In the Garden of Eating

After many months of studying Square foot gardening, I took a day off last week and planted my vegetable garden. The author of this book, Mel Bartholomew, promised me via the subtitle that his methods are a new way of gardening in less space with less work. I'd better get at least a tomato out of the whole thing. I spent 6 hours getting this plot of ground planted, not counting the hours we put in last fall digging up the sod and transplanting daylillies.





Bella pleaded with me to let her help. I let her use her digging skills and she pulled up dead roots with joyful abandon. She was absolutely covered in mud and loved every minute of it.

I could hardly move by the end of the day, and it made me think about a movie I watched recently: Once upon a time when we were colored. It's a story about an African-American sharecropper family in the segregation-era south, and at one point, the narrator talks about the expectations placed on children. "As soon as a child could walk, he was expected to help in the fields." I can't imagine children (especially mine) picking cotton for 12 hours a day, but they did it. I guess any kind of complaint was answered with a slap.

Farm work is so hard. My great-grandfather had a farm in West Texas, and my mother tells magical stories of her visits there, riding along on the tractor, fishing for tarantulas with string and a bit of chewing gum, making mud pies. Grandpa V. grew cotton and, from what I understand, it was a constant struggle to keep everything from burning up in the hot Texas summer. The farm wore him out, and he finally sold it after his wife died. The man I remember was tall, gray, and tired -- always napping in an easy chair.

I'm primarily a flower gardener, and my decision this year to put in vegetables came after years of teasing by my father. "You can't eat a flower," he'd say every spring when he and my mother came over to see the garden in full bloom. No matter how gorgeous it looked, he'd only criticize.

That's my dad.

So this year, I thought I'd see how well I could do. I read about vegetables all winter, and I think I know about as much as I'm going to know. It seems a little complicated, at least according to all the books, with their pH balanced soil, fertilizing requirements, and harvesting schedules. My dad, who helped his mother on their own family farm, assured me there was nothing to it. "Just put the seeds in the ground and they'll grow."

They'd better.

I work here, I carry a badge

Our library is where security guards go to die.

Well, not literally, but since a terrible robbery attempt in which a friend of mine was injured, we've had need of a security guard to protect us. But, this being a library, we get our gun-wielding heroes from an organization that made the lowest possible bid for our security contract. In a dismal parade of the desperate and incompetent, the characters who have come into the front door (and then quit, were fired, or were reassigned) have included:

Lonely Divorced Guy: He was always on time, his uniform pressed neatly and his shoes buffed. He made his rounds with purpose and stayed at his desk near the library entrance. But he had a way of saying things to women that were a little creepy. He followed female customers around the stacks and asked for their phone numbers. He once told me I had pretty little feet and asked if I was "happily" married. LDG really wanted to date somebody -- anybody -- and enough people complained about him that he was fired to make room for...

Neurotic Crafter Girl: Thin to the point of emaciated, dark circles under her eyes, NCG looked like she was trying to kick a heroin habit when in reality she was only trying to stop smoking. Her nervous energy haunted everything she did, whether patrolling the library grounds, waiting for the UPS guys to unload, or confronting the homeless. In an effort to calm her down a bit, our children's librarian asked NCG to help with a craft program, inadvertantly unleashing a monster. She became so consumed with the crafting bug that around Valentine's Day, she collapsed under the weight of too many hand-crafted puffy hearts, making room for...

Tattooed Biker Guy: Not quite able to afford a Harley, TBG owned a respectable Honda and a series of increasingly violent tattoos. He could barely keep awake due to his late night efforts to score with the ladies, and he developed a crush on one of the women I work with, lingering far too long near her desk when our boss was gone. Hanging out at the circulation desk, boring the circ clerks and scowling at the little kids who lined up to use the computers, he was finally transfered to another location, to make room for...

Personal Space Invader: The latest addition to our security detail, PSI is only months shy of his 80th birthday. Hunched over, hard of hearing, and, I believe, recovering from a stroke, PSI shuffles into our office about 3 or 4 times a day and pauses at each work station, staring intently at objects and the shapes and contours of our desks. I'm very particular about my own personal space, and Friday, when I felt his breath on the back of my neck as he peered over my shoulder to look at my computer screen, I got a little freaked.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Nope. Just bored. I'm a little nosy, like to look around. Gotta keep busy somehow."

He continued to hover just behind me. Trying to find an escape from this invasion, I sent something to the printer and stood up to go get it. I actually bumped into him in my hurry to get away.

I know for a fact that he pulled a similar stunt on my boss, so I'm doubting he'll be back next week. I'm trying to imagine who'll fill his shoes. Personally, I hope it's a trained attack dog. Somehow, I'd feel safer.

Snakes on a plain

Meet Stephen (named for Stephen Colbert, of course!). In lieu of a visit from the Easter Bunny, Stephen slithered into our neighbor's yard and was rescued from the lawn mower by the boys. Of course, they wanted to keep him as a pet, but knowing SO's healthy fear of snakes, I knew that wasn't going to happen. They put Stephen in a plastic container full of leaves and grass and we debated about where be should be relocated. There's a lovely rolling plain on the north side of the lake, and we took him there. He's was pretty nervous about the whole thing, and I left a pile of brush for him to crawl into if he got cold. I hope he didn't freeze to death, because the next day, the cold front hit.

Poor Stephen. But at least he kept his head. Whenever my dad saw a snake, he'd always get the shovel and chop it to pieces. He once came across a baby rattler and the poor thing didn't have a chance. Always a practical jokester, my mom didn't believe him at first, until he showed her the mangled body. I've got to give it to my mom. She used the experience to get back at my dad in a big way. Not long after the snake chopping experience, she rushed into the house, screaming and holding onto one leg.

"I've been bit by a rattler!"

"Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!" Dad was thrown. He didn't know what to do, and resorted to hopping up and down in a panic. She couldn't keep up the charade, and laughed her head off at his reaction. It sounds mean, I know, but he got her so many times with his practical jokes, she was glad to come up with a whopper to pay him back.

5 things I learned at OLA

Spent the last 2 days at the Oklahoma Library Association (OLA) conference, an annual event where librarians from different types of libraries and specialities get together for an exchange of information and a little schmoozing. I usually dread going to this thing. At first, it was because I didn't know anyone. Now, I know too many, but I still hate the uncertainty that comes with the perils of parking, trying to locate unfamiliar hotels, and managing to avoid some colleagues while maneuvering to meet up with others.

I've been taught to make lemons out of lemonades, channeling my dread into an educational opportunity. So here's 5 things I learned at OLA this year:

1. Librarians should never, ever, ever wear their hair in a bun. Ever. Even if attempting self-mockery.

2. A casual hug from a handsome young man wearing just the right amount of cologne can result in an embarrassing crush. The young man in question was a toddler when I was in college. He's bright, articulate, and clean. I'm not sure what cologne he was wearing, but it was intoxicating. After the hug, I kept breathing in a hint of the cologne that lingered on my jacket. Was it laced with pheromones? I couldn't stop thinking about his beautiful eyes. It took awhile for the scent to fade, leaving behind the faded rose of my own youth.

3. Connecticut librarians kick ass!

4. There's not enough alcohol in the city to turn a ragtag group of information professionals into a rock band. But our foam core guitars looked, like, totally awesome!

5. The group of kids born after Generation X prefer to be called Millenials rather than Generation Y or Echo Boomers.

There's also nothing more satisfying than sneaking away to have lunch with a dear friend. That makes the whole hassle worthwhile.

Misty birthday-colored memories

Tomorrow's my birthday. I had a couple of work pals surprise me and take me out for a birthday lunch, and that was nice. It got me thinking about some of the best birthday memories I have:

• One, of course, was being born, but I'm a little hazy on that. I know there was a bright light and lots of noise, and I got smacked around a little bit, but it ended well. I got a pink blanket out of it.
• There were plenty of parties with annoying kids who pinched me, busted the pinata before I got a turn, and made fun of my lop-sided, microwaved chocolate cakes. That wasn't so great.
• I got a Sweet 16 party, and my parents invited the boy I'd had a huge crush on for three years -- to his credit, he was nice enough to attend, but I'm sure inside he was cringing.
• When we lived in Washington, our circle of friends threw some great and creative parties for birthdays. One involved a hair-ball puppet; another centered around a handwritten story featuring Star Trek characters and an Organic Life Form (OLF). Those were the salad days.

Saw my favorite sister yesterday. She and her husband were on their way back to Colorado. They stopped in to say hello and wish me a happy birthday. "The older you get, the less of a big deal it is," she said, handing me a card my parents had asked her to deliver. (They live in town, and refuse to mail anything to me -- why waste a perfectly good stamp? If my sis hadn't brought the card over, I'd have had to pick it up myself.)

I agree with her on some level. I don't want expensive gifts. I don't even want cards, but I get a secret pleasure out of ecards, emails, and phone calls. I like it when people do stuff like that. It makes me feel a little special. It's nice.

One of the best gifts I ever got came out of the blue a couple of years ago. One of my co-workers had recently retired. She called me on her cell phone from the beach and let me listen to the breaking waves, knowing how much I loved the ocean. I will never forget that. One of these days, maybe I'll spend my birthday at a real ocean. Or, if global warming really kicks in, my little Oklahoma house might be situated on beachfront property.

Awesome!

Bald is beautiful

This is going to be one of those annoying “I am so proud of my kid” postings, so if you can’t handle that kind of stuff, don’t read on.

I can't help it, though, I really am proud of LegoGuy. Two years ago he started growing out his hair to shave on St. Baldrick’s Day, and he did the deed yesterday, along with about 70 other folks. He really would’ve had a lot more to take off, but during Christmas we made him get a trim and the stylist cut about 4 inches. (I was certain I told her to leave the length but add lots of layers; apparently, she didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me.)

Last year, Lego’s friend Fletcher died from Ewings Sarcoma. When it was time to sign up for St. Baldrick’s, he didn’t hesitate. He raised about $2000 for childhood cancer research.

I’ve been thinking about him all day, wondering how his friends at school reacted. He figured it might be a little rough but by Wednesday, everyone would be used to his new look. I think he’s got a beautifully-shaped head!

Chain chain chain

Sport left his glasses on the back of my car last night. He tried to convince himself that he’d left them somewhere else: in the garage, on the swing out front, on his headboard, but of course, they were nowhere to be found. I imagine they were lying in the middle of the interstate most of the morning, finally pulverized into dust by passing 18-wheelers.

I was proud of the way SO handled the information. Sport told us about the missing glasses in the middle of a visit from his aunt, and SO was able to keep his composure. He’s able to deal with the stupid kid stuff better than I am — I’m notoriously short on patience when it comes to this.

We took the boys to the art museum on Tuesday to see a Napoleon exhibit, and while it kept LegoGuy mildy entertained, Sport was bored. It was a video on chain reaction that really caught their attention. It was 30 minutes long, but it was almost impossible to get up and leave once we sat down to watch it. I think Sport was expecting a grand finale – fireworks, girls dancing the Can Can, or, at the very least, a perfectly brewed pot of hot tea – but it didn’t work that way. It was an exercise in math, chemistry, and planning. Lots and lots of planning.

I wish I could say the boys learned something from that video, like if you send a tire down an inclined plane, and it knocks a burning candle into a puddle of gasoline, the subsequent explosion could cause a concussion that would send several tubes of empty tape rolls into the air, and on and on, causing a chain reaction that ultimately might result in the death of an entire civilization of people. (I don't know, we really didn't get to the end of it -- maybe the candle fizzled out at the end or a brigade of volunteer firemen rushed into the warehouse and shut the whole thing down.)

I really hoped it might give them pause before doing something that, in the end, would bring about bodily harm or at least the loss of a pair of expensive glasses. Didn’t happen.

Sport put the glasses on the back of my car as the sun was going down and left them there all night. The next morning, I backed out of the garage, and, as the sun had not yet come up, didn’t notice they were there. I took off for the highway, humming along with whatever was on the radio, racing through lights that were about to turn yellow, completely oblivious.

Kids don't think about what happens next. They live in the moment. I like this about kids -- but it can also be kinda painful. I know this, having experienced it myself at the ripe old age of six. My father, burning leaves as he often did during the fall, left one pile unattended. My sister, younger by a year, took a stick and put the tip of it into the flames, getting it nice and hot. Then, she branded me on the back. Later (after her spanking), she was remorseful and sad. She hadn't meant to hurt me, she just wanted to see me jump.

Another incident with fire, this time my niece. Seeing a lit candle in the bathroom, she wondered what it would look like if she threw a wadded up handful of toilet paper into it. She didn't realize it would startle her, making her sweep the blazing item into the trashcan, causing an even bigger conflagration. She was perfectly willing to confess, but only after she'd spent about 5 minutes trying to come up with the right way to tell her uncle that the bathroom was on fire.

Then there was the time I warned LegoGuy not to mess with a giant pile of rocks, just before he slipped and took off the entire top layer of shin skin.

Sport's got a backup pair of glasses, one with a missing nose piece. We'll get that fixed, and he'll be back in business.

I wish monocles were popular. I think he'd look great sporting one of those. And they're cheaper to replace.

Hand over the napkins and nobody gets hurt

Only moments after bolting down a grilled cheese sandwich at Sonic, I found myself racing to the computer to begin a tirade against a growing trend. It's becoming more and more prevalent in the fast food industry: the mysterious disappearance of condiments.

Used to be, you'd pull into the drive-through to get a low-dollar lunch and be subjected to minimal customer service, a barely palatable burger, and a watered down drink. But in that grease-stained bag there would reside a handful of ketchup packets, some flimsy napkins, and, if you were lucky, a random sampling of salt and pepper.

Not today.

Is it a cost-cutting strategy? Conservation? Laziness? A vast, right-wing conspiracy? Is it so difficult to toss a couple blobs of ketchup and a few measly napkins at a customer? On top of making sure our order is correct (and the soft drink is indeed a Dr. Pepper, not a crappy Diet Coke), do we have to beg for condiments as well?

This makes me cranky. Very, very cranky.

So I'm sitting in the car, munching on an onion ring, when I notice I haven't been given a single napkin to wipe the crumbs from my face. On the floor (crushed and looking the worse for wear) is a used napkin. With care, I pick the thing up and observe it. A couple of the corners appear to be useable. At least I don't have to resort to some cruddy old snot rags I'm sure are lodged under the seat somewhere. As for the missing ketchup, I happened to have a few on hand from my last Sonic run, where I specifically requested extras when ordering.

I have many, many pet peeves, but as of today, condiment conservation is at the top of my list.

The spice of life

Love is in the air. It’s possible I might be getting a new grandpa for Easter. My grandmother’s got her eye on a wheel-chair bound resident down the hall. In fact, she’s got more than an eye on him. Apparently, she groped the gentleman during a sing-along of favorite church hymns.

Nearer my God to thee, indeed.

Sexual harassment or senior moment? Both families pledged to keep the elderly Juliet away from the aged Romeo, but I didn’t have the courage to ask her about it Sunday when I picked her up for lunch. The image of my granny playing fast and loose with forbidden fruit was too much for me. Always elegant, proper, and reticent, it was impossible to imagine her doing such a thing. She probably wouldn’t even remember doing it, to be honest.

Grandma wanted to go out for a hamburger, but her favorite place had closed down. We ended up at a Mexican food restaurant, eating fajitas and soft tacos. She put away an entire bowl of salsa and queso, smacking her lips with satisfaction. “I love that spicy food!”

That's one thing we've got in common.

Spring is also in the air, and I spent Saturday afternoon in the yard, preparing my flower beds, pulling weeds, and watering. “You wasted all that water,” Sport said when he saw it was raining the next morning. True enough. I was also sore from all that squatting. I still need to spend many more hours out there, but I’m not sure how I’ll fit it in – Sport’s got soccer games and piano contests every Saturday until the end of May, and LegoGuy has his church youth activities and orchestra competitions. I’m getting too old for this. I’d love to hire someone to help me – preferably a young latino man who looks a lot like Antonio Banderas.

With Grandma as my role model, I think I'm going to refuse to let the aging process kill my spirit. I’ll refuse to wear a hat in the sun, embrace my gray hair, and look at each wrinkle as a badge of honor. I’ll squat in the mud, eat spicy foods, and occasionally grope my gardening assistant.

"Mmmm, spicy!"

Book fever

Recently, I got to do one of my favorite things: recommend a favorite book to a friend. As luck would have it, Gypsy found the author to be just as hilarious as I'd promised. We went back and forth, sharing our favorite parts and lines. I couldn't stop laughing. Afterwards, I emailed SO and had him order me a hardbound copy of Naked by David Sedaris. I decided it had to be in my collection.

I don't buy books very often. As a librarian, I prefer to participate in the public sharing of reading materials. I enjoy being part of the process and I enjoy being an end user. If I can get it at the library, I don't like to spend money on books (except for leather-bound classics -- I love the weight and feel of a gorgeous Easton Press edition); I hate clutter and most paperbacks. When I come across something that I really, really love, then I'll buy it in hardback. This doesn't happen very often, so I think David should be flattered that his book qualified, not that I'll ever hear from him. He lives in France, you know.

Anyway, back to Naked. I checked the book out after cataloging it because it looked like a good read. Tucked into bed one night, my beloved beside me, I opened to the first chapter and started chuckling. I tried to keep my mirth to a minimum. After all, we have a waterbed and a couple of hearty guffaws is enough to start a ripple effect. Soon enough, I couldn't control myself. I had to read some of the paragraphs aloud.

Normally, this drives SO insane. Heck, it drives me crazy when he reads something out loud to me, because, you know, most of the time what I find to be funny isn't so funny when read out loud and out of context by someone else. But he started laughing, too. It was great. He ended up checking the book out later and thoroughly enjoying it.

Last week, DoOL mentioned a book that had grabbed him and it turned out to be another one that SO and I fought over when I brought it home from the library, Into the wild, by Jon Krakauer. It's not the slightest bit funny but it was gripping, plunging us into a bookreading fever from which there was no escape until the tragic last page was devoured.

After reading FE's latest posting, I decided to weigh in on a couple of books that have gobsmacked me. Anyone else have something to add?

Al Gore, superstar

I have had a brush with greatness.

Last night, LegoGuy and I went to see Al Gore give his now-famous presentation on global warming. Originally scheduled for a smaller venue on the OU campus, it was moved to the enormous Lloyd Noble auditorium at the last minute. Thus, we found ourselves in line with about 7,000 other people, waiting for permission to go inside and grab a good seat.

The line snaked around the building and through the parking lot like a gigantic anaconda. We'd parked near the back of the line and walked over to join our compatriots, giddy with excitement.

"Look at all these Democrats," Lego said.

"This issue appeals to people in both parties. I'm sure they aren't all Democrats," I told him. We stopped to admire a bumper sticker: Frodo failed. Bush has the ring.

The line doubled back behind us toward the front. It looked like it was going to take a very long time to get in, especially if every bag was being searched. However, anarchy was just around the corner. When the doors opened, those in the back of the line (who were really closer in proximity to the front of the line) saw their opportunity and broke rank. The remaining line hesitated for a moment. Should we continue in a civilized fashion? But less than 3 seconds after the end bolted, the entire line dissolved and there was a mad dash for the entrance: a complete breakdown in society. I've never seen anything like it. No elderly ladies were crushed, but there was a mix of dismay and laughter. Cell phones were snapped open; friends were called. "You are not going to believe what just happened..."

With security guards giving only a cursory glance at purses, we were able to get in really quickly. Found some great seats, with a clear view of the podium. They had big screens up so people could see on three sides of the vast arena. I'm telling you, the place was 3/4 of the way full. I sat next to a journalism student and we struck up a conversation, with me giving her some ideas about what to include in her story (but not in a pushy way).

Time went by fairly quickly. We were trying to figure out where Al would enter from -- most likely the bottom right, was my hypothesis. I went up to get some water and it was at that moment that Al Gore burst from the wings at the top of the stadium. I was standing right there! He was sweating already, since it was really warm in Lloyd Noble. One of his secret service men was dabbing at the VP's temple with a handkerchief. I reacted quickly, taking off my lightweight red cotton jacket and tossing it to Al. He shot me a grateful smile, mopped his brow, and threw it back at me. So, I didn't get an autograph, but I did get a little vice-presidential perspiration as a souvenir.

The crowd erupted in applause and standing ovations. We just cheered and cheered. He said he was overwhelmed by such a reception. Who knew he and David Boren were such good friends? Basically, the thing was a rehash of his slide show, which I've already seen twice, but he'd added some newer, even more depressing slides. Famished and blue from the continuing bad news on the global warming front, yet elated by the experience, we snuck out early and went to get something to eat. Proudly, I showed off the sweaty jacket*, but the waiter didn't seem at all impressed.

I'm starting to agree with JrCat, who really thinks Al needs to run for president. He's got a huge fan base.

*Okay, I admit to a tiny bit of embellishment here, but in 7th grade, my sister and I were the lucky recipients of a brush that had been pulled through the sweaty locks of an Elvis impersonator.

Birthday flight

This was not the way the day was supposed to end, with LegoGuy’s head on the table, crying silently into the crook of his elbow. I had rushed to the store after yoga class to pick up a cake mix, and after dinner I’d whipped up a chocolate cake with homemade Hershey’s chocolate icing. Somehow, I’d ended up hurting the feelings of my 14-year-old son.

“I just poked him with a clothespin,” I said to SO, slightly stunned.

“You pinched him.”

“I pinned it on the seam of his shirt.”

“Obviously you caught skin, not shirt.”

“Oh, come on,” I said lightly, poking Lego with the clothespin one more time, thinking he was joking around with us. But he really was upset. Truth is, we were all on each other’s nerves last night and it didn’t take much to send one of us over the edge. Unfortunately, it ended up being the birthday boy.

Trying to make amends, I reached back into my memory for a miserable birthday story. "When I turned 8, I was chased up the top of a swing set because all the kids were pinching me so much. I was covered in bruises from head to toe."

Unimpressed, there was no response from LegoGuy.

Well, at least he enjoyed his birthday present. His obessession with the sky is still in full swing, and we arranged for him to take a Discovery Flight. He, along with a certified instructor (CI), flew a Cessna around the area for about an hour. I left him in CI's capable hands, and headed for my van. I wasn't able to leave, camping out in my van until I saw the two of them take off safely. I was aware that SO was at work, worrying a hole into the lining of his stomach, so I had to make sure there weren't any snags. What I didn't realize was my son was the one in the pilot seat. CI was sitting behind him, co-piloting. LegoGuy was the one in charge when they left the runway. His euphoria was evident when I picked him up at the end of the lesson.

"I told him I'd had some experience with a flight simulator, but it's nothing like the real thing!" LegoGuy told me. "He said I did pretty good on the take-off. Landing was a lot more difficult." Thankfully, CI had brought the plane down without incident.

"How come I never get an airplane ride for my birthday?" asked Sport, jealous.

"Hey, you got a football signed by the entire OU team! You've never even expressed an interest in flying."

LegoGuy laughed, his smile lighting up his entire face.

Each year, I find it more and more difficult to believe that this is the same kid we brought home from the hospital in 1993, both of us feeling shellshocked by our sudden change in status from couple to threesome. Kids really don't come with any kind of instruction manual. We did a lot of things wrong those first few months, but I think we've done a whole lot of things right over the years.

I'd taken LegoGuy's baby book out so we could look at it together, but after the pinching debacle, I went from Mother of the Year to Mommy Dearest. He went to his room and I went to bed, depressed and embarrassed.

This morning, I apologized and he forgave me. There's nothing like a hug from Mom and a big piece of cake lathered with homemade Hershey's chocolate icing to make everything right with the world.

Ha ha ha!

Most hilarious Valentine's Day gift I've ever received: a box of moist towelettes from Gypsy and CraftyMinx. Thanks for the laugh, guys!

Anti-Valentine's Day

“So, do you celebrate Valentine's Day, or do you see it as a soulless corporate holiday?” DoOL asked me yesterday.

What a loaded question! If I don’t celebrate it, do I come across as being anti-romantic and completely unappreciative of my beloved? If I admit that I do celebrate it, do I end up looking boastful and slightly needy? “Look at me, I got flowers. Because I’m worth it … right? Right?!”

It’s hard to get past the pain of Valentine’s Day etched into my fragile psyche during elementary school. These days, Sport and his classmates are sent home with notes instructing parents that, should our child choose to participate, all children must be given a valentine, with further instructions prohibiting personal messages. “Your child should sign his/her name only! Do not address them, leave the ‘To’ field blank.”

In my day, you could pick and choose who’d get a valentine, signed, sealed and delivered in its tiny white envelope. We could buy special, lace-covered masterpieces to give to the one we loved the best. How I dreaded looking through my artfully decorated shoebox for a special valentine that never came. All of us would count up how many we got, eagerly shouting out the number: “I got 11!” “I got 15!” “I got 20!” I was never the recipient of the most love tokens; popular girls like Sarah or Norma always claimed that honor.

Most teenage girls fill their angst-ridden hours of adolescence by reading romance novels, an exercise I am convinced seriously warped me. Those things completely deceived me as to what a real relationship with a man might be like. I’ve rarely met any male who acted like the main characters in these ridiculous stories, maddened by love to the point of entering into a marriage of convenience. And those long passages of annoying dialogue! Most men I know would rather swallow their tongues before uttering nonsense such as:

"I can promise to hurt you, to infuriate you, to be unreasonable and impatient, but no one will love you more. No one."

Or:

"I need to see the shape of your face though my hands. It's not enough to see it with my eyes. Do you understand?"

And this:

"I don't need your dowry, your parents, your Grecian temple, your pond, your abbey -- I don't need anything. All I want, all I need, is you."

A long time ago, SO and I decided not to take part in the much-hyped Valentine's Day. He got uncomfortable over my unstated expectations and I got uncomfortable with the competitive nature of it all, especially at work. When my boss got her yearly bouquet, she'd make such a big to do about it that the rest of us ended up feeling like we didn't measure up. I felt as if I'd regressed back to that 4th grade girl I'd been, shaking my shoebox to see if I'd gotten anymore valentines.

Instead, we make each other little cards and focus more attention on celebrating our anniversary, a date that's uniquely ours. I'd be lying if said I'd turn down a vase full of red roses. I'm a romantic at heart, God help me. But the one romantic boyfriend I had in college kind of got on my nerves. He was a sweetheart of a guy and always showed up for dates with flowers or candy or a card. But he was too nice of a guy. I wanted a guy with a bad boy edge, one not so desperate to please.

So, yes, Valentine's Day is all about the money. I take pleasure in sticking it to The Man and refusing to sell-out. As this guy/girl says, it's an overrated, capitalistic invention, and what you spend today is in no way a reflection of your true feelings for your beloved.

Plus, if you wait until tomorrow, you can get that heart-shaped box of Russell Stover's chocolated for half price. Nothing says "I love you" better than two for the price of one!

Weird like me

"Aaah, so you're Lego. I've heard a lot about you," said the father of one of my oldest son's classmates. We were standing in line to meet the 7th grade teachers at the middle school Open House, now optimistically called a "Showcase" in order to lull parents into thinking it's some kind of spectacular entertainment. Instead, it was the same old adolescent fare of self-conscious drama skits, song sung without clearly enunciated words, bands playing slightly off-key, and orchestras squeaking their strings.

LegoGuy's friend giggled, hiding her braces with a raised hand. My son just grinned. Lord knows what kind of things this girl had said to her family. I just hoped my kid wasn't cornering her in the hallway and popping her in the back with the clasp of her bra strap. That was one way the boys entertained themselves when I was a teen.

It was interesting to watch him interact with his peers. He seemed confident, at ease with everyone around him. They noticed him, gave him a "'Whassup?" or a slap on the back or murmured his name in passing. He looked normal, like he fit in, like he didn't have a weird gene in his body.

Maybe he gets all his weird quirks out at home. Some of the things he does lately just set my teeth on edge. His latest oddity is crawling into unexpected places and staying there, motionless, until one of us comes upon him unaware. Then he scares the bejeezus out of us. He doesn't say a word, doesn't jump out or scream. It's just that he's somewhere he shouldn't be, as still as a statue, and it's freaky.

It's no secret I had my weird moments growing up. I'm sure my parents noticed me doing all kinds of strange things, but here's what comes to mind:

1. The bizarre laugh: In 6th grade, I decided my laugh was completely unremarkable. Therefore, I had to come up with a new laugh. I experimented for awhile, then settled on a bizarre laugh that seemed to go on forever. In order to stretch it out, I'd inhale as deeply as I could, then exhale and laugh at the same time. It was exhausting, and eventually I gave it up. I'm sure my parents were thrilled.

2. The rapid clap: It was around this time that I experienced a huge surge of energy, and the only way I could get rid of it was by clapping rapidly for at least 3-5 minutes at a time, until my hands were stinging and sore. I remember my Dad glaring at me, patience completely gone. "Take it outside!" Still clapping, I obeyed.

3. The face stretch: We were a church-goin' family, parked on the hard pews every Sunday, Sunday night, Wednesday night missionary meetings, revivals, Bible studies, etc. I'd grasp at every straw to get me through the service. I probably studied the photos in my mother's wallet a hundred thousand times. (Had my parents really been that young? Who knew?) Then I discovered the odd pleasure of stretching my face. Bowing my head as if to pray, I'd used the palms of my hands to stretch my cheeks as far as I could stand before it got too painful. Then, release and recover. Repeat as often as necessary until the final sinner had prayed through at the altar. It's a wonder my jowls don't brush the concrete when I walk.

I'm sure there were many more. And it didn't end with adolescence. I've currently got enough weird ways to drive my husband crazy, what with my subhuman light sleep habits, my aversion to squeaky markers and my insistence on conversing in baby talk with my dog. Today, Gypsy and Minx made fun of my love for the phrase Moist Towelette* which would be -- I still believe -- a great name for a girl band.

I'm weird, and I'm proud.

*Hey, at least I'm not weird enough to collect these things.

"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.