Aselin

My in-laws have recently published an amazing 491 page life history. It's very inspirational to read their adventures, challenges and wisdom all bound neatly in a lovely leather volume. It has made me reflect on our church's request that we each assemble our life histories, keep journals - things that our posterity will want to know.

In theory, for me, this is a lovely idea. My reality is quite different. I don't think I would or should tell the complete version of my life history. I've stumbled, rather ungracefully, through the last 40 years and the next 40 doesn't promise to be much different. I am not one of those people who has lived an inspirational life you would want your children modeling themselves after. I have more of the "horrible warning" sort of life. Much of my life history would have to be redacted, like a J. Edgar Hoover file, without the cross dressing.

For the record, I have not committed a felony, been incarcerated in a Mexican prison or kidnapped a small child and made them live in a shed in my backyard - I don't have that sort of embarrassing life. Rather, I just wish I did most everything better the first time. I can look back and reframe the moments of my life with a Kodak sort of wisdom, but I rarely display it in the moment.

I have a knack for doing the exact opposite of what I should have done, or said, or more importantly: not said. While vignettes of such social carnage might be good fodder for people who don't know me, I am trying VERY hard to keep the therapy bill as low as possible for my own children.

For instance, I had an experience this past week I have tried and tried to frame in such a way I can share it with you. I am sure a kinder, gentler soul could do it justice, keep it light and even heartwarming. Instead, I just fantasize about ninja kicking the principle player. Patience is not one of my stronger... OK, I have NONE.

So, sadly, much of my life has to be edited. For the record, I have not ninja kicked anyone...recently, and I do hold my tongue...most of the time. Which makes for infrequent blogging, but does give my children a better, albeit scant, legacy.

I left home today in hopes of exposing myself to the general population to generate blog material. Wait, that didn't sound right did it?

At any rate, I dragged Unnamed Child #1 to IKEA. IKEA is really an unreal place, and a nice way to kill a few hours. Wandering through the aisles of furniture that was clearly conceived to decorate a Hobbit Hole stylishly and functionally, we planned on an exciting afternoon. Ascending the escalator to the second floor we found ourselves in a Swedish stupor after a few twists and turns.

Despite the double digits in her age, Unnamed Child #1 still likes to be seen with me. As we were looking at some of the pre-fabbed kitchens I decided that we needed to spice things up. Usually when we are in public, someone comes up with a game or a dare which puts us at odds with the rest of humanity. I told her that we no longer could speak in English, and must passionately discuss whatever item was closest whenever someone came within earshot. The first one to laugh, lost the round, and the loser of the game would pay dearly with an undecided punishment of the winner's choice.

What ensued was a game of verbal chicken that had my little teenager gesticulating and waving a spatula around while speaking complete, albeit passionate, gibberish. As the game progressed, neither one of us could win a round since our interchanges became more absurd, animated and pointed. Others tried to watch the crazy foreigners without being caught looking. (A skill that is rare and valuable) We were laughing, there was snorting - which #1 kept insisting was part of her chosen dialect. Once I went to the clicks and whistles of Swahili, we were all completely undone.

Gaining our composure, we were ready to descend to the bottom floor with our cart, so we approached the elevator. Pushing the button, the doors promptly opened; which always makes me smile - when the elevator is waiting for me rather than the other way around.

Inside were three women sporting summer costumes that are popular around town. Popular, but not wise, as hot pants and tube tops only work on a very small segment of the population. This percentage is even smaller once you add piercings and tattoos that make it impossible not to stare without being caught. (A skill I have not yet mastered). Fixated on a neck tattoo which went all the way up to a multiple-pierced ear, I stepped back as the women started to exit the elevator. Suddenly the leader of the coven realized it was the wrong floor. Now, in case you haven't been to IKEA, there are only two floors. Immediately I was confused, since if they were already in the elevator I assumed they got in at the bottom floor. Then, they all started laughing as deco-neck chick said "I thought the ride was taking a long time." The second droopy-tube passenger said, "Didn't anyone push the button?"

We all started laughing as they confessed they had been standing in the elevator for over five minutes. Smiling I said, "So we rescued you then!" This brought cackles that made all sorts of things bounce and jiggle, and Unnamed Child #1 kept raising her eyebrows at me as she shielded her eyes from the sort of impressive cleavage no one ever gets to see at our house.

As the doors opened on the bottom floor, the ladies, in unison all grabbed their tops at their armpits and gave a hearty hike toward the sky. "Thank you for rescuing us from ourselves!" their leader said as they ventured off into the labyrinth of IKEA. I winked at #1 and whispered, "I think they need more help than we can give."

She nodded emphatically, in English.

My mojo is hiding somewhere far, far away. Likely the dog ate it.

Recently we celebrated my sister's graduation from college. I cried through most of it. Partly because I was so proud of her; a young mother who got a psychology degree while raising her little ankle biter, working a day care and training for a 5K. Personally I think that 's an amazing accomplishment and I am bursting with pride for her.

The other reason I cried through the ceremony is the speeches lasted, and lasted, and lasted WAY past the point where anyone wants to hear any more "wisdom." I distinctly remember leaning over to my neighbor and saying, about the speaker opining about Dr. Seuss: "Don't do it, don't do it,...noooooooo!" as the speaker busted out an entire Suess book of wisdom and read it to us.

Don't get me wrong, Seuss is a genius, but there is a general rule in public speaking: leave 'em wanting more. No one at the graduation ceremony did that. Hence, my tears.

But this is not the reason I have taken a writing sabbatical. Instead, my life has had a bit of stress in it lately, and when serious things happen I find it hard to blather on about the blister I received from mopping or how my mailman doesn't seem to be able to match the numbers on the boxes with the numbers on the letters.

That being said, my own personal reading is going well. My research is fascinating. And my schoolwork putters along. So please believe me when I say I am not sitting in a dark room watching Jerry Springer all day. (That's just like a family reunion for me). My goal is to be back on track next week - so be on notice all you people in the grocery stores, mail men, bug spray guy, dry cleaner... oh sheesh, I'm depressing myself with how mundane my actual existence really is!!!

OK, I'm going to think really, really hard for something interesting to write about. So be on notice, because it could be you!!

Every year my in-laws have a Fourth of July party in Utah. Despite the fact that Utah is pretty dry, it does not outlaw over-the-counter fireworks like Arizona does. This fact has seemed a great injustice to my children over the years, but seeing as how we are invited to the party, it works itself out.

Since we don't know the first thing about fireworks, we usually just mooch off those around us. Trying not to be such a leech, I tell the kids we can bring our own this year. Imagine the squeals of delight as my children select a large pre-packaged assortment of incendiary entertainment from the grocery store. I'm all impressed with myself because I even had a coupon, and the assortment took two pre-pubescent minion to carry out to the car.

They oohed and ahhed over the opportunities that lay inside the cellophane wrapped package. Unnamed Child #2, getting a rush of testosterone, even pulls out a pocket knife because everyone knows packages of fireworks are impressed by a kid wielding a pocket knife. Stabbing at the shrink wrap because "Mom, I'm just making it easier to open later" seems completely helpful and logical. I figure, as long as a human is not being stabbed, everything is OK.

Pulling up to the soiree, I'm completely confident all the other attendees will be impressed at the arsenal of gunpowder we've just hauled inside. Let's just say I would have gotten more reaction had I brought a package of paper plates to the party.

Out on the lawn, waiting for our arrival, are my nephews. Teen-aged nephews. One of them , legally teen-aged. They don't have a pre-packaged assortment of exciting fireworks. No sir-ree. They had two large suitcases, large enough to stash a dead body inside, full of fireworks from the Indian reservation. Fireworks that are not only illegal in Arizona, but also illegal in the other 49 states, including Utah.

Dejected, and weirdly mesmerized, my children ooh and ahh over the black market set-up being organized in the third bay of the garage. They had lain out their options, in order of how tonight's performance would go. My fireworks contribution to the show was not even an entre act. My stuff was the equivalent of the guy outside a concert venue in a light up top hat riding a unicycle and selling water.

As dusk unfolded the show began. As the family gathered in their lawn chairs, the show had a build-up. A fountain, synchronized bottle rockets, then one or two shooting stars up high in the sky that burst into patriotic wonder and dusted us with ash we accepted as a badge of honor for being witness to the illicit display.

As time wore on, those holding the lighting wands grew more creative: syncing multiple shots into the sky, in a rather professional production. All we needed was a little music and we could have charged tickets.

If you've been a long time reader, you know this isn't going to end well. Although, I'll admit, it ended better than it could have.

In what would be the prematurely final firings for the evening, six launches were arranged and their release promised to be spectacular. It certainly was.

The first couple of shots went off inspiring wonderment as the lawn chair audience gazed into the sky. Somewhere around the third shot, we had a misfire. No one quite knows how it happened, but of course, rather than shooting into the street, or a fence, this rocket tipped over and shot straight into the third bay of the garage. It all happened so fast, I'm still hopped up on the adrenaline.

Grazing my nimble sister-in-law's leg, the starburst exploded raining colorful sparks all over the waiting congregation of contraband explosives. The flash was blinding and the realization of what was likely about to happen made all of us leap one direction or another. The braver in the gene pool ran to the garage to save sis from the likely explosion of gas fumes from the lawnmower, weed whacker and actual gas cans stored inside the garage. Not to mention the four-hundred remaining fireworks yet to be lit. The lesser of us took cover. I was hiding somewhere under a bush when the all clear was given. The fact that there was not a secondary explosion is nothing short of a miracle. The fact that sis was not horribly injured was also miraculous.

Once we all were assured everything was OK, that's when the real firework show began, and let's just say, it was spectacular. Let's just also say, it doesn't matter if you're of "legal" age when your parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles and neighbors yell at you...the law cannot protect you here.

You know those hysterical, screaming people running around during emergencies? I'm not one of them. When something terrible happens, my left brain takes over and I go into ultra-focus-boss-people-around mode. While this mode is extremely unpleasant for others in my normal day-to-day life, during an emergency I'm the best person to have around.

Once, in a head-on car accident with two pregnant friends (I was also expectant), I took command and saved the day. The only thing missing was a bullhorn. It was not until later, in the hospital, when I spoke to hubby over the phone did I break down in a completely incoherent blather of sobbing.

While traveling I have the opportunity to do lots of driving. Yesterday I went to Idaho to retrieve Kid #1. Driving along the picturesque base of a mountain range I was enjoying the quiet. i was thinking about how spectacular the scenery was, how different the terrain of the places I've been in the last few weeks is, and how I was really, really hungry (OK, that thought rarely goes away).

Suddenly, someone driving southbound launched something out their driver's side window. I am a furious opponent of littering, especially wondering how cigarette smokers don't think flicking their expended butts out the window isn't littering. Before I have time to work myself into a frenzied rage - the site burst into flames. It was sort of an explosion, likely because the brush was so dry. The flames were taller than my car, and there were two sites burning. I quickly passed the location and figured I should report this atrocity.

Dialing 911, Sheila answered with the standard "911 what's your emergency?" I've only called 911 twice in my life before, (pregnant car accident and person trying to break in to the house I was inside of) and both times they responded with calm assurance, and were very helpful.

"I'm driving northbound on I-15 and a brush fire just broke out..." I was about to try and describe what exit I was near when Sheila said: "Can you hold?"

WHAT THE HECK!!! I understand the standard customer interface platform of putting us Plebeians on hold, sort of the Disneyland crowd control strategy of having most of their guests stand in line, but this is a FIRE!!!

I drove for what seemed miles before Sheila returned and asked my location.

There are a few things I wonder about this. The highway I was on runs the entire state and I was on a cell phone. Possibly they were able to note my general location, and maybe wanted to get the firemen started putting on their gear, but still....HOLD???


I don't know, when I returned to the site an hour later I expected to see all sorts of hullabaloo, and miles of charred dry brush. Clearly the authorities in Northern Utah have it together. There was about a mile of crispy burned median, but no damage other than the removal of the brush, which is likely a good thing.

Still, HOLD???

I am working on my Eagle Scout award. At least, I think I should be awarded one. Darn all those gender-specific Boy Scout requirements. Anyone who is familiar with the Scouting program knows the mother is just as responsible - if not more responsible - for the attainment of Eagle rank than the boy.

In this process, one of the merit badges we're working on has been Dog Care. This was an obvious selection from the long list of potential badges since we have a dog, and theoretically we care for him. Besides researching various diseases that can afflict the canine species, Unnamed Child #2 (and I) have kept a log of everything we've done for our dear dog over the last two months. This log has been rather intensive since it asks the applicant to log all the exercise, hygiene, food and veterinary care that goes into responsible pet ownership.

What I really think is this whole thing is a ruse to prevent people from ever getting dogs. To see it all spelled out on an Excel spreadsheet is rather sobering, and dog is clearly not pulling his weight around here.

Finally, the two months of recording was over and the last part of the badge is a visit to a veterinarian for a tour. I should have set this up earlier, but I was too busy getting the scout to record each feeding, walk and bowel movement.

Shockingly, our Petsmart located vet, who we really don't know at all, invited us to 'come on over right then'. As it happens, I was ready to go 'right then'; I LOVE it when the universe works on MY schedule. Unnamed Child #2 was playing at a friend's house and completely unprepared to be ripped from his social engagement to do something as mundane as go to Petsmart. I did what any resourceful mother would have done - I took both kids.

Clad in their scout shirts and shorts the vet received them warmly and took them behind the closed doors to the inner vet sanctum.

I waited, and waited, and waited becoming more and more impressed at the length of the impromptu tour. At the conclusion we thanked the doctor and said our goodbyes. I was fixated on signing this dang merit badge off so I could go back to oblivious dog care, where he's fed on an as-needed basis rather than an actual schedule.

Getting into the car, I asked how the tour went. I got the run-down of what they saw, exam rooms, anaesthesia, vaccinations - the sort of stuff one would imagine is in the operational side of a veterinary facility. Then came the good stuff:

"MOM!!! Then, (pant pant) we saw a fetus! A FEEEEE-TUS Mom! A real-life FEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TUS!!!!"

Unnamed Child #2's eyes were as large as saucers and his companion scout kept nodding emphatically like a good side-kick should.

"MOM!! Do you even know what a FEEEEEE-TUS is????"

Now, despite what Unnamed Child #2 thinks, I am not so old as to have forgotten High School Biology, and my own reproductive education. "Yes," I reply, "I do know what a fetus is. What kind of fetus did you see?"

"The vet didn't know. She thought it was a dog, or a cat or a turtle or something, but Mom it was a FEEEEEE-TUSSS!!!!"

Clearly the vet had impressed the scouts who were now vowing to go into a field of veterinary medicine just so they could see another fetus.

I, on the other hand was very concerned that my vet didn't know what sort of fetus she had on hand. Personally, I label my fetus jars to avoid these pesky sort of mental lapses. Fortunately, this won't impact our veterinary care since our dog is a male... but that's a fetus discussion for another day.

It is a given that I will need to contribute to the future therapy of my children. I accepted this idea before they were born and have established requisite funds anticipating their upcoming needs. I mean, sheesh, they have ME as a mother. I confess that when selecting a dog, I did not believe -until this last week - that he would also need a fund.

Preparing for the oppressive Arizona summer has traditionally meant a tip-to-tail shave for our happy-go-lucky canine. Deciding that I was going to save the outrageous $70 it usually costs I set out to perform the duty myself. How hard can this be?

Laying out the industrial strength clippers, comb, scissors and clipper oil I proceeded to wrangle the beast. He's smarter than he should be and getting him restrained proved challenging. Trying to coax him over to the station I had prepared on the patio was like trying to get a toddler to take medicine. For about ten minutes he stayed just outside my reach. By the time I had him captured and restrained, I had already broken a sweat.

Firing up the shears I stood before him, trying to decide where to start. Not being a graduate of The Grooming Academy, I was a little perplexed on the starting point of this exercise, so of course I just shaved down the middle of his head.

Now I've watched this process through a window at Petsmart before. How hard can it be?

Twenty minutes into my masterpiece I stepped back to admire my work: Clearly this will require the establishment of a canine therapy jar.

But, undaunted, I pressed forward.

Like a suburban Edward Scissorhands, I snipped and sheared as the dog did his best to avoid contact. In his mind this was clearly punishment for the time he ate the entire black fondant-covered cake on our white carpet.

As the minutes turned to hours, I kept chopping more and more hair from his unwilling body. The more I tried to smooth him out, the more it looked like I was styling him with an immersion blender. At one point it looked like he had exploded:

During this lengthy endeavor my mind drifted back to a simpler, earlier time. I remembered how excited hubby was when we first got married. He had some inane idea that putting a ring on my finger meant he never had to step inside a Super Cuts again. I'm pretty sure this expectation is why he actually proposed. He begged me for years, trying to get me to agree to cut his hair.

Hubby is a smart man, usually. But his fixation on saving the bi-monthly $9-plus-tip expenditure blinded him to the fact that when the target of your affection instructs you to "buy an instructional video" before attempting to cut your hair, things are not going to go well.

After a few years of pleading - and I do mean years - I begrudgingly gave in to his charms. He came home with the "Advanced Hair Styling System" from Sears and sat ram-rod straight on a kitchen chair, draped in a towel, while I finished watching the video. He was like a little kid anticipating recess. Of course, he scheduled this first coiffing the night before a job interview at Compaq Computer in Houston.

Following the video instructions to a T, I put on the appropriate clipper guard, trimmed carefully around his ears, made perfectly shaped side-burns. I snipped, smoothed and scissored his longer locks into an impressive blend. Six and a half hours later, I declared he was done. He stood up and walked to the powder room mirror. After a few seconds, he closed the door. Pacing outside I kept trying to coax him out.

Remember, I said he was a smart man, and I am pretty sure he was locked inside the half-bath trying to quell his tears. Once he emerged he gently said: "You've done an amazing job. Buuuut, is this side supposed to be this much longer than the other side?" OK, in fairness he did look like a member of the Flock of Seagulls. Exasperated, I huffed and pointed to the chair.

$9 plus tip was seeming less and less wallet gouging.

Grumbling (note to reader: this is never a good quality in someone cutting your hair) I evened out my work and proclaimed him finished. It wasn't horrible, it was just really, really, really short. Military short. I sent him off to the job interview, clutching the "Advanced Hair Styling System from Sears" in my hand and muttering under my breath about how I never agreed to this in my wedding vows.

As he drove the long hours to Houston, he stewed in the consequences of his wish-come-true. Dreading how he was going to be perceived, as walking in with a terrible haircut makes a pretty bad impression. True to my husband's unfolding life, he walked in to the room as his interviewer, a former military commander, stood and saluted him.

He was offered the job.

I never cut his hair again.

Dog was not so lucky.