Say What?!

         The trip hasn’t even begun, yet we’re already onto Plan B.

         Although we were not scheduled to leave for our Spring Break trip until tomorrow (Saturday), United determined at 10:17pm last night, that there would be a mechanical failure with the aircraft on that partiular morning, so they cancelled the flight. Yes, predicting the problem, those amazing United visionaries preempted an airport riot by simply cancelling all passengers two days before departure. We were not rebooked, but that lovely ‘courtesy’ call that woke me from my blissful slumber suggested I call to reschedule as soon as possible. So kind. So customer friendly. So bankrupt.

         First of all, how the heck those airline experts knew of an impending failure, is a mystery to me. Apparently, the clairvoyant geniuses are in the wrong line of work. Obviously, they’re not very successful with running an airline, and have everyone, including their pilots, pissed off, but I imagine they could make quite a bit of pocket change and probably more than a few people joyous, by reading palms in downtown Key West! Move on from your failure, my friends….life is full of opportunity!

         Anyhow, knowing that half the town is planning a mass exodus Saturday morning, and were probably cancelled as well, I roused myself from sleep and dialed the United number. My projected wait time, I was told, was18 minutes…. Terrific. After pushing buttons and screaming responses into the speaker, someone with a really thick Eastern Indian accent came on and forced me to repeat the numbers I’d just entered, and explain my large problem. I could hardly understand him….and he could hardly understand me either.

         “How can they cancel a flight for mechanical problems two days before it’s scheduled to fly?” I ask. “The plane is not even here. What kind of mechanical issues? What’s the real reason?”

         “I’m sorry? Can you please repeat? Wrinkle issue? Matriarchal shoes? Oh, mechanical issue. Let me see…perhaps, Miss, it is for weather reasons. Most likely for some weather, Miss. I’m sorry. Likely for some weather.”

         “Did he just say latchkey foursomes with leather?” I thought. What the hell does that mean? Tykes’ fearsome leader? Oh…for some weather….”

         “They know what the weather will be like in two days?” I ask smartly. “Am I talking to United or Mother Nature? God? Have I finally met you? I have a little problem with some of your decisions and creations lately. Can we talk? We can start with that irritating dingbat Sarah Palin….and that big mouth Ann Coulter…” (Okay, so I was a little punchy…)

         There was no comment. I thought he had hung up.

         “Are you still there? Hello? Sir! Hello!”

         “Miss, I notice you are traveling to Mexico.” he says suddenly, obviously relieved I have stopped talking. “That is an international flight, Miss. I will have to transfer you to our international desk, and they can try to assist you, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss.”

         “But aren’t you in India.? Aren’t you international?” I burst out.

         “Yes, Miss, I am in India, but the United Airlines international desk is located in city of Chicago, Miss. I can only help with domestic flights. Sorry. Thank you for flying United Airlines and please stay on the line.”

         “Peas, steaks and hemlines??” What the hell was he talking about? Was I having a bad dream? Why is the international desk in the US, but the US desk is in India? I made a mental note to check the ingredients in that Sleepytime Tea…..

         After 53 minutes of really bizarre and aggravating conversation, where I was told that we couldn’t travel until Monday or Tuesday, I managed to get the four of us confirmed on flights leaving a mere 24 hours later - Sunday. Of course we don’t have seat assignments…because there are no seats left…..because they are way oversold now….but it might not surprise some to learn that I can be pretty convincing (forceful) when necessary. If my Hungarian ancestors were resourceful and shrewd enough to survive both the Germans and Russians, I can certainly secure a flight out of town.

         If not, there’s always Plan B…or is it C now?

         Ann Limbaugh…I mean Coulter, seems rather comfortable in offering travel solutions lately, so maybe I’ll give her a jingle. Magic Carpet? (I wish) Camel? (Don’t they slobber?) No, she’ll probably tell me to just be quiet and get in a windowless cattle car with the other deportees......

        You know, maybe the guy from Delhi couldn’t annunciate, but at least he was polite….and said things like ‘Sorels are bliss and appease!”…I mean, “Sorry and Miss and Please…” That wild-tongued she-devil, though….she can’t communicate. Perhaps it’s the liberal Canadian in me, but I just don’t understand her at all.

“There’s a storm blowin’ up, a whopper.”

         As we sat in the theatre during the local children’s production of The Wizard Of Oz, I was suddenly struck with the play’s parallels to my life. The cyclone scene was incredible, with a hologram-like cyclone swirling at the back of the stage, while gusts of wind blew into the audience and people and little dogs were propelled from side to side. It was my life lately: The cyclone. The gusts. People flailing around. Maybe Dorothy was going through some sort of uncontrollable hormonal surge when, back on the farm, she was disrespectful and ungrateful to her friends and family. Slightly arrogant, self-involved and frankly quite cheeky, she reminded me of my precious little 13 year old angel....who has lately been arrogant, self-involved and quite cheeky. And having spent much of my day involved in damage control and teaching and re-teaching respect, boundaries and expectations, I couldn’t help but look upon Dorothy with a little righteous parental authority. “Geez, kid” I thought, “Just keep your bloody dog out of the mean lady’s garden and you’ll be fine. In fact, just keep away from mean people altogether! And by the way, your dog bit the witch….on her property. That does spell lawsuit to me, which could have been avoided if you’d have kept the teething Toto under control. Forget the basket, you insolent, hormone-marinated farm girl, and get a leash…and then plant a new garden for the meany-head.” I was obviously not in the moment, but rather processing my incredibly unpredictable and stressful day. Children’s theatre is my new therapy.

         Anyhow, at the moment the tornado-thingy was spinning on stage, Dorothy was vacillating between sweet and stubborn, and the house was falling into unknown territory, I couldn’t help myself from looking over towards my daughter, nodding and giving her the “Notice the similarities?” kind of mom-look. She scoffed, and returned the gesture with the “You’re an idiot” look, (which I’ve started seeing as endearing), dramatically crossed her arms and embarrassed, slumped in her seat. Great theatre.

         In any case, it seems that Dorothy had to go through a heck of a lot of complicated, nonsensical, disturbing, and bizarre situations before she came to her senses, and realized how fortunate she really was back home. I wonder, did the slaying of witches represent conquering the nastiness within her self? Were the flying monkeys suggestive of rampant and wild hormones? Did the ruby slippers symbolize her transition from child to woman? Is water the answer to melting the out-of-control and dreadful mood swings? If so, drink, my child! Drink! Swim! Immerse yourself!

         I’m sure that someday she’ll realize that there’s no place like home….and that Mom and Dad were mostly right….but come to think of it, I believe I was about 30 before that revelation hit me…..

         Oh boy. Let the adventure begin. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Sugar Coating

         Apparently, the first lady is targeting the wrong group regarding childhood obesity.

         My seventh grader told me today that the principle of the school went into their classroom to talk about the dreaded PAWS testing (Proficiency Assessments for Wyoming Students). She told them how important it was for them to do really well….so that the school would place first in the district. She told them to try not to get sick so that they could be at school for the entire 2 weeks of testing, and that they should get plenty of rest, eat well and be brilliant. She then gave them candy….and told them that she hoped the goodies would inspire them to care.  Ha!

         I understand the need for her to place additional pressure on the kids. After all, with the “No Teacher Left Caring”….I mean “No Child Left Behind” policy dictating the way in which the underpaid teachers teach, and the powerless school is run, she needs to bully, blackmail or bribe students so that her school will win the cash prize….to be used for rentals of vending machines that sell sugary drinks and Twinkies, or extra police that monitor and reprimand kids for innocently holding hands (no touching for more than 3 seconds allowed at our militaristic school) or for wearing bandanas (guess they’re trying to eliminate any sort of 70’s resurgence).

         In any case, the use of candy is rampant in our small town school. And although not all teachers participate in the assault, many give out sweets as rewards for homework well done, as bribes for being quiet in class, or as incentives for test taking. What the heck happened to those good ol’ gold stars?

         My daughter achieved the highest mark in her grade on a math test and as a reward she was told that she could go to the office and pick out two ‘prizes’. She came home with a bag of Skittles and a can of 7-Up….because she doesn’t like Tootsie Rolls or Mountain Dew…. What? Dyed sugar balls and carbonated corn syrup are prizes for getting a good math grade? Isn’t the grade good enough? Why not give the kid a movie pass? A pencil? A carrot….? Do they not know that my child will become nutty and unfocused due to the strange chemical reaction from sugar in her blood? What will they do when, in history class, she becomes hyperactive and unruly and disrupts the entire group? Will they then send her back to the office to get reprimanded for being adrenalized? And why does she need a reward anyway? Isn’t the satisfaction of doing well, enough? Do we really want to teach our children that doing something good is only worthy if there is a bonus waiting at the other end?

         And since my child doesn’t have a problem with obesity (she’s a twig) or diabetes (her blood and pancreas will be thankful she’s off to high school next year), an argument using the current alarming statistics don’t really suit my case. I did however voice my concern, and was told that no child is forced to take candy, and that my daughter doesn’t have to accept the dangling sugar stick if she doesn’t want it. But of course she does want it! It’s her reward…and she’s 13….and the dopamine-producing-addictive substance is put right under her nose! I just recently read a study that gave rats the choice between sugar and cocaine, and guess what? The other white drug, sugar, wins out every single time. Apparently, sugar is the drug of choice amongst rats…..and Americans…and those pushers in my kids’ school.

         Mrs. Obama, perhaps you should work on educating our educators so that they can reinforce your efforts in your righteous fight for a healthier society. Call me crazy, but when junk food, sugar drinks and lack of education are to blame for the problem, and yet our educational facilities are supplying and promoting these things, someone is not thinking straight.  It's laughable, which is why it's posted here.

         Maybe the teachers have their hands in that sugary cookie jar. 

Dis(sing) Order

         “But Mom, why does it matter if I have a perfectly tidy room?”

         “Because it…..well it just….it just does. And make your bed too!“ I said lamely, not knowing the real answer to the question, nor how to justify my request.

         “Isn’t it more important for me to go outside and enjoy nature? Or play my guitar? Or hike up the mountain and ski down? There’s so much I want to do!”

         “Just do what I ask and then you can do all those thing you want to do afterwards.”

         “But Mom! It’ll take forever and who really cares anyway? I like my room this way. And hangers are stupid when you can just throw your pants over the rod or on the bed. That works just as well. I always have pants on, Mom. I always find my pants, Mom!!!”

         He was right, and I left questioning my unyielding need for his tidiness. Truly, did it really matter? Nature, music and exercise were definitely better choices than fiddling with hangers and arranging papers on a desk.

         When I was a kid I remember my mother continuously badgering me about tidying up my room. The entire area was basically a disaster, with clothes in nonsensical heaps in corners….or the middle of the room, shoes mismatched and just thrown willy-nilly into the closet, and my desk littered with papers, books, special trinkets, chocolate bar wrappers, and money from babysitting jobs. I didn’t see the need for hangers either, always found my pants too…..even if they were stirrup pants of the 80’s.... and frankly always looked respectable (even in the stirrup pants of the 80’s).  And make my bed? What the heck for? I was just going to get into it again that night. I never did understand when my mom would say things like “Make your bed! How can you get into an unmade bed?” Huh?

         So what happened to make me so fastidious now? I suppose it had something to do with either harmless rebellion (who? me?), or carelessness due to the fact that the house and room were not actually mine. I didn’t feel a respect for that room, nor obviously my clothing, and perhaps had I been less fortunate, I would have appreciated my circumstance and things would have been different. How can a twelve, fifteen or even seventeen year old be thankful for their own room, new clothing and a decent bed, when they’ve never known what it’s like to be without? And even though my parents taught me to be kind and compassionate to those less fortunate, I really had no idea. I had a painted white wood canopy bed, for god’s sake, with a white eyelet covering and dust ruffle to match. My room had a view of the beautiful lake we lived on, sole access to a tiny yet charming porch on the roof, and although my closet was small, it was deep, and filled with two tiers of lovely clothing. I was treated like a princess, and don’t remember wanting for anything….(except for maybe for my brother to be sent to boarding school….or Kenny to ask me on a roller skating date).  Hell, the worst situation I remember being in is when we found little bugs in our hotel room….in Switzerland…during a fabulous 3 week European adventure….

         So, was it my mother’s relentless hounding that finally brainwashed me into being tidy, or was it just a maturity-respect-appreciation-gratitude thing that took me years to comprehend? Maybe both….or maybe as we get older, and the responsibility, chaos and our awareness of atrocities increase, we search for places in which we can be host to the control.

         Heck, when I was a kid, I thought chaos was only a theory related to the unpredictable nature of a system due to its initial variable…..but now I know what chaos really means. It means my kids arguing at the same time that the home phone and cell phone are ringing, the dog is eating the brownies off the counter, I’m out of toilet paper, and my husband is shouting down the stairs that he can’t find his car keys. And the word chaos doesn’t even describe it accurately…as now I use words like entropy and pandemonium…and phrases like all hell’s broken loose….to describe not only my family life, but the ridiculous world in which we live. Seriously, when the headlines in the papers are dominated by pathetic and irrelevant accounts of extramarital affairs and American Idol recaps, at the same level as disastrous earthquakes and health care issues, you have to wonder if we’re a schizophrenic society or just basically beyond all hope. And new today, at the top of the list, is the correlation between ED and heart attacks. Do we really need to know that studies indicate that those with erectile dysfunction are more prone to cardiovascular disease than those who have no problem raising the flag? It’s no doubt! And now that the news is stressing out those listless men even further, maybe the studies will actually be proven, as the media runs (ruins) our lives once again. Don’t those guys have enough to think about without more negative and stressful thoughts surrounding their unit? Sheesh. Give them some slack…..well…they already have that….they need affirmations!

         But hey - I’m tidy.  It is truly one of the only ways that I can direct some semblance of sanity in an otherwise insane and muddled world.

         But my son -well, he is at the age when responsibility is limited to remembering to take a shower, wear socks, and do his homework. He has the lovely ability to enjoy the day and not worry about paying the car insurance, lobbying for the environment and better education, or buying groceries. And although he thinks about his surroundings and how to make the world a better place, his ideas are fleeting and more of the ‘hey wouldn’t it be cool if’ type of ideas. Like his recent:

         “Hey mom, wouldn’t it be cool if there were attachments for amputees like lacrosse sticks and stuff, so that a kid could still play lacrosse by using his arm as a stick??!” Hey – that’s actually pretty thoughtful for a 12 year old.

         In any case, I suppose he knows that mom and dad are on top of it, so that he can concentrate on kid stuff. He doesn’t have a need for less chaos, because there frankly isn’t very much in his simple and charmed life. And regardless of whether his room appears to be evidence of the entropy theory or not, he still finds his pants…..locating them being one of his only responsibilities. Lucky him.

         So, I guess I’ll back off a bit. I expect that at some point, his sense of respect for spaces and clothing, and his appreciation for his circumstances will come….because I will continue to encourage him to come from a place of gratitude and not expectation.  OR….he’ll be 40, still living at home, still tinkering with that bloody lacrosse stick, still searching for his pants.….and end up on some sad cable show about lunatic hoarders!

         Pray for me.

It's Not Black and White

         I had my ‘colors’ done. What the hell was I thinking this time? 

        When the idea was first presented to me, you must know that I scoffed at the prospect, telling my promoting friend that the idea of someone advising me of what colors to wear was absurd. I mocked her, and told her not to waste her money, but she was convinced, and through her justification of her own actions I was gradually lured towards that pretty orange dangling carrot.

         In my own defense, I had just had ACL surgery and was not thinking clearly when I set up the appointment and left a non-refundable deposit. Hydrocodone makes everything sound great, and what else was I supposed to do with my ski pass reimbursement anyway? Besides, as the cult recruiter (I mean, my very convincing friend) relayed, “The lady who does this doesn’t just tell you about your colors….she helps you find your ‘essence’….your authentic self.”

         “Well hot dawg!” I thought. Someone to finally tell me who the hell I’m supposed to be. I wondered if she could find me a career, bring back the romance in my relationship and cure my addiction to chocolate too! She sounded fantastic, and who the heck doesn’t want to spend 2 hours of their lives talking about themselves? A few selfish moments in the frantic and self-sacrificing world of a housewife, sounded like a divine indulgent opportunity….so I called for an appointment and handed over my credit card number as well as, apparently, my common sense.

         By the time the day of my appointment arrived, I was waffling between fear and regret. What the hell had I done? Why did I need someone to tell me what to wear? “I’m in my 40’s for god sake, I think I must know how to dress!” I told myself. “I haven’t had any friends pull me aside (of late) and tell me I looked ridiculous….and my husband still sometimes tells me I look nice (but then again, he wears Wranglers….) And what if she tells me I shouldn’t wear some of my favorite colors….and that I’m supposed to wear purple or something hideous like large paisley patterns….and that I’m doing it all wrong? What if I find out I’m not who I think I am???”

        And that’s exactly what happened.

        Without even giving me the occasion to open my mouth, the hue-hag had judged me as a person who fit the profile of a ‘Summer Tapestry’ (yuck), and then proceeded to determine my colors based primarily on this assessment. In her opinion, a person who is a ‘Summer’ is “thoughtful in nature with a keen sense of refinement…..emanates the graciousness and diffuseness of the twilight…..lives in a state of grace….has a brilliant sense of subtlety….is appropriate….is a lady’.” Huh? Lives in a state of grace? Is subtle?  Is appropriate?! She was off her rocker.

         For the next 1 hour and 45 minutes, I sat on an unusually uncomfortable chair, holding tiny fabric swatches of ugly colors up to my face as she unsuccessfully tried to convince me that shades like dusty rose and dark burgundy were my colors. When I confronted her with the straightforward nature of an ‘Autumn’, she acquiesced ever so slightly, and admitted that I wasn’t a true Summer, but rather presented as a Summer that leaned heavily towards the ‘lioness’ essence of an Autumn. Damn right. "Give me my favorite fall colors you Winter witch" I thought as I glared at her while sporting my best ‘intensely independent and strong willed’ autumn smile.

         I admit there were a few compliant moments where I actually enjoyed the process, smiling and nodding delightfully, (especially when the beautiful browns and coppers were being added to my palette), but then I snapped back to my cynical reality, hyper aware of my mode manipulator, and realized I was dyeing – I mean dying. I was uncomfortable, overwhelmed, confused and drained from the relentless attempts of color indoctrination and pigment persuasion, and I knew I needed out before I was completely brainwashed…..but not before I made one more attempt to get her to hand me that deep crimson red I so aptly deserved.

         I pointed to the red box of swatches in the corner, and told her she was looking in the wrong box for my ‘passion’ color, but she turned a (color)blind eye to me, and pulled out a drab and depressing maroon instead. It looked like a god-awful piece of carpet from my dentist’s office. Next, I was handed a piece of what appeared to be a chunk of muddy teal Astroturf and told that deep teal was my power color. That’s when I knew I’d been totally ripped off. Teal as a power color? Who the hell looks powerful in teal? I know I certainly don’t feel powerful in teal, and in fact it kind of makes me a little nauseous. Teal? For real? Was the lighting off in that place? I scrunched my face to show disgust as I held that dirty scrap to my cheek, and then proceeded to consider the colorful string of adjectives I would be using during the impending phone call to the snake oil salesman – ahem – my friend. I made a note to myself to immediately discard all remaining narcotics when I got home.

         I had always wondered what it would be like to taste that purple (my damn support color) Kool-Aid…..

         It's bitter.