We often hear people say "stop and smell the roses" or "live each day as if it were your last." I'm all for the philosophy of enjoying life, but I'd like to know who is going to handle all the daily drudgery while I'm out tripping through the tulips? While I'm smelling roses, who is going to be smelling--and cleaning--the litterbox? If I live each day like it's my last, there will be no clean laundry, dishes, or toilets in our house ever again.
Most of us know that we have to balance the fun things in life with the work that needs to get done. Getting something constructive accomplished usually provides more satisfaction than a day spent on the couch reading a book--and feeling guilty about it. Even the proponents of living life to the fullest have to earn money and see to the practical side of daily existence.
I guess I'd rather live in a way that if I died tomorrow, I'd have few regrets. To that end, I try to meet several goals every day:
--Do something for myself. It might be as small as reading the paper or as big as spending a couple days away with my college roommate--but it's something for me that I enjoy.
--Do something for someone else. I might hold a door open for an elderly lady, send a package to a soldier, or put a note in Fred's lunch bag. Knowing that someone else will get a smile from something I did makes my day better.
--Do a task I don't want to do. Ironing shirts, mowing the lawn, going to the dentist--I don't want to do it, but it's the discipline of accomplishing those things that gives me the most satisfaction.
--Communicate with the important people in my life-on regular days, special days, for no particular reason. By phone, text, e-mail, in person--any contact at all. I put this one last, but it's really the biggest priority to me, my favorite way to smell the roses.
So if I die tomorrow, I will feel pretty good about the way I'm leaving things. But just in case, I'll keep eating dessert first.
**I will be off for a day or two--heading to Elk Mound to be Katie's lawn girl!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Nest Sweet Nest
Last week the realtor showed our house in Elk Mound to some people who complained about the bird nest on the light fixture outside the front door. Their comment was that the nest showed the house "wasn't well-cared for and gave a bad first impression."
There is a story behind this unsightly nest. Five or six years ago, a pair of green birds with crested heads started building a nest on the light. (I've looked in my bird book, but can't find a picture that resembles them) The birds would swoop away whenever we opened the front door, scaring the heck out of us! I took the nest down a couple times at the beginning, but the pair would doggedly start over and rebuild it. We finally gave in and let them stay there. Soon there were baby birds in the nest, so crowded that they would hang over the sides. Our outside cats would sit beneath it, waiting for an accident to happen. By the end of the summer, the whole family had flown the coop and the nest fell into disrepair over the winter.
The next spring, the birds were back and rebuilding on the light for another family. We got used to them swooping in and out and looked forward to the litle bird heads peeking out of their home. One summer a bad odor seeped from the nest, and I stood on a stool to take a look. All of the baby birds had died. I pulled the nest down, the bird parents fluttering in the tree nearby and chirping in what I assume was grief. They did this for a whole day--and then started building again. Within a few weeks, there were five new babies--the ones in the picture. I saw all five fly out together one day and leave home for good.
The birds returned last year as usual and raised another family. We moved in October, leaving the nest on the light. When I go over there tomorrow to do yardwork, I could knock the nest down--but I won't. There were eggs in it on Mother's Day weekend, and possibly babies by now. I am a bird watcher/lover/feeder, and I don't want someone who isn't to buy our house anyway. So bad impression or not, the nest stays until fall.
There is a story behind this unsightly nest. Five or six years ago, a pair of green birds with crested heads started building a nest on the light. (I've looked in my bird book, but can't find a picture that resembles them) The birds would swoop away whenever we opened the front door, scaring the heck out of us! I took the nest down a couple times at the beginning, but the pair would doggedly start over and rebuild it. We finally gave in and let them stay there. Soon there were baby birds in the nest, so crowded that they would hang over the sides. Our outside cats would sit beneath it, waiting for an accident to happen. By the end of the summer, the whole family had flown the coop and the nest fell into disrepair over the winter.
The next spring, the birds were back and rebuilding on the light for another family. We got used to them swooping in and out and looked forward to the litle bird heads peeking out of their home. One summer a bad odor seeped from the nest, and I stood on a stool to take a look. All of the baby birds had died. I pulled the nest down, the bird parents fluttering in the tree nearby and chirping in what I assume was grief. They did this for a whole day--and then started building again. Within a few weeks, there were five new babies--the ones in the picture. I saw all five fly out together one day and leave home for good.
The birds returned last year as usual and raised another family. We moved in October, leaving the nest on the light. When I go over there tomorrow to do yardwork, I could knock the nest down--but I won't. There were eggs in it on Mother's Day weekend, and possibly babies by now. I am a bird watcher/lover/feeder, and I don't want someone who isn't to buy our house anyway. So bad impression or not, the nest stays until fall.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Congratulations, Erica!!
Tomorrow Erica will graduate from the University of Wisconsin. Five years, three majors--biology, communications, Spanish--Medical Scholar, Phi Beta Kappa. She will start medical school in Madison this fall, her goal to be an ob/gyn. Forgive my bragging--we are just so proud!
She was on the forensics team for three years, competing at Nationals three times. She has worked four jobs simultaneously: document delivery for Primate Center researchers, facilitator with Sex Out Loud, spin class instructor, and babysitter for Harry and Jack, her forensic coach's kids. She ran four marathons, and based on her Facebook photos and giggly late-night phone calls from her, crammed a lot of fun into those five years as well. She met Craig her freshman year, and they'll get married next June.
I don't claim any credit for her academic success or motivation, though she may have gotten the ability to multi-task successfully from me. She has her dad's work ethic and the belief that if it's worth doing, do it right.
When she graduated from high school, she made a video for us of herself from birth through graduation and presented it with this letter:
"I cannot imagine the effort you have poured into my upbringing, the thousands of hours you devoted to me in hopes that I would turn out all right. I only hope that I have been to you everything you imagined a daughter could be. I know how proud you are of me, and I know you love me; you have made sure that I never doubted any of that. I, however, am sometimes less expressive. When I was younger, I used to picture what life would be like if I could pick different parents. I was too young to realize that I am the way I am solely because of you. You have given me the confidence to become everything that I've become. I believe in myself because I know that whether I fail, whether I succeed, my parents will never stop believing in me. You are my reasons for everything I have done and will do. You are all of my reasons. I know that with the two of you behind me, things will always turn out all right. I love you, Mom and Dad."
We love you too, kid. As you leave college for the next challenge in your life, we hope you know we're still here, cheering you on to achieve all your hopes and dreams. Congratulations!!
She was on the forensics team for three years, competing at Nationals three times. She has worked four jobs simultaneously: document delivery for Primate Center researchers, facilitator with Sex Out Loud, spin class instructor, and babysitter for Harry and Jack, her forensic coach's kids. She ran four marathons, and based on her Facebook photos and giggly late-night phone calls from her, crammed a lot of fun into those five years as well. She met Craig her freshman year, and they'll get married next June.
I don't claim any credit for her academic success or motivation, though she may have gotten the ability to multi-task successfully from me. She has her dad's work ethic and the belief that if it's worth doing, do it right.
When she graduated from high school, she made a video for us of herself from birth through graduation and presented it with this letter:
"I cannot imagine the effort you have poured into my upbringing, the thousands of hours you devoted to me in hopes that I would turn out all right. I only hope that I have been to you everything you imagined a daughter could be. I know how proud you are of me, and I know you love me; you have made sure that I never doubted any of that. I, however, am sometimes less expressive. When I was younger, I used to picture what life would be like if I could pick different parents. I was too young to realize that I am the way I am solely because of you. You have given me the confidence to become everything that I've become. I believe in myself because I know that whether I fail, whether I succeed, my parents will never stop believing in me. You are my reasons for everything I have done and will do. You are all of my reasons. I know that with the two of you behind me, things will always turn out all right. I love you, Mom and Dad."
We love you too, kid. As you leave college for the next challenge in your life, we hope you know we're still here, cheering you on to achieve all your hopes and dreams. Congratulations!!
Friday, May 15, 2009
She was a Keeper
Last night I heard a guy on TV telling a story about a fish he'd caught. The excitement, the drama, the little bit of exaggeration...it reminded me of how women tell their stories of labor and childbirth. We may not be able to recall what we had for breakfast today, but we remember every detail of our babies' arrivals.
My water broke at 4:30 A.M. the day after Labor Day, 1986. This was it! My contractions were mild and infrequent, so Fred and I waited around a few hours and then went to school to make sure we had things ready for our substitute teachers. Fred made me sit on a garbage bag because we had just gotten a new car! We stayed at a friend's apartment in town until the contractions became regular, then headed to the hospital in Merrill. For some reason I was craving graham crackers, so we bought a box of them on the way. At the hospital, we checked in, they weighed me--OH MY GOD!!--and got me into a gown. Then the labor began in earnest.
I walked the halls, laid on my side while Fred massaged my back, sat on the toilet--which oddly offered some relief from the pain. The "birth plan" I'd idealistically written up ahead of time called for natural childbirth with no drugs. Was I CRAZY??! I did my Lamaze breathing and gazed at my focal point, wondering how I'd ever let this happen to me.
Around 5 P.M. Marilyn, our friend from school, stopped in to see how I was doing. I was now in hour 12, and told Fred "NO ONE but you and the nurses get to see me like this!!" Snarl! Hiss! I sent him off to eat something since he'd skipped lunch and might miss supper.
The evening dragged on, and still no baby in spite of the never-before-experienced-by-any-woman-EVER pain I was in. Around 9:30 P.M. the doctor ordered an IV of pitocin to "increase the quality" of my contractions. I thought they were pretty darn spectacular the way they were. Soon I was dilated to 10 centimeters and able to push. Aaaagghhhh! Fred had discovered the box of graham crackers we'd bought that morning--I never even ate any--and was munching on one as I closed my eyes and pushed through another excruciating contraction. "Would you swallow that damn cracker??!!" I growled in a demon's voice from hell. To this day he swears that cracker went down his throat with its corners still intact.
After four hours of pushing, I was threatening to jump out the hospital window if they didn't do a C-section, and the fetal monitor showed the baby was in some distress. The decision was made for surgery, and I decided that drugs are heavenly as the epidural took effect. Fred was seated by my head, with his very own nurse in case he passed out. In no time at all we were presented with an 8 lb. 14 oz. baby girl who had a full head of black hair. "She looks like Gary Behnke!!" (a friend of ours) were my first words. She arrived at 2:47 A.M. September 3rd, in the 23rd hour after my water had broken.
It didn't take long for the memories of the pain to fade--until 2 1/2 years later when Katie was about to arrive. When the doctor asked if I wanted a repeat C-section, I said YES!! And we did not stop for crackers on the way to the hospital.
My water broke at 4:30 A.M. the day after Labor Day, 1986. This was it! My contractions were mild and infrequent, so Fred and I waited around a few hours and then went to school to make sure we had things ready for our substitute teachers. Fred made me sit on a garbage bag because we had just gotten a new car! We stayed at a friend's apartment in town until the contractions became regular, then headed to the hospital in Merrill. For some reason I was craving graham crackers, so we bought a box of them on the way. At the hospital, we checked in, they weighed me--OH MY GOD!!--and got me into a gown. Then the labor began in earnest.
I walked the halls, laid on my side while Fred massaged my back, sat on the toilet--which oddly offered some relief from the pain. The "birth plan" I'd idealistically written up ahead of time called for natural childbirth with no drugs. Was I CRAZY??! I did my Lamaze breathing and gazed at my focal point, wondering how I'd ever let this happen to me.
Around 5 P.M. Marilyn, our friend from school, stopped in to see how I was doing. I was now in hour 12, and told Fred "NO ONE but you and the nurses get to see me like this!!" Snarl! Hiss! I sent him off to eat something since he'd skipped lunch and might miss supper.
The evening dragged on, and still no baby in spite of the never-before-experienced-by-any-woman-EVER pain I was in. Around 9:30 P.M. the doctor ordered an IV of pitocin to "increase the quality" of my contractions. I thought they were pretty darn spectacular the way they were. Soon I was dilated to 10 centimeters and able to push. Aaaagghhhh! Fred had discovered the box of graham crackers we'd bought that morning--I never even ate any--and was munching on one as I closed my eyes and pushed through another excruciating contraction. "Would you swallow that damn cracker??!!" I growled in a demon's voice from hell. To this day he swears that cracker went down his throat with its corners still intact.
After four hours of pushing, I was threatening to jump out the hospital window if they didn't do a C-section, and the fetal monitor showed the baby was in some distress. The decision was made for surgery, and I decided that drugs are heavenly as the epidural took effect. Fred was seated by my head, with his very own nurse in case he passed out. In no time at all we were presented with an 8 lb. 14 oz. baby girl who had a full head of black hair. "She looks like Gary Behnke!!" (a friend of ours) were my first words. She arrived at 2:47 A.M. September 3rd, in the 23rd hour after my water had broken.
It didn't take long for the memories of the pain to fade--until 2 1/2 years later when Katie was about to arrive. When the doctor asked if I wanted a repeat C-section, I said YES!! And we did not stop for crackers on the way to the hospital.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
What the Heck's a Hodag?
Throughout my life I have been many different entities, depending on where I was going to school or living at the time. I started out as a Melrose-Mindoro Mustang, then became a Blugold at UW-Eau Claire. As a student teacher I was a Rice Lake Warrior, then spent 15 years teaching as one of the politically incorrect Rib Lake Redmen. Our move to Elk Mound made me a Mounder--a source of embarrassment when the cute produce guy at the grocery store looked at the word across my chest and asked "what are Mounders?" (I didn't have an answer, but wasn't it obvious?!)
Now I live in Rhinelander, which officially makes me a Hodag. "What the heck is a Hodag?" you ask. The postcard pictured here (from D & S Enterprises in Phelps, WI) explains on the back that "On the first night of the arrival of lumber camp novices, an Indian from the camp would go out in a nearby swamp and make the most blood-curdling and terrifying noises. The tenderfeet were told that this was the Hodag, wandering in his native wilds. Many a tale was spun by the loggers about this mythical animal and a great number were taken in by the hoax." Kind of like snipe hunting, only scarier.
As you drive around Rhinelander, you will see Hodags of various looks and sizes on signs, businesses, and clothing. Starting next week, however, you will be able to see Hodags on Parade in the downtown area. Borrowing from the famous Cow Parade idea that originated in Chicago, five fiber glass Hodags have been painted by local artists and will be on display through the end of September. Then they will be auctioned off to the highest bidders with the money going to revitalization projects downtown.
Any of you friends and family who visit us this summer are guaranteed a tour of the Hodags, something you won't see anywhere else! So plan to make a trip to Rhinelander--and we promise not to send you out in the woods alone.
Now I live in Rhinelander, which officially makes me a Hodag. "What the heck is a Hodag?" you ask. The postcard pictured here (from D & S Enterprises in Phelps, WI) explains on the back that "On the first night of the arrival of lumber camp novices, an Indian from the camp would go out in a nearby swamp and make the most blood-curdling and terrifying noises. The tenderfeet were told that this was the Hodag, wandering in his native wilds. Many a tale was spun by the loggers about this mythical animal and a great number were taken in by the hoax." Kind of like snipe hunting, only scarier.
As you drive around Rhinelander, you will see Hodags of various looks and sizes on signs, businesses, and clothing. Starting next week, however, you will be able to see Hodags on Parade in the downtown area. Borrowing from the famous Cow Parade idea that originated in Chicago, five fiber glass Hodags have been painted by local artists and will be on display through the end of September. Then they will be auctioned off to the highest bidders with the money going to revitalization projects downtown.
Any of you friends and family who visit us this summer are guaranteed a tour of the Hodags, something you won't see anywhere else! So plan to make a trip to Rhinelander--and we promise not to send you out in the woods alone.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Hard Reality
Watching TV with your husband while he flips through the channels is not just annoying--it can give him ideas. First there is a couple, each in his/her own bathtub, gazing into the sunset as the announcer extolls the merits of Cialis. The next channel has Smiling Bob, the Enzyte guy. This "natural male enhancement" product not only makes Bob grin like a maniac, it does the same for his wife and all the neighbor women. Next we see a couple in the kitchen, relieved that his Levitra works for 36 hours because the water faucet exploded just as they were getting frisky. Finally, a group of pathetic middle-aged guys singing "Viva Viagra," guitars strategically placed in their laps.
Why is it that wives weren't consulted before all these products hit the market? When we are going through the unpleasant symptoms of menopause (see blog April 30th) do we really want husbands who are feeling 18 again?? I don't think so! It's clear that men are heading up the research and development departments of the pharmaceutical companies. When there are so many real diseases out there with no cures, why do we have this multitude of choices for "E.D"? They could have at least come up with a corresponding pill for us women. Instead they are creating horny older men who are either going to make retirement hell for their wives, or suddenly think they are Hugh Hefner.
Then there are the side effects. What is a woman to do if her partner suddenly says "I can't see anything! And my ears are ringing!!" Chest pains and heart irregularities are the scariest possibility, but the most embarrassing is the BIG ONE: he 's still "up" for the occasion after 4 hours. The ads recommend that he call his doctor in this situation. I wonder what Doc's advice would be--"visualize Barbara Bush naked"??!
Maybe women should form a lobbying group, LIMP (Leave It Mushy, Please) We would demand a ban on performance enhancing drugs, just like in baseball and other sports. Or, at least get a law that men can only use these drugs with their wives' consent, between hot flashes and night sweats.
In the meantime, we will just have to keep a stiff upper lip--haha! But if I ever hear Fred humming "Viva Viagra," I know I'll get an immediate headache.
Why is it that wives weren't consulted before all these products hit the market? When we are going through the unpleasant symptoms of menopause (see blog April 30th) do we really want husbands who are feeling 18 again?? I don't think so! It's clear that men are heading up the research and development departments of the pharmaceutical companies. When there are so many real diseases out there with no cures, why do we have this multitude of choices for "E.D"? They could have at least come up with a corresponding pill for us women. Instead they are creating horny older men who are either going to make retirement hell for their wives, or suddenly think they are Hugh Hefner.
Then there are the side effects. What is a woman to do if her partner suddenly says "I can't see anything! And my ears are ringing!!" Chest pains and heart irregularities are the scariest possibility, but the most embarrassing is the BIG ONE: he 's still "up" for the occasion after 4 hours. The ads recommend that he call his doctor in this situation. I wonder what Doc's advice would be--"visualize Barbara Bush naked"??!
Maybe women should form a lobbying group, LIMP (Leave It Mushy, Please) We would demand a ban on performance enhancing drugs, just like in baseball and other sports. Or, at least get a law that men can only use these drugs with their wives' consent, between hot flashes and night sweats.
In the meantime, we will just have to keep a stiff upper lip--haha! But if I ever hear Fred humming "Viva Viagra," I know I'll get an immediate headache.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
"Does God Eat Candy?"
As every parent has experienced, little kids ask a million questions about everything. The questions are often embarrassing, too, and spoken in their loudest voices within earshot of strangers. "Why can't I have purple eyes? Can I give you a movie star kiss, Mom? Do frogs pee? What's a tam-pon?" "Why does poop stink?"--this one asked by my friend Lauri's granddaughter in a bathroom stall. And of course, there's the big one: where do babies come from? I'm sure I lied the first couple times this one was posed to me. I would try to be patient with all these questions, answering to the best of my knowledge, even when whatever I said would just elicit another "Why?"
But now I find myself in a strange role reversal where I'm asking the questions and the girls are the (im)patient ones. On Sunday Katie and I were driving back to Eau Claire from my mom's, listening to Katie's choice of radio station. "Are Guns and Roses still together?" I asked. She gave me a weird look, and I know she was doing an internal eye roll: oh no, Mom's trying to be cool. "What's a Hollaback Girl?" was my next question. I had asked Erica that one before, but didn't remember what she said. "Who sings this song?" was asked multiple times. (Katie did question me once: who's more annoying, John Tesh or Ryan Seacrest? I say John Tesh, hands down. I'll take my music without a lecture, thank you.)
Katie gets annoyed watching movies with me because I always recognize an actor/actress but can't recall their names. "What else has he been in?" I'll inquire. "Mom, you ask that every time we watch this!!" Like, write it down!
On Facebook, I ask Erica "What is kefir?" when she writes that she drank a whole carton of it. She works for Sex Out Loud, the campus sexual health organization, and I might have questions about some of the stuff she writes in her weekly sex info column for the student newspaper, but do I really want the answers?
They have suffered through my struggles with technology: how do I text message? Can you show me how to take a picture with my phone? How do I change the ring tone? How do I get a picture from my Facebook album to be my profile picture? Can I put pictures on the computer without using a USB cord? How do I make the DVD player stop playing the movies in Spanish?
So now they know what it's like. Dealing with inquiring minds is not easy. If there comes a day years from now when I ask "Do frogs pee?" I hope they will smile at me kindly and come up with a satisfactory answer.
But now I find myself in a strange role reversal where I'm asking the questions and the girls are the (im)patient ones. On Sunday Katie and I were driving back to Eau Claire from my mom's, listening to Katie's choice of radio station. "Are Guns and Roses still together?" I asked. She gave me a weird look, and I know she was doing an internal eye roll: oh no, Mom's trying to be cool. "What's a Hollaback Girl?" was my next question. I had asked Erica that one before, but didn't remember what she said. "Who sings this song?" was asked multiple times. (Katie did question me once: who's more annoying, John Tesh or Ryan Seacrest? I say John Tesh, hands down. I'll take my music without a lecture, thank you.)
Katie gets annoyed watching movies with me because I always recognize an actor/actress but can't recall their names. "What else has he been in?" I'll inquire. "Mom, you ask that every time we watch this!!" Like, write it down!
On Facebook, I ask Erica "What is kefir?" when she writes that she drank a whole carton of it. She works for Sex Out Loud, the campus sexual health organization, and I might have questions about some of the stuff she writes in her weekly sex info column for the student newspaper, but do I really want the answers?
They have suffered through my struggles with technology: how do I text message? Can you show me how to take a picture with my phone? How do I change the ring tone? How do I get a picture from my Facebook album to be my profile picture? Can I put pictures on the computer without using a USB cord? How do I make the DVD player stop playing the movies in Spanish?
So now they know what it's like. Dealing with inquiring minds is not easy. If there comes a day years from now when I ask "Do frogs pee?" I hope they will smile at me kindly and come up with a satisfactory answer.
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