Month: February 2014

Don’t Mind the Mess

Daunting is the task of effectively expressing a budding idea that’s dying to burst forth. I’m not just talking any idea, but one from my brain in particular. Carefully mixing the perfect combination of letters together by trial and error to form a palatable concoction. One that can be digested easily by the average joe … Or at least those with a craving for the less serious side of life. As the chemist in this equation, I recommend you safely wash down whatever concoction I throw together with a tall glass of soothing milk.

Hmmm…on second thought, a potent wine could act as a viable agent in lubricating the mind’s message cables, assisting in a clearer translation coming through.

Here’s the mole hill which I am tasked to scale the face of. My brain is a hoarder. Yep, just like those people that have religiously kept every single edition of their local newspaper for the past 50 years… Including the coupons, cuz …. You just never know, right?! Minute details of the most mundane trivia, every last shred of fact or fiction I’ve absorbed amongst it. Pictures! Pictures of everything I’ve ever seen! (those are getting awfully faded I must admit)

While all this hoarded information could potentially make me a super genius, I’ve tragically failed to adopt an efficient and logical filing system. In all honesty, Mr. Dewey Decimal would roll over in his grave. Overstuffed tattered boxes, teetering paper piles, a sweet memory of a first grade teacher stuck to the back of an old job interview.

You know when your mom would walk into a room and say “It looks like a tornado ripped through here!”. Well, that ravaged room has the precise organization of an operating room in comparison to my chaos. 33 years of accumulated disaster is the heap I rummage through during an exam! How I ever find anything in here is an enigma. Though, now that I ponder it, superpower springs to mind.

Aside from a shrink ray to fit me for the job of climbing inside my own head and sorting tidbits one by one, writing seems to, at the very least, provide a makeshift organizational solution for a fraction of the new incoming intel. Perhaps not yet a Pinterest-worthy solution, but hey, baby steps.

Now that we’ve given the extent of clutter a nod, inviting innocent bystanders to sip from the concoction cup takes on a far more terrifying form. Actually sharing what I write is much like taking a perfect stranger by the hand and leading them into the great halls of this crammed illogical brain. For safety purposes, average joe access must be permitted to the hallways only.The dime tour won’t get you into the vault of chaos, and, unfortunately for me, having company in here means I’ve agreed to venture in, brave the clutter and dig something decent out of there with which to entertain my guests. Where is that hard hat??

It may be in my best interest to fine print my welcome mat with “caveat lector” …

Latin for “I will not be held responsible for the level of ludicrous you peg me at based on what you read”

So come on in!


The Real Birthday

The churning cogs in my son’s mind are clearly powered by his heart, it gets me every time.

Two more sleeps until his birthday, plans well underway for a bowling party with four super cool school friends that afternoon. Each day this week has been rung in with the announcement of the current countdown to B-day, this morning was no different except for it’s tag-along “huh?” moment. His eyes, inquisitive, look up at me… “Mom, when is my real birthday? Is it before or after?”
Huh?..Slightly confused at the question since I know he knows the party is on his actual birth date, I do a little research before I answer .. “Do you mean the time that you were born?”

“No, mom, my real birthday?!… when is it?”

Now I am officially lost, not that this is uncommon in any hour preceding 7 am (ok, let’s be honest, 10 am),… but again I ask “ like you mean the actual time?? You were born at 10:45 am.”

“Mom, I mean my real birthday, with the family. When is it?”

Warm fuzzy “aaaawwww” love washes over me with the dawning realization of the meaning behind this serious inquiry. His “real birthday”, a true celebration, what holds value above all else in his heart… time with family. While he’s excited about hanging out with good friends, his real birthday is a party surrounded by aunties, uncles, cousins, grandparents, all that can come … the more, the merrier… his new year can only truly begin with this.

You know, kid… I think you’re gonna make it just fine in the big world.

Did You Just Get Humble Pie on My Game Face??

I don’t always bowl like a rockstar, but when I do I’m the boss’ wife.
I hate to flog a dead horse with an overused catchphrase, but I just really like that Dos Equis guy. The suave and debonair ambiance in his facial hair alone has me nearly convinced to embrace my future bearded heritage as a Mennonite woman. But, alas, back to being the boss’ wife. Clean shaven, to be clear.

It’s a night on the town. A planned work outing for hubby, his hilarious manager partner, and their direct reports… to up the ante, add the better halves into the mix. So I brush off the rarely used, boss’ wife hat, still in pristine condition, and place it, ever so daintily, atop my excited little head. (Yea, I need to get out more)

With the kidlets squared away, it’s off to the big ole city. Not unlike any other cultured, sophisticated woman of high society, I pass the time on the car ride as a secret agent snapping covert couple selfies. I got this. Dinner is a success as I have the group lulled into a false sense of “she’s normal” as I play out my demure persona… well, mostly.

Next is bowling. Innocent enough right? Hmmm..

With the gang divvied up into 3 teams, lanes side by side ready to compete, who struts in to crash this party?

My game face.

I can’t help it, there is not a hat in my closet that can cover it. I like to win. I’m competitive… and I’m not even that good at stuff!

Demure slinks off into the corner to sulk while Scrappy takes over. *deep breath* …Play it cool, boss’ wife. A vision is painted into my thought bubble…“Hey, there’s the manager who’s wife broke her leg at that work bowling night when lunging over ball returns to showboat in the opponent’s lane… completely sober.” Nobody wants to be that guy. Whispers of this nature could besmirch his good works.

Behold…my saving grace. The cheer couple! What soul can outdo the competitive spirit of a couple comprised of two lively award-winning cheerleaders? None, I say. Naturally, fate would have us on the same team. My dramatic one-knee down/fist pump combo after each strike blends in quite nicely. I’m on fire! Throwing caution to the wind, absurd quantities of high fives and guttural war cries of “Xeeeenaaaa!” became the norm. Not only was team “Hyperactive” beating the other 2 lanes, little miss boss’ wife was bending it like Beckham, only with a bowling ball. Locked in my highest score ever, and yet somehow, did not fall over the foul line due to the imbalance caused by my swelling ego. (ok, there was that once, but I played it off as though I tripped on my slightly too long jeans).

Here we are, the last game of the night. A round of Bingo bowling, 3 teams racing against the clock and each other to clear the screen of the points shown in each Bingo square. The atmosphere electric, Arctic Monkeys rocking through the speakers, adrenaline dripping all over everything, no one is sitting between turns anymore. It’s close. The aggressive cheer kids are a force to be reckoned with and we are clearing off points turn after turn. Hubby, aka, the boss, aka, Professor X, displayed some stunning sniper skills to pick off 3 pins, one by one, to get the very difficult 11. Down to one last square on the Bingo card, a “C”. (it’s ok, i haven’t read bowling for dummies either… the experts informed us it’s the center pin and 2 left pins or 2 right pins in one throw). To get those 3 pins down requires a tricky curve ball. Multiple failed attempts at the “C”, Time is ticking and the competition is hot on our heels.

My turn.

Time to shine. My ego really wants to bring home the imaginary trophy with the most exquisite curve ball in the history of spouse colleague glo-bowling. I ceremoniously select the one odd-colored ball from the return and get into position. Stepping forward, ball reaches back to the top of the arm swing… harmonious fluid momentum brings it to the optimum release point, rolling slightly off my crooked pinky to add the spin that produces that perfect curve. I bowl maybe once a year, so I have no idea what I’m talking about… but this is what I felt like in my head. Down on one knee, I’m mesmerized by the eternity it took the ball to roll down the lane. The triumphant climax playing out before my eyes just as it happened in my mind. The 3 pins… perfectly in line with their impending doom.

Wait?! WHAT?? Why is the pin sweepy thing coming down??! My champion ball takes down the 3 pins micro seconds before they are swept away.

Confusion. crumbling victory. My imaginary trophy being melted down to make teeth caps. I don’t understand. I turn and find an ashen-faced Professor X at the helm of the button table. “I accidentally hit the reset button when the ball was halfway down the lane!” Less than 60 seconds left on the clock and my “C” doesn’t count!

I swallow my pride, brushing off crumbs of humble pie, and do NOT throw a tantrum on the lane in front of 18 of my hubby’s work friends. I CAN be a big girl with a less inflated head and say “that’s ok”. I don’t have to be the hero. I don’t even have room on my mantle for that trophy. I don’t even have a mantle.

Our time runs out, the gang heads out with cheers and thanks for a great evening. My boss’ wife hat is still intact. Looks like a success, Professor… just remember, I see the whipped cream on your hands.