Hairy Moles, Spittle, and Fat Ankles

I freaked a little kid out at the Boy Scout meeting last night. Oh, I've known this kid since he was a toddler look-alike to his big brother. I should have known that it didn't mean that he has known me that long. See, there is always a big group of adults and, more importantly, a bunch of kids around whenever this boy and I have been in the same place. I may never actually spoke to him before last night.

In my defense, his dad goes to Boy Scout meetings almost every Tuesday and he sometimes chats about his boy there. I used to be in charge of awards for the Cub Scout pack and I saw the kid's name over and over while I worked. I'm friends with his mom on Facebook, so I see pictures of him on vacations and birthdays. I even took a six week hunter's safety class with Nick and he and his dad were there too. I just happen to walk with his best friend's mom and I hear about him then. That best friend has even come along with Nick on a couple of outings and talked about him. All in all, I've heard a lot about this boy. And when he's at a Boy Scout event, I'm usually there, along with two or three dozen other adults and kids.

Last night, his mom had told him to straighten chairs after the meeting was over. I was standing there and saw him struggling to get one chair in the right position. I thought of how much fun Nick had with his best friend when we went to the renaissance faire with us last summer. I wanted to help this kid with his chairs, but I knew he needed to get it figured out himself.

"Hey Griffin, I can't wait until you and Jake are in the troop next year."

And there was dead silence. He didn't even look up at me, just moved in the opposite direction to straighten the next chair.

"It's going to be a lot of fun having you there," I went on, a little lamely. He still didn't say anything or even look up. I had blocked him in. There was no escape and there were no other chairs to straighten. He shuffled his feet, still silently looking down. As I moved out of his way, a picture popped into my mind.

I remember going to our annual family reunion in the social hall of some church I'd never visited. I was probably in grade school, maybe fourth grade. It smelled funny in there, like cabbage and dentures. I had had a good time because there were kids I didn't get to see all that often, second cousins. There were at least thirty or forty people at those reunions, but I only paid attention to the kids and my own grandparents. For the most part, I even ignored my parents and my brother and sister.

Then, out of nowhere, some ugly old lady would corner me. I usually knew that she was my grandma's sister or cousin. She might have had a hairy mole on her upper lip and fat wrinkles. A lot of those ladies did. I would have looked down as she tried to talk to me.

"I heard you got straight A's on your report card again this year. You keep up the good work, child," she might have said. How did she know that? I would have stared at her thick ankles where taupe-colored tights were starting to sag. I would have studied her sturdy black orthopedic shoes as she talked on an on about me, my teacher, and my grades. How did she know all this stuff?

"I also heard about that boy Tommy that you have a crush on," she might say. "You just be your sweet self and he'll come around." By then, I could never make myself look up. My face would have been bright pink and I'd be able to hear my heart in my ears. Plus, that hairy mole was coming closer. She might have grunted as she leaned over a little. And I would be able to smell her old lady breath.

"How about a kiss for your old Aunt Shirley, honey? Just a little kiss and a hug." And since I'd been taught to obey my elders, I would have let that hairy mole touch my cheek. I would have felt a little spittle that she left there when she straightened up. Then, she would have squeezed me into her large chest and I would have wondered if I were going to suffocate before she let me go. When she released me, I would have run outside to get back to the safety of the group of cousins playing freeze tag in the grass.

Crap! I have become the ugly-old-lady-hug stalker. May God forgive me.

Thank you for listening, jb

Laundry Woman

I used to dream that I could fly. It was always hard work for me, but I could do it, just barely making it above the trees and out of reach of whatever was chasing me. I used to wake up after one of those dreams and be grateful that there was something that felt true about it. It felt like a superpower I kept hidden to myself. I felt myself taking off over those trees again when I graduated from college and, ready or not, I knew that I was going to move out of state. I was going to explore.

Years later, my son was born and at that moment, I felt a surge of power again, a different superpower. It was what I imagined a grizzly felt when someone got between her and her cubs. I am grateful that it felt so true and that no one really tried to mess with my cub.

Then, when my son turned four, he started to dream about having superpowers. We had long conversations about what power he would want if he could choose a power for himself. There was invisibility, super strength, flames. Yeah, flames were cool. Nick wanted to pick a power for his dad, but Mike wanted to choose his own superpower. Those were the days when we had to teach Nick that he couldn't choose who other people got to be, that they chose for themselves, but one day, I was curious.

"Nick, what superpower should I have?" I asked him.

"Momma, you can kill people with your voice." It was awful. It was wonderful. It was true. I had used my voice to try to get his attention, to try to motivate him to get ready, to demand that he follow the rules of safety, of courtesy, and of justice, all with my voice. Plus, I can sing really really loudly.

Lately, I've felt that grizzly bear mom isn't so necessary any more. My boy is getting his own power and doesn't need as much protection.

My voice doesn't need to be as strident any more either. I'm working to use it on Nick less and less every day. Tonight, I didn't even have to tell him to get ready for bed. What is that? Do I feel a little bit weaker than I was when Nick was four?

Maybe.

Today, I decided it was time for a new superpower. Oh, I'll always want to fly over the trees and I'll always protect my family if they need me. And that voice - it's not totally retired from service when Nick needs a shove in the right direction. Plus, I can still sing really really loudly.

I figured it out today. I've decided that I wish my superpower was to be able to carry a whole load of laundry from the dryer to the bedroom and fold it without dropping a single sock on the floor.

Would that be too much to ask?

Thank you for listening, jb

The Perfect Solution to a Visit from His Mother-In-Law

Mike and I have been going through files in his office in preparation for getting new flooring. It's mostly a drudgery. Mostly. It had gotten out of control in there, papers lying everywhere. For my part, I'm recycling old calendars. I mean, who wants to know when I got my teeth cleaned in the year 2007, really? But Mike managed to find his great grandfather's birth certificate among his grandma's papers. It was a really cool moment. We have relatives in Dundee, Scotland. Ay that.

I think this whole thing is becoming the perfect storm. First, both my neck and back hurt. Right now, they hurt. I've only hauled about twenty boxes. I still have two bookshelves to go, not to mention all the furniture. I'm a fifty-four year old woman who's had one back surgery, people. I'm not the go-to person for moving furniture.

Then, I'm going to be gone for eleven days between now and then. Okay, that part will probably be lots of fun. I'm going to Zurich, Nancy, and Barcelona. I'll come back exhausted, in the very least. I'm hoping my bad tooth doesn't go south on me then. My doctor has given me prescriptions for antibiotics and pain. 

Then, there are the nightmares I read about on the internet about installers who came in, took a month, and botched the job. We don't have time for a botched job and months of work. My mother is coming in July. Can't we just wait? We've lived with this floor for twenty-three years. We can live with it for another two months and a visit from my mother.

I never realized that Mike is afraid of what she thinks of him. It was easier to go visit her in her house and find other in-laws hiding out in the living room or on the back steps. He's the one who keeps insisting that we do it before she comes.

I think everything has the potential for going completely wrong and we won't even have access to our house while she's here. Is that what he wants? Is it?

Yeah, it probably is the perfect solution.

Thank you for listening, jb

What I'll Look Like in Europe

I just spent a couple hours sweating through a walk at Marymoor park. It's hot and humid out. I hate that. This is the Pacific Northwest, folks. It's supposed to be cold and drizzly. I like cold and drizzly. My car said it was 83 degrees. At home, the thermometer said it was 86. Either way, I sweated and kept looping back along the water access where a breeze over the slough and extra shade cooled me off a little. Just a little.

I stayed out at the park for a while as I tried out another set of clothes I plan to wear in Europe. I wore a lightweight Bermuda shirt, Capri jeans, quick-dry ankle socks, and tennis shoes. I'm happy to say that I feel like a total dork in these clothes but imagine they'll work for my trip. So what if I'm dressed like a retiree on vacation? All I need to add to my attire is a white visor and wrap-around sun glasses, and I've got the look down.

While I watched dogs playing, I tried to imagine if I could walk this way all day. I wasn't wearing my pack because my neck still hurts from swinging a friend's baby on a walk two days ago. With breaks for meals, I think I could have walked forever. Plus, the Internet told me that it should be cooler in Europe while I'm there. Boy, I hope so.

Now, I've been told I should pack light. Got it. I'll bring two sets of clothes not including extra layers. Then, I'll bring laundry soap and wash things out at night. The question I still have is whether stuff will dry in eight hours. I'll bring some line to string my stuff up in the hotel room, but will my underwear really dry overnight? If it doesn't, can I rig something up so it can hang from my backpack while walk? Maybe I should bring a net bag so it won't be so obvious. A net bag won't look too strange hanging from my backpack but a flag of pink old-lady underwear would. Don't picture that. Just don't. Okay?

It may be time to pack a bag and see what it's going to feel like hauling this crap all over kingdom come. Pack light, pack light, pack light. I just have to remember that I'm a middle-aged married woman. Except for being respectful in the cathedrals, I don't care what people think of my clothes and whether or not I wore the same thing the day before yesterday.

Thank you for listening, jb

We Are the Champions

So, Mike left a few hours ago with four men and twelve boys for a camp-out at Fort Flagler. I would have liked to go on this trip. Mike devised a mission for the boys to run through the World War II bunkers there. I tell you, that place is like the setting for a video game. There are magazine rooms, shell rooms, powder rooms and not the kind of powder rooms that polite women ask about when they have to pee. There are hoists and platforms with tie-downs for large guns.  There are ramparts and keyhole ports. There are schematics on the descriptive placards. There are things I could not explain. The place is seriously cool. It's cool the way Gasworks Park is cool.

Since I'm not included on this trip, how do I know this? I went there with Mike last weekend for a reconnaissance trip. While we were there, he mapped out an orienteering course. It's a requirement the boys won't even realize they're completing. Fort Flagler is going to deserve at least one other trip there, one with Nick, who happened to go to a friend's house last Sunday. Mike, the dog, and I had a great time exploring on our own. I actually felt sad for Nick having missed this place. Plus, he didn't sign up for the trip in time and missed his chance to go this weekend. This summer, we'll go back. I can picture him running through the bunkers with flashlights and camouflage gear, totally into his internal story.

So Mike left a bit ago without me. Sometimes I hate that. Mostly, I hate it when he goes anywhere near water, lakes, rivers, and the beach, especially when he's canoeing. This time he left me and my imagination behind. Crap!

All week, he's been marking up maps and folding them into envelopes marked 'Top Secret.' He's devised challenges at each station for the boys. There will be a First Aid rescue, a slingshot challenge, and I don't know what else. It seemed to be on a need-to-know basis. Can't you picture how much fun that's going to be?

Today, he asked me to fill up a five gallon bucket with charged water balloons. Yes, it was 56 degrees outside and my plan was to put on shorts and flip flops and go out to the hose and fill water balloons until that bucket was full. I waited until afternoon when it was a tiny bit warmer.

The thing was that it was actually a little bit nice. Birds were singing. The sun shone on my shoulders now and then. Fat grey clouds lumbered low across the sky, letting patches of blue show through. These are the days of intense and varied greens and the light was beautiful. These are also the days of early mosquitoes. I came back inside, sprayed my legs and put on my Columbia insect-repellant shirt. I love that shirt. I don't usually buy orange, but I think I look good in it. I layered with a fleece vest and went back outside to finish my work.

When I had the bucket about three-quarters full, Nick and a neighbor got off the bus. Before they could see me and what I was doing, I lobbed three pink grenades over the shrub that blocked their view of me and they exploded at their feet.

It was war.

It's funny how long it takes to set up for water-balloon war. They stationed themselves in the driveway by my car, putting up barricades, plywood they found in the garage and using the recycle and yard waste bins for cover. I methodically filled the rest of the pink water balloons until I had my own bucket filled with them. In the meantime, they stole a bunch of green ones and a spigot and were filling them. I was much quicker at tying them off and filled Mike's bucket while the boys caught up with me. I was even so kind as to show them how to tie them off more easily, though it was fun to watch their mistakes splash their legs as they failed.

I was waiting and watching for the war to begin when I got a great idea. I quietly walked into the garage and found a spray nozzle for the hose. I could win this war. I was sure of it. Then, I went into the house and found my knee-length rain jacket, zipped it up to my chin, and raised the hood. I was armed and ready.

The boys saw that I was serious about this war and went inside to find rain jackets themselves. Just then, it decided to hail and we all stood around and watched. Teddy, the dog, looked pitiful until it stopped. But when it stopped, he knew a battle was brewing and he danced back and forth between us.

Suddenly, before I felt quite prepared, they were on me. Three balloons smacked me in the face and didn't even pop.

"Hey, don't aim for my face, okay?" I yelled as I lobbed my pink balloons at their backs. They responded by throwing two more and breaking them against my shoulders and chest. Ow! Nick made a point of dodging most of my grenades, letting them smash at his feet. I consoled myself that his feet and knees were getting wet.

In minutes, our ammunition was gone. They shocked me by pulling out squirt bottles set for straight streams. We use these things in the house to persecute the cat when he's walking across a table where we eat or threatening to knock a candle off the mantle. I could not get away from their barrage. I quietly turned my back and walked back up to my balloon-filling station.

A cheer rose behind me.

"We won! We beat her down!" they yelled.

I pulled the nozzle out of my pocket, surreptitiously screwed it onto the hose, and walked back up to the spigot to turn the pressure up.

"We are the champions," Nick screamed. He did a victory dance, a premature victory dance. I grabbed a couple of extra balloons out of Mike's bucket and walked with the hose closer to their bunker. Nick came out from behind a barricade to shoot me right in the glasses with the water bottle. That water was cold and I couldn't see a thing.

I feigned a throw with Mike's balloon grenades and pulled out the nozzle.

It was a massacre, nuclear annihilation. I aimed above knees, soaking their jeans until I was sure that wetness could wick up toward their underwear. I aimed for the open necks of rain jackets. I aimed for exposed ears. I was evil and unrelenting. I played dirty.

It was great!

Eventually, mom-mode set in and I stopped, offering to make hot chocolate for all of us. I was freezing. As I turned to go into the house, I pulled down the hood of my jacket. Just then, Nick squirted me right in the ear with his water bottle. Oh man, I hate that.

"We won!" He screamed. "We won the battle. You retreated!" All afternoon, he's been walking around singing, "We are the champions, my friend, and we'll keep on fighting to the end. We are the champions. We are the champions. No time for losing for we are the champions..."

"... of the world."

Thank you for listening, jb

Dreading Home Improvements

Today, I finally packed up a bunch of boxes so that I can get new flooring in half my house. The other half will be a mess to try to redo, but for now, we're getting new floors in the areas we don't use as often and where the furniture is less substantial. No piano, no heavy couch, and no recliner.

Oh, who am I kidding? It's going to be a pain in the butt to move the rest of the crap we have in there. Literally. That means that by the time I've moved forty boxes of books, a fouton, three bookshelves, two filing cabinets, a large non-flat screen television, an oven, a freezer, a queen-sized bed and two desks, my lower back is going to be completely miserable. Crap! My back already hurts and I've only moved fifteen boxes into our new storage unit. Plus, I'm having to move a lot of junk we're throwing out. Last week, I donated two truckloads of stuff to the thrift store. Those people love me.

Am I complaining too much?

Sorry.

I'm not even looking forward to getting the new flooring. You might wonder why not. Well, I have a problem. People who do work on my house always seem to come and damage something else when they're doing the work, or they cut corners and I don't like cut corners. If I'm paying for it to look like the photos they sent, I want it to look like the photos they sent when they leave. If I get a new roof and they've destroyed a retaining wall in the process, that pisses me off. I'm getting used to it, but it still pisses me off. That retaining wall was busted twenty years ago and it still pisses me off when I think about it. They tried to tell me it was an old wall, but my husband had built the wall the year before. Moss grows very quickly around here. It does. So, I'm stuck with the problem that everybody wants to get paid, but they don't want to do the work.

And I hate having to negotiate with these guys when they screw up. Notice I said 'when' not 'if.' I hate it. I do it because I have to do it, but it's like fingernails on a blackboard, like sitting in a new car dealer's showroom when your car just smoked, like getting a root canal without enough Novocaine.

I just wish I could get people to do the flooring that I can trust. I'll look at the reviews, but I'll still run into trouble. I just know it.

Hell, it will look better when they're done, even when they do screw it up. Maybe that will be a consolation.

I'll write funner stuff next time. I promise. Notice, I didn't send you any pictures and I didn't sign a contract. I'm not likely to knock down your retaining wall while I'm doing crappy work though, huh?

Thank you for listening, jb

I Can't Wait

I'm going to Zurich! I'm also going to Barcelona! In between, I'll eat in France, look at castles and cathedrals, hang about at the town my ancestors hail from, Kallstadt, look at the Alps, and go to Barcelona, where time slows down even more, there may be siestas, and I can see the amazing architecture of Antoni Gaudi. It's time for me to dance around my living room for a bit.

I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.

I have to read more French. At the library today, I picked up a book that was just my speed, conversational French at a middle school level. Well, I can tell you that I actually remembered some of the words and phrases from stuff I learned earlier. I'm going to become proficient with please and thank you to start. The question I have, since I've seldom even heard a French person speak French, will be how I am to understand the answers to all these questions I am learning to ask. There's the problem in a nutshell. It's not like I can turn the television onto a French station and see if I can understand them. I wonder if the Internet can help me with that too? I'll have to try.

And German. I know about three words in German. Well, I'm really hoping that my sister and my niece will be there in Zurich when I arrive. Aside from being exhausted and disoriented from flying all night, I'll be illiterate and practically mute, well, as mute as a chatty person like me can be.

I can't wait, I can't wait, Ican'twait, Ican'twait!

Can you actually hear me dreaming out loud?

Thank you for listening, jb