I May Have Left A Lung On the Mountain

I've been to the mountain and back and all future vacations will be at sea level where oxygen is plentiful and nothing more then shorts and a t-shirt are needed.  I had grandiose plans of taking the family to the Rocky Mountains for a little fun in the snow.  In hindsight, I realize now that bouncing back from bronchitis doesn't necessarily mean you are ready to don 50 extra pounds of clothes and trek up a mountain with three children in tow, all of whom need assistance getting their own snow gear on.   I believe I was approaching a near death experience as I sat on the bumper of the jeep in the extreme cold of the public parking lot trying to shove my son's foot into a boot that looked like he could walk through swamps or pools of nuclear waste.  These were the biggest, heaviest boots I've ever seen and I had to wonder why he selected these.  They warded off cold and water and probably cute girls, too. As I gasped for oxygen and forced children into clothing that didn't fit, I had to wonder where the fun was.  Something told me it was on the slopes and I just had to hang on. 

As my blood thinned and oxygen levels depleted, I attached lift tickets to everyone's jackets and soon we were headed up the mountain for a little tubing. Now, my idea of tubing was nothing like what waited for us.  I envisioned gently skirting down a hill in white powdery fluff, laughing all the way. What I paid $150 for was an over-inflated tube of air and four icy runs that we go careening down after my daughter screams "Spin Us" to the attendant at the top of the hill.   Certain all oxygenated blood had now left my body, I spun upward into the bank of the run only to come shooting down backwards at speeds surely prohibited by OSHA and any safety conscious ski-patrol. 

As my daughter mapped out new and exciting ways to come down the mountain (backwards, upside down.... connected in a chain of death) my son made two runs and excused himself to the warmth and comfort of the lodge. Had there been little oxygen masks in there like they had on the plane, I would have joined him, but instead stayed with my daughter to make a few more runs down the mountain while I denied the obvious signs of sudden onset heart disease or decompression sickness from the lung that I was certain collapsed from the last time I flew upside down around the bend of the tubing run.   On our last run, we had five people in a chain and I was in the lead position.  It didn't take long before the tail of our chain came swinging past me telling me I was about to be whipped down the slope in a violent shift of energy.  That's about the time you could hear my daughter yelling, "Wheeeee........"   We landed in a pile of giggles at the base of the run where we gathered our tubes and my collapsed lung and headed to the lodge to join my son who already wore the look of exhaustion and winter fun.  

Unexpected Friends

  

Wolf!!!!   No.... This is my backyard where Randi Hope and Jaci are checking out the new snowfall.  In an earlier post, "Hope Comes in Many Forms" I told the story of how Randi Hope came to be.  This is simply a quick update on Randi and what she's up to.  I've received comments from people who wonder why the deer is not afraid of the dog, but you have to understand that they have been raised together. I'm not certain the deer even knows she's a deer.  She imprinted on my husband and she believes she is supposed to lounge around on the pool deck eating pistachios and sipping Sam Adams beer when nobody is looking.      She is free to roam the woods, but she stays here with her dog friends in a make-shift stable where they all pile together at night.   She is gone at the moment and I can only guess that her boyfriend, Turner from the woods, has lured her out for some reindeer games or a little mischief.   She always comes home after a few days and I'm guessing that this time she may come home with a surprise.  I suppose we will know in the Spring.   

Tiny Snowflakes and Quilted Goodness

Southern Snow!  Nothing is more exciting than the possibility of snow in the southern Delta.   Moms race to the grocery store to stock up on bread and milk so they are prepared should the seventh seal be opened or we are snowed in for more than a few hours.  It's not like we don't already have enough groceries on hand to sustain a small army, but you never know when one might need some fresh guacamole and home-made salsa to fight off the cold.  I stand ready to meet these needs.  Kids begin mining for hats and gloves and full Arctic expedition gear in case we get that 1 - 3 inches of snow that will stop everything in its tracks.   The news anchors report about being prepared and sheltering in place.  That particular term, "Shelter In Place"  makes me think of a concrete bunker, cans of tuna and bottles of water.  My children understand that to mean that we have raced to the video store and have half a dozen of the latest movies, we have ice cream in an assortment of flavors,  frozen pizzas are readily accessible at all times and someone actually knows where the TV remote is located.   There is a community pulse that beats faster and faster as the weathermen show digital forecasts of what may be coming our way.  The kids pace back and forth watching for the first hint of snow, sleet, or any other frozen precipitation.  When that first tiny snowflake falls, there is an immediate flurry of messages on Facebook announcing that the storm has arrived. Shelter in Place!  Cook those pizzas!   No matter what the time of day or night, kids who normally never venture past the boundaries of their wifi connections come outdoors in groves.  They are dressed in fully Arctic gear, each with a personal all-terrain vehicle and make-shift sled.    As I write, we have passed through several phases of fun involving sledding, 4-wheeling, building snowmen with giant sparkler arms, chasing the dog who stole the boot, fishing the youngest child out of the muddy hole of water in the back yard and much more.  Each of these children is now passed out asleep across my living room.   Their snow gear sits in a pile on my laundry room floor slowly depositing melting snow everywhere.   (Note... I have true respect for the moms of the north who do this on a daily basis)  Abandoned cups of hot chocolate and slices of pizza are left near each exhausted child as they rest from the fun they have had.    But I realize a terribly important thing as I sit here taking it all in.  We have plenty of food, drink and dry clothes to accommodate every person in this house and I can take comfort knowing we will successfully make it through this snowstorm.  However,  we are down to one roll of toilet paper!  What was I thinking?!?  I thought I was prepared to survive even the Apocalypse, but something as simple as toilet paper, or the lack of, can bring a household to its knees.  It no longer matters if we have food, heat or water....  toilet paper is now the founding support of our hierarchy of needs.  Somewhere between basic needs and self-actualization, I forgot about the importance of two-ply softness.  Someone is going to be traipsing through the snow for this precious commodity before the night is over.    While the roads are ice covered and all signs say "Shelter in Place",  the call of Charmin will drag us out into this winter wonderland to forage for  rolls of quilted goodness. Surely, somewhere out there is a 24 hour gas station providing respite for weary travelers and moms who forgot about about the strength and softness delivered by toilet paper in the middle of a southern winter storm.

Broken and Beat in Kyiv

The classic game of Monopoly comes in many different versions.  My daughter has the "Pink Boutique" version that comes in a fashionable pink suede box and offers trips to wonderful shopping spots around the globe with a simple roll of the dice.  My son owns the latest Monopoly World edition that comes with titles to cities around the world, six credit cards, and an ATM machine.  Somewhere in my past I owned the traditional game with paper money and a race car playing piece that we all fought over. 

At the beginning of our modern day game of Monopoly, we each had 20 million dollars.  I was the only adult at the table and sadly, twenty minutes later, I was broke, had mortgaged seven large European cities and owed my daughter a million dollars for an illegal loan not allowed by the Monopoly guy.  My son was building sky-rise hotels in Istanbul and Kyiv and charging his own mother $9 million every time I stopped by to say hello.  It didn't take long to realize that my children had taken all of my money and I was in debt up to my ears.   

I was fully aware that this was just a game, but a sinking feeling came over me as I looked at all of my foreclosed properties that my kids were scooping up for pennies. I had to wonder if I was simply part of a generation of people who did not invest wisely.  I thought buying Athens, Greece would be a good decision.... Apparently not.     I invested in space travel and it seems you can't build hotels in space yet, so there was no future income there.  I should have bought Cape Town and Belgrade and loaded them with huts, houses and swanky hotels.  But no.... I was paying luxury taxes and income taxes and investing in solar energy that just didn't pay off. 

My millions dwindled to nothing when I arrived at my son's doorstep in Kyiv.  He was in jail when I arrived, but was quick to get the message to me that I owed him $9 million dollars and he hoped I enjoyed the view from the monster hotel he had built. I swiped my credit card in the ATM machine and it made the most unpleasant sound indicating that I had insufficient funds.  It's the kind of sound that elicits a Pavlovian response when heard and I immediately began shuffling my feet and making apologies. My daughter did not want me to leave the game broken and homeless and kept offering me free passage through her cities and money under the table.  It would carry me for another round until I wound up in Kyiv again and could hear my son's laughter echoing from jail.  He never got $2million dollars for passing go, but he didn't need to. He laid around in jail all day and watched the money roll in from friends and family who strayed off their paths.   

I was broke and homeless and my children owned everything.  But who do you think they turned to when their bellies needed filling.  Mom, of course!  It's good to be needed.

It's Official... "Facebook" is Now an Action Verb

According to Time Life Magazine, Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, is now the man of the year.  While he gave us a magic platform to reach back into our past and locate friends and lovers not seen in thirty years, he also gave busy moms a reason not to feel guilty when we forget our cameras at our children's many, many events, awards ceremonies and such.  We look at the good mom with camera cables, charged batteries and perfectly posed children and can now utter the self redeeming words, "Facebook it."  Within hours, photos of our children come flying in from organized mothers we barely know, but are grateful for.  The word "Facebook" has become an action verb... a task to be performed shortly after the last click of the camera shutter.  "Facebook those pictures to me."  You hear it everywhere.  At a ballgame, when the kids just won the All Star World Series, and you stand there with a pom-pom in hand and no camera, all you need to say is..."Hey, Facebook it." Soon you will be downloading photos of your little winners and uploading them to Walmart for next year's Christmas cards.  I never worry anymore about dead batteries, blurry photos, or missing the right shot.  Someone out there has snapped a prize winning photo and surely will tag me in it.  Even when you don't want photos shared, there is that one person in your group with a handy smart phone who will snap that photo of you and the girls downing drinks at a pub and they will Facebook it before the next round arrives.   The problem with this is that not all of your Facebook Friends need to see these things.   My children's friends will send friend requests and I, like most people, accept their invitation.  It's not like I put anything on Facebook that isn't appropriate for all to see.  It's those dang uploads that get you every time.  I've come to realize that I can't post anything about work, church, politics, or any other sensitive topic.  I'm limited to posting about what I had for dinner and nobody wants to see those posts.  My status bar stays empty most times because I am status aware and need to keep my job.  I need to be a good role model for those kids and I don't want an Instant  Message from my mother asking what I was doing in that pub.  I watch the posts role in about friends who haven't fed their cows in Farmville and wonder how they have time to manage a virtual farm.  I often confuse Mark Zuckerberg with Farmer Zuckerman from Charlotte's Web and wonder if "Some Pig" is out there in Farmville chasing spiders and talking rats.  It would spice the game up a bit.  Surely someone will catch some photos and Facebook them.  Who really doesn't want a photo of a talking pig, anyway.  I surely would and should I ever run into one, I know that I will have no camera in hand. Thank God for that new action verb "Facebook."   I will never again miss another talking pig or pictures of my kids in their greatest moments of childhood.  Someone will Facebook it all to me.

The After Christmas Effect

I would like to introduce Turtle.  He is nameless. He floats around in a tank of hazy water with a facial expression that epitomizes the exhaustion and inability to continue that comes with preparations for the holiday season.   I plan to have postage stamps made with this look and attach them to all of my credit card payments as I slowly begin the process of paying for Christmas.    I know this look and have seen it in my own reflection.  As we grew each day closer to Christmas and all the glory that it is, my eyes lost a bit of twinkle and exhaustion set in as I felt myself sinking to the bottom of this proverbial pond of gift cards, ribbons, bows, increased credit limits, and chocolates from countries I've never heard of.   But, ready or not... Christmas does arrive and it waits for no one.  My Christmas morning begins early because each child wants to wake me in the early morning hours to sneak with them out to the living room to see what treasures Santa has left them. It's our special time that is only shared between mother and child.  We don't play with the toys or pretty things, we just peek and take in the sights and sounds of the living room lit up by the glow of tiny Christmas lights.   We'll sit on the floor together and gaze at all that is there, knowing it is all protected by one very large dozing cat who takes residence under the tree during the month of December. Then.... it's off to bed again.   It isn't long before the other child is gently waking me to sneak with them back to the glory of the living room to see what gifts await them.  My husband and the cat never wake.  They are used to our nocturnal stirrings and pay no attention any more. They no longer wonder what it is we do in the middle of the night.  It has not effected them negatively, so it must all be good.  After child number two was tucked back in bed, I heard what I knew must be my daughter's missing hamster.  It has survived for two weeks by eating the soles of her boots and a tube of pink lip gloss.  Who knew, I must add.  But now.... here he was, early on Christmas morning, and soon I was on the floor with a flashlight and a handful of pumpkin seeds and granola hunting hamsters.  I thought about Mary and baby Jesus and what their night was like some 2050 years ago and thought....   "Wow -  this is so not what they would have been doing" as I tried to squeeze to the back of the closet to find the hamster.  About the time I gave up on finding him, the sun came up and it was time to make that long walk down the hallway again.  This time, the entire family was in tow... except the hamster.  Even with pre-exhaustion setting in before a complete sunrise, the magic of Christmas began to unfold before us. And as always - it was wonderful.  It was a busy day and I'm still trying to dig myself out from a pile of wrapping paper and increased credit card debt, but what fun we had.  The best gift was having my brother home for the holidays.  He brought us jewelry hand crafted from villagers in Africa.  The items were lovely.   He gave my son a necklace that has an image of what appears to be a leaping gazelle on it.  I'm a little concerned that this might actually be the fertility God symbol.  I will add this to my list of things to check on tomorrow.  No room for error there, you know.  My daughter was thrilled with each of her gifts that slowly transformed her into a tiny jet setting Valley Girl... Flannel pants, Uggs, Northface, Apple... We have moved past the age of Barbie Dolls that are wired to their packages and require special welding tools and cutters for removal.   We had all of our friends and family over and had a wonderful time visiting and watching the kids be kids.   My daughter managed to walk into a remote control dual rotor Chinook helicopter that was hovering about the living room.   It made an emergency landing deep inside her long locks of hair.  Dual rotors!  Yes - Not just one to unwind massive amounts of brunette hair from, but two, for added fun.    I do believe that having a helicopter attached to the side of your head is a look that could be pulled off at Christmastime - Look at Cindy Lou Who who proudly wore a tea cup and saucer in her blonde beauty doo.   It's all about owning it, I suppose.   After the removal of the helicopter and a few layers of hair, we gathered in the den for the traditional singing of Christmas carols and downing of eggnog.  Oh, wait - That's not us - that was George Bailey's Family in a Wonderful Life.  We raced to the den to pick our avatars and do a little white water rafting while standing in a raft at the headwaters of Nintendo's Curvy Creek.    We jumped and pivoted and flung our arms in the air to grab virtual coins that I was unaware loomed at the top of the treeline as we plummeted down the raging waters. We crashed through pilings and piers and somehow came out unscathed, but exhausted.  I finally left the kids to play with their toys and claimed my spot on the couch in front of the fire where I am certain I wore the same look as the aforementioned turtle.  I woke this morning and all is calm in the house.   I'm not sure, but I believe there may be an extra child somewhere in the den buried under a pile of wrapping paper and Christmas joy.  In just a short while, I will wake them all and begin putting things back in order.  Perhaps the hamster will return to this cage, the turtle will bask on his rock, and I can thumb through my photos of another wonderful Christmas with family.

The Model Consumer

I am the model consumer.  A product label promising new and improved qualities to my life is certain to gain my attention.  These products are strategically placed in retail stores to speak in coded tongue to shoppers like me.  Just the other day, I went to the new MegaTron, bigger than the last one, Walmart, built three sites over from the previous two.   All I needed was a loaf of bread.  As any good Southern woman knows, it is almost impossible to leave Wal-Mart without spending a hundred dollars or more. Immediately upon entry, I was drawn to the vitamin aisle with an already lingering notion that perhaps I needed more vitamin D in my life.  I actually needed a cruise to a sunny tropical island, but I temporarily quieted that wish with a bottle of sunlight and a need to shop.  Unfortunately, all the other letters of the alphabet called out to me and soon I could play a quick game of Scrabble with the bottles of Vitamin A, K, D and B in my basket.   I moved to the next aisle and a can of Skintamate shaving cream called to me from the shelf.  It was baby blue and offered Skin Therapy.  Who doesn't need skin therapy, I ask you?  I did have Vitamin D in a bottle to hold me until I could soak up UV rays at the Tropic of Cancer, but now there was skin therapy available for $4.79.   It was "Baby Soft" and "Lotionized"  My God - Lotionized!!!!  I didn't even know this was a concept, let alone an actual word, but I wanted it.  I wanted a Skintimate experience where I would bathe in skin therapy and be lotionized.  An added bonus.... It had Vitamin E!!!!   Who planned this product! They knew me so well!    Suddenly, I could hardly wait to get home and shave my legs.... an act that brought no real pleasure, unless you are 11 and getting to shave for the very first time.  After that... the fun is gone... unless you purchase Skintimate Skin Therpay.   It's funny to me that nowhere on the bottle does it actually say shaving cream.  And yet, I knew what this product could do for me and it quickly landed in the bottom of my basket with the rest of the letters of the alphabet.    By the time I made it to the bread aisle, I had well over $100 worth of items in my basket, all promising some form of new and improved life.  Truth be told.... I'm certain my life would remain just as good without these false promises of delight.  My husband uses a simple bar of Dial Soap for everything.  I spend $18 for a bottle of volumizing, moisture sealing, illuminating shampoo and he uses a bar of soap.  Our hair looks fine, except mine smells like scented expensive shampoo and his smells like clean hair.  Isn't that really all we are seeking.  Hmmmm?????  We currently have nine bottles of shampoo in our shower.... one for everybody's needs.   My son has teenage straightening shampoo.  My daughter has something that has a fun lid and smells like popsicles.  Even the dog has a bottle in there for tick and flea removal.  I know that one day I will be all leathered up in Skin Therapy and grab the wrong bottle of shampoo and find myself tick and flea free with a scent like I've just been to the vet.  My husband may be smarter than all of us with his single bar of soap and absence of label reading.  His Vitamin D comes from working in the garden and his straight hair comes from genetics.  Perhaps if I read less labels and went back to hot water and a bar of soap, I would be many dollars closer to that trip to the tropics.  I believe it may be time to let someone else do the shopping!