Trolltally Strange

I wrote this post a while ago, but in the interest of Christmas and toys and such...here it is now!

Right now I'm watching a YouTube video of a screechy person opening troll doll toys.  I'm sitting with my three-year-old niece, and this is one of her favorite "shows."  It's not a show.  It's a person opening toys.  The voice is...how can I describe this?  Think of the high-pitched voice that people use when they talk to babies, but then raise it another octave, make it way too excited, and then put it on the living room surround sound.

"THE NEW TROLL DOLLS ARE OUT! AAAEEEEEEEE! WHICH ONE WILL WE OPEN?  OOOO!  LET'S LOOK AT THIS FASHION GIRL, WHO HUGS ALL OF HER FRIENDS EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR!"

I'm sorry, are the excessive capital letters annoying you?  I promise it sounds a thousand times worse if you're listening to it.

Also, whose brilliant idea was it to make a character who hugs all of her friends every hour on the hour?  If anyone tries to hug me at three o'clock in the morning, they're probably going to get punched or kicked.  Ask my husband if you don't believe me.

Hold on, we have a new toy:

"WOWIE ZOWIE!  LOOK AT THIS NEW NAKED GLITTER TROLL!"

To be fair, if my skin was glitter I would probably be naked all the time too.

I'm supposed to be getting work done right now, but I can't tear my eyes off of this spectacle.  My face is a mix or horror and intrigue.  This video, my friends, has almost a million views.  A MILLION.  Apparently this is a whole channel dedicated to buying toys and opening them.  This culture of three-year-old consumerism is completely new to me.

Oh no, the one year old is trying to plug the laptop cord into his mouth.  Gotta go.

In case you want to view the horror for yourself, I'm putting the link here.  Warning: if you open this at work, make sure no one else is around.  Everyone who hears you watching this video is going to think you're a freak.

CLICK HERE IF YOU DON'T VALUE YOUR EARS

The Well-Trained Dog and the Living Cardinal

How much do you know about grouse hunting?

If your answer is, "What the heck is a grouse?" then you are in the vast majority of humanity.  I was you once.  Then I met my husband.  Now I'm married with a hunting dog and a coop full of training pigeons.  Life comes at you fast.

**Note** In case you care, a grouse is a bird.  It's about the size of a chicken.  Also, since we get this question a lot, no our pigeons do not die in the course of training.  They're homing pigeons, so once the dog finds them in a field then we launch them into the air with a pigeon launcher (yes, this is a real thing), and they fly home.  Okay.  Glad we covered the logistics.  On to my story.

Yesterday I tried to get our dog Ruby to come in from the back yard.  I called her, but she wouldn't come.  I went outside to investigate, and she was on point.  This means she was frozen in place, pointing out a bird for a non-existent hunter to shoot.  I think it was a cardinal or something.  Definitely not a food bird.  I didn't take a picture, but here's what our type of dog looks like when she's on point:

My husband wasn't home, and I couldn't remember what he usually says to make Ruby break point.  I tried a few things:

"At ease!"

"Un-point!"

"You're free!"

"GREEN LIGHT!"

Nothing worked.  She moved only her eyeballs to look at me like, "Hello...shoot the bird..."

She's fifty pounds, so I wasn't about to go pick up her frozen-in-place body and haul her inside (on second thought, it would have been hilarious if she tried to hold the pose while I was carrying her!).  Suddenly, I had the perfect idea.

I went inside and pulled out our Wild West board game called Bang.  There's a cap gun in that game that's really loud.  I walked back outside and tried to call Ruby in again.  She stayed on point (shocker).

I pointed the gun in the general direction of the bird and shot.  BANG!  Ruby was satisfied and immediately ran to me happily like, "Did you get it?  Wasn't that awesome?!"  Whatever, dog.  I probably gave the poor bird a tiny heart attack.

Now our neighbors probably think we're the nutter house.  Well, that ship probably sailed long ago.  They're simply marking this up as one more reason to move:  "Hey, Maude! Crazy chick next door is shooting cardinals!  Did you call on that house over on the other side of town yet?"

IT WAS A CAP GUN, PEOPLE.  NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG POST.

Living in the Inside of a Butt (and How I Avoided It)

"Does our house always smell this way?!"

I had just gotten home from an overnight trip, and my house smelled disgusting.  If I had an air freshener to describe the smell, I think it would have been called "the inside of a butt."  Or, alternatively, it may have been closer to "food someone put in a garbage disposal...five weeks ago."  Whatever it was called, it was bad.

This made me wonder - what if our house really smells that bad all the time, and we don't notice it because we live there?!  Are we known on our street as the stinky people?  Do my clothes smell like that?  This was completely unacceptable.  My husband said it wasn't that bad, but he also has no problem with the smell of pickled eggs or deer guts.  He's not a very good judge.

The next day, as soon as I got out of work, I went to the grocery store and bought all of the cleaning supplies.  I bought a dishwasher cleaner, a garbage disposal cleaner, a refrigerator cleaner, new cat litter, new bedding for the rat (long story on the rat...), something to wash surfaces...cleaners I'd never heard of but that looked pretty clean...the person at the checkout must have thought I was nutty.  I went home and went on a cleaning rampage.  It was an all-out war: me versus the smell.

I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.  I went through all of our food and threw out anything questionable.  I cleaned out all of the pet areas.  I threw the rat in a pot of water in order to clean her.  I couldn't catch the cat to clean her, but also I think she would have scratched my face off if I'd tried.

By the time my husband got home, I was a bit ragged.  My hair was in a messy pony tail, and I was wearing stained sweatpants and a neon green crew neck sweatshirt.  I thought my house was much cleaner (even if I was dirtier), and I couldn't smell the smell anymore.  Still, I wondered if maybe I'd just gotten used to it because I'd been wallowing in the stench for a few hours.  My husband asked if I could run to the grocery store with him.  PERFECT: the opportunity to exit the smell chamber and then come back.

At the grocery store, I discovered an aisle that I forgot to pillage previously: the air fresheners.  How did I forget the air fresheners!?  I squealed with glee and started pulling things off of the shelves.  Did I want my house to smell "fun and flirty" or "crisp and clean"?  "Sweet and sassy" or "floral and frisky"?  How does something smell frisky?  Is this the same base scent as flirty?  I could also choose scents such as clean linens, midnight woods, Hawaiian flowers, or new car smell.  So many choices, so few rooms in my house.

I started throwing things in the cart.  There were wall plug-ins, order absorbing gels and beads (better buy both to see which works better), spray scents, wax melts... I wanted them all.  My husband walked into my aisle and said, "What are you doing!?  We do not need that many air fresheners!"

I got a wild look in my eye, waved my neon green arms around, and said (a little too loudly), "I WILL NOT LIVE IN THE INSIDE OF A BUTT!  I WILL NOT!"  Some other people in the aisle gave me a strange look and scuttled quickly away.  My husband laughed, put his hands up in surrender, and said, "Whatever.  You are strange."

I asked him which sounded better: clean linens or fresh linens?  Because you want linens to be clean, but also everyone likes the scent of fresh.  How was I supposed to choose?!  Here's how: buy them all.

I ended up going with a linens theme and basically bought all of the linen scents.  I put a plug-in in one room, some scented beads in another, gel in another, etc.  I still don't know what originally caused the bad odor, but I can confidently say that my house no longer smells like the inside of a butt.  Instead, it smells like someone recently hung up fresh, clean linens.  It smells just like that, assuming that the place they hung the fresh linens was in a chemical factory.

Here's a thought I just had: what if the unfortunate smell was simply my husband farting right when we walked in the door from our trip, and I did all of this work for nothing?!

Alas.  We shall never know.  In other news, come on over - my house is clean, and it smells great.

Man Oh Man

Sometimes living with a man can be difficult - just ask anyone who's been married to one.

Living with TWO men?  Oh boy, that one's in a league of it's own.

For the past month, I've been living with two men: my husband and also his best friend Jake.  I got a text while on a grant trip in New York that Jake needed a place to stay for a while, so could he move in with us?  I really need to stop taking these trips.  Last year when I was in Japan, Rex bought a truck.  I tried to make a "no major decisions while I'm out of town" rule, but so far it isn't going great.

So I got him from the trip, and - voila! - a new roommate.  He's cool and fairly low maintenance, so in all reality I really don't mind him living here.  In case you were wondering, though, HERE are some ways my life has changed now that I live with two guys:

1. The toilet seat is never down, ever.  I have to always remember to look before I sit.  Rex was pretty well potty trained on this one before Jake came, but the convenience of having the seat up all the time must have been too alluring.  All progress has been lost.

2. Table manners?  What table manners?  Dinner at our house is always fun, but let's just say I'm glad my grandma never comes over for dinner.  She could out-manners Emily Post, and these guys couldn't out-manners most first graders.  First of all, we have to cook a LOT of food.  Probably 8-10 servings of whatever we're cooking should be good...for the three of us.  Then, while my napkin is neatly folded in my lap and I'm taking dainty bites, they have their phones out, they have their elbows on the table, they burp (which is apparently funny) and fart (which is apparently hilarious).  I sometimes look around, hoping that one of my girlfriends is going to drop in from the ceiling or ninja jump off of a wall to rescue me from yet another discussion about guns, fishing, or poop.

3. Man Code.  I don't understand man code.  To the best of my knowledge, guys use it to prove macho-ness on completely random and pointless things.  Case in point: I went grocery shopping with Jake, and when we got home I planned to take the groceries inside in two trips.  He said, "Sorry, man code only permits me to take one trip.  Hand me that case of water bottles...and that other case of water bottles..."  I told him we should really take two trips, but I've learned that man code trumps logic.  We ended up with water bottles sprawled around my garage floor and me glaring at Jake, but he kept to the code.  Apparently this is a win?  Men are a strange species.

4. Bewbs (and Other Funnies). I have a very nice display on our fireplace mantel.  I used gold frames to frame four pictures of letters: W-E-B-B.  How sweet, right?  Our last name proudly displayed in our first home.  Well, I came downstairs the other morning, and Jake had turned W-E-B-B into B-E-W-B.  That spells bewb, which isn't even a word, but it sounds like "boob" and therefore hahahahaha that is so, um, funny? *squinty eyed annoyed emoji here*  Rex thought it was belly-laugh worthy.  Our last name is an anagram for a misspelled body part!  BWAHAHAHA.  Man sense of humor is weird.  Fortunately, I teach junior high boys.  I am well-versed in fart jokes and the fact that the word "naked" is comical.  I guess I always thought they grew out of that at some point, but I was clearly mistaken.  Either that, or it takes longer than twenty-seven years.  Time will tell.

5. For the Love of Dogs.  I love dogs.  I love the dogs I have, and I preemptively love the dogs I will one day have (here's looking at you, pug!).  The thing is, though, that there's something about a man and his dog.  Dogs are "man's best friend" for a reason. It's sweet to watch the guys love on their dogs, but when Jake tries to train Moon to bite my leg off and Rex lets Ruby sleep in our bed YET AGAIN, then sometimes I wonder if it's possible for this love to go a little far.  The other day Jake's underwear was all over the house because he was trying to train Moon to pick up underwear.  It apparently didn't go well. I'm drowning in dog fur, and I constantly have to watch my back while cooking because someone is always trying to steal the food (mostly dogs, sometimes men).

As much as I laugh at Rex and Jake (which is a lot), I have to admit that there are perks to having two men around.  I never have to open my own jar lids.  If I want to do a home improvement project (like the stairwell project I've been putting off for a year), I've got two guys to help me out!  Also, I don't have the opportunity to take life too seriously because I'm always laughing.  I'll be stressed for a second, but then the two of them are over in a corner laughing about the fact that the burnt piece of pie filling looks like poop, and isn't that funny?  And then I start laughing too because no, it's not funny, but the fact that two grown men are laughing about it is a little funny.  Then I have to walk over and turn all of the magnets on the refrigerator right side up because Jake has turned them upside down again, and by that time I've forgotten what I'm stressed about.

If I have to live with two men, at least I'm living with two pretty awesome ones.  It's a bit odd as a living arrangement, true, but we're having a lot of fun.

Almost Hipster

I like to write in a hipster-type coffee shop downtown in my city.  It's pretty fabulous: think exposed brick walls, floor tiles older than me, and a teal and neon green ceiling.  The ceiling almost distracts patrons from the metal pipes zigzagging right below it.  The shop has fair trade everything, baristas who wear skeleton shirts and call you "dude" even if you're a girl, and a clientele including mostly millennial generation tattooed people with Coexist stickers on their cars and backpacks.

Today I decided to try to fully assimilate with this crowd.  I can be one of them! I thought optimistically.  This came about because our car broke down (again).  If we were rich, my husband might have bought me a new car so that I could stop driving mine.  It's as old as a high school junior.  We're not rich, however, so he bought me the next best (aka most affordable thing): a bike lock!  I have a bike I bought for $10 at a garage sale  earlier this summer, and that bike paired with my new shiny bike lock gave me UNLIMITED FREEDOM!  Unlimited freedom within about a ten mile radius around my house, that is.  Hey, at least I don't have to stay home all day.

I quickly decided I would bike to my coffee shop.  Showing up on a bike would be so hipster, I decided.  I'm protecting the environment.  People who drive cars are melting the polar ice caps and clearly hate baby polar bears.  I am proving my love for baby polar bears by riding a bike instead of driving today.

Armed with that wonderfully hipster thought, I decided to continue my trend.  What else could I do to fit in?  I tried to find my husband's thick-rimmed square glasses so I could wear them while working.  I think thick-rimmed glasses always make people look suave and intelligent.  20/20 vision is for idiots.  I don't actually need glasses, but I could have worn them for a while to get the right "look."  Alas, I couldn't find them.

Then I decided to put on a temporary tattoo, because everyone here has tattoos.  I know I have some from an old bachelorette party somewhere.  They're mostly cheesy hearts or dice that say "lucky in love" or other weird things like that. I would have to hope people didn't look too closely at my tattoo.  Unfortunately, I couldn't find the tattoos.  My hipster look was not going as planned.

While looking for the tattoos, I found a great scarf that my grandma gave me a while ago.  It's made of 100% all natural materials, and I bet in a pinch I could probably eat it or smoke it.  It would be perfect for a place like this!  The problem with the scarf was that it's the middle of August (aka HOT), and I would be riding across town on my bike.  In retrospect, though, I regret not bringing the scarf.  I could have rocked it.

I finally decided on faded jeans, a neon green shirt, and a ponytail.  I was going to wear no makeup (because natural is beautiful, dude), but then I had to put on a little makeup.  I mean, you never know when you might run into an ex-boyfriend or the mayor or something.  I didn't want to look scary.  Me without any make-up is a little scary.

Now I'm sitting here writing this blog and drinking my iced tea.  I almost ordered my tea "on the rocks" to sound cool, but I wasn't sure if that would make me sound hipster or just vaguely alcoholic.  I decided I'm still a Level 1 hipster.  I might even be below Level 1 if that's an option.  It's a while before I will be advanced enough to try zippy lingo and wear no makeup.

Once I'm finished writing this blog post I'll go back to working on my novel.  When people ask why I go to this shop so much and I say, "to work on my book," they get all judgy.  They give me the sympathetically amused glance that adults give to high schoolers who say that they're "in a band" and they're "going to make it someday."  You know what I think?  I think that for every garage band that didn't make it, they had countless hours of fun banging away on keyboards and feasting on dreams.  What's wrong with that?  It's better than binge-watching Netflix or smoking crack, amirite? (That's "am I right," but a hip and fun way to write it.  You'd understand if you were cool).  Anyway,  I like writing.  Even if my novels never see a bookshelf, I won't stop writing them.  Let me enjoy banging away on my keyboard and feasting on my dreams.  Different type of keyboard, same principle.

Gotta go.  My favorite indie rock song just came on (kidding.  I don't listen to indie rock.  I'm not even exactly sure what it is).

Going Native

“Going native” is a term anthropologists use when, while studying a group or culture, they end up becoming assimilated into the group itself.  They’re no longer outsiders, but truly become “one of them” with the group they’re studying.

I think I might be going native.

I wish I had before and after pictures of my trip to Key Biscayne.  When I arrived at my grandma’s house almost a week ago, I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, sneakers, and very little make-up.  My hair was in a ponytail.  That night when I got ready for bed, I wore leggings and a tank top.  Pretty standard Michigan attire, right?

Well.  This morning I woke up wearing a long silky nightgown (because why would I wear a T-SHIRT to bed??  How terribly boring).  I went into my bathroom and changed into a flirty, sparkling pink sundress.  It is pale pink and sparkles wherever the light hits it.  It doesn’t have sequins on it or anything (because that would be terribly gauche, which is a new word I learned and now use a lot), but it has almost microscopic glitter pieces that basically make me look like a movie star.  I slipped on my strappy nude high-heeled sandals, and I smiled at the fact that my pearlescent pink toenails matched my dress perfectly.  I used my French-manicured fingers to apply a full face of makeup and sweep my hair into a horizontal French twist.  Nana taught me this hairdo, and it looks awesome.  Finally, I smiled at myself in the mirror, and I decided I was ready for breakfast.

FOR BREAKFAST.

We weren’t even going out.  I was eating breakfast with my grandma in the dining room off of her kitchen, and I was dressed for an A-list cocktail party.  Oh well.  Such is life here.  When I came out to breakfast, Nana smiled her approval and told me I looked great.  Yay!  We ended up spending the day at a botanical garden and then going to a bookstore.  At one point, Nana said, “It’s appalling how people don’t take the time to look nice when they go out anymore.”  I nodded my approval while daintily enjoying an expensive chocolate mousse with Fiji water (I PAID for water, people.  I’ve got it bad).  We also valet parked at a Barnes and Noble.  Why would I want to find a parking space and then walk all the way to a store?  That’s ridiculous!  Oh boy.  I think I'm getting a bit spoiled.

Stop judging me.  It wouldn’t take you long to go native here either.  It’s like you magically get everything you want, sometimes even before you know you want it.  I know that life isn’t always rainbows and butterflies, but today literally was.  I saw hundreds of butterflies at the gardens, and then while swimming in the ocean I saw a vibrant rainbow arch across the sky.  It was amazing.

I’ll be honest; I’m not really ready to go home.  At home, I have to actually cook my own food.  I don’t valet park.  If I wore today’s outfit to Barnes and Noble, people would ask me why I’m so dressed up.  I like living like a princess!  Is that so bad!?

Alas, the carriage always turns back into a pumpkin.  Magic doesn’t last forever.  I should just be thankful that I have an honest-to-goodness prince charming at home, and he’s never turned into a frog.  If I get to keep one piece of magic, I guess I’ll pick that one.  I’ll leave the rainbows and butterflies here for now, but I hope I’m going to come back again soon!

The End of World War II

Last night I sat chatting with my grandma, and I randomly asked what it was like growing up in England during World War II.  I'm not really sure why I asked...I guess because I did a lot of study on World War II last year in Japan and Germany, and I realized that there aren't that many eyewitness accounts left.

Anyway, I thought her answer was super interesting, so I'm blogging it here because I don't want to forget it.  If I ever teach history again, or if some future generation wants to hear this story, I don't have to try to remember back to this week and figure out what exactly she said.  I'm going to do my best to replicate the story, so here goes:

"I was three when the war started and nine when the war ended.  You might think it was an unhappy childhood, but it really wasn't.  You'd be amazed how much abnormal things can become completely normal over time.  Almost every night we would gather up our pillows and blankets, and amid the sounds of sirens we would walk across the yard and go into the bomb shelter behind our house.  I had a Mickey Mouse gas mask that I always brought with me.  Then we would climb into our little bunks in the bomb shelter and sleep there until morning.  Our area got bombed a lot because we lived near a large port, and Hitler didn't want resources to be imported or exported from England for obvious reasons.  We didn't get any food from overseas.  I didn't see a banana or a tangerine until after the war was over.  You could only eat the things you grew yourself...every family had a victory garden.  My dad knew a local doctor, so we got some treats like butter.  We were happy.  We had what we needed, you know?  But I will never forget the night the war ended.  I couldn't believe it: we had the biggest bonfire, and it was OUTSIDE AT NIGHT.  That was so crazy because we were never allowed to have any lights on at night.  Not even a flashlight or a candle.  We didn't want the bomb planes to find us, you know?  So every night was completely black for years and years, and suddenly we had this huge bonfire.  It was the craziest thing.  The entire neighborhood came to the bonfire; everyone was laughing and dancing.  Even the neighbors who didn't like each other or used to gossip about each other didn't care about anything except celebrating.  My parents said my siblings and I could stay up all night long if we wanted.  We said we definitely would!  Of course, we didn't actually do that because we were kids and kids get too tired, but I wanted to for sure.  The next day there was a huge block party because everyone wanted to continue celebrating, so we had a big potluck and spent all day outside with our neighbors again.  Everyone was so happy - you wouldn't believe all the joy and happiness."

I guess war stories are always so sad that it was nice to hear one that was pretty happy.  I wish I could have been there on the night of that bonfire.  I wish they all had smartphones back then and Nana could show me the YouTube videos of that night,  I guess all I can do to get information about her life is to spend a lot more time asking and listening.  I'm lucky that my grandma is so healthy that I still have the chance to do this!  If you have living grandparents, don't miss these opportunities.  Think of all of the stories that could be lost if you don't take the time to ask.

Not Your Average Visit to Grandma's

Visiting grandparents can be a real treat.  I love my grandma.  If you have a grandma, you probably love her too.  Everyone loves grandmas!  It's not until I visit mine, however, that I remember how much my grandma is unlike most grandmas.  She's a little...outside the box.  Like, if "the box" is the size of a hopscotch square, my grandma is on the other side of the entire frickin' playground.

And she's fabulous.

Let me break this down for you in a few different categories:

Category 1: Arriving at Grandma's house

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  You drive across town, maybe a couple hours at most.  You show up at your grandma's house, and she answers the door with a "Hello, dearie!"  You see the thready couches in ridiculous patterns that were in style back when Grandma got married.  Perhaps she just made fresh cookies.

MY GRANDMA:  First of all, I fly to the southern tip of Florida.  Then I give the cab driver my grandma's address.  He looks surprised, and in his thick Latin American accent he says, "Your grandma - she live in a very nice place."  Cool.  Go Nana.  He drives me to her complex, and he has to stop at the guard house to see if I'm on the guest list (I am - phew!).  When I finally get to Nana's apartment, she gives me a hug and turns off the TV show she's been watching...in French.  I step into the pages of Vogue (if they made a Vogue for interior decorating, that is).  Everything is so...white.  The couches, the floors, the curtains, the lilies on either side of the couch, the desk, the desk chair I'm sitting in...it's all so clean.  I have no idea how she keeps it that clean.  I compliment her new crystal chandelier (because it's beautiful like whoa), and she says that it's Swarovski.  Of course it is.  She says she would have rather picked something more unique, though, because it's so common to have Swarovski chandeliers nowadays, isn't it?  I guess the fad hasn't hit my neighborhood.

Category 2: Dinner at Grandma's

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  You probably sit down to some homemade meal that is her "special recipe."  Perhaps it's been passed down from her grandma.  If she doesn't feel like cooking, maybe you order a pizza.

MY GRANDMA:  I get dressed up to go to dinner at the Yacht Club with some board members from NYC's Museum of Modern Art, and I freak out that I'm not going to remember what fork to use or how to butter my roll correctly or something.  Then I remember that my Grandma has been teaching me these manners since I was five, so I'm probably fine.  At dinner, one of the ladies says, "Did you hear about the first lady of Mexico?"  I think she's going to follow this up with some interesting news tidbit, and I take a sip of water,  Then I almost spit out the water when another lady says, "the president's wife?  I forgot...does she live in our building or the next one over?"  They aren't talking about news...they are talking about their neighbors!  Ahhh!  What is this world??  I feel like Jack when he ate with the first class passengers of the Titanic.

Category 3: Grandma's Clothes

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S: She's probably wearing a cotten crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered kittens on it.  Maybe something that says "Grandkids are gifts from the heart."  Also, she's wearing extreme mom jeans, because - after all - doesn't being a grandma make you an extreme mom?  If she ever gets rid of clothes, you think "You probably should have gotten rid of those decades ago."

MY GRANDMA: Soon after I arrive at my Grandma's house, she says, "I'm getting rid of some clothes...would you like to take a look at them before I do?"  I immediately think "YES!" because when my Nana gets rid of clothes, they are usually designer and fabulous.  I am not let down this time.  We shop in her walk-in closet, and I come out with three new pairs of shoes, shirts, pants, dresses, and jackets...all designer, many with tags still on (which is strange to me, but she says she orders things and then never gets around to taking them back.  Works for me).  I briefly look at a tag and worry about wearing a gold shimmery suit-like jacket that cost a couple hundred dollars - what if I spill on it or something?? How on earth would I wash it? - but then I remember that she was getting rid of it anyway, and I start dreaming of date locations where I can wear this jacket.  Rex, if you're reading this - can we start saving for a night at Zazios?  This jacket would look PHENOM at Zazios.

Category 4: Grandma's gifts

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S: Grandmas love to give gifts!  She probably gives you a plate of cookies, some cash in a birthday card, maybe an awesome trinket she found at a garage sale (that's what my grandkids would get if I was ever a grandma...I love garage sales).

MY GRANDMA:  We go shopping at Macy's to look for a dress I need for an upcoming wedding.  It has to be a floor-length gown, red-carpet style dress (if you knew my friend Carly, the bride, you would understand).  I try on a couple gowns, then get a bit distracted by some work-style dresses...then - oh look! - sundresses are on sale.  Nana offers to go put the dresses on hold with a worker until I can finish shopping and decide which ones I want.  Awersome, thanks Nana.  Then she comes back and says, "Actually, I just bought all of them.  It's easier that way.  They're being shipped to your house in Michigan."  WHAT?!?!?!  I try to insist that I don't need the whole pile of dresses, especially multiple EVENING GOWNS, but she says they are already purchased so I might as well stop whining about it.  Wow...ummm...thanks Nana.  Gulp.  Also, prior to this dress incident, she gifted me with some beautiful silk and lace lingerie.  Definitely not your average grandma gift.  She chose it and said, "I think Rex will probably like this."  I mean, yeah, probably, but for me to get that gift from my grandma???  What grandma thinks of that (and chooses something so beautiful)?  Mine, that's who.

Catergory 5: What have you been up to lately, Grandma?

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  Your grandma has probably been very busy lately.  She goes to her knitting club, maybe grabs lunch with some friends, or goes to doctor's appointments (no judgement, grandmas of the world...this is a begrudging hobby of mine as well).  She reads the obituaries every day to see who died recently (oops, wait, that habit was just Rex's grandma - haha!  It always made me laugh).

MY GRANDMA:  She shows me some pictures from her recent trip to England, where she stayed with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire in their castle.  Nana's sister-in-law was donating a fantastic piece of art, so they were all there for the installation.  At first I think she might be exaggerating a little bit about this trip, but then I see the pictures and realize she's not.  I wonder what it would be like to meet a duchess.  Then I wonder if Nana can also knit.  I feel like all grandmas should knit, royalty or no royalty.  Note to self: ask her about this.

My grandma lives in a different world than me...one that includes guard houses, the first lady of Mexico, designer clothes, and put-it-all-on-my-card shopping sprees.  You know what, though?  At the heart of it all, she really is like other grandmas.  She's so proud of me no matter what I do, and she loves me with the rosy glasses that don't see my failures.  She loves to talk about "the good old days" and how today's youth is all messed up. She's a pleasant person.  There are not too many curmudgeonly grandmas out there, and mine is no exception.  She's so much fun!  I'm really blessed to have her in my life, and I'm so glad that I flew down for a visit.  I hope I'll be back soon.

Now We've Got Bad Blood

The title of this post is an obvious reference to a Talyor Swift song, except I’m pretty sure she was writing about a guy. I’m using the title to write about my brain tumor. Despite that difference, Ms. Swift and I have a lot in common. By “a lot,” I mean we both know what it’s like to get unfortunate phone calls from men. A Jonas brother broke up with her in a twenty-seven second phone call, and I got a call from my endocrinologist last night in which he told me my blood work came back with bad news. Her bad blood was metaphorical, but mine’s literal. Let’s not compare our pain.

He was, after all, a Jonas brother.

The doctor called at almost ten o’clock last night, which should have tipped me off immediately that it was bad news. Doctors never call that late. If they do, it’s never to say something like, “Just thought I’d let you know – you’re totally and mysteriously cured!” or “I found a stray puppy and thought it might cheer you up; I’ll be dropping him off in ten minutes.” Nope. They always do that sigh where they don’t want to say what they’re about to say, but they can’t pass the unpleasant task off to a lesser minion. Then your heart sinks and you wonder, “Oh no, how bad is it this time?”

Is it bad that I am familiar with this process? That I’ve gotten enough of these calls to know exactly how they go? I could probably do them myself. I should tell the doctor, “Next time just e-mail me the numbers and save us both the trouble. I’ll call myself and break the news gently.” I might put my husband’s lab coat and square-rimmed glasses on my dog and pretend he’s the one telling me. Bad news would be less scary if it came from a beagle.

The bad news is that my blood results showed certain hormone levels four times above normal adult levels, which probably means that my tumor is growing. There’s a bit of irony there: I can’t keep plants alive (at all), there’s a good shot I can’t ever get pregnant, but my body apparently does a darn good job at nurturing a tumor. Thanks, body. You’re a gem. I’d rather you had the ability to grow some healthy cilantro, but I don’t get to choose these things.

Anyway, the doctor’s trying to devise our next plan of attack on this little dude. It’s not cancerous, it shouldn’t kill me, but it does a pretty fabulous job of messing up my life. It’s like I’m in a dysfunctional relationship. “It’s not you, tumor, it’s me. Actually, no it’s you. I think it’s time for us to break up.” Then, just when I think my brain is rid of him for good, the tumor comes crawling back and my brain is all, “Come here, ya knucklehead. Let’s give this thing another shot.” Because my brain is frickin crazy, that’s why.

I have to go back on a med I was on a while ago, and I need to double the dose. I told the doctor that last time I was on that pill (taken once a week), I would be sick for the entire day after I took it. It was pretty bad, stuck-on-the-couch-waiting-for-it-to-end sick. I usually took the pill on Friday nights, spent my Saturday on the couch, and then recovered on Sunday to get ready for another week. The doctor says I have to take it anyway because we want to be “aggressive” on getting my numbers back to healthy levels. Now I’m supposed to take that same pill, and I have to take it twice a week. I’m supposed to torch two days a week for at least the next six months?! How am I supposed to do that? I think I’ll torch Mondays. Everyone hates Mondays. Imagine a wonderful pill that lets you skip Mondays! This is going to get complicated with work and everything, but we’ll figure that out later. Right now I’m dreaming of a Monday-less life. Who knows? Maybe this drug won’t make me sick this time. That was years ago. I’m practically a new woman now. Since that time in my life I’ve traveled the world, I’ve voted for a Democrat, I’ve learned how to make the perfect apple pie, I’ve dyed my hair purple, and…I’ve trained my body to better metabolize drugs?! (something like that…)

So. I’ve got bad blood results, but at least we have a plan. I lamented to Rex last night that with all of my health issues, my life expectancy has to be quickly dropping. I sighed and said I’m probably not going to live to see forty. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “Neither of us are even going to live to see thirty if Trump becomes president. The rest of the world will nuke us off the map.” And that’s why I love Rex – because he can make me laugh when I would prefer to kick a wall.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. New pills start soon.

Waiting...get me out of here...

I’m sitting in my endocrinologist’s office, and the doctor is running incredibly late.  I've been sitting in here for an hour.

This room is so….white. Why do medical offices have to be aggressively white? I understand that they’re supposed to look sterile, but they end up looking stark and scary. I’m in an albino room. It’s not natural. There’s a slightly peach model of a swollen thyroid on the counter, but I’m trying not to look at it. It’s disgusting.

I’m here to get a checkup on my brain tumor, and you would think that after nine years of various endocrinologists, this process would be old hat. Nope. Always scary. It doesn’t help when the receptionists are extremely mean, the other patients look just as scared as I am, and the only friendly person around is the lady on the waiting room TV smiling while she talks about genital yeast infections.

If I ever ruled the world, I would make the word “genital” an expletive. It’s so clinical and just…ew, but the lady on the TV was awfully cheery about it. Why can’t they show something nice and calming on a waiting room TV? Or stand-up comedy? THAT’S a great idea. Let people laugh so they won’t cry. Instead, we have to watch creepy health shows. Or we can read totally obscure magazines like Osteoporosis and You.

The doctor is still not here, so I will take this opportunity to tell you about the meanie receptionists. The first receptionist totally ignored me when I got here. I stood there in front of her window awkwardly for a minute until she finally snapped, “Can I HELP you?” in a way that meant that was the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. I said I was here to see Dr. H. She rolled her eyes and said, “then you need to check in with the endocrine center.” I think it took all of her willpower not to add “duh” at the end of that. I looked up at the glass window that clearly said “Endocrine Center.” There was another lady sitting to the right of that sign, but there was no partition between the lady I was talking to and the lady I apparently needed to talk to. They could have shaken hands. I’m sure they’ve borrowed pencils from other. Yet CLEARLY I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN to talk to the lady on the right instead of the left. Oops.

I finally talked to the correct lady, and she was wearing a pin that said “Miracles happen!” I’m pretty sure she meant that to be encouraging, but I found it annoying. For those of us on my side of the counter, no miracles have happened. We’re there because we still have our tumors, our diabetes, our whatevers, and the trite encouragement from a piece of plastic felt less than genuine.

I have to go to the bathroom. What if you have to go to the bathroom while in a doctor’s office? I’d better hold it. I don’t want them to think I left. The nurse outside my door is calling patients and saying things such as, “Hi, is this Jane Smith? Hi, I’m calling to give you the new dosage of ______ drug that you’re taking. Take two tablets once a day with meals, okay? Okay.”

I can clearly hear all of this from my room. I could type you a list of a bunch of local residents and the drugs they’re on. Isn’t this some sort of HIPAA issue? It seems like it to me, but hey – I’m no doctor. I’m the invisible patient with a brain tumor. Don’t mind me.

So here I am, an hour and a half after my scheduled appointment time, chilling out in an albino room with a plastic inflamed thyroid. I really have to go to the bathroom. I’ve spent hours more pointless ways than this…probably. I’m struggling to think of one at the moment, but I’m sure it’s happened.

Doctor’s here. Gotta go.

Eyelashes Gone Wild

This is the story of a great friend, an ending deployment, and some eyelashes that wouldn't let go.

As I type this, my cousin Danielle is getting ready to move back to Kansas.  She may have even left by now.  I'm so glad that she's headed there, because her husband is coming home soon from his deployment in Kuwait (YAY!).  She'll have her husband back.  Her kids will have their dad back.  It's 99% happy, but 1% sad because she's leaving a lot of family back here who love her very much.  Her parents are here, most of her siblings are here, and a lot of her cousins are here, including one sitting in a downtown coffee shop thinking about how much I am going to miss her and those fabulously crazy kids.  NOW who will I take to Chuck E. Cheese?  NOW who will call me their aunt even though I'm not?  NOW who will force me to watch Paw Patrol?  No one, that's who.

Yesterday I was supposed to go say goodbye to Dani and her kids when I got out of work.  I texted when I was on my way, and I got a call when I was about halfway to her house:  "Meet me at the mall," she said.  "Right now.  This day is NOT GOING WELL."

"What's wrong?"  I asked.  Dani is almost never alone away from her kids, and I knew she wasn't planning to be at the mall this afternoon.  Also, what kind of catastrophe happens at the mall?

"I got false eyelashes put on because I thought it would be good to look nice for Jordan, you know?  I was like, 'Oh, great idea, this will look pretty and be low maintenance while we move to Kansas.'  But then the lady put them on, and I look like a TOTAL STRIPPER.  Like, it is BAD.  So I asked her to take them off, and she can't because they're superglued or whatever, and she doesn't have anything that can get them off!"

I have to admit, I was skeptical at first.  "What do you mean she can't take them off?  They're false eyelashes.  Just take them off."  I quickly assessed the streets I was on and tried to figure out the best way to get to the mall.  I turned around in a parking lot and headed toward the eyelash disaster.  Dani kept talking.

"I know!  I had no idea it would be this difficult!  I've gone to every salon at the mall.  Apparently no one can take these off without yanking out my real eyelashes, and I want to have SOME eyelashes!  One salon said that the owner is coming in at 3:30, and she might have some goo that could dissolve the adhesive.  I'm waiting in the food court for her to get here.  Are you here yet?  Ugh.  They're so itchy.  I hate them!  And they look awful. I look scary."

"Dani, I'm sure they're not that bad," I assured her.  "Maybe you'll get used to them."

"Nope, not happening.  I promise.  They're terrible.  Wait till you see."

"You're exaggerating," I responded.  Even as I said it, I thought in the back of my mind that Dani is not really the type of person to exaggerate.  She's one of the most chill, go-with-the-flow people I've ever met.  I started getting pretty curious about this.  I drove faster.  "I'll be right there," I said.  "Where exactly are you?"

"In the food court, to the right of the carousel.  Ugh.  Hurry up."  We hung up, and I finally drove into the mall parking lot.  I grabbed my purse and headed in to assess the situation.  When I walked in, I quickly found Danielle.  I was completely determined to say, "They're not that bad," but here's the thing about me: I'm a really bad liar.   Plus, when she saw my face, she burst out laughing, so then I started laughing too.  "It's fine," I finally said.  "The lady with the remover will be here in ten minutes, it will all be back to normal, and this will be a really funny story."

"Right," she said, teetering on that perilous line between laughing and crying.  "It will be funny when they're off,"

"It's a little funny now..." I said, making her smile. "I really wish you had a blog, because this would be a great post."

"You blog it," she said.  "Someone might as well get some entertainment out of this!"  And, as a side bonus, now she can always remember this story (Hi Dani!).

We went to wait in the white egg-shaped chairs of the mall salon, and the workers looked at Danielle sympathetically.  "She should be here soon," one of the workers said, referring to the eyelash redeemer.  Danielle rubbed her eyes again, complaining that the eyelashes were so itchy and heavy.

"This is awful," she said, sinking back into her chair.  "I used to be a LuLaRoe consultant, but people are going to start calling me a LuLaHo consultant.  Why did this have to happen today?  If I had a first date or something, I would cancel it for a week or two.  I can't cancel my husband coming home from deployment!  He's going to think his wife turned into a freak!"

"What did you tell the lady you wanted?" I wondered.  I wanted to know what type of order produced these eyelashes.

"I said I wanted natural!" Danielle whined.  "Natural!  Like I was wearing mascara! And then she did this, and I said it didn't look natural, but the lady said, 'I know, but you look beautiful instead of natural!'"  That threw me into another fit of laughter, because that's a pretty rude thing to say.  Dani started laughing again too, because laughter tends to be contagious.

"You're going to be fine," I assured her.  "The lady is almost here."

As if on cue, the owner of the salon walked in.  The receptionist pointed to Dani, and the owner walked over.

"Can you fix me?" Danielle asked before even introducing herself.  Her voice was filled with equal parts hope and desperation.  The lady took one look at the eyelashes and said, "Whoa.  I make no promises.  Come on back and let me take a look."

I wished Dani luck and went to wait in my egg chair.  A couple minutes later, Dani and the owner came back out of the room.  Dani still had the eyelashes.

"She says it will take over an hour," Danielle said.  "I have to come back later."

"But she can do it?" I asked.  "That's great!  See?  It's all going to be okay!"

"I think I can do it," the owner interrupted, "but it will take a while.  This is no quick fix.  They're like...fuzzy creatures."

That is literally the phrase she used: "fuzzy creatures."  Danielle made an appointment to come back later, but she didn't want to wait for a 7:00 appointment.  She wanted the eyelashes off immediately.  We went to two other area salons, and at both they looked at her sympathetically but said there was nothing they could do.  Finally we went to Sally's Beauty Supply, but guess what?  They were all out of eyelash remover.  The designated place on the shelf was there, but that place was empty.

This was really not Danielle's day.

Finally we found a kit of fake eyelashes, and the kit came with a tiiiiiny bottle of remover.  We're talking maybe a quarter of an ounce, but maybe that was all we would need!  Success!  Danielle took the setup to the register.

"Will this take THESE off my face?" she asked, pointing to her face as if it was infested with something disgusting.  The lady at the cash register nodded.

"It should work," she said.  "But if it doesn't, that could be a good look if you go to clubs a lot.  It just might look a little strange in the day."

"I'm a mom!" Dani almost yelled.  "I have five kids!  I'm not going to any clubs!"

"Oh,well then, yes that should work," the Sally's worker said with a low to medium degree of certainty.  We took the kit and rushed back to Danielle's house.  When we walked in, the house was in pandemonium.  Her kids, sister, brother, and parents were all there and all trying to get various things done in preparation for the move.  Her sister needed a ride to Bible study in ten minutes.

"Crap!" Dani said.  "I forgot about Bible study!  Okay, we need to get this done fast.  If I feed Tucker, can you put this oil junk on my eyes?"  I agreed and tried to find a q-tip, but they were already packed up.  I asked about a paper towel, but those were all packed up too.  Finally I asked Dani how in the world I was supposed to put this stuff on, and she suggested diaper wipes.  Would the oil sink in too much?  I said diaper wipes should probably work because they're water based, this was oil, and...well...science.  Dani said, "I don't know what you're talking about, but just get these off my eyes."  Roger that, amigo.  Dani reclined on the couch and breast fed her baby while I stood over her and started using oiled diaper wipes to try to get falsies off of her eyes.  It was an odd moment.

"That stings a little," she said.  "Is it working?"

"Umm, not yet," I said, thinking that perhaps there was a reason none of the salons would touch this project.  Who were we to think we could DIY this thing?

"Okay," Danielle said.  "Maybe we need to let it sit a while.  But it kind of stings.  Actually, you know what?  It kind of burns.  Okay actually, ow, it really burns.  Can I have a clean diaper wipe?  Ow, I have to get this off."

I handed her a diaper wipe and watched her start scrubbing at her eyes.  I shook my head.  How on earth could false eyelashes be this difficult to get off?!  Dorothy had to get to Bible study, so I said my goodbyes and headed out, feeling bad for leaving Dani with her new va-va-voom look.

I talked to Dani later that evening and found out that she ended up going back to the mall for her 7:00 appointment.  It took the owner lady two hours to get the eyelashes off.  The important thing is that she did get them off, though, and now Danielle will be feeling back to her old self for her husband's homecoming.  All's well that ends well, right?  Dani said sorry for the drama, that this afternoon was probably not how I pictured saying goodbye.  Then we agreed that it was a fitting ending to what has been an absolutely insane year.  Why not end it on a crazy note as well?  Also, now that the eyelashes are officially off, the story has been converted from an impending crisis to a funny memory.

See you later, Danielle.  I'm glad you left your eyelashes in Kalamazoo.  Welcome home, Jordan.  You guys have a pretty fantastic family.  Please come visit soon.

The Hunt

"Tell me about the turkey hunt," my mom said, smiling over dinner at Red Robin.  I shrugged.

"I don't know...it's basically like every other hunting story.  There were some animals, and then one of them ended up dead."

She looked incredulous.  "Christine," she said, "You're a writer, and you're telling me you can't muster up some sort of story out of this hunt?"  Really, I just wanted to eat my food.  I was starving.  I'd eaten about three bites of bagel in the entire day.  I told her that I would blog the story later, so HERE IT IS: the official and unabridged story of my turkey hunt.

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning last Friday and thought, as I do every morning before a hunt, "Why am I doing this??  This is crazy.  Examine your life choices, Christine."  I had taken Friday morning off of work to go hunting with my dad and Rex.  Rex was amped.  He gets more excited before hunting than he does on Christmas morning, I swear.  We drove over to my parents' house where my dad was already in his car, ready to drive us to our spot.  I hopped in the passenger side, and my dad looked half-human and half-zombie.  He said, "When you get up super early in the morning to hunt, do you ever wonder 'why on earth am I doing this?'  Because I always do."

See?  I knew I was related to that man.

We drove in the darkness to my boss's house (we had permission to hunt on his property).  I don't think I've ever felt so creepy as when we turned off our headlights and crept up his driveway.  Try creeping up YOUR boss's driveway in the middle of the night - I'm telling you, it's a weird feeling.

We drove to his back field and then had to get out of the car and walk to our spot.  We crunched through some sticks and leaves in the woods, trying to be quiet but also basically walking wherever because we couldn't see anything.  Finally, we got to our turkey tent.  My dad and I sat in the tent while Rex sat near a tree a few yards away.  It looked like he was sitting on a toilet - look at this:

We got situated, and then the blanket of quiet that all hunters understand settled over us.  Not even the animals were awake yet; all we could hear was the sizzlebuzz of the power lines by our tent.  I never realized how loud power lines sound.  I briefly wondered if I was going to get cancer or superpowers or something from the power snapping through the lines and radiating to the surrounding area.  These are the things I think about when it's five in the morning and I can't make any noise or look at my phone.

Just after sunrise, my dad spotted some turkeys coming over a hill.  They looked like moving speckles at first, but they got bigger as they got closer.  My chest got tight and my hands tingled - was the hunt going to be over this quickly?  I wasn't ready! I carefully grabbed my gun, which had been leaning on the edge of the tent.  I knelt down by the windows so that I'd be ready to shoot if they came near enough.  As the turkeys got closer, we realized they were all females.  None to shoot.  The problem was that if they saw us, they would alert all of their turkey friends, and then no one would come near us.  The four females walked right past our blind, about forty yards away.  They were fun to watch, but they didn't come in too close.

I was about ready to relax and put my gun down when suddenly another group of three turkeys materialized out of nowhere only one ridge away from our tent.  Hens again.  They were headed straight towards us.  "Do...not...move," my dad hissed without opening his mouth.

Thanks, Dad - like I was going to be so excited about seeing turkeys that I would spontaneously start dancing the cha-cha. I've hunted before.  This wasn't my first rodeo.  The thing was, though, that it was especially perilous here because the turkeys were so close.  Turkeys have phenomenal eyesight.  They can sense movement dozens of yards away.  It's like spidey-vision (which they perhaps got from spending so much time by those power lines).  Anyway, one hen in particular was headed so close to our tent that she would have actually run into it if she kept walking straight.  She had to turn to walk around it.  When she was about three yards away (THREE YARDS, PEOPLE), she stared right into the tent and directly at me.  There is no material on our tent windows.  I had no protection from the gaze of spidey-vision hen.  My eyes were open wide, my heart was trying to escape from my rib cage, and I realized that my ability to keep completely still could make or break this hunt.  I couldn't even blink - she was too close.

DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK

My eyes started to burn.  She cocked her head, trying to figure out what she was seeing.  I think I could have punched her - both because she was close enough to punch and because I was mad that she was making my eyes burn.

DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK

All of the staring contests I'd ever had in life had prepared me for THIS MOMENT.  I thought, "Wow, good thing I'm good at starting contests...wait, am I good at staring contests?  I don't remember.  I don't think I've had one since I was about ten..."  This is seriously what I was thinking at that moment.  Finally, after an eternity, spidey bent down to peck at the ground.  I blinked rapidly about six times before she put her head up again, and the staring contest was back on.  Finally she moved past my tent with her friends, and I could relax a bit.

I don't know how much you know about turkeys, but to see seven females and no males was really strange.  This is mating season.  The guys are all out trolling for girls, which is why we had our decoy out about fifteen yards in front of our tent.  In addition to our decoy, we now had seven live decoys all around us!  Still, no dudes.  I was confused.  If one was looking for females, this spot was the place to be.  It was the turkey equivalent of a Celine Dion concert or a yoga class or a sale at Bath and Body Works.  You get the idea - chicks everywhere.  Where were the dudes?

It was quiet for about an hour after my epic stare down.  My dad would use his call, Rex would use his call, and sometimes they would call together.  In my mind, their calling together sounded like we had a raging party going on with lots of hot female turkeys in attendance.  How could any self-respecting male turkey resist us??  I almost chimed in with my own mouth call, but Rex has told me that my mouth call sounds like a parrot.  I didn't want the turkeys to get confused and think we had immigrant birds attending our party, because immigration can be a touchy subject.  Hot girl turkeys only - come and get 'em.

I wrung my hands nervously after we hadn't called for a while, and one of my knuckles popped.  In the completely still silence, it sounded like a bomb going off.  I thought, "AHHH!  MY FINGER JUST EXPLODED!  Oh, actually maybe that was my knuckle popping.  Oops."  I stopped wringing my hands.

Maybe my dad took my exploding finger as a signal that I was bored or uncomfortable, because he offered to split a granola bar with me.  I said sure.  He carefully unwrapped a granola bar (which sounded like it was being unwrapped over the loudspeaker at a Big 10 football game because it was SO LOUD), and he handed me half.  I put the half in my mouth and was about to bite down on the macadamia-nut goodness when suddenly we heard a turkey yelp, and it was close.  My dad and I looked at each other with buggy eyes, and I dropped the granola bar out of my mouth and into my hand.  I grabbed my gun and knelt again, looking furtively for the bird who interrupted my breakfast.

There was a lone hen (making this number eight), and she was wandering around the field.  I don't know why she was alone... girl turkeys usually travel in groups (they're like humans that way).  Maybe she was the loser turkey, but she was hoping to be included in our party.  We accept you, loser turkey!  All live decoys are welcome!  She putted around as she got closer, and I was nervous she was going to actually step on Rex.  I mentally willed him not to move.  At one point I heard another turkey call, and I thought, "Is Rex nuts?!  The turkey's right here!  Why is he calling?!"  Then I realized it was actually the turkey making those noises, not Rex.  Oops.  My bad.

The turkey went up to Henrietta (our decoy), and she tried to talk to her.  Henrietta, obviously, didn't talk back.  This made the hen mad, and she got cranky for a little bit before moving on again.  (The poor loser turkey.  I don't think Henrietta helped with her rejection complex).  My phone lit up with a text from Rex.  I could text now that it was light out.  He said, "I think that hen was ready to cage fight Henreitta."  I silently laughed and showed the text to my dad.  Then we took some selfies.  I tried to find my half of the granola bar to eat, but it turned out my dad had already eaten it.  Gross.  That had been in my mouth.  A few minutes later, Rex decided to go pee.  I got a text that he almost peed on a squirrel.

Oh, the weird things that happen when you're hunting.

I had to be back at work by 12:30, so I knew we had to start leaving the woods around 11.  It was 10:40, and my dad and I had started whispering back and forth about the possibilities of going out the following morning.  Suddenly, he whispered, "Turkeys!  Toms!"  I looked over the ridge and saw three turkeys about two hundred yards away.  I leaned toward the tent opening that allowed me to see Rex because I knew he couldn't see the turkeys from where he was sitting.  I held up three fingers and pulled my facemask down to mouth "toms."  Rex's eyes bugged out, pug style, and I think this was exaggerated by the fact that the only part of him I could see was his eyes.  His shocked excitement made me even more nervous.  My dad and Rex had done a great job of calling all day - now it was up to me.

The turkeys were still over a hundred yards away, but I picked up my gun and got ready.  My dad tapped me on the shoulder, and I thought he was going to give me some profound fatherly wisdom.  Instead he said, "I have to pee."

"You're going to have to hold it!" I whispered back.  "I'm trying to shoot a turkey here!"

"No seriously," he said.  "I really have to go.  I'm going to hurry before they come too close."

I could not believe this.  I was maybe five minutes away from a dead bird, and he was going to jeopardize the whole operation because he COULDN'T HOLD IT??  Obviously he couldn't unzip the tent because it would be too loud, but it turns out that we hadn't put the zipper all the way down to the ground.  There were a few inches left unzipped - what luck.  I kept my eyes glued to the turkeys while my dad peed out of the small hole in our tent.

Do you find it strange that I'm interrupting the climax of this story to tell you about my dad's urinary habits?  Think of how frustrating it was to actually be there!!  I'm on the brink of something really exciting, we are in a life or death (for the bird) situation, and he has to PEE.  Ugh.  My dad, I tell ya.

He returned back to his chair, and I was knelt with my gun ready to go.  When the birds were at fifty yards, they saw Henrietta.  I don't know what it is about that decoy, but I'm telling you - she could be on the cover of Turkey Cosmo or something.  Guys go nuts for her.  They immediately puffed up and started heading her way.  I put the gun out of the tent window and started tracking them.  "Which one?" I whispered to my dad.  There were three, and I didn't know which one was the biggest.

"The third one," my dad said.  I aimed squarely for that turkey's neck.  A few seconds went by.  I really didn't want to miss this shot.  I didn't want to let my dad and Rex down, but also one of my seventh graders had shot a turkey just the week before.  I would never live it down if my students found out I was beat in marksmanship by a twelve-year-old.

Also, fresh turkey is so, so delicious.

I put my finger on the trigger.  "Third one?"  I confirmed.

"No wait," said my dad.  "Second one."

Second one!?  This changed the whole thing!  I switched my focus and aimed for the second one.  I tried to breathe steady, which was hard since my blood was trying to set a world record racing through my body.  How did the turkeys not hear my heart beating??  Second one.  Okay.  Second one.  Got it.  The turkeys were moving toward Henrietta.  I didn't want to shoot a moving target, because then you have to think of physics and crap.  I tried to think of physics and also about breathing and also about keeping my gun aimed steadily at the correct turkey.

My dad pulled out his turkey call and made a small yelp.  The turkeys stopped and looked our way, and my dad whispered, "NOW.  Take the shot!"  I knew this was the moment.  I had about one second before they started moving again.  I didn't even have time for one more deep breath.  Aimed at second?  Aimed at second.  It was go time.  I pulled the trigger.

I heard the satisfying BANG, and I was relieved that the shot was over.  Hit or miss, I was done with this intensely high-pressure situation.  I was scared to look, but I did.  What I saw was a downed bird and Rex exploding out of his perch on the tree-toilet to go make sure it was very dead.  "Do you need my gun?"  I called to Rex, thinking he might need to shoot it again if I didn't get a good shot.

"No, you got it!" he called back.  "Great job!"

I felt relief flood through me.  I did it!  My dad went to join Rex in examining my bird, but I stayed in the tent for a second and remembered what breathing felt like.  I may have also rubbed my shoulder, where I now have a beautiful purple and green bruise from the kick of that gun.

A few minutes later, when the excitement of the shot died down, I said, "Hey, what time is it?"  I was going to be late for work!  I figured "I got a turkey" was a pretty good excuse, but we still tried to go quickly in packing up and getting out of the woods.  We didn't go so quickly that we forgot to get some pictures, though!

It was a great day with my two favorite men.  I'll never forget it, even long after the turkey dinners I provided for us are gone.

Ashtabeautiful

I have a problem.  I can't turn down a wedding invitation.  The couple lives five hours away and I've only met them once?  I don't care - I'M GOING.

I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with weddings.  I used to think it was because I was so excited to plan my own, but then I got married and I kept being obsessed with weddings.  About four hours into our five hour drive, Rex asked me why I love weddings so much.  I immediately responded with, "Because I like to believe in fairy tales, and the closest thing the world has to a real fairy tale is a wedding day."  I don't even know where that answer came from, but as soon as I said it I decided that it's pretty true.  There's something magic about a wedding day, and I'll chase that magic across the country if necessary.  It's an addiction.  Is there rehab for this?

The wedding last weekend was in Ashtabula, Ohio.  I'm not sure which was weirder - the fact that we went to the wedding or the fact we were invited.  We'd only met the couple once, at Rex's friend's wedding back in January.  I'm not sure why, exactly, they invited us.  Their invitation was a picture of them wearing camouflage and sitting on the back of a pickup truck in the middle of a cornfield - I am not joking.  As soon as I got the invitation, I told Rex that we HAD to go for two reasons:

1. I do not turn down wedding invitations.

2. This was the most stereotypical Midwestern redneck invitation I had EVER SEEN.  I simply had to see the wedding.

Because Rex loves me a ridiculous amount, he said he would take me.  I couldn't believe we were going to drive to ASHTABULA (which is the best name, by the way) to the heart of smalltown America for a veritably anonymous wedding.  Even weirder, I was completely pumped about it.

On our way to Ashtabula, I made a bingo game for us to check off during the wedding and reception.  The following items were on the bingo board:

• Mason jars
• Someone talking about hunting
• Discussion about farming
• Country music
• Shotgun shells
• Burlap
• Camouflage
• American flag
• A pickup truck
• Drunk person
• Talking about guns (bonus for carrying a gun)
• Smell of manure
• Cool belt buckle
• Flannel
• A reference to corn or "the harvest"
• The phrase "the good Lord"
• Awkward reference to sex
• Blaze orange
• Grammar error
• Someone wearing jeans
• Shotgun shells
• Someone wearing cowboy boots

At one point I said, "Rex, I can't find anyone wearing cowboy boots.  Someone HAS to be wearing cowboy boots."  I furtively looked under tables at people's shoes and tried to look nonchalant.  Rex said, "Uh...Christine?"  He looked down.  HE was wearing cowboy boots.  My word.  He was in his home country, for sure.  We would fit right in in Ashtabula.

After the wedding and reception, the only items not crossed off of the list were the following:

• The phrase "the good Lord" (there was lots of talk about God, but that exact phrase did not come up)
• A reference to corn or "the harvest"
• Cool belt buckle

Go back and read the top list, because look at all of the things we DID find.  I mean, shotgun shells?!?  (The guys had them pinned to their lapels to hold the corsages - I KID YOU NOT).  This could have been on a reality TV show as "the most Midwestern wedding ever."  It was a total blast.  I couldn't decide if we got the bonus point for gun carrying or not, because a guy had a holster on but no gun in the holster.  Don't ask me why - I have no idea.  Maybe we got a half point for that one.

Even the ceremony itself was fun.  A guy who looked and sounded remarkably like Owen Wilson talked at about a thousand miles per hour for ten minutes, and then it was over.  The entire wedding took ten minutes!  My favorite part was when he said, "In the garden of Eden, when God decided man should not be alone, what did He create?  No, not a hunting dog.  A woman!"  I almost laughed out loud, both because that's a ridiculous thing to say, but also because of how much Rex loves his hunting dog.  I think Rex might have been secretly born in Ashtabula.

We enjoyed the small-town atmosphere.  We stayed in a local hotel, shopped at local shops, ate at a ridiculous diner filled with Ohio State paraphernalia, and even went to a gun show (because that was the weekend for the Ashtabula gun show - what luck!).  Here are a few pictures from the adventure:

We're almost there!!

I've never seen THIS sign before.  I also can't say that I hate it...  We need more horses on our streets.

We went shopping here in between the wedding and reception.  How could we pass it by?

A giant rocking chair must be climbed.  It was not ladylike getting up there.  Half of Ashtabula saw my underwear while I was climbing it, I'm pretty sure.  There was a road right by the chair.  At least I was wearing cute underwear (and keep in mind, half of Ashtabula is like, ten people).

Rex looked happy here.  No wonder.  This is an entire city of Rexes.

I wonder why this business didn't make it...  We were only about five hours from Niagara Falls...

We were going to be late to the wedding, so I grabbed the first wrapping paper I saw.  It was kind of embarrassing, and it totally didn't match the card.  Oops.

Why weren't "antlers" on my bingo game??  *Sigh*  That would have been a good one.

Hanging out with Rex's friends and the bride and groom.

Please note my sign that says "wedding crasher."  We practically were.

Rex at his gun show the next day.  I almost bought a camouflage duffel bag, but those aren't as popular in Kalamazoo as they are in Ashtabula.  I was catching the fever - good thing we got out of there when we did.

This is where we stopped for lunch.

Decor. Rex's family would not have been pleased.

All in all, it was a great weekend.  I'm really glad we went.  I hope that fifty years from now, the bride and groom look back at their pictures and say, "Who the heck are those random people?"  I also hope that fifty years from now, Rex and I look back at these pictures and think, "What a fun weekend."  It really, really was.  It was Ashtabeautiful.