We were attending the Cub Scouts Pinewood Derby for the first time. My boys were excited. We had worked  4 long weeks getting their cars ready. The excitement in the air was electric.

At least I thought the hum I heard was excitement. But it wasn’t. It was from this:

And from this:

And from this:

Oh, sure. There was a little bit of this:

But it was mostly this:

For the record, I am not a Luddite. I’m not as up to date on the latest technology as I was when I was teaching, but I am not afraid of techie things. We have our televisions, our DVRs. I have an iPod and my (new!) laptop computer. (The boys play on our old dinosaur. As it should be.)

But I believe there is a time and a place for everything.

Now, I admit. Way back when. When cell phones were first in vogue, I would cringe when I’d hear one ring  in public. I’d glare at the offending chatter. Now? I’m used to it. In fact, I’m known to chat with my daughter while perusing the grocery aisles.

But I never talk on the phone while I am: in a restaurant, in the grocery line, or in a doctor’s waiting room. If I need to make a call, I step outside. Period. End of story.

Oh sure, I’ve been known to entertain myself with Angry Birds while waiting for a doctor’s appointment (sound off, of course). Or play solitaire on a long car ride. (Not while driving, of course.)

So, I will say it again. There is a time and a place for everything.

The kids were the worst offenders. Parents using these handheld babysitters to keep their kids quiet so they could visit with other parents. Or so they could just sit there and stare into space uninterrupted. But some of the parents had their own manners to check. I witnessed one parent, sit in the back of the room, messing around on his iPhone while his kids ran back and forth to tell him how they placed. Pathetic.

At an event. A family event. When kids are supposed to be cheering for each other. Scoping out the cars and getting ideas for next year. Or, what a novel idea, how about watch your own car at its appointed race time?

I only have one thing to say.

Put those damn electronic devices AWAY!

(Oh. And how do I know I’m offending about half of you? Because that’s how many kids were playing on their iPods and Nintendos during the races. Fifty percent. Twenty five kids were watching the races and cheering each other on. And twenty-five kids were huddled over screens.

Not siblings. Other scouts.

I was appalled. Can you tell?

Ahhhh.

I feel so much better now. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.)

Just a little Youtube humor for your hump day! Happy Wednesday!

I enjoy a good sale but I don’t plan my week around them. I clip a few coupons, as long as we already enjoy the product. I have a list of when “Kids Eat Free”at local restaurants on my phone so if we’re out and about we can take advantage.

I think of myself as your run-of-the-mill bargain hunter.

I hate clothes shopping so it’s a good thing I prefer classic styles that take a while to become outdated. For example, the jeans I’m wearing at this very minute are almost 10 years old. Ralph Lauren. Talbots. L. L. Bean. Gap. Just a few of my favorites. Since the fashion police aren’t knocking on my door and my 19-year-old daughter hasn’t said anything (yet) it’s probably safe to assume that I look OK.

I’m also a very patient person. With a fairly organized closet. It doesn’t bother me in the least to wait until the end of the season, buy clothes at least 50% off and store in my closet until next season. Which is what I do. Often.

So often, in fact, that I can’t believe anyone actually buys clothes at full price. And the full price usually shocks me.

Like this article, seen on Yahoo, about the best jeans to flatter different body types. Great tips. Before and after pics I can relate to.  But the prices? Are you kidding me?

NYDJ (Not Your Daughter’s Jeans) $120

Earnest Sewn Classic Boot Cut $198

White House Black Market $78

Even the Gap $70 and Lee Jeans $54 surprised me.

I buy Gap and Lee jeans. I’ve never paid more than $40.

I’m in shock. I had no idea this was the going rate. After seeing the flattering styles and great before and after pics I actually started considering updating my wardrobe.

After seeing the prices?

No way.

Besides.

There’s no need.

My readers just see me from the waist up.

That’s me. Only with cruises.

I can not imagine that being trapped on a huge petri dish, floating in the middle of the ocean, miles from any civilization can be considered relaxing and fun. Tiny cramped quarters, bumping into the same people over and over, with no Starbucks in sight? Not my idea of a good time.

My husband has even dangled a Disney Cruise over my head. In a weak moment, I checked it out. Disney nut that I am, I considered their 3 day cruise. For about 32 seconds. And then I came to my senses.

I’m well aware that my fears are irrational. I’m sure I could find website after website spouting statistics assuring me how safe it is to sail the wide open seas. That Norwalk virus is not just contained on cruise ships.  That I won’t be robbed, bored or stuck eating with strangers. It will fall on deaf ears.

Every cruise disaster, I read or watch unfold with wide eyes and my stomach doing flip flops. Like a train wreck, I can’t look away. And my fears are satisfied.

Do you know what song was playing at one of the ship’s restaurants when the Costa Concordia’s hull split open?

Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” from the 1997 blockbuster movie “Titanic.”

I’m not kidding. Look it up. 

And this is why I will never go on a cruise.

Listen, I’m glad the man has faith. Wearing it on your sleeve, or your face as the case may be? More than I do, but everyone has a right to shout out what they believe.

But seriously people?

Don’t you think God has more important things to do than help a man and his team win a football game?

(As Yogi Berra said, “Why don’t you just let God watch the game?”)

Nothing new.

And that’s what’s pathetic.

Growing up, I remember my parents watching us carefully. Portion sizes. Types of food we chose. Commenting on the other “chunky” teenagers out there. They meant well. And it was all ironic coming from my mother – a nurse who struggled with her own weight. But I suppose she was worried we’d turn out like her.

When I was in my teens I was so thin my parents took me to the doctor. They thought I was secretly bulimic. They knew I ate. What they didn’t take into consideration is that I swam 2-4 hours a day on a competitive swim team. The doctor assured them that I was healthy with an enviable metabolism. Sure, I could stand to gain a few pounds but that will come. (And oh boy, did it come.) But even with that experience, my sister and I would compare our thighs.

“Look how mine jiggles,” she would say. “I’m fat.”

“No,” I would counter, “Mine jiggles more. Look.” And I would prove that I was fatter.

In my twenties, my now ex husband (and I’m embarrassed that I’m admitting this) would actually wrap his arm around my waist, making sure he could get his fingers all the way around. I knew what he was doing. He was making sure that I was staying thin. I dreaded wearing a bathing suit, certain that everyone could see my (non-existent) pooch or my thunder thighs. I was actually told by a doctor that my body fat percentage was too low to get pregnant (we were struggling to start a family) and I still looked in the mirror and saw fat.

And then menopause hit. Early. Age 35. And I started gaining weight. At 40, because I was peri-menopausal and my body fat percentage was now optimal for pregnancy, I got my surprise miracle baby. I gained almost 50 pounds during the pregnancy and only lost about 30 after he was born. Now, when I look in the mirror, I pinch way more than an inch in way more than one place. And I think, I’m still fat.

Still.

I see pictures of myself when I was younger and wonder how in the world? How in the freaking world did I ever think I was fat?

But I did.

Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so fat if I’d had an amazing mother like this one with this amazing response to her 7-year-old’s statement that she thought she was fat. I actually teared up with joy and longing and love.

(Please take the time to read this post. Simply amazing. And may you never, ever, ever look into the mirror and think “fat.”)

Single handedly.

On November 2nd I wrote about head lice here. And then, mysteriously, on November 19th, 17 days later, my blog stats took a gigantic leap and readership soared. Through the roof. So, I wrote about it here.

I’ve been riding that gravy train of popularity ever since. That is, until today. As suddenly as my readership soared, it plummeted.

Crashed.

Deep nose dive.

Everyone must have taken my advice, cured their head lice problem with simple tea tree oil solutions, thus wiping out head lice across the globe.

And I’m lonely.

Don’t get me wrong. I knew my popularity was fake. But that doesn’t stop a girl from pretending there are lots and lots of people out there reading her stuff, educating themselves and coming back for more.

But now, my stats are back where they used to be. And I want to know.

Was it something I said?

WordPress has this handy little year end feature where they put together stats on your blog. There was a little button so that I could share it with all of you but I chose not to. Then you’d all see how few truly read me and I didn’t want you few who do to feel like total losers. Just trying to save your tender hearts, that’s all.

WordPress told me that I should write more about head lice, burkas and Toddler’s & Tiaras. That’s what my readers want, apparently. But I can’t. Head lice makes me squeamish. Burkas make me lose readers because they think I’m a racist. And Toddler’s & Tiaras doesn’t deserve any more publicity. (So erase those last few sentences from your memory banks. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.)

I have readers (all 44 of you) from six of the seven continents. Most from the US and Canada. That means that 21 of you are from North America. Nine of you are from Europe. Six from Australia. Five from South America. Two from Asia and one from Africa. (This is just a guess. An uneducated one. And 44? Just the number of hits I had at the moment I began writing this post. But I like playing with numbers. And pretending, apparently.) 

Here’s where it really gets interesting….

One of my greatest referral sites, besides Google and WordPress, is the sweet Bibliomama from up yonder. (That means Canada.) So, thank you, Bibliomama. I have a feeling it’s because Blogspot has that handy dandy feature that you employ on your sidebar. You know, the one that advertises the latests blog post titles of the writers in your Blogroll. Thank you for using this feature. I love it, myself. And I’m grateful that I have an honored spot in your Blogroll.

I, like any other blogger, like comments. Here on my blog, that is. Finding the time to read everyone out there that I want to read and then comment – that’s another story. But comments here? Welcomed and encouraged.

My top 5 commenters are:

1. Big Little Wolf at Daily Plate of Crazy

2. Dawn King from Dawn King

3. Faemom from Faemom

4. Katy Beth from My Odd Family

and last, but certainly not least….

5. TKW from The Kitchen Witch

You ladies are the bomb! Thank you, a million thank yous, for popping in here to see what I’ve written and then commenting even though I seem to have a hard time getting around to that myself. It’s nice to know I’m not writing to wind. I promise to make the effort to do a better job of commenting. I promise.

My little WordPress annual report was entertaining. And it reminded me to thank the readers who read me, which I should do more often.

Thank you! All of you!

And to the readers who are no longer coming here because, through my humble blog, I’ve cured your head lice situation?

You’re welcome.

I see a deformed packet of Reese’s Pieces looking at me.

Jane, Jane, what do YOU see?

I see a sparkling, clean, fresh-smelling load of clothes that made it, not only through the washer intact but the dryer, too, saved by the ingenious packaging of a teeny-tiny bag of Reese’s Pieces hiding in the shirt pocket of #2son that could have spelled certain disaster if it had split open in the aforementioned washer OR dryer. But it didn’t!

Oh thank you, creators of the Reese’s Pieces packaging. (You must be moms!)

What has been your near-miss or actual laundry disaster?

A narrow portion of the trail with a steep drop-off.  Tree roots underfoot. A broken railing.

“Stay to the right. As close as you can,” my husband cautioned.

There was no talking. Only concentration. And then it happened. My not-so-graceful 7-year-old stumbled and tumbled over the edge. With reflexes of a Jedi, I grabbed his flailing arm. He dangled for a moment in mid-air and I yanked him toward me.

His eyes wide with fear, he said, “Mom! You saved my life!” And then tears started to well up. In both of our eyes.

…..

Yesterday. Giggling in the TV room. I walked in. Two little boys, cuddled on the couch together. One boy at each end, sharing a blanket.

As soon as I walked into the room both boys hid under the blanket. I knew something was up. I yanked the blanket off them. Their little legs were buried in Starburst wrappers. An entire bag, gone. All before 9am. Breakfast of champions.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a comical scene. Two little boys, sneaking candy for breakfast. Succeeding – at least until Mom walks into the room. I’m a horrible disciplinarian and I own it. With my laughter, they begin laughing, too.

And then it happened. #2son started choking.

Any first aid training I’ve ever had started racing through my mind. As long as he’s coughing, it’s OK. Don’t do anything. But the Heimlich maneuver. I know how to do it for an infant. I know how to do it for an adult. But a 7-year-old? Will I crush him? What if I don’t do it hard enough. Ok. Calm. If it gets to that point have #1son call 911.

“Can you walk?”

Eyes wide with fear he nods, yes.

“Go into the bathroom,” I direct him. I don’t know why I want him in the bathroom. I suppose because I’m envisioning squeezing the guts out of him and anticipating his vomit and offending candy all over the place. After all, I just vacuumed.

“It’s OK,” I tell him. “Keep coughing. It WILL come out.”

I don’t know how I’m staying calm. Three minutes, I remind myself. Only three minutes without oxygen. How fast can the ambulance get here?

And then it happens. He can’t cough. He looks at me, afraid, and his skin is starting to turn colors.

I shout, “Open your mouth. Wide! Wider!”

I jam my hand in his mouth and yank on a enormous gob of chewed Starburst. It’s stuck on his back teeth and blocking his airway. The coughing starts again and the huge blob lands in the sink.

He grabs me around my middle, holding me for dear life. I hold him exactly the same way.

“Thanks, Mom. For saving my life again.”

Again?

Oh. That’s right. Two months ago, on our hike.

“I hope I’m here, every single time, to save your life.” And I hug him even closer.

…..

When things like this happen. When I hear of the teenager playing hockey, who in a freak accident, is now paralyzed. When a child dies in a bicycle accident. I just want to wrap my children in bubble wrap. Or keep them at home and pad the rooms. Feed them liquids and finely diced solid food. Make wearing bicycle helmets a prerequisite for leaving the house.

But I can’t. Life is full of risk. In order to fully live, we must take risks. Every single day. Small risks. Big risks. Calculated risks. Split-second risks.

We can’t live in a bubble. And our children shouldn’t either.

But, dag gum it, I’m going to be there, every step of the way, with hands at the ready.

To save his life.

If I can.