Aselin

We were fortunate enough to celebrate Spring Break last week. After years of traveling out of Arizona during what is arguably the best week of weather we get, we decided to stay put. There were a tremendous number of upsides to this plan. No travel, no packing, no dog sitting arrangements...I must say, it was a great decision.

It did have it's moments though. Feeling somewhat obligated to help entertain my kids, I agreed to activities I might otherwise avoid. A neighbor called and wanted to go to the roller skating rink. Seeing it was St. Patrick's Day, and if one wore green they were admitted for 99 cents, I figured, what the heck.

Let's just say, OH MY HECK!!!

Standing in line at the small city skating arena, an inordinate number of extremely overweight people surrounded me. While this might not cause any adverse reaction on a good day, every single one of them were clad in kelly green and surrounded by their leprechaun spawn. This adventure had Twilight Zone written all over it.

My kids, on the other hand, were in heaven. As we entered the rarely cleaned, roller disco inferno they could barely contain their enthusiasm as they laced up their oddly-smelling, well-used roller apparati. At first I was telling myself to take deep breaths, but quickly abandoned that plan as the aroma of Lysol, sweat and cheap cheese pizza blended into a nauseating bouquet.

I don't do crowds well. For some reason it seems everyone wants to lean against me, spill on me or as I had the good fortune during this outing, loose their footing on skates and fall grabbing on to my leg. Yep. Good times.

Once the kids were laced up and set free I settled myself at a frighteningly sticky table, ready to converse with my friend.

Over the lovely repetitive strains of My Sherona, the top-of-our-lungs conversation went something like this:

"The kids look like they're having fun!"

"No, I don't think we're quite done."

"Would you like me to get some food?"

"Yes that lady does have an attitude."

You get the drift. After about a minute of this futility, I settled in to people watch. There is something special about the time-warped patrons the roller rink attracts. A sinewy woman in her 70's had staked out the center of the floor and was doing all sorts of roller boogie tricks.

Deftly weaving in and out of the green-clad novices was a portly fellow, in too-short, too-tight attire he once wore in high school. I have to hand it to him, if you're gonna wear that get-up, complete with knee-high socks, you sure as heck better be able to skate. He could skate. So my gaze vascilated between amusement and fascination as I muttered to my self, "look away, look away..." but never did.

That Wednesday night, in the city named "Most Boring in Arizona" we shut down the Skateland. My personal leprechauns moonwalked to the minivan begging for a return visit.

Yeah, maybe they have an April Fool's special...

I'm not much of a purse person. (Purseon?) All of my stylish friends have multiple handbags, in multiple colors, styles and labels. I have a purse purchased two years ago at Target. (Pronounced tar-jay) This purse should last me another four years. It replaced a purse that lasted about seven years, and also came from Target. My purse matches none of my shoes. People have asked me what brand my purse is, since usually everyone in the room has a brand name purse. It is so exclusive it doesn't even have a name, but it does have a label inside that says it was inspected by #7. #7 also put a little silica pack inside one of the zipper compartments, just for me. Fortunately it had instructions not to eat it, since I am prone to eat random unidentified things I find.

This week I attended a women's meeting at church that centered around a purse theme. The invitation played on the word 'purse' and stressed you should bring your purse.

I mull over the social ramifications of going into this situation blindly and figure I should look inside my purse, just to make sure there's nothing too scary in there. I confess, my purse is a catch-all for the fringes of my life. I rarely carry it on my arm, choosing instead to set it on the floor so I can fill it with the random bits and pieces I collect in my daily travels - cleaning it out biannually.

Underneath the dead squirrel and the set of keys to unknown locks I found a stash of crap that embarrassed even me. As I dumped the contents on to my desk my own version of the Sesame Street theme "all of these things are not like the others" kept running through my head.

Besides the expected receipts, loose change and food items, I had a broken Christmas ornament in the shape of a Schwinn bicycle. There was a chocolate hazelnut Kosher candy bar, inscribed in Hebrew, I picked up at my favorite Jewish deli. A plastic fork, a mis-matched set of dice, a paint swatch card of my house paint. There was a twenty peso note from my last trip to Mexico. A Cheesecake Factory gift card, library cards, Science center membership cards a packet of Goo for my next distance training run. Alcohol wipes, mouth guard, dental floss, and of course, a shark tooth.

I stared at the menagerie of crap, stunned at what a magnet I seem to be. It was a Jekyl and Hyde sort of moment. My closet is freakishly organized, all my clothing sorted and hung by color and sleeve length. My closet and my purse would not get along.

After consulting my personal Magic Eight ball - otherwise known as my Facebook Status Update - I decided that I should pack up my life, as I really am, and brave the party.

Upon entering the room invitees were supposed to weigh their purses. Fearing that my ridiculous collection of items would break the scale, I was shocked that it weighed only 3.9 lbs. The woman after me weighed 14.8 lbs. I gave her the recommendation for a good chiropractor.

We then settled in to the 'meat' of the evening - the whole reason I came: the game. In my mind I had decided that there was no possible way I could be trumped when comparing the selection of items I had amassed. I pictured myself standing atop a pedestal receiving the "Coolest Collection" trophy, and "Most Interesting Person" sash.

True to the reality of my life, most people do not operate on the same unique mental plane I find myself skating along. Instead of us collectively sharing the contents of our handbags, the emcee called out an item and participants were to run to the front of the room and drop their item in another purse. The first person to accomplish this task would win a candy bar.

Two problems with this scenario: 1. My table was the very farthest table from the front. 2. The incentive of a candy bar seemed pale compared with the trophy I imagined I should win.

The third problem, which was the most disappointing of all, was the list of items they were requesting: lip gloss, needle and thread, keys, car wash receipt, cell phone. B-O-R-I-N-G!!!

I had some of the items - a mad dash to the front of the room with my roll of stamps won me a Twix bar. Yet, as each mundane and benign item was called out, a little of me died inside.

Finally the category created just for me was announced: The Most Unique Item. I grabbed my shark tooth and triumphantly sprinted to the front. (Those of you who know me, know I have a slightly overinflated competitive streak). As I paraded my exfoliated tooth back and forth in front of the podium I swelled with pride. No one could beat a shark tooth. No one.

Except the ladies with the Gas-X and the paint sample wheel. When the emcee announced that we were all winners, I stomped back to my seat, refusing in protest to select from the remaining candy items. Shark tooth deserved its own prize. It represented everything unique and interesting about me. Everyone in the room wanted to sit by the lady with the shark tooth. I mean really, given a choice who would you pick? Shark tooth or Gas-X lady. Sheesh.

I thought so.

My name has been the source of consternation for other people my whole life. I eventually deadened to the humiliation of the first day of school roll taking. It ALWAYS went like this: Susan, Fred, Tammy, Joseph, uh, um, A...A....A.... - "Yes, that's me!" I would call out. My odd name has provided years of entertainment as people have wrangled all sorts of bizarre pronunciations from the six tiny letters that configure my moniker.

Ash-e-lyzz, Abertha, Aiyslee. And my favorite, a typed letter from my insurance company that read: Sdr;om. I did spend the time to figure out that the rocket scientist who typed the letter had shifted to the right, and would have typed it correctly had their fingers felt for the little placement dots on F and J.

I get that it's a unique name, and that people have trouble with new things, but still. I once dated a young man, rather seriously for over a year. Upon meeting his mother for the first time she exhaled mightily, heavily sighing out in relief "Oh, I thought you were black!" Yeah, sorry to disappoint you.

As I have aged, the uniqueness has been trumped by celebrities and civilians alike. I mean, really, Blanket? Dweezil? My neighbor named her daughter "Story". There are all sorts of creative people out there.

So, imagine my flattery when I learn that one of the young tikes I babysat as a teen named her child after me. Not just liked my name and used it, but actually told my mother that she named her baby after me. Imagine the swelled head I'm getting from this news. I mean, After? Wow. I didn't think I was a particularly good babysitter - but I guess I left a powerful adolescent impression on my young charge.

I'll have to make sure I set a good example for this little one. There are a lot of important lessons I should share. While I know it's still early, I have all sorts of life tips like how to put on make-up, dating advice, how to choose a fantastic husband.. things that really matter.

I decide to look through the birth announcements so I can see the details on little Aselin. There were a lot of babies born in my little hometown the same week, and the paper is full of these little darlings - all with unique names:


• Lilah Dean Jones was born to Thomas III and Andrea.

• Colt Bryan Smith was born to Cullen and Danielle.

• Dresden Michael Sanchez was born to Michael and Tana.

• Maeve Marguerite Taylor was born to Tyler and Jamie.

• Maximilian Alexander White was born to Michael and Claudia.

• Aselin James Ray was born to Douglas and Julie.


Gff - choke -gag... Aselin James? What the heck?

What kind of impression did I leave on this girl? I may have to re-think some of my advice.

Education is a big deal in our home. From the early selection of teaching methods: Saxon? Spalding? Montessori? Preschool? Charter school? Music? Foreign languages? Our kids have been exposed and instructed in a number of core concepts.

As a stay-at-home mom I worked tirelessly to prepare my kids to enter the educational system. Unnamed child #1 was singing in Spanish before she started Kindergarten. All three children were reading at three. One kid took physics in 6th grade. The curriculum was identical to my college physics syllabus. All play string instruments and piano. Unnamed child #2 and #3 are taking Mandarin Chinese AND Spanish at school. We are a colony of geeks living under one roof.

Last week I had to take Unnamed Child #1 to the doctor. Sitting in the waiting room, I was amazed at the spectrum of humanity. There were fellow geeks, with their kids in school uniforms (I gave them a mental high-five) all the way down to a frightening woman stuffed so tightly into a pair of spandex tights that the seams could barely contain her corpulence. We not only shielded our eyes from the 'not-left-to-our-imagination' view, but we hid behind our magazines for protection from potential popping projectiles.

Unnamed child #1 asked if they could fill out all the forms. Sure! Besides the beard-growingly long wait in the waiting room, filling out the forms is the most tedious part of the whole experience. As I'm supervising the process, I'm impressed; the kid does really, really well. I have clearly raised self-sufficient, intelligent people who will leave the nest and contribute to society. As I'm picturing the kid on a platform being awarded the Rhodes scholarship I'm jolted back to reality by: "Mom, how do you spell 'knee'?"

I look incredulously at the kid, who is sheepishly grinning back.

"You mean the 'knee' from 'Head-Shoulders-Knees-and-Toes? That knee?"

The crouching kids winces, "Yessss," as an older couple to our left snickers a little. Now I know, normally it would be cruel to laugh at a child, but this child thinks they're getting a driver's license pretty soon so they deserved the public humiliation.

"K-N-E-E."

"Oh, yeaaaaah" as if they were testing me rather than filling in their own mental void.

I roll my eyes and go back to my People magazine, the guilty pleasure of the doctor's office.

Moments later the same kid says, "Mom, your phone doesn't work!!!" I lean over to see what's going on, since it worked when we entered the office. "Look, I keep trying to text my friend that I'm at the doctor and it won't let me put in the word 'doctor'. See? D-O-C-T-E... E...E see it won't let me put in the "E."

Good grief. I've spawned a ding-a-ling. I share with her the correct spelling, to which we both get a good snorting chuckle. Maybe my hopes for their surgical career should be notched down a bit. I wonder if they know how to spell "surgeon"?

I wonder if Spandex lady knows how to spell doctor?

This is a repost of a fan favorite. Enjoy!


Somehow I've actually paid to be able to communicate less with my children. These new orthodontic appliances have made it extremely hard to understand anything they say. Quite frankly, I'm sure their teachers aren't calling on them in school.

Sitting around the dinner table hubby and I are conducting the nightly ritual of finding out the happenings of their day. It's going something like this:

"So, Unnamed child #1, what did you do today?"

"I had a fantastic day expanding my growing mind with the wonders of learning and possibility."

"Great. Unnamed child #2, how did your day go?"

"Wrble Grumph farqua harku zeelef!"

"Um, great." Figuring that requesting a repetition was pointless we move on.

"Unnamed child #3, how was your day?'

Fortunately this child's palate has expanded rapidly, and therefore the diction is not as garbled. Not clear mind you, but less garbled than #2.

"Today in science (pronounced thienthe) we pwayed where's my penuth"

I choke on my water. Hubby's eyes bug out and the other unnamed children completely lose composure. (BTW, I'm not explaining this to you if you didn't figure it out. Read it out loud if you're confused).

What are they teaching you at that school? We all realize that what is being explained is not what it sounds like, but Unnamed Child #3 keeps talking despite our gffaws. Apparently the class conducted a science experiment that gathered data on some shell-on roasted peanuts. What was being reported was an escalating series of:

"Then I weighed my penuth." "Then I measured my penuth." and finally "We all put our penuths in a basket."

We had completely lost our composure. Doubled over, the four non-scientists were chortling and snorting like the herd of juveniles we are. What made it more entertaining was Unnamed Child #3's complete oblivion to what was going on.

"What is so funny about my penuth?"

Wiping the tears from my eyes I'm completely unable to explain. There is really nothing funny about a penuth.

You would have to live under a rock to have missed out on Tigerfest 2010. The dalliances, indiscretions and unbelievable sleaze characterizing Mr. Wood's life have dominated the mainstream media the last few weeks. After a day of it I was done, but apparently the rest of America was not, so it continued.

Just when I thought the fever pitch had died down, and things were returning to normal I watched an interview with Attorney Gloria Allred that made my head fly off my neck. The publicity-loving, feminist attorney sat, next to Joslyn James, a porn star, who claims she 'gave it all up for Tiger' and was in love with him. Allred proceeded to demand, straight-faced that her client was entitled to, and demanded, an apology for lying to her and breaking her heart.

WHAT?!?

The woman cheating with a married man got her feelings hurt and wants and apology? She and her high-priced attorney were 'deeply offended' that Tiger apologized to his family and did not apologize to his paramour. Waaah, waaah, waaah.

Fascinating how Allred can argue she's all for women's rights yet completely obscure women's responsibility when there's a camera lens in there room. Here's a suggestion for Ms. James: Don't date married men. (Gasp!!! I know, I'm a genius!)

Well, that will teach Tiger to hang out with scum as scummy as he is. And I'm sure he's a quick learner.

Oh, and Tiger, there are some parasites penicillin doesn't get rid of.

I get a number of people requesting my blog address. This is flattering, but I always hesitate a little since I'm not sure if this is because they really want to read my musings, or if it's how polite conversation has evolved. No longer do we only hear "Have a nice day", and "I'll call you," now we have "Send me your blog address."

Mostly, we know that "Let's do lunch" doesn't really mean that. I get "Let's get together soon" all the time and I am not sitting by the phone with my daytimer open waiting to schedule the date. I accept and am not remotely insulted by the profound insincerity in that statement. But the new, "Send me your blog" request has me a little stumped.

On the one hand, I would like lots of people to read and enjoy my blog. Of course. On the other hand... the requests usually come from someone who has heard from someone that my blog is "really funny." The pressure in that is HUGE. Like Final Exam huge. And, if they are just being polite, then is it a little self promoting to actually send them the blog link? I don't know.

Yesterday I got another request, via facebook. Interestingly enough, my address is right under my profile photo - so I think It's pretty easy to see without my help. So, I get this request and actually mull how sincere it is. I finally give in to my vanity and type the address in to the comment box. In order to send a web link you must enter security words. I'm used to doing this, anyone who tries to comment or order tickets in cyberspace knows how to do this.

As I'm wrestling with whether or not I should actually send this link the two words pop up, reminding me not to take myself so seriously: Crap & apparent.

The universe has my number.