Shattered

It was just my luck. There I was, about a year ago, sitting in my office at work, minding my own business, typing away on my computer. Then from out of nowhere, lightning struck. Not literally, but at the moment it sure felt like something happened. Not even lightning, I guess, as one can see lightning.

I heard a loud crack and looked down. Right before my eyes, the tempered-glass computer table that I was sitting at spontaneously shattered. No reason, really. Nothing had fallen on the table. I had not hit the table with my fists or with a hammer (then I could understand why it might shatter). The table literally just imploded before my eyes. And as the glass fell from the metal frame of the table, there went my notebook computer along with it. Fortunately, the computer survived with just a few nicks and scratches. But in the wake of this little mini-disaster I was left with thousands of tempered glass pieces, all peppering my office floor. Co-workers who heard the loud crack and then the thundering crash that followed came to my door to see if I was okay. Yes, I was physically okay. But I know I spent the next few minutes with a puzzled look on my face – eyes wide, mouth open, and wondering, “What just happened?”

In the end I chalked it up as just a freak accident. That was a shame, because I had just purchased that computer table for my office and I really liked it. It was modern and cute. But obviously, it was also flawed. Eventually, I was able to get a refund from the manufacturer so I could buy a new table (from now on I’m staying away from tempered glass). But obviously the manufacturer could not help me with the immediate task at hand – cleaning up the mess.

I worked from home the next day, just because I didn’t want to deal with the mess. But then the day after that, I came into the office with dust pan and vacuum in hand, prepared to do some clean-up. It took me at least a couple of hours to get it all cleaned up. And all of those thousands of pieces ended up in my trash can. I figured from there on, the cleaning staff could deal with it. But I have to say, there was something appealing about all that glass in my trash can. It was sparkly, and shiny. I seemed to be drawn to it, though I couldn’t explain why. As a result, I ended up picking a few pieces out of the heap and keeping them. Perhaps I wanted a souvenir of my little experience? Could be. I ended up putting the pieces in my desk and not giving much thought to them after that.

Fast forward a few months. I’m now cleaning out my office because I’ve lost my job. As I was clearing my desk out, I come upon those pieces of glass. What do I do with them? Just with everything else, I packed them up and took them home. Now they are in my desk at home.

On occasion, I’ll get the glass out and look at it. It’s after having done this a few times that I’ve finally realized why these chunks mesmerize me. It’s because in their broken state, I see beauty within them that was not visible when the glass was whole. A whole piece of tempered glass is simply a clear piece of glass. But when it breaks, beautiful mosaic patterns form within the pieces. The tempered glass showed me that there is beauty in brokenness. And that sometimes it is necessary to be broken first before certain beauty can shine through.

Why does this matter to me? I’m hoping this concept applies to life, as well. So many times in my life I’ve felt broken, or flawed. But then, haven’t we all? Maybe it’s part of the master plan to have times when our lives seem shattered. Maybe it’s during those times that we find beauty in life, and in ourselves, that we didn’t know existed.

For instance, when my job went away I was heartbroken. I identified so much with my work that I was left wondering who I was once I left.  Over the course of time, it’s been up to me to find my way back into my own identity. Who am I? Well, I’m a mother who has had the good fortune to be a little more involved in her children’s lives this past year. And I’m a wife who has a wonderful and supportive husband. And hopefully a good friend, though I do need to work on reconnecting with old friends and becoming more social. Plus I’m a person of faith who has had a little more time to give to my church of late.

Having said that, I can’t say that I’ve completely found my way back into my own identity. Far from it. That journey is still taking place. But the shattered glass, which I think I once viewed as a symbol of my own shattered life, now means something else. As I check out the jagged edges and the beauty of the patterns, I realize that this shattered glass symbolizes adversity. Adversity has the potential to toughen us up and make us stronger. But most of all, it has the potential to reveal the greater depths of our inner beauty.

I think I’ll keep those chunks of glass for a while longer. To me, they represent hope. They give me hope. And ultimately, I’m confident that it’s hope that will sustain me.

Walrus Time and Memories of Ms. Karen

I saw it in a little shop while on vacation in Icy Strait Point, Alaska – five years ago – and I had to have it. It was a hand-carved figurine. Specifically, a little marble walrus with tusks and all. For such a small item it seemed a tad expensive – about $50. But hey, it was hand-carved. And cute.

But that’s not why I bought the walrus. My purchase was far more reminiscent than that. As soon as I saw this little fella it took me back to my childhood – fifth grade, exactly. I remember that in fifth grade – and in sixth grade too, because I had the same teachers – when the class would congregate we would not refer to this time as “gathering time” or “group time.” No, class gatherings were known as “Walrus Time.”

Why was it called Walrus Time? Alice in Wonderland inspired the name. Namely, it came from Lewis Carroll’s epic book Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There. Remember Walrus, and the Carpenter, and those poor unfortunate oysters? The one famous stanza in the poem goes like this:

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things.

Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –

Of cabbages – and kings –

And why the sea is boiling hot –

And whether pigs have wings.”

For those unfamiliar with the story, Walrus and Carpenter turned out to be antagonists instead of friends, having tricked a mess of oysters into becoming their next meal. But that’s beside the point. The stanza by itself hints at the value of good conversation.

Hence, the time to talk, the time to discuss, the time to laugh, the time to scold (this one reserved for the teachers, of course) or the time to share all fell within the confines of “Walrus Time.”

Actually, memories of Walrus Time in of itself do not make me sentimental. It’s the memories of who was there. That would be my favorite teacher, who we called Ms. Karen.

She would be my teacher for two years, during fifth and sixth grade. She was young – only a mere 30 years old or so when I entered into the fifth grade. And she was a woman who was genuinely – if not painfully – human. She was passionate and compassionate, yet fallible and flawed. Her temper was fierce. More than once she scared me with her rage in the classroom. Her emotions often overwhelmed her to the point of tears – particularly when her students disappointed her or fell short of expectations. Perhaps her standards for us were so high because she cared so deeply. I do believe her mission in life was to make sure that we all reached our fullest potential, or at least had the best life possible.

While her moods were intense, the endless devotion she demonstrated to her profession and to her students was enough for me to look past the occasional outbursts. After all, I was one of those students who reaped the benefits.



Ms. Karen and me, around 1976.
By the way, I still have the shirt!



Her encouragement led me to become involved in the community children’s theater. Her “you can do it” attitude gave me the confidence to explore my own creativity through writing stories and poetry. And it was her belief in me that ultimately made me the county spelling bee champ. The spelling bee, in particular, was a multi-year effort. The first year I finished fourth; the second year I finished third; and the third year – my eighth grade year – I emerged victorious.

I remember that night. Ms. Karen was no longer my teacher and had not been for almost two years. But she was there that night – there to watch me finish what I had started. How fulfilled I felt! I had worked so hard for so long and finally achieved my goal. And Ms. Karen was so proud of me. Did I do it for me? Yes. But I did it for her, too.

Sometimes I wondered if maybe in some small way Ms. Karen would push her students so that she could live vicariously through them. I did not know the details of her life, but I did know that her life had not been without pain. I vaguely remember her alluding to difficult times when she was young, one being that her father was an alcoholic. I really didn’t know much more than that. But it was enough for me to sense that in some ways she may have been a tragic figure. Or maybe she was just a survivor who had missed life opportunities due to her own unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps her students’ achievements became her own. I’m sure that’s a small consolation for lost opportunities.

One year was particularly painful for her. She was no longer my teacher, but I still greatly valued her counsel. In December 1977 I went to visit Ms. Karen in the hospital. She was sick, but I wasn’t quite sure what ailed her. It was a Saturday afternoon. I was in the process of preparing an essay for a contest sponsored by the local Daughters of the American Revolution. I wanted to visit my favorite teacher, but also I wanted to bounce some ideas off of her about my essay. When I entered the room I found her with the nurse, visibly upset and tears streaming down her face. What was wrong, I wondered. Whatever it was it didn’t matter, as her spirits quickly elevated once I got there. It wasn’t long before she was spouting so many ideas off for my essay, so fast, that I could barely write them down!

I won the essay contest. And she went to another hospital. It was a special hospital several hours away. By this time her condition had been diagnosed. Today it is referred to as bipolar disorder. At that time people called it manic depression.

Fortunately, treatment seemed to be effective and lithium stabilized her moods. She continued teaching and we stayed close. Through my high school years we would see each other on occasion, maybe do lunch or dinner. A few times after I started driving I would just show up unannounced at her house. She would welcome me and we would chat into the night. As Walrus would put it, we “would talk of many things.” Maybe not shoes or ships or sealing wax. But instead of our futures, and of relationships. And many other things. I even recall her describing her world of bipolar when she detailed some of the delusions she had when she was sick.

On the day I received my letter of acceptance into college, I went straight to McDonald’s – where I knew she would be working at her second job – to show her the letter. And that summer after I graduated I worked with her at McDonald’s.

And then I went away to college. That’s when we lost touch. Shortly after I graduated college, I bumped into her during one of my visits home. She hugged me tight and whispered into my ear, “Call me.” I told her I would.

But I didn’t. Yet I thought about her. And one day a feeling came over me that I should write her a letter – one that expressed how much she meant to me. I wanted to let her know how much of an impact she had made in my life. Yes, I was going to write her that letter. Sometime. At some point, I thought, I would get around to it.

But I never got around to writing that letter. And not long after I found out that I would never have that chance. Some 20 years or so ago, during a routine telephone conversation my mother broke the news to me. Ms. Karen was dead. It was an overdose. Was it accidental? Was it intentional? I don’t know. I don’t care. But oh, how I wish I would have written that letter.

When I lost my job a few months back, I remember that the things that gave me the most strength to get through that first week were the heartfelt notes that I received from my coworkers. Such small gestures, yet so powerful.

Karen deserved that powerful gesture from me. If she was in pain, perhaps I could have eased it. At the very least, I could have touched her with my words for just a few minutes. I just wanted her to know that her life had been worth it, because she had made a difference in at least one person’s life – mine. But she didn’t hear that from me, because I didn’t have the time.

As I near the age that she was when she passed away, I find myself reflecting more about her, the relationship we had and the impact she made in my life. And I think often about the letter I never wrote, the closure I never got. I don’t know whether she was buried or cremated. I never saw her obituary. And I really have very little that shows that she ever existed or was part of my life. A couple of class pictures. A very grainy black and white photo of the two of us on a field trip. A couple of “good luck” bookmarks that she gave me prior to my spelling bees. And a Webster’s word guide – one that she gave me after my first spelling bee, with my name engraved on it. On the inside front page is written a simple sentiment – “I love you. Ms. Karen. March 17, 1977.”

And then there’s the little marble Walrus. She didn’t give it to me, but it sits on my desk. And every time I look at the little guy I think of her and pleasant memories of Walrus Times past. In what has been a time of transition for me, I wish Karen was here now to tell me “You can do it.” When I look at the Walrus, I feel that in some transcendental way she is with me, cheering me on, boosting my confidence and assuring me that success is mine for the taking.

Karen, I never had the chance to say goodbye. But please know that I say hello to you every day. Though you have been gone for so long, you remain in my heart and will forever. Someday when I reach the hereafter we’ll get together, you and I, and we’ll catch up. We will chat like we once did, into the night.

And it will be Walrus Time once again.

Up in Smoke

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 came into being before I was born. And even though I was born a little later on in the 1960s, I obviously don’t recall the struggle of those who fought for equal rights during that crucial time in this country’s history.

Part of Civil Rights Act dealt with the federal government’s right to regulate interstate commerce in order to guarantee every individual’s equal rights under the fourteenth amendment. This gave the government license to enforce anti-discrimination laws in places of “public accommodation.” This applied to not only government facilities, but also to privately owned businesses.

I can only imagine what some Southern business owners thought of that. I’m guessing they feared it might mean the death of their businesses. Perhaps some would claim not to be bigots themselves, but would argue that if they were to allow non-whites to patronize their businesses then the “regulars” (e.g., the white people) would stop coming. I don’t doubt that many resented the government interference. I would guess that many claimed that these were their businesses and that they could operate them any way they desired.

So what happened to these business owners’ rights? Not that business owners don’t have rights. But in this case they were trumped by a need to serve the greater good – equal rights for all. It was simply the right thing to do.

This game of trumps actually happens all the time. Take food establishments. Government regulations prohibit them from serving rare hamburgers due to food safety issues. It seems if we lived in a totally libertarian society, a restaurant owner would be allowed to serve his food off the floor if he liked – as it’s his business. But again, the government regulates how food is prepared in food establishments not to deny the owners of their rights to run their businesses how they please, but to preserve the best interest (and safety) of the public.

I could argue that the government interferes too much in my life as well. For instance, I own a home. I should be allowed to put two or three junk cars up on cement blocks in my back yard, right? After all, it’s my property. But damn – the dad-blasted interfering government (in this case local government enforcing local zoning laws) tells me I can’t. Apparently the greater good here is the interests of my neighbors. If I junk up my yard it brings their property values down. Plus, they shouldn’t have to look at my eyesore of a back yard. So I do have rights, within limits. But if exercising my rights adversely impacts the greater good, then my rights are trumped. As they should be.

These points that I make bring me to my real reason for this post. This week the neighboring county, Kenton County, became the first area in Northern Kentucky to put into effect clean-air laws (or as those against them would call them, smoking bans). So with a few exceptions, all of the restaurants and businesses in Kenton County are now smoke-free. I say good for Kenton County for having the courage to make the hard choice in what became (but shouldn’t have become) such a controversial issue.

Initially the other two Northern Kentucky counties were also on board with the clean-air laws. Campbell County actually passed a comprehensive law in late December that would have gone into effect last week. Unfortunately it was overturned by a newly elected fiscal court earlier this year. And the county in which I live, Boone County, dropped out of the discussions the middle of last year. Apparently there was not enough support from the fiscal court to go forward with any clean-air laws here in Boone County.

To me it would be a no-brainer to institute clean-air laws, especially with what we know now about the effects of smoking and second-hand smoke. Also, even in Kentucky – the state with the highest rate of adult smokers – there are still approximately 75 percent of us who don’t smoke. So wouldn’t it be in the best interest of the majority to go ahead with these clean-air laws? Even Lexington and Louisville have them. But the politicians say no. And the reason: business owners’ rights. (Unless you ask the vocal public minority. They may say the issue is smokers’ rights.)

While many (of both politicians and business owners) may say that they themselves don’t smoke, they are concerned that to institute a “smoking ban” would keep the “regulars” (in this case, smokers) away, thus hurting business.

Perhaps there are those that feel it’s inappropriate for me to draw parallels between this law and the dictates of the Civil Rights Act. But I do spot some similarities. Just with Civil Rights, business owners do have rights. But there is a greater good here. We’re talking about a public health issue. It’s not about stepping on business owners’ rights. And it’s not a measure to force the 25 percent of people who are smokers to give up their cigarettes. Rather, it’s a measure to allow the rest of us (again, that’s the other 75 percent of us) to be able to breathe clean air instead of toxic pollutants. Where do the rights of nonsmokers come into this discussion?

The other side argues that nonsmokers don’t have to frequent places that allow smoking and that they have the choice to go to non-smoking establishments. The problem is that I have to physically travel to a place to find out if it allows smoking or not. What about children who accompany their parents into such places? Do they get to choose whether or not they want to be there?

To business owners who fear their businesses might perish due to such clean-air laws, I would say hey, you’re probably missing out on reaching a pretty significant clientele due to your smoking policies. That would be many of us within the 75 percent of nonsmokers. As for me, my husband and I will probably do a lot more eating out in Kenton County. I don’t doubt there are others like us who will do the same.

And to the business owners who worry that their base of Ohio customers will leave them (as Ohio is a nonsmoking state and the smokers come across the river to smoke) I would say hey, Ohio hasn’t been smoke-free that long – only since 2006. Where did your customers come from before 2006? Just start thinking of all the new non-smoking customers that you’re going to get when you go smoke-free.

As for me, I have to believe that I’m part of the silent majority on this one. Are my views snobby, or pious? Some might think that.  I would respond that even the silent majority should be heard every once in a while. I don’t disrespect those who choose to smoke. But why should the choice for me be one of patronizing a public facility or jeopardizing my health?  Honestly, even if I was a smoker I think I would feel this way. I may have the right to ruin my own body by consuming the all-fried sampler platter at the local hangout. But I would never have the right to put somebody else’s health at risk.

I’m calling trump on this one. The greater good (public health) should trump business owners’ rights. The politicians should recognize that and act to protect the majority. However, at least here, the argument appears to have ended up in smoke. Except for in Kenton County. At least for now.

Some day, though, I’m confident that the big, bad “gub-mint” will intervene (or interfere, as those who are against big government might think) throughout the rest of Northern Kentucky. Not today, maybe. But when it does happen, rest assured, the actions will be justified.

Why? Because of the greater good.  And it will simply be the right thing to do.

Listening for God

Am I a person of faith? Well I guess it depends on what day you ask me. I always say that I am. I go to church. I taught Sunday school. I’ve taken part in my share of pot luck dinners (an act of true faith, as you never know what you’re going to get on those occasions). But there have been times, I concede, that I found myself merely going through the motions.

In fact, a few years ago I was so much in the cycle of going through the motions that I didn’t even want to go to church anymore. I found myself overcome with vast amounts of guilt because I didn’t feel “spiritual” enough when I was in church. It was a time in my life when emptiness trumped all other feelings I may have had. I couldn’t get into the whole religiosity thing. As a result, sitting in church turned out to be a weekly struggle to prevent the tears from flowing. I wanted so desperately to feel the Holy Spirit inside of me. And because I couldn’t, I deemed myself a hypocrite – one not worthy to be sitting in a place of worship. I eventually shared these feelings with my pastor, who assured me that it was normal to feel the way I did during various times in my life. Most of all, she told me I was not a hypocrite. She knew, she said, because true hypocrites don’t get upset (like I did) about being hypocrites.

That thought comforted me, and with that I was able to resign myself to the fact that the Spirit was within me, but buried beneath all of the stresses of life.

And those stresses were numerous, going beyond the rat race of juggling a family and work. There were extended family members who needed care. There was graduate school. And the job was one where I was constantly swamped. And to beat all, health problems started to creep into the picture, no doubt because my busy life had adversely impacted my immune system. There were the ruptured discs in my neck in late 2009; then a couple of rounds of the flu in early 2010, followed by a two-month bronchitis-type affliction that I couldn’t shake to save my life. By last summer after surviving a three-week intercession graduate course (in health communication, believe it or not), my primary goal was to regain my health and emotional well-being (as I was completely burned out). Taking up yoga helped some with that. But I admit it never occurred to me to look to God to help me make things better. Being the lukewarm fan of faith that I am, I don’t normally think of God first.

It wasn’t until last August when I decided that I might want to strengthen my relationship with God. (And, of course, like any lukewarm fan, it was because I needed something.) It was last August when my job abruptly went away and I suddenly found myself unemployed. Wow, how scared was I then? Initially, I worried about so many things – supporting my children, keeping a roof over our head and getting another job. I was collecting unemployment benefits, but what would happen if the unemployment runs out and I’m still not employed? Essentially, I freaked out. But as I calmed down and tried to apply some logic to what had happened, I decided everything happens for a reason. God simply had another plan. Could it be I was supposed to spend more time with my children? Do a better job at keeping up with the laundry? Or was I just meant to do something else? It was up to me to just be patient and wait until God revealed His plan to me.  

I also decided that these trying times were meant to be. After all, isn’t that when we truly fall in love with God – when we really need Him? Perhaps God wanted me to fall in love with him again, much like when I was a little girl and would write letters to Him while I sat in my bedroom closet. I remember I would share my deepest feelings with Him and when I signed those letters it wasn’t enough to sign my name. I wanted to make sure He knew who was writing to Him. I would not only sign my name (Lisa), but my planet (Earth), my country (U.S.A.), state, city and neighborhood. You’d think since those letters never left my bedroom closet that He would know they were from me. But I included the rest of the information just in case.

One thing that I really hated about being jobless was when I had to pare back our financial contributions to the church. My husband and I had always considered ourselves “joyful givers.” (This was in spite of being a lukewarm fan of faith.) I hated to pull the plug like that. Particularly painful to me was reneging on a three- year pledge to help fund a major renovation and additional wing to the building. As the three-year period wrapped up last month (when everyone was supposed to have their pledges paid) we were still in the hole, even though we would put a little bit toward the pledge whenever we could. But hey, you can’t draw blood from a turnip, right?

This brings me to a sermon that my pastor preached just a few weeks ago. She talked about how God never promised that we wouldn’t suffer or have bad things happen to us. Instead, God just promises that we don’t have to suffer alone. She also talked about how God is always watching and often uses other people to help us. She cited a time when she was collecting donations one Sunday on behalf of a woman who was about to have her heat turned off because of a delinquent bill. Throughout the day the pastor collected an astounding $1,840. And the next day when a member of the church went with the woman to pay her bill, how much was the bill? Exactly $1,847.

Coincidence or God-incidence? My pastor would say the latter. Since I am the lukewarm fan, I would say it could have been either.

But then the other day something happened that made me wonder if there could be something to these God-incidences. I have this credit card, you see. It’s one that I’ve had for probably 10 years. And it’s one where you earn a few cents here, a few cents there for each purchase you make. I don’t use it much, but normally I put big dollar purchases on it – such as vacation expenses – just for convenience’s sake. A couple of weeks ago I logged on to my rewards account and noticed I could send a written request to be sent a check for the rewards I had earned. Okay, sounds good. I mailed a request. And last week they sent me an email confirming my request and that they would be sending me a check in the mail.

And how much will the check be? My eyes widened when I saw the amount -- $940.96.

It’s money I didn’t know I had – popping out from nowhere. I instantly thought about the pledge that we had fallen short on at the church – the one where we still owed $910. It was as if God was saying to me right then and there, “Okay, you didn’t have the money. Here it is. You know what it’s for.” And knowing God’s sense of humor He probably said, “Oh, here’s an extra $30 so you guys can go get a bite to eat after you pay off your pledge.”

Coincidence? Or God-incidence? This time I lean toward the latter. I think the heat has just gone up a notch beyond my usual lukewarm setting. And yes, I know where that money is going.

For some reason, I see it as a sign that God will continue to be with me and show me the way. I still am not completely sure what my mission is or what real purpose I have on this earth. But I think I’m past the really thick fog. Perhaps I’ve wandered into a little lighter fog– one where I can at least spot some fuzzy outlines on the horizon. What’s the plan, God? I still don’t know. But I can be patient as long as I know there is a plan.

On His time, though. Not mine.

You tell me when, God. And in the meantime, I’ll keep the faith.

Of Multiple Mounds – No, Mountains – of Laundry

When I was single laundry day came but once every two to three weeks. I would wash everything in three loads – including my towels and sheets – and be done with it for another good long time. I didn’t have a regular night for doing laundry, though my penchant (and I use that term sarcastically) for doing it did usually fall on Mondays or Tuesdays. Fact is, I hated doing my laundry and usually only did it when the gauge ran low. You see, I had a gauge – sort of like a gas gauge in a car, but this one involved clothes.

Underwear, actually. When I came to the point that I was out of clean underwear, it was time to do laundry. Needless to say, I had lots of underwear. Why did I have so much underwear? Well, I do know that there were times when I was out of clean underwear that I would go out and buy new underwear just so I could put off doing my laundry for a couple more days.

In my defense, there were many reasons why doing laundry as a single person was a drag. I was single, living in an apartment and had no laundry facilities of my own. That meant I had to haul my laundry somewhere else (even if it was to the laundry room down in the lobby, or at the clubhouse, depending on which apartment I lived in at the time). Then I would have to make sure I had enough change for the machines. Certainly machines take paper money by now, don’t they? Hell, I would think one could use a credit or debit card to operate a pay machine these days. (I wouldn’t know, because it’s been so long since I’ve paid to do laundry, thank God.)

But as much of a drag as laundry was as a single person, it’s 100 times that as a married woman with three kids. It’s not only a drag, it’s a drag-me-down. In fact, laundry seems to be a major part of my life. One would deduce that when one gets married, the laundry load might double. And once two people get settled and have a child, the laundry load might increase by a third.

But it doesn’t work that way. As the children arrive, laundry loads don’t increase proportionally, but exponentially. I haven’t quite figured it out, but it’s the reality. Fortunately, I have a high-capacity front-load washer and dryer set – almost a necessity with a spouse and three children. (I used to have the traditional kind, but we burned those out after the third child arrived. Guess they couldn’t handle that last exponential hike.)

As I write this, I have one load in the washer, one in the dryer,  two loads in baskets waiting to be folded, one load folded that needs to be put away, and three loads still sitting on the basement floor that need to be washed. Within the day I should get through the whole process of getting all the current laundry up to date.

But it’s never up to date because as I’m washing, drying and folding, more dirty laundry is being created. As of now, the hampers upstairs are spilling over, their contents waiting for their turn to hit the basement floor.

And hit the basement floor they will – hard. Just about the time I get the floor cleared and I’m feeling content because the laundry is done, that is when the mountain returns. Taking the dirty laundry from the hampers downstairs to the laundry room is among a few of the chores that we give to our boys so they can earn their allowances. I will give them credit for actually getting the contents from the second floor to the basement, but they are severely lacking on their presentation skills. In other words, they dump all the hampers all into one pile without sorting it or anything (to be fair, sorting of laundry is not on their list, though I’m thinking it should be). So it’s up to me chisel into that mountain and segment it down into the various mounds – whites, towels, sheets, husband’s work clothes, kids colored clothes, mine and husband’s colored clothes, etc.

How much longer must I endure this state of laundry limbo? Will things ever go back to the way they were? And why can’t the kids do their own laundry, anyway? For that matter, why do they have to use a different towel every time they take a shower (or sometimes two) each day? Why do those towels always end up wet and gross on the floor instead of hanging up on the rack? These are questions for which I will undoubtedly never receive answers.

I’m confident that as my nest starts to empty in the next few years, the laundry will ease up. But wait. That means the only way I can do less laundry is for my precious children to leave me? I don’t know if I can handle the thought of that right now.

So maybe that’s why God gives me so much laundry – to remind me to appreciate the time I have with my children now before they grow up and leave home.

Okay, God. Good one. But that might be a stretch. After all, how can I take time to appreciate them when I’m so busy doing laundry? But just in case that’s the message He is sending me, I’ll try to look at laundry in a different way. And when my children finally leave and I have to deal with that…well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

But for now, I’ve got a mountain to tackle. A mountain of…you guessed it.

Crock Pot Paradise

“Guard the soup, Luke,” I instructed my son as we recently transported a full pot of homemade chicken noodle soup to a church supper – an event hosted by the youth. (In other words, the moms did all the cooking.)

My dutiful middle son, bless his heart, did as he was told. But it was a struggle. I at least had the forethought to take my husband’s truck that night. I knew the soup was bound to slosh around a little, and I certainly didn’t want it all over my car! My Crock Pot has been faithful through the years – more than 20 years, I should say. But traveling with hot liquid concoctions is not its strong point.

“Arrrrrrrrgh!” My son screamed as I crossed yet another crack in the road. (I never realized there were so many until such time where we had to steady the soup in its vessel.) With the Crock Pot sitting firmly on the floor of the truck, Luke had straddled his feet on each side of it to keep it steady. As he was to find out, that wasn’t the best move on his part.  I hit the crack (or maybe it was a pothole, or whatever where so many of them pop up on the road over the winter). Then Luke let out an agonizing moan as the hot, steaming broth splashed and then trickled its way down his leg and into his shoe. From that point on, I think I didn’t go more than 30 miles an hour the rest of the trip. I stayed on the old road to avoid getting on the interstate. I didn’t dare go too fast, as I figured speed would lead to bigger splashes. Poor Luke ended up with a big blister on his ankle, at least a second-degree burn. Still, he was a sport. He spent the rest of the trip with his foot holding down the lid, with his ankles well away from the splash zone.

After arriving to the church and working with the other moms to help set up the spread (soup and salad night, it was), I found that I was not the only mom who had dealt with an adverse experience in transporting soup that evening. We were all complaining.

And then I spotted it – the mother of all slow cookers. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. We all did. We gathered around it. We salivated over it. We coveted. Pretty pitiful sight, actually. How much mediocrity does one have to have in one’s life to get excited over something like a slow cooker?

 What was it that our fellow mom had and we did not ? The Hamilton Beach 6-Quart Stay or Go slow cooker. What a beauty. It’s designed to travel and ideal for potlucks. Features on it include a secured lid with canister-style clips and a gasket for spill-resistant travel (it seals!); full grip handles; a lid rest that comes in handy when serving up the chow; and even a serving spoon that clips onto the lid handle. Now that’s my kind of Crock Pot! (At the risk of getting off point, I must note that this is not really a Crock Pot since it is a Hamilton Beach brand. As a writer and editor and a stickler for style, I must clarify that Crock Pot is a brand of slow cooker. However, the term Crock Pot is slowly going the way of some of its more well-known predecessors, such as Frisbee, Kleenex and Xerox. I did use the term in the title of this blog, but only for alliteration’s sake. There. Now see how anal I can be?)

Now back to the Crock Pot (uh, I mean slow cooker). All assurances that the story ends happily. In other words, yes I rushed out to Target (where our friend says she got hers) and bought one. Something tells me I wasn’t the only one, as I grabbed the last one. And let me say when I had it in my possession, I was more ecstatic than Ralphie’s dad was when receiving his “major award.” (If you haven’t seen the movie “A Christmas Story,” you’ll have to watch it to get that one.)

Today I made my first meal. Not soup, but a delectable pot roast that I put on to cook at 9 a.m. this morning. It cooked on high for about five hours, then low for about another five, and the rest of the time it was set on the “warm” setting. (Yes, it has a warm setting!) My husband was happy. I was happy. And most of all, my son with the burnt foot was happy.

My dutiful middle son Luke, holding the
newest addition to our family

Okay, maybe not my son. Actually, no. He would have much rather had pizza than pot roast. And as long as I don’t force him to haul hot soup between his legs, I don’t think he cares about my choice of slow cooker.

But it makes for a smooth end to this post. My old cooker injured my son, so as a mother it was my duty to retire it.

Yes, I see the logic now.  I had to buy that new slow cooker. For my son Luke.

Because I love him.

Falling Victim to the Coupon Queen

It inevitably happens anytime I have to choose a line in the grocery store, at the bank, at the fast food place or anywhere else: I choose the wrong one. Last Friday was no exception.

I had just posted my last blog where I had mentioned that there was nothing better than a good goetta sandwich on rye. And guess what? I started salivating for goetta reubens and decided that’s what I wanted for dinner that night. My son was at his baseball practice until 7:30, so I figured before picking him up I would run to the supermarket near the high school to purchase the necessary items to make for a premium goetta reuben. Of course, there was the Glier’s Goetta, along with a loaf of Busken Bakery rye bread, some really fancy gourmet sauerkraut from the deli section, good quality Swiss cheese, and to top it off – Pine Club Thousand Island salad dressing (direct from the renowned Pine Club steakhouse in Dayton, Ohio, located only a block and a half from my apartment when I was a poor college student at the University of Dayton. Too bad I couldn’t afford to patronize the place when I lived there. Anyhow, the Thousand Island is to die for. I hear the steaks are good too.)

So where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve loaded my items in my cart, along with three bottles of two-liter soft drinks (which my boys inhale, but only on the weekends because being the good parent that I am they’re not allowed soft drinks during the week) and a gallon of milk. Check-out time. I could try to go through the self-check out, but I felt I was just over the border of what the sign requests at the self-check: “small orders only.” I’ve had my share of being pissed off at those self-absorbed inconsiderates who try to get away with purchasing a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries at the “small orders only” self check. So being the considerate person that I am, I headed for a regular check-out line. “Why, there’s one,” I say to myself, noting only one person there. And she doesn’t seem to have that much stuff. Hence, my choice was made.

I position myself direction behind her and quickly unload the edibles, noting my watch and the fact that I’m now running a little late picking up my son. Hopefully I’ll be able to get out of here quick. By the time my items are on the belt, the other woman’s items had all been scanned. So far, so good.

Then my heart sank. Out they came.

Coupons. Lots of coupons. Dozens of coupons. And one by one, the cashier scans them just as she would scan each individual grocery item. I’m not exactly sure how she pulled this off because I don’t know how the extreme coupon game works, but I’m pretty sure she had more coupons than items. What’s up with that?

Problem was, I was stuck. While I was unloading my items on the belt, others positioned themselves behind me. Fortunately, they were able to get away. They saw the endless quantities of coupons emanating from this woman’s very being. They waited impatiently for a short time. And then, in the most discrete way, they were able to quietly sneak off and book it to another register. But my stuff was already on the belt. What was I to do? How could I pack up my items and head to another register without appearing awkward? So I waited. And waited. The cashier finished scanning the coupons, and as soon as she did, Coupon Queen would pull out more. And when it was finally over, there was a question as to whether they had all been scanned. Perhaps a couple had been stuck together . So a recount took place. In the meantime, I envied my fellow shoppers as they breezed through the other lines. Damn! In total, six people went through at the register next to me while I was waiting for the one woman in front of me to get done and get out. I stood there at least 20 minutes. The only consolation was the realization that I would be at least 30 minutes late picking up my son – payback for all the times he had kept me waiting. And even better, I had an excuse.

When Coupon Queen concluded her transaction and departed, I slowly sauntered up to the cashier as she began to scan my items. It didn’t take her long to run my stuff past the laser.  After all, I didn’t have much. Then she asked me the explosive question.

“Do you have any coupons today?”

My response was only four words, but I believe it took me a good 20 seconds to utter them, as at this point every fiber of my being was trying to keep my cool.

Slowly and deliberatively I replied. “Whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy n-n-nooooooo. I don’t.”

She must have noticed the glare on my face and when she did, a look of empathy suddenly appeared. She sensed how I felt (I'm guessing she could relate), and nodded as if she knew what had just happened was just plain wrong. Then she explained.

“Um, a lot of people these days seem to be taking up coupons as a hobby,” she said. I probed. She implied the coupons are the latest craze and that people are getting all crazy about then. Coupon clubs are popping up all over the place, and people are actually paying for them. For instance, a person may pay a nickel for a certain dollar-off coupon.

When you think about it, I guess it makes sense – especially in today’s economy. If the coupons were the right ones, I guess I would pay pennies on the dollar to save big bucks also.

Mind you, I’m not against coupons. I love them. And I consider myself quite the bargain shopper. Entertainment coupons are great, though we don’t get out like we used to. Still, pay $20 for the book, use a couple of the hundreds of coupons (mostly for restaurants and recreation) and you’ve paid for the book.

And don’t get me started on Kohl’s. I won’t even go into the store if I don’t have a coupon. Kohl’s constantly sends me coupons for at least 15 percent off. And sometimes I will hit the mother lode and be lucky enough to score a 30 percent off coupon. Even better, these coupons are good for not only regularly priced merchandise, but also clearance items. I’m addicted to Kohl’s.  When I step foot into that store (with my coupons) I’m like a horny dog chasing a bitch in heat. Get out of my way – where are those 70- and 80-percent off racks?

Here’s what I’m saying: I love a bargain too. And I know it’s not just about money, but it’s the thrill of the search. I know the euphoria of finding treasures amongst a bunch of crap and then not having to pay much for them. To this day I’m still wearing a couple of pairs of $7 Dockers that I found off those racks. A couple of weeks ago I wore my fully lined wool pants and jacket. The whole suit was about $18. Just this week I found 80-percent off sales at Macy’s. Plus I had a 20-percent off coupon. Plus since it had been so long since I’d used my Macy’s credit card they opened another account for me and gave me another 15-percent off. I came out of there with a $5 cardigan, a $6 skirt and a couple of other things that were originally much more expensive but set me back less than $10 for each piece. So that was 80-percent off, plus another 35 percent off of that. I’m still high from that shopping trip.

My take is that coupons are good. Extreme “couponism” (my word, which I just made up) is bad. Fortunately, I haven’t been stricken by that bug, and I don’t think I will be. Going after all those coupons is just not worth my time. I would rather the coupons came to me.

I concede, however, that perhaps those who are coupon-consumed cannot control themselves. That’s why it’s time for the stores to step up. Hey grocery stores, how about giving those coupon queens their own dedicated checkout lines? For instance, every purchase at most checkouts would be subject to a 10-coupon limit, with the exception of just a couple of aisles which are reserved for the extreme coupon cronies. Let them all keep each other waiting. Then maybe they will realize how pissed off the rest of us get when they pull out their massive piles of supermarket Monopoly money.

For the record, Coupon Queen had 39 coupons, though it seemed like a couple of hundred. I asked the cashier, who knew the exact number. Remember – she was the one who had to recount them. (And if you just happened to use exactly 39 coupons at a grocery store last Friday night and there was only one woman behind you, no -- it wasn’t you.) And my son who I was supposed to pick up at 7:30 didn't make it into the confines of my car until 8:00. He was mad, but oddly enough I didn't care.

All in all, coupons are good in moderation. (I pity the woman who tries to pilfer my Kohl’s coupons from my mailbox.) But the current extreme coupon craze poses a serious threat to society. Tempers will flare. People could get hurt.  Innocent victims will suffer. Kids will be traumatized and feel abandoned as they are left waiting to be picked up from their sports practices. It must stop.

Coupon queens, enjoy your reign now. I assure you it won’t last. You’ve turned a good thing bad and it is up to the masses to make it right again. Just try to keep abusing your coupon privileges. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of us will surely topple you.