Meme

I am flattered to have been tagged with a meme from LACochran, who writes a very smart, funny blog. I'm not terribly good at these, but I'll give it a shot. LA's answers are much better...

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Pride - What is your biggest contribution to the world? It's the thought that counts, and I've tried many great things. World peace, eco-friendly living, philanthropy. You're welcome!

Envy - What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours? The ability to not give a rat's ass about anyone but myself! Off with their heads! (This answer really deserves its own therapy session.)

Gluttony - What did you eat last night? I gave in to the irresistable lure of one last down-and-dirty night of Harris Teeter's "Super Coupon" sale. Mommy like!

Lust - What really lights your fire? When my husband cleans the whole house while I'm at the spa (at least I'm pretty sure that would inspire lust. I'm totally willing to give it a try, Tiger!)

Anger - What is the last thing that really pissed you off? When my blog tool totally gooned up my carriage returns. (I'm sorry; I've been informed that blog machinations are completely uninteresting, but in a dearth of witticism, I've turned to the truth)

Greed - Name something you hoard and keep from others: The good ice cream/cake/candy that I hide from my children. They're cute, but they're like insidious food Dementors, trying to horn in on my stash!

Sloth - What’s the laziest thing you ever did? Well, I should be cleaning my house right now, but that's not happening, is it...?

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Right Place, Right Time

My husband, SJ, has been robbed several times. He recounted another incident to me last night while watching an episode of Gene Simmons' Family Jewels (I know, I swore off reality TV, but there was NOTHING on!)

Turns out that SJ totally could have thought up the idea for KISS. I was commenting on a room in Simmons' palatial mansion featuring KISS memorabilia, SJ muttered, "Right place, right time."

Surprised to hear this, I countered that it was pretty impressive that the immigrant son of a divorced holocaust survivor started a completely original rock phenomenon, but SJ remained unmoved. Apparently if he were in the same situation, SJ would have thought of it himself. Grown men dressed in full face makeup parading onstage in a macabre spectacle set to heavy metal? COMPLETELY OBVIOUS!

This contemptuous, embittered sliver of my husband's personality is fascinating to me. In general, SJ is a total mensch - kind, gentle, unpretentious. It's this last trait that is apparently double-edged. Since he has taken the high road, it really bugs him when others exploit things that are generally available. He could have been a groundbreaking, blood-drinking rock superstar, for example, but he didn't.

SJ finds the Wiggles to be irritating for the same reason.

You may know the Wiggles as a colorful, kid-friendly fixture of preschool culture. SJ thinks of them as no-talent ass clowns in bright t-shirts who are undeservedly the highest-grossing entertainment act in Australia.

SJ kicks himself everytime he sees or hears the Wiggles. "These guys are raking it in? Are you kidding me???"

We don't listen to the Wiggles in our house.

Occasionally, SJ's contempt extends to seemingly innocent civilians. An acquaintance's husband is known for his "sensitive, new-age guy" persona. Steve sees it as an act that he himself left behind in college.

When I mention something charming that Robert did (or "F'ing Robert," as SJ calls him), SJ immediately starts rolling his eyes. When Robert -- an artist by trade -- skillfully decorates a dinner table, hangs tapestries for a wedding, or brings us a tray of tea, SJ calls him out as a poseur. "That's so transparent - the senstive guy! Let me guess, was it chamomile tea (it was)??? Give me a break!"

The worst culprit of all is John Mayer. To SJ, Mayer is a complete sell-out, slapping on a fake persona just to get money/fans/laid.

"Your body is a wonderland, fathers love your daughters, high school sucks. Blah, blah, blah!"

Clearly, SJ could have done the same thing, but he didn't. Or maybe he's secretly mad because he did do the same thing, and it didn't work quite as well, thus leading to his "right place, right time" theory. Maybe little SJ was also dressing up as a goth rocker in 1977, but Chaim Witz (Gene Simmons) got all the glory. How else to explain it, but arbitrary fate?

At least, in my heavily biased opinion, SJ got the girl. Now where is that chamomile tea?

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Reality Bites

I blame network television. Or summer. Or the fact that we're too cheap to get HBO.

It all started in May, when our favorite television shows went off the air. We were bored.

We tried watching reruns. We tried exercising and doing housework. We even tried talking to each other. Nothing seemed to hold our attention and keep us occupied.

There was something else - something we really hadn't gotten into in the past. We knew a lot of other people did it, and we were curious. We were consenting adults, and it wasn't illegal, so we said "what the heck" and decided to experiment for ourselves.

We started watching Reality TV.

It started out pretty tame. I started recording Jon & Kate Plus Eight right as Season Five premiered. This was apparently my "gateway show," which soon led to Cake Boss, The Little Couple, Kathy Griffin, Real Housewives of New Jersey, and -- this is really bad; prepare to lose respect for me -- I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.

Most of these shows are terrible, yet they offer enough of a payoff to keep us watching. I'm willing to watch countless minutes of boring sextuplet antics to get the latest on Jon and Kate. Teresa's crazy table flipping on Housewives is destined to become a classic, and Kathy Griffin is always good for a few laughs. My sides hurt this week when Kathy made her mother and housekeeper campaign for Grammy votes. Here's a partial clip (here, little girl, would you like some candy???)

Still, most of reality TV is a wasteland.

I've heard that something becomes an addiction when it has a negative effect on other parts of your life. If that includes skipping couple time and losing sleep because I was heartsick about Jon and Kate's marriage, then color me addicted; somebody page Dr. Drew.

My husband is guilty in all of this; we are reality TV co-dependent. I gaze at him across the darkened room, disgusted by his weakness, though it truly just a reflection of my own sick habit.

For the record, SJ is the one who got us into I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, which he claims is ridiculous but fundamentally high concept.

"Seriously," he said. "Someone realized the absurdity of having people watch worthless celebrities who think they are famous, but really people are mocking them. It's brilliant!"

Right. You just wasted fifteen minutes of your life watching Stephen Baldwin eat a bug and you're calling it art.

The final straw came this week when SJ amusedly commented to me that "you know, when Serena was groggy waking up from her nap today, she looked just like Janice Dickinson."

The moment my husband compared our precious, innocent preschooler to a 54-year old leathery, drugged out fame whore, I knew we had hit rock bottom.

Time for a Netflix subscription.

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The Hacka

At least once a year, our front bushes need pruning. Naturally, this is best done by my superhero alter ego, The Hacka.

The Hacka was born ten years ago in McLean, when we bought our first house. The bushes in our front yard were excessively overgrown due to years of neglect. I donned gloves, a sweatsuit, and electric hedge clippers, and I felt the change come over me. I was no longer the good girl in a mock turtleneck and mini skirt; I was a kick butt, saw-wielding force of nature.

I was The Hacka.

Bushes quiver in the Hacka's presence. Weeds shrink back. Flowers swoon. The Hacka never hesitates; she just keeps on cutting.

The Hacka is super strong, super effective, and has one major super power: not getting electricuted. This is obvious since she has now cut through at least five extension cords. Although this is quite dangerous for an average person, the Hacka has never suffered more than a tripped breaker and few disconcerting jolts of electricity.

No one is sure how this happens, since the Hacka is in most ways a paragon of intelligence and caution. I blame the surge of adrenalin. The Hacka doesn't obey your mundane social conventions. She slices through overgrown branches, leaving (ha!) an exilarating mix of devastation and beauty in her wake. It's not surprising that this passion leads to slight miscalculations from time to time. You don't blame the Hulk for ripping his shirt, do you?

The Hacka will not be stopped, though she did pause momentarily after cutting through another cord earlier today. She briefly mulled whether it was a bad idea to prune while no one was home to call 911; undeterred, she resolved to be slightly more careful and went on with her mission.

The Hacka has her haters. Her husband chastises her for dangerously cutting through the cords, and points out that it would be cheaper to pay a landscaping service than to keep buying more extension cords.

But then, he never prunes the bushes himself, so methinks somebody likes being married to a superhero.

And perhaps that somebody should invest in some gas-powered clippers.

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It's Hard When It Doesn't Come Easy

I recently learned that someone we know miscarried her first child.

I don't know her that well, so I'll just send a card with a caring sentence or two. If I knew her better, I would say more.

Dealing with miscarriage is very personal; it's something most people go through but not many people talk about. Nevertheless, I'll share my unwritten letter here, in case someone might find it helpful.
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Dear ____,

I was very sorry to learn that you lost your baby. I know how much this hurts, since we also lost our first child. Even now, years later and with three wonderfully healthy children, the memory of that time brings back a poignant sadness.

Losing any pregnancy is terrible, but miscarriage before you have other children seems particularly cruel and difficult. In an instant you plummet from the incredible hopefulness of new parenthood to grief and anxiety - you mourn for the real child you lost and the imagined future you had planned, and you worry about what this may mean for other pregnancies.

The bad news is that you've lost some of your innocence. The nursery rhyme progression -- love, then marriage, then baby -- doesn't happen automatically for some people. Like many of us, you're going to have to work a little harder to get there. Now you know what can happen, and you'll always have an extra layer of worry on top of what's expected when you're expecting.

Parenthood isn't for sissies. You probably knew that in your head before, but now you've felt it with your body...and your heart. Parents need to be strong to get through the bumps and bruises, joys and pains of raising a child. Unfortunately you've had to build up some of your Mommy calluses earlier than expected.

The good news is that if and when you become pregnant again (and the odds are very, VERY good that this will happen) you will never take your kids for granted. My miscarriage made me more patient and more grateful when my infants arrived. Colic, sleepless nights, and dirty diapers seem like nothing when you put it in the greater context that you now understand. "Bring it on, Baldy! This is nothing!"

I received a card after my miscarriage from an older woman who had lost two pregnancies and raised five children. "God has something wonderful in store for you," she wrote. I was surprised and skeptical that she wrote that at such a painful time, but now, looking back, I can understand her thinking.

Miscarriage sucks and you'll need time to heal, but you're going to have a wonderful family. You'll never understand why this happened, and you'll never compeletely get over it, but you will get through it. It'll be part of what will make you a great mom.


I guarantee it.

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Tri-Curious No More!

(ok, not as funny as Stephen Colbert's "Dubai-curious," but that didn't stop me from saying it thirty times this weekend.)

Me after the bike ride

I am now a triathlete. I completed my first one at Sunday's Reston Sprint Triathlon.

I signed up against my better judgment due to peer pressure from my sister, Kaye, her husband, Kelvin, and my friend, Nicholai. "Sure, what the hell?" I thought, despite loathing running, rarely biking, and sucking at swimming.

Fear was my motivation, and I was a faithful trainer. Sunday morning, I was rested and ready when the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m.

My waking first thought was "gee, our air conditioner really sounds like rain!" Then I pulled back our bedroom shade to see raindrops on the window glass and a pitch black sky sliced open by a bolt of lightning.

Great.

My brother-in-law, Kelvin, was pissed. More than that, he was hurt. As a loyal devotee of the weather channel, he couldn't believe that the weather gods had let him down. Kaye said he kept shaking his head and muttering in disbelief: "They said a zero percent chance of precipitation! Zero percent!"

The race was still theoretically on, so Kelvin and Kaye picked me up at 5:30. We arrived at the Reston race site at 6:00 to get our numbers, put on our racing chips, and lay out our gear. This is no small effort, since triathlons are largely an effort in sports crap management. You must lay out the necessary equipment to change from swimming to biking, and then biking to running, and you must do it strategically to reduce your transition time.

Not that we were too worried about our times. It was our first race, so we were mainly concerned with finishing within the allotted two hour limit. We proudly dubbed ourselves "Team Bringing Up the Rear," though we secretly harbored hopes of finishing not quite last.

Unfortunately, the race is in a pool, so our slow self-declared swim times meant an assigned start time of 8:04 a.m. This might sound early to a normal person, but remember that we had be be there at 6:00 a.m., the race started at 7:00 a.m., and we were standing around in our swimsuits. IN THE RAIN.

Luckily my years at the pool during various stages of pregnancy and its aftermath have beaten most of the self-consciousness out of me, because there is nothing more daunting than shivering in a swimsuit surrounded by competitive triathletes. You can see their Terminator-style visual assessment: "Puffy. Shockingly pale; must train indoors. Not a threat. Moving on."

In the end, all went well. The swim was harder than expected, since I practiced in a pool half that size, and was thus accustomed to pushing off the side twice as often, but the bike and run were much more enjoyable than I thought they'd be. Kaye and I stuck together throughout the race, and came in at a respectable 1:46. It would have been two minutes less if I hadn't gotten my sports bra stuck over my wet head after the swim. Lessons learned...

The best part was the end, when we were greeted by friends, family, and doughnuts, brought by my loving husband. My children were thrilled by the doughnut fest, and the fact that Mommy ran by at one point was a nice touch.

The worst part was my choice of running, rather than biking shorts, which gave me palm-sized, bright red chafing marks on both inner thighs that will be very noticeable and very hard to explain at the lake this weekend.

In all, it was fun, and I think I'll do it again next year.

From now on, there is no more try the Tri, there is only do. (Still working on that, but I have another year to perfect it...) Read the rest of the story...

This Magic Moment

The moment we dreamed about finally arrived last night.

Yesterday was our ninth wedding anniversary. The days of fancy presents and romantic getaways are over (especially since Suze Orman was on Oprah yesterday - economic depression is so depressing! At least Suze's Miamified outfits are cheery and her blindingly white teeth provide an invigorating retinal shock...), but I decided to make a special celebratory dinner.

I picked up ingredients and flowers at a small boutique I found -- Le Costco, and had appetizers laid out when SJ arrived home with the kids. The kids ate dinner and then headed upstairs to be entertained by the electronic babysitter (the TV) while we ate our grownup meal.

That's when the magic happened: my husband and I sat and talked and ate for a whole half hour without interruption. The food was delicious, the birds were literally singing through the open window, and we got to act like grownups in our own home!

I don't want to rush to judgement, but I wonder if maybe we're getting into the parenting sweet spot that we've heard so much about: a time between Pampers and pimples when offspring are occasionally self-sufficient children with whom we can peacefully coexist.

It was truly the best anniversary dinner we've ever had. It was better than before we had kids, since we really do like our children and enjoy their company, and better than the early kid years when someone was always jumping up to console a crying baby, change a diaper, or settle a fight.

Now to figure out how to bottle this feeling. I was secretly relieved when poopy pants and arguments came up at bedtime. That glimpse of bliss was delightful, but I like them little; getting there is half the fun.

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A Hooha By Any Other Name...

Some years ago, my two sisters and I formed a singing group. It was nothing fancy, and we never practiced or performed in public. In fact, it was mostly just a name we called ourselves when making fun of singers on the radio.

Our singing group started with the most important element: picking our name. We decided to call ourselves the Heimeldinger Sisters With Good Voices (HSWGV). This was partially inspired by our last name, which wasn't actually Heimeldinger, but something unique and German-sounding enough that SJ's uncle once asked me to "say hi to the Heimeldingers for us!" so we'll work with that.

We were also inspired by the nineties singing group, SWV (Sisters With Voices.) We added the "Good" since we wanted to distinguish ourselves from them, brand ourselves as superior (if they were good, they would have said so), and avoid any legal entanglements.

Time went on, and Melissa moved to Los Angeles, so HSWGV evolved; we went from mostly to entirely non-existant. Kaye and I started an offshoot group in Northern Virginia - the Angry Hoohas. I won't get into the precise etymology of that name; suffice it to say that it had something to do with a urinary tract infection. Get the full story on our forthcoming VH1 Behind the Music special.

The Hoohas haven't really taken off either. It's hard to make traction when you only play together once a year or so, but the potential is there.

Meanwhile I'm focusing on my solo career. My guitar skills have improved, so I've taken my show on the road. So far my gigs have consisted of my kids' preschool and Sunday School classes, plus one ill-advised open mike night where I sang a Sinead O'Connor cover to four unimpressed barflies.

Still, I persist with my craft -- one of the thousands of project managers who pursue their tepid dreams of a singing career once in a while.

This week I put my finger on a serious flaw in my dream of stardom: I had gotten ahead of myself by practicing and performing before picking my stage name.

It's a daunting decision. Should I go authentic? What about just using my first name, like Cher or Beyonce? Should I go for something mainstream and Anglo, like when Chaim Witz became Gene Simmons, or should I pick a more exotic name, like when Arnold Dorsey became Engelbert Humperdinck?

I got my answer when I heard a DJ announce a song by Lady Gaga. As I pondered this name, which is entirely ridiculous, I began to appreciate its beauty.

Stefani Germanotta took the stage name of Lady Gaga when she was a teenager. This chutzpa this reveals is stunning - she demands to be called by a fake name that connotes nobility, street cred, confidence, and makes whoever says her name sound like a total idiot. That takes stones. It's also a critical ingredient in transforming a homely girl into a campy pop star. I love it.

The universe had spoken, and I knew what I had to do. Professionally, I will henceforth be known as Lady Hooha.

If this solo thing blows up (like, if I ever make the elementary school class circuit, which is way more competitive than preschool!), the Angry Hoohas might be billed as "The Angry Hoohas, Featuring Lady Hooha," or "Lady Hoohas and the Other Hooha," or something even more self-promotional; I'll have to Wiki search Diana Ross and see how she did it.

Then again, maybe I should dial it back, I don't want this to have a Dreamgirls kind of ending, though I would love to see SJ sing a power ballad in front of a room-sized, seventies-style picture of me, and see me sister sing a plus-sized, spunky, acoustic version of "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going," but I digress.

I've picked my name. I'll let fate take it from here.

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Mother of the Year

I'm not one to brag, but I have to share some great news with you.

I've been awarded a very prestigious award. Here's the link.

Happy Mother's Day to all, and thanks for the nomination, Jen!!!! :)

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My Bad

I cannot stand it when drivers give each other the finger. It's totally rude, and it strikes me as particularly mean-spirited. Like, I'm sorry that I accidentally cut you off, but "f^#& me?" Really?

Part of my objection is tactical, since the finger isn't the best weapon when you're really angry. I've found that nothing further infuriates an aggressive driver like giving them the peace sign, which is my standard "finger" alternative.

Thus, it is uncharacteristic of me that I repeatedly, angrily flipped someone off today. (In my defense, it has been 19 months since my last documented case of road rage and I was alone in my car...this time.)

I was waiting at a light behind a Porsche Boxter, waiting to turn onto Pacific Drive after shopping at the Dulles Wegman's. There were only two cars in queue -- the Boxter and me -- so there should have been plenty of time to make the light. Unfortunately Mr. Boxter took his sweet time turning the corner and seemed to drive at a snail's pace purposely to ensure that I wouldn't have time to turn.

I cannot defend what happened next.

Focused on making the light, my reptilian brain seemed to take over. I distantly heard someone -- apparently me -- yelling at Mr. Boxter: "Turn! Come on, turn! YOU are a [beep]! YOU are a [beep]!)

My finger took on a life of its own, punctuating each "YOU" with a raised Tall Man finger pointed at the driver. I probably would have given him the two-hand special, but my other hand was busy honking and driving.

As I said, I really don't condone giving the finger to other drivers, and by the time we were stopped side-by-side at the next light, I remembered why. It wasn't mature, it wasn't the action of a positive, loving person, and I was now deprived of my righteous anger; with my actions I had needlessly abdicated the moral high ground. After all, although I had acted inappropriately, I was still pretty sure the guy was a d-bag.

As we waited for the light to change, he looked over at me and shook his head. I shook mine back at him with a shrug that said, "Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?"

It was a long light, and my remorse grew stronger. I knew that I needed to make amends. I rolled down my passenger window, then honked and hollered to get his attention, but he deliberately ignored me. Why wouldn't he, since he had the upper hand? I was now crazy, rude, shouting minivan lady, and he was merely a cautious driver who wouldn't stoop to my level.

Undeterred, I shouted my apology through his closed window: "In retrospect, I shouldn't have flipped you off, and I AM SORRY!"

To him, shouting a probably undecipherable apology through a glass barrier may not have helped, but I felt a little better. I'd also like to put it in writing, so here is an open apology to the middle aged guy in a gray Porsche Boxter this morning in Ashburn:

Sorry about that. My bad.



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I Love My Children, I Love My Children...

This morning I decided that it would be fun to hide my car keys amongst the toys on my train table.

Oh, wait. THAT WASN'T ME.

I looked for my keys for over an HOUR this morning. I looked for them, retraced my steps from last night, thought where I might have dropped them, and looked some more.

I went through the laundry and the garbage. I called my husband at work and my son at kindergarten (he told me to look in the key drawer. Thanks, son.)

I had to find my keys because I had errands to run, a meeting to attend (which I missed,) and I was hoping to spend some quality time (or its modern equivalent; QT is so eighties) with the younger kids, who were waiting for me in the car.

Finally, near tears and at my wit's end, I called SJ for the fourth time and asked him to leave work to bring me his key (we don't have an extra set since it's one of those keys with a chip in it and I already lost the valet key.)

He gallantly agreed, and even pushed back a meeting with his boss.

As I hung up the phone, I walked into the living room, a room I hadn't visited in the last two days. There, on the corner of the train table, peeking out from under some toys, were my keys.

Son of a *$^%@.

So, rather than curse the little bastard scamp that sticky fingered my keys, I hugged my keys close and muttered over and over: I love my children, I love my children, I love my children.

And off we went.

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Pardon My French

Like most families, we frequently discuss our solar system over dinner. It was Earth Day and my son, Colin, was asking about the color of various planets. Earth is blue and Saturn and Mars are red. With utter innocence, Colin then inquired, "what color is Uranus, Daddy?" After SJ and I managed to not spit out our food, we did our best to answer him with a straight face.

Learning a language is a tricky thing. I don't remember the inadvertent double entendres and mistakes I made when I learned English, but I know that I made plenty of erreurs when learning French.

French is a complicated language. It's rather straightforward grammatically, but the French use five misleading letters to spell each sound; there's only one syllable in "peaux," for example, and though it rhymes with "slow," they use almost every letter except "o" to do the job.

Learning French can be a thankless and solitary endeavor. French people love their language, and they don't care to hear it spoken by amateurs. Even after I earned a college degree in French, French people with even a rudimentary knowledge of English answered in my mother tongue.

Adding to the challenge are the faux amis, or "false friends," words that look misleadingly like the words you are looking for but mean something else entirely.

For example, my first post-college job was at a French-speaking office. I wasn't feeling well one day and announced to my colleagues that I was sick and going to see the company nurse. At least that was my intention. In actual fact I chose the wrong word for "nurse" (infirmiere) and told everyone I was going to see the wet nurse (nourrice.). Although breastfeeding might have been comforting in my situation, it wasn't what I meant to say and they didn't have a wet nurse on staff anyway. Happily for my co-workers, although I was mortified, they were in stitches for the rest of the day.

It happens to the best of us. My high-school French teacher complained to a Frenchman about preservatives in American cereal. The Frenchman grinned and told her "Oh, Madame, you Americans are so practical!" before explaining that the word preservatif means "condom" in French.

Learning French is even more difficult when you are an idiot, like my high school boyfriend. OK, maybe he just didn't pay attention in French class, but I don't think so. As an exchange student he tried to tell his family that he was a bit hungry, saying "Je suis un petit faim." Sadly, in bad French with a bad accent he had announced that he was a small woman.

Boyfriend also tried make suggestions and then ask "Sounds good?" He did this by saying "Ecoute bien?" which actually a command meaning "listen up!" This was confusing both in the fact that he was admonishing his befuddled host family at the end of every proposal, and that he was doing it with a question mark. "Let's go on a hike. Listen...up?"

For me, Francophilia has been a torrid but mostly one-sided love affair. I was a willing participant; what could be more seductive to a young girl than the promise of Paris, berets, and baguettes?

France and I had our moments of passion: my summer as a Parisian waitress, French being my only marketable skill when I graduated, and dropping the odd arcane and pretentious French reference (J'accuse!) from time to time. I also met my husband while working on AOL France 3.0.

Still, despite years of effort I know that French will never quite belong to me. I've literally given it the college try, and am content with being pretty good rather than parfait.

At least, to my knowledge, I've never accidentally inquired about anyone's anus. Read the rest of the story...

Top Ten True Reasons I'm Wearing a Skirt Today

1. I am willing spring to come.
2. I am from Michigan. We are hardy folk. Once you've walked to class during two-minute frostbite warnings (as in, any skin exposed for longer than two minutes may very well turn black and fall off,) sixty degree weather feels like July.
3. My jeans are in the laundry.
4. I really need a third pair of jeans.
5. My spring pants are just a little too snug after all those chocolate bunnies.
6. All my cross-legged floor meetings were canceled for today.
7. Ditto my briar patch walking tour.
   
8. All those miniskirts in the eighties may have killed off the nerve endings in the lower half of my body.
   
9. I don't care if you do go blind from the cornea-searing whiteness of my legs.
10. These stems aren't going to get any tanner in trousers. Don't worry; I'll go from stunningly pale to a nice ecru color by mid-summer. Until then, just avert your eyes and no one will get hurt.
    

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Jesus Saves

I hope you don't find this post sacrilegious. It really isn't supposed to be. Still, if you didn't laugh in Talladega Nights when Cal said "I like to picture Jesus in a tuxedo T-Shirt because it says I want to be formal, but I'm here to party," you'd best skip this one. Personally, I like to picture Jesus with a healthy sense of humor...

* * *

We had a lovely time this Friday night. It was my sister Kaye's pre-wedding sisters weekend. My other sister, Melisssa, flew in from LA and we had girls-only fun and frivolity -- shopping, movies, and dancing, ending in yesterday's bridal shower.

Dancing was definitely a high point. We decided to go to a gay bar, where we expected to enjoy good music, nice decor, and handsome men - from a distance. We just wanted to be left alone to dance.

Turns out that Jesus had the same idea. In this case, Jesus was an adorable 21-year-old who also just wanted to dance and not be hassled by aggressive men. After we realized that he was harmless, friendly, and a kick-ass dancer (which we are not, but we appreciate in others), we widened our circle, and he was our friend for the night.

Not the least in Jesus' positive traits was his name. Although his is a very common name in the Spanish-speaking world, three white girls from Michigan couldn't help but enjoy the heck out of it, especially when you can use it in sentences like "Jesus was an awesome dancer!" and "Who knew that we'd find Jesus in a bar?" and "No one bothered us while we were dancing; I think maybe Jesus was watching over us."

Good times.

It's not the first time that Jesus has provided comedy in my life. Here are just a few examples that come to mind:

• My long-haired cousin does a mean Jesus impression.
• My mother has a portrait in her kitchen that we refer to as "Tasty Jesus" just to get her goat.
  
• My high school boyfriend's father looked just like Jesus, except with intense blue eyes (like movie Nazis always have), though that was more creepy than funny, especially when he was mad. It was like he and God were both pissed at you...
• My son's babysitter had a realistic painting of Jesus' face sitting on her nightstand, and I asked if that was her husband. I knew better, but the look on her face was pretty priceless.

My favorite example happened several years ago when my aunt sent my mother a blank quilt square and some fabric pens. Auntie asked my family to decorate the quilt for her husband, Uncle Don, whose sixtieth birthday was looming. Mom set us down at the table and set us to the task.

My sisters took the lead, drawing pictures and writing "Happy Birthday! It's a big one!" in big, bright letters across the top.

Once we were done, my mother called Auntie and let her know that we had completed our task and were ready to pop it in the mail. After she hung up, she came back in with a perplexed look on our face.

Turns out that the "birthday" quilt square we had just decorated was Uncle Don's Christmas present. We took in this new info, silently trying to figure out how we could salvage our only quilt square.

"I know!" Kaye announced, picking up the pen. With one word, she solved our dilemma. The square now reads "Happy Birthday Jesus! It's a big one!"

I bet Uncle Don scratched his head about that quilt square, pondering why Jesus's 2003rd birthday was a "big one," but the Christmas theme was preserved, and the gift was a hit.

Once again, Jesus saved. Read the rest of the story...

Paging Dr. Carter (2009)

For those of us not in the operating room, the day of my mother's mastectomy was excruciatingly long. After several hours, and long after the expected completion time, the lead surgeon came into the room.

Everyone immediately stopped in his tracks. My siblings and I stared at the doctor, frozen, holding our breath. My father stood up, hands in his pockets, and asked how the surgery went.

The doctor frowned and shook his head. He paused before speaking. "Not bad at all," he said slowly. "Not bad at all. No surprises."

::phew::

We all exhaled. We felt a simultaneous wave of relief and an almost irresistible desire to punch the doctor across his gloomy face.

The doctor continued to share details of the surgery. The tumor was small, he said, and he was unable to feel the tumor even after he removed it. As he spoke, he made hand motions like he was passing a canteloupe-sized lump of dough from one hand to the other. It was as if, like Seinfeld's Poppy, he was "a -gonna make-a us a pizza."

To him, the motions helped him explain the situation. To us, it was a creepy image of tossing around our dear. suffering mother's cast-off body parts.

It's not everyone who can inspire terror, relief, anger, and yuck in a five-minute speech.

You hear stories like this all the time, in real life and on TV: sometimes the way a doctor tells you something is as important as the news itself.

In my eighth month of pregnancy I was diagnosed with polyhydramnios, meaning that baby Colin was swimming in an ocean of amniotic fluid and I was swollen like the Hindenberg. This could have been for a dozen reasons, but the OB we saw emphasized the risk of genetic abnormality. "We may not be able to detect what's wrong with prenatal testing or at birth, but it may be linked to something that'll happen when he's fifty." How's that for a looming, nebulous threat?

Other doctors later confirmed what we suspected -- that this OB was a stupid, mean-spirited bitch (pardon my French, but don't mess with my kid), but we were devastated and remained terrified for the last month of my pregnancy. Colin was born perfectly healthy, though come to think of it, this may explain some of our problems in potty training - the kid makes a LOT of fluid!

A little laughter goes a long way. My mother's general surgeon's may be an Eeyore, but her plastic surgeon is all Tigger. Last week she had her space expanders filled to 100%, whicapparently is somewhat uncomfortable. When she asked the doctor whether he was almost finished he said, "Let me put it this way. If you were in a wet t-shirt contest right now, on this side you'd win but on the other side you'd only come in third."

Given, I'm not sure I want my doctors talking about wet t-shirt contests, but if you think about my 62-year old, prim, recently mastectomied mother in one, you get comedy. She thought so too, and the rest of the fill-up went by quickly.

A doctor's bedside manner is an indicator of a good bedside manner. Humor indicates confidence and respect; putting a joke out into the world is on some level a sign that you care about connecting with someone. It also takes time, which is comforting when medical staff and medical terminology are whizzing around you at light speed.

Of course, getting healthy is the main thing. I'd prioritize medical skill over humor and compassion; if my life depended on good medical care I'd pick 1994 Dr. Benton over 1994 Dr. Carter. Carter was earnest and caring, but the capability wasn't there. My point is I don't think we should have to choose. Talk to me like I'm an adult, take time to explain things to me, tell me the truth but don't scare the crap out of me, and feel free to crack a joke or two.

Sick people have it hard enough already.

Read the rest of the story...