A Tropical Plant Scheme

Before I had a kid I sometimes wondered if I did have a kid, what would it be like? I suppose all of us who plan to have kids contemplate this at one time or another. You, of course, want all your best qualities to be given to this kid. But, you know the warning that you're going to get a difficult kid if you were a difficult kid so as to pay you back for all the hell you put your parents through, so they can sit back and feel a little self satisfied that what goes around, comes around? It's true to some extent. But I thought that since I was such a good kid, that I wouldn't have to worry about that. Well, you just might have to pay for the other parent's mistakes. So be forewarned!

I really can't complain about my kid too much. She really is, underneath it all, a sweet kid. She is thoughtful and sensitive (she gets that from me) and persistent and competitive (she gets that from somewhere else). She loves animals and wants to be a vegetarian because she doesn't like the idea of eating animals, which is going to be hard since chicken is about one of the only things she eats. She also wants to be veterinarian when she grows up, (or a movie star -she's still deciding). She cares about people. In fact, in kindergarten the best feedback I got from her teacher, was how nice she was to Ally-the little girl in her class with Down's syndrome. My kid protected her and made sure the other kids were nice to her. You see, you can always hope that your kid is smart, but what's really important is that your kid has empathy for others.

However, with this sensitivity comes a price. She is very dramatic and quick to react to things as if the world was coming to a halting and abrupt end. My daughter is seven now, and I thought that meltdowns were supposed to be a thing of the past. I got through the terrible twos and even survived the very terrible threes-Trust me on that one.

The persistence/competitive thing can be good too. I like that she has the determination to face most anything. But that she has to make a competition out of any and everything can get a little tiresome. So, you see your kid may not get all your best qualities, but he/she is going to get something from you most likely and unfortunately you can't hand pick them or send them back for a better model.

Anyway, the point of this whole post was to talk about my kid's latest scheme. Because when you have a sweet, sensitive, persistent, competetive kid, the following just might happen.

This past weekend my kid goes to play with the little girl down the street, but she is not home. So she ends up coming back home with the boy from across the street-who incidentally is 3 years older than her. Well, they have this plan. They're going to wash cars in the neighborhood-for a small fee-and donate the money to the animal shelter. Awwww, isn't that cute? Their bright idea was to make posters and hang them up over the neighborhood. So I send them outside to work on this project with plenty of paper and markers and crayons. When I go back to check on them, they're gone.

After a few hours elapse I begin to worry about where my kid is and go look for her. Then I see her, walking down the street with her wagon hauling a huge tropical potted plant.

Where the hell did that come from?

Evidently, her and the boy had found a customer and had washed their car-she also had a zip loc baggie with $15 dollars in in-$5 for her $5 for the boy and $5 for the animal shelter and most likely leftover Halloween candy (leftover? there's no such thing in my house). But that customer had ulterior motives. They gave the plant to my kid to sell for $10, so she can donate the proceeds to the orphanage.

Yeah, that's real cute in theory, too.

But, this means several things to me-

1) The original tropical plant owner just pawned their unwanted junk on me.

2).What the hell am I going to do with a tropical potted plant-I don't have green thumb you see & escaped Florida to get away from tropical foilage,

and the worst one

3) My kid is knocking on all the neighbors doors trying to sell this unwanted plant.

So far she hasn't had any customers and I cringe at the idea of her continuing to bug the neighbors.

But then I remembered participating in these types of schemes before, when I was a kid. My best friend and I had a lemonade stand, we even had a garage sale and sold our old junk. We ended up getting in a fight over the proceeds which ended with my friend throwing the quarter we were fighting over in the bushes. I have no idea why were fighting over this quarter in the first place.

I also remember my cousins and me knocking on doors in their neighborhood soliciting money for Jerry's kids. We obviously were not representing a charitable organization and the only cause the money was going for was for candy and sweets for underprivileged kids-us. Our plan was eventually foiled by an astute neighbor who asked for our membership cards to prove that we were actually representing a charity. We, for one second, tried to make these cards, but ended up abandoning that plan. I can't say that I'm real proud of that one now.

Anyway, I do feel proud that my kid wants to do nice things for other people. But I still wrestle with the dilemma of supporting my kid but yet protecting my neighbors from her kid schemes.

Needless to say I'm getting real sick of looking at that plant on my porch.

Any takers? It's for a good cause.

Cranberries Blow, They Don't Suck

I just have quick Thanksgiving related story to tell.

Last Friday, my department at work had our annual Thanksgiving potluck. It's just another excuse for co-workers to eat themselves silly and complain about how tired they are that afternoon.

Anyway, one of our only male co-workers signed up to bring cranberries. And of course, he didn't make home made cranberries. No, only the best would do and he purchase canned cranberries. Now, I'm not a cranberry fan (the band is okay, but the fruit not so much). I don't hate them. I just could take or leave them. So I really don't know if home made are better than canned, and frankly haven't contemplated it that much.

Nevertheless, I certainly wasn't going to have them-THANK GOD.

I was in the kitchen preparing the instant mashed potatoes that another coworker had brought to make but had to leave for a sick child. My male co-worker came in and started to "prepare" the cransberries. He opened the can with the manual can opener and realized that he couldn't get them to slide out. He then had a wise idea.

He proceeded to poke a hole in the bottom the can. I have no idea what instrument he used to do this because I was trying not to pay attention. And then he blew the cranberries out of the can and onto the serving dish. Feeling very proud of his resourcefulness, he didn't think to keep his cranberry preparation top secret and told me. Now this was information that I really couldn't be trusted with.

Did I tell anyone?

Not until today. Was that mean?

Why George and Cronies Should Take Military Advice from Action Movies

Usually, I use events that happen during the weekend to come up with ideas about what to post. However, I thought that this past weekend would not bring any such event to serve as inspiration for a post. I spent the weekend furiously working on an literature review for a class, so unless people wanted to hear about phonological processing and Woodcock Vocabulary Assessments there wasn't going to be material for my little ole blog.

But, I sometimes forget that the best inspiration sometimes comes from my dearest friend, Tele Vision aka TV.

So, I'm busy working on this assignment and my husband, making sure that I get plenty of study breaks, proceeds to update me on the Rambo-a-thon that is being broadcast on TV. Ok, you all know the Rambo saga I'm sure. Vietnam vet doesn't fit into this new crazy world and is constantly being harrassed to get back into the soldier life. Well, I guess my husband had worked up to Rambo 3 and was giving me recaps of the transpiring events from the movie.

The movie starts with Red Foreman from That 70's Show approaching Rambo about some reconnaissance mission to Afghanistan. He didn't call Rambo a dumbass though. Well, Rambo refuses the request which sets in motion the movie plot. Instead, Rambo's commander and mentor goes on the mission and ends up getting captured. So of course Rambo has no other choice but to become involved now and go rescue him. So the movie continues with lots of gunfire, tanks, bombs and many other far fetched action movie conventions of an improbable nature. I'm not sure if there is a love interest, but I know there is some young kid involved. You've still have got to have the human story. I'm sure the movie concludes with Rambo rescuing his mentor and ends with a door of sequel opportunity opened just a crack. They had already made three at that point for God's sake.

"How are you going to get by now, Rambo?"

"Day by day."

But the part of Rambo 3 that is the most prolific and ironic at the same time, is when Rambo's mentor is being tortured by the Russians who have captured him in Afghanistan. Remember when the Russians were our worst enemy?? Anyway, Mentor of Rambo gets on his pulpit and preaches to the Russians how stupid they were to think they could invade a country like Afghanistan and compared it to the US's involvement in Vietnam. He went on to say that the people they were fighting would rather die than be slaves, so they were essentially fighting a battle they couldn't win.

My husband says that George Bush would have had to have seen Rambo movies and that it's too bad that he hadn't used Rambo 3 movie advice when crafting his foreign policy.

To Blog or Not to Blog?-That is the Question

Ok, I had something else to post initially, but I decided I wasn't ready to just yet. You see, today would have been my Dad's 64th birthday. And I have this piece that I have been working on in honor of him, and thought that it would make perfect sense to post it. But since today is a rainy, dreary day and because I'm not sure if I'm ready with it, I decided to postpone that post.

So this got me thinking about the burning philosophic question: What is the purpose of my blogging? I only started this blogging thing because my sister inspired me to. Her blog is so awesome that it really got my writing juices flowing again. I always had an affinity for reading and writing. I was the kid in class who the teacher always identified as the "good writer" so I kind of became known as that through school and had plenty of encouragement along the way to continue crafting it. Of course once I started college, I didn't get stroked quite the same. In fact, it kind of wavered my confidence in my skill and talent at writing to have my ENG 101 teacher tear up my assignments(figuratively of course). Nevertheless I ended up majoring in English, so I got lots more practice with writing. I had some really great teachers along the way that really helped. (Thank you Dr. Stern and Writing Shapely Fiction-may you RIP)

However, upon graduation, there weren't many writing jobs out there. I wasn't really interested in journalism. I think of myself more as a creative writer, and since I wasn't quite ready to publish a novel or even a short story for that matter, there weren't many professional options. I kind of put writing on the shelf, at that point. Of course I still have to write for work, tons of reports and memos and correspondence. And I'm enrolled in grad school studying Human Development so I've got lots of opportunity for scientific writing. But writing for the sheer love of language and desire to tell a story in a creative way is not something I've really had an outlet for. So this is where blogging comes in.

Back to my original question-What is the reason that I blog?. I'm sure the reasons other people blog are as varied and diverse as the bloggers themselves.

Most probably do it to communicate with friends and families, but those are frankly kind of boring-unless you're part of that circle. (Although I must admit I have read some of this ilk and they can be funny if the writer is good.)

Others do it because they got lots to say and blogging gives them a forum for that. (Political blogs, etc.)

Maybe some just want to entertain others. (Class clowns.)

And still others want to make sense of the crazy and funny things that a happen and blogging helps with that. (Usually the funny ones)

Some have even made a career out of it, so to speak, with advertising paying their salary. Blaze the trail, you blogger!

I think that I blog for some of those same reasons. I know it's not a responsibility to my readers, because there are probably only 3 of them- and that's counting me. I do think I have important stuff to say and writing has always been the best way of expressing myself.

But quite honestly, blogging really has made me look at life a little differently. Funny things that happen, observations about events and occurrences-these are all fodder for the blog now. Instead of getting frustrated or even disgusted with the things that life throws at you, I can blog about it. Okay, I still might get frustrated and disgusted but at least I can work through it by blogging.

Most importantly, though, it has given me the motivation to write again. I don't do it as much for extrinsic rewards. Sure, if others read it and enjoy it that's great. In fact, I love positive feedback. But I have to selfishly admit that I blog for ME. And there's nothing wrong with that.

So I first thought that the reason I wanted to refrain from my original post is it might be too depressing for readers. Or because I was being hard on myself and thought it too silly. But I think it might be something more than that. Something in myself that still doesn't want to say goodbye to my Dad. And if I post that post it will be confirmation that he is gone and that I still can't comprehend why. I actually still have copies of emails my Dad sent me from years ago. I'm just not ready to delete him from my life.

So I will work up the determination to finish the piece and I will find the courage to hit the PUBLISH POST button one of these days. Then the words in black and white will somehow help me to make sense of it all.

Afterall creating instead of deleting is a much better endeavor.

Hospitality-Las Vegas Style

Time for a new installment of "Whats on PBS" or better yet "What's Funny on PBS That Really isn't Trying to be Funny but Comes Across as Funny Nonetheless."

This time my viewing of PBS occured between commericials of Supernatural-love those boys and their rock and roll music.

The PBS program was a special on Las Vegas. The part that I saw that was funny is as follows:

A woman, I will call her Tami. (Not because that was her name. Although,it might have been because she kind of looked like a Tami), was discussing how she trains the hospitality staff at some Las Vegas hotel. This woman is a candidate for Employee Who Takes their Job Way Too Seriously award. She went on and on about how she teaches her staff to ask guests "May I take your plate?" instead of "Are you done with that" And how she trains staff to pour coffee 1/4 of inch for the rim of the cup. And how she stresses eye contact and relaxing when dealing with guests.

Then they showed a classroom environment where all the hospitality staff were immersed in an intense training led by Tami.

Tami has a dry erase board and is writing important points on the board to illustrate what she's teaching. And just to make sure everyone is paying attention she quizzes the group.

Tami: Ok, Do we put butter on the french toast?

Group: NO! (in unison)

Tami: Do we put syrup on the french toast?

Group: NO! (again in unison)

Tami: Do we put powdered sugar on the french toast?

Group: NO mixed in with a few YESes!

Tami was keeping them on their toes with that trick question. The correct answer was YES, they do put powdered sugar on the french toast.

Then she goes on to explain the difference between scrambled eggs and omlettes.

Very simply, it is the shape.

Trainees are furiously scribbling down notes at this point. You never know when you might need to differentiate between scrambled eggs and omlettes.

God bless the hospitality workers of Las Vegas for having to endure Tami's training.

And please tip!

Sign of the Times

I don't know when this phenomenon began, but I have recently noticed it has become more prevalent. I really don't understand it, so I guess I'm just looking for some explanation as to why this is a good idea for any party involved.

I'm sure you've seen them. They can usually be spotted at busy intersections or on side of busy roads. You can tell who they are by the huge signs that are attached to their souls. Their signs usually contain some multi-color message adverstising some huge going out of business sale for some store. And I guess most people might pass by these Sign People without a second thought, maybe some have not really even noticed them (which incidentally is not good news for the stores that are paying these folks to advertise their sale for the sole purpose of them getting noticed by potential customers).

But I contemplate these things. Chalk it up to too much free time, I suppose.

Anyway, I wonder what the job title is?

-Sign Holder Upper

I wonder about the qualifications?

-Must be able to stand for long periods of time and be able to hold up a 20 pound sign. Must like fresh air (with a little pollution mixed in). Dignity not necessary.

How do people end up with this job?

I guess it doesn't take any brain power or heavy manual labor, so it must be attractive for some reason. You don't really have to directly deal with customers which is a big plus.But can you imagine earning $5.15 per hour to stand on the side of the road holding a going out of business sign? How long of a shift would one have to endure? Are there health insurance benefits? Paid holidays?

I have observed these Sign People while stopped at stop lights to see if I could figure out a little bit about the kind of person who would willingly choose to perform this job. Usually they are hiding themselves with the sign, probably just slowly whittling the time away hoping no one will recognize who they are and collecting their weekly wages and just getting by. Others have proudly waved their sign performing their job with such gusto and authenticity. That person is going places. Promotion bound. I have seen others actually chatting on cell phones while in the middle of their shift. I guess most minimum wage jobs wouldn't allow this, so there are some perks.

I then begin to wonder why companies think this is a good way to advertise their sale. And does the average customer really respond to this type of advertising?

"Despite the mail circular, newspaper, TV, and radio ads, I really didn't think to shop at the Super Dooper Rhodes Furniture Store's Bankruptcy Liquidation Going Out of Business Sale until I saw that woman in the purple sweatsuit holding the huge technicolor sign on the side of the road."

I guess it is just one more arm with which to grab the consumer and herd them into a store that either is picked over, overpriced in the first place, or employing the old bait and switch trick. And I don't hold much faith in the consumer to rise about this tactic, we know all about the power of suggestion. There must be some market research out there that supports that companies are achieving the desired effect from this new breed of advertising gimmick. And if they are usually adverstising a going out of business sale, how does the store that is going out of business justify the expense of the Sign Holder Upper? Is it worth the cost?

I sometimes come up with these evil scenarios that these Sign Holder Uppers are actually prisoners of Corporate Headquarters and are being forced to carry out their sentence in this fashion. Who needs a stock barricade or scarlet letter when there are going out of business signs to hold?

Which, for some reason that probably only makes sense in my mind, reminds me of my 6th grade teacher's discipline techniques that involved a circle on the chalkboard that your nose was supposed to touch and was always drawn just little taller than you were and dictionaries were held in both hands if the offense was more serious. Tim Dunn & Dan Miller's orange in the toilet shenanigans resulted in them both holding on to the evidence-the said orange retrieved from said toilet- while each of their noses rested within their respective circle on the chalkboard. Public ridicule is an effective deterrant in 6th grade classrooms, I suppose. Holding up a sign and surrendering your dignity must be effective as well.

So my heart goes out to those Sign Holder Uppers who are schilling for the Corporation. It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it. Where do I get an application?

Dog Gone Car Commercials

I just have to vent a little about these annoying car salesman commercials that are being broadcast here in Triangle, NC.

Mark Jacobsen has a car dealership and is most likely a New Yorker. He has white hair and a beard and is tall and smarmy looking and wears all black, just as you would imagine a car salesman to look like.

His commericals started innocently enough with him talking real loud as to why you should be buying a Toyota from him.

They then progressed to having actual customers attesting to why Mark Jacobsen gave them the best deal. This part was a little cheesy and my goodness did the adverstising machine that dreamed up this ad campaign try to capture the diversity and stereotypes of our area all in one swoop.

There was the Middle Eastern woman in burqua that claimed she got the best deal at Mark Jacobsen Toyota. There was the Asian guy who saved money by shopping with Mark. Soccer mom came all the way from Cary for a minivan. There was the spacey hippie couple from Chapel Hill that most likely got their Prius from ole Mark. Even my new hometown was represented, southern accent, K-Mart top, big hair, and all. The purpose of these commercials was to show that all kinds of people come from all over the Triangle to shop for cars at Mark Jacobsen Toyota.

The next round of ads got even better (insert sarcasm here). This time they included Max, Mark Jacobsen's talking dog. This white fluffy dog with red bandana around neck would be held by smarmy Mark Jacobsen and as his mouth moved, generated by some computer generated effect, a voiceover in the most annoying New York accent was inserted to simulate a talking dog. What else would you expect from a tawking dawg? I think the dog looked quite uncomfortable in these commercials, but I'm sure no animals were actually harmed during the filming.

The final installment of this commerical campaign has resorted to using the dogs of the people who have bought cars from Mark Jacobsen, revealing how their owners got such great deals. Best Friend of So and So says save money at Mark Jacobsen Toyota. The open-shut moving of these dogs' jaws are synchronized with their "testimonials" and it is just too much to bear.

Not that I expect much from commercial advertisting, especially local car salesman advertising, but if I see one more talking dog I just might have to go buy a new Toyota.

Cross that Off Your "To Do" List

I kind of hate those people who depend on "to do" lists. If you're one of those people whose life is not complete and cannot function properly without a "to do" list to guide them through life, then please forgive me - it's nothing personal.

It's just that I'm not an organizer, nor a planner, nor an accomplisher. I totally understand why people do it, though. With all the demands of work, family, friends, errands, bills, and if you have enough time left over, personsal interests, it's understandable that one would want to plan out their day so as to make sure they acheive maximum efficiency and productivity. What better satisfaction than being able to cross things off your list so that you know that YOU DID IT!

Yes, you made that dentist appointment for a root canal!

Yipee, you remembered to get pantyliners at the grocery store!

Hooray, you successfully completed that project your boss assigned you and managed to order those airline tickets to Jamaica in between.

You are the queen of multi-tasking. You are the master juggler. And you've got the list to prove it.

I guess everyone has a personality type and I marvel over how easily you can sometimes fit people into those types. For instance, all the anal people I know make "to do" lists. They organize and categorize their spices, CD collections, and photographs. They plan what they're going to wear to work 6 weeks in advance. They know if someone has used the stapler on their desk because it is 1/8 of an inch from where they last left it. They cannot function if they see of stack of papers that needs aligning or hanging pictures that need straightening. The crave balance and symmetry. They are at peace when everything can be filed away into their perfect boxes, baskets, or color coded folders.

I am so unlike these people. If you saw my desk you'd think that I wouldn't be able to find a thing on it. But trust me, I can find it. I keep my "to do" lists in my head and if I forget something on it, oh well. I'm pretty easygoing that way.

I occasionally peruse other blogs and see that many people blog about lists. Sometimes they're lists of things that drive people crazy, or things overheard, or things still left undone. So, this got me thinking if I had a "to do" list like that. What things would I want to do before I die?

Here's a sampling, in no particular order- so now I can kind of hate myself:

• Go back to Ireland, specifically Kinsale. Stay at the Trident Hotel.

• Take a cross country trip in an RV and see all the popular sites-The Grand Canyon, camping in the SW deserts, Yellowstone, etc.

• Learn how to brew beer.

• Hike the Appalachian Trail (ok, I'm a realist so this should read "hike a small portion of the Appalachian Trail")

• Hang glide (preferably over some body of water)

• Star in a community theater production of any Tennessee Williams' play, or at least be the curtain puller

• Paint all rooms of my house different wild and vibrant colors, starting with a deep red in my dining room.

• Write a southern gothic novel

• Finish grad school

• Cut and highlight my hair

• Take a Tai Chi class

• Get a professional massage

• Become a rock singer or a singer in a bluegrass band (hey, I would want to be versatile if I actually had any singing talent)

• Create a "to do" list of things that I want to do before I die, but probably don't have the talent, guts, or determination to actually accomplish. But this is America and I can dream, damn it!

So, as you can see some of these are reasonable goals, but some are near impossible. Maybe I will acheive some satisfaction once I accomplish any or all of the above since I have officially written my "to do" list.

At least now I can cross one thing off my list.

Would that be Nick or AJ?

My 7 year old daughter has hurt feelings.

Why? You ask. Well, I'll tell you.

She has just experienced the drama and tragedy of being teased by an older boy.

It all started with some mention of her getting in trouble on the bus yesterday. I tried to get out of her exactly what happened, but finding out coherent details from a 7 year old is sometimes a little challenging. It had something to do with passing notes and possibly standing up while doing this.

Anyway, she asked me if she could now be car rider. First I have to make mention of the fact that my daughter fought me tooth and nail to even get the "privilege" of riding the bus in the first place. I was a little nervous about sending her off on the Big Yellow Screaming and Jumping Kid Carrying Machine. I don't know why exactly. Maybe it was the visions of mangled bus wrecks and sexual assaults and drag out fist fights that have been portrayed in the media to have occurred on buses over the past couple of years. However, I rode the bus and I turned out okay. But I never really had a choice, you just rode the bus in those days. Well, at least until high school when you befriended older kids preferably with their own cars so that you can catch a ride to and from school. I finally relented and decided to let her ride the bus. I know I can't always protect her from the Big Bad World. And things have been fine until this incident.

Well, during this conversation about getting in trouble on the bus I was able to get the gist of the dynamics that might be contributing to my daughter's newfound juvenile deliquency. She has an assigned seat on the bus and has to sit in the back. Now, when I was growing up the back of the bus was where the cool troublemakers sat. You were farthest out of the bus driver's view so you could shoot birds with impunity at the motorists behind you without being detected.

I asked her if she could see if the bus driver would let her sit up towards the front because sitting in the back seemed to be bothering her from the hodgepodge of information I was gathering. She then begins to tear up and tells me that there is something that happened before that she had not told me. Of course possible scenarios race through my mind, and of course the worst thoughts. Did someone hurt her? Did someone touch her inappropriately?

Anyway, she finally tells me after coaxing and prodding what's bothering her. Evidently, Will, a 5th grader, told her that she looked like one of the Backstreet Boys.

The HORROR!

I tried really hard not to chuckle about this. So this is what passes for taunting and teasing these days? A couple of things occurred to me. Okay, why would a a 10 year old boy pick the Backstreet Boys as a reference for making fun of an innocent little girl? Besides, how are today's 10 year olds still in to the Backstreet Boys? Is it that the country kids my daughter is attending school with are that behind the times that they use defunct boy bands from the 1990s as ammunition for put downs? I can't begin to analyze what is going through the mind of a 10 year old redneck kid, besides I had some feelings to mend.

So I asked my daughter if she even knew who the Backstreet Boys were. She of course did not. I told her then it really wasn't that bad to be compared to pretty boys who could sing and dance at the same time. She didn't buy this. I asked her why it bothered her and she said it was because he had said she looked like a boy. Now my daughter does not look like a boy and I know I see her through mother eyes but she is just as cute as a button.

It made me remember the teasing I endured from pesky little boys. Chris Henry couldn't resist calling me Skinny Minnie when I would walk by his table in the lunch room. Donald Sunny couldn't help but tease me with Polish jokes. My uncles use to give me put downs to dish back to him-like did you hear about the Pollock who rented his basement of his outhouse to the German-which is the nationality that my uncles assumed Donald Sunny was. Ooooo....That got him! I know you are but what am I? My Dad's take on it was that was how boys acted when they liked you. Yuck!

I tried to give my daughter the best Mom Advice-just ignore them. Who am I kidding? Let's fight fire with fire. What she needs is an obscure reference to use to make fun of this kid.

I propose that she compare him to one of the members of Kajagoogoo. My husband suggested the Spice Girls. Any other ideas?

The Birds and the Bees

This past weekend we had some unwanted guests. And no, I'm not talking about the in-laws. Although they do have this nasty habit of dropping by unannounced. Wait a minute, dropping by unannounced is something that your nosy neighbor down the street does, not people who live hundreds of miles away in Florida do.

In all fairness, we usually have a timetable of when to expect them when they visit. We'll be there anytime between Thursday of next week and tomorrow. Translation: we just want to keep you on your toes.

They usually give us the heads up on their arrival by calling us from down the street with the greeting of "We're here!" and I'm busily hiding dirty dishes in the oven, picking up laundry off the floor, and putting away the millions of Barbie doll accessories scattered about the place in a wicked fervor.

But I digress, the unwelcome guests.

Well, these unwelcome guests dropped in on Thursday as I was watching my weekly dose of Survivor. I noticed that a bug kept knocking into my light overhead and making this click, click click noise everytime. Turns out it was a ladybug. Since ladybugs are rumored to be "good" insects because they eat all the "bad" insects I didn't want to squash this cute little ladybug. I will mention that no, I'm not a card carrying member of PETA, but I do like all creatures great and small. So, I will do my best to "rescue" bugs by getting them into a plastic cup, covering it with my hand, and mercifully releasing the said bug back into the wild where he/she is free to fly and buzz to freedom, or get caught in the big spider web. Here I was missing the Jamie and Bobby Jon male posturing showdown and I'm distracted with rescuing a ladybug. I sit down again and I hear the annoying click, click, click again. You see, ladybug's have hard shells so every time it hit the light it made the annoying sound. Turns out there was a whole colony of ladybugs congregating around this light. I gave up at that point.

The ladybugs have now taken over my bottom floor. They're on the blinds, on the ceiling, on the walls, and in the corners. My mom googled "ladybug infestation" and found that evidently this is a common problem. The ladybug, whose reputation as a "good" bug resulted in an importation of them which in turn led to ladybug overpopulation, will search for a warm place to lay low for the winter, and hence the issue at hand. You could buy these products over the internet that will solve the problem or you could hire an exterminator. Or you could just accept them as roommates.

All this talk about ladybugs reminds me of the softball league I played in when I was about 8 or 9. It was in the days before fast pitch softball. This girl's league, the equivalent of Little League baseball for boys, consisted of four teams. And instead of ferocious and intimidating names like the Pirates or the Tigers we had cute little girl names for our teams.

There were the Ladybugs, the Grasshoppers, the Butterflies, and the Blue Jays.

I played on the Blue Jays. I suppose the recreation league budget for little girls' softball league was underfunded because we had the cheesiest uniforms. They consisted of blue t-shirts with a silk screen of our name across the front of the shirt and ball caps with the big white felt iron on letters.

The Blue Jays had the distinction of having the letters "BJ" ironed on our caps.

It was years later that I learned the alternate meaning of this abbreviation and that we were walking around with THAT on our caps!

Up, Up and Away in My Beautiful Balloon

I was watching a PBS special not too long ago and was struck by something that was said. Before you think that what I'm about to post is some earth shattering or ground breaking observation or epiphany, think again. The special was about hot air balloons.

I have to mention why I was even watching public television in the first place. I'm not fortunate enough to have cable or satellite TV. Being the TV junkie that I have become, this may come as a surprise. I have had both cable and satellite in the past and thoroughly enjoy flipping up and down the channels stopping briefly by Comedy Central, TLC, E-TV, SoapNet, and the FoodChannel along the way to see what's cooking, or being redecorated, or who got kidnapped or faked their death, who Jon Stewart is funning, or what celebrity overcame drugs and bankruptcy. However, I moved over the summer and where I live now is in the boondocks so we can't even get cable TV (or high speed internet for that matter UGH!). We could get a satellite, but I just haven't made the move to obtain service yet. Besides it's just one more bill that I would have to keep track of and fork over the money each month to avoid collection calls and interrupted service.

Anyway, I get about 10 channels now-PBS,CBS,ABC,NBC (although you have to get the rabbit ears just right to pick up ABC upstairs and it still has fuzzy sound), 2 WB stations, FOX, 2 UPN stations, Shop at Home Channel (I need that pressure washer and quitled vest), and two PAX stations (which I think are being called I TV-you know the one that shows Diagnosis Murder starring Dick Van Dyke, some of the most high quality mystery programs since Matlock and Murder She Wrote). The choice of stations is limited, but the reception problems are even more annoying, but that's an another story.

Back to the balloon....Well, I was watching the special on PBS about hot air balloons (yes, nothing better was on I assure you) and they were talking to this guy about hot air balloons and their deep significance to American life. I kid you not, but the hot air balloon expert goes on to describe how the hot air balloon is so meaningful and prolific by stating this:

"I'm sure if you look through people's old family photographs, you're going to find at least one picture of a hot air balloon."

What?!?

I started thinking back to the boxes of family photographs that my Mom used to keep when we were growing up and the box that I now have in my closet that I keep telling myself that I will eventually organize and scrapbook (Who am I kidding?). Was there any pictures of hot air balloons in there? I couldn 't recall one instance of taking a picture of hot air balloons at all. I have never ridden in a hot air balloon either. In fact the only experience I have had with hot air balloons might have been just a hallucination.

There used to be this place in western NC called Green Acres that would put on small music concerts. It was someone's land that had a little tin roof shanty built over a stage. The seating area included old school house desks and chairs, old sofas, and the most comfy arm chair you even sank your ass into. I saw some great shows there-Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, Sam Bush Band, Duckbutter (the greatest party band of all time), Guy Clark. Needless to say since we were all allowed to camp out there after the shows, it was always a party with lots of drunkenness and campfires and drunkenness. Oh yeah, did I mention the drunkenness? We had just had one of those nights and were snugly asleep in our tent when at the crack of dawn we were rudely awakened to the sound of:

PSSSSSSSSSSST! PSSSSSSSSSSST!

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST

What in the the hell is that? In our hangover stupor we unzip the tent flap to witness a hot air balloon either trying to land or trying to take off in the field about 50 feet from our tent.

PSSSSSSSSSSST! PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST!

We rubbed our eyes and looked again at the bright yellow, orange, and red hot air balloon that was drifting off the ground, blinked again, realized the hot air balloon was not a figment of our imagination, and then went back to sleep.

Now, if I had a camera, I could've snapped a picture. Just so I could know for sure that this really happened and wasn't part of some strange dream I was having.

And then that hot air balloon expert would have totally made sense to me.

The Root of the Problem

I have to admit that I don't feel like I have any roots. Nah, I'm not talking about the dyed hair kind or the tree kind either, although that might eventually help me to illustrate my point later.

I'm instead referring to those metaphorical roots that your parents laid down for you when you were growing up. Usually most people I know (although maybe this is becoming increasingly less common in our transient society) had one house that they grew up in. They had their own room maybe with a canopy bed or cool bunk beds and the pencil markings on the wall signifying how much they grew each year. They attended the same elementary school for all 6 years and had a place to come "home" to when they eventually left for college. And maybe their mother is still keeping that room as a shrine to her baby bird that has flown the nest, or else she's cleaned it out by now and it's her sewing room.

I didn't really have these things. I attended about five different schools during my elementary years. I went to Catholic School for kindergarten when we lived in St. Paul, Minnesota. I remember the long bus ride over the Mississippi River and the gross boys on the bus who loved the diarrhea song (uh, uh) “When you're going up the ladder and you feel something.....” Eww, need I go on?

Then we moved to Maryland and I went to public school for first grade. In second grade we moved to Florida and I attended another school. I remember we moved down with the Peacock family. Mr. Peacock was a character & my Dad and him regressed into adolescent boys when the two of them got together. I remember the Great Ice Throwing Incident of '75 in Myrtle Beach, SC. We were staying in one of those tall hotels with an open atrium type lobby. My Dad & Mr. Peacock were on per diem for the move, so we traveled in style with about 7 kids in tow (4 Peacock kids & the 3 of us) Anyway, the interior halls of this hotel circled the perimeter of the lobby so you could look right down to the trees and couches and such in the lobby. My Dad & Mr. Peacock decided for some reason it would be a good idea to throw ice on the people down below. Strike that, they probably knew it wasn't really a good idea, but decided to do it anyway. I don't remember much else of the incident, but I think there might have been something about a hotel manager and maybe something about being kicked out of the hotel or maybe just a stern warning, but that may just be fuzzy memory.

Eventually, we moved back up North to Virginia in the middle of third grade. My Dad did contract work for Sperry Univac and most of his jobs involved the military. So we came to this small little town called Dahlgren because of the military base Besides that there was nothing much else going on there. There was general store, the old fashioned kind that sells everything from blue jeans to flour. There was also a convenience store, which I could ride my bike to. My favorite treat was getting Grape NeHi soda and red licorice. I would bite off both ends of the licorice and use it as a straw to drink my sodey pop-yummy. We were allowed some base privileges like the swimming pool, bowling alley, and movie house, which incidentally was an auditorium type room with folding chairs and a big portable screen and ancient projector. I remember seeing Close Encounters of the Third Kind there. That summer we spent just about every day at the pool, which would play music over the loud speakers. I will always remember "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty and "With a Little Luck" by Paul McCartney & Wings from that summer.

But so as not to get too comfortable we then moved to Connecticut when I started fourth grade. I had my own room to hang up my Andy Gibb and Bee Gees posters and my cool stereo with the 8-Track tape player that allowed me to listen to the Grease soundtrack over and over again and pretend to by Sandy. Saturday Night Fever was also big at that time, so my sister & I would make up dance routines in the basement. I also remember cheering the Steelers onto victory as the defeated the Dallas Cowboys in the Superbowl. I think it was 1979?? We were waving those terrible towels.

We finally moved back down to Florida for fifth grade and that was the end of that. My Dad finally figured that this moving around was too much and he had to settle his kids down before I entered turbulent adolescence and started hanging around with the wrong crowd that would peer pressure me into vandalism and drugs and sex and stuff. None of which I ever did, I swear!

I was a pretty shy kid, and still am for that matter (the shy part, and maybe the kid part too). If I know you and am comfortable with you, you can't get me to shut up most times. But in unfamiliar situations and around unfamiliar people I do get quiet. I just am not that good at making small talk & keeping it going to avoid the dreaded awkward silences. And I'm not that aggressive and gregarious. I have no idea how I survived so many "there's a new kid in town" instances. And I don't remember any distress or anxiety about any of the moves. In fact it was always kind of exciting and I never did have problems making friends wherever we moved. It's a little bit of a conundrum.

Anyway, I guess my roots were laid down by the time I was 10 but that's half of your life with which to have planted your roots gone by the time you start college. (Albeit a blink of the eye once you hit 30 and beyond) And because of this I never really felt like I had a place to call home that I could look back at wistfully and visit the ghosts in the rooms of my childhood. I know, I know, a house is not necessarily a home. It's not about the walls around you, but the people inside- yada yada. Don't get me wrong, I have no complaints about my childhood or my family (at least not the earth shattering kind). But I sometimes envy people like my husband who grew up in the same house, in the same neighborhood, attended the same school, and has that home base to still latch onto.

Memories are strange, fleeting, and intangible things that are represented cognitively as shadows, or glimmers of a mood, a feeling, an impression and the easiest way to make them more dimensional and concrete is through our interaction with the material world. When my husband visits his hometown we drive around a lot with him telling me the stories of his childhood. There are the woods that the neighborhood kids would camp out in and tell Skunk Ape tales. This is the park where he funneled beer and his cousin's boyfriend made those funny elephant noises while blowing through the tube. That is the 7-11 where he would buy beer because they never carded, etc. etc. He has those buildings, and houses, and neighborhood constellations to tie those memories to so they can pinned down and made more evident. I would have to go on a cross-country trip in order to have that experience. So my memories remain these faded, foggy remembrances with nothing solid to attach them to.

But back to the tree image, I have heard that oak trees, which are rather majestic and can get huge, are only connected to the earth through this very short root system. So that was why when Hurricane Fran of 1996 roared though NC a lot of oak trees were toppled. We had so much rain that it had softened the ground around the roots and along with the strong winds those oaks just came down. On the other hand, pine trees have more extensive root systems and with their flexible, pliable structure they sway in the wind they aren't as likely to topple over roots and all. They sometimes snap, but that's not really relevant to the root zymology.

I guess I sometimes see myself as that oak tree.

Sure, the stronger and deeper the roots, the less likely you are to get knocked down. But the oak still remains a symbol of strength and endurance. So, maybe having shorter roots is not so bad after all. And besides, I have now planted new roots of my own for my family.

I'd like to think, though, that a part of me will probably always be that "wildflower seed in the sand and wind."