The Real Romeo and Juliet

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13:4–8a (NIV)

They have been together for over 65 years.

Man and wife…partners…lovers…friends…teammates…parents…soul mates.

The first death was slow. It began with small things, little forgotten details of their life together. Where items were located, places they had known, people who were friends.

Then he forgot their children and grandchildren. There were moments when he would remember, times when she could ask him “Eddie, do you remember your boy Ray” and he would say “well, yes!” Now that their 65th wedding anniversary is approaching, even those brief glimpses have disappeared.

She misses watching basketball and football games on television with him. She misses sharing details of her Sunday School lessons. She misses her buddy.

Mary is a pragmatist, if nothing else. She looks at life through clear, wide, eyes. Enduring life’s deepest pain, she has still always managed to forge ahead. When they lost their daughter to an infection following a battle with cancer, she moved ahead, even though a part of her felt ripped out, shredded, never to fully heal. When her mother was old, helpless, she and Eddie moved her in with them and provided the care needed until she passed away.

Being an only child probably help mold her into an independent, free-spirited dynamo. The only time she struggles is when people underestimate her.

Dementia, Eddie's disease and Mary's burden, is a confusing, maddening, cruel enemy. There is no cure. There is no way to get back what has been lost. And when the person who knows every curve of your body, every nuance of your expressions, and every thought you have before you are able to speak the words is lost to dementia, it feels as if your other half has died. Only their body is still breathing.

She is scared of not being with him. Even though every memory is gone, his heart knows her. In the darkest hours of the night, he reaches for her. He smiles when he sees her face. His heart remembers and they are still connected. She sees and feels it every day. In their home, HIS home, he is the happiest and the safest .

This is why she wants him with her. Mary knows best and those who have the joy and privilege of being in her home during this time understand that she is in control. She knows her own limitations and every step of the journey she has asked for aid when needed.

She has the help of Hospice, home health services, and family members. She has been responsible with money over the years and can pay for some private help. Mary journals as an outlet, something most therapists would applaud (although she doesn't need a therapist's approval; somehow, she just knows that this is important) and has an impressive base of support through their lifelong church.

She has identified the specific times when she needs the most help and has found a way to plug in resources. They have neighbors who will come over with the simple ring of the phone.

Mary makes chocolate chip cookies every week as a gesture of gratitude towards Peter, her primary home health care worker, and this writer. I am her granddaughter; another caretaker who has been blessed with the privilege of seeing this woman's love and commitment in person each and every week since Eddie came home from the hospital following a broken hip last February. I joke with Peter, telling him to "stay out of my cookies". The joking, the love of her cookies, and the camaraderie between her helpers makes Mary smile. Eddie can be a great deal of fun as well. He may have dementia, but is far from catatonic. In fact, most days he chatters more than a women's quilting group, tossing in a large dose of unrecognizable German for good measure.

Soon, Peter's job will change, taking him away from Mary. She worries, but knows through her faith and wisdom, that answers will come if she keeps her eyes open. This could mean more pressure from others to place him in a facility.

Many people don't understand how she does it. But that would infer they are actually asking the question of themselves, i.e. "could I do it?". For most, the answer would be "no". But then again, most people aren't Mary...most couples don't share what Eddie and Mary share. They are the last of a generation, a generation where commitment and hardship had different meanings. Mary has no problem asking for physical help. She understands the need for someone to help her assist Eddie from the wheelchair to the bed on those particular nights when he seems to forget how to stand up. She fully understands the financial benefit of having Hospice and the VA involved so that she isn't paying out of pocket for Eddie's Depends and wipes. But make no mistake, just because you are reading this and thinking "Oh My God, I couldn't clean up someone" doesn't mean it bothers her one bit. You see, she loves him. These are simple human acts. Mary doesn't give it a single thought. She does it because he needs it done, because she can still physically do it, and because there isn't another human who exists who will do it with the care and devotion she will.

Sometimes I watch them together, silently across the room, trying to hide within myself because to witness their affection is almost overpowering, almost brings me to my knees in humility. She still holds his face in her hands, nuzzles nose to nose, and she kisses him while he smiles sweetly and adoringly up at her. These are acts that occur not just every once-in-awhile, but many times every day. I don't know who taught who to be so affectionate and openly loving, I only know that Eddie passes that same affection on to me, by holding my hand and saying things like "Oh, I love you....you are just so beautiful....oh thank you so much....you are the best, just the most wonderful boy". The gender confusion? Who cares. He's kind and gentle to everyone but saves the kisses for the beautiful bride his heart still remembers.

The first death for Mary has been the death of his memory. She knows a second, final death, is still to come. This is why she treasures their remaining time together, even if it is so different from their previous life.

Eddie's heart needs those deeply hidden life memories close to him, every day. He needs to feel safe and Mary needs to know he is safe. They have been together their entire lives, and the most cruel thing that could ever happen would be for them to be separated, particularly when there is no reason. I watch...I see...and I know. Mary can handle this.

Never, ever underestimate the power of human connection. Marriages that fail are missing this. Never, ever underestimate the power of human touch. Humans wither without it. Eddie is thriving, as much as this horrible disease will allow him. The reason is his connection...the reason is her touch...the reason is his partner.

If you want to see true love in all of it's beautiful and wondrous glory, see Eddie and Mary. Their love is absent all of the vanity, jealousy, selfishness, and immaturity that is so prevalent in relationships today. Look at yourself - look at your partner - and ask: could I do this?

Mary can. Because she loves him.

What do One Direction and Barry Manilow Have in Common?

Marah would hum.

She isn’t a verbal child. She doesn’t speak of how she is feeling or tell you her emotions. She’s like her father in that respect and sometimes it can leave a mother frustrated, wanting details. The one sure way I could always tell she was content, at peace, and her happiest is when she would quietly hum. It is the most beautiful sound in the world to me.

You have to look at her behaviors to get a picture of what she’s thinking, feeling, enjoying, disliking…you understand. Take her favorite band, for instance. I know that other than soccer, One Direction is her favorite thing in the world by looking in her bedroom.

She has a few photos of friends, a radio, hair/makeup/jewelry items on her dresser, and clothes scattered everywhere. That’s it, except for her walls. They are almost completely covered with posters of the band One Direction.

When she gave us her birthday list in March, “One Direction Tickets” were the only items requested.

So began a four month long quest to obtain One Direction tickets for Marah’s birthday. Some idiot decided it would be a good idea to place those tickets on sale a whopping SIXTEEN MONTHS before the actual show. SIXTEEN MONTHS for a band who markets to fickle tweens. SIXTEEN MONTHS for a band who, at that time, had only existed for twenty months and whose members, at the time, were still in grammar school.

Well played, idiot, well played. The gamble paid off, and in the Kansas City area it became the hottest and hardest ticket of the year to obtain.

First I went to the Sprint Center web site and tried to purchase tickets. This is when I discovered they were sold out. The Eagles are going to be here in the fall. You can still buy tickets to see them. The Eagles haven’t sold out, but freaking One Direction has.

Then I checked Stubhub and Tickets for Less. Ouch. They were asking hundreds and hundreds of dollars for tickets that began at under $30 for face value. Craigslist was no better. It appears “market value” is whatever the ticket brokers are asking with another $100+ added in for good measure. I knew then that Marah was most likely not going to be seeing One Direction this year, but I couldn’t quit obsessing over it or trying to figure out a way to get her there. Why?

Then it hit me: Barry Manilow.

Have you ever been out with adult friends, enjoying cocktails, and played the “first concert” game? It’s not really a game, more of a “who was your first concert” and the “winner” is the person who attended the coolest show. The loser, of course, is always me; always. This is because my first concert was Barry Manilow. My friend Tavish always wins in these instances. No one can touch her “my parents took me to see Janice Joplin when I was eight months old” story. I’m so jealous.

I was in the 7th grade and it was the early ‘80s. A sensitive child, I would listen to “Weekend in New England” , “I Write the Songs” and "Mandy" over and over again, feeling all the sadness of the world encapsulated in these three slow songs. Yes, I was a deep and emotional tween. Don’t mock me, I know how pitiful this was.

I had little contact with my mother, even though she lived in the area. Her 6th husband Dave, in an attempt to win points with her parents (who, by the way, were also my Grandparents/guardians), bought tickets to take me to see Barry at the Bicentennial Center in Salina, Kansas. I was in heaven, even though it was a little weird knowing I’d be spending an entire evening with my mother and Dave. At the same time, it was cool. Mom was taking me to my first concert.

Fast forward to 2013 and my therapist friends can probably diagnose this obsession with making sure Marah’s first concert is spectacular: mommy issues. Just when you think you’ve tackled all of them, eh ladies? In addition, I never want Marah to be the laughing stock of her social group for having the most humiliating “first concert” story. I still carry the scars. To fully appreciate "said scars" click on the link. This is exactly the version of Copacabana I witnessed...float, pineapple, and flamenco shirt included.

I’m a planner when it comes to events; must come from years of stalking KU basketball. Around the time of Marah’s birthday, Bruno Mars tickets were going on sale. He’s regularly in the top 40, so I pounced and was ready on the appointed day and hour, managing to buy two floor seats just after the tickets were released. You can still purchase Bruno Mars tickets, by the way, but the FLOOR seats are sold out. SNAP. Momma did good.

Next up was how to utilize the Bruno Mars tickets to obtain One Direction tickets and I figured it would be easy: simply post on Craigslist that I had floor Mars tickets and would swap for even the worst One Direction tickets. Sounds good, right? Until my twelve year old began to hem and haw that she kind of wanted to see Bruno Mars too and didn’t want horrible tickets to One Direction. We had a long heart to heart (I spoke, she listened) after which she fully understood she would only be seeing one band and needed to choose: One Direction or Bruno Mars. You can guess the answer.

I contacted my half sister in Los Angeles, who is one of the hottest rising female DJ’s in the industry. I wasn’t too proud when I told her “what good is it having a family member in the biz if you can’t ask them for leads on One Direction tickets?” Marah was thrilled when Cat called to say she might know someone who works with one of the band members. I won’t lie, visions of back stage passes & images of my baby girl with her favorite rock stars passed through my mind. Then I smacked my own face and came back to reality. Alas, the LA connection wouldn’t bear fruit.

My initial Craigslist posting resulted in zero responses. In the meantime, I began checking Craigslist monthly, then weekly, and then daily. It was educational. One seller was asking $800 for two tickets or they were willing to trade them for a four wheeler. Such is life close to Missouri.

Another seller shared that they had purchased the tickets and were now going on a mission trip; they were asking hundreds of dollars above face value, were firm and unwilling to negotiate, and would only accept a check (huh?). I’m sure they had prayed about it.

Another seller was asking $7,000 for her two tickets. Assphinctersayswhat?

The best was the seller who wrote “I will be willing to take $1500 apiece but I would really like $2000 for them”. It was at this point, after months of looking, that I finally snapped and sent a reply via Craigslist that read:

Well, frankly, I know you'd be WILLING to take $1500....but since you'd really LIKE $2000, hell, I'll just go ahead and give you $4000 for the pair. I'll even throw in the family car and the dog while we're at it!! Would you like our house as well? How about the kid's college funds???? I mean seriously, it's only the cutest boy band ever to emerge from Simon Cowell's ass. Of course, I'm joking. What the hell is wrong with you???? NO ONE is going to give you FOUR FREAKING THOUSAND DOLLARS for two tickets.

The seller did not appreciate my advice, and responded:

If your(e) not going to make an offer please don't respond. Frankly, I know people who have worse seats then I do and have made $5,000 for one ticket alone. Also, these boys are very popular so some people are willing to pay an arm and a leg for these.

I have searched and searched for One Direction amputees in the Kansas City area but have yet to find a single one. If and when I discover them, I call dibs on the novel; THAT is a story worth telling.

Two weeks before the concert, I reposted my original “Bruno Mars/One Direction swap” offer and was elated when someone emailed me, offering to trade lower level 1D if I’d add additional cash. The amount was more than I was willing to pay, so I counter-offered (which, by the way, I’m horrible at doing – I’m the fool who never haggles at garage sales, never haggles at the market when travelling, and who has “I’ll give you whatever you want” tattooed on my forehead). I had a heart to heart with Marah, explaining that we might be making head way but that if she wanted to go she was going to have to have some skin in the game and put in her own money.

She’s tight, Mr. Krabs tight.

This child must love 1D, because she gathered up babysitting money she had hoarded and painfully (I could tell by her expression) gave it to me as part of the barter.

We waited…and waited. I didn’t hear back from the Bruno Mars girl and assumed she was going to wait it out to try and get more money.

In the meantime, more and more people started posting on Craigslist begging for tickets. One mom said she has no money and her little girl's dad had just had brain surgery. Some shared that they would have to pay for a hotel and gas, and aunt/grandma/cousin all want to go too...so would someone sell them six tickets cheap? Some of them were even offering LESS than face value, not realizing that face value doesn’t reflect the fees attached, which can amount to over $30 (thank you Bruno Mars for teaching me this). In spite of this, or rather because of it, the sellers weren’t coming down in price.

Then my Bruno Mars girl emailed me (she’s “mine” now, LOVE HER). She accepted the offer, only “she” wasn’t a “she”. “She” is a “he”. We met in Lawrence, where he lives, and as an identifier I described myself as “red KU t-shirt, long brown hair, 40’s”. He described himself as “Asian guy”. My friends are offended because I keep calling him “Asian Guy” but THAT’S how he described himself!

Asian Guy had purchased the 1D tickets “as an investment” and was tired of haggling. I think he’ll sell the Bruno Mars tickets and still come out way ahead. Did I mention how much I love him? He was impressed that Marah had contributed to the transaction.

Now I know this is getting long, but the story can’t end here.

I found myself standing outside the Sprint Center at 5:30 pm on Friday night, sweat dripping down my back and cleavage, girls shoulder to shoulder shrieking at the drop of a hat, wondering how to document this event. To pass time, since my daughter isn’t one for chit chat, I began a series of texts to myself, describing in part the horrifying outfits, the completely un-cool Roseann-looking parents, and the shrieking.

It appears current fashion has returned, sadly, to the 80’s. Tight daisy duke shorts that button around the middle of the waist are the rage. Only most of the girls wearing these monstrosities are either vampire pale or Honey Boo-Boo full figured (or both, shudder).

The girl in front of us was wearing 1970’s style British spandex leggings, black and white striped, with two huge openings on the back thigh portion. I’ll attach a photo since her confidence can only be appreciated with a visual. Marah went berserk when I pulled out my phone to take the photo, telling me I was humiliating her. I replied loudly “honey, any person who wears THOSE in public is begging to have their picture taken! Now step back and let me get this!” The mother in front of me turned around, sporting a huge smile, and said “Exactly!”

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We finally made it into the arena and I was impressed that we could purchase an endless tub of popcorn. This came in handy when we stumbled upon two of my friend’s daughters. One of them tore into the popcorn and by the time I was able to wrestle it away it was time for a refill. She must’ve been fueling herself for the main event; I know I was.

Marah waited inside while I went to refill the popcorn tub. While waiting at the counter, I noticed that the beer taps weren’t covered with cups so I said “No way! Can I get a beer?” The guy filling the popcorn said “sure” to which I responded “I may actually survive this night after all!” As I pulled out payment, he waved away the money, grinned widely, winked, and said “this one’s on us to help you get through the evening”. Can I get an "Amen" brother?

The shrieking was everything you would imagine, and then some. Fay Wray must’ve been in attendance (or that annoying actress from “Texas Chainsaw Massacre”). At times, I was in pain and had to jam my fingers so far into my ears that when I pulled them out they contained tiny bits of brain matter. The band members made comments along the lines of “wow, you guys are really loud” with no small amount of irritation. Marah, a quiet child by nature, was annoyed.

In spite of all that, the show was actually great. The girls got everything they wanted and then some. The band had a really cool floating stage, they ran around talking in their adorable British accents (and the one Irish accent, as Marah would so curtly remind me), they sang all of the favorites, and the techno aspects were spectacular. It’s been a long time since I saw a pop concert and this old girl was impressed. One Direction was a first concert that Marah can proudly talk about thirty or forty years from now and I will always cherish this memory.

As we settled into the car for the ride home, sitting in the quiet air conditioning and wriggling our toes to stretch tired feet, I heard a sound that still makes my heart sing.

Marah was humming.

Guns & Us

George Zimmerman will be acquitted. This is my prediction.

Years of working within the court system taught me something about the law: it is relies upon facts, evidence, and reasonable doubt. Based upon everything I’ve read about the trial, a jury will be hard pressed to find him guilty of the specific legal definition of 2nd degree murder. Involuntary manslaughter would’ve made more sense….. then again, I wasn’t privy to the evidence used when the charges were filed.

This isn’t why I’m writing about George Zimmerman and Treyvon Martin today, though. I’m writing about them because there is a much larger, massive elephant in the room that we aren’t talking about: our own personal responsibility.

It’s no secret that conceal and carry permits are on the rise or that gun sales went viral following the mass shooting of children in Newtown and the subsequent request by the President to go back to the drawing board regarding gun safety regulations.

I’ve noticed the gun fever in my simple day to day life. I recently flew on a plane next to a couple who were avidly perusing gun enthusiast magazines and eagerly discussing the next purchases they were going to make.

I went to lunch with my best friend and her co-worker. When, in the course of the conversation, the co-worker was asked if she was planning to get her conceal and carry, she replied between sips of Mocha “Oh yeah, it’s so cool. I’m, like, sure I’ll be getting it soon.”

Groupon has a special sale price for the Conceal and Carry Class.

Facebook has been oozing with Red State lingo, such as “pry from my cold dead hands”. Photos of cute pink handguns are even making the rounds.

And, sadly, the dialogue continues to be dominated by Team George and Team Treyvon….both sides so certain they know what happened in the final waning minutes of that night, both teams so sure that the case is about restricting gun rights, that it’s about racism, or that it’s about self defense.

The dialogue needs to be about us. It needs to be about facing our current laws and how each and every American plans to deal with the reality of hand guns.

We have a second amendment. Until someone can miraculously make a trip back in time to talk to the Founding Fathers, we can never truly know how they would respond to today’s technology, today’s attitudes towards guns, and today’s interpretation of their monumental Constitution. If you claim to be the holder of this knowledge then you are lying. No one can completely know, particularly when so many constitutional scholars interpret the wording in the 2nd amendment so differently. I have my own opinion, but that doesn’t mean it is completely correct.

That leaves us with one glaring thing we can control: ourselves.

So here are my general thoughts.

If you are a parent, start teaching your child today, yesterday if possible. Teach them to never raise their voice or get into any type of verbal altercation with another American. The consequences could mean the end of their life.

Teach your child to never, ever, walk at night alone.

Teach your child to assume, always, that every person they pass on the street, in the mall, on campus, and on the highway is in possession of a conceal and carry firearm and that the person will be willing and eager to use it.

Teach your child from the moment they are born to control their anger. If you see signs early on that this could be a problem for them, get professional help. Down the road, it could mean the difference between a confrontation with a gun or another day of living.

If you are thinking to yourself “just teach them to get their own gun” then please stop reading now. Not every American wants to carry a gun, NOR SHOULD THEY HAVE TO. Your thinking is part of the problem.

If you possess a conceal and carry permit, use George Zimmerman as an opportunity to ask yourself “what would I have done”.

Ask yourself if you are the type of person who responds to situations with emotion or caution. Are you calm, cool, and collected or are you prone to hysteria and excitement? Do you have a short fuse?

Ask yourself why you want to conceal and carry and be honest and reflective in your answers. Do you live or work in a dangerous area? Are violent crimes on the rise or have you or someone you know been the victim of a violent crime?

Ask yourself if you truly feel competent in the use of hand guns.

Ask yourself if your guns are safely secured, in a manner that allows you to access them in an emergency but that also keeps them secure from others.

Ask yourself if you could live with the knowledge that you killed an innocent person, or any person for that matter.

Regardless of the outcome of this case, a few things are certain. Treyvon Martin’s parents will never have an opportunity to teach their son the importance of the saying “safety in numbers” or the importance of assuming every stranger possesses a handgun, will be willing to use it, and should therefore be avoided at all cost.

Zimmerman will spend the rest of his life replaying that night in his mind, for he is the only person alive who knows what happened…..who knows what he was thinking…..and who has to know, within his deepest soul, that if he had listened to the true professionals - who intimated he should remain in his truck and said they were on their way - Treyvon Martin would most likely still be alive today.

Yes, maybe possessing a gun can save you from the bad guy. Yes, the second amendment guarantees some level of gun rights and as long as it is legal, each and every one of us has the right to conceal and carry if we so choose. But neither the constitution nor a gun can guarantee common sense, a clear head, or the level of respect so vitally needed on the part of any person in possession of a weapon so deadly and originally created for one purpose and one purpose only.

Until we can find a way to guarantee those un-quantifiable but potentially life-saving human qualities, we can only control ourselves. By warning our children it's not just the bad guys we have to fear, but also those around us so intensely concerned with "protecting" themselves, and by making damn sure if we conceal and carry that we also dig deep to make sure we are worthy and wise of possessing such a potentially life-ending tool.

Charles, Tents & Grit Man: Chapter 5

Americamps pool....where Charles tried to drown Brody. So here we are, knee deep into the Richmond summer in an RV park stories, and I've stumbled upon a few of my favorites. I'm going to try an experiment. I'm posting the emails I sent without editing them. This is big step....so now, for your reading pleasure...with MANY grammatical and possible spelling errors (helps the reader get into the feel of my mindset at the time).....Chapter 5.

We've met a new family here in the park. They are so nice; three kids and the youngest two are adopted. Steven is 7 and just beautiful. I'm not lying - huge dark eyes with long thick eyelashes and this North Carolina accent that will melt your heart. His younger biological sister is Amelia and she's very delayed. I don't know the diagnosis but she only speaks through sign (although she can hear) and as an infant they didn't even believe she would walk. The oldest daughter (not adopted) is, I'm ashamed to say, the "stalker" I mentioned in the first email (note to Marlys: WAIT before making judgements about people). Her name is Micah and she's 12; very sweet girl but also a bit delayed socially according to mom. She has this knack for finding 4 leaf clovers and has brought me 5 so far. I'm hoping this means good luck?

They left to go home to North Carolina for a week (dad is working here so they are staying all summer) and Marah commented the evening they left "I miss him!" Oh My God! Are you serious??? She's SIX years old!! She woke up this morning and said "I had a dream about Steven". Any advice??? She doesn't want to leave the camp to go on adventures with me and Brody if Steven is around. It rained three afternoons this week and they used our walkie talkies to stay in touch. He'd call and she'd say "let's talk later, I have things to do".

One afternoon, I walked up behind them, unseen. The other kids were going "oooh, gross!! Marah's eating her buggers". She makes me so proud - I mean, that's talent and a stomach of steel! Maybe she can have a career with Jackass The Movie when she's older! Not to be outdone, beautiful Steven pipes up and says "I like to eat mine too!" Maybe they truly are soul mates.

Steven's mom, Anna, approached me on Wednesday and said "I have something I want to tell you that is a little disturbing". I'm like "Oh shit, Marah tried to kiss Steven. I'm going to kill her!!" Nope, not it. She said her husband had an employee (he's here putting in telecommunications lines) who is 19 and was arrested for the third time last week. They won't bond him out and he's very pissed off. A large man tracked her down in the RV park a few days ago and handed her a piece of paper containing the names of their kids, their phone numbers and their the camp site info. He had been in jail with this kid; the kid gave him the information with instructions to track them down and ask for bond money. Anna said the guy followed the instructions and then, on top of it, asked them for money for himself!! He then rented a camping site a few places down from them. Whoooeeee!!! The tent people move, I'm just getting comfortable with the idea that there aren't really an pedophiles near us, and then this. I ran a search of the ex employee's name and he isn't on any sex offender registries...so maybe things are good? I expect this story to keep getting better.

So Charles (by now I shouldn't have to explain who he is) was actually playing with Marah and Steven a few days ago. His camp is about twenty campers down from us and no adult is ever to bee seen. I've "heard tell" that is mother is always on the lookout for him, which could explain why she drives by our site ten+ times a day. Not that I'm counting. I like being in the know....us long termers have to keep each other up to speed.

So anyway, Charles comes strolling onto our property (hey, we're paid up through June!) and wants a drink out of the cooler. The kids have open access to it: there is water, fruit juice boxes, etc.....and also a few special survival drinks that I had forgotten were in the bottom. Charles wants a drink and I say "sure, go ahead and grab one". He reaches in and grabs a Corona. Marah says "Mom, Charles is having a beer!" I reply "No, Marah, he's not!" Charles says "I drink beer with my dad all the time." I say "Go home Charles; if I was your dad, I'd be drinking with you too." (seriously, I didn't really say that...out loud anyway)

Americamps path...where Charles' parents drive fast trying to chase him down.

I'm attaching a picture of Steven (eh, hm, back to me in real time: I'm not posting the photos of the boys on my blog - pretty sure if I was a parent of them that would make me angry) and am really wishing they would return to the camp. Getting pretty tired of the "what day is it mom?" and "when is HE coming back?" For some reason, I kinda like the kid. It may be his deputy dog "Noth Carlana" accent that reminds me of, dare I say it, ("dare, dare" for those Blazing Saddles connoisseurs) ROY. The OTHER smiling little angel next to Stephen is, you guessed it, Charles. Now, I kept telling him that we LOVE to take pictures of people we meet on our travels and he was just loving the attention. I couldn't ever get a good shot of that tooth, though, and after some time I realized how completely horrific it was that I wanted to photograph this kid (ok, he DOES have a mother after all) so I could show all my friends his blemish. I mean, he's just sucking it up, grinning as big as he could - never knowing he's the focus of my emails. Not to give you the wrong impression....he's really pretty rotten....but is sure cute lookin' when you can't see that black tooth, isn't he!

Two more stories and then I'll end this. We have summer passes to King's Dominion, which is Paramount Pictures them and water park, so I've taken the kids several times to the water area. Brody just loves it there!! (remember - he was two during this time) Yesterday, before I can even find a chair or get situated, he's in the water. A few seconds later I look up and he is literally SHOVING every kid on the slide stairs out of the way. He's so little that most of them didn't realize what it was that was even pushing them; he's also small enough to avoid detection by the life guards. Next thing I know, he's made his way to the front and his high-tailing it down the slide. I had this immediate vision of Napoleon in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure . Remember when Napoleon hit the theme park and was a real butthole to everyone as he was trying to hog the slide? That's exactly what Brody looked like!! I started laughing out loud and everyone around me was staring. The other thing that makes me laugh is that when he has to poop (which always happens in the pool - I think the water relaxes him - hey, I completely understand!) he gets on his hands and knees in the main thoroughfare and starts to get this really, how shall I describe it, intense look on his face. If I attempt to approach him, he begins screaming at me "NO, Mommy!! Go 'way!!" with his little hand shoving me away. It's almost like the Heisman forearm move or the old "talk to the hand" motion. He always picks a very conspicuous place where EVERYONE can see him, right in the middle of the kiddo traffic lanes. Just be glad he's not in any of the Johnson County pools. He's currently running around the trai....I mean RV, naked and he's just peed on the floor. I have less than 25 square feet of carpet to monitor and he's soiled it (better than my leg, eh?). By the way, I'm lookin' pretty rough. Time for another Corona before I go clean.

King's Dominion little kid's swim area

Final story, since this is getting long. We went into the mountains today to hike up some water falls. The kids were real troopers because it's about three miles up (they petered out at about the two mile mark). It was absolutely beautiful, as you can imagine the Blue Ridge Mountains would be. On the way down, I'm cruising along, all "in the moment" when the world is perfect, the view is unbelievable, my kids are healthy, Brian is wonderful, blah blah blah, when BAM!!! I fall down these rugged steps right on my ass and right in front of another family. MY family, behind me, is laughing like crazy. There's mud all over my backside, I'm skinned up and so sore that it's taken a TALL glass of wine while typing for me to feel less stiff. On our way there this morning we stopped at a diner in town that Brian eats at regularly. The waitress sported a mega '70s doo but she was so sweet! She called us "sugar" and "baby doll" and "darlin'"! After we left, I asked him if she usually works there. He said "Sure! After you took Brody out to the car she told me thanks for bringing in the family. The guys on the job eat here and always come back saying 'I was Baby today and he was Sugar'!" (no comments about my punctuation - it's hard putting a quote within a quote)

Just before leaving the restaurant, and this is not a story for the faint of heart, I took Marah to the lady's room. She sneezed pretty loudly while she was going potty. I went in the same stall after she was done. As I'm sitting there, I look down and notice a massive wad of phlegm on the floor right in front of me and I realize my six year old daughter coughed this out while peeing!!!! How many times do I have to say "cover your mouth"???? At the same time, there is a waitress in the stall next to me (there are only two stalls) and she is panting, and huffing, and grunting as if she's in labor. My gag reflex was at def con 5 by this point so I hightailed it out of there before she could finish her bidnez.

Tomorrow is Father's Day....have a wonderful day with your husbands/dads/grandfathers and please reinforce with your kids/nieces/nephews/godchildren the importance of covering one's mouth while sneezing and of NOT eating one's own buggers (or anyone else's for that matter). Awwwww, the joys of parenting. Take care ladies!!

P.S. One caveat (don't want to offend anyone): the comments on the Chevy Cobalt from earlier were strictly related to the shape the car was in after all the miles of rental driving it had been through - so if anyone owns a Cobalt please do not take offense. Also, the Dodge Neon that I'm now driving is a super lil' car (for all you Neon owners) and....other than those times when I jerk the clutch and throw the kids forward so that their seat belts latch up (that's funny - Marah hates that)....we are cruising in that little guy!!

P.P.S. Both children gave me legal permission to share these tales. True story - I made them sign a liability clause so we won't have to pay for therapy after humiliating them.

Charles, Tents & Grit Man: Chapter 4

Digging up past adventures is the theme of several recent posts. Today’s is no different. Welcome to Part 4 of our “Summer in a Richmond RV Park” adventure!

Before sharing the story of our trip to Assateague Island, let me start by saying that life in an RV park with Charles (aka: black tooth lithsper) is fascinating. A few days ago, he came zipping down the road on his bike. Dust was flying and rocks were flung in the air has he rounded the corner by our camper. I was watching him, mouth wide open (I’m certain a few bugs flew in), when a truck came careening down the road closely on his tail. I was terrified for the child, certain that this crazy driver must’ve been some irresponsible teen or an intoxicated park resident. Turns out it was his father who was yelling loudly out of the window while trying to chase him down. I spoke with a “long term” gal who lives in the park. She was adamant that Charles wreaks havoc everywhere he goes. Kind of like the “Dennis the Mennace” of the campground. Easy for her to laugh; he hasn’t tried to drown HER child.

We needed a getaway, an adventure, something exciting to pull us out of the “RV Park” dull-drums. So last week, while my mother-in-law Sally was still here, we drove to Assateague Island, which is by Chincoteague. If any of you have ever read the Misty of Chincoteague books when you were young then you’ll recognize the names. Wild ponies live on the island and are supposed to have descended from horses that survived sinking Spanish galleons several hundred years ago. Over the years, the ponies have adapted to the harsh environment and the island is now a national refuge.

It took us four hours to get there. We took a few wrong turns, to say the least. In Norfolk, we stopped at a 7-11 because Marah had to potty…and we needed directions… and women know how to ask. The cashier at 7-11 responded very abruptly/nastily/harshly/irritatingly and told me "we don’t have a public restroom but you can drive to a truck stop somewhere down the road and find one" (I wanted to say “no shit Sherlock”). Mind you, Marah is grabbing her crotch and whining. She has this thing with her crotch – has since she was born. I figure it was just one more thing to add to the bugger eating and ways to gross out her mother. It is at this point I will add the all-important disclaimer to prevent future therapy: she does NOT, any longer, currently have a “crotch thing” or “bugger thing” going on. It was only during her younger years. Sigh.

As we walked out of the 7-11, home of the hateful worker, an extremely kind patron who had overheard the conversation said “Come on down to my shop and you can use our restroom!”

She had a hair salon a few doors down so Sally and Brody joined us. While obtaining directions (this was a full service salon, let me tell you), Brody crawled up on the hair cutting chair. Remember the hair cut I had given him in the trailer park with kitchen shears? It was then that I noticed how completely awful it truly was. The bangs in particular were several different lengths.

I figured they let us use the bathroom, so we owed them. In addition, the stylist had flaming red dyed hair, a nose ring, lip ring, multiple tattoos, and this sort of peaceful new wave aura about her. I decided it was a sign…and let’s be honest, you know where this is going.

Ffifteen minutes and $20 later (which included an $8 tip of pure gratitude) Brody walked out with a shining new hair cut.

“What the hell did you do, put a bowl on his head?” was his father’s response when he saw him later that day.

We drove for an entire year but finally made it to the Assateague National Wildlife Refuge. I’m kidding… it only felt like a year. Seriously, it was the longest drive in recorded history. The wild ponies are only on this island and once a year they weed out some of the colts in order to keep the population at 150. We had to take a special tour bus because the area where the ponies live is off limits to all but walkers and it would’ve been an impossible hike with the kids.

Dottie was our tour bus driver. Dottie was about 65 or 70 years old and clearly from New Joysey. Yes, I meant to spell it like that. She had this rough, cackling voice, like she had smoked 3 packs of Lucky Strikes a day since WWII. She was actually quite adorable, at least to most of us.

When any kind of critter moved outside, she pointed it out. Someone tried to eat on the bus and she screamed bloody murder over the loudspeaker “Des NO eatin’ on da bus!!”

When we ran into a group of Amish people riding their bikes out in the horse area, we all knew there would be trouble (who am I kidding; I don't know if they were Amish exactly...or Mennonite...they were just dressed like it...bottom line is they SHOULD have known better!). You see, they would’ve had to drag their bikes under a fence while ignoring the huge “no biking” signs in order to get into this area. Dottie slammed on the brakes so hard we had to pry Brody off of the dash. Then she told them, in no uncertain terms “Des no bikes here, you’s gotta go back! Did’n you see da sign?” Then she called the park ranger, who later met us so that she could head him in the right direction to catch the criminals in the act.

Marah and Brody were given these cute little pins from a woman across from us on the bus. She was from Muskogee, Oklahoma, and had brought a bag of “Okie From Muskogee” pins with her to hand out on their journey. Seriously, we live three hours from Oklahoma but had to travel all the way to the Atlantic Ocean to find “Okie From Muskogee” buttons. I’m linking the song for those of you feeling nostalgic. You are welcome.

Another woman, who was a retired school teacher from Cincinnati, kept making fun of Dottie, which made many of the bus riders more than a little irritated. We all liked Dottie. Every time Dottie would point out an endangered squirrel living in the protection of the refuge, most of the bus would issue a collective "ooh, poor wittle critter" sigh. The retired teacher, however, would loudly mumble “hell, come to my back yard and I’ll show you plenty of them”. Or she’d mutter “Geez, endangered? Why don't you look out the window some time.”

I love being around new people! Don’t you? Just remember, if you ever visit Assateauge Island, take the bus. And don't bring any food, otherwise you'll have to face Dottie. Believe me, you don't want to face Dottie. Just ask the Amish.

Charles, Tents & Grit Man: Chapter 3

This is the third post written from the summer of 2007 when our family spent two months in Richmond, VA; Brian was there for work. We decided to make an adventure out of the trip and hauled our 19 foot long toy hauler RV to live in. The following is a portion of my "email diary".

The automobile situation is looking up. Our first Friday here, which meant it was just in time for the weekend when Brian is here and I HAVE an automobile, he let me take over driving one the rentals that one of his project managers had been using. It was due back the next Monday. Is it just me, or does he get it?

Regardless, this meant that on Saturday I was able to get away from the trailer park for the first time since we arrived early last week. In honor of this momentous occasion I actually went to the mall!! After purchasing a few new articles of classic trailer park wear, I decided to get a pedicure. An Asian boy in the 11th grade was my nail technician and I think he forgot to buff one heal. Other than that, my French pedicure looks good (what IS it with this place?). He was bemoaning the fact that his mom made him get up at 9:00 am in order to go to work. Aren’t there child labor laws which exclude high school boys from performing state licensed services in Virginia? And before you ask, I swear to God I’m not making this up.

When I got back to camp, Brian had made the acquaintance of Charles. He has a name now, this black-toothed lithsper. His only comment to me was “that kid is kind of an asshole, isn’t he?” Unfortunately, he also made this comment out loud at the pool. For those of you who don’t know my husband, he doesn’t really have much of a filter. I’m waiting for our trailer to be egged some night in retaliation.

My lovely mother-in-law Sally arrived yesterday to stay through Friday and help out. She is an absolute blessing and is staying in a Marriot Residence…she’s no fool. She took Marah last night; Brody then decided to worm his way into our bed. My ribs are bruised but I’m pretty sure he slept great.

Sally couldn’t help laughing at how far I’ve fallen; from getting $20 hair cuts at Shear Madness for Brody to butchering his mop myself with kitchen shears out of desperation while stuck in the trailer park. Remember, I HAD NO TRANSPORTATION FOR A WEEK. I apologize. It is not a trailer park, it’s a Campground. And I apologize for yelling. It's just that he really needed a hair cut.

The tent people moved last night, but left their tent. People in Richmond sure are funny.

Marah, who spent each night she could in the Marriot with Sally, was overcome with excitement. The first night, she kept going on and on about how nice the room was:

“Look Grandma! This bed is so comfy!”

“Look Grandma! This place has cable!”

“Look Grandma! This bathroom is huge!”

You would’ve thought the child grew up in a West Virginia coal mining town instead of Johnson County, living in a house with three full bathrooms. How soon they forget.

Actually, to be completely honest, Brian and I stayed in the room one night while Sally stayed in the trai…oops, I mean RV with the kids. Blessed heaven. I took a bath and felt like I was at the Taj Majal. Brian attempted to enter the sacred room of meditation and Linda Blair returned. I admit to a little shame upon realizing she had taken up "prn" ("as needed" in hospital speak) residence within me. He got the message and left me to quiet serenity & squeaky clean peace.

When we first walked into the room, words weren’t necessary. Sometimes, as a couple, we are in such sync! He jumped into one bed and I jumped into the other. After my bath, goose bumps appeared when I found CNN and the History Channel. I think Sally expected a night of romance for us. After walking on top of each other for over a week, we wanted blessed space.

I actually got more excited the next day because they have a continental breakfast every morning. WhooEEE, there I was, overcome with excitement because there were little RV size packets of jelly, and honey….and lo and behold, flavored coffee mate! The big problem was figuring out how to get out of there with a bag full of these tiny little RV sized treats without drawing attention to myself.

After pondering the situation for a few moments, I decided to act wealthy and weird (okay, eccentric if you will) and march right on in there like I owned the place. I ended up resembling a ping pong ball before it was over. These were my moves: I grab a handful of jelly, drop it into the little bag, then bounce over to the coffee mate, running into Mr. Refined Business Man. “Excuse me Sir”, I mumble, then head back over to the honey. I’ll be damned, he’s there now. My bag still had allot of room in it, so I headed back to the coffee mate (a weakness, I must confess) and for God’s sake, he’s right there now filling his coffee cup! By now, I can tell he’s looking at me and my bag with a small sort of contempt. I’m in my RV park clothes (I have no need of anything else) which equates to a t-shirt and cut off jean shorts, but I know I don’t smell! I stayed in a Marriot the night before and had bath in the room of tranquility!

By now, I can feel other eyes on me so I just grab some apples and oranges, fill up the ol’ coffee cup again and start to head out.

Just as I reach the door, I spot cranberry juice and muffins! I’m having a hard time juggling the drinks but have lugged more than this many times before (mothers, you understand) and am more than up to the challenge. As I head through the lobby (and yes, there is laughter behind me) the man and woman at the desk, who had been talking, stop mid-sentence and stare at me with their mouths open. I say “thanks!” and they respond as good employees should with a “come see us again.” They watched me walk to the rental and drive away.

Speaking of the rental, I DO have a rental car now until we find something more permanent. The cheapest, crappiest automobile Enterprise had on their lot, I swear. Brian says it smells like Fido’s ass. He is renowned for possessing a rare and colorful vocabulary. I do have to agree with him. This current auto is a Chevy Cobalt and the only option it provides is air conditioning. I must admit, I’ve become spoiled by electric locks. It’s a real pain the arse to unlock four doors all of the time when hauling around two kids. How did they do it during the days of covered wagons?

The brakes do this funny gagagagagagagagagagagagagaga sound whenever I have to quickly apply them, which happens often in this part of the country. My God, they drive like fools out here; three people died last week just down the road from where we are staying in accidents. But never fear! Mr. Smart Consumer Brian has found a car to buy for me. He is paying less than the blue book price and feels certain he can sell it for at least the same amount, if not more, at the end of the summer. This is a potential bonus that makes him spin and twirl. It isn’t too bad. I think he got the message when I put up opposition to driving a car with 200,000 miles or more. The “new” car is a Dodge Neon with 75,000 miles, air conditioning and a CD player. That’s it. It’s a standard so I’m back to driving a stick, which I haven’t really done since high school and there are no electric locks or windows. But….and this is a big but, it doesn’t smell like Fido’s ass. Bonus!

Speaking of Brian and money…..he received an email from the owner of his company last week. She found out about our living situation and wrote “Get a hotel, ya cheap bastard!” To which he replied: “I’m not cheap, just frugal. The kids love it; the wife?”

We drove to Assateage Island and saw the wild ponies from Chincoteague but I’ll have to write about them later. I’ll tell you about our guide Dottie as well. Dottie is from New Jersey and the story of our time together is quite funny. Brian just got home so we are returning the rock star rental car (aka: Fido's Ass) and picking up the super cool Neon. As long as I have wheels, I don’t care if it’s a Gremlin (okay, that’s a lie). You know what I mean: wheels equate freedom and freedom equates happiness. And safety while going to Cinnabon.

Until next week,

Marlys

Why I Can't Quit Facebook

Facebook, I can’t quit you.

You see, there are too many fascinating aspects to your personality for me to walk away. I tried cutting back, I really did. Then I got bored and lonely.

You allow me to pretend like I live in a big city. You let me feel like I’ve been in a large office all day, with loveable, irritating, eccentric, crazy, outlandish, quiet, withdrawn, and average co-workers.

When I enter Facebook, though, I get to pick whether or not I walk by that annoying co-worker’s office or whether I bypass it to stop by the loveable secretary’s desk for a quick laugh.

Facebook lets me take time getting to know people. A good example is the friend who always screams when he posts. At first, I thought he didn’t realize he had caps turned on. Then I thought maybe he had a hearing problem. After a while, though, I saw that he is absolutely loveable and full of life. I can hear his excitement and enthusiasm whenever he posts and it is contagious. Actually, sometimes it is downright vital to giving me a lift. Now, on the rare occasion when he doesn’t scream, I am disappointed and worry about him. When he posts again in all caps, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Facebook lets me identify the few and far between truly mean and mental people. Like the person who called the First Lady a “bitch”; and then allowed someone else on his page to call her a “nigger bitch”. I apologize for typing the actual words, but if you are offended then you may have just a slight inkling of how I felt when reading them on Facebook. I’m not known for having a filter, but I DO possess social skills. And I’m not a racist misogynist. Most of us aren’t. Facebook, for some people, is somehow permission to openly share any dirty little thought that enters your mind. The difference, clearly, is that most of us understand some thoughts are “dirty” and not for public consumption. And most of us don’t talk that way. Or even think that way.

Facebook fabulously allows me to chew on thoughts before I put them out there for public consumption. In the early days, I didn’t appreciate this opportunity and more often than not ended up with my foot in my mouth. Now, I’d be a wealthy woman if I had a dime for each “response” I started to type and then deleted. It still felt good…. and even better when the thoughts never hit the public arena. It’s cleansing and more people should try it.

Facebook gives us a snapshot of the myriad of interests people have. The guy who posts music links every week is a gift. I should tell him. I enjoy hitting “play” and listening to the words while I’m putting dishes away or making dinner. For him, each song means something and by not taking the time to listen, I feel like I’m missing out on a tiny piece of him that is being so freely offered.

There are some folks who use Facebook to complain. Imagine a dinner party with one person at the table who only talks about their own personal woes. Awkward!

Then there are those who talk about the fun and amazing things in their life…..but go to Facebook when pain and sorrow hits as well. I have one particular friend like this. She has hundreds of friends and because of her personality and because she is so loved her struggles turn into a huge group therapy session. The feedback and support is amazing. Sometimes the responses are a little aggressive; sometimes they are full of wisdom and guidance. Sometimes, the response simply says “you are not alone”. I find I am most amazed at the speed and magnitude of the support she receives and it lets me know that this woman must be pretty amazing.

There are the typical attention seekers, those who have hundreds of photos of themselves. Yes, they are usually women. Of course, these photos are of them layered in makeup, dressed up and out on the town with other equally dolled up friends. The smiles are full of wattage and bleach, the tans are perfect, and we get it. You look fabulous. Now, post more pictures of your kids please.

These posters are similar to the “Oh my God, my marriage is so wonderful, look at all of the wonderful things we do together as a couple” folks. Just for your information, no one’s marriage is that damn perfect. If I wanted to see a fake perfect marriage, I’d watch re-runs of “Leave it to Beaver”.

There are the folks who go in spurts. Ginormous spurts, where they post twenty snapshot photos in a row with cheesy “feel-good” statements about God or friends. I scroll through these as fast as I can, by the way. Admit it, so do most of you.

That brings me to the folks who seem to be torn between God and politics but don’t realize it. Seriously, if you post a photo of scripture and then follow it with a photo of a quote from Ted Nugent, you probably should speak with your minister about God’s love. And whether or not he likes the “F” word or the “C” word; both of which fly out of Ted’s mouth like spittle.

Which leads me to something I learned the hard way: prior to running for office, I was one of “THOSE”. I posted political rants on national politics….which led to useless and time wasting arguments with one or two people. ….hurt feelings…….and turned allot of friends off. I had to clean up my Facebook page before entering the political arena and was amused and horrified all at once when going back over things my “friends” and I had written. Never again. For the record: I will post information on Kansas government because it affects my family directly and I truly believe people don’t really know the details. In order to feel comfortable with this, I classify those posts as “educational”. I will also post anything Andy Borowitz writes because it will be short, sweet, and wickedly sarcastic. I will not enter into political discussions again as I did in the past. My life is too short. So are the lives of my Facebook friends.

Pay attention, there will be a test: YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ANYONE’S MIND POLITICALLY DURING THESE TIME WASTING AND STRESS INDUCING ARGMENTS. Yes, that was yelling in print.

I WILL, however, comment if you negligently share posts that claim the POTUS ordered flags at half mast for Whitney Houston. Seriously people, practice safe Facebook posting. Google is your condom.

Oh dear, I think I wrote without a filter, didn’t I? Forgive me, it’s the Facebook conundrum. In the end, we all have to decide how we say what we need to say without going overboard. Few of us really ever figure this out completely, me in particular, which may be the REAL reason I love Facebook.

For the most part, she’s pretty real. And I like real. And I loved all of those birthday well wishes. Be honest – who wouldn’t?

Gotta go, I just heard a ding.

P.S. Now I’m worried about hurt feelings. If you think I was talking about you, I probably wasn’t (except for Matt – that was you – and if you ever quit typing in all caps I’m going to find you and your computer and break the “caps” key so that it is permanently on “caps”……because I love your all caps!). Yes, it’s okay to sometimes post a photo of you looking hot. Who wouldn’t? Just don’t post 100 of them. Unless you are my hot sister DJ and it’s your professional page. In that case, more!!! Yes, it’s okay to say your husband is awesome! Just don’t do it every day; with responses from him. That makes all of us gag. Are we all good? If not, send me a pm and we can discuss.