Don't Eat The Shrimp Platter

I'm at a bit of a loss as to why I've looked at the calendar and it's now September. It was June just last week.

Little bit of a lot to catch up on.

I went to a cemetery today. No, it's not my time yet and all the kids are accounted for. I do something far more relaxing. Less irreversibly dead. I take photos of headstone markers.

Now, I know what you are thinking, and unless you are dead from sheer boredom reading this post, you are alive and thinking, why? who does this for fun? A lot of people.

Cemeteries are as fascinating as their living counterparts. I love to people watch. Read obits. Find out what someone did with their life. The cemetery just shows the end part. Beyond that, a peek into someone's life: Someone cleans the marker. Do they miss the person or thankful for the time they had with them? Do they have a family plot and is it forgotten by loved ones that moved away? These are little glimpses into someone's life, into a place that is quite private, feels deeply personal, yet out in the open for all to see. 

In short, I'm a nosy girl and people watching is still a favorite hobby.

You'd be surprised how many love to do this. I volunteer for an online cemetery photo database. As a curious soul, researching is brain food, piecing together family, and helping others is my altruistic bit of happiness. I get a sense of paying it forward by quietly traversing over miles of grass and buried memories. The exercise and fresh air doesn't hurt either. This is where the volunteers come in.

I could exercise like this. Rome wasn't built in a day but Romans didn't have relatives with cameras who canvased cemeteries to lose weight.

One marker in particular surprised me. I promise I'm not making this up. The last name indicated sorcery and conjuring. Big pentagram on the marker. She had a big surprise after she died.

In more linear news, I had a birthday last week. Still in my dirty thirties even though I use soap all the time. I remember being fresh out of high school and thinking that 30 was old. I certainly don't cater to that ideal. But admittedly, I have been under the impression for several years now, high schoolers are looking younger and younger.

Another something-something is my schooling. Big question mark. I won't get into the hairy ordeal here. Too many decisions and options. Closed doors, closed windows, and I basically need some air. Now you're curious.

See how it feels? Not fun. I'm still making my goals a reality however, reality requires flexibility and timing is everything.

Are you confused? Me, too. 

Zus is in middle school now. He's picked up the flute for band class. I'm housing one budding guitarist, and an additional five musicians here. Our apartment looks like a music store exploded inside.

Lastly, Mr Coffee and I went to the beach with the family for our 18th anniversary last month. We experienced traditional Pacific NW coast weather: overcast, cool, and a peek of sun resulting in a bit of sunburn. It was an excellent adventure to christen our new-to-us van. Tillamook, OR, Seaside, OR, and Seaview, WA are a lovely place to visit. Bob's Cabin Restaurant and Lounge's shrimp platter was not.

That's all I'll say about that.

Well, now I've caught you up, dear reader. Next post will probably be more exciting. Or not. I just promise to blog before I'm collecting social security. 

~Bee has lots to blab about today.

Listening to: Past Is Prologue album by Tycho 

 
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Raise Your Hands If You're Sure

"What on earth does 'moded' mean?"

A few posts back I spoke of moded people, thinking to my old school self, "Self, I am so hip and getting down and jiggy with it."

"Like, for shizzle," says the white girl.

Apparently, there are old school terms and then there is old, old school. Even the old schooliest might not know what "moded" meant. The actual meaning of the word "moded" derived from "moated", in the medieval days when you would get stuck on the moat and look stupid. You would have to swim to dry land, across rank water full of people-eating eels or the Loch Ness monster or something.

Yeah. I just made that up.

If I read my urban dictionary right, it means: inyerface, burned, dissed, facejob, owned. A derivative of the word "demoted".

My sisters and I flung this word about often growing up in So. Cali. It was the ultimate burn, especially toward our neighbors. Calling names was nothing new. Almost a rite of passage, like high school prom. Or a first date. Or cleaning untended liquid broccoli from your first apartment fridge. As kids, we were rebels, calling the neighbor kids, "Ni**erpoos". They in turn, called us "Honkey Trash".

HUD apartment housing, folks. Doesn't get any better than this. Apparently, it takes a village to raise a child, and that same village to make your kids racist.

Not a shiny moment in my childhood memories but here is one shinier from long ago. I'm a greenie. I recycle.

Fifth grade was a very hard year for me. I discovered boys. I discovered Lawman jeans were cool. I discovered friends could stab you in the back and that hygiene couldn't be taken care of by a shake of baking soda.

You see, my parents were under the opinion that with four girls, deodorant was a commodity we could do without. The notion of buying deodorant for a second grader was probably not on their radar and baking soda was cheap and always available in the kitchen. Bad news for me.

I have always been a Sweaty Betty. (no offense to Betty). The payoff to looking like someone who is detoxing is that you have great skin, but again, one is always sweaty. The bane of my existence has been B.O. related from the start of second grade.

I recall that dark day when a parent handed us four girls a set of shakers to share. These shakers were rather like the red pepper flake dispensers at the pizza parlor, except these babies were full of baking soda.

To shake. Into my pits.

It doesn't take a science major to know that baking soda is prone to clumping in wet environments. And boy, did it.

Every morning I would faithfully shake baking soda into the caverns of my arms with the hopes I'd ward off smelling like a 10 year old couch in a frat house. I'd end up spilling white powder on my clothes and hating the moment that would come a few hours later. That moment, that dreaded moment, of catching wind of my fragrant..er..., flagrant self.

Being an odoriferous sort, I would nearly die of embarrassment when I would nonchalantly raise my arm and a small clod of grayish baking soda would fall out of my armpit. It would happen at the most inopportune times. And no boy would come within ten feet of me. Who knew that giving it another few years and I'd be modeling swimsuits for a living? How is that for moded? But for my fifth grade year, I stood three heads taller and was marked with sweat stains and raging B.O.


I would pray, "PLEASE don't let there be clods in my pits. PLEASE don't let their be clods in my pits." It was mortifying. By mid morning though, you'd think my body was having some gruesome white clod fall out.

Despite my baking soda pits, B.O., and dusted t-shirts, I had trouble making friends. I remember one morning, going over to my desk to start my school day. I came eye to eye with a gigantic, sunshine yellow, toile-covered basket perched upon my school desk. This was not any basket, it was a JEAN NATE' bath and body basket. I stood dumbfounded, eyes glazed in glorious wonder over who would be so kind to do that? Soap, lotions, a little deodorant, and more soap....all packaged in it's beautiful, golden yellow glory. I was so excited. I felt special.

I didn't realize the assistant teacher was giving it to me because I was emulating the Bog of Eternal Stench. My teacher may have thought that I (or my parents) needed some help in the hygiene department. I gather she didn't have a polite way of saying, "No offense but you smell like a sheep herder!" My stepmom became unglued (and rightly so) when she found out one of my teachers gave me body products. Why it was such an offensive gift, I wondered. I had my baking soda, right? Naturally, I didn't understand until it was explained to me how the teacher should have addressed my parents first.

And queue the deafening sound of a 5th grader's feelers being put through a proverbial meat-grinder. 

Everyone has an awkward stage in their childhood. I had big teeth, a bean pole body, mean school mates, and awkwardness all poured into a pair of Lawman jeans.

That was my fifth grade year in a nut shell.

I'm thankful now for those character building lessons. Armed with deodorant, my fifth grade year could have been easier. I could have forgone the embarrassment but I am now better equipped to empathize with my kids once that time comes...and it will...even if I will never, ever, ever enjoy red pepper flakes on my pizza.

You can be Sure of that.

~Bee never lets you see her sweat
Listening to: Animal by Dash & Will

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Alone Time and Not Fitting In

"Do you want to go to a Moms group with me?"

I have a friend, let's call her Julie. Julie decided that attending a Moms group with me would be fun. She admitted not attending this one before. She'd heard about it through the grapevine.

The Mom grapevine is pretty awesome. It has been a longstanding tradition and wealth of knowledge to Moms all over the planet: the best consignment stores, what wine goes best with charcuterie, the best stance against a penguin attack, or juicy stuff, like instructions on how to effortlessly cheese off the PTA crowd.

This time, news of a Moms group came down the grapevine. A secret club held in a public place. Lots of moms. Seasoned moms. New moms. Stepford Moms. Realistic Moms. Moms who have developed an unfortunate interest in sensible shoes. Moms with SUV's the size of small countries (complete with sticker of a half, smashed-in baseball mounted on the back window).

This was women en masse needing a little break from the daily grind to partake of strong coffee, breakfast casseroles, and delicious gossip from the Mom Grapevine. 

Julie is an amazing friend and trusting her judgement of all things Mom-Groupy, I agreed to go with her. My kids are out of the toddler phase and in school. However, the draw was not the meeting in particular but hanging out with a girlfriend. Coffee, breakfast, and meeting like-minded women were just a bonus.

I was quiet at this meeting because 1) I only knew one other person, 2) it's easier to count the available exits when you aren't engaged in conversation with someone else, and 3) a closed mouth catches no feet.

I'm not one for big group meetings. The older I get, the more comfortable I am in my own skin which affords a nice balance of quiet and deeper friendships with those I do hang with. Friends like Julie who take me to Moms meetings and help me not to laugh out loud when someone says something we could turn into blog fodder.

It's rude to laugh at a group speaker. I think I learned that from the Mom Grapevine or Horders, or something.

I sat quietly and read the Four Bean Enchilada recipe in the Moms Group flyer while Julie inspected the contents of her purse. She was feeling a bit left out only knowing one or two other moms there. I brought her back to reality serenading her with a short rendition of the Space Ghost song, "I Love Beans". She then thanked me profusely for coming with her.

I did have fun. The two speakers were idealistic and conservative but to each their own. The ladies at my table were really great and asked how Julie and I met. We answered proudly, "Writing online!".

This is why the irony of the Moms Group topic was not lost on me: Technology. How to use our time with technology wisely, how technology can negatively affect our families, and how to free yourself from technology addiction.

Technology addiction? I don't understand those words together.

I believe the general consensus was that Facebook is evil, the web is a tool (yeah, keep reading), Facebook is evil, you must give 110% to your family regardless of the impact on your own person, and that Facebook will ruin your life, waistline, marriage, amongst a growing list of ridiculous show of sanctimonious reasons for lack of self-control.

It turned out that out of the 9 women at our small group table, nearly half of us had jobs or demands that required technology. A real estate job. Web developing. Online school. Web design. As Julie so sagely pointed out, technology is not going away.

She found that nugget of wisdom on Wikipedia.

I had to speak up at our small group table. When it comes down to brass tacks, no object is inherently good or evil. Man makes it good or evil. I pointed out to the women at our table that no matter your view on technology, the idea that the internet or smart phones, or videos are evil is missing the point.

The issue is lack of self-control.

For instance, you walk into your kitchen twice a day, pull out your Oster blender and make a giant chocolate shake. You will most likely gain weight and will not be able to wear your skinny jeans anymore. Who gets the blame? The evil blender will not take responsibility for your lack of self-control.

One woman shared, "I was online every day for 30 minutes and my husband finally came to me and said, 'You have a problem.'"

(and here, you judged me for laughing just a minute ago)

Way to support Mom filling her emotional tanks.

This husband sounds like fun. If I'm a stay-at-home mom and I have a clean house and my tasks for the day are done, why not go online or dive into a book. I'm fueling my proverbial tanks.

Reality is this: to make myself happy and healthy for my family, I need some down time. Mr Coffee needs his down time. Alone time. Time out. Time for me.

My daughter says that everyone needs alone time, "even sharks and astronauts have alone time".

Random, but yeah. She's 8. She's really smart.

Another woman shared that Facebook made her have discontent in her life, "My girlfriends get together without me. Aunt Judy went on vacation to Hawaii. A friend got flowers from her husband. So-and-so got a new car... " 

 Facebook made her feel discontent. It MADE her do it. Apparently, Mark Zuckerberg didn't just steal from the Winklevoss twins, he's now melding your mind through Facebook.

The fact remains that indeed, a Facebook user may very well feel discontent with their life. Jealousy, envy, insecurity, and a covetous mindset has nothing to do with discontent. Things are better when you take responsibility for our own happiness.

Or you could just keep blaming it on the blender.

~Bee is blaming New Balance trainers for losing weight
Listening to Brighter Discontent by The Submarines.

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Do You Smell Toast?

I'm so shiny right now.

 My van has died and I want to set it on fire and roll it off a cliff.

 I can be positive. I'd do it with a smile.   

  I was lucky enough to have The Anti-Christ lose power in our     apartment parking lot. It was only a matter of pushing the van back into a parking space but not before learning the geometry of backing up a trailer and what it feels like to move around 3.500 lbs.

The mechanic says it's electrical and the electrician is out for two weeks. I allowed myself the human emotion of "NOOOOOOO" to resonate throughout my brain, took a deep breath, and then took it in stride.

I had a fairly busy week and weekend planned. This week will be busy, too. Movies to be seen. Eggs to hunt. Live music to be heard. Carpool duties. A pregnant mom to coach.

I believe character is hatched from bad days. This is how I manage to be positive about being negative. Positively negative. I usually laugh over stupid stuff like this. Crying comes to mind but what can I do?

I laugh. I laugh and tell myself it could be worse. I don't know what could be, pushing my van around the parking lot by myself. Like a moron. I could have easily strained something. I could have been 20 miles from home. I could be out at 10:30 at night on the freeway. Positive thinking here.

I ended up staying home, reading, spending time with the family, and playing Words With Friends on my phone. It's like online Scrabble. I'm not very good at it. I'm managing an average of 325 points per game which is ironic because that is also my golfing average. Wait, is that bad?

In other news, I decided to beef up my bookshelves because the 1500 books are not giving enough Hoarders. Second-hand shops are a goldmine of books on the cheap. First editions are also a fairly common discovery. Hand over a $20 bill and leave with up to twenty books.

Last week, I found a travel book for my son who has taken a sudden interest in Japan. I thought he would be completely beside himself when I gave it to him. It went something like this:

"Hey, Titus. I have something for you."

Sing-song voices are most necessary when revealing a surprise.

"What is it? What is it?" Sing-song gave him a hint that it was good. At least, what I think is good.

I have two boys. I've given them different names and birthed them less than two years apart but they still have not figured out the concept of autonomy yet. They do everything together. Peas in a pod. Like conjoined twins without all the awkward dating and tailored clothes.

Titus shows up first, "Did you get me something?"

I beam with motherly pride and joy. I'm so proud of myself for not only encouraging him to learn but also for finding his book for under a few bucks.

"I got you a book......." I pause for effect, "on...." I whip out the book and grin. At this point, I probably look like a young Jack Nicholson audition for the Joker.

Max shows up as I'm holding the article in question. They both look at me blankly. Max is the first to speak.

"A Honk Kong travel book?" Titus takes it from me slowly and looks at the cover like I've handed him a book on quadratic equations.

"Yes! Isn't that awesome. I thought you'd be excited?" I asked him, puzzled as to why he wasn't hugging me and calling me the "Best Mom Ever".

Titus still hasn't said anything. Max meets my eye and deadpans, "Mom. Titus likes Japan. That's Hong Kong. As in Hong Kong, C.h.i.n.a.." He states the last bit slowly because it has become painfully obvious to him that I am having a stroke and in dire need of all the help I can get.

Now, before you believe me to be completely geographically challenged, I will say that I am unequivocally, completely geographically challenged.

In my defense, and believe me, I know that Hong Kong is in China. If you plow through the travel books at the Goodwill, the smell of dust and Lord knows what else will permeate your delicate tissues thus rendering you moronic. Painfully, to the point of not knowing what state you are currently living in, let alone remember what cities go with what countries.

China is the big one, right? Japan is the little island-y one, right?

Seriously, though. World geography has never been a strong point for me but my brain apparently went on vacation to one of those tropical islands where they have white sand, blue skies, and cabana boys to fetch yummy drinks that come with little, tiny paper umbrellas. I couldn't tell you anything more, as my brain wouldn't be able to identify that island either.

Online map puzzles help a little but I felt pretty foolish (read: like having a STRONK!) that my boys witnessed what could only be described as a total, epic brain fart of geographical proportions.

As witness to a rare brain vacation that smells like the beach and coconuts. Maybe toast? It's lovely there. I would not blame my brain in the slightest for not wanting to go back.

I pride myself in my sensitivity to diversity and other ethnic cultures. I have traveled the globe. Studied other cultures. Learned about the world beyond my little life bubble and continue to learn a little about a whole lot of things. But when I forget things I know...like wearing deodorant, or eating. Or knowing where Hong Kong is? I have to laugh at myself.

Go ahead. Laugh it up. Mr Coffee did. He kissed my forehead and told me not everyone can be in a completely perfect "state".

Yeah, he totally went there.

~Bee is not smelling toast or having a stronk.

Listening to: Your Touch by The Black Keys

 

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