The Santa Reveal & End of an Imaginary Era

April 29, 2013 By

I’ve always believed it’s important to instill magic in my kids’ childhood and my husband and I have played along with the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Santa et. al. We’ve been careful to never put too much credence into them but my kids’ overactive imaginations have taken care of that.

End of an era: moments after finding out.

For Christmas, we’ve kept the Santa presents to a minimum and he only brings them a couple of their requested gifts and stuffs their stockings. Mostly because I want the credit to go to me, not some plump dude sporting fur.

Months ago, my 8-year-old daughter started building a leprechaun trap and I had forgotten about it until I heard her setting it up the night before St. Patrick’s Day. My first thought: Crap, now I have to do something so made up a few mischievous leprechaun tricks.

Last year, my daughter’s second-grade teacher introduced Elf on the Shelf (likely to ensure they behaved) and the children were delighted when, each day, their elf dreamed up a new caper.

Last month, we were at the airport on Easter waiting for our flight home from Utah when my daughter, while eating her stash of candy she’d collected earlier that day, asked,

“Mom, are you the Easter Bunny?”

“What do you think?”
“I think you are. No, wait, I think he’s real. Oh, I don’t know.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. OK, yes I want to know.”
My husband had previously agreed we wanted to tell her everything this summer so the timing was perfect.
“Mommy and Daddy are the Easter Bunny.”

Disappointment, then relief flooded her face. She grabbed another handful of candy as she contemplated this new revelation. After a minute, she handed me a Reese’s chocolate egg (sharing is something she never does) and asked:

“What about Santa?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, no, maybe not.”

Learning the truth about Santa was exponentially tougher because there’s a lot more build-up and excitement surrounding him. Ultimately, she confessed,

“Yes, I want to know.”
“It’s Mommy and Daddy.”

There was a flash of sadness but then an appreciative look as she reflected back upon all the gifts we’ve bought her that have been attributed to Kris Kringle.

She grabbed another stash of candy, shoved it in my hand and queried.

“So, the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns. Not real, either?”

By now, my mouth was busting with her bribery chocolate and I merely nodded.

Once she had digested the new information, she got a twinkle in her eye and started calling me out.

“So, when the Tooth Fairy came when we were evacuated for Hurricane Earl, that was you?”
“Yep, and it was really tough one because we didn’t have any cash and had to borrow from Grandma and Grandpa.”

“And when I leave out those cookies and milk for Santa?”
“Daddy devoured them.”

“What about all those pistachios Elphina ate?” (Elphina was her Elf on the Shelf and one morning, my daughter found her bent over in a drunken-like stupor surrounded by shells).
“Daddy and I ate them.”

“But what about when we found her in the kitchen with all those sugar cookie crumbs? WERE YOU AND DADDY RESPONSIBLE FOR EATING THEM ALL?”
“Yep.”

Apparently, our imaginary friends have an eating problem we’ll need to come up with another scapegoat.

Filed Under: Hadley, Humor

Because it’s never too early to start corrupting the young

April 26, 2013 By

Hadley’s class is beginning a farming unit at school and they will be going on a three-day field trip to a farm in a couple of weeks. To help prepare, her teacher asked Jamie to come into her class to teach them about soil and giant pumpkin growing.

An entire hour to talk about pumpkins to eager young minds? He was IN.

I wasn’t planning to go but at the last minute, he told me he needed help transporting visual aids, one of which is Hadley’s plant that is already growing like gangbusters in its pot.

I took it out to the car, carefully placed it by my feet and buckled up.

Him: “Pick it up.”
Me: “Fine.” I put it on my lap.
Him: You’re not holding it correctly.” I change my pose, holding it closer.
Him: “It’s moving around. You can’t hold it like that.”
Me: “What is wrong with the way I’m holding it?!”
Him: “Holding the plant upside down is not considered the best way to do it.”
(In my defense, it was slightly tilted but stable.)
Me: “We’re in a moving car and I’m clutching it to my CHEST. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT?”
Him: “More.”

I didn’t know what I’d signed up for when I volunteered to be his assistant.

When we were walking to class, the criticisms continued until he finally took the plant. I don’t know how he did it but his entire upper body didn’t move as he walked.

Hadley was thrilled to have him and his hands-on presentation was well-received. He was the Pumpkin Man Incarnate. He dazzled them with stories, awed them with pictures of The Great Pumpkin and never has a talk on soil been so moving. Some of the kids couldn’t get enough–one boy even took a full page of notes and kept drilling him with questions. Others will be losing sleep about their parent’s crappy soil.

“I’m going to plant a pumpkin in our yard and not tell my mom,” said one little girl.

Another one wailed, “How do I know if I have enough nitrogen in my soil?”

“I send my soil to get tested but I’m sure your parents won’t want to do that,” Jamie replied.

“Can we give it to you so you can send it off?”

At the end of the day, The Pumpkin Man gave each kid their very own Dill’s Atlantic Giant Pumpkin Seed.

Judging from their reaction, it was better than the Magic Bean from Jack and the Beanstalk.

Filed Under: Humor, Jamie, pumpkins

Battling Out the Glory Days

April 23, 2013 By

Bode recently started soccer for the spring. He has been with the same group of boys for a few years so it’s always a joyous reunion when a new season rolls around. He is a solid player and usually scores every game because he’s really good at ball handling and dribbling.

What he is not good at? The Big Kick (as Jamie calls it). We found that out the hard way when his coach held him back as the Sweeper, whose primary job is to belt the ball upfield. Little dude would try to just dribble the ball past his attackers and it often backfired on him.

Thank goodness they’ll start to play on a bigger field with real positions soon. That kid has “forward” written all over him.

We recently went out for Chinese food and were trying to explain to Bode all the different positions in soccer with (what else?) sugar packets.

The problem with this is whenever we try to talk strategy, Jamie and I disagree on our old glory deals. Jamie boasts what a scoring machine he was and I always assert my soccer career was much more glorious than his (competitive, much?) with my near-foray onto Alberta’s provincial team before my busted ankle. Blah, blah, blah.

As we were battling it out in front of Bode, I told him, “I was center-mid. They called me “The Rover” because I was just so good I followed the ball wherever it went.”

Jamie interjected, “It is also called ‘being out of position.’”

 

 

Filed Under: Bode, Humor, Jamie

The funniest obituary ever

April 22, 2013 By

“Funny” and “obituary” don’t usually go together but it does in this case. Whenever I’m in Utah, I read the Deseret Morning News obits (they’re famous for their touching tributes) but other than that, they’re not on my must-read list. However, if you haven’t read the obituary for Harry Stamps that was written by his daughter Amanda Lewis, you must (it went viral last momth).

Harry Weathersby Stamps

December 19, 1932 — March 9, 2013

Long Beach

Harry Weathersby Stamps, ladies’ man, foodie, natty dresser, and accomplished traveler, died on Saturday, March 9, 2013.

Harry was locally sourcing his food years before chefs in California starting using cilantro and arugula (both of which he hated). For his signature bacon and tomato sandwich, he procured 100% all white Bunny Bread from Georgia, Blue Plate mayonnaise from New Orleans, Sauer’s black pepper from Virginia, home grown tomatoes from outside Oxford, and Tennessee’s Benton bacon from his bacon-of-the-month subscription. As a point of pride, he purported to remember every meal he had eaten in his 80 years of life.

The women in his life were numerous. He particularly fancied smart women. He loved his mom Wilma Hartzog (deceased), who with the help of her sisters and cousins in New Hebron reared Harry after his father Walter’s death when Harry was 12. He worshipped his older sister Lynn Stamps Garner (deceased), a character in her own right, and her daughter Lynda Lightsey of Hattiesburg. He married his main squeeze Ann Moore, a home economics teacher, almost 50 years ago, with whom they had two girls Amanda Lewis of Dallas, and Alison of Starkville. He taught them to fish, to select a quality hammer, to love nature, and to just be thankful. He took great pride in stocking their tool boxes. One of his regrets was not seeing his girl, Hillary Clinton, elected President.

He had a life-long love affair with deviled eggs, Lane cakes, boiled peanuts, Vienna [Vi-e-na] sausages on saltines, his homemade canned fig preserves, pork chops, turnip greens, and buttermilk served in martini glasses garnished with cornbread.

He excelled at growing camellias, rebuilding houses after hurricanes, rocking, eradicating mole crickets from his front yard, composting pine needles, living within his means, outsmarting squirrels, never losing a game of competitive sickness, and reading any history book he could get his hands on. He loved to use his oversized “old man” remote control, which thankfully survived Hurricane Katrina, to flip between watching The Barefoot Contessa and anything on The History Channel. He took extreme pride in his two grandchildren Harper Lewis (8) and William Stamps Lewis (6) of Dallas for whom he would crow like a rooster on their phone calls. As a former government and sociology professor for Gulf Coast Community College, Harry was thoroughly interested in politics and religion and enjoyed watching politicians act like preachers and preachers act like politicians. He was fond of saying a phrase he coined “I am not running for political office or trying to get married” when he was “speaking the truth.” He also took pride in his service during the Korean conflict, serving the rank of corporal–just like Napolean, as he would say.

Harry took fashion cues from no one. His signature every day look was all his: a plain pocketed T-shirt designed by the fashion house Fruit of the Loom, his black-label elastic waist shorts worn above the navel and sold exclusively at the Sam’s on Highway 49, and a pair of old school Wallabees (who can even remember where he got those?) that were always paired with a grass-stained MSU baseball cap.

Harry traveled extensively. He only stayed in the finest quality AAA-rated campgrounds, his favorite being Indian Creek outside Cherokee, North Carolina. He always spent the extra money to upgrade to a creek view for his tent. Many years later he purchased a used pop-up camper for his family to travel in style, which spoiled his daughters for life.

He despised phonies, his 1969 Volvo (which he also loved), know-it-all Yankees, Southerners who used the words “veranda” and “porte cochere” to put on airs, eating grape leaves, Law and Order (all franchises), cats, and Martha Stewart. In reverse order. He particularly hated Day Light Saving Time, which he referred to as The Devil’s Time. It is not lost on his family that he died the very day that he would have had to spring his clock forward. This can only be viewed as his final protest.

Because of his irrational fear that his family would throw him a golf-themed funeral despite his hatred for the sport, his family will hold a private, family only service free of any type of “theme.” Visitation will be held at Bradford-O’Keefe Funeral Home, 15th Street, Gulfport on Monday, March 11, 2013 from 6-8 p.m.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you make a donation to Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College (Jeff Davis Campus) for their library. Harry retired as Dean there and was very proud of his friends and the faculty. He taught thousands and thousands of Mississippians during his life. The family would also like to thank the Gulfport Railroad Center dialysis staff who took great care of him and his caretaker Jameka Stribling.

Finally, the family asks that in honor of Harry that you write your Congressman and ask for the repeal of Day Light Saving Time. Harry wanted everyone to get back on the Lord’s Time.

Filed Under: Humor

The best spring cleaning tip you’ll ever get

April 19, 2013 By

On Monday, we celebrated nine years in this house. And though we do a pretty good  job of day-to-day-upkeep, our abode is in dire need of a deep cleanse–from the walls to the baseboards to the curtains.

As I looked with distaste at some areas that needed a good scrub-down, I thought a deep spring cleaning was in order.

But then I opted to buy my first ever Glade Plug-in.

The place smells like new.

 

Filed Under: Humor

On Being Extreme Gamers

April 18, 2013 By

Bode has always loved to play games. We’re currently on hiatus from board and card games (but I’m sure they’ll resume when we have more time in the summer). He loves mazes these days and I bought him a book with hundreds of mazes and word games.

The other day, he came in to play hangman with me. I found myself holding my breath every time he asked me to play and I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling little pangs of anxiety.

Then it dawned on me: playing hangman with a kid who can’t spell. It’s the extreme version of gaming.

Filed Under: Bode, Humor

Let’s NOT Go Fly A Kite

April 16, 2013 By

I have frequently documented my dislike for all-things kites, particularly when it comes to flying the blasted things. Which, I hear, is kind of the point. Though I wouldn’t know because I’ve never gotten one airborne.

And yet every year when the Arvada Kite Festival rolls around I think, “Oh, let’s go see the kites! It’s a perfect spring activity!” Call it early-onset dementia.

We had a 2.5-hour window between Bode’s soccer game and a baptism so we high-tailed it over. We should have kept on driving because we drove around for ages trying to find a parking spot. Hey, Arvada Festivals Commission–let’s maybe rethink holding an event in a neighborhood with zero parking.

Knowing it’s a huge problem, they tried to shuttle people in from the community swimming pool a mile away but hey, Arvada Festivals Commission–when you say the shuttles are going to run every 10 minutes, make sure we don’t wait there for a half-hour before finally deciding to just walk out of sheer frustration. Oh, and it might help if your poor volunteer’s Walkie Talkies work.

We were ticked off by the time we got to the park almost an hour later but our spirits were elevated when we saw all the kites! We collapsed, exhausted, and watched them battle it out with the clouds. When the wind was calm, people lounged on the grass but the moment the wind picked up, it was sheer magic as all the kites fought for air space.

We grabbed some of our favorite treats from Granny’s…

Granny’s

…sat in front of the loudspeaker and when Billie Jean and Footloose came on, darnit if that Bode didn’t start break dancing for the crowd.

We should have left while the gettin’ was good.

The Arvada Kite Festival has grown over years and there was a petting zoo, vendors, food trucks, bouncy castles, hamster balls and much more. Bode wanted to go jump but then we passed the Booth of Doom: they were selling kites for $4.

“Mommy, can we pulllllease buy a kite?” Hadley begged.

Since it was a kite festival, after all, I said “yes,” forgetting that my relationship with those flying temptresses is much better at a distance.

Hadley ripped the packaging open and within moments, a gust of wind swept it away, dive-bombing a guy from a neighboring booth.

After apologizing profusely, we made our way out to the field but Hadley couldn’t get it to fly. We sought the guidance of a spectator who informed us our kite was missing the crossbar on the back. So, I headed back over to the Booth of Death, informed the nice sales guy, he tossed our kite behind him and gave us another one. Swell, right? Mere moments later, Hadley saw the wooden crossbar she had likely dropped from Kite No. 1.

“Oh no, we found it.”
“Don’t worry about it. I already trashed the other kite.” And he tossed it in the garbage.

So we took our  new kite out for another try. Almost immediately, a gust of wind swept it up, up, up, up and then down, down, down. It crashed in a marvelous belly flop, completely obliterating the back of the cheap kite. And guess what was busted? The crossbar.

Back to the Booth of Death we trudged. The man bristled when he saw me.

“Sir, do you remember that wooden crossbar we found from the kite you threw away?”
“Yes.”
“May we have that back?”

Without speaking another word, he handed it to me. I didn’t make eye contacted for fear of the daggers.

Hadley and Bode kept trying and failing. Hadley kept yelling at me I wasn’t tossing it upwards the right way, I was complaining right back to her that she wasn’t letting out the line quick enough and Bode kept getting tangled up in it all.

Our unflyable kite

You know all those nice images of how peaceful and soul-filling kite-flying is? LIES, ALL LIES.

As we were about ready to wrap things up, our line got ensnared with someone else’s and I. Was. Done. As the nice man tried to untangle it, I said, “Just cut ours off.” He protested, obviously not seeing the veins that were bulging out of my head or that we were going to be late for the baptism and still had to combat the transportation nightmares back to our car. “No, seriously,” I told him. “We need to leave so just cut our line.” He reluctantly did so and we were free!

As we dejectedly trudged back to the car, I taught the children a new word: “boycott.” And that, my friends, is exactly what we’re going to do the next time the Arvada Kite Festival rolls around.

Unless I have early-onset dementia again.

Filed Under: Bode, Colorado, Hadley, Humor

Part II of Soeur Catastrophe: An International Terror is Born

April 10, 2013 By

Please read Soeur Catastrophe Part I for all the details on how we got to Paris.

=======

The rest of the ride to Paris was spent in fear. We had no money, no connections and 29 pieces of luggage between us (OK, maybe only 25). Another mission rule is that companions must never separate (for safety) but I decided under the circumstances, this one would have to be broken. There was no way we could both go for help while dragging our sundry of suitcases all over Paris.

We arrived at the Gare de Lyon and disembarked. In typical “Murphy’s Law” fashion, we were at the opposite end of the platform in a very large train station. We proceeded to slowly drag our suitcases to the main terminal, upon which time I told Soeur Tate I was going to find someone who could help me make a collect call to my mission president.

Note for all the youngins: Before the age of cell phones, you had to pay for calls made on public phones. If you did not have a long-distance calling card or coins, you could call the operator to make a “collect call,” the operator would call the number for you and ask the person if they would receive and pay for the call.

Soeur Tate nodded nervously when I said I was leaving her and I told her not to talk to anyone. No problems there. She looked terrified.

And so I ventured out into Paris by Day. I stopped everyone I saw and ask them how to make a collect call. Most stared blankly back, some suggested I use a calling card (that I did not have) and the rest told me I could get help at the post office across the street.

Now, “across the street” was a relative term because it was a lot farther than merely crossing a boulevard. As I set out on my Walk About, I continued to stop anyone who dared to make eye contact for advice. No one provided it. Parisians do not have their stellar reputation for nothin’.

When I finally arrived at the post office, it was packed. Evidently, I had chosen the worst possible time to make my little side trip to Paris: it was tax day. I patiently stood in line for AGES and upon arriving at the guichet (window), the worker snidely told me she could not help me and I would have to go over to Guichet No. 3.

I. Lost. It. As in let’s-admit-this-chick-into-a-psych-ward kind of lost it. Because upon arriving at Guichet No. 3, NO ONE WAS WORKING THERE. All that remained was a poor guy in front of me in line upon I unloaded my entire sob story.

Just as I was getting to the climax, I remember hearing very distinctly in English, “Sister, how may we help you?”

I turned and stared. When what to my wondering [blood-shot] eyes should appear but two Elders (male) missionaries from the Paris Mission.

Now, another mission rule is no physical contact with members of the opposite sex. Since I was on a roll with rule-breaking, I jumped up in the air, grabbed the 20-year-old Elder by the tie and screamed, “Elder, I PRAYED YOU HERE.”

Turns out, it was their transfer day as well and they had run into Soeur Tate at the Gare of Lyon who explained to them that her travel companion was going to perform the next Paris Massacre (or rather, the first) if I was not helped.

The Elders were happy to oblige. They called their mission president who connected with ours and wired us some money to buy a return ticket. We then called our mission home. By then, they knew we were MIA because both of our assigned companions had been waiting in Lyon for hours.  I downloaded the day’s events to one of the elders in typical frenzied fashion and after about 10 minutes, I heard stifled laughter in the background.

“What is that noise?” I accused the young missionary.
“Nothing, Soeur Borowski.” Liar.
“Elder. DO YOU HAVE ME ON SPEAKER PHONE?”

The entire mission home had gathered around for Soeur Catastrophe’s latest catastrophe.

When I walked back with the elders to the train station, Soeur Tate was glowing, holding a rose and looking like she’d just stepped out of a chic Parisian magazine, juxtaposed against her Tasmanian Devil traveling companion.

“Soeur, where did you get that rose?” I asked haltingly, trying to be nice but inwardly seething.

“Oh, this French man saw me standing here, didn’t say a word and just handed me the rose. Aren’t the people here just so nice?”

It was the first (and only) time I kept my cool that day.

I had tried to convince my mission president to let us stay the night–my Missionary Training Center companion Soeur Simms was serving in Paris but we were wisely counseled to get on the next train and back to our mission boundaries.

When we finally returned really late that night, we were met by our companions and two elders. Yesterday, Soeur Tate sent me this photo. In case you hadn’t figured it out, Elder Wright was a fellow Canuck.

And then there’s Soeur Tate still holding that rose. And me with my fake smile.

No comment on that one, either.

Filed Under: Humor, LDS, travel

Soeur Catastrophe: A European Catastrophe Part I

April 9, 2013 By

recently made some connections with some former missionary friends on Facebook and it took me waaaaaaaay back.

==========

The year was 1993 and my nickname was Soeur Catastrophe (pronounced Sir Cat-as-trof), which, loosely translated means “Sister Catastrophe.”

Some things never change, right?

I was 21 years old and serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Geneva, Switzerland. The mission boundaries took in all of French-speaking Switzerland and Eastern France. For six days a week, we taught the gospel and served at various local charities while P-days were spent hiking in the Alps. It was the most defining 18 months of my life as I looked outside of myself to figure out who I was on the inside.

We had a mission president who presided over us. He would place missionaries together who would serve in “companionships” in a specified region that we were required to stay in. Every few months, we would either get transferred to a new area or have a new companion come to us.

I had been in the mission field for about six months when I received a transfer from Geneva to a little town in France called Chalon-sur-Saone. I met up with another missionary, Soeur Tate (with whom I recently connected on Facebook) and we would travel to France together to meet up with our respective companions.

Sound easy? This is me we’re talking about.

Soeur Tate was what we call “a bleu”–she was new to the mission so it made perfect sense for her to travel with a more seasoned and capable missionary such as myself.

Stop. Laughing. Now.

Soeur Tate and I had cleared Customs and were waiting on the platform to board our train to Lyons, France. I struck up a conversation with a bunch of traveling Canucks and before we knew it, our train pulled up. I glanced at the sign, confirmed it was going to Lyon and Soeur Tate and I hopped on.

The first things I noticed that seemed out of place were pertaining to the train itself. 1) It left a bit early, which never happened in Switzerland 2) It was a much nicer train than the regional ones we were used to and 3) It went fast. Really fast.

We settled into some seats. A few minutes into our journey, the train made a stop. Some people boarded and kicked us out of our seats.

Problem #4) There were not usually reserved seats.

I wasn’t worried. I was a Swiss Miss and knew this whole international travel thing like the back of my hand. We simply relocated but within minutes, were booted again. Unsure of what to do, we went back to the luggage area and situated ourselves on some little pull-out seats. Undaunted, I pulled out some headphones to listen to a sappy tape from my then-boyfriend. There were a number of announcements made over the loudspeaker but I ignored them (note: potential spoiler).

We soared across the French countryside for over an hour when the train conductor came around to check tickets. I nonchalantly handed him mine. He closely examined it, turned it over and then menacingly sneered at me.

“This train is going directly to Paris,” he said in French.

I stopped. Paris was not Lyons. In fact, Paris was on the other side of the country, far outside of my mission boundaries. We must have erroneously boarded a TGV (France’s high-speed train). And worst of all: We did not have train tickets to Paris.

I weakly asked, “Quoi?”

He repeated himself, this time emphasizing the gravity of the situation with the kind of ill-humor that has made the French famous.

Faintly, I repeated, “Quoi?”

He must have decided I was a stupid American because he then resorted to shouting it in broken English: “DIS TRAIN, GO DIRECTLY A PARIS!!!!”

At this point, innocent Soeur Tate started tugging on my sleeve, “Soeur, did he just say we’re going to PARIS?”

As I said, she was new to the whole French thing.

We quickly learned that the name of the “Gare” (train station) in Paris is called the “Gare de Lyon.” Hence the sign I had seen at a moment’s glance. Monsieur Conductor was not sympathetic and pointed out that there had been several announcements about the train going directly to Paris. You know, the ones I ignored.

It got worse when he made us pay the difference we owed for the train ticket on the spot. We emptied out every last penny French franc we had.

And there we were. We were in a foreign country. We had no cell phone. No cash. No credit cards. No connections. And we were on the fast track to PARIS!!!

Be sure to read Part II of Soeur Catastrophe: An International Terror is Born where you will learn about just how close I came to murdering the French population.

Filed Under: Humor, LDS, travel

Is Fat Kitty a Beached Whale in Disguise?

April 6, 2013 By

Really, don’t we all have days we feel like this?

On his tombstone: “He died of starvation”

 

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With:
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