If your thoughts had a voice...

I waited in line behind a multi-earringed, amply-tatooed, young dad at the grocery store yesterday. Yes, it sounds judgmental and, yes, I was being that way. He had his little boy with him, who I guessed was about three or four. As the checker was slower than my son doing the dishes, and I’m nosier than your next-door neighbor, I listened in on the conversation. It went something like:

Dad (in kind gentle voice) “No, put that back.”

(child grabs at the ball)

Dad (still using nice tone) “No, we can’t buy it.”

(child hikes himself up on counter)

Dad (carefully tugging him off the counter) “It’s time to go.”

(child reluctantly following Dad, asking one more time)

Dad (kindly, but firmly taking his son’s hand) “Remember, we have soda pop at home?”

(child tries to get away mumbling unintelligibly) “I want blah blah blah”

Dad (still patient) “We have soda pop at home, from your party yesterday, remember?”

I was so impressed. This man exhibited more patience to his child than most mothers I’ve seen, including me. They moved slowly enough that I could hear this entire exchange and I was thinking this dad deserved some kind of Good Example award. Then the child spoke once more, clearly and loudly: “Dumbass.”

Hmmmmm. You don’t always hear what you expect.

At work today, I overheard an employee talking about the horse psychic she had seen and talked to. She was very happy about the news that the horse she wanted, wanted her too.

Horse psychics. Once again, I heard something I did not expect.

Hmmmmm. Since horses and donkeys (asses) are members of the same family, and both are technically “dumb,” I’m thinking that this horse psychic could have a whole new clientele if she hung out in grocery stores and listened in on people’s conversations like I do.

Of course, she would probably already know what they were thinking. Another upside is that people are more interested in their futures than horses are anyway, so there would be a bigger demand. Not to mention they might actually pay.

Trivia:

According to Wikipedia, “The wild ancestor of the donkey is the African Wild Ass.”

According to me, I may have just sighted the “Albertson Dumb Ass.”

YOYOs...a brief history

When my husband is in charge of dinner (which he does willingly) he often asks, “What should we have for dinner?” If I knew that, then half the battle would be over. When I can’t provide any suggestions, he declares a YOYO night for dinner—translated as You’re On Your Own.

We—meaning everyone but him—yoyo with PB&J sandwiches or ramen. After we finish, he wanders into the kitchen and grills a steak for himself. Hmmm.

While we shopped together recently, as I loaded up on hamburger, he saw London broil steak on sale and piled a couple of megapacks into our cart.

When we got home, I asked him if I should separate them into separate packages—he said “Yes.” I knew it. I presented the seven packs of steak to my daughter and said, “Here are the steaks for Dad to eat when he makes us yoyo.”

Yoyos originated as a weapon for hunters—a rock on a string didn’t have to be retrieved (you didn’t have to climb down from the tree to retrieve your rock/weapon if you missed the rabbit, you just pulled the string up and chucked it at the next unsuspecting bunny).

My husband has modified the yoyo for his own hunting pleasures. Steak.

Evidence that the world DOES revolve around me

I have long suspected that I am the center of the universe—at least in my slightly skewed sense of reality.

Today I found some proof:

FACT: When I left for work today…

• The 12-year old was on the computer
• The 15-year old was at a friend’s house
• The 18-year old was lying on the couch watching TV
• The 21-year old was working on his car

When I came home from work today…

• The 12-year old was on the computer
• The 15-year old was at a friend’s house
• The 18-year old was in my recliner watching TV
• The 21-year old was working on his car

Apparently, time stood still while I was gone.

You may be alert enough to discern that the 18-year old was not in the EXACT place as when I left, but you should note: the almost imperceptible shift was within three feet of the original location and the gravitation was to MY chair, thus proving my point that it is all about me.

Need more proof?

FACT: When I left for work today…

• I had just started a load of laundry

When I came home from work today…

• My husband was finishing a load of laundry

Coincidence? I think not.

Authorpalooza!

Tuesday, August 11

7:00 – 10:00 p.m.

Barnes & Noble Authorpalooza
University Crossings Plaza
330 East 1300 South
Orem, UT
Meet over 30 local authors, including:

*Laura Bingham
*Jillayne Clements
*James Dashner
*Terri Ferran
*Jessica Day George
*Mette Ivie Harrison
*Michael O'Reilly
*J. Scott Savage
*Emily Wing Smith
**and more!**

Can You Hear Me Now?

There are certain dangers associated with cell phones,

On the way to Florida a few months ago, my teenage daughter went to use the airplane facilities, and as she hit the flush button, she realized that clunk she’d heard a few seconds earlier wasn’t the passing of the crayons she’d eaten in first grade, but was actually her cell phone. It had fallen from her back pocket into the toilet and had been sucked into the bright blue world of chemical sanitation with the touch of a finger.

I had a near miss myself, the other night. In my sprint to the throne room (literal translation—potty emergency), I didn’t recall that my phone was in my back pocket until I heard the thud as it hit the ground. Better a thud than a splash, I say. Being a mature adult (literal translation—I forget things really quickly) by the time I finished, I forgot the phone had fallen and walked away.

The next day, when I went to get my phone from the charger, the cord was there but the phone was MIA. I couldn’t even call it to find it, because having spent 5 ½ hours on it the day before with a client, it was dead—the phone, not the client.

Fortunately for me, I drink a gallon of water a day (plus a wee bit of Diet Coke) so I am a Frequent Flyer on the Porcelain Express. Lo and behold, behind the toilet, next to a hair ball the size of Rhode Island, lay the phone, oblivious to the unsanitary conditions in which it dwelt.

Sometimes you’re better off dead—if you’re a cell phone in a back pocket.

Terri, Terri, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

I wanted a garden this year. Not just a few tomato plants fighting the morning glory at the side of the house where all the snakes vacation—but a real garden.

My husband complied. Armed with scrap wood, his trusty drill and a 14-year old son with ADHD, he built a bevy of beautiful garden boxes. If three can be considered a bevy. The box-buildin’ is a totally different story, however.

I go out to check my seedlings on a semi-regular basis. We have some of the usual problems—like the soak-hoses splitting, causing a flood, and washing away half of the dirt and many, many sproutless seeds. Oh, and forgetting to water it for several days at a time—luckily June was a rainy month this year.

But lo and behold! Things are growing! The tomatoes are doing great and so are the other crops-to-be such as peppers (three kinds—which I hate) and the cantaloupe and the watermelon. Only one of the cucumber plants survived, sniff.

I eagerly watched the sprouts—the cauliflower is pathetic with only two plants from the whole package of seeds. But the broccoli! I AM A BROCCOLI-GROWING WONDER! I watched the blossoms and eagerly anticipated the fresh fruit—I mean vegetables. Whatever—I’m excited!

It has been a few days since I checked on my precious leafy stalks. Was I ever surprised by what I found. LOOK AT THE BOUNTEOUS BROCCOLI! It’s a proliferous cruciferous, indeed.



Now look at broccoli stripped of its lush leaves:





Yep. I figured out the broccoli were really radishes. I took a taste of one. Like a middle-aged hag weeding in July and discovering her beloved broccoli were radishes—they were hot, tough, and bitter.

I’ve been wondering where the radishes were planted. What other surprises will I reap, since I can't remember or recognize what I've sown...

WHAT THE...?

My three-year old granddaughter has a new catchphrase. She learned it from her mother, who refrains from swearing (most of the time). When something surprises her, shocks her, or she just can’t figure it out, she exclaims loudly, “WHAT THE…?”

Her two-year old friend is a little more daring. When he heard the aforementioned “WHAT THE…?” he restated it in a more complete form, “WHAT THE HECK?”

They thought it was so funny they practically blew their macaroni and cheese out through their little noses.

Which you may think is not possible.

I assure you it is.

When my youngest daughter was about one year old, she was happily stuffing her little face with spaghetti. She loved the stuff and made a huge mess.

The next morning as the whole family was sitting around the breakfast table, breakfasting, she lets out a mighty sneeze. We looked to make sure she’s okay and there was a spaghetti noodle hanging out of her nostril. We were not eating spaghetti for breakfast.

“WHAT THE…?”

If spaghetti can travel mouth to nasal cavity to nostril, so can macaroni—they’re from the same family of pasta products.

Which brings me to the picture at the top of this blog: My son invented the perfect nose-guard for wayward pasta (and he doesn’t even know it). Turn those extra surgical gloves into a practical use and conversation-starting fashion accessory. Don’t have any extra surgical gloves lying around? Don’t worry, the dentist has a whole box of them. At least mine did.

Yes, I know…we have to watch him at all times. My son, not the dentist.