Stars

Guy and I watched Amelie the other night. It was at this happinin birthday party out in a yard under the stars. I love yard movies and I love sitting out under the stars. I wish I had a snazzy projector and I'd have yard movies all the time! Anyway, Amelie was great. It was really artsy and I don't mind reading subtitles. The company was wonderful and I even got to see an old student of mine. Cute kid. But not so much kid anymore. And the candy, soda and sugar was delish. Too bad I missed Carina's meat pies, but that's what happens when you're late to the party because you had your own bbq in your own yard with your husband's mission companion from Canada and their five kids (very fun people, by the way...too bad they live in another country).

After Amelie I sat up and rubbed my left calf. Something slimy and smushy rolled up under my finger. Ewww. I went over to the light by the house to confirm my suspicion. Sure enough...



When I was up at the Homestead a few weeks ago doing a workshop we stopped in at Snake Creek Grill. No, Compulsive, I didn't have the sea bass. We were just checking on menus to see if we could bring our group of teachers to dinner (turned out a little over our meal budget so we ended up somewhere else, darnit). As we walked up to the door, I passed and smiled at this fellow who was awfully familiar--and yummy. I kept trying to think where I knew the guy from. Then I decided he was just better looking than most of the people I encounter during my regular daily activities, and that he must be someone famous. Great smile and eyes, nice dimples, and rather short. He looked like this:



Once inside the restaurant, I not-so-subtly asked the waiter if there was a famous guy out there (real classy, Lorien) and he told me who the fellow was. That was my star sighting. Only one ever, I think.

Hotch Hotcher Bee Watcher

This morning as I was considering doing my desperately needed housework, I began thinking how lucky I am because I have so many AWESOME friends. So I forgot about the housework and sat down to blog (wouldn't you?). How cool are all of you? And how lucky am I that I feel I can consider you my friends? Last night I got to pick up my good friend Compulsive and we went to meet Bek and see her three yummy children. I got to see Marie-in-Chick-filet ala Lisa V. I got to love Luckyred's camera and eat some of Carina's real food (oh yum). I got to hug ~j and admire her joy in carrying a child. I saw old friends and made new ones. I laughed till my face and gut hurt. These are the times in life I love. I came home refreshed, ready to love my family more and give the mundane another go. Thank you, friends, for being wonderful. I love you!

Did I ever tell you how lucky you are? When I was quite young and quite small for my size, I met an old man in the desert of Dryz. He sat in a very prickly place, yet he sang with a sunny, sweet smile on his face. He sang me a song I will never forget. At least, well, I haven't forgotten it yet. He said to me, Ducky, when you feel sour and blue, when you start to feel sad you should do what I do. You should say to yourself 'Ducky, you're really quite lucky. Some people are muchly, oh ever so muchly, so muchly much much more unlucky than you.' ...Think you're unlucky? Think of poor Ollie Sard. He has to mow grass in his uncle's backyard. And it's quick-growing grass, so it grows as he mows it. The faster he mows it, the faster he grows it. And all that his stingy old uncle will pay for shoving that mower around in that hay is the piffelous pay of two dukles a day and Ollie can't live on such piffelous pay, so he has to paint flagpoles on Sundays in Gruze. Now aren't you glad you don't live in his shoes? -Quoted as I remember it from Dr. Seuss' Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

Where Do They Get Their Good Looks?

I've made a goal to take the blogfiber Julie recommended and become more regular. I'm going to try to make an entry at least once a week. We'll see how it goes.

So I was trying to think of something to blog about, and thought my photo album might be a good place to start. I ran across this photo of my kids. It's a picture we took for Grandma on her birthday. Grandmas can be hard to do gifts for because at that time in their lives, they either already have everyhing they want, or if they don't, they go out and buy it. But I came up with a good one this time. I took these great photos of the kids and we made button fridge magnets (a neighbor has a pin-button maker) with this and a couple of other photos. Darling children, aren't they?

Last night I had a dream that it was Halloween morning and my kids didn't have costumes. Now that's scary. (Around our house, that's almost as bad as Christmas without presents.) So I guess it's time to start thinking about costumes. I have yards and yards of bright pink felt (formerly a wedding aisle). I'm thinking energizer bunny and pepto bismol. How many costumes can you think of to use up the felt? C'mon. Think pink.

Summah Summah Summah

It turns everything upside down--schedules, eating habits, sleeping habits, housework, yardwork, and blogging. (Not that I've been regular for some time anyway, but still) But there are some great things about summer, and I thought I'd list a few.

1. Kids can wear whatever they want. And 99% of the time, I don't even care.



2. My yard is lookin good. I love good lookin yards. I got mine ready for a wedding, and it's just lovely (yes, that was a bright pink aisle and no, they didn't rappel from the treehouse). I should have a party. Would you come if I did? We could even have a pool party (see #5).


3. Toenail polish. Three letters, ladies: O-P-I ! This is the most amazing brand of toenail polish I've ever experienced in my thirty-some-odd summers. The stuff survives scuffs on swimmingpool bottoms, it wears for about a month, and the colors have great names. Right now I'm wearing "Charged-Up Cherry." I also picked up "Red Red Rhine" for 60% off. The first color I tried was "My Chihuahua Bites!" It was a great color, but a bit on the orange side for me. The only thing I've found that messes it up is if I hit it with my summer scent, Deep Woods Off. That kinda mucks it up and takes off the shine. So tuck the toes when scenting up for the evening. And yes, I call it TOEnail polish because I can't stand the stuff on my fingernails. Anyway, some of you may already know about O.P.I. Shame on you. How you could keep this a secret and not shout it from the rooftops, I'll never know. So now I have a new mission preachin the good word about O.P.I. Nail Laquer. If you don't have any, run (don't walk) to the nearest beauty store and getcha some sweet color for your toeseys.

4. Garden produce. Just made my first batch of zucchini bread. Mm-mm! And I love my yellow squash. And I have 2 cherry tomatoes that are orange, and have eaten one cucumber. None of the regular tomatoes are ripe yet, but my bushes are 100% better than last year (if any of you remember my last year's lament). Almost as good as my 90-year-old neighbor's.

5. Swimming. Got me one of those poor-man-swimmingpools. You know the ones. Big vinyl things with a blown-up ring to keep the top edge up. The company tries to make you feel really fancy by including a filter pump and you can even put in chemicals. We'll see how it goes, but I thought why not, since my kids are all tall enough now to reach the bottom--although I'm still fairly paranoid about kids and water. It was actually one of those keep-up-with-the-joneses purchases. I wasn't about to let my friend Neighborhood Watch have the corner on the pool market on our street. (I got the one the next size up) Plus it was on clearance.

6. Tan feet. They just look better that way.

7. Tan bodies. They look better that way, too.

8. Bedtime? What's that?

9. Bathtime? See #5.

10. Getting lost in a great book. I have always loved curling up in a chair and reading, reading, reading. The rest of the world can all just go to h___ when I'm reading (and my house usually does). I'm a shameless Harry Potter fan, and reading a HP book just seems like a summery thing to do, so since we all still have a while to wait for the final book, I took a day and a half and read #6 again. ***SPOILER WARNING*** (although if you haven't read it by now I'm guessing you just wont, which is fine) I read carefully this time through, and I think our double agent Snape will end up a good guy in #7 (Dumbledore knew about his unbreakable vow and plead for Snape to kill him, not for mercy) and Dumbledore is really and will stay dead, though his influence will still be there via his portrait in the headmaster's office and perhaps the penseive. I do wonder about all the phoenix imagery, though...***SPOILING FINISHED*** You may not be a Potter fan, but whatever your genre, I think summer is definitely the time to lose yourself in a book.

Well, there are loads of other great things about summer, but these are just the ones I've noticed in the last couple of days. Gotta go help my kid get packed for scout camp. Maybe that's #11.

Why Writing Tests Isn't Such a Bad Gig After All

Here’s to all those conversations I’ve killed. Killed by talking about my jobs editing test items. Why the shout-out? Because right now I’m in Portsmouth, New Hampshire editing test items. I was invited to review test questions for a company that writes CRTs (standardized tests) that some states use. They flew several of us out here, paid us for a good day’s work, and now I get to see the sights. A friend and I have had a great time wandering around. Last night, after a bumpy flight, a less-than-perfect landing, a very long bus ride (accident on Route 1 so we wound through some neighborhoods or something for 2 hours), and a pleasantly brief cab ride, we ate at a fabulous place called The Oar House (the boullibaisse was amazing). Tonight we walked around, shopped, and walked across Piscataqua River to Kittery, Maine (which I hear has amazing shopping, but it was getting late). Tomorrow morning I’ll go to Strawbery Banke before catching a bus to the Boston airport. I did the tourist thing and pulled out the camera (which I absolutely hate doing, but I did for the sake of entertaining my husband and children), so I’ll have a few pictures to post when I get home.

And book group girls…have a good time without me. Sorry I had to miss it.

Diagnosis: Contact Dermatitis

Since Tuesday of this week I’ve spent hours scratching. Scratching my horridly itchy legs—hip to ankle. And not just a little scritch here or a nice scrub there. We’re talking SCRATCHIN. The kind where you make little bruises and draw blood in a few places. The kind where you sit and groan as you dig your skin into red swollen bumpiness. So I finally went to the doctor. He confirmed it…I have…(dum dum duuum!) a rash.

Odd that it’s only on my legs, don’t you think? At the doctor’s office we went through the list of what might have caused this tragic condition:

New clothes or underclothes worn before washing?

No. Except the viral blog shirt and that was long ago. And also not worn on my legs.

New laundry detergent (Tide or Downy)?

Nope. Still the same institutional-sized bucket of Costco laundry soap I’ve been using for months.

New soap?

Uh-uh. Been using Dove for years. It has 1/4 moisturizer, you know.

Shampoo?

No, and besides, that would give me a rash on my head, right?

New lotions or creams?

No…

Wait…I did pull out the sunless tanning cream to tone down winter’s blue glaze the other week. I used it once or twice, waited a week, then used it again Sunday and Monday, just before the break-out. But not on my whole body. Only on MY LEGS.

That’s pretty conclusive evidence, I think. Jack Bauer invaded the Chinese Embassy on less evidence than that. We’re watching last year’s 24 right now. Love that show. We used to be junkies, but then other stuff made it too hard to watch every week, so we quit. So now we just watch the last season on DVD, and I think I like that even better. We can watch 2 episodes a night after the kids are in bed, and each episode only lasts 45 minutes—no commercials to agonize through. The only problem is if you itch. It makes it really hard to enjoy TV if you are always shifting around to get the next itchy spot on the other knee.

But the doctor gave me some allergy medication and some cream to use, and it’s made the rash much better. I really only start itching in the evening, and an oatmeal bath plus some meds usually take the edge off so that I can enjoy Jack and the gang. Did I mention I really like Chloe? She’s so disgruntled and has such a lousy attitude. I love her crabby eyebrows. I haven’t watched any of this season, but I hope she sticks around. So here’s my advice: First, don’t use No-Ad brand Sunless Tanning Cream, especially if it’s last year’s bottle. Spring for the extra 5 or 10 bucks and get a good brand and avoid a week’s worth of itchy agony. Second, if you haven’t ever watched 24, you need to. Rent or buy the first season and get going on it—you’ll love it.

Infected

The shirt IS true. Thank you, Compulsive Writer.

Guy calls it my Embroidered Garden of Hotness.

Smile Big, Everyone!

We had this photo of Grandma, Grandpa and all their grandkids taken last fall at their 50th wedding anniversary. A nice evening to bring in the photographer and create some lasting memories. Can you tell which one is my kid?



Here. Maybe you need a little hint.



*Second photo, “Now Show Us the BACK of Your Band-aid”, courtesy of my brother The Dally Llama.

An Experiment in the Kitchen

Today, folks, I am going to attempt to make flan. I got the recipe from a little lady in our neighborhood named Hortencia. Wish me luck. I'll be starting my adventure around 6:00 today, which means that if all goes well, there might be some good eatin around here by 7:30 or 8:00. Stop by if you wish. The best part about this is that I'm the only one in this house (that I know of) who will eat the stuff, so there should be plenty.

Cheers!

Spring Is In the Air

You might not think so, but I know it is because my three-year-old son has already peed outside twice in the last week. That I know of. At Grandma’s house the other day, he came moseying on into the house and said casually, “I peed in the flower holder.” I took a slow breath and calmly asked where exactly it was that he peed. He explained that it was in the flower holder (read flower pot) outside on Grandma’s porch. Then he and his dad had a nice man-to-man moment while he showed his dad precisely where. And how. Apparently the pot was just the right height. Then the next day, he came into Grandma’s house again and told us he peed in the bush. Somehow the time-outs and multiple discussions about peeing only in toilets aren’t registering. I’m trying to be calm and not overreact about this, but really! Maybe all you men out there can explain this to me. Why the fascination? Is it because it’s so convenient? Enjoyable? Freeing? Or just because you can? I don’t get it. It’s going to be a long summer around here. And it’s only March.

A few minutes ago he walked into the room and announced that he has hot pee. This is how my 5-year-old daughter has described a bladder infection, so when I asked, “You have hot pee?” I expected to hear more about pain or problems on the potty. Instead he explained that he peed on his finger for a long time and it was hot. Investigating his sister's claims, I suppose. Arrrgh! What am I going to do with my son and his “peanut”? If any of you know how to keep little boys from making their mark on the world, will you please let me know?

Anything I Can Do

I have a show for you to watch. It’s called “Anything I Can Do” and it’s on PBS. It’s one of those do-it-yourself shows. The hostess is Mag Ruffman and the project today was building a child’s bench. The bench is made from 4 pieces of plywood all glued and screwed together and then decoupaged with little squares of colored fabric. The clever part about the project was that Meg designed it with her eyes shut. You might be thinking, “What? How could someone design a piece of furniture with shut eyes?” Well, you obviously don’t know Mag. She is very free-spirited. She just took a pencil, shut her eyes, and drew out the sides of the bench on a piece of plywood. Then she instructed us in the finer points of a jigsaw, eye and ear protection, and cut away. She assured us it didn’t even matter if the two sides of the bench were different from each other, because they are kind of like the sleeves of a dress—it doesn’t matter if they are different because they aren’t right next to each other so nobody will notice. Brilliant. Plus, she pointed out that one of the great things about designing furniture with your eyes closed is that if it turns out badly, you can always say, “Not bad, considering my eyes were closed.”

One thing I love about Mag is that she uses catchy little phrases throughout her show and she always gives her projects clever titles. This little kiddie bench she called “Glue Me Like You Did Last Summer.” A show about making garden pots she called “Pot and Bothered” and her show on making and wiring lamps she called “Interview with a Lamp Wire.” Now how did she come up with all that?

Mag really speaks to women. As you watch her floundering with glue and falling pieces of plywood, you realize it’s okay to be a girl who has a tough time with stuff. As long as you’re cute and say funny things, no problem, and your fun little projects will turn out just fine regardless. Skill and technique don’t really matter that much. Mag reminds us that “there's nothing like hefting a power tool to tighten important muscle groups.” There’s my new workout! And I think high-waisted, peg-legged pants must be coming back in style if Mag is any indicator.

Mag is in touch with her inner child. It’s not uncommon to watch her running and playing in the big field outside her barn. Or sliding down the pole from her loft, twirling as she descends.

My very most favorite part of the show is when Mag has a reflective moment. We hear Mag’s introspection as she thinks or writes in her journal. She really has a few things going on in her head, and she shares them freely with us. Doing it yourself is a sort of spiritual thing, and you can find yourself in one of Mag’s projects.

If you haven’t ever watched Mag, I think you should. Let me know what you think. You can go here to see more of Mag and her clever ideas: http://www.homeenvy.com/mag_ruffman.html

So Where Have You Been?

That’s what I think you, reader, might be thinking. Where have I been since my last post? Richfield, Utah. Okay, not the whole time. But I was there for one day, anyway. Occasionally I go out of town without the rest of my family. Yep, just by my lonesome. Sometimes I have a conversation with a friend and the subject of my absence comes up. The conversation goes something like this:

“I can’t do this-or-that tomorrow. I’ll be out of town.”

“Oh? Where are you going?” my friend asks with interest.

“Richfield.”

Pause. “Where’s Richfield?”

Rural Utah towns don’t get a lot of hype. I explain that Richfield is about 2 hours south of Provo, past Scipio and near Aurora. That usually doesn’t help much. The conversation is losing steam.

“Ohhhh. Why are you going to Richfield?”

“I’m teaching at a workshop.”

I gain a little ground and my friend now seems slightly impressed. I even get a little bit of an eyebrow raise, as if I had just announced that I was an architect.

“Oh! A workshop about what?”

I take a deep breath. How do I explain what I do? “About writing tests. Assessment.”

“Mmmm.”

Conversation killed.

Really, the workshop is about much more than writing tests. It’s a workshop that teaches science teachers different ways to find out what their students have learned, and then to adjust their teaching accordingly. To folks in the field, that’s called formative assessment. The title of the workshop is “Using Formative Assessment to Inform Instruction.” But to the lay-person, and even to many teachers, that just sounds like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. So each time I do this workshop, I try and think of a way I can explain this to my friends in a simple way and make it sound interesting and fun. But the best I can come up with is, “It’s a workshop about testing,” which it really isn’t. Pretty much a guaranteed conversation killer.

I've been doing this type of stuff--either teaching workshops about assessment or working at workshops where we create assessments--for about 6 or 7 years now. And at the end of each workshop, I’m exhausted, worn out, and completely fulfilled. I’ve also experienced a change of scenery and a little get-away, which every mother needs. I find myself in a conversation with my friends and co-teachers Hugh, Janis and Kevin, and hear myself say, “Gosh, that was fun.” And then I step back and go, wha…? This is like major geek fun. Oh well. I’m pretty good at it, I like it, it’s fulfilling, and I get paid. Plus, the two workshops we’ll teach this summer will be in Heber and we’ll stay for 4 days (each workshop) at the Homestead. Not bad accommodations for someone teaching about tests.

King Kong

You know how sometimes you’ll suddenly notice something that you have been seeing for a long time, but hadn’t really SEEN? Well, this has been around a long time but I wonder how many of you have SEEN it.



So what’s the deal? First of all, I’m not a fan of large inflatable advertising, but some folks must be because there sure is a lot of it. Personally I think a gorilla in shorts and sunglasses is dumb and tacky, but I can understand if the owners of this fine establishment genuinely enjoy large inflatable primates. However, I wonder if the owners of Giant Wireless realize their little gorilla is giving all of Provo the finger every time they drive past.

Since when do we allow this sort of gesture to be displayed at such a grand scale in our quiet town? I thought this was a very conservative community, but I have yet to hear an outcry regarding this unattractive and vulgar balloon. Curious. I suppose I could initiate a movement against tasteless displays atop buildings, but it would take a tremendous amount of time and energy and I’m not sure I’m up to it. Instead I have chosen to do the next best thing. Every now and then when the kids aren’t in the car, I crank up the tunes and with a guttural growl give my big furry friend the double bird right back.

I'm It

Okay, Okay. Resistance is useless. I'll play along, although it is against my better judgement.

Five little known facts about me:

1. I was Gretel in Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates in our 4th grade play. That was about the extent of my theatrical career.

2. I co-starred with my 4th grade crush, Rick Alexander. That was about the extent of our romantic relationship.

3. I took piano lessons for at least 4 years as a kid, but I can barely pluck out a melody. Go figure.

4. You already know I had headgear, a mullet and a "special" bicycle.

5. Other than my tennis shoes, all of my shoes are black.

Whew. That took some doing. Now I get to tag some friends and they get to either play along or just ignore the game, right? I'll tag Dally, Otto, Lisa, and Christopher.

I Saw It On the Way To Walmart

I was driving along yesterday, thinking through my shopping strategy, when I saw this frumpy lady raking leaves in her yard. (By the way, this is an observation, not a criticism—who doesn’t look frumpy doing yard work?) She had a wheelbarrow full of leaves and with great effort, she was pushing the wheelbarrow down her sloping lawn toward the road. The edge of her lawn is about 5 or 6 feet above the road, and railroad ties create the wall that hold up her yard. Once she got to the precipice, she carefully tipped the wheelbarrow full of leaves over the edge of her yard and into the weedy strip bordering the road below. Then she began pushing the wheelbarrow back up her lawn to get a new load.

I laughed out loud as I watched this whole process. Not so much that I thought it was funny as I was astonished at the audacity of this lady. She wasn’t dumping the leaves into a vacant, unused field where a compost pile would be unnoticed. No, she was tossing them over the edge of her yard onto a well-traveled road, next door to some homes and parks that have recently been improved and look quite neat and tidy. This would be like me gathering up my leaves and dumping them into my neighbor’s front yard. How rude. I’ve only done that once, but they weren’t my leaves in the first place, and in the second place, it was a really good joke. Anyway, I shook my head and laughed in amazement at this woman, and found myself feeling sorry for the poor blokes that live next to her and thinking how grateful I am that she isn’t my neighbor. On my way back home an hour and a half later, she was still at it, and I laughed again and thought about how much I like my neighbors.

I Had a Mullet

It’s confession time. I was an ugly kid. I’d like to think I grew out of it, but that wasn’t until at least 9th or 10th grade, and that may be a generous estimation. I look back at old photos and realize this problem began early.



This makes me wonder what my mom was thinking. Shouldn’t a mom try to help her little girl look cute when she’s too young to do it herself? I think she tried. Maybe she was just misguided by the styles of a bad decade. Or maybe she just didn’t have much to work with. When I was a bit older and after a couple of not-quite-successful home permanent waves, she came to all my hair appointments and made decisions about my hairstyles. I distinctly remember my “Annie” cut and perm in fourth grade and how Mom was so thrilled that all I needed was a spray bottle and a pick to do my hair each morning. Why did she allow this? Couldn’t she see that an Annie-do wouldn’t go well with headgear?


Headgear. Twenty-two to 23 hours a day I wore that thing. And it wasn’t the kind that just went around the neck. No, I got the kind that was a helmet. One band down the back of the head, one band around the neck, and one band from in front of one ear, over the top of the head, then down to in front of the other ear. I got it in 4th grade and for a couple of years wore it everywhere I went. I remember I hated it, but I wore it anyway. Remember that I had pom-pom hair to go with it—a nice band down the middle and two fluffs out each side. A lovely picture, isn’t it? So why did I wear it so faithfully? Did I not care how weird I looked? Or did I just not realize how bad it really was?

I had this bike that was a hand-me-down from my aunt (probably from the late 50’s, making it about 20 years old). It was a gold 5-speed. The thing was enormous and weighed more than I did. The front tire was really small—like from a little pre-school sized bike—and the back tire was big—about the size of a pre-teen mountain bike. It had this big banana seat, complete with springs I wasn’t even heavy enough to budge, and the gear-shifter was on the bar in front of the seat. No subtle little gear-shifter, no sir, this thing was huge. And big old fenders and U-shaped handlebars. These days this bike would be awesome—all retro and everything. But in the early eighties, it was nightmarishly ugly. But it was the only bike I had, so, like the headgear, I just went with it. One day I was riding my golden atrocity down the road, sporting, of course, headgear on top of my puffy Annie hair. I passed this lady and she asked me in this sweet, condescending voice, “Oh! Did your mom and dad have that bike made special for you?” I think this was about the time I realized how truly pathetic I was. I didn’t just look a little weird, I looked “special.” That was the last time I rode that bike. And I’m still surprised I didn’t quit wearing the headgear, but maybe I really was “special.” Or I just wanted to have really good teeth.

By about 6th grade I didn’t have to wear the headgear anymore and I started growing out the hair. Gracefully? Not really. And I still had those marvelously silver-banded teeth. Junior High was miserable and is worthy of it’s own blog. I was still working on the hair situation and didn’t have any friends. Once I thought I’d have fun and dress up for Nerd Day. During the Nerd Parade at lunch, somebody asked me if I was dressed up. Apparently my nerdy clothes weren’t significantly different from my regular clothes.

In high school things started getting a little better. I found some friends and I wasn’t quite so self-conscious. I started to figure out who I was and I didn’t care quite so much what some people thought. My eyes went bad and I got glasses. Now I think those specs were horrible, but in the 80s they really were in style as far as glasses went. (Right? They were, weren’t they?)

Luckily, the 80s only lasted about 10 years. The 90s and 00s have been a little more merciful and I think I turned out okay in the end. So perhaps my ugly childhood was character building or something. At any rate, if you have an ugly kid, or if you are an ugly kid, just think…eventually you might pull out of it. You might even be better for it. I don’t know…mullet over.

Quote for the Day

"This compass sucks. It only points north."

-Daughter, age 7

Pineapple Chunks

I just wanted to let you all know that my youngest son has joined the ranks of kids who puke when they eat too much. Last night after the chicken, ravioli, pepperige farm goldfish, and creamie, the canned pineapple chunks his cousin Koltan shared with him finally pushed him over the edge. After puking into the sink, he said, "Koltan, I spit out yo food."

Innovation

It’s potty-learning time at our house. I try to let my kids take the reigns and do this at his/her own speed. My youngest has finally decided he likes the feel of “big-boy pannies” better than a diaper. (Yes, at our house they are “pannies” regardless of gender. And no ‘T’ is pronounced. Deal with it.) Those of you with children know, and those of you without can imagine or perhaps remember, that this journey to potty proficiency is fraught with accidents and setbacks. My son and I experienced his first big setback today. I’m pretty good about staying calm and I certainly don’t punish my child. I just put the kid in the tub and clean up the mess. Sometimes an audible growl and “eeeew, yuck!” do escape my lips, but that’s about it.

The worst part of the whole thing is rinsing the poop out of the pannies in the toilet. Ugh. It’s horrid. You start off so gingerly with thumb and forefinger carefully swishing the soiled underwear around in the bowl, trying not to splash. And you can get really quite good at it with the Flush-and-Swish technique. But in the back of your mind you know that ultimately you have to take the dive. There’s no getting around the final pannie wring. I know of no technique to avoid getting poo water on your hands. I hate it.

How did our ancestors do it? I remember the cloth diapers my mother left sitting in the toilet. At times washing those things out must have been more than she could bear. And she had an automatic washer and dryer. What about another 50 or 100 years before her? What if I’d lived then? How would I have managed? First of all, I don’t think I’d have been such a patient potty coach! And I think instead of a diaper pail I would have had a diaper vat—a diapers-only kettle sitting there to toss the diapers into, then fill with water and boil for a very, VERY long time. And what did they use for plastic pants? Wool I guess? How did they ever manage to keep a baby dry and not leaky all the time? Those folks were either incredibly creative and industrious or horribly smelly. Probably both.

What do I learn from all of this? To be grateful. So thank you, inventors of the disposable diaper, the automatic washer and dryer, Clorox wipes and bleach. Thank you.

Blood Suckers

Yesterday I gave blood. Yes, kudos to me! I’m on the vampires’ call list, so they call and I go in. No big deal. I figure I can donate blood and there's always more where it came from. It doesn't bother me; I watch them put the needle in every time and I don't get sick or woozy from donating. No problem.

But the part that sucks about donating blood, besides that little owie lancelet prick on my finger, is reading the “What You Need to Know Before Donating Blood” booklet. You have to read it every time you go in. It tells you about all this stuff that could have possibly contaminated your blood. Then you have to answer all these worthiness questions, including the question, “Did you read the ‘What You Need to Know Before Donating Blood’ booklet?” I always feel like I’m going into some big interview, a final judgment of sorts. The thing of it is, I always give myself this pep talk as I drive out to the donation site. “You can just skim the information booklet. You haven’t done anything since your last donation to contaminate your blood.” I mean really, I lead a pretty boring life. I haven’t gone anywhere or done anything or anyone that would compromise the integrity of my blood. My riskiest behavior is my occasional encounter with mosquitoes, but I’m pretty good about wearing my summer scent (Deep Woods Off with DEET) at both dawn and dusk.

So I get to the donation site and sit down with the fateful red booklet ready to skim. Then I have this wave of anxiety and guilt sweep over me. What if one of the questions has changed? What if there is a NEW information sheet in the booklet? I mean, they are in plastic sleeves, so they could be easily updated or changed. What if I have forgotten some important little detail about my conduct since the last time I donated 8 weeks ago? And what am I going to say when they ask me if I read the booklet? So despite my pep talk, I start reading.

I pass my eyes over every word, pausing momentarily but trying not to contemplate too deeply all the new definitions of “sexual contact” they have included. Then here is the part that really sticks in my craw. About 5 minutes after I walk in and begin my soul-searching reading, another lady comes in and starts her reading. Then she finishes her reading another 5 minutes before me and goes back for her worthiness questioning! What the heck? Who does she think she’s fooling? I know she didn’t read the whole thing. I was flyin’ and hadn’t finished mine, and I think I’m a pretty quick reader. And even worse than that, a kid comes in 5 minutes after her, picks up his book, begins perusing, then starts chatting with one of the volunteers. Then he goes back for his interview. WHAT? He hadn’t sat there 5 minutes! I don’t think he even flipped each of the pages. And I'm certain he didn’t check his memory to recall if he had been a dependant of someone in the military since 1980 or if he’d had a family member with Krutchfeld-Jacobs disease. Does he think being an acquaintance of a volunteer gets him off the worthiness hook? And it’s not like he can say he’s been in more recently than I have, because I’m on the vampire call-back list. This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. I had the same thing happen on my last two donations. Some people just aren’t taking this booklet seriously enough. And they got into the donation chair before me. Growl.

I can say that the American Red Cross is speeding up their process. It used to take me about an hour to donate. Now I’m out of there in 35 to 45 minutes. But I still wish they just had one worthiness question for regulars like me, something like, “Have you had any wildly excessive fun or any completely novel experiences or diseases since your last donation?” Then I could just say "no" once and be out of there in 15.