Beautiful Day in the Chemo-hood

If you have read my Halloween post from last year, you know that for the past five Octobers, I have been showing up for my weekly treatment at the Cache Valley Cancer Center in costume.

This year was no exception.

Mr. Fred Rogers has been mimicked, mocked, and parodied many times by many people for many years. I planned my costume not as a satire, but as a tribute.

I have always felt great affection for Mr. Rogers. He spoke kindly to me, told me I was special, and didn't seem to mind when I sang along with him. He said "I like you just the way you are" ─ a message I needed then ─ and which, come to think of it, perhaps this old world could really benefit from today.

He worked to make sure that there was a safe place in television for children. He wanted children to have a place where their feelings were okay. He showed us that people who don't look or talk or walk just like us can be our friends.

He showed us, in words and action, what it means to be a friend.

♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥  

In the book of Luke, Jesus taught the importance of loving our neighbors.

And, behold, a certain lawyer stood up, and tempted him, saying, Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?
He said unto him, What is written in the law?  how readest thou?
And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.
And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.
But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbour?  (Luke 10:25 - 29)

And then He told the story of the Good Samaritan to redefine what a neighbor is: one who shows mercy and compassion to another ─ regardless of geography. 

Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? 

And he said, He that shewed mercy on him.  

Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.

Mr. Rogers walked in the door every morning for 31 years and sang a happy song while he put on his sweater and changed his shoes. Than he looked the world in the eye and said, "Hello, neighbor."

That's why I put on my costume and performed his songs at the cancer center. I did it quite poorly, but I made some people laugh and smile, and perhaps eased a burden or two. Maybe, for a minute. I was almost as good a neighbor as he was.

Ѽ   Ѽ  Ѽ   Ѽ  Ѽ  Ѽ  Ѽ  Ѽ  Ѽ   Ѽ  Ѽ   Ѽ  Ѽ

Some of my fellow Chemo-weeners:

Tina the Terrible

The Incredible Hulk. Don't make him mad!
(He's actually the Incredibly Nice Hulk)

A couple of very Good Witches

It's a beautiful day in this Chemo-hood,

A beautiful day to do Chemo,

Would you do mine?

Could you start my line?

It's a neighborly day in this Cancer place,

You probably think I should not show my face –

But, I'm feeling fine, most of the time –

That's why I'm here, for Chemo.

I have always wanted to have a tumor, just like you,

I've always wanted to get my treatment here, with you.

So let's make the most of this Cancerful thing,

Since we're in treatment, we might as well sing:

Would you do mine? Hey, run my line?

Won't you start my Chemo?

Won't you please, Won't you please, Please won't you start my chemo?

It's such a good feeling

To know you're alive -

It's such a happy feeling; we're gonna survive,

And when you wake up ready to say -

I'm gonna fight some cancer today!

It's such a good feeling,

A very good feeling,

A feeling you know you're alive.

There are many articles and essays about Mr. Roger online. Here's one I liked:
http://www.avclub.com/article/is-imister-rogers-neighborhoodi-the-greatest-telev-91882

Comments . . . from my friend Anonymous

Recently, it came to my attention that some of my friends who read my blog don't leave comments because they don't know how to do it. I am sorry about that. I am including how-to info at the bottom of the page.

However, I do have one faithful reader who consistently leaves a nice note whenever he visits. This is especially charming because I don't believe I know him personally. He says his name is "Anonymous." Hmm . . . the name sounds familiar . . . but I still don't think I've ever met him. (Or her. No, I don't think so.)

Since these comments are always a pleasure to read, I have felt a little selfish about keeping them all to myself. So today I will be sharing a few of my favorites.

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦

"Wow, marvelous blog format! How lengthy have you ever been running a blog for? you made blogging glance easy. The whole glance of your site is magnificent, let alone the content material! Here is my page jobs at a veterinary clinic"

 Oh, that's so sweet! I'm blushing . . .

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

"Heya i am for the primary time here. I found this board and I in finding It really useful & it helped me out much. I am hoping to provide one thing again and aid others such as you aided me. Also visit my page; visit this page"

It really makes you feel good when you know that by providing one thing you are aiding others.

 ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

"Hello, this weekend is fastidious for me, for the reason that this occasion i am reading this impressive educational article here at my home."

Okay, I had to go to the dictionary for this one. And I came away smiling. How wonderful to know that my friend is feeling excessively critical, demanding and hard to please — all because of me!

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

"Hello there, just became aware of your blog through Google, and found that it is really informative. I am going to watch out for brussels. I will be grateful if you continue this in future. Numerous people will be benefited from your writing."

Can you believe it? A compliment and some good advice! I am going to watch out for brussels, too. 

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦

"Remember: You are never as great as you tink are, and you are never ass poor a speaker as yyou think yoou are. If you use programs other than the browser while connected to the internet, use VPN. Even more likely to bee a problem is a weakness in your password."

I'm sorry. I'm getting a little emotional here. I can't say anything more.

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

"If they set up behind the desks close to the hole, they'll be able to put a lot of fire down on you. This diet has you eating as much meat and eggs as you can to increase the body's metabolism. Both brands of tuna subs offer pleasing "mouth- feels", with no un- expected lumps of tuna."

So informative! I did not know any of this!

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

"Think about the rich and famous, the media, our rock stars, and movie stars we watch on television. You expect a pot of $250, which you multiply by the probability of winning (. Man, woman, teenage boy -- we think we know what such people look like."

Wow! Has truth ever been so clear? 

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦      ♦     ♦      ♦ 

So, now I guess you have a little picture of my friend. He's a busy guy. And so smart! I feel privileged to know him.

☺   ☺   ☺   ☺   ☺   ☺

If you still feel like you would like to post a comment (and I recognize that you might feel a little incompetent now that 'Anonymous' has set the bar so high) here's what you do: See those little brown words below that say No Comments? (well, that's what it says now.) Click there. You get a pop-up window where you can write your comment. That should work. If it doesn't work, we'll both be annoyed.

Simply Having . . . Trouble with Soup

(This happened a couple of months ago, at the end of November. It took me a while to get it posted.)

I stayed home alone that night. I had already seen the show the rest of my family was attending, and I needed to make a big pot of soup and two cakes for the next day, since my daughter Hannah was speaking in church the next day before leaving for her mission, and we had invited family and friends to join us for lunch after the meeting.

I decided to check my e-mail, and found some things I needed to answer, so I lost a little time, but still, I figured I would have plenty of time to make the soup.

But things didn't seem to be in my favor.

My first task was to make a big pot of minestrone. Simple enough, I thought. It was  mostly chopping some vegetables and opening cans. And I had gadgets to help me with that.

Unfortunately, the electric can opener stopped working at about can number two. A little discouraging, but I could use the hand crank opener, right?

Wrong. The old-fashioned way didn't work well. I was getting behind schedule, and I started doing some things that were perhaps, well, foolish. (Note: hammers and screwdrivers are good tools for some jobs, but don't really have a place in the making of soups.)

At last, I managed to get all the cans open. Thirteen of them.

Time to chop the vegetables and add the seasonings. Let's see, where is that recipe I printed out? And what's that smell? Oh!

After I put out the fire, I stood, holding the wet, charred remains, and began to wonder if I should just quit. The universe seemed to be working against me. What would be the next bad thing?

At that moment, when I was questioning everything I had ever known: guess what happened?

Really, guess. Go ahead.

No, worse than that:


The song Feliz Navidad began to play on the radio.


At this point, I clearly had two choices: laugh or cry. I weighed my options and scientifically calculated that crying would take longer. So I laughed.

The wisdom of my decision to see the situation with humor was confirmed when I reached into the produce bag and pulled out a carrot.

While the carrot stared at me with his beady little eyes, I summoned my courage and went back for a potato. And this is what got:

(I named them Bubba and Beau.)

Obviously, I was supposed to keep my sense of humor, and see the positive side of things. And I found that I really could do that. After all, I had opened the cans with minimal blood loss. I had saved the most important part of the recipe from destruction, and honestly, there are worse Christmas songs than Feliz Navidad. (See Christmas Shoes or Paul McCartney's Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time for further evidence of this truth.)

Things went smoothly from then on. The soup was good, the cakes were yummy, the meeting was wonderful, and everyone enjoyed the lunch.

Well, almost everyone. Beau seemed to be a little tichy. But really, can you blame him?




Update: Bubba and Beau lived side by side in my kitchen for several weeks, but the adventure took its toll on Beau. I'm sorry to report that he returned to the earth from whence he came. (Dust to dust . . .)

But good news, friends: just today, while I was making another pot of soup, I found Beau's older and wiser cousin, Cedric.

As fot Bubba, he's still with us, and is holding up well. Perhaps his new-found freedom has one to his head, though: he's growing a goatee.

Maybe life can get a little weirder. Maybe.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

May the 4th

Every year on the fifth of May, we enjoy eating great Mexican food as we commemorate the Mexican Independence Day with our neighbors to the south.

But at our house, the day before Cinco de Mayo has some significance, too:

Elisabeth battles Superman!

Me with some of my friends at the cancer treatment center on Halloween

MAY THE FOURTH

BE WITH YOU

Brownie Recipe (sort of)

I have a streak of what I call "scientific curiosity." (I call it that in my mind because it sounds smart, but honestly, it's more like a small child thinking I wonder what will happen if I do that?) This immature thinking, combined with my lack of patience and my gift for procrastination, often leaves me improvising through life.  This is particularly true in my cooking. I use what I have, and I like to get things done in the most efficient way possible. But I always hope the things I make will taste really good.

A few days ago I made a pan of brownies to take to a get-together at my friend Sarah's house. They disappeared quickly, which was good. Sarah asked for the recipe, which would have been good if I had actually followed a recipe. "I'll e-mail it to you," I promised, then came home and and sat in front of the computer wondering what to do. At last I decided I would just describe the process I went through in making those brownies. So here we go:


Hi, Sarah! I'm glad you enjoyed the brownies and I'm happy to tell you how I made them. The following steps are important if you want to make them the way I did:

The night before you make the brownies, ask your husband if he has any caramels. Keep asking until he confesses that he has some locked up in the trunk of his car. Ask him to get them out for you.

In the morning when he gets them out, note that they are very hard and therefore impossible to chew. Listen while husband explains that he bought them on clearance some time ago. Kiss him good-bye and let him leave for work.

Spend several very boring minutes unwrapping caramels, trying to complete an online crossword puzzle while you do this. Wish your kids were home to help you. Instantly regret wishing that.

Melt the caramels in the microwave with a little milk and stir until they are smooth. Put in refrigerator. (Put them way in the back, under an open can of green beans. This is to avoid temptation.)

Cream together:

      1 cup butter, melted

      2 cups sugar

      2 tsp. vanilla

      4 eggs

Note that, so far, things are going well.

Get another bowl (I prefer to use one that will be easy to just wipe clean) and put flour into it. (You can use any amount of flour between one and two cups. The more flour you use, the cakier the brownies will be; when you use less flour they are denser and fudgier. I usually use 1½ cups, but for the ones I took to your house I used about 1⅓ cups.)

Pick up the container of cocoa powder from the kitchen shelf. Note that it is empty. Let out a roar of frustration. Resist temptation to quit and just eat the sugar and butter mixture straight out of the mixing bowl. Call neighbors to ask to borrow cocoa powder. Find that none of your close neighbors are home. Look outside at the snow and ice and recognize that you are not going to walk to a neighbor whose address is not "next door to Spencer's." Carefully reconsider eating sugar and butter mixture straight out of the mixing bowl.

Rest until children start coming home from school. Note that one of the children is not yours. Tell this child to go home and get some cocoa powder for you. Wait several hours, until the child remembers your request and tells his mother. When his mother calls and asks if you still need cocoa powder, look longingly into the mixing bowl before you decide to say yes. Wait for friend's child to bring cocoa powder.

Add ½ cup cocoa powder and ½ tsp salt to the flour. Stir the dry ingredients and combine them with the wet ingredients. Realize that although you preheated the oven four hours earlier, it is now off and cold. Turn it on again.

Cake and I have a long, complicated history

Put half the brownie batter in a 9x13 inch pan. Dig through the refrigerator for the caramel sauce (hint: it's under the green beans). Notice that the caramel has become rock hard again. Put the bowl in the microwave to soften the caramel and pour it on top of the brownie batter. Sprinkle chocolate chips (not the whole bag, obviously -- you're going to need something to eat while the brownies bake.) Pour the rest of the batter over the top and bake for thirty minutes.

Good luck! Enjoy!

Cooking With Kids

I wrote this a few years ago, when my children were very young. But I'd be lying if I said things were totally different around here now.

Cooking with kids is a tradition that goes back to the beginning of time, and it's a great way for families to spend time together. With that in mind, I'd like to share the following recipe, so that you, too, can experience the joy of making cookies the way it's done at our house.

Spencer Family Peanut Butter Oatmeal Cookies

1 cup butter

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup white sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup peanut butter

2 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

2 cups oatmeal

1 package milk chocolate chips

How to make cookies, Spencer family style:

           Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Ask Danny to get two cubes of butter out of the refrigerator.Tell Ben to find the mixing bowl. (Hint: look in dishwasher.)  Wash mixing bowl. Tell Joseph to find beater. Ask Hannah and Danny to help Joseph find beater. Tell Joseph to look for beater in his toy box and under his bed. Wash beater.

Put one cube of butter into the mixing bowl. Ask Danny where the other cube is. Take cube of butter away from baby, who has eaten most of it. Decide that cookies will be "reduced fat." Beat butter until smooth. Measure one cup brown sugar. Tell Ben and Joseph to get their fingers out of the brown sugar bag. Measure one cup white sugar. Tell Ben and Joseph to get their heads out of the white sugar bag. Add sugars to butter and beat until creamy.

Ask Hannah to get two eggs out of the refrigerator. Tell Danny to go get the cat to lick up the egg Hannah dropped on the floor. Tell Hannah  to get another egg. Discover that there are no more eggs. Decide that cookies will be "low cholesterol."  Add egg and vanilla to creamed mixture. Explain to Ben that although vanilla extract looks like root beer, it is not for drinking. Tell him to stop whining and get him a drink to take the taste out of his mouth. Tell Danny to stop eating the creamed ingredients.

Measure one cup peanut butter and add to creamed ingredients. Settle argument about who will lick the measuring cup clean. Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Explain to Joseph that although baking soda looks like powdered sugar, it does not taste like it. Tell him to stop crying and get him a drink to take the taste out of his mouth. Tell Danny to stop eating the creamed ingredients.

Take peanut butter jar away from Elisabeth.  Attempt to clean peanut butter off of Elisabeth's chest and legs with a wet dishtowel. Give up and start running bath water. Undress Elisabeth and put her in the tub.

Go back to kitchen. Ask who spilled the flour mixture all over the floor. Listen to denials. Look for broom and dustpan. Search garage, basement, backyard and kids' rooms. Give up on broom and push flour into a pile with your feet.

Re-measure dry ingredients and combine. Go see what that splash was. Take fully-clothed baby out of tub. From the bathroom, yell at Danny to stop picking at the creamed ingredients. Take off the baby's wet clothes and wrap him in a towel.

With baby in one arm, add dry ingredients to mixing bowl. Settle argument about who gets to turn on mixer. Let Joseph turn on mixer. Explain to Joseph that when you turn it up too high, flour flies all over your face. Wipe flour off Joseph's face. Wipe flour off your face. Measure oatmeal and add to bowl.

Put down baby and run to turn off bath water.  Mop up bathroom floor. Go back to kitchen to find wet naked baby is playing in the pile of flour on the floor. Explain to kids that it is not nice to call your baby brother a powdered donut, even if he looks like one. Get Elisabeth out of tub. Put baby in tub. Yell at Danny to stop eating the cookie dough.

Get baby out of tub, dress him and put him to bed. Wipe everybody's face and hands. Find broom (it's in the van). Clean up kitchen floor. Put Elisabeth's clothes, Adam's clothes, and nearly all the towels and dishcloths in the house into the washing machine. Look into almost empty mixing bowl. Turn off oven. Put cookie sheet away. Pick up chocolate chips.

Set timer for 10 minutes. Go into your bedroom and shut the door. Lie down and open bag of chocolate chips. Enjoy.

Something To Say

It is sadly obvious that I’m neglecting my blog lately. I have been trying to think of a suitable excuse (hurricane season? scabies? a touch of ebola virus?) but I haven’t come up with anything convincing. I will say that this blog is not the only thing I’ve been neglecting, if that makes it any more forgivable.

But I have been nudged into posting today by an e-mail I just got from my friend Jenny, in which she wonders if she is losing her mind. Her reason for doubting her sanity is that she has just spoken the following words to her toddler daughter:

"That is exactly why we have a rule in our house against putting cottage cheese in your grape juice!!!!!"

Her worried confession made me think about a list I wrote several years ago, and which I dug up in the hope that I can assure Jenny that when you have children, saying things like that is actually a sign of normalcy. There's a whole new phrasebook that's part of the job. So, here's my list of . . .

Five things I never thought I’d say (but then I had children)

1. "Yes Mommy’s funny, isn’t she? Silly, silly, mommy! Now open the door, sweetie, that’s right, let Mommy back in the car . . . "
2. "Stop that. Your sister is not a trampoline."
3. "Oh, ho! That’s a good one! To get to the other side! Ha Ha Ha!"
4. "Hold still, I’m trying to get it out. How in the world did you get it in there, anyway?"
5. "Oh, I hope that brown stuff smeared on the wall is chocolate."

And another list, the converse of the preceding one:

Five things I used to say (but then I had children)

1. "Would you like a cookie? I made some yesterday and I still have plenty left."
2. "Sure, that sounds like fun. I can be ready to go in ten minutes."
3. "Well, I’m finished. The whole house is clean."
4. "Do you have these pants in a size 6?"
5. "Honestly! I’d never let my kids act like that!"

So, Jenny, I hope this has convinced you that you are sane. In fact, you are more than sane. Your utterance has proven that you are either: 1) a woman who has the uncanny foresight to make a rule against mixing curdled dairy products with potentially dangerous purple fluids, or 2) a mother gutsy enough to insist that she has in fact made such a rule, and confident enough to expect that her family will believe her. Either way . . . brilliant.

Q & A

Kids are naturally curious, so they ask questions. It’s cute and fun when it’s a question you can answer, like "Where does the rain come from?" or "Why does bread dough rise?" But too often my children ask me questions I just don’t know the answer to. I hate that; I feel like I’m in school, failing an exam.

"Mommy, what keeps airplanes up in the air?"

"How do they grow more seedless grapes, since they don’t have seeds?"

"Did you wash my gym uniform? What’s for dinner? Why does the laundry room smell like fish?"

When they ask me those questions, questions that I feel, deep down, I should be able to answer, but can’t, my first reaction is to panic, feeling helpless and defensive. This stage is brief; I quickly move on to the next step, which involves evasive maneuvers. Here are a few answers worth trying:

"It’s all part of the wonderful, mysterious world we live in."
or
"You’ll learn that next year in school."
or
"Go ask your dad."
or
"Hey, who wants a cookie?"

Yesterday, my kids and I were driving home from the store when my seven-year-old daughter asked me one of those questions.

"Mommy, why is the sky blue?"

I was still in test anxiety mode – wait, wait, I know this one, I think I learned this once – when I was rescued by my ten-year-old son, who, looking around with great interest, gave the best answer to that question that I have ever heard.

"What guy?"

This guy.

The Fonz is Cool (and So Am I)

It’s official. The votes have been counted, the decision has been made, and the award has been presented.

I’m officially "Totally Uncool."

The committee that gave me this award is the same group of children that have, for the past fourteen years, regularly given me the coveted, "Meanest Mom in the World" position, so you can see that they are thoughtful and discerning. (It has recently come to my attention that there may be other mothers who are also receiving that particular designation, so perhaps it’s not as prestigious as I once believed.)

But unlike my previous award, which I was actually rather smug about, this new title has left me sputtering and indignant. How can they say I’m not cool? What right do they have to insist that I am not up on popular culture? I bet a lot of people think ‘Abercrombie and Fitch’ is a law firm.

Yes, it’s true that I thought Jessica and Ashley Simpson were two of Marge and Homer’s animated children. And maybe I should have realized sooner that Paris Hilton is not a hotel that shows up in the news a lot. And, okay, perhaps I looked a little foolish when I said, in answer to a teen who told me that he really liked YouTube, that I hadn’t heard their newest album yet.

But, come on! Me, uncool? Out of it? I can play the first part of "Stairway to Heaven" on the guitar. I know how to play record albums backward to hear subversive messages. I can find bad words hidden in the ice cubes in magazine ads. Hey, I can do Rubik’s Cube!

Apparently, so my sources tell me, the things that made a person cool in the 70s and 80s don’t cut it anymore. It’s a new century – a whole new millennium – and my poor kids have to live with a mother who doesn’t even text message.

It is a normal, almost required part of growing up to be embarrassed by your parents. (I remember being horrified at the thought of my friends seeing me with my mother, but that was completely different. She really wasn’t cool.) Still, it’s ironic that these kids who think I’m embarrassing are the same children whose hands I used to have to hold tightly when we went out so that they wouldn’t publicly demonstrate that the contents of their noses could be used as a source of food.

So, I’m taking this "uncool" business in stride. I’ve been around long enough to know that everything comes back around, if you wait long enough. Like that purple suede mini skirt that my aunt kept in the back of her closet for thirty years until it was in style again, my day will come. At some point in the future, there will be a real demand for a person who can tell you the members of the group Wham!, can curl her hair so it looks like Farrah’s, and who knows that if you have a pink and gray plaid wool skirt, you should wear a gray blouse and a pink sweater vest with it. Oh, and the blouse should have a big bow at the neck.

Oh, yes, my day will come again. So I’m not a cool mom. Maybe I can manage to be a really groovy great-grandmother.

Ah, the 1980s: Perhaps not the best-looking decade for many of us

The Power of the Dark Side

I inherited three major qualities from my grandmother: 1) the ability to laugh at my mistakes; 2) a passionate love for a great bargain; and 3) prematurely gray hair. All these gifts combined last weekend in a way that made me richly aware of my heritage, and also made me look and feel like a complete idiot.

It all started at the beauty supply store, where I had stopped to pick up some hair color (to cover Grandma's Gift Number 3). I knew just what to get, and I was headed to that section of the store when I was sucked in by what is, for me, one of the most powerful magnetic forces on earth: a clearance table (Grandma's Gift 2). I was interested to find that the table had hair coloring on it, and naturally I was tempted, but I wasn't convinced – this was not my regular brand; in fact, this was a brand I had never heard of, and it was only about a dollar less than my usual stuff. I stood there, with the bottle in my hand, considering, when I saw a sign on the table I had overlooked. It read "All Clearance Items are Buy One Get One Free."

Something deep within my soul quivered with joy. I filled a bag with the cheap stuff and fairly ran to the checkout.

On the way home, I congratulated myself on my brilliant bargain. The hair color had been marked down to $2.99, and each bottle was big enough to color my hair twice. That meant that I had enough hair color to last me over a year, and at a cost of just seventy-five cents an application. In what can best be described as a sick tightwad fantasy, I pictured myself walking down the road, swinging my stunning brown locks, my pockets jingling with all the cash I had saved by making this impressive purchase, spending my windfall savings on some luxury item, like maybe a corn dog or two.

Back at home, product in hand, I was less confident. The instructions for my new hair color seemed to have been written by someone who had limited exposure to the English language. But I've been covering my gray for years, and I was able to come up with a rough translation. Bravely, I plunged in. I mixed up the coloring, spread it on, spent a pleasant and relaxing 45 minutes smelling like embalming fluid, then washed my hair. It was at this point that I discovered that while some of my hair looked about right, large sections of my hair were several shades darker than I was used to. Also, large sections of my forehead were several shades darker than I was used to.

Remember, I am a person who can laugh at my own mistakes (Grandma's Gift Number 1).  Also, as was clearly demonstrated that day, I am a person who has a family who can laugh at my mistakes. When the hilarity eventually subsided (ha ha), I headed back to the store, this time to buy my usual brand of hair color.

Feeling more secure now — after all, I was on familiar territory again — I re-colored my hair.

Now, perhaps you are thinking, "But if her hair was too dark, how could adding more color to it make it lighter? Wouldn't that make the problem even worse?" If you are indeed thinking this, I would like you to ask yourself another question, which is, "Where was I at the time, when I could have brought up this obvious issue to a person in need, a person who clearly had inhaled too many hair color fumes?"

Yes, I stepped out of the shower later that day looking far worse than before. My hair was so dark in some spots that it seemed to be functioning as a black hole in space would, sucking all the light out of every room I entered. There was no more pretending that I wasn't in serious trouble. Even my grandmother (whose usual perky advice would have been something like, "Just put on your prettiest dress and a bright smile and no one will notice anything's wrong!") would have started looking around for a wooden stake to drive into my heart if I got too close.

Keep in mind that at this point, I had already messed up twice in one weekend by believing that I could be my own stylist, and as a result, I looked like I should be filling out an application to compete in an international Elvira look-alike contest. So naturally, I did what any sensible person in my situation would do: I grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and started hacking off large chunks of my hair.

Okay, it's possible that at this point I had lost the capacity to think clearly.

I'll spare you the next part of the story, as it is rather tedious and also involves profanity. But let me say this: Some people may tell you that there is nothing so expensive as a cheap paintbrush. They are wrong. Compared to the financial hazards of purchasing discount hair color, buying a cheap paintbrush is like dropping your gum in the dirt. I spent far more money trying to fix the problem than I had ever hoped to save. Now, my locks are still not stunning brown, and my pockets are certainly not jingling. At this point, when people ask me, "Ooh, what happened to your hair?" I cannot even distract them by offering them a corn dog.

If anyone else out there loves a bargain like I do, I have some extra hair color for sale. Hey, I'll let it go cheap.

Executive Position

I was surprised to even receive the letter.  It came in an official-looking envelope, and informed me that I had been selected to appear in the next edition of Who’s Who in American Executives.

I’m self-employed, and so while I may be my own boss, I don’t think of myself as an executive. I was about to toss the letter, thinking it was nothing more than a mistake in someone’s mailing list, but then I reconsidered. I am the mother of seven children.  Couldn't I be considered an executive in that role?  Sure, most of the time I feel like I’m more “labor” than I am “management.” And my salary compares to most CEOs only if the currency in which I am paid is unpleasant odors.

But when I consulted my dictionary, I learned that an executive is “a person in charge of  administration.”  I’ve actually administered a lot of things – if medicines and punishments count.

So I took another look at the letter.  It directed me to fill out and return the enclosed form to let them know about myself and my company.  I grabbed the form, dug up a pen, and began.

The first few questions were easy.

Job Title?  Mom. (Also, Mama, Mommy, and Hey, you.)

Number of years in this position?  16.

Number of employees/subordinates? [I briefly wondered whether to count my husband, but decided against it.]  Seven.

It got a little trickier from there.

What type of industry does your work fall under? (check one)

I carefully considered each of the choices.

Transportation?  Okay, that’s a yes.

Entertainment?  Uh-huh.

Educational Services? Public Relations? Financial Services? Yes, yes, and yes.

Food Service? Oh, yes.

Hospitality? Health Care? Hygiene? You betcha.

How about Law Enforcement? Hah!  I’ve enforced more laws and broken up more fights than the NYPD.

Check one? I could check any of these.  Janitorial Services?  What do you think?

Just reading the list of choices was making me tired and depressed.  I decided to go on to the next question.  Surely it would be easier.  I read on.

Do you plan an expansion of your organization in the next year?

No.  No, no, I don’t.  I think my organization (and my waist along with it) has seen enough expansions.

In the end, I decided my first instinct about this letter was right, and I made an Executive Decision.  So, if any of you are interested in seeing my entry for the next edition of Who’s Who in American Executives, you can fish it out of my recycling bin.

Make a List

I’m not opposed to record keeping. On the contrary, I am very interested in leaving behind a record of my life, so that in case someday archaeologists, or perhaps child welfare authorities, stumble upon my home, there will be some evidence that adults have lived here.

But I’m just not a scrapbooker. And the last journal that I kept ended with an entry about how upset I was that my mother wouldn’t let me stay up the night before to watch The Love Boat.

So I’m always looking for new and innovative methods of "journaling," and I considered it a good tip when a friend told me that making lists can be a quick and easy way to record family history. Therefore, in the interest of historical preservation, I took some time today to write down the following list:

Things I Found Behind My Oven This Morning

When I Pulled It Out From the Wall to Replace a Part

•  Three pumpkin seeds
• Thirty-five cents
• An admission ticket to "A Christmas Fantasy", held November 22-24 (it didn’t say what year)
• A scrap of paper which said "Bankruptcy Notice" and then some other stuff I didn’t want to read
• Five stale cheese puffs
• One roll of duct tape
• Half a Dorito
• Four pens, two and a half pencils, and seven crayons
• A note reading: "Mom IM gone ill be back"
• A set of rubber "Billy Bob" hillbilly teeth
• One cheese tortellini
• One bottle of sunscreen
• Two hundred thirty seven dollars in Monopoly money
• A miniature candy bar wrapper that read "To My Valentine"
• A mostly eaten piece of pizza
• One air soft gun pellet
• Two chocolate chips (one milk chocolate, one semi-sweet)
• Approximately three cups of mixed dust, leaves, rocks and bugs

Now in the interest of truth, I offer one more list:

Things Behind My Oven Now That I Have Fixed It and Pushed It Back Into Place

(Everything on the above list, minus the thirty-five cents, the Billy Bob Hillbilly Teeth and the milk chocolate chip.)

Yes, of course I thought about sweeping behind there while I had it pulled out.  I even started to go get the broom. But since I couldn’t immediately find the broom, I had some time to think about what I was about to do. The more I considered it, the more I realized it might not be a good idea, and I’ll tell you why.

When I was a kid, I had a friend whose mother pulled the refrigerator out from the wall to clean behind it every week. And my sister once dated a guy who told her that one of his mother’s weekly tasks was to go down to the basement utility room and dust the water heater. (I’ll let you guess what my advice to my sister was.) And once I overheard a woman telling her friend that her mother had regularly scrubbed around the base of the toilet with a toothbrush.  "That’s nothing," the friend said. "My mother did that, and then she flossed around there, too."

What I’m saying is, there are plenty of people in the world who keep house in a manner that would prevent me from wanting to be their next door neighbor. Do I want to turn into one of them? Of course not.

Now, it’s true that sweeping out behind my oven, a region which clearly bore evidence that several major holidays had passed since its last cleaning, wouldn’t exactly put me on par with the homemaker who turns her vacuum on more often than I flush a toilet. But who knows what might have happened if I’d picked up that broom? What if, knowing that the space behind my oven was sparkling clean, I’d had a hankering to peek behind the microwave? And then, after answering a compulsion to get that clean too, I might have moved onto the other appliances. Before long, I could be browsing the internet searching for a fun craft idea to use the twenty-seven pounds of lint I’d found behind my dryer. Next thing you know, I’m taking all the light bulbs out of their sockets to give them a sponge bath, and staying up late organizing my supply of toilet paper by purchase date and ply count. Soon I’m wiping down the inside of the dishwasher with disinfecting wipes after every load and using a Q-Tip and a magnifying glass to clean the shower.  From there, it’s a short walk to becoming the woman standing in her kitchen crying, screaming at the child who last unloaded the dishwasher, "The ⅓ cup measure goes between the ¼ and the ½! Am I the only person in this house with any sense of reason and order?"

It’s a slippery slope. I decided to err on the side of safety.

You know, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that I did the right thing. In fact, I’m going to put the Billy Bob Hillbilly teeth back behind the oven. That way, when Halloween rolls around again, I’ll know just where they are. After all, I’ve got it down on paper.