Okies Underground

Published in the Miami News-Record, April 12, 2015 

Those who know me best know that I am kind of a weather freak. I become somewhat obsessed with the weather this time of year and I consider Dr. Greg Forbes, Jim Cantore, and Mike Bettes the holy trinity of The Weather Channel. I love Dr. Forbes so much I have considered writing him fan mail or at the very least, naming my next cat after him.

As a kid, when the TV (a console behemoth that commandeered 85% of the living room) began emitting the ear-splitting tone that for most meant “Take cover now!” all I heard was the siren song of the National Weather Service warbling “Go stand in the yard and look for the funnel!” I can only remember there being a handful of times as a kid that we actually drove the mile-and-a-quarter to Papa’s where there was a cellar – and never once did we ever step foot underground. I remember on one of the rare stormy treks to Papa’s, very vividly seeing the tail of a funnel cloud dip down out of the clouds and Mom pointing it out. Sis and I stood on that little back porch and simultaneously spoke a reverent “Wowwwwwwww”. But we never ran for that cellar. Probably because Mom knew there were mice in it and she’d rather be swept up in a funnel straight into Jesus’ arms than seek shelter with a host of rodents.

Now, some 30 years later, my kids know that when Momma says TOR:CON more than about 10 times in a day, they should probably go ahead and pack their tornado bags because it is almost certainly inevitable we will go underground at some point. If you look up my family on Ancestry.com you might very well find we are descendants of moles as much as we go below the ground’s surface in the spring.

Last Thursday afternoon Sis called and asked if I had been watching the weather. I answered, “Duh.” She then asked if we had a cellar at the new house. Again, I answered, “Duh.” Then she asked if we were going to be home. You don’t need me to tell you how I answered. After confirmation she said, “Good. We’re coming out. I’m bringing pizza.” Yessssssss. We had an all-out party while we watched radar images online, TWC on TV, and had the NOAA radio on the kitchen counter. Once the NOAA radio started going off I hollered for a mass bathroom visit for all of the kids seeing as how a few years ago it was when the tornado was visible in the sky that everyone suddenly had to pee. When everyone’s phones started screeching A TORNADO IS IN YOUR AREA – TAKE COVER NOW we managed to get four parents, one adult child and her 60 pound dog, five kids, and my infant nephew in the cellar in under two minutes. It was nothing short of military perfection.

We were safe and sound – albeit not altogether comfortable – underground for about half an hour. The baby barely fussed and eventually fell asleep. The dog took up more room than anyone and eventually started to snore. The boys said the pizza made them gassy. The girls played games on an iPad. We talked, passed the baby, texted people on the outside for updates.  And even though we had two teenage boys in an enclosed 5x8’ concrete box, we weren’t even gassed out by anyone’s noxious fumes. Maybe my sister’s vehement threat of dismemberment if anyone so much as thought about farting had something to do with that. ‘Tis the season for storms, my fellow Okies. Get a weather radio and keep batteries in it. Friend me on Facebook – I’m quite dedicated in my meteorological annoyances. Find a shelter and make a plan. 

And if you have teenage boys, throw a bottle of Gas-X in your emergency kit. Just in case. 

How Soon We Forget

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, March 29, 2015

I have written about embracing chaos before – in fact, just a few weeks ago if I remember correctly. I love our chaotic evenings around the dining room table playing games or just acting weird while we sit around talking about whatever rabbits we decide to chase.

But I fear my poor husband has no memory of the chaos we used to experience. He’s adapted to (and for the most part enjoys) teen chaos, but has seemingly forgotten the kid brand of chaos.

Case in point, this past week a dear friend from homeschool co-op came over with her six kids. They range from 3 years to 12 years and they are all so stinking adorable I can hardly contain myself when I’m around them. She has five precious little girls and one awesome little dude. They arrived that morning armed with kites, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles and even though it was a bit chilly, we sat outside and visited while they ran around the field chasing kite strings and each other. Immediately my friend’s boy convinced Sam that a piggyback ride was in order. Kady had the two littlest girls – one on her hip, the other by the hand – and they were trying to fill her in on everything that had ever happened in their lives. Or maybe it was a story about a dog or a flower or sunshine, I’m not sure. Whatever the story was, it was very exciting to them and Kady was nodding her head exuberantly.

My friend and I discussed husbands and jobs, college and Obamacare, being debt-free, homeschooling struggles and triumphs, pets, tattoos, and various other topics. We drank coffee and sweet tea with wild abandon. Being a stay-at-home mom means you embrace that grownup time with all the strength in your weary body and you talk until your jaws ache, laugh until your cheeks hurt, and store away the precious experience of another human being speaking to you without picking their nose or asking you to wipe their butt.

As the day wore on, the kites either ripped or got caught up in our hilltop wind gusts and became frustrating to the little ones, the chalk got boring, and the outside lost its exciting allure, so we suddenly found ourselves sitting across from each other on my couches with eight kids in our conversations. Being mommas, we just kept on talking, while the three-year-old army crawled across the back of the sofa from end of the room, around the corner and back again, and never batted an eye. We just cuddled up with whoever wanted a cuddle, tickled whoever wanted to be tickled, and kept on embracing the last snippets of adult conversation before time would once again force us to go back to “real life”. At one point cupcakes were brought out and the icing was promptly licked off by roughly 2/3 of those present. I was gifted a pipe cleaner crown from her oldest girl. Someone farted. Everyone giggled.

My husband walked in the door at 4:00 to see eight kids and two mommas, and promptly went into panic mode. He smiled, said hello, then walked straight to the bedroom. I could smell the fear. He hid in the garage until they left. When he finally peeked back in the house he grinned and said, “I walked in and there were so. many. little. people…..I panicked. Sorry.” I chuckled and gave a brief overview of the day while he sat wide-eyed. “But how do you two just…handle….all of that noise and farting and giggling and crumbs and sticky fingers???”

I patted his hand and said, “Oh honey, ours used to have sticky fingers and could spontaneously generate crumbs when they hadn’t eaten a thing. They were always running and jumping on the furniture. And well, they still fart.” He shook his head, “You moms are something.”

Yes. Yes, we are. 

Rites of Passage

Several years ago I spent the better part of the weekend cleaning out my son’s room. He was probably 11 at the time. He had requested a recliner in his room and since his daddy had just gotten a brand new one it worked out. I started clearing out a little boy’s room that was full of toy trains, stuffed animals, enough Hot Wheels to melt down and create a full-size Suburban, and enough Duplo blocks to build a replica of The Great Wall of China, and ended up that day with a room that definitely didn’t house a little boy. Gone was the toy box and instead there was a large plastic tote labeled “The Box of Juvenile Delinquency”. I watched as he threw in sword, sword, knife, light saber, gun, gun, sword, light saber, handcuffs, nunchucks, a flail, a mace, and mused that the box could very well end up as evidence someday. The Hot Wheels went to the top of the closet, the stuffed animals were re-homed, and the train-themed bed sheets were replaced with a manly camouflage set. My boy grew up seemingly in an afternoon, at least to his momma’s eyes.

When she was 13, my oldest daughter had to come to terms with her own mortality – something most people don't have to do until they are adults – when she learned that a former classmate had passed away. She had to face the horrible fact that sometimes kids die and we don't know why. She handled it with grace and maturity (at times more than her mother did) and even though I'm glad she had the capabilities to do so, it also pained my heart that she had to do it at all, much less as gracefully as she did. Her freshman year a classmate was killed in a car accident and once again I found my girl trying to process a why that can’t always be answered.

And now at 13, my youngest daughter is learning that girls are sometimes horribly mean. Her last year of public school was 4^th grade and she only experienced a small smidgen of the meanness and hatred her big sister had endured in middle school. But she is now entrenched in an ugly situation at the hands of a girl with unmonitored social media accounts and a mean spirit. I’m trying to teach my daughter compassion and to explain that so often when people are mean it’s because they are hurting so much on the inside they don’t know where to store all that pain and it spills out. It’s something she’ll need to learn how to handle through her whole life, sadly. There are a lot of hurting people out there.

It’s no easy business, this growing up. Some days I’d love nothing more than to shelter them in my arms and never let them be sad or hurt, but I think I’d be doing them a serious injustice. No, I know I would. In a world of brokenness and misery and scary things no child should endure, there need to be people out there who are loving and understanding. Romans 8:28 says “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.” (NLT) 

Not only are mean girls, heartbreak, fender benders, and yes, the death of someone young, rites of passage for the kids, but they are for us parents as well. As a young mom I thought there was nothing worse than skinned knees and bumped noggins, but as I caution my teenage daughters on the dangers of human trafficking, I wish for the days that band-aids would fix it all.

As difficult as it is, though, it’s okay for them to cry, fail, wonder, and question – they’re all rites of passage for this adventure called Life. I’d hate for them to miss out on any of it. It will make them who they are. And I rather like the possibilities so far.

All Things Rodentia, Part II

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, March 15, 2015

A few years ago, in a moment of parental miscommunication, my oldest daughter was allowed to buy a hamster. Before we knew it, we had gone from zero rodents to four and my husband is completely to blame. He knew our deal was that if the kids asked for hamsters we were to pass if off to the other parent for the rest of eternity, thereby avoiding actual procurement of any hamsters forever and ever amen. But whether it was batted eyelashes or a sweet voice saying, “Daaaaaddyyyyyy…” that caused him to say, “I don’t care,” is beside the point now. We are knee-deep in rodents.

Last summer Abby’s precious hamster, Pearl, passed away. There were actual tears shed for sweet Pearl. She was smart and loved macaroni and cheese. We placed her tiny, furry body in a shoe box and my husband was charged with the burial. I expected a shovel and a shoe box-sized hole. Oh, no. By the time it was all said and done, it looked like we had buried three grown men out by the garden. He said he didn’t want the dogs to dig her up. No chance of that – I’d be more worried about the devil himself getting to her as deep as she went. The next to go was Bugg’s hamster, Sundae. She had a little rodent stroke. She, too, was buried in a shoe box, however the hole dug for her was more appropriately sized for a rodent and her memorial is behind the barn. Abby lost her original hamster, Hanna, this winter, but the ground was too frozen to bury her so she went into a barrel (in a shoe box, of course – we aren’t total heathens) out by the barn with the intent of a burial on a warm day. We just remembered her last week. Oops. She’s still in the barrel. Above ground. Maybe we are heathens.

Both of Abby’s hamsters have now since gone on to the big hamster wheel in the sky but she replaced them with a pair of fancy mice – Lily and Chrysanthemum. The lady at the pet store told us that mice are social and are better in pairs. She didn’t tell us that they would also MOURN THEMSELVES TO DEATH if their companion dies. On one particular cage cleaning day, Chrysanthemum refused to go into her exercise ball and it took much coercion. Imagine the horror about 10 minutes later as Abby and I looked over and noticed that one exercise ball was moving with a very much alive hamster inside while the other was….still. Upon further inspection we realized that Chrysanthemum must have gotten so stressed out over the whole thing that she died of a little mousey heart attack. What followed were two weeks of a very sad Lily who finally died of a broken heart. Both mice were given Viking burials at sea. Okay, they were set sail in shoe boxes in Sycamore Creek.

Last weekend Abby came home with a teensy, tiny baby mouse.  She named the new baby Petal. She is insanely friendly and cute – so cute you want to just stare into her little furry face all the time. (And for me to make such a statement of adoration is a big thing since you know, a regular ol’ house mouse in my house is cause for me to scream and refuse to put my feet on the floor until I see a corpse in a trap, so yeah, she’s pretty doggone cute.) She has escaped once. My first instinct was to scream for her head on a pike, then I remembered how cute she is and just curled up in a chair until she was safely in her cage again.

And the only way I can think to end this story is that y’all must think my family buys a lot of shoes because it seems we have a never-ending supply of shoe boxes around here…   

And Chaos Ensued

Sometimes I look around my house and wonder just how on earth I got to where I am and how things got so……berserk.

Let me give you a little background: I was a bit uptight when I was young. Maybe even more than a bit. Perhaps most would even say I was wound tighter than an eight-day clock.  Running a home daycare for most of my adult life and then having children of my own chilled me out in a big way. I know for some high strung folks, the absolute chaos of having small children around is enough to send them over the edge, but not me. I completely embraced the wonder of early childhood and the messiness of the whole shebang. Dirt and noise, crumbs and smudges, sticky fingers and the question “Why?” were a part of my life and I adored it. My husband, however, is more easily perturbed and on more than one occasion when our kids were little he would look at me and say, “How is that not driving you crazy?” I’d look up, blink a few times and ask, “What?” I had this uncanny ability to just simply not hear noises that were just kid noises. I immediately sprang into action when I heard screams, slaps, wails, and thumps that usually meant furniture had been rearranged or someone had decided to test his ability to fly once again, but tapping, humming, off-key singing, incessant banging on toy piano keys, and the sound of Tickle Me Elmo’s hysterical giggles were just tuned out.

It was merely self preservation. Had my ears homed in on every single noise that emitted from those children I’d still be in a straight jacket even though I now have all teenagers.

It would be an understatement to say we have fun at our house. We always have and I hope we always will. And it goes beyond the walls of this house – when you get my mom and sister and the whole gang together we laugh until someone pees, snorts, or wheezes, and no one goes home with all of their mascara and eyeliner on because laughing until we cry is just how we roll.

Sometimes it’s simply all of us girls giggling as we watch Sam sing and dance to a Taylor Swift song while he makes macaroni and cheese. Other times it’s laughing when my husband’s hair get a little long and he brushes it straight up and looks just like Wolverine from the comic book, then puts butter knives between his fingers for “claws”. Regardless, we laugh and do a lot of it.

Most of the time I’m the instigator of the hilarity, the ornery perpetrator of the shenanigans, but other times I just sit back and watch it unfold around me. Like the other night when, in the middle of a family game of Yahtzee! my son jumped up from the table and ran out of the room like his hiney was on fire. When he returned to the table, one by one we noticed he was wearing a full-head unicorn mask. He simply sat down and said not a word, just rested his horsey face on his fist and whinnied. Before I knew it my youngest daughter was wearing a banana suit and the oldest was sporting a 1970’s-style afro wig. My husband was doing his best to belch the alphabet while his costumed children cheered him on. Yahtzee! dice were flying like popcorn. Selfies were snapped and sent to friends. It was a cacophony of noise and socially inappropriate antics.

I leaned back, smiled, and soaked all of it up like a sponge. And someday when my kids are all in their own houses, I’m missing my grandbabies, the house is too quiet, and Paul doesn’t much feel like belching the alphabet for an audience of one, I will pull the memory of that crazy Yahtzee! game out and laugh once again at the chaos that ensued.

Quality or Quantity

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 22, 2015

I was reading before I entered Kindergarten. Not that my mom pushed me to be some kind of child prodigy, but (and this is conjecture since I really don’t remember what went through my five-year-old brain) I’m thinking I was just tired of not knowing what was going on around me and decided to learn how to read so I could butt into grownup conversations and whatnot.

The summer between 1^st and 2^nd grade Mom brought home a ton of Bobbsey Twins books and discovered all too quickly that I could plow through one of those in under two hours. It wasn’t long before she had to start rationing them out. I’m sure she tried to bargain with me – an hour of outside time in exchange for a new book perhaps – but I’m sure I didn’t bite. I hated the outdoors and would rather read my old already-read books rather than trade a new one for sunshine.  She eventually handed me the stack and told me to have fun. By the end of 2^nd grade I had read nearly the entire Little House on the Prairie series. It wasn’t but a few years later that I developed a taste for the fantasy and sci-fi genres and read and re-read A Wrinkle in Time and its companions many times over before I even hit 5th grade.

I devoured all of the Harry Potter books and I’ve written here before about my love for nearly all of Stephen King’s works. I tried The Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit, but they were just too wordy for even me, a lover of words. (Oh, my, but I do love the movies!) I’ve read Beowulf, The Canterbury Tales (both of those I bought to read again on my own after we read them in Senior English), Silas Marner, Little Women, Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm, and countless other classics. When we were newlyweds, before we became homeowners, we moved a lot. My husband once offered me $1000 if I’d just let him leave all of my books behind in our apartment. I said no. We took them with us and just paid his chiropractor bill.

I’ve read a LOT of really good books over the years. I’ve read a few bad ones, but not many. See, I have this credo: Life’s too short to read bad books. So if they don’t hook me, they aren’t read. If they are poorly written, they aren’t read. If they are drivel, they aren’t read.

So no, I have not read Fifty Shades of Grey nor any of its sequels. And I don’t plan to. Ever.

I won’t launch into a tirade about values and abuse. I won’t give my opinion on sex outside of marriage. And I’ll tell you how any scenario with me wearing a blindfold would go: I am horrible at pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey because when I am blindfolded I get horribly dizzy and I fall. There would be no fun and games for a blindfolded me – probably only an ER visit for some anti-nausea medication and perhaps a broken hip.

All that being said, I will not be reading the aforementioned books because I hear they are more poorly written than Twilight and I ONLY read those because at the time I had a teen who had been bitten by the vampire bug (see what I did there?) and I wasn’t about to let her read them without subjecting myself to them first. Talk about needing anti-nausea medication. I took one for the team there, but I won’t be embarking on a journey into a monochromatic world where the one of the character’s eyes “smolder like embers”. If someone’s eyes are smoldering, I’m grabbing a fire extinguisher and calling 911 because that, folks, is not healthy.

And if I want to experience fifty shades of grey, I’ll just look in the mirror at my hair.    

Grow Up Already

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 15, 2015

My daughter, who has been out of high school for nearly a year now, is working as many hours as her employer will give her, and is furiously seeking a 40-hour a week gig, gets this question even more than a typical kid her age: “So, are you going to college?”  When she answers, “No,” it’s almost like throwing a bucket of ice water on the questioner. They stand there in abject horror at the prospect of her wandering around this big ol’ world without an “education”. Oh, the horror!

She handles it with grace every single time. I’d have already snapped and gotten snarky, but she just smiles sweetly and nods politely. She already has more life skills in that department than some gainfully employed adults out there. I know that people really do mean well, but folks, I have some big news that may not have occurred to everyone out there: college isn’t for everyone. In fact, I’ll add to that: growing up isn’t for everyone.

Her daddy and I worried that by graduating early she was going to grow up too fast. And while she is far more mature than most young adults her age or older, she is doing a fabulous job of enjoying her youth. She budgets her money, spends wisely, doesn’t party, shows up to work on time, goes above and beyond with virtually everything she does, is nice to small children and the elderly, is a sucker for cute puppies, and is more responsible about getting oil changes than her mother is. But she is also silly and sometimes forgets to turn off the coffee pot. She gets distracted playing with her pet mice sometimes and forgets to unload the dishwasher. She borrows my earrings and forgets to return them. She is a responsibly irresponsible young adult and while sometimes I get aggravated and think, “Is she EVER going to grow up??” I then take a step back and answer myself: “Man, I hope not.”

Just this past week our son applied to the Electrical Technology program at the vo-tech. At 16 he thinks he wants to be an electrician. But just a few months ago he wanted to be a child psychologist. Heck, he may pursue Underwater Basketweaving before it’s all said and done. The only thing we’ve ever told our kids regarding their futures is that whatever it is they decide to do, do it with everything in them. Be the best dogcatcher or chef or homemaker or doctor they can be. There’s a lot to be said for happiness and so many of us are so worried about being grown up, we forget to be happy. So whether my kids cure cancer or make sandwiches for a living, I just want them to be happy while doing it.

Because of her boyfriend’s schedule, Abby and her new beau had to celebrate Valentine’s Day a few days early this year. Paul was already in bed and I had just brushed my teeth when they got back from their “romantic” date. I heard them giggling as they walked through the dining room, stuck my head out the bedroom door to see the two of them, arm in arm, walking toward me with Groucho Marx glasses  complete with plastic nose and a nifty contraption that allowed them to blow giant plastic “snot bubbles” out of their giant fake noses. When they saw that I saw them, they both busted up in hysterical laughter and Abby said, “Mom! Are these not THE coolest things ever!?” I just nodded my head and thought, “Not really…. but you are, kid.”

We put far too much pressure on our kids to “grow up” when we all should be spending more time wearing silly glasses and forgetting to make our beds. My advice to everyone, no matter your age: Stay young, stay silly, chill out. Blow more snot bubbles. Okay, well, alright, not literally. Don’t do that. Please. At least not around me. 

'Tis the (flu) Season

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, on February 8, 2015.

Our son had his wisdom teeth removed last Wednesday. We left our youngest in the capable hands of her older sister while we took the boy to Joplin and back again (sans four teeth). We got home, got him settled in, and I no more than took a deep breath to center myself when here came my baby girl with this pitiful look on her face. “I feel bad. Like, real bad.” Her main complaint was a headache and I figured it was just stress over worrying about her brother (with whom she fights and fusses with almost hourly, yet adores him endlessly) so I told her to take some Tylenol and go lie down. By evening her throat was sore and she was running a low-grade fever. The kid is a strep magnet and I figured that’s what it was. She slept with me that night because she was whiney and pitiful and I’m a sucker when it comes to my kids being sick.

The next morning her fever was over 102 and she was just generally miserable. There were tears. It was awful. So I left the swollen and narcotically medicated boy in the still capable hands of the oldest sister so I could run the girl to urgent care. Typically we get in with little wait, but when we pulled in Kady groaned loudly at the number of cars in the parking lot. She felt so rotten by then and we were both hoping for a quick in and out. I mused that maybe they just had extra staff working. Wishful thinking: the waiting room was full. We found a spot in a corner and she pulled out her iPad and I, a book. I noticed she was pulling her shirt up over her nose and thought, “Aww…she is so thoughtful, she is trying to keep her germs to herself. What a sweet kid.” Then she sent me a text message that said, “The guy next to me stinks like a dirty butt. And my nose is stuffed up! It’s bad, Momma. Can we move please?” The only chairs left were over in the area closest to the toys, the area I like to call Viral Chernobyl. Or The Place We Don’t Sit Because It Usually Smells Like Poop and There Are Boogers On Everything.

This is where met an adorable little tyke with curly hair, a fetching smile, and, as his mother loudly announced, “a funky rash on his hands and feet.” Oh, holy antibiotics, Batman, the little fella was probably incubating a hefty case of hand, foot and mouth and he wanted to be my friend. And he licked everything. in. the. waiting. room. Except my daughter and myself. I gently placed my hand on his forehead when he came at us, tongue at the ready.

Fortunately we were called back soon after we moved, but only for them to swab her, then they sent us back out. Over the last 20 minutes of our wait there were a few times I saw spots because I had held my breath for too long.

When we finally made it to an exam room the nurse told us she was positive for Flu type B. Kady promptly busted into tears. The doctor hugged her. She got a script for the good codeine cough medicine and I think if she would have asked, Dr. A would’ve bought her a new car or at the very least, a puppy. I just bought her a Sonic slush and tater tots. And even though she was a veritable Petri dish of viral cataclysm, I let her sleep with me again that night. I also came perilously close to Vitamin C toxicity before her fever finally left five days later. I’ve also decided my new signature fragrance for the rest of the winter is Purell with a hint of GermX and some Lysol undertones.

Not So Super

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 1, 2015 

Every week the ad-matches are sent to me in an email. I always pay extra attention to the ads on shopping week and noticed there was an inordinate amount of soda, crackers, cheeses, Velveeta, RoTel, chips, hot dogs, and party type foods in the ads this week. I thought it was strange, because it’s not July 4^th, but then I remembered: this is Super Bowl weekend.

Or at least…I think it is.

I seem to remember a lot of football-ish type things showing up in my Facebook newsfeed and my kids have been talking about Katy Perry and wondering if she’ll have a wardrobe “malfunction” as others have in years past. I don’t pay much attention to such things. I don’t like football.

There. I said it. I live in Oklahoma and I don’t like football.

I don’t like a single thing about it. I attend one, maybe two, football games a year and only because my niece and nephew are in the band. I was our band’s drum major in high school and Mr. Medders would get frustrated with me because he’d be into watching the game, cheer for a touchdown, then realize that the band hadn’t struck up the school song – because his drum major was visiting with her neighbors, friends, and anyone else who would join in. We finally struck up an agreement that when they got close to the touchdown place he’d give me the high sign so I could at least put a pin in my conversations long enough to lead the band. When Mr. Wall became director my Senior year I had to train him as to my I-only-attend-football-games-because-I’m-forced-to ways and we worked out the same agreement as his predecessor.

Now that I am a recovering extrovert and don’t enjoy chatting as much as I once did, I just pretty much sit and sigh, shift uncomfortably on the bleachers, shell out concession stand money to my children and husband, and text anyone who will text back. If I had a smart phone I could at least play Words with Friends or something, but as it is, I just start down my contacts list and try to remember which of them won’t (willingly) be at a football game and thus be too engaged to text me back.

I don’t understand anything about the game. It has never made sense to me. I know that a bunch of dudes encased in plastic, foam, and spandex capri pants smash violently into each other over an oblong leather ball. I know that they get six points for a touchdown, one for a field goal, and three for “running it in”, whatever that means. I know that sometimes refs throw little yellow hankies on the ground and I am fairly certain those hankies have nothing to do with runny noses. The players touch each others’ rear ends a lot and coaches throw clipboards on the ground rather angrily at times. I have also seen the strange tradition of dumping a cooler full of iced Gatorade over the head of the coach at the end of a game, a behavior that baffles me because I know just how doggone expensive that stuff is. People in the crowd yell, “COME ON D!” and I wonder why A, B, and C are being left out. I have repeatedly asked someone to explain what “1^st and 10” means and no, the explanation of “1^st down with 10 yards to go” doesn’t help. Down where? Yards of fabric?  And if they need to “go” maybe they should ask the ref to throw down a hankie so they can have a potty break. It’s a foreign language I care not learn, thankyouverymuch.

So Happy Super Bowl Day to all you sportsy weirdos. We’ll chat again in March when I’ll be as mad as a hatter while I scream “DEFENSE, BOYS!”

Ohhhhh wait…..I just go that whole “COME ON D!” thing. Heh. Who knew. Anyway, go enjoy your cheese dip and your baffling ballgame. I’ll just be over here playing Words with Friends. 

A Woman My Age

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on January 18, 2015

I am swiftly approaching my 42^nd birthday. As in, so swiftly it’s mere days away. Aging is one of those things you really have no choice in. I mean, to be alive is to age. Wow, that sounded wise. Maybe it’s because with age comes wisdom. Again, profound. I’m on a roll!

Your first birthday is always celebrated because you’re cute and you smear cake everywhere. Turning five means Kindergarten is soon and the Tooth Fairy will start visiting. Turning 10 means you’re finally double digits. 13 ushers in the teen years. 16 means a driver’s license and a newfound freedom. Turning 18 is no big deal unless you just get really excited about voting – and gambling. Turning 21 is major if you like to partake of alcoholic beverages or would like to carry a concealed weapon. After that it’s pretty much a decade-by-decade big deal. You turn 30, you mourn the end of your 20’s – that carefree time of irresponsibility and perky boobs. You turn 40, and I’m finding that means you get to know your doctor better. My husband, who is 10 years my senior, says 50 is depressing and fat. Heck, I’m already depressing and fat, so I’m not sure if that means turning 50 will be a cinch for me – or if it means I’ll die.

I had called my dad last week to give report from my latest medical procedure and related all the woes of the visit. Basically, it boils down to this: I’m falling apart. And Dad only confirmed that by imparting this bit of wisdom on me: “Everything changes at the age of 40. It’s like you had a warranty and it suddenly runs out.” I have things drooping, sagging, slowing down, and some outright quitting on me.  I’ve been gray-headed since I was 28, so that hasn’t been a big deal. That one’s early-onset and hereditary for me, unfortunately. But the older I get, the more medical conversations begin with, “Well, for a woman your age…” It’s this constant monitoring of levels, concentrations, and counts makes me feel like a guinea pig in a laboratory. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful I have a nurse practitioner who cares about me and my health, but I guess I just wasn’t prepared for how sudden this change came on.

All in all, though, the reality is my health is actually quite well for a not-quite-42-year-old woman as portly as I am, but I just notice that lately I creak and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies in the morning. The kids get a large amount of amusement from watching me walk after I’ve been sitting awhile – seems that until I work out all the stiffness, I walk like my late Granny Glenn. I have found myself saying, “If I eat that this late I’ll be up all night.” You know, like your grandma used to say when you asked her to make popcorn for you to eat while watching Johnny Carson. My stylist does any amazing job of coloring my hair so the gray-camouflaging blonde lasts as long as possible, but she keeps hinting I may need to consider coming in more often than every six months. She’s amazing, but I probably shouldn’t put so much pressure on her. Also? I never knew how life-changing bifocals could be.

These days, I’m in need of more calcium, more sleep, more fiber, and more moisturizer. . I could power a small island nation with the energy that comes from a hot flash. The first thing I do when I open the paper is check the obituaries – to make sure I’m not in there. And while I’m thinking about it, some of those hot flashes make me wonder if those tabloid stories of spontaneous combustion have anything to do with being “a woman my age”.