Aselin

We are a very cosmopolitan family. My children have travelled quite extensively for their age. They study Spanish AND Mandarin Chinese starting in fifth grade. They will eat almost anything - spinach, octopus, escargot - they eat it all. I remember standing in Pompeii while a tour guide explained some of the history, and my seventh grader leaned over and added even more depth and context from what she had learned at school. Since it's important to me that we experience people, experiences and cultures different than our own, I often pat their little heads with approbation.

This week we were having a wonderful family discussion. As my kids have matured these have gotten more and more interesting. They have insights and opinions I admire.

During the discussion Unnamed Child #2 asked, "Don't the Haunnikins do that?" Referencing a discussion about animal sacrifice.

What? Suddenly I'm unsure of myself. With all the changes in political boundaries, particularly in the Balkan states I was aghast I didn't know about the Haunnikins.

We all were unfamiliar with the exotic animal-slaying Haunnikin culture. Emphatically #2 continued: "You know, The Haunnikins - the wandered around living in tents while that guy... what's his name... was their leader?"

I'm stumped. I can think of no current nomadic tribe called the Haunnikins. "Are they African?" I query.

"No!" He says, "You know, The Haunnikins, the escaped from Egypt and that guy... what's his name... oh, Moses! was their leader and they sacrificed animals."

I can't contain my laughter as hubby calmly corrects him... "Dude, those aren't the Haunnikins they are the Jews."

"Oh, yeah, I thought it was something like that."

Upon reflection I figure it makes a little sense - Christmas/Christians - Hannakauh/Haunnikins... which leads to Ramadan/Ramadans... Halloween/Halloweenies.

Three cheers for the Haunnikins!

I've never been accused of being a "girlie girl" although I do think the characterization is like a point on a continuum. Standing next to Rosanne Barr, I seem like Swan Lake Barbie. Standing next to Glinda the Good Witch, I look like I do my hair with an immersion blender and brush my teeth with a pitchfork. It's all relative.

My name throws people off too. Telemarketers never know how to pronounce my name and usually ask for Mr. A-see-line, to which I reply, "That dirtbag moved out months ago" and hang up.

But usually, people who know me have me safely placed on the continuum of "feminine enough". This means I shower at least twice a week and own a pair of high heels over 2 inches.

Sooo, imagine my delight when my hubby reports he received a call this morning. Then he starts silent laughing so hard he can't tell me the story. Of course, I'm excited to hear a story that makes him gasp for breath... I should know better.

Apparently we got a call from a neighbor that went like this:

Riiiing Riiiing

Neighbor: "Good morning! Did I wake you up?"

Hubby "Nope"

Neighbor: "You are breathing hard"

Hubby who just ran 16 miles: "I just finished working out"

Neighbor: "Well, I was wondering if you would teach my class this Sunday?"

Hubby: Pause..."Do you mean ME or Aselin?"

Neigbor: "Uh, this isn't Aselin?" Awkward moment... "Well her voice is kinda deep."


Fast forward an hour or so when I come in after petting bunnies and unicorns and singing to a rainbow, I see my chortling companion doubled over, trying to catch his breath from laughing.

Hubby is cracking up relaying the information to me that apparently I sound like Bruce Vilanch. Or at least I sound like a guy who just ran 16 miles in compression shorts. Neither option is very appealing to me.

Crud. Now I have to curl or wax or bleach something today just to prove my femininity....or my metrosexuality... ugh! I'm wearing a tiara and pumps to the grocery store.

I have great kids. They, for the most part are obedient, kind and helpful. That being said, they struggle with a few things - one of them going to bed.

I suppose it's a great thing to enjoy life so much you don't want to check out of it for a while. I, on the other hand, fantasize about becoming a bear and hibernating for six or more months. (Ok, not really, but you can't tell me you haven't had days where that sounds appealing)

Today is the first day of school, so of course, last night everyone was very excited. So excited that they couldn't stay in bed. So excited that they couldn't quit singing Coldplay's Viva la Vida at the top of their lungs and then breaking out in a Broadway medley that would have made Andrew Lloyd Webber proud.

I've learned that I can't beat them, but I do enjoy giving the stink-eye whenever I get the chance.

So last night, an hour after bedtime I'm skulking along the hallway, moving like a lynx after her prey when I get to their room.

Unnamed Child #2 is, of course, not in bed. Leaning up against Unnamed Child #3's bed they are deep in discussion. I started to make a move to get noticed, so I could intimidate them with the dagger glare of motherhood when I started to catch the conversation. I won't get it verbatim, but it went something like this: "If we can harvest the eggs I think we could make a lot of money." "Yeah, but caviar is pretty expensive, I don't think we'd make more than caviar." "Yeah, but we could have a whole snail farm and it would be easier than harvesting fish eggs."

OK readers, let's regroup here. My kids are avoiding their proscribed bed time so they can make plans to open a snail farm and harvest the eggs for sale, competing with the existing caviar market.

Anyone else a little disturbed by this?

Creeped out?

Shudder?

Good grief, what have I spawned???

Suddenly, Unnamed Child #2 notices that I've been standing there and jumps into bed, trying to play innocent.

I'm just sayin', if you're making plans to enter the snail caviar market, you're innocence is LONG gone.

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.