Turtlenecks and Toadstools

Seven years ago, when my younger son "Little G" was 10, I submitted a version of the piece below to Reader's Digest. I am not aware that it was ever published -- probably too long or not quite right for inclusion in one of their regular spots such as "Life in These United States" or "Laughter: the Best Medicine."
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The first time I noticed my younger son replace new, unfamiliar words with conceptually similar (but familiar) words, we were doing his second grade reading homework. He'd encounter a new word, and he could tell from the context what the meaning of the word should be. Without even thinking, he'd "fill in the blank" with a synonym he already knew.

Another time, still in his early elementary school years, he casually requested some new "frognecks," in some different colors, to wear under the button-down shirts (which the cool kids wore unbuttoned, of course). At the time, I thought it was just a cute slip of the tongue.

Then, one morning when he was 10, we discovered several HUGE toadstools in our back yard near our patio. I had never seen any this big, so I called to my son to come and see them. This is when I found out that the boy had somehow reached the age of 10 without hearing of the word "toadstool" before.

I don't know how he could've missed that particular noun; nevertheless, he was duly impressed with our HUGE ones.

Before mowing the yard later, for whatever reason, my husband and older son chopped down the toadstools and put them on the patio table.

Even later, "Little G," in an unusually helpful mood, went out on his own and gathered the cups etc. that were on the patio table and came in the door with his arms loaded. As earnest as he could be, he announced to me, "Mom, I got everything off of the patio table except the turtle seats. I left them there."

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One of these days, maybe I'll figure out how to be a "real blogger." Until then, I hope you'll follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for Tweets, Re-Tweets, and notification of the occasional new blog post.

Female Wardrobe Issues

I've really just about had it with bras and zippers.

Seriously, hook-and-eye? How 1400's is that? There has to be a better way to fasten the ol' brassiere. If the hooks are in the front, they don't stay hooked, and if they're in the back, my fellow spatially-challenged holsterers and I deem impossible the upside-down, backwards, and -- frankly unnatural -- contortion necessary for success. The resulting sprained wrists and stretched rotator cuffs have gone undocumented for far too long. I'm telling you, it's a feat designed for the double-jointed (and I mean every joint from the shoulders down to the fingernails).

And do not even talk to me about sports bras. First, I've yet to see a sports bra made in my ample size (One size does NOT fit all.), and, second, I think I'd rather wrestle myself into a pair of panty hose at 6:00 in the morning -- and I refuse to do that.

Evidently there's an industry rule against having straps that stay put and any other desirable feature both in one model. If the straps stay put, something else is terribly wrong with the design; if everything else is fabulous about the design, the straps are constantly slipping off the shoulder. I am just about ready to have Velcro surgically installed on my shoulders.

Now the zipper: there's no question in my mind that the same gender responsible for the high heel also brought us the side and back zippers to afflict women the world around. Somewhere, a descendant of this particular sadist is secretly recording video of these fasteners in action while snickering wickedly.

As for the side zipper, the successful user simply has to be a mutant with one arm far longer than the other and no boobs. "That's all I have to say about that."

When it comes to a back zipper, first there is the issue of the missing third hand. Especially for the back zipper in pants, one hand is needed to hold the top two ends of the zipper together. I know of no exception. Second, the longer the back zipper is (as for a dress), the more unnatural the contortion. The first contortion (elbows down, hands wrapped around back) gets the slider into the exact position on the back that has historically been unreachable, requiring a panicked plea for someone nearby to scratch that itch. Then it's time to switch to the second contortion (elbows up, hands over shoulder and down to current slider position). It is in this situation and at this point that the third hand again becomes necessary -- to hold the bottom of the zipper down so that the slider can move upward efficiently along the zipper track.

After all that, it's over, right? NO -- because what is at the top of almost every back zipper? We're back to that damnable hook-and-eye.

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Props to High School Reunion Committees Everywhere

I’m happy to say that of the 161 classmates on my high school class's list, 82 belong to our class Facebook group. Of the remaining 79, we have recently-confirmed e-mail addresses for 39, and confirmed snail-mail addresses for about 10.

I knew pretty much everyone I went to school with, and I want to see every single one of them at our upcoming 30-year reunion. I want to see them, visit with them, celebrate life’s “ups” with them, commiserate with them about life’s “downs,” and just generally have a good time. I am helping with the reunion (and have helped with the 20- and 15-year events as well). We didn't do a 25-year but had an unofficial 26-year gathering, mostly of classmates still living in the area (although -- and I think this is REALLY cool -- the event was initiated and attended by a classmate who lived several states away).

If you did the math above, you noticed it is off by 30. We have no confirmed contact information for those thirty. When it comes to getting reunion information out to classmates, having current contact information is critical, but please remember that every class member (including those on the reunion committee) is equally absorbed in life. No one has time to track people down; nor should we have to.

FOR THE LOVE OF COMMON COURTESY, PEOPLE, no matter where you went to high school or what year you graduated, please do your class reunion committee the favor of providing your current contact information and updating them when it changes.

And we really don’t want the postal address. In the time since our 20-year reunion, the continuing computer revolution has caused practically everyone to acquire at least an e-mail address, if not a membership in an online social network such as Facebook. Even those who don’t have internet, computers, or smart phones of their own can access e-mail at the local library, a friend or relative’s house, or in some cases at work.

On the subject of postage, I refuse to snail-mail information to an unconfirmed postal address. With a fresh, crisp dollar bill in hand, we can’t even mail three forms out! I feel very strongly that, in this day and age, nobody (not even the reunion fund itself) should have to incur the cost of the paper, printing/photocopying, envelope, stamp, and PREPARATION TIME it takes to snail-mail class reunion information. For the 15- and 20-year events, we mailed out an information sheet to every address we had kept from before. MANY came back undeliverable. That's a lot of money and time wasted.

And please don't be so pitiful as to believe that you're "not invited" or that nobody from high school is interested in seeing you after all these years. First, you are a member of the class, so you are automatically invited. Our reunion committee absolutely does not send out invitations -- only information, and only to those for whom we have confirmed contact information. And second, YOU'RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE, and neither are any of the people you went to school with. Go to your high school reunion. You will most likely come away from the event with a different perspective regarding many of your classmates, not to mention valuable new or renewed friendships.

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This blog is a new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and notification of future blog posts.

Learning the Body Parts

Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! NOW I get it!

In the case of an adorable little eight-year-old buddy of mine, one such moment, in the subject of biology, actually arose from a misunderstanding on his part. We don't know what he thought a testicle really was, but we are sure that he had been a little mixed up before this conversation....

Family riding in car....

BUDDY: But Mom! There is only one. I only have one testicle.

MOM: (thinking, "How did we get on this subject?!?!") No, Bud, all boys have two testicles.

BUDDY: Nope. There's only one. I. only. have. one!!!

MOM: (exasperatedly turns to husband, who is driving) "Dad," please tell your son he has two testicles, that all boys have two testicles.

DAD: (driving, looking at son through rear view mirror) Son, you have two testicles. All boys have two testicles.

BUDDY: But Dad! Really! I promise! There's only one!

DAD: (deep sigh--how and whether to try to explain this) Son, there's a sack. Boys have two testicles in a sack.

Contemplative silence....

BUDDY: Oooooooooohhhhhhh! You mean that wrinkly thing with the beans in it?

Dad manages to keep car from going off road....

I know I tweeted that my next blog post would be about my husband, "The Great Pontificator." I am still working on that one -- but in the mean time, this one just had to be shared....
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This blog is a brand new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and future blog posts.

The Oscar to My Felix

They say that when we become parents, we are paid back for the stress we inflicted on our parents. I don't have a problem with that -- I did not cause much trouble as a child (not much). However, I do take issue with the notion that I should suffer for the stress my husband inflicted on his parents. There doesn't seem to be a way around it, though.

Meet Son 2, born in 1996 -- the one that is most like his dad. His dad still calls him "Little G" even though he is taller than all the rest of us now. His first sentence? "I cute!" First greeting: "Hello, Pretty Momma," in Elvis-like imitation of Johnny Bravo. And his first protest: "Why do I have to do everything?" This last when he was three and tasked with putting his toys away. It is the main question he has hung onto all these years, too, wielding it at the slightest whiff of impending work.

G is very intelligent, not particularly academically-oriented (although he does maintain good grades), and fanatical about sports (especially anything Crimson Tide). He was commentating on football, basketball, and baseball from his dad's lap in the recliner as soon as he could talk, and he has an uncanny ability to remember anything he sees or hears on ESPN. He thinks and feels deeply and cares very much about people, judging very harshly those who mistreat others. He is easily distracted, impetuous, short-tempered, highly opinionated, and good-naturedly ornery.

If D is my Felix (see previous post), then G is most definitely my Oscar. He is absolutely abstract-random (Gregorc's terminology). He has an eye for fashion and cares about which clothes he wears, but (different from his dad here) he hasn't yet figured out how to -- or that he can -- manage his "stuff." Or maybe he just doesn't care. Either way, his room is, as Sheldon from Big Bang Theory says of Penny's apartment, "a swirling vortex of entropy," and as he enters the house and moves toward his room, he leaves behind him a trail of shed clothes, open drawers and cabinets, half-empty Gatorade bottles, dirty dishes, and empty snack packaging. He bounces from one activity/event to the next with little planning, and when he leaves, the trail remains as evidence of his having been home.

Extremely clever and witty, G is able to "think on his feet" in a way I've never mastered. He is articulate and socially savvy, with my penchant for sarcasm, especially when riled. His observations about people and life are eerily precocious and always good for a laugh.

One time, we left a couple's (good friends) house, having been there while Ben helped them with a particularly frustrating home decorating project that caused some friction between the couple. After we got in the car and pulled away, 11-year-old G wryly observed, “Man, those people are pretty free with the f-bombs, aren’t they?”

Another time, also when he was about 11, he was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. His dad was in the kitchen having just eaten, and I was nearby sitting on the sofa in the living room enjoying the unusual quiet. Suddenly, Ben let out one of his more disgustingly horrid belches (far from an unusual occurrence in our house), and I reacted in revulsion with my usual, “Good lord!” G, on the other hand, very deliberately set down his pencil, made eye contact with me, then looked over at his dad -- calmly and completely seriously -- and pointedly said, “I don’t know how she sleeps in the same bed with you.”

It wasn't long after this that the boy hit puberty, thus catching up with his dad in terms of maturity, so now they (the apple and the tree) are in cahoots to see who can repulse me more with their bodily expulsions.

*Sigh.*
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This blog is a brand new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and future blog posts.

My Felix

I have three boys -- the two I birthed and the one I married. Until recently, I called them Small, Medium, and Large. But then the younger son outgrew the older one (in height), and they both outgrew their dad. The sons have certainly not outgrown their dad in maturity, although one could argue that they have caught up to him, along with asserting that this was not a spectacular feat. But that is a subject for another day. There will be plenty to say later about the boy I married. Today I lovingly introduce my readers to Son 1.

Born in 1992 when I was 27, "The Big D," as his dad calls him, is the one that is most like me. According to Gregorc's mind styles, he is clearly concrete-sequential. If he were one of The Odd Couple, he'd be Felix. He is studying to be an aerospace engineer and constantly analyzing and trying to explain his world (much like his dad in this respect). He is intelligent, logical, academically-oriented, observant, reserved (especially around strangers), shy, kind-hearted, eager to help, slow to anger, and strong in his convictions.

Oh, and thrifty (maybe even frugal). As his senior year in high school began, we were discussing his savings account, which was quite impressive in my opinion. He had been working at the local DQ since he turned 16. I asked him what he was saving up for. He shrugged his shoulders and matter-of-factly said, "Life!" Well, alrighty then! I couldn't very well argue with that.

The parts of his world that he cares to (and can) control are at all times planned and orderly -- he is very much the neatnik, the organizer, the sorter, the classifier. I suppose he gets it from me, but watching it develop in a child is fascinating.

We discovered this last cluster of qualities very early on. I remember one particular Saturday morning when he was maybe two years old -- not even potty-trained yet. He and I were home, and Ben was gone somewhere. I was busy with all the various tasks of the home, and D was busy playing. I could hear the pitter-patter of his footsteps, along with the distinct sound of his diaper crinkling along with his movements. At some point, though, I realized that these sounds were constant on this morning. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. No sitting around for this little man -- evidently there was work to be done.

Curious, I stopped what I was doing to watch. I could do so without his knowledge from where I was in the kitchen. At this point, he had brought a few of his bigger toys out to the living room and was headed back for another. "Whatever," I thought to myself, and returned my focus to my work in the kitchen. But the sounds continued, and, I observed, so did the big move. He continued this project until every toy in his room that he could carry, push, or ride was in the living room. As if this weren't odd enough, they were all lined up in two perfect rows spanning the entire diagonal of the living room. And I mean perfect.

Very intent on his work, he still didn't know I was watching. As soon as everything was out of his room and properly lined up, he began the reverse process, taking each item back to his room and placing it in its usual spot.

Wish I had filmed it. I'm telling you, it was downright spooky.

I learned to make use of his talents in this area as often as possible, putting him in charge of small-scale tasks suited to his age, until he was old enough to take on larger challenges with little or no instruction, such as reorganizing the storage room downstairs or straightening up the workshop for his dad.

While in college and until he finds a suitable engineering internship, he is working at one of the Walmart Super Centers in the area. Having been a Walmart associate for over a year now, he is well-versed in "zoning" and "facing" -- straightening the products on the shelves and pulling them to the front. And the other day while he was with us at a different Walmart, he could not pass by a sloppy shelf without stopping to fix it.

That's my boy.
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This blog is a brand new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and future blog posts.

Roll Tide (?)

My husband Ben and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary last June. Thank you, thank you. Yes, it’s quite an accomplishment. Really. No, I don’t think you understand.  I don’t understand. I have no idea how or why it could’ve lasted this long, "but for the Grace of God" -- and, most likely, sheer stubbornness on both our parts.

People (and I mean his relatives) “jokingly” say they wonder how I have put up with him all these years. Only God knows, because I sure don't.

Skipping the details of how it could possibly have happened, at the young age of 20, I fell in love with a U.S. Air Force airman who had grown up far south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Rural Alabama. No, wait. "Rural" doesn't do it justice. "Back woods" is the closest I can come and still keep it clean.

The first time I visited Ben's hometown, we left Augusta, Kansas, (my hometown) and eventually crossed into Alabama on U.S. Highway 78, headed for the I-20 interchange in Birmingham. About 15 hours into the journey, we exited I-20 somewhere in Cleburne County. From that point on, every turn we made was onto a narrower, less modernly-paved road, until there was no pavement and, finally, we were headed up a steep incline on a [searching for word] trail (?) barely wide enough for a car, through the woods toward the top of the "mountain" where Ben had spent the better part of his childhood.

Before this trip, I never had been heavily engaged with the sport of football. Sure, my brother played in junior high and high school, and the high school stadium was, in general, "the place to be" for socializing all those years. And, sure, I had my share of crushes on classmates who played. But that's about it. I didn't know much at all about the game--certainly had no idea how embedded it would become in my life (like it or not). Of course, I knew Ben was a big fan of Alabama football, since "he wore it on his sleeve" -- figuratively if not literally -- at all times.

Having met the immediate family upon arrival at the homestead at the top of the "mountain" (By the way, they call him Junior or J.R. -- to this day.), I was faced with the next gauntlet when we went to see Aunt Esther & Uncle Bill. I say "gauntlet" because, come to find out, it wasn't just the two of them. Everybody was there. Other aunts & uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors -- I don't know. Maybe there were only seven or eight people, but it seemed like a bunch to me.

Their first question (really their only question) for me? “You fer Alabama ‘r Auburn?”

Now, one would think the wrong answer would be “Auburn.” And one might be correct. However, there is a worse answer, and it’s the one I gave: “I really don’t care one way or the other.”

The room went silent. Crickets chirped. Squirrels dropped their nuts. The men grabbed theirs. Women gasped and held their breath. Jaws dropped to the ground. Appalled facial expressions were exchanged throughout the room. Ben breathlessly dug me out with, "Well, if you had to pick you'd pick Alabama, right?" And, having read the room myself: "Of course!" I stammered, "Er, um, Roll Tide?"

And thus began my acceptance (most likely probational in their minds) into the extended family.

I am convinced that the only thing that saved me was that I wasn’t some "fer-ner" from overseas, where Junior was headed for a year-long remote tour for the Air Force (the reason for our trip "home"). Even though we were together and “promised” to each other before he left, they were gravely concerned that J.R. might bring one of ‘em home.
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This blog is a brand new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and future blog posts.