Aselin

As my young children have learned to speak, I’ve enjoyed the cornucopia of their mispronunciations. Because they catch me off guard, but are so cute, these words have become staples in our household.

While harvesting fruit one day, three year old unnamed child number one gleefully exclaims that she loves picking ‘straw-bi-dees’. I have not eaten a straw-berry since. Straw-bi-dee shortcake, straw-bi-dee ice cream and straw-bi-dee syrup all taste much better when you say it the new way.

Other classics are ps-getti, caller-pittar, and maz-a-gine - some of which I have to pronounce very slowly in order to say them the new, correct way. The fun in all of this is that the children are completely unaware of their mispronunciation and as we reinforce these words they become our special family language.

While driving down the road one fine day we we’re having a family discussion about some upcoming foreign travel. Discussing the different languages the children would encounter we explained that they would be exposed to Spanish, Italian, French and then got stuck on Monaco. I wasn’t sure what the official language of Monaco is.

In the silence, as I tried to figure out what language that would be, unnamed child number two blurts out a loud question. MOOOOMMM? What language do they speak in the Philli-penis?

Hubby almost drove the car off the side of the road. I hit my head on the dashboard as I doubled over in laughter. Once I gained enough composure to look back at the little darlings, I lost composure again as six wide eyes stared at hubby and I completely oblivious of what was so funny.

It was one of those moments as a parent when you have to decide how much information to share. I opted to explain the gaffe as they all erupted in uncontrollable snorts and giggles. Inappropriate humor goes over well with this crowd.

We still hope someday to take a G-rated visit to the Philli-penis and discover their exotic language.

All parents screw their kids up. It’s part of the circle of life. Mine did a number on me, and while I’ve come to embrace the neuroses that make me who I am, I do worry about how badly my own kids have it and if they’ll be able to decide to be happy regardless of their circumstances.

For each of them I keep a labeled jar for their future Therapy Fund. Infractions like repeatedly calling them the wrong name elicit a deposit of a quarter. Answering the phone when their friends call in a heavy foreign accent and insisting my teenager is the president of the Flock of Seagull’s fan club - well that one can bring up to a dollar. To ameliorate any guilt pangs that may arise, I plan on giving them the jar when they’re 18. They can either take a trip around the world or enroll in a few months of paying to someone listen to how bad it was to be raised by me.

As a mother I have worked very hard to prepare them for the real world. For instance, I have taught each of them how to perform the dance move ‘the worm’. They all can play the refrain of “My Sherona” on the touch tone telephone, and they all know how to make a mean egg drop soup. I’ve likely thrown in a few other lessons along the way like learning a work ethic, being honest, serving their fellow man, blah blah blah.

So imagine my delight while sitting around the dinner table enjoying a lovely dinner I had crafted, unnamed child number one insists that they must chew with their mouth open because it’s physically impossible not to. I am pretty sure I haven’t punched this child in the mouth and caused serious swelling recently, so I can’t figure out how it can be physically impossible to close one’s mouth. I take a few deep breaths while watching food bits fly out during the inane explanation.

I’ve read the parenting books. I know how to raise kids. I repeat under my breath choose your battles. Choose your battles. Choose your battles.

Unnamed child number two passes gas so loudly I think we’re being dive bombed by an air tanker. Unnamed child number one starts to gffaw, causing the contents of the uncloseable mouth to projectile around the placemat. I slap the table glaring at both of the savages that have been allowed to grace my presence. I half rise to my feet and they both cower in fear. Order has been restored and pleasant conversation resumes.

Patting myself on the back I mentally point out that I’m a really good parent. Most people today allow manners to devolve with no repercussions whatsoever. My children will not leave my house not knowing better. We’re having a nice, genial conversation about the goings on at school. I’m doing such a good job...

Suddenly, out of nowhere, unnamed child number three has some sort of gag reflex while taking a huge drink of milk. Spewing the milk all over the main dish, the side dishes, each of our eating plates, smattering the entire family and most of our drinking glasses one would have thought it was staged the lactose distribution was so effective.

I wipe milk off my neck and arm and stare toward the end of the table. There are no words as our eyes meet. In a gunfight at the OK corral moment the other two innocents at the table back away in fear as unnamed child number three starts stuttering a feeble explanation.

I quietly clear my plate and walk over to the cabinet where I keep their Therapy Funds. Lifting each of the jars I pour them into my Spa Fund.

Lesson for today, I can be happy regardless of my circumstances.

I’ve been spending some time at our local YMCA lately. It attracts an interesting cross section of humanity, sort of like the mall in workout clothes.

Sitting huddled against a block wall for shade from the setting western sun I’m watching a myriad of characters at the pool. A dad brings his two daughters for an afternoon swim. They’re a cute little family, but I can tell they don’t swim much. The older daughter lectures her younger sister on not touching her stuff as they remove their t-shirts and shorts. I immediately feel gratitude that I’m the older of the siblings in my family. The poor younger daughter is wearing a salmon colored hand-me-down swim suit six sizes too large. The straps are tied in knots to hold the thing up and the crotch hangs below her knees and you can see parts no one wants to see. I avert my eyes as the dad coats them in twelve gallons of sunscreen.

Turning to my left a woman preparing for a water aerobics class asks if she can sit next to me. We begin to chat and she explains she needs to rest a bit before she gets in the pool because her knees are bad, her shoulder is bad, the hearing in her left ear is bad...listening to the inventory of all of her maladies, I feel bad. Across the pool the aerobics instructor gathers the class. My buddy rises and gingerly enters the water. There are four lanes of swim team between her and the class. I’m curious how this is going to go down.

With an agility I did not expect she rolls her body over the first lane line and engages in a game of aquatic frogger. Hops to the left, jumps forward, step backward - after a few minutes she successfully evades the entire young swim team and joins her class. Triumphant, she waves at me before she starts boogieing. I clap for her over my head and yell “You Go Girl!” The younger of the siblings turns to see what I’m hollering at, which stops her descent into the pool. I’m just praying she’ll get in fast.

I’ve done my share of the skinny dip. In the water, you’re safe from the scrutiny of land. (See previous post “Wholly Inappropriate - Feb) She’s standing on the step looking at me to which I shoo her into the water. She grins and jumps in. Whew... I hope I’m gone when it’s time for her to get out.

Thinking all the good people-watching is done for the day I open up my book. Before I can even read a word I notice a cute elderly couple enjoying the water together. They both have t-shirts on which is prudent in the Arizona sunshine. They’re darling together and playfully splash each other in a sweet sunset exchange. Passing the younger sibling, they’re making their way to the steps to get out. Like some sort of bizarre synchronized swimming routine, they link arms and ascend the steps.

Of course, this is not going to be normal. Yes, they have on t-shirts. He’s also got on a large crucifix necklace, cotton bermuda shorts, his belt, and socks. Linked to the well dressed swimmer is his sweetheart in her t-shirt and white nylon shorts. ‘Wet’ and ‘white’ do not go well together - especially when you’re 80. I’m concerned about the wet-shorts contest and hoping as they make their way to the locker room they go faster than I’m expecting. As they pass by I smile and look down at the book, only to glance up and notice that the little lady has no concerns about the soaking wet nylon white short’s she’s sporting. Her vibrant aqua thong is providing all the coverage she needs.

I’m clearly overdressed for this crowd.

This spring I returned to my childhood home with my family. Returning to the place of my formative years always brings on a session of introspection. On my father’s property is a magnificent oak tree. It’s branches fan out making it a perfect climbing tree. It towers over there pasture in which it stands, and its canopy spans at least 25 yards. It’s a spectacular specimen.

Strolling around the rural property the spring grass was growing tall and I felt the fresh coolness as the blades brushed my calves. I meandered down to the shade of the tree. As a child I spent lots of time in this field. When the grass grew tall enough I would press trails and rooms into the the blades like a life size ant farm. I would spend hours in my little lair reading, catching ladybugs and assembling hook rugs.

I know, it explains a lot.

Still hanging on the tree, from years ago is a yellow nylon rope that used to suspend a plastic tire. The tire lays on the ground nearby. It’s not in good shape, from the last time I played on it. Yet it still hangs there, somewhat ominously.

When I was about 10 years old, my neighbor Nicole and I were climbing the tree and swinging on the swing. We took turns winding the tire and then playing with the centrifugal force as the rider would extend and then pull her arms in adjusting the spin rate. It was great fun.

I was winding Nicole on what was destined to be the most spectacular ride of the afternoon. Nicole suggested that I had wound enough, and I kept telling her how fantastic it was going to be.

Suddenly there was a weird creak and then a loud bang as one of the sections of the nylon rope passed its torque limit and unraveled. It would have been of little consequence except it took with it a chunk of Nicole’s scalp ripping out her hair and leaving the worst rope burn imaginable on her face.

In ten year old panicked horror I simultaneously moved to help her while mentally springing into C.M.A. mode. I told her I was going to the house to get first aid supplies, and that when she went home she should tell her parents she fell off her bike. As I ran toward the house I started to cry.

When I returned, Nicole was gone. I sat under the oak tree for a very long time, alternating crying and dry heaving. I kept staring at the tuft of hair intertwined with the frayed ends of the rope. It was the most awful thing I had experienced and I didn’t know what to do.

One would think this kind of thing only happens to children. Unfortunately more than once in my life since then I’ve planned something spectacular only to have it blow up, usually in someone’s face.

There is much wisdom in slowing down. In listening to someone you disagree with, and just taking a little bit at a time.

Smaller rides can be fun, and while Nicole eventually forgave me, or at least started talking to me again, I still sicken at the fact that I just wouldn’t listen. That fact has left deeper scars on me than were ever on her.

The Food Network has been one of the greatest additions to my life. My family only recently purchased cable. While most of the channels that we are paying for are complete crap, the Food Network has opened up culinary horizons hitherto unavailable to me. I’ve learned how to make all kinds of unique offerings, most of which my family has willingly eaten.

I have fantasies that I will have my own show one day. It will be titled something catchy like “The Quinoa Queen.”

While folding laundry today I’m watching this show called “Deep Fried Paradise.” I love fried food as much as the next guy, I mean, really you can fry anything and it tastes good. Okra, opossum, flip flops. But I rarely eat fried food, because like most of people, I also possess the knowledge that it will kill you.

The format of “Deep Fried Paradise” is they show you how the item is made, interview the ‘chef’ or creator, and then interview some of the loyal patrons. Traditional marketing strategies dictate that you advertise using people who the general public would like to be like. It has tricked millions into trying tobacco, soda, electronics, beer and the Snuggie.

The first fryer offering they were sharing came, of course, from the south. Chicken fried bacon. Yes, you read that right. I’m going out on a limb here, but when ALL of the patrons in your establishment are over 400 pounds there aren’t too many people who say “I wanna eat chicken fried bacon so I can look like him.”

They spoke to “Bubba’ (not kidding), the self-proclaimed biggest fan (pun intended) of chicken fried bacon, and trust me, most people wouldn’t want to sound like him either. He actually said he considered the flour in the batter his vegetable serving for the day. And, as he masticated another chunk, through his full mouth he proclaimed it was a “heart attack waiting to happen.”

I know some people who have had heart attacks. They universally say it wasn’t any fun. Someone should tell Bubba.

The second offering was deep fried dill pickle slices. For this cuisine they interviewed the mayor of the town where they supposedly were created. It’s a sad day in mayor town when the most exciting thing you have to talk about was the creation of Deep Fried Pickles in your town 75 years ago. At this point I’m screaming at the television “DO SOMETHING!” I know our love of the fryer is quintessentially American, but please don’t let the idea to bread and fry something be the pinnacle of your civic success.

The final item on the fryer menu still makes my stomach turn. Of course, who wouldn’t think of deep frying a hamburger patty. On the surface this seems rather innocuous, there are a whole bunch of deep fried sandwiches out there. But a trip to the kitchen reveals that they’re frying todays burgers in the SAME oil they started with 90 years ago. After 90 years of repetitive heating and cooling, doesn’t the oil turn into a lethal carcinogen? The next shot of the simmering meat cakes makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

Recent studies don’t bode well for the American physique. I’m disappointed that my beloved Food Network is promoting this lifestyle, but concede that too many of us are not that concerned about what we eat. As I finish folding my last pair of boxer briefs, I realize - I’m not tuned on to the Food Network at all - it’s the travel channel. This realization brings me great relief, and confidence that I won’t be planning my next vacation to “Deep Fried Paradise”

I’m not a picky girl. I have no delusions of grandeur about myself. I don’t wear much make-up, and what I do wear I bought at WalMart. I shop for clothes, maybe twice a year, sometimes less. When I do, I shop the bargain racks. And, as previously mentioned, I still have some clothes I wore in high school. “Fashion disaster” has been used to describe me more than once, and I don’t mind at all.

So you would think I would be somewhat insulated from personal aesthetic trauma. Oh how wrong you are.

Last month my selfish hairdresser of six years decided to marry the man of her dreams. I was totally supportive of her dating, but I can’t believe how incredibly egomaniacal she has been in getting married and moving to California. My mind is reeling that she could actually leave me. I mean, I see her three times a year! What will she do without my revenue?

Just goes to show, you can’t save people from their bad decisions.

So how hard can it be to cut my hair? I style it with a blow dryer. I sometimes even use mousse. I know. Ooooo.

About twenty years ago I worked for Vidal Sassoon as a hair model. The first show I did was really fun, the stylist was fantastic and the weeks after the show I still sported the attitude to match my sassy hair.

When I got called in for my second show I was really excited. It was about 9 months after the first. Many of the photos from the first show had been used in salons and print ads so I was all jittery with hair excitement.

I was beyond pleased when I arrived at the salon to meet the new stylist I was assigned to; he was edgy, sassy and WAY gay. In stylists this is usually a great thing. After the obligatory hair wash (even though I had washed it six times the morning before I came in) I was seated in the chair getting the fantastic platonic head massage that makes hair appointments worth showing up for.

In assessing my “face frame” as he called it, he announced his evil plan. I was to get a 2” long entire head bob, with a wave perm. Every pore in my body started to sweat. Time stopped and suddenly I realized I got one of the defective gay guys. Crap.

This time, I was smart enough to walk out with my wet hair.

You would have thought I would have learned.

Only a few short years later I was sitting in the chair of another edgy, sassy gay guy. The ambiance was right. He had promise. As he started razoring away, a technique I’d never experienced, we chatted about life. Half way through the interesting hair attack he revealed he was the stylist for a family of ten that I knew. I started seizing right in the chair. We called the family “The Bad Hair Family”. All ten of them had REALLY, REALLY, REALLY bad haircuts. As he styled my new do, I realized I could have been adopted by them. Tears welled up in my eyes as I handed over a wad of cash paying for the monstrosity atop my head.

When I walked in the door at home my hubby stifled a grin as he said “You look like one of the _____ (bad hair family)” I wished I had been a ninja, I would have kicked him in the head. Unfortunately, my assault skills are limited and I just whimpered onto the couch.

Fast forward to today. I just tried a new stylist. She came recommended. I look like David Cassidy. My former stylist has ruined my life.

Next time you see me I will either be wearing a hat or singing the Partridge Family version of “I Think I Love You” off key.

I've always imagined I would have a nemesis. The yin to my yang. As a pre-teen I would walk about a mile to school each day. During the walk I would create different stories about people who lived in homes I passed, concoct different adventures I was on, and give identities to the people in the cars that passed. These people were all fascinating. They had glamorous interesting lives and many of them also had nemesises.

What is the plural of nemesis? Nemesises? Nemi? Nemesissies? Oh well.

My problem with my personal nemesis is that while I've always known I would have one, I also imagined I would be the dominant of the pair. The reality of my relationship with her is that not only am I not the dominant of the two, but I'm really the commercial during her favorite show. I'm the gnat on her windshield, the microbe under her fingernail. It's not fun to be irrelevant in the contest between us. She's at 677 followers, I'm 19. Sigh.

Today she's announcing a giveaway. How can I compete with free stuff? I LOVE free stuff. I'm tempted to become one of her followers so I can compete for the free stuff!. I can't even imagine keeping you from the opportunity to have free stuff... here she is http://www.remembermoments0823.blogspot.com/

Sigh.

I'll just have to resign myself to the fact that more people are interested in free stuff and lists of whether or not she drinks soda from a straw.

So my 19 loyal readers, in the sprit of the republic that this blog aspires to be, would you like me to answer lists of lists? Or do you prefer the random musings of an overactive brain?

Maybe I could give away "The Van"...