Mothers and Daughters

Ahhh mothers and daughters…that age old dysfunctional relationship. Ever wonder why the children in those old 1950s ads always look like they are fleeing from their mothers and rushing to the arms of their doting fathers?

Who else could tell you on Christmas day that because you are still single at the age of 30, and not dating anyone specific, that “everyone” in your small home town thinks you are a lesbian? Who else could tell you, in that same breath, that you need to stop working out because you are developing a “man back”? And who else could tell you, after a LIVE on-air interview, only that “your lipstick looked good”…and you STILL are required to love them? Yeah…no one.

Don’t get me wrong I love my mother. She’s a great lady. No one does the holidays like my mom. Her child-like enthusiasm for presents, decorations, songs, and cookies is undeniable and rather endearing at times.

If you’re having a nervous breakdown because your puppy has had to go back into the doggie ICU for the 2nd time in 2 weeks and you just need your momma…mine is great. She drops everything, calls in sick, and comes to the rescue bringing coffee, probably some raisin bread, and a least a couple of People Magazines.

When you’re watching “Dancing With the Stars” and feel the need to comment on how Maksim makes you drool…call Debby…she’s ready and poised with her own snarky comments.

However, over the last several years I’ve noticed that my mother has gotten significantly more “open” with her comments. Her internal filter seems to be getting more and more porous as the years go on.

Take for example Exhibit A.

Last night I had a LIVE on air interview at a local television station. Luckily for me it wasn’t one of the larger better know stations in the area so I’m sure the only people who saw me were friends and family who knew about it. After agonizing all day over what to wear I finally broke down and reached out to my girl friends and my mother for a little advice.

My friends were all commenting on what colors to wear and skirt versus pants. My mother’s advice?

“You should go home at lunch and put on at least 3 sports bras and any other undergarment you have to squish everything down. Because cleavage is totally unprofessional and you want everything as flat as possible! Don’t wear red lipstick!”

After the interview I called my parents to see if they were able to get the station and see the broadcast. While my dad was going on and on about how great I looked and how knowledgeable and relaxed I seemed my mother’s only comment was…”Your lipstick looked good.”

She then asked how little the woman was who interviewed me. Now judging by the question and the tone I could easily infer the underlying question that was vexing her…”Just how small was that girl because you looked FAT and your man back seemed to be looking even bigger than usual!

So after explaining to her that the girl who interviewed me was all of about 4’10” and 83 pounds AND had to sit on a huge Oklahoma City phone book just to be at eye level with me…she seemed a little assuaged.

I called my brother after that interrogation had concluded and regurgitated the whole encounter to him. He just laughed his usual “I know exactly how you feel” laugh and said…”well Thanksgiving at our house should be fun! I wonder what she’s going to berate you for this year.”

I explained to him that Thanksgiving would be the determining factor in whether or not I stay state-side for Christmas or celebrate Jesus’ birthday by myself in London eating all the carbs and drinking all the beer my little stomach can handle. And doing it all guilt free…

Trapper True

Last Saturday I woke up early...about 6am…because Addie was outside barking her guts out. After feeding her and calming her down it was virtually impossible for me to go back to sleep so I decided to lay in bed for an hour and read my book.

Side note: Upon my sister in law’s insistence I picked up “The Shack”. I’m almost done with it and have thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s a very spiritual book and I can see where people would either love it or hate it. I find myself nodding in agreement and crying throughout…but I digress.

So after reading my book I decided to get up and fix myself a “good breakfast”. I was thoroughly looking forward to a couple of poached eggs and toast to start my Fall Over-Haul day-o-cleaning.

I bounced into the kitchen and began preparing the eggs. Then I reached for the bread bag. Now I realize that most people keep their bread in the refrigerator…but I have issues with cold bread. So normally I will put half the loaf in the freezer and keep the other half out to use. Well…I learned why people keep their bread in the refrigerator.

As I pulled out the top piece of bread I noticed something wrong with the next piece. The last four pieces of bread in the bag were completely hollow! I’m totally serious! My first thought was…”OH MY GOD…my bread is diseased!!!” Then I thought…”Maybe there was a big air bubble during the baking and this is what happened!” Then I started to examine the bag and found a perfectly chewed little hole in the bottom of the bag…just large enough for a little vermin friend to get in and out of.

That was when the ugly truth hit me…There is a MOUSE in my house!

So after doing the gross-out dance in my kitchen…I grabbed my keys and did something I loathe doing. I went to Wal-Mart.

I HATE Wal-Mart and avoid it like the plague. I have successfully spent an entire year boycotting Wal-Mart and succeeded in not giving that monstrosity any of my hard earned money until Saturday. So I went in and purchased ONLY the things I needed…Power Steering fluid and mouse traps.

So I trotted home, traps in hand, and patiently awaited sun down so that I might set my traps and lay in wait for the lovely sound of “CLAP!!!” The sound of death.

Just before going to bed Saturday night I set my little traps all over the kitchen. On the floor. On the counter. Behind the refrigerator. By the oven. There were very few places that didn’t have a trap. Then I added the bait…little morsels of bread.

I woke up early Sunday morning with a giddiness usually reserved for Christmas morning. Like a four-year-old in footie pajamas…I crept into the kitchen and inspected each trap. BLAST! Each and every trap I had so meticulously baited and placed…were empty. No mouse. No bread. The little bugger had managed to get each morsel of bread off the trap without tripping a single one.

It was then that I realized I was facing a more sophisticated adversary. It was no mindless vermin I was up against…but rather more like Stewart Little or Ratatouille.

So I changed my game plan. I re-routed my traps and tried various other baits. Still to no avail. Until last night.

Last night I made spaghetti for dinner and with the little bits that inevitably fall out of the bag and onto the counter or floor I re-baited my traps. I thought…”What the heck? Maybe the dried pasta will work.”

So this morning, with my enthusiasm waning, I trepidatiously walked into the kitchen to scope out the traps. When low-and-behold…there it was!!! My pitiful prize! Up on the counter, between the sugar container and doggie treat tin, was my little unwelcomed house guest.

I hooped and hollered and sang “We are the Champions” whilst doing the happy dance in my kitchen. To see the spectacle you would think I’d just shot my first 16 point deer or something.

Nevertheless, in a year full of personal defeats…I will take small victories where I can get them.

Then I searched all over the house for some pliers so I could inspect and dispose of my nemesis without actually having to touch it or the trap. It was kind of sad, really, he was a pretty little mouse. Kind of sable colored with a white tummy. He probably would have looked very cute in a cedar chip covered cage or in some sort of Disney movie…just not in my home eating my bread.

Lessons learned:
1. Mice are smarter than you think.
2. In an older home that is mere yards away from a restaurant…put your bread in the

refrigerator if not in an air tight container.
3. Mice like dry spaghetti.
4. Mouse traps that tout “No Bait Necessary! Just simply set out these scented traps and

mice will run to them!” are bollocks! They do too need bait.

Apples and Star Fruits

So last week something interesting happened. Something that has never happened to me before…a man I didn't even realize I was dating "broke up" with me!

It was the single most awkward phone conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Oh yes…far more awkward than telling my boyfriend (at the time) who was stationed in Alabama whilst I lived in Nebraska that if he was planning on making any big purchases in the near future (i.e. an engagement ring) that now was probably not the time (read: I don’t want to marry you).

A man I had met, through an organization I’m affiliated with, earlier this summer and met out twice for happy hour drinks quite literally made me speechless and that NEVER happens to me!
Allow me to set the scene. He is significantly older than me.

Well…not Michael Douglas/Catherine Zeta-Jones significant …but when I was holding hands and “couple skating” with my 5th grade boyfriend at Star Skate…he was the college dude working there and holding the limbo rod for all us kiddies. Infer from that what you will.

So after a couple of meetings with said organization, he asked me out for drinks. No big deal. We did that twice and then chatted about doing dinner soon. We exchanged a few text messages and a couple of emails and that was it. Between a trip to Seattle and the Wall Street crisis, the “dinner ball” got dropped.

“No biggie” thought I. I’m certainly not invested in anything here and I’m not even (to quote my earlier “Dating as a business” blogs) in the market for any right now. But I’m never one to turn down some half way decent conversation over cocktails.

So you can imagine my shock when I had the phone conversation recounted below.

Him - "Hey True. Wow you really jetted out of that meeting fast today. I wanted
to visit with you and then I looked up and you were gone."

Me - "Oh yeah. Sorry. I'm up to my eyeballs in budget stuff this week."

Him - "Well hey. I wanted to visit with you in person about this. I know a few weeks
ago we got together for drinks and then visited about going out to dinner and
then I kind of dropped the ball and I didn't want you to think that I'm a big
asshole. But, I just wanted you to know that right around the time I met
you I met someone else and I am just not the sort of guy who can do the whole
dating multiple people at once thing, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...I think
you’re really great and I really like you, blah, blah, blah…"

Me – “Uhhh…okay. Thanks?” (Really??? What do you say in this
situation?)

Then after some awkward conversation about the upcoming golf tournament and the state of our nations finances he was like…”Oh yeah. Happy hour will be starting for me early today about 3pm. So if you want to join me later give me a call. Or maybe we could get together tomorrow at the game. Where do you usually tailgate???”

I’m sorry??? What the heck is that?? Am I a consolation prize? I wanted to say…”Did you or did you NOT just break-up with me? And now you want me to meet you out for drinks?” I began to wonder if that was just the guy way of saying…”I think we should just be friends”.

My friend Kim said…”Okay… He’s a fruit. And not one of those sweet delicious ones. One of those bitter ones. Maybe even one of those star fruit. You know, you think it’s gonna be good. It looks pretty good. And smells kind of good. But then you take a bite and, ugh…not quite what you think. Damn, wrong time of year for that. Go pick some apples.”

Always a fan of a good metaphorical story…I think I shall take her advice and stick to apples this season. A ripe (possibly just slightly bruised) apple of the Peace Corps varietal.

Things you learn at Youth Group

I love kids. I do. Back in high school I was the girl who would rather earn some $$$ on the weekends by babysitting than go booze it up with all the other kids out in a pasture in the middle of nowhere.

I had this red “Hello Kitty” book bag that I would ceremoniously pack each time for each child. I knew that Allyn liked to color so I would throw in a special color book for her. I knew Grant had a special book of mine he liked to read stories out of…so I would pack that. I knew Trent and his baby sister liked the little barnyard finger puppets I had. Babysitting for me was a great way for me to earn some money doing something I was already good at…entertaining kids.

Who’d of thought that 15 years later I’d be doing it again?

For the past four months I’ve been filling in at my church as the interim Youth Director. I say…youth director because I am by no means a youth Minister. I feel totally inadequate leading these kids down the path of Christian salvation. I am certainly not a nun, nor am I a biblical scholar…and I’ve always thought the best part of being Methodist is the fact that having beer in the fridge has never been frowned upon.

So for the past several months I’ve been forging ahead and planning interesting Sunday evening activities that will not only interest the kids but also entertain them. Because, let’s face it, when you’re 14-years-old you pretty much don’t do anything that is deemed boring. Oddly enough, our little youth group is comprised mostly of boys. Yes. 14-year-old, 8th grade boys.

All I can say is that it is a blessing that I had younger brothers. Because, quite simply, any woman who has never been around boys would have been running for the hills with their hair on fire by now.

The greatest part of having brothers and watching them (and their friends) go through Jr High, High School, and then finally Fraternity life…is that there is very little I haven’t seen, heard, or smelled. It’s a challenge to gross me out or shock me. So I’m in good shape.

Last night, however, I experienced something I’ve never experienced before.

Last night, Sunday night, I took the youth group to the State Fair for our September outing. I had four boys and the only girl who ever comes to youth brought 2 of her friends. Well…the boys…who we’ll call Greg, Steven, Frank, and John (names are changed to protect the not so innocent)…were all in my car and the girls were riding with Frank’s mother.

Apparently, the fun game to play when you’re a 14-year-old boy is to yell “PENIS!!!” at every car and/or person you pass by. The object, I can only assume, is to see how many people you can get to look at you in surprise or disgust. At youth, I have two rules: #1 don’t cuss and/or swear at youth; #2 don’t belittle anyone in youth.

Now since yelling “PENIS!!!” with gusto out the window at passing cars doesn’t fall into one of those two rules I didn’t necessarily feel the need to rein that in. So I let them do it.

On our way back from the Fair about 8pm we were stopped at a major intersection close to my home. We were idling in front of a Shell station while waiting for the light to turn green when all of a sudden the boys decided to play their game.

Much to my horror…and their complete astonishment…the man they yelled at proceeded to approach our car. He was saying something vulgar while walking towards the car…and UNZIPPING his pants!!!!

Seeing the whole thing in what felt like slow motion…I reached for the windows “UP” button and the power locks. Then…like those people stranded on that little electrical island in Jaws II watching the shark circle…we watched helplessly while the man came closer and closer. There was no where we could go. I was trapped at a red light between a truck in front of me…and Frank’s mom behind me.

Luckily, Frank’s mom saw what was happening and began honking her horn like a mad woman to frighten the man away. Startled by the attention he was now garnering our assailant paused just long enough for us to move on through the green light and out of harm’s way.

I was mortified. The boys…well…they thought it was the “awsomest thing that’s ever happened!!!” I got to spend this morning emailing all the parents I didn’t see last night giving them the “heads up” in case any of their children start suffering from PTSD after seeing some homeless man’s wears.

At least it has supplied me with a great Monday morning story!

The Texter

Texting. Ahhh texting. The next great wave of techie communication. Or is it?

I recently took an informal poll of my closest friends to see what they thought about “texting as a viable communication tool during dating”. Interestingly enough the women thought it was not very personal…whereas the men polled thought it was perfectly acceptable.

Don’t get me wrong, I like texting. I like texting as much as the next person does…in fact I liked it so much during the month of July that I had a $250 phone bill. Ouch! But its usefulness is really only good for quick messages.

For example:
Where are you?
What is your ETA?
Meeting where?
What time?
Order you a beer?
Score: OSU 70/ OU 6

Get the picture? Great for short bursts of information exchange…bad for actual communication.
Which leads me to the point of this blog. Recently a young lady, near and dear to me (we’ll call her Trish), became interested in a gentleman. All seemed great! He was older, somewhat mature, well employed, likes the correct football teams, and enjoys canine company. According to Trish, all signals indicated a mutual interest.

And then it started. Instead of email, or phone calls he began texting. Not at all hours of the night or too often during the day…but just in general…texting. He (who we’ll call The Texter) was using text messaging as the only line of communication with Trish.

Texting is great when used with other forms of communication. When paired with a well written email or well timed phone call it can easily enhance the “get to know ya” experience.

However, when used by itself it gives the feeling of detachment and/or disinterest. A man who uses texting alone appears to be non-committal. And not in a good “I’m playing hard to get” sort of way. But rather in a “you don’t rate high enough on my list of priorities today to bother with emailing or calling you” sort of way.

What is interesting is that one of my poll responders stated…”In today’s technological age, that's not too uncommon, it’s just a different form of communication…and one that works well for me. Worked well enough to get my current girlfriend who is a super badass.”

Interestingly enough, said “badass” has now ditched him for greener pastures. Could be the unemployed thing working against him…or could be that he’s kind of a cocky jerk…but nevertheless it clearly wasn’t working as well as he thought it was.

My point? I’m getting to it…stay with me here. My point being, that in today’s age, are we becoming less and less communicative? Are we losing a vital part of what sets us apart from the apes? Is text messaging taking our beautiful language and reducing it to a series of nonsensical monosyllabic grunts?

And if so…what does that say about our communication within relationships? Is it no wonder that divorce is still on the rise as technology increases? Are we losing that vital sense of communication being “personal”? To truly know the meaning behind the words…don’t we need to hear the inflection of the voice?

A word to the wise…for all you men out there, like The Texter, ”women cannot live on texting alone”. We need more of a commitment from you. Commit to a 10 minute email. Or, God forbid, a 10 minute phone call. Chances are…you’re not going to catch us anyway, and when you leave a message…the proverbial ball is in our court. And isn’t that what you’re after anyway?