Unresolved Resolutions

Happy New Year!

It is the time of year to write down all of the intentions that you plan to resolve for yourself during the next twelve months.  Intentions that are usually fueled by 98% self-esteem issues, coupled with 2% extravagant dreams developed by watching tricky television advertising and internet marketing schemes.

Historically, celebrations of the New Year began with the Babylonians over two thousand years ago. Around 153 B.C, the Romans brought Janus (hence January), a Roman god, to the party and apparently initiated the tradition of ‘looking forward’ into the New Year….thus, the invention of the New Year Resolution.

I hate you Janus. I hate you and all of the unresolved good intentions that cause incredible amounts of guilt in ridiculous Americans such as me, each and every New Year.

In protest, I have decided to make a list of all the items that I tend to leave unresolved in my life during 2013. This is not only for me, but for the good of the general intellect. I hereby decree, down with Janus and make now the time of New Years Un-Resolutions.

Next year, I intentionally intend to leave unresolved:

All and any family conflicts that result in quantitative levels of discomfort, disappointment, or compel one to visit the bar fridge.

My cholesterol, sugar, thyroid, etc…. levels.

Personal issues that result in a high level of disorganization.

My checkbook.

Whatever it is growing in the upstairs shower.

Anything to do with my children behaving in odd manners or parenting issues that may require said children to necessitate therapy in their adult lives.

Laundry and every non-matched sock I sadistically keep in the sock basket that keeps me thinking that someday, maybe someday, its partner will return and our family of cotton will be made whole again.

My inability to recall in a timely manner most birthdays and tax deadlines.

Flab issues of any kind, in any location, due to gravity or the occasional stolen Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll.

Multiple household repair items.

The half-written novel on my hard drive that annunciates my inconsistency, each and every time I turn on my computer.

 

This is simply the list I can share with the general public, trust me, there are more unresolved issues I plan on sharing with my medical doctor (apologies ahead of time) and 1-800 dial therapist…but I can honestly say….

 My wish for you is a Happy, Unresolved, No-Guilt, New Year!

Ahead with 2013!

The Truth About Scurry

 

It began as an innocent reminiscing during a wonderful campfire at our hideaway in the great Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

After a few warming beverages, my husband and I looked across the flames toward my oldest son, just turned thirteen. You know the age… attitude dipped in hormones and covered in acne. Admiring the well-adjusted boy he was, and as all good parents often do just for fun in the deep woods of the great north, we decided to rock his little world and tell him one of our families’ deepest, darkest, and most horrid secrets.  We revealed to our son the truth about Scurry the Hamster.

Now Scurry was my son’s first pet. This pet was your average hamster and had actually passed into hamster heaven about four years prior to the campfire. The conversation went a bit like this:

Steve: “Son, your mother and I have decided that it is time for you to know the truth about your hamster Scurry” (I proceed to crack up….)

Sam: “What truth Pa?” (My son does not actually refer to my husband as “Pa” but it works better in this story).

Steve: “The truth son, is, …..well, the truth is that your beloved hamster buried back home in the backyard is not really, truly, Scurry.”

Sam: “Pa, this is not some weird Pet Semetary story is it? Don’t freak me out in the woods up here.”

Steve: “No, son, Scurry is not of the undead. It is just that the Scurry buried there, is not actually the original Scurry number one.”

Sam: “What?!” (Now, I am laughing so hard, I head to the outhouse)

Steve: “Son, let me tell you about a boy, a young boy, say you, having a fourth birthday. All you asked for was a tiny, disgusting, little rodent for your special day. Your mother insisted for some reason that it was imperative for your little dream to come true (yes, this is all really your mother’s fault in the end, just a cliff note). So I bought you the cutest, littlest hamster one could buy at the pet shop and fulfilled your wildest dream. You were ecstatic! You loved that disgusting thing and named it Scurry. I have never seen you so happy since son. It was a magical day. Now, let’s just admit here in the light of this campfire, that the night was not so magical for Scurry One. He croaked sometime after Jay Leno and before Conan O’Brian (this was before he moved to TBS, another tragic story I will share another time) and your mother began a supreme freak out.  I was able to calm her down and we devised a diabolical plan. We told you in the morning that Scurry had been so happy to meet you that he had fell asleep exhausted and would be just fine when you arrived home from pre-school. “

Sam: “Scurry….was…..dead??? What? You lied to a preschooler?”

Steve: “Yes, son, quite easily. I then missed a day of work and headed off to purchase Scurry Number Two.”

Sam: “So that was how he got so much bigger that day!”

Steve: “Yes, son, I bought a much older and stronger hamster that would be able to sustain life for more than three hours.”

Sam: “So, I have Scurry Number Two buried at home Pa?”

Steve: “Well, don’t get ahead of yourself son. Scurry Two did live eight long and glorious months before the escape.”

Sam: “What??? I remember him getting out, but he didn’t die!”

Steve: “Well, actually he did. Apparently while gallivanting around in the basement for the three days that  we were looking for him…he feasted on a bit of D-con, the end was quite brutal….thank goodness you were at school.”

Sam: *Gasp*

Steve: “We told you he was so tired from running around the house, that he was exhausted and sleeping. So I once again missed a day at work for a six-dollar rodent and brought home Scurry Number Three”

Sam: “So Scurry Three lived three more years and is buried in the back yard Pa?”

Steve: “Now, you keep gittin (My husband does not often say ‘Gitin” but again, works best for the story.) ahead of yourself son…Scurry Three did live the longest out of all of ‘em”

Sam: “All of them???? For the love of Pete Dad!”

Steve: “Well, Scurry Three was actually murdered by your sweet mother. After escaping for that week back in ’02, she found him nested in her brand new carpeting. A hole clear down to the sub floor….a five hundred dollar repair…had no idea your mother could punt kick that far……very impressive.”

Sam: “So, Dad….what number Scurry was actually buried during the funeral of 2003? The one that I still need therapy over? And Mom is a hamster killer??

Mom: “I prefer rodent eliminator son.” (This was another lie, I never killed that hamster…..he just died…..so I say(insert evil laughter))

My husband took a moment to try and count on his fingers….I was laughing so hard I could not breathe.

Steve “Let’s just say….it is five or six times a whole lot a love son…..a whole lot of hamster love…”

We plan on starting that therapy for the kid next week. Mission accomplished.

My Christmas List

Ah Christmas, the holiday that used to be about the birth of Jesus.

Now it seems to have become an amazing catch-all event that even the most committed atheist is able to display a manger in their home and call it ‘the ol’party at the barn’.  We Christians that try to hold back the flood of consumerism that has hallmarked this great day, are able to accomplish it with success in some manner.  In my house, we sing Happy Birthday to Jesus every Christmas morning, honor Christmas Eve, but I am certain that as a group, we could do better to hold the day to its true and historical purpose. I must admit personal flaws that I have with this issue, because when it comes right down to it, I must admit, I still enjoy a good present.

So in the spirit of ultimate consumerism, I have prepared my list for this year, just in case you all have not gone out and purchased something for me yet! (Becuase it is almost Thanksgiving and you should be done with your shopping!)

All I want this year is:

·         An invitation to Nancy Pelosi’s retirement party.

·         A car cocooned in bubble wrap for my soon-to-be sixteen year old driver.

·         A two hour recovery time for multiple elective surgery procedures.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun to zap people in the school parking lot that have offensive stickers on the back of their cars that my children read on the way into school.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun to zap people anywhere for ostentatious abuse of Lycra.

·         Super-charged Febreeze device that takes the stench out of the gym clothes that recently walked themselves home from the High School locker room.

·         On-demand Mojito tap in the fridge for the summer.

·         On-demand Irish coffee taps on the Mr. Coffee for the winter.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun that zaps people who exhaustively use the British word “spot-on” and are not British.

·         A suicide note from my son’s stinky rabbit.

·         The personal masseuse (a strong and sturdy Finnish woman named Helka) my husband promised me last year but did not seem to end up under the tree.

·         A super sci-f ray-gun that zaps me every time I say, “sure I can help out with that *fundraiser!” (*Insert event, book fair, bake sale, car pool, overnight-camping trip….you understand the point here.)

 

Now is that so much to ask?

 

My wishes for you are a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Kwanza, Grand ‘ol Party at the Barn, or whatever you celebrate, is the very best it can be!!!

 

Marie Sarchet

Field Trip Duty

The following story is 100% true. Well, maybe 98% true. It happened years ago, but I am just now able to write about it….I apologize in advance.

It was my turn to chaperone the first grade field trip to the community pools.

My husband and I usually  arm wrestle, blackmail,  or Rock/Paper/Scissors to see who has to go (uh, I mean, we are vying for who is lucky enough to attend), but since the man was still experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome from his recent field trip with a hundred fifth graders traipsing all over Mackinaw Island, (the highlight of which was a slightly off-meds young man that decided to throw his bicycle into Lake Huron on the far side of the island), we both knew that it would be I, accompanying my youngest son along with three of the first grade classrooms from the North Ohio Elementary School to the community pools.

The trip began with my son begging me to pretend that I was someone else’s mother so that I did not embarrass him while we sat on the bus to the Sportsplex. Apparently I have been known to humiliate my children in public by doing horrific things to them, like kissing them good-bye or holding their hand, in the presence of their friends. The teacher asked that I sit with the other naughty kids up front while she sat with my son in the back of the bus… I guess that was a colossal hint, the OTHER naughty kids.  I spent fifteen minutes being peppered with questions by a six- year-old hoodlum who wanted to know my address and asked me repeatedly if I knew how to set things on fire like he does. In order to quiet the lovely child, I gave him the address of a business we were driving past. Three weeks later there was a serious arson at the location….coincidence? I think not.

After arriving, the kids grabbed their Wal-Mart bags stuffed with bathing suites and towels their parents could only hope to see again and headed to the locker rooms. It was my job to help the girls change into their swim suits and escort them to the poolside. Forty-seven of them lined up to change in the one and only bathroom stall. I tried to comfort them by announcing that we were all girls so that it was okay to change into our suits in front of each other. As I proceeded to undress, a little girl next to me began to cry, others pointed and laughed. I grabbed my Wal-Mart bag and got in line. Twenty-five minutes later we were all ready to go. I tried to skip out on the cold shower, but was busted by a tiny tot hollering at me, “you’re gonna get germs in the pool grandma!” I proceeded to communicate to her that I was not yet a grandma as I cranked up the cold water over my body and her little head.

I arrived on the deck of the pool to find my son being given a “talking to” for running around by a crabby-looking lifeguard. Apparently it must not be enjoyable to guard eighty-eight post-kindergartners and the clueless parents that accompany them. My son’s teacher also noticed the tongue lashing and gave me that look. You know, the look that says, “that kid will either be president or in prison someday”. Teachers are so optimistic for our children, we parents know better.

So thus, as there are two pools in our natatorium, the cold pool and the warm pool, I was given my assignment…yes, you guessed it, the cold pool.

We were in the pools for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds when an evacuation erupted from the warm pool not unlike the beach scene from the first ‘Jaws’ movie. For a moment, I scanned the area for that infamous dorsal fin. But alas, the truth behind the evacuation was worse than the presence of a man-eating, carnivorous, and  blood-thirsty fish. The lifeguard standing on the edge of the pool answered my quizzical look by whispering loudly…… “fecal matter”. The terror.

I immediately scanned the peripheral of my personal space and to my pure unadulterated revulsion saw what resembled Bill Murray’s Baby Ruth bar in the movie ‘Caddyshack’ located about twenty-four inches from my big toe. I yelled for the lifeguard and pointed. She grew ghastly and instantaneously pale, grabbed her mega-phone and yelled, “PLEASE EXIT THE LARGE POOL!”  People again exploded out of the cold pool. My doctor’s husband, who was also chaperoning, resembled Jesus crossing the lake as he bolted out of the deep end. I however, was trapped. The ‘matter’ blocked my exit to the steps, and dozens of children were spilling out over the edges blocking my only withdrawal over the side. What resulted was that I was the last person to escape and hit the soapy shower. The children, who had spent all of six minutes total swimming on their field trip, were crying. Some kids, who were suspiciously not crying, were busily trying to discover the culprit. Which classmate was it? Who was able to accomplish the amazing feat of pooping in two pools in less than six minutes? The world may never know.

 After soaping and disinfecting us all for thirty more minutes, we begged the bus driver to divert for ice cream to try and calm the weeping. Although clearly traumatized, the children and the parents felt a little better after the treat, but not much better. Few slept well that night. The teacher was slapped with a three hundred dollar fine, and retired shortly after the field trip.

I took my son home early that day. Of course I had to ask the question…..”Son, please tell mama that you were not the mad pool pooper today”

My answer, “Geesh mom, no way! Please tell me it wasn’t you, because that would be so embarrassing!”

The kids are going to the farm in a few weeks; I plan on contracting the chicken pox.

Heaving It For The Holidays!

It’s October and it time to hit the treadmill!

As the man and future men in my house hit the woods of the Upper Peninsula and Northern Michigan this fall, I too, have an autumn tradition. I attempt (note the word ‘attempt’, which loosely translated from the original Latin scrolls means, ‘was going to hit the gym one morning after drinking too much coffee and having a false sense of confidence and possible sugar-initiated energy boost from using an extra hazelnut cream packet’) to lose the twenty pounds that I intend to gain from eating over the holidays.

It is a queer practice to be certain. Why not just eat less during the festive season? Make sure you take one less piece of nutty fudge, or pass over that extra load of sausage stuffing in order to keep yourself fit?  Why not pass on the fatty, deep-fried goodies? Pay no heed to the bacon-wrapped chestnut, bacon-wrapped tenderloin, bacon-wrapped bacon? Why not?

Why Not???? Because I do not WANT to! I LOVE eating over the holidays!  I love stuffing myself exactly like I love to stuff that holiday turkey!  Wrap it all in bacon I say! I would wrap myself in bacon if it weren’t so expensive and would make the dog go mad. Let loose! Cover it all in peppermint, chocolate goo, and baked marshmallows! Yowzah! (I should probably cut back on the caffeine.)

Eating light at the holidays should be a criminal offense. Seriously, anyone caught even whispering,“Oh gosh, I have to pass on dessert, sooooo stuffed” or “really, I cannot eat another meatball, they go right to my thighs” should be thrown into prison immediately.  I once saw someone bring their Jenny Craig meal to the holiday office potluck….I purposely sat next to her and tallied up my weight watcher points for my meal. “Three thousand and seventy-two”, I announced as I crunched on my Christmas tree made of rice crispies, M&M’s and butter cream. She literally drooled on the spot.That was wrong; I should not have had to torture that woman so horrifically during the Yuletide.  There are some things that are sacred and consuming fatty foods to commemorate the birth of Our Lord is one of them.

Holiday food is a little bit of heaven right here on earth.  Except for Egg Nog. Egg Nog is a product from hell inserted into the season from Lucifer himself. (My apologies to those who dwell in the darkness and enjoy Egg Nog, you do realize that there is something wrong with you. You simply cannot coat evil in nutmeg and call it good.)

Holiday fare has purpose beyond general yumminess. There is purpose behind the reason my relatives bring a freight car worth of appetizers to the annual Christmas party. Finger foods are perfect for shoving into your face to avoid awkward moments at family gatherings. I once crammed ten broccoli cheesy bites into my mouth while listening to my unlatched second cousin explain how she is financially supporting her almost-a-model-boyfriend in his pursuit to return to school for graphic arts (aka pin stripping custom vans). I had to dive into the  crab puffs when she explained why Fabio couldn’t make the party on account of having to spend the day with his two kids and baby mama by order of the DHS. (Okay, I confess, I also hit the spiked cider on that one too.) Aunt Nora's play by play herniated gall bladder surgery required serious bacon that may actually shorten my life span.

Regardless, my point is made. Eat up and be merry. It is the law.

Okay, have to run. Honest. I may try and hoof an extra mile in the spirit of an herbed cream-cheese ball shaped and formed to the likeness of Frosty.   

See you at the parties!!

Cool Mom Blues

When I was a kid, my mother had this friend who was super cool.

I thought she was way cooler than my mom. My mom had no idea about the latest music, latest clothes, who was who in pop culture etc….(I mean gosh mom how can you NOT know all the words to “Kiss Is On My List” by Hall & Oates, the BEST song EVER!!!) My mom worked forty plus hours a week, drove us kids everywhere every stinking day, and cleaned, cooked…..you know, all the fun stuff. Having no appreciation, as most kids do not, for all the hard mom work, I swore an oath way back then that I would make certain that I was a super cool mom whenever I had kids in the future.

Move ahead in time thirty years….I am now the mother of three children. I have decided to do an inventory to see if I have turned into the “super cool mom” I was destined to become.

Cool Mom Checklist:

• Cool moms would possess a tattoo of some sort, somewhere on their person. Preferably something cool written in a foreign language that they do not speak, nor understand, save for that prolific statement written on their thigh. 

Sadly, I fall short of this requirement. I do have a scar on my calf from burning my leg while trying to look cool on a motorcycle. Does that count? I give myself a NO on that one.

• Cool moms would know the latest top 40 hits by heart and be able to sing along with the children at least two paragraphs of the latest funky rap.

I have not been ‘funky’ since that case of athletes foot back in ’01. Also, apparently no one uses the word ‘funky’ anymore.

• Cool Moms dress in the latest fashions challenging Heidi Klum and those Kardashian girls as fashion icons.

 NOPE. Just NOPE. Let’s move on.

• Cool moms bake.

I burn….thus that would be a NO.

• Cool moms let their kids do “fun stuff”. According to my sons, that includes many activities that require varying degrees of absolute danger. Climbing, hanging, jumping on, off and over things with motorized vehicles, using multiple types of firearms and weaponry, preferably with or against a brother….are all examples of “fun stuff”.

Thus, on this one I again earn a whopping “NOT COOL”

• Cool Moms would be on Pinterest and actually have made something or bought something that they have pinned to the “For The Children” Board.

That would be a no. Do not even have a “For The Children” Board. It is all about me.

 

Turns out, I am just like my mom, working hard, driving kids around in my sweat shirt that has a pizza stain on the arm. (Okay, she never had the pizza stain, I have added that). There may be hope for me as I am mentored by many really cool moms that meet some of the requirements above.

But for now, I am so glad to just be me, as un-cool as I am…thanks Mom!!!

The Wonder of Wal-Mart

I am a wonderer of wonderments.

There are many things that I wonder about on a daily basis. From morning until night, curiosities and marvels cross my path. For example, I wonder how it can possibly be that I always owe at least ten dollars in late fees on my movie rental account at the Family Video? I pay on that ten dollar late fee every time I go in that place, and yet, the late fees never decrease…fascinating.

 I also wonder why in the world our creator decided to deplete the estrogen levels in women over 40. What is that cruel joke about? Is that a Garden of Eden thing? Is God still ticked off about the snake and the apple? I thought giving birth to bowling bowls was payback enough, yet here we are saddled with night sweats and an extra fifteen pounds that can only be removed with the aid of a licensed physician and surgical equipment. He is still ticked.

I wonder how in the world I am capable of watching the movie Pride and Prejudice fifty-seven times. How is it possible that a mind see a thing over and over again, and yet, I know without a doubt that if the dang movie is on the Oxygen channel tomorrow, I will watch it yet again, fifty-eight times and counting?

Nothing stirs the pondering in my brain more than a venture to the local Wal-Mart. You know, the store that you claim you never visit, yet I see you there on a bi-weekly basis…no worries, I won’t tell.  Our local Wal-Mart is a fine store, we know the manager, a great guy who really loves his job and has great employees. BUT! (You knew there was a ‘but’ coming) it is a looney-tune crazy kind of establishment. It doesn’t matter if you hit the Wal-Mart in Gaylord or Chicago…the crazy is consistent.

I wonder if Sam Walton had any idea what his retail creation would become since opening that first official Wal-Mart in 1962. I wonder if he knew how much stinking money his kids and grandkids would have today. I mean, those Walton kids are so rich; they send Mitt Romney cash in his birthday card.

I am curious as to why, whenever a child under the age of seven enters a Wal-Mart, he or she has an insurmountable urge to emotionally implode. You can travel in every aisle in any Wal-Mart and witness exasperated parents and a toddler in the middle of an epic meltdown.

Why is it that any conversation you may have with friends and neighbors that you happen to ‘non-run into’ at the Wal-Mart, is open for all who may be walking by to join into the dialogue? You may be having the most personal of conversations, and any yahoo walking past will feel the need to weigh in.

                Marie: “Yes Kari, I just had to put my ninety-year old mother into a nursing home, it was very difficult”

                Yahoo: “Oh my kids tried to put me in a nursing home…told those little b-&*7! they would not get one dime from the trailer if they even thought about it!”

                Marie: “Thank-you for that…will keep it in mind”

I suppose that there are no answers to such deep and important questions…it is not for us to ponder, it is simply for us to go and retrieve our ‘rollback’ prices.