Strategic Planning With The Mystic Eye

  

   While cleaning out my son's room this weekend, I ran across The Mystic Eye, Fortune Telling Machine.  I love this toy and instantly retrieved it from a pile of Lego's and discarded trophies and placed it in a position of importance on my kitchen bar.  I informed my family that all future decision making would be done by The Mystic Eye.  My daughter's eyes lit up with excitement and my son rolled his, knowing full well that my decisions are not driven by a toy fortune teller. Allie grabbed the machine, popped in a coin and asked the ever important question, "Will I be a good cheerleader?"  The eyeball proudly announced that she most certainly would be.  Thrilled with the validation of her expert cheering skills and natural spirit, she tumbled off to try different ways to braid her hair and still maintain a high level of cuteness.  I asked if I would ever get any rest from the constant cleaning and cooking and after some time pondering the question, the eye informed me that it was highly doubtful.  Damn eyeball.  Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions.  

   In fact, there are a few unanswered questions that would be worth dropping a few coins for.  I would like to know how it is that I came home from work one day to discover that the front door of our entertainment cabinet had been broken right down the middle and carefully placed back together, waiting for the next person to simply touch it and have it fall to the ground in pieces.  If only the Mystic eye could tell me which child was hanging from the hinges and broke my living room furniture.  I would like to know who stole my jewelry, my boyfriend, and/or my dog at certain points in my life.  These are things that would be handy to know.  

   As I map out my retirement plans for the future and strategically secure my place as a financially sound, old woman, I should have asked the eye if I should buy Facebook stock instead of relying on my terrible stock market instincts and media hype.  I would be richer today had I taken guidance from the floating oracle in a box that sits in my kitchen.  Of course,  I only invested what I could afford to lose and I don't think ten shares of worthless stock will affect my future standard of living.  You have to invest big to win big, so I will never be rich from the stock market. The mystic eye will confirm this I'm sure.     

   My son passed at his chance to ask the eye about his future and chose to continue with his online studies of reconfiguring the iPhone and ways to legally download unreleased movies in European countries not under U.S. jurisdiction.  He paid me no attention as I asked about colleges, pay raises, future daughter-in-laws, and other important topics.  The eye offered little useful information.   

   My daughter tumbled back into the kitchen, donning a perfect fishtail braid, popped a coin into the mystic eye and asked if she would be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader.  The eye confirmed our future travels to Dallas and Allie tumbled off knowing her future was secure. 

   I left the eye and wandered off to check email.  I noticed a suspicious message from FedEx stating that my package had been detained at customs and I had to wonder what my son may have ordered from his international friends, as I had not ordered anything online since the Chalene Extreme Workout tapes and my failed attempt at Buns of Steel.  And why was it detained, I wondered.  The email went on to explain that I needed to confirm personal information and I chose to walk away from it, suspecting a phishing scheme.   I should ask the Mystic eye.    Perhaps it can shed some light.   I can only hope it isn't a live animal or something, now waiting in a state of perpetual hold because I'm not giving up my personal info.  I never really know what is going to arrive here as my husband orders from the on-line hunting shows, my son orders parts to computers that I didn't even know exist and my daughter has begged me to buy the "Grow Your Own Butterfly Garden" with live butterfly larva.  Realizing now that customs does detain certain objects, I'm reminded of a 4th grade project where I had to write a report about Alaska.  I wrote to the governor asking for information about their great state and if they could send me a penguin.  I had faith that my new pet would be shipped straight to my house, without delay,  because I was very polite in my asking. I'm still waiting for that penguin today.  I only hope it didn't get stuck at customs with butterfly larva and unreleased operating systems. Next time I'm in the kitchen, I'll ask the eye if my rare Alaskan penguin will ever arrive.  It's been a terribly long wait and I'm certain the Mystic eye knows.  Until then, I understand that we now have a copy of the next Twilight Movie we can watch as long as we don't mind it being in Russian.  

  

Parking Over Things That Burn

    My car has been making a screeching noise that sounds like I’m dragging one of those folding aluminum lawn chairs with a cat attached to it.  Since my husband and I are both half deaf and have one good ear between the two of us, I cannot, for the life of me, pinpoint if the sound is coming from the front of the car or the rear.  His inability to hear high pitched tones complicates the matter and he thinks I’m simply crazy, because according to him, nothing is wrong.  It finally took a ten year old boy at the neighborhood bus stop to flag me down and tell me that I needed rear brakes.  Thank God for young ears. 

    Now that we knew the problem and I had retained a child mechanic, my husband was headed to buy brake pads.  I suggested that it might be a good time to buy spark-plugs, as well, since mine had never been changed in 168,000 miles.   As he was headed out the door, he asked me what size engine I had.  “Big,” is the only answer I have for such a ludicrous question.  Big and gray.  I think there is a number 3 on it, too, if that helps.   The next thing he asked me was even more ridiculous…”Where are your spark plugs?”   “I don’t know… in the glove box, perhaps.”  We got the manual out and began to look for a chapter on spark plugs and engine maintenance.  Out of a 191 page manual, most of it was dedicated to programming the radio and where to put fluids.  I am well schooled in both of those arts.  Liquids go in the cup holder and the radio is always programmed by whichever kid is lucky enough to sit in the front seat.  I did notice some rather concerning material in the manual, however, as we thumbed through it.  The first chapter began with “How to start the engine.”  Okay, if you just bought a $40,000 SUV and you don’t know how to start the engine, you should probably just put the manual down and walk away.  Another chapter was entitled, “Parking Over Things That Burn.”   Really!?!?!?  Was this a necessary chapter to write?  If you figure out how to start your car and then park on top of the burn pile, you truly don’t deserve a luxury automobile or any automobile at all.  

    My curiosity was tweaked at this point and I reviewed the entire manual, only to determine that it is grossly incomplete. It is clear that many chapters should be replaced with information that would actually be handy to know.  We can start with “The Spark Plugs Go Here” and follow that with a giant arrow.  There should be a chapter entitled, “No, You Aren’t Dragging a Cat, That’s Your Brakes Screaming.”   This is the kind of information people truly need.  The chapter about parking over things that burn should be replaced with “Don’t Park On Top of a Tree Stump in Your Friend’s Yard Because You Think Your Car Stereo Should Be Close To The Pool.”  This will be followed with “Why You Can’t Move Your Gear Shift and What Linkage Is.”  A second manual should accompany this manual which instructs you how to call your father and explain that your car is pivoting on a dead Oak stump.  Note that it does not help to tell him not to hurry because you’ll be catching some rays by the pool.   Now that I think of it, it would have been useful to have had a chapter on “Eight Kids Riding On the Top Of Your Car Does Not Make it a Float.”  This, too, would direct you to the accompanying manual on calling one’s father with bad news.

    Learning from personal experience, additional chapters should include “How to Fit an Eight Foot Christmas Tree In a Seven Foot Long Vehicle”, “Don’t Leave a Chicken In Your Trunk”, “What To Do When You’ve Rolled Your Hair Up in the Window and You Discover This While Entering the I-285/85 Interchange at Eighty Miles An Hour” and “That Witch Just Stole My Parking Space, License Numbers, Internet and the Consequences of Retaliation through Social Media.”

    These are the chapters that could have helped me out along the way.   My kids have shed new light on automobile ownership and while actual chapters are not needed, I think a basic sharing of information could be nice.  Perhaps a link to a website could be offered that explains how to negotiate front seat passenger seating without having full scale sibling warfare.  It could share photos offering explanations on what that goo is in the third row back seat (no man’s land) that obviously melted there three months earlier and now resembles a silicone polymer, not unlike Silly Putty.

    In fact, as the car manual is developed and addendums are created and links are published, a special tool should be crafted and added to the manual that goes with the chapter on “The Place of No Return and How to Fish your Debit Card Out from Between the Seats When Your Hand Will Not Fit, No Matter How Hard You Try.”  The chapter after that will be “We Told You Your Hand Wouldn’t Fit, Now Here’s How to Start the Car and Drive Home with One Hand Permanently Lodged Between the Seats.”    

    Until, Detroit or Hong Kong invites mothers to assist in the development of their auto manuals, I will continue to drive with squealing noises, outdated spark plugs and a plethora of treasure located between the seats that will never come out of hiding.  Luckily, I can take comfort knowing that the risk of my parking on burning objects has been greatly reduced now that I have actually read my owner’s manual.  Thank you Acura.

Snapped Rabbit

Photo Courtesy of Hershey's

   There is almost no greater joy than the pure chocolaty goodness that lies in the rectangular patterns of a Hershey’s bar.  While some people enjoy cigarettes or liquor or even illegal drugs of choice, my addiction lies in the innocence of a candy bar.  It is something that is enjoyed in small pieces, savored, one rectangle at a time.  Whatever genius designed this heavenly creation, divided the bar into 12 miniature rectangles, all looking like a small version of the whole.  It’s mind boggling if you really think about it.  It’s much like putting two mirrors together and seeing into infinity.  With each bite of Hershey’s bar you find more rectangles calling your name.   A wise person knows not to listen to their sirens call, but to snap off only one or two pieces and move on without looking back.  

Photo Courtesy of B Jobse

   My children know the power of the Hershey’s bar and fully understand that stressful events can bring on the dipping of chocolaty bites into a jar of JIF peanut butter.  It’s a marriage that no man can ever put asunder.   While the old saying goes “Don’t get caught with your hand in the cookie jar”  I’ve discovered that my entire hand fits into a jar of JIF peanut butter when I think no one is looking.  It has happened more than once that I’ve been caught at the midnight hour with my hand deep in the JIF jar with chocolaty crumbs all around.   

   Around Easter, the Hershey’s company raises the bar on confectionery delights by bringing us “Snapsy,” a chocolate Easter bunny with body parts carefully molded to “snap” apart into mouth-size pieces.  Everyone knows that ears are the first body part to go on Easter Bunnies and Snapsy was designed for the entire auditory section to break away first.  Now, I admit to cheating on Hershey’s during the Lenten season because of a secret pleasure in biting off the ears of tiny generic brand bunnies, but Snapsy has brought me back into the fold.  The discovery of this magical creature taught me brand loyalty as my daughter and I learned that Snapped Rabbit may actually bring more joy than the twelve tiny bars of the standard Hershey’s candy bar.  Of course, Snapped Rabbit is only available at Easter.  This is probably for the best, as I’m not sure that one could endure such joy all year long without losing appreciation for the gift they had been given. 

   For about a week, once a year, after school snacks include Snapped Rabbit.  I’ve discovered that this is concerning to visiting friends when offered such culinary delights.   An instant look of panic comes over the children’s faces as my own children and I clamor to retrieve refrigerated bunny parts.  Once they see that there is no braised rabbit in a pot and only peanut butter and chocolate, they welcome Snapped Rabbit with open arms and open mouths.   

   Sadly, my daughter still prefers the hollowed out chocolate bunnies that she can slowly devour body part by body part.  No snapping is required, just giant, aggressive bites.  I have to admit that there is something therapeutic about biting off the heads of these creatures, but it's just too difficult to dip the fragile parts in peanut butter.  The chocolate breaks off in the jar and once again, you find yourself wrist deep in the JIF jar trying to gather bunny parts.    

   The Easter season is over now and it's time to toss out the remaining body parts lying around the house.  Chocolate legs and tails remain in cellophane packages and will never be enjoyed. Snapsy, who was brilliantly designed with an algebraic method for manipulating assorted shapes into bunny parts, is long gone. We will now return to an orderly world of geometric solids made of Hershey's love and chocolaty goodness.  Life is good. 

The Wild Goose Chase

  

   Who knew that a male goose could fit the entire length of his neck through a chain link fence to ward off predators or helpful strangers trying to rescue stray goslings who had wandered away from their pond?  Some things like this would be helpful to know in advance. 

   This afternoon, my daughter was tooling around the neighborhood on her golf cart when I received the most distressful phone call from her.  “Mom, come quick” is all I heard as visions of child snatchers or head on collisions came to mind.   I could tell from her voice that something was terribly wrong.  I finally pieced together context clues from panicked cries for help and determined that the baby geese at the neighborhood pond were on the wrong side of the fence and needed rescuing.  

   Unable to convince my daughter that we shouldn’t intervene, I headed out on a wild goose chase.  My son drove me to the pond where I found three girls, none with shoes, running up and down the fence line traumatizing the goslings with their failed attempts to get them back under the fence.  The girls ran one way and the geese ran the other.  By the time I got close enough, two babies were stuck between fence posts and one had taken cover in a large cinder block.  The wedged goslings managed to squeeze through the fence, but landed in the wrong yard.  This time they had pushed their way into the yard of a K9 guard dog. The girls screamed, “The dog is going to eat them! Save them Mom!”  As I placed my head close to the fence post and reached into Cujo’s back yard, Father Goose tried to take a plug out of my head.   At the same time, one barefoot girl realized she was stepping in goose poop and left the rescue effort in disgust.  I was trying to keep my eyes from being plucked out by a ticked off goose as I reached for the goslings and prayed that I wouldn’t have my hand bitten off by a trained German Shepherd.  The geese were out of reach and Father Goose was too close for comfort.  I didn't want to come out of this blind and one handed.  

   I opted for the goose in the concrete block and managed to get him to an opening in the fence where he was reunited with one very rude male goose.  About the same time, my daughter was climbing the fence to enter the dog’s back yard when I plucked her down and explained how the guard dog would eat her, too.  We waited a while and determined that the dog was either asleep or inside and we left the goslings to hide in the ivy and wait for better help than us.   A large pink note was left on the door of the guard dog’s home.  It said, “There are two baby geese in your back yard.  Please don’t let your dog eat them. -Allie  (I live in your neighborhood).”  That should be fun to find when they get home. 

   A few hours later, I drove down the road and all eight goslings were back with their parents again, swimming around the pond.   I don’t know if Mother and Father Goose took matters into their own hands (feet) or if the neighbors got the note.  Either way, a happy ending was had by all, except the girl who stepped in goose poo. 

Disclaimer:  It goes without saying that this video will never win any awards, as half way through, it is suddenly shot sideways.  I'm uncertain why the sudden change of angle, but you never know what you'll find on my daughter's phone. 

The Bus Is Almost Full

    The day my children were born, I began snapping photos, left and right, like some crazy woman.  With my first born, digital cameras weren't available, so I have a million Sears Portrait photos of my son with teddy bears, giants Christmas ornaments and large plastic numbers one through five.   I have enough photo sheets to wallpaper all the bedrooms in my house.  By the time my daughter arrived, we had purchased a digital camera.  She has many of the same photos as my son, but they are versions I took at home with kittens, puppies, and giant bows.  Having the digital original allowed me to only print what I needed, so I don't have quite as many prints of her.   Select sizes were placed in frames and put on display for all to see.

    While shopping for frames for all of my photos, I ran across two picture frames that looked like buses.  There was room in the bus to put your child's photo for each year of school, Kindergarten through twelfth grade.  My children were nowhere near school age, so there was no concern about the bus ever filling up, because that would certainly take a hundred years.   I thought it would be a cool thing to have a photographic progression of them aging.  I never realized that it was simply a countdown for their leaving the nest.  

    Lo and behold, I blinked, and the first day of Kindergarten rolled around.  As a young mom, I was so excited when picture day came and I could put the first picture on that bus.  My son was officially on the bus to graduation and I had twelve more empty spaces to fill. This could be fun, I thought.

    He continued to fill up the bus as my daughter took her place in the front seat of her bus...  a brunette beauty with bangs in Mary Janes and matching cropped pants and top.   The riders on the bus continued to board on an annual basis until my son reached about ninth grade.  He pointed out that when the bus filled up, he would drive away.  That was the last picture I put in the buses.  A subconscious denial kept me from selecting new photos of the kids to put in their escape vehicles.  My son reminded me that I couldn't stop the bus from leaving and someday I would have to put those photos in.  

    After two years of procrastination, and recognizing that college was around the corner, I finally broke down and loaded more photos on the bus.  I held my son's bus up and pointed out that there was only one seat left.  I suggested we put a picture of me there, but we both knew that would never work.  I know after next year, he will drive away and it breaks my heart.  My daughter's bus still has five more seats left on it, so time is on my side.   If we were in a third world country, I could just keep stacking photos of him on top of the bus and he would never leave.  Unfortunately, his bus is almost full and the pre-trip checks are already in play.  I hope that it won't carry him too far away and that it remembers the way home.  I would hate to have to get on the bus with my daughter and go and get him.  Luckily, he knows I'm the kind of mom that could easily be seen coming around the corner in a giant bus, hunting him down if he stays away too long.

    As I ponder where these two buses will go, I realize I should get a picture of a sporty, two seater Jaguar and put it just below the buses. When the kids finish college, I can drop my own photo in the sports car.  It will make the bus leaving a little easier to watch.  

The Disconcerting Look of the Big Eyed Bunny

    Many a child has been traumatized by the big eyed bunny who represents Easter and is known to sneak around our yards at night, depositing eggs filled with tiny candies and golden coins.  As good moms, we thrust our children upon this wily creature, somehow forgetting that even we would veer away from the false lure of chocolaty goodness if it was brought to us by an over sized mutant rabbit with craziness in his eyes.  Because fun is the name of the game,  many a community leader has donned this heavy headed costume that instantly blocks their vision and demands absolute silence.  Unable to speak words of comfort to intuitive toddlers who instinctively know this is absurd, these bobble headed creatures approach our children like walking zombies and we all smile at the great fun that is taking place.   The young man in this photo is now seventeen years old and I've seen this same look on his face throughout the years.  It is a look that says, "What the hell are you thinking?"


    I saw the same expression on his face on his first day of Kindergarten. There were toy trucks, tinker toys, and a giant dog at home, so why was he in this strange place, with me pinning the number "4" on him and placing him at a table with three big eyed girls with giant bows in their hair?  In the same fashion as that bunny from the past, they spoke no words to him.  They just stared with big eyes and bobbly bows.  He clutched his box of crayons and gave me the same "Save me from the Easter Bunny" stare.  

Even the baby knew something wasn't right

    As years moved by,  I saw this look again as I placed him on Santa's lap, on the lap of a crazy uncle, right before a series of vaccines, and when we brought home a new baby. It's a look of uncertainty, mixed with trust for the one who put you in this situation.  It screams, "Are you really doing this to me?"
 
    
   
   This grave look of concern can be given or received.  A young girl, who is much like another daughter of mine, was recently at church practicing her role in the Passion Play, a very emotional production about the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  It is the real meaning of the Easter holiday and has nothing to do with big eyed bunnies.  Because children are blessed and have not forgotten how to have fun in all that they do, she was overcome with joy (and good cheer leading skills) and learned the hard lesson that one should not cheer the Arkansas Fight Song during Passion Play Practice.  I'm certain she was on the receiving end of the Easter Bunny stare with the attached message, "What the heck are you thinking, girl?"   I know God smiled down from heaven because He knows kids are kids.  But moms and dads are good at sending this look across an entire congregation of on-lookers, making even the most joyful child settle down and get back to their lines or tending of sheep.

     As parents, many of us brought this look with us into adulthood and have honed this stare into a true skill.  One eye is clenched tighter than the other and one eyebrow creeps higher on our brow as we attempt to send telepathic messages to our loved ones.  I can look across an entire gymnasium full of people and my children instantly know what this look means.  They put their cell phones down, tuck their fight songs in their pocket and pay full attention.  My mother claims she can give this look from three states away and we instantly sense we are on the receiving end of the Easter bunny stare.  An immediate reassessment of our situation is conducted and we jump back on the right track.  


  As I look back at the pictures of my children with celebrated bunnies, Santas and situations of uncertainty, I see past the looks of concern, and take pleasure in the fact that their trust in me was greater than their fear of a deranged bunny, bearded stranger or series of recommended vaccinations.  Trust is built from birth and can get us through the most concerning of times.   It allows us to face the unknown with a certainty that good things are headed our way. 

A Wrench In Our Plans

    Past travel experiences have taught me that one cannot travel through security checks with more than three ounces of mouthwash, pointy scissors, nail files, lighters, or a half finished grande mocha cappuccino, no matter how tasty it is.  I am now highly aware that there are additional items that are frowned upon, as well.  This list includes a backpack full or wires and a giant wrench.   When you send that through the xray machine, you are guaranteed a free trip to a special area, away from passengers, who don’t travel with such odd items.  It’s certainly a genetic downfall that plagues my family as we simply can’t navigate the security checkpoints with ease.  

    On our recent trip to the Caribbean, my family began the three hour long boarding process on the Mariner of the Seas.  My brother had passed through the security checkpoint first.  It is not unusual for him to travel with enough computer equipment to operate a small business from his cabin.  This time he was traveling with a 27 inch computer monitor, several hard drives and a computer processor.   Most travel with an ipad or laptop.  Not us.  My son enters the line and sends his backpack through the screening stop and the conveyor belt shuts down.  The lady behind the xray machine yells, “We have a problem here.”   Without even looking, I knew it had to be us.  She pulls out my son’s backpack and removes a giant wrench, not unlike those used to build ships, or possibly take them apart.  It was retrieved from a bed of wires and cables housed within his backpack.  She looks at him and then immediately turns to the responsible adult, which would be me, and asks “Should I be concerned?”  I explained that he was a Disc Jockey and had obviously forgotten to take his tools out of his pack. We received a special escort to the island of misfit toys where his giant wrench joined a large collection of confiscated alcohol, lighters, and nail files.  We signed for our contraband material and then we were released. 

    I’m certain our on-ship profile includes a special note that we attempted to board with large industrial tools and enough computer equipment to attempt a small take-over of the ship.  My only goal was to get poolside with a fruity drink in hand, not reroute the ship or rob the casino.  Ironically, my friend Sam and I went to the casino and played the quarter slots where we managed to break the machine after hitting a small jackpot in the first few spins.  A gazillion quarters rained down and then the door of the unit popped open.  Quarter after quarter continued to trickle out until the attendant finally arrived to fix it.  He shut the door, banged on the machine a few times with his fist and secured the machine once again.  I hope they don’t think we did that with our giant wrench!   I imagine a second note was added to our family profile.   

    Upon arrival to Grand Cayman, my children left the ship and immediately sought out American food.  Within the first few minutes I had spent 420 Cayman Islands dollars on frozen lemon aid, mocha latte and a giant pile of french fries.   I should have been buying fajitas and pico de gallo, but I was toting around frozen Dairy Queen products.  As luck would have it, we had to enter another security screening station to reenter the ship.  While it is not unacceptable to bring drinks on board, I now know that you should not send a melted frozen lemon aid through the xray scanner.   I can add this to my list of things they frown upon, especially when it spills half way through.  I’m certain the notes on my family profile continue to grow and we’ll be lucky if they let us through any further check points.  There is the ship pool, though, and I can always stay there until we return home to the states and our giant wrench that waits at the port.