the people still talk like Canadians, eh?  I find it humorous when I go home now to hear such a distinct accent from dem Yoopers when I only live 400 miles south.

I don't have to exaggerate much (but I might exaggerate a little) when I say that the winters were cold in the UP.  They were bitter cold, the kind of cold that causes a truck engine to make a low-pitched squeaaaal-rrr-rrr, and then swear and go back to sleep.  It was a dangerous kind of cold that would cause people in current times to stock their pantry with canned food, cancel every activity for the next 3 months, lock their doors, stuff something like this under every door to keep out the evil cold, and hope to God they had enough furniture to put in the fireplace in case they ran out of wood.

This cat-themed draft stopper can be found at www.potpourrigift.com, or if you happen to live in a place like the UP where almost everyone is a taxidermist, you can have one made with all the stray cats that wander up to your house.

Even on those coldest of days - the days that my father had to use an engine warmer to get my old Delta 88 started - I must have sneaked past my parents when I went to school on basketball game days, because I would wear my cheerleading skirt to school.  With bare legs.  Or sometimes I would wear flat shoes.  In the snow.  Without socks.  To this day, I'm absolutely certain I have permanent damage in my legs and feet, which never warm up unless they're being roasted over an open fire. 

One day, my best friend Cari came by with her parents.  She is also my cousin - you can't be choosy when you live in a village of 300 people.  She invited me to accompany her to wherever she was headed, but first we had to stop at yet another cousin's house.  (Yes, everyone is related in the UP, get over it.) When we arrived at said cousin's house, we told her parents we would wait in the van.  They assured us that they would only be a few minutes.  They didn't even keep the van running for heat.  Why would they?  It was only -30 F.  Being high school girls who don't care how close we got to each other, we huddled up on the front seat of her parents' van so we could stay warm.  We put our feet on the dashboard so they could stay toasty in the sunlight. (Ha!)

As we goofed around and acted like silly teenage girls, we simultaneously threw our heads back in laughter and kicked our feet.

CRACK!

A giant fissure appeared in the van's dashboard.

So we did what any two level-headed teenagers would do once we realized how brittle the dashboard material had become in the subzero weather:  we pushed just a little more.  Just to see what would happen.

A few more times and the entire dashboard disintegrated in a flash of 1970's goldenrod glory.

Sh*t.

At that very moment, yet another relative came out of the house, observed our predicament, and proceeded to laugh so hard that he wet his pants.

What do you tell your parents when you destroy the entire dashboard of the family vehicle? We considered going into the house and playing it cool, like, "hey, Auntie Betty and Uncle Tom, we thought we'd just come inside and warm up a bit."  And then when we all went out to the van, they could be all shocked and say, "What happened to the dashboard?" and we would be all, "Wow, I can't imagine how something like that could happen."

In the end I think they figured out it was us.  And I think the punishment must have been inordinately lenient because I don't remember what it was, except maybe a little lecture and possibly some yelling on both of our parents' parts.

The moral of this story is:  there really isn't one.  Except that you should wear socks in the winter.

If you give lots of happy feel-good comments, I promise to start posting more!  :)

The Paper Plight

Paper is my new pet peeve.


Since Al's stroke almost 3 years ago, I'm quite certain that an entire forest full of little woodland creatures has been evicted because of us.  I've seen them holding cardboard signs at the street corners, saying, "Will thump for food" and "Hunters killed my mom."  Between LTD, SSD, STD (that's Short-Term-Disability, people!) DHS, BCBS, FMLA, BYOB, ASAP and TEOTWAWKI, there is no end of paperwork.  And the exceedingly annoying fact is that, in order to determine whether something is actually important, I have to read every. single. piece.

It would actually be helpful if the papers came with a headers like:

YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST KEEP THIS DOCUMENT OR ELSE A GUY NAMED LENNY WILL COME AND CUT OFF YOUR BIG TOE.

YOU SHOULD PROBABLY KEEP THIS DOCUMENT BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED IT TO PROVE THAT YOU ARE DISABLED, EVEN THOUGH IT'S VISIBLY CLEAR THAT YOU ARE DISABLED.  WHO KNOWS?  YOU MIGHT BE FAKING IT.

THIS IS A PIECE OF INFORMATION THAT IS PROBABLY NOT NEWS TO YOU, BUT WE THOUGHT YOU SHOULD HAVE IT.  

THIS LETTER WAS SENT TO YOU BY A PERSON IN AN OBSCURE DEPARTMENT WHO HAS TO CONTINUE LOOKING BUSY OR HE WILL GET FIRED.  THIS LETTER CONTAINS NO HELPFUL INFORMATION WHATSOEVER.

When did we decide that it is so important to have so much communication?

One example is the agency that is handling the claim for the discharge of Al's student loan due to our bankruptcy filing.  It is quite complicated to discharge a student loan through bankruptcy, so we've had to jump through some hoops.  But now that our filing is complete, we have been getting letters like this almost every day.  A large header states:

PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION CAREFULLY TO DETERMINE WHETHER YOU NEED TO TAKE ACTION.  The purpose of this letter is to inform you that your application for loan discharge based  on total and permanent disability has been received and appears to be complete.

Then the letter goes on to state, in intricate detail, what we have to do if Al's situation changes; for example if he goes back to work, or miraculously stops being disabled.  As far as I can tell, we do not need to take action.  Yet, the U.S. Dept. of Education insists on reminding us, on an every-other-day basis, that we need to take action if anything changes.  Rather than spending money on something useful, like education, we get letters basically stating the following:

1.  Hey, everything looks good, but don't forget to let us know if something changes.
2.  Hey, everything still looks good, but just a reminder, let us know if something changes.
3.  Hey, everything still looks good, but you know the US government is having severe financial difficulties, so we wanted to double check to see if you can actually pay back your student loan.  Because that would help us out a lot.  Well, not really a lot because your student loan compared to $17,000,000,000 isn't even going to put a dent in it, but it makes us feel better.  Oh, and by the way, we're spending more than your student loan amount by sending out these reminders to millions of Americans on a daily basis.
4.  Would you be interested in selling popcorn to help us raise money for the U.S. Department of Education?

And then, there are the repetitive letters from the Social Security Administration:

Dear Al

This is the SSA.  Just writing to let you know that everything is pretty much the same as it was yesterday.  We like writing letters to you.  It makes us feel like we're doing our job.

Your friend always,
SSA

P.S.  Please write back.

I think that the real reason that the SSA may run out of funds is that they use approximately 8.3 billion pieces of paper per hour, telling people redundantly superfluous and unnecessary things.

I used to go to great lengths to make our garbage as disgusting as possible so that anyone attempting to dig through it to find personal information about us would probably just pass out, or possibly die.  I put used diapers in the bags with the precious papers.  Used cat litter.  Spoiled milk.  Rotten meat.  You get the idea.

I finally purchased a paper shredder to deal with the discarded papers.

Now I have a giant stack of paper waiting to be shredded.

Waxing Nostalgic

Sometimes I long for the good old days.

Days when I didn't have to worry about the mortgage or car repairs.

Days when I didn't have 4 kids who think I have all the answers.

Days when I weighed less than a Buick.

Days when I didn't have a small cactus growing out of my chin....

Seriously, what the hell is it about age that makes hair suddenly sprout all over my face?  I am not a man, in case you hadn't noticed.  Mother Nature is becoming senile, I presume, because I am growing whiskers that rival the cat's.  For years, I handled those annoying little suckers probably like everyone else - by plucking.  Just a small inconvenience for a few small hairs every day.

But then, a few years back, it was like someone fed them after midnight and they began to multiply exponentially.  I plucked in the morning and in the evening.  I spent days wishing that I could afford electrolysis or laser hair removal.

I wondered how my husband's Norelco would feel on my delicate face, and if anyone would notice if I smelled like Old Spice.

This past summer, I went with my mom to get her eyebrows waxed.  (This is a mystery to me because I don't think my mom has eyebrows.  When I was growing up, she used to draw them in.  Sorry, Mom, don't hate me.  I still love you just as much as I ever did.)  But the eye opener was this - it was so cheap to get it done.

But I'm really cheap, so even better, they sell waxing kits in my very own drug store!  So, I went to Walgreens and read the labels to find out which was the most idiot-proof.  I bought a small pot of wax and proudly brought it home.  Now, the instructions sounded really easy.  "Microwave the wax in small increments until liquid.  Let cool until the word READY appears on the mixing spatula."  They forgot to mention that I shouldn't put the pot on a paper plate.  Because paper plates scorch in the microwave.  And sometimes start on fire.

So, after the wax was sufficiently melted, I dipped the little spatula into the pot.  Still too hot, as the word READY was not yet readable.  Ten seconds later, still noT READY.  Twelve seconds later, still not READY.  Did I mention I'm very impatient?  After checking about 72 times, it was finally READY.

I proceeded to the bathroom mirror.  "Spread a thin amount over a small obscure spot on your face.  Remove the wax and wait 24 hours to see if you have a reaction."  Screw that!  I spread a thin amount over my entire lower jaw and both chins.  However, the wax that took so painfully long to cool actually lumped up very quickly after it reached the READY stage.  So I ended up spreading and matting chunks of wax together over my chin.

The next step:  "Grip one corner of the wax, and, pulling your skin tight with the other hand, pull the wax off very quickly."  Done!  And it didn't even hurt.  And it didn't even work.  I saw about 3 hairs sticking out of the wax, and the rest were still stubbornly stuck on my face.

Back to the microwave, heat, stir, heat, stir, cool.  Smash onto face.  Rip it off.  About 7 more hairs relented. 

I was frustrated, but I decided to try my eyebrows.  Now, generally, I like my eyebrows.  I rarely have to pluck as they don't grow bushy and they're not very dark.  Thankfully I inherited my mother's light-colored brows.  So, why didn't I just leave well enough alone?

The wax kit came with eyebrow guides that looked like sideways commas.  OK, I put one over each eyebrow and carefully lumped the wax around each one.  What I discoverd, however, is that it DOES hurt when you rip off eyebrow hair.  That, and sometimes the wax drips down under the comma-shaped eyebrow guide, and you end up with one eyebrow that looks more like a semi-colon.

The next time I went to the store, I thought I would find something a little more user-friendly.  I decided to try waxing strips.  That sounded much easier.  I got home and immediately read the instructions:  "Warm strips of wax between hands." (Whew! no microwaving or scorching required).  "Peel off one side of plastic liner and press wax firmly onto desired area.  Carefully peel off outer plastic liner.  Get a firm grasp on the wax strip, pull your skin tight, and swiftly remove the wax."

I tried that.  And failed.  I was left with a bunch of sticky spots on my face because the wax strips were more like glue traps than actual soft, easy-to-remove wax.  I was also left with several renegade hairs.  I scrubbed my face several times to get the residual "wax" off, but as I went off to bed, my face stuck to the pillow and my hair stuck to my face.  The next morning I managed to scrape off the last remaining bits.

Last night, I heard my daughters saying, "Hey, let's wax!"  I ran to them, yelling, "Don't do it! That stuff will never come off your face!"

My oldest daughter looked at me and flatly said, "Mom, you just use this finishing oil when you're done to get rid of all the extra wax."

Finishing Oil?  Ahem.  I, uh, didn't see that in the package.

Next time, I'm going to the salon.

Bubble Butt, Thunder Thighs, Muffin Top

Be very jealous - I got 'em all, baby!  But not for long. 

You guessed it.  This is my semi-annual attempt to lose weight.  You may remember 190 or Ouch! or  Running.  Every single time, I was bound and determined to lose weight, get in shape and become a runner. 

I've had this blog for 5 years, and I've written about "trying" to get in shape about 5,000 times. 

I have yet to follow through.

But this time is different.  I feel it in my bones.  I'm fed up with being overweight, under-energized, and most of all, I recently discovered this disgraceful fact:


I currently weigh more. than. my. father. 

Shut up and quit laughing. 

I should focus on the positive  here.  I mean, way to go, Dad!  I'm proud of you for losing weight.  But I kind of hate you, too.

Anyway, if that's not enough motivation to make it stick this time, I don't know what is....

Our 1D Summer

Today is a sad day. It's the end of summer. And this was not just any summer.

 This was the

 summer.

Yes, I'm a freak – a 43-year-old woman who adores One Direction. Their music is so fun and catchy, and the boys are all so stinkin' cute.  I like a lot of popular Christian music, but I haven't heard anything quite so upbeat from the Christian genre.

Last December, 1D was advertising their upcoming 2nd world tour.  I remember thinking how much I would love to take my girls to a concert.  I thought, "If only we had an extra $1000, then I could get tickets for them to see their favorite band."  Less than a week later, a $1000 check showed up on our doorstep!  Coincidence?  Maybe.  But I asked my husband if we could please use just a bit so my girls and I could go to a 1D concert.  When money had been tight for so long, it seemed a little silly to blow a small wad on something that seems frivolous, but I wanted to do something FUN with my girls after a couple of challenging summers. So it happened, (and no, we did not spend even close to the $1000 on concert tickets, FYI.  I just think that God is so awesome that He dropped the exact amount in our lap that I had been hoping for, even though it didn't take nearly that much to buy tickets).

The girls and I drove to Chicago and stayed with my best friend for a weekend full of the most fun I can remember. Aside from seeing the hottest band in the world, the girls and I also took a train by ourselves into downtown Chicago. We walked to Millenium Park and splashed in the fountain.  As we wandered around a bit, we would hear a rise in the noise from time to time and my girls' ears would perk up, and they would peer through the crowd to see if they might spot the 1D boys, on the extremely off chance that they might have slipped away from their very busy schedules to frolic in the windy city. No such luck.  We eventually got turned around so we caught a cab back to Union Station.  Being the dork that I am, I had no idea if it was kosher to sit in the front seat of a cab, so I smashed myself into the back seat with my girls and ended up on my teenager's lap!

At the concert, we had lawn seats (I told you I didn't spend the whole $1000!  If I had, we *might* have gotten a little closer....)  It didn't matter in the end - with binoculars and 12,000 other people, we danced and sang the night away with 1D.

We also caught the opening night of 1D's documentary-movie, “This is Us.” It was not nearly as exciting as seeing them in person in Chicago, but it was fun to do it with my girls.

As if that weren't enough excitement, two other events made this summer spectacular as well. On August 23, my nephew (and god-son) got married! August 24 was my parents' 50^th wedding anniversary, so my entire family stayed at the Radisson in Green Bay for a celebration-packed weekend.

My parents with my nephew and his new bride 

(disclaimer - this picture was taken by someone else and posted on my FB page, so I do not take credit for this photo.)

If I had to choose my favorite part of the summer, I might say it was the 1D events. Of course, the family wedding and anniversary were extraordinarily fun. But a girls' weekend in Chicago, complete with a 1D concert, cemented my relationships with them, and gave us some of those “time stands still” moments in my children's ridiculously fast childhoods. My oldest is starting high school. In the blink of an eye, she will be grown up. I only have 4 more years to call her my own, and then she will be her own person. Sure, we will still be able to go to concerts and have girls' weekends together, but it won't be the same.

Nothing will ever be quite as memorable as our 1D summer.