Unleash the Beasts (That is, Keep Them Inside!)

This could be one of my most controversial posts ever.  So, if you're not here to have your preconceived notions challenged or to have your blood boil in anger, then I suggest you don't read this one.  I'm going to get real, and I'm going to get, um, even more real.  I've been in bed sick for 5 days, and I've had nothing but time to think and stew and get irrationally angry.  I'm not allowing for debate on this post because what I'm about to say is hard factpinion.  That's when you form an opinion so staunchly that you believe it to be fact even if it's unprovable.  That said, let's get to the nitty gritty:

Designer dogs suck.  I have had it with them, and they are officially on my list of Animals People Inexplicably Adore That I Do Not.  Also on that list are dolphins and, well, just dolphins, but with the addition of "designer dogs," I got to make the title of the list plural. Their offenses are many, not the least of which is the fact that they are the size of a cat without any of the charm of a cat.  What's the point? 

Now, as an admitted cat person, you may simply receive my factpinion with a dismissive, "Oh, she's just a cat person.  What does she know?"  However, the fact that I have not one, but two large dogs in my house that I allow to eat, live, and even interact with kindly on a daily basis gives  me every right to assert what I asserted above:  the designer series of the canine class absolutely, undoubtedly sucks.  

Before we moved to the Suburb on the Hill, we lived in the 'hood.  Yes, the 'hood.  Now, in the 'hood, people do have dogs, but their dogs serve almost one singular purpose:  protect the stuff.  People did not walk their dogs, nor did they have to, because their dogs expended all their energy running around their yards, barking like hooligans, growling like hell hounds, protecting the stuff.  It wasn't without merit, either.  Our particular pocket of the 'hood was pretty unsafe with people forcefully taking other people's stuff and lives and things like that. 

Incidentally, I never felt particularly unsafe there.  We lived on the corner of Random Side Street and Getaway Road.  Random Side Street was short, and we knew our neighbors.  There was chatty Colin whose worst behaviors involved talking way too much, unable to read body cues from the mommy trying to get into the house where her baby was, and trimming our trees without permission in order to curry favor with the hubs who would then feel obligated to pay him back.  Annoying?  Sure.  But harmless.  Then there was Stock Car Reuben who traveled the country 10 months out of the year and only returned to Random Side Street to check in on his folks.  Great guy.  Never a nuisance.  And there were the Russians who spent years building a massive house that stuck out in the 'hood like a sore thumb and would have, if they could have sold it, attracted the people who wanted to take the stuff from the owners because it looked like the kind of house that would have good stuff.  In that case, I would have advised them to get one of the big dogs that the other people have.  Getaway Road was the busy street that led you out of where you had done stuff, so no one was going to stop to check if the tiny yellow house with the big yard and no scary dog had any good stuff.  They were just getting away.  

Then we moved to the Suburb on the Hill.  As I've said before, I find it idyllic.  Living in a pre-planned, cookie cutter neighborhood suits me just fine for this stage in our lives.  Sidewalks as far as the eye can see.  Safe, lovely sidewalks for the kids to walk to school, ride their bikes, color with chalk, set up lemonade stands, twirl around sparklers...you get the idea.  The sidewalks were what really sold the area to me, and in my golden haze of dreaming of a quieter life, kids connected to other kids by miles of concrete safety, I failed to notice what else comes with the suburbs and the sidewalks.  That would be, and I know you were wondering if I'd circle back around, the aforementioned sucky designer dogs.  

People walk around with these beasts, using them as status symbols.  Just like a cup of coffee from McDonald's is better than Starbucks any day (holy cow, BONUS controversial factpinion), people will drink less delicious coffee for the privilege of carrying around that white and green cup at chest level so everyone can see.  It turns red in mid-August to celebrate Christmas.  So, just as people drink bad coffee in order to look good, so they buy bad dogs in order to be celebrated by people they do not know and to terrorize their good neighbors who share this community with them.  

You see, designer dogs have had their sphincter muscle strength bred out of them (there is no research to back this up; it's just a natural assumption of mine).  They also have ridiculously short legs which cause them to lag far behind their owners when taken out for their daily showing, aka, walk.  Their owners are only interested in being seen, mind you, so they pay not one bit of attention to the beast they are dragging behind them.  And the beast, with its weak anus, is pooping all over the sidewalk.  Just dropping those mini bombs like a clown throwing Tootsie Rolls at a parade.  The owner either does not know because they're busy being seen, or they do not care because the dog is for status and nothing lowers your status like picking up poop and carrying it around in a plastic bag.  

As you can imagine, this turns the sidewalks into veritable Mine Fields of Feces, and it forces you to call out to your kids, trying not to get smashed by cars by staying on the sidewalks, "Watch out for dog poop!"  Really?  This is something you should never have to yell to anyone on a sidewalk because a sidewalk is no place for poop.  

You may be tempted to say, "Natalie, it's not the dogs that suck.  It's the owners that suck."  That's not true.  I'm very comfortable lumping all the designer dogs into one category, but there are responsible small dog owners in this world who don't deserve the same treatment.  You know the ones.  The ones who don't put them in ridiculous outfits.  The ones who don't bring them into stores.  The ones who are willing to lower their status by picking up the poop.  I respect that.  However, it doesn't erase the fact that designer dogs' mere existence will attract the status-seeking bad dog owner every single time, and that, my friends, is why they universally suck.  Give me a pit bull any day who has a strong fudge hole, but for heaven's sake, pick up after it.  Otherwise, I will be forced to rethink my stance on all of this.  

It's Not ALL Precious

I'm pretty sure this particular blog has been done to death, but I don't really care.  "Frozen" parodies and lip syncing videos have been done to death, but people seem to like those.  This is my lip syncing blog.  

*side note:  I find it very disturbing that a lot of videos are being done in cars.  If I ever get hit by someone doing a lip syncing video while driving, I will not be happy.  At all.  I will probably bite them.  Hard.  

As I scroll through my Facebook news feed, I get inundated with trite quotes, trying to be deep but really intending to inflict as much guilt upon the reader as possible, telling me to embrace every moment of my children's every living second because I'll never get it back.  Time is precious, therefore, everything my kid does is precious, and if I'm not living in the moment, I'm wasting precious time.  Like, right now, I'm wasting precious time by not being upstairs with my children in their overheated room at my parents' house that smells like farts, chlorine, and something unidentifiable but definitely dead, drinking in the precious moments of them fighting with their cousins over who gets to play Minecraft next.  Is that one word or two?  I don't know.  

The problem I have with those saccharine quotes, often superimposed over a nice picture of a child or a flower or a yak, is that I happen to be an introvert who lives in the real world.  Why should that matter, you ask?  Well, as an introvert, I get drained by being around too many people too often.  Just completely worn out, and this is around people I enjoy immensely in small doses.  The problem with kids is that they happen to be people.  Some days (okay, at different points every.single.day), they happen to be people with whom I would not choose to associate if I wasn't bound by law to do so.  They have personalities that often I enjoy, but then I often don't enjoy them either.  It's those times where I'm not enjoying them that I get annoyed with the idea that I am meant to savor everything they do as  a precious moment.  I just want them to go away, or, better yet, I want to go away.  Finding the energy to hover over my children like a helicopter, enjoying everything they do all the time even when I'm not enjoying what they're doing, is not reality.  So, to those who create those quotes on those pretty pictures, I have to say it:  suck it.  You either don't have kids, or you are living in a fantasy world where your child is the constant center, all other relationships are completely ignored, and you're inwardly dying a slow, precious death.  Congratulations to you, and I have pills if you need them.  

So, now, for your entertainment and possible harsh judgement, I will share with you some (just a handful; barely a sampling) times when I did not find my inner Fantasy Super Mom (mainly because she doesn't exist) and think my children utterly precious:  

• Pregnancy, when all my internal organs were squashed to fit an MRE package and I became a woman capable of producing enough methane to heat entire Scandinavian towns in the dead of winter.  
• Childbirth, when I was laid out on a cold operating table, nekkid and my no-no special places freshly shaved by a male nurse.  
• Having a newborn pee in my mouth.  
• Getting covered in poop too many times to count.  
• Having my child cover herself from head to toe in Vaseline.  You know what should work to get that out?  Dawn.  They use it on the oil spill animals.  Guess what doesn't work on a Vaseline-covered child?  Dawn.  Great for penguins.  Lousy for children.  
• Retrieving shoes off the roof.
• Finding my iced tea maker has been turned into a cooking pot for every cereal and cracker in the pantry.
• Finding my son in the front yard with nothing on but a smile, running through the sprinkler, because he couldn't take the 2 minutes to look for his swimsuit which he swore he couldn't find even though it was in the place where it's always kept and where he has found it every other time.  
• The endless bad jokes.  I can't even fake laugh anymore.  Really, I'm doing them a favor.  Kids have got to learn that not everything they do is a winning effort deserving praise and adoration.  "Knock knock."  "Who's there?"  "Cow."  "Cow who?"  "I love chicken."  Seriously.  Not precious.  Or funny.  
• Tantrums.  All of them. 
• The endless barrage of tattle tales.  
• Homework.  Why do they even give out homework to first graders?  I did my time.  I graduated.  I find it supremely un-precious having to sit and go through school all over again.
• The daily Cooking of the Amazing Dinner and the daily "I Don't Like That" followed by the daily "You're Gonna Eat It or You're Gonna Starve" routine.  I am not a short order cook any more than I am a tropical fairy queen.  
• Laundry.  

Finding the energy to be completely plugged into my children every second of every day on top of trying to maintain some small part of the Person I Was Before I Became a Parent on top of keeping my house clean while little people follow me and destroy my handiwork on top of feeling guilty for not having my children signed up for sports, activities, cooking classes, and dog training courses (because all of that means more people), is impossible.  This does not mean I don't adore my kids.  This does not mean I don't find plenty of precious moments to enjoy each day.  It just means that I cannot center my world around my kids because, like I said, they're people.  People, in large doses, suck my soul dry, and knowing that it's okay to not find everything they do wonderful means that the special moments remain special, the tough moments become learning opportunities for all of us, and the balance between the two means I'm still a human raising humans to be humans that other humans want to be around.  

And just in case my cynicism is leaving a bad taste in your mouth, I will leave you with this piece of optimism.  

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I will, without fail, find one thing very, very precious that I will enjoy immensely no matter what has happened during the day:

Bedtime.  

Scandalous Hope

This isn't my typical blog intended to make you laugh.  This is me showing some of my other sides, namely my faith and my philosophy.  Turn back now if you'd rather wait for something lighter.  Don't worry.  I won't be offended.  

I had the privilege (yes, privilege) of going to a funeral for one of my oldest friends' mother who I have known for 27 years.  When I first moved to Rockford, I was a shy child of 8, resentful of having to leave my familiar life in Iowa, terrified of what the new school year would hold for me.  On my first day, I met a girl named Rachel Allen, and she and I became fast, fabulous friends.  To this day, she remains one of the most important people in my life because she was there for me in a time of life when I was ready to just fall apart and give up completely.  She ate lunch with me.  She played at recess with me.  She welcomed me into her world without hesitation, and, being the person I am who has always enjoyed a small circle of friends, I put her right at the center so I could navigate my new surroundings.

Rachel stayed by my side all through elementary and middle school.  She was (and still is) brilliant and patient and kind and helpful.  She talked me through many tearful nights of algebra homework.  She taught me that no matter how much life hurts, like when I lost my grandmother Turnquist or my dog Terra, that there is always something to smile about and hope for.  Rachel and I took tennis lessons through the park district which is something I would NEVER have attempted on my own.  We went to Camp Timber-Lee together, which is another thing I would never have done, and she saw me through my homesickness and showed me that camp can be fun, even on a horse.  Rachel loves horses.  Because of Rachel, I learned to live life a bit more adventurously.  

I absolutely despised sleepovers.  I liked my own bed, and I liked the familiarity of my home and my room.  I would get sad and scared at someone else's home.  In fact, I didn't really even enjoy going to play at other people's homes.  But I was always happy to be at Rachel's.  It wasn't just because she was my best friend in the whole wide world but also because her home came with a bonus:  her parents, especially her mother.  It was her mother's funeral I went to on Friday.

Mrs. Donna Allen has always been a bright spot in my life.  When I would go to her home to play with Rachel, she treated me like her own child.  When I would sleep over, she always took the time to say a prayer with me and give me a hug and a kiss goodnight.  I trusted her quiet strength and her loving heart and knew that being in her home, in her care, was the second best thing to being at my own home.   Before I was even aware of it, Mrs. Allen was teaching me compassion, kindness, and love on a level I might never have understood.  

While we were remembering her life and weeping for our loss, we were also celebrating that this remarkable woman was in the presence of her Savior.  I sat between my own two amazing parents, holding their hands, grateful that I still have them, and keenly aware that this scenario would one day be playing out in my own life--the loss of a parent who loved me beyond comprehension, raised me to change the world one life at a time, taught me the importance of laughter, and the necessity of forgiveness.  

As I sat, weeping for those of us left behind and rejoicing for Mrs. Allen's release from the world and all its pain, I was struck by what a beautiful blessing it is to experience joy and hope in the midst of grief.  I have watched sadly as my generation, my peers, have gotten distracted by the details of "religion" and seem to be missing out on the unexplainable joy that comes from knowing Jesus, loving Him, accepting His love, and showing it to others.  Instead, we fight about the right and the wrong of this social issue or that one.  We decide that this political policy or that political policy betray the "Christian" roots of our nation and therefore must be changed before the whole country goes to pot.  We point fingers at the close-mindedness of this church and at the liberal tendencies of that church.  We forget to love the ones Christ has put in our paths because they don't see the world the way we see it.  But the truth is, the answers to all of our problems, our concerns, our grievances against our fellow man, are not in this world.  They will not be solved here, so why do we spend so much time bogged down in the muck and mire of these things when Joy beyond measure is ours to embrace and live in and roll around in and let seep into our very souls?  

Mrs. Allen kept her eyes on her Heavenly Father, and as I listened to the stories of her life and her faith, I was greatly inspired to start living as she did, even just a little:  praying, hoping, helping, loving.  I am a blessed person to have had her in my life and for her to have shared her family with me.  I am blessed to have grown up alongside Rachel and to have sung in her wedding and to have played on the beaches of San Diego and to have warded off mosquitoes in a drafty cabin.  I am blessed to follow the adventures of her son Matthew and his wife Jennifer and their boys as they work and minister in Honduras.  I am blessed beyond anything I deserve, and I am thankful.  

It seems scandalous to find hope in the midst of grief, but to go through grief without hope at all is devastating.  I know my friends who have not found the Hope that I have think me naive or deceived or downright crazy like an adult who still believes in Santa Claus, but I will continue in this legacy of hope, lovingly laid down for me by Mrs. Allen, my Uncle Jim, my grandparents, and the thousands and thousands who have gone before me, knowing that one day, my hope will be complete.

The service closed with one of my favorite choruses:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.  Look full in His wonderful face.  And the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace.  

What a promise.  What a truth.  What a beautiful, wonderful woman.  

My Current Nemesis

As a person who errs on the side of cynicism and who possesses a strong sense of how the world is supposed to work based on the rules of common courtesy, it's not surprising that I find myself frequently in the presence of at least one nemesis.  Most of the time, my nemeses do not even know that they are the target of my loathing and inner stink-eye, which is probably best because if they knew, things would probably come to blows, and someone would end up in prison.  We all know that "someone" would be me.  

There are times, however, when my nemesis is not a person.  A few years ago, it was a robin.  This robin decided that his reflection in my sliding glass door was either a nemesis of his own or a potential mate.  Either way, that bird started crashing into my window at 7 every morning and didn't quit until 7 at night.  I assume that's when the birdie bars opened, and he went to drown his sorrows in a nice, crisp microbrew.  The sound of the robin's song still makes me twitch.  It speaks to the blackest parts of my soul, and while it hails the coming of spring to many people, it only sounds like misery and defeat to me.  Plus, the robins don't migrate from the Pacific Northwest, so they're not really a sign of spring or anything particularly special out here.  

Some nemeses have a more permanent status in my life.  My dogs definitely hold this honor. Their foul breath, incessant cheerfulness, and atomic farts are enough to drive me to insanity.  Their need to have attention lavished upon them from sunrise to sunset while simultaneously messing up my house and eating garbage when my back is turned will keep them in permanent nemesis status until the day. they. die.  They're as bad as my kids, but since I didn't grow and birth them, I don't feel especially attached.  And because I have kids who seem to like the dogs, I let the beasts stay because that's the kind of loving and unselfish mother that I am.

My current nemesis is neither human nor creature.  It's my son's yellow rubber ball.  I can see it from where I'm sitting and writing.  It's staring at me in the most snide and mocking way.  Yes, staring.  I haven't gone so far as drawing a face on the blasted thing, but I am so convinced that it is an evil cousin of the famous Wilson that I may as well.  

My relationship with the ball started out innocently enough.  I saw it in the store and was seized by a moment of adoration and generosity, picturing my little man's face when he saw the beautiful rubber sphere.  Although his collection of balls could rival an NBA player's, I just thought he needed one more.  It's worthy to note that these fits come when I'm shopping alone.  My children are so much cuter and deserving of spontaneous gifts when I'm away from them.  

Ever since that ball entered my house, it has invaded my life.  It's always there.  It's never away.  It lurks in corners, waiting to trip me when my peripheral vision is compromised.  I hate that ball.  I hate it with every fiber of my being.  I tell my little man to put it away fifteen times a day.  He acquiesces to my requests, but somehow, the ball never stays put away.  It is either full of little minions or the incarnation of someone I wronged in a past life sent back to kill me.

Why don't you just throw it away, Natalie?  Well, there are a couple of reasons.

1.  I'm terrified to throw it away because I have a suspicion that it will somehow just make its way back into my house.  I'm on the brink of insanity as it is, and a feat like that would push me into the deep.  Even if the ball didn't find its way back, I am quite positive it would haunt me with a "bounce, bounce, bounce" sound, much like the Tell Tale Heart.  I don't have time for that.  

2.  I feel as though that ball, as much as I loathe it, represents one of my very last shreds of compassion.  I hate clutter, and I have thrown out so many of my children's toys over the years.  That ball, with its nefarious travel patterns, deserves the trash, but my son loves it so very much.  To keep the ball is to show my son that I love him despite the inconveniences he brings into my life.  If I throw it away, I'll cease to be a good(ish) person and may as well go on a crime spree, like, kidnapping frogs or throwing recyclables into people's compost bins.  *shudder*

So, you see, I'm trapped.  I'm trapped by this yellow ball, so cheerful and so wicked.  To get rid of it is choosing a life of bleak inhumanity or insanity.  To keep it is to risk my neck.  My only choice is to wait for Little T to outgrow his love of the ball or for one of the dogs to pop it.
For the record, if the dogs did pop it, they'd still maintain permanent nemesis status.  They will have broken my son's heart.  

The yellow ball.  Devious, evil, complicated nemesis.  

Things I Do That I'm Not Particularly Proud of But Not Ashamed Enough to Quit

It has recently come to my attention (through a very realistic dream) that a huge portion of the general population thinks I am a vey put together woman who has all her ducks in a row.  In fact, the consensus (in my subconscious) seems to be that I am a woman who has this whole life thing figured out and is living it completely soundly and intelligently.  The truth is, I have a *few* quirks that I use as coping mechanisms to get me from sun up to sundown.  If only to clear things up with myself and attempt to live life more realistically in my dreams, I feel it's necessary to let a few things about myself out.   

I Talk to Myself:  

I do it all day long.  I find myself both a witty conversationalist and a very attentive listener. To spice it up and keep myself interested, I use accents. Oftentimes, I'm British, but I will stray to the Emerald Isle or even Down Under.  The whole thing is really quite innocent until I start arguing with myself.  I never know whose side to take since I'm always right but clearly I'm not because I'm arguing with myself and getting dangerously close to a full blown personality split.  Then it's just a hop, skip, and a random streaking spree through the neighborhood to the Looney Bin.

I Hate Pants

I don't hate pants in a "replace them with skirts" kind of way.  I hate them in a "I don't like to wear anything below my waist" kind of way.  Yes, I do wear something to keep a barrier between my birthday suit and the furniture, so don't go picturing me in totally inappropriate ways.  I find them to be constricting and hot and uncomfortable and just plain awful.  Plus, they add to my never ending pile of laundry, which shouldn't be a deterrent since the laundry never ends, but it is.  The absolute worst kind of pants is jeans.  I consider them a dressing up kind of pant since my normal choice is sweat.  I absolutely loathe dressing up and since jeans are fancy in my world, I hate them most of all.  My darling friend shared this picture with me, and it couldn't describe me better if it tried:

I Rearrange Stores
I like to put things in my cart during fleeting fits of fancy only to get to the other side of the store and come to my senses.  The problem is, with at least one child always in tow and an overwhelming case of exhaustion--possibly laziness--I will remove the once desired object from my cart and place it on any obliging shelf near me.  I know that I should feel totally guilty and terrible, but the fact is, I don't.  The wonderful people who work at these stores can do it for me.  I live a life of basically constant servitude, and it's truly relieving to have someone servitude for me once in a while.  I will say this as a bit of a rationalization:  I do NOT leave refrigerated/frozen items outside of a refrigerated/frozen area.  I may put the ice cream back in with the broccoli, but it will stay frozen.  The broccoli will also stay where it is.  I don't like frozen broccoli.  

I Hide Food
I find it very hypocritical of me to constantly spout the virtues and necessity of sharing to my offspring when I, myself, hate sharing.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I enjoy sharing with people outside of my family.  My family, especially my children, get first dibs at just about everything.  I may go into a store with the intention of buying a package of socks for myself, but I come out with new things for the kids instead.  When it comes down to it, their needs are much more important than mine, and it is with that mindset that I justify hiding food from them.  Yes, I am a selfish, selfish woman, but my selfishness only extends to Oreos, sour cream and onion Pringles, and Snickers. When they grow up, they will be free to squirrel away treats for themselves.  In the meantime, I'll keep pushing the frozen broccoli.  

I Idolize my Cat
It should come as no surprise how I feel about my cat.  I simply cannot get enough of her.  I talk to her like she's a human.  I cuddle her like she's a baby.  I compliment her incessantly, fully believing that her purrs are an indication of her mutual adoration of me.  Alice the Wondercat has seen me through the toughest of times, and without her, my whole world will crumble just a little bit.  This is, perhaps, not healthy, but when I look at her fuzzy little face so full of cuteness, I really don't see the benefit of trying to overcome my unhealthy obsession.  So help the person who tries to tell me she's "just a cat" and regale me with stories about how much they hate felines.  I assure them, the hatred is mutual, which only proves the superiority of the species.  Meow.  

There you have it.  I'm a complete nut case, trapped in a world of covert pants-less snacking where my company is my snarky British alter-ego and my kitty.  This is how I get from sunrise to sunset each and every day.  That and love, family, friends, blah, blah, blah.  Where did I hide my Oreos? 

How to Golf

I recently mastered the game of golf.  I have now played twice, and I have it all figured out.  For those of you who are still struggling, I will offer you some pointers to make your time on the course perfection.  I feel as though 35 holes is enough to give me some credibility.  That's right, I'm so good, I didn't even need to do the last hole.  

First of all, you need to golf in the winter.  Summer golfing is for people who are determined to be unhappy as well as overheated.  With the exception of everyone I am related to, they tend to be intense and insufferable, so it's best to spend your summer sunning by the pool rather than on the golf course.  

Second, you need a good golfing buddy.  The two times I have golfed, I have had my brother with me.  One time in a foursome and more recently, just the two of us.  Since I had fun both times, it's only logical to conclude that my brother is a good golfing buddy.  He might golf with you, but I can't make any promises.  For my purposes, however, he is essential.

Third, spring for the cart.  Golfing without a cart is like getting your teeth drilled without novocaine.  You have nothing to prove, you're the only one feeling the pain, and most people are unimpressed with your choice to be miserable.  The cart is going to be your saving grace.  Walking makes people grumpy.  Also, you have to carry all your stuff, which makes the whole experience basically pointless.  

Fourth, inject some fear into the whole experience.  This is highly underrated in the game of golf, but it's very helpful for both pace of play and attempts at accuracy.  On my most recent outing, I was in North Carolina, following all the tips I have given so far.  I got introduced to the Eastern Fox Squirrel, which is a terrifying, unsettling beast.  My brother repeatedly referred to it as a "zombie squirrel," which I'm pretty sure is much more accurate than its given name, considering it looked exactly like this...more or less:

With the threat of that looming over you, you're much more likely to hit the ball away from the trees.  Also, if you DO hit it in the trees, it's perfectly acceptable to just count the ball as a loss.

Fifth, have lots of balls.  Both to face your fears and to replace the ones you lose when your fears get the best of you.   

Sixth, and this might be the most important tip, don't.keep.score.  Just don't.  Keeping score is for the unhappy and overheated.  I have found that if I don't keep score, it doesn't matter if I hit the ball four or five yards at a time, which I do.  Constantly.  Not keeping score also allows you to do the following with absolutely no qualms:

• Pick up your ball and throw it (sometimes in the water but not on purpose)
• Decide a hole is just too hard and stay in the cart while your golfing buddy goes for it and you have a drink while watching from the comfort of the cart
• Putt with a driver and drive with a putter--apparently, there's a difference
• Refuse to accept your limitations and believe you're truly ready for the professional circuit, if only as a spectator

Finally, have power foods and beverages at your fingertips at all times.  I have found my magic combination to be a nice stout Stout paired with a Snickers and Cheetos.  This keeps you refreshed, calm, and happy which is the point of golf in the first place.  

Really, the sport is simple.  If you shift your paradigm ever so slightly, you'll find that you, too, can be an expert by your 35th hole.  

Up next:  I explain string theory.  

Bulletin Board of Shame

If my girls' school had a Bulletin Board of Shame, my picture would officially be at the top.  In fact, it would probably have a big red circle with a line through it, symbolically declaring that under no circumstances should I be entrusted with a child.  Well, maybe not quite that bad since schools are mandatory reporters, and CPS hasn't come knock-knock-knocking...yet.  

Okay, I'm probably exaggerating a bit, but boy do I feel like the worst mom on the face of the planet right now.  Let me back up a bit.  Once upon a time, I was the absolute greatest.  I just was.  If you e-mailed me (I told you, backing up a bit), I would reply right away.  If you left me a message, I would call.  If you gave me a task, I would complete it ahead of time and better than you anticipated.  I was the pillar of organization and responsibility, proven by my grade point averages and my Circle of Responsibility that reached around the globe...twice.  

Then, I had kids and quit my paying job.  At first, the changes in my personality were subtle enough that I didn't even notice them.  It wasn't until my kids started school that it started to hit me that I was no longer on the ball.  In fact, the ball was locked away in some gym teacher's office, and I had absolutely no access to it.  The eldest was easy enough, but when the middle one started kindergarten last year, that's when I completely fell apart.  The amount of paperwork that comes home from school is mind-boggling, and I couldn't keep it straight to save my life.  Schedules and e-mails and websites and circus performing...it was just too much.  

That's when I really started to actually lose my mind and earned my initial place on the Bulletin Board of Shame.  Right around Christmas program time last year, my anxiety had risen to such a feverish level that I had myself a full-blown panic attack at the school the evening of the oldest's program.  I was lying on the sidewalk, in the dark and rain, and it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't the greatest anymore.  I got through it by the hair on my chinny chin chin, which I had forgotten to pluck, and managed to get my wet butt inside, but not before doing some deep breathing exercises in the hallway where the principal got to witness my undoing.  I'm pretty sure I won't be first on the sub list when I go back to work.  

So, with the help of some meds, I got the anxiety to a more reasonable level, but unfortunately, there's no pill to keep my crap organized and keep me from becoming That Mom.  I really am her.  I miss deadlines, picture days, school barbeques, field trips, pick up, drop off, most Thursdays all together, and Waste Free Wednesday (another blog for another day).  

Today, I was feeling pretty good.  I made most of dinner this morning, and it was a good one, too.  In between rain storms, I decided to get to work getting my yard pretty.  I hate yard work, but I love my husband and knew he'd be so proud of me that he might even buy me some vodka so I could have a cocktail (failure in reasoning:  he needs to know about the yard work ahead of time in order to bring the vodka home, and if I don't tell him, he doesn't know about it).  I weeded, poop scooped, cut back the hostas, and then did something I haven't done since we moved here:  I mowed the lawn.  Back AND front.  Oh, boy, was I feeling pleased with myself.  

Little did I know that while I was outside being Super Wife, the school was calling me on my phone that I neglected to bring out with me.  The Bean was in the office with a fever and a sore throat.  I got the message an hour after they called me, which also happened to be 10 minutes before school was dismissing.  When I finally called, they informed me that she had napped the afternoon away and they had pulled Wendy from her classroom so she could be with Nina.  Oh, man, did I deflate quickly.  The school secretary's voice was dripping with disdain, and I can hardly say I blame her, even though Nina really is the cutest thing when she's sleeping and it should have been delightful for them to look in on her while they waited for her neglectful mother to come rescue her.  

Now, mind you, this is a very cautious school.  Like, super duper cautious.  I kid you not, last year, they sent Nina home with a very bad tummy ache, advising me to take her to the doctor because some parasite from Panama or something was going around school.  It took exactly one good fart for Nina to feel better, but by then, we were halfway home.  So, when they asked if I would like to come get her or if she and her sister should ride their bikes home, I said to let 'em ride.  I mean, I don't exactly trust the school's story on how bad my kids' condition actually is.  

Turns out, it was 102.8 degrees bad.  I not only let her rot away in the office all afternoon--or, you know, an hour--but I also made her ride her bike home.  This is why my picture has been moved to the top of the board.  I would just like to tell whomever is on the Mother of the Year nominating committee that I completely understand my omission from your list of candidates.  If you need me, I'll be glued to my phone, waiting for the next illness to strike.