What Color Are Your Eggs?

There are so many kinds of chicken soup these days.  Chicken soup for the soul, for the body, for your cat, your dog, your turtle, your toenail, and yes, for the common cold. If chicken soup is supposed to help cure a cold,  any second now my nose will stop running, my ears will stop aching, my throat won’t scratch and Dean will stop covering his ears every time I cough.  Because in the last 48 hours I have eaten lots and lots of chicken soup.  Actually, in the last 48 hours I have eaten almost nothing BUT chicken soup. 

A steaming bowl of chicken/noodle soup for lunch?  Why, thank you.  I don’t mind if I do.

For dinner I believe just one luscious bowl of chicken and rice soup will suffice.  I will have it straight up tonight.  No crackers.   Oh, and might I have an Ibuprophen on the side?

Today’s lunch special is hearty chicken soup with wide noodles?  How delightful.  And please bring my decongestant with my lemon tea. 

A gourmet delight of thick country chicken soup for dinner sounds very pleasing.  The orange flavored cough syrup will pair nicely with it.  I believe I will splurge and add a side of soda crackers if you don’t mind. 

No, you must be mistaken.  I plucked before I left home.

◦

What Color Are Your Eggs?

David Copperfield Where Are You?

What?!  You cleaned them up?  But I was going to take a picture of the Q-tips spilled all over the bathroom counter.   I hadn’t done it yet so I wouldn’t wake you up.  I have the camera right here, ready and waiting.  Why did you decide to be helpful TODAY?!  What do you mean you spilled them?  I thought it was the kitties’ fault.  I was almost finished writing a whole blog post about dimpled golf balls and pinball machines and Q-tips and kitties too smart for their own good and you're telling me it wasn’t their fault?  Oh, well.  It would have just been a lie anyway.

What?!  I just deleted an almost-completed blog post because you told me it was your fault and now you’re telling me it really WAS the kitties' fault after all?  How could you NOT know it could have been good blog fodder?  Seriously?  I might have to make YOU my blog fodder today mister.

No.  A hug is not going to fix it.  Nnnooo … cooking me an awesome breakfast is not going to make up for it.  Really?  You think fixing the blinking kitchen lights will cause that blog post I slaved over while you were still snoring away to magically reappear?  And staining the kitchen door frames won’t bring back my blog post either ― even if I have been waiting four years for that final little kitchen remodel detail to be completed. 

Sure.  Be my guest.  Go ahead.  Try them all.  It can’t hurt.  You never know.  Stranger things have happened. 

And anyway, it’ll give me more blog fodder. 

◦

David Copperfield Where Are You?

A Rose By Any Other Name

“I hope I don’t *art during my exercise class.” 

Not that I haven’t.  More than once unfortunately.  But I’m much better at covering it up now.  Way better than I was in my first pilates class when I pretty much just froze in mid-move, mortified, hoping nobody had heard the little spurt of air, but knowing everybody had.  Now I just keep moving and make no eye contact. 

I did not write “I hope I don’t *art during my exercise class.”  Well, technically I did write it, but I was just copying it from something I read recently.  But I had been reading so quickly that when I got to that sentence, I’d missed the asterisk.  Wha?  Art?  In an exercise class?   That just doesn’t make sense.  Ohhhhhhhh …. FART!  You hope you don’t FART during your exercise class!  Now THAT makes sense.

I’m guessing this person didn’t want to write anything vulgar or tactless so they thought sticking in an asterisk would absolve them of any offensive responsibility.  But when I read this supposedly non-offensive sentence, I still said the word fart in my head.  I didn’t say to myself, “I hope I don’t asterisk art in my exercise class.”  I said fart.  I said the word this person was trying to save me from.  So what’s the point of the asterisk?   

There are quite a few socially unacceptable words and we all have words that personally offend us.  There are words I wouldn’t use when writing or even speaking.  Like ass.  I really don’t like the word ass.  And I NEVER (almost never) use the eff word.  I don’t even like hearing it.  I’m not in love with the word fart either but I do use it on occasion.  Still, I wouldn’t write, “I really need to get off my *ss and get to the gym but I sure hope I don’t *art during my exercise class.”  Because I know anyone who read that would fill in the asterisk with the missing letter.  So if I truly didn’t want to be offensive I wouldn’t use those words, with or without the asterisk.  I would just write “I really need to get to the gym and I hope I don’t regret eating those beans for lunch today.”  Or I could write, “I really hope my derrière doesn’t burp while I’m at the gym exercising.” That says the same thing the person I read was saying but doesn’t offend anybody because there are no asterisks to replace.

Anyway, I hope this person who wrote about farting during their exercise class got through it without expelling any intestinal gas.  I can empathize with their butt burping fear because, *amn it! now I'm in the same boat as them.  I ate this today so tomorrow I’m going to have to get my *ss to the gym and hope I don’t *art while I’m on that *ucking elliptical machine.    

◦

A Rose By Any Other Name

Cleocatra Has Whiskers

I was planning to sleep in this morning to make up for some of the sleep I lost over the weekend when we had a “slumber party” with the kids.  But apparently somebody set the alarm when they went to bed last night so at 5:45 a.m. my search for the lost and terrified person in a crumbling and dangerous pyramid abruptly ended.  I don’t always know where the topics of my dreams originate but I do happen to know why I was dreaming about pyramids.  The final Friday slumber party activity at our house had been an Indiana Jones-like movie, only instead of people, animals were the stars.  Dean and I, of course, hoped watching this movie late in the evening would make the kids tired, relaxed and ready for bed.  Instead, it awoke fears of skeletons, evil cats, darkness and all the other nasty things masked by a G-rating.  Who knew that puppies, monkeys, a camel and an ugly hairless cat could wreak such terror in the minds of the young.  Or maybe only young girls are vulnerable, because Pierce, who had already seen the movie, provided a giggling running commentary to his sisters throughout the whole movie. 

It turns out girls just don’t like “really scary skeletons.”  I would describe them to you but it seems I was nodding off during their appearance.  (NOW I know why two girls climbed into my lap.  And here I thought it was just because they wanted to cuddle.)  All I know is, instead of drowsy, heavy-lidded children crawling into bed at the end of the movie, there was one giggling four-year old boy, one wide-eyed, messy-haired, redhead convinced she could not sleep downstairs in the guest room because “downstairs is SCARY!” and she could not sleep in a sleeping bag upstairs in the den because that would be “SCARY!”  She could “ONLY sleep with Nada andPapa.”   She was just “TOO SCARED!”  And there was one eight-year old girl who also became “really scared” because, I suspect, she determined sleeping with Nada and Papa far more fun than sleeping downstairs with her brother.  

I was scared later too ― scared to move them into the sleeping bags next to our bed in case they woke up.  But the heavy snoring coming from the bed gave me courage and I was able to crawl into a toasty bed warmed from the bodies of children.

The next morning, after waking “bright” and early, as we waited for Leslie and Ryan to come for breakfast, I finished reading them the book we had started the night before.  That might sound like a simple task but you try holding a book in your left hand while protecting your mug of much needed caffeine in your right hand from the hard and pointy protuberances that are squirming next to you.  

A bit later Myra used the telescope she'd made the night before to spy on Emerson and Dean as they made us all lemon ricotta pancakes.  Emerson and Pierce had a soccer game later that morning and soccer players need a lot of energy. 

 

I promise I had absolutely no part in encouraging her to use some of the “found” items Dean has hoarded collected for “art” projects.  And I did not do the happy dance when she took her telescope made of those hoarded found objects home with her.  I did not.  Really.  Did not.  

Anyway ... as I was saying, soccer players need alot of energy.  Almost as much energy as the soccer coaches.  Especially when they are coaching little four-year old girls who are screaming and crying while at the same time sucking their thumb as their mom is on the “field” with them, standing beside them, pointing at the ball that just rolled by them while at the same time the other coach is trying to get the goalie who is sitting inside the goal examining his new tennis shoes to stand up.  Pierce knew he was going to have to "step up" at the soccer game so he strengthened his leg muscles in preparation for scoring a goal.  

 

After the intense soccer competition Dean and I just had to decompress so we decided to do some cross-country skiing.  Cross-country skiing is a bit like touring Yellowstone Park.  You don’t have to go far off the beaten path to have the place to yourself.   

The sun was shining, we got to share a chocolate bar guilt free, the air was crisp and clear with only the occasional tendril of diesel smoke wafting our way from the snowmobilers helping at the dog-sled races, and it was quiet.  The only sounds were the crunching of our skis on the trail and the indistinct chattering of Dean up ahead of me. 

It was a great way to unwind, reflect on the activities of the day, burn some calories and get some exercise other than on the evil elliptical machine.  As the day came to an end I was looking forward to a deep and dreamless sleep, leisurely waking up this morning as I enjoyed the warmth of the blankets and maybe the gentle rubbing of a kitty paw on my face.  But instead I suffered through a night of snoring, woke to beep!beep!beep!beep! and couldn't save the lost soul wandering through the depths of a pyramid, alone and scared.  From now on I'm sticking to R-rated movies.*  Maybe I'll sleep better.

*Not for the children, of course.  They'll have to endure those creepy G movies and hope they can sleep without nightmares.

◦

Cleocatra Has Whiskers

William Ernest Henley Got It Right

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’ve wished I had a crystal ball so I would know what the future held.  But I don’t simply want a crystal ball.  Since I’m a bit of a control freak I’ve also wished I had the power to change the future.  Because what’s the point of looking into the future if you can’t change what you don’t like?  If my crystal ball would have shown me Dean’s pillow was going to look like this after I washed it I would have chosen to leave it alone and let him continue to add to the drool stains.  (Not really.  It was disgusting.  I would have thrown it out and bought a new one, which, as it turns out, I did anyway.  But if I’d had a crystal ball I could have saved myself the messy cleanup.)

I know there are a lot of things we can’t control.  Leslie and Abby didn’t choose to be born to a father who wears socks with his sandals and a mother who has no inkling about how to apply makeup, no fashion sense, and thinks a dressy hairdo just means wearing a fancy pony tail holder.  But they can (and do) control whether or not their father wears those socked sandals in public with them. 

Even though there are so many things we can’t control or change, there are a lot of things we can.  What I don’t understand is why, when we have that capability, we choose not to use it.  I started thinking about this because recently I ran into a guy I’d first gotten to know when Dean and I played adult league soccer with him way back when our bodies actually did what we told them to do.   He’s not much older than I am and when I saw him, he was supporting himself by leaning on a counter as plastic nose tubes fed oxygen to his lungs from the tank on his back.  I really like the guy and it made me sad to remember him running on the soccer field but see him now with an oxygen tank.   It made me wonder ― if he’d had a crystal ball and the power to change his future, would he have given up smoking a long time ago?  Or not began smoking at all? 

 I know smoking’s an addiction and it’s not easy to quit.  Well, I don’t really know because I’ve never done it so I’ve never experienced the ordeal of trying to quit, but I just don’t get it.  If a person has the choice to do something which has been proven to lengthen their life, to improve the quality of their life, to save themselves and the people who love them from unnecessary suffering, why don’t they make that choice?

 I know in the early days of smoking people didn’t know there would be health consequences associated with it but they do now.  I remember the day my dad came home and showed my mom the warning label on his pack of Lucky Strikes.  He has since quit smoking but it was years later.  He must have had a crystal ball moment because he came home one day, threw his pack of cigarettes in his dresser drawer and he quit.  He quit with nothing but willpower.  And I’m proud of him for doing it. 

But people don’t have to do it completely on their own anymore.  There are support groups.  There are nicotine patches and gum and now there’s even medication to help them quit.   I just do not understand why anybody who smokes wouldn’t take advantage of them ― BEFORE they reach the oxygen tank stage.   

I don’t have a clue how smoking makes people feel or how strong the cravings must be when they try to quit.  And maybe I’m going to make any smokers who actually read this mad, but you know what?  I don’t care.  What I care about is YOU ― my few blog readers and my friends and my family.  I don’t want you to walk around with an oxygen tank on your back.  Or struggle for breath in a hospital bed.  Or die well before your time.  Don’t you think that will be hard for me?  Don’t you think that will be stressful for me?  Don’t you think that will make ME feel horrible?

Even I, the control freak, know there are some things I can’t control.  I know that people sometimes get lung cancer even if they’ve never smoked.  I know some people have heart attacks even though they’ve eaten healthy and exercised.  Sometimes bad things just happen for no reason.  But ―pay attention ― we CAN control some things.  And one of the most important things we can control is the choices we make.   We all make choices every day that affect not only ourselves but the people around us.  If you looked into your crystal ball and saw that next Tuesday you were going to be killed in a car accident because you were distracted by texting or talking on your cell phone, wouldn’t you choose to use a Bluetooth or better yet, just not talk or text on your phone while you were driving?  If you looked at the weight on your scale and then looked into your crystal ball and saw you were going to have a heart attack just as you were reeling in “the big one”, wouldn’t you choose to lose some weight and eat healthier?  If you looked into your crystal ball and saw yourself wheezing whenever you walked, or carrying an oxygen tank around on your back everywhere you went, wouldn’t you throw your cigarettes into a dresser drawer?  Maybe I’m just naïve but it seems to me, even without a crystal ball, the choice is obvious.

The thing is, we all have the power to change our future.  We have choices.  Nobody needs a crystal ball to know what their future is going to hold if it includes smoking … or overeating … or not exercising … or drinking too much … or doing things that just aren't safe.  But when I know somebody has had the opportunity to make a choice which would drastically improve the rest of their life, and probably the lives of their family and friends, and yet chooses not to take it, I get mad.  Really mad.  Have I made you mad?  I hope so.  I hope I've made you so mad you'll throw your cigarettes in a drawer.  I hope I've made you so mad you'll go to a support group or get the medication to help you quit.  I hope I've made you so mad you'll join weight watchers or a gym or take dance lessons or just go for walks.  I hope I've made you so mad you'll stomp on your cell phone until it’s in tiny bits on the sidewalk … unless it’s an iPhone, of course.  Smashing an iPhone would just be sacrilegious.

I know nobody is going to lose weight, stop smoking, exercise more, wear a seatbelt, or stop talking on their cell phone while they’re driving just because I’ve ranted about it.   Nobody’s going to do it for me.   I just don’t understand why anybody wouldn’t want to do it for themselves.  And it breaks my heart.   I know.  I know.  I’m preaching.  I’m sanctimonious.  But I’m not really.  Okay, I’m preaching, but I’m not really sanctimonious.   What I really am is selfish.   I want my friends and family to stay around as long as I plan to.  And I need somebody to read this blog.  My life-expectancy calculator  told me I would live until I’m somewhere between 95 and 105 years old.  (And if it’s on the internet it has to be true, right?)  So damn it!  Be the master of your fate.   Because when I’m somewhere between 95 and 105 years old I’ll be wanting some company.   And I’m pretty sure if I make it to 105 years old ... I might even need some help.

◦

William Ernest Henley Got It Right