Random Observations-June edition

Here we go again with the weird things that jangle about in my head most times...

-Multi-tasking is a bad idea. Sure, the whole concept is meant to make us more productive and efficient, to maximize every moment of our short lives where our value is determined only by what we accomplish or amass (and if you don't hear the dripping sarcasm there, you obviously don't know me very well), but it so, so rarely works out that way. Most tasks worth doing, folks, are worth focusing our attention on as solely and single-mindedly as we can. That's not always possible, of course, as you mothers of young children especially know, but that's no reason not to try when you can. So, from my experience, let me share with you a couple of things that should not be attempted together.

A. Do not attempt to gurgle mouthwash and dry your hair at the same time. I did this the other day, thinking I would save a minute or two in the morning. Took a swig of Listerine, grabbed the blow dryer, flipped my head upside down (a familiar hair drying technique to all my fellow curly girls out there) and AAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!!!! Suddenly, Listerine was filling my nasal cavity and burning the gentle respiratory tissue there. So not wise. Do not try this at home, folks. Or anywhere else for that matter. I think I'm still recovering.

B. Truly, most bathroom activities probably call for single-minded focus, either because they are intricate (i.e. mascara application--it's tough enough get it right, especially if you are sleep-deprived) or because it's just kind of nasty (i.e. brushing your teeth while you pee...ew). But here is my number one multi-tasking offense. You should never, never talk on the phone while taking care of business in the lavoratory (please use Brit pronunciation, okay?). Tell the truth, now, you know you have done this, and it's just wrong. Unless you are a small child or are physically unable to take care of your own toileting, there should be no communication during this task. Even in a public restroom, there's nothing wrong with postponing the convo until everyone's out of the stalls. And there is something devious about talking on the phone while you're on the toilet, because the person on the other end of the line is an unknowing, and probably unwilling victim. If we're talking on the phone, and you really need to pee that bad, excuse yourself and call me back. If I call when you are midstream, hon--let it go to voicemail! If we were sitting at your dinner table having a lovely conversation, and you needed to visit the watercloset, you certainly wouldn't invite me to continue the conversation in the bathroom, so don't think it's any better just because I'm not physically present. Focus on the pee, then focus on the socializing. Don't mix it up, kiddo.

There are more multi-tasking mistakes, I'm certain, and I'd like to hear your best ones, so if you are reading this, please leave your favorite multi-tasking mistake in the comments. Like trimming your bangs while driving on the freeway, or anything involving a hot glue gun....

-Speaking of delicate nasal tissue, there are some bad, bad babysitters in the world, and my parents hired several of them before they gave up on teenagers and just left my 9 year old sister to watch us when they went out. I know, I know, nowadays DCFS would be on their tails for leaving a child that young in charge, but honestly, Gina was so much better than any of the teenage girls they hired that I remember. For example, there was the neighbor girl who slapped me repeatedly because I wouldn't eat my dinner. Neither of my parents ever laid a finger on me or any of my siblings as a punishment, but this chick had the gall to hit me because I wasn't hungry? Her sister was nicer, but a little flighty. She took us outside late one winter night for some reason, and promptly shut the locked door. Smart. So we had to walk through the snow in our pajamas to her mom and dad's house. Kind of an adventure, but kind of a duh moment, too. A cold duh moment. The worst however, was the budding sociopath who made my sister and I play dead to scare the devil out of our little brothers. She was mad at them because they wouldn't go to sleep. She had sent them to bed early because they, as they alway did, boisterously joined in the "Yee-Haw" at the end of the opening credits to "Dukes of Hazzard". (Sidenote: I had a mad crush on Bo Duke. He can still come sit next to me.) Of course, it was too early for them to sleep, and they were dismayed by the unfairness of it all, so they spent the next two hours hootin' and hollerin' and playing nerf basketball and jumping on the bed. Finally this babysitter got Gina and I out of bed, told us to lay down in the corner of the living room, put a blanket over us and warned us not to move a muscle. Then she got my dad's letter opener out of the desk (it looked like a dagger) and yelled at my brothers to come out. When the boys appeared, she wielded the letter opener and told them that she had killed us because they wouldn't shut up, and if they didn't go to sleep now, they were next. Jon and Joel were probably no older than three and six at the time. Wow. She was the last straw, babysitter-wise.

What does that have to do with delicate nasal passages, you ask? Well, nothing, except that believe it or not, that wasn't the worst babysitter experience I ever had. The worst was the babysitter who got Gina and I out of bed late one night when I was probably only four or five. She put a line of black pepper on the table and told me it would be really fun and funny if I snorted the pepper up my nose. It would make me sneeze just like in the cartoons! For the record, black pepper up your nose does not make you sneeze, and it's not fun or funny. It's simply painful. It burns. Bad. I think I'm still recovering.

-So, Mom and Dad finally gave up on babysitters and just left us home with Gina loosely in charge (which the rest of us took to mean she would take the fall if anything went wrong, but we didn't really have to mind her...ha ha). She was eight or nine, so I was seven, J.P. was six, and Joel would have been about three or four. My parents trained us all on what to do in an emergency, who to call if we needed something, what to say if someone called and asked for Mom or Dad. One night, my dad decided to call home and see if Gina remembered the lessons about phone calls. We had been instructed not to say our parents weren't home, but instead to insist that they were there but unable to come to the phone. So my dad calls, Gina picks up, and Dad asks to speak to her mom. Gina, the champ, says the right thing. She can't come to the phone right now...she's in the shower. My dad, unable to resist the urge to push the test a little farther, then asks to speak to her father. Gina gamely replies that he can't come to the phone either because he's in the shower, too. So now, instead of being neglectful parents who leave their four little birdies home under the supervision of their extremely capable eldest daughter so they can have a much needed dinner and a movie together, now she is giving the impression that they are neglectful parents who leave their children unsupervised for a little water-soaked nooky, instead. I believe at this point my poppy burst out laughing and let Gina know it was him. Pretty funny. Kids are a riot.

-The other night at a family dinner, Gina said she would totally go to the public baths in Japan again if she could, which I find so odd. Gina served her mission in Nagoya, Japan, and although I understand that it's a culturally accepted practice there, I just can't imagine myself being comfortable naked in public, even though it's same-gender. I don't know what it is, but I just think there are only about two people who should see all of me in the buff- me and my man. And if I could avoid seeing me in all my unclothed glory, that would be totally okay. Sadly, whoever designed my bathroom thought it was a good idea to put a very large mirror directly opposite the shower, so that's somewhat unavoidable. Even with my doctor and my midwife, I'd rather they only see individual parts unclothed, not the whole shebang. Here's how I see it: with my man, there's a payoff to the uncomfortableness of nudity. At least there's supposed to be when you're doing it right. And the nudity is part of a multi-faceted intimate relationship. (Not that I'd really know-my man is still a stranger to me, dangit, and to borrow a really bad metaphor that was widely used in YW classes and seminary in my day, no one's licked the icing off my cupcake. A really, really awful analogy, that is not only sort of icky, but also misrepresents the power of the Atonement of Christ. But I won't go into that right now. I'll just laugh, and return the original train of thought...). But in a public bath, it's a bunch of strangers with whom you have no relationship at all. Maybe it's my Puritan North American upbringing showing, but that's just weird. Then again, maybe it's the no relationship at all thing that makes it palatable. If I may never see these fellow public bathers again, who cares if they see my cavernous belly button or my dimply bum cheeks? Would you hop into the public baths if you had the chance? Why, or why not in the comments please. But it's a serious question, so don't post in the comments if you've got something nasty to say about it. I don't want to know about your deviance if you have any, so keep it clean, all right?

-Julie Heckert might be the coolest person I know. I never see her without coming away with a good laugh as well as something to think about. She's the only person I know who can use the word "fecundity" in a birthday greeting without being icky, and she introduced me to my new favorite "how the haitch did that get past the marketing department" romance novel title: The Very Virile Viking. I'm not kidding. It really exists, and we have two copies at the library. Find me the next time you drop by the OPL, and I'll show you. I was a doubter at first, too, but I've seen it with my own eyes.

Okay, I think that's enough for one day. Probably way, way beyond enough. Let's see, we've covered bathroom communications, sociopath babysitters, nudity and trashy romance novel titles. I bet you are so glad you don't have to live in my head. Wish I could say the same, but I'm starting to get used to my craziness.

Next post: My friends rock, or how I beat the bad birthday karma for good.

Dogs and Children Complicate Things

It's been an eventful weekend. What I have learned is simple, yet important. I have learned that for their own comfort and well-being, you probably should not trust me with your dogs or your children.

So it started yesterday afternoon. Leslie and I had our "day together" with breakfast at Magleby's, a trip to the Farmer's Market, and a viewing of the delightful film Up (if you haven't seen it, go see it immediately. Drop whatever you're doing right now and go to the movies. It is so, so good). To appease the little birdies whose turn doesn't come for a month or two, I usually stop at Iceberg and take twist cones home, but since I also had my brother's dog Mose for the weekend, and the poor pooch hadn't been out of my backyard in two days, I figured we'd pick up the dog and take all the girls for a walk to Iceberg instead.

Thus far, it was simply a lovely Saturday with my nieces. We loaded Mary and Dot into the big stroller, and Leslie and Susie argued about who got to hold the leash, and all seven of us set off to get an ice cream. We got to Iceberg without incident, hitched Mose's leash to a table out front, and went inside to get their cones. My friend Marianne was there with a friend of hers, Joan, so we said hi and chatted while waiting for the ice cream. When they called our number, I got the girls situated with their cones and headed back outside to load them up and head back home. Of course, my timing being impeccable as always, this was the moment the skies decided to dump an entire spring's worth of rainfall in five minutes. It began to pour, one of those crazy, rare-in-Utah storms where it's like standing in the shower fully dressed. And there I am with 5 girls under nine and a poor, soaked pug. Within 30 seconds, the baby, the three year old, and the seven year old were all crying, and I was trying to figure out what the haitch to do. I had Leslie shepherd the girls back into Iceberg to eat their cones, while I tried to figure out what to do with the soaking wet dog. Of course, by now I am quite literally soaked to the skin as well. I unleashed Mose from the table and tucked him in the stroller, trying to put the rain cover down so he'd stay in and stay dry. I'm literally dripping (inconvenient outfit, too--dripping jeans would have been preferred to a dripping denim skirt that was being dangerously wind blown I think. My apologies to anyone who got an eyeful of my gams), and my engineering skills are rapidly failing, as I can't for my life figure out how to get the cover snapped down. Finally, I picked up the dog, wrapped him in a blanket, and stood in the foyer of Iceberg, which was now a puddle from the wind and rain, and stood there wondering how in the name of all that is holy I was going to get these five girls (and the pug) home.

As I was praying for the storm to cease, and little Dot splashed in the resevoir/entrance, Marianne and Joan mercifully came and offered to drive us home. After some pleading with the oldest, who didn't want to go without me (the stroller would not have fit in the back, sadly), and a few urgent wails from the baby, they piled in and made their way home to get dry. I put the dog in the stroller, figured out the rain cover, and ran home in the storm with 30 lbs. of wet pug. I think now that he's experienced the delight of being pushed around in a stroller, he'll never want to walk on his own four paws again. He's lazy like that. But strangely, I thoroughly enjoyed that trip home in the rain. There's something about that moment when you know that things really couldn't get much worse that is so liberating. I'm sure I was a sight, but I was an unexpectedly happy sight. Back at Gina's, I found out that Caroline had asked her mom that morning if they could have an adventure. Well, my dear Care, be careful what you wish for.

Anyway--don't trust me with your dogs or children, part deux, focuses on the dog part. I decided to take Mose on a walk in Rock Canyon this afternoon, and since I was at Mom and Dad's, and Jon and Cathy were heading to the Durfey's without Zoey, I figured I'd take her along on our walk. Jon and Cathy were cool with that, so I found two leashes, stuffed my pockets with doodie bags (I'm a responsible dog walker, you see) and headed to Provo. We had a lovely walk until we came across two very large dogs, collared but unleashed on the trail. Mose is a pug, Zoey a Cairn terrier, both little dogs. I can't blame either of them for freaking out when 300 lbs of canine come barrelling down the trail with no owners in sight. Zoey was so scared that her head actually shrunk, she slipped her collar and went tearing back down the trail. So there I am, screaming at the two big brutes to stay the hell away from my dogs (I did cuss, it's true, and particularly disappointing considering that I was listening to general conference on my iPod. See ya, Holy Spirit), trying to catch up to Zoey.

Complicating this ridiculous scene is Mose, the laziest pug in the universe, who moves at the approximate pace of the continental plates, even in an emergency. Zoey wouldn't stop, and wouldn't let me get within 3 feet of her until we got to the car, and about halfway down the trail, Mose decided to just stop and laid down on the trail. Picture it--Me with Mose, who is not exactly a featherweight, tucked under one arm, a bag of dog crap in my other hand, jogging down the trail trying to keep up with Zoey who refuses to chill out and behave. For the record, I don't blame her. For the first 20 years of my life those two dogs would have reduced me to tears. Okay, for the first 20 years my life pretty much any dog would have reduced me to tears. Good times, good times.

So, let's recap what we've learned:

-Pixar makes a helluva good movie.
-I don't want a dog of my own. Other people's dogs are lovely and delightful. Having responsibility for one every day would so not work in my schedule right now. I can't take the chaos. Even the sudden storm at Iceberg with the girls would have been no problem if I didn't have the shivering wet pug to think about.
-Other people are not lovely and delightful when they don't take responsibility for their pet and keep them leashed in public places. Your choices do effect other people, so keep 'em leashed, folks.
-Along the same line, I'm even more convinced that my short man/dog owner man rule is a good one. I could happily deal with either of those not-exactly-ideal situations, but not both. Sorry to all dog lovers or the vertically challenged, but both are issues for me. Short attractive man-green light. Tall attractive dog owner-green light. Short attractive dog owner-not so much. Is that entirely shallow?
-Caroline is unflappable. Which is great, because her Auntie Mar is flappin' all over the universe like the unbuttoned butt flap on a pair of long johns in a wind storm. Terrible metaphor, I know.
-Sometimes God won't stop the storm when you ask, but he's likely to send a couple of angels like Marianne and Joan to help you weather it.
-And finally, if you love your children and your dogs, don't let me take them off your hands. It's like begging the universe to throw a wrench in the gears!

Beautiful

I have such issues with that concept...but I don't want to talk about it. So just look. These are little drops of my beautiful.