"Do you believe you can win?" Duh!

Most hilarious thing overheard at Sunday’s Super Bowl party:

M: Do you believe that? Hey guys, did you see that?

SO (conversing with Son of Tex): See what?

DoOL: (Head down, concentrating on a Scrabble move, says nothing.)

AQ: Mmmm, sorry, wasn't paying attention.

C.F. Kats and her mother shrug. Both are doing schoolwork.

M: Unbelievable! This is a Superbowl party and nobody saw the play?

Sport: I saw it. He was in.

Hate to say it, but I was more mesmerized by the commercials and Prince’s half-time performance than by the actual game. Despite all of Saint’s efforts, I can’t find much in football that really appeals to me. If you’re gonna have athletes out on the field, at least take off some of the padding. (This is why I like soccer. At least I can see the muscular calves and thighs; I don’t have to imagine what they look like.) The best thing about this much-hyped event is the opportunity to get together with a bunch of friends, catch up, and eat a bunch of delicious but nutritionally-deficient junk food.

If you still haven’t yet had your fill of the Super Bowl, check out Sports Illustrated’s Dumbest Super Bowl Questions. My personal favorite is #15, followed closely by #13.

If Mama ain't happy... beware the veto!

"Mom, has President Bush vetoed anything?" Sport asked me on the way home from piano lessons.

"Uhhh, I think he vetoed some stem cell legislation," I said, a little stunned by the switch in conversation from playground antics to politics. "Why do you ask?"

"We're learning about presidents." And, I assumed, the power of the presidential veto. He went on to entertain me with trivia about Taft, Adams, and FDR.

LegoGuy and Sport get a hefty amount of political exposure due to the conversations their father and I have during dinner each night. We try to come up with one thing to share with the family, and I usually throw something out I heard on NPR during my drive home, which sparks a discussion with SO while the boys play with their food and throw napkins at each other. Over the years, they've learned enough to add a little something to the conversation. Sport, who knows how I feel about one possible Democratic presidential hopeful, saw the cover of a book I'd been reading. His eyes widened.

"Mom, it's Barack Obama! This is the answer to all your hopes and dreams."

Okay, all idols have feet of clay, but, as I told JrCat at work last week, let me cling to this thimbleful of hope. It's all I have to get me through the last 2 years of the Bush Nightmare (2000-2008).

Speaking of nightmares, last night I made another attempt to teach Scrabble to the boys. I have no memory of my own parents teaching me to play. Perhaps I sprung from my mother's body clutching a dictionary in one hand and a Scrabble rack in the other. Regardless, no matter how hard I try, I can't remember any lessons. It's as if I've always known how to play. Trying to teach the art of Scrabble strategy, however, doesn't come naturally to me at all. My level of patience, much lower at the end of the day then at the beginning, was getting very, very low.

After LegoGuy drew 5 E's from the bag, he was ready to throw in the towel.

"I give up! This is a sucky hand!"

"You can't give up in the middle of a game just because you don't like your letters. That's rude. You can pass and get a new hand if you want."

"A-N-N-E." Sport laid down his letters.

"You can't use proper names, remember? I've told you this before."

"BEANYZOO."

"LegoGuy, that's not even a word. You can't put a Y at the end of BEAN; it runs into ZOO. We've gone over this a hundred times."

He giggles.

"Trade you a D for a U," Sport whispers to his brother, and tiles slide across the table in a careful exchange.

"Doesn't work that way."

"I've got nothing." LegoGuy tilts his letters toward me. DEEFERA.

"Move the letters around until you see something."

"I did. There's nothing."

Quickly, I switch the D for the F.

"It's right there. FEEDER. See it? You've got to keep moving the tiles around until you see something. Or try to play off the end or the beginning of a word that's already in play."

By this time, I know I'm about to lose it, especially when Sport throws a fit when he can't find anyplace to go.

"That's it! Game over." In moments, the game is back in the box. The boys open their mouths to protest, but know by the expression on my face that resistance is futile.

A presidential veto doesn't hold a candle to the power of a maternal one.

Be careful what you wish for

After moaning about the dullness of a routine life, we took a little walk on the wild side last week. We had us a plumbing problem. A big one. Snaking the pipes wasn't going to do it this time. Instead, it was jackhammer time.

"Looks like they might have to take up part of the kitchen floor," SO told me after the first plumber visited on Monday.

"They are not tearing up my ceramic tile!"

"Or they might have to go through the library floor."

"Not the wood floors! I'll lug the clothes to a laundramat for the rest of my life before I let that happen."

"Be reasonable," said SO. "We can't use the dishwasher or the kitchen sink. There's a hole in the pipe. It's all got to be replaced."

Shuddering, we put our heads together and called in the big guns. Time to network through family.

I know I've spent a lot of time whining about the dysfunctional vein that runs through our clans, but when the chips are down, nobody pulls together faster than us hillbillies. It's one thing for me to make fun of my own, but then again, I've earned that right. Regardless of past issues, I started making some calls and found a plumber related to my sister's second husband. We didn't want any kind of discount, SO reassured him. We just wanted someone we could trust.

"Hell, you're family," he said, and by Thursday his crew was on the scene, tearing up the back patio and ripping the dishwasher out of its cozy nook. When I got home from work that evening, I surveyed the damage in shock. There was a 4-foot deep hole and an enormous pile of dirt,, clay and concrete just outside the back door. Mud tracks traced the path of the plumber. The dishwasher was jammed in the corner, looking rather like the assassinated corpse of Julius Caesar abandoned by his murderous senators (okay, that's a stretch, but we're still watching Rome, and that's the first comparison that came to mind). Another deep hole was excavated from beneath the floor where the dishwasher had been, tunneling under the sink and to the outside. From there, chaos spread through the entire house. Everything was out of order. SO was in a panic, the boys were down to a couple pairs of boxers and stained vacation t-shirts, Bella looked like she was only a bark away from a nervous breakdown. It was time for me to take charge.

At least, it was time for me to think I could take charge. I took a vacation day and started putting the house back in order, working from the room furthest from the problem. I am always soothed my cleaning; it's not something I particularly look forward to doing, but when I'm in the middle of it, I tend to fall into a Zen-like meditation. By lunch time, I'd gotten things the way I wanted and the plumbers were breaking for lunch.

"Should be able to run all that laundry by 3 o'clock or so," said Mike, former motorcycle racer and all-around nice guy. He had a tendency to groan loudly when bending or maneuvering heavy pipe into place, which really freaked me out at first.

"Motorcycle accident," SO whispered when I voiced my concern. "Major nerve damage. Took a year to recover."

"Good God!" Surely plumbing wasn't the most comfortable job for Mike to be doing. But, other than the loud groaning, he had no complaints.

Since I'd tidied up all I could, I had a little time to watch a documentary that had been languishing near the TV for a couple of weeks. I even walked up with LegoGuy to get Sport from school. It was a beautiful day and we took Bella. In the midst of all the chaos, I found myself having a pretty good time.

The pipe was replaced, The plumbers cleaned everything up as well as they could, and promised to be back on Monday to reinstall the dishwasher and put the shelves under the sink back together. I spent all day Saturday doing laundry, and things are pretty much back to normal. I even got to go to a poetry reading to hear one of my friends read her work.

After this crazy week, I'm looking forward to routine.

DVR Wars

Sunday evening in the AQ household

In the heat of battle, SO clutches the DVR remote, frantically trying to cancel a recording in order to tape another episode of Rome. "What do you mean, we can't tape two shows and watch another one at the same time?" His voice rises in frustration and LegoGuy curls into a fetal position on the couch, rocking back and forth.

The DVR Wars continue. Ever since we got digital cable video, the boys and their father have been engaged in a battle to see who can record the most TV shows. At first, SO was in the lead, but LegoGuy was a close second, programming the box to catch each and every television documentary featuring a WWII aircraft. Sport, not to be outdone, feverishly studied the TV Guide channel, plugging in the NFL games and late night EPL classics. As for me, all I asked for was The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, 30 Rock, and SNL. Soon, the amount of space available on the DVR hovered near 18%. What to do about this dilemma?

"Dad, you're going to have to cancel out that Patriots game," LegoGuy volunteers, removing his thumb from his mouth in an attempt to solve the problem.

"This is bloody ridiculous!" SO thunders, marching off to inform Sport (who is showering) that he won't be able to watch the game later. He tries to use his calm voice, but Sport nearly jumps out of his skin anyway. He is promised a chance to watch the EPL review show before bed, and things start to settle down.

"I just lost four pounds from all the stress," LegoGuy says when the crisis was over.

Through it all, I huddled at the computer keyboard, finally inspired to start another blog entry. I've been stuck for awhile, trying to come up with something that might be mildly amusing. For the most part, life at the AQ household is pretty routine: kids get up, kids get dressed, I go to work, they go to school, SO pays the bills and keeps the pantry stocked, kids get home, I get home ... yada yada yada ... showers, bedtime. I think I will go mad with all the repetition. All the child rearing books I've read talk about how kids need structure. It makes them feel safe. Still, one week bleeds into another in a mind-numbing parade of sameness.

The ice storm broke us out of our routine, but there's only so much one can write about the weather. I thought we might be covered with a foot of snow this weekend. Thankfully, the weathermen were wrong, and we had rain instead. So when I heard the uproar over DVR issues, I perked up and started grinning.

I know we aren't the only family who struggle with DVR programming addiction. My friend, The Collatress, got so excited when hers was installed that she immediately programmed 100 hours of TV taping during the first week alone. This became a problem when her husband wanted access. Negotiations ensued, and some shows were carefully deleted. I have a feeling they are still dealing with space availability.

I haven't been able to watch all the Daily Shows/Colbert Reports I taped last week. SO keeps eyeballing them, hoping to zap them out of the queue and free up some more space. I planned to watch them while we were snowed in on Saturday, but, as I said, we got rain instead. I also got distracted by cobwebs and ended up spending my weekend cleaning the kitchen from floor to ceiling. So, my shows wait in limbo to be viewed.

Unless they've been deleted.

Wind chilly

SO just called from the airport to let me know he might have to pull an all-nighter. Although every flight has been cancelled, they still need bodies to man the rental car counters. Some employees haven't been able to traverse the icy roadways, so my hubby may be the lucky recipient of overtime.

Meanwhile, I sit at home listening to my sons compete in a belching contest.

Local weathermen worked themselves into a fever pitch on Thursday, warning all of us to gird up our loins in preparation for the coming storm. At work, JuniorCat made fun of the histrionics: "For the love of God, people, are you listening to me? Did you top off your gas tank? Do you have enough supplies? Extra candles? Blankets? A chainsaw? Generator? Have you scoped out your chubbiest neighbor? By all means, invite him over to wait out the storm. When this thing hits, those few extra pounds could mean the difference between life and death for you and your family!"

I've been through worse storms. So far the ice has been limited to sleet. There's been no wanton destruction of trees and powerlines. The streets are icy, but the boys and I ventured out yesterday to buy some milk and eat lunch. We didn't even slide until they begged me to throw on the brakes as we pulled onto our street.

I don't want anyone to get hurt, but I confess I enjoy it when nature flexes her muscles on occasion. One of the coolest things I've ever experienced in Oklahoma was when a freak wind shear, or gustnado, hit the city and tore down a pitiful amount of trees. When it hit, the wind was so loud that I ran in and got LegoGuy out of his toddler bed.

"Sounded like a freight train!"

We sat in a rocking chair in the middle of the house, as far away from windows as possible. It was frightening and incredibly cool at the same time. Our entire neighborhood was shut down by fallen trees. The city collected all the branches and piled them in a nearby park. There were so many, they resorted to burning them rather than grinding them up into mulch.

We also had a brutal icestorm when Sport was tiny. It tore down powerlines and plunged our house into darkness. If you've never experienced it, there's a moment just before branches are shorn from the trunk of a tree when an enormous KE-RACK! splits the silence. Poor Sport was traumatized by the sound. He'd run to us with his hands over his ears.

In comparison, this storm has been really mild. Where's the toppling trees, cars skidding all over the road, cable lines being rent asunder, neighors cannibalizing each other? We haven't even had to light a candle.

It is cold, though. Watching the weather channel, Sport commented, "Look at that wind chilly -- 18 degrees!" He meant the wind chill factor. It was hilarious. But not as funny as the burp he ripped out only moments later. Not to be outdone, LegoGuy matched it with one of his own.

After this weekend, I may have a greater appreciation for a champion belch.

Do they have a 12-step program for this?

I'm not like the average junkie. I can go for months without touching the stuff, watching others indulge while I sit immune. At first, I couldn't get enough of it. I was buying every month, spending long hours at my kitchen table, glassy-eyed and shaky. Eventually, I plateaued and was able to wean myself. Little by little, I got it all under control.

But every so often, I get the itch.

This weekend, I let the genie out of the bottle. I gathered my scrapbooking paraphernalia and newly-printed Christmas pictures and went on an all-out bender. I felt a little like CraftyMinx must when she gets a new shipment of yarn.

I haven't worked on my scrapbooks for awhile. Truthfully, my kids are out of the "cutie-pie" phase. LegoGuy is all arms, legs, and feet. His babyface doesn't match his gangly body. He looks a bit like a painting by Gauguin -- the perspective is all wrong. Sport's baby teeth are gradually being replaced by adult teeth. They're too big for his mouth. Right now, he looks like a refugee from the Appalachia highlands, especially after he's spent a couple hours playing soccer.

I've been lax taking pictures of late, but at Christmas I grudgingly got out the digital camera and starting snapping. For some reason, we fell way behind in our usual traditions -- we never put up the outside lights, didn't go visit Santa, didn't drive around looking at decorated homes and yards, and watched only a few of our favorite seasonal movies. Perhaps the fact that my mother has now sunk into a deep depression had a lot to do with my general ennui regarding the holidays. Still, I took some pictures when we went to visit friends, went to a cookie-decorating party, and spent Christmas Day with SO's family. I ended up with some pretty neat shots. As I looked through the bundle of photographs, I decided to work on a layout that was vastly different from the last 3 years of pictures in our Christmas album.

As I do before beginning any project, I headed downstairs to the library and picked up a stack of Creating Keepsakes magazines. I browsed through a couple before finding a layout I liked: not too fancy, nothing I couldn't do in less than a weekend. Later, I looked through my scrapbook papers and found a few I could use to set the mood. Then, I came up with a theme and selected a few photos that I wanted to highlight. The rest were trimmed down into smaller vignettes.

Then, my favorite part. Starting the first layout. I'm always excited to see how the first page turns out. If it's good, then I know I have a sure thing, and I'm off and running. If it's not so good, I have to spend more time working it out. Luckily, this time it worked on the first try. Before I knew it, I'd spent three hours hunched over the kitchen table. My hands were shaking from exhaustion and my breathing was shallow. My neck and back were aching. I knew I should stop and get to bed, but there was always just one more thing I wanted to get to before I could put it down.

"Mom, do you know..."

"Can't you see I'm busy?" I hissed. "I'm creating over here!"

The poor child slunk away, emotionally shattered that I hadn't answered one of his daily 257 questions. I, however, was distracted enough from my addiction to get up and go to bed.

"Hello, my name is AQ, and I'm a scrapaholic."

The thing in the basement

The thing in the basement enjoys the dark. It spends most of the time sleeping, but wakes once in a while to see the figure of a man outlined against a rectangle of light. Clutching a pipe, the man heaves it over his head, standing like Thor among the giants.

"What have you done now, you sonovabitch?"

We are engaged in a battle of wills with an ancient boiler. As our Korean War-era building continues its lumbering march toward an Usher-esque ending, the thing in the basement exerts a malevolent power. Weekly, our Maintenance Man (MM) ambles in with a new set of challenges. Oddly enough, he's usually cheerful.

"Job security," he whistles as he struggles to cool the library below us while simultaneously re-routing the arctic blast in the offices above to an empty room.

"Interesting," he notes, removing tennis shoe laces, a partial toupee, and the head of a doll from the plumbing pipes.

"Freaky," he observes, rewiring the computer terminal that somehow was locked into the power grid downstairs. MM is amiable enough when it comes to handling these minor peculiarities, white mustache gleaming with the perspiration of his efforts, but the boiler is starting to drive him mad.

Last week it burned out a heat coil. Apparently, this particular heating system is so outdated, replacement parts are no longer available. Each time this thing malfunctions, pieces have to be special ordered and hand crafted by the cranky artisans of an unnamed company operating out of a garage in some unspecified location. Weeks go by without any word. We're afraid to ask MM when the part will arrive because he doesn't have an answer and his usually pleasant face will darken to a bright vermillion, mustache bristling like a gray caterpillar.

Meanwhile, we wait. If it's the middle of summer, temperatures inside the building can soar into the high 90s. Fans are plugged in, washcloths dampened and placed around necks, glasses of ice water quickly consumed, sweat stains ruin cotton shirts, tempers flair, friendships are damaged and later repaired.

If it's the middle of winter, like our latest incident, temps can hover around the low to mid 50s. Several layers of clothing are worn, hats and glovelets appear, hot chocolate is made and carefully sipped, the break room is abandoned for warmer environs, sniffles and coughs develop, conversation ceases and is replaced by shivering.

Long ago, we were told that personal heaters were not allowed. However, there's been a certain lack of leadership in the office over the last couple of years, and one woman dared to bring her heat fan to work. When the boiler broke, we watched with envy as she pulled out her fan and plugged it in, flooding the small space around her desk with heat.

Today there was an outright rebellion. With an outside temp of 25 and an indoor one of 50, the grunts had had enough. Several of us made surreptitious trips to a nearby Target, returning with heat fans. Plugging them in, we had a few luxurious moments of warmth.

Then, the circuits blew.

Defeated, we returned the heaters to their boxes. Below us, I could swear I heard the boiler give a triumphant guffaw.

Nice pants

It's Day 7 of my Christmas vacation and I can feel my brain turning into jelly. It doesn't help that I tend to follow the boys around with a dustpan. Our house is small and with four bodies filling it from room to room, the clutter tends to pile up. Also, there's no escape from the Xbox, EPL review shows, GI Joe war games, or wrestling matches, so I'm going a little batty. We've had several days of rain, and now it's cold.

Honestly, I am counting the hours until I go back to work on Tuesday. I take refuge in the quiet repetitiveness of my job. Once everyone finishes sharing their New Year's celebration stories, I'll be back into the rhythm of productivity.

I have, however, been relatively productive here. I rallied the troops the day after Christmas to get all the decorations down and the house back to normal. I've worked on my scrapbooks and watched a couple of documentaries: Guns, germs & steel and When the levees broke. I've finished 4 books and am about to finish a 5th. I've made curtains for the boys' room and the guest room. We scouted out some new shades at Home Depot for our bedroom and the bathrooms. I've taught Sport how to do some strategic planning in Scrabble (he's getting pretty good) and we all tried to learn how to play our newest boardgame, Cranium.

I guess I'm feeling a bit of the post-Christmas letdown, although I'm glad it's over. I hate the way I feel the week before Christmas. Maybe it's my own weird hypersensitivity, but I swear I feel a pulsing energy rising from every store and home, a kind of collective desperation to meet ridiculously high expectations that gathers and melds into a shimmering entity that hovers over the city. I try to stay out of it myself, but it's not easy. And everytime I turn on the radio, someone is covering "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas." As far as I'm concerned, only 2 people are allowed to sing that song: Judy Garland and Karen Carpenter. For anyone else to attempt it is blasphemy.

I wore my new pants today. I finally caved in and purchased a pair of flaired hip-huggers. It took me back to their days of origin -- circa 1970. I was in elementary school and somehow acquired a stylish pair of white flaired pants. I can't remember shopping for them. Perhaps they were pulled out of the church donation box, as were many of our clothes. In that time, kids didn't really care what they wore, but I fell in love with these pants. They had at least a 12-inch spread and made a satisfying swish when I walked. (I would have worn them everyday if given the chance, but my mom manage to sneak them away for a washing when dirt rings formed on the hems.) Coordinated with a jazzy pink plaid top and platform shoes, I felt like a million bucks -- if, that is, I ignored my Bugs Bunny overbite and waifish freckles.

Anyway, I thought I might be pushing it, trying to wear pants similar to ones I wore in the 3rd grade. But Gouldie said they looked good, and hey, I really love these pants.

Happy New Year, everybody!

How do you spell...

"Stop spelling and go to bed!"

We just watched Akeelah and the Bee. And yes, the boys are now would-be Scripps National Spelling Bee champions. It's an interesting phenomena, one I'm sure many parents are familiar with. Or perhaps our kids are weirdos. But everytime we watch a movie, they morph into the hero/heroine or animal of interest. We once looked at a documentary on chickens. After we put the video away, we found them wandering through the hallway, scratching at the carpet with their toes and clucking.

"Weren't you supposed to put those clothes away six hours ago? Why don't you go in there and spell yourself into a clean room!"

Hopefully everyone got what they wanted for Christmas. We gave each other the gift of new windows this year. I'm not sure how I got to this point -- craving home improvement items rather than new shoes, diamonds, or the newest pair of designer jeans, but I've arrived with a vengeance. In fact, as we took a walk this afternoon, SO and I played a game in which we imagined we'd won $10,000 and had to say how we'd spend it (two rules: we couldn't blow it on one thing, and no gifts to charity). The first five items I named all had to do with improving the house: wood floors, gutters, cabinets, countertops, garden fountain.

"Mom, ask me any word. I can spell it!"

Our Christmas gathering was a lot of fun. We spent it with SO's family, and these people know how to party. In general, we're able to avoid the two big no-no's: politics and religion. They serve up lots of delicious food and decadent baked goods! (I ate so much sugar, I'll probably get diabetes in 2007.) There's always lots of alcohol (I'm partial to strawberry daiquiris myself) and plenty of family members to talk about and/or counsel through difficult times. After taking a call from Houston, my favorite sis-in-law shook her head as she hung up the phone. "We are such a dysfunctional family!" I'm convinced all families are dysfunctional in their own way. In fact, I think Tolstoy could be tweaked a bit to read: "Functional families are all alike; every dysfunctional family is dysfunctional in its own way."

"How do you spell mistletoe?"

When I think of all the things we've been through since I hooked my family up with my hubby's, it sounds like the worst kind of afternoon talk show: teenage pregnancy, alcoholism, multiple divorces, embezzlement, spousal abuse, larceny, drug abuse, car accidents, brain injuries, jail. But behind each story is the face of a loved one. The heart has a great capacity for understanding, forgiveness and acceptance, and something else.

I spell it: G-R-A-C-E.

Encore, bravo, encore!

Sport’s piano recital was last weekend. This thing usually lasts about 3 hours (I am not exaggerating) as 30 students, ranging from the ages of 6 to 18, all perform a special piece of music. We are very proud of our boy, as he won the Outstanding Performer of the Year and was a big hit as The Narrator for the Romantic Period, looking adorable in his double-breasted suit and jaunty cap.

But I’m not going to brag on him.

About midway through the performance, two little old ladies came wobbling in and sat on our row. One was wearing her best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ fur coat. The other had her blue hair perfectly coiffed and was clutching a cavernous black bag. Settling into their chairs, faces creased with enigmatic smiles, they opened their programs to find the name of their musically-inclined loved one.

The auditorium in which the recital took place is no Carnegie Hall, but sound does travel. Shifting bodies, rustling papers, cranky babies – all combine to make distractions. We were warned by Ms. Melody at the beginning of the program to turn off cell phones and pagers and take crying children to the foyer. The two elders missed this particular speech.

During one rather long example of the Contemporary Period, the Woman in the Fur Coat (WFC) got a hankering for a Tic Tac. Tic Tacs, in a quiet space, are one of the loudest candies on the market. They got even louder when WFC fished for them in her bag, shook them in an effort to open the container, and then dropped her bag (and the entire contents) onto the floor.

It got even more interesting when the Blue-Haired Lady (BHL) got a call on her cell phone. It seemed to ring at least 5 times as she tried to locate it in the cavernous black purse.

“Hello?” BHL’s voice carried across the hall as the student on stage struggled with a difficult Scott Joplin piece.

“I’m at the recital.” Pause.

“The recital.” Her enigmatic smile dimmed slightly.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Another pause.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.” She carefully closed the phone. And, of course, did not turn it off.

A few minutes passed; then, her phone rang again.

“Hello?” Pause.

“I’m at the recital.” A sigh.

“The recital.” Slight cough.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Clearing of the throat.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.”

The exact same conversation, same inflection, same words, everything.

I got tickled and had to swallow down the giggles.

And then it rang again. By this time, I’m so cracked up at the whole thing that I’m feeling a wave of hysteria. Who in the world needs to talk to this 78-year-old woman so desperately that they keep calling back every five minutes? Does she have a secret lover? An impending book deal? Did she win the Publisher’s Weekly sweepstakes? Why didn't she turn off the damn phone?

LegoGuy saw me laughing into my coat and began giggling himself. SO, on the other side of us, started to lose it as well.

But what really got us happened in the middle of the last song. BHL’s phone rang again and at the same moment, WFC let go the longest, rat-a-tat-tat of a fart I’ve ever heard. Magnified by the acoustics of the hall, the sound was unmistakable.

As the music ended in a swell of fortissimo, applause filled the air. The three of us were able to finally let our laughter out, channeling guffaws into cries of “Bravo! Bravo!”

I am not a loser.

I finished my Santa pillow! I started cross-stitching way back in 1994. As I was decorating the house for Christmas last weekend, I realized that I may be going overboard on this particular tradition. I've got about 16 of these, and I'm running out of places to put them. No, I don't keep them out all year, if that's what you're wondering. (I'm not a loser -- like Drew Barrymore's character in Never Been Kissed.) If I did that, they'd end up being ruined by the kids or chewed up by the dog. They come out once a year, and then are tucked back in the closet for the next 11 months.



This one, titled Santa & Friend, is my most recent.
(Click on photos to enlarge.)

Here's 3 others. Doesn't look like it, but that Merry Christmas one took longer than the other two.

This is the first one I made: Santa's enchanted sleigh.

My favorite: Santa Moon. The pattern wasn't difficult; it was the crazy quilt embroidered edges that nearly did me in.

Speaking of Christmas traditions, we've acquired so many over the years, it's almost hard to get them all in. To begin with, we decorate the tree the first weekend of December. I try to get the boys a special ornament from Hallmark. LegoGuy's been collecting the Kiddie Cars series since he was 2; unfortunately, the newest one is now sold out so I'm going to have to find it on Ebay -- at an exorbitant mark-up -- if he's going to have a complete collection. Sport's never found a series he likes. Last year he wanted a Harley Davidson motorcycle; this year, he went for the USA team jersey and soccer ball.

We've got 3 movies we watch: It's a wonderful life, A Christmas story, and A Muppet Christmas Carol. I usually take the boys to see the lights at a nearby children's home. We always head over to the Saint's house to decorate cookies with assorted icings and sprinkles.

I make up a Christmas letter and mail it to all our friends and relatives. Then there's usually a large family gathering at my family's house, after which we head over to SO's family for more merrymaking and gift-exchanging.

My favorite tradition, however, is the Christmas Eve candlelight service at my church. It's quiet, reflective, and beautiful -- a perfect ending to a busy, busy season.

Then, once January rolls around, it's time for me to start working on my next pillow. I've already picked out the pattern: Santa's midnight journey.

Okay, maybe I am a loser.

White hell

Oklahoma blizzard, day 2.

A mountain of wet clothes sits disconsolately near the front door. Every pair of sweatpants in the closet lie there, along with mismatched sweatshirts, sodden socks, frozen mittens and soaked sneakers. Pools of icy mush litter the hallway. A couple of towels have been tossed aside with careless aplomb.

Pictionary Jr., Scrabble, Memory, Life, Battleship, and Operation have all been pulled off the shelf, played, and deemed "boring." The DVDs have been sorted, viewed, and tossed aside. The children are getting restless. Their 3-minute attention span can no longer be sated.

We already bundled up to take the dog for a walk at the pinnacle of the blizzard's high winds. An attempt was even made to build a snowman, despite the poor quality of the snow. Entertainment is at a low point. I'm getting desperate.

The boys have eaten every carbohydrate-laden snack in the house. We're down to a couple cans of soup and some stale bread. Even Bella's bacon treats are starting to look good. I'm beginning to feel like Tamsen Donner. Thank God SO doesn't have a hand injury or I'd have to start thinking of appetizing ways to serve him up for supper.

For a moment, I have a spark of hope. The library, it was rumored, would open at noon. I could make a break for it! But the phone call came, dashing my plans. Instead, SO is called into work due to a lack of employee turn-out.

I'm left staring into the hollow eyes of my children.

"What are we going to do now, Mom?"

I search my mind for something, anything. Reading? They wouldn't go for it. Old-fashioned ghost stories? They wouldn't last through the setting of the scene. Crafts? They'd only mock me.

Perhaps they sense my fear. Sport picks up a tiny soccer ball and bounces it up and down. LegoGuy, his eyes never leaving my face, pulls on his goalie gloves. It's time for a game of indoor football. If I never again hear the phrase, "Oh, what a beautiful goal from Steven Gerrard!" I will consider myself only moments away from nirvana.

Outside, the snow continues to fall. There's no escape from my white hell.

I didn't always dread snow days. In San Antonio, we had one about every 8 years. There's nothing more beautiful than snow on palm trees. My siblings and I once made a two-foot snowman by scraping our lawn with the lid of a trashcan. Sure, it was covered in St. Augustine turf, but it was beautiful nonetheless. In college, I was transfixed by falling snowflakes. During my first Oklahoma blizzard, we all got out and had a huge snowball fight. One of my friends, who'd grown up on the border of Texas and Mexico, convinced herself she'd gotten frostbite. We made fun of her relentlessly. Snow days are a blast when you've only got yourself to entertain.

But throw two kids into the mix, and it's impossible to spend hours reading by the fire, or cross-stitching quietly on the couch while listening to Christmas CDs. They want to be doing something constantly. If they aren't entertained, they're bored. And when they're bored, all hell breaks loose.

Oh God, what was that noise? Did they just knock down the trophy shelf? They did! Back in a little while...

...Later

I know, I know, I'll miss all of this when they are grown and gone. I believe you! I really do. LegoGuy is spending tonight at a friend's house. He's been gone for 6 hours now, and I miss him and his interminable, rambling soccer discussions. I miss the riotous laughter he and his brother share when they're up to something, or when we watch funny movies together like The Money Pit. I just hope it's six months before we get another Oklahoma blizzard.

I need the rest.

They call me Misopedia (but only on a really bad day)

I’ve just validated the effectiveness of one of my oldest coping skills. When dreading an event, I’ll come up with a handful of terrible things that could happen. When nothing even comes close to the horrors of my overactive imagination, I can say, “That wasn’t so bad.”

I survived Thanksgiving. It was kind of fun, actually.

The boys slept late. SO and I popped out of bed and started making the sweet potato casserole, Hershey’s chocolate cake, and dinner rolls. I turned on the parade. When the boys came dragging into the living room, they were immediately bored by the floats, marching bands, and lip-synching pop stars. They donned their soccer gear and went outside.

At 10:30, I pulled a wine cooler out of the fridge and took a drink. It didn’t get me tipsy, but psychologically, I felt prepared. By 11:30 we were loading up the van for the short drive to my parent’s house.

“How’s Dad?” I asked my brother while we were unloading the food.

“I’d say he’s a 5 on the Gripe-O-Meter,” he replied. “Started out at 2, but Baby Sis called to say she would be late, and he shot up to a 7. He’s had a while to calm down, so I think he’s evened out at the half-way mark.”

Thank God! Dad had already fixed his baleful eye on another member of the family. Baby Sis was going to be the focus of his ire. I was home free! I’d left another wine cooler in the van as a back-up plan, but it seemed I wouldn’t be needing it. Sure enough, when my sister showed up nearly 30 minutes late, she’d also forgotten the pumpkin pie. Let the griping begin!

Even better, both my kids ate their dinner without complaint. Baby Sis’s oldest child is the world’s pickiest eater. The only way he maintains his stocky build is by gorging on sweets and French fries. He whined through most of the meal, taking the white hot light of Dad’s critical eye off my boys. Anyone who refuses to eat a home-cooked meal earns my father’s ridicule and disdain.

Anyone, apparently, but this 3rd and favorite grandchild. My dad chuckled with amusement when Baby Sis threatened the kid. “You won’t get any chocolate cake!”

“Neither will you, if you don’t clean your plate,” Dad threw back at her.

We successfully avoided any kind of political or religious discussions by playing one of my dad’s favorite games, Balderdash. He doesn't play to win; he plays to amuse. He likes making up definitions for obscure words, but he absolutely loves reading the definitions the rest of us come up with. He actually laughed so hard, he had tears running down his face.

Some samples:

Bolied

• mineral found only in the Dead Sea
• a chemical used to make ale
• excessive bullying from below the Mason-Dixon line

Tib

• a wooden spike
• fancy pen
• famed playwright of the Algonquin Roundtable

Snath

• early American hat
• ancient form of flying creature from the Cretaceous Period
• round pebbles found in brooks or streams

Mummichog

• embalming fluid used in Ancient Egypt
• Japanese fish chowder
• a silver killfish found along the US Atlantic ocean

Gleb

• parlor game
• lapdog-like creature from Star Wars lore
• one who is constipated

Crawthumpers

• mutant animal created in a secret lab, a mix of crab and rabbits
• religious fanatics
• clogging dance group sensation based out of Pottawatamie County, OK, who rose to the height of popularity during the 1960s before dying in a tragic tainted crawfish-eating contest

Misopedia

• Dictionary of bugs
• Compendium of stories
• hating children, especially your own

My dad was in such a good mood after the game ended, he even challenged me to a game of Scrabble. (I refused, remembering the last time we played in which I was reduced to tears by his accusations that I was cheating. How do you cheat at Scrabble, short of raiding the bag when nobody else is looking?) I think I'm going to incorporate Balderdash in every family gathering from now on. Once the tension starts to mount and the fur to fly, I'll pull it out.

"I've been bolied by you crawthumpters once too often. Now grab a tib and let's have us a gleb!"

Bottoms up!

Robert Benchley was an avid teetotaler until Prohibition made the speakeasy the hangout of the privileged in-crowd. One night in the fall of 1920, as Dorothy Parker and another friend ordered a round of drinks, he asked them to get him something other than his usual glass of orange juice. At the tender age of 31, Benchley took his first social drink, putting him on the road to alcoholism and eventual death due to cirrhosis of the liver.

I'm not sure I'm ready for social drinking yet, but starting on Thursday, I'm gonna have to get used to knocking back a few in the privacy of my own home. I figure a couple or three bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade will be all it takes to put a rosy hue on the festivities. The best laid plans of Saint and Queen have fallen apart, and I'm spending Thanksgiving with my family.

It helps to remember what my pastor said this morning. "Every family is dysfunctional in its own way." During our family gatherings, if I'm not criticized for my choice of churches, political affiliation, or for being an all-around smarty pants, then I'm often accused of cheating at Scrabble or am taken to task for my unusually large vocabulary which puts me, according to the clan, at an unfair advantage when playing Balderdash.

Other past Harvest highlights:

• The year my brother put my (now ex-) brother-in-law in a sleeper hold, nearly causing unconsciousness
• The infamous dishwasher loading debacle of 2001
• The gun control debate
• The "What I Am Thankful For" 45-minute prayer
• The "Racist Joke" moratorium of 1998
• The ceremonial retelling of the "Give Them Kids the White Bread" incident
• The paper-plate fiasco of 2003

For whatever reason, our gatherings are usually tense -- at least for me. And now that I know there's no escaping it, I'm determined to make the best of it. This time, I'm not going to get my feelings hurt. This time, I'm going to have fun. This time, I'm going to compete and win at whatever game we decide to play -- no quarter asked, no quarter given! And if it takes a dash of spirits to get me through it, then so be it.

Cheers, everybody-- hope you have a great holiday! (Hiccup.)

How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?

It's time to form a committee to plan our annual Christmas Luncheon, the one thing that passes for a social event at my workplace in which we are all invited to whip up a dish of our favorite holiday recipes -- concoctions that call for at least one can of Campbell's soup, a cup of chopped onion, and a "mystery" ingredient passed down from generation to generation.

I was committee chair last year. It's an honor that is supposed to rotate from one department to another, yet this week I was asked to be chair once again. I was flattered and horrified at the same time. Eager to push the responsibility onto someone else, I stammered, "W..w..what about the chair rotation precedent?" The white hot spotlight of responsibility moved from me and focused on another.

Don't get me wrong; I like parties. My favorite time of year is October when I get to plan and execute our annual pumpkin carving party that once got to be so popular among my friends and family, I had to start limiting invitations. I've served on the Christmas Luncheon Committee (CLC) a number of times in various capacities: decorating, clean-up, music, set-up, meat delivery. There seem to be more rules and regulations involved in the planning than there is in a peace treaty negotiated by the United Nations between North Korea and their terrified neighbors to the south. It's a heck of a lot of work, but the food is always good. Sometimes there are complaints, but most people appreciate the endeavor.

Serving as chair, however, is another matter. As Ben Parker famously said, "With great power comes great responsibility." The truth is, I failed in my duties as committee chair. I lost the meat.

There, I said it. Even now it hurts to think about the eager faces, plates in hand, opening the refrigerator the day after last year's Christmas Luncheon to find a foil-topped tray absolutely bereft of smoked briskit and oven-roasted turkey. The day before, I'd watched as committee members consolidated the two trays of meat into one giant vat of cooked flesh easily weighing 10 pounds, licking their lips at the thought of the leftover feast awaiting us all. Alas, it was not to be. By noon the next day, the meat was gone, leaving behind only the faint aroma of barbeque sauce and gravy.

There were plenty of suspects, but few clues. Co-workers were considered and then ruled out, until only a tiny handful of possible culprits remained. There was no proof, so only suspicions remain. The Great Meat Mystery of 2005 remains unsolved to this day.

But I won't give up. As O.J. Simpson famously promised to find "the real killer or killers" of his ex-wife and her friend, so have I vowed to find out who took the meat (that is, unless I can get a publishing deal for a book I'd call If I Took It, a purely hypothetical exercise in which I describe how I would have pulled off the meat heist).

Not that I'm admitting anything, mind you.

You're yearning, burning for somebody to tell you that life ain't passing you by

It's been awhile since the Class of 1986 held onto the ivy ring, threw our caps into the air and said our goodbyes. When I walked off campus that spring day, I didn't think I'd be back in five years, much less 20.

Forgot about the fact that I'd been elected Senior Class VP. Apparently, it's a lifetime appointment. I might have had second thoughts about running if I'd realized I'd be on the reunion planning committee for the rest of my life. To be honest, I was only trying to get my picture in the yearbook.

We had a pretty good group show up this year, some of my very best buddies. Three of the five original "Manhunters" from Sophomore Follies were there. We reminisced about the faculty and staff directors who, during rehearsal, told us we couldn't shake our hips to the song, forcing us to re-choreograph part of the routine.

Most of the perps from the Great Police Helicopter Chase showed up as well: the driver and four of the passengers. Huffaker retold the story and we all mocked Mercer once again. She was the only one of us who asked to be dropped off at the dorm on our way to the police station, since she'd never been in trouble before.

A contingency of representatives from the Dallas Friday Night Getaway also dropped by, as well as those who went on the Hereford Homecoming Weekend, took part in the infamous Barn Dance, the Toad Suck Daze retreat, Heart Pal Court Bowling Night, every class trip, and much more. I didn't realize how many wild, crazy, and downright stupid things we'd done. One mother gazed at the group of our children nearby and sighed. "If my kid did something like that, I'd kill 'em." A tremor of fear went through us. Once our kids get to college, they aren't going to tell us anything. And it's probably a good thing.

I spent a lot of time visiting with one girl who wasn't part of my crowd. I remember being jealous of her because she snagged a boyfriend during freshman year and continued to date him throughout the next four years. So devoted was he to her that for his photography class project, he created an entire slide show featuring pictures of her -- backlit, soft focus, set to music (I believe it was "Wind beneath my wings"). Meanwhile, the rest of us gals glowered in the classroom, nursing our broken hearts. The couple, still married, had a couple of teenage kids with them and they were all really cool.

Gouldie put together an amazing slide show. She also wowed us with a set of trivia questions: five from each year. A sampling:

• How many chapels were we allowed to miss during a semester?
• This fancy free movie became the theme for our sophomore class trip.
• During our junior year, who gained international attention as the leader of the Polish solidarity movement?
• What terrible event happened during our senior year, on Jan. 28, 1986?

As much as I complained about having to pull this thing together, I'm glad I made the effort. In their company, the years fell away again. I felt like I was 18 again and breaking curfew to hang out on the dock at the lake, listening to Thriller, or sneaking away to play hide-and-seek in a graveyard with a bunch of other goofballs.

As one reunion attendee put it, "It was 4 years of church camp!" Minus the adult supervision.

Happy now?

Update: Okay you relentless, competitive folks, here's my updated version:

Adroit
Diligent
Judicious
Exaggerative
Capricious
Trichromatic
Incandescent
Verbalistic
Efficacious

Quintessential
Ultrasophisticated
Engaging
Evanescent
Neurotic

Are you happy now? You better be!

Down the rabbit hole

When I woke up this morning, I thought I'd somehow been transported to a parallel universe. How else to explain:

• Democrats taking the House
• Democrats close to taking the Senate
• Donald Rumsfeld resigning
• Bush admitting Democrats care about national security as much as he does
• Bush offering to help Nancy Pelosi decorate her office as she becomes the first woman Speaker of the House

Where's the Mad Hatter? Where's the White Rabbit?

I went into the midterm election with about a 90% certainty that, despite the apparent mood of the country and will of the people, dirty politicians would somehow fix the election to skew their way through voter intimidation, malfunctioning Diebold machines, and subterfuge. I had only a smidgen of hope that things would turn out the way I wanted: I want the 2-party system to work again!

Tomorrow, I'll start fretting, but today I'm letting myself feel happy and hopeful about the future. I heard some nameless commentator say that people who were worried about the direction of the country and the state of American democracy should be happy today. It still works! This guy says it better than I could: Is America a great country or what?

Cataloged a fun book this afternoon aimed at elementary kids: If you were an adjective. On the back, the author writes: If you were an adjective, you would make the world colorful. You could be spectacular, brilliant, dazzling, or daring. He offers a challenge: write your name from top to bottom and think of adjectives that describe you.

• Audreyesque
• Quirky

or

• inQuisitive
• fUn
• Energetic
• Empathetic
• Nice

I cheated a little, but I think it works.

Okay, humor me. Saint, DoOL, Gypsy, Minx, Loonie, PastGrace, and other faithful readers, it's your turn!

Weekend miscellany

­­Gouldie’s son was baptized at church yesterday. As she and her Sweetie stood before us with a contingency of family and friends, The Boy entertained all of us with his refreshing honestly. “Will you promise me something?” asked the minister. “Will you always remember you are a child of God, and a child of this congregation, and we all love you?” The Boy shook his head no, to the laughter of all who were watching.

My in-laws came back from England bearing gifts: soccer jerseys for all the boys. LegoGuy was ecstatic to receive a Kelly green jersey from Ireland; Sport nearly came unglued when he was given an England team jersey with BECKHAM emblazoned on the back; SO looked all of 10 years old when they handed him a Liverpool jersey. “I’m going to wear this to bed tonight!” he joked. I got a bag of English candy and a David Beckham calendar. Mmmmm.

We had our Staff Appreciation dinner on Saturday night. One night a year, library staff dusts off some of our more formal clothes and mingle. I even put on a pair of heels. (I forget how painful high heels are – but they sure make my legs look darn good, even if I do say so myself.) My good buddy, The Saint, won a major award. That, in itself, was worth the effort of finding something to wear, fixing my hair, and caking on the make-up. Even better was what Sport had to say when I got home. Half asleep, he asked me what had happened.

“The Saint won!”

“What did he win?”

“Five hundred dollars!”

“Cold, hard cash?”

Sport was served a piece of humble pie after his previously undefeated soccer team lost, 6-3. Their star player didn’t show up, and they stumbled during the first half as the other team’s star player got a hat trick. Sport put on the goalie gloves after the half and successfully defended while the Wildcats evened up the score. But during the last quarter, the coach put in another goalie, and 3 more goals were scored, each by the same hotshot. It was a bitter pill to swallow. “There goes our record,” Sport moaned.

LegoGuy spent Saturday morning cooking an appreciation lunch for The 363, a group at our church that usually cooks and serves meals to the homeless every other weekend. He spent 3 hours dicing vegetables, serving hot plates of food, scooping ice cream and washing dishes. Through it all he was pleasant and upbeat. “At least I didn’t have to chop onions!”

As for me, I gave one of my favorite videos another viewing: Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle. I love Dorothy Parker. I love the 1920s: my favorite decade. I love the clothes. I'd give anything to go back in time and spy on the Algonquin Roundtable. But watching the film again made me think, if you're going to be famous, it's better to die young.

So it's probably a good thing I'm not famous.

Protocols of Halloween

Only 30 minutes from the onset of darkness, Sport discovered that a key element of his Halloween costume was missing, left at his grandmother's. I had a scant half hour to come up with something that would satisfy his urge to transform into a thing otherworldly. I searched through my craft drawer and found some make-up from last year's scream fest. After a hurried consultation, we came up with the possibility of a Dead Pirate.

I layered the kid's face in white make-up, gave him some deep-set eyes and a mouth dripping with blood. LegoGuy let him borrow a set of bubba teeth. I found an old blonde wig. Sport was sufficiently scary, but he also looked like his costume had been thrown together at the last minute. Which it had.

The wig hair kept getting in his eyes, so we tied a bandana around his head. He transformed into a Dead Hippie. That wasn't scary enough for him, however. He wanted to carry a bloody knife.

"Hippies don't carry knives. They're all about peace and love, man!"

Frustration mounted. This wasn't good enough for Halloween. It had to look better. We scrounged through the costume box. Finally, the child's love of sports saved the day. We pulled off the hippie duds and put on the OU football uniform. He became: the Dead Football Player.

LegoGuy, too old this year for trick-or-treating (his words, not ours) volunteered to man the candy station. SO and I layered up and went out into the wind, joining a handful of children trekking down our street.

At first, the DFP was sluggish. The siren call of candy wasn't as captivating this year. Maybe he missed his brother. Maybe he was too cold. Maybe his OU helmet was blocking his view. Whatever the explanation, he started to get into the groove and increased his door-to-door speed when we made it to the next block.

SO and I commented, as we do every year, on the sparse crowd of kids. Aaahh, how we longed for the good old days, when hundreds of kids ran through the neighborhood, screaming in terror as home-owners jumped from behind bushes, or dressed as scarecrows, standing motionless until hapless children came into sight, then scaring the bejeezus out of them. Those were some good times!

With so many different arenas vying for their participation -- the mall, churches, and schools -- those kids who do traditional trick-or-treating are relatively few in number. There's also a limited amount of home-owners who participate, and fewer houses with their porch lights on, beckoning kids to the door.

And don't get me started on those houses that break proper Halloween protocol.

If you've got your porch light on Halloween night, and you don't answer your door to desperate, sugar-craving kids, you have broken a sacred trust. Your house should be egged; the windows of your car ought to be soaped. Worse still are those houses that are decorated for Halloween, with porch lights on, but no one home. What is a child to think of that? And what of those homes with no porch lights on, but they're decorated for Halloween, and the lights are on in the living room. It's a mixed message, people! You are messing with kids' minds! They don't know what to do. We came across groups of small children, frozen with indecision, whimpering on darkened lawns. It's a terrible thing to do to the costumed.

We only came across one house who truly had the spirit of Halloween's past. Their porch light had been replaced by a black light. Something -- someone? -- lurked on the front porch: faceless, lumpy, looking much like a giant potato. As the DFP walked by, the Potato-Man made guttural noises, trying to lure our ghostly athlete to the stash of candy hidden nearby.

"Don't you want to go up?" we asked the DFP.

"No way!" He went to the next house. SO and I stood on the street and watched as the Potato-Man inched closer. Moaning, he held out his misshapen hand. DFP made a beeline for the next house. Potato-Man turned toward us, gesturing. We giggled nervously and followed our kid, moving from the past and into the present.

Here's the Dead Hippie, before he morphed into the Dead Football Player.