We’re Extras in an Action Movie

“Hurry!  The truck is just down the street!”  I called to Paul as we rushed around the house this morning emptying all the trash cans and tying up the bags.  Throwing the whole lot into our wheeled garbage cart, Paul opened up the garage door and trundled the gray bin down to the curb for pickup.  I had forgotten the trash in the downstairs bathroom.  Quickly, I hooked it out of the wastebasket and ran out after Paul to toss it in with the rest.

No sooner had I stepped foot on the driveway than I met Paul coming the other way.  “Go back in the house,” he said in a strange voice.  I obeyed with alacrity.

“What is it?  What’s wrong?” I asked.  He told me.

He had parked the trash can at the curb and turned around to see a team of FBI agents in flak jackets, their guns drawn, converging on a house just a few doors down from us.  We hurried back inside, wondering aloud what could be going on while  taking occasional peeks through cracked blinds at the strange events unfolding outside.

By the time we left the house an hour later, local police cars and unmarked SUVs (which must have arrived with the FBI guys) were parked all up and down our street as officers milled around taking pictures and going in and out of our neighbor’s house.  We pulled up next to one of the officers and asked if it would be safe for us to return home later.  He assured us it was, so I guess that whatever brought them there had already happened.

And that’s it.  We still don’t know what it was all about.  Drug trafficking?  Kidnapping?  Unpaid parking tickets?  It’s hard to wrap our minds around any of the possibilities.  We didn’t know the neighbors well, but we had talked with them.  Aside from a slightly unkempt yard and an unusually high number of cars parked in front of their house, they seemed normal, friendly, highly unlikely to be the subjects of an FBI sting operation.  (Jeffrey Dahmer?  “He was shy, a little withdrawn. But not real bizarre.  He never bothered anyone.”)

I’ve been poking around local news sites for clues, but so far there’s no indication of what, if anything, happened this morning on our street.  Perhaps we will never know.  After all, even if the neighbors do come back, I don’t imagine even Miss Manners could conceive of a polite way to go up and ask someone why the Feds hauled them in.

Maybe a plate of homemade brownies would help smooth things over?

The World According to Caleb

Caleb followed me into the kitchen as I prepared to make dinner, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Mom, do you ever get tired of taking care of me?”

Oh, my heart!  I knelt down, gripped his arms, and looked into his eyes, the better to give full impact to my answer.

“No, sweetheart.  I never get tired of taking care of you.  I love being your Mommy.”

Looking relieved, he said, “Good.  Because some people do get tired of it.  They only like being the kid!”

What Would You Do-o-o for a Klondike Bar?

10 Things I Would Do for a Klondike Bar:

1.  Wear a dress made out of duct tape.

2. Go to the grocery store in my pajamas.

3.  Spend the night at Walmart.

4.  Post a YouTube video of myself chair dancing awesomely to “Mai Ai Hee”.

5.  Stand facing the wrong way in the elevator.

6.  Go to a fancy restaurant and speak to the server the whole time in a really fake French accent.

7.  Approach a total stranger and pretend to know him from high school.

8.  Leave my fly open for an entire day.

9.  Dye my hair pink.  No, blue.  No, pink.

10.  Do the Polar Bear Plunge in Lake Coeur d’Alene.

10 Things I Would Most Assuredly Not Do for a Klondike Bar:

1.  Let a tarantula walk on my face.

2.  Go bungee jumping.

3.  Drink Spang*.

4. Get a tattoo of PeeWee Herman on my thigh.

5.  Watch “Hostel”.

6.  Streak the Superbowl half-time show.

7.  Try out for American Idol.

8.  Sit through a Barry Manilow concert.

9.  Reread “The Sound and the Fury”.

10.  Go anywhere with the Burger King.  He’s creepy.

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*Spang is a liquid refreshment some friends of mine made up in college.  Tang plus Spam, blended until smooth.  We actually made this foul concoction once, and took turns tasting it.  It was revolting.

10 Movie Quotes That Paul and I Use in Everyday Conversation

Bonus points if you can tell what movies they came from (without googling!)

1.  “Maybe you should put some shorts on or something, if you want to keep fighting evil today.” Used on the person who is still wearing his/her pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon, or when a family member attempts the naked dash from the shower to the bedroom after forgetting to bring a change of clean clothes into the bathroom.

2.  “Sure, they’re cute now, but in a second they’re gonna get mean, and they’re gonna get ugly somehow, and there’s gonna be a million more of them.” True of cute little compys, cute little aliens, and cute little grade schoolers pouring out of the bus for a field trip.

3.  “Not the cow.  I just ate that cow!  Spasm!  Spasm!” All purpose announcement of indigestion.

4.  “I’m sorry, I was whack.”  “I was whack.” Instantly deflates an argument and prevents it from escalating into something truly ugly.

5.  “You gonna eat your tots?” Begging for food from someone else’s plate is a universal annoyance.  Being cute about it helps your chances.

6.  “We’re fine.  We’re all fine here now, thank you.  How are you?” Uttered over the phone in a tone of strangled calm while kids scream, doorbells ring, and glass shatters in the background.

7.  “Game over, man!  Just game over!” I’ve had it!  I give up!  Let’s take off and nuke the entire site from orbit.  Or, you know, go get some pizza.

8.  “Again, information that would have been useful YESTERDAY!” Appropriate reproach for someone who neglects to deliver a critical detail of some kind, resulting in epic FAIL.

9.  “Great party, Steve!” Follows the sigh of contentment that accompanies a fun activity, a good night out, or a hair-raising adventure.  Meaning: “That rocked!  Let’s do it again sometime.”

10.   “I came across time for you, <insert name of thing you like>.  I love you.  I always have.” As in: “I came across time for you, Breyers Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.  I love you.  I always have.”

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*Answers can be found in the comments section!*

10 Things I’m Probably Too Old For But Enjoy Anyway

1.  Low-Rise Jeans. Maybe it’s the way I’m shaped (square), but before low-rise jeans came along, I was a woman-without-country in the denim department.  The horrible jeans of the 80’s (designed by Gloria Vanderbilt and her ilk) assumed that everyone had curvy hips and tiny, nipped-in waists, a shape still celebrated in the present-day construction of Mom Jeans.  (And let’s face it–Mom Jeans are just 80’s jeans that have morphed a bit to accommodate the ..ahem.. blossoming post-partum form.)  The fact is, some of us don’t have tiny, nipped-in waists, no matter what we weigh.  In that dark time, we had to choose between wearing trousers that fit in the waist but flapped around the hips like a pair of mountie pants, or jeans that fit the hips but pinched the body nearly in half at the waist, leaving button and zipper impressions so deep they could be cast in plaster.  I used to shop for jeans in the boys’ department just to get a half-decent fit.  So you can imagine my rejoicing when the jeans industry just did away with waists altogether and started making low-rise jeans.  No more torture, no more angry red zipper marks, just comfort and fit for everyone.  I’m stocking up so I’ll be prepared when fashions change again and waistbands move to just under the armpits.

2.  Tattoos and Piercings. I only have one tattoo, and no piercings that draw comments, but I’m always fascinated by good body art.  I especially like the large, colorful tableaus that cover the arms or shoulders of the subject and tell some part of the person’s story: a great loss, a personal achievement, a crossroads, a strongly held belief.  I’m not sure I’m done on the tattoo front, but I’m probably past the age when I can decently get my eyebrow pierced like I’ve always wanted to.  It would instantly become uncool if I did it, and everyone under thirty would be forced to find a new defining medium for their rebellions.

3.  Staying Up Late. Most of our friends express concern when it comes out that Paul and I regularly fall into bed around midnight.  We don’t set out to do it, but the nights go by so quickly, and the hours after the kids are in bed are so precious.  That’s our time, and it flies by in talking and playing and making plans.  Before we know it, we’ve done it again–it’s 12:30 and the morning alarm is mere hours away.  Sure, it’s hard to get out of bed, but it’s much harder to get into it when there’s still fun to be had.

4.  Video Games. I may hold the record for most team kills in Counterstrike history, but despite my lack of skill and my spastic trigger finger, I enjoy playing video games immensely.  It’s a love I came to late in life, so I suppose I’m making up for my misprised youth.  At least that’s how I justify all those hours spent in Azeroth.

5.  Eating Dessert for Dinner. It’s true.  Sometimes I skip the meat and vegetables and go straight to the ice cream.  And if I didn’t have a family to feed, I’d probably do it even more often.

6.  Cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants.  Fairly Oddparents.  Jimmy Neutron.  Mighty B.  Ren & Stimpy.  CatDog.  Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.  The sillier the better.

7.  Hip Words. Oh, wait.  They don’t say “hip” anymore, do they?  Though I avoid some words that I quite obviously cannot carry off (krunk, hizzie, chooch), the fact remains that I still use words like “sweet”, “sick”, “tight”, and “bites” with pathetic regularity.  But don’t worry.  I’m sure the vernacular is changing even as we speak and I will soon be as hopelessly out of date as ever.

8.  Celebrity Crushes. Did I mention that Gerard Butler sent me a signed photo?  I did?  Just checking…

9.  All Day Movie Marathons. Most adults I know don’t have the stamina (or the inclination) to park it in front of the television for a solid ten hours to watch all of the Harry Potter movies in one sitting.  I’m not one of those adults.  Close the curtains and pass the popcorn!  (Just give me a stretch and bathroom break about halfway through!)

10.  Public Displays of Affection. Our kids may not want to see it, but that won’t stop us.  I love kissing, and holding hands, and stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to share an enthusiastic bear hug brought on by declarations of love and/or impending dessert.  Who cares who’s watching?

How To Save a Life

It’s that time again.  A time for heroes.  This year’s National Marrow Donor Drive is June 8th through June 22nd.  For those two weeks, joining the National Marrow Donor Registry is absolutely free, and it’s as easy as walking in and letting a charming technician swab the inside of your mouth with a Q-tip.

Your tissue typing information will then go into the national database, increasing the chance that someone, somewhere will find the match they desperately need to live.

And consider this: one day, that “someone” may just be your child, your parent, or your sibling.  In the event that someone you love ever ends up needing any kind of transplant, your tissue type information will already be on file, easily accessed by medical professionals.

For information on where to find a registry center near you, go to the National Bone Marrow Donor Program website.

How often do we get a chance to save a life?

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

With the last day of school quickly approaching, I thought it would be cute to make autograph books for my kindergarten students so they could write little “have a nice summer” and “I’ll miss you” messages to their friends.

But that was before I discovered that Caleb, our precious son, signed the book of every girl in class the same way:

“Your one Hot MaMa!  lovE, Caleb”

*headdesk*

I expect the parent phone calls to begin any moment now.

Meanwhile, I’m not sure what to address first: the appropriate way to talk to girls, or the grammatical difference between “you’re” and “your”.

How to Survive the Apocalypse

Paul and I went with friends to see Terminator Salvation last night.  The movie was deliciously exciting, a vision of a grimly desolate world in which artificially intelligent machines have undertaken to exterminate mankind with cold brutality.  I loved it.

What can I say?  I have a thing for movies set in bleak, dystopian futures of post-apocalyptic horror:  Terminator,  Road Warrior, The Stand, Matrix, 28 Days Later, The Postman.  Humanity’s last struggling remnant fighting for survival in a dying world is a recurring theme in the movies.  True, it’s not so cheery.  But as fans of the genre know, bleak, dystopian futures make great backdrops for showing off the indomitable nature of love and the triumph of the human spirit.

Also, post-apocalyptic fashions are fantastic*.

The important thing to remember is that it’s much easier to enjoy the end of the world (and all its fashion possibilities) when you live long enough to see it.  What can you do to insure that you are among the small band of courageous survivors struggling to rebuild society in the husk of a burned-out Walmart using a gas-powered generator and a battered copy of an eighth grade history book?  I’m glad you asked.  I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, and I’ve come up with a basic primer that increases your chance of surviving the coming cataclysm from a meager 2% to a robust 2.8%.

Tips for surviving the apocalypse:

1.  Arm yourself. Apocalypses come in all varieties–nuclear, pandemic, mechanized, and, of course, zombie**–so the type of weapons you’ll need may vary according to the threat.  Assault weapons are good for fending off the roving bands of lawless thugs that inevitably emerge to loot and pillage the countryside as society collapses, whereas an industrial-sized can of Lysol and a hazmat suit might serve you better if the government accidentally releases a deadly plague from an experimental test facility in the Nevada desert.  And everyone knows that the best zombie deterrent is a sturdy cricket bat.  (As an added bonus, you don’t even have to buy ammunition for it.)

*2.  Dress for success. Almost anything can be incorporated into post-apocalyptic couture: chest armor made out of hubcaps, discarded aviator goggles, fraying sweaters patched together with wire torn from now useless computer consoles.  Utilitarian chic, I call it.  Just be sure, when you’re choosing the dirty rags you’re going to be wearing for the next few years, to avoid bright colors.  Bright colors make it easier for the zombies/desert warlords/sentient death machines to find you.  Better to blend in with the debris.

3.  Acquire transportation. Think “all-terrain”.  The post-apocalyptic vehicle has to be able to roll over broken glass and skirt around washed-out roads.  It must be able to keep going even after being riddled with bullets and pancaked between a speeding semi-truck and a cannon-bedecked school bus.  A tank is the best choice, but a jeep or a Humvee will do in a pinch, especially after you weld three-inch steel plates all over it and mount an Uzi to the roof.

4.  Get some skills. You definitely can’t survive the apocalypse without useful skills.  Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing ahead of time which skills will be useful in your individual circumstances.  For example, suspending the chassis of a defunct sixteen-wheeler a hundred feet in the air in preparation for dropping it on enemies who stumble onto your hideout in an abandoned toy factory requires a proficiency with winches and industrial strength cable.  Rigging an ancient ham radio to broadcast a signal out to other survivors across three continents, on the other hand, demands a working knowledge of transmitters, frequency, and electromagnetics.  Since there’s so much to learn, I suggest you start now.  Get to the library and check out books on subterranean agriculture, first aid, basic tank maintenance and repair, and hand to hand combat.  You might also want to take a cooking class, specifically one that specializes in creating healthy and nutritious meals out of expired canned goods, dog food, and whatever roadkill can be scraped out of your tank treads at the end of the day.

5.  Group up. Look for other survivors.  But be cautious.  Before throwing in with the first fellow refugees you see, observe them carefully to make sure they are not a) insane, b) violent criminals, or c) insufferably annoying.  This especially applies to people of the opposite sex, as there is a high probability that you will fall in love with one of them, get married in a casual civil ceremony over a wedding cake made of scavenged Twinkies, save each other repeatedly from those roving bands of lawless thugs, and feel honor-bound to do your part to help repopulate the earth.  On the positive side, the standards of beauty go way down when 98% of the world’s supermodels aren’t around for comparison.  Anyone with more than two teeth and the ability to string a complete sentence together should easily be able to find a soulmate after the armageddon.

6.  Start accumulating SPAM. As my brother-in-law pointed out to me, SPAM is truly the lynchpin of post-apocalyptic survival.  It’s portable, it’s packed with protein, and, properly sealed, it has a shelf-life of one million years.  (Note to nuclear meltdown survivors: irradiated SPAM lasts even longer.)  Also, while still in the can, it makes a handy blunt weapon, good for fending off marauders who are trying to make off with your carefully hoarded SPAM supply.

This concludes your disaster survival tutorial.  Of course, these are just the basics.  To a great degree, the end of the world is a learn-as-you-go proposition, so don’t worry if you never get around to taking those welding lessons or ordering that AK-47 off of ebay.  When the big one hits, just slip a can of SPAM into your pocket and take to the streets.  In the end, you’re only a little less likely to make it to Tomorrow-morrow Land than the rest of us.

I’ll even save you a seat in my tank.

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**Zombie Apocalypse would be a good name for a rock band.

Wii Boxing

The only thing more fun than playing Wii Boxing is watching Katie and Caleb Wii Boxing.  This is an older video I took when we were still in the apartment, and believe me when I say that they have only continued to hone their skills since then.  Who needs cable when you can see this?:

Ingalls

It’s official.  Our household is finally complete.  As of Saturday night, a garden gnome has taken up residence in our yard.

His name is Ingalls, and he hitched a ride here in a housewarming gift bag from our good friends Jim and Alyson*.  Rosy of cheek and blue of eye, he’s surprisingly well-mannered for a gnome, most of whom, I understand, are rather short-tempered when it comes to dealing with big people.

He’s a little camera-shy, but with a small box of Junior Mints and a promise to let him come in to watch HGTV from time to time, I did manage to coax him out of hiding for long enough to snap this quick picture by the hostas:

Isn’t he cute?  Don’t tell him I said that, though.  Gnomes hate to be called “cute”.  They prefer descriptors like “savage”, “mysterious”, and “ruggedly attractive in a Sam Elliott kind of way”.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was shouting in the streets about gnome liberation and the evils of oppressive gardening?  Well, in point of fact, it was three years ago.  Three years of growing dissatisfaction and disillusionment, watching the ideal of freedom for all gnomedom repeatedly smash up against the cold brick wall of reality.  Nobody in the GGLF talks about the ugly fallout of the gnome liberation movement: displaced gnomes starving in the streets, rejected by the simple woodland communities they used to call home, standing in unemployment lines (where many of them are trampled by unobservant human beings who, let’s face it, have the competitive edge when it comes to jobs hauling fifty pound bags of landscaping bark at Home Depot.)

I sensed intuitively that Ingalls didn’t want to talk about his past, but the haunted look in his eyes bespoke a life on the streets, running from stray cats and filching stale pizza crust out of the Valentino’s dumpster.  If I can give just one gnome a home, a job, and all the earthworms he can eat, how can that be inconsistent with my sincere desire to build a better life for all gnomekind?  After all, he’s free to come and go as he likes.

The Junior Mints are a token of solidarity.

So, the next time you come to visit us at (name of house yet to be decided), be sure to keep your eyes open for a glimpse of Ingalls among the rhodies and lilacs.

And for pity’s sake, watch where you step!

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*Also in the bag was this perfectly wonderful wall plaque, which I adore.  We hung it up over the entrance to the downstairs, to remind us how it all ends: