Cherry Ames is Back

Cherry Ames is back! After originally being published between 1945 and 1968, the series is being reprinted so that another generation of young girls can enjoy the exploits of Ms. Ames, nurse extraordinaire. In the 27 books she stared in Cherry completed three years of nurses training, and then went on to work in every possible nursing related field. This woman was bandaging knees at a kid’s camp in one book and was reattaching limbs in a war zone in the next.

I was a huge fan of the Cherry Ames series as a preteen, and I am still an avid reader. A therapist recently diagnosed me as reading addicted. And I have to say that I totally agree with his observation. I love fiction, and I can actually tract my growing up years by the genre of books I was reading at each phase of my life.

In elementary school I had rather eclectic tastes. The Mrs. Pigglewiggle books were a favorite, anything written by Beverly Cleary, and if it featured a horse I was all over it. A great uncle who raised horses use to give me his back issues of Western Horse Magazine, and I would pour over the articles. I didn’t actually own a horse myself, but I knew everything about training, breeding and that pesky hoof fungus that was going around in Montana.

As a preteen, I moved on to serial fiction. Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, the Bobbsey Twins and of course Cherry Ames. I missed multiple flirting opportunities with boys in my neighborhood because I preferred to curl up on my bed with a good story.

As adolescence hit, I moved into the world of Harlequin Romance were I fell in love with a different guy every other day. This messed up my head in so many ways and it took years to realize that real men weren’t anything like guys that populated those romances. These fantasy men, created in the overly imaginative minds of female writers, were always breath takingly handsome, rich and/or sophisticated, and could actually read the minds of the women they loved, often understanding thier thoughts before the females understood themselves. Real guys require real communication. And sometimes that doesn't even work.

In high school an English teacher introduced me to my next genre love. Gothic fiction. Okay, Gothic is predictable as all get out, I know, but I was fourteen at the time and it was fun to have a little scarey intrigue and suspense thrown in with my previous diet of all romance all the time. I think what I enjoyed most were the creepy old houses and mystery shrouded mansions with secret doorways and hidden rooms. Plus the most attractive guy was usually the murderous maniac and the more stoic and confused guy was always the hero.

Since then, I’ve developed a taste for mystery. I set a goal when I first got married to read every Agatha Christie book she ever wrote. She wrote a ton of books and I’m still working on that goal. But I love the whole English feel of her stories. Every house no matter the size had a name like The Paddocks or Little Styles. Granted, they were strange names, and often not very pretty, but every house had one.

Which brings us to today. I read quite a few contemporary writers now. Amy Tan and Mary Higgins Clark are two of my favorites. I recently discovered Dean Koontz. He has a series about a guy who sees dead people, has a dead girlfriend and a dead dog, so I guess that kind of fits back into my gothic past doesn’t it.

I find myself wonder what type of books I’ll be reading when I’m old and decrepit. I know I will have to wear huge magnifying glasses (my eyesight is already on the fritz) just to read the words. And the books themselves will have to be light so that my little bony arm's with saggy skin hanging down to my waist, will be able to hold them.

Actually, I can see myself and the other old broads in the rest home, sitting side by side in our rocking chairs, ipods attached to our hearing aids, listening to our MP3 books and occasionally laughing out loud at a joke that no one else can hear.

Hmmm that doesn’t sound half bad.

Stinky Kids and Other Joys of Motherhood

My youngest son will turn twelve soon, and though I love him dearly, he produces some of the worst body scents ever known to man.

-I need to stop here for a second and warn my mother that I will be writing about gross stuff again this week. (She still hasn’t gotten over my remark about Hannah Montana little girl's underwear back in September.) Poop will be discussed in detail, so if you have a weak constitution… consider yourself warned.-

On the positive side, the boy is tall, athletic and has a metabolism that just won’t stop, so perhaps stinky-ness is just a side effect. Having never been a boy, tall, athletic and having a metabolism that creeps along at a snail like pace, I wouldn’t know.

To explain how bad it is, even as a little kid, if he went “number two” and missed wiping off one smudge on his cheeks, within in ten minutes, the whole house knews about it. It’s that potent.

About two years ago, the preadolescent “B.O.” kicked in. The child can be playing dead - in the snow - in his underwear - for two seconds - and if he didn’t put on his deodorant we can smell him from three feet away.

Unfortunately, he is still a little boy, which means he considers soap and water a waste of energy and would happily live in a world where toothbrushes and anti-persperant had never been invented.

Last year I got a call from the elementary school that my son stunk really badly and would I please come pick him up and take him home. (I’m not kidding, this really happened.) Sure enough, he’d missed a spot on his rear, and he’d somehow lost his container of extra-strength deodorant. The kid reeked.

I tried to use this as a teach opportunity, pointing out the importance of proper hygiene in a real world environment but he was unimpressed. He insisted that all boys smelled like this and plus it kept the girls away. Who can argue with that?

So, in my ever growing repertoire of morning chants, I now say: “Do you have you backpack? Your coat? Did you brush your teeth? Really? If I go look in the bathroom will I find a damp toothbrush?” (One time his toothbrush fell in the toilet and he threw it away. I didn’t find out for two weeks as he continued to insist that he was brushing his teeth everyday.) “And how about your rear? All clean? And your pits?”

You couldn’t pay someone enough to say that!

I have faith that someday he will decide that smelling good has its benefits and that attracting girls is more fun than repelling them. In the mean time I’m investing in a good pair of nose plugs.

Almost

My grandfather was quite the Renaissance man. He was an artist who used small colored tiles to create beautiful mosaics on furniture and walls. A music lover with a rich deep voice who was often conscripted with my grandmother into singing at funerals. A born salesman who could sell you an air conditioner in the dead of winter. And an inventor of sorts.

According to my mother, grandpa came up with a chemical formula for degreaser long before the oven cleaner was invented. Her family would go on vacation, check into a motel and grandpa would mix up his special solution right there in the bathtub.

Then he would bottle it, and head out to town looking for as many greasy spoon type diners as he could find. Once into a restaurant, he would get the owner to allow him to put some of his special formula on a corner of the grease laden grill, with instructions to let it set until he returned.

Thirty minutes later, Grandpa would be back and with a simple swipe of a sponge, the grease seemed to melt away like butter.

Unfortunately, Granddad didn’t have the money or the connections to market his product properly. And because of that, I am not the rich, oven cleaning solution heiress I was meant to be.

Like Grandpa, I too have had my share of million dollar ideas that eventually made someone else a fortune.

Yeast infections are a plague that women have had to suffer with since the beginning of time. (I don’t know this for sure. Do you know how hard it is to find any info on yeast infections and the cave woman?)

And of course, the treatment is simple. For a couple of years I was calling my doctor every six months for a prescription. He didn’t even have to see me. Just called it into the pharmacy. And since I could tell a yeast infection from say pink eye or a broken arm, I was pretty sure that every other woman could too.

So I called into one of the companies that manufactures other women’s unmentionables, and suggested they make a line of over the counter yeast infection treatments. I spoke to a young man who was probably nineteen and didn’t even know what a yeast infection was. And guess what? Three years later, everybody is selling OTC yeast infection medication.

That was me, my brilliant idea, but you think I saw a single penny of the profit? I even have to pay full price when I buy the stuff!

Or how about the GPS system’s for tracking down your teenagers in the car, your lost pet or your kid wandering around Disneyland. Yup, that was all me too!

I guess it’s just the curse both my grandpa and I carry.

Exceptional minds and empty pocket books.

Reflections on a Passing Year

One of my sons got in a lot of trouble about a month ago, and part of his punishment was to spend an hour a day doing extra chores for me. It must have been about the fourth day into this punishment when it finally hit him. “Mom, I’ve emptied the dishwasher every day, and I’ve vacuumed the carpets every day too. Why can’t I just do the job once and be done with it?”

The eternal question.

As I sit here on New Years Eve, contemplating 2008 I realize how much of this year I spent doing job’s that never get done. Washing dishes and clothes, dusting, vacuuming, mopping. I just have to face it. Life is repetitive.

My baby grandson has a set of books that his mom reads over and over too him. They say it’s because little children love repetition but I think its nature’s way of preparing them for the constant reiterations in adult life.

And it’s not just work that we have to repeat. What about phrases.

I notice that my cell phone came with a set of prewritten text messages that can be sent without taking the time to type them yourself. Phrases like:

“Where are you?”
“Call me when you get this message” or
“What’s your number” – although that last one seems kinda silly if you're sending a text message… oh well, talk to T-Mobile about it.

I’m thinking of inventing a little cell phone style box just for mom’s. And in it, I’ll have prerecorded all the things I find myself saying over and over and over.

“Where are you going and what time will you be back?”
“Did you brush your teeth AND use deodorant?”
“If you’d do it the right way the first time, you wouldn’t have to do it again.”
“But I’m not her/his mother, I’m yours, and that’s what I said.”- and of course-
“No!”

So, to deal with a world of mindless repetition, one must use their non-repetition time doing new and exciting things. I would recommend traveling to Branson, Missouri or visiting Hawaii or China once a year. But if you aren’t my parent’s, then these options may not be financially viable.

For the rest of us let me share some of my favorite free internet adventure hot spots for 2008

1. Karaoke Party - http://www.karaokeparty.com/

This is fun site. You can pick up a microphone at Wal-Mart for less than fifteen dollars and plug it into the back of your computer. Choose a song category (in karaoke party lingo ‘Classical’ would be the Beatles, not an aria from Madam Butterfly) and then sing. You get points for how well you match the artist (think Guitar Band Hero with out the weird looking characters) and then can compare your score with other players around the world. (Or not)

One word of warning. If you’re kids walk in on you belting out “We are the Champions” from Queen, they will make fun of you!

2. Smile Box eCards – http://www.smilbox.com/

I have set a 2009 goal to remember all the birthdays and anniversaries in my family this year by sending ecards. However I always go to Hallmark and they only have so many new and free ecards. So, in an effort to widen my ecard horizons, I did a google search and found this site.

Smile Box is free and allows you to upload photos or videos and incorporate them into an ecard to send out to people. How cute is that? I’m thinking I have a couple of photos of myself that would make truly frightening Halloween cards.

3. Jib Jab - http://sendables.jibjab.com/

This is similar to the above site except you get to attach head shots of your favorite people onto animated bodies and then watch them play out their own little mini movies. But be forewarned. If you create the movie or show it to people whose heads are in the movie, they will think these are unbelievably hilarious. Anyone else watching will get boarded really fast.

4. The American Museum of Photography - http://www.photographymuseum.com/noir/pulppix2.html

When I really need to get out of my own world, I like to search out exotic locations or interesting museums and then pretend I’m really there. The idea of web cams sounds good, but I don’t care how exotic the beach, watching several minutes of a still shot, replaced by another still shot from some high and not very artistic vantage point, just doesn’t do the job.

However, if you search a little, you can find some really funky places on the internet to visit like the site above. This exhibit from the American Museum of Photography is titled Pulp Pix: The Bizarre Case of Photography Noir. It was so unique that I spent over an hour exploring it.

Well I gotta get back to my dishes so I can bring in 2009 with a bang! Till next year.

Finding the Perfect Gift

I always make a point of going to Wal-Mart on February 14th around five-thirty in the afternoon. That’s about the time that the men in our community have gotten off work and suddenly realize that if they show up at their homes without something red, pink and sweet in their hands to give to their loved ones for Valentines Day; they will probably end up sleeping on the couch.

There’s a look about these men whether they are seventeen or sixty-seven that is so amusing to watch. Half panic half hope that somewhere in the depth of that super-store will be a gift both romantic enough to show that they care, and not reek of last minute desperation.

I bring this up because in many ways Valentines Day and Christmas are alike. Both holidays rely heavily on making the right choice in the gift department, and both are loaded with potential guilt if that goal is not achieved.

My teenage son came home from Christmas shopping the other night and told me that I was the hardest person he had to shop for. He couldn’t find anything he thought I’d like. I stared at him in dumbfound amazement. In my opinion, women are by far the easier sex to buy for, falling right there in line with pre-schoolers and family pets.

It’s men in general and teenagers specifically that are the mortal terror of gift buyers everywhere.

For instance, did you ever notice that the older a man gets, the more expensive his toy wishes. Maybe if I was Jennifer Lopez or Bill Gates I could actually give them those expensive big ticket items.

“Oh Mom, how did you know I wanted a 27 inch HD plasma TV with a high definition surround sound system for my bedroom. You’re the best!”

Although even if I could afford such pricey items, this plan would probably backfire too. I can just imagine it. Christmas morning me and my young adult son head out to the driveway where a brand new shiny silver BMW sits proudly, wrapped in a huge red ribbon. “Merry Christmas Son,” I’d say with pride, watching his face for that look of stunned pleasure.

Instead he’d study the new vehicle for a few minutes before shrugging his shoulders and saying “Yeah it’s nice, but I really wanted a blue one.”

Clothes shopping is not an option either, at least not without them standing over your shoulder and whispering in your ear, “Not THAT color. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those pants. Who do you think you’re dressing? Pee Wee Hermon?” I could actually blindfold myself, and walk through the men’s department picking some piece of clothing at random and have a better chance of pleasing my boys.

A young friend of mine (male of course) told me that his strategy is to ask his parents for one concrete item. Say a book or CD that he wants. Something clear and concise that they can’t mess up. Then he asks for money. Mom and Dad get the pleasure of giving him something they can watch him unwrap and he can spend the cash any way he chooses.

So what is a mother to do? Break down and give gifts of twenties and fifties? Condense the pile of brightly covered packages under the tree to a scattering of long narrow white envelopes? Take a second mortgage out on the house to give them those expensive gaming systems and electronics they want?

While meditating on my options, it suddenly came to me. I’m the mom here and it’s my job is to teach my kids what is really important in life. Things like how they should eat a few vegetables before digging into dessert, and the benefit of the frequent and liberal use of soap and deodorant. I’d managed to convince my kids that playing with matches, though definitely fun, was not a good idea if they intended to keep a wood roof over their heads. And if they put their shoes away, right when they took them off, it’s so much easier to find them the next morning. (Okay, we’re still working on that one.)

With this in mind, I knew that it was my responsibility to instruct my children on the true meaning of Christmas and the importance of recognizing the love and thought behind a gift. And who better to teach such principles than the woman who’d been receiving hand colored mother’s day cards and bouquets of dandelion flowers, presented by little people with sticky dirt covered fists for years.

So this Christmas, we cut back on how many gifts we are buying and how much money we spend. I’m putting my foot down and not allowing myself to let the season evolve into a guilt fest. I even turned on the All Christmas Music All Day Everyday Day Since Halloween Whether You Like It Or Not radio channel and sang along with Perry Como… and it wasn’t even Christmas eve.

Will it work? I don’t know but I have seen some promising signs. Next week I’ll tell you about our eleven year old son and his amazing seven days of Christmas.

Christmas Shopping - Enter At Your Own Risk

Last week, my husband and I decided to attempt shopping the early morning sales on Black Friday. I had assumed that the term ‘black’ was a financial term, meaning that the stores did so well that they went from the red ink of loss to the black ink of profit. But after actually participating, I realize the connotation is more ominous and akin to ‘Black Plague’ or ‘Black Widow.’

I joke about this, but the after Thanksgiving sales are a big deal for retailers and they put a lot of marketing ideas and dollars into figuring out ways to beat out their competition for those early morning shoppers. For example, the earlier you open, the sooner Joe and Jane consumer can spend their hard earned cash at your establishment. Six, five and even four a.m. is not too early. And if a store’s sales are really extraordinary a tent village will spring up around your front door, signaling to the world that those five Wii games for 95% off are already history.

Some retailers give away freebees to encourage customers to shop at their stores. Donuts, coffee, hot cocoa… One year I stood in line for thirty minutes in sub freezing temperatures at five in the morning, with over two hundred other people, just to get the free hot wheel car they were handing out and the possibility of a $100 shopping spree if you got the lucky car. I didn’t win the prize, but after buying two more hot wheel cars at fifty cents each, I had a stocking stuffer for each of my three boys.

Once in the store, it didn’t take me long to realize what an amateur I was at this. I watched one large family arrive and work the store like a well oiled military machine. One person got in line, while the others fanned out through the aisles, cell phones turned on and in hand.

“This is Katelynn checking in, just got the Easy Bake Oven for 60% off.”

“They’re running low on Guitar Hero, can someone create a diversion while I grab the last two?”

“I’m up to the register in five, everyone back to base.”

And the lines, oh my goodness. You stand in them to get into the door and then you stand in them to get out. We spent more time in long serpentine chains that wove through the aisles and around the store than we ever did shopping. One enterprising department store had clerks walking up and down the lines promising a shorter check out at customer service for any customer willing to apply for their credit card. Kind of a sneaky retail form of blackmail.

By eleven oclock, we dragged back into the house, tired and foot weary. As we made our way into the bedroom with our super duper savings tucked under our arms, ready to be hidden away for wrapping, we were accosted by our teenage son.

“You already did your Christmas shopping?” he asked?

“Sure did,” his father said with a tired smile, “And we’ve bought all your gifts.”

“Are you crazy?” our darling son responded. “You don’t even know what I want!”

“You want what we got you and don’t forget it!”

The Case of the Missing Butter

On becoming a mother, there have been many strange and unexpected surprises. Things I couldn’t have imagined encountering while I was still a single woman. For instance, I never realized how effectively one small child could destroy a previously clean room, simply by walking through it. Or the vast number of glasses three kids could dirty on one warm summer afternoon. (I washed over forty glasses one day in August, I actually counted!)

Or the things that come out of a Mom’s mouth. Things she never thought she would say like, “Can you please put that thing back in your underwear and go get your pants on!” or “Yes I’m glad that you love me sooooo much, but the question still stands. What time will you be home from the party?” Then there is my favorite spoken to a fifteen year old driving on a permit. “For pete’s sake don’t run into that parked car. I know the woman who owns it!”

But perhaps the most astonishing things about running a house are all the mysteries one encounters in the course of a normal week. Not even Perry Mason or Jessica Fletcher could keep up with the curious happenings I deal with.

Of course everyone knows about the missing sock mystery. Two go into the wash and one comes out of the dryer. But that it a relatively easy crime to solve. The washer and dryer (which are always placed side by side) create a two dimensional vortex which sucks in one sock, leaving its identical mate alone and useless in the world.

Perhaps the same is true for the one missing earring. I actually have a shoe box full of single earrings that I refuse to throw away in the hopes that the pirate look will come into vogue again and I’ll be set with my eye patch and single ear ornament.

But let me get on to the butter. Every week I buy two pounds of butter. That may seem like a lot to those of you without teenagers, but when your family lives on Mac and Cheese and cookie dough, like mine do, a pound barely covers it.

So I bought my boxes of butter on Saturday morning and on Saturday evening I decided I wanted a piece of buttered toast. (Now please don’t lecture me on my choice of snacks, because fat mixed with carbs is my very favorite!). I opened a cube, placed it on a dish, nuked it for exactly ten seconds (the magic number for just right soft butter) and then shaved off a bit and spread it on my bread.

The next afternoon (that would be Sunday) I again got a craving for buttered toast. I headed for the kitchen but try as I may, I could not find a trace of the butter from the day before. I didn’t even bother asking the kids. Something about our house causes a type of blind-amnesia among the children. They could be standing in the middle of a room during a gang war and afterwards they would all insist they hadn’t seen anything, and if they did, they couldn’t remember but it was undoubtedly all their brother or sister's fault.

I had no choice but to get another cube of butter. By Monday, that new cube of butter had disappeared too, and the same thing happened on Tuesday.

I considered various options. Perhaps someone was breaking into our house each night and stealing our slightly used butter, or maybe one of the kids was doing the dishes without being asked and simply washing the cube down the disposal before placing the plate in the dishwasher. But as both those options were equally as unlikely, I had to give up and admit I was stumped.

Then on Wednesday morning, I happened to be wearing my slippers and had entered the kitchen without making any noise, and there, with her big black paws up on the edge of the counter was our black lab, her long pink tongue stretched out as far as it would go, pulling the butter and the plate closer to the edge of the counter.

I thought I knew my household pretty well only to discover that my dog is a closet butter thief. It felt as if my whole world had been torn apart and I found myself pondering the next natural question. What is the cat up to?